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diff --git a/9785-0.txt b/9785-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2eb1782 --- /dev/null +++ b/9785-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,21820 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Woodstock; or, The Cavalier, by Sir Walter Scott + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Woodstock; or, The Cavalier + +Author: Sir Walter Scott + +Release Date: October 16, 2003 [eBook #9785] +[Most recently updated: June 26, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Lee Dawei, David King and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WOODSTOCK; OR, THE CAVALIER *** + + + + +Woodstock + +or, +The Cavalier + +by Sir Walter Scott + +1855. + + +Contents + + INTRODUCTION—1832 + APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION + No. I. THE WOODSTOCK SCUFFLE + No. II. THE JUST DEVIL OF WOODSTOCK + THE PREFACE TO THE ENSUING NARRATIVE + PREFACE + + CHAPTER THE FIRST. + CHAPTER THE SECOND. + CHAPTER THE THIRD. + CHAPTER THE FOURTH. + CHAPTER THE FIFTH. + CHAPTER THE SIXTH. + CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. + CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. + CHAPTER THE NINTH. + CHAPTER THE TENTH. + CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. + CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. + CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. + CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. + CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. + CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. + CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH. + CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. + CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. + CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. + CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY SECOND. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH. + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH. + + + + +WOODSTOCK; +OR +THE CAVALIER + +A TALE OF THE YEAR SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE + +He was a very perfect gentle Knight. + +CHAUCER + + + + +INTRODUCTION—(1832.) + + +The busy period of the great Civil War was one in which the character +and genius of different parties were most brilliantly displayed, and, +accordingly, the incidents which took place on either side were of a +striking and extraordinary character, and afforded ample foundation for +fictitious composition. The author had in some measure attempted such +in Peveril of the Peak; but the scene was in a remote part of the +kingdom, and mingled with other national differences, which left him +still at liberty to glean another harvest out of so ample a store. + +In these circumstances, some wonderful adventures which happened at +Woodstock in the year 1649, occurred to him as something he had long +ago read of, although he was unable to tell where, and of which the +hint appeared sufficient, although, doubtless, it might have been much +better handled if the author had not, in the lapse of time, lost every +thing like an accurate recollection of the real story. + +It was not until about this period, namely, 1831, that the author, +being called upon to write this Introduction, obtained a general +account of what really happened upon the marvellous occasion in +question, in a work termed “The Every-day Book,” published by Mr. Hone, +and full of curious antiquarian research, the object being to give a +variety of original information concerning manners, illustrated by +curious instances, rarely to be found elsewhere. Among other matter, +Mr. Hone quotes an article from the British Magazine for 1747, in the +following words, and which is probably the document which the author of +Woodstock had formerly perused, although he was unable to refer to the +source of his information. The tract is entitled, “The Genuine History +of the good Devil of Woodstock, famous in the world, in the year 1649, +and never accounted for, or at all understood to this time.” + +The teller of this “genuine history” proceeds verbatim as follows: + +“Some original papers having lately fallen into my hands, under the +name of ‘Authentic Memoirs of the Memorable Joseph Collins of Oxford, +commonly known by the name of Funny Joe, and now intended for the +press,’ I was extremely delighted to find in them a circumstantial and +unquestionable account of the most famous of all invisible agents, so +well known in the year 1649, under the name of the Good Devil of +Woodstock, and even adored by the people of that place, for the +vexation and distress it occasioned some people they were not much +pleased with. As this famous story, though related by a thousand +people, and attested in all its circumstances, beyond all possibility +of doubt, by people of rank, learning, and reputation, of Oxford and +the adjacent towns, has never yet been generally accounted for, or at +all understood, and is perfectly explained, in a manner that can admit +of no doubt, in these papers, I could not refuse my readers the +pleasure it gave me in reading.” + +There is, therefore, no doubt that, in the year 1649, a number of +incidents, supposed to be supernatural, took place at the King’s palace +of Woodstock, which the Commissioners of Parliament were then and there +endeavouring to dilapidate and destroy. The account of this by the +Commissioners themselves, or under their authority, was repeatedly +published, and, in particular, is inserted as relation sixth of Satan’s +Invisible World Discovered, by George Sinclair, Professor of Philosophy +in Glasgow, an approved collector of such tales. + +It was the object of neither of the great political parties of that day +to discredit this narrative, which gave great satisfaction both to the +cavaliers and roundheads; the former conceiving that the license given +to the demons, was in consequence of the impious desecration of the +King’s furniture and apartments, so that the citizens of Woodstock +almost adored the supposed spirits, as avengers of the cause of +royalty; while the friends of the Parliament, on the other hand, +imputed to the malice of the fiend the obstruction of the pious work, +as they judged that which they had in hand. + +At the risk of prolonging a curious quotation, I include a page or two +from Mr. Hone’s Every-day Book. + +“The honourable the Commissioners arrived at Woodstock manor-house, +October 13th, and took up their residence in the King’s own rooms. His +Majesty’s bedchamber they made their kitchen, the council-hall their +pantry, and the presence-chamber was the place where they sat for +despatch of business. His Majesty’s dining-room they made their +wood-yard, and stowed it with no other wood but that of the famous +Royal Oak from the High Park, which, that nothing might be left with +the name of the King about it, they had dug up by the roots, and +bundled up into fagots for their firing. + +“October 16. This day they first sat for the despatch of business. In +the midst of their first debate there entered a large black dog (as +they thought), which made a terrible howling, overturned two or three +of their chairs, and doing some other damage, went under the bed, and +there gnawed the cords. The door this while continued constantly shut, +when, after some two or three hours, Giles Sharp, their secretary, +looking under the bed, perceived that the creature was vanished, and +that a plate of meat that the servants had hid there was untouched, and +showing them to their honours, they were all convinced there could be +no real dog concerned in the case; the said Giles also deposed on oath, +that, to his certain knowledge, there was not. + +“October 17. As they were this day sitting at dinner in a lower room, +they heard plainly the noise of persons walking over head, though they +well knew the doors were all locked, and there could be none there. +Presently after they heard also all the wood of the King’s Oak brought +by parcels from the dining-room, and thrown with great violence into +the presence-chamber, as also the chairs, stools, tables, and other +furniture, forcibly hurled about the room, their own papers of the +minutes of their transactions torn, and the ink-glass broken. When all +this had some time ceased, the said Giles proposed to enter first into +these rooms, and, in presence of the Commissioners, of whom he received +the key, he opened the door and entered the room, their honours +following him. He there found the wood strewed about the room, the +chairs tossed about and broken, the papers torn, and the ink-glass +broken over them all as they had heard, yet no footsteps appeared of +any person whatever being there, nor had the doors ever been opened to +admit or let out any person since their honours were last there. It was +therefore voted, _nem. con_., that the person who did this mischief +could have entered no other way than at the key-hole of the said doors. + +“In the night following this same day, the said Giles, and two other of +the Commissioners’ servants, as they were in bed in the same room with +their honours, had their bed’s feet lifted up so much higher than their +heads, that they expected to have their necks broken, and then they +were let fall at once with such violence as shook them up from the bed +to a good distance; and this was repeated many times, their honours +being amazed spectators of it. In the morning the bedsteads were found +cracked and broken, and the said Giles and his fellows, declared they +were sore to the bones with the tossing and jolting of the beds. + +“October 19. As they were all in bed together, the candles were all +blown out together with a sulphurous smell, and instantly many +trenchers of wood were hurled about the room; and one of them putting +his head above the clothes, had not less than six thrown at him, which +wounded him very grievously. In the morning the trenchers were all +found lying about the room, and were observed to be the same they had +eaten on the day before, none being found remaining in the pantry. + +“October 20. This night the candles were put out as before; the +curtains of the bed in which their honours lay, were drawn to and fro +many times with great violence: their honours received many cruel +blows, and were much bruised beside, with eight great pewter dishes, +and three dozen wooden trenchers, which were thrown on the bed, and +afterwards heard rolling about the room. + +“Many times also this night they heard the forcible falling of many +fagots by their bedside, but in the morning no fagots were found there, +no dishes or trenchers were there seen either; and the aforesaid Giles +attests, that by their different arranging in the pantry, they had +assuredly been taken thence, and after put there again. + +“October 21. The keeper of their ordinary and his bitch lay with them: +This night they had no disturbance. + +“October 22. Candles put out as before. They had the said bitch with +them again, but were not by that protected; the bitch set up a very +piteous cry; the clothes of their beds were all pulled off, and the +bricks, without any wind, were thrown off the chimney tops into the +midst. + +“October 24. The candles put out as before. They thought all the wood +of the King’s Oak was violently thrown down by their bedsides; they +counted sixty-four fagots that fell with great violence, and some hit +and shook the bed,—but in the morning none were found there, nor the +door of the room opened in which the said fagots were. + +“October 25. The candles put out as before. The curtains of the bed in +the drawing-room were many times forcibly drawn; the wood thrown out as +before; a terrible crack like thunder was heard; and one of the +servants, running to see if his master was not killed, found at his +return, three dozen trenchers laid smoothly upon his bed under the +quilt. + +“October 26. The beds were shaken as before; the windows seemed all +broken to pieces, and glass fell in vast quantities all about the room. +In the morning they found the windows all whole, but the floor strewed +with broken glass, which they gathered and laid by. + +“October 29. At midnight candles went out as before, something walked +majestically through the room and opened and shut the window; great +stones were thrown violently into the room, some whereof fell on the +beds, others on the floor; and about a quarter after one, a noise was +heard as of forty cannon discharged together, and again repeated at +about eight minutes’ distance. This alarmed and raised all the +neighbourhood, who, coming into their honours’ room, gathered up the +great stones, fourscore in number, many of them like common pebbles and +boulters, and laid them by, where they are to be seen to this day, at a +corner of the adjoining field. This noise, like the discharge of +cannon, was heard throughout the country for sixteen miles round. +During these noises, which were heard in both rooms together, both the +Commissioners and their servants gave one another over for lost, and +cried out for help; and Giles Sharp, snatching up a sword, had +well-nigh killed one of their honours, taking him for the spirit as he +came in his shirt into the room. While they were together, the noise +was continued, and part of the tiling of the house, and all the windows +of an upper room, were taken away with it. + +“October 30. Something walked into the chamber, treading like a bear; +it walked many times about, then threw the warming-pan violently upon +the floor, and so bruised it, that it was spoiled. Vast quantities of +glass were now thrown about the room, and vast numbers of great stones +and horses’ bones were thrown in; these were all found in the morning, +and the floors, beds, and walls were all much damaged by the violence +they were thrown in. + +“November 1. Candles were placed in all parts of the room, and a great +fire made. At midnight, the candles all yet burning, a noise like the +burst of a cannon was heard in the room, and the burning billets were +tossed all over the room and about the beds; and had not their honours +called in Giles and his fellows, the house had assuredly been burnt. An +hour after the candles went out, as usual, the clack of many cannon was +heard, and many pailfuls of green stinking water were thrown on their +honours in bed; great stones were also thrown in as before, the +bed-curtains and bedsteads torn and broken: the windows were now all +really broken, and the whole neighbourhood alarmed with the noises; +nay, the very rabbit-stealers that were abroad that night in the +warren, were so frightened at the dismal thundering, that they fled for +fear and left their ferrets behind them. + +“One of their honours this night spoke, and in the name of God asked +what it was, and why it disturbed them so? No answer was given to this; +but the noise ceased for a while, when the spirit came again, and as +they all agreed, brought with it seven devils worse than itself. One of +the servants now lighted a large candle, and set it in the doorway +between the two chambers, to see what passed; and as he[1] watched it, +he plainly saw a hoof striking the candle and candlestick into the +middle of the room, and afterwards, making three scrapes over the snuff +of the candle, to scrape it out. Upon this, the same person was so bold +as to draw a sword; but he had scarce got it out, when he perceived +another invisible hand had hold of it too, and pulled with him for it, +and at last prevailing, struck him so violently on the head with the +pommel, that he fell down for dead with the blow. At this instant was +heard another burst like the discharge of the broadside of a ship of +war, and at about a minute or two’s distance each, no less than +nineteen more such: these shook the house so violently that they +expected every moment it would fall upon their heads. The neighbours on +this were all alarmed, and, running to the house, they all joined in +prayer and psalm-singing, during which the noise continued in the other +rooms, and the discharge of cannon without, though nobody was there.” + + [1] Probably this part was also played by Sharp, who was the regular + ghost-seer of the party. + + +Dr. Plot concludes his relation of this memorable event[2] with +observing, that, though tricks have often been played in affairs of +this kind, many of these things are not reconcilable with juggling; +such as, 1st, The loud noises beyond the power of man to make, without +instruments which were not there; 2d, The tearing and breaking of the +beds; 3d, The throwing about the fire; 4th, The hoof treading out the +candle; and, 5th, The striving for the sword, and the blow the man +received from the pommel of it. + + [2] In his Natural History of Oxfordshire. + + +To shew how great men are sometimes deceived, we may recur to a tract, +entitled “_The Secret History of the Good Devil of Woodstock_,” in +which we find it, under the author’s own hand, that he, Joseph Collins, +commonly called Funny Joe, was himself this very devil;—that, under the +feigned name of Giles Sharp, he hired himself as a servant to the +Commissioners;—that by the help of two friends—an unknown trapdoor in +the ceiling of the bedchamber, and a pound of common gunpowder—he +played all these extraordinary tricks by himself;—that his +fellow-servants, whom he had introduced on purpose to assist him, had +lifted up their own beds; and that the candles were contrived, by a +common trick of gunpowder, to be extinguished at a certain time. + +The dog who began the farce was, as Joe swore, no dog at all, but truly +a bitch, who had shortly before whelped in that room, and made all this +disturbance in seeking for her puppies; and which, when she had served +his purpose, he (Joe Sharp, or Collins) let out, and then looked for. +The story of the hoof and sword he himself bore witness to, and was +never suspected as to the truth of them, though mere fictions. By the +trapdoor his friends let down stones, fagots, glass, water, etc., which +they either left there, or drew up again, as best suited his purpose; +and by this way let themselves in and out, without opening the doors, +or going through the keyholes, and all the noises, described, he +declares he made by placing quantities of white gunpowder over pieces +of burning charcoal, on plates of tin, which, as they melted, exploded +with a violent noise. + +I am very happy in having an opportunity of setting history right about +these remarkable events, and would not have the reader disbelieve my +author’s account of them, from his naming either white gunpowder +exploding when melted, or his making the earth about the pot take fire +of its own accord; since, however improbable these accounts may appear +to some readers, and whatever secrets they might be in Joe’s time, they +are now well known in chemistry. As to the last, there needs only to +mix an equal quantity of iron filings, finely powdered, and powder of +pure brimstone, and make them into a paste with fair water. This paste, +when it hath lain together about twenty-six hours, will of itself take +fire, and burn all the sulphur away with a blue flame and a bad smell. +For the others, what he calls white gunpowder, is plainly the +thundering powder called by our chemists _pulvis fulminans_. It is +composed of three parts of saltpetre, two parts of pearl ashes or salt +of tartar, and one part of flower of brimstone, mixed together and beat +to a fine powder; a small quantity of this held on the point of a knife +over a candle, will not go off till it melt, and then it gives a report +like that of a pistol; and this he might easily dispose of in larger +quantities, so as to make it explode of itself, while he, the said Joe, +was with his masters. + +Such is the explanation of the ghostly adventures of Woodstock, as +transferred by Mr. Hone from the pages of the old tract, termed the +Authentic Memoirs of the memorable Joseph Collins of Oxford, whose +courage and loyalty were the only wizards which conjured up those +strange and surprising apparitions and works of spirits, which passed +as so unquestionable in the eyes of the Parliamentary Commissioners, of +Dr. Plot, and other authors of credit. The _pulvis fulminans_, the +secret principle he made use of, is now known to every apothecary’s +apprentice. + +If my memory be not treacherous, the actor of these wonders made use of +his skill in fireworks upon the following remarkable occasion. The +Commissioners had not, in their zeal for the public service, overlooked +their own private interests, and a deed was drawn up upon parchment, +recording the share and nature of the advantages which they privately +agreed to concede to each other; at the same time they were, it seems, +loath to intrust to any one of their number the keeping of a document +in which all were equally concerned. + +They hid the written agreement within a flower-pot, in which a shrub +concealed it from the eyes of any chance spectator. But the rumour of +the apparitions having gone abroad, curiosity drew many of the +neighbours to Woodstock, and some in particular, to whom the knowledge +of this agreement would have afforded matter of scandel; as the +Commissioners received these guests in the saloon where the flower-pot +was placed, a match was suddenly set to some fireworks placed there by +Sharp the secretary. The flower-pot burst to pieces with the +concussion, or was prepared so as to explode of itself, and the +contract of the Commissioners, bearing testimony to their private +roguery, was thrown into the midst of the visiters assembled. If I have +recollected this incident accurately, for it is more than forty years +since I perused the tract, it is probable, that in omitting it from the +novel, I may also have passed over, from want of memory, other matters +which might have made an essential addition to the story. Nothing, +indeed, is more certain, than that incidents which are real, preserve +an infinite advantage in works of this nature over such as are +fictitious. The tree, however, must remain where it has fallen. + +Having occasion to be in London in October 1831, I made some researches +in the British Museum, and in that rich collection, with the kind +assistance of the Keepers, who manage it with so much credit to +themselves and advantage to the public, I recovered two original +pamphlets, which contain a full account of the phenomena at Woodstock +in 1649.[3] The first is a satirical poem, published in that year, +which plainly shews that the legend was current among the people in the +very shape in which it was afterwards made public. I have not found the +explanation of Joe Collins, which, as mentioned by Mr. Hone, resolves +the whole into confederacy. It might, however, be recovered by a +stricter search than I had leisure for. In the meantime, it may be +observed, that neither the name of Joe Collins, nor Sharp, occurs among +the _dramatis personæ_ given in these tracts, published when he might +have been endangered by any thing which directed suspicion towards him, +at least in 1649, and perhaps might have exposed him to danger even in +1660, from the malice of a powerful though defeated faction. + + [3] See Appendix. + + +1_st August_, 1832. + +[Illustration] + + + + +APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION. + +APPENDIX No. I. +THE WOODSTOCK SCUFFLE; + +or, Most dreadfull apparitions that were lately seene in the +Mannor-house of Woodstock, neere Oxford, to the great terror and the +wonderful amazement of all there that did behold them. + + +It were a wonder if one unites, +And not of wonders and strange sights; +For ev’ry where such things affrights + Poore people, + + +That men are ev’n at their wits’ end; +God judgments ev’ry where doth send, +And yet we don’t our lives amend, + But tipple, + + +And sweare, and lie, and cheat, and—, +Because the world shall drown no more, +As if no judgments were in store + But water; + + +But by the stories which I tell, +You’ll heare of terrors come from hell, +And fires, and shapes most terrible + For matter. + + +It is not long since that a child +Spake from the ground in a large field, +And made the people almost wild + That heard it, + + +Of which there is a printed book, +Wherein each man the truth may look, +If children speak, the matter’s took + For verdict. + + +But this is stranger than that voice, +The wonder’s greater, and the noyse; +And things appeare to men, not boyes, + At _Woodstock_; + + +Where _Rosamond_ had once a bower, +To keep her from Queen _Elinour_, +And had escap’d her poys’nous power + By good-luck, + + +But fate had otherwise decreed, +And _Woodstock_ Manner saw a deed, +Which is in _Hollinshed_ or _Speed_ + Chro-nicled; + + +But neither _Hollinshed_ nor _Stow_, +Nor no historians such things show, +Though in them wonders we well know + Are pickled; + + +For nothing else is history +But pickle of antiquity, +Where things are kept in memory + From stinking; + + +Which otherwise would have lain dead, +As in oblivion buried, +Which now you may call into head + With thinking. + + +The dreadfull story, which is true, +And now committed unto view, +By better pen, had it its due, + Should see light. + + +But I, contented, do indite, +Not things of wit, but things of right; +You can’t expect that things that fright + Should delight. + + +O hearken, therefore, hark and shake! +My very pen and hand doth quake! +While I the true relation make + O’ th’ wonder, + + +Which hath long time, and still appeares +Unto the State’s Commissioners, +And puts them in their beds to feares + From under. + + +They come, good men, imploi’d by th’ State +To sell the lands of Charles the late. +And there they lay, and long did waite + For chapmen. + + +You may have easy pen’worths, woods, +Lands, ven’son, householdstuf, and goods, +They little thought of dogs that wou’d + There snap-men. + + +But when they’d sup’d, and fully fed, +They set up remnants and to bed. +Where scarce they had laid down a head + To slumber, + + +But that their beds were heav’d on high; +They thought some dog under did lie, +And meant i’ th’ chamber (fie, fie, fie) + To scumber. + + +Some thought the cunning cur did mean +To eat their mutton (which was lean) +Reserv’d for breakfast, for the men + Were thrifty. + + +And up one rises in his shirt, +Intending the slie cur to hurt, +And forty thrusts made at him for’t, + Or fifty. + + +But empty came his sword again. +He found he thrust but all in vain; +An the mutton safe, hee went amain + To’s fellow. + + +And now (assured all was well) +The bed again began to swell, +The men were frighted, and did smell + O’ th’ yellow. + + +From heaving, now the cloaths it pluckt +The men, for feare, together stuck, +And in their sweat each other duck’t. + They wished + + +A thousand times that it were day; +’Tis sure the divell! Let us pray. +They pray’d amain; and, as they say, +—— —— + + +Approach of day did cleere the doubt, +For all devotions were run out, +They now waxt strong and something stout, + One peaked + + +Under the bed, but nought was there; +He view’d the chamber ev’ry where, +Nothing apear’d but what, for feare. +vThey leaked. + + +Their stomachs then return’d apace, +They found the mutton in the place, +And fell unto it with a grace. + They laughed + + +Each at the other’s pannick feare, +And each his bed-fellow did jeere, +And having sent for ale and beere, + They quaffed. + + +And then abroad the summons went, +Who’ll buy king’s-land o’ th’ Parliament? +A paper-book contein’d the rent, + Which lay there; + + +That did contein the severall farmes, +Quit-rents, knight services, and armes; +But that they came not in by swarmes + To pay there. + + +Night doth invite to bed again, +The grand Commissioners were lain, +But then the thing did heave amain, + It busled, + + +And with great clamor fil’d their eares, +The noyse was doubled, and their feares; +Nothing was standing but their haires, + They nuzled. + + +Oft were the blankets pul’d, the sheete +Was closely twin’d betwixt their feete, +It seems the spirit was discreete + And civill. + + +Which makes the poore Commissioners +Feare they shall get but small arreares, +And that there’s yet for cavaliers + One divell. + + +They cast about what best to doe; +Next day they would to wisemen goe, +To neighb’ring towns some cours to know; + For schollars + + +Come not to Woodstock, as before, +And Allen’s dead as a nayle-doore, +And so’s old John (eclep’d the poore) + His follower; + + +Rake Oxford o’re, there’s not a man +That rayse or lay a spirit can, +Or use the circle, or the wand, + Or conjure; + + +Or can say (Boh!) unto a divell, +Or to a goose that is uncivill, +Nor where Keimbolton purg’d out evill, + ’Tis sin sure. + + +There were two villages hard by, +With teachers of presbytery, +Who knew the house was hidiously + Be-pestred; + + +But ’lasse! their new divinity +Is not so deep, or not so high; +Their witts doe (as their meanes did) lie + Sequestred; + + +But Master Joffman was the wight +Which was to exorcise the spright; +Hee’ll preach and pray you day and night + At pleasure. + + +And by that painfull gainfull trade, +He hath himselfe full wealthy made; +Great store of guilt he hath, ’tis said, + And treasure. + + +But no intreaty of his friends +Could get him to the house of fiends, +He came not over for such ends + From Dutch-land, + + +But worse divinity hee brought, +And hath us reformation taught, +And, with our money, he hath bought + Him much land. + + +Had the old parsons preached still, +The div’l should nev’r have had his wil; +But those that had or art or skill + Are outed; + + +And those to whom the pow’r was giv’n +Of driving spirits, are out-driv’n; +Their colledges dispos’d, and livings, + To grout-heads. + + +There was a justice who did boast, +Hee had as great a gift almost, +Who did desire him to accost + This evill. + + +But hee would not employ his gifts. +But found out many sleights and shifts; +Hee had no prayers, nor no snifts, + For th’ divell. + + +Some other way they cast about, +These brought him in, they throw not out; +A woman, great with child, will do’t; + They got one. + + +And she i’ th’ room that night must lie; +But when the thing about did flie, +And broke the windows furiously + And hot one + + +Of the contractors o’re the head, +Who lay securely in his bed, +The woman, shee-affrighted, fled +—— —— + + +And now they lay the cause on her. +That e’re that night the thing did stir, +Because her selfe and grandfather + Were Papists; + + +They must be barnes-regenerate, +(A _Hans en Kelder_ of the state, +Which was in reformation gatt,) + They said, which + + +Doth make the divell stand in awe, +Pull in his hornes, his hoof, his claw; +But having none, they did in draw +—— —— —— + + +But in the night there was such worke, +The spirit swaggered like a Turke; +The bitch had spi’d where it did lurke, + And howled + + +In such a wofull manner that +Their very hearts went pit a pat; + + +The stately rooms, where kings once lay +But the contractors show’d the way. +But mark what now I tell you, pray, + ’Tis worth it. + + +That book I told you of before, +Wherein were tenants written store, +A register for many more + Not forth yet, + + +That very book, as it did lie, +Took of a flame, no mortall eye +Seeing one jot of fire thereby, + Or taper; + + +For all the candles about flew, +And those that burned, burned blew, +Never kept soldiers such a doe + Or vaper. + + +The book thus burnt and none knew how +The poore contractors made a vow +To work no more; this spoil’d their plow + In that place. + + +Some other part o’ th’ house they’ll find, +To which the divell hath no mind, +But hee, it seems, is not inclin’d + With that grace; + + +But other pranks it plaid elsewhere. +An oake there was stood many a yeere, +Of goodly growth as any where, + Was hewn down, + + +Which into fewell-wood was cut, +And some into a wood-pile put, +But it was hurled all about + And thrown down. + + +In sundry formes it doth appeare; +Now like a grasping claw to teare; +Now like a dog; anon a beare + It tumbles; + + +And all the windows battered are, +No man the quarter enter dare; +All men (except the glasier) + Doe grumble. + + +Once in the likenesse of woman, +Of stature much above the common, +’Twas seene, but spak a word to no man, + And vanish’d. + + +’Tis thought the ghost of some good wife +Whose husband was depriv’d of life, +Her children cheated, land in strife + She banist. + + +No man can tell the cause of these +So wondrous dreadful outrages; +Yet if upon your sinne you please + To discant, + + +You’le find our actions out-doe hell’s; +O wring your hands and cease the bells, +Repentance must, or nothing else + Appease can’t. + + + + +No. II. +THE JUST DEVIL OF WOODSTOCK; + +OR, +A TRUE NARRATIVE OF THE SEVERAL APPARITIONS, THE FRIGHTS AND +PUNISHMENTS, INFLICTED UPON THE RUMPISH COMMISSIONERS SENT THITHER TO +SURVEY THE MANNORS AND HOUSES BELONGING TO HIS MAJESTIE. + +[London, printed in the year 1660. 4to.] + + +The names of the persons in the ensuing Narrative mentioned, with +others:— + +CAPTAIN COCKAINE. +CAPTAIN HART. +CAPTAIN CROOK. +CAPTAIN CARELESSE. +CAPTAIN ROE. +Mr. CROOK, the Lawyer. +Mr. BROWNE, the Surveyor. +Their three Servants. +Their Ordinary-keeper, and others. +The Gatekeeper, with the Wife and Servants. + + +Besides many more, who each night heard the noise; as Sir Gerrard +Fleetwood and his lady, with his family, Mr. Hyans, with his family, +and several others, who lodged in the outer courts; and during the +three last nights, the inhabitants of Woodstock town, and other +neighbor villages. + +And there were many more, both divines and others, who came out of the +country, and from Oxford, to see the glass and stones, and other +stuffe, the devil had brought, wherewith to beat out the Commissioners; +the marks upon some walls remain, and many, this to testifie. + + + + +THE PREFACE TO THE ENSUING NARRATIVE. + + +Since it hath pleased the Almighty God, out of his infinite mercy, so +to make us happy, by restoring of our native King to us, and us unto +our native liberty through him, that now the good may say, _magna +temporum felicitas ubi sentire quæ velis, et dicere licet quæ sentias_, +we cannot but esteem ourselves engaged in the highest of degrees, to +render unto him the highest thanks we can express. Although, surpris’d +with joy, we become as lost in the performance; when gladness and +admiration strikes us silent, as we look back upon the precipiece of +our late condition, and those miraculous deliverances beyond +expression. Freed from the slavery, and those desperate perils, we +dayly lived in fear of, during the tyrannical times of that detestable +usurper, Oliver Cromwell; he who had raked up such judges, as would +wrest the most innocent language into high treason, when he had the +cruel conscience to take away our lives, upon no other ground of +justice or reason, (the stones of London streets would rise to witness +it, if all the citizens were silent.) And with these judges had such +councillors, as could advise him unto worse, which will less want of +witness. For should the many auditors be silent, the press, (as God +would have it,) hath given it us in print, where one of them (and his +conscience-keeper, too,) speaks out. What shall we do with these men? +saith he; _Æger intemperans crudelem facit medicum, et immedicabile +vulmis ense recidendum_. Who these men are that should be brought to +such Scicilian vespers, the former page sets forth—those which conceit +_Utopias_, and have their day-dreams of the return of I know not what +golden age, with the old line. What usage, when such a privy councillor +had power, could he expect, who then had published this narrative? This +much so plainly shows the devil himself dislikt their doings, (so much +more bad were they than he would have them be,) severer sure than was +the devil to their Commissioners at Woodstock; for he warned them, with +dreadful noises, to drive them from their work. This councillor, +without more ado, would have all who retained conceits of allegiance to +their soveraign, to be absolutely cut off by the usurper’s sword. A sad +sentence for a loyal party, to a lawful King. But Heaven is always +just; the party is repriv’d, and do acknowledge the hand of God in it, +as is rightly apply’d, and as justly sensible of their deliverance in +that the foundation which the councillor saith was already so well +laid, is now turned up, and what he calls day-dreams are come to passe. +That old line which (as with him) there seemed, _aliquid divini_, to +the contrary is now restored. And that rock which, as he saith, the +prelates and all their adherents, nay, and their master and supporter, +too, with all his posterity, have split themselves upon, is nowhere to +be heard. And that posterity are safely arrived in their ports, and +masters of that mighty navy, their enemies so much encreased to keep +them out with. The eldest sits upon the throne, his place by birthright +and descent, + +“Pacatumque regit Patriis virtutibus orbem;” + + +upon which throne long may he sit, and reign in peace. That by his just +government, the enemies of ours, the true Protestant Church, of that +glorious martyr, our late sovereign, and of his royal posterity, may be +either absolutely converted, or utterly confounded. + +If any shall now ask thee why this narrative was not sooner published, +as neerer to the times wherein the things were acted, he hath the +reason for it in the former lines; which will the more clearly appear +unto his apprehension, if he shall perpend how much cruelty is +requisite to the maintenance of rebellion; and how great care is +necessary in the supporters, to obviate and divert the smallest things +that tend to the unblinding of the people; so that it needs will +follow, that they must have accounted this amongst the great +obstructions to their sales of his majestie’s lands, the devil not +joining with them in the security; and greater to the pulling down the +royal pallaces, when their chapmen should conceit the devil would haunt +them in their houses, for building with so ill got materials; as no +doubt but that he hath, so numerous and confident are the relations +made of the same, though scarce any so totally remarkeable as this, (if +it be not that others have been more concealed,) in regard of the +strange circumstances as long continuances, but especially the number +of persons together, to whom all things were so visibly both seen and +done, so that surely it exceeds any other; for the devils thus +manifesting themselves, it appears evidently that there are such things +as devils, to persecute the wicked in this world as in the next. + +Now, if to these were added the diverse reall phantasms seen at +Whitehall in Cromwell’s times, which caused him to keep such mighty +guards in and about his bedchamber, and yet so oft to change his +lodgings; if those things done at St. James’, where the devil so joal’d +the centinels against the sides of the queen’s chappell doors, that +some of them fell sick upon it; and others, not, taking warning by it, +kild one outright, whom they buried in the place; and all other such +dreadful things, those that inhabited the royal houses have been +affrighted with. + +And if to these were likewise added, a relation of all those regicides +and their abettors the devil hath entered into, as he did the +Gadarenes’ swine, with so many more of them who hath fallen mad, and +dyed in hideous forms of such distractions, that which hath been of +this within these 12 last years in England, (should all of this nature, +our chronicles do tell, with all the superstitious monks have writ, be +put together,) would make the greater volume, and of more strange +occurrents. + +And now as to the penman of this narrative, know that he was a divine, +and at the time of those things acted, which are here related, the +minister and schoolmaster of Woodstock; a person learned and discreet, +not byassed with factious humours, his name Widows, who each day put in +writing what he heard from their mouthes, (and such things as they told +to have befallen them the night before,) therein keeping to their own +words; and, never thinking that what he had writ should happen to be +made publick, gave it no better dress to set it forth. And because to +do it now shall not be construed to change the story, the reader hath +it here accordingly exposed. + +THE JUST DEVIL OF WOODSTOCK + +The 16th day of _October_, in the year of our Lord 1649, the +Commissioners for surveying and valuing his majestie’s mannor-house, +parks, woods, deer, demesnes, and all things thereunto belonging, by +name Captain Crook, Captain Hart, Captain Cockaine, Captain Carelesse, +and Captain Roe, their messenger, with Mr. Browne, their secretary, and +two or three servants, went from Woodstock town, (where they had lain +some nights before,) and took up their lodgings in his majestie’s house +after this manner: The bed-chamber and withdrawing-room they both +lodged in and made their kitchen; the presence-chamber their room for +dispatch of their business with all commers; of the council-hall their +brew-house, as of the dining-room, their wood-house, where they laid in +the clefts of that antient standard in the High-Park, for many ages +beyond memory known by the name of the King’s Oak, which they had +chosen out, and caused to be dug up by the roots. + +_October_ 17. About the middle of the night, these new guests were +first awaked by a knocking at the presence-chamber door, which they +also conceived did open, and something to enter, which came through the +room, and also walkt about that room with a heavy step during half an +hour, then crept under the bed where Captain Hart and Captain Carelesse +lay, where it did seem (as it were) to bite and gnaw the mat and +bed-coards, as if it would tear and rend the feather beds; which having +done a while, then would heave a while, and rest; then heave them up +again in the bed more high than it did before, sometime on the one +side, sometime on the other, as if it had tried which Captain was +heaviest. Thus having heaved some half an hour, from thence it walkt +out and went under the servants’ bed, and did the like to them; hence +it walkt into a withdrawing room, and there did the same to all who +lodged there. Thus having welcomed them for more than two hours’ space, +it walkt out as it came in, and shut the outer door again, but with the +clap of some mightie force. These guests were in a sweat all this +while, but out of it falling into a sleep again, it became morning +first before they spake their minds; then would they have it to be a +dog, yet they described it more to the likeness of a great bear; so +fell to the examining under the beds, where, finding only the mats +scracht, but the bed-coards whole, and the quarter of beef which lay on +the floor untoucht, they entertained other thoughts. + +_October_ 18. They were all awaked as the night before, and now +conceived that they heard all the great clefts of the King’s Oak +brought into the presence-chamber, and there thumpt down, and after +roul about the room; they could hear their chairs and stools tost from +one side of the room unto the other, and then (as it were) altogether +josled. Thus having done an hour together, it walkt into the +withdrawing-room, where lodged the two captains, the secretary, and two +servants; here stopt the thing a while, as if it did take breath, but +raised a hideous one, then walkt into the bed-chamber, where lay those +as before, and under the bed it went, where it did heave and heave +again, that now they in bed were put to catch hold upon bed-posts, and +sometimes one of the other, to prevent their being tumbled out upon the +ground; then coming out as from under the bed, and taking hold upon the +bed-posts, it would shake the whole bed, almost as if a cradle rocked. +Thus having done here for half an hour, it went into the +withdrawing-room, where first it came and stood at the bed’s feet, and +heaving up the bed’s feet, flopt them down again a while, until at last +it heaved the feet so high that those in bed thought to have been set +upon their heads; and having thus for two hours entertained them, went +out as in the night before, but with a great noise. + +_October_ 19. This night they awaked not until the midst of the night; +they perceived the room, to shake with something that walkt about the +bedchamber, which having done so a while, it walkt into a +withdrawing-room, where it took up a brasse warming-pan, and returning +with it into the bed-chamber, therein made so loud a noise, in these +captains’ own words, it was as loud and scurvy as a ring of five +untuned bells rung backward; but the captains, not to seem afraid, next +day made mirth of what had past, and jested at the devil in the pan. + +_October_ 20. These captains and their company, still lodging as +before, were wakened in this night with some things flying about the +rooms, and out of one room into the other, as thrown with some great +force. Captain Hart, being in a slumber, was taken by the shoulder and +shaked until he did sit up in his bed, thinking that it had been one of +his fellows, when suddenly he was taken on the pate with a trencher, +that it made him shrink down into the bed-clothes, and all of them, in +both rooms, kept their heads at least within their sheets, so fiercely +did three dozen of trenchers fly about the rooms; yet Captain Hart +ventured again to peep out to see what was the matter, and what it was +that threw, but then the trenchers came so fast and neer about his +ears, that he was fain quickly to couch again. In the morning they +found all their trenchers, pots, and spits, upon and about their beds, +and all such things as were of common use scattered about the rooms. +This night there were also, in several parts of the room and outer +rooms, such noises of beating at doors, and on the walls, as if that +several smiths had been at work; and yet our captains shrunk not from +their work, but went on in that, and lodged as they had done before. + +_October_ 21. About midnight they heard great knocking at every door; +after a while the doors flew open, and into the withdrawing-room +entered something as of a mighty proportion, the figure of it they knew +not how to describe. This walkt awhile about the room shaking the floor +at every step, then came it up close to the bed-side, where lay +Captains Crook and Carelesse; and after a little pause, as it were, the +bed-curtains, both at sides and feet, were drawn up and down slowly, +then faster again for a quarter of an hour, then from end to end as +fast as imagination can fancie the running of the rings, then shaked it +the beds, as if the joints thereof had crackt; then walkt the thing +into the bed-chamber, and so plaied with those beds there; then took up +eight peuter dishes, and bouled them about the room and over the +servants in the truckle-beds; then sometimes were the dishes taken up +and thrown crosse the high beds and against the walls, and so much +battered; but there were more dishes wherein was meat in the same room, +that were not at all removed. During this, in the presence-chamber +there was stranger noise of weightie things thrown down, and, as they +supposed, the clefts of the King’s Oak did roul about the room, yet at +the wonted hour went away, and left them to take rest, such as they +could. + +_October_ 22. Hath mist of being set down, the officers imployed in +their work farther off, came not that day to Woodstock. + +_October_ 23. Those that lodged in the withdrawing-room, in the midst +of the night were awakened with the cracking of fire, as if it had been +with thorns and sparks of fire burning, whereupon they supposed that +the bed-chamber had taken fire, and listning to it farther, they heard +their fellows in bed sadly groan, which gave them to suppose they might +be suffocated; wherefore they called upon their servants to make all +possible hast to help them. When the two servants were come in, they +found all asleep, and so brought back word, but that there were no +bedclothes upon them; wherefore they were sent back to cover them, and +to stir up and mend the fire. When the servants had covered them and +were come to the chimney, in the corners they found their wearing +apparrel, boots, and stockings, but they had no sooner toucht the +embers, when the firebrands flew about their ears so fast, that away +ran they into the other room for the shelter of their cover-lids; then +after them walkt something that stampt about the room as if it had been +exceeding angry, and likewise threw about the trenchers, platters, and +all such things in the room—after two hours went out, yet stampt again +over their heads. + +_October_ 24. They lodged all abroad. + +_October_ 25. This afternoon was come unto them Mr. Richard Crook the +lawyer, brother to Captain Crook, and now deputy-steward of the manner, +unto Captain Parsons and Major Butler, who had put out Mr. Hyans, his +majestie’s officer. To entertain this new guest the Commissioners +caused a very great fire to be made, of neer the chimneyfull of wood of +the King’s Oak, and he was lodged in the withdrawing-room with his +brother, and his servant in the same room. About the midst of the night +a wonderful knocking was heard, and into the room something did rush, +which coming to the chimney-side, dasht out the fire as with the stamp +of some prodigious foot, then threw down such weighty stuffe, what ere +it was, (they took it to be the residue of the clefts and roots of the +King’s Oak,) close by the bed-side, that the house and bed shook with +it. Captain Cockaine and his fellow arose, and took their swords to go +unto the Crooks. The noise ceased at their rising, so that they came to +the door and called. The two brothers, though fully awaked, and heard +them call, were so amazed, that they made no answer until Captain +Cockaine had recovered the boldness to call very loud, and came unto +the bed-side; then faintly first, after some more assurance, they came +to understand one another, and comforted the lawyer. Whilst this was +thus, no noise was heard, which made them think the time was past of +that night’s trouble, so that, after some little conference, they +applied themselves to take some rest. When Captain Cockaine was come to +his own bed, which he had left open, he found it closely covered, which +he much wondered at; but turning the clothes down, and opening it to +get in, he found the lower sheet strewed over with trenchers. Their +whole three dozen of trenchers were orderly disposed between the +sheets, which he and his fellow endeavoring to cast out, such noise +arose about the room, that they were glad to get into bed with some of +the trenchers. The noise lasted, a full half hour after this. This +entertainment so ill did like the lawyer, and being not so well studied +in the point as to resolve this the devil’s law case, that he next day +resolved to be gone; but having not dispatcht all that he came for, +profit and perswasions prevailed with him to stay the other hearing, so +that he lodged as he did the night before. + +_October_ 26. This night each room was better furnished with fire and +candle than before; yet about twelve at night came something in that +dasht all out, then did walk about the room, making a noise, not to be +set forth by the comparison with any other thing; sometimes came it to +the bedsides, and drew the curtains to and fro, then twerle them, then +walk about again, and return to the bed-posts, shake them with all the +bed, so that they in bed were put to hold one upon the other, then walk +about the room again, and come to the servants’ bed, and gnaw and +scratch the wainscot head, and shake altogether in that room; at the +time of this being in doing, they in the bed-chamber heard such strange +dropping down from the roof of the room, that they supposed ’twas like +the fall of money by the sound. Captain Cockaine, not frightened with +so small a noise, (and lying near the chimney) stept out, and made +shift to light a candle, by the light of which he perceived the room +strewed over with broken glass, green, and some of it as it were pieces +of broken bottles; he had not been long considering what it was, when +suddenly his candle was hit out, and glass flew about the room, that he +made haste to the protection of the coverlets; the noise of thundering +rose more hideous than at any time before; yet, at a certain time, all +vanisht into calmness. The morning after was the glass about the room, +which the maid that was to make clean the rooms swept up into a corner, +and many came to see it. But Mr. Richard Crook would stay no longer, +yet as he stopt, going through Woodstock town, he was there heard to +say, that he would not lodge amongst them another night for a fee of +500 L. + +_October 27_. The Commissioners had not yet done their work, wherefore +they must stay; and being all men of the sword, they must not seem +afraid to encounter with any thing, though it be the devil; therefore, +with pistols charged, and drawn swords laied by their bedsides, they +applied themselves to take some rest, when something in the midst of +night, so opened and shut the window casements with such claps, that it +awakened all that slept; some of them peeping out to look what was the +matter with the windows, stones flew about the rooms as if hurled with +many hands; some hit the walls, and some the beds’ heads close above +the pillows, the dints of which were then, and yet (it is conceived) +are to be seen, thus sometime throwing stones, and sometime making +thundering noise for two hours space it ceast, and all was quiet till +the morn. After their rising, and the maid come in to make the fire, +they looked about the rooms; they found fourscore stones brought in +that night, and going to lay them together in the corner where the +glass (before mentioned) had been swept up, they found that every piece +of glass had been carried away that night. Many people came next day to +see the stones, and all observed that they were not of such kind of +stones as are naturall in the countrey thereabout; with these were +noise like claps of thunder, or report of cannon planted against the +rooms, heard by all that lodged in the outer courts, to their +astonishment, and at Woodstock town, taken to be thunder. + +_October_ 28. This night, both strange and differing noise from the +former first wakened Captain Hart, who lodged in the bed-chamber, who, +hearing Roe and Brown to groan, called out to Cockaine and Crook to +come and help them, for Hart could not now stir himself; Cockaine would +faine have answered, but he could not, or look about; something, he +thought, stopt both his breath and held down his eye-lids. Amazed thus, +he struggles and kickt about, till he had awaked Captain Crook, who, +half asleep, grew very angry at his kicks, and multiplied words, it +grew to an appointment in the field; but this fully recovered Cockaine +to remember that Captain Hart had called for help, wherefore to them he +ran in the other room, whom he found sadly groaning, where, scraping in +the chimney, he both found a candle and fire to light it; but had not +gone two steps, when something blew the candle out, and threw him in +the chair by the bedside, when presently cried out Captain Carelesse, +with a most pitiful voice, “Come hither, O come hither, brother +Cockaine, the thing’s gone of me.” Cockaine, scarce yet himself, helpt +to set him up in his bed, and after Captain Hart, and having scarce +done that to them, and also to the other two, they heard Captain Crook +crying out, as if something had been killing him. Cockaine snacht up +the sword that lay by their bed, and ran into the room to save Crook, +but was in much more likelyhood to kill him, for at his coming, the +thing that pressed Crook went of him, at which Crook started out of his +bed, whom Cockaine thought a spirit made at him, at which Crook cried +out “Lord help, Lord save me;” Cockaine let fall his hand, and Crook, +embracing Cockaine, desired his reconcilement, giving him many thanks +for his deliverance. Then rose they all and came together, discoursed +sometimes godly and sometimes praied, for all this while was there such +stamping over the roof of the house, as if 1000 horse had there been +trotting; this night all the stones brought in the night before, and +laid up in the withdrawingroom, were all carried again away by that +which brought them in, which at the wonted time left of, and, as it +were, went out, and so away. + +_October_ 29. Their businesse having now received so much forwardnesse +as to be neer dispatcht, they encouraged one the other, and resolved to +try further; therefore, they provided more lights and fires, and +further for their assistance, prevailed with their ordinary keeper to +lodge amongst them, and bring his mastive bitch; and it was so this +night with them, that they had no disturbance at all. + +_October_ 30. So well they had passed the night before, that this night +they went to bed, confident and careless; untill about twelve of the +clock, something knockt at the door as with a smith’s great hammer, but +with such force as if it had cleft the door; then ent’red something +like a bear, but seem’d to swell more big, and walkt about the room, +and out of one room into the other, treading so heavily, as the floare +had not been strong enough to beare it. When it came into the +bed-chamber, it dasht against the beds’ heads some kind of glass +vessell, that broke in sundry pieces, and sometimes would take up those +pieces, and hurle them about the room, and into the other room; and +when it did not hurle the glasse at their heads, it did strike upon the +tables, as if many smiths, with their greatest hammers, had been laying +on as upon an anvil; sometimes it thumpt against the walls as if it +would beat a hole through; then upon their heads, such stamping, as if +the roof of the house were beating down upon their heads; and having +done thus, during the space (as was conjectured) of two hours, it +ceased and vanished, but with a more fierce shutting of the doors than +at any time before. In the morning they found the pieces of glass about +the room, and observed, that it was much differing from that glasse +brought in three nights before, this being of a much thicker substance, +which severall persons which came in carried away some pieces of. The +Commissioners were in debate of lodging there no more; but all their +businesse was not done, and some of them were so conceited as to +believe, and to attribute the rest they enjoyed the night before this +last, unto the mastive bitch; wherefore, they resolved to get more +company, and the mastive bitch, and try another night. + +_October_ 31. This night, the fires and lights prepared, the ordinary +keeper and his bitch, with another man perswaded by him, they all took +their beds and fell asleep. But about twelve at night, such rapping was +on all sides of them, that it wakened all of them; as the doors did +seem to open, the mastive bitch fell fearfully a yelling, and presently +ran fiercely into the bed to them in the truckle-bed; as the thing came +by the table, it struck so fierce a blow on that, as that it made the +frame to crack, then took the warming-pan from off the table, and +stroke it against the walls with so much force as that it was beat flat +together, lid and bottom. Now were they hit as they lay covered over +head and ears within the bed-clothes. Captain Carelesse was taken a +sound blow on the head with the shoulder-blade bone of a dead horse, +(before they had been but thrown at, when they peept up, and mist;) +Browne had a shrewed blow on the leg with the backbone, and another on +the head, and every one of them felt severall blows of bones and stones +through the bed-clothes, for now these things were thrown as from an +angry hand that meant further mischief; the stones flew in at window as +shot out of a gun, nor was the bursts lesse (as from without) than of a +cannon, and all the windows broken down. Now as the hurling of the +things did cease, and the thing walkt up and down, Captain Cockaine and +Hart cried out, In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, what +are you? What would you have? What have we done that you disturb us +thus? No voice replied, (as the Captains said, yet some of their +servants have said otherwise,) and the noise ceast. Hereupon Captains +Hart and Cockaine rose, who lay in the bed-chamber, renewed the fire +and lights, and one great candle, in a candlestick, they placed in the +door, that might be seen by them in both the rooms. No sooner were they +got to bed, but the noise arose on all sides more loud and hideous than +at any time before, insomuch as (to use the Captains’ own words) it +returned and brought seven devils worse than itself; and presently they +saw the candle and candlestick in the passage of the door, dasht up to +the roof of the room, by a kick of the hinder parts of a horse, and +after with the hoof trode out the snuff, and so dasht out the fire in +the chimnies. As this was done, there fell, as from the ceiling, upon +them in the truckle-beds such quantities of water, as if it had been +poured out of buckets, which stunk worse than any earthly stink could +make; and as this was in doing, something crept under the high beds, +tost them up to the roof of the house, with the Commissioners in them, +until the testers of the beds were beaten down upon, and the +bedsted-frames broke under them; and here some pause being made, they +all, as if with one consent, started up, and ran down the stairs until +they came into the Councel Hall, where two sate up a-brewing, but now +were fallen asleep; those they scared much with the wakening of them, +having been much perplext before with the strange noise, which commonly +was taken by them abroad for thunder, sometimes for rumbling wind. Here +the Captains and their company got fire and candle, and every one +carrying something of either, they returned into the Presence-Chamber, +where some applied themselves to make the fire, whilst others fell to +prayers, and having got some clothes about them, they spent the residue +of the night in singing psalms and prayers; during which, no noise was +in that room, but most hideously round about, as at some distance. + +It should have been told before, how that when Captain Hart first rose +this night, (who lay in the bed-chamber next the fire,) he found their +book of valuations crosse the embers smoaking, which he snacht up and +cast upon the table there, which the night before was left upon the +table in the presence amongst their other papers; this book was in the +morning found a handful burnt, and had burnt the table where it lay; +Browne the clerk said, he would not for a 100 and a 100 L that it had +been burnt a handful further. + +This night it happened that there were six cony-stealers, who were come +with their nets and ferrets to the cony-burrows by Rosamond’s Well; but +with the noise this night from the Mannor-house, they were so +terrified, that like men distracted away they ran, and left their haies +all ready pitched, ready up, and the ferrets in the cony-burrows. + +Now the Commissioners, more sensible of their danger, considered more +seriously of their safety, and agreed to go and confer with Mr. +Hoffman, the minister of Wotton, (a man not of the meanest note for +life or learning, by some esteemed more high,) to desire his advice, +together with his company and prayers. Mr. Hoffman held it too high a +point to resolve on suddenly and by himself, wherefore desired time to +consider upon it, which being agreed unto, he forthwith rode to Mr. +Jenkinson and Mr. Wheat, the two next Justices of Peace, to try what +warrant they could give him for it. They both (as ’tis said from +themselves) encouraged him to be assisting to the Commissioners, +according to his calling. + +But certain it is, that when they came to fetch him to go with them, +Mr. Hoffman answered, that he would not lodge there one night for 500 +L, and being asked to pray with them, he held up his hands and said, +that he would not meddle upon any terms. + +Mr. Hoffman refusing to undertake the quarrel, the Commissioners held +it not safe to lodge where they had been thus entertained any longer, +but caused all things to be removed into the chambers over the +gatehouse, where they stayed but one night, and what rest they enjoyed +there, we have but an uncertain relation of, for they went away early +the next morning; but if it may be held fit to set down what hath been +delivered by the report of others, they were also the same night much +affrighted with dreadful apparitions; but observing that these passages +spread much in discourse, to be also in particulars taken notice of, +and that the nature of it made not for their cause, they agreed to the +concealing of things for the future; yet this is well-known and +certain, that the gate-keeper’s wife was in so strange an agony in her +bed, and in her bed-chamber such noise, (whilst her husband was above +with the Commissioners,) that two maids in the next room to her, durst +not venture to assist her, but affrighted ran out to call company, and +their master, and found the woman (at their coming in) gasping for +breath; and the next day said, that she saw and suffered that, which +for all the world she would not be hired to again. + +From Woodstock the Commissioners removed unto Euelme, and some of them +returned to Woodstock the Sunday se’nnight after, (the book of +Valuations wanting something that was for haste left imperfect,) but +lodged not in any of those rooms where they had lain before, and yet +were not unvisited (as they confess themselves) by the devil, whom they +called their nightly guest; Captain Crook came not untill Tuesday +night, and how he sped that night the gate-keeper’s wife can tell if +she dareth, but what she hath whispered to her gossips, shall not be +made a part of this our narrative, nor many more particulars which have +fallen from the Commissioners themselves and their servants to other +persons; they are all or most of them alive, and may add to it when +they please, and surely have not a better way to be revenged of him who +troubled them, than according to the proverb, tell truth and shame the +devil. + +There remains this observation to be added, that on a Wednesday morning +all these officers went away; and that since then diverse persons of +severall qualities, have lodged often and sometimes long in the same +rooms, both in the presence, withdrawing-room, and bed-chamber +belonging unto his sacred Majesty; yet none have had the least +disturbance, or heard the smallest noise, for which the cause was not +as ordinary as apparent, except the Commissioners and their company, +who came in order to the alienating and pulling down the house, which +is wellnigh performed. + +A SHORT SURVEY OF WOODSTOCK, NOT TAKEN BY ANY OF THE BEFORE-MENTIONED +COMMISSIONERS. + +(This Survey of Woodstock is appended to the preceding pamphlet) + + +The noble seat, called Woodstock, is one of the ancient honours +belonging to the crown. Severall mannors owe suite and service to the +place; but the custom of the countrey giving it but the title of a +mannor, we shall erre with them to be the better understood. + +The mannor-house hath been a large fabrick, and accounted amongst his +majestie’s standing houses, because there was alwaies kept a standing +furniture. This great house was built by King Henry the First, but +ampleyfied with the gate-house and outsides of the outer-court, by King +Henry the Seventh, the stables by King James. + +About a bow-shot from the gate south-west, remain foundation signs of +that structure, erected by King Henry the Second, for the security of +Lady Rosamond, daughter of Walter Lord Clifford, which some poets have +compared to the Dedalian labyrinth, but the form and circuit both of +the place and ruins show it to have been a house and of one pile, +perhaps of strength, according to the fashion of those times, and +probably was fitted with secret places of recess, and avenues to hide +or convey away such persons as were not willing to be found if narrowly +sought after. About the midst of the place ariseth a spring, called at +present Rosamond’s Well; it is but shallow, and shows to have been +paved and walled about, likely contrived for the use of them within the +house, when it should be of danger to go out. + +A quarter of a mile distant from the King’s house, is seated Woodstook +town, new and old. This new Woodstock did arise by some buildings which +Henry the Second gave leave to be erected, (as received by tradition,) +at the suite of the Lady Rosamond, for the use of out-servants upon the +wastes of the manner of Bladon, where is the mother church; this is a +hamlet belonging to it, though encreased to a market town by the +advantage of the Court residing sometime near, which of late years they +have been sensible of the want of; this town was made a corporation in +the 11th year of Henry the Sixth, by charter, with power to send two +burgesses to parliament or not, as they will themselves. + +Old Woodstock is seated on the west side of the brook, named Glyme, +which also runneth through the park; the town consists not of above +four or five houses, but it is to be conceived that it hath been much +larger, (but very anciently so,) for in some old law historians there +is mention of the assize at Woodstock, for a law made in a Micelgemote +(the name of Parliaments before the coming of the Norman) in the days +of King Ethelred. + +And in like manner, that thereabout was a king’s house, if not in the +same place where Henry the First built the late standing pile before +his; for in such days those great councils were commonly held in the +King’s palaces. Some of those lands have belonged to the orders of the +Knights Templers, there being records which call them, _Terras quas Rex +excambiavit cum Templariis_. + +But now this late large mannor-house is in a manner almost turned into +heaps of rubbish; some seven or eight rooms left for the accommodation +of a tenant that should rent the King’s medows, (of those who had no +power to let them,) with several high uncovered walls standing, the +prodigious spectacles of malice unto monarchy, which ruines still bear +semblance of their state, and yet aspire in spight of envy, or of +weather, to show, What kings do build, subjects may sometimes shake, +but utterly can never overthrow. + +That part of the park called the High-park, hath been lately subdivided +by Sir Arthur Haselrig, to make pastures for his breed of colts, and +other parts plowed up. Of the whole saith Roffus Warwicensis, in MS. +Hen. I. p. 122. _Fecit iste Rex Parcum de Woodstock, cum Palatio, infra +prædictum Parcum, qui Parcus erat primus Parcus Angliæ, et continet in +circuitu septem Miliaria; constructus erat. Anno 14 hujus Regis, aut +parum post_. Without the Park the King’s demesne woods were, it cannot +well be said now are, the timber being all sold off, and underwoods so +cropt and spoiled by that beast the Lord Munson, and other greedy +cattle, that they are hardly recoverable. Beyond which lieth +Stonefield, and other mannors that hold of Woodstock, with other woods, +that have been aliened by former kings, but with reservation of liberty +for his majestie’s deer, and other beasts of forrest, to harbour in at +pleasure, as in due place is to be shewed. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +It is not my purpose to inform my readers how the manuscripts of that +eminent antiquary, the Rev. J. A. ROCHECLIFFE, D.D., came into my +possession. There are many ways in which such things happen, and it is +enough to say they were rescued from an unworthy fate, and that they +were honestly come by. As for the authenticity of the anecdotes which I +have gleaned from the writings of this excellent person, and put +together with my own unrivalled facility, the name of Doctor +Rochecliffe will warrant accuracy, wherever that name happens to be +known. + +With his history the reading part of the world are well acquainted; and +we might refer the tyro to honest Anthony a Wood, who looked up to him +as one of the pillars of High Church, and bestows on him an exemplary +character in the _Athenæ Oxonienses_, although the Doctor was educated +at Cambridge, England’s other eye. + +It is well known that Doctor Rochecliffe early obtained preferment in +the Church, on account of the spirited share which he took in the +controversy with the Puritans; and that his work, entitled _Malleus +Hæresis_, was considered as a knock-down blow by all except those who +received it. It was that work which made him, at the early age of +thirty, Rector of Woodstock, and which afterwards secured him a place +in the Catalogue of the celebrated Century White;—and worse than being +shown up by that fanatic, among the catalogues of scandalous and +malignant priests admitted into benefices by the prelates, his opinions +occasioned the loss of his living of Woodstock by the ascendency of +Presbytery. He was Chaplain, during most part of the Civil War, to Sir +Henry Lee’s regiment, levied for the service of King Charles; and it +was said he engaged more than once personally in the field. At least it +is certain that Doctor Rochecliffe was repeatedly in great danger, as +will appear from more passages than one in the following history, which +speaks of his own exploits, like Caesar, in the third person. I +suspect, however, some Presbyterian commentator has been guilty of +interpolating two or three passages. The manuscript was long in +possession of the Everards, a distinguished family of that +persuasion.[4] + + [4] It is hardly necessary to say, unless to some readers of very + literal capacity, that Dr. Rochecliffe and his manuscripts are alike + apocryphal. + + +During the Usurpation, Doctor Rochecliffe was constantly engaged in one +or other of the premature attempts at a restoration of monarchy; and +was accounted, for his audacity, presence of mind, and depth of +judgment, one of the greatest undertakers for the King in that busy +time; with this trifling drawback, that the plots in which he busied +himself were almost constantly detected. Nay, it was suspected that +Cromwell himself sometimes contrived to suggest to him the intrigues in +which he engaged, by which means the wily Protector made experiments on +the fidelity of doubtful friends, and became well acquainted with the +plots of declared enemies, which he thought it more easy to disconcert +and disappoint than to punish severely. + +Upon the Restoration, Doctor Rochecliffe regained his living of +Woodstock, with other Church preferment, and gave up polemics and +political intrigues for philosophy. He was one of the constituent +members of the Royal Society, and was the person through whom Charles +required of that learned body solution of their curious problem, “Why, +if a vessel is filled brimful of water, and a large live fish plunged +into the water, nevertheless it shall not overflow the pitcher?” Doctor +Rochecliffe’s exposition of this phenomenon was the most ingenious and +instructive of four that were given in; and it is certain the Doctor +must have gained the honour of the day, but for the obstinacy of a +plain, dull, country gentleman, who insisted that the experiment should +be, in the first place, publicly tried. When this was done, the event +showed it would have been rather rash to have adopted the facts +exclusively on the royal authority; as the fish, however curiously +inserted into his native element, splashed the water over the hall, and +destroyed the credit of four ingenious essayists, besides a large +Turkey carpet. + +Doctor Rochecliffe, it would seem, died about 1685, leaving many papers +behind him of various kinds, and, above all, many valuable anecdotes of +secret history, from which the following Memoirs have been extracted, +on which we intend to say only a few words by way of illustration. + +The existence of Rosamond’s Labyrinth, mentioned in these pages, is +attested by Drayton in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. + +Rosamond’s Labyrinth, whose ruins, together with her Well, being paved +with square stones in the bottom, and also her Tower, from which the +Labyrinth did run, are yet remaining, being vaults arched and walled +with stone and brick, almost inextricably wound within one another, by +which, if at any time her lodging were laid about by the Queen, she +might easily avoid peril imminent, and, if need be, by secret issues +take the air abroad, many furlongs about Woodstock in Oxfordshire.[5] + + [5] Drayton’s England’s Heroical Epistles, Note A, on the Epistle, + Rosamond to King Henry. + + +It is highly probable, that a singular piece of phantasmagoria, which +was certainly played off upon the Commissioners of the Long Parliament, +who were sent down to dispark and destroy Woodstock, after the death of +Charles I., was conducted by means of the secret passages and recesses +in the ancient Labyrinth of Rosamond, round which successive Monarchs +had erected a Hunting-seat or Lodge. + +There is a curious account of the disturbance given to those Honourable +Commissioners, inserted by Doctor Plot, in his Natural History of +Oxfordshire. But as I have not the book at hand, I can only allude to +the work of the celebrated Glanville upon Witches, who has extracted it +as an highly accredited narrative of supernatural dealings. The beds of +the Commissioners, and their servants, were hoisted up till they were +almost inverted, and then let down again so suddenly, as to menace them +with broken bones. Unusual and horrible noises disturbed those +sacrilegious intromitters with royal property. The devil, on one +occasion, brought them a warming-pan; on another, pelted them with +stones and horses’ bones. Tubs of water were emptied on them in their +sleep; and so many other pranks of the same nature played at their +expense, that they broke up housekeeping, and left their intended +spoliation only half completed. The good sense of Doctor Plot +suspected, that these feats were wrought by conspiracy and +confederation, which Glanville of course endeavours to refute with all +his might; for it could scarce be expected, that he who believed in so +convenient a solution as that of supernatural agency, would consent to +relinquish the service of a key, which will answer any lock, however +intricate. + +Nevertheless, it was afterwards discovered, that Doctor Plot was +perfectly right; and that the only demon who wrought all these marvels, +was a disguised royalist—a fellow called Trusty Joe, or some such name, +formerly in the service of the Keeper of the Park, but who engaged in +that of the Commissioners, on purpose to subject them to his +persecution. I think I have seen some account of the real state of the +transaction, and of the machinery by which the wizard worked his +wonders; but whether in a book, or a pamphlet, I am uncertain. I +remember one passage particularly to this purpose. The Commissioners +having agreed to retain some articles out of the public account, in +order to be divided among themselves, had entered into an indenture for +ascertaining their share in the peculation, which they hid in a bow-pot +for security. Now, when an assembly of divines, aided by the most +strict religious characters in the neighbourhood of Woodstock, were +assembled to conjure down the supposed demon, Trusty Joe had contrived +a firework, which he let off in the midst of the exorcism, and which +destroyed the bow-pot; and, to the shame and confusion of the +Commissioners, threw their secret indenture into the midst of the +assembled ghost-seers, who became thus acquainted with their secret +schemes of peculation. + +It is, however, to little purpose for me to strain my memory about +ancient and imperfect recollections concerning the particulars of these +fantastic disturbances at Woodstock, since Doctor Rochecliffe’s papers +give such a much more accurate narrative than could be obtained from +any account in existence before their publication. Indeed, I might have +gone much more fully into this part of my subject, for the materials +are ample;—but, to tell the reader a secret, some friendly critics were +of opinion they made the story hang on hand; and thus I was prevailed +on to be more concise on the subject than I might otherwise have been. + +The impatient reader, perhaps, is by this time accusing me of keeping +the sun from him with a candle. Were the sunshine as bright, however, +as it is likely to prove; and the flambeau, or link, a dozen of times +as smoky, my friend must remain in the inferior atmosphere a minute +longer, while I disclaim the idea of poaching on another’s manor. +Hawks, we say in Scotland, ought not to pick out hawks’ eyes, or tire +upon each other’s quarry; and therefore, if I had known that, in its +date and its characters this tale was likely to interfere with that +recently published by a distinguished contemporary, I should +unquestionably have left Doctor Rochecliffe’s manuscript in peace for +the present season. But before I was aware of this circumstance, this +little book was half through the press; and I had only the alternative +of avoiding any intentional imitation, by delaying a perusal of the +contemporary work in question. Some accidental collision there must be, +when works of a similar character are finished on the same general +system of historical manners, and the same historical personages are +introduced. Of course, if such have occurred, I shall be probably the +sufferer. But my intentions have been at least innocent, since I look +on it as one of the advantages attending the conclusion of WOODSTOCK, +that the finishing of my own task will permit me to have the pleasure +of reading BRAMBLETYE-HOUSE, from which I have hitherto conscientiously +abstained. + + + + +WOODSTOCK. + + + +CHAPTER THE FIRST. + + +Some were for gospel ministers, +And some for red-coat seculars, +As men most fit t’ hold forth the word, +And wield the one and th’ other sword. + Butler’s _Hudibras_. + + +There is a handsome parish church in the town of Woodstock,—I am told +so, at least, for I never saw it, having scarce time, when at the +place, to view the magnificence of Blenheim, its painted halls, and +tapestried bowers, and then return in due season to dine in hall with +my learned friend, the provost of ——; being one of those occasions on +which a man wrongs himself extremely, if he lets his curiosity +interfere with his punctuality. I had the church accurately described +to me, with a view to this work; but, as I have some reason to doubt +whether my informant had ever seen the inside of it himself, I shall be +content to say that it is now a handsome edifice, most part of which +was rebuilt forty or fifty years since, although it still contains some +arches of the old chantry, founded, it is said, by King John. It is to +this more ancient part of the building that my story refers. On a +morning in the end of September, or beginning of October, in the year +1652, being a day appointed for a solemn thanksgiving for the decisive +victory at Worcester, a respectable audience was assembled in the old +chantry, or chapel of King John. The condition of the church and +character of the audience both bore witness to the rage of civil war, +and the peculiar spirit of the times. The sacred edifice showed many +marks of dilapidation. The windows, once filled with stained glass, had +been dashed to pieces with pikes and muskets, as matters of and +pertaining to idolatry. The carving on the reading-desk was damaged, +and two fair screens of beautiful sculptured oak had been destroyed, +for the same pithy and conclusive reason. The high altar had been +removed, and the gilded railing, which was once around it, was broken +down and carried off. The effigies of several tombs were mutilated, and +now lay scattered about the church, + +Torn from their destined niche—unworthy meed +Of knightly counsel or heroic deed! + + +The autumn wind piped through empty aisles, in which the remains of +stakes and trevisses of rough-hewn timber, as well as a quantity of +scattered hay and trampled straw, seemed to intimate that the hallowed +precincts had been, upon some late emergency, made the quarters of a +troop of horse. + +The audience, like the building, was abated in splendour. None of the +ancient and habitual worshippers during peaceful times, were now to be +seen in their carved galleries, with hands shadowing their brows, while +composing their minds to pray where their fathers had prayed, and after +the same mode of worship. The eye of the yeoman and peasant sought in +vain the tall form of old Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, as, wrapped in +his lace cloak, and with beard and whiskers duly composed, he moved +slowly through the aisles, followed by the faithful mastiff, or +bloodhound, which in old time had saved his master by his fidelity, and +which regularly followed him to church. Bevis, indeed, fell under the +proverb which avers, “He is a good dog which goes to church;” for, +bating an occasional temptation to warble along with the accord, he +behaved himself as decorously as any of the congregation, and returned +as much edified, perhaps, as most of them. The damsels of Woodstock +looked as vainly for the laced cloaks, jingling spurs, slashed boots, +and tall plumes, of the young cavaliers of this and other high-born +houses, moving through the streets and the church-yard with the +careless ease, which indicates perhaps rather an overweening degree of +self-confidence, yet shows graceful when mingled with good-humour and +courtesy. The good old dames, too, in their white hoods and black +velvet gowns—their daughters, “the cynosure of neighbouring +eyes,”—where were they all now, who, when they entered the church, used +to divide men’s thoughts between them and Heaven? “But, ah! Alice +Lee—so sweet, so gentle, so condescending in thy loveliness—[thus +proceeds a contemporary annalist, whose manuscript we have +deciphered]—why is my story to turn upon thy fallen fortunes? and why +not rather to the period when, in the very dismounting from your +palfrey, you attracted as many eyes as if an angel had descended,—as +many blessings as if the benignant being had come fraught with good +tidings? No creature wert thou of an idle romancer’s imagination—no +being fantastically bedizened with inconsistent perfections;—thy merits +made me love thee well—and for thy faults—so well did they show amid +thy good qualities, that I think they made me love thee better.” + +With the house of Lee had disappeared from the chantry of King John +others of gentle blood and honoured lineage—Freemantles, Winklecombes, +Drycotts, &c.; for the air that blew over the towers of Oxford was +unfavourable to the growth of Puritanism, which was more general in the +neighbouring counties. There were among the congregation, however, one +or two that, by their habits and demeanour, seemed country gentlemen of +consideration, and there were also present some of the notables of the +town of Woodstock, cutlers or glovers chiefly, whose skill in steel or +leather had raised them to a comfortable livelihood. These dignitaries +wore long black cloaks, plaited close at the neck, and, like peaceful +citizens, carried their Bibles and memorandum-books at their girdles, +instead of knife or sword.[1] This respectable, but least numerous part +of the audience, were such decent persons as had adopted the +Presbyterian form of faith, renouncing the liturgy and hierarchy of the +Church of England, and living under the tuition of the Rev. Nehemiah +Holdenough, much famed for the length and strength of his powers of +predication. With these grave seniors sate their goodly dames in ruff +and gorget, like the portraits which in catalogues of paintings are +designed “wife of a burgomaster;” and their pretty daughters, whose +study, like that of Chaucer’s physician, was not always in the Bible, +but who were, on the contrary, when a glance could escape the vigilance +of their honoured mothers, inattentive themselves, and the cause of +inattention in others. + + [1] This custom among the Puritans is mentioned often in old plays, + and among others in the Widow of Watling Street. + + +But, besides these dignified persons, there were in the church a +numerous collection of the lower orders, some brought thither by +curiosity, but many of them unwashed artificers, bewildered in the +theological discussions of the time, and of as many various sects as +there are colours in the rainbow. The presumption of these learned +Thebans being in exact proportion to their ignorance, the last was +total and the first boundless. Their behaviour in the church was any +thing but reverential or edifying. Most of them affected a cynical +contempt for all that was only held sacred by human sanction—the church +was to these men but a steeple-house, the clergyman, an ordinary +person; her ordinances, dry bran and sapless pottage unfitted for the +spiritualized palates of the saints, and the prayer, an address to +Heaven, to which each acceded or not as in his too critical judgment he +conceived fit. + +The elder amongst them sate or lay on the benches, with their high +steeple-crowned hats pulled over their severe and knitted brows, +waiting for the Presbyterian parson, as mastiffs sit in dumb +expectation of the bull that is to be brought to the stake. The younger +mixed, some of them, a bolder license of manners with their heresies; +they gazed round on the women, yawned, coughed, and whispered, eat +apples, and cracked nuts, as if in the gallery of a theatre ere the +piece commences. + +Besides all these, the congregation contained a few soldiers, some in +corslets and steel caps, some in buff, and others in red coats. These +men of war had their bandeliers, with ammunition, slung around them, +and rested on their pikes and muskets. They, too, had their peculiar +doctrines on the most difficult points of religion, and united the +extravagances of enthusiasm with the most determined courage and +resolution in the field. The burghers of Woodstock looked on these +military saints with no small degree of awe; for though not often +sullied with deeds of plunder or cruelty, they had the power of both +absolutely in their hands, and the peaceful citizen had no alternative, +save submission to whatever the ill-regulated and enthusiastic +imaginations of their martial guides might suggest. + +After some time spent in waiting for him, Mr. Holdenough began to walk +up the aisles of the chapel, not with the slow and dignified carriage +with which the old Rector was of yore wont to maintain the dignity of +the surplice, but with a hasty step, like one who arrives too late at +an appointment, and bustles forward to make the best use of his time. +He was a tall thin man, with an adust complexion, and the vivacity of +his eye indicated some irascibility of temperament. His dress was +brown, not black, and over his other vestments he wore, in honour of +Calvin, a Geneva cloak of a blue colour, which fell backwards from his +shoulders as he posted on to the pulpit. His grizzled hair was cut as +short as shears could perform the feat, and covered with a black silk +scull-cap, which stuck so close to his head, that the two ears expanded +from under it as if they had been intended as handles by which to lift +the whole person. Moreover, the worthy divine wore spectacles, and a +long grizzled peaked beard, and he carried in his hand a small +pocket-bible with silver clasps. Upon arriving at the pulpit, he paused +a moment to take breath, then began to ascend the steps by two at a +time. + +But his course was arrested by a strong hand, which seized his cloak. +It was that of one who had detached himself from the group of soldiery. +He was a stout man of middle stature, with a quick eye, and a +countenance, which, though plain, had yet an expression that fixed the +attention. His dress, though not strictly military, partook of that +character. He wore large hose made of calves-leather, and a tuck, as it +was then called, or rapier, of tremendous length, balanced on the other +side by a dagger. The belt was morocco, garnished with pistols. + +The minister, thus intercepted in his duty, faced round upon the party +who had seized him, and demanded, in no gentle tone, the meaning of the +interruption. + +“Friend,” quoth the intruder, “is it thy purpose to hold forth to these +good people?” + +“Ay, marry is it,” said the clergyman, “and such is my bounden duty. +Woe to me if I preach not the gospel—Prithee, friend, let me not in my +labour”— + +“Nay,” said the man of warlike mien, “I am myself minded to hold forth; +therefore, do thou desist, or if thou wilt do by my advice, remain and +fructify with those poor goslings, to whom I am presently about to +shake forth the crumbs of comfortable doctrine.” + +“Give place, thou man of Satan,” said the priest, waxing wroth, +“respect mine order—my cloth.” + +“I see no more to respect in the cut of thy cloak, or in the cloth of +which it is fashioned,” said the other, “than thou didst in the +Bishop’s rochets—they were black and white, thou art blue and brown. +Sleeping dogs every one of you, lying down, loving to slumber—shepherds +that starve the flock but will not watch it, each looking to his own +gain—hum.” + +Scenes of this indecent kind were so common at the time, that no one +thought of interfering; the congregation looked on in silence, the +better class scandalized, and the lower orders, some laughing, and +others backing the soldier or minister as their fancy dictated. +Meantime the struggle waxed fiercer; Mr. Holdenough clamoured for +assistance. + +“Master Mayor of Woodstock,” he exclaimed, “wilt thou be among those +wicked magistrates, who bear the sword in vain?—Citizens, will you not +help your pastor?—Worthy Alderman, will you see me strangled on the +pulpit stairs by this man of buff and Belial?—But lo, I will overcome +him, and cast his cords from me.” + +As Holdenough spoke, he struggled to ascend the pulpit stairs, holding +hard on the banisters. His tormentor held fast by the skirts of the +cloak, which went nigh to the choking of the wearer, until, as he spoke +the words last mentioned, in a half-strangled voice, Mr. Holdenough +dexterously slipped the string which tied it round his neck, so that +the garment suddenly gave way; the soldier fell backwards down the +steps, and the liberated divine skipped into the pulpit, and began to +give forth a psalm of triumph over his prostrate adversary. But a great +hubbub in the church marred his exultation, and although he and his +faithful clerk continued to sing the hymn of victory, their notes were +only heard by fits, like the whistle of a curlew during a gale of wind. + +The cause of the tumult was as follows:—The Mayor was a zealous +Presbyterian, and witnessed the intrusion of the soldier with great +indignation from the very beginning, though he hesitated to interfere +with an armed man while on his legs and capable of resistance. But no +sooner did he behold the champion of independency sprawling on his +back, with the divine’s Geneva cloak fluttering in his hands, than the +magistrate rushed forward, exclaiming that such insolence was not to be +endured, and ordered his constables to seize the prostrate champion, +proclaiming, in the magnanimity of wrath, “I will commit every red-coat +of them all—I will commit him were he Noll Cromwell himself!” + +The worthy Mayor’s indignation had overmastered his reason when he made +this mistimed vaunt; for three soldiers, who had hitherto stood +motionless like statues, made each a stride in advance, which placed +them betwixt the municipal officers and the soldier, who was in the act +of rising; then making at once the movement of resting arms according +to the manual as then practised, their musket-buts rang on the church +pavement, within an inch of the gouty toes of Master Mayor. The +energetic magistrate, whose efforts in favour of order were thus +checked, cast one glance on his supporters, but that was enough to show +him that force was not on his side. All had shrunk back on hearing that +ominous clatter of stone and iron. He was obliged to descend to +expostulation. + +“What do you mean, my masters?” said he; “is it like a decent and +God-fearing soldiery, who have wrought such things for the land as have +never before been heard of, to brawl and riot in the church, or to aid, +abet, and comfort a profane fellow, who hath, upon a solemn +thanksgiving excluded the minister from his own pulpit?” + +“We have nought to do with thy church, as thou call’st it,” said he +who, by a small feather in front of his morion, appeared to be the +corporal of the party;—“we see not why men of gifts should not be heard +within these citadels of superstition, as well as the voice of the men +of crape of old, and the men of cloak now. Wherefore, we will pluck yon +Jack Presbyter out of his wooden sentinel-box, and our own watchman +shall relieve the guard, and mount thereon, and cry aloud and spare +not.” + +“Nay, gentlemen,” said the Mayor, “if such be your purpose, we have not +the means to withstand you, being, as you see, peaceful and quiet +men—But let me first speak with this worthy minister, Nehemiah +Holdenough, to persuade him to yield up his place for the time without +farther scandal.” + +The peace-making Mayor then interrupted the quavering Holdenough and +the clerk, and prayed both to retire, else there would, he said, be +certainly strife. + +“Strife!” replied the Presbyterian divine, with scorn; “no fear of +strife among men that dare not testify against this open profanation of +the Church, and daring display of heresy. Would your neighbours of +Banbury have brooked such an insult?” + +“Come, come, Master Holdenough,” said the Mayor, “put us not to mutiny +and cry Clubs. I tell you once more, we are not men of war or blood.” + +“Not more than may be drawn by the point of a needle,” said the +preacher, scornfully.—“Ye tailors of Woodstock!—for what is a glover +but a tailor working on kidskin?—I forsake you, in scorn of your faint +hearts and feeble hands, and will seek me elsewhere a flock which will +not fly from their shepherd at the braying of the first wild ass which +cometh from out the great desert.” + +So saying, the aggrieved divine departed from his pulpit, and shaking +the dust from his shoes, left the church as hastily as he had entered +it, though with a different reason for his speed. The citizens saw his +retreat with sorrow, and not without a compunctious feeling, as if +conscious that they were not playing the most courageous part in the +world. The Mayor himself and several others left the church, to follow +and appease him. + +The Independent orator, late prostrate, was now triumphant, and +inducting himself into the pulpit without farther ceremony, he pulled a +Bible from his pocket, and selected his text from the forty-fifth +psalm,—“Gird thy sword upon thy thigh, O most mighty, with thy glory +and thy majesty: and in thy majesty ride prosperously.”—Upon this +theme, he commenced one of those wild declamations common at the +period, in which men were accustomed to wrest and pervert the language +of Scripture, by adapting to it modern events.[2] The language which, +in its literal sense, was applied to King David, and typically referred +to the coming of the Messiah, was, in the opinion of the military +orator, most properly to be interpreted of Oliver Cromwell, the +victorious general of the infant Commonwealth, which was never destined +to come of age. “Gird on thy sword!” exclaimed the preacher +emphatically; “and was not that a pretty bit of steel as ever dangled +from a corslet, or rung against a steel saddle? Ay, ye prick up your +ears now, ye cutlers of Woodstock, as if ye should know something of a +good fox broad sword—Did you forge it, I trow?—was the steel quenched +with water from Rosamond’s well, or the blade blessed by the old +cuckoldy priest of Godstow? You would have us think, I warrant me, that +you wrought it and welded it, grinded and polished it, and all the +while it never came on a Woodstock stithy! You were all too busy making +whittles for the lazy crape-men of Oxford, bouncing priests, whose eyes +were so closed up with fat, that they could not see Destruction till +she had them by the throat. But I can tell you where the sword was +forged, and tempered, and welded, and grinded, and polished. When you +were, as I said before, making whittles for false priests, and daggers +for dissolute G—d d—n-me cavaliers, to cut the people of England’s +throats with—it was forged at Long Marston Moor, where blows went +faster than ever rung hammer on anvil—and it was tempered at Naseby, in +the best blood of the cavaliers—and it was welded in Ireland against +the walls of Drogheda—and it was grinded on Scottish lives at +Dunbar—and now of late it was polished in Worcester, till it shines as +bright as the sun in the middle heaven, and there is no light in +England that shall come nigh unto it.” + + [2] See “Vindication of the Book of Common Prayer, against the + contumelious Slanders of the Fanatic Party terming it Porridge.” + The author of this singular and rare tract indulges in the + allegorical style, till he fairly hunts down the allegory. + “But as for what you call porridge, who hatched the name I know + not, neither is it worth the enquiring after, for I hold porridge + good food. It is better to a sick man than meat, for a sick man + will sooner eat pottage than meat. Pottage will digest with him + when meat will not: pottage will nourish the blood, fill the veins, + run into every part of a man, make him warmer; so will these + prayers do, set our soul and body in a heat, warm our devotion, + work fervency in us, lift up our soul to God. For there be herbs of + God’s own planting in our pottage as ye call it—the Ten + Commandments, dainty herbs to season any pottage in the world; + there is the Lord’s Prayer, and that is a most sweet pot-herb, + cannot be denied; then there is also David’s herbs, his prayers and + psalms, helps to make our pottage relish well; the psalm of the + blessed Virgin, a good pot-herb. Though they be, as some term them, + _cock-crowed_ pottage, yet they are as sweet, as good, as dainty, + and as fresh, as they were at first. The sun hath not made them + sour with its heat, neither hath the cold water taken away their + vigour and strength. Compare them with the Scriptures, and see if + they be not as well seasoned and crumbed. If you find any thing in + them that is either too salt, too fresh, or too bitter, that herb + shall be taken out and better put in, if it can be got, or none. + And as in kitchen pottage there are many good herbs, so there is + likewise in this church pottage, as ye call it. For first, there is + in kitchen pottage good water to make them so; on the contrary, in + the other pottage there is the water of life. 2. There is salt, to + season them; so in the other is a prayer of grace to season their + hearts. 3. There is oatmeal to nourish the body, in the other is + the bread of life. 4. There is thyme in them to relish them, and it + is very wholesome—in the other is the wholesome exhortation not to + harden our heart while it is called to-day. This relisheth well. 5. + There is a small onion to give a taste—in the other is a good herb, + called Lord have mercy on us. These, and many other holy herbs are + contained in it, all boiling in the heart of man, will make as good + pottage as the world can afford, especially if you use these herbs + for digestion. The herb repentance, the herb grace, the herb faith, + the herb love, the herb hope, the herb good works, the herb + feeling, the herb zeal, the herb fervency, the herb ardency, the + herb constancy, with many more of this nature, most excellent for + digestion.” _Ohe! jam satis._ In this manner the learned divine + hunts his metaphor at a very cold scent, through a pamphlet of six + mortal quarto pages.) + + +Here the military part of the congregation raised a hum of approbation, +which, being a sound like the “hear, hear,” of the British House of +Commons, was calculated to heighten the enthusiasm of the orator, by +intimating the sympathy of the audience. “And then,” resumed the +preacher, rising in energy as he found that his audience partook in +these feelings, “what saith the text?—Ride on prosperously—do not +stop—do not call a halt—do not quit the saddle—pursue the scattered +fliers—sound the trumpet—not a levant or a flourish, but a point of +war—sound, boot and saddle—to horse and away—a charge!—follow after the +young Man!—what part have we in him?—Slay, take, destroy, divide the +spoil! Blessed art thou, Oliver, on account of thine honour—thy cause +is clear, thy call is undoubted—never has defeat come near thy +leading-staff, nor disaster attended thy banner. Ride on, flower of +England’s soldiers! ride on, chosen leader of God’s champions! gird up +the loins of thy resolution, and be steadfast to the mark of thy high +calling.” + +Another deep and stern hum, echoed by the ancient embow’d arches of the +old chantry, gave him an opportunity of an instant’s repose; when the +people of Woodstock heard him, and not without anxiety, turn the stream +of his oratory into another channel. + +“But wherefore, ye people of Woodstock, do I say these things to you, +who claim no portion in our David, no interest in England’s son of +Jesse?—You, who were fighting as well as your might could (and it was +not very formidable) for the late Man, under that old blood-thirsty +papist Sir Jacob Aston—are you not now plotting, or ready to plot, for +the restoring, as ye call it, of the young Man, the unclean son of the +slaughtered tyrant—the fugitive after whom the true hearts of England +are now following, that they may take and slay him?—‘Why should your +rider turn his bridle our way?’ say you in your hearts; ‘we will none +of him; if we may help ourselves, we will rather turn us to wallow in +the mire of monarchy, with the sow that was washed but newly.’ Come, +men of Woodstock, I will ask, and do you answer me. Hunger ye still +after the flesh-pots of the monks of Godstow? and ye will say, Nay;—but +wherefore, except that the pots are cracked and broken, and the fire is +extinguished wherewith thy oven used to boil? And again, I ask, drink +ye still of the well of fornications of the fair Rosamond?—ye will say, +Nay;—but wherefore?”— + +Here the orator, ere he could answer the question in his own way, was +surprised by the following reply, very pithily pronounced by one of the +congregation:—“Because you, and the like of you, have left us no brandy +to mix with it.” + +All eyes turned to the audacious speaker, who stood beside one of the +thick sturdy Saxon pillars, which he himself somewhat resembled, being +short of stature, but very strongly made, a squat broad Little John +sort of figure, leaning on a quarterstaff, and wearing a jerkin, which, +though now sorely stained and discoloured, had once been of the Lincoln +green, and showed remnants of having been laced. There was an air of +careless, good humoured audacity about the fellow; and, though under +military restraint, there were some of the citizens who could not help +crying out,—“Well said, Joceline Joliffe!” + +“Jolly Joceline, call ye him?” proceeded the preacher, without showing +either confusion or displeasure at the interruption,—“I will make him +Joceline of the jail, if he interrupts me again. One of your +park-keepers, I warrant, that can never forget they have borne C. R. +upon their badges and bugle-horns, even as a dog bears his owner’s name +on his collar—a pretty emblem for Christian men! But the brute beast +hath the better of him,—the brute weareth his own coat, and the caitiff +thrall wears his master’s. I have seen such a wag make a rope’s end wag +ere now.—Where was I?—Oh, rebuking you for your backslidings, men of +Woodstock.—Yes, then ye will say ye have renounced Popery, and ye have +renounced Prelacy, and then ye wipe your mouth like Pharisees, as ye +are; and who but you for purity of religion! But I tell you, ye are but +like Jehu the son of Nimshi, who broke down the house of Baal, yet +departed not from the sins of Jeroboam. Even so ye eat not fish on +Friday with the blinded Papists, nor minced-pies on the 25th day of +December, like the slothful Prelatists; but ye will gorge on +sack-posset each night in the year with your blind Presbyterian guide, +and ye will speak evil of dignities, and revile the Commonwealth; and +ye will glorify yourselves in your park of Woodstock, and say, ‘Was it +not walled in first of any other in England, and that by Henry, son of +William called the Conqueror?’ And ye have a princely Lodge therein, +and call the same a Royal Lodge; and ye have an oak which ye call the +King’s Oak; and ye steal and eat the venison of the park, and ye say, +‘This is the king’s venison, we will wash it down with a cup to the +king’s health—better we eat it than those round-headed commonwealth +knaves.’ But listen unto me and take warning. For these things come we +to controversy with you. And our name shall be a cannon-shot, before +which your Lodge, in the pleasantness whereof ye take pastime, shall be +blown into ruins; and we will be as a wedge to split asunder the King’s +Oak into billets to heat a brown baker’s oven; and we will dispark your +park, and slay your deer, and eat them ourselves, neither shall you +have any portion thereof, whether in neck or haunch. Ye shall not haft +a ten-penny knife with the horns thereof, neither shall ye cut a pair +of breeches out of the hide, for all ye be cutlers and glovers; and ye +shall have no comfort or support neither from the sequestered traitor +Henry Lee, who called himself Ranger of Woodstock, nor from any on his +behalf; for they are coming hither who shall be called +Mahershalal-hash-baz, because he maketh haste to the spoil.” + +Here ended the wild effusion, the latter part of which fell heavy on +the souls of the poor citizens of Woodstock, as tending to confirm a +report of an unpleasing nature which had been lately circulated. The +communication with London was indeed slow, and the news which it +transmitted were uncertain; no less uncertain were the times +themselves, and the rumours which were circulated, exaggerated by the +hopes and fears of so many various factions. But the general stream of +report, so far as Woodstock was concerned, had of late run uniformly in +one direction. Day after day they had been informed, that the fatal +fiat of Parliament had gone out, for selling the park of Woodstock, +destroying its lodge, disparking its forest, and erasing, as far as +they could be erased, all traces of its ancient fame. Many of the +citizens were likely to be sufferers on this occasion, as several of +them enjoyed, either by sufferance or right, various convenient +privileges of pasturage, cutting firewood, and the like, in the royal +chase; and all the inhabitants of the little borough were hurt to +think, that the scenery of the place was to be destroyed, its edifices +ruined, and its honours rent away. This is a patriotic sensation often +found in such places, which ancient distinctions and long-cherished +recollections of former days, render so different from towns of recent +date. The natives of Woodstock felt it in the fullest force. They had +trembled at the anticipated calamity; but now, when it was announced by +the appearance of those dark, stern, and at the same time omnipotent +soldiers—now that they heard it proclaimed by the mouth of one of their +military preachers—they considered their fate as inevitable. The causes +of disagreement among themselves were for the time forgotten, as the +congregation, dismissed without psalmody or benediction, went slowly +and mournfully homeward, each to his own place of abode. + + + + +CHAPTER THE SECOND. + + +Come forth, old man—Thy daughter’s side + Is now the fitting place for thee: +When time hath quell’d the oak’s bold pride, + The youthful tendril yet may hide + The ruins of the parent tree. + + +When the sermon was ended, the military orator wiped his brow; for, +notwithstanding the coolness of the weather, he was heated with the +vehemence of his speech and action. He then descended from the pulpit, +and spoke a word or two to the corporal who commanded the party of +soldiers, who, replying by a sober nod of intelligence, drew his men +together, and marched them in order to their quarters in the town. + +The preacher himself, as if nothing extraordinary had happened, left +the church and sauntered through the streets of Woodstock, with the air +of a stranger who was viewing the town, without seeming to observe that +he was himself in his turn anxiously surveyed by the citizens, whose +furtive yet frequent glances seemed to regard him as something alike +suspected and dreadful, yet on no account to be provoked. He heeded +them not, but stalked on in the manner affected by the distinguished +fanatics of the day; a stiff solemn pace, a severe and at the same time +a contemplative look, like that of a man discomposed at the +interruptions which earthly objects forced upon him, obliging him by +their intrusion to withdraw his thoughts for an instant from celestial +things. Innocent pleasures of what kind soever they held in suspicion +and contempt, and innocent mirth they abominated. It was, however, a +cast of mind that formed men for great and manly actions, as it adopted +principle, and that of an unselfish character, for the ruling motive, +instead of the gratification of passion. Some of these men were indeed +hypocrites, using the cloak of religion only as a covering for their +ambition; but many really possessed the devotional character, and the +severe republican virtue, which others only affected. By far the +greater number hovered between these extremes, felt to a certain extent +the power of religion, and complied with the times in affecting a great +deal. + +The individual, whose pretensions to sanctity, written as they were +upon his brow and gait, have given rise to the above digression, +reached at length the extremity of the principal street, which +terminates upon the park of Woodstock. A battlemented portal of Gothic +appearance defended the entrance to the avenue. It was of mixed +architecture, but on the whole, though composed of the styles of the +different ages when it had received additions, had a striking and +imposing effect. An immense gate, composed of rails of hammered iron, +with many a flourish and scroll, displaying as its uppermost ornament +the ill-fated cipher of C. R., was now decayed, being partly wasted +with rust, partly by violence. + +The stranger paused, as if uncertain whether he should demand or assay +entrance. He looked through the grating down an avenue skirted by +majestic oaks, which led onward with a gentle curve, as if into the +depths of some ample and ancient forest. The wicket of the large iron +gate being left unwittingly open, the soldier was tempted to enter, yet +with some hesitation, as he that intrudes upon ground which he +conjectures may be prohibited—indeed his manner showed more reverence +for the scene than could have been expected from his condition and +character. He slackened his stately and consequential pace, and at +length stood still, and looked around him. + +Not far from the gate, he saw rising from the trees one or two ancient +and venerable turrets, bearing each its own vane of rare device +glittering in the autumn sun. These indicated the ancient hunting seat, +or Lodge, as it was called, which had, since the time of Henry II., +been occasionally the residence of the English monarchs, when it +pleased them to visit the woods of Oxford, which then so abounded with +game, that, according to old Fuller, huntsmen and falconers were +nowhere better pleased. The situation which the Lodge occupied was a +piece of flat ground, now planted with sycamores, not far from the +entrance to that magnificent spot where the spectator first stops to +gaze upon Blenheim, to think of Marlborough’s victories, and to applaud +or criticise the cumbrous magnificence of Vanburgh’s style. + +There, too, paused our military preacher, but with other thoughts, and +for other purpose, than to admire the scene around him. It was not long +afterwards when he beheld two persons, a male and a female, approaching +slowly, and so deeply engaged in their own conversation that they did +not raise their eyes to observe that there stood a stranger in the path +before them. The soldier took advantage of their state of abstraction, +and, desirous at once to watch their motions and avoid their +observation, he glided beneath one of the huge trees which skirted the +path, and whose boughs, sweeping the ground on every side, ensured him +against discovery, unless in case of an actual search. + +In the meantime, the gentleman and lady continued to advance, directing +their course to a rustic seat, which still enjoyed the sunbeams, and +was placed adjacent to the tree where the stranger was concealed. + +The man was elderly, yet seemed bent more by sorrow and infirmity than +by the weight of years. He wore a mourning cloak, over a dress of the +same melancholy colour, cut in that picturesque form which Vandyck has +rendered immortal. But although the dress was handsome, it was put on +with a carelessness which showed the mind of the wearer ill at ease. +His aged, yet still handsome countenance, had the same air of +consequence which distinguished his dress and his gait. A striking part +of his appearance was a long white beard, which descended far over the +breast of his slashed doublet, and looked singular from its contrast in +colour with his habit. + +The young lady, by whom this venerable gentleman seemed to be in some +degree supported as they walked arm in arm, was a slight and sylphlike +form, with a person so delicately made, and so beautiful in +countenance, that it seemed the earth on which she walked was too +grossly massive a support for a creature so aerial. But mortal beauty +must share human sorrows. The eyes of the beautiful being showed tokens +of tears; her colour was heightened as she listened to her aged +companion; and it was plain, from his melancholy yet displeased look, +that the conversation was as distressing to himself as to her. When +they sate down on the bench we have mentioned, the gentleman’s +discourse could be distinctly overheard by the eavesdropping soldier, +but the answers of the young lady reached his ear rather less +distinctly. + +“It is not to be endured!” said the old man, passionately; “it would +stir up a paralytic wretch to start up a soldier. My people have been +thinned, I grant you, or have fallen off from me in these times—I owe +them no grudge for it, poor knaves; what should they do waiting on me +when the pantry has no bread and the buttery no ale? But we have still +about us some rugged foresters of the old Woodstock breed—old as myself +most of them—what of that? old wood seldom warps in the wetting;—I will +hold out the old house, and it will not be the first time that I have +held it against ten times the strength that we hear of now.” + +“Alas! my dear father!”—said the young lady, in a tone which seemed to +intimate his proposal of defence to be altogether desperate. + +“And why, alas?” said the gentleman, angrily; “is it because I shut my +door against a score or two of these blood-thirsty hypocrites?” + +“But their masters can as easily send a regiment or an army, if they +will,” replied the lady; “and what good would your present defence do, +excepting to exasperate them to your utter destruction?” + +“Be it so, Alice,” replied her father; “I have lived my time, and +beyond it. I have outlived the kindest and most princelike of masters. +What do I do on the earth since the dismal thirtieth of January? The +parricide of that day was a signal to all true servants of Charles +Stewart to avenge his death, or die as soon after as they could find a +worthy opportunity.” + +“Do not speak thus, sir,” said Alice Lee; “it does not become your +gravity and your worth to throw away that life which may yet be of +service to your king and country,—it will not and cannot always be +thus. England will not long endure the rulers which these bad times +have assigned her. In the meanwhile—[here a few words escaped the +listener’s ears]—and beware of that impatience, which makes bad worse.” + +“Worse?” exclaimed the impatient old man, “_What_ can be worse? Is it +not at the worst already? Will not these people expel us from the only +shelter we have left—dilapidate what remains of royal property under my +charge—make the palace of princes into a den of thieves, and then wipe +their mouths and thank God, as if they had done an alms-deed?” + +“Still,” said his daughter, “there is hope behind, and I trust the King +is ere this out of their reach—We have reason to think well of my +brother Albert’s safety.” + +“Ay, Albert! there again,” said the old man, in a tone of reproach; +“had it not been for thy entreaties I had gone to Worcester myself; but +I must needs lie here like a worthless hound when the hunt is up, when +who knows what service I might have shown? An old man’s head is +sometimes useful when his arm is but little worth. But you and Albert +were so desirous that he should go alone—and now, who can say what has +become of him?” + +“Nay, nay, father,” said Alice, “we have good hope that Albert escaped +from that fatal day; young Abney saw him a mile from the field.” + +“Young Abney lied, I believe,” said the father, in the same humour of +contradiction—“Young Abney’s tongue seems quicker than his hands, but +far slower than his horse’s heels when he leaves the roundheads behind +him. I would rather Albert’s dead body were laid between Charles and +Cromwell, than hear he fled as early as young Abney.” + +“My dearest father,” said the young lady, weeping as she spoke, “what +can I say to comfort you?” + +“Comfort me, say’st thou, girl? I am sick of comfort—an honourable +death, with the ruins of Woodstock for my monument, were the only +comfort to old Henry Lee. Yes, by the memory of my fathers! I will make +good the Lodge against these rebellious robbers.” + +“Yet be ruled, dearest father,” said the maiden, “and submit to that +which we cannot gainsay. My uncle Everard”— + +Here the old man caught at her unfinished words. “Thy uncle Everard, +wench!—Well, get on.—What of thy precious and loving uncle Everard?” + +“Nothing, sir,” she said, “if the subject displeases you.” + +“Displeases me?” he replied, “why should it displease me? or if it did, +why shouldst thou, or any one, affect to care about it? What is it that +hath happened of late years—what is it can be thought to happen that +astrologer can guess at, which can give pleasure to us?” + +“Fate,” she replied, “may have in store the joyful restoration of our +banished Prince.” + +“Too late for my time, Alice,” said the knight; “if there be such a +white page in the heavenly book, it will not be turned until long after +my day.—But I see thou wouldst escape me.—In a word, what of thy uncle +Everard?” + +“Nay, sir,” said Alice, “God knows I would rather be silent for ever, +than speak what might, as you would take it, add to your present +distemperature.” + +“Distemperature!” said her father; “Oh, thou art a sweet lipped +physician, and wouldst, I warrant me, drop nought but sweet balm, and +honey, and oil, on my distemperature—if that is the phrase for an old +man’s ailment, when he is wellnigh heart-broken.—Once more, what of thy +uncle Everard?” + +His last words were uttered in a high and peevish tone of voice; and +Alice Lee answered her father in a trembling and submissive tone. + +“I only meant to say, sir, that I am well assured that my uncle +Everard, when we quit this place”— + +“That is to say, when we are kicked out of it by crop-eared canting +villains like himself.—But on with thy bountiful uncle—what will he +do?—will he give us the remains of his worshipful and economical +housekeeping, the fragments of a thrice-sacked capon twice a-week, and +a plentiful fast on the other five days?—Will he give us beds beside +his half-starved nags, and put them under a short allowance of straw, +that his sister’s husband—that I should have called my deceased angel +by such a name!—and his sister’s daughter, may not sleep on the stones? +Or will he send us a noble each, with a warning to make it last, for he +had never known the ready-penny so hard to come by? Or what else will +your uncle Everard do for us? Get us a furlough to beg? Why, I can do +that without him.” + +“You misconstrue him much,” answered Alice, with more spirit than she +had hitherto displayed; “and would you but question your own heart, you +would acknowledge—I speak with reverence—that your tongue utters what +your better judgment would disown. My uncle Everard is neither a miser +nor a hypocrite—neither so fond of the goods of this world that he +would not supply our distresses amply, nor so wedded to fanatical +opinions as to exclude charity for other sects beside his own.” + +“Ay, ay, the Church of England is a _sect_ with him, I doubt not, and +perhaps with thee too, Alice,” said the knight. “What is a +Muggletonian, or a Ranter, or a Brownist, but a sectary? and thy phrase +places them all, with Jack Presbyter himself, on the same footing with +our learned prelates and religious clergy! Such is the cant of the day +thou livest in, and why shouldst thou not talk like one of the wise +virgins and psalm-singing sisters, since, though thou hast a profane +old cavalier for a father, thou art own niece to pious uncle Everard?” + +“If you speak thus, my dear father,” said Alice, “what can I answer +you? Hear me but one patient word, and I shall have discharged my uncle +Everard’s commission.” + +“Oh, it is a commission, then? Surely, I suspected so much from the +beginning—nay, have some sharp guess touching the ambassador also.— +Come, madam, the mediator, do your errand, and you shall have no reason +to complain of my patience.” + +“Then, sir,” replied his daughter, “my uncle Everard desires you would +be courteous to the commissioners, who come here to sequestrate the +parks and the property; or, at least, heedfully to abstain from giving +them obstacle or opposition: it can, he says, do no good, even on your +own principles, and it will give a pretext for proceeding against you +as one in the worst degree of malignity, which he thinks may otherwise +be prevented. Nay, he has good hope, that if you follow his counsel, +the committee may, through the interest he possesses, be inclined to +remove the sequestration of your estate on a moderate line. Thus says +my uncle; and having communicated his advice, I have no occasion to +urge your patience with farther argument.” + +“It is well thou dost not, Alice,” answered Sir Henry Lee, in a tone of +suppressed anger; “for, by the blessed Rood, thou hast well nigh led me +into the heresy of thinking thee no daughter of mine.—Ah! my beloved +companion, who art now far from the sorrows and cares of this weary +world, couldst thou have thought that the daughter thou didst clasp to +thy bosom, would, like the wicked wife of Job, become a temptress to +her father in the hour of affliction, and recommend to him to make his +conscience truckle to his interest, and to beg back at the bloody hands +of his master’s and perhaps his son’s murderers, a wretched remnant of +the royal property he has been robbed of!—Why, wench, if I must beg, +think’st thou I will sue to those who have made me a mendicant? No. I +will never show my grey beard, worn in sorrow for my sovereign’s death, +to move the compassion of some proud sequestrator, who perhaps was one +of the parricides. No. If Henry Lee must sue for food, it shall be of +some sound loyalist like himself, who, having but half a loaf +remaining, will not nevertheless refuse to share it with him. For his +daughter, she may wander her own way, which leads her to a refuge with +her wealthy roundhead kinsfolk; but let her no more call him father, +whose honest indigence she has refused to share!” + +“You do me injustice, sir,” answered the young lady, with a voice +animated yet faltering, “cruel injustice. God knows, your way is my +way, though it lead to ruin and beggary; and while you tread it, my arm +shall support you while you will accept an aid so feeble.” + +“Thou word’st me, girl,” answered the old cavalier, “thou word’st me, +as Will Shakspeare says—thou speakest of lending me thy arm; but thy +secret thought is thyself to hang upon Markham Everard’s.” + +“My father, my father,” answered Alice, in a tone of deep grief, “what +can thus have altered your clear judgment and kindly heart!—Accursed be +these civil commotions; not only do they destroy men’s bodies, but they +pervert their souls; and the brave, the noble, the generous, become +suspicious, harsh, and mean! Why upbraid me with Markham Everard? Have +I seen or spoke to him since you forbid him my company, with terms less +kind—I will speak it truly—than was due even to the relationship +betwixt you? Why think I would sacrifice to that young man my duty to +you? Know, that were I capable of such criminal weakness, Markham +Everard were the first to despise me for it.” + +She put her handkerchief to her eyes, but she could not hide her sobs, +nor conceal the distress they intimated. The old man was moved. + +“I cannot tell,” he said, “what to think of it. Thou seem’st sincere, +and wert ever a good and kindly daughter—how thou hast let that rebel +youth creep into thy heart I wot not; perhaps it is a punishment on me, +who thought the loyalty of my house was like undefiled ermine. Yet here +is a damned spot, and on the fairest gem of all—my own dear Alice. But +do not weep—we have enough to vex us. Where is it that Shakspeare hath +it:— + +‘Gentle daughter, +Give even way unto my rough affairs: +Put you not on the temper of the times, +Nor be, like them, to Percy troublesome.’” + + +“I am glad,” answered the young lady, “to hear you quote your favourite +again, sir. Our little jars are ever wellnigh ended when Shakspeare +comes in play.” + +“His book was the closet-companion of my blessed master,” said Sir +Henry Lee; “after the Bible, (with reverence for naming them together,) +he felt more comfort in it than in any other; and as I have shared his +disease, why, it is natural I should take his medicine. Albeit, I +pretend not to my master’s art in explaining the dark passages; for I +am but a rude man, and rustically brought up to arms and hunting.” + +“You have seen Shakspeare yourself, sir?” said the young lady. + +“Silly wench,” replied the knight, “he died when I was a mere +child—thou hast heard me say so twenty times; but thou wouldst lead the +old man away from the tender subject. Well, though I am not blind, I +can shut my eyes and follow. Ben Jonson I knew, and could tell thee +many a tale of our meetings at the Mermaid, where, if there was much +wine, there was much wit also. We did not sit blowing tobacco in each +other’s faces, and turning up the whites of our eyes as we turned up +the bottom of the wine-pot. Old Ben adopted me as one of his sons in +the muses. I have shown you, have I not, the verses, ‘To my much +beloved son, the worshipful Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, Knight and +Baronet?’” + +“I do not remember them at present, sir,” replied Alice. + +“I fear ye lie, wench,” said her father; “but no matter—thou canst not +get any more fooling out of me just now. The Evil Spirit hath left Saul +for the present. We are now to think what is to be done about leaving +Woodstock—or defending it?” + +“My dearest father,” said Alice, “can you still nourish a moment’s hope +of making good the place?” + +“I know not, wench,” replied Sir Henry; “I would fain have a parting +blow with them, ’tis certain—and who knows where a blessing may alight? +But then, my poor knaves that must take part with me in so hopeless a +quarrel—that thought hampers me I confess.” + +“Oh, let it do so, sir,” replied Alice; “there are soldiers in the +town, and there are three regiments at Oxford!” + +“Ah, poor Oxford!” exclaimed Sir Henry, whose vacillating state of mind +was turned by a word to any new subject that was suggested,—“Seat of +learning and loyalty! these rude soldiers are unfit inmates for thy +learned halls and poetical bowers; but thy pure and brilliant lamp +shall defy the foul breath of a thousand churls, were they to blow at +it like Boreas. The burning bush shall not be consumed, even by the +heat of this persecution.” + +“True, sir,” said Alice, “and it may not be useless to recollect, that +any stirring of the royalists at this unpropitious moment will make +them deal yet more harshly with the University, which they consider as +being at the bottom of every thing which moves for the King in these +parts.” + +“It is true, wench,” replied the knight; “and small cause would make +the villains sequestrate the poor remains which the civil wars have +left to the colleges. That, and the risk of my poor fellows—Well! thou +hast disarmed me, girl. I will be as patient and calm as a martyr.” + +“Pray God you keep your word, sir!” replied his daughter; “but you are +ever so much moved at the sight of any of these men, that”— + +“Would you make a child of me, Alice?” said Sir Henry. “Why, know you +not that I can look upon a viper, or a toad, or a bunch of engendering +adders, without any worse feeling than a little disgust? and though a +roundhead, and especially a red-coat, are in my opinion more poisonous +than vipers, more loathsome than toads, more hateful than knotted +adders, yet can I overcome my nature so far, that should one of them +appear at this moment, thyself should see how civilly I would entreat +him.” + +As he spoke, the military preacher abandoned his leafy screen, and +stalking forward, stood unexpectedly before the old cavalier, who +stared at him, as if he had thought his expressions had actually raised +a devil. + +“Who art thou?” at length said Sir Henry, in a raised and angry voice, +while his daughter clung to his arm in terror, little confident that +her father’s pacific resolutions would abide the shock of this +unwelcome apparition. + +“I am, one,” replied the soldier, “who neither fear nor shame to call +myself a poor day-labourer in the great work of England—umph!—Ay, a +simple and sincere upholder of the good old cause.” + +“And what the devil do you seek here?” said the old knight, fiercely. + +“The welcome due to the steward of the Lords Commissioners,” answered +the soldier. + +“Welcome art thou as salt would be to sore eyes,” said the cavalier; +“but who be your Commissioners, man?” + +The soldier with little courtesy held out a scroll, which Sir Henry +took from him betwixt his finger and thumb, as if it were a letter from +a pest-house; and held it at as much distance from his eyes, as his +purpose of reading it would permit. He then read aloud, and as he named +the parties one by one, he added a short commentary on each name, +addressed, indeed, to Alice, but in such a tone that showed he cared +not for its being heard by the soldier. + +“_Desborough_—the ploughman Desborough—as grovelling a clown as is in +England—a fellow that would be best at home like an ancient Scythian, +under the tilt of a waggon—d—n him. _Harrison_—a bloody-minded, ranting +enthusiast, who read the Bible to such purpose, that he never lacked a +text to justify a murder—d—n him too. _Bletson_—a true-blue +Commonwealth’s man, one of Harrison’s Rota Club, with his noddle full +of new fangled notions about government, the clearest object of which +is to establish the tail upon the head; a fellow who leaves you the +statutes and law of old England, to prate of Rome and Greece—sees the +Areopagus in Westminster-Hall, and takes old Noll for a Roman +consul—Adad, he is like to prove a dictator amongst them instead. Never +mind—d—n Bletson too.” + +“Friend,” said the soldier, “I would willingly be civil, but it +consists not with my duty to hear these godly men, in whose service I +am, spoken of after this irreverent and unbecoming fashion. And albeit +I know that you malignants think you have a right to make free with +that damnation, which you seem to use as your own portion, yet it is +superfluous to invoke it against others, who have better hopes in their +thoughts, and better words in their mouths.” + +“Thou art but a canting varlet,” replied the knight; “and yet thou art +right in some sense—for it is superfluous to curse men who already are +damned as black as the smoke of hell itself.” + +“I prithee forbear,” continued the soldier, “for manners’ sake, if not +for conscience—grisly oaths suit ill with grey beards.” + +“Nay, that is truth, if the devil spoke it,” said the knight; “and I +thank Heaven I can follow good counsel, though old Nick gives it. And +so, friend, touching these same Commissioners, bear them this message; +that Sir Henry Lee is keeper of Woodstock Park, with right of waif and +stray, vert and venison, as complete as any of them have to their +estate—that is, if they possess any estate but what they have gained by +plundering honest men. Nevertheless, he will give place to those who +have made their might their right, and will not expose the lives of +good and true men, where the odds are so much against them. And he +protests that he makes this surrender, neither as acknowledging of +these so termed Commissioners, nor as for his own individual part +fearing their force, but purely to avoid the loss of English blood, of +which so much hath been spilt in these late times.” + +“It is well spoken,” said the steward of the Commissioners; “and +therefore, I pray you, let us walk together into the house, that thou +may’st deliver up unto me the vessels, and gold and silver ornaments, +belonging unto the Egyptian Pharaoh, who committed them to thy +keeping.” + +“What vessels?” exclaimed the fiery old knight; “and belonging to whom? +Unbaptized dog, speak civil of the Martyr in my presence, or I will do +a deed misbecoming of me on that caitiff corpse of thine!”—And shaking +his daughter from his right arm, the old man laid his hand on his +rapier. + +His antagonist, on the contrary, kept his temper completely, and waving +his hand to add impression to his speech, he said, with a calmness +which aggravated Sir Henry’s wrath, “Nay, good friend, I prithee be +still, and brawl not—it becomes not grey hairs and feeble arms to rail +and rant like drunkards. Put me not to use the carnal weapon in mine +own defence, but listen to the voice of reason. See’st thou not that +the Lord hath decided this great controversy in favour of us and ours, +against thee and thine? Wherefore, render up thy stewardship +peacefully, and deliver up to me the chattels of the Man, Charles +Stewart.” + +“Patience is a good nag, but she will bolt,” said the knight, unable +longer to rein in his wrath. He plucked his sheathed rapier from his +side, struck the soldier a severe blow with it, and instantly drawing +it, and throwing the scabbard over the trees, placed himself in a +posture of defence, with his sword’s point within half a yard of the +steward’s body. The latter stepped back with activity, threw his long +cloak from his shoulders, and drawing his long tuck, stood upon his +guard. The swords clashed smartly together, while Alice, in her terror, +screamed wildly for assistance. But the combat was of short duration. +The old cavalier had attacked a man as cunning of fence as he himself, +or a little more so, and possessing all the strength and activity of +which time had deprived Sir Henry, and the calmness which the other had +lost in his passion. They had scarce exchanged three passes ere the +sword of the knight flew up in the air, as if it had gone in search of +the scabbard; and burning with shame and anger, Sir Henry stood +disarmed, at the mercy of his antagonist. The republican showed no +purpose of abusing his victory; nor did he, either during the combat, +or after the victory was won, in any respect alter the sour and grave +composure which reigned upon his countenance—a combat of life and death +seemed to him a thing as familiar, and as little to be feared, as an +ordinary bout with foils. + +“Thou art delivered into my hands,” he said, “and by the law of arms I +might smite thee under the fifth rib, even as Asahel was struck dead by +Abner, the son of Ner, as he followed the chase on the hill of Ammah, +that lieth before Giah, in the way of the wilderness of Gibeon; but far +be it from me to spill thy remaining drops of blood. True it is, thou +art the captive of my sword and of my spear; nevertheless, seeing that +there may be a turning from thy evil ways, and a returning to those +which are good, if the Lord enlarge thy date for repentance and +amendment, wherefore should it be shortened by a poor sinful mortal, +who is, speaking truly, but thy fellow-worm.” + +Sir Henry Lee remained still confused, and unable to answer, when there +arrived a fourth person, whom the cries of Alice had summoned to the +spot. This was Joceline Joliffe, one of the under-keepers of the walk, +who, seeing how matters stood, brandished his quarterstaff, a weapon +from which he never parted, and having made it describe the figure of +eight in a flourish through the air, would have brought it down with a +vengeance upon the head of the steward, had not Sir Henry interposed. + +“We must trail bats now, Joceline—our time of shouldering them is past. +It skills not striving against the stream—the devil rules the roast, +and makes our slaves our tutors.” + +At this moment another auxiliary rushed out of the thicket to the +knight’s assistance. It was a large wolf-dog, in strength a mastiff, in +form and almost in fleetness a greyhound. Bevis was the noblest of the +kind which ever pulled down a stag, tawny coloured like a lion, with a +black muzzle and black feet, just edged with a line of white round the +toes. He was as tractable as he was strong and bold. Just as he was +about to rush upon the soldier, the words, “Peace, Bevis!” from Sir +Henry, converted the lion into a lamb, and instead of pulling the +soldier down, he walked round and round, and snuffed, as if using all +his sagacity to discover who the stranger could be, towards whom, +though of so questionable an appearance, he was enjoined forbearance. +Apparently he was satisfied, for he laid aside his doubtful and +threatening demonstrations, lowered his ears, smoothed down his +bristles, and wagged his tail. + +Sir Henry, who had great respect for the sagacity of his favourite, +said in a low voice to Alice, “Bevis is of thy opinion and counsels +submission. There is the finger of Heaven in this to punish the pride, +ever the fault of our house.—Friend,” he continued, addressing the +soldier, “thou hast given the finishing touch to a lesson, which ten +years of constant misfortune have been unable fully to teach me. Thou +hast distinctly shown me the folly of thinking that a good cause can +strengthen a weak arm. God forgive me for the thought, but I could +almost turn infidel, and believe that Heaven’s blessing goes ever with +the longest sword; but it will not be always thus. God knows his +time.—Reach me my Toledo, Joceline, yonder it lies; and the scabbard, +see where it hangs on the tree.—Do not pull at my cloak, Alice, and +look so miserably frightened; I shall be in no hurry to betake me to +bright steel again, I promise thee.—For thee, good fellow, I thank +thee, and will make way for thy masters without farther dispute or +ceremony. Joceline Joliffe is nearer thy degree than I am, and will +make surrender to thee of the Lodge and household stuff. Withhold +nothing, Joliffe—let them have all. For me, I will never cross the +threshold again—but where to rest for a night? I would trouble no one +in Woodstock—hum—ay—it shall be so. Alice and I, Joceline, will go down +to thy hut by Rosamond’s well; we will borrow the shelter of thy roof +for one night at least; thou wilt give us welcome, wilt thou not?—How +now—a clouded brow?” + +Joceline certainly looked embarrassed, directed a first glance to +Alice, then looked to Heaven, then to earth, and last to the four +quarters of the horizon, and then murmured out, “Certainly—without +question—might he but run down to put the house in order.” + +“Order enough—order enough for those that may soon be glad of clean +straw in a barn,” said the knight; “but if thou hast an ill-will to +harbour any obnoxious or malignant persons, as the phrase goes, never +shame to speak it out, man. ’Tis true, I took thee up when thou wert +but a ragged Robin,[1] made a keeper of thee, and so forth. What of +that? Sailors think no longer of the wind than when it forwards them on +the voyage—thy betters turn with the tide, why should not such a poor +knave as thou?” + + [1] The keeper’s followers in the New Forest are called in popular + language ragged Robins. + + +“God pardon your honour for your harsh judgment,” said Joliffe. “The +hut is yours, such as it is, and should be were it a King’s palace, as +I wish it were even for your honour’s sake, and Mistress Alice’s—only I +could wish your honour would condescend to let me step down before, in +case any neighbour be there—or—or—just to put matters something into +order for Mistress Alice and your honour—just to make things something +seemly and shapely.” + +“Not a whit necessary,” said the knight, while Alice had much trouble +in concealing her agitation. “If thy matters are unseemly, they are +fitter for a defeated knight—if they are unshapely, why, the liker to +the rest of a world, which is all unshaped. Go thou with that man.—What +is thy name, friend?” + +“Joseph Tomkins is my name in the flesh,” said the steward. “Men call +me Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins.” + +“If thou hast deserved such names, considering what trade thou hast +driven, thou art a jewel indeed,” said the knight; “yet if thou hast +not, never blush for the matter, Joseph, for if thou art not in truth +honest, thou hast all the better chance to keep the fame of it—the +title and the thing itself have long walked separate ways. Farewell to +thee,—and farewell to fair Woodstock!” + +So saying, the old knight turned round, and pulling his daughter’s arm +through his own, they walked onward into the forest, in the same manner +in which they were introduced to the reader. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRD. + + +Now, ye wild blades, that make loose inns your stage, +To vapour forth the acts of this sad age, +Stout Edgehill fight, the Newberries and the West, +And northern clashes, where you still fought best; +Your strange escapes, your dangers void of fear, +When bullets flew between the head and ear, +Whether you fought by Damme or the Spirit, +Of you I speak. + + +LEGEND OF CAPTAIN JONES. + + +Joseph Tomkins and Joliffe the keeper remained for some time in +silence, as they stood together looking along the path in which the +figures of the Knight of Ditchley and pretty Mistress Alice had +disappeared behind the trees. They then gazed on each other in doubt, +as men who scarce knew whether they stood on hostile or on friendly +terms together, and were at a loss how to open a conversation. They +heard the knight’s whistle summon Bevis; but though the good hound +turned his head and pricked his ears at the sound, yet he did not obey +the call, but continued to snuff around Joseph Tomkins’s cloak. + +“Thou art a rare one, I fear me,” said the keeper, looking to his new +acquaintance. “I have heard of men who have charms to steal both dogs +and deer.” + +“Trouble not thyself about my qualities, friend,” said Joseph Tomkins, +“but bethink thee of doing thy master’s bidding.” + +Joceline did not immediately answer, but at length, as if in sign of +truce, stuck the end of his quarterstaff upright in the ground, and +leant upon it as he said gruffly,—“So, my tough old knight and you were +at drawn bilbo, by way of afternoon service, sir preacher—Well for you +I came not up till the blades were done jingling, or I had rung +even-song upon your pate.” + +The Independent smiled grimly as he replied, “Nay, friend, it is well +for thyself, for never should sexton have been better paid for the +knell he tolled. Nevertheless, why should there be war betwixt us, or +my hand be against thine? Thou art but a poor knave, doing thy master’s +order, nor have I any desire that my own blood or thine should be shed +touching this matter.—Thou art, I understand, to give me peaceful +possession of the Palace of Woodstock, so called—though there is now no +palace in England, no, nor shall be in the days that come after, until +we shall enter the palace of the New Jerusalem, and the reign of the +Saints shall commence on earth.” + +“Pretty well begun already, friend Tomkins,” said the keeper; “you are +little short of being kings already upon the matter as it now stands; +and for your Jerusalem I wot not, but Woodstock is a pretty nest-egg to +begin with.—Well, will you shog—will you on—will you take sasine and +livery?—You heard my orders.” + +“Umph—I know not,” said Tomkins. “I must beware of ambuscades, and I am +alone here. Moreover, it is the High Thanksgiving appointed by +Parliament, and owned to by the army—also the old man and the young +woman may want to recover some of their clothes and personal property, +and I would not that they were baulked on my account. Wherefore, if +thou wilt deliver me possession to-morrow morning, it shall be done in +personal presence of my own followers, and of the Presbyterian man the +Mayor, so that the transfer may be made before witnesses; whereas, were +there none with us but thou to deliver, and I to take possession, the +men of Belial might say, Go to, Trusty Tomkins hath been an Edomite— +Honest Joe hath been as an Ishmaelite, rising up early and dividing the +spoil with them that served the Man—yea, they that wore beards and +green Jerkins, as in remembrance of the Man and of his government.” + +Joceline fixed his keen dark eyes upon the soldier as he spoke, as if +in design to discover whether there was fair play in his mind or not. +He then applied his five fingers to scratch a large shock head of hair, +as if that operation was necessary to enable him to come to a +conclusion. “This is all fair sounding, brother,” said he; “but I tell +you plainly there are some silver mugs, and platters, and flagons, and +so forth, in yonder house, which have survived the general sweep that +sent all our plate to the smelting-pot, to put our knight’s troop on +horseback. Now, if thou takest not these off my hand, I may come to +trouble, since it may be thought I have minished their +numbers.—Whereas, I being as honest a fellow”— + +“As ever stole venison,” said Tomkins—“nay, I do owe thee an +interruption.” + +“Go to, then,” replied the keeper; “if a stag may have come to +mischance in my walk, it was no way in the course of dishonesty, but +merely to keep my old dame’s pan from rusting; but for silver +porringers, tankards, and such like, I would as soon have drunk the +melted silver, as stolen the vessel made out of it. So that I would not +wish blame or suspicion fell on me in this matter. And, therefore, if +you will have the things rendered even now,—why so—and if not, hold me +blameless.” + +“Ay, truly,” said Tomkins; “and who is to hold me blameless, if they +should see cause to think any thing minished? Not the right worshipful +Commissioners, to whom the property of the estate is as their own; +therefore, as thou say’st, we must walk warily in the matter. To lock +up the house and leave it, were but the work of simple ones. What +say’st thou to spend the night there, and then nothing can be touched +without the knowledge of us both?” + +“Why, concerning that,” answered the keeper, “I should be at my hut to +make matters somewhat conformable for the old knight and Mistress +Alice, for my old dame Joan is something dunny, and will scarce know +how to manage—and yet,—to speak the truth, by the mass I would rather +not see Sir Henry to-night, since what has happened to-day hath roused +his spleen, and it is a peradventure he may have met something at the +hut which will scarce tend to cool it.” + +“It is a pity,” said Tomkins, “that being a gentleman of such grave and +goodly presence, he should be such a malignant cavalier, and that he +should, like the rest of that generation of vipers, have clothed +himself with curses as with a garment.” + +“Which is as much as to say, the tough old knight hath a habit of +swearing,” said the keeper, grinning at a pun, which has been repeated +since his time; “but who can help it? it comes of use and wont. Were +you now, in your bodily self, to light suddenly on a Maypole, with all +the blithe morris-dancers prancing around it to the merry pipe and +tabor, with bells jingling, ribands fluttering, lads frisking and +laughing, lasses leaping till you might see where the scarlet garter +fastened the light blue hose, I think some feeling, resembling either +natural sociality, or old use and wont, would get the better, friend, +even of thy gravity, and thou wouldst fling thy cuckoldy steeple-hat +one way, and that blood-thirsty long sword another, and trip, like the +noodles of Hogs-Norton, when the pigs play on the organ.” + +The Independent turned fiercely round on the keeper, and replied, “How +now, Mr. Green Jerkin? what language is this to one whose hand is at +the plough? I advise thee to put curb on thy tongue, lest thy ribs pay +the forfeit.” + +“Nay, do not take the high tone with me, brother” answered Joceline; +“remember thou hast not the old knight of sixty-five to deal with, but +a fellow as bitter and prompt as thyself—it may be a little more so— +younger, at all events—and prithee, why shouldst thou take such umbrage +at a Maypole? I would thou hadst known one Phil Hazeldine of these +parts—He was the best morris-dancer betwixt Oxford and Burford.” + +“The more shame to him,” answered the Independent; “and I trust he has +seen the error of his ways, and made himself (as, if a man of action, +he easily might) fit for better company than wood-hunters, +deer-stealers, Maid Marions, swash-bucklers, deboshed revellers, bloody +brawlers, maskers, and mummers, lewd men and light women, fools and +fiddlers, and carnal self-pleasers of every description.” + +“Well,” replied the keeper, “you are out of breath in time; for here we +stand before the famous Maypole of Woodstock.” + +They paused in an open space of meadow-land, beautifully skirted by +large oaks and sycamores, one of which, as king of the forest, stood a +little detached from the rest, as if scorning the vicinity of any +rival. It was scathed and gnarled in the branches, but the immense +trunk still showed to what gigantic size the monarch of the forest can +attain in the groves of merry England. + +“That is called the King’s Oak,” said Joceline; “the oldest men of +Woodstock know not how old it is; they say Henry used to sit under it +with fair Rosamond, and see the lasses dance, and the lads of the +village run races, and wrestle for belts or bonnets.” + +“I nothing doubt it, friend,” said Tomkins; “a tyrant and a harlot were +fitting patron and patroness for such vanities.” + +“Thou mayst say thy say, friend,” replied the keeper, “so thou lettest +me say mine. There stands the Maypole, as thou seest, half a +flight-shot from the King’s Oak, in the midst of the meadow. The King +gave ten shillings from the customs of Woodstock to make a new one +yearly, besides a tree fitted for the purpose out of the forest. Now it +is warped, and withered, and twisted, like a wasted brier-rod. The +green, too, used to be close-shaved, and rolled till it was smooth as a +velvet mantle—now it is rough and overgrown.” + +“Well, well, friend Joceline,” said the Independent, “but where was the +edification of all this?—what use of doctrine could be derived from a +pipe and tabor? or was there ever aught like wisdom in a bagpipe?” + +“You may ask better scholars that,” said Joceline; “but methinks men +cannot be always grave, and with the hat over their brow. A young +maiden will laugh as a tender flower will blow—ay, and a lad will like +her the better for it; just as the same blithe Spring that makes the +young birds whistle, bids the blithe fawns skip. There have come worse +days since the jolly old times have gone by:—I tell thee, that in the +holydays which you, Mr. Longsword, have put down, I have seen this +greensward alive with merry maidens and manly fellows. The good old +rector himself thought it was no sin to come for a while and look on, +and his goodly cassock and scarf kept us all in good order, and taught +us to limit our mirth within the bounds of discretion. We might, it may +be, crack a broad jest, or pledge a friendly cup a turn too often, but +it was in mirth and good neighbour-hood—Ay, and if there was a bout at +single-stick, or a bellyful of boxing, it was all for love and +kindness; and better a few dry blows in drink, than the bloody doings +we have had in sober earnest, since the presbyter’s cap got above the +bishop’s mitre, and we exchanged our goodly rectors and learned +doctors, whose sermons were all bolstered up with as much Greek and +Latin as might have confounded the devil himself, for weavers and +cobblers, and such other pulpit volunteers, as—as we heard this +morning—It will out.” + +“Well, friend,” said the Independent, with patience scarcely to have +been expected, “I quarrel not with thee for nauseating my doctrine. If +thine ear is so much tickled with tabor tunes and morris tripping, +truly it is not likely thou shouldst find pleasant savour in more +wholesome and sober food. But let us to the Lodge, that we may go about +our business there before the sun sets.” + +“Troth, and that may be advisable for more reasons than one,” said the +keeper; “for there have been tales about the Lodge which have made men +afeard to harbour there after nightfall.” + +“Were not yon old knight, and yonder damsel his daughter, wont to dwell +there?” said the Independent. “My information said so.” + +“Ay, truly did they,” said Joceline; “and while they kept a jolly +house-hold, all went well enough; for nothing banishes fear like good +ale. But after the best of our men went to the wars, and were slain at +Naseby fight, they who were left found the Lodge more lonesome, and the +old knight has been much deserted of his servants:—marry, it might be, +that he has lacked silver of late to pay groom and lackey.” + +“A potential reason for the diminution of a household,” said the +soldier. + +“Right, sir, even so,” replied the keeper. “They spoke of steps in the +great gallery, heard by dead of the night, and voices that whispered at +noon, in the matted chambers; and the servants pretended that these +things scared them away; but, in my poor judgment, when Martinmas and +Whitsuntide came round without a penny-fee, the old blue-bottles of +serving-men began to think of creeping elsewhere before the frost +chilled them.—No devil so frightful as that which dances in the pocket +where there is no cross to keep him out.” + +“You were reduced, then, to a petty household?” said the Independent. + +“Ay, marry, were we,” said Joceline; “but we kept some half-score +together, what with blue-bottles in the Lodge, what with green +caterpillars of the chase, like him who is yours to command; we stuck +together till we found a call to take a morning’s ride somewhere or +other.” + +“To the town of Worcester,” said the soldier, “where you were crushed +like vermin and palmer worms, as you are.” + +“You may say your pleasure,” replied the keeper; “I’ll never contradict +a man who has got my head under his belt. Our backs are at the wall, or +you would not be here.” + +“Nay, friend,” said the Independent, “thou riskest nothing by thy +freedom and trust in me. I can be _bon camarado_ to a good soldier, +although I have striven with him even to the going down of the sun.—But +here we are in front of the Lodge.” + +They stood accordingly in front of the old Gothic building, irregularly +constructed, and at different times, as the humour of the English +monarchs led them to taste the pleasures of Woodstock Chase, and to +make such improvements for their own accommodation as the increasing +luxury of each age required. The oldest part of the structure had been +named by tradition Fair Rosamond’s Tower; it was a small turret of +great height, with narrow windows, and walls of massive thickness. The +Tower had no opening to the ground, or means of descending, a great +part of the lower portion being solid mason-work. It was traditionally +said to have been accessible only by a sort of small drawbridge, which +might be dropped at pleasure from a little portal near the summit of +the turret, to the battlements of another tower of the same +construction, but twenty feet lower, and containing only a winding +staircase, called in Woodstock Love’s Ladder; because it is said, that +by ascending this staircase to the top of the tower, and then making +use of the drawbridge, Henry obtained access to the chamber of his +paramour. + +This tradition had been keenly impugned by Dr. Rochecliffe, the former +rector of Woodstock, who insisted, that what was called Rosamond’s +Tower, was merely an interior keep, or citadel, to which the lord or +warden of the castle might retreat, when other points of safety failed +him; and either protract his defence, or, at the worst, stipulate for +reasonable terms of surrender. The people of Woodstock, jealous of +their ancient traditions, did not relish this new mode of explaining +them away; and it is even said, that the Mayor, whom we have already +introduced, became Presbyterian, in revenge of the doubts cast by the +rector upon this important subject, rather choosing to give up the +Liturgy than his fixed belief in Rosamond’s Tower, and Love’s Ladder. + +The rest of the Lodge was of considerable extent, and of different +ages; comprehending a nest of little courts, surrounded by buildings +which corresponded with each other, sometimes within-doors, sometimes +by crossing the courts, and frequently in both ways. The different +heights of the buildings announced that they could only be connected by +the usual variety of staircases, which exercised the limbs of our +ancestors in the sixteenth and earlier centuries, and seem sometimes to +have been contrived for no other purpose. + +The varied and multiplied fronts of this irregular building were, as +Dr. Rochecliffe was wont to say, an absolute banquet to the +architectural antiquary, as they certainly contained specimens of every +style which existed, from the pure Norman of Henry of Anjou, down to +the composite, half Gothic half classical architecture of Elizabeth and +her successor. Accordingly, the rector was himself as much enamoured of +Woodstock as ever was Henry of Fair Rosamond; and as his intimacy with +Sir Henry Lee permitted him entrance at all times to the Royal Lodge, +he used to spend whole days in wandering about the antique apartments, +examining, measuring, studying, and finding out excellent reasons for +architectural peculiarities, which probably only owed their existence +to the freakish fancy of a Gothic artist. But the old antiquary had +been expelled from his living by the intolerance and troubles of the +times, and his successor, Nehemiah Holdenough, would have considered an +elaborate investigation of the profane sculpture and architecture of +blinded and blood-thirsty Papists, together with the history of the +dissolute amours of old Norman monarchs, as little better than a bowing +down before the calves of Bethel, and a drinking of the cup of +abominations.—We return to the course of our story. + +“There is,” said the Independent Tomkins, after he had carefully +perused the front of the building, “many a rare monument of olden +wickedness about this miscalled Royal Lodge; verily, I shall rejoice +much to see the same destroyed, yea, burned to ashes, and the ashes +thrown into the brook Kedron, or any other brook, that the land may be +cleansed from the memory thereof, neither remember the iniquity with +which their fathers have sinned.” + +The keeper heard him with secret indignation, and began to consider +with himself, whether, as they stood but one to one, and without chance +of speedy interference, he was not called upon, by his official duty, +to castigate the rebel who used language so defamatory. But he +fortunately recollected, that the strife must be a doubtful one—that +the advantage of arms was against him—and that, in especial, even if he +should succeed in the combat, it would be at the risk of severe +retaliation. It must be owned, too, that there was something about the +Independent so dark and mysterious, so grim and grave, that the more +open spirit of the keeper felt oppressed, and, if not overawed, at +least kept in doubt concerning him; and he thought it wisest, as well +as safest, for his master and himself, to avoid all subjects of +dispute, and know better with whom he was dealing, before he made +either friend or enemy of him. + +The great gate of the Lodge was strongly bolted, but the wicket opened +on Joceline’s raising the latch. There was a short passage of ten feet, +which had been formerly closed by a portcullis at the inner end, while +three loopholes opened on either side, through which any daring +intruder might be annoyed, who, having surprised the first gate, must +be thus exposed to a severe fire before he could force the second. But +the machinery of the portcullis was damaged, and it now remained a +fixture, brandishing its jaw, well furnished with iron fangs, but +incapable of dropping it across the path of invasion. + +The way, therefore, lay open to the great hall or outer vestibule of +the Lodge. One end of this long and dusky apartment was entirely +occupied by a gallery, which had in ancient times served to accommodate +the musicians and minstrels. There was a clumsy staircase at either +side of it, composed of entire logs of a foot square; and in each angle +of the ascent was placed, by way of sentinel, the figure of a Norman +foot-soldier, having an open casque on his head, which displayed +features as stern as the painter’s genius could devise. Their arms were +buff-jackets, or shirts of mail, round bucklers, with spikes in the +centre, and buskins which adorned and defended the feet and ankles, but +left the knees bare. These wooden warders held great swords, or maces, +in their hands, like military guards on duty. Many an empty hook and +brace, along the walls of the gloomy apartment, marked the spots from +which arms, long preserved as trophies, had been, in the pressure of +the wars, once more taken down, to do service in the field, like +veterans whom extremity of danger recalls to battle. On other rusty +fastenings were still displayed the hunting trophies of the monarchs to +whom the Lodge belonged, and of the silvan knights to whose care it had +been from time to time confided. + +At the nether end of the hall, a huge, heavy, stone-wrought +chimney-piece projected itself ten feet from the wall, adorned with +many a cipher, and many a scutcheon of the Royal House of England. In +its present state, it yawned like the arched mouth of a funeral vault, +or perhaps might be compared to the crater of an extinguished volcano. +But the sable complexion of the massive stone-work, and all around it, +showed that the time had been when it sent its huge fires blazing up +the huge chimney, besides puffing many a volume of smoke over the heads +of the jovial guests, whose royalty or nobility did not render them +sensitive enough to quarrel with such slight inconvenience. On these +occasions, it was the tradition of the house, that two cart-loads of +wood was the regular allowance for the fire between noon and curfew, +and the andirons, or dogs, as they were termed, constructed for +retaining the blazing firewood on the hearth, were wrought in the shape +of lions of such gigantic size as might well warrant the legend. There +were long seats of stone within the chimney, where, in despite of the +tremendous heat, monarchs were sometimes said to have taken their +station, and amused themselves with broiling the _umbles_, or +_dowsels_, of the deer, upon the glowing embers, with their own royal +hands, when happy the courtier who was invited to taste the royal +cookery. Tradition was here also ready with her record, to show what +merry gibes, such as might be exchanged between prince and peer, had +flown about at the jolly banquet which followed the Michaelmas hunt. +She could tell, too, exactly, where King Stephen sat when he darned his +own princely hose, and knew most of the odd tricks he had put upon +little Winkin, the tailor of Woodstock. + +Most of this rude revelry belonged to the Plantagenet times. When the +house of Tudor ascended to the throne, they were more chary of their +royal presence, and feasted in halls and chambers far within, +abandoning the outmost hall to the yeomen of the guard, who mounted +their watch there, and passed away the night with wassail and mirth, +exchanged sometimes for frightful tales of apparitions and sorceries, +which made some of those grow pale, in whose ears the trumpet of a +French foeman would have sounded as jollily as a summons to the +woodland chase. + +Joceline pointed out the peculiarities of the place to his gloomy +companion more briefly than we have detailed them to the reader. The +Independent seemed to listen with some interest at first, but, flinging +it suddenly aside, he said in a solemn tone, “Perish, Babylon, as thy +master Nebuchadnezzar hath perished! He is a wanderer, and thou shalt +be a waste place—yea, and a wilderness—yea, a desert of salt, in which +there shall be thirst and famine.” + +“There is like to be enough of both to-night,” said Joceline, “unless +the good knight’s larder be somewhat fuller than it is wont.” + +“We must care for the creature-comforts,” said the Independent, “but in +due season, when our duties are done. Whither lead these entrances?” + +“That to the right,” replied the keeper, “leads to what are called, the +state-apartments, not used since the year sixteen hundred and +thirty-nine, when his blessed Majesty”— + +“How, sir!” interrupted the Independent, in a voice of thunder, “dost +thou speak of Charles Stewart as blessing, or blessed?—beware the +proclamation to that effect.” + +“I meant no harm,” answered the keeper, suppressing his disposition to +make a harsher reply. “My business is with bolts and bucks, not with +titles and state affairs. But yet, whatever may have happed since, that +poor King was followed with blessings enough from Woodstock, for he +left a glove full of broad pieces for the poor of the place”— + +“Peace, friend,” said the Independent; “I will think thee else one of +those besotted and blinded Papists, who hold, that bestowing of alms is +an atonement and washing away of the wrongs and oppressions which have +been wrought by the almsgiver. Thou sayest, then, these were the +apartments of Charles Stewart?” + +“And of his father, James, before him, and Elizabeth, before _him_, and +bluff King Henry, who builded that wing, before them all.” + +“And there, I suppose, the knight and his daughter dwelt?” + +“No,” replied Joceline; “Sir Henry Lee had too much reverence for—for +things which are now thought worth no reverence at all—Besides, the +state-rooms are unaired, and in indifferent order, since of late years. +The Knight Ranger’s apartment lies by that passage to the left.” + +“And whither goes yonder stair, which seems both to lead upwards and +downwards?” + +“Upwards,” replied the keeper, “it leads to many apartments, used for +various purposes, of sleeping, and other accommodation. Downwards, to +the kitchen, offices, and vaults of the castle, which, at this time of +the evening, you cannot see without lights.” + +“We will to the apartments of your knight, then,” said the Independent. +“Is there fitting accommodation there?” + +“Such as has served a person of condition, whose lodging is now worse +appointed,” answered the honest keeper, his bile rising so fast that he +added, in a muttering and inaudible tone, “so it may well serve a +crop-eared knave like thee.” + +He acted as the usher, however, and led on towards the ranger’s +apartments. + +This suite opened by a short passage from the hall, secured at time of +need by two oaken doors, which could be fastened by large bars of the +same, that were drawn out of the wall, and entered into square holes, +contrived for their reception on the other side of the portal. At the +end of this passage, a small ante-room received them, into which opened +the sitting apartment of the good knight—which, in the style of the +time, might have been termed a fair summer parlour—lighted by two oriel +windows, so placed as to command each of them a separate avenue, +leading distant and deep into the forest. The principal ornament of the +apartment, besides two or three family portraits of less interest, was +a tall full-length picture, that hung above the chimney-piece, which, +like that in the hall, was of heavy stone-work, ornamented with carved +scutcheons, emblazoned with various devices. The portrait was that of a +man about fifty years of age, in complete plate armour, and painted in +the harsh and dry manner of Holbein—probably, indeed, the work of that +artist, as the dates corresponded. The formal and marked angles, points +and projections of the armour, were a good subject for the harsh pencil +of that early school. The face of the knight was, from the fading of +the colours, pale and dim, like that of some being from the other +world, yet the lines expressed forcibly pride and exultation. + +He pointed with his leading-staff, or truncheon, to the background, +where, in such perspective as the artist possessed, were depicted the +remains of a burning church, or monastery, and four or five soldiers, +in red cassocks, bearing away in triumph what seemed a brazen font or +laver. Above their heads might be traced in scroll, “_Lee Victor sic +voluit_.” Right opposite to the picture, hung, in a niche in the wall, +a complete set of tilting armour, the black and gold colours, and +ornaments of which exactly corresponded with those exhibited in the +portrait. + +The picture was one of those which, from something marked in the +features and expression, attract the observation even of those who are +ignorant of art. The Independent looked at it until a smile passed +transiently over his clouded brow. Whether he smiled to see the grim +old cavalier employed in desecrating a religious house—(an occupation +much conforming to the practice of his own sect)—whether he smiled in +contempt of the old painter’s harsh and dry mode of working—or whether +the sight of this remarkable portrait revived some other ideas, the +under-keeper could not decide. + +The smile passed away in an instant, as the soldier looked to the oriel +windows. The recesses within them were raised a step or two from the +wall. In one was placed a walnut-tree reading-desk, and a huge stuffed +arm-chair, covered with Spanish leather. A little cabinet stood beside, +with some of its shuttles and drawers open, displaying hawks-bells, +dog-whistles, instruments for trimming falcons’ feathers, bridle-bits +of various constructions, and other trifles connected with silvan +sport. + +The other little recess was differently furnished. There lay some +articles of needle-work on a small table, besides a lute, with a book +having some airs written down in it, and a frame for working +embroidery. Some tapestry was displayed around the recess, with more +attention to ornament than was visible in the rest of the apartment; +the arrangement of a few bow-pots, with such flowers as the fading +season afforded, showed also the superintendence of female taste. + +Tomkins cast an eye of careless regard upon these subjects of female +occupation, then stepped into the farther window, and began to turn the +leaves of a folio, which lay open on the reading-desk, apparently with +some interest. Joceline, who had determined to watch his motions +without interfering with them, was standing at some distance in +dejected silence, when a door behind the tapestry suddenly opened, and +a pretty village maid tripped out with a napkin in her hand, as if she +had been about some household duty. + +“How now, Sir Impudence?” she said to Joceline in a smart tone; “what +do you here prowling about the apartments when the master is not at +home?” + +But instead of the answer which perhaps she expected, Joceline Joliffe +cast a mournful glance towards the soldier in the oriel window, as if +to make what he said fully intelligible, and replied with a dejected +appearance and voice, “Alack, my pretty Phœbe, there come those here +that have more right or might than any of us, and will use little +ceremony in coming when they will, and staying while they please.” + +He darted another glance at Tomkins, who still seemed busy with the +book before him, then sidled close to the astonished girl, who had +continued looking alternately at the keeper and at the stranger, as if +she had been unable to understand the words of the first, or to +comprehend the meaning of the second being present. + +“Go,” whispered Joliffe, approaching his mouth so near her cheek, that +his breath waved the curls of her hair; “go, my dearest Phœbe, trip it +as fast as a fawn down to my lodge—I will soon be there, and”— + +“Your lodge, indeed” said Phœbe; “you are very bold, for a poor +kill-buck that never frightened any thing before save a dun deer—_Your_ +lodge, indeed!—I am like to go there, I think.” “Hush, hush! Phœbe— +here is no time for jesting. Down to my hut, I say, like a deer, for +the knight and Mrs. Alice are both there, and I fear will not return +hither again.—All’s naught, girl—and our evil days are come at last +with a vengeance—we are fairly at bay and fairly hunted down.” + +“Can this be, Joceline?” said the poor girl, turning to the keeper with +an expression of fright in her countenance, which she had hitherto +averted in rural coquetry. + +“As sure, my dearest Phœbe, as”— + +The rest of the asseveration was lost in Phœbe’s ear, so closely did +the keeper’s lips approach it; and if they approached so very near as +to touch her cheek, grief, like impatience, hath its privileges, and +poor Phœbe had enough of serious alarm to prevent her from demurring +upon such a trifle. + +But no trifle was the approach of Joceline’s lips to Phœbe’s pretty +though sunburnt cheek, in the estimation of the Independent, who, a +little before the object of Joceline’s vigilance, had been more lately +in his turn the observer of the keeper’s demeanour, so soon as the +interview betwixt Phœbe and him had become so interesting. And when he +remarked the closeness of Joceline’s argument, he raised his voice to a +pitch of harshness that would have rivalled that of an ungreased and +rusty saw, and which at once made Joceline and Phœbe spring six feet +apart, each in contrary directions, and if Cupid was of the party, must +have sent him out at the window like it wild duck flying from a +culverin. Instantly throwing himself into the attitude of a preacher +and a reprover of vice, “How now!” he exclaimed, “shameless and +impudent as you are!—What—chambering and wantoning in our very +presence!—How— would you play your pranks before the steward of the +Commissioners of the High Court of Parliament, as ye would in a booth +at the fulsome fair, or amidst the trappings and tracings of a profane +dancing-school, where the scoundrel minstrels make their ungodly +weapons to squeak, ‘Kiss and be kind, the fiddler’s blind?’—But here,” +he said, dealing a perilous thump upon the volume—“Here is the King and +high priest of those vices and follies!—Here is he, whom men of folly +profanely call nature’s miracle!—Here is he, whom princes chose for +their cabinet-keeper, and whom maids of honour take for their +bed-fellow!— Here is the prime teacher of fine words, foppery and +folly—Here!”— (dealing another thump upon the volume—and oh! revered of +the Roxburghe, it was the first folio—beloved of the Bannatyne, it was +Hemmings and Condel—it was the _editio princeps_)—“On thee,” he +continued—“on thee, William Shakspeare, I charge whate’er of such +lawless idleness and immodest folly hath defiled the land since thy +day!” + +“By the mass, a heavy accusation,” said Joceline, the bold recklessness +of whose temper could not be long overawed; “Odds pitlikins, is our +master’s old favourite, Will of Stratford, to answer for every buss +that has been snatched since James’s time?—a perilous reckoning +truly—but I wonder who is sponsible for what lads and lasses did before +his day?” “Scoff not,” said the soldier, “lest I, being called thereto +by the voice within me, do deal with thee as a scorner. Verily, I say, +that since the devil fell from Heaven, he never lacked agents on earth; +yet nowhere hath he met with a wizard having such infinite power over +men’s souls as this pestilent fellow Shakspeare. Seeks a wife a foul +example for adultery, here she shall find it—Would a man know how to +train his fellow to be a murderer, here shall he find tutoring—Would a +lady marry a heathen negro, she shall have chronicled example for +it—Would any one scorn at his Maker, he shall be furnished with a jest +in this book— Would he defy his brother in the flesh, he shall be +accommodated with a challenge—Would you be drunk, Shakspeare will cheer +you with a cup— Would you plunge in sensual pleasures, he will soothe +you to indulgence, as with the lascivious sounds of a lute. This, I +say, this book is the well-head and source of all those evils which +have overrun the land like a torrent, making men scoffers, doubters, +deniers, murderers, makebates, and lovers of the wine-pot, haunting +unclean places, and sitting long at the evening-wine. Away with him, +away with him, men of England! to Tophet with his wicked book, and to +the Vale of Hinnom with his accursed bones! Verily but that our march +was hasty when we passed Stratford, in the year 1643, with Sir William +Waller; but that our march was hasty”— + +“Because Prince Rupert was after you with his cavaliers,” muttered the +incorrigible Joceline. + +“I say,” continued the zealous trooper, raising his voice and extending +his arm—“but that our march was by command hasty, and that we turned +not aside in our riding, closing our ranks each one upon the other as +becomes men of war, I had torn on that day the bones of that preceptor +of vice and debauchery from the grave, and given them to the next +dunghill. I would have made his memory a scoff and a hissing!” + +“That is the bitterest thing he has said yet,” observed the keeper. +“Poor Will would have liked the hissing worse than all the rest.” “Will +the gentleman say any more?” enquired Phœbe in a whisper. “Lack-a-day, +he talks brave words, if one knew but what they meant. But it is a +mercy our good knight did not see him ruffle the book at that +rate—Mercy on us, there would certainly have been bloodshed.—But oh, +the father—see how he is twisting his face about!—Is he ill of the +colic, think’st thou, Joceline? Or, may I offer him a glass of strong +waters?” + +“Hark thee hither, wench!” said the keeper, “he is but loading his +blunderbuss for another volley; and while he turns up his eyes, and +twists about his face, and clenches his fist, and shuffles and tramples +with his feet in that fashion, he is bound to take no notice of any +thing. I would be sworn to cut his purse, if he had one, from his side, +without his feeling it.” + +“La! Joceline,” said Phœbe, “and if he abides here in this turn of +times, I dare say the gentleman will be easily served.” + +“Care not thou about that,” said Joliffe; “but tell me softly and +hastily, what is in the pantry?” + +“Small housekeeping enough,” said Phœbe; “a cold capon and some +comfits, and the great standing venison pasty, with plenty of spice—a +manchet or two besides, and that is all.” + +“Well, it will serve for a pinch—wrap thy cloak round thy comely +body—get a basket and a brace of trenchers and towels, they are +heinously impoverished down yonder—carry down the capon and the +manchets—the pasty must abide with this same soldier and me, and the +pie-crust will serve us for bread.” + +“Rarely,” said Phœbe; “I made the paste myself—it is as thick as the +walls of Fair Rosamond’s Tower.” + +“Which two pairs of jaws would be long in gnawing through, work hard as +they might,” said the keeper. “But what liquor is there?” + +“Only a bottle of Alicant, and one of sack, with the stone jug of +strong waters,” answered Phœbe. + +“Put the wine-flasks into thy basket,” said Joceline, “the knight must +not lack his evening draught—and down with thee to the hut like a +lapwing. There is enough for supper, and to-morrow is a new day.—Ha! by +heaven I thought yonder man’s eye watched us—No—he only rolled it round +him in a brown study—Deep enough doubtless, as they all are.—But d—n +him, he must be bottomless if I cannot sound him before the night’s +out.—Hie thee away, Phœbe.” + +But Phœbe was a rural coquette, and, aware that Joceline’s situation +gave him no advantage of avenging the challenge in a fitting way, she +whispered in his ear, “Do you think our knight’s friend, Shakspeare, +really found out all these naughty devices the gentleman spoke of?” + +Off she darted while she spoke, while Joliffe menaced future vengeance +with his finger, as he muttered, “Go thy way, Phœbe Mayflower, the +lightest-footed and lightest-hearted wench that ever tripped the sod in +Woodstock-park!—After her, Bevis, and bring her safe to our master at +the hut.” + +The large greyhound arose like a human servitor who had received an +order, and followed Phœbe through the hall, first licking her hand to +make her sensible of his presence, and then putting himself to a slow +trot, so as best to accommodate himself to the light pace of her whom +he convoyed, whom Joceline had not extolled for her activity without +due reason. While Phœbe and her guardian thread the forest glades, we +return to the Lodge. + +The Independent now seemed to start as if from a reverie. “Is the young +woman gone?” said he. + +“Ay, marry is she,” said the keeper; “and if your worship hath farther +commands, you must rest contented with male attendance.” + +“Commands—umph—I think the damsel might have tarried for another +exhortation,” said the soldier—“truly, I profess my mind was much +inclined toward her for her edification.” + +“Oh, sir,” replied Joliffe, “she will be at church next Sunday, and if +your military reverence is pleased again to hold forth amongst us, she +will have use of the doctrine with the rest. But young maidens of these +parts hear no private homilies.—And what is now your pleasure? Will you +look at the other rooms, and at the few plate articles which have been +left?” + +“Umph—no,” said the Independent—“it wears late, and gets dark—thou hast +the means of giving us beds, friend?” + +“Better you never slept in,” replied the keeper. + +“And wood for a fire, and a light, and some small pittance of +creature-comforts for refreshment of the outward man?” continued the +soldier. + +“Without doubt,” replied the keeper, displaying a prudent anxiety to +gratify this important personage. + +In a few minutes a great standing candlestick was placed on an oaken +table. The mighty venison pasty, adorned with parsley, was placed on +the board on a clean napkin; the stone-bottle of strong waters, with a +blackjack full of ale, formed comfortable appendages; and to this meal +sate down in social manner the soldier, occupying a great elbow-chair, +and the keeper, at his invitation, using the more lowly accommodation +of a stool, at the opposite side of the table. Thus agreeably employed, +our history leaves them for the present. + + + + +CHAPTER THE FOURTH. + + +Yon path of greensward +Winds round by sparry grot and gay pavilion; +There is no flint to gall thy tender foot, +There’s ready shelter from each breeze, or shower.— +But duty guides not that way—see her stand, +With wand entwined with amaranth, near yon cliffs. +Oft where she leads thy blood must mark thy footsteps, +Oft where she leads thy head must bear the storm. +And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, and hunger; +But she will guide thee up to noble heights, +Which he who gains seems native of the sky, +While earthly things lie stretch’d beneath his feet, +Diminish’d, shrunk, and valueless— + + +ANONYMOUS. + + +The reader cannot have forgotten that after his scuffle with the +commonwealth soldier, Sir Henry Lee, with his daughter Alice, had +departed to take refuge in the hut of the stout keeper Joceline +Joliffe. They walked slow, as before, for the old knight was at once +oppressed by perceiving these last vestiges of royalty fall into the +hands of republicans, and by the recollection of his recent defeat. At +times he paused, and, with his arms folded on his bosom, recalled all +the circumstances attending his expulsion from a house so long his +home. It seemed to him that, like the champions of romance of whom he +had sometimes read, he himself was retiring from the post which it was +his duty to guard, defeated by a Paynim knight, for whom the adventure +had been reserved by fate. Alice had her own painful subjects of +recollection, nor had the tenor of her last conversation with her +father been so pleasant as to make her anxious to renew it until his +temper should be more composed; for with an excellent disposition, and +much love to his daughter, age and misfortunes, which of late came +thicker and thicker, had given to the good knight’s passions a wayward +irritability unknown to his better days. His daughter, and one or two +attached servants, who still followed his decayed fortunes, soothed his +frailty as much as possible, and pitied him even while they suffered +under its effects. + +It was a long time ere he spoke, and then he referred to an incident +already noticed. “It is strange,” he said, “that Bevis should have +followed Joceline and that fellow rather than me.” + +“Assure yourself, sir,” replied Alice, “that his sagacity saw in this +man a stranger, whom he thought himself obliged to watch circumspectly, +and therefore he remained with Joceline.” + +“Not so, Alice,” answered Sir Henry; “he leaves me because my fortunes +have fled from me. There is a feeling in nature, affecting even the +instinct, as it is called, of dumb animals, which teaches them to fly +from misfortune. The very deer there will butt a sick or wounded buck +from the herd; hurt a dog, and the whole kennel will fall on him and +worry him; fishes devour their own kind when they are wounded with a +spear; cut a crow’s wing, or break its leg, the others will buffet it +to death.” + +“That may be true of the more irrational kinds of animals among each +other,” said Alice, “for their whole life is well nigh a warfare; but +the dog leaves his own race to attach himself to ours; forsakes, for +his master, the company, food, and pleasure of his own kind; and surely +the fidelity of such a devoted and voluntary servant as Bevis hath been +in particular, ought not to be lightly suspected.” + +“I am not angry with the dog, Alice; I am only sorry,” replied her +father. “I have read, in faithful chronicles, that when Richard II. and +Henry of Bolingbroke were at Berkeley Castle, a dog of the same kind +deserted the King, whom he had always attended upon, and attached +himself to Henry, whom he then saw for the first time. Richard +foretold, from the desertion of his favourite, his approaching +deposition. The dog was afterwards kept at Woodstock, and Bevis is said +to be of his breed, which was heedfully kept up. What I might foretell +of mischief from his desertion, I cannot guess, but my mind assures me +it bodes no good.” + +There was a distant rustling among the withered leaves, a bouncing or +galloping sound on the path, and the favourite dog instantly joined his +master. + +“Come into court, old knave,” said Alice, cheerfully, “and defend thy +character, which is wellnigh endangered by this absence.” But the dog +only paid her courtesy by gamboling around them, and instantly plunged +back again, as fast as he could scamper. + +“How now, knave?” said the knight; “thou art too well trained, surely, +to take up the chase without orders.” A minute more showed them Phœbe +Mayflower approaching, her light pace so little impeded by the burden +which she bore, that she joined her master and young mistress just as +they arrived at the keeper’s hut, which was the boundary of their +journey. Bevis, who had shot a-head to pay his compliments to Sir Henry +his master, had returned again to his immediate duty, the escorting +Phœbe and her cargo of provisions. The whole party stood presently +assembled before the door of the keeper’s hut. + +In better times, a substantial stone habitation, fit for the +yeoman-keeper of a royal walk, had adorned this place. A fair spring +gushed out near the spot, and once traversed yards and courts, attached +to well-built and convenient kennels and mews. But in some of the +skirmishes which were common during the civil wars, this little silvan +dwelling had been attacked and defended, stormed and burnt. A +neighbouring squire, of the Parliament side of the question, took +advantage of Sir Henry Lee’s absence, who was then in Charles’s camp, +and of the decay of the royal cause, and had, without scruple, carried +off the hewn stones, and such building materials as the fire left +unconsumed, and repaired his own manor-house with them. The +yeoman-keeper, therefore, our friend Joceline, had constructed, for his +own accommodation, and that of the old woman he called his dame, a +wattled hut, such as his own labour, with that of a neighbour or two, +had erected in the course of a few days. The walls were plastered with +clay, white-washed, and covered with vines and other creeping plants; +the roof was neatly thatched, and the whole, though merely a hut, had, +by the neat-handed Joliffe, been so arranged as not to disgrace the +condition of the dweller. + +The knight advanced to the entrance; but the ingenuity of the +architect, for want of a better lock to the door, which itself was but +of wattles curiously twisted, had contrived a mode of securing the +latch on the inside with a pin, which prevented it from rising; and in +this manner it was at present fastened. Conceiving that this was some +precaution of Joliffe’s old housekeeper, of whose deafness they were +all aware, Sir Henry raised his voice to demand admittance, but in +vain. Irritated at this delay, he pressed the door at once with foot +and hand, in a way which the frail barrier was unable to resist; it +gave way accordingly, and the knight thus forcibly entered the kitchen, +or outward apartment, of his servant. In the midst of the floor, and +with a posture which indicated embarrassment, stood a youthful +stranger, in a riding-suit. + +“This may be my last act of authority here,” said the knight, seizing +the stranger by the collar, “but I am still Ranger of Woodstock for +this night at least—Who, or what art thou?” + +The stranger dropped the riding-mantle in which his face was muffled, +and at the same time fell on one knee. + +“Your poor kinsman, Markham Everard,” he said, “who came hither for +your sake, although he fears you will scarce make him welcome for his +own.” + +Sir Henry started back, but recovered himself in an instant, as one who +recollected that he had a part of dignity to perform. He stood erect, +therefore, and replied, with considerable assumption of stately +ceremony: + +“Fair kinsman, it pleases me that you are come to Woodstock upon the +very first night that, for many years which have passed, is likely to +promise you a worthy or a welcome reception.” + +“Now God grant it be so, that I rightly hear and duly understand you,” +said the young man; while Alice, though she was silent, kept her looks +fixed on her father’s face, as if desirous to know whether his meaning +was kind towards his nephew, which her knowledge of his character +inclined her greatly to doubt. + +The knight meanwhile darted a sardonic look, first on his nephew, then +on his daughter, and proceeded—“I need not, I presume, inform Mr. +Markham Everard, that it cannot be our purpose to entertain him, or +even to offer him a seat in this poor hut.” + +“I will attend you most willingly to the Lodge,” said the young +gentleman. “I had, indeed, judged you were already there for the +evening, and feared to intrude upon you. But if you would permit me, my +dearest uncle, to escort my kinswoman and you back to the Lodge, +believe me, amongst all which you have so often done of good and kind, +you never conferred benefit that will be so dearly prized.” + +“You mistake me greatly, Mr. Markham Everard,” replied the knight. “It +is not our purpose to return to the Lodge to-night, nor, by Our Lady, +to-morrow neither. I meant but to intimate to you in all courtesy, that +at Woodstock Lodge you will find those for whom you are fitting +society, and who, doubtless, will afford you a willing welcome; which +I, sir, in this my present retreat, do not presume to offer to a person +of your consequence.” + +“For Heaven’s sake,” said the young man, turning to Alice, “tell me how +I am to understand language so misterious.” + +Alice, to prevent his increasing the restrained anger of her father, +compelled herself to answer, though it was with difficulty, “We are +expelled from the Lodge by soldiers.” + +“Expelled—by soldiers!” exclaimed Everard, in surprise—“there is no +legal warrant for this.” + +“None at all,” answered the knight, in the same tone of cutting irony +which he had all along used, “and yet as lawful a warrant, as for aught +that has been wrought in England this twelvemonth and more. You are, I +think, or were, an Inns-of-Court-man—marry, sir, your enjoyment of your +profession is like that lease which a prodigal wishes to have of a +wealthy widow. You have already survived the law which you studied, and +its expiry doubtless has not been without a legacy—some decent +pickings, some merciful increases, as the phrase goes. You have +deserved it two ways—you wore buff and bandalier, as well as wielded +pen and ink—I have not heard if you held forth too.” + +“Think of me and speak of me as harshly as you will, sir,” said +Everard, submissively. “I have but in this evil time, guided myself by +my conscience, and my father’s commands.” + +“O, and you talk of conscience,” said the old knight, “I must have mine +eye upon you, as Hamlet says. Never yet did Puritan cheat so grossly as +when he was appealing to his conscience; and as for thy _father_”— + +He was about to proceed in a tone of the same invective, when the young +man interrupted him, by saying, in a firm tone, “Sir Henry Lee, you +have ever been thought noble—Say of me what you will, but speak not of +my father what the ear of a son should not endure, and which yet his +arm cannot resent. To do me such wrong is to insult an unarmed man, or +to beat a captive.” + +Sir Henry paused, as if struck by the remark. “Thou hast spoken truth +in that, Mark, wert thou the blackest Puritan whom hell ever vomited, +to distract an unhappy country.” + +“Be that as you will to think it,” replied Everard; “but let me not +leave you to the shelter of this wretched hovel. The night is drawing +to storm—let me but conduct you to the Lodge, and expel those +intruders, who can, as yet at least, have no warrant for what they do. +I will not linger a moment behind them, save just to deliver my +father’s message.—Grant me but this much, for the love you once bore +me!” + +“Yes, Mark,” answered his uncle, firmly, but sorrowfully, “thou +speakest truth—I did love thee once. The bright-haired boy whom I +taught to ride, to shoot, to hunt—whose hours of happiness were spent +with me, wherever those of graver labours were employed—I did love that +boy—ay, and I am weak enough to love even the memory of what he +was.—But he is gone, Mark—he is gone; and in his room I only behold an +avowed and determined rebel to his religion and to his king—a rebel +more detestable on account of his success, the more infamous through +the plundered wealth with which he hopes to gild his villany.—But I am +poor, thou think’st, and should hold my peace, lest men say, ‘Speak, +sirrah, when you should.’—Know, however, that, indigent and plundered +as I am, I feel myself dishonoured in holding even but this much talk +with the tool of usurping rebels.—Go to the Lodge, if thou wilt—yonder +lies the way—but think not that, to regain my dwelling there, or all +the wealth I ever possessed in my wealthiest days, I would accompany +thee three steps on the greensward. If I must be thy companion, it +shall be only when thy red-coats have tied my hands behind me, and +bound my legs beneath my horse’s belly. Thou mayst be my fellow +traveller then, I grant thee, if thou wilt, but not sooner.” + +Alice, who suffered cruelly during this dialogue, and was well aware +that farther argument would only kindle the knight’s resentment still +more highly, ventured at last, in her anxiety, to make a sign to her +cousin to break off the interview, and to retire, since her father +commanded his absence in a manner so peremptory. Unhappily, she was +observed by Sir Henry, who, concluding that what he saw was evidence of +a private understanding betwixt the cousins, his wrath acquired new +fuel, and it required the utmost exertion of self-command, and +recollection of all that was due to his own dignity, to enable him to +veil his real fury under the same ironical manner which he had adopted +at the beginning of this angry interview. + +“If thou art afraid,” he said, “to trace our forest glades by night, +respected stranger, to whom I am perhaps bound to do honour as my +successor in the charge of these walks, here seems to be a modest +damsel, who will be most willing to wait on thee, and be thy +bow-bearer.—Only, for her mother’s sake, let there pass some slight +form of marriage between you—Ye need no license or priest in these +happy days, but may be buckled like beggars in a ditch, with a hedge +for a church-roof, and a tinker for a priest. I crave pardon of you for +making such an officious and simple request—perhaps you are a ranter—or +one of the family of Love, or hold marriage rites as unnecessary, as +Knipperdoling, or Jack of Leyden?” + +“For mercy’s sake, forbear such dreadful jesting, my father! and do +you, Markham, begone, in God’s name, and leave us to our fate—your +presence makes my father rave.” + +“Jesting!” said Sir Henry, “I was never more serious—Raving!—I was +never more composed—I could never brook that falsehood should approach +me—I would no more bear by my side a dishonoured daughter than a +dishonoured sword; and this unhappy day hath shown that both can fail.” + +“Sir Henry,” said young Everard, “load not your soul with a heavy +crime, which be assured you do, in treating your daughter thus +unjustly. It is long now since you denied her to me, when we were poor +and you were powerful. I acquiesced in your prohibition of all suit and +intercourse. God knoweth what I suffered—but I acquiesced. Neither is +it to renew my suit that I now come hither, and have, I do acknowledge, +sought speech of her—not for her own sake only, but for yours also. +Destruction hovers over you, ready to close her pinions to stoop, and +her talons to clutch—Yes, sir, look contemptuous as you will, such is +the case; and it is to protect both you and her that I am here.” + +“You refuse then my free gift,” said Sir Henry Lee; “or perhaps you +think it loaded with too hard conditions?” + +“Shame, shame on you, Sir Henry;” said Everard, waxing warm in his +turn; “have your political prejudices so utterly warped every feeling +of a father, that you can speak with bitter mockery and scorn of what +concerns your own daughter’s honour?—Hold up your head, fair Alice, and +tell your father he has forgotten nature in his fantastic spirit of +loyalty.—Know, Sir Henry, that though I would prefer your daughter’s +hand to every blessing which Heaven could bestow on me, I would not +accept it—my conscience would not permit me to do so, when I knew it +must withdraw her from her duty to you.” + +“Your conscience is over-scrupulous, young man;—carry it to some +dissenting rabbi, and he who takes all that comes to net, will teach +thee it is sinning against our mercies to refuse any good thing that is +freely offered to us.” + +“When it is freely offered, and kindly offered—not when the offer is +made in irony and insult—Fare thee well, Alice—if aught could make me +desire to profit by thy father’s wild wish to cast thee from him in a +moment of unworthy suspicion, it would be that while indulging in such +sentiments, Sir Henry Lee is tyrannically oppressing the creature, who +of all others is most dependent on his kindness—who of all others will +most feel his severity, and whom, of all others, he is most bound to +cherish and support.” + +“Do not fear for me, Mr. Everard,” exclaimed Alice, aroused from her +timidity by a dread of the consequences not unlikely to ensue, where +civil war sets relations, as well as fellow-citizens, in opposition to +each other.—“Oh, begone, I conjure you, begone! Nothing stands betwixt +me and my father’s kindness, but these unhappy family divisions—but +your ill-timed presence here—for Heaven’s sake, leave us!” + +“So, mistress!” answered the hot old cavalier, “you play lady paramount +already; and who but you!—you would dictate to our train, I warrant, +like Goneril and Regan! But I tell thee, no man shall leave my +house—and, humble as it is, _this_ is now my house—while he has aught +to say to me that is to be spoken, as this young man now speaks, with a +bent brow and a lofty tone.—Speak out, sir, and say your worst!” + +“Fear not my temper, Mrs. Alice,” said Everard, with equal firmness and +placidity of manner; “and you, Sir Henry, do not think that if I speak +firmly, I mean therefore to speak in anger, or officiously. You have +taxed me with much, and, were I guided by the wild spirit of romantic +chivalry, much which, even from so near a relative, I ought not, as +being by birth, and in the world’s estimation, a gentleman, to pass +over without reply. Is it your pleasure to give me patient hearing?” + +“If you stand on your defence,” answered the stout old knight, “God +forbid that you should not challenge a patient hearing—ay, though your +pleading were two parts disloyalty and one blasphemy—Only, be brief— +this has already lasted but too long.” + +“I will, Sir Henry,” replied the young man; “yet it is hard to crowd +into a few sentences, the defence of a life which, though short, has +been a busy one—too busy, your indignant gesture would assert. But I +deny it; I have drawn my sword neither hastily, nor without due +consideration, for a people whose rights have been trampled on, and +whose consciences have been oppressed—Frown not, sir—such is not your +view of the contest, but such is mine. For my religious principles, at +which you have scoffed, believe me, that though they depend not on set +forms, they are no less sincere than your own, and thus far +purer—excuse the word—that they are unmingled with the blood-thirsty +dictates of a barbarous age, which you and others have called the code +of chivalrous honour. Not my own natural disposition, but the better +doctrine which my creed has taught, enables me to bear your harsh +revilings without answering in a similar tone of wrath and reproach. +You may carry insult to extremity against me at your pleasure—not on +account of our relationship alone, but because I am bound in charity to +endure it. This, Sir Henry, is much from one of our house. But, with +forbearance far more than this requires, I can refuse at your hands the +gift, which, most of all things under heaven, I should desire to +obtain, because duty calls upon her to sustain and comfort you, and +because it were sin to permit you, in your blindness, to spurn your +comforter from your side.—Farewell, sir—not in anger, but in pity—We +may meet in a better time, when your heart and your principles shall +master the unhappy prejudices by which they are now +overclouded.—Farewell— farewell, Alice!” + +The last words were repeated twice, and in a tone of feeling and +passionate grief, which differed utterly from the steady and almost +severe tone in which he had addressed Sir Henry Lee. He turned and left +the hut so soon as he had uttered these last words; and, as if ashamed +of the tenderness which had mingled with his accents, the young +commonwealth’s-man turned and walked sternly and resolvedly forth into +the moonlight, which now was spreading its broad light and autumnal +shadows over the woodland. + +So soon as he departed, Alice, who had been during the whole scene in +the utmost terror that her father might have been hurried, by his +natural heat of temper, from violence of language into violence of +action, sunk down upon a settle twisted out of willow boughs, like most +of Joceline’s few moveables, and endeavoured to conceal the tears which +accompanied the thanks she rendered in broken accents to Heaven, that, +notwithstanding the near alliance and relationship of the parties, some +fatal deed had not closed an interview so perilous and so angry. Phœbe +Mayflower blubbered heartily for company, though she understood but +little of what had passed; just, indeed, enough to enable her +afterwards to report to some half-dozen particular friends, that her +old master, Sir Henry, had been perilous angry, and almost fought with +young Master Everard, because he had wellnigh carried away her young +mistress.—“And what could he have done better?” said Phœbe, “seeing the +old man had nothing left either for Mrs. Alice or himself; and as for +Mr. Mark Everard and our young lady, oh! they had spoken such loving +things to each other as are not to be found in the history of Argalus +and Parthenia, who, as the story-book tells, were the truest pair of +lovers in all Arcadia, and Oxfordshire to boot.” + +Old Goody Jellycot had popped her scarlet hood into the kitchen more +than once while the scene was proceeding; but, as the worthy dame was +parcel blind and more than parcel deaf, knowledge was excluded by two +principal entrances; and though she comprehended, by a sort of general +instinct, that the gentlefolk were at high words, yet why they chose +Joceline’s hut for the scene of their dispute was as great a mystery as +the subject of the quarrel. + +But what was the state of the old cavalier’s mood, thus contradicted, +as his most darling principles had been, by the last words of his +departing nephew? The truth is, that he was less thoroughly moved than +his daughter expected; and in all probability his nephew’s bold defence +of his religious and political opinions rather pacified than aggravated +his displeasure. Although sufficiently impatient of contradiction, +still evasion and subterfuge were more alien to the blunt old Ranger’s +nature than manly vindication and direct opposition; and he was wont to +say, that he ever loved the buck best who stood boldest at bay. He +graced his nephew’s departure, however, with a quotation from +Shakspeare, whom, as many others do, he was wont to quote from a sort +of habit and respect, as a favourite of his unfortunate master, without +having either much real taste for his works, or great skill in applying +the passages which he retained on his memory. + +“Mark,” he said, “mark this, Alice—the devil can quote Scripture for +his purpose. Why, this young fanatic cousin of thine, with no more +beard than I have seen on a clown playing Maid Marion on May-day, when +the village barber had shaved him in too great a hurry, shall match any +bearded Presbyterian or Independent of them all, in laying down his +doctrines and his uses, and bethumping us with his texts and his +homilies. I would worthy and learned Doctor Rochecliffe had been here, +with his battery ready-mounted from the Vulgate, and the Septuagint, +and what not—he would have battered the presbyterian spirit out of him +with a wanion. However, I am glad the young man is no sneaker; for, +were a man of the devil’s opinion in religion, and of Old Noll’s in +politics, he were better open on it full cry, than deceive you by +hunting counter, or running a false scent. Come—wipe thine eyes—the +fray is over, and not like to be stirred again soon, I trust.” + +Encouraged by these words, Alice rose, and, bewildered as she was, +endeavoured to superintend the arrangements for their meal and their +repose in their new habitation. But her tears fell so fast, they marred +her counterfeited diligence; and it was well for her that Phœbe, though +too ignorant and too simple to comprehend the extent of her distress, +could afford her material assistance, in lack of mere sympathy. + +With great readiness and address, the damsel set about every thing that +was requisite for preparing the supper and the beds; now screaming into +Dame Jellycot’s ear, now whispering into her mistress’s, and artfully +managing, as if she was merely the agent, under Alice’s orders. When +the cold viands were set forth, Sir Henry Lee kindly pressed his +daughter to take refreshment, as if to make up, indirectly, for his +previous harshness towards her; while he himself, like an experienced +campaigner, showed, that neither the mortifications nor brawls of the +day, nor the thoughts of what was to come to-morrow, could diminish his +appetite for supper, which was his favourite meal. He ate up two-thirds +of the capon, and, devoting the first bumper to the happy restoration +of Charles, second of the name, he finished a quart of wine; for he +belonged to a school accustomed to feed the flame of their loyalty with +copious brimmers. He even sang a verse of “The King shall enjoy his own +again,” in which Phœbe, half-sobbing, and Dame Jellycot, screaming +against time and tune, were contented to lend their aid, to cover +Mistress Alice’s silence. + +At length the jovial knight betook himself to his rest on the keeper’s +straw pallet, in a recess adjoining to the kitchen, and, unaffected by +his change of dwelling, slept fast and deep. Alice had less quiet rest +in old Goody Jellycot’s wicker couch, in the inner apartment; while the +dame and Phœbe slept on a mattress, stuffed with dry leaves, in the +same chamber, soundly as those whose daily toil gains their daily +bread, and, whom morning calls up only to renew the toils of yesterday. + + + + +CHAPTER THE FIFTH. + + +My tongue pads slowly under this new language, +And starts and stumbles at these uncouth phrases. +They may be great in worth and weight, but hang +Upon the native glibness of my language +Like Saul’s plate-armour on the shepherd boy, +Encumbering and not arming him. + + +J. B. + + +As Markham Everard pursued his way towards the Lodge, through one of +the long sweeping glades which traversed the forest, varying in +breadth, till the trees were now so close that the boughs made darkness +over his head, then receding farther to let in glimpses of the moon, +and anon opening yet wider into little meadows, or savannahs, on which +the moonbeams lay in silvery silence; as he thus proceeded on his +lonely course, the various effects produced by that delicious light on +the oaks, whose dark leaves, gnarled branches, and massive trunks it +gilded, more or less partially, might have drawn the attention of a +poet or a painter. + +But if Everard thought of anything saving the painful scene in which he +had just played his part, and of which the result seemed the +destruction of all his hopes, it was of the necessary guard to be +observed in his night-walk. The times were dangerous and unsettled; the +roads full of disbanded soldiers, and especially of royalists, who made +their political opinions a pretext for disturbing the country with +marauding parties and robberies. Deer-stealers also, who are ever a +desperate banditti, had of late infested Woodstock Chase. In short, the +dangers of the place and period were such, that Markham Everard wore +his loaded pistols at his belt, and carried his drawn sword under his +arm, that he might be prepared for whatever peril should cross his +path. + +He heard the bells of Woodstock Church ring curfew, just as he was +crossing one of the little meadows we have described, and they ceased +as he entered an overshadowed and twilight part of the path beyond. It +was there that he heard some one whistling; and, as the sound became +clearer, it was plain the person was advancing towards him. This could +hardly be a friend; for the party to which he belonged rejected, +generally speaking, all music, unless psalmody. “If a man is merry, let +him sing psalms,” was a text which they were pleased to interpret as +literally and to as little purpose as they did some others; yet it was +too continued a sound to be a signal amongst night-walkers, and too +light and cheerful to argue any purpose of concealment on the part of +the traveller, who presently exchanged his whistling for singing, and +trolled forth the following stanza to a jolly tune, with which the old +cavaliers were wont to wake the night owl: + +Hey for cavaliers! Ho for cavaliers! +Pray for cavaliers! + Rub a dub—rub a dub! + Have at old Beelzebub— + Oliver smokes for fear. + + +“I should know that voice,” said Everard, uncocking the pistol which he +had drawn from his belt, but continuing to hold it in his hand. Then +came another fragment: + +Hash them—slash them— +All to pieces dash them. + + +“So ho!” cried Markham, “who goes there, and for whom?” + +“For Church and King,” answered a voice, which presently added, “No, +d—n me—I mean _against_ Church and King, and for the people that are +uppermost—I forget which they are.” + +“Roger Wildrake, as I guess?” said Everard. + +“The same—Gentleman; of Squattlesea-mere, in the moist county of +Lincoln.” + +“Wildrake!” said Markham—“Wildgoose you should be called. You have been +moistening your own throat to some purpose, and using it to gabble +tunes very suitable to the times, to be sure!” + +“Faith, the tune’s a pretty tune enough, Mark, only out of fashion a +little—the more’s the pity.” + +“What could I expect,” said Everard, “but to meet some ranting, drunken +cavalier, as desperate and dangerous as night and sack usually make +them? What if I had rewarded your melody by a ball in the gullet?” + +“Why, there would have been a piper paid—that’s all,” said Wildrake. +“But wherefore come you this way now? I was about to seek you at the +hut.” + +“I have been obliged to leave it—I will tell you the cause hereafter,” +replied Markham. + +“What! the old play-hunting cavalier was cross, or Chloe was unkind?” + +“Jest not, Wildrake—it is all over with me,” said Everard. + +“The devil it is,” exclaimed Wildrake, “and you take it thus quietly!— +Zounds! let us back together—I’ll plead your cause for you—I know how +to tickle up an old knight and a pretty maiden—Let me alone for putting +you _rectus in curia_, you canting rogue.—D—n me, Sir Henry Lee, says +I, your nephew is a piece of a Puritan—it won’t deny—but I’ll uphold +him a gentleman and a pretty fellow, for all that.—Madam, says I, you +may think your cousin looks like a psalm-singing weaver, in that bare +felt, and with that rascally brown cloak; that band, which looks like a +baby’s clout, and those loose boots, which have a whole calf-skin in +each of them,—but let him wear on the one side of his head a castor, +with a plume befitting his quality; give him a good Toledo by his side, +with a broidered belt and an inlaid hilt, instead of the ton of iron +contained in that basket-hilted black Andrew Ferrara; put a few smart +words in his mouth—and, blood and wounds! madam, says I—” + +“Prithee, truce with this nonsense, Wildrake,” said Everard, “and tell +me if you are sober enough to hear a few words of sober reason?” + +“Pshaw! man, I did but crack a brace of quarts with yonder puritanic, +roundheaded soldiers, up yonder at the town; and rat me but I passed +myself for the best man of the party; twanged my nose, and turned up my +eyes, as I took my can—Pah! the very wine tasted of hypocrisy. I think +the rogue corporal smoked something at last—as for the common fellows, +never stir, but _they_ asked me to say grace over another quart.” + +“This is just what I wished to speak with you about, Wildrake,” said +Markham—“You hold me, I am sure, for your friend?” + +“True as steel.—Chums at College and at Lincoln’s Inn—we have been +Nisus and Euryalus, Theseus and Pirithous, Orestes and Pylades; and, to +sum up the whole with a puritanic touch, David and Jonathan, all in one +breath. Not even politics, the wedge that rends families and +friendships asunder, as iron rives oak, have been able to split us.” + +“True,” answered Markham: “and when you followed the King to +Nottingham, and I enrolled under Essex, we swore, at our parting, that +whichever side was victorious, he of us who adhered to it, should +protect his less fortunate comrade.” + +“Surely, man, surely; and have you not protected me accordingly? Did +you not save me from hanging? and am I not indebted to you for the +bread I eat?” + +“I have but done that which, had the times been otherwise, you, my dear +Wildrake, would, I am sure, have done for me. But, as I said, that is +just what I wished to speak to you about. Why render the task of +protecting you more difficult than it must necessarily be at any rate? +Why thrust thyself into the company of soldiers, or such like, where +thou art sure to be warmed into betraying thyself? Why come hollowing +and whooping out cavalier ditties, like a drunken trooper of Prince +Rupert, or one of Wilmot’s swaggering body-guards?” + +“Because I may have been both one and t’other in my day, for aught that +you know,” replied Wildrake. “But, oddsfish! is it necessary I should +always be reminding you, that our obligation of mutual protection, our +league of offensive and defensive, as I may call it, was to be carried +into effect without reference to the politics or religion of the party +protected, or the least obligation on him to conform to those of his +friend?” + +“True,” said Everard; “but with this most necessary qualification, that +the party should submit to such outward conformity to the times as +should make it more easy and safe for his friend to be of service to +him. Now, you are perpetually breaking forth, to the hazard of your own +safety and my credit.” + +“I tell you, Mark, and I would tell your namesake the apostle, that you +are hard on me. You have practised sobriety and hypocrisy from your +hanging sleeves till your Geneva cassock—from the cradle to this +day,—and it is a thing of nature to you; and you are surprised that a +rough, rattling, honest fellow, accustomed to speak truth all his life, +and especially when he found it at the bottom of a flask, cannot be so +perfect a prig as thyself—Zooks! there is no equality betwixt us—A +trained diver might as well, because he can retain his breath for ten +minutes without inconvenience, upbraid a poor devil for being like to +burst in twenty seconds, at the bottom of ten fathoms water—And, after +all, considering the guise is so new to me, I think I bear myself +indifferently well—try me!” + +“Are there any more news from Worcester fight?” asked Everard, in a +tone so serious that it imposed on his companion, who replied in his +genuine character— + +“Worse!—d—n me, worse an hundred times than reported—totally broken. +Noll hath certainly sold himself to the devil, and his lease will have +an end one day—that is all our present comfort.” + +“What! and would this be your answer to the first red-coat who asked +the question?” said Everard. “Methinks you would find a speedy passport +to the next corps de garde.” + +“Nay, nay,” answered Wildrake, “I thought you asked me in your own +person.—Lack-a-day! a great mercy—a glorifying mercy—a crowning mercy—a +vouchsafing—an uplifting—I profess the malignants are scattered from +Dan to Beersheba—smitten, hip and thigh, even until the going down of +the sun!” + +“Hear you aught of Colonel Thornhaugh’s wounds?” + +“He is dead,” answered Wildrake, “that’s one comfort—the roundheaded +rascal!—Nay, hold! it was but a trip of the tongue—I meant, the sweet +godly youth.” + +“And hear you aught of the young man, King of Scotland, as they call +him?” said Everard. + +“Nothing but that he is hunted like a partridge on the mountains. May +God deliver him, and confound his enemies!—Zoons, Mark Everard, I can +fool it no longer. Do you not remember, that at the Lincoln’s-Inn +gambols—though you did not mingle much in them, I think—I used always +to play as well as any of them when it came to the action, but they +could never get me to rehearse conformably. It’s the same at this day. +I hear your voice, and I answer to it in the true tone of my heart; but +when I am in the company of your snuffling friends, you have seen me +act my part indifferent well.” + +“But indifferent, indeed,” replied Everard; “however, there is little +call on you to do aught, save to be modest and silent. Speak little, +and lay aside, if you can, your big oaths and swaggering looks—set your +hat even on your brows.” + +“Ay, that is the curse! I have been always noted for the jaunty manner +in which I wear my castor—Hard when a man’s merits become his enemies!” + +“You must remember you are my clerk.” + +“Secretary,” answered Wildrake: “let it be secretary, if you love me.” + +“It must be clerk, and nothing else—plain clerk—and remember to be +civil and obedient,” replied Everard. + +“But you should not lay on your commands with so much ostentatious +superiority, Master Markham Everard. Remember, I am your senior of +three years’ standing. Confound me, if I know how to take it!” + +“Was ever such a fantastic wrong-head!—For my sake, if not for thine +own, bend thy freakish folly to listen to reason. Think that I have +incurred both risk and shame on thy account.” + +“Nay, thou art a right good fellow, Mark,” replied the cavalier; “and +for thy sake I will do much—but remember to cough, and cry hem! when +thou seest me like to break bounds. And now, tell me whither we are +bound for the night.” + +“To Woodstock Lodge, to look after my uncle’s property,” answered +Markham Everard: “I am informed that soldiers have taken possession—Yet +how could that be if thou foundest the party drinking in Woodstock?” + +“There was a kind of commissary or steward, or some such rogue, had +gone down to the Lodge,” replied Wildrake; “I had a peep at him.” + +“Indeed!” replied Everard. + +“Ay, verily,” said Wildrake, “to speak your own language. Why, as I +passed through the park in quest of you, scarce half an hour since, I +saw a light in the Lodge—Step this way, you will see it yourself.” + +“In the north-west angle?” returned Everard. “It is from a window in +what they call Victor Lee’s apartment.” + +“Well,” resumed Wildrake, “I had been long one of Lundsford’s lads, and +well used to patrolling duty—So, rat me, says I, if I leave a light in +my rear, without knowing what it means. Besides, Mark, thou hadst said +so much to me of thy pretty cousin, I thought I might as well have a +peep, if I could.” + +“Thoughtless, incorrigible man! to what dangers do you expose yourself +and your friends, in mere wantonness!—But go on.” + +“By this fair moonshine, I believe thou art jealous, Mark Everard!” +replied his gay companion; “there is no occasion; for, in any case, I, +who was to see the lady, was steeled by honour against the charms of my +friend’s Chloe—Then the lady was not to see me, so could make no +comparisons to thy disadvantage, thou knowest—Lastly, as it fell out, +neither of us saw the other at all.” + +“Of that I am well aware. Mrs. Alice left the Lodge long before sunset, +and never returned. What didst thou see to introduce with such +preface?” + +“Nay, no great matter,” replied Wildrake; “only getting upon a sort of +buttress, (for I can climb like any cat that ever mewed in any gutter,) +and holding on by the vines and creepers which grew around, I obtained +a station where I could see into the inside of that same parlour thou +spokest of just now.” + +“And what saw’st thou there?” once more demanded Everard. + +“Nay, no great matter, as I said before,” replied the cavalier; “for in +these times it is no new thing to see churls carousing in royal or +noble chambers. I saw two rascallions engaged in emptying a solemn +stoup of strong waters, and dispatching a huge venison pasty, which +greasy mess, for their convenience, they had placed on a lady’s +work-table—One of them was trying an air on a lute.” + +“The profane villains!” exclaimed Everard, “it was Alice’s.” + +“Well said, comrade—I am glad your phlegm can be moved. I did but throw +in these incidents of the lute and the table, to try if it was possible +to get a spark of human spirit out of you, besanctified as you are.” + +“What like were the men?” said young Everard. + +“The one a slouch-hatted, long-cloaked, sour-faced fanatic, like the +rest of you, whom I took to be the steward or commissary I heard spoken +of in the town; the other was a short sturdy fellow, with a wood-knife +at his girdle, and a long quarterstaff lying beside him—a black-haired +knave, with white teeth and a merry countenance—one of the +under-rangers or bow-bearers of these walks, I fancy.” + +“They must have been Desborough’s favourite, trusty Tomkins,” said +Everard, “and Joceline Joliffe, the keeper. Tomkins is Desborough’s +right hand—an Independent, and hath pourings forth, as he calls them. +Some think that his gifts have the better of his grace. I have heard of +his abusing opportunities.” + +“They were improving them when I saw them,” replied Wildrake, “and made +the bottle smoke for it—when, as the devil would have it, a stone, +which had been dislodged from the crumbling buttress, gave way under my +weight. A clumsy fellow like thee would have been so long thinking what +was to be done, that he must needs have followed it before he could +make up his mind; but I, Mark, I hopped like a squirrel to an ivy twig, +and stood fast—was wellnigh shot, though, for the noise alarmed them +both. They looked to the oriel, and saw me on the outside; the fanatic +fellow took out a pistol—as they have always such texts in readiness +hanging beside the little clasped Bible, thou know’st—the keeper seized +his hunting-pole—I treated them both to a roar and a grin—thou must +know I can grimace like a baboon—I learned the trick from a French +player, who could twist his jaws into a pair of nut-crackers—and +therewithal I dropped myself sweetly on the grass, and ran off so +trippingly, keeping the dark side of the wall as long as I could, that +I am wellnigh persuaded they thought I was their kinsman, the devil, +come among them uncalled. They were abominably startled.” + +“Thou art most fearfully rash, Wildrake,” said his companion; “we are +now bound for the house—what if they should remember thee?” + +“Why, it is no treason, is it? No one has paid for peeping since Tom of +Coventry’s days; and if he came in for a reckoning, belike it was for a +better treat than mine. But trust me, they will no more know me, than a +man who had only seen your friend Noll at a conventicle of saints, +would know the same Oliver on horseback, and charging with his +lobster-tailed squadron; or the same Noll cracking a jest and a bottle +with wicked Waller the poet.” + +“Hush! not a word of Oliver, as thou dost value thyself and me. It is +ill jesting with the rock you may split on.—But here is the gate—we +will disturb these honest gentlemen’s recreations.” + +As he spoke, he applied the large and ponderous knocker to the +hall-door. “Rat-tat-tat-too!” said Wildrake; “there is a fine alarm to +you cuckolds and round-heads.” He then half-mimicked, half-sung the +march so called:— + +“Cuckolds, come dig, cuckolds, come dig; +Round about cuckolds, come dance to my jig!” + + +“By Heaven! this passes Midsummer frenzy,” said Everard, turning +angrily to him. + +“Not a bit, not a bit,” replied Wildrake; “it is but a slight +expectoration, just like what one makes before beginning a long speech. +I will be grave for an hour together, now I have got that point of war +out of my head.” + +As he spoke, steps were heard in the hall, and the wicket of the great +door was partly opened, but secured with a chain in case of accidents. +The visage of Tomkins, and that of Joceline beneath it, appeared at the +chink, illuminated by the lamp which the latter held in his hand, and +Tomkins demanded the meaning of this alarm. + +“I demand instant admittance!” said Everard. “Joliffe, you know me +well?” + +“I do, sir,” replied Joceline, “and could admit you with all my heart; +but, alas! sir, you see I am not key-keeper—Here is the gentleman whose +warrant I must walk by—The Lord help me, seeing times are such as they +be!” + +“And when that gentleman, who I think may be Master Desborough’s +valet”— + +“His honour’s unworthy secretary, an it please you,” interposed +Tomkins; while Wildrake whispered in Everard’s ear; “I will be no +longer secretary. Mark, thou wert quite right—the clerk must be the +more gentlemanly calling.” + +“And if you are Master Desborough’s secretary, I presume you know me +and my condition well enough,” said Everard, addressing the +Independent, “not to hesitate to admit me and my attendant to a night’s +quarters in the Lodge?” + +“Surely not, surely not,” said the Independent—“that is, if your +worship thinks you would be better accommodated here than up at the +house of entertainment in the town, which men unprofitably call Saint +George’s Inn. There is but confined accommodation here, your honour—and +we have been frayed out of our lives already by the visitation of +Satan—albeit his fiery dart is now quenched.” + +“This may be all well in its place, Sir Secretary,” said Everard; “and +you may find a corner for it when you are next tempted to play the +preacher. But I will take it for no apology for keeping me here in the +cold harvest wind; and if not presently received, and suitably too, I +will report you to your master for insolence in your office.” + +The secretary of Desborough did not dare offer farther opposition; for +it is well known that Desborough himself only held his consequence as a +kinsman of Cromwell; and the Lord-General, who was well nigh paramount +already, was known to be strongly favourable both to the elder and +younger Everard. It is true, they were Presbyterians and he an +Independent; and that though sharing those feelings of correct morality +and more devoted religious feeling, by which, with few exceptions, the +Parliamentarian party were distinguished, the Everards were not +disposed to carry these attributes to the extreme of enthusiasm, +practised by so many others at the time. Yet it was well known that +whatever might be Cromwell’s own religious creed, he was not uniformly +bounded by it in the choice of his favourites, but extended his +countenance to those who could serve him, even, although, according to +the phrase of the time, they came out of the darkness of Egypt. The +character of the elder Everard stood very high for wisdom and sagacity; +besides, being of a good family and competent fortune, his adherence +would lend a dignity to any side he might espouse. Then his son had +been a distinguished and successful soldier, remarkable for the +discipline he maintained among his men, the bravery which he showed in +the time of action, and the humanity with which he was always ready to +qualify the consequences of victory. Such men were not to be neglected, +when many signs combined to show that the parties in the state, who had +successfully accomplished the deposition and death of the King, were +speedily to quarrel among themselves about the division of the spoils. +The two Everards were therefore much courted by Cromwell, and their +influence with him was supposed to be so great, that trusty Master +Secretary Tomkins cared not to expose himself to risk, by contending +with Colonel Everard for such a trifle as a night’s lodging. + +Joceline was active on his side—more lights were obtained—more wood +thrown on the fire—and the two newly-arrived strangers were introduced +into Victor Lee’s parlour, as it was called, from the picture over the +chimney-piece, which we have already described. It was several minutes +ere Colonel Everard could recover his general stoicism of deportment, +so strongly was he impressed by finding himself in the apartment, under +whose roof he had passed so many of the happiest hours of his life. +There was the cabinet, which he had seen opened with such feelings of +delight when Sir Henry Lee deigned to give him instructions in fishing, +and to exhibit hooks and lines, together with all the materials for +making the artificial fly, then little known. There hung the ancient +family picture, which, from some odd mysterious expressions of his +uncle relating to it, had become to his boyhood, nay, his early youth, +a subject of curiosity and of fear. He remembered how, when left alone +in the apartment, the searching eye of the old warrior seemed always +bent upon his, in whatever part of the room he placed himself, and how +his childish imagination was perturbed at a phenomenon, for which he +could not account. + +With these came a thousand dearer and warmer recollections of his early +attachment to his pretty cousin Alice, when he assisted her at her +lessons, brought water for her flowers, or accompanied her while she +sung; and he remembered that while her father looked at them with a +good-humoured and careless smile, he had once heard him mutter, “And if +it should turn out so—why, it might be best for both,” and the theories +of happiness he had reared on these words. All these visions had been +dispelled by the trumpet of war, which called Sir Henry Lee and himself +to opposite sides; and the transactions of this very day had shown, +that even Everard’s success as a soldier and a statesman seemed +absolutely to prohibit the chance of their being revived. + +He was waked out of this unpleasing reverie by the approach of +Joceline, who, being possibly a seasoned toper, had made the additional +arrangements with more expedition and accuracy, than could have been +expected from a person engaged as he had been since night-fall. + +He now wished to know the Colonel’s directions for the night. + +“Would he eat anything?” + +“No.” + +“Did his honour choose to accept Sir Henry Lee’s bed, which was ready +prepared?” + +“Yes.” + +“That of Mistress Alice Lee should be prepared for the Secretary.” + +“On pain of thine ears—No,” replied Everard. + +“Where then was the worthy Secretary to be quartered?” + +“In the dog-kennel, if you list,” replied Colonel Everard; “but,” added +he, stepping to the sleeping apartment of Alice, which opened from the +parlour, locking it, and taking out the key, “no one shall profane this +chamber.” + +“Had his honour any other commands for the night?” + +“None, save to clear the apartment of yonder man. My clerk will remain +with me—I have orders which must be written out.—Yet stay—Thou gavest +my letter this morning to Mistress Alice?” + +“I did.” + +“Tell me, good Joceline, what she said when she received it?” + +“She seemed much concerned, sir; and indeed I think that she wept a +little—but indeed she seemed very much distressed.” + +“And what message did she send to me?” + +“None, may it please your honour—She began to say, ‘Tell my cousin +Everard that I will communicate my uncle’s kind purpose to my father, +if I can get fitting opportunity—but that I greatly fear’—and there +checked herself, as it were, and said, ‘I will write to my cousin; and +as it may be late ere I have an opportunity of speaking with my father, +do thou come for my answer after service.’—So I went to church myself, +to while away the time; but when I returned to the Chase, I found this +man had summoned my master to surrender, and, right or wrong, I must +put him in possession of the Lodge. I would fain have given your honour +a hint that the old knight and my young mistress were like to take you +on the form, but I could not mend the matter.” + +“Thou hast done well, good fellow, and I will remember thee.—And now, +my masters,” he said, advancing to the brace of clerks or secretaries, +who had in the meanwhile sate quietly down beside the stone bottle, and +made up acquaintance over a glass of its contents—“Let me remind you, +that the night wears late.” + +“There is something cries tinkle, tinkle, in the bottle yet,” said +Wildrake, in reply. + +“Hem! hem! hem!” coughed the Colonel of the Parliament service; and if +his lips did not curse his companion’s imprudence, I will not answer +for what arose in his heart,—“Well!” he said, observing that Wildrake +had filled his own glass and Tomkins’s, “take that parting glass and +begone.” + +“Would you not be pleased to hear first,” said Wildrake, “how this +honest gentleman saw the devil to-night look through a pane of yonder +window, and how he thinks he had a mighty strong resemblance to your +worship’s humble slave and varlet scribbler? Would you but hear this, +sir, and just sip a glass of this very recommendable strong waters?” + +“I will drink none, sir,” said Colonel Everard sternly; “and I have to +tell _you_, that you have drunken a glass too much already.—Mr. +Tomkins, sir, I wish you good night.” + +“A word in season at parting,” said Tomkins, standing up behind the +long leathern back of a chair, hemming and snuffling as if preparing +for an exhortation. + +“Excuse me, sir,” replied Markham Everard sternly; “you are not now +sufficiently yourself to guide the devotion of others.” + +“Woe be to them that reject!” said the Secretary of the Commissioners, +stalking out of the room—the rest was lost in shutting the door, or +suppressed for fear of offence. + +“And now, fool Wildrake, begone to thy bed—yonder it lies,” pointing to +the knight’s apartment. + +“What, thou hast secured the lady’s for thyself? I saw thee put the key +in thy pocket.” + +“I would not—indeed I could not sleep in that apartment—I can sleep +nowhere—but I will watch in this arm-chair.—I have made him place wood +for repairing the fire.—Good now, go to bed thyself, and sleep off thy +liquor.” + +“Liquor!—I laugh thee to scorn, Mark—thou art a milksop, and the son of +a milksop, and know’st not what a good fellow can do in the way of +crushing an honest cup.” + +“The whole vices of his faction are in this poor fellow individually,” +said the Colonel to himself, eyeing his protegé askance, as the other +retreated into the bedroom, with no very steady pace—“He is reckless, +intemperate, dissolute;—and if I cannot get him safely shipped for +France, he will certainly be both his own ruin and mine.—Yet, withal, +he is kind, brave, and generous, and would have kept the faith with me +which he now expects from me; and in what consists the merit of our +truth, if we observe not our plighted word when we have promised, to +our hurt? I will take the liberty, however, to secure myself against +farther interruption on his part.” + +So saying, he locked the door of communication betwixt the +sleeping-room, to which the cavalier had retreated, and the parlour;— +and then, after pacing the floor thoughtfully, returned to his seat, +trimmed the lamp, and drew out a number of letters.—“I will read these +over once more,” he said, “that, if possible, the thought of public +affairs may expel this keen sense of personal sorrow. Gracious +Providence, where is this to end! We have sacrificed the peace of our +families, the warmest wishes of our young hearts, to right the country +in which we were born, and to free her from oppression; yet it appears, +that every step we have made towards liberty, has but brought us in +view of new and more terrific perils, as he who travels in a +mountainous region, is by every step which elevates him higher, placed +in a situation of more imminent hazard.” + +He read long and attentively, various tedious and embarrassed letters, +in which the writers, placing before him the glory of God, and the +freedom and liberties of England, as their supreme ends, could not, by +all the ambagitory expressions they made use of, prevent the shrewd eye +of Markham Everard from seeing, that self-interest and views of +ambition, were the principal moving springs at the bottom of their +plots. + + + + +CHAPTER THE SIXTH. + + +Sleep steals on us even like his brother Death— +We know not when it comes—we know it must come— +We may affect to scorn and to contemn it, +For ’tis the highest pride of human misery +To say it knows not of an opiate; +Yet the reft parent, the despairing lover, +Even the poor wretch who waits for execution, +Feels this oblivion, against which he thought +His woes had arm’d his senses, steal upon him, +And through the fenceless citadel—the body— +Surprise that haughty garrison—the mind. + + +HERBERT. + + +Colonel Everard experienced the truth contained in the verses of the +quaint old bard whom we have quoted above. Amid private grief, and +anxiety for a country long a prey to civil war, and not likely to fall +soon under any fixed or well-established form of government, Everard +and his father had, like many others, turned their eyes to General +Cromwell, as the person whose valour had made him the darling of the +army, whose strong sagacity had hitherto predominated over the high +talents by which he had been assailed in Parliament, as well as over +his enemies in the field, and who was alone in the situation to _settle +the nation_, as the phrase then went; or, in other words, to dictate +the mode of government. The father and son were both reputed to stand +high in the General’s favour. But Markham Everard was conscious of some +particulars, which induced him to doubt whether Cromwell actually, and +at heart, bore either to his father or to himself that good-will which +was generally believed. He knew him for a profound politician, who +could veil for any length of time his real sentiments of men and +things, until they could be displayed without prejudice to his +interest. And he moreover knew that the General was not likely to +forget the opposition which the Presbyterian party had offered to what +Oliver called the Great Matter—the trial, namely, and execution of the +King. In this opposition, his father and he had anxiously concurred, +nor had the arguments, nor even the half-expressed threats of Cromwell, +induced them to flinch from that course, far less to permit their names +to be introduced into the commission nominated to sit in judgment on +that memorable occasion. + +This hesitation had occasioned some temporary coldness between the +General and the Everards, father and son. But as the latter remained in +the army, and bore arms under Cromwell both in Scotland, and finally at +Worcester, his services very frequently called forth the approbation of +his commander. After the fight of Worcester, in particular, he was +among the number of those officers on whom Oliver, rather considering +the actual and practical extent of his own power, than the name under +which he exercised it, was with difficulty withheld from imposing the +dignity of Knights-Bannerets at his own will and pleasure. It therefore +seemed, that all recollection of former disagreement was obliterated, +and that the Everards had regained their former stronghold in the +General’s affections. There were, indeed, several who doubted this, and +who endeavoured to bring over this distinguished young officer to some +other of the parties which divided the infant Commonwealth. But to +these proposals he turned a deaf ear. Enough of blood, he said, had +been spilled—it was time that the nation should have repose under a +firmly-established government, of strength sufficient to protect +property, and of lenity enough to encourage the return of tranquillity. +This, he thought, could only be accomplished by means of Cromwell, and +the greater part of England was of the same opinion. It is true, that, +in thus submitting to the domination of a successful soldier, those who +did so, forgot the principles upon which they had drawn the sword +against the late King. But in revolutions, stern and high principles +are often obliged to give way to the current of existing circumstances; +and in many a case, where wars have been waged for points of +metaphysical right, they have been at last gladly terminated, upon the +mere hope of obtaining general tranquillity, as, after many a long +siege, a garrison is often glad to submit on mere security for life and +limb. + +Colonel Everard, therefore, felt that the support which he afforded +Cromwell, was only under the idea, that, amid a choice of evils, the +least was likely to ensue from a man of the General’s wisdom and valour +being placed at the head of the state; and he was sensible, that Oliver +himself was likely to consider his attachment as lukewarm and +imperfect, and measure his gratitude for it upon the same limited +scale. + +In the meanwhile, however, circumstances compelled him to make trial of +the General’s friendship. The sequestration of Woodstock, and the +warrant to the Commissioners to dispose of it as national property, had +been long granted, but the interest of the elder Everard had for weeks +and months deferred its execution. The hour was now approaching when +the blow could be no longer parried, especially as Sir Henry Lee, on +his side, resisted every proposal of submitting himself to the existing +government, and was therefore, now that his hour of grace was passed, +enrolled in the list of stubborn and irreclaimable malignants, with +whom the Council of State was determined no longer to keep terms. The +only mode of protecting the old knight and his daughter, was to +interest, if possible, the General himself in the matter; and revolving +all the circumstances connected with their intercourse, Colonel Everard +felt that a request, which would so immediately interfere with the +interests of Desborough, the brother-in-law of Cromwell, and one of the +present Commissioners, was putting to a very severe trial the +friendship of the latter. Yet no alternative remained. + +With this view, and agreeably to a request from Cromwell, who at +parting had been very urgent to have his written opinion upon public +affairs, Colonel Everard passed the earlier part of the night in +arranging his ideas upon the state of the Commonwealth, in a plan which +he thought likely to be acceptable to Cromwell, as it exhorted him, +under the aid of Providence, to become the saviour of the state, by +convoking a free Parliament, and by their aid placing himself at the +head of some form of liberal and established government, which might +supersede the state of anarchy, in which the nation was otherwise +likely to be merged. Taking a general view of the totally broken +condition of the Royalists, and of the various factions which now +convulsed the state, he showed how this might be done without bloodshed +or violence. From this topic he descended to the propriety of keeping +up the becoming state of the Executive Government, in whose hands +soever it should be lodged, and thus showed Cromwell, as the future +Stadtholder, or Consul, or Lieutenant-General of Great Britain and +Ireland, a prospect of demesne and residence becoming his dignity. Then +he naturally passed to the disparking and destroying of the royal +residences of England, made a woful picture of the demolition which +impended over Woodstock, and interceded for the preservation of that +beautiful seat, as a matter of personal favour, in which he found +himself deeply interested. + +Colonel Everard, when he had finished his letter, did not find himself +greatly risen in his own opinion. In the course of his political +conduct, he had till this hour avoided mixing up personal motives with +his public grounds of action, and yet he now felt himself making such a +composition. But he comforted himself, or at least silenced this +unpleasing recollection, with the consideration, that the weal of +Britain, studied under the aspect of the times, absolutely required +that Cromwell should be at the head of the government; and that the +interest of Sir Henry Lee, or rather his safety and his existence, no +less emphatically demanded the preservation of Woodstock, and his +residence there. Was it a fault of his, that the same road should lead +to both these ends, or that his private interest, and that of the +country, should happen to mix in the same letter? He hardened himself, +therefore, to the act, made up and addressed his packet to the +Lord-General, and then sealed it with his seal of arms. This done, he +lay back in the chair; and, in spite of his expectations to the +contrary, fell asleep in the course of his reflections, anxious and +harassing as they were, and did not awaken until the cold grey light of +dawn was peeping through the eastern oriel. + +He started at first, rousing himself with the sensation of one who +awakes in a place unknown to him; but the localities instantly forced +themselves on his recollection. The lamp burning dimly in the socket, +the wood fire almost extinguished in its own white embers, the gloomy +picture over the chimney-piece, the sealed packet on the table—all +reminded him of the events of yesterday, and his deliberations of the +succeeding night. “There is no help for it,” he said; “it must be +Cromwell or anarchy. And probably the sense that his title, as head of +the Executive Government, is derived merely from popular consent, may +check the too natural proneness of power to render itself arbitrary. If +he govern by Parliaments, and with regard to the privileges of the +subject, wherefore not Oliver as well as Charles? But I must take +measures for having this conveyed safely to the hands of this future +sovereign prince. It will be well to take the first word of influence +with him, since there must be many who will not hesitate to recommend +counsels more violent and precipitate.” + +He determined to intrust the important packet to the charge of +Wildrake, whose rashness was never so distinguished, as when by any +chance he was left idle and unemployed; besides, even if his faith had +not been otherwise unimpeachable, the obligations which he owed to his +friend Everard must have rendered it such. + +These conclusions passed through Colonel Everard’s mind, as, collecting +the remains of wood in the chimney, he gathered them into a hearty +blaze, to remove the uncomfortable feeling of dullness which pervaded +his limbs; and by the time he was a little more warm, again sunk into a +slumber, which was only dispelled by the beams of morning peeping into +his apartment. + +He arose, roused himself, walked up and down the room, and looked from +the large oriel window on the nearest objects, which were the untrimmed +hedges and neglected walks of a certain wilderness, as it is called in +ancient treatises on gardening, which, kept of yore well ordered, and +in all the pride of the topiary art, presented a succession of +yew-trees cut into fantastic forms, of close alleys, and of open walks, +filling about two or three acres of ground on that side of the Lodge, +and forming a boundary between its immediate precincts and the open +Park. Its enclosure was now broken down in many places, and the hinds +with their fawns fed free and unstartled up to the very windows of the +silvan palace. + +This had been a favourite scene of Markham’s sports when a boy. He +could still distinguish, though now grown out of shape, the verdant +battlements of a Gothic castle, all created by the gardener’s shears, +at which he was accustomed to shoot his arrows; or, stalking before it +like the Knight-errants of whom he read, was wont to blow his horn, and +bid defiance to the supposed giant or Paynim knight, by whom it was +garrisoned. He remembered how he used to train his cousin, though +several years younger than himself, to bear a part in those revels of +his boyish fancy, and to play the character of an elfin page, or a +fairy, or an enchanted princess. He remembered, too, many particulars +of their later acquaintance, from which he had been almost necessarily +led to the conclusion, that from an early period their parents had +entertained some idea, that there might be a well-fitted match betwixt +his fair cousin and himself. A thousand visions, formed in so bright a +prospect, had vanished along with it, but now returned like shadows, to +remind him of all he had lost—and for what?—“For the sake of England,” +his proud consciousness replied,—“Of England, in danger of becoming the +prey at once of bigotry and tyranny.” And he strengthened himself with +the recollection, “If I have sacrificed my private happiness, it is +that my country may enjoy liberty of conscience, and personal freedom; +which, under a weak prince and usurping statesman, she was but too +likely to have lost.” + +But the busy fiend in his breast would not be repulsed by the bold +answer. “Has thy resistance,” it demanded, “availed thy country, +Markham Everard? Lies not England, after so much bloodshed, and so much +misery, as low beneath the sword of a fortunate soldier, as formerly +under the sceptre of an encroaching prince? Are Parliament, or what +remains of them, fitted to contend with a leader, master of his +soldiers’ hearts, as bold and subtle as he is impenetrable in his +designs! This General, who holds the army, and by that the fate of the +nation in his hand, will he lay down his power because philosophy would +pronounce it his duty to become a subject?” + +He dared not answer that his knowledge of Cromwell authorised him to +expect any such act of self-denial. Yet still he considered that in +times of such infinite difficulty, that must be the best government, +however little desirable in itself, which should most speedily restore +peace to the land, and stop the wounds which the contending parties +were daily inflicting on each other. He imagined that Cromwell was the +only authority under which a steady government could be formed, and +therefore had attached himself to his fortune, though not without +considerable and recurring doubts, how far serving the views of this +impenetrable and mysterious General was consistent with the principles +under which he had assumed arms. + +While these things passed in his mind, Everard looked upon the packet +which lay on the table addressed to the Lord-General, and which he had +made up before sleep. He hesitated several times, when he remembered +its purport, and in what degree he must stand committed with that +personage, and bound to support his plans of aggrandizement, when once +that communication was in Oliver Cromwell’s possession. + +“Yet it must be so,” he said at last, with a deep sigh. “Among the +contending parties, he is the strongest—the wisest and most moderate— +and ambitious though he be, perhaps not the most dangerous. Some one +must be trusted with power to preserve and enforce general order, and +who can possess or wield such power like him that is head of the +victorious armies of England? Come what will in future, peace and the +restoration of law ought to be our first and most pressing object. This +remnant of a parliament cannot keep their ground against the army, by +mere appeal to the sanction of opinion. If they design to reduce the +soldiery, it must be by actual warfare, and the land has been too long +steeped in blood. But Cromwell may, and I trust will, make a moderate +accommodation with them, on grounds by which peace may be preserved; +and it is to this which we must look and trust for a settlement of the +kingdom, alas! and for the chance of protecting my obstinate kinsman +from the consequences of his honest though absurd pertinacity.” + +Silencing some internal feelings of doubt and reluctance by such +reasoning as this, Markham Everard continued in his resolution to unite +himself with Cromwell in the struggle which was evidently approaching +betwixt the civil and military authorities; not as the course which, if +at perfect liberty, he would have preferred adopting, but as the best +choice between two dangerous extremities to which the times had reduced +him. He could not help trembling, however, when he recollected that his +father, though hitherto the admirer of Cromwell, as the implement by +whom so many marvels had been wrought in England, might not be disposed +to unite with his interest against that of the Long Parliament, of +which he had been, till partly laid aside by continued indisposition, +an active and leading member. This doubt also he was obliged to swallow +or strangle, as he might; but consoled himself with the ready argument, +that it was impossible his father could see matters in another light +than that in which they occurred to himself. + + + + +CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. + + +Determined at length to dispatch his packet to the General without +delay, Colonel Everard approached the door of the apartment, in which, +as was evident from the heavy breathing within, the prisoner Wildrake +enjoyed a deep slumber, under the influence of liquor at once and of +fatigue. In turning the key, the bolt, which was rather rusty, made a +resistance so noisy, as partly to attract the sleeper’s attention, +though not to awake him. Everard stood by his bedside, as he heard him +mutter, “Is it morning already, jailor?—Why, you dog, an you had but a +cast of humanity in you, you would qualify your vile news with a cup of +sack;—hanging is sorry work, my masters—and sorrow’s dry.” + +“Up, Wildrake—up, thou ill-omened dreamer,” said his friend, shaking +him by the collar. + +“Hands off!” answered the sleeper.—“I can climb a ladder without help, +I trow.”—He then sate up in the bed, and opening his eyes, stared +around him, and exclaimed, “Zounds! Mark, is it only thou? I thought it +was all over with me—fetters were struck from my legs—rope drawn round +my gullet—irons knocked off my hands—hempen cravat tucked on,—all ready +for a dance in the open element upon slight footing.” + +“Truce with thy folly, Wildrake; sure the devil of drink, to whom thou +hast, I think, sold thyself”— + +“For a hogshead of sack,” interrupted Wildrake; “the bargain was made +in a cellar in the Vintry.” + +“I am as mad as thou art, to trust any thing to thee,” said Markham; “I +scarce believe thou hast thy senses yet.” + +“What should ail me?” said Wildrake—“I trust I have not tasted liquor +in my sleep, saving that I dreamed of drinking small-beer with Old +Noll, of his own brewing. But do not look so glum, man—I am the same +Roger Wildrake that I ever was; as wild as a mallard, but as true as a +game-cock. I am thine own chum, man—bound to thee by thy kind deeds— +_devinctus beneficio_—there is Latin for it; and where is the thing +thou wilt charge me with, that I wilt not, or dare not execute, were it +to pick the devil’s teeth with my rapier, after he had breakfasted upon +round-heads?” + +“You will drive me mad,” said Everard.—“When I am about to intrust all +I have most valuable on earth to your management, your conduct and +language are those of a mere Bedlamite. Last night I made allowance for +thy drunken fury; but who can endure thy morning madness?—it is unsafe +for thyself and me, Wildrake—it is unkind—I might say ungrateful.” + +“Nay, do not say _that_, my friend,” said the cavalier, with some show +of feeling; “and do not judge of me with a severity that cannot apply +to such as I am. We who have lost our all in these sad jars, who are +compelled to shift for our living, not from day to day, but from meal +to meal—we whose only hiding place is the jail, whose prospect of final +repose is the gallows,—what canst thou expect from us, but to bear such +a lot with a light heart, since we should break down under it with a +heavy one?” + +This was spoken in a tone of feeling which found a responding string in +Everard’s bosom. He took his friend’s hand, and pressed it kindly. + +“Nay, if I seemed harsh to thee, Wildrake, I profess it was for thine +own sake more than mine. I know thou hast at the bottom of thy levity, +as deep a principle of honour and feeling as ever governed a human +heart. But thou art thoughtless—thou art rash—and I protest to thee, +that wert thou to betray thyself in this matter, in which I trust thee, +the evil consequences to myself would not afflict me more than the +thought of putting thee into such danger.” + +“Nay, if you take it on that tone, Mark,” said the cavalier, making an +effort to laugh, evidently that he might conceal a tendency to a +different emotion, “thou wilt make children of us both—babes and +sucklings, by the hilt of this bilbo.—Come, trust me; I can be cautious +when time requires it—no man ever saw me drink when an alert was +expected—and not one poor pint of wine will I taste until I have +managed this matter for thee. Well, I am thy secretary—clerk—I had +forgot—and carry thy dispatches to Cromwell, taking good heed not to be +surprised or choused out of my lump of loyalty, (striking his finger on +the packet,) and I am to deliver it to the most loyal hands to which it +is most humbly addressed—Adzooks, Mark, think of it a moment longer— +Surely thou wilt not carry thy perverseness so far as to strike in with +this bloody-minded rebel?—Bid me give him three inches of my +dudgeon-dagger, and I will do it much more willingly than present him +with thy packet.” + +“Go to,” replied Everard, “this is beyond our bargain. If you will help +me it is well; if not, let me lose no time in debating with thee, since +I think every moment an age till the packet is in the General’s +possession. It is the only way left me to obtain some protection, and a +place of refuge for my uncle and his daughter.” + +“That being the case,” said the cavalier, “I will not spare the spur. +My nag up yonder at the town will be ready for the road in a trice, and +thou mayst reckon on my being with Old Noll—thy General, I mean—in as +short time as man and horse may consume betwixt Woodstock and Windsor, +where I think I shall for the present find thy friend keeping +possession where he has slain.” + +“Hush, not a word of that. Since we parted last night, I have shaped +thee a path which will suit thee better than to assume the decency of +language and of outward manner, of which thou hast so little. I have +acquainted the General that thou hast been by bad example and bad +education”— + +“Which is to be interpreted by contraries, I hope,” said Wildrake; “for +sure I have been as well born and bred up as any lad of Leicestershire +might desire.” + +“Now, I prithee, hush—thou hast, I say, by bad example become at one +time a malignant, and mixed in the party of the late King. But seeing +what things were wrought in the nation by the General, thou hast come +to a clearness touching his calling to be a great implement in the +settlement of these distracted kingdoms. This account of thee will not +only lead him to pass over some of thy eccentricities, should they +break out in spite of thee, but will also give thee an interest with +him as being more especially attached to his own person.” + +“Doubtless,” said Wildrake, “as every fisher loves best the trouts that +are of his own tickling.” + +“It is likely, I think, he will send thee hither with letters to me,” +said the Colonel, “enabling me to put a stop to the proceedings of +these sequestrators, and to give poor old Sir Henry Lee permission to +linger out his days among the oaks he loves to look upon. I have made +this my request to General Cromwell, and I think my father’s friendship +and my own may stretch so far on his regard without risk of cracking, +especially standing matters as they now do—thou dost understand?” + +“Entirely well,” said the cavalier; “stretch, quotha!—I would rather +stretch a rope than hold commerce with the old King-killing ruffian. +But I have said I will be guided by thee, Markham, and rat me but I +will.” + +“Be cautious, then,” said Everard, “mark well what he does and +says—more especially what he does; for Oliver is one of those whose +mind is better known by his actions than by his words; and stay—I +warrant thee thou wert setting off without a cross in thy purse?” + +“Too true, Mark,” said Wildrake; “the last noble melted last night +among yonder blackguard troopers of yours.” + +“Well, Roger,” replied the Colonel, “that is easily mended.” So saying, +he slipped his purse into his friend’s hand. “But art thou not an +inconsiderate weather-brained fellow, to set forth as thou wert about +to do, without any thing to bear thy charges; what couldst thou have +done?” + +“Faith, I never thought of that; I must have cried _Stand_, I suppose, +to the first pursy townsman or greasy grazier that I met o’ the +heath—it is many a good fellow’s shift in these bad times.” + +“Go to,” said Everard; “be cautious—use none of your loose +acquaintance—rule your tongue—beware of the wine-pot—for there is +little danger if thou couldst only but keep thyself sober—Be moderate +in speech, and forbear oaths or vaunting.” + +“In short, metamorphose myself into such a prig as thou art, Mark,— +Well,” said Wildrake, “so far as outside will go, I think I can make a +_Hope-on-High-Bomby_[1] as well as thou canst. Ah! those were merry +days when we saw Mills present Bomby at the Fortune playhouse, Mark, +ere I had lost my laced cloak and the jewel in my ear, or thou hadst +gotten the wrinkle on thy brow, and the puritanic twist of thy +mustache!” + + [1] A puritanic character in one of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays. + + +“They were like most worldly pleasures, Wildrake,” replied Everard, +“sweet in the mouth and bitter in digestion.—But away with thee; and +when thou bring’st back my answer, thou wilt find me either here or at +Saint George’s Inn, at the little borough.—Good luck to thee—Be but +cautious how thou bearest thyself.” + +The Colonel remained in deep meditation.—“I think,” he said, “I have +not pledged myself too far to the General. A breach between him and the +Parliament seems inevitable, and would throw England back into civil +war, of which all men are wearied. He may dislike my messenger—yet that +I do not greatly fear. He knows I would choose such as I can myself +depend on, and hath dealt enough with the stricter sort to be aware +that there are among them, as well as elsewhere, men who can hide two +faces under one hood.” + + + + +CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. + + +For there in lofty air was seen to stand +The stern Protector of the conquer’d land; +Draw in that look with which he wept and swore, +Turn’d out the members and made fast the door, +Ridding the house of every knave and drone, +Forced—though it grieved his soul—to rule alone. + + +THE FRANK COURTSHIP.—CRABBE. + + +Leaving Colonel Everard to his meditations, we follow the jolly +cavalier, his companion, who, before mounting at the George, did not +fail to treat himself to his morning-draught of eggs and muscadine, to +enable him to face the harvest wind. + +Although he had suffered himself to be sunk in the extravagant license +which was practised by the cavaliers, as if to oppose their conduct in +every point to the preciseness of their enemies, yet Wildrake, +well-born and well-educated, and endowed with good natural parts, and a +heart which even debauchery, and the wild life of a roaring cavalier, +had not been able entirely to corrupt, moved on his present embassy +with a strange mixture of feelings, such as perhaps he had never in his +life before experienced. + +His feelings as a loyalist led him to detest Cromwell, whom in other +circumstances he would scarce have wished to see, except in a field of +battle, where he could have had the pleasure to exchange pistol-shots +with him. But with this hatred there was mixed a certain degree of +fear. Always victorious wherever he fought, the remarkable person whom +Wildrake was now approaching had acquired that influence over the minds +of his enemies, which constant success is so apt to inspire—they +dreaded while they hated him—and joined to these feelings, was a +restless meddling curiosity, which made a particular feature in +Wildrake’s character, who, having long had little business of his own, +and caring nothing about that which he had, was easily attracted by the +desire of seeing whatever was curious or interesting around him. + +“I should like to see the old rascal after all,” he said, “were it but +to say that I _had_ seen him.” + +He reached Windsor in the afternoon, and felt on his arrival the +strongest inclination to take up his residence at some of his old +haunts, when he had occasionally frequented that fair town in gayer +days. But resisting all temptations of this kind, he went courageously +to the principal inn, from which its ancient emblem, the Garter, had +long disappeared. The master, too, whom Wildrake, experienced in his +knowledge of landlords and hostelries, had remembered a dashing Mine +Host of Queen Bess’s school, had now sobered down to the temper of the +times, shook his head when he spoke of the Parliament, wielded his +spigot with the gravity of a priest conducting a sacrifice, wished +England a happy issue out of all her difficulties, and greatly lauded +his Excellency the Lord-General. Wildrake also remarked, that his wine +was better than it was wont to be, the Puritans having an excellent +gift at detecting every fallacy in that matter; and that his measures +were less and his charges larger—circumstances which he was induced to +attend to, by mine host talking a good deal about his conscience. + +He was told by this important personage, that the Lord-General received +frankly all sorts of persons; and that he might obtain access to him +next morning, at eight o’clock, for the trouble of presenting himself +at the Castle-gate, and announcing himself as the bearer of despatches +to his Excellency. + +To the Castle the disguised cavalier repaired at the hour appointed. +Admittance was freely permitted to him by the red-coated soldier, who, +with austere looks, and his musket on his shoulder, mounted guard at +the external gate of that noble building. Wildrake passed through the +underward or court, gazing as he passed upon the beautiful Chapel, +which had but lately received, in darkness and silence, the unhonoured +remains of the slaughtered King of England. Rough as Wildrake was, the +recollection of this circumstance affected him so strongly, that he had +nearly turned back in a sort of horror, rather than face the dark and +daring man, to whom, amongst all the actors in that melancholy affair, +its tragic conclusion was chiefly to be imputed. But he felt the +necessity of subduing all sentiments of this nature, and compelled +himself to proceed in a negotiation intrusted to his conduct by one to +whom he was so much obliged as Colonel Everard. At the ascent, which +passed by the Round Tower, he looked to the ensign-staff, from which +the banner of England was wont to float. It was gone, with all its rich +emblazonry, its gorgeous quarterings, and splendid embroidery; and in +its room waved that of the Commonwealth, the cross of Saint George, in +its colours of blue and red, not yet intersected by the diagonal cross +of Scotland, which was soon after assumed, as if in evidence of +England’s conquest over her ancient enemy. This change of ensigns +increased the train of his gloomy reflections, in which, although +contrary to his wont, he became so deeply wrapped, that the first thing +which recalled him to himself, was the challenge from the sentinel, +accompanied with a stroke of the butt of his musket on the pavement, +with an emphasis which made Wildrake start. + +“Whither away, and who are you?” + +“The bearer of a packet,” answered Wildrake, “to the worshipful the +Lord-General.” + +“Stand till I call the officer of the guard.” + +The corporal made his appearance, distinguished above those of his +command by a double quantity of band round his neck, a double height of +steeple-crowned hat, a larger allowance of cloak, and a treble +proportion of sour gravity of aspect. It might be read on his +countenance, that he was one of those resolute enthusiasts to whom +Oliver owed his conquests, whose religious zeal made them even more +than a match for the high-spirited and high-born cavaliers, who +exhausted their valour in vain defence of their sovereign’s person and +crown. He looked with grave solemnity at Wildrake, as if he was making +in his own mind an inventory of his features and dress; and having +fully perused them, he required “to know his business.” + +“My business,” said Wildrake, as firmly as he could—for the close +investigation of this man had given him some unpleasant nervous +sensations—“my business is with your General.” + +“With his Excellency the Lord-General, thou wouldst say?” replied the +corporal. “Thy speech, my friend, savours too little of the reverence +due to his Excellency.” + +“D—n his Excellency!” was at the lips of the cavalier; but prudence +kept guard, and permitted not the offensive words to escape the +barrier. He only bowed, and was silent. + +“Follow me,” said the starched figure whom he addressed; and Wildrake +followed him accordingly into the guard-house, which exhibited an +interior characteristic of the times, and very different from what such +military stations present at the present day. + +By the fire sat two or three musketeers, listening to one who was +expounding some religious mystery to them. He began half beneath his +breath, but in tones of great volubility, which tones, as he approached +the conclusion, became sharp and eager, as challenging either instant +answer or silent acquiescence. The audience seemed to listen to the +speaker with immovable features, only answering him with clouds of +tobacco-smoke, which they rolled from under their thick mustaches. On a +bench lay a soldier on his face: whether asleep, or in a fit of +contemplation, it was impossible to decide. In the midst of the floor +stood an officer, as he seemed by his embroidered shoulder-belt and +scarf round his waist, otherwise very plainly attired, who was engaged +in drilling a stout bumpkin, lately enlisted, to the manual, as it was +then used. The motions and words of command were twenty at the very +least; and until they were regularly brought to an end, the corporal +did not permit Wildrake either to sit down or move forward beyond the +threshold of the guard-house. So he had to listen in succession +to—Poise your musket—Rest your musket—Cock your musket—Handle your +primers—and many other forgotten words of discipline, until at length +the words, “Order your musket,” ended the drill for the time. “Thy +name, friend?” said the officer to the recruit, when the lesson was +over. + +“Ephraim,” answered the fellow, with an affected twang through the +nose. + +“And what besides Ephraim?” + +“Ephraim Cobb, from the goodly city of Glocester, where I have dwelt +for seven years, serving apprentice to a praiseworthy cordwainer.” + +“It is a goodly craft,” answered the officer; “but casting in thy lot +with ours, doubt not that thou shalt be set beyond thine awl, and thy +last to boot.” + +A grim smile of the speaker accompanied this poor attempt at a pun; and +then turning round to the corporal, who stood two paces off, with the +face of one who seemed desirous of speaking, said, “How now, corporal, +what tidings?” + +“Here is one with a packet, an please your Excellency,” said the +corporal—“Surely my spirit doth not rejoice in him, seeing I esteem him +as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” + +By these words, Wildrake learned that he was in the actual presence of +the remarkable person to whom he was commissioned; and he paused to +consider in what manner he ought to address him. + +The figure of Oliver Cromwell was, as is generally known, in no way +prepossessing. He was of middle stature, strong and coarsely made, with +harsh and severe features, indicative, however, of much natural +sagacity and depth of thought. His eyes were grey and piercing; his +nose too large in proportion to his other features, and of a reddish +hue. + +His manner of speaking, when he had the purpose to make himself +distinctly understood, was energetic and forcible, though neither +graceful nor eloquent. No man could on such occasion put his meaning +into fewer and more decisive words. But when, as it often happened, he +had a mind to play the orator, for the benefit of people’s ears, +without enlightening their understanding, Cromwell was wont to invest +his meaning, or that which seemed to be his meaning, in such a mist of +words, surrounding it with so many exclusions and exceptions, and +fortifying it with such a labyrinth of parentheses, that though one of +the most shrewd men in England, he was, perhaps, the most +unintelligible speaker that ever perplexed an audience. It has been +long since said by the historian, that a collection of the Protector’s +speeches would make, with a few exceptions, the most nonsensical book +in the world; but he ought to have added, that nothing could be more +nervous, concise, and intelligible, than what he really intended should +be understood. + +It was also remarked of Cromwell, that though born of a good family, +both by father and mother, and although he had the usual opportunities +of education and breeding connected with such an advantage, the fanatic +democratic ruler could never acquire, or else disdained to practise, +the courtesies usually exercised among the higher classes in their +intercourse with each other. His demeanour was so blunt as sometimes +might be termed clownish, yet there was in his language and manner a +force and energy corresponding to his character, which impressed awe, +if it did not impose respect; and there were even times when that dark +and subtle spirit expanded itself, so as almost to conciliate +affection. The turn for humour, which displayed itself by fits, was +broad, and of a low, and sometimes practical character. Something there +was in his disposition congenial to that of his countrymen; a contempt +of folly, a hatred of affectation, and a dislike of ceremony, which, +joined to the strong intrinsic qualities of sense and courage, made him +in many respects not an unfit representative of the democracy of +England. + +His religion must always be a subject of much doubt, and probably of +doubt which he himself could hardly have cleared up. Unquestionably +there was a time in his life when he was sincerely enthusiastic, and +when his natural temper, slightly subject to hypochondria, was strongly +agitated by the same fanaticism which influenced so many persons of the +time. On the other hand, there were periods during his political +career, when we certainly do him no injustice in charging him with a +hypocritical affectation. We shall probably judge him, and others of +the same age, most truly, if we suppose that their religious +professions were partly influential in their own breasts, partly +assumed in compliance with their own interest. And so ingenious is the +human heart in deceiving itself as well as others, that it is probable +neither Cromwell himself, nor those making similar pretensions to +distinguished piety, could exactly have fixed the point at which their +enthusiasm terminated and their hypocrisy commenced; or rather, it was +a point not fixed in itself, but fluctuating with the state of health, +of good or bad fortune, of high or low spirits, affecting the +individual at the period. + +Such was the celebrated person, who, turning round on Wildrake, and +scanning his countenance closely, seemed so little satisfied with what +he beheld, that he instinctively hitched forward his belt, so as to +bring the handle of his tuck-sword within his reach. But yet, folding +his arms in his cloak, as if upon second thoughts laying aside +suspicion, or thinking precaution beneath him, he asked the cavalier +what he was, and whence he came? + +“A poor gentleman, sir,—that is, my lord,”—answered Wildrake; “last +from Woodstock.” + +“And what may your tidings be, sir _gentleman_?” said Cromwell, with an +emphasis. “Truly I have seen those most willing to take upon them that +title, bear themselves somewhat short of wise men, and good men, and +true men, with all their gentility; yet gentleman was a good title in +old England, when men remembered what it was construed to mean.” + +“You say truly, sir,” replied Wildrake, suppressing, with difficulty, +some of his usual wild expletives; “formerly gentlemen were found in +gentlemen’s places, but now the world is so changed that you shall find +the broidered belt has changed place with the under spur-leather.” + +“Say’st thou me?” said the General; “I profess thou art a bold +companion, that can bandy words so wantonly;—thou ring’st somewhat too +loud to be good metal, methinks. And, once again, what are thy tidings +with me?” + +“This packet,” said Wildrake, “commended to your hands by Colonel +Markham Everard.” + +“Alas, I must have mistaken thee,” answered Cromwell, mollified at the +mention of a man’s name whom he had great desire to make his own; +“forgive us, good friend, for such, we doubt not, thou art. Sit thee +down, and commune with thyself as thou may’st, until we have examined +the contents of thy packet. Let him be looked to, and have what he +lacks.” So saying the General left the guard-house, where Wildrake took +his seat in the corner, and awaited with patience the issue of his +mission. + +The soldiers now thought themselves obliged to treat him with more +consideration, and offered him a pipe of Trinidado, and a black jack +filled with October. But the look of Cromwell, and the dangerous +situation in which he might be placed by the least chance of detection, +induced Wildrake to decline these hospitable offers, and stretching +back in his chair, and affecting slumber, he escaped notice or +conversation, until a sort of aide-de-camp, or military officer in +attendance, came to summon him to Cromwell’s presence. + +By this person he was guided to a postern-gate, through which he +entered the body of the Castle, and penetrating through many private +passages and staircases, he at length was introduced into a small +cabinet, or parlour, in which was much rich furniture, some bearing the +royal cipher displayed, but all confused and disarranged, together with +several paintings in massive frames, having their faces turned towards +the wall, as if they had been taken down for the purpose of being +removed. + +In this scene of disorder, the victorious General of the Commonwealth +was seated in a large easy-chair, covered with damask, and deeply +embroidered, the splendour of which made a strong contrast with the +plain, and even homely character of his apparel; although in look and +action he seemed like one who felt that the seat which might have in +former days held a prince, was not too much distinguished for his own +fortunes and ambition. Wildrake stood before him, nor did he ask him to +sit down. + +“Pearson,” said Cromwell, addressing himself to the officer in +attendance, “wait in the gallery, but be within call.” Pearson bowed, +and was retiring. “Who are in the gallery beside?” + +“Worthy Mr. Gordon, the chaplain, was holding forth but now to Colonel +Overton, and four captains of your Excellency’s regiment.” + +“We would have it so,” said the General; “we would not there were any +corner in our dwelling where the hungry soul might not meet with manna. +Was the good man carried onward in his discourse?” + +“Mightily borne through,” said Pearson; “and he was touching the +rightful claims which the army, and especially your Excellency, hath +acquired by becoming the instruments in the great work;—not instruments +to be broken asunder and cast away when the day of their service is +over, but to be preserved, and held precious, and prized for their +honourable and faithful labours, for which they have fought and +marched, and fasted, and prayed, and suffered cold and sorrow; while +others, who would now gladly see them disbanded, and broken, and +cashiered, eat of the fat, and drink of the strong.” + +“Ah, good man!” said Cromwell, “and did he touch upon this so +feelingly! I could say something—but not now. Begone, Pearson, to the +gallery. Let not our friends lay aside their swords, but watch as well +as pray.” + +Pearson retired; and the General, holding the letter of Everard in his +hand, looked again for a long while fixedly at Wildrake, as if +considering in what strain he should address him. + +When he did speak, it was, at first, in one of those ambiguous +discourses which we have already described, and by which it was very +difficult for any one to understand his meaning, if, indeed, he knew +himself. We shall be as concise in our statement, as our desire to give +the very words of a man so extraordinary will permit. + +“This letter,” he said, “you have brought us from your master, or +patron, Markham Everard; truly an excellent and honourable gentleman as +ever bore a sword upon his thigh, and one who hath ever distinguished +himself in the great work of delivering these three poor unhappy +nations. Answer me not: I know what thou wouldst say.—And this letter +he hath sent to me by thee, his clerk, or secretary, in whom he hath +confidence, and in whom he prays me to have trust, that there may be a +careful messenger between us. And lastly, he hath sent thee to me—Do +not answer—I know what thou wouldst say,—to me, who, albeit, I am of +that small consideration, that it would be too much honour for me even +to bear a halberd in this great and victorious army of England, am +nevertheless exalted to the rank of holding the guidance and the +leading-staff thereof.—Nay, do not answer, my friend—I know what thou +wouldst say. Now, when communing thus together, our discourse taketh, +in respect to what I have said, a threefold argument, or division: +First, as it concerneth thy master; secondly, as it concerneth us and +our office; thirdly and lastly, as it toucheth thyself.—Now, as +concerning this good and worthy gentleman, Colonel Markham Everard, +truly he hath played the man from the beginning of these unhappy +buffetings, not turning to the right or to the left, but holding ever +in his eye the mark at which he aimed. Ay, truly, a faithful, +honourable gentleman, and one who may well call me friend; and truly I +am pleased to think that he doth so. Nevertheless, in this vale of +tears, we must be governed less by our private respects and +partialities, than by those higher principles and points of duty, +whereupon the good Colonel Markham Everard hath ever framed his +purposes, as, truly, I have endeavoured to form mine, that we may all +act as becometh good Englishmen and worthy patriots. Then, as for +Woodstock, it is a great thing which the good Colonel asks, that it +should be taken from the spoil of the godly and left in keeping of the +men of Moab, and especially of the malignant, Henry Lee, whose hand +hath been ever against us when he might find room to raise it; I say, +he hath asked a great thing, both in respect of himself and me. For we +of this poor but godly army of England, are holden, by those of the +Parliament, as men who should render in spoil for them, but be no +sharer of it ourselves; even as the buck, which the hounds pull to +earth, furnisheth no part of their own food, but they are lashed off +from the carcass with whips, like those which require punishment for +their forwardness, not reward for their services. Yet I speak not this +so much in respect of this grant of Woodstock, in regard, that, +perhaps, their Lordships of the Council, and also the Committeemen of +this Parliament, may graciously think they have given me a portion in +the matter, in relation that my kinsman Desborough hath an interest +allowed him therein; which interest, as he hath well deserved it for +his true and faithful service to these unhappy and devoted countries, +so it would ill become me to diminish the same to his prejudice, unless +it were upon great and public respects. Thus thou seest how it stands +with me, my honest friend, and in what mind I stand touching thy +master’s request to me; which yet I do not say that I can altogether, +or unconditionally, grant or refuse, but only tell my simple thoughts +with regard thereto. Thou understandest me, I doubt not?” + +Now, Roger Wildrake, with all the attention he had been able to pay to +the Lord-General’s speech, had got so much confused among the various +clauses of the harangue, that his brain was bewildered, like that of a +country clown when he chances to get himself involved among a crowd of +carriages, and cannot stir a step to get out of the way of one of them, +without being in danger of being ridden over by the others. + +The General saw his look of perplexity, and began a new oration, to the +same purpose as before; spoke of his love for his kind friend the +Colonel—his regard for his pious and godly kinsman, Master Desborough— +the great importance of the Palace and Park of Woodstock—the +determination of the Parliament that it should be confiscated, and the +produce brought into the coffers of the state—his own deep veneration +for the authority of Parliament, and his no less deep sense of the +injustice done to the army—how it was his wish and will that all +matters should be settled in an amicable and friendly manner, without +self-seeking, debate, or strife, betwixt those who had been the hands +acting, and such as had been the heads governing, in that great +national cause—how he was willing, truly willing, to contribute to this +work, by laying down, not his commission only, but his life also, if it +were requested of him, or could be granted with safety to the poor +soldiers, to whom, silly poor men, he was bound to be as a father, +seeing that they had followed him with the duty and affection of +children. + +And here he arrived at another dead pause, leaving Wildrake as +uncertain as before, whether it was or was not his purpose to grant +Colonel Everard the powers he had asked for the protection of Woodstock +against the Parliamentary Commissioners. Internally he began to +entertain hopes that the justice of Heaven, or the effects of remorse, +had confounded the regicide’s understanding. But no—he could see +nothing but sagacity in that steady stern eye, which, while the tongue +poured forth its periphrastic language in such profusion, seemed to +watch with severe accuracy the effect which his oratory produced on the +listener. + +“Egad,” thought the cavalier to himself, becoming a little familiar +with the situation in which he was placed, and rather impatient of a +conversation—which led to no visible conclusion or termination, “If +Noll were the devil himself, as he is the devil’s darling, I will not +be thus nose-led by him. I’ll e’en brusque it a little, if he goes on +at this rate, and try if I can bring him to a more intelligible mode of +speaking.” + +Entertaining this bold purpose, but half afraid to execute it, Wildrake +lay by for an opportunity of making the attempt, while Cromwell was +apparently unable to express his own meaning. He was already beginning +a third panegyric upon Colonel Everard, with sundry varied expressions +of his own wish to oblige him, when Wildrake took the opportunity to +strike in, on the General’s making one of his oratorical pauses. + +“So please you” he said bluntly, “your worship has already spoken on +two topics of your discourse, your own worthiness, and that of my +master, Colonel Everard. But, to enable me to do mine errand, it would +be necessary to bestow a few words on the third head.” + +“The third?” said Cromwell. + +“Ay,” said Wildrake, “which, in your honour’s subdivision of your +discourse, touched on my unworthy self. What am I to do—what portion am +I to have in this matter?” + +Oliver started at once from the tone of voice he had hitherto used, and +which somewhat resembled the purring of a domestic cat, into the growl +of the tiger when about to spring. “_Thy_ portion, jail-bird!” he +exclaimed, “the gallows—thou shalt hang as high as Haman, if thou +betray counsel!—But,” he added, softening his voice, “keep it like a +true man, and my favour will be the making of thee. Come hither—thou +art bold, I see, though somewhat saucy. Thou hast been a malignant—so +writes my worthy friend Colonel Everard; but thou hast now given up +that falling cause. I tell thee, friend, not all that the Parliament or +the army could do would have pulled down the Stewarts out of their high +places, saving that Heaven had a controversy with them. Well, it is a +sweet and comely thing to buckle on one’s armour in behalf of Heaven’s +cause; otherwise truly, for mine own part, these men might have +remained upon the throne even unto this day. Neither do I blame any for +aiding them, until these successive great judgments have overwhelmed +them and their house. I am not a bloody man, having in me the feeling +of human frailty; but, friend, whosoever putteth his hand to the +plough, in the great actings which are now on foot in these nations, +had best beware that he do not look back; for, rely upon my simple +word, that if you fail me, I will not spare on you one foot’s length of +the gallows of Haman. Let me therefore know, at a word, if the leaven +of thy malignancy is altogether drubbed out of thee?” “Your honourable +lordship,” said the cavalier, shrugging up his shoulders, “has done +that for most of us, so far as cudgelling to some tune can perform it.” + +“Say’st thou?” said the General, with a grim smile on his lip, which +seemed to intimate that he was not quite inaccessible to flattery; +“yea, truly, thou dost not lie in that—we have been an instrument. +Neither are we, as I have already hinted, so severely bent against +those who have striven against us as malignants, as others may be. The +parliament-men best know their own interest and their own pleasure; +but, to my poor thinking, it is full time to close these jars, and to +allow men of all kinds the means of doing service to their country; and +we think it will be thy fault if thou art not employed to good purpose +for the state and thyself, on condition thou puttest away the old man +entirely from thee, and givest thy earnest attention to what I have to +tell thee.” + +“Your lordship need not doubt my attention,” said the cavalier. And the +republican General, after another pause, as one who gave his confidence +not without hesitation, proceeded to explain his views with a +distinctness which he seldom used, yet not without his being a little +biassed now and then, by his long habits of circumlocution, which +indeed he never laid entirely aside, save in the field of battle. + +“Thou seest,” he said, “my friend, how things stand with me. The +Parliament, I care not who knows it, love me not—still less do the +Council of State, by whom they manage the executive government of the +kingdom. I cannot tell why they nourish suspicion against me, unless it +is because I will not deliver this poor innocent army, which has +followed me in so many military actions, to be now pulled asunder, +broken piecemeal and reduced, so that they who have protected the state +at the expense of their blood, will not have, perchance, the means of +feeding themselves by their labour; which, methinks, were hard measure, +since it is taking from Esau his birthright, even without giving him a +poor mess of pottage.” + +“Esau is likely to help himself, I think,” replied Wildrake. + +“Truly, thou say’st wisely,” replied the General; “it is ill starving +an armed man, if there is food to be had for taking—nevertheless, far +be it from me to encourage rebellion, or want of due subordination to +these our rulers. I would only petition, in a due and becoming, a sweet +and harmonious manner, that they would listen to our conditions, and +consider our necessities. But, sir, looking on me, and estimating me so +little as they do, you must think that it would be a provocation in me +towards the Council of State, as well as the Parliament, if, simply to +gratify your worthy master, I were to act contrary to their purposes, +or deny currency to the commission under their authority, which is as +yet the highest in the State—and long may it be so for me!—to carry on +the sequestration which they intend. And would it not also be said, +that I was lending myself to the malignant interest, affording this den +of the blood-thirsty and lascivious tyrants of yore, to be in this our +day a place of refuge to that old and inveterate Amalekite, Sir Henry +Lee, to keep possession of the place in which he hath so long glorified +himself? Truly it would be a perilous matter.” + +“Am I then to report,” said Wildrake, “an it please you, that you +cannot stead Colonel Everard in this matter?” + +“Unconditionally, ay—but, taken conditionally, the answer may be +otherwise,”—answered Cromwell. “I see thou art not able to fathom my +purpose, and therefore I will partly unfold it to thee.—But take +notice, that, should thy tongue betray my counsel, save in so far as +carrying it to thy master, by all the blood which has been shed in +these wild times, thou shalt die a thousand deaths in one!” + +“Do not fear me, sir,” said Wildrake, whose natural boldness and +carelessness of character was for the present time borne down and +quelled, like that of falcon’s in the presence of the eagle. + +“Hear me, then,” said Cromwell, “and let no syllable escape thee. +Knowest thou not the young Lee, whom they call Albert, a malignant like +his father, and one who went up with the young Man to that last ruffle +which we had with him at Worcester—May we be grateful for the victory!” + +“I know there is such a young gentleman as Albert Lee,” said Wildrake. + +“And knowest thou not—I speak not by way of prying into the good +Colonel’s secrets, but only as it behoves me to know something of the +matter, that I may best judge how I am to serve him—Knowest thou not +that thy master, Markham Everard, is a suitor after the sister of this +same malignant, a daughter of the old Keeper, called Sir Henry Lee?” + +“All this I have heard,” said Wildrake, “nor can I deny that I believe +in it.” + +“Well then, go to.—When the young man Charles Stewart fled from the +field of Worcester, and was by sharp chase and pursuit compelled to +separate himself from his followers, I know by sure intelligence that +this Albert Lee was one of the last who remained with him, if not +indeed the very last.” + +“It was devilish like him,” said the cavalier, without sufficiently +weighing his expressions, considering in what presence they were to be +uttered—“And I’ll uphold him with my rapier, to be a true chip of the +old block!” + +“Ha, swearest thou?” said the General. “Is this thy reformation?” + +“I never swear, so please you,” replied Wildrake, recollecting himself, +“except there is some mention of malignants and cavaliers in my +hearing; and then the old habit returns, and I swear like one of +Goring’s troopers.” + +“Out upon thee,” said the General; “what can it avail thee to practise +a profanity so horrible to the ears of others, and which brings no +emolument to him who uses it?” + +“There are, doubtless, more profitable sins in the world than the +barren and unprofitable vice of swearing,” was the answer which rose to +the lips of the cavalier; but that was exchanged for a profession of +regret for having given offence. The truth was, the discourse began to +take a turn which rendered it more interesting than ever to Wildrake, +who therefore determined not to lose the opportunity for obtaining +possession of the secret that seemed to be suspended on Cromwells lips; +and that could only be through means of keeping guard upon his own. + +“What sort of a house is Woodstock?” said the General, abruptly. + +“An old mansion,” said Wildrake, in reply; “and, so far as I could +judge by a single night’s lodgings, having abundance of backstairs, +also subterranean passages, and all the communications under ground, +which are common in old raven-nests of the sort.” + +“And places for concealing priests, unquestionably,” said Cromwell. “It +is seldom that such ancient houses lack secret stalls wherein to mew up +these calves of Bethel.” + +“Your Honour’s Excellency,” said Wildrake, “may swear to that.” + +“I swear not at all,” replied the General, drily.—“But what think’st +thou, good fellow?—I will ask thee a blunt question—Where will those +two Worcester fugitives that thou wottest of be more likely to take +shelter—and that they must be sheltered somewhere I well know—than, in +this same old palace, with all the corners and concealment whereof +young Albert hath been acquainted ever since his earliest infancy?” + +“Truly,” said Wildrake, making an effort to answer the question with +seeming indifference, while the possibility of such an event, and its +consequences, flashed fearfully upon his mind,—“Truly, I should be of +your honour’s opinion, but that I think the company, who, by the +commission of Parliament, have occupied Woodstock, are likely to fright +them thence, as a cat scares doves from a pigeon-house. The +neighbourhood, with reverence, of Generals Desborough and Harrison, +will suit ill with fugitives from Worcester field.” + +“I thought as much, and so, indeed, would I have it,” answered the +General. “Long may it be ere our names shall be aught but a terror to +our enemies. But in this matter, if thou art an active plotter for thy +master’s interest, thou might’st, I should think, work out something +favourable to his present object.” + +“My brain is too poor to reach the depth of your honourable purpose,” +said Wildrake. + +“Listen, then, and let it be to profit,” answered Cromwell. “Assuredly +the conquest at Worcester was a great and crowning mercy; yet might we +seem to be but small in our thankfulness for the same, did we not do +what in us lies towards the ultimate improvement and final conclusion +of the great work which has been thus prosperous in our hands, +professing, in pure humility and singleness of heart, that we do not, +in any way, deserve our instrumentality to be remembered, nay, would +rather pray and entreat, that our name and fortunes were forgotten, +than that the great work were in itself incomplete. Nevertheless, +truly, placed as we now are, it concerns us more nearly than +others,—that is, if so poor creatures should at all speak of themselves +as concerned, whether more or less, with these changes which have been +wrought around,—not, I say, by ourselves, or our own power, but by the +destiny to which we were called, fulfilling the same with all meekness +and humility,—I say it concerns us nearly that all things should be +done in conformity with the great work which hath been wrought, and is +yet working, in these lands. Such is my plain and simple meaning. +Nevertheless, it is much to be desired that this young man, this King +of Scots, as he called himself—this Charles Stewart—should not escape +forth from the nation, where his arrival has wrought so much +disturbance and bloodshed.” + +“I have no doubt,” said the cavalier, looking down, “that your +lordship’s wisdom hath directed all things as they may best lead +towards such a consummation; and I pray your pains may be paid as they +deserve.” + +“I thank thee, friend,” said Cromwell, with much humility; “doubtless +we shall meet our reward, being in the hands of a good paymaster, who +never passeth Saturday night. But understand me, friend—I desire no +more than my own share in the good work. I would heartily do what poor +kindness I can to your worthy master, and even to you in your +degree—for such as I do not converse with ordinary men, that our +presence may be forgotten like an every-day’s occurrence. We speak to +men like thee for their reward or their punishment; and I trust it will +be the former which thou in thine office wilt merit at my hand.” + +“Your honour,” said Wildrake, “speaks like one accustomed to command.” + +“True; men’s minds are likened to those of my degree by fear and +reverence,” said the General;—“but enough of that, desiring, as I do, +no other dependency on my special person than is alike to us all upon +that which is above us. But I would desire to cast this golden ball +into your master’s lap. He hath served against this Charles Stewart and +his father. But he is a kinsman near to the old knight Lee, and stands +well affected towards his daughter. _Thou_ also wilt keep a watch, my +friend—that ruffling look of thine will procure thee the confidence of +every malignant, and the prey cannot approach this cover, as though to +shelter, like a coney in the rocks, but thou wilt be sensible of his +presence.” + +“I make a shift to comprehend your Excellency,” said the cavalier; “and +I thank you heartily for the good opinion you have put upon me, and +which, I pray I may have some handsome opportunity of deserving, that I +may show my gratitude by the event. But still, with reverence, your +Excellency’s scheme seems unlikely, while Woodstock remains in +possession of the sequestrators. Both the old knight and his son, and +far more such a fugitive as your honor hinted at, will take special +care not to approach it till they are removed.” + +“It is for that I have been dealing with thee thus long,” said the +General.—“I told thee that I was something unwilling, upon slight +occasion, to dispossess the sequestrators by my own proper warrant, +although having, perhaps, sufficient authority in the state both to do +so, and to despise the murmurs of those who blame me. In brief, I would +be both to tamper with my privileges, and make experiments between +their strength, and the powers of the commission granted by others, +without pressing need, or at least great prospect of advantage. So, if +thy Colonel will undertake, for his love of the Republic, to find the +means of preventing its worst and nearest danger, which must needs +occur from the escape of this young Man, and will do his endeavour to +stay him, in case his flight should lead him to Woodstock, which I hold +very likely, I will give thee an order to these sequestrators, to +evacuate the palace instantly; and to the next troop of my regiment, +which lies at Oxford, to turn them out by the shoulders, if they make +any scruples—Ay, even, for example’s sake, if they drag Desborough out +foremost, though he be wedded to my sister.” + +“So please you, sir,” said Wildrake, “and with your most powerful +warrant, I trust I might expel the commissioners, even without the aid +of your most warlike and devout troopers.” + +“That is what I am least anxious about,” replied the General; “I should +like to see the best of them sit after I had nodded to them to begone— +always excepting the worshipful House, in whose name our commissions +run; but who, as some think, will be done with politics ere it be time +to renew them. Therefore, what chiefly concerns me to know, is, whether +thy master will embrace a traffic which hath such a fair promise of +profit with it. I am well convinced that, with a scout like thee, who +hast been in the cavaliers’ quarters, and canst, I should guess, resume +thy drinking, ruffianly, health-quaffing manners whenever thou hast a +mind, he must discover where this Stewart hath ensconced himself. +Either the young Lee will visit the old one in person, or he will write +to him, or hold communication with him by letter. At all events, +Markham Everard and thou must have an eye in every hair of your head.” +While he spoke, a flush passed over his brow, he rose from his chair, +and paced the apartment in agitation. “Woe to you, if you suffer the +young adventurer to escape me!—you had better be in the deepest dungeon +in Europe, than breathe the air of England, should you but dream of +playing me false. I have spoken freely to thee, fellow—more freely than +is my wont—the time required it. But, to share my confidence is like +keeping a watch over a powder-magazine, the least and most +insignificant spark blows thee to ashes. Tell your master what I +said—but not how I said it—Fie, that I should have been betrayed into +this distemperature of passion!— begone, sirrah. Pearson shall bring +thee sealed orders—Yet, stay—thou hast something to ask.” + +“I would know,” said Wildrake, to whom the visible anxiety of the +General gave some confidence, “what is the figure of this young +gallant, in case I should find him?” + +“A tall, rawboned, swarthy lad, they say he has shot up into. Here is +his picture by a good hand, some time since.” He turned round one of +the portraits which stood with its face against the wall; but it proved +not to be that of Charles the Second, but of his unhappy father. + +The first motion of Cromwell indicated a purpose of hastily replacing +the picture, and it seemed as if an effort were necessary to repress +his disinclination to look upon it. But he did repress it, and, placing +the picture against the wall, withdrew slowly and sternly, as if, in +defiance of his own feelings, he was determined to gain a place from +which to see it to advantage. It was well for Wildrake that his +dangerous companion had not turned an eye on him, for _his_ blood also +kindled when he saw the portrait of his master in the hands of the +chief author of his death. Being a fierce and desperate man, he +commanded his passion with great difficulty; and if, on its first +violence, he had been provided with a suitable weapon, it is possible +Cromwell would never have ascended higher in his bold ascent towards +supreme power. + +But this natural and sudden flash of indignation, which rushed through +the veins of an ordinary man like Wildrake, was presently subdued, when +confronted with the strong yet stifled emotion displayed by so powerful +a character as Cromwell. As the cavalier looked on his dark and bold +countenance, agitated by inward and indescribable feelings, he found +his own violence of spirit die away and lose itself in fear and wonder. +So true it is, that as greater lights swallow up and extinguish the +display of those which are less, so men of great, capacious, and +overruling minds, bear aside and subdue, in their climax of passion, +the more feeble wills and passions of others; as, when a river joins a +brook, the fiercer torrent shoulders aside the smaller stream. + +Wildrake stood a silent, inactive, and almost a terrified spectator, +while Cromwell, assuming a firm sternness of eye and manner, as one who +compels himself to look on what some strong internal feeling renders +painful and disgustful to him, proceeded, in brief and interrupted +expressions, but yet with a firm voice, to comment on the portrait of +the late King. His words seemed less addressed to Wildrake, than to be +the spontaneous unburdening of his own bosom, swelling under +recollection of the past and anticipation of the future. + +“That Flemish painter” he said—“that Antonio Vandyck—what a power he +has! Steel may mutilate, warriors may waste and destroy—still the King +stands uninjured by time; and our grandchildren, while they read his +history, may look on his image, and compare the melancholy features +with the woful tale.—It was a stern necessity—it was an awful deed! The +calm pride of that eye might have ruled worlds of crouching Frenchmen, +or supple Italians, or formal Spaniards; but its glances only roused +the native courage of the stern Englishman.—Lay not on poor sinful man, +whose breath is in, his nostrils, the blame that he falls, when Heaven +never gave him strength of nerves to stand! The weak rider is thrown by +his unruly horse, and trampled to death—the strongest man, the best +cavalier, springs to the empty saddle, and uses bit and spur till the +fiery steed knows its master. Who blames him, who, mounted aloft, rides +triumphantly amongst the people, for having succeeded, where the +unskilful and feeble fell and died? Verily he hath his reward: Then, +what is that piece of painted canvas to me more than others? No; let +him show to others the reproaches of that cold, calm face, that proud +yet complaining eye: Those who have acted on higher respects have no +cause to start at painted shadows. Not wealth nor power brought me from +my obscurity. The oppressed consciences, the injured liberties of +England, were the banner that I followed.” + +He raised his voice so high, as if pleading in his own defence before +some tribunal, that Pearson, the officer in attendance, looked into the +apartment; and observing his master, with his eyes kindling, his arm +extended, his foot advanced, and his voice raised, like a general in +the act of commanding the advance of his army, he instantly withdrew. + +“It was other than selfish regards that drew me forth to action,” +continued Cromwell, “and I dare the world—ay, living or dead I +challenge—to assert that I armed for a private cause, or as a means of +enlarging my fortunes. Neither was there a trooper in the regiment who +came there with less of personal ill will to yonder unhappy”— + +At this moment the door of the apartment opened, and a gentlewoman +entered, who, from her resemblance to the General, although her +features were soft and feminine, might be immediately recognised as his +daughter. She walked up to Cromwell, gently but firmly passed her arm +through his, and said to him in a persuasive tone, “Father, this is not +well—you have promised me this should not happen.” + +The General hung down his head, like one who was either ashamed of the +passion to which he had given way, or of the influence which was +exercised over him. He yielded, however, to the affectionate impulse, +and left the apartment, without again turning his head towards the +portrait which had so much affected him, or looking towards Wildrake, +who remained fixed in astonishment. + + + + +CHAPTER THE NINTH. + + +_Doctor_.—Go to, go to,—You have known what you should not. + + +MACBETH. + + +Wildrake was left in the cabinet, as we have said, astonished and +alone. It was often noised about, that Cromwell, the deep and sagacious +statesman, the calm and intrepid commander, he who had overcome such +difficulties, and ascended to such heights, that he seemed already to +bestride the land which he had conquered, had, like many other men of +great genius, a constitutional taint of melancholy, which sometimes +displayed itself both in words and actions, and had been first observed +in that sudden and striking change, when, abandoning entirely the +dissolute freaks of his youth, he embraced a very strict course of +religious observances, which, upon some occasions, he seemed to +consider as bringing him into more near and close contact with the +spiritual world. This extraordinary man is said sometimes, during that +period of his life, to have given way to spiritual delusions, or, as he +himself conceived them, prophetic inspirations of approaching grandeur, +and of strange, deep, and mysterious agencies, in which he was in +future to be engaged, in the same manner as his younger years had been +marked by fits of exuberant and excessive frolic and debaucheries. +Something of this kind seemed to explain the ebullition of passion +which he had now manifested. + +With wonder at what he had witnessed, Wildrake felt some anxiety on his +own account. Though not the most reflecting of mortals, he had sense +enough to know, that it is dangerous to be a witness of the infirmities +of men high in power; and he was left so long by himself, as induced +him to entertain some secret doubts, whether the General might not be +tempted to take means of confining or removing a witness, who had seen +him lowered, as it seemed, by the suggestions of his own conscience, +beneath that lofty flight, which, in general, he affected to sustain +above the rest of the sublunary world. + +In this, however, he wronged Cromwell, who was free either from an +extreme degree of jealous suspicion, or from any thing which approached +towards blood-thirstiness. Pearson appeared, after a lapse of about an +hour, and, intimating to Wildrake that he was to follow, conducted him +into a distant apartment, in which he found the General seated on a +couch. His daughter was in the apartment, but remained at some +distance, apparently busied with some female needle-work, and scarce +turned her head as Pearson and Wildrake entered. + +At a sign from the Lord-General, Wildrake approached him as before. +“Comrade,” he said, “your old friends the cavaliers look on me as their +enemy, and conduct themselves towards me as if they desired to make me +such. I profess they are labouring to their own prejudice; for I +regard, and have ever regarded them, as honest and honourable fools, +who were silly enough to run their necks into nooses and their heads +against stonewalls, that a man called Stewart, and no other, should be +king over them. Fools! are there no words made of letters that would +sound as well as Charles Stewart, with that magic title beside them? +Why, the word King is like a lighted lamp, that throws the same bright +gilding upon any combination of the alphabet, and yet you must shed +your blood for a name! But thou, for thy part, shalt have no wrong from +me. Here is an order, well warranted, to clear the Lodge at Woodstock, +and abandon it to thy master’s keeping, or those whom he shall appoint. +He will have his uncle and pretty cousin with him, doubtless. Fare thee +well—think on what I told thee. They say beauty is a loadstone to +yonder long lad thou dost wot of; but I reckon he has other stars at +present to direct his course than bright eyes and fair hair. Be it as +it may, thou knowst my purpose—peer out, peer out; keep a constant and +careful look-out on every ragged patch that wanders by hedge-row or +lane—these are days when a beggar’s cloak may cover a king’s ransom. +There are some broad Portugal pieces for thee—something strange to thy +pouch, I ween.—Once more, think on what thou hast heard, and,” he +added, in a lower and more impressive tone of voice, “forget what thou +hast seen. My service to thy master;—and, yet once again, +_remember_—and _forget_.”—Wildrake made his obeisance, and, returning +to his inn, left Windsor with all possible speed. + +It was afternoon in the same day when the cavalier rejoined his +round-head friend, who was anxiously expecting him at the inn in +Woodstock appointed for their rendezvous. + +“Where hast thou been?—what hast thou seen?—what strange uncertainty is +in thy looks?—and why dost thou not answer me?” + +“Because,” said Wildrake, laying aside his riding cloak and rapier, +“you ask so many questions at once. A man has but one tongue to answer +with, and mine is well-nigh glued to the roof of my mouth.” + +“Will drink unloosen it?” said the Colonel; “though I dare say thou +hast tried that spell at every ale-house on the road. Call for what +thou wouldst have, man, only be quick.” + +“Colonel Everard,” answered Wildrake, “I have not tasted so much as a +cup of cold water this day.” + +“Then thou art out of humour for that reason,” said the Colonel; “salve +thy sore with brandy, if thou wilt, but leave being so fantastic and +unlike to thyself, as thou showest in this silent mood.” + +“Colonel Everard,” replied the cavalier, very gravely, “I am an altered +man.” + +“I think thou dost alter,” said Everard, “every day in the year, and +every hour of the day. Come, good now, tell me, hast thou seen the +General, and got his warrant for clearing out the sequestrators from +Woodstock?” + +“I have seen the devil,” said Wildrake, “and have, as thou say’st, got +a warrant from him.” + +“Give it me hastily,” said Everard, catching at the packet. + +“Forgive me, Mark,” said Wildrake; “if thou knewest the purpose with +which this deed is granted—if thou knewest—what it is not my purpose to +tell thee—what manner of hopes are founded on thy accepting it, I have +that opinion of thee, Mark Everard, that thou wouldst as soon take a +red-hot horse-shoe from the anvil with thy bare hand, as receive into +it this slip of paper.” + +“Come, come,” said Everard, “this comes of some of your exalted ideas +of loyalty, which, excellent within certain bounds, drive us mad when +encouraged up to some heights. Do not think, since I must needs speak +plainly with thee, that I see without sorrow the downfall of our +ancient monarchy, and the substitution of another form of government in +its stead; but ought my regret for the past to prevent my acquiescing +and aiding in such measures as are likely to settle the future? The +royal cause is ruined, hadst thou and every cavalier in England sworn +the contrary; ruined, not to rise again—for many a day at least. The +Parliament, so often draughted and drained of those who were courageous +enough to maintain their own freedom of opinion, is now reduced to a +handful of statesmen, who have lost the respect of the people, from the +length of time during which they have held the supreme management of +affairs. They cannot stand long unless they were to reduce the army; +and the army, late servants, are now masters, and will refuse to be +reduced. They know their strength, and that they may be an army +subsisting on pay and free quarters throughout England as long as they +will. I tell thee, Wildrake, unless we look to the only man who can +rule and manage them, we may expect military law throughout the land; +and I, for mine own part, look for any preservation of our privileges +that may be vouchsafed to us, only through the wisdom and forbearance +of Cromwell. Now you have my secret. You are aware that I am not doing +the best I would, but the best I can. I wish—not so ardently as thou, +perhaps—yet I _do_ wish that the King could have been restored on good +terms of composition, safe for us and for himself. And now, good +Wildrake, rebel as thou thinkest me, make me no worse a rebel than an +unwilling one. God knows, I never laid aside love and reverence to the +King, even in drawing my sword against his ill advisers.” + +“Ah, plague on you,” said Wildrake, “that is the very cant of it—that’s +what you all say. All of you fought against the King in pure love and +loyalty, and not otherwise. However, I see your drift, and I own that I +like it better than I expected. The army is your bear now, and old Noll +is your bearward; and you are like a country constable, who makes +interest with the bearward that he may prevent him from letting bruin +loose. Well, there may come a day when the sun will shine on our side +of the fence, and thereon shall you, and all the good fair-weather +folks who love the stronger party, come and make common cause with us.” + +Without much attending to what his friend said, Colonel Everard +carefully studied the warrant of Cromwell. “It is bolder and more +peremptory than I expected,” he said. “The General must feel himself +strong, when he opposes his own authority so directly to that of the +Council of State and the Parliament.” + +“You will not hesitate to act upon it?” said Wildrake. + +“That I certainly will not,” answered Everard; “but I must wait till I +have the assistance of the Mayor, who, I think, will gladly see these +fellows ejected from the Lodge. I must not go altogether upon military +authority, if possible.” Then, stepping to the door of the apartment, +he despatched a servant of the house in quest of the Chief Magistrate, +desiring he should be made acquainted that Colonel Everard desired to +see him with as little loss of time as possible. + +“You are sure he will come, like a dog at a whistle,” said Wildrake. +“The word captain, or colonel, makes the fat citizen trot in these +days, when one sword is worth fifty corporation charters. But there are +dragoons yonder, as well as the grim-faced knave whom I frightened the +other evening when I showed my face in at the window. Think’st thou the +knaves will show no rough play?” + +“The General’s warrant will weigh more with them than a dozen acts of +Parliament,” said Everard.—“But it is time thou eatest, if thou hast in +truth ridden from Windsor hither without baiting.” + +“I care not about it,” said Wildrake: “I tell thee, your General gave +me a breakfast, which, I think, will serve me one while, if I am ever +able to digest it. By the mass, it lay so heavy on my conscience, that +I carried it to church to see if I could digest it there with my other +sins. But not a whit.” + +“To church!—to the door of the church, thou meanest,” said Everard. “I +know thy way—thou art ever wont to pull thy hat off reverently at the +threshold; but for crossing it, that day seldom comes.” + +“Well,” replied Wildrake, “and if I do pull off my castor and kneel, is +it not seemly to show the same respects in a church which we offer in a +palace? It is a dainty matter, is it not, to see your Anabaptists, and +Brownists, and the rest of you, gather to a sermon with as little +ceremony as hogs to a trough! But here comes food, and now for a grace, +if I can remember one.” + +Everard was too much interested about the fate of his uncle and his +fair cousin, and the prospect of restoring them to their quiet home, +under the protection of that formidable truncheon which was already +regarded as the leading-staff of England, to remark, that certainly a +great alteration had taken place in the manners and outward behaviour +at least of his companion. His demeanour frequently evinced a sort of +struggle betwixt old habits of indulgence, and some newly formed +resolutions of abstinence; and it was almost ludicrous to see how often +the hand of the neophyte directed itself naturally to a large black +leathern jack, which contained two double flagons of strong ale, and +how often, diverted from its purpose by the better reflections of the +reformed toper, it seized, instead, upon a large ewer of salubrious and +pure water. + +It was not difficult to see that the task of sobriety was not yet +become easy, and that, if it had the recommendation of the intellectual +portion of the party who had resolved upon it, the outward man yielded +a reluctant and restive compliance. But honest Wildrake had been +dreadfully frightened at the course proposed to him by Cromwell, and, +with a feeling not peculiar to the Catholic religion, had formed a +solemn resolution within his own mind, that, if he came off safe and +with honour from this dangerous interview, he would show his sense of +Heaven’s favour, by renouncing some of the sins which most easily beset +him, and especially that of intemperance, to which, like many of his +wild compeers, he was too much addicted. + +This resolution, or vow, was partly prudential as well as religious; +for it occurred to him as very possible, that some matters of a +difficult and delicate nature might be thrown into his hands at the +present emergency, during the conduct of which it would be fitting for +him to act by some better oracle than that of the Bottle, celebrated by +Rabelais. In full compliance with this prudent determination, he +touched neither the ale nor the brandy which were placed before him, +and declined peremptorily the sack with which his friend would have +garnished the board. Nevertheless, just as the boy removed the +trenchers and napkins, together with the large black-jack which we have +already mentioned, and was one or two steps on his way to the door, the +sinewy arm of the cavalier, which seemed to elongate itself on purpose, +(as it extended far beyond the folds of the threadbare jacket,) +arrested the progress of the retiring Ganymede, and seizing on the +black-jack, conveyed it to the lips, which were gently breathing forth +the aspiration, “D—n—I mean. Heaven forgive me—we are poor creatures of +clay—one modest sip must be permitted to our frailty.” + +So murmuring, he glued the huge flagon to his lips, and as the head was +slowly and gradually inclined backwards, in proportion as the right +hand elevated the bottom of the pitcher, Everard had great doubts +whether the drinker and the cup were likely to part until the whole +contents of the latter had been transferred to the person of the +former. Roger Wildrake stinted, however, when, by a moderate +computation, he had swallowed at one draught about a quart and a half. + +He then replaced it on the salver, fetched a long breath to refresh his +lungs, bade the boy get him gone with the rest of the liquors, in a +tone which inferred some dread of his constancy, and then, turning to +his friend Everard, he expatiated in praise of moderation, observing, +that the mouthful which he had just taken had been of more service to +him than if he had remained quaffing healths at table for four hours +together. + +His friend made no reply, but could not help being privately of opinion +that Wildrake’s temperance had done as much execution on the tankard in +his single draught, as some more moderate topers might have effected if +they had sat sipping for an evening. But the subject was changed by the +entrance of the landlord, who came to announce to his honour Colonel +Everard, that the worshipful Mayor of Woodstock, with the Rev. Master +Holdenough, were come to wait upon him. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TENTH. + + + Here we have one head +Upon two bodies,—your two-headed bullock +Is but an ass to such a prodigy. +These two have but one meaning, thought, and counsel: +And when the single noddle has spoke out, +The four legs scrape assent to it. + + +OLD PLAY. + + +In the goodly form of the honest Mayor, there was a bustling mixture of +importance and embarrassment, like the deportment of a man who was +conscious that he had an important part to act, if he could but exactly +discover what that part was. But both were mingled with much pleasure +at seeing Everard, and he frequently repeated his welcomes and +all-hails before he could be brought to attend to what that gentleman +said in reply. + +“Good, worthy Colonel, you are indeed a desirable sight to Woodstock at +all times, being, as I may say, almost our townsman, as you have dwelt +so much and so long at the palace. Truly, the matter begins almost to +pass my wit, though I have transacted the affairs of this borough for +many a long day; and you are come to my assistance like, like”— + +“_Tanquam Deus ex machina_, as the Ethnic poet hath it,” said Master +Holdenough, “although I do not often quote from such books.—Indeed, +Master Markham Everard,—or worthy Colonel, as I ought rather to say—you +are simply the most welcome man who has come to Woodstock since the +days of old King Harry.” + +“I had some business with you, my good friend,” said the Colonel, +addressing the Mayor; “I shall be glad if it should so happen at the +same time, that I may find occasion to pleasure you or your worthy +pastor.” + +“No question you can do so, good sir;” interposed Master Holdenough; +“you have the heart, sir, and you have the hand; and we are much in +want of good counsel, and that from a man of action. I am aware, worthy +Colonel, that you and your worthy father have ever borne yourselves in +these turmoils like men of a truly Christian and moderate spirit, +striving to pour oil into the wounds of the land, which some would rub +with vitriol and pepper: and we know you are faithful children of that +church which we have reformed from its papistical and prelatical +tenets.” + +“My good and reverend friend,” said Everard, “I respect the piety and +learning of many of your teachers; but I am also for liberty of +conscience to all men. I neither side with sectaries, nor do I desire +to see them the object of suppression by violence.” + +“Sir, sir,” said the Presbyterian, hastily, “all this hath a fair +sound; but I would you should think what a fine country and church we +are like to have of it, amidst the errors, blasphemies, and schisms, +which are daily introduced into the church and kingdom of England, so +that worthy Master Edwards, in his Gangrena, declareth, that our native +country is about to become the very sink and cess-pool of all schisms, +heresies, blasphemies, and confusions, as the army of Hannibal was said +to be the refuse of all nations—_Colluvies omnium gentium_.—Believe me, +worthy Colonel, that they of the Honourable House view all this over +lightly, and with the winking connivance of old Eli. These instructors, +the schismatics, shoulder the orthodox ministers out of their pulpits, +thrust themselves into families, and break up the peace thereof, +stealing away men’s hearts from the established faith.” + +“My good Master Holdenough,” replied the Colonel, interrupting the +zealous preacher, “there is ground of sorrow for all these unhappy +discords; and I hold with you, that the fiery spirits of the present +time have raised men’s minds at once above sober-minded and sincere +religion, and above decorum and common sense. But there is no help save +patience. Enthusiasm is a stream that may foam off in its own time, +whereas it is sure to bear down every barrier which is directly opposed +to it.—But what are these schismatical proceedings to our present +purpose?” + +“Why, partly this, sir,” said Holdenough, “although perhaps you may +make less of it than I should have thought before we met.—I was +myself—I, Nehemiah Holdenough, (he added consequentially,) was forcibly +expelled from my own pulpit, even as a man should have been thrust out +of his own house, by an alien, and an intruder—a wolf, who was not at +the trouble even to put on sheep’s clothing, but came in his native +wolfish attire of buff and bandalier, and held forth in my stead to the +people, who are to me as a flock to the lawful shepherd. It is too +true, sir—Master Mayor saw it, and strove to take such order to prevent +it as man might, though,” turning to the Mayor, “I think still you +might have striven a little more.” + +“Good now, good Master Holdenough, do not let us go back on that +question,” said the Mayor. “Guy of Warwick, or Bevis of Hampton, might +do something with this generation; but truly, they are too many and too +strong for the Mayor of Woodstock.” + +“I think Master Mayor speaks very good sense,” said the Colonel; “if +the Independents are not allowed to preach, I fear me they will not +fight;—and then if you were to have another rising of cavaliers?” + +“There are worse folks may rise than cavaliers,” said Holdenough. + +“How, sir?” replied Colonel Everard. “Let me remind you, Master +Holdenough, that is no safe language in the present state of the +nation.” + +“I say,” said the Presbyterian, “there are worse folk may rise than +cavaliers; and I will prove what I say. The devil is worse than the +worst cavalier that ever drank a health, or swore an oath—and the devil +has arisen at Woodstock Lodge!” + +“Ay, truly hath he,” said the Mayor, “bodily and visibly, in figure and +form—An awful time we live in!” + +“Gentlemen, I really know not how I am to understand you,” said +Everard. + +“Why, it was even about the devil we came to speak with you,” said the +Mayor; “but the worthy minister is always so hot upon the sectaries”— + +“Which are the devil’s brats, and nearly akin to him,” said Master +Holdenough. “But true it is, that the growth of these sects has brought +up the Evil One even upon the face of the earth, to look after his own +interest, where he finds it most thriving.” + +“Master Holdenough,” said the Colonel, “if you speak figuratively, I +have already told you that I have neither the means nor the skill +sufficient to temper these religious heats. But if you design to say +that there has been an actual apparition of the devil, I presume to +think that you, with your doctrine and your learning, would be a fitter +match for him than a soldier like me.” + +“True, sir; and I have that confidence in the commission which I hold, +that I would take the field against the foul fiend without a moment’s +delay,” said Holdenough; “but the place in which he hath of late +appeared, being Woodstock, is filled with those dangerous and impious +persons, of whom I have been but now complaining; and though, confident +in my own resources, I dare venture in disputation with their Great +Master himself; yet without your protection, most worthy Colonel, I see +not that I may with prudence trust myself with the tossing and goring +ox Desborough, or the bloody and devouring bear Harrison, or the cold +and poisonous snake Bletson—all of whom are now at the Lodge, doing +license and taking spoil as they think meet; and, as all men say, the +devil hath come to make a fourth with them.” + +“In good truth, worthy and noble sir,” said the Mayor, “it is even as +Master Holdenough says—our privileges are declared void, our cattle +seized in the very pastures. They talk of cutting down and disparking +the fair Chase, which has been so long the pleasure of so many kings, +and making Woodstock of as little note as any paltry village. I assure +you we heard of your arrival with joy, and wondered at your keeping +yourself so close in your lodgings. We know no one save your father or +you, that are like to stand the poor burgesses’ friend in this +extremity, since almost all the gentry around are malignants, and under +sequestration. We trust, therefore, you will make strong intercession +in our behalf.” + +“Certainly, Master Mayor,” said the Colonel, who saw himself with +pleasure anticipated; “it was my very purpose to have interfered in +this matter; and I did but keep myself alone until I should be +furnished with some authority from the Lord-General.” + +“Powers from the Lord-General!” said the Mayor, thrusting the +clergy-man with his elbow—“Dost thou hear that?—What cock will fight +that cock?— We shall carry it now over their necks, and Woodstock shall +be brave Woodstock still!” + +“Keep thine elbow from my side, friend,” said Holdenough, annoyed by +the action which the Mayor had suited to his words; “and may the Lord +send that Cromwell prove not as sharp to the people of England as thy +bones against my person! Yet I approve that we should use his authority +to stop the course of these men’s proceedings.” + +“Let us set out, then,” said Colonel Everard; “and I trust we shall +find the gentlemen reasonable and obedient.” + +The functionaries, laic and clerical, assented with much joy; and the +Colonel required and received Wildrake’s assistance in putting on his +cloak and rapier, as if he had been the dependent whose part he acted. +The cavalier contrived, however, while doing him these menial offices, +to give his friend a shrewd pinch, in order to maintain the footing of +secret equality betwixt them. + +The Colonel was saluted, as they passed through the streets, by many of +the anxious inhabitants, who seemed to consider his intervention as +affording the only chance of saving their fine Park, and the rights of +the corporation, as well as of individuals, from ruin and confiscation. + +As they entered the Park, the Colonel asked his companions, “What is +this you say of apparitions being seen amongst them?” + +“Why, Colonel,” said the clergyman, “you know yourself that Woodstock +was always haunted?” + +“I have lived therein many a day,” said the Colonel; “and I know I +never saw the least sign of it, although idle people spoke of the house +as they do of all old mansions, and gave the apartments ghosts and +spectres to fill up the places of as many of the deceased great, as had +ever dwelt there.” + +“Nay, but, good Colonel,” said the clergyman, “I trust you have not +reached the prevailing sin of the times, and become indifferent to the +testimony in favour of apparitions, which appears so conclusive to all +but atheists, and advocates for witches?” + +“I would not absolutely disbelieve what is so generally affirmed,” said +the Colonel; “but my reason leads me to doubt most of the stories which +I have heard of this sort, and my own experience never went to confirm +any of them.” + +“Ay, but trust me,” said Holdenough, “there was always a demon of one +or the other species about this Woodstock. Not a man or woman in the +town but has heard stories of apparitions in the forest, or about the +old castle. Sometimes it is a pack of hounds, that sweep along, and the +whoops and halloos of the huntsmen, and the winding of horns and the +galloping of horse, which is heard as if first more distant, and then +close around you—and then anon it is a solitary huntsman, who asks if +you can tell him which way the stag has gone. He is always dressed in +green; but the fashion of his clothes is some five hundred years old. +This is what we call Demon Meridianum—the noon-day spectre.” + +“My worthy and reverend sir,” said the Colonel, “I have lived at +Woodstock many seasons, and have traversed the Chase at all hours. +Trust me, what you hear from the villagers is the growth of their idle +folly and superstition.” + +“Colonel,” replied Holdenough, “a negative proves nothing. What +signifies, craving your pardon, that you have not seen anything, be it +earthly or be it of the other world, to detract from the evidence of a +score of people who have?—And besides, there is the Demon Nocturnum— +the being that walketh by night; he has been among these Independents +and schismatics last night. Ay, Colonel, you may stare; but it is even +so—they may try whether he will mend their gifts, as they profanely +call them, of exposition and prayer. No, sir, I trow, to master the +foul fiend there goeth some competent knowledge of theology, and an +acquaintance of the humane letters, ay, and a regular clerical +education and clerical calling.” + +“I do not in the least doubt,” said the Colonel, “the efficacy of your +qualifications to lay the devil; but still I think some odd mistake has +occasioned this confusion amongst them, if there has any such in +reality existed. Desborough is a blockhead, to be sure; and Harrison is +fanatic enough to believe anything. But there is Bletson, on the other +hand, who believes nothing.—What do you know of this matter, good +Master Mayor?” + +“In sooth, and it was Master Bletson who gave the first alarm,” replied +the magistrate; “or, at least, the first distinct one. You see, sir, I +was in bed with my wife, and no one else; and I was as fast asleep as a +man can desire to be at two hours after midnight, when, behold you, +they came knocking at my bedroom door, to tell me there was an alarm in +Woodstock, and that the bell of the Lodge was ringing at that dead hour +of the night as hard as ever it rung when it called the court to +dinner.” + +“Well, but the cause of this alarm?” said the Colonel. + +“You shall hear, worthy Colonel, you shall hear,” answered the Mayor, +waving his hand with dignity; for he was one of those persons who will +not be hurried out of their own pace. “So Mrs. Mayor would have +persuaded me, in her love and affection, poor wretch, that to rise at +such an hour out of my own warm bed, was like to bring on my old +complaint the lumbago, and that I should send the people to Alderman +Dutton.—Alderman Devil, Mrs. Mayor, said I;—I beg your reverence’s +pardon for using such a phrase—Do you think I am going to lie a-bed +when the town is on fire, and the cavaliers up, and the devil to pay;—I +beg pardon again, parson.—But here we are before the gate of the +Palace; will it not please you to enter?” + +“I would first hear the end of your story,” said the Colonel; “that is, +Master Mayor, if it happens to have an end.” + +“Every thing hath an end,” said the Mayor, “and that which we call a +pudding hath two.—Your worship will forgive me for being facetious. +Where was I?—Oh, I jumped out of bed, and put on my red plush breeches, +with the blue nether stocks, for I always make a point of being dressed +suitably to my dignity, night and day, summer or winter, Colonel +Everard; and I took the Constable along with me, in case the alarm +should be raised by night-walkers or thieves, and called up worthy +Master Holdenough out of his bed, in case it should turn out to be the +devil. And so I thought I was provided for the worst, and so away we +came; and, by and by, the soldiers who came to the town with Master +Tomkins, who had been called to arms, came marching down to Woodstock +as fast as their feet would carry them; so I gave our people the sign +to let them pass us, and out-march us, as it were, and this for a +twofold reason.” + +“I will be satisfied,” interrupted the Colonel, “with one good reason. +You desired the red-coats should have the _first_ of the fray?” + +“True, sir, very true;—and also that they should have the _last_ of it, +in respect that fighting is their especial business. However, we came +on at a slow pace, as men who are determined to do their duty without +fear or favour, when suddenly we saw something white haste away up the +avenue towards the town, when six of our constables and assistants fled +at once, as conceiving it to be an apparition called the White Woman of +Woodstock.” + +“Look you there, Colonel,” said Master Holdenough, “I told you there +were demons of more kinds than one, which haunt the ancient scenes of +royal debauchery and cruelty.” + +“I hope you stood your own ground, Master Mayor?” said the Colonel. + +“I—yes—most assuredly—that is, I did not, strictly speaking, keep my +ground; but the town-clerk and I retreated—retreated, Colonel, and +without confusion or dishonour, and took post behind worthy Master +Holdenough, who, with the spirit of a lion, threw himself in the way of +the supposed spectre, and attacked it with such a siserary of Latin as +might have scared the devil himself, and thereby plainly discovered +that it was no devil at all, nor white woman, neither woman of any +colour, but worshipful Master Bletson, a member of the House of +Commons, and one of the commissioners sent hither upon this unhappy +sequestration of the Wood, Chase, and Lodge of Woodstock.” + +“And this was all you saw of the demon?” said the Colonel. + +“Truly, yes,” answered the Mayor; “and I had no wish to see more. +However, we conveyed Master Bletson, as in duty bound, back to the +Lodge, and he was ever maundering by the way how that he met a party of +scarlet devils incarnate marching down to the Lodge; but, to my poor +thinking, it must have been the Independent dragoons who had just +passed us.” + +“And more incarnate devils I would never wish to see,” said Wildrake, +who could remain silent no longer. His voice, so suddenly heard, showed +how much the Mayor’s nerves were still alarmed, far he started and +jumped aside with an alacrity of which no one would at first sight +suppose a man of his portly dignity to have been capable. Everard +imposed silence on his intrusive attendant; and, desirous to hear the +conclusion of this strange story, requested the Mayor to tell him how +the matter ended, and whether they stopped the supposed spectre. + +“Truly, worthy sir,” said the Mayor, “Master Holdenough was quite +venturous upon confronting, as it were, the devil, and compelling him +to appear under the real form of Master Joshua Bletson, member of +Parliament for the borough of Littlefaith.” + +“In sooth, Master Mayor,” said the divine, “I were strangely ignorant +of my own commission and its immunities, if I were to value opposing +myself to Satan, or any Independent in his likeness, all of whom, in +the name of Him I serve, I do defy, spit at, and trample under my feet; +and because Master Mayor is something tedious, I will briefly inform +your honour that we saw little of the Enemy that night, save what +Master Bletson said in the first feeling of his terrors, and save what +we might collect from the disordered appearance of the Honourable +Colonel Desborough and Major-General Harrison.” + +“And what plight were they in, I pray you?” demanded the Colonel. + +“Why, worthy sir, every one might see with half an eye that they had +been engaged in a fight wherein they had not been honoured with perfect +victory; seeing that General Harrison was stalking up and down the +parlour, with his drawn sword in his hand, talking to himself, his +doublet unbuttoned, his points untrussed, his garters loose, and like +to throw him down as he now and then trode on them, and gaping and +grinning like a mad player. And yonder sate Desborough with a dry +pottle of sack before him, which he had just emptied, and which, though +the element in which he trusted, had not restored him sense enough to +speak, or courage enough to look over his shoulder. He had a Bible in +his hand, forsooth, as if it would of itself make battle against the +Evil One; but I peered over his shoulder, and, alas! the good gentleman +held the bottom of the page uppermost. It was as if one of your +musketeers, noble and valued sir, were to present the butt of his piece +at the enemy instead of the muzzle—ha, ha, ha! it was a sight to judge +of schismatics by; both in point of head, and in point of heart, in +point of skill, and in point of courage. Oh! Colonel, then was the time +to see the true character of an authorised pastor of souls over those +unhappy men, who leap into the fold without due and legal authority, +and will, forsooth, preach, teach, and exhort, and blasphemously term +the doctrine of the Church saltless porridge and dry chips!” + +“I have no doubt you were ready to meet the danger, reverend sir; but I +would fain know of what nature it was, and from whence it was to be +apprehended?” + +“Was it for me to make such inquiry?” said the clergyman, triumphantly. +“Is it for a brave soldier to number his enemies, or inquire from what +quarter they are to come? No, sir, I was there with match lighted, +bullet in my mouth, and my harquebuss shouldered, to encounter as many +devils as hell could pour in, were they countless as motes in the +sunbeam, and although they came from all points of the compass. The +Papists talk of the temptation of St. Anthony—pshaw! let them double +all the myriads which the brain of a crazy Dutch painter hath invented, +and you will find a poor Presbyterian divine—I will answer for one at +least,—who, not in his own strength, but his Master’s, will receive the +assault in such sort, that far from returning against him as against +yonder poor hound, day after day, and night after night, he will at +once pack them off as with a vengeance to the uttermost parts of +Assyria!” + +“Still,” said the Colonel, “I pray to know whether you saw anything +upon which to exercise your pious learning?” + +“Saw?” answered the divine; “no, truly, I saw nothing, nor did I look +for anything. Thieves will not attack well-armed travellers, nor will +devils or evil spirits come against one who bears in his bosom the word +of truth, in the very language in which it was first dictated. No, sir, +they shun a divine who can understand the holy text, as a crow is said +to keep wide of a gun loaded with hailshot.” + +They had walked a little way back upon their road, to give time for +this conversation; and the Colonel, perceiving it was about to lead to +no satisfactory explanation of the real cause of alarm on the preceding +night, turned round, and observing it was time they should go to the +Lodge, began to move in that direction with his three companions. + +It had now become dark, and the towers of Woodstock arose high above +the umbrageous shroud which the forest spread around the ancient and +venerable mansion. From one of the highest turrets, which could still +be distinguished as it rose against the clear blue sky, there gleamed a +light like that of a candle within the building. The Mayor stopt short, +and catching fast hold of the divine, and then of Colonel Everard, +exclaimed, in a trembling and hasty, but suppressed tone, + +“Do you see yonder light?” + +“Ay, marry do I,” said Colonel Everard; “and what does that matter?—a +light in a garret-room of such an old mansion as Woodstock is no +subject of wonder, I trow.” + +“But a light from Rosamond’s Tower is surely so,” said the Mayor. + +“True,” said the Colonel, something surprised, when, after a careful +examination, he satisfied himself that the worthy magistrate’s +conjecture was right. “That is indeed Rosamond’s Tower; and as the +drawbridge, by which it was accessible has been destroyed for +centuries, it is hard to say what chance could have lighted a lamp in +such an inaccessible place.” + +“That light burns with no earthly fuel,” said the Mayor; “neither from +whale nor olive oil, nor bees-wax, nor mutton-suet either. I dealt in +these commodities, Colonel, before I went into my present line; and I +can assure you I could distinguish the sort of light they give, one +from another, at a greater distance than yonder turret—Look you, that +is no earthly flame.—See you not something blue and reddish upon the +edges?— that bodes full well where it comes from.—Colonel, in my +opinion we had better go back to sup at the town, and leave the Devil +and the red-coats to settle their matters together for to-night; and +then when we come back the next morning, we will have a pull with the +party that chances to keep a-field.” + +“You will do as you please, Master Mayor,” said Everard, “but my duty +requires me that I should see the Commissioners to-night.” + +“And mine requires me to see the foul Fiend,” said Master Holdenough, +“if he dare make himself visible to me. I wonder not that, knowing who +is approaching, he betakes himself to the very citadel, the inner and +the last defences of this ancient and haunted mansion. He is dainty, I +warrant you, and must dwell where is a relish of luxury and murder +about the walls of his chamber. In yonder turret sinned Rosamond, and +in yonder turret she suffered; and there she sits, or more likely, the +Enemy in her shape, as I have heard true men of Woodstock tell. I wait +on you, good Colonel—Master Mayor will do as he pleases. The strong man +hath fortified himself in his dwelling-house, but lo, there cometh +another stronger than he.” + +“For me,” said the Mayor, “who am as unlearned as I am unwarlike, I +will not engage either—with the Powers of the Earth, or the Prince of +the Powers of the Air, and I would we were again at Woodstock;—and hark +ye, good fellow,” slapping Wildrake on the shoulder, “I will bestow on +thee a shilling wet and a shilling dry if thou wilt go back with me.” + +“Gadzookers, Master Mayor,” said, Wildrake, neither flattered by the +magistrate’s familiarity of address, nor captivated by his munificence— +“I wonder who the devil made you and me fellows? and, besides, do you +think I would go back to Woodstock with your worshipful cods-head, +when, by good management, I may get a peep of fair Rosamond, and see +whether she was that choice and incomparable piece of ware, which the +world has been told of by rhymers and ballad-makers?” + +“Speak less lightly and wantonly, friend,” said the divine; “we are to +resist the devil that he may flee from us, and not to tamper with him, +or enter into his counsels, or traffic with the merchandise of his +great Vanity Fair.” + +“Mind what the good man says, Wildrake,” said the Colonel; “and take +heed another time how thou dost suffer thy wit to outrun discretion.” + +“I am beholden to the reverend gentleman for his advice,” answered +Wildrake, upon whose tongue it was difficult to impose any curb +whatever, even when his own safety rendered it most desirable. “But, +gadzookers, let him have had what experience he will in fighting with +the Devil, he never saw one so black as I had a tussle with—not a +hundred years ago.” + +“How, friend,” said the clergyman, who understood every thing literally +when apparitions were mentioned, “have you had so late a visitation of +Satan? Believe me, then, that I wonder why thou darest to entertain his +name so often and so lightly, as I see thou dost use it in thy ordinary +discourse. But when and where didst thou see the Evil One?” + +Everard hastily interposed, lest by something yet more strongly +alluding to Cromwell, his imprudent squire should, in mere wantonness, +betray his interview with the General. “The young man raves,” he said, +“of a dream which he had the other night, when he and I slept together +in Victor Lee’s chamber, belonging to the Ranger’s apartments at the +Lodge.” + +“Thanks for help at a pinch, good patron,” said Wildrake, whispering +into Everard’s ear, who in vain endeavoured to shake him off,—“a fib +never failed a fanatic.” + +“You, also, spoke something too lightly of these matters, considering +the work which we have in hand, worthy Colonel,” said the Presbyterian +divine. “Believe me, the young man, thy servant, was more likely to see +visions than to dream merely idle dreams in that apartment; for I have +always heard, that, next to Rosamond’s Tower, in which, as I said, she +played the wanton, and was afterwards poisoned by Queen Eleanor, Victor +Lee’s chamber was the place in the Lodge of Woodstock more peculiarly +the haunt of evil spirits.—I pray you, young man, tell me this dream or +vision of yours.” + +“With all my heart, sir,” said Wildrake—then addressing his patron, who +began to interfere, he said, “Tush, sir, you have had the discourse for +an hour, and why should not I hold forth in my turn? By this darkness, +if you keep me silent any longer, I will turn Independent preacher, and +stand up in your despite for the freedom of private judgment.—And so, +reverend sir, I was dreaming of a carnal divertisement called a +bull-baiting; and methought they were venturing dogs at head, as +merrily as e’er I saw them at Tutbury bull-running; and methought I +heard some one say, there was the Devil come to have a sight of the +bull-ring. Well, I thought that, gadswoons, I would have a peep at his +Infernal Majesty. So I looked, and there was a butcher in greasy +woollen, with his steel by his side; but he was none of the Devil. And +there was a drunken cavalier, with his mouth full of oaths, and his +stomach full of emptiness, and a gold-laced waistcoat in a very +dilapidated condition, and a ragged hat,—with a piece of a feather in +it; and he was none of the Devil neither. And here was a miller, his +hands dusty with meal, and every atom of it stolen; and there was a +vintner, his green apron stained with wine, and every drop of it +sophisticated; but neither was the old gentleman I looked for to be +detected among these artisans of iniquity. At length, sir, I saw a +grave person with cropped hair, a pair of longish and projecting ears, +a band as broad as a slobbering bib under his chin, a brown coat +surmounted by a Geneva cloak, and I had old Nicholas at once in his +genuine paraphernalia, by—.” + +“Shame, shame!” said Colonel Everard. “What! behave thus to an old +gentleman and a divine!” + +“Nay, let him proceed,” said the minister, with perfect equanimity: “if +thy friend, or secretary, is gibing, I must have less patience than +becomes my profession, if I could not bear an idle jest, and forgive +him who makes it. Or if, on the other hand, the Enemy has really +presented himself to the young man in such a guise as he intimates, +wherefore should we be surprised that he, who can take upon him the +form of an angel of light, should be able to assume that of a frail and +peaceable mortal, whose spiritual calling and profession ought, indeed, +to induce him to make his life an example to others; but whose conduct, +nevertheless, such is the imperfection of our unassisted nature, +sometimes rather presents us with a warning of what we should shun?” + +“Now, by the mass, honest domine—I mean reverend sir—I crave you a +thousand pardons,” said Wildrake, penetrated by the quietness and +patience of the presbyter’s rebuke. “By St. George, if quiet patience +will do it, thou art fit to play a game at foils with the Devil +himself, and I would be contented to hold stakes.” + +As he concluded an apology, which was certainly not uncalled for, and +seemed to be received in perfectly good part, they approached so close +to the exterior door of the Lodge, that they were challenged with the +emphatic _Stand_, by a sentinel who mounted guard there. Colonel +Everard replied, _A friend_; and the sentinel repeating his command, +“Stand, friend,” proceeded to call the corporal of the guard. The +corporal came forth, and at the same time turned out his guard. Colonel +Everard gave his name and designation, as well as those of his +companions, on which the corporal said, “he doubted not there would be +orders for his instant admission; but, in the first place, Master +Tomkins must be consulted, that he might learn their honours’ mind.” + +“How, sir!” said the Colonel, “do you, knowing who I am, presume to +keep me on the outside of your post?” + +“Not if your honour pleases to enter,” said the corporal, “and +undertakes to be my warranty; but such are the orders of my post.” + +“Nay, then, do your duty,” said the Colonel; “but are the cavaliers up, +or what is the matter, that you keep so close and strict a watch?” + +The fellow gave no distinct answer, but muttered between his mustaches +something about the Enemy, and the roaring Lion who goeth about seeking +whom he may devour. Presently afterwards Tomkins appeared, followed by +two servants, bearing lights in great standing brass candlesticks. They +marched before Colonel Everard and his party, keeping as close to each +other as two cloves of the same orange, and starting from time to time; +and shuddering as they passed through sundry intricate passages, they +led up a large and ample wooden staircase, the banisters, rail, and +lining of which were executed in black oak, and finally into a long +saloon, or parlour, where there was a prodigious fire, and about twelve +candles of the largest size distributed in sconces against the wall. +There were seated the Commissioners, who now held in their power the +ancient mansion and royal domain of Woodstock. + + + + +CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. + + +The bloody bear, an independent beast, +Unlick’d to forms, in groans his hate express’d— + * * * +Next him the buffoon ape, as atheists use, +Mimick’d all sects, and had his own to choose. + + +HIND AND PANTHER. + + +The strong light in the parlour which we have described, served to +enable Everard easily to recognise his acquaintances, Desborough, +Harrison, and Bletson, who had assembled round an oak table of large +dimensions, placed near the blazing chimney, on which were arranged +wine, and ale, and materials for smoking, then the general indulgence +of the time. There was a species of movable cupboard set betwixt the +table and the door, calculated originally for a display of plate upon +grand occasions, but at present only used as a screen; which purpose it +served so effectually, that, ere he had coasted around it, Everard +heard the following fragment of what Desborough was saying, in his +strong coarse voice:—“Sent him to share with us, I’se warrant ye—It was +always his Excellency my brother-in-law’s way—if he made a treat for +five friends, he would invite more than the table could hold—I have +known him ask three men to eat two eggs.” + +“Hush, hush,” said Bletson; and the servants, making their appearance +from behind the tall cupboard, announced Colonel Everard. It may not be +uninteresting to the reader to have a description, of the party into +which he now entered. + +Desborough was a stout, bull-necked man, of middle-size, with heavy +vulgar features, grizzled bushy eyebrows, and walleyes. The flourish of +his powerful relative’s fortunes had burst forth in the finery of his +dress, which was much more ornamented than was usual among the +roundheads. There was embroidery on his cloak, and lace upon his band; +his hat displayed a feather with a golden clasp, and all his +habiliments were those of a cavalier, or follower of the court, rather +than the plain dress of a parliamentarian officer. But, Heaven knows, +there was little of courtlike grace or dignity in the person or +demeanour of the individual, who became his fine suit as the hog on the +sign-post does his gilded armour. It was not that he was positively +deformed, or misshaped, for, taken in detail, the figure was well +enough. But his limbs seemed to act upon different and contradictory +principles. They were not, as the play says, in a concatenation +accordingly;—the right hand moved as if it were upon bad terms with the +left, and the legs showed an inclination to foot it in different and +opposite directions. In short, to use an extravagant comparison, the +members of Colonel Desborough seemed rather to resemble the +disputatious representatives of a federative congress, than the +well-ordered union of the orders of the state, in a firm and +well-compacted monarchy, where each holds his own place, and all obey +the dictates of a common head. + +General Harrison, the second of the Commissioners, was a tall, thin, +middle-aged man, who had risen into his high situation in the army, and +his intimacy with Cromwell, by his dauntless courage in the field, and +the popularity he had acquired by his exalted enthusiasm amongst the +military saints, sectaries, and Independents, who composed the strength +of the existing army. Harrison was of mean extraction, and bred up to +his father’s employment of a butcher. Nevertheless, his appearance, +though coarse, was not vulgar, like that of Desborough, who had so much +the advantage of him in birth and education. He had a masculine height +and strength of figure, was well made and in his manner announced a +rough military character, which might be feared, but could not easily +become the object of contempt or ridicule. His aquiline nose and dark +black eyes set off to some advantage a countenance otherwise irregular, +and the wild enthusiasm that sometimes sparkled in them as he dilated +on his opinions to others, and often seemed to slumber under his long +dark eyelashes as he mused upon them himself, gave something strikingly +wild, and even noble to his aspect. He was one of the chief leaders of +those who were called Fifth-Monarchy men, who, going even beyond the +general fanaticism of the age, presumptuously interpreted the Book of +the Revelations after their own fancies, considered that the second +Advent of the Messiah, and the Millenium, or reign of the Saints upon +earth, was close at hand, and that they themselves, illuminated, as +they believed, with the power of foreseeing these approaching events, +were the chosen instruments for the establishment of the New Reign, or +Fifth Monarchy, as it was called, and were fated also to win its +honours, whether celestial or terrestrial. + +When this spirit of enthusiasm, which operated like a partial insanity, +was not immediately affecting Harrison’s mind, he was a shrewd worldly +man, and a good soldier; one who missed no opportunity of mending his +fortune, and who, in expecting the exaltation of the Fifth Monarchy, +was, in the meanwhile, a ready instrument for the establishment of the +Lord-General’s supremacy. Whether it was owing to his early occupation, +and habits of indifference to pain or bloodshed acquired in the +shambles, to natural disposition and want of feeling, or, finally, to +the awakened character of his enthusiasm, which made him look upon +those who opposed him, as opposing the Divine will, and therefore +meriting no favour or mercy, is not easy to say; but all agreed, that +after a victory, or the successful storm of a town, Harrison was one of +the most cruel and pitiless men in Cromwell’s army; always urging some +misapplied text to authorize the continued execution of the fugitives, +and sometimes even putting to death those who had surrendered +themselves prisoners. It was said, that at times the recollection of +some of those cruelties troubled his conscience, and disturbed the +dreams of beatification in which his imagination indulged. + +When Everard entered the apartment, this true representative of the +fanatic soldiers of the day, who filled those ranks and regiments which +Cromwell had politically kept on foot, while he procured the reduction +of those in which the Presbyterian interest predominated, was seated a +little apart from the others, his legs crossed, and stretched out at +length towards the fire, his head resting on his elbow, and turned +upwards, as if studying, with the most profound gravity, the half-seen +carving of the Gothic roof. + +Bletson remains to be mentioned, who, in person and figure, was +diametrically different from the other two. There was neither foppery +nor slovenliness in his exterior, nor had he any marks of military +service or rank about his person. A small walking rapier seemed merely +worn as a badge of his rank as a gentleman, without his hand having the +least purpose of becoming acquainted with the hilt, or his eye with the +blade. His countenance was thin and acute, marked with lines which +thought rather than age had traced upon it; and a habitual sneer on his +countenance, even, when he least wished to express contempt on his +features, seemed to assure the individual addressed, that in Bletson he +conversed with a person of intellect far superior to his own. This was +a triumph of intellect only, however; for on all occasions of +difference respecting speculative opinions, and indeed on all +controversies whatsoever, Bletson avoided the ultimate _ratio_ of blows +and knocks. + +Yet this peaceful gentleman had found himself obliged to serve +personally in the Parliamentary army at the commencement of the Civil +War, till happening unluckily to come in contact with the fiery Prince +Rupert, his retreat was judged so precipitate, that it required all the +shelter that his friends could afford, to keep him free of an +impeachment or a court-martial. But as Bletson spoke well, and with +great effect in the House of Commons, which was his natural sphere, and +was on that account high in the estimation of his party, his behaviour +at Edgehill was passed over, and he continued to take an active share +in all the political events of that bustling period, though he faced +not again the actual front of war. + +Bletson’s theoretical politics had long inclined him to espouse the +opinions of Harrington and others, who adopted the visionary idea of +establishing a pure democratical republic in so extensive a country as +Britain. This was a rash theory, where there is such an infinite +difference betwixt ranks, habits, education, and morals—where there is +such an immense disproportion betwixt the wealth of individuals—and +where a large portion of the inhabitants consist of the inferior +classes of the large towns and manufacturing districts—men unfitted to +bear that share in the direction of a state, which must be exercised by +the members of a republic in the proper sense of the word. Accordingly, +as soon as the experiment was made, it became obvious that no such form +of government could be adopted with the smallest chance of stability; +and the question came only to be, whether the remnant, or, as it was +vulgarly called, the Rump of the Long Parliament, now reduced by the +seclusion of so many of the members to a few scores of persons, should +continue, in spite of their unpopularity, to rule the affairs of +Britain? Whether they should cast all loose by dissolving themselves, +and issuing writs to convoke a new Parliament, the composition of which +no one could answer for, any more than for the measures they might take +when assembled? Or lastly, whether Cromwell, as actually happened, was +not to throw the sword into the balance, and boldly possess himself of +that power which the remnant of the Parliament were unable to hold, and +yet afraid to resign? + +Such being the state of parties, the Council of State, in distributing +the good things in their gift, endeavoured to soothe and gratify the +army, as a beggar flings crusts to a growling mastiff. In this view +Desborough had been created a Commissioner in the Woodstock matter to +gratify Cromwell, Harrison to soothe the fierce Fifth-Monarchy men, and +Bletson as a sincere republican, and one of their own leaven. + +But if they supposed Bletson had the least intention of becoming a +martyr to his republicanism, or submitting to any serious loss on +account of it, they much mistook the man. He entertained their +principles sincerely and not the less that they were found +impracticable; for the miscarriage of his experiment no more converts +the political speculator, than the explosion of a retort undeceives an +alchymist. But Bletson was quite prepared to submit to Cromwell, or any +one else who might be possessed of the actual authority. He was a ready +subject in practice to the powers existing, and made little difference +betwixt various kinds of government, holding in theory all to be nearly +equal in imperfection, so soon as they diverged from the model of +Harrington’s Oceana. Cromwell had already been tampering with him, like +wax between his finger and thumb, and which he was ready shortly to +seal with, smiling at the same time to himself when he beheld the +Council of State giving rewards to Bletson, as their faithful adherent, +while he himself was secure of his allegiance, how soon soever the +expected change of government should take place. + +But Bletson was still more attached to his metaphysical than his +political creed, and carried his doctrines of the perfectibility of +mankind as far as he did those respecting the conceivable perfection of +a model of government; and as in the one case he declared against all +power which did not emanate from the people themselves, so, in his +moral speculations, he was unwilling to refer any of the phenomena of +nature to a final cause. When pushed, indeed, very hard, Bletson was +compelled to mutter some inarticulate and unintelligible doctrines +concerning an _Animus Mundi_, or Creative Power in the works of Nature, +by which she originally called into existence, and still continues to +preserve, her works. To this power, he said, some of the purest +metaphysicians rendered a certain degree of homage; nor was he himself +inclined absolutely to censure those, who, by the institution of +holydays, choral dances, songs, and harmless feasts and libations, +might be disposed to celebrate the great goddess Nature; at least +dancing, singing, feasting, and sporting, being conformable things to +both young and old, they might as well sport, dance, and feast, in +honour of such appointed holydays, as under any other pretext. But then +this moderate show of religion was to be practised under such +exceptions as are admitted by the Highgate oath; and no one was to be +compelled to dance, drink, sing, or feast, whose taste did not happen +to incline them to such divertisements; nor was any one to be obliged +to worship the creative power, whether under the name of the _Animus +Mundi_, or any other whatsoever. The interference of the Deity in the +affairs of mankind he entirely disowned, having proved to his own +satisfaction that the idea originated entirely in priestcraft. In +short, with the shadowy metaphysical exception aforesaid, Mr. Joshua +Bletson of Darlington, member for Littlefaith, came as near the +predicament of an atheist, as it is perhaps possible for a man to do. +But we say this with the necessary salvo; for we have known many like +Bletson, whose curtains have been shrewdly shaken by superstition, +though their fears were unsanctioned by any religious faith. The +devils, we are assured, believe and tremble; but on earth there are +many, who, in worse plight than even the natural children of perdition, +tremble without believing, and fear even while they blaspheme. + +It follows, of course, that nothing could be treated with more scorn by +Mr. Bletson, than the debates about Prelacy and Presbytery, about +Presbytery and Independency, about Quakers and Anabaptists, +Muggletonians and Brownists, and all the various sects with which the +Civil War had commenced, and by which its dissensions were still +continued. “It was,” he said, “as if beasts of burden should quarrel +amongst themselves about the fashion of their halters and pack-saddles, +instead of embracing a favourable opportunity of throwing them aside.” +Other witty and pithy remarks he used to make when time and place +suited; for instance, at the club called the Rota, frequented by St. +John, and established by Harrington, for the free discussion of +political and religious subjects. + +But when Bletson was out of this academy, or stronghold of philosophy, +he was very cautious how he carried his contempt of the general +prejudice in favour of religion and Christianity further than an +implied objection or a sneer. If he had an opportunity of talking in +private with an ingenuous and intelligent youth, he sometimes attempted +to make a proselyte, and showed much address in bribing the vanity of +inexperience, by suggesting that a mind like his ought to spurn the +prejudices impressed upon it in childhood; and when assuming the _latus +clavus_ of reason, assuring him that such as he, laying aside the +_bulla_ of juvenile incapacity, as Bletson called it, should proceed to +examine and decide for himself. It frequently happened, that the youth +was induced to adopt the doctrines in whole, or in part, of the sage +who had seen his natural genius, and who had urged him to exert it in +examining, detecting, and declaring for himself, and thus flattery gave +proselytes to infidelity, which could not have been gained by all the +powerful eloquence or artful sophistry of the infidel. + +These attempts to extend the influence of what was called freethinking +and philosophy, were carried on, as we have hinted, with a caution +dictated by the timidity of the philosopher’s disposition. He was +conscious his doctrines were suspected, and his proceedings watched, by +the two principal sects of Prelatists and Presbyterians, who, however +inimical to each other, were still more hostile to one who was an +opponent, not only to a church establishment of any kind, but to every +denomination of Christianity. He found it more easy to shroud himself +among the Independents, whose demands were for a general liberty of +conscience, or an unlimited toleration, and whose faith, differing in +all respects and particulars, was by some pushed into such wild errors, +as to get totally beyond the bounds of every species of Christianity, +and approach very near to infidelity itself, as extremes of each kind +are said to approach each other. Bletson mixed a good deal among those +sectaries; and such was his confidence in his own logic and address, +that he is supposed to have entertained hopes of bringing to his +opinions in time the enthusiastic Vane, as well as the no less +enthusiastic Harrison, provided he could but get them to resign their +visions of a Fifth Monarchy, and induce them to be contented with a +reign of Philosophers in England for the natural period of their lives, +instead of the reign of the Saints during the Millenium. + +Such was the singular group into which Everard was now introduced; +showing, in their various opinions, upon how many devious coasts human +nature may make shipwreck, when she has once let go her hold on the +anchor which religion has given her to lean upon; the acute +self-conceit and worldly learning of Bletson—the rash and ignorant +conclusions of the fierce and under-bred Harrison, leading them into +the opposite extremes of enthusiasm and infidelity, while Desborough, +constitutionally stupid, thought nothing about religion at all; and +while the others were active in making sail on different but equally +erroneous courses, he might be said to perish like a vessel, which +springs a leak and founders in the roadstead. It was wonderful to +behold what a strange variety of mistakes and errors, on the part of +the King and his Ministers, on the part of the Parliament and their +leaders, on the part of the allied kingdoms of Scotland and England +towards each other, had combined to rear up men of such dangerous +opinions and interested characters among the arbiters of the destiny of +Britain. + +Those who argue for party’s sake, will see all the faults on the one +side, without deigning to look at those on the other; those who study +history for instruction, will perceive that nothing but the want of +concession on either side, and the deadly height to which the animosity +of the King’s and Parliament’s parties had arisen, could have so +totally overthrown the well-poised balance of the English constitution. +But we hasten to quit political reflections, the rather that ours, we +believe, will please neither Whig nor Tory. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. + + +Three form a College—an you give us four, +Let him bring his share with him. + + +BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. + + +Mr. Bletson arose and paid his respects to Colonel Everard, with the +ease and courtesy of a gentleman of the time; though on every account +grieved at his intrusion, as a religious man who held his free-thinking +principles in detestation, and would effectually prevent his conversion +of Harrison, and even of Desborough, if any thing could be moulded out +of such a clod, to the worship of the _Animus Mundi_. Moreover, Bletson +knew Everard to be a man of steady probity, and by no means disposed to +close with a scheme on which he had successfully sounded the other two, +and which was calculated to assure the Commissioners of some little +private indemnification for the trouble they were to give themselves in +the public business. The philosopher was yet less pleased, when he saw +the magistrate the pastor who had met him in his flight of the +preceding evening, when he had been seen, _parma non bene relicta_, +with cloak and doublet left behind him. + +The presence of Colonel Everard was as unpleasing to Desborough as to +Bletson: but the former having no philosophy in him, nor an idea that +it was possible for any man to resist helping himself out of untold +money, was chiefly embarrassed by the thought, that the plunder which +they might be able to achieve out of their trust, might, by this +unwelcome addition to their number, be divided into four parts instead +of three; and this reflection added to the natural awkwardness with +which he grumbled forth a sort of welcome, addressed to Everard. + +As for Harrison, he remained like one on higher thoughts intent; his +posture unmoved, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as before, and in no way +indicating the least consciousness that the company had been more than +doubled around him. + +Meantime, Everard took his place at the table, as a man who assumed his +own right, and pointed to his companions to sit down nearer the foot of +the board. Wildrake so far misunderstood his signals, as to sit down +above the Mayor; but rallying his recollection at a look from his +patron, he rose and took his place lower, whistling, however, as he +went, a sound at which the company stared, as at a freedom highly +unbecoming. To complete his indecorum, he seized upon a pipe, and +filling it from a large tobacco-box, was soon immersed in a cloud of +his own raising; from which a hand shortly after emerged, seized on the +black-jack of ale, withdrew it within the vapoury sanctuary, and, after +a potential draught, replaced it upon the table, its owner beginning to +renew the cloud which his intermitted exercise of the tube had almost +allowed to subside. + +Nobody made any observation on his conduct, out of respect, probably, +to Colonel Everard, who bit his lip, but continued silent; aware that +censure might extract some escapade more unequivocally characteristic +of a cavalier, from his refractory companion. As silence seemed +awkward, and the others made no advances to break it, beyond the +ordinary salutation, Colonel Everard at length said, “I presume, +gentlemen, that you are somewhat surprised at my arrival here, and thus +intruding myself into your meeting?” + +“Why the dickens should we be surprised, Colonel?” said Desborough; “we +know his Excellency, my brother-in-law Noll’s—I mean my Lord Cromwell’s +way, of overquartering his men in the towns he marches through. Thou +hast obtained a share in our commission?” + +“And in that,” said Bletson, smiling and bowing, “the Lord-General has +given us the most acceptable colleague that could have been added to +our number. No doubt your authority for joining with us must be under +warrant of the Council of State?” + +“Of that, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, “I will presently advise +you.”—He took out his warrant accordingly, and was about to communicate +the contents; but observing that there were three or four half-empty +flasks upon the table, that Desborough looked more stupid than usual, +and that the philosopher’s eyes were reeling in his head, +notwithstanding the temperance of Bletson’s usual habits, he concluded +that they had been fortifying themselves against the horrors of the +haunted mansion, by laying in a store of what is called Dutch courage, +and therefore prudently resolved to postpone his more important +business with them till the cooler hour of morning. He, therefore, +instead of presenting the General’s warrant superseding their +commission, contented himself with replying,—“My business has, of +course, some reference to your proceedings here. But here is—excuse my +curiosity—a reverend gentleman,” pointing to Holdenough, “who has told +me that you are so strangely embarrassed here, as to require both the +civil and spiritual authority to enable you to keep possession of +Woodstock.” + +“Before we go into that matter,” said Bletson, blushing up to the eyes +at the recollection of his own fears, so manifestly displayed, yet so +inconsistent with his principles, “I should like to know who this other +stranger is, who has come with the worthy magistrate, and the no less +worthy Presbyterian?” + +“Meaning me?” said Wildrake, laying his pipe aside; “Gadzooks, the time +hath been that I could have answered the question with a better title; +but at present I am only his honour’s poor clerk, or secretary, +whichever is the current phrase.” + +“’Fore George, my lively blade, thou art a frank fellow of thy tattle,” +said Desborough. “There is my secretary Tomkins, whom men sillily +enough call Fibbet, and the honourable Lieutenant-General Harrison’s +secretary Bibbet, who are now at supper below stairs, that durst not +for their ears speak a phrase above their breath in the presence of +their betters, unless to answer a question.” + +“Yes, Colonel Everard,” said the philosopher, with his quiet smile, +glad, apparently, to divert the conversation from the topic of last +night’s alarm, and recollections which humbled his self-love and +self-satisfaction,—“yes; and when Master Fibbet and Master Bibbet _do_ +speak, their affirmations are as much in a common mould of mutual +attestation, as their names would accord in the verses of a poet. If +Master Fibbet happens to tell a fiction, Master Bibbet swears it as +truth. If Master Bibbet chances to have gotten drunk in the fear of the +Lord, Master Fibbet swears he is sober. I have called my own secretary +Gibbet, though his name chances to be only Gibeon, a worthy Israelite +at your service, but as pure a youth as ever picked a lamb-bone at +Paschal. But I call him Gibbet, merely to make up the holy trefoil with +another rhyme. This squire of thine, Colonel Everard, looks as if he +might be worthy to be coupled with the rest of the fraternity.” + +“Not I, truly,” said the cavalier; “I’ll be coupled with no Jew that +was ever whelped, and no Jewess neither.” + +“Scorn not for that, young man,” said the philosopher; “the Jews are, +in point of religion, the elder brethren, you know.” + +“The Jews older than the Christians?” said Desborough, “’fore George, +they will have thee before the General Assembly, Bletson, if thou +venturest to say so.” + +Wildrake laughed without ceremony at the gross ignorance of Desborough, +and was joined by a sniggling response from behind the cupboard, which, +when inquired into, proved to be produced by the serving-men. These +worthies, timorous as their betters, when they were supposed to have +left the room, had only withdrawn to their present place of +concealment. + +“How now, ye rogues,” said Bletson, angrily; “do you not know your duty +better?” + +“We beg your worthy honour’s pardon,” said one of the men, “but we +dared not go down stairs without a light.” + +“A light, ye cowardly poltroons?” said the philosopher; “what—to show +which of you looks palest when a rat squeaks?—but take a candlestick +and begone, you cowardly villains! the devils you are so much afraid of +must be but paltry kites, if they hawk at such bats as you are.” + +The servants, without replying, took up one of the candlesticks, and +prepared to retreat, Trusty Tomkins at the head of the troop, when +suddenly, as they arrived at the door of the parlour, which had been +left half open, it was shut violently. The three terrified domestics +tumbled back into the middle of the room, as if a shot had been +discharged in their face, and all who were at the table started to +their feet. + +Colonel Everard was incapable of a moment’s fear, even if any thing +frightful had been seen; but he remained stationary, to see what his +companions would do, and to get at the bottom, if possible, of the +cause of their alarm upon an occasion so trifling. The philosopher +seemed to think that _he_ was the person chiefly concerned to show +manhood on the occasion. + +He walked to the door accordingly, murmuring at the cowardice of the +servants; but at such a snail’s pace, that it seemed he would most +willingly have been anticipated by any one whom his reproaches had +roused to exertion. “Cowardly blockheads!” he said at last, seizing +hold of the handle of the door, but without turning it effectually +round— “dare you not open a door?”—(still fumbling with the lock)—“dare +you not go down a stair-case without a light? Here, bring me the +candle, you cowardly villains!—By Heaven, something sighs on the +outside!” + +As he spoke, he let go the handle of the parlour door, and stepped back +a pace or two into the apartment, with cheeks as pale as the band he +wore. + +“_Deus adjutor meus_!” said the Presbyterian clergyman, rising from his +seat. “Give place, sir,” addressing Bletson; “it would seem I know more +of this matter than thou, and I bless Heaven I am armed for the +conflict.” + +Bold as a grenadier about to mount a breach, yet with the same belief +in the existence of a great danger to be encountered, as well as the +same reliance in the goodness of his cause, the worthy man stepped +before the philosophical Bletson, and taking a light from a sconce in +one hand, quietly opened the door with the other, and standing in the +threshold, said, “Here is nothing!” + +“And who expected to see any thing,” said Bletson, “excepting those +terrified oafs, who take fright at every puff of wind that whistles +through the passages of this old dungeon?” + +“Mark you, Master Tomkins,” said one of the waiting-men in a whisper to +the steward,—“See how boldly the minister pressed forward before all of +them. Ah! Master Tomkins, our parson is the real commissioned officer +of the church—your lay-preachers are no better than a parcel of +club-men and volunteers.” + +“Follow me those who list,” said Master Holdenough, “or go before me +those who choose, I will walk through the habitable places of this +house before I leave it, and satisfy myself whether Satan hath really +mingled himself among these dreary dens of ancient wickedness, or +whether, like the wicked of whom holy David speaketh, we are afraid, +and flee when no one pursueth.” + +Harrison, who had heard these words, sprung from his seat, and drawing +his sword, exclaimed, “Were there as many fiends in the house as there +are hairs on my head, upon this cause I will charge them up to their +very trenches!” + +So saying, he brandished his weapon, and pressed to the head of the +column, where he moved side by side with the minister. The Mayor of +Woodstock next joined the body, thinking himself safer perhaps in the +company of his pastor; and the whole train moved forward in close +order, accompanied by the servants bearing lights, to search the Lodge +for some cause of that panic with which they seemed to be suddenly +seized. + +“Nay, take me with you, my friends,” said Colonel Everard, who had +looked on in surprise, and was now about to follow the party, when +Bletson laid hold on his cloak, and begged him to remain. + +“You see, my good Colonel,” he said, affecting a courage which his +shaking voice belied, “here are only you and I and honest Desborough +left behind in garrison, while all the others are absent on a sally. We +must not hazard the whole troops in one sortie—that were unmilitary—Ha, +ha, ha!” + +“In the name of Heaven, what means all this?” said Everard. “I heard a +foolish tale about apparitions as I came this way, and now I find you +all half mad with fear, and cannot get a word of sense among so many of +you. Fie, Colonel Desborough—fie, Master Bletson—try to compose +yourselves, and let me know, in Heaven’s name, the cause of all this +disturbance. One would be apt to think your brains were turned.” + +“And so mine well may,” said Desborough, “ay, and overturned too, since +my bed last night was turned upside down, and I was placed for ten +minutes heels uppermost, and head downmost, like a bullock going to be +shod.” + +“What means this nonsense, Master Bletson?—Desborough must have had the +nightmare.” + +“No, faith, Colonel; the goblins, or whatever else they were, had been +favourable to honest Desborough, for they reposed the whole of his +person on that part of his body which—Hark, did you not hear +something?—is the central point of gravity, namely, his head.” + +“Did you see any thing to alarm you?” said the Colonel. + +“Nothing,” said Bletson; “but we heard hellish noises, as all our +people did; and I, believing little of ghosts and apparitions, +concluded the cavaliers were taking us at advantage; so, remembering +Rainsborough’s fate, I e’en jumped the window, and ran to Woodstock, to +call the soldiers to the rescue of Harrison and Desborough.” + +“And did you not first go to see what the danger was?” + +“Ah, my good friend, you forget that I laid down my commission at the +time of the self-denying ordinance. It would have been quite +inconsistent with my duty as a Parliament-man to be brawling amidst a +set of ruffians, without any military authority. No—when the Parliament +commanded me to sheath my sword, Colonel, I have too much veneration +for their authority to be found again with it drawn in my hand.” + +“But the Parliament,” said Desborough, hastily, “did not command you to +use your heels when your hands could have saved a man from choking. +Odds dickens! you might have stopped when you saw my bed canted heels +uppermost, and me half stifled in the bed-clothes—you might, I say, +have stopped and lent a hand to put it to rights, instead of jumping +out of the window, like a new-shorn sheep, so soon as you had run +across my room.” + +“Nay, worshipful Master Desborough,” said Bletson, winking at Everard, +to show that he was playing on his thick-sculled colleague, “how could +I tell your particular mode of reposing?—there are many tastes—I have +known men who slept by choice on a slope or angle of forty-five.” + +“Yes, but did ever a man sleep standing on his head, except by +miracle?” said Desborough. + +“Now, as to miracles”—said the philosopher, confident in the presence +of Everard, besides that an opportunity of scoffing at religion really +in some degree diverted his fear—“I leave these out of the question, +seeing that the evidence on such subjects seems as little qualified to +carry conviction as a horse-hair to land a leviathan.” + +A loud clap of thunder, or a noise as formidable, rang through the +Lodge as the scoffer had ended, which struck him pale and motionless, +and made Desborough throw himself on his knees, and repeat exclamations +and prayers in much admired confusion. + +“There must be contrivance here,” exclaimed Everard; and snatching one +of the candles from a sconce, he rushed out of the apartment, little +heeding the entreaties of the philosopher, who, in the extremity of his +distress, conjured him by the _Animus Mundi_ to remain to the +assistance of a distressed philosopher endangered by witches, and a +Parliament-man assaulted by ruffians. As for Desborough, he only gaped +like a clown in a pantomime; and, doubtful whether to follow or stop, +his natural indolence prevailed, and he sat still. + +When on the landing-place of the stairs, Everard paused a moment to +consider which was the best course to take. He heard the voices of men +talking fast and loud, like people who wish to drown their fears, in +the lower story; and aware that nothing could be discovered by those +whose inquiries were conducted in a manner so noisy, he resolved to +proceed in a different direction, and examine the second floor, which +he had now gained. + +He had known every corner, both of the inhabited and uninhabited part +of the mansion, and availed himself of the candle to traverse two or +three intricate passages, which he was afraid he might not remember +with sufficient accuracy. This movement conveyed him to a sort of +_oeil-de-boeuf_, an octagon vestibule, or small hall, from which +various rooms opened. Amongst these doors, Everard selected that which +led to a very long, narrow, and dilapidated gallery, built in the time +of Henry VIII., and which, running along the whole south-west side of +the building, communicated at different points with the rest of the +mansion. This he thought was likely to be the post occupied by those +who proposed to act the sprites upon the occasion; especially as its +length and shape gave him some idea that it was a spot where the bold +thunder might in many ways be imitated. + +Determined to ascertain the truth if possible, he placed his light on a +table in the vestibule, and applied himself to open the door into the +gallery. At this point he found himself strongly opposed either by a +bolt drawn, or, as he rather conceived, by somebody from within +resisting his attempt. He was induced to believe the latter, because +the resistance slackened and was renewed, like that of human strength, +instead of presenting the permanent opposition of an inanimate +obstacle. Though Everard was a strong and active young man, he +exhausted his strength in the vain attempt to open the door; and having +paused to take breath, was about to renew his efforts with foot and +shoulder, and to call at the same time for assistance, when to his +surprise, on again attempting the door more gently, in order to +ascertain if possible where the strength of the opposing obstacle was +situated, he found it gave way to a very slight impulse, some +impediment fell broken to the ground, and the door flew wide open. The +gust of wind, occasioned by the sudden opening of the door, blew out +the candle, and Everard was left in darkness, save where the moonshine, +which the long side-row of latticed windows dimmed, could imperfectly +force its way into the gallery, which lay in ghostly length before him. + +The melancholy and doubtful twilight was increased by a quantity of +creeping plants on the outside, which, since all had been neglected in +these ancient halls, now completely overgrown, had in some instances +greatly diminished, and in others almost quite choked up, the space of +the lattices, extending between the heavy stone shaftwork which divided +the windows, both lengthways and across. On the other side there were +no windows at all, and the gallery had been once hung round with +paintings, chiefly portraits, by which that side of the apartment had +been adorned. Most of the pictures had been removed, yet the empty +frames of some, and the tattered remnants of others, were still visible +along the extent of the waste gallery; the look of which was so +desolate, and it appeared so well adapted for mischief, supposing there +were enemies near him, that Everard could not help pausing at the +entrance, and recommending himself to God, ere, drawing his sword, he +advanced into the apartment, treading as lightly as possible, and +keeping in the shadow as much as he could. + +Markham Everard was by no means superstitious, but he had the usual +credulity of the times; and though he did not yield easily to tales of +supernatural visitations, yet he could not help thinking he was in the +very situation, where, if such things were ever permitted, they might +be expected to take place, while his own stealthy and ill-assured pace, +his drawn weapon, and extended arms, being the very attitude and action +of doubt and suspicion, tended to increase in his mind the gloomy +feelings of which they are the usual indications, and with which they +are constantly associated. Under such unpleasant impressions, and +conscious of the neighbourhood of something unfriendly, Colonel Everard +had already advanced about half along the gallery, when he heard some +one sigh very near him, and a low soft voice pronounce his name. + +“Here I am,” he replied, while his heart beat thick and short. “Who +calls on Markham Everard?” + +Another sigh was the only answer. + +“Speak,” said the Colonel, “whoever or whatsoever you are, and tell +with what intent and purpose you are lurking in these apartments?” + +“With a better intent than yours,” returned the soft voice. + +“Than mine!” answered Everard in great surprise. “Who are you that dare +judge of my intents?” + +“What, or who are you, Markham Everard, who wander by moonlight through +these deserted halls of royalty, where none should be but those who +mourn their downfall, or are sworn to avenge it?” + +“It is—and yet it cannot be,” said Everard; “yet it is, and must be. +Alice Lee, the devil or you speaks. Answer me, I conjure you!—speak +openly—on what dangerous scheme are you engaged? where is your father? +why are you here?—wherefore do you run so deadly a venture?—Speak, I +conjure you, Alice Lee!” + +“She whom you call on is at the distance of miles from this spot. What +if her Genius speaks when she is absent?—what if the soul of an +ancestress of hers and yours were now addressing you?—what if”— + +“Nay,” answered Everard, “but what if the dearest of human beings has +caught a touch of her father’s enthusiasm?—what if she is exposing her +person to danger, her reputation to scandal, by traversing in disguise +and darkness a house filled with armed men? Speak to me, my fair +cousin, in your own person. I am furnished with powers to protect my +uncle, Sir Henry—to protect you too, dearest Alice, even against the +consequences of this visionary and wild attempt. Speak—I see where you +are, and, with all my respect, I cannot submit to be thus practised +upon. Trust me—trust your cousin Markham with your hand, and believe +that he will die or place you in honourable safety.” + +As he spoke, he exercised his eyes as keenly as possible to detect +where the speaker stood; and it seemed to him, that about three yards +from him there was a shadowy form, of which he could not discern even +the outline, placed as it was within the deep and prolonged shadow +thrown by a space of wall intervening betwixt two windows, upon that +side of the room from which the light was admitted. He endeavoured to +calculate, as well as he could, the distance betwixt himself and the +object which he watched, under the impression, that if, by even using a +slight degree of compulsion, he could detach his beloved Alice from the +confederacy into which he supposed her father’s zeal for the cause of +royalty had engaged her, he would be rendering them both the most +essential favour. He could not indeed but conclude, that however +successfully the plot which he conceived to be in agitation had +proceeded against the timid Bletson, the stupid Desborough, and the +crazy Harrison, there was little doubt that at length their artifices +must necessarily bring shame and danger on those engaged in it. + +It must also be remembered, that Everard’s affection to his cousin, +although of the most respectful and devoted character, partook less of +the distant veneration which a lover of those days entertained for the +lady whom he worshipped with humble diffidence, than of the fond and +familiar feelings which a brother entertains towards a younger sister, +whom he thinks himself entitled to guide, advise, and even in some +degree to control. So kindly and intimate had been their intercourse, +that he had little more hesitation in endeavouring to arrest her +progress in the dangerous course in which she seemed to be engaged, +even at the risk of giving her momentary offence, than he would have +had in snatching her from a torrent or conflagration, at the chance of +hurting her by the violence of his grasp. All this passed through his +mind in the course of a single minute; and he resolved at all events to +detain her on the spot, and compel, if possible, an explanation from +her. + +With this purpose, Everard again conjured his cousin, in the name of +Heaven, to give up this idle and dangerous mummery; and lending an +accurate ear to her answer, endeavoured from the sound to calculate as +nearly as possible the distance between them. + +“I am not she for whom you take me,” said the voice; “and dearer +regards than aught connected with her life or death, bid me warn you to +keep aloof, and leave this place.” + +“Not till I have convinced you of your childish folly,” said the +Colonel, springing forward, and endeavouring to catch hold of her who +spoke to him. But no female form was within his grasp. On the contrary, +he was met by a shock which could come from no woman’s arm, and which +was rude enough to stretch him on his back on the floor. At the same +time he felt the point of a sword at his throat, and his hands so +completely mastered, that not the slightest defence remained to him. + +“A cry for assistance,” said a voice near him, but not that which he +had hitherto heard, “will be stifled in your blood!—No harm is meant +you—be wise and be silent.” + +The fear of death, which Everard had often braved in the field of +battle, became more intense as he felt himself in the hands of unknown +assassins, and totally devoid of all means of defence. The sharp point +of the sword pricked his bare throat, and the foot of him who held it +was upon his breast. He felt as if a single thrust would put an end to +life, and all the feverish joys and sorrows which agitate us so +strangely, and from which we are yet so reluctant to part. Large drops +of perspiration stood upon his forehead—his heart throbbed, as if it +would burst from its confinement in the bosom—he experienced the agony +which fear imposes on the brave man, acute in proportion to that which +pain inflicts when it subdues the robust and healthy. + +“Cousin Alice,”—he attempted to speak, and the sword’s point pressed +his throat yet more closely,—“Cousin, let me not be murdered in a +manner so fearful!” + +“I tell you,” replied the voice, “that you speak to one who is not +here; but your life is not aimed at, provided you swear on your faith +as a Christian, and your honour as a gentleman, that you will conceal +what has happened, whether from the people below, or from any other +person. On this condition you may rise; and if you seek her, you will +find Alice Lee at Joceline’s cottage, in the forest.” + +“Since I may not help myself otherwise,” said Everard, “I swear, as I +have a sense of religion and honour, I will say nothing of this +violence, nor make any search after those who are concerned in it.” + +“For that we care nothing,” said the voice. “Thou hast an example how +well thou mayst catch mischief on thy own part; but we are in case to +defy thee. Rise, and begone!” + +The foot, the sword’s-point, were withdrawn, and Everard was about to +start up hastily, when the voice, in the same softness of tone which +distinguished it at first, said, “No haste—cold and bare steel is yet +around thee. Now—now—now—(the words dying away as at a distance)— thou +art free. Be secret and be safe.” + +Markham Everard arose, and, in rising, embarrassed his feet with his +own sword, which he had dropped when springing forward, as he supposed, +to lay hold of his fair cousin. He snatched it up in haste, and as his +hand clasped the hilt, his courage, which had given way under the +apprehension of instant death, began to return; he considered, with +almost his usual composure, what was to be done next. Deeply affronted +at the disgrace which he had sustained, he questioned for an instant +whether he ought to keep his extorted promise, or should not rather +summon assistance, and make haste to discover and seize those who had +been recently engaged in such violence on his person. But these +persons, be they who they would, had had his life in their power—he had +pledged his word in ransom of it—and what was more, he could not divest +himself of the idea that his beloved Alice was a confidant, at least, +if not an actor, in the confederacy which had thus baffled him. This +prepossession determined his conduct; for, though angry at supposing +she must have been accessory to his personal ill-treatment, he could +not in any event think of an instant search through the mansion, which +might have compromised her safety, or that of his uncle. “But I will to +the hut,” he said—“I will instantly to the hut, ascertain her share in +this wild and dangerous confederacy, and snatch her from ruin, if it be +possible.” + +As, under the influence of the resolution which he had formed, Everard +groped his way through the gallery and regained the vestibule, he heard +his name called by the well-known voice of Wildrake. “What—ho!— +holloa!—Colonel Everard—Mark Everard—it is dark as the devil’s +mouth—speak—where are you?—The witches are keeping their hellish +sabbath here, as I think.—Where are you?” + +“Here, here!” answered Everard. “Cease your bawling. Turn to the left, +and you will meet me.” + +Guided by his voice, Wildrake soon appeared, with a light in one hand, +and his drawn sword in the other. “Where have you been?” he said—“What +has detained you?—Here are Bletson and the brute Desborough terrified +out of their lives, and Harrison raving mad, because the devil will not +be civil enough to rise to fight him in single _duello_.” + +“Saw or heard you nothing as you came along?” said Everard. + +“Nothing,” said his friend, “excepting that when I first entered this +cursed ruinous labyrinth, the light was struck out of my hand, as if by +a switch, which obliged me to return for another.” + +“I must come by a horse instantly, Wildrake, and another for thyself, +if it be possible.” + +“We can take two of those belonging to the troopers,” answered +Wildrake. “But for what purpose should we run away, like rats, at this +time in the evening?—Is the house falling?” + +“I cannot answer you,” said the Colonel, pushing forward into a room +where there were some remains of furniture. + +Here the cavalier took a more strict view of his person, and exclaimed +in wonder, “What the devil have you been fighting with, Markham, that +has bedizened you after this sorry fashion?” + +“Fighting!” exclaimed Everard. + +“Yes,” replied his trusty attendant. “I say fighting. Look at yourself +in the mirror.” + +He did, and saw he was covered with dust and blood. The latter +proceeded from a scratch which he had received in the throat, as he +struggled to extricate himself. With unaffected alarm, Wildrake undid +his friend’s collar, and with eager haste proceeded to examine the +wound, his hands trembling, and his eyes glistening with apprehension +for his benefactor’s life. When, in spite of Everard’s opposition, he +had examined the hurt, and found it trifling, he resumed the natural +wildness of his character, perhaps the more readily that he had felt +shame in departing from it, into one which expressed more of feeling +than he would be thought to possess. + +“If that be the devil’s work, Mark,” said he, “the foul fiend’s claws +are not nigh so formidable as they are represented; but no one shall +say that your blood has been shed unrevenged, while Roger Wildrake was +by your side. Where left you this same imp? I will back to the field of +fight, confront him with my rapier, and were his nails tenpenny nails, +and his teeth as long as those of a harrow, he shall render me reason +for the injury he has done you.” + +“Madness—madness!” exclaimed Everard; “I had this trifling hurt by a +fall—a basin and towel will wipe it away. Meanwhile, if you will ever +do me kindness, get the troop-horses—command them for the service of +the public, in the name of his Excellency the General. I will but wash, +and join you in an instant before the gate.” + +“Well, I will serve you, Everard, as a mute serves the Grand Signior, +without knowing why or wherefore. But will you go without seeing these +people below?” + +“Without seeing any one,” said Everard; “lose no time, for God’s sake.” + +He found out the non-commissioned officer, and demanded the horses in a +tone of authority, to which the corporal yielded undisputed obedience, +as one well aware of Colonel Everard’s military rank and consequence. +So all was in a minute or two ready for the expedition. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. + + + She kneeled, and saintlike +Cast her eyes to heaven, and pray’d devoutly. + + +KING HENRY VIII. + + +Colonel Everard’s departure at the late hour, for, so it was then +thought, of seven in the evening, excited much speculation. There was a +gathering of menials and dependents in the outer chamber or hall, for +no one doubted that his sudden departure was owing to his having, as +they expressed it, “seen something,” and all desired to know how a man +of such acknowledged courage as Everard, looked under the awe of a +recent apparition. But he gave them no time to make comments; for, +striding through the hall wrapt in his riding suit, he threw himself on +horseback, and rode furiously through the Chase, towards the hut of the +keeper Joliffe. + +It was the disposition of Markham Everard to be hot, keen, earnest, +impatient, and decisive to a degree of precipitation. The acquired +habits which education had taught, and which the strong moral and +religious discipline of his sect had greatly strengthened, were such as +to enable him to conceal, as well as to check, this constitutional +violence, and to place him upon his guard against indulging it. But +when in the high tide of violent excitation, the natural impetuosity of +the young soldier’s temper was sometimes apt to overcome these +artificial obstacles, and then, like a torrent foaming over a wear, it +became more furious, as if in revenge for the constrained calm which it +had been for some time obliged to assume. In these instances he was +accustomed to see only that point to which his thoughts were bent, and +to move straight towards it, whether a moral object, or the storming of +a breach, without either calculating, or even appearing to see, the +difficulties which were before him. + +At present, his ruling and impelling motive was to detach his beloved +cousin, if possible, from the dangerous and discreditable machinations +in which he suspected her to have engaged, or, on the other hand, to +discover that she really had no concern with these stratagems. He +should know how to judge of that in some measure, he thought, by +finding her present or absent at the hut, towards which he was now +galloping. He had read, indeed, in some ballad or minstrel’s tale, of a +singular deception practised on a jealous old man, by means of a +subterranean communication between his house and that of a neighbour, +which the lady in question made use of to present herself in the two +places alternately, with such speed, and so much address, that, after +repeated experiments, the dotard was deceived into the opinion, that +his wife, and the lady who was so very like her, and to whom his +neighbour paid so much attention, were two different persons. But in +the present case there was no room for such a deception; the distance +was too great, and as he took by much the nearest way from the castle, +and rode full speed, it would be impossible, he knew, for his cousin, +who was a timorous horsewoman even by daylight, to have got home before +him. + +Her father might indeed be displeased at his interference; but what +title had he to be so?—Was not Alice Lee the near relation of his +blood, the dearest object of his heart, and would he now abstain from +an effort to save her from the consequences of a silly and wild +conspiracy, because the old knight’s spleen might be awakened by +Everard’s making his appearance at their present dwelling contrary to +his commands? No. He would endure the old man’s harsh language, as he +endured the blast of the autumn wind, which was howling around him, and +swinging the crashing branches of the trees under which he passed, but +could not oppose, or even retard, his journey. + +If he found not Alice, as he had reason to believe she would be absent, +to Sir Henry Lee himself he would explain what he had witnessed. +However she might have become accessory to the juggling tricks +performed at Woodstock, he could not but think it was without her +father’s knowledge, so severe a judge was the old knight of female +propriety, and so strict an assertor of female decorum. He would take +the same opportunity, he thought, of stating to him the well-grounded +hopes he entertained, that his dwelling at the Lodge might be +prolonged, and the sequestrators removed from the royal mansion and +domains, by other means than those of the absurd species of +intimidation which seemed to be resorted to, to scare them from thence. + +All this seemed to be so much within the line of his duty as a +relative, that it was not until he halted at the door of the ranger’s +hut, and threw his bridle into Wildrake’s hand, that Everard +recollected the fiery, high, and unbending character of Sir Henry Lee, +and felt, even when his fingers were on the latch, a reluctance to +intrude himself upon the presence of the irritable old knight. + +But there was no time for hesitation. Bevis, who had already bayed more +than once from within the Lodge, was growing impatient, and Everard had +but just time to bid Wildrake hold the horses until he should send +Joceline to his assistance, when old Joan unpinned the door, to demand +who was without at that time of the night. To have attempted anything +like an explanation with poor dame Joan, would have been quite +hopeless; the Colonel, therefore, put her gently aside, and shaking +himself loose from the hold she had laid on his cloak, entered the +kitchen of Joceline’s dwelling. Bevis, who had advanced to support Joan +in her opposition, humbled his lion-port, with that wonderful instinct +which makes his race remember so long those with whom they have been +familiar, and acknowledged his master’s relative, by doing homage in +his fashion, with his head and tail. + +Colonel Everard, more uncertain in his purpose every moment as the +necessity of its execution drew near, stole over the floor like one who +treads in a sick chamber, and opening the door of the interior +apartment with a slow and trembling hand, as he would have withdrawn +the curtains of a dying friend, he saw, within, the scene which we are +about to describe. + +Sir Henry Lee sat in a wicker arm-chair by the fire. He was wrapped in +a cloak, and his limbs extended on a stool, as if he were suffering +from gout or indisposition. His long white beard flowing over the +dark-coloured garment, gave him more the appearance of a hermit than of +an aged soldier or man of quality; and that character was increased by +the deep and devout attention with which he listened to a respectable +old man, whose dilapidated dress showed still something of the clerical +habit, and who, with a low, but full and deep voice, was reading the +Evening Service according to the Church of England. Alice Lee kneeled +at the feet of her father, and made the responses with a voice that +might have suited the choir of angels; and a modest and serious +devotion, which suited the melody of her tone. The face of the +officiating clergyman would have been good-looking, had it not been +disfigured with a black patch which covered the left eye and a part of +his face, and had not the features which were visible been marked with +the traces of care and suffering. + +When Colonel Everard entered, the clergyman raised his finger, as +cautioning him to forbear disturbing the divine service of the evening, +and pointed to a seat; to which, struck deeply with the scene he had +witnessed, the intruder stole with as light a step as possible, and +knelt devoutly down as one of the little congregation. + +Everard had been bred by his father what was called a Puritan; a member +of a sect who, in the primitive sense of the word, were persons that +did not except against the doctrines of the Church of England, or even +in all respects against its hierarchy, but chiefly dissented from it on +the subject of certain ceremonies, habits, and forms of ritual, which +were insisted upon by the celebrated and unfortunate Laud with +ill-timed tenacity. But even if, from the habits of his father’s house, +Everard’s opinions had been diametrically opposed to the doctrines of +the English Church, he must have been reconciled to them by the +regularity with which the service was performed in his uncle’s family +at Woodstock, who, during the blossom of his fortunes, generally had a +chaplain residing in the Lodge for that special purpose. + +Yet deep as was the habitual veneration with which he heard the +impressive service of the Church, Everard’s eyes could not help +straying towards Alice, and his thoughts wandering to the purpose of +his presence there. She seemed to have recognised him at once, for +there was a deeper glow than usual upon her cheek, her fingers trembled +as they turned the leaves of her prayerbook, and her voice, lately as +firm as it was melodious, faltered when she repeated the responses. It +appeared to Everard, as far as he could collect by the stolen glances +which he directed towards her, that the character of her beauty, as +well as of her outward appearance, had changed with her fortunes. + +The beautiful and high-born young lady had now approached as nearly as +possible to the brown stuff dress of an ordinary village maiden; but +what she had lost in gaiety of appearance, she had gained as it seemed +in dignity. Her beautiful light-brown tresses, now folded around her +head, and only curled where nature had so arranged them, gave her an +air of simplicity, which did not exist when her head-dress showed the +skill of a curious tire-woman. A light joyous air, with something of a +humorous expression, which seemed to be looking for amusement, had +vanished before the touch of affliction, and a calm melancholy supplied +its place, which seemed on the watch to administer comfort to others. +Perhaps the former arch, though innocent expression of countenance, was +uppermost in her lover’s recollection, when he concluded that Alice had +acted a part in the disturbances which had taken place at the Lodge. It +is certain, that when he now looked upon her, it was with shame for +having nourished such a suspicion, and the resolution to believe rather +that the devil had imitated her voice, than that a creature, who seemed +so much above the feelings of this world, and so nearly allied to the +purity of the next, should have had the indelicacy to mingle in such +manoeuvres as he himself and others had been subjected to. + +These thoughts shot through his mind, in spite of the impropriety of +indulging them at such a moment. The service now approached the close, +and a good deal to Colonel Everard’s surprise, as well as confusion, +the officiating priest, in firm and audible tone, and with every +attribute of dignity, prayed to the Almighty to bless and preserve “Our +Sovereign Lord, King Charles, the lawful and undoubted King of these +realms.” The petition (in those days most dangerous) was pronounced +with a full, raised, and distinct articulation, as if the priest +challenged all who heard him to dissent, if they dared. If the +republican officer did not assent to the petition, he thought at least +it was no time to protest against it. + +The service was concluded in the usual manner, and the little +congregation arose. It now included Wildrake, who had entered during +the latter prayer, and was the first of the party to speak, running up +to the priest, and shaking him by the hand most heartily, swearing at +the same time, that he truly rejoiced to see him. The good clergyman +returned the pressure with a smile, observing he should have believed +his asseveration without an oath. In the meanwhile, Colonel Everard, +approaching his uncle’s seat, made a deep inclination of respect, first +to Sir Henry Lee, and then to Alice, whose colour now spread from her +cheek to her brow and bosom. + +“I have to crave your excuse,” said the Colonel with hesitation, “for +having chosen for my visit, which I dare not hope would be very +agreeable at any time, a season most peculiarly unsuitable.” + +“So far from it, nephew,” answered Sir Henry, with much more mildness +of manner than Everard had dared to expect, “that your visits at other +times would be much more welcome, had we the fortune to see you often +at our hours of worship.” + +“I hope the time will soon come, sir, when Englishmen of all sects and +denominations,” replied Everard, “will be free in conscience to worship +in common the great Father, whom they all after their manner call by +that affectionate name.” + +“I hope so too, nephew,” said the old man in the same unaltered tone; +“and we will not at present dispute, whether you would have the Church +of England coalesce with the Conventicle, or the Conventicle conform to +the Church. It was, I ween, not to settle jarring creeds, that you have +honoured our poor dwelling, where, to say the truth, we dared scarce +have expected to see you again, so coarse was our last welcome.” + +“I should be happy to believe,” said Colonel Everard, hesitating, +“that—that—in short my presence was not now so unwelcome here as on +that occasion.” + +“Nephew,” said Sir Henry, “I will be frank with you. When you were last +here, I thought you had stolen from me a precious pearl, which at one +time it would have been my pride and happiness to have bestowed on you; +but which, being such as you have been of late, I would bury in the +depths of the earth rather than give to your keeping. This somewhat +chafed, as honest Will says, ‘the rash humour which my mother gave me.’ +I thought I was robbed, and I thought I saw the robber before me. I am +mistaken—I am not robbed; and the attempt without the deed I can +pardon.” + +“I would not willingly seek offence in your words, sir,” said Colonel +Everard, “when their general purport sounds kind; but I can protest +before Heaven, that my views and wishes towards you and your family are +as void of selfish hopes and selfish ends, as they are fraught with +love to you and to yours.” + +“Let us hear them, man; we are not much accustomed to good wishes +now-a-days; and their very rarity will make them welcome.” + +“I would willingly, Sir Henry, since you might not choose me to give +you a more affectionate name, convert those wishes into something +effectual for your comfort. Your fate, as the world now stands, is bad, +and, I fear, like to be worse.” + +“Worse than I expect it cannot be. Nephew, I do not shrink before my +changes of fortune. I shall wear coarser clothes,—I shall feed on more +ordinary food,—men will not doff their cap to me as they were wont, +when I was the great and the wealthy. What of that? Old Harry Lee loved +his honour better than his title, his faith better than his land and +lordship. Have I not seen the 30th of January? I am neither Philomath +nor astrologer; but old Will teaches me, that when green leaves fall +winter is at hand, and that darkness will come when the sun sets.” + +“Bethink you, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “if, without any submission +asked, any oath taken, any engagement imposed, express or tacit, +excepting that you are not to excite disturbances in the public peace, +you can be restored to your residence in the Lodge, and your usual +fortunes and perquisities there—I have great reason to hope this may be +permitted, if not expressly, at least on sufferance.” + +“Yes, I understand you. I am to be treated like the royal coin, marked +with the ensign of the Rump to make it pass current, although I am too +old to have the royal insignia grinded off from me. Kinsman, I will +have none of this. I have lived at the Lodge too long; and let me tell +you, I had left it in scorn long since, but for the orders of one whom +I may yet live to do service to. I will take nothing from the usurpers, +be their name Rump or Cromwell—be they one devil or legion—I will not +take from them an old cap to cover my grey hairs—a cast cloak to +protect my frail limbs from the cold. They shall not say they have, by +their unwilling bounty, made Abraham rich—I will live, as I will die, +the Loyal Lee.” + +“May I hope you will think of it, sir; and that you will, perhaps, +considering what slight submission is asked, give me a better answer?” + +“Sir, if I retract my opinion, which is not my wont, you shall hear of +it.—And now, cousin, have you more to say? We keep that worthy +clergyman in the outer room.” + +“Something I had to say—something touching my cousin Alice,” said +Everard, with embarrassment; “but I fear that the prejudices of both +are so strong against me”— + +“Sir, I dare turn my daughter loose to you—I will go join the good +doctor in dame Joan’s apartment. I am not unwilling that you should +know that the girl hath, in all reasonable sort, the exercise of her +free will.” + +He withdrew, and left the cousins together. + +Colonel Everard advanced to Alice, and was about to take her hand. She +drew back, took the seat which her father had occupied, and pointed out +to him one at some distance. + +“Are we then so much estranged, my dearest Alice?” he said. + +“We will speak of that presently,” she replied. “In the first place, +let me ask the cause of your visit here at so late an hour.” + +“You heard,” said Everard, “what I stated to your father?” + +“I did; but that seems to have been only part of your errand—something +there seemed to be which applied particularly to me.” + +“It was a fancy—a strange mistake,” answered Everard. “May I ask if you +have been abroad this evening?” + +“Certainly not,” she replied. “I have small temptation to wander from +my present home, poor as it is; and whilst here, I have important +duties to discharge. But why does Colonel Everard ask so strange a +question?” + +“Tell me in turn, why your cousin Markham has lost the name of +friendship and kindred, and even of some nearer feeling, and then I +will answer you, Alice?” + +“It is soon answered,” she said. “When you drew your sword against my +father’s cause—almost against his person—I studied, more than I should +have done, to find excuse for you. I knew, that is, I thought I knew +your high feelings of public duty—I knew the opinions in which you had +been bred up; and I said, I will not, even for this, cast him off—he +opposes his King because he is loyal to his country. You endeavoured to +avert the great and concluding tragedy of the 30th of January; and it +confirmed me in my opinion, that Markham Everard might be misled, but +could not be base or selfish.” + +“And what has changed your opinion, Alice? or who dare,” said Everard, +reddening, “attach such epithets to the name of Markham Everard?” + +“I am no subject,” she said, “for exercising your valour, Colonel +Everard, nor do I mean to offend. But you will find enough of others +who will avow, that Colonel Everard is truckling to the usurper +Cromwell, and that all his fair pretexts of forwarding his country’s +liberties, are but a screen for driving a bargain with the successful +encroacher, and obtaining the best terms he can for himself and his +family.” + +“For myself—never!” + +“But for your family you have—Yes, I am well assured that you have +pointed out to the military tyrant, the way in which he and his satraps +may master the government. Do you think my father or I would accept an +asylum purchased at the price of England’s liberty, and your honour?” + +“Gracious Heaven, Alice, what is this? You accuse me of pursuing the +very course which so lately had your approbation!” + +“When you spoke with authority of your father, and recommended our +submission to the existing government, such as it was, I own I +thought—that my father’s grey head might, without dishonour, have +remained under the roof where it had so long been sheltered. But did +your father sanction your becoming the adviser of yonder ambitious +soldier to a new course of innovation, and his abettor in the +establishment of a new species of tyranny?—It is one thing to submit to +oppression, another to be the agent of tyrants—And O, Markham—their +bloodhound!” + +“How! bloodhound?—what mean you?—I own it is true I could see with +content the wounds of this bleeding country stanched, even at the +expense of beholding Cromwell, after his matchless rise, take a yet +farther step to power—but to be his bloodhound! What is your meaning?” + +“It is false, then?—I thought I could swear it had been false.” + +“What, in the name of God, is it you ask?” + +“It is false that you are engaged to betray the young King of +Scotland?” + +“Betray him! _I_ betray him, or any fugitive? Never! I would he were +well out of England—I would lend him my aid to escape, were he in the +house at this instant; and think in acting so I did his enemies good +service, by preventing their soiling themselves with his blood—but +betray him, never!” + +“I knew it—I was sure it was impossible. Oh, be yet more honest; +disengage yourself from yonder gloomy and ambitious soldier! Shun him +and his schemes, which are formed in injustice, and can only be +realized in yet more blood!” + +“Believe me,” replied Everard, “that I choose the line of policy best +befitting the times.” + +“Choose that,” she said, “which best befits duty, Markham—which best +befits truth and honour. Do your duty, and let Providence decide the +rest.—Farewell! we tempt my father’s patience too far—you know his +temper—farewell, Markham.” + +She extended her hand, which he pressed to his lips, and left the +apartment. A silent bow to his uncle, and a sign to Wildrake, whom he +found in the kitchen of the cabin, were the only tokens of recognition +exhibited, and leaving the hut, he was soon mounted, and, with his +companion, advanced on his return to the Lodge. + + + + +CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. + + +Deeds are done on earth +Which have their punishment ere the earth closes +Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working +Of the remorse-stirr’d fancy, or the vision, +Distinct and real, of unearthly being, +All ages witness, that beside the couch +Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost +Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy wound. + + +OLD PLAY. + + +Everard had come to Joceline’s hut as fast as horse could bear him, and +with the same impetuosity of purpose as of speed. He saw no choice in +the course to be pursued, and felt in his own imagination the strongest +right to direct, and even reprove, his cousin, beloved as she was, on +account of the dangerous machinations with which she appeared to have +connected herself. He returned slowly, and in a very different mood. + +Not only had Alice, prudent as beautiful, appeared completely free from +the weakness of conduct which seemed to give him some authority over +her, but her views of policy, if less practicable, were so much more +direct and noble than his own, as led him to question whether he had +not compromised himself too rashly with Cromwell, even although the +state of the country was so greatly divided and torn by faction, that +the promotion of the General to the possession of the executive +government seemed the only chance of escaping a renewal of the Civil +War. The more exalted and purer sentiments of Alice lowered him in his +own eyes; and though unshaken in his opinion, that it were better the +vessel should be steered by a pilot having no good title to the office, +than that she should run upon the breakers, he felt that he was not +espousing the most direct, manly, and disinterested side of the +question. + +As he rode on, immersed in these unpleasant contemplations, and +considerably lessened in his own esteem by what had happened, Wildrake, +who rode by his side, and was no friend to long silence, began to enter +into conversation. “I have been thinking, Mark,” said he, “that if you +and I had been called to the bar—as, by the by, has been in danger of +happening to me in more senses than one—I say, had we become +barristers, I would have had the better oiled tongue of the two—the +fairer art of persuasion.” + +“Perhaps so,” replied Everard, “though I never heard thee use any, save +to induce an usurer to lend thee money, or a taverner to abate a +reckoning.” + +“And yet this day, or rather night, I could have, as I think, made a +conquest which baffled you.” + +“Indeed?” said the Colonel, becoming attentive. + +“Why, look you,” said Wildrake, “it was a main object with you to +induce Mistress Alice Lee—By Heaven, she is an exquisite creature—I +approve of your taste, Mark—I say, you desire to persuade her, and the +stout old Trojan her father, to consent to return to the Lodge, and +live there quietly, and under connivance, like gentlefolk, instead of +lodging in a hut hardly fit to harbour a Tom of Bedlam.” + +“Thou art right; such, indeed, was a great part of my object in this +visit,” answered Everard. + +“But perhaps you also expected to visit there yourself, and so keep +watch over pretty Mistress Lee—eh?” + +“I never entertained so selfish a thought,” said Everard; “and if this +nocturnal disturbance at the mansion were explained and ended, I would +instantly take my departure.” + +“Your friend Noll would expect something more from you,” said Wildrake; +“he would expect, in case the knight’s reputation for loyalty should +draw any of our poor exiles and wanderers about the Lodge, that you +should be on the watch and ready to snap them. In a word, as far as I +can understand his long-winded speeches, he would have Woodstock a +trap, your uncle and his pretty daughter the bait of +toasted-cheese—craving your Chloe’s pardon for the comparison—you the +spring-fall which should bar their escape, his Lordship himself being +the great grimalkin to whom they are to be given over to be devoured.” + +“Dared Cromwell mention this to thee in express terms?” said Everard, +pulling up his horse, and stopping in the midst of the road. + +“Nay, not in express terms, which I do not believe he ever used in his +life; you might as well expect a drunken man to go straight forward; +but he insinuated as much to me, and indicated that you might deserve +well of him—Gadzo, the damnable proposal sticks in my throat—by +betraying our noble and rightful King, (here he pulled off his hat,) +whom God grant in health and wealth long to reign, as the worthy +clergyman says, though I fear just now his Majesty is both sick and +sorry, and never a penny in his pouch to boot.” + +“This tallies with what Alice hinted,” said Everard; “but how could she +know it? didst thou give her any hint of such a thing?” + +“I!” replied the cavalier, “I, who never saw Mistress Alice in my life +till to-night, and then only for an instant—zooks, man, how is that +possible?” + +“True,” replied Everard, and seemed lost in thought. At length he +spoke—“I should call Cromwell to account for his bad opinion of me; +for, even though not seriously expressed, but, as I am convinced it +was, with the sole view of proving you, and perhaps myself, it was, +nevertheless, a misconstruction to be resented.” + +“I’ll carry a cartel for you, with all my heart and soul,” said +Wildrake; “and turn out with his godliness’s second, with as good will +as I ever drank a glass of sack.” + +“Pshaw,” replied Everard, “those in his high place fight no single +combats. But tell me, Roger Wildrake, didst thou thyself think me +capable of the falsehood and treachery implied in such a message?” + +“I!” exclaimed Wildrake. “Markham Everard, you have been my early +friend, my constant benefactor. When Colchester was reduced, you saved +me from the gallows, and since that thou hast twenty times saved me +from starving. But, by Heaven, if I thought you capable of such villany +as your General recommended,—by yonder blue sky, and all the works of +creation which it bends over, I would stab you with my own hand!” + +“Death,” replied Everard, “I should indeed deserve, but not from you, +perhaps; but fortunately, I cannot, if I would, be guilty of the +treachery you would punish. Know that I had this day secret notice, and +from Cromwell himself, that the young Man has escaped by sea from +Bristol.” + +“Now, God Almighty be blessed, who protected him through so many +dangers!” exclaimed Wildrake. “Huzza!—Up hearts, cavaliers!—Hey for +cavaliers!—God bless King Charles!—Moon and stars, catch my hat!”—and +he threw it up as high as he could into the air. The celestial bodies +which he invoked did not receive the present dispatched to them; but, +as in the case of Sir Henry Lee’s scabbard, an old gnarled oak became a +second time the receptacle of a waif and stray of loyal enthusiasm. +Wildrake looked rather foolish at the circumstance, and his friend took +the opportunity of admonishing him. + +“Art thou not ashamed to bear thee so like a schoolboy?” + +“Why,” said Wildrake, “I have but sent a Puritan’s hat upon a loyal +errand. I laugh to think how many of the schoolboys thou talk’st of +will be cheated into climbing the pollard next year, expecting to find +the nest of some unknown bird in yonder unmeasured margin of felt.” + +“Hush now, for God’s sake, and let us speak calmly,” said Everard. +“Charles has escaped, and I am glad of it. I would willingly have seen +him on his father’s throne by composition, but not by the force of the +Scottish army, and the incensed and vengeful royalists.” + +“Master Markham Everard,” began the cavalier, interrupting him—“Nay, +hush, dear Wildrake,” said Everard; “let us not dispute a point on +which we cannot agree, and give me leave to go on.—I say, since the +young Man has escaped, Cromwell’s offensive and injurious stipulation +falls to the ground; and I see not why my uncle and his family should +not again enter their own house, under the same terms of connivance as +many other royalists. What may be incumbent on me is different, nor can +I determine my course until I have an interview with the General, +which, as I think, will end in his confessing that he threw in this +offensive proposal to sound us both. It is much in his manner; for he +is blunt, and never sees or feels the punctilious honour which the +gallants of the day stretch to such delicacy.” + +“I’ll acquit him of having any punctilio about him,” said Wildrake, +“either touching honour or honesty. Now, to come back to where we +started. Supposing you were not to reside in person at the Lodge, and +to forbear even visiting there, unless on invitation, when such a thing +can be brought about, I tell you frankly, I think your uncle and his +daughter might be induced to come back to the Lodge, and reside there +as usual. At least the clergyman, that worthy old cock, gave me to hope +as much.” + +“He had been hasty in bestowing his confidence,” said Everard. + +“True,” replied Wildrake; “he confided in me at once; for he instantly +saw my regard for the Church. I thank Heaven I never passed a clergyman +in his canonicals without pulling my hat off—(and thou knowest, the +most desperate duel I ever fought was with young Grayless of the Inner +Temple, for taking the wall of the Reverend Dr. Bunce)—Ah, I can gain a +chaplain’s ear instantly. Gadzooks, they know whom they have to trust +to in such a one as I.” + +“Dost thou think, then,” said Colonel Everard, “or rather does this +clergyman think, that if they were secure of intrusion from me, the +family would return to the Lodge, supposing the intruding Commissioners +gone, and this nocturnal disturbance explained and ended?” + +“The old Knight,” answered Wildrake, “may be wrought upon by the Doctor +to return, if he is secure against intrusion. As for disturbances, the +stout old boy, so far as I can learn in two minutes’ conversation, +laughs at all this turmoil as the work of mere imagination, the +consequence of the remorse of their own evil consciences; and says that +goblin or devil was never heard of at Woodstock, until it became the +residence of such men as they, who have now usurped the possession.” + +“There is more than imagination in it,” said Everard. “I have personal +reason to know there is some conspiracy carrying on, to render the +house untenable by the Commissioners. I acquit my uncle of accession to +such a silly trick; but I must see it ended ere I can agree to his and +my cousin’s residing where such a confederacy exists; for they are +likely to be considered as the contrivers of such pranks, be the actual +agent who he may.” + +“With reference to your better acquaintance with the gentleman, +Everard, I should rather suspect the old father of Puritans (I beg your +pardon again) has something to do with the business; and if so, Lucifer +will never look near the true old Knight’s beard, nor abide a glance of +yonder maiden’s innocent blue eyes. I will uphold them as safe as pure +gold in a miser’s chest.” + +“Sawest thou aught thyself, which makes thee think thus?” + +“Not a quill of the devil’s pinion saw I,” replied Wildrake. “He +supposes himself too secure of an old cavalier, who must steal, hang, +or drown, in the long run, so he gives himself no trouble to look after +the assured booty. But I heard the serving-fellows prate of what they +had seen and heard; and though their tales were confused enough, yet if +there was any truth among them at all, I should say the devil must have +been in the dance.—But, holla! here comes some one upon us.—Stand, +friend—who art thou?” + +“A poor day-labourer in the great work of England—Joseph Tomkins by +name—Secretary to a godly and well-endowed leader in this poor +Christian army of England, called General Harrison.” + +“What news, Master Tomkins?” said Everard; “and why are you on the road +at this late hour?” + +“I speak to the worthy Colonel Everard, as I judge?” said Tomkins; “and +truly I am glad of meeting your honour. Heaven knows, I need such +assistance as yours.—Oh, worthy Master Everard!—Here has been a +sounding of trumpets, and a breaking of vials, and a pouring forth, +and”— + +“Prithee, tell me in brief, what is the matter—where is thy master—and, +in a word, what has happened?” + +“My master is close by, parading it in the little meadow, beside the +hugeous oak, which is called by the name of the late Man; ride but two +steps forward, and you may see him walking swiftly to and fro, +advancing all the while the naked weapon.” + +Upon proceeding as directed, but with as little noise as possible, they +descried a man, whom of course they concluded must be Harrison, walking +to and fro beneath the King’s oak, as a sentinel under arms, but with +more wildness of demeanour. The tramp of the horses did not escape his +ear; and they heard him call out, as if at the head of the brigade— +“Lower pikes against cavalry!—Here comes Prince Rupert—Stand fast, and +you shall turn them aside, as a bull would toss a cur-dog. Lower your +pikes still, my hearts, the end secured against your foot—down on your +right knee, front rank—spare not for the spoiling of your blue +aprons.—Ha—Zerobabel—ay, that is the word!” + +“In the name of Heaven, about whom or what is he talking” said Everard; +“wherefore does he go about with his weapon drawn?” + +“Truly, sir, when aught disturbs my master, General Harrison, he is +something rapt in the spirit, and conceives that he is commanding a +reserve of pikes at the great battle of Armageddon—and for his weapon, +alack, worthy sir, wherefore should he keep Sheffield steel in calves’ +leather, when there are fiends to be combated—incarnate fiends on +earth, and raging infernal fiends under the earth?” + +“This is intolerable,” said Everard. “Listen to me, Tomkins. Thou art +not now in the pulpit, and I desire none of thy preaching language. I +know thou canst speak intelligibly when thou art so minded. Remember, I +may serve or harm thee; and as you hope or fear any thing on my part, +answer straight-forward—What has happened to drive out thy master to +the wild wood at this time of night?” + +“Forsooth, worthy and honoured sir, I will speak with the precision I +may. True it is, and of verity, that the breath of man, which is in his +nostrils, goeth forth and returneth”— + +“Hark you, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “take care where you ramble in +your correspondence with me. You have heard how at the great battle of +Dunbar in Scotland, the General himself held a pistol to the head of +Lieutenant Hewcreed, threatening to shoot him through the brain if he +did not give up holding forth, and put his squadron in line to the +front. Take care, sir.” + +“Verily, the lieutenant then charged with an even and unbroken order,” +said Tomkins, “and bore a thousand plaids and bonnets over the beach +before him into the sea. Neither shall I pretermit or postpone your +honour’s commands, but speedily obey them, and that without delay.” + +“Go to, fellow; thou knowest what I would have,” said Everard; “speak +at once; I know thou canst if thou wilt. Trusty Tomkins is better known +than he thinks for.” + +“Worthy sir,” said Tomkins, in a much less periphrastic style, “I will +obey your worship as far as the spirit will permit. Truly, it was not +an hour since, when my worshipful master being at table with Master +Bibbet and myself, not to mention the worshipful Master Bletson and +Colonel Desborough, and behold there was a violent knocking at the +gate, as of one in haste. Now, of a certainty, so much had our +household been harassed with witches and spirits, and other objects of +sound and sight, that the sentinels could not be brought to abide upon +their posts without doors, and it was only by a provision of beef and +strong liquors that we were able to maintain a guard of three men in +the hall, who nevertheless ventured not to open the door, lest they +should be surprised with some of the goblins wherewith their +imaginations were overwhelmed. And they heard the knocking, which +increased until it seemed that the door was well-nigh about to be +beaten down. Worthy Master Bibbet was a little overcome with liquor, +(as is his fashion, good man, about this time of the evening,) not that +he is in the least given to ebriety, but simply, that since the +Scottish campaign he hath had a perpetual ague, which obliges him so to +nourish his frame against the damps of the night; wherefore, as it is +well known to your honour that I discharge the office of a faithful +servant, as well to Major-General Harrison, and the other +Commissioners, as to my just and lawful master, Colonel Desborough”— + +“I know all that.—And now that thou art trusted by both, I pray to +Heaven thou mayest merit the trust,” said Colonel Everard. + +“And devoutly do I pray,” said Tomkins, “that your worshipful prayers +may be answered with favour; for certainly to be, and to be called and +entitled, Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins, is to me more than ever would +be an Earl’s title, were such things to be granted anew in this +regenerated government.” + +“Well, go on—go on—or if thou dalliest much longer, I will make bold to +dispute the article of your honesty. I like short tales, sir, and doubt +what is told with a long unnecessary train of words.” + +“Well, good sir, be not hasty. As I said before, the doors rattled till +you would have thought the knocking was reiterated in every room of the +Palace. The bell rung out for company, though we could not find that +any one tolled the clapper, and the guards let off their firelocks, +merely because they knew not what better to do. So, Master Bibbet +being, as I said, unsusceptible of his duty, I went down with my poor +rapier to the door, and demanded who was there; and I was answered in a +voice, which, I must say, was much like another voice, that it was one +wanting Major-General Harrison. So, as it was then late, I answered +mildly, that General Harrison was betaking himself to his rest, and +that any who wished to speak to him must return on the morrow morning, +for that after nightfall the door of the Palace, being in the room of a +garrison, would be opened to no one. So, the voice replied, and bid me +open directly, without which he would blow the folding leaves of the +door into the middle of the hall. And therewithal the noise +recommenced, that we thought the house would have fallen; and I was in +some measure constrained to open the door, even like a besieged +garrison which can hold out no longer.” + +“By my honour, and it was stoutly done of you, I must say,” said +Wildrake,—who had been listening with much interest. “I am a bold +dare-devil enough, yet when I had two inches of oak plank between the +actual fiend and me, hang him that would demolish the barrier between +us, say I—I would as soon, when aboard, bore a hole in the ship, and +let in the waves; for you know we always compare the devil to the deep +sea.” + +“Prithee, peace, Wildrake,” said Everard, “and let him go on with his +history.—Well, and what saw’st thou when the door was opened?—the great +Devil with his horns and claws thou wilt say, no doubt.” + +“No, sir, I will say nothing but what is true. When I undid the door, +one man stood there, and he, to seeming, a man of no extraordinary +appearance. He was wrapped in a taffeta cloak of a scarlet colour, and +with a red lining. He seemed as if he might have been in his time a +very handsome man, but there was something of paleness and sorrow in +his face—a long love-lock and long hair he wore, even after the +abomination of the cavaliers, and the unloveliness, as learned Master +Prynne well termed it, of love-locks—a jewel in his ear—a blue scarf +over his shoulder, like a military commander for the King, and a hat +with a white plume, bearing a peculiar hatband.” + +“Some unhappy officer of cavaliers, of whom so many are in hiding, and +seeking shelter through the country,” briefly replied Everard. + +“True, worthy sir—right as a judicious exposition. But there was +something about this man (if he was a man) whom I, for one, could not +look upon without trembling; nor the musketeers,—who were in the hall, +without betraying much alarm, and swallowing, as they will themselves +aver, the very bullets—which they had in their mouths for loading their +carabines and muskets. Nay, the wolf and deer-dogs, that are the +fiercest of their kind, fled from this visitor, and crept into holes +and corners, moaning and wailing in a low and broken tone. He came into +the middle of the hall, and still he seemed no more than an ordinary +man, only somewhat fantastically dressed, in a doublet of black velvet +pinked upon scarlet satin under his cloak, a jewel in his ear, with +large roses in his shoes, and a kerchief in his hand, which he +sometimes pressed against his left side.” + +“Gracious Heavens!” said Wildrake, coming close up to Everard, and +whispering in his ear, with accents which terror rendered tremulous, (a +mood of mind most unusual to the daring man, who seemed now overcome by +it)—“it must have been poor Dick Robison the player, in the very dress +in which I have seen him play Philaster—ay, and drunk a jolly bottle +with him after it at the Mermaid! I remember how many frolics we had +together, and all his little fantastic fashions. He served for his old +master, Charles, in Mohun’s troop, and was murdered by this butcher’s +dog, as I have heard, after surrender, at the battle of Naseby-field.” + +“Hush! I have heard of the deed,” said Everard; “for God’s sake hear +the man to an end.—Did this visitor speak to thee, my friend?” + +“Yes, sir, in a pleasing tone of voice, but somewhat fanciful in the +articulation, and like one who is speaking to an audience as from a bar +or a pulpit, more than in the voice of ordinary men on ordinary +matters. He desired to see Major-General Harrison.” + +“He did!—and you,” said Everard, infected by the spirit of the time, +which, as is well known, leaned to credulity upon all matters of +supernatural agency,—“what did you do?” + +“I went up to the parlour, and related that such a person enquired for +him. He started when I told him, and eagerly desired to know the man’s +dress; but no sooner did I mention his dress, and the jewel in his ear, +than he said, ‘Begone! tell him I will not admit him to speech of me. +Say that I defy him, and will make my defiance good at the great battle +in the valley of Armageddon, when the voice of the angel shall call all +fowls which fly under the face of heaven to feed on the flesh of the +captain and the soldier, the warhorse and his rider. Say to the Evil +One, I have power to appeal our conflict even till that day, and that +in the front of that fearful day he will again meet with Harrison.’ I +went back with this answer to the stranger, and his face was writhed +into such a deadly frown as a mere human brow hath seldom worn. ‘Return +to him,’ he said, ‘and say it is MY HOUR, and that if he come not +instantly down to speak with me, I will mount the stairs to him. Say +that I COMMAND him to descend, by the token, that, on the field of +Naseby, _he did not the work negligently_.’” + +“I have heard,” whispered Wildrake—who felt more and more strongly the +contagion of superstition—“that these words were blasphemously used by +Harrison when he shot my poor friend Dick.” + +“What happened next?” said Everard. “See that thou speakest the truth.” + +“As gospel unexpounded by a steeple-man,” said the Independent; “yet +truly it is but little I have to say. I saw my master come down, with a +blank, yet resolved air; and when he entered the hall and saw the +stranger, he made a pause. The other waved on him as if to follow, and +walked out at the portal. My worthy patron seemed as if he were about +to follow, yet again paused, when this visitant, be he man or fiend, +re-entered, and said, ‘Obey thy doom. + +‘By pathless march by greenwood tree, +It is thy weird to follow me— +To follow me through the ghastly moonlight— +To follow me through the shadows of night— +To follow me, comrade, still art thou bound; +I conjure thee by the unstaunch’d wound— +I conjure thee by the last words I spoke +When the body slept and the spirit awoke, +In the very last pangs of the deadly stroke.’ + + +“So saying, he stalked out, and my master followed him into the wood.—I +followed also at a distance. But when I came up, my master was alone, +and bearing himself as you now behold him.” + +“Thou hast had a wonderful memory, friend,” said the Colonel, coldly, +“to remember these rhymes in a single recitation—there seems something +of practice in all this.” + +“A single recitation, my honoured sir?” exclaimed the Independent— +“alack, the rhyme is seldom out of my poor master’s mouth, when, as +sometimes haps, he is less triumphant in his wrestles with Satan. But +it was the first time I ever heard it uttered by another; and, to say +truth, he ever seems to repeat it unwillingly, as a child after his +pedagogue, and as it was not indited by his own head, as the Psalmist +saith.” + +“It is singular,” said Everard;—“I have heard and read that the spirits +of the slaughtered have strange power over the slayer; but I am +astonished to have it insisted upon that there may be truth in such +tales. Roger Wildrake—what art thou afraid of, man?—why dost thou shift +thy place thus?” + +“Fear? it is not fear—it is hate, deadly hate.—I see the murderer of +poor Dick before me, and—see, he throws himself into a posture of +fence—Sa—sa—say’st thou, brood of a butcher’s mastiff? thou shalt not +want an antagonist.” + +Ere any one could stop him, Wildrake threw aside his cloak, drew his +sword, and almost with a single bound cleared the distance betwixt him +and Harrison, and crossed swords with the latter, as he stood +brandishing his weapon, as if in immediate expectation of an assailant. +Accordingly, the Republican General was not for an instant taken at +unawares, but the moment the swords clashed, he shouted, “Ha! I feel +thee now, thou hast come in body at last.—Welcome! welcome!—the sword +of the Lord and of Gideon!” + +“Part them, part them!” cried Everard, as he and Tomkins, at first +astonished at the suddenness of the affray, hastened to interfere. +Everard, seizing on the cavalier, drew him forcibly backwards, and +Tomkins contrived, with risk and difficulty, to master Harrison’s +sword, while the General exclaimed, “Ha! two to one—two to one!—thus +fight demons.” Wildrake, on his side, swore a dreadful oath, and added, +“Markham, you have cancelled every obligation I owed you—they are all +out of sight—gone, d—n me!” + +“You have indeed acquitted these obligations rarely,” said Everard, +“Who knows how this affair shall be explained and answered?” + +“I will answer it with my life,” said Wildrake. + +“Good now, be silent,” said Tomkins, “and let me manage. It shall be so +ordered that the good General shall never know that he hath encountered +with a mortal man; only let that man of Moab put his sword into the +scabbard’s rest, and be still.” + +“Wildrake, let me entreat thee to sheathe thy sword,” said Everard, +“else, on my life, thou must turn it against me.” + +“No, ’fore George, not so mad as that neither, but I’ll have another +day with him.” + +“Thou, another day!” exclaimed Harrison, whose eye had still remained +fixed on the spot where he found such palpable resistance. “Yes, I know +thee well; day by day, week by week, thou makest the same idle request, +for thou knowest that my heart quivers at thy voice. But my hand +trembles not when opposed to thine—the spirit is willing to the combat, +if the flesh be weak when opposed to that which is not of the flesh.” + +“Now, peace all, for Heaven’s sake,”—said the steward Tomkins; then +added, addressing his master, “there is no one here, if it please your +Excellency, but Tomkins and the worthy Colonel Everard.” + +General Harrison, as sometimes happens in cases of partial insanity, +(that is, supposing his to have been a case of mental delusion,) though +firmly and entirely persuaded of the truth of his own visions, yet was +not willing to speak on the subject to those who, he knew, would regard +them as imaginary. Upon this occasion, he assumed the appearance of +perfect ease and composure, after the violent agitation he had just +manifested, in a manner which showed how anxious he was to disguise his +real feelings from Everard, whom he considered so unlikely to +participate in them. + +He saluted the Colonel with profound ceremony, and talked of the +fineness of the evening, which had summoned him forth of the Lodge, to +take a turn in the Park, and enjoy the favourable weather. He then took +Everard by the arm, and walked back with him towards the Lodge, +Wildrake and Tomkins following close behind and leading the horses. +Everard, desirous to gain some light on these mysterious incidents, +endeavoured to come on the subject more than once, by a mode of +interrogation, which Harrison (for madmen are very often unwilling to +enter on the subject of their mental delusion) parried with some skill, +or addressed himself for aid to his steward Tomkins, who was in the +habit of being voucher for his master upon all occasions, which led to +Desborough’s ingenious nickname of Fibbet. + +“And wherefore had you your sword drawn, my worthy General,” said +Everard, “when you were only on an evening walk of pleasure?” + +“Truly, excellent Colonel, these are times when men must watch with +their loins girded, and their lights burning, and their weapons drawn. +The day draweth nigh, believe me or not as you will, that men must +watch lest they be found naked and unarmed, when the seven trumpets +shall sound, Boot and saddle; and the pipes of Jezer shall strike up, +Horse and away.” + +“True, good General; but methought I saw you making passes, even now, +as if you were fighting,” said Everard. + +“I am of a strange fantasy, friend Everard,” answered Harrison; “and +when I walk alone, and happen, as but now, to have my weapon drawn, I +sometimes, for exercise’ sake, will practise a thrust against such a +tree as that. It is a silly pride men have in the use of weapons. I +have been accounted a master of fence, and have fought for prizes when +I was unregenerated, and before I was called to do my part in the great +work, entering as a trooper into our victorious General’s first +regiment of horse.” + +“But methought,” said Everard, “I heard a weapon clash with yours?” + +“How? a weapon clash with my sword?—How could that be, Tomkins?” + +“Truly, sir,” said Tomkins, “it must have been a bough of the tree; +they have them of all kinds here, and your honour may have pushed +against one of them, which the Brazilians call iron-wood, a block of +which, being struck with a hammer, saith Purchas in his Pilgrimage, +ringeth like an anvil.” + +“Truly, it may be so,” said Harrison; “for those rulers who are gone, +assembled in this their abode of pleasure many strange trees and +plants, though they gathered not of the fruit of that tree which +beareth twelve manner of fruits, or of those leaves which are for the +healing of the nations.” + +Everard pursued his investigation; for he was struck with the manner in +which Harrison evaded his questions, and the dexterity with which he +threw his transcendental and fanatical notions, like a sort of veil, +over the darker visions excited by remorse and conscious guilt. + +“But,” said he, “if I may trust my eyes and ears, I cannot but still +think that you had a real antagonist.—Nay, I am sure I saw a fellow, in +a dark-coloured jerkin, retreat through the wood.” + +“Did you?” said Harrison, with a tone of surprise, while his voice +faltered in spite of him—“Who could he be?—Tomkins, did you see the +fellow Colonel Everard talks of with the napkin in his hand—the bloody +napkin which he always pressed to his side?” + +This last expression, in which Harrison gave a mark different from that +which Everard had assigned, but corresponding to Tomkins’s original +description of the supposed spectre, had more effect on Everard in +confirming the steward’s story, than anything he had witnessed or +heard. The voucher answered the draft upon him as promptly as usual, +that he had seen such a fellow glide past them into the thicket—that he +dared to say he was some deer-stealer, for he had heard they were +become very audacious. + +“Look ye there now, Master Everard,” said Harrison, hurrying from the +subject—“Is it not time now that we should lay aside our controversies, +and join hand in hand to repairing the breaches of our Zion? Happy and +contented were I, my excellent friend, to be a treader of mortar, or a +bearer of a hod, upon this occasion, under our great leader, with whom +Providence has gone forth in this great national controversy; and +truly, so devoutly do I hold by our excellent and victorious General +Oliver, whom Heaven long preserve—that were he to command me, I should +not scruple to pluck forth of his high place the man whom they call +speaker, even as I lent a poor hand to pluck down the man whom they +called King.—Wherefore, as I know your judgment holdeth with mine on +this matter, let me urge unto you lovingly, that we may act as +brethren, and build up the breaches, and re-establish the bulwarks of +our English Zion, whereby we shall be doubtless chosen as pillars and +buttresses, under our excellent Lord-General, for supporting and +sustaining the same, and endowed with proper revenues and incomes, both +spiritual and temporal, to serve as a pedestal, on which we may stand, +seeing that otherwise our foundation will be on the loose +sand.—Nevertheless,” continued he, his mind again diverging from his +views of temporal ambition into his visions of the Fifth Monarchy, +“these things are but vanity in respect of the opening of the book +which is sealed; for all things approach speedily towards lightning and +thundering, and unloosing of the great dragon from the bottomless pit, +wherein he is chained.” + +With this mingled strain of earthly politics, and fanatical prediction, +Harrison so overpowered Colonel Everard, as to leave him no time to +urge him farther on the particular circumstances of his nocturnal +skirmish, concerning which it is plain he had no desire to be +interrogated. They now reached the Lodge of Woodstock. + + + + +CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. + + +Now the wasted brands do glow, + While the screech-owl, sounding loud, +Puts the wretch that lies in woe, + In remembrance of a shroud. +Now it is the time of night + That the graves, all gaping wide, +Every one lets out its sprite, + In the church-way paths to glide. + + +MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. + + +Before the gate of the palace the guards were now doubled. Everard +demanded the reason of this from the corporal, whom he found in the +hall with his soldiers, sitting or sleeping around a great fire, +maintained at the expense of the carved chairs and benches with +fragments of which it was furnished. + +“Why, verily,” answered the man, “the _corps-de-garde_, as your worship +says, will be harassed to pieces by such duty; nevertheless, fear hath +gone abroad among us, and no man will mount guard alone. We have drawn +in, however, one or two of our outposts from Banbury and elsewhere, and +we are to have a relief from Oxford to-morrow.” + +Everard continued minute enquiries concerning the sentinels that were +posted within as well as without the Lodge; and found that, as they had +been stationed under the eye of Harrison himself, the rules of prudent +discipline had been exactly observed in the distribution of the posts. +There remained nothing therefore for Colonel Everard to do, but, +remembering his own adventure of the evening, to recommend that an +additional sentinel should be placed, with a companion, if judged +indispensable, in that vestibule, or ante-room, from which the long +gallery where he had met with the rencontre, and other suites of +apartments, diverged. The corporal respectfully promised all obedience +to his orders. The serving-men being called, appeared also in double +force. Everard demanded to know whether the Commissioners had gone to +bed, or whether he could get speech with them? “They are in their +bedroom, forsooth,” replied one of the fellows; “but I think they be +not yet undressed.” + +“What!” said Everard, “are Colonel Desborough and Master Bletson both +in the same sleeping apartment?” + +“Their honours have so chosen it,” said the man; “and their honours’ +secretaries remain upon guard all night.” + +“It is the fashion to double guards all over the house,” said Wildrake. +“Had I a glimpse of a tolerably good-looking house-maid now, I should +know how to fall into the fashion.” + +“Peace, fool!” said Everard.—“And where are the Mayor and Master +Holdenough?” + +“The Mayor is returned to the borough on horseback, behind the trooper, +who goes to Oxford for the reinforcement; and the man of the +steeple-house hath quartered himself in the chamber which Colonel +Desborough had last night, being that in which he is most likely to +meet the—your honour understands. The Lord pity us, we are a harassed +family!” + +“And where be General Harrison’s knaves,” said Tomkins, “that they do +not marshal him to his apartment?” + +“Here—here—here, Master Tomkins,” said three fellows, pressing forward, +with the same consternation on their faces which seemed to pervade the +whole inhabitants of Woodstock. + +“Away with you, then,” said Tomkins;—“speak not to his worship—you see +he is not in the humour.” + +“Indeed,” observed Colonel Everard, “he looks singularly wan—his +features seem writhen as by a palsy stroke; and though he was talking +so fast while we came along, he hath not opened his mouth since we came +to the light.” + +“It is his manner after such visitations,” said Tomkins.—“Give his +honour your arms, Zedekiah and Jonathan, to lead him off—I will follow +instantly.—You, Nicodemus, tarry to wait upon me—it is not well walking +alone in this mansion.” + +“Master Tomkins,” said Everard, “I have heard of you often as a sharp, +intelligent man—tell me fairly, are you in earnest afraid of any thing +supernatural haunting this house?” + +“I would be loth to run the chance, sir,” said Tomkins very gravely; +“by looking on my worshipful master, you may form a guess how the +living look after they have spoken with the dead.” He bowed low, and +took his leave. Everard proceeded to the chamber which the two +remaining Commissioners had, for comfort’s sake, chosen to inhabit in +company. They were preparing for bed as he went into their apartment. +Both started as the door opened—both rejoiced when they saw it was only +Everard who entered. + +“Hark ye hither,” said Bletson, pulling him aside, “sawest thou ever +ass equal to Desborough?—the fellow is as big as an ox, and as timorous +as a sheep. He has insisted on my sleeping here, to protect him. Shall +we have a merry night on’t, ha? We will, if thou wilt take the third +bed, which was prepared for Harrison; but he is gone out, like a +mooncalf, to look for the valley of Armageddon in the Park of +Woodstock.” + +“General Harrison has returned with me but now,” said Everard. + +“Nay but, as I shall live, he comes not into our apartment,” said +Desborough, overhearing his answer. “No man that has been supping, for +aught I know, with the Devil, has a right to sleep among Christian +folk.” + +“He does not propose so,” said Everard; “he sleeps, as I understand, +apart—and alone.” + +“Not quite alone, I dare say,” said Desborough; “for Harrison hath a +sort of attraction for goblins—they fly round him like moths about a +candle:—But, I prithee, good Everard, do thou stay with us. I know not +how it is, but although thou hast not thy religion always in thy mouth, +nor speakest many hard words about it, like Harrison—nor makest long +preachments, like a certain most honourable relation of mine who shall +be nameless, yet somehow I feel myself safer in thy company than with +any of them. As for this Bletson, he is such a mere blasphemer, that I +fear the Devil will carry him away ere morning.” + +“Did you ever hear such a paltry coward?” said Bletson, apart to +Everard. “Do tarry, however, mine honoured Colonel—I know your zeal to +assist the distressed, and you see Desborough is in that predicament, +that he will require near him more than one example to prevent him +thinking of ghosts and fiends.” + +“I am sorry I cannot oblige you, gentlemen,” said Everard; “but I have +settled my mind to sleep in Victor Lee’s apartment, so I wish you good +night; and, if you would repose without disturbance, I would advise +that you commend yourselves, during the watches of the night, to Him +unto whom night is even as mid-day. I had intended to have spoke with +you this evening on the subject of my being here; but I will defer the +conference till to-morrow, when, I think, I will be able to show you +excellent reasons for leaving Woodstock.” + +“We have seen plenty such already,” said Desborough; “for one, I came +here to serve the estate, with some moderate advantage to myself for my +trouble; but if I am set upon my head again to-night, as I was the +night before, I would not stay longer to gain a king’s crown; for I am +sure my neck would be unfitted to bear the weight of it.” + +“Good night,” exclaimed Everard; and was about to go, when Bletson +again pressed close, and whispered to him, “Hark thee, Colonel—you know +my friendship for thee—I do implore thee to leave the door of thy +apartment open, that if thou meetest with any disturbance, I may hear +thee call, and be with thee upon the very instant. Do this, dear +Everard, my fears for thee will keep me awake else; for I know that, +notwithstanding your excellent sense, you entertain some of those +superstitious ideas which we suck in with our mother’s milk, and which +constitute the ground of our fears in situations like the present; +therefore leave thy door open, if you love me, that you may have ready +assistance from me in case of need.” + +“My master,” said Wildrake, “trusts, first, in his Bible, sir, and then +in his good sword. He has no idea that the Devil can be baffled by the +charm of two men lying in one room, still less that the foul fiend can +be argued out of existence by the Nullifidians of the Rota.” + +Everard seized his imprudent friend by the collar, and dragged him off +as he was speaking, keeping fast hold of him till they were both in the +chamber of Victor Lee, where they had slept on a former occasion. Even +then he continued to hold Wildrake, until the servant had arranged the +lights, and was dismissed from the room; then letting him go, addressed +him with the upbraiding question, “Art thou not a prudent and sagacious +person, who in times like these seek’st every opportunity to argue +yourself into a broil, or embroil yourself in an argument? Out on you!” + +“Ay, out on me indeed,” said the cavalier; “out on me for a poor +tame-spirited creature, that submits to be bandied about in this +manner, by a man who is neither better born nor better bred than +myself. I tell thee, Mark, you make an unfair use of your advantages +over me. Why will you not let me go from you, and live and die after my +own fashion?” + +“Because, before we had been a week separate, I should hear of your +dying after the fashion of a dog. Come, my good friend, what madness +was it in thee to fall foul on Harrison, and then to enter into useless +argument with Bletson?” + +“Why, we are in the Devil’s house, I think, and I would willingly give +the landlord his due wherever I travel. To have sent him Harrison, or +Bletson now, just as a lunch to stop his appetite, till Crom”— + +“Hush! stone walls have ears,” said Everard, looking around him. “Here +stands thy night-drink. Look to thy arms, for we must be as careful as +if the Avenger of Blood were behind us. Yonder is thy bed—and I, as +thou seest, have one prepared in the parlour. The door only divides +us.” + +“Which I will leave open, in case thou shouldst holla for assistance, +as yonder Nullifidian hath it—But how hast thou got all this so well +put in order, good patron?” + +“I gave the steward Tomkins notice of my purpose to sleep here.” + +“A strange fellow that,” said Wildrake, “and, as I judge, has taken +measure of every one’s foot—all seems to pass through his hands.” + +“He is, I have understood,” replied Everard, “one of the men formed by +the times—has a ready gift of preaching and expounding, which keeps him +in high terms with the Independents; and recommends himself to the more +moderate people by his intelligence and activity.” + +“Has his sincerity ever been doubted?” said Wildrake. + +“Never, that I heard of,” said the Colonel; “on the contrary, he has +been familiarly called Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins. For my part, I +believe his sincerity has always kept pace with his interest.—But come, +finish thy cup, and to bed.—What, all emptied at one draught!” + +“Adszookers, yes—my vow forbids me to make two on’t; but, never +fear—the nightcap will only warm my brain, not clog it. So, man or +devil, give me notice if you are disturbed, and rely on me in a +twinkling.” So saying, the cavalier retreated into his separate +apartment, and Colonel Everard, taking off the most cumbrous part of +his dress, lay down in his hose and doublet, and composed himself to +rest. + +He was awakened from sleep by a slow and solemn strain of music, which +died away as at a distance. He started up, and felt for his arms, which +he found close beside him. His temporary bed being without curtains, he +could look around him without difficulty; but as there remained in the +chimney only a few red embers of the fire which he had arranged before +he went to sleep, it was impossible he could discern any thing. He +felt, therefore, in spite of his natural courage, that undefined and +thrilling species of tremor which attends a sense that danger is near, +and an uncertainty concerning its cause and character. Reluctant as he +was to yield belief to supernatural occurrences, we have already said +he was not absolutely incredulous; as perhaps, even in this more +sceptical age, there are many fewer complete and absolute infidels on +this particular than give themselves out for such. Uncertain whether he +had not dreamed of these sounds which seemed yet in his ears, he was +unwilling to risk the raillery of his friend by summoning him to his +assistance. He sat up, therefore, in his bed, not without experiencing +that nervous agitation to which brave men as well as cowards are +subject; with this difference, that the one sinks under it, like the +vine under the hailstorm, and the other collects his energies to shake +it off, as the cedar of Lebanon is said to elevate its boughs to +disperse the snow which accumulates upon them. + +The story of Harrison, in his own absolute despite, and notwithstanding +a secret suspicion which he had of trick or connivance, returned on his +mind at this dead and solitary hour. Harrison, he remembered, had +described the vision by a circumstance of its appearance different from +that which his own remark had been calculated to suggest to the mind of +the visionary;—that bloody napkin, always pressed to the side, was then +a circumstance present either to his bodily eye, or to that of his +agitated imagination. Did, then, the murdered revisit the living haunts +of those who had forced them from the stage with all their sins +unaccounted for? And if they did, might not the same permission +authorise other visitations of a similar nature, to warn—to instruct— +to punish? Rash are they, was his conclusion, and credulous, who +receive as truth every tale of the kind; but no less rash may it be, to +limit the power of the Creator over the works which he has made, and to +suppose that, by the permission of the Author of Nature, the laws of +Nature may not, in peculiar cases, and for high purposes, be +temporarily suspended. + +While these thoughts passed through Everard’s mind, feelings unknown to +him, even when he stood first on the rough and perilous edge of battle, +gained ground upon him. He feared he knew not what; and where an open +and discernible peril would have drawn out his courage, the absolute +uncertainty of his situation increased his sense of the danger. He felt +an almost irresistible desire to spring from his bed and heap fuel on +the dying embers, expecting by the blaze to see some strange sight in +his chamber. He was also strongly tempted to awaken Wildrake; but +shame, stronger than fear itself, checked these impulses. What! should +it be thought that Markham Everard, held one of the best soldiers who +had drawn a sword in this sad war—Markham Everard, who had obtained +such distinguished rank in the army of the Parliament, though so young +in years, was afraid of remaining by himself in a twilight-room at +midnight? It never should be said. + +This was, however, no charm for his unpleasant current of thought. +There rushed on his mind the various traditions of Victor Lee’s +chamber, which, though he had often despised them as vague, +unauthenticated, and inconsistent rumours, engendered by ancient +superstition, and transmitted from generation to generation by +loquacious credulity, had something in them, which, did not tend to +allay the present unpleasant state of his nerves. Then, when he +recollected the events of that very afternoon, the weapon pressed +against his throat, and the strong arm which threw him backward on the +floor—if the remembrance served to contradict the idea of flitting +phantoms, and unreal daggers, it certainly induced him to believe, that +there was in some part of this extensive mansion a party of cavaliers, +or malignants, harboured, who might arise in the night, overpower the +guards, and execute upon them all, but on Harrison in particular, as +one of the regicide judges, that vengeance, which was so eagerly +thirsted for by the attached followers of the slaughtered monarch. + +He endeavoured to console himself on this subject by the number and +position of the guards, yet still was dissatisfied with himself for not +having taken yet more exact precautions, and for keeping an extorted +promise of silence, which might consign so many of his party to the +danger of assassination. These thoughts, connected with his military +duties, awakened another train of reflections. He bethought himself, +that all he could now do, was to visit the sentries, and ascertain that +they were awake, alert, on the watch, and so situated, that in time of +need they might be ready to support each other.—“This better befits +me,” he thought, “than to be here like a child, frightening myself with +the old woman’s legend, which I have laughed at when a boy. What +although old Victor Lee was a sacrilegious man, as common report goes, +and brewed ale in the font which he brought from the ancient palace of +Holyrood, while church and building were in flames? And what although +his eldest son was when a child scalded to death in the same vessel? +How many churches have been demolished since his time? How many fonts +desecrated? So many indeed, that were the vengeance of Heaven to visit +such aggressions in a supernatural manner, no corner in England, no, +not the most petty parish church, but would have its apparition.—Tush, +these are idle fancies, unworthy, especially, to be entertained by +those educated to believe that sanctity resides in the intention and +the act, not in the buildings or fonts, or the form of worship.” + +As thus he called together the articles of his Calvinistic creed, the +bell of the great clock (a token seldom silent in such narratives) +tolled three, and was immediately followed by the hoarse call of the +sentinels through vault and gallery, up stairs and beneath, challenging +and answering each other with the usual watch-word, All’s Well. Their +voices mingled with the deep boom of the bell, yet ceased before that +was silent, and when they had died away, the tingling echo of the +prolonged knell was scarcely audible. Ere yet that last distant +tingling had finally subsided into silence, it seemed as if it again +was awakened; and Everard could hardly judge at first whether a new +echo had taken up the falling cadence, or whether some other and +separate sound was disturbing anew the silence to which the deep knell +had, as its voice ceased, consigned the ancient mansion and the woods +around it. + +But the doubt was soon cleared up. The musical tones which had mingled +with the dying echoes of the knell, seemed at first to prolong, and +afterwards to survive them. A wild strain of melody, beginning at a +distance, and growing louder as it advanced, seemed to pass from room +to room, from cabinet to gallery, from hall to bower, through the +deserted and dishonoured ruins of the ancient residence of so many +sovereigns; and, as it approached, no soldier gave alarm, nor did any +of the numerous guests of various degrees, who spent an unpleasant and +terrified night in that ancient mansion, seem to dare to announce to +each other the inexplicable cause of apprehension. + +Everard’s excited state of mind did not permit him to be so passive. +The sounds approached so nigh, that it seemed they were performing, in +the very next apartment, a solemn service for the dead, when he gave +the alarm, by calling loudly to his trusty attendant and friend +Wildrake, who slumbered in the next chamber with only a door betwixt +them, and even that ajar. “Wildrake—Wildrake!—Up—Up! Dost thou not hear +the alarm?” There was no answer from Wildrake, though the musical +sounds, which now rung through the apartment, as if the performers had +actually been, within its precincts, would have been sufficient to +awaken a sleeping person, even without the shout of his comrade and +patron. + +“Alarm!—Roger Wildrake—alarm!” again called Everard, getting out of bed +and grasping his weapons—“Get a light, and cry alarm!” There was no +answer. His voice died away as the sound of the music seemed also to +die; and the same soft sweet voice, which still to his thinking +resembled that of Alice Lee, was heard in his apartment, and, as he +thought, at no distance from him. + +“Your comrade will not answer,” said the low soft voice. “Those only +hear the alarm whose consciences feel the call!” + +“Again this mummery!” said Everard. “I am better armed than I was of +late; and but for the sound of that voice, the speaker had bought his +trifling dear.” + +It was singular, we may observe in passing, that the instant the +distinct sounds of the human voice were heard by Everard, all idea of +supernatural interference was at an end, and the charm by which he had +been formerly fettered appeared to be broken; so much is the influence +of imaginary or superstitious terror dependent (so far as respects +strong judgments at least) upon what is vague or ambiguous; and so +readily do distinct tones, and express ideas, bring such judgments back +to the current of ordinary life. The voice returned answer, as +addressing his thoughts as well as his words. + +“We laugh at the weapons thou thinkest should terrify us—Over the +guardians of Woodstock they have no power. Fire, if thou wilt, and try +the effect of thy weapons. But know, it is not our purpose to harm +thee—thou art of a falcon breed, and noble in thy disposition, though, +unreclaimed and ill-nurtured, thou hauntest with kites and carrion +crows. Wing thy flight from hence on the morrow, for if thou tarriest +with the bats, owls, vultures and ravens, which have thought to nestle +here, thou wilt inevitably share their fate. Away then, that these +halls may be swept and garnished for the reception of those who have a +better right to inhabit them.” + +Everard answered in a raised voice.—“Once more I warn you, think not to +defy me in vain. I am no child to be frightened by goblins’ tales; and +no coward, armed as I am, to be alarmed at the threats of banditti. If +I give you a moment’s indulgence, it is for the sake of dear and +misguided friends, who may be concerned with this dangerous gambol. +Know, I can bring a troop of soldiers round the castle, who will search +its most inward recesses for the author of this audacious frolic; and +if that search should fail, it will cost but a few barrels of gunpowder +to make the mansion a heap of ruins, and bury under them the authors of +such an ill-judged pastime.” + +“You speak proudly, Sir Colonel,” said another voice, similar to that +harsher and stronger tone by which he had been addressed in the +gallery; “try your courage in this direction.” + +“You should not dare me twice,” said Colonel Everard, “had I a glimpse +of light to take aim by.” + +As he spoke, a sudden gleam of light was thrown with a brilliancy which +almost dazzled the speaker, showing distinctly a form somewhat +resembling that of Victor Lee, as represented in his picture, holding +in one hand a lady completely veiled, and in the other his +leading-staff, or truncheon. Both figures were animated, and, as it +appeared, standing within six feet of him. + +“Were it not for the woman,” said Everard, “I would not be thus +mortally dared.” + +“Spare not for the female form, but do your worst,” replied the same +voice. “I defy you.” + +“Repeat your defiance when I have counted thrice,” said Everard, “and +take the punishment of your insolence. Once—I have cocked my pistol— +Twice—I never missed my aim—By all that is sacred, I fire if you do not +withdraw. When I pronounce the next number, I will shoot you dead where +you stand. I am yet unwilling to shed blood—I give you another chance +of flight—once—twice—THRICE!” + +Everard aimed at the bosom, and discharged his pistol. The figure waved +its arm in an attitude of scorn; and a loud laugh arose, during which +the light, as gradually growing weaker, danced and glimmered upon the +apparition of the aged knight, and then disappeared. Everard’s +life-blood ran cold to his heart—“Had he been of human mould,” he +thought, “the bullet must have pierced him—but I have neither will nor +power to fight with supernatural beings.” + +The feeling of oppression was now so strong as to be actually +sickening. He groped his way, however, to the fireside, and flung on +the embers which were yet gleaming, a handful of dry fuel. It presently +blazed, and afforded him light to see the room in every direction. He +looked cautiously, almost timidly, around, and half expected some +horrible phantom to become visible. But he saw nothing save the old +furniture, the reading desk, and other articles, which had been left in +the same state as when Sir Henry Lee departed. He felt an +uncontrollable desire, mingled with much repugnance, to look at the +portrait of the ancient knight, which the form he had seen so strongly +resembled. He hesitated betwixt the opposing feelings, but at length +snatched, with desperate resolution, the taper which he had +extinguished, and relighted it, ere the blaze of the fuel had again +died away. He held it up to the ancient portrait of Victor Lee, and +gazed on it with eager curiosity, not unmingled with fear. Almost the +childish terrors of his earlier days returned, and he thought the +severe pale eye of the ancient warrior followed his, and menaced him +with its displeasure. And although he quickly argued himself out of +such an absurd belief, yet the mixed feelings of his mind were +expressed in words that seemed half addressed to the ancient portrait. + +“Soul of my mother’s ancestor,” he said, “be it for weal or for woe, by +designing men, or by supernatural beings, that these ancient halls are +disturbed, I am resolved to leave them on the morrow.” + +“I rejoice to hear it, with all my soul,” said a voice behind him. + +He turned, saw a tall figure in white, with a sort of turban upon its +head, and dropping the candle in the exertion, instantly grappled with +it. + +“_Thou_ at least art palpable,” he said. + +“Palpable?” answered he whom he grasped so strongly—“’Sdeath, methinks +you might know that—without the risk of choking me; and if you loose me +not, I’ll show you that two can play at the game of wrestling.” + +“Roger Wildrake!” said Everard, letting the cavalier loose, and +stepping back. + +“Roger Wildrake? ay, truly. Did you take me for Roger Bacon, come to +help you raise the devil?—for the place smells of sulphur consumedly.” + +“It is the pistol I fired—Did you not hear it?” + +“Why, yes, it was the first thing waked me—for that nightcap which I +pulled on, made me sleep like a dormouse—Pshaw, I feel my brains giddy +with it yet.” + +“And wherefore came you not on the instant?—I never needed help more.” + +“I came as fast as I could,” answered Wildrake; “but it was some time +ere I got my senses collected, for I was dreaming of that cursed field +at Naseby—and then the door of my room was shut, and hard to open, till +I played the locksmith with my foot.” + +“How! it was open when I went to bed,” said Everard. + +“It was locked when I came out of bed, though,” said Wildrake, “and I +marvel you heard me not when I forced it open.” + +“My mind was occupied otherwise,” said Everard. + +“Well,” said Wildrake, “but what has happened?—Here am I bolt upright, +and ready to fight, if this yawning fit will give me leave—Mother +Redcap’s mightiest is weaker than I drank last night, by a bushel to a +barleycorn—I have quaffed the very elixir of malt—Ha—yaw.” + +“And some opiate besides, I should think,” said Everard. + +“Very like—very like—less than the pistol-shot would not waken me; even +me, who with but an ordinary grace-cup, sleep as lightly as a maiden on +the first of May, when she watches for the earliest beam to go to +gather dew. But what are you about to do next?” + +“Nothing,” answered Everard. + +“Nothing?” said Wildrake, in surprise. + +“I speak it,” said Colonel Everard, “less for your information, than +for that of others who may hear me, that I will leave the Lodge this +morning, and, if it is possible, remove the Commissioners.” + +“Hark,” said Wildrake, “do you not hear some noise like the distant +sound of the applause of a theatre? The goblins of the place rejoice in +your departure.” + +“I shall leave Woodstock,” said Everard, “to the occupation of my uncle +Sir Henry Lee, and his family, if they choose to resume it; not that I +am frightened into this as a concession to the series of artifices +which have been played off on this occasion, but solely because such +was my intention from the beginning. But let me warn,” (he added, +raising his voice,)—“let me warn the parties concerned in this +combination, that though it may pass off successfully on a fool like +Desborough, a visionary like Harrison, a coward like Bletson”— + +Here a voice distinctly spoke, as standing near them—“or a wise, +moderate, and resolute person, like Colonel Everard.” + +“By Heaven, the voice came from the picture,” said Wildrake, drawing +his sword; “I will pink his plated armour for him.” + +“Offer no violence,” said Everard, startled at the interruption, but +resuming with firmness what he was saying—“Let those engaged be aware, +that however this string of artifices may be immediately successful, it +must, when closely looked into, be attended with the punishment of all +concerned—the total demolition of Woodstock, and the irremediable +downfall of the family of Lee. Let all concerned think of this, and +desist in time.” + +He paused, and almost expected a reply, but none such came. + +“It is a very odd thing,” said Wildrake; “but—yaw-ha—my brain cannot +compass it just now; it whirls round like a toast in a bowl of +muscadine; I must sit down—haw-yaw—and discuss it at leisure— Gramercy, +good elbow-chair.” + +So saying, he threw himself, or rather sank gradually down on a large +easy-chair which had been often pressed by the weight of stout Sir +Henry Lee, and in an instant was sound asleep. Everard was far from +feeling the same inclination for slumber, yet his mind was relieved of +the apprehension of any farther visitation that night; for he +considered his treaty to evacuate Woodstock as made known to, and +accepted in all probability by, those whom the intrusion of the +Commissioners had induced to take such singular measures for expelling +them. His opinion, which had for a time bent towards a belief in +something supernatural in the disturbances, had now returned to the +more rational mode of accounting for them by dexterous combination, for +which such a mansion as Woodstock afforded so many facilities. + +He heaped the hearth with fuel, lighted the candle, and examining poor +Wildrake’s situation, adjusted him as easily in the chair as he could, +the cavalier stirring his limbs no more than an infant. His situation +went far, in his patron’s opinion, to infer trick and confederacy, for +ghosts have no occasion to drug men’s possets. He threw himself on the +bed, and while he thought these strange circumstances over, a sweet and +low strain of music stole through the chamber, the words “Good +night—good night—good night,” thrice repeated, each time in a softer +and more distant tone, seeming to assure him that the goblins and he +were at truce, if not at peace, and that he had no more disturbance to +expect that night. He had scarcely the courage to call out a “good +night;” for, after all his conviction of the existence of a trick, it +was so well performed as to bring with it a feeling of fear, just like +what an audience experience during the performance of a tragic scene, +which they know to be unreal, and which yet affects their passions by +its near approach to nature. Sleep overtook him at last, and left him +not till broad daylight on the ensuing morning. + + + + +CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. + + +And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger. +At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there, +Troop home to churchyard. + + +MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. + + +With the fresh air and the rising of morning, every feeling of the +preceding night had passed away from Colonel Everard’s mind, excepting +wonder how the effects which he had witnessed could be produced. He +examined the whole room, sounding bolt, floor, and wainscot with his +knuckles and cane, but was unable to discern any secret passages; while +the door, secured by a strong cross-bolt, and the lock besides, +remained as firm as when he had fastened it on the preceding evening. +The apparition resembling Victor Lee next called his attention. +Ridiculous stories had been often circulated, of this figure, or one +exactly resembling it, having been met with by night among the waste +apartments and corridors of the old palace; and Markham Everard had +often heard such in his childhood. He was angry to recollect his own +deficiency of courage, and the thrill which he felt on the preceding +night, when by confederacy, doubtless, such an object was placed before +his eyes. + +“Surely,” he said, “this fit of childish folly could not make me miss +my aim—more likely that the bullet had been withdrawn clandestinely +from the pistol.” + +He examined that which was undischarged—he found the bullet in it. He +investigated the apartment opposite to the point at which he had fired, +and, at five feet from the floor in a direct line between the bed-side +and the place where the appearance had been seen, a pistol-ball had +recently buried itself in the wainscot. He had little doubt, therefore, +that he had fired in a just direction; and indeed to have arrived at +the place where it was lodged, the bullet must have passed through the +appearance at which he aimed, and proceeded point blank to the wall +beyond. This was mysterious, and induced him to doubt whether the art +of witchcraft or conjuration had not been called in to assist the +machinations of those daring conspirators, who, being themselves +mortal, might, nevertheless, according to the universal creed of the +times, have invoked and obtained assistance from the inhabitants of +another world. + +His next investigation respected the picture of Victor Lee itself. He +examined it minutely as he stood on the floor before it, and compared +its pale, shadowy, faintly-traced outlines, its faded colours, the +stern repose of the eye, and death-like pallidness of the countenance, +with its different aspect on the preceding night, when illuminated by +the artificial light which fell full upon it, while it left every other +part of the room in comparative darkness. The features seemed then to +have an unnatural glow, while the rising and falling of the flame in +the chimney gave the head and limbs something which resembled the +appearance of actual motion. Now, seen by day, it was a mere picture of +the hard and ancient school of Holbein; last night, it seemed for the +moment something more. Determined to get to the bottom of this +contrivance if possible, Everard, by the assistance of a table and +chair, examined the portrait still more closely, and endeavoured to +ascertain the existence of any private spring, by which it might be +slipt aside,—a contrivance not unfrequent in ancient buildings, which +usually abounded with means of access and escape, communicated to none +but the lords of the castle, or their immediate confidants. But the +panel on which Victor Lee was painted was firmly fixed in the +wainscoting of the apartment, of which it made a part, and the Colonel +satisfied himself that it could not have been used for the purpose +which he had suspected. + +He next aroused his faithful squire, Wildrake, who, notwithstanding his +deep share of the “blessedness of sleep,” had scarce even yet got rid +of the effects of the grace-cup of the preceding evening. “It was the +reward,” according to his own view of the matter, “of his temperance; +one single draught having made him sleep more late and more sound than +a matter of half-a-dozen, or from thence to a dozen pulls, would have +done, when he was guilty of the enormity of rere-suppers,[1] and of +drinking deep after them.” + + [1] Rere-suppers (_quasi arrière_) belonged to a species of luxury + introduced in the jolly days of King James’s extravagance, and + continued through the subsequent reign. The supper took place at an + early hour, six or seven o’clock at latest—the rere-supper was a + postliminary banquet, a _hors d’œuvre_, which made its appearance at + ten or eleven, and served as an apology for prolonging the + entertainment till midnight. + + +“Had your temperate draught,” said Everard, “been but a thought more +strongly seasoned, Wildrake, thou hadst slept so sound that the last +trump only could have waked thee.” + +“And then,” answered Wildrake, “I should have waked with a headache, +Mark; for I see my modest sip has not exempted me from that epilogue.— +But let us go forth, and see how the night, which we have passed so +strangely, has been spent by the rest of them. I suspect they are all +right willing to evacuate Woodstock, unless they have either rested +better than we, or at least been more lucky in lodgings.” + +“In that case, I will dispatch thee down to Joceline’s hut, to +negotiate the re-entrance of Sir Henry Lee and his family into their +old apartments, where, my interest with the General being joined with +the indifferent repute of the place itself, I think they have little +chance of being disturbed either by the present, or by any new +Commissioners.” + +“But how are they to defend themselves against the fiends, my gallant +Colonel?” said Wildrake. “Methinks had I an interest in yonder pretty +girl, such as thou dost boast, I should be loth to expose her to the +terrors of a residence at Woodstock, where these devils—I beg their +pardon, for I suppose they hear every word we say—these merry +goblins—make such gay work from twilight till morning.” + +“My dear Wildrake,” said the Colonel, “I, as well as you, believe it +possible that our speech may be overheard; but I care not, and will +speak my mind plainly. I trust Sir Henry and Alice are not engaged in +this silly plot; I cannot reconcile it with the pride of the one, the +modesty of the other, nor the good sense of both, that any motive could +engage them in so strange a conjunction. But the fiends are all of your +own political persuasion, Wildrake, all true-blue cavaliers; and I am +convinced, that Sir Henry and Alice Lee, though they be unconnected +with them, have not the slightest cause to be apprehensive of their +goblin machinations. Besides, Sir Henry and Joceline must know every +corner about the place: it will be far more difficult to play off any +ghostly machinery upon him than upon strangers. But let us to our +toilet, and when water and brush have done their work, we will +enquire—what is next to be done.” + +“Nay, that wretched puritan’s garb of mine is hardly worth brushing,” +said Wildrake; “and but for this hundred-weight of rusty iron, with +which thou hast bedizened me, I look more like a bankrupt Quaker than +anything else. But I’ll make _you_ as spruce as ever was a canting +rogue of your party.” + +So saying, and humming at the same time the cavalier tune,— + +“Though for a time we see Whitehall +With cobwebs hung around the wall, +Yet Heaven shall make amends for all. + When the King shall enjoy his own again.”— + + +“Thou forgettest who are without,” said Colonel Everard. + +“No—I remember who are within,” replied his friend. “I only sing to my +merry goblins, who will like me all the better for it. Tush, man, the +devils are my _bonos socios_, and when I see them, I will warrant they +prove such roaring boys as I knew when I served under Lunford and +Goring, fellows with long nails that nothing escaped, bottomless +stomachs, that nothing filled,—mad for pillaging, ranting, drinking, +and fighting,—sleeping rough on the trenches, and dying stubbornly in +their boots. Ah! those merry days are gone. Well, it is the fashion to +make a grave face on’t among cavaliers, and specially the parsons that +have lost their tithe-pigs; but I was fitted for the element of the +time, and never did or can desire merrier days than I had during that +same barbarous, bloody, and unnatural rebellion.” + +“Thou wert ever a wild sea-bird, Roger, even according to your name; +liking the gale better than the calm, the boisterous ocean better than +the smooth lake, and your rough, wild struggle against the wind, than +daily food, ease and quiet.” + +“Pshaw! a fig for your smooth lake, and your old woman to feed me with +brewer’s grains, and the poor drake obliged to come swattering whenever +she whistles! Everard, I like to feel the wind rustle against my +pinions,—now diving, now on the crest of the wave, now in ocean, now in +sky—that is the wild-drake’s joy, my grave one! And in the Civil War so +it went with us—down in one county, up in another, beaten to-day, +victorious tomorrow—now starving in some barren leaguer—now revelling +in a Presbyterian’s pantry—his cellars, his plate-chest, his old +judicial thumb-ring, his pretty serving-wench, all at command!” + +“Hush, friend,” said Everard; “remember I hold that persuasion.” “More +the pity, Mark, more the pity,” said Wildrake; “but, as you say, it is +needless talking of it. Let us e’en go and see how your Presbyterian +pastor, Mr. Holdenough, has fared, and whether he has proved more able +to foil the foul Fiend than have you his disciple and auditor.” + +They left the apartment accordingly, and were overwhelmed with the +various incoherent accounts of sentinels and others, all of whom had +seen or heard something extraordinary in the course of the night. It is +needless to describe particularly the various rumours which each +contributed to the common stock, with the greater alacrity that in such +cases there seems always to be a sort of disgrace in not having seen or +suffered as much as others. + +The most moderate of the narrators only talked of sounds like the +mewing of a cat, or the growling of a dog, especially the squeaking of +a pig. They heard also as if it had been nails driven and saws used, +and the clashing of fetters, and the rustling of silk gowns, and the +notes of music, and in short all sorts of sounds which have nothing to +do with each other. Others swore they had smelt savours of various +kinds, chiefly bituminous, indicating a Satanic derivation; others did +not indeed swear, but protested, to visions of men in armour, horses +without heads, asses with horns, and cows with six legs, not to mention +black figures, whose cloven hoofs gave plain information what realm +they belonged to. + +But these strongly-attested cases of nocturnal disturbances among the +sentinels had been so general as to prevent alarm and succour on any +particular point, so that those who were on duty called in vain on the +_corps-de-garde_, who were trembling on their own post; and an alert +enemy might have done complete execution on the whole garrison. But +amid this general _alerte_, no violence appeared to be meant, and +annoyance, not injury, seemed to have been the goblins’ object, +excepting in the case of one poor fellow, a trooper, who had followed +Harrison in half his battles, and now was sentinel in that very +vestibule upon which Everard had recommended them to mount a guard. He +had presented his carabine at something which came suddenly upon him, +when it was wrested out of his hands, and he himself knocked down with +the butt-end of it. His broken head, and the drenched bedding of +Desborough, upon whom a tub of ditch-water had been emptied during his +sleep, were the only pieces of real evidence to attest the disturbances +of the night. + +The reports from Harrison’s apartment were, as delivered by the grave +Master Tomkins, that truly the General had passed the night +undisturbed, though there was still upon him a deep sleep, and a +folding of the hands to slumber; from which Everard argued that the +machinators had esteemed Harrison’s part of the reckoning sufficiently +paid off on the preceding evening. + +He then proceeded to the apartment doubly garrisoned by the worshipful +Desborough, and the philosophical Bletson. They were both up and +dressing themselves; the former open-mouthed in his feeling of fear and +suffering. Indeed, no sooner had Everard entered, than the ducked and +dismayed Colonel made a dismal complaint of the way he had spent the +night, and murmured not a little against his worshipful kinsman for +imposing a task upon him which inferred so much annoyance. + +“Could not his Excellency, my kinsman Noll,” he said, “have given his +poor relative and brother-in-law a sop somewhere else than out of this +Woodstock, which seems to be the devil’s own porridge-pot? I cannot sup +broth with the devil; I have no long spoon—not I. Could he not have +quartered me in some quiet corner, and given this haunted place to some +of his preachers and prayers, who know the Bible as well as the +muster-roll? whereas I know the four hoofs of a clean-going nag, or the +points of a team of oxen, better than all the books of Moses. But I +will give it over, at once and for ever; hopes of earthly gain shall +never make me run the risk of being carried away bodily by the devil, +besides being set upon my head one whole night, and soused with +ditch-water the next—No, no; I am too wise for that.” + +Master Bletson had a different part to act. He complained of no +personal annoyances; on the contrary, he declared he should have slept +as well as ever he did in his life but for the abominable disturbances +around him, of men calling to arms every half hour, when so much as a +cat trotted by one of their posts—He would rather, he said, “have slept +among a whole sabaoth of witches, if such creatures could be found.” + +“Then you think there are no such things as apparitions, Master +Bletson?” said Everard. “I used to be sceptical on the subject; but, on +my life, to-night has been a strange one.” + +“Dreams, dreams, dreams, my simple Colonel,” said Bletson, though, his +pale face and shaking limbs belied the assumed courage with which he +spoke. “Old Chaucer, sir, hath told us the real moral on’t—He was an +old frequenter of the forest of Woodstock, here”— + +“Chaser?” said Desborough; “some huntsman, belike, by his name. Does he +walk, like Hearne at Windsor?” + +“Chaucer,” said Bletson, “my dear Desborough, is one of those wonderful +fellows, as Colonel Everard knows, who live many a hundred years after +they are buried, and whose words haunt our ears after their bones are +long mouldered in the dust.” + +“Ay, ay! well,” answered Desborough, to whom this description of the +old poet was unintelligible—“I for one desire his room rather than his +company; one of your conjurors, I warrant him. But what says he to the +matter?” + +“Only a slight spell, which I will take the freedom to repeat to +Colonel Everard,” said Bletson; “but which would be as bad as Greek to +thee, Desborough. Old Geoffrey lays the whole blame of our nocturnal +disturbance on superfluity of humours, + +‘Which causen folk to dred in their dreams +Of arrowes, and of fire with red gleams, +Right as the humour of melancholy +Causeth many a man in sleep to cry +For fear of great bulls and bears black, +And others that black devils will them take.’” + + +While he was thus declaiming, Everard observed a book sticking out from +beneath the pillow of the bed lately occupied by the honourable member. + +“Is that Chaucer?” he said, making to the volume; “I would like to look +at the passage”— + +“Chaucer?” said Bletson, hastening to interfere; “no—that is Lucretius, +my darling Lucretius. I cannot let you see it; I have some private +marks.” + +But by this time Everard had the book in his hand. “Lucretius?” he +said; “no, Master Bletson, this is not Lucretius, but a fitter +comforter in dread or in danger—Why should you be ashamed of it? Only, +Bletson, instead of resting your head, if you can but anchor your heart +upon this volume, it may serve you in better stead than Lucretius or +Chaucer either.” + +“Why, what book is it?” said Bletson, his pale cheek colouring with the +shame of detection. “Oh! the Bible!” throwing it down contemptuously; +“some book of my fellow Gibeon’s; these Jews have been always +superstitious—ever since Juvenal’s time, thou knowest— + +“‘Qualiacunque voles Judæi somnia vendunt.’ + + +“He left me the old book for a spell, I warrant you; for ’tis a +well-meaning fool.” + +“He would scarce have left the New Testament as well as the Old,” said +Everard. “Come, my dear Bletson, do not be ashamed of the wisest thing +you ever did in your life, supposing you took your Bible in an hour of +apprehension, with a view to profit by the contents.” + +Bletson’s vanity was so much galled that it overcame his constitutional +cowardice. His little thin fingers quivered for eagerness, his neck and +cheeks were as red as scarlet, and his articulation was as thick and +vehement as—in short, as if he had been no philosopher. + +“Master Everard,” he said, “you are a man of the sword, sir; and, sir, +you seem to suppose yourself entitled to say whatever comes into your +mind with respect to civilians, sir. But I would have you remember, +sir, that there are bounds beyond which human patience may be urged, +sir—and jests which no man of honour will endure, sir—and therefore I +expect an apology for your present language, Colonel Everard, and this +unmannerly jesting, sir—or you may chance to hear from me in a way that +will not please you.” + +Everard could not help smiling at this explosion of valour, engendered +by irritated self-love. + +“Look you, Master Bletson,” he said, “I have been a soldier, that is +true, but I was never a bloody-minded one; and, as a Christian, I am +unwilling to enlarge the kingdom of darkness by sending a new vassal +thither before his time. If Heaven gives you time to repent, I see no +reason why my hand should deprive you of it, which, were we to have a +rencontre, would be your fate in the thrust of a sword, or the pulling +of a trigger—I therefore prefer to apologise; and I call Desborough, if +he has recovered his wits, to bear evidence that I _do_ apologise for +having suspected you, who are completely the slave of your own vanity, +of any tendency, however slight, towards grace or good sense. And I +farther apologise for the time that I have wasted in endeavouring to +wash an Ethiopian white, or in recommending rational enquiry to a +self-willed atheist.” + +Bletson, overjoyed at the turn the matter had taken—for the defiance +was scarce out of his mouth ere he began to tremble for the +consequences—answered with great eagerness and servility of +manner,—“Nay, dearest Colonel, say no more of it—an apology is all that +is necessary among men of honour—it neither leaves dishonour with him +who asks it, nor infers degradation on him who makes it.” + +“Not such an apology as I have made, I trust,” said the Colonel. + +“No, no—not in the least,” answered Bletson,—“one apology serves me +just as well as another, and Desborough will bear witness you have made +one, and that is all there can be said on the subject.” + +“Master Desborough and you,” rejoined the Colonel, “will take care how +the matter is reported, I dare say; and I only recommend to both, that, +if mentioned at all, it may be told correctly.” + +“Nay, nay, we will not mention it at all,” said Bletson, “we will +forget it from this moment. Only, never suppose me capable of +superstitious weakness. Had I been afraid of an apparent and real +danger—why such fear is natural to man—and I will not deny that the +mood of mind may have happened to me as well as to others. But to be +thought capable of resorting to spells, and sleeping with books under +my pillow to secure myself against ghosts,—on my word, it was enough to +provoke one to quarrel, for the moment, with his very best friend.—And +now, Colonel, what is to be done, and how is our duty to be executed at +this accursed place? If I should get such a wetting as Desborough’s, +why I should die of catarrh, though you see it hurts him no more than a +bucket of water thrown over a post-horse. You are, I presume, a brother +in our commission,—how are you of opinion we should proceed?” + +“Why, in good time here comes Harrison,” said Everard, “and I will lay +my commission from the Lord-General before you all; which, as you see, +Colonel Desborough, commands you to desist from acting on your present +authority, and intimates his pleasure accordingly, that you withdraw +from this place.” + +Desborough took the paper and examined the signature.—“It is Noll’s +signature sure enough,” said he, dropping his under jaw; “only, every +time of late he has made the _Oliver_ as large as a giant, while the +_Cromwell_ creeps after like a dwarf, as if the surname were like to +disappear one of these days altogether. But is his Excellency, our +kinsman, Noll Cromwell (since he has the surname yet) so unreasonable +as to think his relations and friends are to be set upon their heads +till they have the crick in their neck—drenched as if they had been +plunged in a horse-pond—frightened, day and night, by all sort of +devils, witches, and fairies, and get not a penny of smart-money? +Adzooks, (forgive me for swearing,) if that’s the case I had better +home to my farm, and mind team and herd, than dangle after such a +thankless person, though I _have_ wived his sister. She was poor enough +when I took her, for as high as Noll holds his head now.” + +“It is not my purpose,” said Bletson, “to stir debate in this +honourable meeting; and no one will doubt the veneration and attachment +which I bear to our noble General, whom the current of events, and his +own matchless qualities of courage and constancy, have raised so high +in these deplorable days.—If I were to term him a direct and immediate +emanation of the _Animus Mundi_ itself—something which Nature had +produced in her proudest hour, while exerting herself, as is her law, +for the preservation of the creatures to whom she has given existence— +should scarce exhaust the ideas which I entertain of him. Always +protesting that I am by no means to be held as admitting, but merely as +granting for the sake of argument, the possible existence of that +species of emanation, or exhalation, from the _Animus Mundi_ , of which +I have made mention. I appeal to you, Colonel Desborough, who are his +Excellency’s relation—to you, Colonel Everard, who hold the dearer +title of his friend, whether I have overrated my zeal in his behalf?” + +Everard bowed at this pause, but Desborough gave a more complete +authentication. “Nay, I can bear witness to that. I have seen when you +were willing to tie his points or brush his cloak, or the like—and to +be treated thus ungratefully—and gudgeoned of the opportunities which +had been given you”— + +“It is not for that,” said Bletson, waving his hand gracefully. “You do +me wrong, Master Desborough—you do indeed, kind sir—although I know you +meant it not—No, sir—no partial consideration of private interest +prevailed on me to undertake this charge. It was conferred on me by the +Parliament of England, in whose name this war commenced, and by the +Council of State, who are the conservators of England’s liberty. And +the chance and serene hope of serving the country, the confidence that +I—and you, Master Desborough—and you, worthy General Harrison— +superior, as I am, to all selfish considerations—to which I am sure you +also, good Colonel Everard, would be superior, had you been named in +this Commission, as I would to Heaven you had—I say, the hope of +serving the country, with the aid of such respectable associates, one +and all of them—as well as you, Colonel Everard, supposing you to have +been of the number, induced me to accept of this opportunity, whereby I +might, gratuitously, with your assistance, render so much advantage to +our dear mother the Commonwealth of England.—Such was my hope—my +trust—my confidence. And now comes my Lord-General’s warrant to +dissolve the authority by which we are entitled to act. Gentlemen, I +ask this honourable meeting, (with all respect to his Excellency,) +whether his Commission be paramount to that from which he himself +directly holds his commission? No one will say so. I ask whether he has +climbed into the seat from which the late Man descended, or hath a +great seal, or means to proceed by prerogative in such a case? I cannot +see reason to believe it, and therefore I must resist such doctrine. I +am in your judgment, my brave and honourable colleagues; but, touching +my own poor opinion, I feel myself under the unhappy necessity of +proceeding in our commission, as if the interruption had not taken +place; with this addition, that the Board of Sequestrators should sit, +by day, at this same Lodge of Woodstock, but that, to reconcile the +minds of weak brethren, who may be afflicted by superstitious rumours, +as well as to avoid any practice on our persons by the malignants, who, +I am convinced, are busy in this neighbourhood, we should remove our +sittings after sunset to the George Inn, in the neighbouring borough.” + +“Good Master Bletson,” replied Colonel Everard, “it is not for me to +reply to you; but you may know in what characters this army of England +and their General write their authority. I fear me the annotation on +this precept of the General, will be expressed by the march of a troop +of horse from Oxford to see it executed. I believe there are orders out +for that effect; and you know by late experience, that the soldier will +obey his General equally against King and Parliament.” + +“That obedience is conditional,” said Harrison, starting fiercely up. +“Know’st thou not, Markham Everard, that I have followed the man +Cromwell as close as the bull-dog follows his master?—and so I will +yet;—but I am no spaniel, either to be beaten, or to have the food I +have earned snatched from me, as if I were a vile cur, whose wages are +a whipping, and free leave to wear my own skin. I looked, amongst the +three of us, that we might honestly, and piously, and with advantage to +the Commonwealth, have gained out of this commission three, or it may +be five thousand pounds. And does Cromwell imagine I will part with it +for a rough word? No man goeth a warfare on his own charges. He that +serves the altar must live by the altar—and the saints must have means +to provide them with good harness and fresh horses against the +unsealing and the pouring forth. Does Cromwell think I am so much of a +tame tiger as to permit him to rend from me at pleasure the miserable +dole he hath thrown me? Of a surety I will resist; and the men who are +here, being chiefly of my own regiment—men who wait, and who expect, +with lamps burning and loins girded, and each one his weapon bound upon +his thigh, will aid me to make this house good against every +assault—ay, even against Cromwell himself, until the latter +coming—Selah! Selah!”— + +“And I,” said Desborough, “will levy troops and protect your +out-quarters, not choosing at present to close myself up in garrison”— + +“And I,” said Bletson, “will do my part, and hie me to town and lay the +matter before Parliament, arising in my place for that effect.” + +Everard was little moved by all these threats. The only formidable one, +indeed, was that of Harrison, whose enthusiasm, joined with his +courage, and obstinacy, and character among the fanatics of his own +principles, made him a dangerous enemy. Before trying any arguments +with the refractory Major-General, Everard endeavoured to moderate his +feelings, and threw something in about the late disturbances. + +“Talk not to me of supernatural disturbances, young man—talk not to me +of enemies in the body or out of the body. Am I not the champion chosen +and commissioned to encounter and to conquer the great Dragon, and the +Beast which cometh out of the sea? Am I not to command the left wing, +and two regiments of the centre, when the Saints shall encounter with +the countless legions of Grog and Magog? I tell thee that my name is +written on the sea of glass mingled with fire, and that I will keep +this place of Woodstock against all mortal men, and against all devils, +whether in field or chamber, in the forest or in the meadow, even till +the Saints reign in the fulness of their glory.” + +Everard saw it was then time to produce two or three lines under +Cromwell’s hand, which he had received from the General, subsequently +to the communication through Wildrake. The information they contained +was calculated to allay the disappointment of the Commissioners. This +document assigned as the reason of superseding the Woodstock +Commission, that he should probably propose to the Parliament to +require the assistance of General Harrison, Colonel Desborough, and +Master Bletson, the honourable member for Littlefaith, in a much +greater matter, namely, the disposing of the royal property, and +disparking of the King’s forest at Windsor. So soon as this idea was +started, all parties pricked up their ears; and their drooping, and +gloomy, and vindictive looks began to give place to courteous smiles, +and to a cheerfulness, which laughed in their eyes, and turned their +mustaches upwards. + +Colonel Desborough acquitted his right honourable and excellent cousin +and kinsman of all species of unkindness; Master Bletson discovered, +that the interest of the state was trebly concerned in the good +administration of Windsor more than in that of Woodstock. As for +Harrison, he exclaimed, without disguise or hesitation, that the +gleaning of the grapes of Windsor was better than the vintage of +Woodstock. Thus speaking, the glance of his dark eye expressed as much +triumph in the proposed earthly advantage, as if it had not been, +according to his vain persuasion, to be shortly exchanged for his share +in the general reign of the Millennium. His delight, in short, +resembled the joy of an eagle, who preys upon a lamb in the evening +with not the less relish, because she descries in the distant landscape +an hundred thousand men about to join battle with daybreak, and to give +her an endless feast on the hearts and lifeblood of the valiant. Yet +though all agreed that they would be obedient to the General’s pleasure +in this matter, Bletson proposed, as a precautionary measure, in which +all agreed, that they should take up their abode for some time in the +town of Woodstock, to wait for their new commissions respecting +Windsor; and this upon the prudential consideration, that it was best +not to slip one knot until another was first tied. + +Each Commissioner, therefore, wrote to Oliver individually, stating, in +his own way, the depth and height, length and breadth, of his +attachment to him. Each expressed himself resolved to obey the +General’s injunctions to the uttermost; but with the same scrupulous +devotion to the Parliament, each found himself at a loss how to lay +down the commission intrusted to them by that body, and therefore felt +bound in conscience to take up his residence at the borough of +Woodstock, that he might not seem to abandon the charge committed to +them, until they should be called to administrate the weightier matter +of Windsor, to which they expressed their willingness instantly to +devote themselves, according to his Excellency’s pleasure. + +This was the general style of their letters, varied by the +characteristic flourishes of the writers. Desborough, for example, said +something about the religious duty of providing for one’s own +household, only he blundered the text. Bletson wrote long and big words +about the political obligation incumbent on every member of the +community, on every person, to sacrifice his time and talents to the +service of his country; while Harrison talked of the littleness of +present affairs, in comparison of the approaching tremendous change of +all things beneath the sun. But although the garnishing of the various +epistles was different, the result came to the same, that they were +determined at least to keep sight of Woodstock, until they were well +assured of some better and more profitable commission. + +Everard also wrote a letter in the most grateful terms to Cromwell, +which would probably have been less warm had he known more distinctly +than his follower chose to tell him, the expectation under which the +wily General had granted his request. He acquainted his Excellency with +his purpose of continuing at Woodstock, partly to assure himself of the +motions of the three Commissioners, and to watch whether they did not +again enter upon the execution of the trust, which they had for the +present renounced,—and partly to see that some extraordinary +circumstances, which had taken place in the Lodge, and which would +doubtless transpire, were not followed by any explosion to the +disturbance of the public peace. He knew (as he expressed himself) that +his Excellency was so much the friend of order, that he would rather +disturbances or insurrections were prevented than punished; and he +conjured the General to repose confidence in his exertions for the +public service by every mode within his power; not aware, it will be +observed, in what peculiar sense his general pledge might be +interpreted. + +These letters being made up into a packet, were forwarded to Windsor by +a trooper, detached on that errand. + + + + +CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH. + + +We do that in our zeal, +Our calmer moments are afraid to answer. + + +ANONYMOUS. + + +While the Commissioners were preparing to remove themselves from the +Lodge to the inn at the borough of Woodstock, with all that state and +bustle which attend the movements of great persons, and especially of +such to whom greatness is not entirely familiar, Everard held some +colloquy with the Presbyterian clergyman, Master Holdenough, who had +issued from the apartment which he had occupied, as it were in defiance +of the spirits by whom the mansion was supposed to be disturbed, and +whose pale cheek, and pensive brow, gave token that he had not passed +the night more comfortably than the other inmates of the Lodge of +Woodstock. Colonel Everard having offered to procure the reverend +gentleman some refreshment, received this reply:—“This day shall I not +taste food, saving that which we are assured of as sufficient for our +sustenance, where it is promised that our bread shall be given us, and +our water shall be sure. Not that I fast, in the papistical opinion +that it adds to those merits, which are but an accumulation of filthy +rags; but because I hold it needful that no grosser sustenance should +this day cloud my understanding, or render less pure and vivid the +thanks I owe to Heaven for a most wonderful preservation.” + +“Master Holdenough,” said Everard, “you are, I know, both a good man +and a bold one, and I saw you last night courageously go upon your +sacred duty, when soldiers, and tried ones, seemed considerably +alarmed.” + +“Too courageous—too venturous” was Master Holdenough’s reply, the +boldness of whose aspect seemed completely to have died away. “We are +frail creatures, Master Everard, and frailest when we think ourselves +strongest. Oh, Colonel Everard,” he added, after a pause, and as if the +confidence was partly involuntary, “I have seen that which I shall +never survive!” + +“You surprise me, reverend sir,” said Everard;—“may I request you will +speak more plainly? I have heard some stories of this wild night, nay, +have witnessed strange things myself; but, methinks, I would be much +interested in knowing the nature of your disturbance.” + +“Sir,” said the clergyman, “you are a discreet gentleman; and though I +would not willingly that these heretics, schismatics, Brownists, +Muggletonians, Anabaptists, and so forth, had such an opportunity of +triumph, as my defeat in this matter would have afforded them, yet with +you, who have been ever a faithful follower of our Church, and are +pledged to the good cause by the great National League and Covenant, +surely I would be more open. Sit we down, therefore, and let me call +for a glass of pure water, for as yet I feel some bodily faltering; +though, I thank Heaven, I am in mind resolute and composed as a merely +mortal man may after such a vision.—They say, worthy Colonel, that +looking on such things foretells, or causes, speedy death—I know not if +it be true; but if so, I only depart like the tired sentinel when his +officer releases him from his post; and glad shall I be to close these +wearied eyes against the sight, and shut these harassed ears against +the croaking, as of frogs, of Antinomians, and Pelagians, and +Socinians, and Arminians, and Arians, and Nullifidians, which have come +up into our England, like those filthy reptiles into the house of +Pharaoh.” + +Here one of the servants who had been summoned, entered with a cup of +water, gazing at the same time in the face of the clergyman, as if his +stupid grey eyes were endeavouring to read what tragic tale was written +on his brow; and shaking his empty skull as he left the room, with the +air of one who was proud of having discovered that all was not exactly +right, though he could not so well guess what was wrong. + +Colonel Everard invited the good man to take some refreshment more +genial than the pure element, but he declined: “I am in some sort a +champion” he said; “and though I have been foiled in the late +controversy with the Enemy, still I have my trumpet to give the alarm, +and my sharp sword to smite withal; therefore, like the Nazarites of +old, I will eat nothing that cometh of the vine, neither drink wine nor +strong drink, until these my days of combat shall have passed away.” + +Kindly and respectfully the Colonel anew pressed Master Holdenough to +communicate the events that had befallen him on the preceding night; +and the good clergyman proceeded as follows, with that little +characteristic touch of vanity in his narrative, which naturally arose +out of the part he had played in the world, and the influence which he +had exercised over the minds of others. “I was a young man at the +University of Cambridge,” he said, “when I was particularly bound in +friendship to a fellow-student, perhaps because we were esteemed +(though it is vain to mention it) the most hopeful scholars at our +college; and so equally advanced, that it was difficult, perhaps, to +say which was the greater proficient in his studies. Only our tutor, +Master Purefoy, used to say, that if my comrade had the advantage of me +in gifts, I had the better of him in grace; for he was attached to the +profane learning of the classics, always unprofitable, often impious +and impure; and I had light enough to turn my studies into the sacred +tongues. Also we differed in our opinions touching the Church of +England, for he held Arminian opinions, with Laud, and those who would +connect our ecclesiastical establishment with the civil, and make the +Church dependent on the breath of an earthly man. In fine, he favoured +Prelacy both in essentials and ceremonial; and although, we parted with +tears and embraces, it was to follow very different courses. He +obtained a living, and became a great controversial writer in behalf of +the Bishops and of the Court. I also, as is well known to you, to the +best of my poor abilities, sharpened my pen in the cause of the poor +oppressed people, whose tender consciences rejected the rites and +ceremonies more befitting a papistical than a reformed Church, and +which, according to the blinded policy of the Court, were enforced by +pains and penalties. Then came the Civil War, and I—called thereunto by +my conscience, and nothing fearing or suspecting what miserable +consequences have chanced through the rise of these +Independents—consented to lend my countenance and labour to the great +work, by becoming chaplain to Colonel Harrison’s regiment. Not that I +mingled with carnal weapons in the field—which Heaven forbid that a +minister of the altar should—but I preached, exhorted, and, in time of +need, was a surgeon, as well to the wounds of the body as of the soul. +Now, it fell, towards the end of the war, that a party of malignants +had seized on a strong house in the shire of Shrewsbury, situated on a +small island advanced into a lake, and accessible only by a small and +narrow causeway. From thence they made excursions, and vexed the +country; and high time it was to suppress them, so that a part of our +regiment went to reduce them; and I was requested to go, for they were +few in number to take in so strong a place, and the Colonel judged that +my exhortations would make them do valiantly. And so, contrary to my +wont, I went forth with them, even to the field, where there was +valiant fighting on both sides. Nevertheless, the malignants shooting +their wall-pieces at us, had so much the advantage, that, after +bursting their gates with a salvo of our cannon, Colonel Harrison +ordered his men to advance on the causeway, and try to carry the place +by storm. Nonetheless, although our men did valiantly, advancing in +good order, yet being galled on every side by the fire, they at length +fell into disorder, and were retreating with much loss, Harrison +himself valiantly bringing up the rear, and defending them as he could +against the enemy, who sallied forth in pursuit of them, to smite them +hip and thigh. Now, Colonel Everard, I am a man of a quick and vehement +temper by nature, though better teaching than the old law hath made me +mild and patient as you now see me. I could not bear to see our +Israelites flying before the Philistines, so I rushed upon the +causeway, with the Bible in one hand, and a halberd, which I had caught +up, in the other, and turned back the foremost fugitives, by +threatening to strike them down, pointing out to them at the same time +a priest in his cassock, as they call it, who was among the malignants, +and asking them whether they would not do as much for a true servant of +Heaven, as the uncircumcised would for a priest of Baal. My words and +strokes prevailed; they turned at once, and shouting out, Down with +Baal and his worshippers! they charged the malignants so unexpectedly +home, that they not only drove them back into their house of garrison, +but entered it with them, as the phrase is, pell-mell. I also was +there, partly hurried on by the crowd, partly to prevail on our enraged +soldiers to give quarter; for it grieved my heart to see Christians and +Englishmen hashed down with swords and gunstocks, like curs in the +street, when there is an alarm of mad-dogs. In this way, the soldiers +fighting and slaughtering, and I calling to them to stay their hand, we +gained the very roof of the building, which was in part leaded, and to +which, as a last tower of refuge, those of the cavaliers, who yet +escaped, had retired. I was myself, I may say, forced up the narrow +winding staircase by our soldiers, who rushed on like dogs of chase +upon their prey; and when extricated from the passage, I found myself +in the midst of a horrid scene. The scattered defenders were, some +resisting with the fury of despair; some on their knees, imploring for +compassion in words and tones to break a man’s heart when he thinks on +them; some were calling on God for mercy; and it was time, for man had +none. They were stricken down, thrust through, flung from the +battlements into the lake; and the wild cries of the victors, mingled +with the groans, shrieks, and clamours, of the vanquished, made a sound +so horrible, that only death can erase it from my memory. And the men +who butchered their fellow-creatures thus, were neither pagans from +distant savage lands, nor ruffians, the refuse and offscourings of our +own people. They were in calm blood reasonable, nay, religious men, +maintaining a fair repute both heavenward and earthward. Oh, Master +Everard, your trade of war should be feared and avoided, since it +converts such men into wolves towards their fellow creatures.” + +“It is a stern necessity,” said Everard, looking down, “and as such +alone is justifiable. But proceed, reverend sir; I see not how this +storm, an incident but e’en too frequent on both sides during the late +war, connects with the affair of last night.” + +“You shall hear anon,” said Mr. Holdenough; then paused as one who +makes an effort to compose himself before continuing a relation, the +tenor of which agitated him with much violence. “In this infernal +tumult,” he resumed,—“for surely nothing on earth could so much +resemble hell, as when men go thus loose in mortal malice on their +fellow-creatures,—I saw the same priest whom I had distinguished on the +causeway, with one or two other malignants, pressed into a corner by +the assailants, and defending themselves to the last, as those who had +no hope.—I saw him—I knew him—Oh, Colonel Everard!” + +He grasped Everard’s hand with his own left hand, and pressed the palm +of his right to his face and forehead, sobbing aloud. + +“It was your college companion?” said Everard, anticipating the +catastrophe. + +“Mine ancient—mine only friend—with whom I had spent the happy days of +youth!—I rushed forward—I struggled—I entreated.—But my eagerness left +me neither voice nor language—all was drowned in the wretched cry which +I had myself raised—Down with the priest of Baal! Slay Mattan— slay him +were he between the altars!—Forced over the battlements, but struggling +for life, I could see him cling to one of those projections which were +formed to carry the water from the leads, but they hacked at his arms +and hands. I heard the heavy fall into the bottomless abyss below. +Excuse me—I cannot go on.” + +“He may have escaped.” + +“Oh! no, no, no—the tower was four stories in height. Even those who +threw themselves into the lake from the lower windows, to escape by +swimming, had no safety; for mounted troopers on the shore caught the +same bloodthirsty humour which had seized the storming party, galloped +around the margin of the lake, and shot those who were struggling for +life in the water, or cut them down as they strove to get to land. They +were all cut off and destroyed.—Oh! may the blood shed on that day +remain silent!—Oh! that the earth may receive it in her recesses!—Oh! +that it may be mingled for ever with the dark waters of that lake, so +that it may never cry for vengeance against those whose anger was +fierce, and who slaughtered in their wrath!—And, oh! may the erring man +be forgiven who came into their assembly, and lent his voice to +encourage their, cruelty!—Oh! Albany, my brother, my brother, I have +lamented for thee even as David for Jonathan!”[1] + + [1] Michael Hudson, the _plain-dealing_ chaplain of King Charles I., + resembled, in his loyalty to that unfortunate monarch, the fictitious + character of Dr. Rochecliffe; and the circumstances of his death were + copied in the narrative of the Presbyterian’s account of the slaughter + of his school-fellow;—he was chosen by Charles I., along with John + Ashburnham, as his guide and attendant, when he adopted the + ill-advised resolution of surrendering his person to the Scots army. + He was taken prisoner by the Parliament, remained long in their + custody, and was treated with great severity. He made his escape + for about a year in 1647; was retaken, and again escaped in 1648. + and heading an insurrection of cavaliers, seized on a strong moated + house in Lincolnshire, called Woodford House. He gained the place + without resistance; and there are among Peck’s Desiderata Curiosa + several accounts of his death, among which we shall transcribe that + of Bishop Kenneth, as the most correct, and concise:—“I have been + on the spot,” saith his Lordship, “and made all possible enquiries, + and find that the relation given by Mr. Wood may be a little + rectified and supplied. + “Mr. Hudson and his party did not fly to Woodford, but had quietly + taken possession of it, and held it for a garrison, with a good + party of horse, who made a stout defence, and frequent sallies, + against a party of the Parliament at Stamford, till the colonel + commanding them sent a stronger detachment, under a captain, his + own kinsman, who was shot from the house, upon which the colonel + himself came up to renew the attack, and to demand surrender, and + brought them to capitulate upon terms of safe quarter. But the + colonel, in base revenge, commanded that they should not spare that + rogue Hudson. Upon which, Hudson fought his way up to the leads; + and when he saw they were pushing in upon him, threw himself over + the battlements (another account says, he caught hold of a spout or + outstone,) and hung by the hands, as intending to fall into the + moat beneath, till they cut off his wrists and let him drop, and + then ran down to hunt him in the water, where they found him + paddling with his stumps, and barbarously knocked him on the + head.”—_Peck’s Desiderata Curiosa_, Book ix. + Other accounts mention he was refused the poor charity of coming to + die on land, by one Egborough, servant to Mr. Spinks, the intruder + into the parsonage. A man called Walker, a chandler or grocer, cut + out the tongue of the unfortunate divine, and showed it as a trophy + through the country. But it was remarked, with vindictive + satisfaction, that Egborough was killed by the bursting of his own + gun; and that Walker, obliged to abandon his trade through poverty, + became a scorned mendicant. + For some time a grave was not vouchsafed to the remains of this + brave and loyal divine, till one of the other party said, “Since he + is dead, let him be buried.” + + +The good man sobbed aloud, and so much did Colonel Everard sympathize +with his emotions, that he forebore to press him upon the subject of +his own curiosity until the full tide of remorseful passion had for the +time abated. It was, however, fierce and agitating, the more so, +perhaps, that indulgence in strong mental feeling of any kind was +foreign to the severe and ascetic character of the man, and was +therefore the more overpowering when it had at once surmounted all +restraints. Large tears flowed down the trembling features of his thin, +and usually stern, or at least austere countenance; he eagerly returned +the compression of Everard’s hand, as if thankful for the sympathy +which the caress implied. + +Presently after, Master Holdenough wiped his eyes, withdrew his hand +gently from that of Everard, shaking it kindly as they parted, and +proceeded with more composure: “Forgive me this burst of passionate +feeling, worthy Colonel. I am conscious it little becomes a man of my +cloth, who should be the bearer of consolation to others, to give way +in mine own person to an extremity of grief, weak at least, if indeed +it is not sinful; for what are we, that we should weep and murmur +touching that which is permitted? But Albany was to me as a brother. +The happiest days of my life, ere my call to mingle myself in the +strife of the land had awakened me to my duties, were spent in his +company. I—but I will make the rest of my story short.”—Here he drew +his chair close to that of Everard, and spoke in a solemn and +mysterious tone of voice, almost lowered to a whisper—“I saw him last +night.” + +“Saw _him_—saw whom?” said Everard. “Can you mean the person whom”— + +“Whom I saw so ruthlessly slaughtered,” said the clergyman—“My ancient +college friend—Joseph Albany.” + +“Master Holdenough, your cloth and your character alike must prevent +your jesting on such a subject as this.” + +“Jesting!” answered Holdenough; “I would as soon jest on my +death-bed—as soon jest upon the Bible.” + +“But you must have been deceived,” answered Everard, hastily; “this +tragical story necessarily often returns to your mind, and in moments +when the imagination overcomes the evidence of the outward senses, your +fancy must have presented to you an unreal appearance. Nothing more +likely, when the mind is on the stretch after something supernatural, +than that the imagination should supply the place with a chimera, while +the over-excited feelings render it difficult to dispel the delusion.” + +“Colonel Everard,” replied Holdenough, with austerity, “in discharge of +my duty I must not fear the face of man; and, therefore, I tell you +plainly, as I have done before with more observance, that when you +bring your carnal learning and judgment, as it is but too much your +nature to do, to investigate the hidden things of another world, you +might as well measure with the palm of your hand the waters of the +Isis. Indeed, good sir, you err in this, and give men too much pretence +to confound your honourable name with witch-advocates, free-thinkers, +and atheists, even with such as this man Bletson, who, if the +discipline of the church had its hand strengthened, as it was in the +beginning of the great conflict, would have been long ere now cast out +of the pale, and delivered over to the punishment of the flesh, that +his spirit might, if possible, be yet saved.” + +“You mistake, Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard; “I do not deny +the existence of such preternatural visitations, because I cannot, and +dare not, raise the voice of my own opinion against the testimony of +ages, supported by such learned men as yourself. Nevertheless, though I +grant the possibility of such things, I have scarce yet heard of an +instance in my days so well fortified by evidence, that I could at once +and distinctly say, This must have happened by supernatural agency, and +not otherwise.” + +“Hear, then, what I have to tell,” said the divine, “on the faith of a +man, a Christian, and, what is more, a servant of our Holy Church; and, +therefore, though unworthy, an elder and a teacher among Christians. I +had taken my post yester evening in the half-furnished apartment, +wherein hangs a huge mirror, which might have served Goliath of Gath to +have admired himself in, when clothed from head to foot in his brazen +armour. I the rather chose this place, because they informed me it was +the nearest habitable room to the gallery in which they say you had +been yourself assailed that evening by the Evil One.—Was it so, I pray +you?” + +“By some one with no good intentions I was assailed in that apartment. +So far,” said Colonel Everard, “you were correctly informed.” + +“Well, I chose my post as well as I might, even as a resolved general +approaches his camp, and casts up his mound as nearly as he can to the +besieged city. And, of a truth, Colonel Everard, if I felt some +sensation of bodily fear,—for even Elias, and the prophets, who +commanded the elements, had a portion in our frail nature, much more +such a poor sinful being as myself,—yet was my hope and my courage +high; and I thought of the texts which I might use, not in the wicked +sense of periapts, or spells, as the blinded papists employ them, +together with the sign of the cross and other fruitless forms, but as +nourishing and supporting that true trust and confidence in the blessed +promises, being the true shield of faith wherewith the fiery darts of +Satan may be withstood and quenched. And thus armed and prepared, I +sate me down to read, at the same time to write, that I might compel my +mind to attend to those subjects which became the situation in which I +was placed, as preventing any unlicensed excursions of the fancy, and +leaving no room for my imagination to brood over idle fears. So I +methodised, and wrote down what I thought meet for the time, and +peradventure some hungry souls may yet profit by the food which I then +prepared.” + +“It was wisely and worthily done, good and reverend sir,” replied +Colonel Everard. “I pray you to proceed.” + +“While I was thus employed, sir, and had been upon the matter for about +three hours, not yielding to weariness, a strange thrilling came over +my senses, and the large and old-fashioned apartment seemed to wax +larger, more gloomy, and more cavernous, while the air of the night +grew more cold and chill. I know not if it was that the fire began to +decay, or whether there cometh before such things as were then about to +happen, a breath and atmosphere, as it were, of terror, as Job saith in +a well-known passage, ‘Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made my +bones to shake;’ and there was a tingling noise in my ears, and a +dizziness in my brain, so that I felt like those who call for aid when +there is no danger, and was even prompted to flee, when I saw no one to +pursue. It was then that something seemed to pass behind me, casting a +reflection on the great mirror before which I had placed my +writing-table, and which I saw by assistance of the large standing +light which was then in front of the glass. And I looked up, and I saw +in the glass distinctly the appearance of a man—as sure as these words +issue from my mouth, it was no other than the same Joseph Albany—the +companion of my youth—he whom I had seen precipitated down the +battlements of Clidesbrough Castle into the deep lake below!” + +“What did you do?” + +“It suddenly rushed on my mind,” said the divine, “that the stoical +philosopher Athenodorus had eluded the horrors of such a vision by +patiently pursuing his studies; and it shot at the same time across my +mind, that I, a Christian divine, and a Steward of the Mysteries, had +less reason to fear evil, and better matter on which to employ my +thoughts, than was possessed by a Heathen, who was blinded even by his +own wisdom. So, instead of betraying any alarm, or even turning my head +around, I pursued my writing, but with a beating heart, I admit, and +with a throbbing hand.” + +“If you could write at all,” said the Colonel, “with such an impression +on your mind, you may take the head of the English army for dauntless +resolution.” + +“Our courage is not our own, Colonel,” said the divine, “and not as +ours should it be vaunted of. And again, when you speak of this strange +vision as an impression on my fancy, and not a reality obvious to my +senses, let me tell you once more, your worldly wisdom is but +foolishness touching the things that are not worldly.” + +“Did you not look again upon the mirror?” said the Colonel. + +“I did, when I had copied out the comfortable text, ‘Thou shalt tread +down Satan under thy feet.’” + +“And what did you then see?” + +“The reflection of the same Joseph Albany,” said Holdenough, “passing +slowly as from behind my chair—the same in member and lineament that I +had known him in his youth, excepting that his cheek had the marks of +the more advanced age at which he died, and was very pale.” + +“What did you then?” + +“I turned from the glass, and plainly saw the figure which had made the +reflection in the mirror retreating towards the door, not fast, nor +slow, but with a gliding steady pace. It turned again when near the +door, and again showed me its pale, ghastly countenance, before it +disappeared. But how it left the room, whether by the door, or +otherwise, my spirits were too much hurried to remark exactly; nor have +I been able, by any effort of recollection, distinctly to remember.” + +“This is a strange, and, as coming from you, a most excellently +well-attested apparition,” answered Everard. “And yet, Master +Holdenough, if the other world has been actually displayed, as you +apprehend, and I will not dispute the possibility, assure yourself +there are also wicked men concerned in these machinations. I myself +have undergone some rencontres with visitants who possessed bodily +strength, and wore, I am sure, earthly weapons.” + +“Oh! doubtless, doubtless,” replied Master Holdenough; “Beelzebub loves +to charge with horse and foot mingled, as was the fashion of the old +Scottish general, Davie Leslie. He has his devils in the body as well +as his devils disembodied, and uses the one to support and back the +other.” + +“It may be as you say, reverend sir,” answered the Colonel.—“But what +do you advise in this case?” + +“For that I must consult with my brethren,” said the divine; “and if +there be but left in our borders five ministers of the true kirk, we +will charge Satan in full body, and you shall see whether we have not +power over him to resist till he shall flee from us. But failing that +ghostly armament against these strange and unearthly enemies, truly I +would recommend, that as a house of witchcraft and abomination, this +polluted den of ancient tyranny and prostitution should be totally +consumed by fire, lest Satan, establishing his head-quarters so much to +his mind, should find a garrison and a fastness from which he might +sally forth to infest the whole neighbourhood. Certain it is, that I +would recommend to no Christian soul to inhabit the mansion; and, if +deserted, it would become a place for wizards to play their pranks, and +witches to establish their Sabbath, and those who, like Demas, go about +after the wealth of this world, seeking for gold and silver to practise +spells and charms to the prejudice of the souls of the covetous. Trust +me, therefore, it were better that it were spoiled and broken down, not +leaving one stone upon another.” + +“I say nay to that, my good friend,” said the Colonel; “for the +Lord-General hath permitted, by his license, my mother’s brother, Sir +Henry Lee, and his family, to return into the house of his fathers, +being indeed the only roof under which he hath any chance of obtaining +shelter for his grey hairs.” + +“And was this done by your advice, Markham Everard?” said the divine +austerely. + +“Certainly it was,” returned the Colonel.—“And wherefore should I not +exert mine influence to obtain a place of refuge for the brother of my +mother?” + +“Now, as sure as thy soul liveth,” answered the presbyter, “I had +believed this from no tongue but thine own. Tell me, was it not this +very Sir Henry Lee, who, by the force of his buffcoats and his +greenjerkins, enforced the Papist Laie’s order to remove the altar to +the eastern end of the church at Woodstock?—and did not he swear by his +beard, that he would hang in the very street of Woodstock whoever +should deny to drink the King’s health?—and is not his hand red with +the blood of the saints?—and hath there been a ruffler in the field for +prelacy and high prerogative more unmitigable or fiercer?” + +“All this may have been as you say, good Master Holdenough,” answered +the Colonel; “but my uncle is now old and feeble, and hath scarce a +single follower remaining, and his daughter is a being whom to look +upon would make the sternest weep for pity; a being who”— + +“Who is dearer to Everard,” said Holdenough, “than his good name, his +faith to his friends, his duty to his religion;—this is no time to +speak with sugared lips. The paths in which you tread are dangerous. +You are striving to raise the papistical candlestick which Heaven in +its justice removed out of its place—to bring back to this hall of +sorceries those very sinners who are bewitched with them. I will not +permit the land to be abused by their witchcrafts.—They shall not come +hither.” + +He spoke this with vehemence, and striking his stick against the +ground; and the Colonel, very much dissatisfied, began to express +himself haughtily in return. “You had better consider your power to +accomplish your threats, Master Holdenough,” he said, “before you urge +them so peremptorily.” + +“And have I not the power to bind and to loose?” said the clergyman. + +“It is a power little available, save over those of your own Church,” +said Everard, with a tone something contemptuous. + +“Take heed—take heed,” said the divine, who, though an excellent, was, +as we have elsewhere seen, an irritable man.—“Do not insult me; but +think honourably of the messenger, for the sake of Him whose commission +he carries.—Do not, I say, defy me—I am bound to discharge my duty, +were it to the displeasing of my twin brother.” + +“I can see nought your office has to do in the matter,” said Colonel +Everard; “and I, on my side, give you warning not to attempt to meddle +beyond your commission.” + +“Right—you hold me already to be as submissive as one of your +grenadiers,” replied the clergyman, his acute features trembling with a +sense of indignity, so as even to agitate his grey hair; “but beware, +sir, I am not so powerless as you suppose. I will invoke every true +Christian in Woodstock to gird up his loins, and resist the restoration +of prelacy, oppression, and malignancy within our borders. I will stir +up the wrath of the righteous against the oppressor—the Ishmaelite—the +Edomite—and against his race, and against those who support him and +encourage him to rear up his horn. I will call aloud, and spare not, +and arouse the many whose love hath waxed cold, and the multitude who +care for none of these things. There shall be a remnant to listen to +me; and I will take the stick of Joseph, which was in the hand of +Ephraim, and go down to cleanse this place of witches and sorcerers, +and of enchantments, and will cry and exhort, saying—Will you plead for +Baal?—will you serve him? Nay, take the prophets of Baal—let not a man +escape!” + +“Master Holdenough, Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard, with much +impatience, “by the tale yourself told me, you have exhorted upon that +text once too often already.” + +The old man struck his palm forcibly against his forehead, and fell +back into a chair as these words were uttered, as suddenly, and as much +without power of resistance, as if the Colonel had fired a pistol +through his head. Instantly regretting the reproach which he had +suffered to escape him in his impatience, Everard hastened to +apologise, and to offer every conciliatory excuse, however +inconsistent, which occurred to him on the moment. But the old man was +too deeply affected—he rejected his hand, lent no ear to what he said, +and finally started up, saying sternly, “You have abused my confidence, +sir—abused it vilely, to turn it into my own reproach: had I been a man +of the sword, you dared not—But enjoy your triumph, sir, over an old +man, and your father’s friend—strike at the wound his imprudent +confidence showed you.” + +“Nay, my worthy and excellent friend,” said the Colonel— + +“Friend!” answered the old man, starting up—“We are foes, sir—foes now, +and for ever!” + +So saying, and starting from the seat into which he had rather fallen +than thrown himself, he ran out of the room with a precipitation of +step which he was apt to use upon occasions of irritable feeling, and +which was certainly more eager than dignified, especially as he +muttered while he ran, and seemed as if he were keeping up his own +passion, by recounting over and over the offence which he had received. + +“So!” said Colonel Everard, “and there was not strife enough between +mine uncle and the people of Woodstock already, but I must needs +increase it, by chafing this irritable and quick-tempered old man, +eager as I knew him to be in his ideas of church-government, and stiff +in his prejudices respecting all who dissent from him! The mob of +Woodstock will rise; for though he would not get a score of them to +stand by him in any honest or intelligible purpose, yet let him cry +havoc and destruction, and I will warrant he has followers enow. And my +uncle is equally wild and unpersuadable. For the value of all the +estate he ever had, he would not allow a score of troopers to be +quartered in the house for defence; and if he be alone, or has but +Joceline to stand by him, he will be as sure to fire upon those who +come to attack the Lodge, as if he had a hundred men in garrison; and +then what can chance but danger and bloodshed?” + +This progress of melancholy anticipation was interrupted by the return +of Master Holdenough, who, hurrying into the room, with the same +precipitate pace at which he had left it, ran straight up to the +Colonel, and said, “Take my hand, Markham—take my hand hastily; for the +old Adam is whispering at my heart, that it is a disgrace to hold it +extended so long.” + +“Most heartily do I receive your hand, my venerable friend,” said +Everard, “and I trust in sign of renewed amity.” + +“Surely, surely,”—said the divine, shaking his hand kindly; “thou hast, +it is true, spoken bitterly, but thou hast spoken truth in good time; +and I think—though your words were severe—with a good and kindly +purpose. Verily, and of a truth, it were sinful in me again to be hasty +in provoking violence, remembering that which you have upbraided me +with”— + +“Forgive me, good Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard, “it was a +hasty word; I meant not in serious earnest to _upbraid_.” + +“Peace, I pray you, peace,” said the divine; “I say, the allusion to +that which you have _most justly_ upbraided me with—though the charge +aroused the gall of the old man within me, the inward tempter being +ever on the watch to bring us to his lure—ought, instead of being +resented, to have been acknowledged by me as a favour, for so are the +wounds of a friend termed faithful. And surely I, who have by one +unhappy exhortation to battle and strife sent the living to the +dead—and I fear brought back even the dead among the living—should now +study peace and good will, and reconciliation of difference, leaving +punishment to the Great Being whose laws are broken, and vengeance to +Him who hath said, I will repay it.” + +The old man’s mortified features lighted up with a humble confidence as +he made this acknowledgment; and Colonel Everard, who knew the +constitutional infirmities, and the early prejudices of professional +consequence and exclusive party opinion, which he must have subdued ere +arriving at such a tone of candour, hastened to express his admiration +of his Christian charity, mingled with reproaches on himself for having +so deeply injured his feelings. + +“Think not of it—think not of it, excellent young man,” said +Holdenough; “we have both erred—I in suffering my zeal to outrun my +charity, you perhaps in pressing hard on an old and peevish man, who +had so lately poured out his sufferings into your friendly bosom. Be it +all forgotten. Let your friends, if they are not deterred by what has +happened at this manor of Woodstock, resume their habitation as soon as +they will. If they can protect themselves against the powers of the +air, believe me, that if I can prevent it by aught in my power, they +shall have no annoyance from earthly neighbours; and assure yourself, +good sir, that my voice is still worth something with the worthy Mayor, +and the good Aldermen, and the better sort of housekeepers up yonder in +the town, although the lower classes are blown about with every wind of +doctrine. And yet farther, be assured, Colonel, that should your +mother’s brother, or any of his family, learn that they have taken up a +rash bargain in returning to this unhappy and unhallowed house, or +should they find any qualms in their own hearts and consciences which +require a ghostly comforter, Nehemiah Holdenough will be as much at +their command by night or day, as if they had been bred up within the +holy pale of the Church in which he is an unworthy minister; and +neither the awe of what is fearful to be seen within these walls, nor +his knowledge of their blinded and carnal state, as bred up under a +prelatic dispensation, shall prevent him doing what lies in his poor +abilities for their protection and edification.” + +“I feel all the force of your kindness, reverend sir,” said Colonel +Everard, “but I do not think it likely that my uncle will give you +trouble on either score. He is a man much accustomed to be his own +protector in temporal danger, and in spiritual doubts to trust to his +own prayers and those of his Church.” + +“I trust I have not been superfluous in offering mine assistance,” said +the old man, something jealous that his proffered spiritual aid had +been held rather intrusive. “I ask pardon if that is the case, I humbly +ask pardon—I would not willingly be superfluous.” + +The Colonel hastened to appease this new alarm of the watchful jealousy +of his consequence, which, joined with a natural heat of temper which +he could not always subdue, were the good man’s only faults. + +They had regained their former friendly footing, when Roger Wildrake +returned from the hut of Joceline, and whispered his master that his +embassy had been successful. The Colonel then addressed the divine, and +informed him, that as the Commissioners had already given up Woodstock, +and as his uncle, Sir Henry Lee, proposed to return to the Lodge about +noon, he would, if his reverence pleased, attend him up to the borough. + +“Will you not tarry,” said the reverend man, with something like +inquisitive apprehension in his voice, “to welcome your relatives upon +their return to this their house?” + +“No, my good friend,” said Colonel Everard; “the part which I have +taken in these unhappy broils, perhaps also the mode of worship in +which I have been educated, have so prejudiced me in mine uncle’s +opinion, that I must be for some time a stranger to his house and +family.” + +“Indeed! I rejoice to hear it with all my heart and soul,” said the +divine. “Excuse my frankness—I do indeed rejoice; I had thought—no +matter what I had thought; I would not again give offence. But truly +though the maiden hath a pleasant feature, and he, as all men say, is +in human things unexceptionable, yet—but I give you pain—in sooth, I +will say no more unless you ask my sincere and unprejudiced advice, +which you shall command, but which I will not press on you +superfluously. Wend we to the borough together—the pleasant solitude of +the forest may dispose us to open our hearts to each other.” + +They did walk up to the little town in company, and somewhat to Master +Holdenough’s surprise, the Colonel, though they talked on various +subjects, did not request of him any ghostly advice on the subject of +his love to his fair cousin, while, greatly beyond the expectation of +the soldier, the clergyman kept his word, and in his own phrase, was +not so superfluous as to offer upon so delicate a point his unasked +counsel. + + + + +CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. + + +Then are the harpies gone—Yet ere we perch +Where such foul birds have roosted, let us cleanse +The foul obscenity they’ve left behind them. + + +AGAMEMNON. + + +The embassy of Wildrake had been successful, chiefly through the +mediation of the Episcopal divine, whom we formerly found acting in the +character of a chaplain to the family, and whose voice had great +influence on many accounts with its master. + +A little before high noon, Sir Henry Lee, with his small household, +were again in unchallenged possession of their old apartments at the +Lodge of Woodstock; and the combined exertions of Joceline Joliffe, of +Phœbe, and of old Joan, were employed in putting to rights what the +late intruders had left in great disorder. + +Sir Henry Lee had, like all persons of quality of that period, a love +of order amounting to precision, and felt, like a fine lady whose dress +has been disordered in a crowd, insulted and humiliated by the rude +confusion into which his household goods had been thrown, and impatient +till his mansion was purified from all marks of intrusion. In his anger +he uttered more orders than the limited number of his domestics were +likely to find time or hands to execute. “The villains have left such +sulphureous steams behind them, too,” said the old knight, “as if old +Davie Leslie and the whole Scottish army had quartered among them.” + +“It may be near as bad,” said Joceline, “for men say, for certain, it +was the Devil came down bodily among them, and made them troop off.” + +“Then,” said the knight, “is the Prince of Darkness a gentleman, as old +Will Shakspeare says. He never interferes with those of his own coat, +for the Lees have been here, father and son, these five hundred years, +without disquiet; and no sooner came these misbegotten churls, than he +plays his own part among them.” + +“Well, one thing he and they have left us,” said Joliffe, “which we may +thank them for; and that is, such a well-filled larder and buttery as +has been seldom seen in Woodstock Lodge this many a day: carcasses of +mutton, large rounds of beef, barrels of confectioners’ ware, pipes and +runlets of sack, muscadine, ale, and what not. We shall have a royal +time on’t through half the winter; and Joan must get to salting and +pickling presently.” + +“Out, villain!” said the knight; “are we to feed on the fragments of +such scum of the earth as these? Cast them forth instantly! Nay,” +checking himself, “that were a sin; but give them to the poor, or see +them sent to the owners. And, hark ye, I will none of their strong +liquors. I would rather drink like a hermit all my life, than seem to +pledge such scoundrels as these in their leavings, like a miserable +drawer, who drains off the ends of the bottles after the guests have +paid their reckoning, and gone off. And, hark ye, I will taste no water +from the cistern out of which these slaves have been serving +themselves—fetch me down a pitcher from Rosamond’s spring.” + +Alice heard this injunction, and well guessing there was enough for the +other members of the family to do, she quietly took a small pitcher, +and flinging a cloak around her, walked out in person to procure Sir +Henry the water which he desired. Meantime, Joceline said, with some +hesitation, “that a man still remained, belonging to the party of these +strangers, who was directing about the removal of some trunks and mails +which belonged to the Commissioners, and who could receive his honour’s +commands about the provisions.” + +“Let him come hither.” (The dialogue was held in the hall.) “Why do you +hesitate and drumble in that manner?” + +“Only, sir,” said Joceline, “only perhaps your honour might not wish to +see him, being the same who, not long since”— + +He paused. + +“Sent my rapier a-hawking through the firmament, thou wouldst say? Why, +when did I take spleen at a man for standing his ground against me? +Roundhead as he is, man, I like him the better of that, not the worse. +I hunger and thirst to have another turn with him. I have thought on +his passado ever since, and I believe, were it to try again, I know a +feat would control it. Fetch him directly.” + +Trusty Tomkins was presently ushered in, bearing himself with an iron +gravity, which neither the terrors of the preceding night, nor the +dignified demeanour of the high-born personage before whom he stood, +were able for an instant to overcome. + +“How now, good fellow?” said Sir Henry; “I would fain see something +more of thy fence, which baffled me the other evening; but truly, I +think the light was somewhat too faint for my old eyes. Take a foil, +man—I walk here in the hall, as Hamlet says; and ’tis the +breathing-time of day with me. Take a foil, then, in thy hand.” + +“Since it is your worship’s desire,” said the steward, letting fall his +long cloak, and taking the foil in his hand. + +“Now,” said the knight, “if your fitness speaks, mine is ready. +Methinks the very stepping on this same old pavement hath charmed away +the gout which threatened me. Sa—sa—I tread as firm as a game-cock.” + +They began the play with great spirit; and whether the old knight +really fought more coolly with the blunt than with the sharp weapon, or +whether the steward gave him some grains of advantage in this merely +sportive encounter, it is certain Sir Henry had the better in the +assault. His success put him into excellent humour. + +“There,” said he, “I found your trick—nay, you cheat me not twice the +same way. There was a very palpable hit. Why, had I had but light +enough the other night—But it skills not speaking of it—Here we leave +off. I must not fight, as we unwise cavaliers did with you roundhead +rascals, beating you so often that we taught you to beat us at last. +And good now, tell me why you are leaving your larder so full here? Do +you think I or my family can use broken victuals? What, have you no +better employment for your rounds of sequestrated beef than to leave +them behind you when you shift your quarters?” + +“So please your honour,” said Tomkins, “it may be that you desire not +the flesh of beeves, of rams, or of goats. Nevertheless, when you know +that the provisions were provided and paid for out of your own rents +and stock at Ditchley, sequestrated to the use of the state more than a +year since, it may be you will have less scruple to use them for your +own behoof.” + +“Rest assured that I shall,” said Sir Henry; “and glad you have helped +me to a share of mine own. Certainly I was an ass to suspect your +masters of subsisting, save at honest men’s expense.” + +“And as for the rumps of beeves,” continued Tomkins, with the same +solemnity, “there is a rump at Westminster, which will stand us of the +army much hacking and hewing yet, ere it is discussed to our mind.” + +Sir Henry paused, as if to consider what was the meaning of this +innuendo; for he was not a person of very quick apprehension. But +having at length caught the meaning of it, he burst into an explosion +of louder laughter than Joceline had seen him indulge in for a long +while. + +“Right, knave,” he said, “I taste thy jest—It is the very moral of the +puppet-show. Faustus raised the devil, as the Parliament raised the +army, and then, as the devil flies away with Faustus, so will the army +fly away with the Parliament, or the rump, as thou call’st it, or +sitting part of the so-called Parliament. And then, look you, friend, +the very devil of all hath my willing consent to fly away with the army +in its turn, from the highest general down to the lowest drum-boy. Nay, +never look fierce for the matter; remember there is daylight enough now +for a game at sharps.” + +Trusty Tomkins appeared to think it best to suppress his displeasure; +and observing that the wains were ready to transport the Commissioners’ +property to the borough, took a grave leave of Sir Henry Lee. + +Meantime the old man continued to pace his recovered hall, rubbing his +hands, and evincing greater signs of glee than he had shown since the +fatal 30th of January. + +“Here we are again in the old frank, Joliffe; well victualled too. How +the knave solved my point of conscience!—the dullest of them is a +special casuist where the question concerns profit. Look out if there +are not some of our own ragged regiment lurking about, to whom a +bellyful would be a God-send, Joceline. Then his fence, Joceline, +though the fellow foins well, very sufficient well. But thou saw’st how +I dealt with him when I had fitting light, Joceline.” + +“Ay, and so your honour did,” said Joceline. “You taught him to know +the Duke of Norfolk, from Saunders Gardner. I’ll warrant him he will +not wish to come under your honour’s thumb again.” + +“Why, I am waxing old,” said Sir Henry; “but skill will not rust +through age, though sinews must stiffen. But my age is like a lusty +winter, as old Will says, frosty but kindly; and what if, old as we +are, we live to see better days yet! I promise thee, Joceline, I love +this jarring betwixt the rogues of the board and the rogues of the +sword. When thieves quarrel, true men have a chance of coming by their +own.” + +Thus triumphed the old cavalier, in the treble glory of having +recovered his dwelling,—regained, as he thought, his character as a man +of fence, and finally, discovered some prospect of a change of times, +in which he was not without hopes that something might turn up for the +royal interest. + +Meanwhile, Alice, with a prouder and a lighter heart than had danced in +her bosom for several days, went forth with a gaiety to which she of +late had been a stranger, to contribute her assistance to the +regulation and supply of the household, by bringing the fresh water +wanted from fair Rosamond’s well. + +Perhaps she remembered, that when she was but a girl, her cousin +Markham used, among others, to make her perform that duty, as +presenting the character of some captive Trojan princess, condemned by +her situation to draw the waters from some Grecian spring, for the use +of the proud victor. At any rate, she certainly joyed to see her father +reinstated in his ancient habitation; and the joy was not the less +sincere, that she knew their return to Woodstock had been procured by +means of her cousin, and that even in her father’s prejudiced eyes, +Everard had been in some degree exculpated of the accusations the old +knight had brought against him; and that, if a reconciliation had not +yet taken place, the preliminaries had been established on which such a +desirable conclusion might easily be founded. It was like the +commencement of a bridge; when the foundation is securely laid, and the +piers raised above the influence of the torrent, the throwing of the +arches may be accomplished in a subsequent season. + +The doubtful fate of her only brother might have clouded even this +momentary gleam of sunshine; but Alice had been bred up during the +close and frequent contest of civil war, and had acquired the habit of +hoping in behalf of those dear to her, until hope was lost. In the +present case, all reports seemed to assure her of her brother’s safety. + +Besides these causes for gaiety, Alice Lee had the pleasing feeling +that she was restored to the habitation and the haunts of her +childhood, from which she had not departed without much pain, the more +felt, perhaps, because suppressed, in order to avoid irritating her +father’s sense of his misfortune. Finally, she enjoyed for the instant +the gleam of self-satisfaction by which we see the young and +well-disposed so often animated, when they can be, in common phrase, +helpful to those whom they love, and perform at the moment of need some +of those little domestic tasks, which age receives with so much +pleasure from the dutiful hands of youth. So that, altogether, as she +hasted through the remains and vestiges of a wilderness already +mentioned, and from thence about a bow-shot into the Park, to bring a +pitcher of water from Rosamond’s spring, Alice Lee, her features +enlivened and her complexion a little raised by the exercise, had, for +the moment, regained the gay and brilliant vivacity of expression which +had been the characteristic of her beauty in her earlier and happier +days. + +This fountain of old memory had been once adorned with architectural +ornaments in the style of the sixteenth century, chiefly relating to +ancient mythology. All these were now wasted and overthrown, and +existed only as moss-covered ruins, while the living spring continued +to furnish its daily treasures, unrivalled in purity, though the +quantity was small, gushing out amid disjointed stones, and bubbling +through fragments of ancient sculpture. + +With a light step and laughing brow the young Lady of Lee was +approaching, the fountain usually so solitary, when she paused on +beholding some one seated beside it. She proceeded, however, with +confidence, though with a step something less gay, when she observed +that the person was a female; some menial perhaps from the town, whom a +fanciful mistress occasionally dispatched for the water of a spring, +supposed to be peculiarly pure, or some aged woman, who made a little +trade by carrying it to the better sort of families, and selling it for +a trifle. There was no cause, therefore, for apprehension. + +Yet the terrors of the times were so great, that Alice did not see a +stranger even of her own sex without some apprehension. Denaturalized +women had as usual followed the camps of both armies during the Civil +War; who, on the one side with open profligacy and profanity, on the +other with the fraudful tone of fanaticism or hypocrisy, exercised +nearly in like degree their talents, for murder or plunder. But it was +broad daylight, the distance from the Lodge was but trifling, and +though a little alarmed at seeing a stranger where she expected deep +solitude, the daughter of the haughty old Knight had too much of the +lion about her, to fear without some determined and decided cause. + +Alice walked, therefore, gravely on toward the fount, and composed her +looks as she took a hasty glance of the female who was seated there, +and addressed herself to her task of filling her pitcher. + +The woman, whose presence had surprised and somewhat startled Alice +Lee, was a person of the lower rank, whose red cloak, russet kirtle, +handkerchief trimmed with Coventry blue, and a coarse steeple hat, +could not indicate at best any thing higher than the wife of a small +farmer, or, perhaps, the helpmate of a bailiff or hind. It was well if +she proved nothing worse. Her clothes, indeed, were of good materials; +but, what the female eye discerns with half a glance, they were +indifferently adjusted and put on. This looked as if they did not +belong to the person by whom they were worn, but were articles of which +she had become the mistress by some accident, if not by some successful +robbery. Her size, too, as did not escape Alice, even in the short +perusal she afforded the stranger, was unusual; her features swarthy +and singularly harsh, and her manner altogether unpropitious. The young +lady almost wished, as she stooped to fill her pitcher, that she had +rather turned back, and sent Joceline on the errand; but repentance was +too late now, and she had only to disguise as well as she could her +unpleasant feelings. + +“The blessings of this bright day to one as bright as it is,” said the +stranger, with no unfriendly, though a harsh voice. + +“I thank you,” said Alice in reply; and continued to fill her pitcher +busily, by assistance of an iron bowl which remained still chained to +one of the stones beside the fountain. + +“Perhaps, my pretty maiden, if you would accept my help, your work +would be sooner done,” said the stranger. + +“I thank you,” said Alice; “but had I needed assistance, I could have +brought those with me who had rendered it.” + +“I do not doubt of that, my pretty maiden,” answered the female; “there +are too many lads in Woodstock with eyes in their heads—No doubt you +could have brought with you any one of them who looked on you, if you +had listed.” + +Alice replied not a syllable, for she did not like the freedom used by +the speaker, and was desirous to break off the conversation. + +“Are you offended, my pretty mistress?” said the stranger; “that was +far from my purpose.—I will put my question otherwise.—Are the good +dames of Woodstock so careless of their pretty daughters as to let the +flower of them all wander about the wild chase without a mother, or a +somebody to prevent the fox from running away with the lamb?—that +carelessness, methinks, shows small kindness.” + +“Content yourself, good woman, I am not far from protection and +assistance,” said Alice, who liked less and less the effrontery of her +new acquaintance. + +“Alas! my pretty maiden,” said the stranger, patting with her large and +hard hand the head which Alice had kept bended down towards the water +which she was laving, “it would be difficult to hear such a pipe as +yours at the town of Woodstock, scream as loud as you would.” + +Alice shook the woman’s hand angrily off, took up her pitcher, though +not above half full, and as she saw the stranger rise at the same time, +said, not without fear doubtless, but with a natural feeling of +resentment and dignity, “I have no reason to make my cries heard as far +as Woodstock; were there occasion for my crying for help at all, it is +nearer at hand.” + +She spoke not without a warrant; for, at the moment, broke through the +bushes, and stood by her side, the noble hound Bevis; fixing on the +stranger his eyes that glanced fire, raising every hair on his gallant +mane as upright as the bristles of a wild boar when hard pressed, +grinning till a case of teeth, which would have matched those of any +wolf in Russia, were displayed in full array, and, without either +barking or springing, seeming, by his low determined growl, to await +but the signal for dashing at the female, whom he plainly considered as +a suspicious person. + +But the stranger was undaunted. “My pretty maiden,” she said, “you have +indeed a formidable guardian there, where cockneys or bumpkins are +concerned; but we who have been at the wars know spells for taming such +furious dragons; and therefore let not your four-footed protector go +loose on me, for he is a noble animal, and nothing but self-defence +would induce me to do him injury.” So saying, she drew a pistol from +her bosom, and cocked it—pointing it towards the dog, as if +apprehensive that he would spring upon her. + +“Hold, woman, hold!” said Alice Lee; “the dog will not do you +harm.—Down, Bevis, couch down.—And ere you attempt to hurt him, know he +is the favourite hound of Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, the keeper of +Woodstock Park, who would severely revenge any injury offered to him.” + +“And you, pretty one, are the old knight’s house-keeper, doubtless? I +have often heard the Lees have good taste.” + +“I am his daughter, good woman.” + +“His daughter!—I was blind—but yet it is true, nothing less perfect +could answer the description which all the world has given of Mistress +Alice Lee. I trust that my folly has given my young mistress no +offence, and that she will allow me, in token of reconciliation, to +fill her pitcher, and carry it as far as she will permit.” + +“As you will, good mother; but I am about to return instantly to the +Lodge, to which, in these times, I cannot admit strangers. You can +follow me no farther than the verge of the wilderness, and I am already +too long from home: I will send some one to meet and relieve you of the +pitcher.” So saying, she turned her back, with a feeling of terror +which she could hardly account for, and began to walk quickly towards +the Lodge, thinking thus to get rid of her troublesome acquaintance. + +But she reckoned without her host; for in a moment her new companion +was by her side, not running, indeed, but walking with prodigious long +unwomanly strides, which soon brought her up with the hurried and timid +steps of the frightened maiden. But her manner was more respectful than +formerly, though her voice sounded remarkably harsh and disagreeable, +and her whole appearance suggested an undefined, yet irresistible +feeling of apprehension. + +“Pardon a stranger, lovely Mistress Alice,” said her persecutor, “that +was not capable of distinguishing between a lady of your high quality +and a peasant wench, and who spoke to you with a degree of freedom, +ill-befitting your rank, certainly, and condition, and which, I fear, +has given you offence.” + +“No offence whatever,” replied Alice; “but, good woman, I am near home, +and can excuse your farther company.—You are unknown to me.” + +“But it follows not,” said the stranger, “that _your_ fortunes may not +be known to _me_, fair Mistress Alice. Look on my swarthy brow—England +breeds none such—and in the lands from which I come, the sun which +blackens our complexion, pours, to make amends, rays of knowledge into +our brains, which are denied to those of your lukewarm climate. Let me +look upon your pretty hand,—(attempting to possess herself of it,)—and +I promise you, you shall hear what will please you.” + +“I hear what does _not_ please me,” said Alice, with dignity; “you must +carry your tricks of fortune-telling and palmistry to the women of the +village.—We of the gentry hold them to be either imposture or unlawful +knowledge.” + +“Yet you would fain hear of a certain Colonel, I warrant you, whom +certain unhappy circumstances have separated from his family; you would +give better than silver if I could assure you that you would see him in +a day or two—ay, perhaps, sooner.” + +“I know nothing of what you speak, good woman; if you want alms, there +is a piece of silver—it is all I have in my purse.” + +“It were pity that I should take it,” said the female; “and yet give it +me—for the princess in the fairy tale must ever deserve, by her +generosity, the bounty of the benevolent fairy, before she is rewarded +by her protection.” + +“Take it—take it—give me my pitcher,” said Alice, “and begone,—yonder +comes one of my father’s servants.—What, ho!—Joceline—Joceline!” + +The old fortune-teller hastily dropped something into the pitcher as +she restored it to Alice Lee, and, plying her long limbs, disappeared +speedily under cover of the wood. + +Bevis turned, and barked, and showed some inclination to harass the +retreat of this suspicious person, yet, as if uncertain, ran towards +Joliffe, and fawned on him, as to demand his advice and encouragement. +Joceline pacified the animal, and, coming up to his young lady, asked +her, with surprise, what was the matter, and whether she had been +frightened? Alice made light of her alarm, for which, indeed, she could +not have assigned any very competent reason, for the manners of the +woman, though bold and intrusive, were not menacing. She only said she +had met a fortune-teller by Rosamond’s Well, and had had some +difficulty in shaking her off. + +“Ah, the gipsy thief,” said Joceline, “how well she scented there was +food in the pantry!—they have noses like ravens, these strollers. Look +you, Mistress Alice, you shall not see a raven or a carrion-crow in all +the blue sky for a mile round you; but let a sheep drop suddenly down +on the green-sward, and before the poor creature’s dead you shall see a +dozen of such guests croaking, as if inviting each other to the +banquet.—Just so it is with these sturdy beggars. You will see few +enough of them when there’s nothing to give, but when hough’s in the +pot, they will have share on’t.” + +“You are so proud of your fresh supply of provender,” said Alice, “that +you suspect all of a design on’t. I do not think this woman will +venture near your kitchen, Joceline.” + +“It will be best for her health,” said Joceline, “lest I give her a +ducking for digestion.—But give me the pitcher, Mistress Alice—meeter I +bear it than you.—How now? what jingles at the bottom? have you lifted +the pebbles as well as the water?” + +“I think the woman dropped something into the pitcher,” said Alice. + +“Nay, we must look to that, for it is like to be a charm, and we have +enough of the devil’s ware about Woodstock already—we will not spare +for the water—I can run back and fill the pitcher.” He poured out the +water upon the grass, and at the bottom of the pitcher was found a gold +ring, in which was set a ruby, apparently of some value. + +“Nay, if this be not enchantment, I know not what is,” said Joceline. +“Truly, Mistress Alice, I think you had better throw away this +gimcrack. Such gifts from such hands are a kind of press-money which +the devil uses for enlisting his regiment of witches; and if they take +but so much as a bean from him, they become his bond-slaves for +life—Ay, you look at the gew-gaw, but to-morrow you will find a lead +ring, and a common pebble in its stead.” + +“Nay, Joceline, I think it will be better to find out that +dark-complexioned woman, and return to her what seems of some value. +So, cause enquiry to be made, and be sure you return her ring. It seems +too valuable to be destroyed.” + +“Umph! that is always the way with women,” murmured Joceline. “You will +never get the best of them, but she is willing to save a bit of +finery.—Well, Mistress Alice, I trust that you are too young and too +pretty to be enlisted in a regiment of witches.” + +“I shall not be afraid of it till you turn conjuror,” said Alice; “so +hasten to the well, where you are like still to find the woman, and let +her know that Alice Lee desires none of her gifts, any more than she +did of her society.” + +So saying, the young lady pursued her way to the Lodge, while Joceline +went down to Rosamond’s Well to execute her commission. But the +fortune-teller, or whoever she might be, was nowhere to be found; +neither, finding that to be the case, did Joceline give himself much +trouble in tracking her farther. + +“If this ring, which I dare say the jade stole somewhere,” said the +underkeeper to himself, “be worth a few nobles, it is better in honest +hands than in that of vagabonds. My master has a right to all waifs and +strays, and certainly such a ring, in possession of a gipsy, must be a +waif. So I shall confiscate it without scruple, and apply the produce +to the support of Sir Henry’s household, which is like to be poor +enough. Thank Heaven, my military experience has taught me how to carry +hooks at my finger-ends—that is trooper’s law. Yet, hang it, after all, +I had best take it to Mark Everard and ask his advice—I hold him now to +be your learned counsellor in law where Mistress Alice’s affairs are +concerned, and my learned Doctor, who shall be nameless, for such as +concern Church and State and Sir Henry Lee.—And I’ll give them leave to +give mine umbles to the kites and ravens if they find me conferring my +confidence where it is not safe.” + + + + +CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. + + +Being skilless in these parts, which, to a stranger, +Unguided and unfriended, often prove +Rough and inhospitable. + + +TWELFTH NIGHT. + + +There was a little attempt at preparation, now that the dinner hour was +arrived, which showed that, in the opinion of his few but faithful +domestics, the good knight had returned in triumph to his home. + +The great tankard, exhibiting in bas-relief the figure of Michael +subduing the Arch-enemy, was placed on the table, and Joceline and +Phœbe dutifully attended; the one behind the chair of Sir Henry, the +other to wait upon her young mistress, and both to make out, by formal +and regular observance, the want of a more numerous train. + +“A health to King Charles!” said the old knight, handing the massive +tankard to his daughter; “drink it, my love, though it be rebel ale +which they have left us. I will pledge thee; for the toast will excuse +the liquor, had Noll himself brewed it.” + +The young lady touched the goblet with her lip, and returned it to her +father, who took a copious draught. + +“I will not say blessing on their hearts,” said he; “though I must own +they drank good ale.” + +“No wonder, sir; they come lightly by the malt, and need not spare it,” +said Joceline. + +“Say’st thou?” said the knight; “thou shalt finish the tankard thyself +for that very jest’s sake.” + +Nor was his follower slow in doing reason to the royal pledge. He +bowed, and replaced the tankard, saying, after a triumphant glance at +the sculpture, “I had a gibe with that same red-coat about the Saint +Michael just now.” + +“Red-coat—ha! what red-coat?” said the hasty old man. “Do any of these +knaves still lurk about Woodstock?—Quoit him down stairs instantly, +Joceline.—Know we not Galloway nags?” + +“So please you, he is in some charge here, and will speedily be +gone.—It is he—he who had a rencontre with your honour in the wood.” + +“Ay, but I paid him off for it in the hall, as you yourself saw.—I was +never in better fence in my life, Joceline. That same steward fellow is +not so utterly black-hearted a rogue as the most of them, Joceline. He +fences well—excellent well. I will have thee try a bout in the hall +with him to-morrow, though I think he will be too hard for thee. I know +thy strength to an inch.” + +He might say this with some truth; for it was Joceline’s fashion, when +called on, as sometimes happened, to fence with his patron, just to put +forth as much of his strength and skill as obliged the Knight to +contend hard for the victory, which, in the long run, he always +contrived to yield up to him, like a discreet serving-man. + +“And what said this roundheaded steward of our great Saint Michael’s +standing cup?” + +“Marry, he scoffed at our good saint, and said he was little better +than one of the golden calves of Bethel. But I told him he should not +talk so, until one of their own roundheaded saints had given the devil +as complete a cross-buttock as Saint Michael had given him, as ’tis +carved upon the cup there. I trow that made him silent enough. And then +he would know whether your honour and Mistress Alice, not to mention +old Joan and myself, since it is your honour’s pleasure I should take +my bed here, were not afraid to sleep in a house that had been so much +disturbed. But I told him we feared no fiends or goblins, having the +prayers of the Church read every evening.” + +“Joceline,” said Alice, interrupting him, “wert thou mad? You know at +what risk to ourselves and the good doctor the performance of that duty +takes place.” + +“Oh, Mistress Alice,” said Joceline, a little abashed, “you may be sure +I spoke not a word of the doctor—No, no—I did not let him into the +secret that we had such a reverend chaplain.—I think I know the length +of this man’s foot. We have had a jollification or so together. He is +hand and glove with me, for as great a fanatic as he is.” + +“Trust him not too far,” said the knight. “Nay, I fear thou hast been +imprudent already, and that it will be unsafe for the good man to come +here after nightfall, as is proposed. These Independents have noses +like bloodhounds, and can smell out a loyalist under any disguise.” + +“If your honour thinks so,” said Joceline, “I’ll watch for the doctor +with good will, and bring him into the Lodge by the old condemned +postern, and so up to this apartment; and sure this man Tomkins would +never presume to come hither; and the doctor may have a bed in +Woodstock Lodge, and he never the wiser; or, if your honour does not +think that safe, I can cut his throat for you, and I would not mind it +a pin.” + +“God forbid!” said the knight. “He is under our roof, and a guest, +though not an invited one.—Go, Joceline; it shall be thy penance, for +having given thy tongue too much license, to watch for the good doctor, +and to take care of his safety while he continues with us. An October +night or two in the forest would finish the good man.” + +“He’s more like to finish our October than our October is to finish +him,” said the keeper; and withdrew under the encouraging smile of his +patron. + +He whistled Bevis along with him to share in his watch; and having +received exact information where the clergyman was most likely to be +found, assured his master that he would give the most pointed attention +to his safety. When the attendants had withdrawn, having previously +removed the remains of the meal, the old knight, leaning back in his +chair, encouraged pleasanter visions than had of late passed through +his imagination, until by degrees he was surprised by actual slumber; +while his daughter, not venturing to move but on tiptoe, took some +needle-work, and bringing it close by the old man’s side, employed her +fingers on this task, bending her eyes from time to time on her parent, +with the affectionate zeal, if not the effective power, of a guardian +angel. At length, as the light faded away, and night came on, she was +about to order candles to be brought. But, remembering how indifferent +a couch Joceline’s cottage had afforded, she could not think of +interrupting the first sound and refreshing sleep which her father had +enjoyed, in all probability, for the last two nights and days. + +She herself had no other amusement, as she sat facing one of the great +oriel windows, the same by which Wildrake had on a former occasion +looked in upon Tomkins and Joceline while at their compotations, than +watching the clouds, which a lazy wind sometimes chased from the broad +disk of the harvest-moon, sometimes permitted to accumulate, and +exclude her brightness. There is, I know not why, something peculiarly +pleasing to the imagination, in contemplating the Queen of Night, when +she is _wading_, as the expression is, among the vapours which she has +not power to dispel, and which on their side are unable entirely to +quench her lustre. It is the striking image of patient virtue, calmly +pursuing her path through good report and bad report, having that +excellence in herself which ought to command all admiration, but +bedimmed in the eyes of the world, by suffering, by misfortune, by +calumny. + +As some such reflections, perhaps, were passing through Alice’s +imagination, she became sensible, to her surprise and alarm, that some +one had clambered up upon the window, and was looking into the room. +The idea of supernatural fear did not in the slightest degree agitate +Alice. She was too much accustomed to the place and situation; for folk +do not see spectres in the scenes with which they have been familiar +from infancy. But danger from maurauders in a disturbed country was a +more formidable subject of apprehension, and the thought armed Alice, +who was naturally high spirited, with such desperate courage, that she +snatched a pistol from the wall, on which some fire-arms hung, and +while she screamed to her father to awake, had the presence of mind to +present it at the intruder. She did so the more readily, because she +imagined she recognised in the visage, which she partially saw, the +features of the woman whom she had met with at Rosamond’s Well, and +which had appeared to her peculiarly harsh and suspicious. Her father +at the same time seized his sword and came forward, while the person at +the window, alarmed at these demonstrations, and endeavouring to +descend, missed footing, as had Cavaliero Wildrake before, and went +down to the earth with no small noise. Nor was the reception on the +bosom of our common mother either soft or safe; for, by a most terrific +bark and growl, they heard that Bevis had come up and seized on the +party, ere he or she could gain their feet. + +“Hold fast, but worry not,” said the old knight.—“Alice, thou art the +queen of wenches! Stand fast here till I run down and secure the +rascal.” + +“For God’s sake, no, my dearest father!” Alice exclaimed; “Joceline +will be up immediately—Hark!—I hear him.” + +There was indeed a bustle below, and more than one light danced to and +fro in confusion, while those who bore them called to each other, yet +suppressing their voices as they spoke, as men who would only be heard +by those they addressed. The individual who had fallen under the power +of Bevis was most impatient in his situation, and called with least +precaution—“Here, Lee,—Forester—take the dog off, else I must shoot +him.” + +“If thou dost,” said Sir Henry, from the window, “I blow thy brains out +on the spot. Thieves, Joceline, thieves! come up and secure this +ruffian.—Bevis, hold on!” + +“Back, Bevis; down, sir!” cried Joceline. “I am coming, I am coming, +Sir Henry—Saint Michael, I shall go distracted!” + +A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Alice; could Joceline have +become unfaithful, that he was calling Bevis off the villain, instead +of encouraging the trusty dog to secure him? Her father, meantime, +moved perhaps by some suspicion of the same kind, hastily stepped aside +out of the moonlight, and pulled Alice close to him, so as to be +invisible from without, yet so placed as to hear what should pass. The +scuffle between Bevis and his prisoner seemed to be ended by Joceline’s +interference, and there was close whispering for an instant, as of +people in consultation. + +“All is quiet now,” said one voice; “I will up and prepare the way for +you.” And immediately a form presented itself on the outside of the +window, pushed open the lattice, and sprung into the parlour. But +almost ere his step was upon the floor, certainly before he had +obtained any secure footing, the old knight, who stood ready with his +rapier drawn, made a desperate pass, which bore the intruder to the +ground. Joceline, who clambered up next with a dark lantern in his +hand, uttered a dreadful exclamation, when he saw what had happened, +crying out, “Lord in heaven, he has slain his own son!” + +“No, no—I tell you no,” said the fallen young man, who was indeed young +Albert Lee, the only son of the old knight; “I am not hurt. No noise, +on your lives; get lights instantly.” At the same time, he started from +the floor as quickly as he could, under the embarrassment of a cloak +and doublet skewered as it were together by the rapier of the old +knight, whose pass, most fortunately, had been diverted from the body +of Albert by the interruption of his cloak, the blade passing right +across his back, piercing the clothes, while the hilt coming against +his side with the whole force of the lunge, had borne him to the +ground. + +Joceline all the while enjoined silence to every one, under the +strictest conjurations. “Silence, as you would long live on +earth—silence, as ye would have a place in heaven; be but silent for a +few minutes—all our lives depend on it.” + +Meantime he procured lights with inexpressible dispatch, and they then +beheld that Sir Henry, on hearing the fatal words, had sunk back on one +of the large chairs, without either motion, colour, or sign of life. + +“Oh, brother, how could you come in this manner?” said Alice. + +“Ask no questions—Good God! for what am I reserved!” He gazed on his +father as he spoke, who, with clay-cold features rigidly fixed, and his +arms extended in the most absolute helplessness, looked rather the +image of death upon a monument, than a being in whom existence was only +suspended. “Was my life spared,” said Albert, raising his hands with a +wild gesture to heaven, “only to witness such a sight as this!” + +“We suffer what Heaven permits, young man; we endure our lives while +Heaven continues them. Let me approach.” The same clergyman who had +read the prayers at Joceline’s hut now came forward. “Get water,” he +said, “instantly.” And the helpful hand and light foot of Alice, with +the ready-witted tenderness which never stagnates in vain lamentations +while there is any room for hope, provided with incredible celerity all +that the clergyman called for. + +“It is but a swoon,” he said, on feeling Sir Henry’s palm; “a swoon +produced from the instant and unexpected shock. Rouse thee up, Albert; +I promise thee it will be nothing save a syncope—A cup, my dearest +Alice, and a ribbon or a bandage. I must take some blood—some +aromatics, too, if they can be had, my good Alice.” + +But while Alice procured the cup and bandage, stripped her father’s +sleeve, and seemed by intuition even to anticipate every direction of +the reverend doctor, her brother, hearing no word, and seeing no sign +of comfort, stood with both hands clasped and elevated into the air, a +monument of speechless despair. Every feature in his face seemed to +express the thought, “Here lies my father’s corpse, and it is I whose +rashness has slain him!” + +But when a few drops of blood began to follow the lancet—at first +falling singly, and then trickling in a freer stream—when, in +consequence of the application of cold water to the temples, and +aromatics to the nostrils, the old man sighed feebly, and made an +effort to move his limbs, Albert Lee changed his posture, at once to +throw himself at the feet of the clergyman, and kiss, if he would have +permitted him, his shoes and the hem of his raiment. + +“Rise, foolish youth,” said the good man, with a reproving tone; “must +it be always thus with you? Kneel to Heaven, not to the feeblest of its +agents. You have been saved once again from great danger; would you +deserve Heaven’s bounty, remember you have been preserved for other +purposes than you now think on. Begone, you and Joceline—you have a +duty to discharge; and be assured it will go better with your father’s +recovery that he see you not for a few minutes. Down—down to the +wilderness, and bring in your attendant.” + +“Thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks,” answered Albert Lee; and, +springing through the lattice, he disappeared as unexpectedly as he had +entered. At the same time Joceline followed him, and by the same road. + +Alice, whose fears for her father were now something abated, upon this +new movement among the persons of the scene, could not resist appealing +to her venerable assistant. “Good doctor, answer me but one question. +Was my brother Albert here just now, or have I dreamed all that has +happened for these ten minutes past? Methinks, but for your presence, I +could suppose the whole had passed in my sleep; that horrible +thrust—that death-like, corpse-like old man—that soldier in mute +despair; I must indeed have dreamed.” + +“If you have dreamed, my sweet Alice,” said the doctor, “I wish every +sick-nurse had your property, since you have been attending to our +patient better during your sleep than most of these old dormice can do +when they are most awake. But your dream came through the gate of horn, +my pretty darling, which you must remind me to explain to you at +leisure. Albert has really been here, and will be here again.” + +“Albert!” repeated Sir Henry, “who names my son?” + +“It is I, my kind patron,” said the doctor; “permit me to bind up your +arm.” + +“My wound?—with all my heart, doctor,” said Sir Henry, raising himself, +and gathering his recollection by degrees. “I knew of old thou wert +body-curer as well as soul-curer, and served my regiment for surgeon as +well as chaplain.—But where is the rascal I killed?—I never made a +fairer _stramaçon_ in my life. The shell of my rapier struck against +his ribs. So, dead he must be, or my right hand has forgot its +cunning.” + +“Nobody was slain,” said the doctor; “we must thank God for that, since +there were none but friends to slay. Here is a good cloak and doublet, +though, wounded in a fashion which will require some skill in +tailor-craft to cure. But I was your last antagonist, and took a little +blood from you, merely to prepare you for the pleasure and surprise of +seeing your son, who, though hunted pretty close, as you may believe, +hath made his way from Worcester hither, where, with Joceline’s +assistance, we will care well enough for his safety. It was even for +this reason that I pressed you to accept of your nephew’s proposal to +return to the old Lodge, where a hundred men might be concealed, though +a thousand were making search to discover them. Never such a place for +hide-and-seek, as I shall make good when I can find means to publish my +Wonders of Woodstock.” + +“But, my son—my dear son,” said the knight, “shall I not then instantly +see him! and wherefore did you not forewarn me of this joyful event?” + +“Because I was uncertain of his motions,” said the doctor, “and rather +thought he was bound for the sea-side, and that it would be best to +tell you of his fate when he was safe on board, and in full sail for +France. We had appointed to let you know all when I came hither +to-night to join you. But there is a red-coat in the house whom we care +not to trust farther than we could not help. We dared not, therefore, +venture in by the hall; and so, prowling round the building, Albert +informed us, that an old prank of his, when a boy, consisted of +entering by this window. A lad who was with us would needs make the +experiment, as there seemed to be no light in the chamber, and the +moonlight without made us liable to be detected. His foot slipped, and +our friend Bevis came upon us.” + +“In good truth, you acted simply,” said Sir Henry, “to attack a +garrison without a summons. But all this is nothing to my son, +Albert—where is he?—Let me see him.” + +“But, Sir Henry, wait,” said the doctor, “till your restored strength”— + +“A plague of my restored strength, man!” answered the knight, as his +old spirit began to awaken within him.—“Dost not remember, that I lay +on Edgehill-field all night, bleeding like a bullock from five several +wounds, and wore my armour within six weeks? and you talk to me of the +few drops of blood that follow such a scratch as a cat’s claw might +have made!” + +“Nay, if you feel so courageous,” said the doctor, “I will fetch your +son—he is not far distant.” + +So saying, he left the apartment, making a sign to Alice to remain, in +case any symptoms of her father’s weakness should return. + +It was fortunate, perhaps, that Sir Henry never seemed to recollect the +precise nature of the alarm, which had at once, and effectually as the +shock of the thunderbolt, for the moment suspended his faculties. +Something he said more than once of being certain he had done mischief +with that _stramaçon_, as he called it; but his mind did not recur to +that danger, as having been incurred by his son. Alice, glad to see +that her father appeared to have forgotten a circumstance so fearful, +(as men often forget the blow, or other sudden cause, which has thrown +them into a swoon,) readily excused herself from throwing much light on +the matter, by pleading the general confusion. And in a few minutes, +Albert cut off all farther enquiry, by entering the room, followed by +the doctor, and throwing himself alternately into the arms of his +father and of his sister. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. + + +The boy is—hark ye, sirrah—what’s your name?— +Oh, Jacob—ay, I recollect—the same. + + +CRABBE. + + +The affectionate relatives were united as those who, meeting under +great adversity, feel still the happiness of sharing it in common. They +embraced again and again, and gave way to those expansions of the +heart, which at once express and relieve the pressure of mental +agitation. At length the tide of emotion began to subside; and Sir +Henry, still holding his recovered son by the hand, resumed the command +of his feelings which he usually practised. + +“So you have seen the last of our battles, Albert,” he said, “and the +King’s colours have fallen for ever before the rebels.” + +“It is but even so,” said the young man—“the last cast of the die was +thrown, and, alas! lost at Worcester; and Cromwell’s fortune carried it +there, as it has wherever he has shown himself.” + +“Well—it can but be for a time—it can but be for a time,” answered his +father; “the devil is potent, they say, in raising and gratifying +favourites, but he can grant but short leases.—And the King—the King, +Albert—the King—in my ear—close, close!” + +“Our last news were confident that he had escaped from Bristol.” + +“Thank God for that—thank God for that!” said the knight. “Where didst +thou leave him?” + +“Our men were almost all cut to pieces at the bridge,” Albert replied; +“but I followed his Majesty with about five hundred other officers and +gentlemen, who were resolved to die around him, until as our numbers +and appearance drew the whole pursuit after us, it pleased his Majesty +to dismiss us, with many thanks and words of comfort to us in general, +and some kind expressions to most of us in especial. He sent his royal +greeting to you, sir, in particular, and said more than becomes me to +repeat.” + +“Nay, I will hear it every word, boy,” said Sir Henry; “is not the +certainty that thou hast discharged thy duty, and that King Charles +owns it, enough to console me for all we have lost and suffered, and +wouldst thou stint me of it from a false shamefacedness?—I will have it +out of thee, were it drawn from thee with cords!” + +“It shall need no such compulsion,” said the young man—“It was his +Majesty’s pleasure to bid me tell Sir Henry Lee, in his name, that if +his son could not go before his father in the race of loyalty, he was +at least following him closely, and would soon move side by side.” + +“Said he so?” answered the knight—“Old Victor Lee will look down with +pride on thee, Albert!—But I forget—you must be weary and hungry.” + +“Even so,” said Albert; “but these are things which of late I have been +in the habit of enduring for safety’s sake.” + +“Joceline!—what ho, Joceline!” + +The under-keeper entered, and received orders to get supper prepared +directly. + +“My son and Dr. Rochecliffe are half starving,” said the knight. “And +there is a lad, too, below,” said Joceline; “a page, he says, of +Colonel Albert’s, whose belly rings cupboard too, and that to no common +tune; for I think he could eat a horse, as the Yorkshireman says, +behind the saddle. He had better eat at the sideboard; for he has +devoured a whole loaf of bread and butter, as fast as Phœbe could cut +it, and it has not staid his stomach for a minute—and truly I think you +had better keep him under your own eyes, for the steward beneath might +ask him troublesome questions if he went below—And then he is +impatient, as all your gentlemen pages are, and is saucy among the +women.” + +“Whom is it he talks of?—what page hast thou got, Albert, that bears +himself so ill?” said Sir Henry. + +“The son of a dear friend, a noble lord of Scotland, who followed the +great Montrose’s banner—afterwards joined the King in Scotland, and +came with him as far as Worcester. He was wounded the day before the +battle, and conjured me to take this youth under my charge, which I +did, something unwillingly; but I could not refuse a father, perhaps on +his death-bed, pleading for the safety of an only son.” + +“Thou hadst deserved an halter, hadst thou hesitated” said Sir Henry; +“the smallest tree can always give some shelter,—and it pleases me to +think the old stock of Lee is not so totally prostrate, but it may yet +be a refuge for the distressed. Fetch the youth in;—he is of noble +blood, and these are no times of ceremony—he shall sit with us at the +same table, page though he be; and if you have not schooled him +handsomely in his manners, he may not be the worse of some lessons from +me.” + +“You will excuse his national drawling accent, sir?” said Albert, +“though I know you like it not.” + +“I have small cause, Albert,” answered the knight—“small cause.—Who +stirred up these disunions?—the Scots. Who strengthened the hands of +Parliament, when their cause was well nigh ruined?—the Scots again. Who +delivered up the King, their countryman, who had flung himself upon. +their protection?—the Scots again. But this lad’s father, you say, has +fought on the part of the noble Montrose; and such a man as the great +Marquis may make amends for the degeneracy of a whole nation.” + +“Nay, father,” said Albert, “and I must add, that though this lad is +uncouth and wayward, and, as you will see, something wilful, yet the +King has not a more zealous friend in England; and, when occasion +offered, he fought stoutly, too, in his defence—I marvel he comes not.” + +“He hath taken the bath” said Joceline, “and nothing less would serve +than that he should have it immediately—the supper, he said, might be +got ready in the meantime; and he commands all about him as if he were +in his father’s old castle, where he might have called long enough, I +warrant, without any one to hear him.” + +“Indeed?” said Sir Henry, “this must be a forward chick of the game, to +crow so early.—What is his name?” + +“His name?—it escapes me every hour, it is so hard a one,” said +Albert—“Kerneguy is his name—Louis Kerneguy; his father was Lord +Killstewers, of Kincardineshire.” + +“Kerneguy, and Killstewers, and Kin—what d’ye call it?—Truly,” said the +knight, “these northern men’s names and titles smack of their +origin—they sound like a north-west wind, rumbling and roaring among +heather and rocks.” + +“It is but the asperities of the Celtic and Saxon dialects,” said Dr. +Rochecliffe, “which, according to Verstegan, still linger in those +northern parts of the island.—But peace—here comes supper, and Master +Louis Kerneguy.” + +Supper entered accordingly, borne in by Joceline and Phœbe, and after +it, leaning on a huge knotty stick, and having his nose in the air like +a questing hound—for his attention was apparently more fixed on the +good provisions that went before him, than any thing else—came Master +Kerneguy, and seated himself, without much ceremony, at the lower end +of the table. + +He was a tall, rawboned lad, with a shock head of hair, fiery red, like +many of his country, while the harshness of his national features was +increased by the contrast of his complexion, turned almost black by the +exposure to all sorts of weather, which, in that skulking and rambling +mode of life, the fugitive royalists had been obliged to encounter. His +address was by no means prepossessing, being a mixture of awkwardness +and forwardness, and showing in a remarkable degree, how a want of easy +address may be consistent with an admirable stock of assurance. His +face intimated having received some recent scratches, and the care of +Dr. Rochecliffe had decorated it with a number of patches, which even +enhanced its natural plainness. Yet the eyes were brilliant and +expressive, and, amid his ugliness—for it amounted to that degree of +irregularity—the face was not deficient in some lines which expressed +both sagacity and resolution. + +The dress of Albert himself was far beneath his quality, as the son of +Sir Henry Lee, and commander of a regiment in the royal service; but +that of his page was still more dilapidated. A disastrous green jerkin, +which had been changed to a hundred hues by sun and rain, so that the +original could scarce be discovered, huge clouterly shoes, leathern +breeches—such as were worn by hedgers—coarse grey worsted stockings, +were the attire of the honourable youth, whose limping gait, while it +added to the ungainliness of his manner, showed, at the same time, the +extent of his sufferings. His appearance bordered so much upon what is +vulgarly called the queer, that even with Alice it would have excited +some sense of ridicule, had not compassion been predominant. + +The grace was said, and the young squire of Ditchley, as well as Dr. +Rochecliffe, made an excellent figure at a meal, the like of which, in +quality and abundance, did not seem to have lately fallen to their +share. But their feats were child’s-play to those of the Scottish +youth. Far from betraying any symptoms of the bread and butter with +which he had attempted to close the orifice of his stomach, his +appetite appeared to have been sharpened by a nine-days’ fast; and the +knight was disposed to think that the very genius of famine himself, +come forth from his native regions of the north, was in the act of +honouring him with a visit, while, as if afraid of losing a moment’s +exertion, Master Kerneguy never looked either to right or left, or +spoke a single word to any at table. + +“I am glad to see that you have brought a good appetite for our country +fare, young gentleman,” said Sir Henry. + +“Bread of gude, sir!” said the page, “an ye’ll find flesh, I’se find +appetite conforming, ony day o’ the year. But the truth is, sir, that +the appeteezement has been coming on for three days or four, and the +meat in this southland of yours has been scarce, and hard to come by; +so, sir, I’m making up for lost time, as the piper of Sligo said, when +he eat a hail side o’ mutton.” + +“You have been country-bred, young man,” said the knight, who, like +others of his time, held the reins of discipline rather tight over the +rising generation; “at least, to judge from the youths of Scotland whom +I have seen at his late Majesty’s court in former days; they had less +appetite, and more—more”—As he sought the qualifying phrase, which +might supply the place of “good manners,” his guest closed the sentence +in his own way—“And more meat, it may be—the better luck theirs.” + +Sir Henry stared and was silent. His son seemed to think it time to +interpose—“My dear father,” he said, “think how many years have run +since the Thirty-eight, when the Scottish troubles first began, and I +am sure that you will not wonder that, while the Barons of Scotland +have been, for one cause or other, perpetually in the field, the +education of their children at home must have been much neglected, and +that young men of my friend’s age know better how to use a broadsword, +or to toss a pike, than the decent ceremonials of society.” + +“The reason is a sufficient one,” said the knight, “and, since thou +sayest thy follower Kernigo can fight, we’ll not let him lack victuals, +a God’s name.—See, he looks angrily still at yonder cold loin of +mutton—for God’s sake put it all on his plate!” + +“I can bide the bit and the buffet,” said the honourable Master +Kerneguy—“a hungry tike ne’er minds a blaud with a rough bane.” + +“Now, God ha’e mercy, Albert, but if this be the son of a Scots peer,” +said Sir Henry to his son, in a low tone of voice, “I would not be the +English ploughman who would change manners with him for his ancient +blood, and his nobility, and his estate to boot, an he has one.—He has +eaten, as I am a Christian, near four pounds of solid butcher’s meat, +and with the grace of a wolf tugging at the carcass of a dead horse.— +Oh, he is about to drink at last—Soh!—he wipes his mouth, though,—and +dips his fingers in the ewer—and dries them, I profess, with the +napkin!—there is some grace in him, after all.” + +“Here is wussing all your vera gude healths!” said the youth of +quality, and took a draught in proportion to the solids which he had +sent before; he then flung his knife and fork awkwardly on the +trencher, which he pushed back towards the centre of the table, +extended his feet beneath it till they rested on their heels, folded +his arms on his well-replenished stomach, and, lolling back in his +chair, looked much as if he was about to whistle himself asleep. + +“Soh!” said the knight—“the honourable Master Kernigo hath laid down +his arms.—Withdraw these things, and give us our glasses—Fill them +around, Joceline; and if the devil or the whole Parliament were within +hearing, let them hear Henry Lee of Ditchley drink a health to King +Charles, and confusion to his enemies!” + +“Amen!” said a voice from behind the door. + +All the company looked at each other in astonishment, at a response so +little expected. It was followed by a solemn and peculiar tap, such as +a kind of freemasonry had introduced among royalists, and by which they +were accustomed to make themselves and their principles known to each +other, when they met by accident. + +“There is no danger,” said Albert, knowing the sign—“it is a +friend;—yet I wish he had been at a greater distance just now.” + +“And why, my son, should you wish the absence of one true man, who may, +perhaps, wish to share our abundance, on one of those rare occasions +when we have superfluity at our disposal?—Go, Joceline, see who +knocks—and, if a safe man, admit him.” + +“And if otherwise,” said Joceline, “methinks I shall be able to prevent +his troubling the good company.” + +“No violence, Joceline, on your life,” said Albert Lee; and Alice +echoed, “For God’s sake, no violence!” + +“No unnecessary violence at least,” said the good knight; “for if the +time demands it, I will have it seen that I am master of my own house.” +Joceline Joliffe nodded assent to all parties, and went on tiptoe to +exchange one or two other mysterious symbols and knocks, ere he opened +the door. It, may be here remarked, that this species of secret +association, with its signals of union, existed among the more +dissolute and desperate class of cavaliers, men habituated to the +dissipated life which they had been accustomed to in an ill-disciplined +army, where everything like order and regularity was too apt to be +accounted a badge of puritanism. These were the “roaring boys” who met +in hedge alehouses, and when they had by any chance obtained a little +money or a little credit, determined to create a counter-revolution by +declaring their sittings permanent, and proclaimed, in the words of one +of their choicest ditties,— + +“We’ll drink till we bring +In triumph back the king.” + + +The leaders and gentry, of a higher description and more regular +morals, did not indeed partake such excesses, but they still kept their +eye upon a class of persons, who, from courage and desperation, were +capable of serving on an advantageous occasion the fallen cause of +royalty; and recorded the lodges and blind taverns at which they met, +as wholesale merchants know the houses of call of the mechanics whom +they may have occasion to employ, and can tell where they may find them +when need requires it. It is scarce necessary to add, that among the +lower class, and sometimes even among the higher, there were men found +capable of betraying the projects and conspiracies of their associates, +whether well or indifferently combined, to the governors of the state. +Cromwell, in particular, had gained some correspondents of this kind of +the highest rank, and of the most undoubted character, among the +royalists, who, if they made scruple of impeaching or betraying +individuals who confided in them, had no hesitation in giving the +government such general information as served to enable him to +disappoint the purposes of any plot or conspiracy. + +To return to our story. In much shorter time than we have spent in +reminding the reader of these historical particulars, Joliffe had made +his mystic communication; and being duly answered as by one of the +initiated, he undid the door, and there entered our old friend Roger +Wildrake, round-head in dress, as his safety and dependence on Colonel +Everard compelled him to be, but that dress worn in a most +cavalier-like manner, and forming a stronger contrast than usual with +the demeanour and language of the wearer, to which it was never very +congenial. + +His puritanic hat, the emblem of that of Ralpho in the prints to +Hudibras, or, as he called it, his felt umbrella, was set most +knowingly on one side of the head, as if it had been a Spanish hat and +feather; his straight square-caped sad-coloured cloak was flung gaily +upon one shoulder, as if it had been of three-plied taffeta, lined with +crimson silk; and he paraded his huge calf-skin boots, as if they had +been silken hose and Spanish leather shoes, with roses on the instep. +In short, the airs which he gave himself, of a most thorough-paced wild +gallant and cavalier, joined to a glistening of self-satisfaction in +his eye, and an inimitable swagger in his gait, which completely +announced his thoughtless, conceited, and reckless character, formed a +most ridiculous contrast to his gravity of attire. + +It could not, on the other hand, be denied, that in spite of the touch +of ridicule which attached to his character, and the loose morality +which he had learned in the dissipation of town pleasures, and +afterwards in the disorderly life of a soldier, Wildrake had points +about him both to make him feared and respected. He was handsome, even +in spite of his air of debauched effrontery; a man of the most decided +courage, though his vaunting rendered it sometimes doubtful; and +entertained a sincere sense of his political principles, such as they +were, though he was often so imprudent in asserting and boasting of +them, as, joined with his dependence on Colonel Everard, induced +prudent men to doubt his sincerity. + +Such as he was, however, he entered the parlour of Victor Lee, where +his presence was any thing but desirable to the parties present, with a +jaunty step, and a consciousness of deserving the best possible +reception. This assurance was greatly aided by circumstances which +rendered it obvious, that if the jocund cavalier had limited himself to +one draught of liquor that evening, in terms of his vow of temperance, +it must have been a very deep and long one. + +“Save ye, gentlemen, save ye.—Save you, good Sir Henry Lee, though I +have scarce the honour to be known to you.—Save you, worthy doctor, and +a speedy resurrection to the fallen Church of England.” + +“You are welcome, sir,” said Sir Henry Lee, whose feelings of +hospitality, and of the fraternal reception due to a royalist sufferer, +induced him to tolerate this intrusion more than he might have done +otherwise. “If you have fought or suffered for the King, sir, it is an +excuse for joining us, and commanding our services in any thing in our +power—although at present we are a family-party.—But I think I saw you +in waiting upon Master Markham Everard, who calls himself Colonel +Everard.—If your message is from him, you may wish to see me in +private?” + +“Not at all, Sir Henry, not at all.—It is true, as my ill hap will have +it, that being on the stormy side of the hedge—like all honest men—you +understand me, Sir Henry—I am glad, as it were, to gain something from +my old friend and comrade’s countenance—not by truckling or disowning +my principles, sir—I defy such practises;—but, in short, by doing him +any kindness in my power when he is pleased to call on me. So I came +down here with a message from him to the old roundheaded son of a —— (I +beg the young lady’s pardon, from the crown of her head down to the +very toes of her slipper)—And so, sir, chancing as I was stumbling out +in the dark, I heard you give a toast, sir, which warmed my heart, sir, +and ever will, sir, till death chills it;—and so I made bold to let you +know there was an honest man within hearing.” + +Such was the self-introduction of Master Wildrake, to which the knight +replied, by asking him to sit down, and take a glass of sack to his +Majesty’s glorious restoration. Wildrake, at this hint, squeezed in +without ceremony beside the young Scotsman, and not only pledged his +landlord’s toast, but seconded its import, by volunteering a verse or +two of his favourite loyal ditty,—“The King shall enjoy his own again.” +The heartiness which he threw into his song opened still farther the +heart of the old knight, though Albert and Alice looked at each other +with looks resentful of the intrusion, and desirous to put an end to +it. The honourable Master Kerneguy either possessed that happy +indifference of temper which does not deign to notice such +circumstances, or he was able to assume the appearance of it to +perfection, as he sat sipping sack, and cracking walnuts, without +testifying the least sense that an addition had been made to the party. +Wildrake, who liked the liquor and the company, showed no unwillingness +to repay his landlord, by being at the expense of the conversation. + +“You talk of fighting and suffering, Sir Henry Lee. Lord help us, we +have all had our share. All the world knows what Sir Henry Lee has done +from Edgefield downwards, wherever a loyal sword was drawn, or a loyal +flag fluttered. Ah, God help us! I have done something too. My name is +Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln; not that you are ever like +to have heard it before, but I was captain in Lunsford’s light-horse, +and afterwards with Goring. I was a child-eater, sir—a babe-bolter.” + +“I have heard of your regiment’s exploits, sir; and perhaps you may +find I have seen some of them, if we should spend ten minutes together. +And I think I have heard of your name too. I beg to drink your health, +Captain Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincolnshire.” + +“Sir Henry, I drink yours in this pint bumper, and upon my knee; and I +would do as much for that young gentleman”—(looking at Albert)—“and the +squire of the green cassock too, holding it for green, as the colours +are not to my eyes altogether clear and distinguishable.” + +It was a remarkable part of what is called by theatrical folk the +by-play of this scene, that Albert was conversing apart with Dr. +Rochecliffe in whispers, even more than the divine seemed desirous of +encouraging; yet, to whatever their private conversation referred, it +did not deprive the young Colonel of the power of listening to what was +going forward in the party at large, and interfering from time to time, +like a watch-dog, who can distinguish the slightest alarm, even when +employed in the engrossing process of taking his food. + +“Captain Wildrake,” said Albert, “we have no objection—I mean, my +friend and I—to be communicative on proper occasions; but you, sir, who +are so old a sufferer, must needs know, that at such casual meetings as +this, men do not mention their names unless they are specially wanted. +It is a point of conscience, sir, to be able to say, if your principal, +Captain Everard or Colonel Everard, if he be a Colonel, should examine +you upon oath, I did not know who the persons were whom I heard drink +such and such toasts.” + +“Faith, I have a better way of it, worthy sir,” answered Wildrake; “I +never can, for the life of me, remember that there were any such and +such toasts drunk at all. It’s a strange gift of forgetfulness I have.” + +“Well, sir,” replied the younger Lee; “but we, who have unhappily more +tenacious memories, would willingly abide by the more general rule.” + +“Oh, sir,” answered Wildrake, “with all my heart. I intrude on no man’s +confidence, d—n me—and I only spoke for civility’s sake, having the +purpose of drinking your health in a good fashion”—(Then he broke forth +into melody)— + +“‘Then let the health go round, a-round, a-round, a-round, +Then let the health go round; +For though your stocking be of silk, +Your knee shall kiss the ground, a-ground, a-ground, a-ground, +Your knee shall kiss the ground.’” + + +“Urge it no farther,” said Sir Henry, addressing his son; “Master +Wildrake is one of the old school—one of the tantivy boys; and we must +bear a little, for if they drink hard they fought well. I will never +forget how a party came up and rescued us clerks of Oxford, as they +called the regiment I belonged to, out of a cursed embroglio during the +attack on Brentford. I tell you we were enclosed with the cockneys’ +pikes both front and rear, and we should have come off but ill had not +Lunford’s light-horse, the babe-eaters, as they called them, charged up +to the pike’s point, and brought us off.” + +“I am glad you thought on that, Sir Henry,” said Wildrake; “and do you +remember what the officer of Lunsford’s said?” + +“I think I do,” said Sir Henry, smiling. + +“Well, then, did not he call out, when the women were coming down, +howling like sirens as they were—‘Have none of you a plump child that +you could give us to break our fast upon?’” + +“Truth itself!” said the knight; “and a great fat woman stepped forward +with a baby, and offered it to the supposed cannibal.” + +All at the table, Master Kerneguy excepted, who seemed to think that +good food of any kind required no apology, held up their hands in token +of amazement. + +“Ay,” said Wildrake, “the—a-hem!—I crave the lady’s pardon again, from +tip of top-knot to hem of farthingale—but the cursed creature proved to +be a parish nurse, who had been paid for the child half a year in +advance. Gad, I took the babe out of the bitch-wolf’s hand; and I have +contrived, though God knows I have lived in a skeldering sort of way +myself, to breed up bold Breakfast, as I call him, ever since. It was +paying dear for a jest, though.” + +“Sir, I honour you for your humanity,” said the old knight—“Sir, I +thank you for your courage—Sir, I am glad to see you here,” said the +good knight, his eyes watering almost to overflowing. “So you were the +wild officer who cut us out of the toils; Oh, sir, had you but stopped +when I called on you, and allowed us to clear the streets of Brentford +with our musketeers, we would have been at London Stone that day! But +your good will was the same.” + +“Ay, truly was it,” said Wildrake, who now sat triumphant and glorious +in his easy-chair; “and here is to all the brave hearts, sir, that +fought and fell in that same storm of Brentford. We drove all before us +like chaff, till the shops, where they sold strong waters, and other +temptations, brought us up. Gad, sir, we, the babe-eaters, had too many +acquaintances in Brentford, and our stout Prince Rupert was ever better +at making way than drawing off. Gad, sir, for my own poor share, I did +but go into the house of a poor widow lady, who maintained a charge of +daughters, and whom I had known of old, to get my horse fed, a morsel +of meat, and so forth, when these cockney-pikes of the artillery +ground, as you very well call them, rallied, and came in with their +armed heads, as boldly as so many Cotswold rams. I sprang down stairs, +got to my horse,—but, egad, I fancy all my troop had widows and orphan +maidens to comfort as well as I, for only five of us got together. We +cut our way through successfully; and Gad, gentlemen, I carried my +little Breakfast on the pommel before me; and there was such a +hollowing and screeching, as if the whole town thought I was to kill, +roast, and eat the poor child, so soon as I got to quarters. But devil +a cockney charged up to my bonny bay, poor lass, to rescue little +cake-bread; they only cried haro, and out upon me.” + +“Alas, alas!” said the knight, “we made ourselves seem worse than we +were; and we were too bad to deserve God’s blessing even in a good +cause. But it is needless to look back; we did not deserve victories +when God gave them, for we never improved them like good soldiers, or +like Christian men; and so we gave these canting scoundrels the +advantage of us, for they assumed, out of mere hypocrisy, the +discipline and orderly behaviour which we, who drew our swords in a +better cause, ought to have practised out of true principle. But here +is my hand, Captain. I have often wished to see the honest fellow who +charged up so smartly in our behalf, and I reverence you for the care +you took of the poor child. I am glad this dilapidated place has still +some hospitality to offer you, although we cannot treat you to roasted +babes or stewed sucklings—eh, Captain?” + +“Truth, Sir Henry, the scandal was sore against us on that score. I +remember Lacy, who was an old play-actor, and a lieutenant in ours, +made drollery on it in a play which was sometimes acted at Oxford, when +our hearts were something up, called, I think, the Old Troop.” + +So saying, and feeling more familiar as his merits were known, he +hitched his chair up against that of the Scottish lad, who was seated +next him, and who, in shifting his place, was awkward enough to +disturb, in his turn, Alice Lee, who sate opposite, and, a little +offended, or at least embarrassed, drew her chair away from the table. + +“I crave pardon,” said the honourable Master Kerneguy; “but, sir,” to +Master Wildrake, “ye hae e’en garr’d me hurt the young lady’s shank.” + +“I crave your pardon, sir, and much more that of the fair lady, as is +reasonable; though, rat me, sir, if it was I set your chair a-trundling +in that way. Zooks, sir, I have brought with me no plague, nor +pestilence, nor other infectious disorder, that ye should have started +away as if I had been a leper, and discomposed the lady, which I would +have prevented with my life, sir. Sir, if ye be northern born, as your +tongue bespeaks, egad, it was I ran the risk in drawing near you; so +there was small reason for you to bolt.” + +“Master Wildrake,” said Albert, interfering, “this young gentleman is a +stranger as well as you, under protection of Sir Henry’s hospitality, +and it cannot be agreeable for my father to see disputes arise among +his guests. You may mistake the young gentleman’s quality from his +present appearance—this is the Honourable Master Louis Kerneguy, sir, +son of my Lord Killstewers of Kincardineshire, one who has fought for +the King, young as he is.” + +“No dispute shall rise through me, sir—none through me,” said Wildrake; +“your exposition sufficeth, sir.—Master Louis Girnigo, son of my Lord +Kilsteer, in Gringardenshire, I am your humble slave, sir, and drink +your health, in token that I honour you, and all true Scots who draw +their Andrew Ferraras on the right side, sir.” + +“I’se beholden to you, and thank you, sir,” said the young man, with +some haughtiness of manner, which hardly corresponded with his +rusticity; “and I wuss your health in a ceevil way.” + +Most judicious persons would have here dropped the conversation; but it +was one of Wildrake’s marked peculiarities, that he could never let +matters stand when they were well. He continued to plague the shy, +proud, and awkward lad with his observations. “You speak your national +dialect pretty strongly, Master Girnigo,” said he, “but I think not +quite the language of the gallants that I have known among the Scottish +cavaliers—I knew, for example, some of the Gordons, and others of good +repute, who always put an _f_ for _wh_, as _faat_ for _what_, _fan_ for +_when_, and the like.” + +Albert Lee here interposed, and said that the provinces of Scotland, +like those of England, had their different modes of pronunciation. + +“You are very right, sir,” said Wildrake. “I reckon myself, now, a +pretty good speaker of their cursed jargon—no offence, young gentleman; +and yet, when I took a turn with some of Montrose’s folk, in the South +Highlands, as they call their beastly wildernesses, (no offence again,) +I chanced to be by myself, and to lose my way, when I said to a +shepherd-fellow, making my mouth as wide, and my voice as broad as I +could, _whore am I ganging till?_—confound me if the fellow could +answer me, unless, indeed, he was sulky, as the bumpkins will be now +and then to the gentlemen of the sword.” + +This was familiarly spoken, and though partly addressed to Albert, was +still more directed to his immediate neighbour, the young Scotsman, who +seemed, from bashfulness, or some other reason, rather shy of his +intimacy. To one or two personal touches from Wildrake’s elbow, +administered during his last speech, by way of a practical appeal to +him in particular, he only answered, “Misunderstandings were to be +expected when men converse in national deealects.” + +Wildrake, now considerably drunker than he ought to have been in civil +company, caught up the phrase and repeated it:—“Misunderstanding, +sir—Misunderstanding, sir?—I do not know how I am to construe that, +sir; but to judge from the information of these scratches on your +honourable visnomy, I should augur that you had been of late at +misunderstanding with the cat, sir.” + +“You are mistaken, then, friend, for it was with the dowg,” answered +the Scotsman, dryly, and cast a look towards Albert. + +“We had some trouble with the watch-dogs in entering so late in the +evening,” said Albert, in explanation, “and this youth had a fall among +some rubbish, by which he came by these scratches.” + +“And now, dear Sir Henry,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “allow us to remind +you of your gout, and our long journey. I do it the rather that my good +friend your son has been, during the whole time of supper, putting +questions to me aside, which had much better be reserved till +to-morrow—May we therefore ask permission to retire to our night’s +rest?” + +“These private committees in a merry meeting,” said Wildrake, “are a +solecism in breeding. They always put me in mind of the cursed +committees at Westminster.—But shall we roost before we rouse the +night-owl with a catch?” + +“Aha, canst thou quote Shakspeare?” said Sir Henry, pleased at +discovering a new good quality in his acquaintance, whose military +services were otherwise but just able to counterbalance the intrusive +freedom of his conversation. “In the name of merry Will,” he +continued,—“whom I never saw, though I have seen many of his comrades, +as Alleyn, Hemmings, and so on,—we will have a single catch, and one +rouse about, and then to bed.” + +After the usual discussion about the choice of the song, and the parts +which each was to bear, they united their voices in trolling a loyal +glee, which was popular among the party at the time, and in fact +believed to be composed by no less a person than Dr. Rochecliffe +himself. + +GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. + +Bring the bowl which you boast, + Fill it up to the brim; +’Tis to him we love most, + And to all who love him. +Brave gallants, stand up. + And avauant, ye base carles! +Were there death in the cup, + Here’s a health to King Charles! + +Though he wanders through dangers, + Unaided, unknown, +Dependent ’on strangers, + Estranged from his own; +Though ’tis under our breath, + Amidst forfeits and perils, +Here’s to honour and faith, + And a health to King Charles! + +Let such honours abound + As the time can afford. +The knee on the ground, + And the hand on the sword; +But the time shall come round. + When, ’mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, +The loud trumpets shall sound + Here’s a health to King Charles! + + +After this display of loyalty, and a final libation, the party took +leave of each other for the night. Sir Henry offered his old +acquaintance Wildrake a bed for the evening, who weighed the matter +somewhat in this fashion: “Why, to speak truth, my patron will expect +me at the borough—but then he is used to my staying out of doors +a-nights. Then there’s the Devil, that they say haunts Woodstock; but +with the blessing of this reverend Doctor, I defy him and all his +works—I saw him not when I slept here twice before, and I am sure if he +was absent then, he has not come back with Sir Henry Lee and his +family. So I accept your courtesy, Sir Henry, and I thank you, as a +cavalier of Lunsford should thank one of the fighting clerks of Oxon. +God bless the King! I care not who hears it, and confusion to Noll and +his red nose!” Off he went accordingly with a bottle-swagger, guided by +Joceline, to whom Albert, in the meantime, had whispered, to be sure to +quarter him far enough from the rest of the family. + +Young Lee then saluted his sister, and, with the formality of those +times, asked and received his father’s blessing with an affectionate +embrace. His page seemed desirous to imitate one part of his example, +but was repelled by Alice, who only replied to his offered salute with +a curtsy. He next bowed his head in an awkward fashion to her father, +who wished him a good night. “I am glad to see, young man,” he said, +“that you have at least learned the reverence due to age. It should +always be paid, sir; because in doing so you render that honour to +others which you will expect yourself to receive when you approach the +close of your life. More will I speak with you at leisure, on your +duties as a page, which office in former days used to be the very +school of chivalry; whereas of late, by the disorderly times, it has +become little better than a school of wild and disordered license; +which made rare Ben Jonson exclaim”— + +“Nay, father,” said Albert, interposing, “you must consider this day’s +fatigue, and the poor lad is almost asleep on his legs—to-morrow he +will listen with more profit to your kind admonitions.—And you, Louis, +remember at least one part of your duty—take the candles and light +us—here Joceline comes to show us the way. Once more, good night, good +Dr. Rochecliffe—good night, all.” + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. + + +_Groom._ Hail, noble prince! +_King Richard._ Thanks, noble peer; +The cheapest of us is a groat too dear. + + +RICHARD II + + +Albert and his page were ushered by Joceline to what was called the +Spanish Chamber, a huge old scrambling bedroom, rather in a dilapidated +condition, but furnished with a large standing-bed for the master, and +a truckle-bed for the domestic, as was common at a much later period in +old English houses, where the gentleman often required the assistance +of a groom of the chambers to help him to bed, if the hospitality had +been exuberant. The walls were covered with hangings of cordovan +leather, stamped with gold, and representing fights between the +Spaniards and Moriscoes, bull-feasts, and other sports peculiar to the +Peninsula, from which it took its name of the Spanish Chamber. These +hangings were in some places entirely torn down, in others defaced and +hanging in tatters. But Albert stopped not to make observations, +anxious, it seemed, to get Joceline out of the room; which he achieved +by hastily answering his offers of fresh fuel, and more liquor, in the +negative, and returning, with equal conciseness, the under-keeper’s +good wishes for the evening. He at length retired, somewhat +unwillingly, and as if he thought that his young master might have +bestowed a few more words upon a faithful old retainer after so long +absence. + +Joliffe was no sooner gone, than, before a single word was spoken +between Albert Lee and his page, the former hastened to the door, +examined lock, latch, and bolt, and made them fast, with the most +scrupulous attention. He superadded to these precautions that of a long +screw-bolt, which he brought out of his pocket, and which he screwed on +to the staple in such a manner as to render it impossible to withdraw +it, or open the door, unless by breaking it down. The page held a light +to him during the operation, which his master went through with much +exactness and dexterity. But when Albert arose from his knee, on which +he had rested during the accomplishment of this task, the manner of the +companions was on the sudden entirely changed towards each other. The +honourable Master Kerneguy, from a cubbish lout of a raw Scotsman, +seemed to have acquired at once all the grace and ease of motion and +manner, which could be given by an acquaintance of the earliest and +most familiar kind with the best company of the time. + +He gave the light he held to Albert, with the easy indifference of a +superior, who rather graces than troubles his dependent by giving him +some slight service to perform. Albert, with the greatest appearance of +deference, assumed in his turn the character of torch-bearer, and +lighted his page across the chamber, without turning his back upon him +as he did so. He then set the light on the table by the bedside, and +approaching the young man with deep reverence, received from him the +soiled green jacket, with the same profound respect as if he had been a +first lord of the bedchamber, or other officer of the household of the +highest distinction, disrobing his Sovereign of the Mantle of the +Garter. The person to whom this ceremony was addressed endured it for a +minute or two with profound gravity, and then bursting out a-laughing, +exclaimed to Albert, “What a devil means all this formality?—thou +complimentest with these miserable rags as if they were silks and +sables, and with poor Louis Kerneguy as if he were the King of Great +Britain!” + +“And if your Majesty’s commands, and the circumstances of the time, +have made me for a moment seem to forget that you are my sovereign, +surely I may be permitted to render my homage as such while you are in +your own royal palace of Woodstock?” + +“Truly,” replied the disguised Monarch, “the sovereign and the palace +are not ill matched;—these tattered hangings and my ragged jerkin suit +each other admirably.—_This_ Woodstock!—_this_ the bower where the +royal Norman revelled with the fair Rosamond Clifford!—Why, it is a +place of assignation for owls.” Then, suddenly recollecting himself, +with his natural courtesy, he added, as if fearing he might have hurt +Albert’s feelings—“But the more obscure and retired, it is the fitter +for our purpose, Lee; and if it does seem to be a roost for owls, as +there is no denying, why we know it has nevertheless brought up +eagles.” + +He threw himself as he spoke upon a chair, and indolently, but +gracefully, received the kind offices, of Albert, who undid the coarse +buttonings of the leathern gamashes which defended his legs, and spoke +to him the whilst:—“What a fine specimen of the olden time is your +father, Sir Henry! It is strange I should not have seen him before;—but +I heard my father often speak of him as being among the flower of our +real old English gentry. By the mode in which he began to school me, I +can guess you had a tight taskmaster of him, Albert—I warrant you never +wore hat in his presence, eh?” + +“I never cocked it at least in his presence, please your Majesty, as I +have seen some youngsters do,” answered Albert; “indeed if I had, it +must have been a stout beaver to have saved me from a broken head.” + +“Oh, I doubt it not,” replied the king; “a fine old gentleman—but with +that, methinks, in his countenance, that assures you he would not hate +the child in sparing the rod.—Hark ye, Albert—Suppose the same glorious +Restoration come round—which, if drinking to its arrival can hasten it, +should not be far distant,—for in that particular our adherents never +neglect their duty, suppose it come, therefore, and that thy father, as +must be of course, becomes an Earl and one of the Privy Council, +oddsfish, man, I shall be as much afraid of him as ever was my +grandfather Henri Quatre of old Sully.—Imagine there were such a +trinket now about the Court as the Fair Rosamond, or La Belle +Gabrielle, what a work there would be of pages, and grooms of the +chamber, to get the pretty rogue clandestinely shuffled out by the +backstairs, like a prohibited commodity, when the step of the Earl of +Woodstock was heard in the antechamber!” + +“I am glad to see your Majesty so—merry after your fatiguing journey.” + +“The fatigue was nothing, man,” said Charles; “a kind welcome and a +good meal made amends for all that. But they must have suspected thee +of bringing a wolf from the braes of Badenoch along with you, instead +of a two-legged being, with no more than the usual allowance of mortal +stowage for provisions. I was really ashamed of my appetite; but thou +knowest I had eat nothing for twenty-four hours, save the raw egg you +stole for me from the old woman’s hen-roost—I tell thee, I blushed to +show myself so ravenous before that high-bred and respectable old +gentleman your father, and the very pretty girl your sister—or cousin, +is she?” + +“She is my sister,” said Albert Lee, dryly, and added, in the same +breath, “Your Majesty’s appetite suited well enough with the character +of a raw northern lad.—Would your Majesty now please to retire to +rest?” + +“Not for a minute or two,” said the King, retaining his seat. “Why, +man, I have scarce had my tongue unchained to-day; and to talk with +that northern twang, and besides, the fatigue of being obliged to speak +every word in character,—Gad, it’s like walking as the galley-slaves do +on the Continent, with a twenty-four pound shot chained to their +legs—they may drag it along, but they cannot move with comfort. And, by +the way, thou art slack in paying me my well-deserved tribute of +compliment on my counterfeiting.—Did I not play Louis Kerneguy as round +as a ring?” + +“If your Majesty asks my serious opinion, perhaps I may be forgiven if +I say your dialect was somewhat too coarse for a Scottish youth of high +birth, and your behaviour perhaps a little too churlish. I thought +too—though I pretend not to be skilful—that some of your Scottish +sounded as if it were not genuine.” + +“Not genuine?—there is no pleasing thee, Albert.—Why, who should speak +genuine Scottish but myself?—Was I not their King for a matter of ten +months? and if I did not get knowledge of their language, I wonder what +else I got by it. Did not east country, and south country, and west +country, and Highlands, caw, croak, and shriek about me, as the deep +guttural, the broad drawl, and the high sharp yelp predominated by +turns?—Oddsfish, man, have I not been speeched at by their orators, +addressed by their senators, rebuked by their kirkmen? Have I not sate +on the cutty-stool, mon, [again assuming the northern dialect,] and +thought it grace of worthy Mrs John Gillespie, that I was permitted to +do penance in my own privy chamber, instead of the face of the +congregation? and wilt thou tell me, after all, that I cannot speak +Scotch enough to baffle an Oxon Knight and his family?” + +“May it please your Majesty,—I begun by saying I was no judge of the +Scottish language.” + +“Pshaw—it is mere envy; just so you said at Norton’s, that I was too +courteous and civil for a young page—now you think me too rude.” + +“And there is a medium, if one could find it,” said Albert, defending +his opinion in the same tone in which the King attacked him; “so this +morning, when you were in the woman’s dress, you raised your petticoats +rather unbecomingly high, as you waded through the first little stream; +and when I told you of it, to mend the matter, you draggled through the +next without raising them at all.” + +“O, the devil take the woman’s dress!” said Charles; “I hope I shall +never be driven to that disguise again. Why, my ugly face was enough to +put gowns, caps, and kirtles, out of fashion for ever—the very dogs +fled from me—Had I passed any hamlet that had but five huts in it, I +could not have escaped the cucking-stool.—I was a libel on womankind. +These leathern conveniences are none of the gayest, but they are +_propria quae maribus_; and right glad am I to be repossessed of them. +I can tell you too, my friend, I shall resume all my masculine +privileges with my proper habiliments; and as you say I have been too +coarse to-night, I will behave myself like a courtier to Mistress Alice +to-morrow. I made a sort of acquaintance with her already, when I +seemed to be of the same sex with herself, and found out there are +other Colonels in the wind besides you, Colonel Albert Lee.” + +“May it please your Majesty,” said Albert—and then stopped short, from +the difficulty of finding words to express the unpleasant nature of his +feelings. They could not escape Charles; but he proceeded without +scruple. “I pique myself on seeing as far into the hearts of young +ladies as most folk, though God knows they are sometimes too deep for +the wisest of us. But I mentioned to your sister in my character of +fortune-teller,—thinking, poor simple man, that a country girl must +have no one but her brother to dream about,—that she was anxious about +a certain Colonel. I had hit the theme, but not the person; for I +alluded to you, Albert; and I presume the blush was too deep ever to be +given to a brother. So up she got, and away she flew from me like a +lap-wing. I can excuse her—for, looking at myself in the well, I think +if I had met such a creature as I seemed, I should have called fire and +fagot against it.—Now, what think you, Albert—who can this Colonel be, +that more than rivals you in your sister’s affection?” + +Albert, who well knew that the King’s mode of thinking, where the fair +sex was concerned, was far more gay than delicate, endeavoured to put a +stop to the present topic by a grave answer. + +“His sister,” he said, “had been in some measure educated with the son +of her maternal uncle, Markham Everard; but as his father and he +himself had adopted the cause of the roundheads, the families had in +consequence been at variance; and any projects which might have been +formerly entertained, were of course long since dismissed on all +sides.” + +“You are wrong, Albert, you are wrong,” said the King, pitilessly +pursuing his jest. “You Colonels, whether you wear blue or orange +sashes, are too pretty fellows to be dismissed so easily, when once you +have acquired an interest. But Mistress Alice, so pretty, and who +wishes the restoration of the King with such a look and accent, as if +she were an angel whose prayers must needs bring it down, must not be +allowed to retain any thoughts of a canting roundhead—What say you—will +you give me leave to take her to task about it?—After all, I am the +party most concerned in maintaining true allegiance among my subjects; +and if I gain the pretty maiden’s good will, that of the sweetheart’s +will soon follow. This was jolly King Edward’s way—Edward the Fourth, +you know. The king-making Earl of Warwick—the Cromwell of his +day—dethroned him more than once; but he had the hearts of the merry +dames of London, and the purses and veins of the cockneys bled freely, +till they brought him home again. How say you?—shall I shake off my +northern slough, and speak with Alice in my own character, showing what +education and manners have done for me, to make the best amends they +can for an ugly face?” + +“May it please your Majesty,” said Albert, in an altered and +embarrassed tone, “I did not expect”— + +Here he stopped, not able to find words adequate at the same time to +express his sentiments, and respectful enough to the King, while in his +father’s house, and under his own protection. + +“And what is it that Master Lee does not expect?” said Charles, with +marked gravity on his part. + +Again Albert attempted a reply, but advanced no farther than, “I would +hope, if it please your Majesty”—when he again stopped short, his deep +and hereditary respect for his sovereign, and his sense of the +hospitality due to his misfortunes, preventing his giving utterance to +his irritated feelings. + +“And what does Colonel Albert Lee hope?” said Charles, in the same dry +and cold manner in which he had before spoken.—“No answer?—Now, I +_hope_ that Colonel Lee does not see in a silly jest anything offensive +to the honour of his family, since methinks that were an indifferent +compliment to his sister, his father, and himself, not to mention +Charles Stewart, whom he calls his King; and I _expect_, that I shall +not be so hardly construed, as to be supposed capable of forgetting +that Mistress Alice Lee is the daughter of my faithful subject and +host, and the sister of my guide and preserver.—Come, come, Albert,” he +added, changing at once to his naturally frank and unceremonious +manner, “you forget how long I have been abroad where men, women, and +children, talk gallantry morning, noon, and night, with no more serious +thought than just to pass away the time; and I forget, too, that you +are of the old-fashioned English school, a son after Sir Henry’s own +heart, and don’t understand raillery upon such subjects.—But I ask your +pardon, Albert, sincerely, if I have really hurt you.” + +So saying, he extended his hand to Colonel Lee, who, feeling he had +been rather too hasty in construing the King’s jest in an unpleasant +sense, kissed it with reverence, and attempted an apology. + +“Not a word—not a word,” said the good-natured Prince, raising his +penitent adherent as he attempted to kneel; “we understand each other. +You are somewhat afraid of the gay reputation which I acquired in +Scotland; but I assure you, I will be as stupid as you or your cousin +Colonel could desire, in presence of Mistress Alice Lee, and only +bestow my gallantry, should I have any to throw away, upon the pretty +little waiting-maid who attended at supper—unless you should have +monopolized her ear for your own benefit, Colonel Albert?” + +“It is monopolized, sure enough, though not by me, if it please your +Majesty, but by Joceline Joliffe, the under-keeper, whom we must not +disoblige, as we have trusted him so far already, and may have occasion +to repose even entire confidence in him. I half think he suspects who +Louis Kerneguy may in reality be.” + +“You are an engrossing set, you wooers of Woodstock,” said the King, +laughing. “Now, if I had a fancy, as a Frenchman would not fail to have +in such a case, to make pretty speeches to the deaf old woman I saw in +the kitchen, as a pisaller, I dare say I should be told that her ear +was engrossed for Dr. Rochecliffe’s sole use?” + +“I marvel at your Majesty’s good spirits,” said Albert, “that after a +day of danger, fatigue, and accidents, you should feel the power of +amusing yourself thus.” + +“That is to say, the groom of the chambers wishes his Majesty would go +to sleep?—Well, one word or two on more serious business, and I have +done.—I have been completely directed by you and Rochecliffe—I have +changed my disguise from female to male upon the instant, and altered +my destination from Hampshire to take shelter here—Do you still hold it +the wiser course?” + +“I have great confidence in Dr. Rochecliffe,” replied Albert, “whose +acquaintance with the scattered royalists enables him to gain the most +accurate intelligence. His pride in the extent of his correspondence, +and the complication of his plots and schemes for your Majesty’s +service, is indeed the very food he lives upon; but his sagacity is +equal to his vanity. I repose, besides, the utmost faith in Joliffe. Of +my father and sister I would say nothing; yet I would not, without +reason, extend the knowledge of your Majesty’s person farther than it +is indispensably necessary.” + +“Is it handsome in me,” said Charles, pausing, “to withhold my full +confidence from Sir Henry Lee?” + +“Your Majesty heard of his almost death-swoon of last night—what would +agitate him most deeply must not be hastily communicated.” + +“True; but are we safe from a visit of the red-coats—they have them in +Woodstock as well as in Oxford?” said Charles. + +“Dr. Rochecliffe says, not unwisely,” answered Lee, “that it is best +sitting near the fire when the chimney smokes; and that Woodstock, so +lately in possession of the sequestrators, and still in the vicinity of +the soldiers, will be less suspected, and more carelessly searched, +than more distant corners, which might seem to promise more safety. +Besides,” he added, “Rochecliffe is in possession of curious and +important news concerning the state of matters at Woodstock, highly +favourable to your Majesty’s being concealed in the palace for two or +three days, till shipping is provided. The Parliament, or usurping +Council of State, had sent down sequestrators, whom their own evil +conscience, assisted, perhaps, by the tricks of some daring cavaliers, +had frightened out of the Lodge, without much desire to come back +again. Then the more formidable usurper, Cromwell, had granted a +warrant of possession to Colonel Everard, who had only used it for the +purpose of repossessing his uncle in the Lodge, and who kept watch in +person at the little borough, to see that Sir Henry was not disturbed.” + +“What! Mistress Alice’s Colonel?” said the King—“that sounds +alarming;—for grant that he keeps the other fellows at bay, think you +not, Master Albert, he will have an hundred errands a-day, to bring him +here in person?” + +“Dr. Rochecliffe says,” answered Lee, “the treaty between Sir Henry and +his nephew binds the latter not to approach the Lodge, unless +invited;—indeed, it was not without great difficulty, and strongly +arguing the good consequences it might produce to your Majesty’s cause, +that my father could be prevailed on to occupy Woodstock at all; but be +assured he will be in no hurry to send an invitation to the Colonel.” + +“And be you assured that the Colonel will come without waiting for +one,” said Charles. “Folk cannot judge rightly where sisters are +concerned—they are too familiar with the magnet to judge of its powers +of attraction.—Everard will be here, as if drawn by cart-ropes— +fetters, not to talk of promises, will not hold him—and then, methinks, +we are in some danger.” + +“I hope not,” said Albert. “In the first place, I know Markham is a +slave to his word: besides, were any chance to bring him here, I think +I could pass your Majesty upon him without difficulty, as Louis +Kerneguy. Then, although my cousin and I have not been on good terms +for these some years, I believe him incapable of betraying your +Majesty; and lastly, if I saw the least danger of it, I would, were he +ten times the son of my mother’s sister, run my sword through his body, +ere he had time to execute his purpose.” + +“There is but another question,” said Charles, “and I will release you, +Albert:—You seem to think yourself secure from search. It may be so; +but, in any other country, this tale of goblins which is flying about +would bring down priests and ministers of justice to examine the +reality of the story, and mobs of idle people to satisfy their +curiosity.” + +“Respecting the first, sir, we hope and understand that Colonel +Everard’s influence will prevent any immediate enquiry, for the sake of +preserving undisturbed the peace of his uncle’s family; and as for any +one coming without some sort of authority, the whole neighbours have so +much love and fear of my father, and are, besides, so horribly alarmed +about the goblins of Woodstock, that fear will silence curiosity.” + +“On the whole, then,” said Charles, “the chances of safety seem to be +in favour of the plan we have adopted, which is all I can hope for in a +condition where absolute safety is out of the question. The Bishop +recommended Dr. Rochecliffe as one of the most ingenious, boldest, and +most loyal sons of the Church of England; you, Albert Lee, have marked +your fidelity by a hundred proofs. To you and your local knowledge I +submit myself.—And now, prepare our arms—alive I will not be taken;— +yet I will not believe that a son of the King of England, and heir of +her throne, could be destined to danger in his own palace, and under +the guard of the loyal Lees.” + +Albert Lee laid pistols and swords in readiness by the King’s bed and +his own; and Charles, after some slight apology, took his place in the +larger and better bed, with a sigh of pleasure, as from one who had not +lately enjoyed such an indulgence. He bid good night to his faithful +attendant, who deposited himself on his truckle; and both monarch and +subject were soon fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. + + +Give Sir Nicholas Threlkeld praise; +Hear it, good man, old in days, +Thou tree of succour and of rest +To this young bird that was distress’d; +Beneath thy branches he did stay; +And he was free to sport and play, +When falcons were abroad for prey. + + +WORDSWORTH. + + +The fugitive Prince slept, in spite of danger, with the profound repose +which youth and fatigue inspire. But the young cavalier, his guide and +guard, spent a more restless night, starting from time to time, and +listening; anxious, notwithstanding Dr. Rochecliffe’s assurances, to +procure yet more particular knowledge concerning the state of things +around them, than he had been yet able to collect. + +He rose early after daybreak; but although he moved with as little +noise as was possible, the slumbers of the hunted Prince were easily +disturbed. He started up in his bed, and asked if there was any alarm. + +“None, please your Majesty,” replied Lee; “only, thinking on the +questions your Majesty was asking last night, and the various chances +there are of your Majesty’s safety being endangered from unforeseen +accidents, I thought of going thus early, both to communicate with Dr. +Rochecliffe, and to keep such a look-out as befits the place, where are +lodged for the time the Fortunes of England. I fear I must request of +your Majesty, for your own gracious security, that you have the +goodness to condescend to secure the door with your own hand after I go +out.” + +“Oh, talk not to Majesty, for Heaven’s sake, dear Albert!” answered the +poor King, endeavouring in vain to put on a part of his clothes, in +order to traverse the room.—“When a King’s doublet and hose are so +ragged that he can no more find his way into them than he could have +travelled through the forest of Deane without a guide, good faith, +there should be an end of Majesty, until it chances to be better +accommodated. Besides, there is the chance of these big words bolting +out at unawares, when there are ears to hear them whom we might think +dangerous.” + +“Your commands shall be obeyed,” said Lee, who had now succeeded in +opening the door; from which he took his departure, leaving the King, +who had hustled along the floor for that purpose, with his dress +wofully ill arranged, to make it fast again behind him, and begging him +in no case to open to any one, unless he or Rochecliffe were of the +party who summoned him. + +Albert then set out in quest of Dr. Rochecliffe’s apartment, which was +only known to himself and the faithful Joliffe, and had at different +times accommodated that steady churchman with a place of concealment, +when, from his bold and busy temper, which led him into the most +extensive and hazardous machinations on the King’s behalf, he had been +strictly sought after by the opposite party. Of late, the inquest after +him had died entirely away, as he had prudently withdrawn himself from +the scene of his intrigues. Since the loss of the battle of Worcester, +he had been afloat again, and more active than ever; and had, by +friends and correspondents, and especially the Bishop of ——, been the +means of directing the King’s flight towards Woodstock, although it was +not until the very day of his arrival that he could promise him a safe +reception at that ancient mansion. + +Albert Lee, though he revered both the undaunted spirit and ready +resources of the bustling and intriguing churchman, felt he had not +been enabled by him to answer some of Charles’s questions yesternight, +in a way so distinct as one trusted with the King’s safety ought to +have done; and it was now his object to make himself personally +acquainted, if possible, with the various bearings of so weighty a +matter, as became a man on whom so much of the responsibility was +likely to descend. + +Even his local knowledge was scarce adequate to find the Doctor’s +secret apartment, had he not traced his way after a genial flavour of +roasted game through divers blind passages, and up and down certain +very useless stairs, through cupboards and hatchways, and so forth, to +a species of sanctum sanctorum, where Joceline Joliffe was ministering +to the good Doctor a solemn breakfast of wild-fowl, with a cup of small +beer stirred with a sprig of rosemary, which Dr. Rochecliffe preferred +to all strong potations. Beside him sat Bevis on his tail, slobbering +and looking amiable, moved by the rare smell of the breakfast, which +had quite overcome his native dignity of disposition. + +The chamber in which the Doctor had established himself was a little +octangular room, with walls of great thickness, within which were +fabricated various issues, leading in different directions, and +communicating with different parts of the building. Around him were +packages with arms, and near him one small barrel, as it seemed, of +gunpowder; many papers in different parcels, and several keys for +correspondence in cipher; two or three scrolls covered with +hieroglyphics were also beside him, which Albert took for plans of +nativity; and various models of machinery, in which Dr. Rochecliffe was +an adept. There were also tools of various kinds, masks, cloaks, and a +dark lantern, and a number of other indescribable trinkets belonging to +the trade of a daring plotter in dangerous times. Last, there was a +casket with gold and silver coin of different countries, which was left +carelessly open, as if it were the least of Dr. Rochecliffe’s concern, +although his habits in general announced narrow circumstances, if not +actual poverty. Close by the divine’s plate lay a Bible and +Prayer-book, with some proof sheets, as they are technically called, +seemingly fresh from the press. There was also within the reach of his +hand a dirk, or Scottish poniard, a powder-horn, and a musketoon, or +blunderbuss, with a pair of handsome pocket-pistols. In the midst of +this miscellaneous collection, the Doctor sat eating his breakfast with +great appetite, as little dismayed by the various implements of danger +around him, as a workman is when accustomed to the perils of a +gunpowder manufactory. + +“So, young gentleman,” he said, getting up and extending his hand, “are +you come to breakfast with me in good fellowship, or to spoil my meal +this morning, as you did my supper last night, by asking untimely +questions?” + +“I will pick a bone with you with all my heart,” said Albert; “and if +you please, Doctor, I would ask some questions which seem not quite +untimely.” + +So saying he sat down, and assisted the Doctor in giving a very +satisfactory account of a brace of wild-ducks and a leash of teal. +Bevis, who maintained his place with great patience and insinuation, +had his share of a collop, which was also placed on the well-furnished +board; for, like most high-bred dogs, he declined eating waterfowl. + +“Come hither then, Albert Lee,” said the Doctor, laying down his knife +and fork, and plucking the towel from his throat, so soon as Joceline +was withdrawn; “thou art still the same lad thou wert when I was thy +tutor—never satisfied with having got a grammar rule, but always +persecuting me with questions why the rule stood so, and not otherwise— +over-curious after information which thou couldst not comprehend, as +Bevis slobbered and whined for the duck-wing, which he could not eat.” + +“I hope you will find me more reasonable, Doctor,” answered Albert; +“and at the same time, that you will recollect I am not now _sub +ferula_, but am placed in circumstances where I am not at liberty to +act upon the _ipse dixit_ of any man, unless my own judgment be +convinced. I shall deserve richly to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, +should any misfortune happen by my misgovernment in this business.” + +“And it is therefore, Albert, that I would have thee trust the whole to +me, without interfering. Thou sayest, forsooth, thou art not _sub +ferula_; but recollect that while you have been fighting in the field, +I have been plotting in the study—that I know all the combinations of +the King’s friends, ay, and all the motions of his enemies, as well as +a spider knows every mesh of his web. Think of my experience, man. Not +a cavalier in the land but has heard of Rochecliffe, the Plotter. I +have been a main limb in every thing that has been attempted since +forty-two—penned declarations, conducted correspondence, communicated +with chiefs, recruited followers, commissioned arms, levied money, +appointed rendezvouses. I was in the Western Riding; and before that, +in the City Petition, and in Sir John Owen’s stir in Wales; in short, +almost in every plot for the King, since Tomkins and Challoner’s +matter.” + +“But were not all these plots unsuccessful?” said Albert; “and were not +Tomkins and Challoner hanged, Doctor?” + +“Yes, my young friend,” answered the Doctor, gravely, “as many others +have been with whom I have acted; but only because they did not follow +my advice implicitly. You never heard that I was hanged myself?” + +“The time may come, Doctor,” said Albert; “The pitcher goes oft to the +well.—The proverb, as my father would say, is somewhat musty. But I, +too, have some confidence in my own judgment; and, much as I honour the +Church, I cannot altogether subscribe to passive obedience. I will tell +you in one word what points I must have explanation on; and it will +remain with you to give it, or to return a message to the King that you +will not explain your plan; in which case, if he acts by my advice, he +will leave Woodstock, and resume his purpose of getting to the coast +without delay.” + +“Well, then,” said the Doctor, “thou suspicious monster, make thy +demands, and, if they be such as I can answer without betraying +confidence, I will reply to them.” + +“In the first place, then, what is all this story about ghosts, and +witch-crafts, and apparitions? and do you consider it as safe for his +Majesty to stay in a house subject to such visitations, real or +pretended?” + +“You must be satisfied with my answer _in verbo sacerdotis_—the +circumstances you allude to will not give the least annoyance to +Woodstock during the King’s residence. I cannot explain farther; but +for this I will be bound, at the risk of my neck.” + +“Then,” said Lee, “we must take Dr. Rochecliffe’s bail that the devil +will keep the peace towards our Sovereign Lord the King—good. Now there +lurked about this house the greater part of yesterday, and perhaps +slept here, a fellow called Tomkins,—a bitter Independent, and a +secretary, or clerk, or something or other, to the regicide dog +Desborough. The man is well known—a wild ranter in religious opinions, +but in private affairs far-sighted, cunning, and interested even as any +rogue of them all.” + +“Be assured we will avail ourselves of his crazy fanaticism to mislead +his wicked cunning;—a child may lead a hog, if it has wit to fasten a +cord to the ring in its nose,” replied the Doctor. + +“You may be deceived,” said Albert; “the age has many such as this +fellow, whose views of the spiritual and temporal world are so +different, that they resemble the eyes of a squinting man; one of +which, oblique and distorted, sees nothing but the end of his nose, +while the other, instead of partaking the same defect, views strongly, +sharply, and acutely, whatever is subjected to its scrutiny.” + +“But we will put a patch on the better eye,” said the Doctor, “and he +shall only be allowed to speculate with the imperfect optic. You must +know, this fellow has always seen the greatest number, and the most +hideous apparitions; he has not the courage of a cat in such matters, +though stout enough when he hath temporal antagonists before him. I +have placed him under the charge of Joceline Joliffe, who, betwixt +plying him with sack and ghost-stories, would make him incapable of +knowing what was done, if you were to proclaim the King in his +presence.” + +“But why keep such a fellow here at all?” + +“Oh, sir, content you;—he lies leaguer, as a sort of ambassador for his +worthy masters, and we are secure from any intrusion so long as they +get all the news of Woodstock from Trusty Tomkins.” + +“I know Joceline’s honesty well,” said Albert; “and if he can assure me +that he will keep a watch over this fellow, I will so far trust in him. +He does not know the depth of the stake, ’tis true, but that my life is +concerned will be quite enough to keep him vigilant.—Well, then, I +proceed:—What if Markham Everard comes down on us?” + +“We have his word to the contrary,” answered Rochecliffe—“his word of +honour, transmitted by his friend:—Do you think it likely he will break +it?” + +“I hold him incapable of doing so,” answered Albert; “and, besides, I +think Markham would make no bad use of any thing which might come to +his knowledge—Yet God forbid we should be under the necessity of +trusting any who ever wore the Parliament’s colours in a matter of such +dear concernment!” + +“Amen!” said the Doctor.—“Are your doubts silenced now?” + +“I still have an objection,” said Albert, “to yonder impudent rakehelly +fellow, styling himself a cavalier, who rushed himself on our company +last night, and gained my father’s heart by a story of the storm of +Brentford, which I dare say the rogue never saw.” + +“You mistake him, dear Albert,” replied Rochecliffe—“Roger Wildrake, +although till of late I only knew him by name, is a gentleman, was bred +at the Inns of Court, and spent his estate in the King’s service.” + +“Or rather in the devil’s service,” said Albert. “It is such fellows as +he, who, sunk from the license of their military habits into idle +debauched ruffians, infest the land with riots and robberies, brawl in +hedge alehouses and cellars where strong waters are sold at midnight, +and, with their deep oaths, their hot loyalty, and their drunken +valour, make decent men abominate the very name of cavalier.” + +“Alas!” said the Doctor, “it is but too true; but what can you expect? +When the higher and more qualified classes are broken down and mingled +undistinguishably with the lower orders, they are apt to lose the most +valuable marks of their quality in the general confusion of morals and +manners—just as a handful of silver medals will become defaced and +discoloured if jumbled about among the vulgar copper coin. Even the +prime medal of all, which we royalists would so willingly wear next our +very hearts, has not, perhaps, entirely escaped some deterioration—But +let other tongues than mine speak on that subject.” + +Albert Lee paused deeply after having heard these communications on the +part of Rochecliffe. “Doctor,” he said, “it is generally agreed, even +by some who think you may occasionally have been a little over busy in +putting men upon dangerous actions”— + +“May God forgive them who entertain so false an opinion of me,” said +the Doctor. + +—“That, nevertheless, you have done and suffered more in the King’s +behalf than any man of your function.” + +“They do me but justice there,” said Dr. Rochecliffe—“absolute +justice.” + +“I am therefore disposed to abide by your opinion, if, all things +considered, you think it safe that we should remain at Woodstock.” + +“That is not the question,” answered the divine. + +“And what is the question, then?” replied the young soldier. + +“Whether any safer course can be pointed out. I grieve to say, that the +question must be comparative, as to the point of option. Absolute +safety is—alas the while!—out of the question on all sides. Now, I say +Woodstock is, fenced and guarded as at present, by far the most +preferable place of concealment.” + +“Enough,” replied Albert; “I give up to you the question, as to a +person whose knowledge of such important affairs, not to mention your +age and experience, is more intimate and extensive than mine can be.” + +“You do well,” answered Rochecliffe; “and if others had acted with the +like distrust of their own knowledge, and confidence in competent +persons, it had been better for the age. This makes Understanding bar +himself up within his fortalice, and Wit betake himself to his high +tower.” (Here he looked around his cell with an air of +self-complacence.) “The wise man forseeth the tempest, and hideth +himself.” + +“Doctor,” said Albert, “let our foresight serve others far more +precious than either of us. Let me ask you, if you have well considered +whether our precious charge should remain in society with the family, +or betake himself to some of the more hidden corners of the house?” + +“Hum!” said the Doctor, with an air of deep reflection—“I think he will +be safest as Louis Kerneguy, keeping himself close beside you”— + +“I fear it will be necessary,” added Albert, “that I scout abroad a +little, and show myself in some distant part of the country, lest, +coming here in quest of me, they should find higher game.” + +“Pray do not interrupt me—Keeping himself close beside you or your +father, in or near to Victor Lee’s apartment, from which you are aware +he can make a ready escape, should danger approach. This occurs to me +as best for the present—I hope to hear of the vessel to-day—to-morrow +at farthest.” + +Albert Lee bid the active but opiniated man good morrow; admiring how +this species of intrigue had become a sort of element in which the +Doctor seemed to enjoy himself, notwithstanding all that the poet has +said concerning the horrors which intervene betwixt the conception and +execution of a conspiracy. + +In returning from Dr. Rochecliffe’s sanctuary, he met with Joceline, +who was anxiously seeking him. “The young Scotch gentleman,” he said, +in a mysterious manner, “has arisen from bed, and, hearing me pass, he +called me into his apartment.” + +“Well,” replied Albert, “I will see him presently.” + +“And he asked me for fresh linen and clothes. Now, sir, he is like a +man who is quite accustomed to be obeyed, so I gave him a suit which +happened to be in a wardrobe in the west tower, and some of your linen +to conform; and when he was dressed, he commanded me to show him to the +presence of Sir Henry Lee and my young lady. I would have said +something, sir, about waiting till you came back, but he pulled me +goodnaturedly by the hair, (as, indeed, he has a rare humour of his +own,) and told me, he was guest to Master Albert Lee, and not his +prisoner; so, sir, though I thought you might be displeased with me for +giving him the means of stirring abroad, and perhaps being seen by +those who should not see him, what could I say?” + +“You are a sensible fellow, Joceline, and comprehend always what is +recommended to you. This youth will not be controlled, I fear, by +either of us; but we must look the closer after his safety. You keep +your watch over that prying fellow the steward?” + +“Trust him to my care—on that side have no fear. But ah, sir! I would +we had the young Scot in his old clothes again, for the riding-suit of +yours which he now wears hath set him off in other-guess fashion.” + +From the manner in which the faithful dependent expressed himself, +Albert saw that he suspected who the Scottish page in reality was; yet +he did not think it proper to acknowledge to him a fact of such +importance, secure as he was equally of his fidelity, whether +explicitly trusted to the full extent, or left to his own conjectures. +Full of anxious thought, he went to the apartment of Victor Lee, in +which Joliffe told him he would find the party assembled. The sound of +laughter, as he laid his hand on the lock of the door, almost made him +start, so singularly did it jar with the doubtful and melancholy +reflections which engaged his own mind. He entered, and found his +father in high good-humour, laughing and conversing freely with his +young charge, whose appearance was, indeed, so much changed to the +better in externals, that it seemed scarce possible a night’s rest, a +toilet, and a suit of decent clothes, could have done so much in his +favour in so short a time. It could not, however, be imputed to the +mere alteration of dress, although that, no doubt, had its effect. +There was nothing splendid in that which Louis Kerneguy (we continue to +call him by his assumed name) now wore. It was merely a riding-suit of +grey cloth, with some silver lace, in the fashion of a country +gentleman of the time. But it happened to fit him very well, and to +become his very dark complexion, especially as he now held up his head, +and used the manners, not only of a well-behaved but of a +highly-accomplished gentleman. When he moved, his clumsy and awkward +limp was exchanged for a sort of shuffle, which, as it might be the +consequence of a wound in those perilous times, had rather an +interesting than an ungainly effect. At least it was as genteel an +expression that the party had been overhard travelled, as the most +polite pedestrian could propose to himself. + +The features of the Wanderer were harsh as ever, but his red shock +peruke, for such it proved, was laid aside, his sable elf-locks were +trained, by a little of Joceline’s assistance, into curls, and his fine +black eyes shone from among the shade of these curls, and corresponded +with the animated, though not handsome, character of the whole head. In +his conversation, he had laid aside all the coarseness of dialect which +he had so strongly affected on the preceding evening; and although he +continued to speak a little Scotch, for the support of his character as +a young gentleman of that nation, yet it was not in a degree which +rendered his speech either uncouth or unintelligible, but merely +afforded a certain Doric tinge essential to the personage he +represented. No person on earth could better understand the society in +which he moved; exile had made him acquainted with life in all its +shades and varieties;—his spirits, if not uniform, were elastic—he had +that species of Epicurean philosophy, which, even in the most extreme +difficulties and dangers, can, in an interval of ease, however brief, +avail itself of the enjoyments of the moment—he was, in short, in youth +and misfortune, as afterwards in his regal condition, a good-humoured +but hard-hearted voluptuary—wise, save where his passions +intervened—beneficent, save when prodigality had deprived him of the +means, or prejudice of the wish, to confer benefits—his faults such as +might often have drawn down hatred, but that they were mingled with so +much urbanity, that the injured person felt it impossible to retain the +full sense of his wrongs. + +Albert Lee found the party, consisting of his father, sister, and the +supposed page, seated by the breakfast-table, at which he also took his +place. He was a pensive and anxious beholder of what passed, while the +page, who had already completely gained the heart of the good old +cavalier, by mimicking the manner in which the Scottish divines +preached in favour of Ma gude Lord Marquis of Argyle and the Solemn +League and Covenant, was now endeavouring to interest the fair Alice by +such anecdotes, partly of warlike and perilous adventure, as possessed +the same degree of interest for the female ear which they have had ever +since Desdemona’s days. But it was not only of dangers by land and sea +that the disguised page spoke; but much more, and much oftener, on +foreign revels, banquets, balls, where the pride of France, of Spain, +or of the Low Countries, was exhibited in the eyes of their most +eminent beauties. Alice being a very young girl, who, in consequence of +the Civil War, had been almost entirely educated in the country, and +often in great seclusion, it was certainly no wonder that she should +listen with willing ears, and a ready smile, to what the young +gentleman, their guest, and her brother’s protege, told with so much +gaiety, and mingled with such a shade of dangerous adventure, and +occasionally of serious reflection, as prevented the discourse from +being regarded as merely light and frivolous. + +In a word, Sir Henry Lee laughed, Alice smiled from time to time, and +all were satisfied but Albert, who would himself, however, have been +scarce able to allege a sufficient reason for his depression of +spirits. The materials of breakfast were at last removed, under the +active superintendence of the neat-handed Phœbe, who looked over her +shoulder, and lingered more than once, to listen to the fluent +discourse of their new guest, whom, on the preceding evening, she had, +while in attendance at supper, accounted one of the most stupid inmates +to whom the gates of Woodstock had been opened since the times of Fair +Rosamond. + +Louis Kerneguy then, when they were left only four in the chamber, +without the interruption of domestics, and the successive bustle +occasioned by the discussion and removal of the morning meal, became +apparently sensible, that his friend and ostensible patron Albert ought +not altogether to be suffered to drop to leeward in the conversation, +while he was himself successfully engaging the attention of those +members of his family to whom he had become so recently known. He went +behind his chair, therefore, and, leaning on the back, said with a +good-humoured tone, which made his purpose entirely intelligible,— + +“Either my good friend, guide, and patron, has heard worse news this +morning than he cares to tell us, or he must have stumbled over my +tattered jerkin and leathern hose, and acquired, by contact, the whole +mass of stupidity which I threw off last night with those most dolorous +garments. Cheer up, my dear Colonel Albert, if your affectionate page +may presume to say so—you are in company with those whose society, dear +to strangers, must be doubly so to you. Oddsfish, man, cheer up! I have +seen you gay on a biscuit and a mouthful of water-cresses—don’t let +your heart fail you on Rhenish wine and venison.” + +“Dear Louis,” said Albert, rousing himself into exertion, and somewhat +ashamed of his own silence, “I have slept worse, and been astir earlier +than you.” + +“Be it so,” said his father; “yet I hold it no good excuse for your +sullen silence. Albert, you have met your sister and me, so long +separated from you, so anxious on your behalf, almost like mere +strangers, and yet you are returned safe to us, and you find us well.” + +“Returned indeed—but for safety, my dear father, that word must be a +stranger to us Worcester folk for some time. However, it is not my own +safety about which I am anxious.” + +“About whose, then, should you be anxious?—All accounts agree that the +King is safe out of the dogs’ jaws.” + +“Not without some danger, though,” muttered Louis, thinking of his +encounter with Bevis on the preceding evening. + +“No, not without danger, indeed,” echoed the knight; “but, as old Will +says,— + +‘There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, +That treason dares not peep at what it would.’ + + +“No, no—thank God, that’s cared for; our Hope and Fortune is escaped, +so all news affirm, escaped from Bristol—if I thought otherwise, +Albert, I should be as sad as you are. For the rest of it, I have +lurked a month in this house when discovery would have been death, and +that is no longer since than after Lord Holland and the Duke of +Buckingham’s rising at Kingston; and hang me, if I thought once of +twisting my brow into such a tragic fold as yours, but cocked my hat at +misfortune as a cavalier should.” + +“If I might put in a word,” said Louis, “it would be to assure Colonel +Albert Lee that I verily believe the King would think his own hap, +wherever he may be, much the worse that his best subjects were seized +with dejection on his account.” + +“You answer boldly on the King’s part, young man,” said Sir Henry. + +“Oh, my father was meikle about the King’s hand,” answered Louis, +recollecting his present character. + +“No wonder, then,” said Sir Henry, “that you have so soon recovered +your good spirits and good breeding, when you heard of his Majesty’s +escape. Why, you are no more like the lad we saw last night, than the +best hunter I ever had was like a dray-horse.” + +“Oh, there is much in rest, and food, and grooming,” answered Louis. +“You would hardly know the tired jade you dismounted from last night, +when she is brought out prancing and neighing the next morning, rested, +refreshed, and ready to start again—especially if the brute hath some +good blood, for such pick up unco fast.” + +“Well, then, but since thy father was a courtier, and thou hast +learned, I think, something of the trade, tell us a little, Master +Kerneguy, of him we love most to hear about—the King; we are all safe +and secret, you need not be afraid. He was a hopeful youth; I trust his +flourishing blossom now gives promise of fruit?” + +As the knight spoke, Louis bent his eyes on the ground, and seemed at +first uncertain what to answer. But, admirable at extricating himself +from such dilemmas, he replied, “that he really could not presume to +speak on such a subject in the presence of his patron, Colonel Albert +Lee, who must be a much better judge of the character of King Charles +than he could pretend to be.” + +Albert was accordingly next assailed by the Knight, seconded by Alice, +for some account of his Majesty’s character. + +“I will speak but according to facts,” said Albert; “and then I must be +acquitted of partiality. If the King had not possessed enterprise and +military skill, he never would have attempted the expedition to +Worcester;—had he not had personal courage, he had not so long disputed +the battle that Cromwell almost judged it lost. That he possesses +prudence and patience, must be argued from the circumstances attending +his flight; and that he has the love of his subjects is evident, since, +necessarily known to many, he has been betrayed by none.” + +“For shame, Albert!” replied his sister; “is that the way a good +cavalier doles out the character of his Prince, applying an instance at +every concession, like a pedlar measuring linen with his rod?—Out upon +you!—no wonder you were beaten, if you fought as coldly for your King +as you now talk for him.” + +“I did my best to trace a likeness from what I have seen and known of +the original, sister Alice,” replied her brother.—“If you would have a +fancy portrait, you must get an artist of more imagination than I have +to draw it for you.” + +“I will be that artist myself” said Alice; “and, in _my_ portrait, our +Monarch shall show all that he ought to be, having such high +pretensions—all that he must be, being so loftily descended—all that I +am sure he is, and that every loyal heart in the kingdom ought to +believe him.” + +“Well said, Alice,” quoth the old knight—“Look thou upon this picture, +and on this!—Here is our young friend shall judge. I wager my best +nag—that is, I would wager him had I one left—that Alice proves the +better painter of the two.—My son’s brain is still misty, I think, +since his defeat—he has not got the smoke of Worcester out of it. +Plague on thee!—a young man, and cast down for one beating? Had you +been banged twenty times like me, it had been time to look grave.—But +come, Alice, forward; the colours are mixed on your pallet—forward with +something that shall show like one of Vandyck’s living portraits, +placed beside the dull dry presentation there of our ancestor Victor +Lee.” + +Alice, it must be observed, had been educated by her father in the +notions of high and even exaggerated loyalty, which characterized the +cavaliers, and she was really an enthusiast in the royal cause. But, +besides, she was in good spirits at her brother’s happy return, and +wished to prolong the gay humour in which her father had of late +scarcely ever indulged. + +“Well, then,” she said, “though I am no Apelles, I will try to paint an +Alexander, such as I hope, and am determined to believe, exists in the +person of our exiled sovereign, soon I trust to be restored. And I will +not go farther than his own family. He shall have all the chivalrous +courage, all the warlike skill, of Henry of France, his grandfather, in +order to place him on the throne; all his benevolence, love of his +people, patience even of unpleasing advice, sacrifice of his own wishes +and pleasures to the commonweal, that, seated there, he may be blest +while living, and so long remembered when dead, that for ages after it +shall be thought sacrilege to breathe an aspersion against the throne +which he had occupied! Long after he is dead, while there remains an +old man who has seen him, were the condition of that survivor no higher +than a groom or a menial, his age shall be provided for at the public +charge, and his grey hairs regarded with more distinction than an +earl’s coronet, because he remembers the Second Charles, the monarch of +every heart in England!” + +While Alice spoke, she was hardly conscious of the presence of any one +save her father and brother; for the page withdrew himself somewhat +from the circle, and there was nothing to remind her of him. She gave +the reins, therefore, to her enthusiasm; and as the tears glittered in +her eye, and her beautiful features became animated, she seemed like a +descended cherub proclaiming the virtues of a patriot monarch. The +person chiefly interested in her description held himself back, as we +have said, and concealed his own features, yet so as to preserve a full +view of the beautiful speaker. + +Albert Lee, conscious in whose presence this eulogium was pronounced, +was much embarrassed; but his father, all whose feelings were flattered +by the panegyric, was in rapture. + +“So much for the _King_, Alice,” he said, “and now for the _Man_.” + +“For the man,” replied Alice, in the same tone, “need I wish him more +than the paternal virtues of his unhappy father, of whom his worst +enemies have recorded, that if moral virtues and religious faith were +to be selected as the qualities which merited a crown, no man could +plead the possession of them in a higher or more indisputable degree. +Temperate, wise, and frugal, yet munificent in rewarding merit—a friend +to letters and the muses, but a severe discourager of the misuse of +such gifts—a worthy gentleman—a kind master—the best friend, the best +father, the best Christian”—Her voice began to falter, and her father’s +handkerchief was already at his eyes. + +“He was, girl, he was!” exclaimed Sir Henry; “but no more on’t, I +charge ye—no more on’t—enough; let his son but possess his virtues, +with better advisers, and better fortunes, and he will be all that +England, in her warmest wishes, could desire.” + +There was a pause after this; for Alice felt as if she had spoken too +frankly and too zealously for her sex and youth. Sir Henry was occupied +in melancholy recollections on the fate of his late sovereign, while +Kerneguy and his supposed patron felt embarrassed, perhaps from a +consciousness that the real Charles fell far short of his ideal +character, as designed in such glowing colours. In some cases, +exaggerated or unappropriate praise becomes the most severe satire. + +But such reflections were not of a nature to be long willingly +cherished by the person to whom they might have been of great +advantage. He assumed a tone of raillery, which is, perhaps, the +readiest mode of escaping from the feelings of self-reproof. “Every +cavalier,” he said, “should bend his knee to thank Mistress Alice Lee +for having made such a flattering portrait of the King their master, by +laying under contribution for his benefit the virtues of all his +ancestors; only there was one point he would not have expected a female +painter to have passed over in silence. When she made him, in right of +his grandfather and father, a muster of royal and individual +excellences, why could she not have endowed him at the same time with +his mother’s personal charms? Why should not the son of Henrietta +Maria, the finest woman of her day, add the recommendations of a +handsome face and figure to his internal qualities? He had the same +hereditary title to good looks as to mental qualifications; and the +picture, with such an addition, would be perfect in its way—and God +send it might be a resemblance.” + +“I understand you, Master Kerneguy,” said Alice; “but I am no fairy, to +bestow, as those do in the nursery tales, gifts which Providence has +denied. I am woman enough to have made enquiries on the subject, and I +know the general report is, that the King, to have been the son of such +handsome parents, is unusually hard-favoured.” + +“Good God, sister!” said Albert, starting impatiently from his seat. +“Why, you yourself told me so,” said Alice, surprised at the emotion he +testified; “and you said”— + +“This is intolerable,” muttered Albert; “I must out to speak with +Joceline without delay—Louis,” (with an imploring look to Kerneguy,) +“you will surely come with me?” + +“I would with all my heart,” said Kerneguy, smiling maliciously; “but +you see how I suffer still from lameness.—Nay, nay, Albert,” he +whispered, resisting young Lee’s attempt to prevail on him to leave the +room, “can you suppose I am fool enough to be hurt by this?—on the +contrary, I have a desire of profiting by it.” + +“May God grant it!” said Lee to himself, as he left the room—“it will +be the first lecture you ever profited by; and the devil confound the +plots and plotters who made me bring you to this place!” So saying, he +carried his discontent forth into the Park. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. + + +For there, they say, he daily doth frequent +With unrestrained loose companions; +While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy, +Takes on the point of honour, to support +So dissolute a crew. + + +RICHARD II. + + +The conversation which Albert had in vain endeavoured to interrupt, +flowed on in the same course after he had left the room. It entertained +Louis Kerneguy; for personal vanity, or an over-sensitiveness to +deserved reproof, were not among the faults of his character, and were +indeed incompatible with an understanding, which, combined with more +strength of principle, steadiness of exertion, and self-denial, might +have placed Charles high on the list of English monarchs. On the other +hand, Sir Henry listened with natural delight to the noble sentiments +uttered by a being so beloved as his daughter. His own parts were +rather steady than brilliant; and he had that species of imagination +which is not easily excited without the action of another, as the +electrical globe only scintillates when rubbed against its cushion. He +was well pleased, therefore, when Kerneguy pursued the conversation, by +observing that Mistress Alice Lee had not explained how the same good +fairy that conferred moral qualities, could not also remove corporeal +blemishes. + +“You mistake, sir,” said Alice. “I confer nothing. I do but attempt to +paint our King such as I _hope_ he is—such as I am sure he _may_ be, +should he himself desire to be so. The same general report which speaks +of his countenance as unprepossessing, describes his talents as being +of the first order. He has, therefore, the means of arriving at +excellence, should he cultivate them sedulously and employ them +usefully—should he rule his passions and be guided by his +understanding. Every good man cannot be wise; but it is in the power of +every wise man, if he pleases, to be as eminent for virtue as for +talent.” + +Young Kerneguy rose briskly, and took a turn through the room; and ere +the knight could make any observation on the singular vivacity in which +he had indulged, he threw himself again into his chair, and said, in +rather an altered tone of voice—“It seems, then, Mistress Alice Lee, +that the good friends who have described this poor King to you, have +been as unfavourable in their account of his morals as of his person?” + +“The truth must be better known to you, sir,” said Alice, “than it can +be to me. Some rumours there have been which accuse him of a license, +which, whatever allowance flatterers make for it, does not, to say the +least, become the son of the Martyr—I shall be happy to have these +contradicted on good authority.” + +“I am surprised at your folly,” said Sir Henry Lee, “in hinting at such +things, Alice; a pack of scandal, invented by the rascals who have +usurped the government—a thing devised by the enemy.” + +“Nay, sir,” said Kerneguy, laughing, “we must not let our zeal charge +the enemy with more scandal than they actually deserve. Mistress Alice +has put the question to me. I can only answer, that no one can be more +devotedly attached to the King than I myself,—that I am very partial to +his merits and blind to his defects;—and that, in short, I would be the +last man in the world to give up his cause where it was tenable. +Nevertheless, I must confess, that if all his grandfather of Navarre’s +morals have not descended to him, this poor King has somehow inherited +a share of the specks that were thought to dim the lustre of that great +Prince—that Charles is a little soft-hearted, or so, where beauty is +concerned.—Do not blame him too severely, pretty Mistress Alice; when a +man’s hard fate has driven him among thorns, it were surely hard to +prevent him from trifling with the few roses he may find among them?” + +Alice, who probably thought the conversation had gone far enough, rose +while Master Kerneguy was speaking, and was leaving the room before he +had finished, without apparently hearing the interrogation with which +he concluded. Her father approved of her departure, not thinking the +turn which Kerneguy had given to the discourse altogether fit for her +presence; and, desirous civilly to break off the conversation, “I see,” +he said, “this is about the time, when, as Will says, the household +affairs will call my daughter hence; I will therefore challenge you, +young gentleman, to stretch your limbs in a little exercise with me, +either at single rapier, or rapier and poniard, back-sword, spadroon, +or your national weapons of broad-sword and target; for all or any of +which I think we shall find implements in the hall.” + +It would be too high a distinction, Master Kerneguy said, for a poor +page to be permitted to try a passage of arms with a knight so renowned +as Sir Henry Lee, and he hoped to enjoy so great an honour before he +left Woodstock; but at the present moment his lameness continued to +give him so much pain, that he should shame himself in the attempt. + +Sir Henry then offered to read him a play of Shakspeare, and for this +purpose turned up King Richard II. But hardly had he commenced with + +“Old John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster,” + + +when the young gentleman was seized with such an incontrollable fit of +the cramp as could only be relieved by immediate exercise. He therefore +begged permission to be allowed to saunter abroad for a little while, +if Sir Henry Lee considered he might venture without danger. + +“I can answer for the two or three of our people that are still left +about the place,” said Sir Henry; “and I know my son has disposed them +so as to be constantly on the watch. If you hear the bell toll at the +Lodge, I advise you to come straight home by the way of the King’s Oak, +which you see in yonder glade towering above the rest of the trees. We +will have some one stationed there to introduce you secretly into the +house.” + +The page listened to these cautions with the impatience of a schoolboy, +who, desirous of enjoying his holiday, hears without marking the advice +of tutor or parent, about taking care not to catch cold, and so forth. + +The absence of Alice Lee had removed all which had rendered the +interior of the Lodge agreeable, and the mercurial young page fled with +precipitation from the exercise and amusement which Sir Henry had +proposed. He girded on his rapier, and threw his cloak, or rather that +which belonged to his borrowed suit, about him, bringing up the lower +part so as to muffle the face and show only the eyes over it, which was +a common way of wearing them in those days, both in streets, in the +country, and in public places, when men had a mind to be private, and +to avoid interruption from salutations and greetings in the +market-place. He hurried across the open space which divided the front +of the Lodge from the wood, with the haste of a bird, escaped from the +cage, which, though joyful at its liberation, is at the same time +sensible of its need of protection and shelter. The wood seemed to +afford these to the human fugitive, as it might have done to the bird +in question. + +When under the shadow of the branches, and within the verge of the +forest, covered from observation, yet with the power of surveying the +front of the Lodge, and all the open ground before it, the supposed +Louis Kerneguy meditated on his escape. + +“What an infliction—to fence with a gouty old man, who knows not, I +dare say, a trick of the sword which was not familiar in the days of +old Vincent Saviolo! or, as a change of misery, to hear him read one of +those wildernesses of scenes which the English call a play, from +prologue to epilogue—from Enter the first to the final _Exeunt +omnes_—an unparalleled horror—a penance which would have made a dungeon +darker, and added dullness even to Woodstock!” + +Here he stopped and looked around, then continued his meditations—“So, +then, it was here that the gay old Norman secluded his pretty +mistress—I warrant, without having seen her, that Rosamond Clifford was +never half so handsome as that lovely Alice Lee. And what a soul there +is in the girl’s eye!—with what abandonment of all respects, save that +expressing the interest of the moment, she poured forth her tide of +enthusiasm! Were I to be long here, in spite of prudence, and +half-a-dozen very venerable obstacles beside, I should be tempted to +try to reconcile her to the indifferent visage of this same +hard-favoured Prince.—Hard favoured?—it is a kind of treason for one +who pretends to so much loyalty, to say so of the King’s features, and +in my mind deserves punishment.—Ah, pretty Mistress Alice! many a +Mistress Alice before you has made dreadful exclamations on the +irregularities of mankind, and the wickedness of the age, and ended by +being glad to look out for apologies for their own share in them. But +then her father—the stout old cavalier—my father’s old friend—should +such a thing befall, it would break his heart.—Break a pudding’s-end—he +has more sense. If I give his grandson a title to quarter the arms of +England, what matter if a bar sinister is drawn across them?—Pshaw! far +from an abatement, it is a point of addition—the heralds in their next +visitation will place him higher in the roll for it. Then, if he did +wince a little at first, does not the old traitor deserve it;—first, +for his disloyal intention of punching mine anointed body black and +blue with his vile foils—and secondly, his atrocious complot with Will +Shakspeare, a fellow as much out of date as himself, to read me to +death with five acts of a historical play, or chronicle, ‘being the +piteous Life and Death of Richard the Second?’ Odds-fish, my own life +is piteous enough, as I think; and my death may match it, for aught I +see coming yet. Ah, but then the brother—my friend—my guide—my guard—So +far as this little proposed intrigue concerns him, such practising +would be thought not quite fair. But your bouncing, swaggering, +revengeful brothers exist only on the theatre. Your dire revenge, with +which a brother persecuted a poor fellow who had seduced his sister, or +been seduced by her, as the case might be, as relentlessly as if he had +trodden on his toes without making an apology, is entirely out of +fashion, since Dorset killed the Lord Bruce many a long year since. +Pshaw! when a King is the offender, the bravest man sacrifices nothing +by pocketing a little wrong which he cannot personally resent. And in +France, there is not a noble house, where each individual would not +cock his hat an inch higher, if they could boast of such a left-handed +alliance with the Grand Monarque.” + +Such were the thoughts which rushed through the mind of Charles, at his +first quitting the Lodge of Woodstock, and plunging into the forest +that surrounded it. His profligate logic, however, was not the result +of his natural disposition, nor received without scruple by his sound +understanding. It was a train of reasoning which he had been led to +adopt from his too close intimacy with the witty and profligate youth +of quality by whom he had been surrounded. It arose from the evil +communication with Villiers, Wilmot, Sedley, and others, whose genius +was destined to corrupt that age, and the Monarch on whom its character +afterwards came so much to depend. Such men, bred amidst the license of +civil war, and without experiencing that curb which in ordinary times +the authority of parents and relations imposes upon the headlong +passions of youth, were practised in every species of vice, and could +recommend it as well by precept as by example, turning into pitiless +ridicule all those nobler feelings which withhold men from gratifying +lawless passion. The events of the King’s life had also favoured his +reception of this Epicurean doctrine. He saw himself, with the highest +claims to sympathy and assistance, coldly treated by the Courts which +he visited, rather as a permitted supplicant, than an exiled Monarch. +He beheld his own rights and claims treated with scorn and +indifference; and, in the same proportion, he was reconciled to the +hard-hearted and selfish course of dissipation, which promised him +immediate indulgence. If this was obtained at the expense of the +happiness of others, should he of all men be scrupulous upon the +subject, since he treated others only as the world treated him? + +But although the foundations of this unhappy system had been laid, the +Prince was not at this early period so fully devoted to it as he was +found to have become, when a door was unexpectedly opened for his +restoration. On the contrary, though the train of gay reasoning which +we have above stated, as if it had found vent in uttered language, did +certainly arise in his mind, as that which would have been suggested by +his favourite counsellors on such occasions, he recollected that what +might be passed over as a peccadillo in France or the Netherlands, or +turned into a diverting novel or pasquinade by the wits of his own +wandering Court, was likely to have the aspect of horrid ingratitude +and infamous treachery among the English gentry, and would inflict a +deep, perhaps an incurable wound upon his interests, among the more +aged and respectable part of his adherents. Then it occurred to him—for +his own interest did not escape him, even in this mode of considering +the subject—that he was in the power of the Lees, father and son, who +were always understood to be at least sufficiently punctilious on the +score of honour; and if they should suspect such an affront as his +imagination had conceived, they could be at no loss to find means of +the most ample revenge, either by their own hands, or by those of the +ruling faction. + +“The risk of re-opening the fatal window at Whitehall, and renewing the +tragedy of the Man in the Mask, were a worse penalty,” was his final +reflection, “than the old stool of the Scottish penance; and pretty +though Alice Lee is, I cannot afford to intrigue at such a hazard. So, +farewell, pretty maiden! unless, as sometimes has happened, thou hast a +humour to throw thyself at thy King’s feet, and then I am too +magnanimous to refuse thee my protection. Yet, when I think of the pale +clay-cold figure of the old man, as he lay last night extended before +me, and imagine the fury of Albert Lee raging with impatience, his hand +on a sword which only his loyalty prevents him from plunging into his +sovereign’s heart—nay, the picture is too horrible! Charles must for +ever change his name to Joseph, even if he were strongly tempted; which +may Fortune in mercy prohibit!” + +To speak the truth of a prince, more unfortunate in his early +companions, and the callousness which he acquired by his juvenile +adventures and irregular mode of life, than in his natural disposition, +Charles came the more readily to this wise conclusion, because he was +by no means subject to those violent and engrossing passions, to +gratify which the world has been thought well lost. His amours, like +many of the present day, were rather matters of habit and fashion, than +of passion and affection: and, in comparing himself in this respect to +his grandfather, Henry IV., he did neither his ancestor nor himself +perfect justice. He was, to parody the words of a bard, himself +actuated by the stormy passions which an intriguer often only +simulates,— + +None of those who loved so kindly, +None of those who loved so blindly. + + +An amour was with him a matter of amusement, a regular consequence, as +it seemed to him, of the ordinary course of things in society. He was +not at the trouble to practise seductive arts, because he had seldom +found occasion to make use of them; his high rank, and the profligacy +of part of the female society with which he had mingled, rendering them +unnecessary. Added to this, he had, for the same reason, seldom been +crossed by the obstinate interference of relations, or even of +husbands, who had generally seemed not unwilling to suffer such matters +to take their course. + +So that, notwithstanding his total looseness of principle, and +systematic disbelief in the virtue of women, and the honour of men, as +connected with the character of their female relatives, Charles was not +a person to have studiously introduced disgrace into a family, where a +conquest might have been violently disputed, attained with difficulty, +and accompanied with general distress, not to mention the excitation of +all fiercer passions against the author of the scandal. + +But the danger of the King’s society consisted in his being much of an +unbeliever in the existence of such cases as were likely to be +embittered by remorse on the part of the principal victim, or rendered +perilous by the violent resentment of her connexions or relatives. He +had even already found such things treated on the continent as matters +of ordinary occurrence, subject, in all cases where a man of high +influence was concerned, to an easy arrangement; and he was really, +generally speaking, sceptical on the subject of severe virtue in either +sex, and apt to consider it as a veil assumed by prudery in women, and +hypocrisy in men, to extort a higher reward for their compliance. + +While we are discussing the character of his disposition to gallantry, +the Wanderer was conducted, by the walk he had chosen, through several +whimsical turns, until at last it brought him under the windows of +Victor Lee’s apartment, where he descried Alice watering and arranging +some flowers placed on the oriel window, which was easily accessible by +daylight, although at night he had found it a dangerous attempt to +scale it. But not Alice only, her father also showed himself near the +window, and beckoned him up. The family party seemed now more promising +than before, and the fugitive Prince was weary of playing battledore +and shuttlecock with his conscience, and much disposed to let matters +go as chance should determine. + +He climbed lightly up the broken ascent, and was readily welcomed by +the old knight, who held activity in high honour. Alice also seemed +glad to see the lively and interesting young man; and by her presence, +and the unaffected mirth with which she enjoyed his sallies, he was +animated to display those qualities of wit and humour, which nobody +possessed in a higher degree. + +His satire delighted the old gentleman, who laughed till his eyes ran +over as he heard the youth, whose claims to his respect he little +dreamed of, amusing him with successive imitations of the Scottish +Presbyterian clergymen, of the proud and poor Hidalgo of the North, of +the fierce and over-weening pride and Celtic dialect of the mountain +chief, of the slow and more pedantic Lowlander, with all of which his +residence in Scotland had made him familiar. Alice also laughed, and +applauded, amused herself, and delighted to see that her father was so; +and the whole party were in the highest glee, when Albert Lee entered, +eager to find Louis Kerneguy, and to lead him away to a private +colloquy with Dr. Rochecliffe, whose zeal, assiduity, and wonderful +possession of information, had constituted him their master-pilot in +those difficult times. + +It is unnecessary to introduce the reader to the minute particulars of +their conference. The information obtained was so far favourable, that +the enemy seemed to have had no intelligence of the King’s route +towards the south, and remained persuaded that he had made his escape +from Bristol, as had been reported, and as had indeed been proposed; +but the master of the vessel prepared for the King’s passage had taken +the alarm, and sailed without his royal freight. His departure, +however, and the suspicion of the service in which he was engaged, +served to make the belief general, that the King had gone off along +with him. + +But though this was cheering, the Doctor had more unpleasant tidings +from the sea-coast, alleging great difficulties in securing a vessel, +to which it might be fit to commit a charge so precious; and, above +all, requesting his Majesty might on no account venture to approach the +shore, until he should receive advice that all the previous +arrangements had been completely settled. + +No one was able to suggest a safer place of residence than that which +he at present occupied. Colonel Everard was deemed certainly not +personally unfriendly to the King; and Cromwell, as was supposed, +reposed in Everard an unbounded confidence. The interior presented +numberless hiding-places, and secret modes of exit, known to no one but +the ancient residents of the Lodge—nay, far better to Rochecliffe than +to any of them; as, when Rector at the neighbouring town, his prying +disposition as an antiquary had induced him to make very many +researches among the old ruins—the results of which he was believed, in +some instances, to have kept to himself. + +To balance these conveniences, it was no doubt true, that the +Parliamentary Commissioners were still at no great distance, and would +be ready to resume their authority upon the first opportunity. But no +one supposed such an opportunity was likely to occur; and all believed, +as the influence of Cromwell and the army grew more and more +predominant, that the disappointed Commissioners would attempt nothing +in contradiction to his pleasure, but wait with patience an +indemnification in some other quarter for their vacated commissions. +Report, through the voice of Master Joseph Tomkins, stated, that they +had determined, in the first place, to retire to Oxford, and were +making preparations accordingly. This promised still farther to insure +the security of Woodstock. It was therefore settled, that the King, +under the character of Louis Kerneguy, should remain an inmate of the +Lodge, until a vessel should be procured for his escape, at the port +which might be esteemed the safest and most convenient. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. + + +The deadliest snakes are those which, twined ’mongst flowers, +Blend their bright colouring with the varied blossoms, +Their fierce eyes glittering like the spangled dew-drop; +In all so like what nature has most harmless, +That sportive innocence, which dreads no danger, +Is poison’d unawares. + + +OLD PLAY. + + +Charles (we must now give him his own name) was easily reconciled to +the circumstances which rendered his residence at Woodstock advisable. +No doubt he would much rather have secured his safety by making an +immediate escape out of England; but he had been condemned already to +many uncomfortable lurking-places, and more disagreeable disguises, as +well as to long and difficult journeys, during which, between +pragmatical officers of justice belonging to the prevailing party, and +parties of soldiers whose officers usually took on them to act on their +own warrant, risk of discovery had more than once become very imminent. +He was glad, therefore, of comparative repose, and of comparative +safety. + +Then it must be considered, that Charles had been entirely reconciled +to the society at Woodstock since he had become better acquainted with +it. He had seen, that, to interest the beautiful Alice, and procure a +great deal of her company, nothing more was necessary than to submit to +the humours, and cultivate the intimacy, of the old cavalier her +father. A few bouts at fencing, in which Charles took care not to put +out his more perfect skill, and full youthful strength and activity—the +endurance of a few scenes from Shakspeare, which the knight read with +more zeal than taste—a little skill in music, in which the old man had +been a proficient—the deference paid to a few old-fashioned opinions, +at which Charles laughed in his sleeve—were all-sufficient to gain for +the disguised Prince an interest in Sir Henry Lee, and to conciliate in +an equal degree the good-will of his lovely daughter. + +Never were there two young persons who could be said to commence this +species of intimacy with such unequal advantages. Charles was a +libertine, who, if he did not in cold blood resolve upon prosecuting +his passion for Alice to a dishonourable conclusion, was at every +moment liable to be provoked to attempt the strength of a virtue, in +which he was no believer. Then Alice, on her part, hardly knew even +what was implied by the word libertine or seducer. Her mother had died +early in the commencement of the Civil War, and she had been bred up +chiefly with her brother and cousin; so that she had an unfearing and +unsuspicious frankness of manner, upon which Charles was not unwilling +or unlikely to put a construction favourable to his own views. Even +Alice’s love for her cousin—the first sensation which awakens the most +innocent and simple mind to feelings of shyness and restraint towards +the male sex in general—had failed to excite such an alarm in her +bosom. They were nearly related; and Everard, though young, was several +years her elder, and had, from her infancy, been an object of her +respect as well as of her affection. When this early and childish +intimacy ripened into youthful love, confessed and returned, still it +differed in some shades from the passion existing between lovers +originally strangers to each other, until their affections have been +united in the ordinary course of courtship. Their love was fonder, more +familiar, more perfectly confidential; purer too, perhaps, and more +free from starts of passionate violence, or apprehensive jealousy. + +The possibility that any one could have attempted to rival Everard in +her affection, was a circumstance which never occurred to Alice; and +that this singular Scottish lad, whom she laughed with on account of +his humour, and laughed at for his peculiarities, should be an object +of danger or of caution, never once entered her imagination. The sort +of intimacy to which she admitted Kerneguy was the same to which she +would have received a companion of her own sex, whose manners she did +not always approve, but whose society she found always amusing. + +It was natural that the freedom of Alice Lee’s conduct, which arose +from the most perfect indifference, should pass for something +approaching to encouragement in the royal gallant’s apprehension, and +that any resolutions he had formed against being tempted to violate the +hospitality of Woodstock, should begin to totter, as opportunities for +doing so became more frequent. + +These opportunities were favoured by Albert’s departure from Woodstock +the very day after his arrival. It had been agreed, in full council +with Charles and Rochecliffe, that he should go to visit his uncle +Everard in the county of Kent, and, by showing himself there, obviate +any cause of suspicion which might arise from his residence at +Woodstock, and remove any pretext for disturbing his father’s family on +account of their harbouring one who had been so lately in arms. He had +also undertaken, at his own great personal risk, to visit different +points on the sea-coast, and ascertain the security of different places +for providing shipping for the King’s leaving England. + +These circumstances were alike calculated to procure the King’s safety, +and facilitate his escape. But Alice was thereby deprived of the +presence of her brother, who would have been her most watchful +guardian, but who had set down the King’s light talk upon a former +occasion to the gaiety of his humour, and would have thought he had +done his sovereign great injustice, had he seriously suspected him of +such a breach of hospitality as a dishonourable pursuit of Alice would +have implied. + +There were, however, two of the household at Woodstock, who appeared +not so entirely reconciled with Louis Kerneguy or his purposes. The one +was Bevis, who seemed, from their first unfriendly rencontre, to have +kept up a pique against their new guest, which no advances on the part +of Charles were able to soften. If the page was by chance left alone +with his young mistress, Bevis chose always to be of the party; came +close by Alice’s chair, and growled audibly when the gallant drew near +her. “It is a pity,” said the disguised Prince, “that your Bevis is not +a bull-dog, that we might dub him a roundhead at once—He is too +handsome, too noble, too aristocratic, to nourish those inhospitable +prejudices against a poor houseless cavalier. I am convinced the spirit +of Pym or Hampden has transmigrated into the rogue and continues to +demonstrate his hatred against royalty and all its adherents.” + +Alice would then reply, that Bevis was loyal in word and deed, and only +partook her father’s prejudices against the Scots, which, she could not +but acknowledge, were tolerably strong. + +“Nay, then,” said the supposed Louis, “I must find some other reason, +for I cannot allow Sir Bevis’s resentment to rest upon national +antipathy. So we will suppose that some gallant cavalier, who wended to +the wars and never returned, has adopted this shape to look back upon +the haunts he left so unwillingly, and is jealous at seeing even poor +Louis Kerneguy drawing near to the lady of his lost affections.”—He +approached her chair as he spoke, and Bevis gave one of his deep +growls. + +“In that case, you had best keep your distance,” said Alice, laughing, +“for the bite of a dog, possessed by the ghost of a jealous lover, +cannot be very safe.” And the King carried on the dialogue in the same +strain—which, while it led Alice to apprehend nothing more serious than +the apish gallantry of a fantastic boy, certainly induced the supposed +Louis Kerneguy to think that he had made one of those conquests which +often and easily fall to the share of sovereigns. Notwithstanding the +acuteness of his apprehension, he was not sufficiently aware that the +Royal Road to female favour is only open to monarchs when they travel +in grand costume, and that when they woo incognito, their path of +courtship is liable to the same windings and obstacles which obstruct +the course of private individuals. + +There was, besides Bevis, another member of the family, who kept a +look-out upon Louis Kerneguy, and with no friendly eye. Phœbe +Mayflower, though her experience extended not beyond the sphere of the +village, yet knew the world much better than her mistress, and besides +she was five years older. More knowing, she was more suspicious. She +thought that odd-looking Scotch boy made more up to her young mistress +than was proper for his condition of life; and, moreover, that Alice +gave him a little more encouragement than Parthenia would have afforded +to any such Jack-a-dandy, in the absence of Argalus—for the volume +treating of the loves of these celebrated Arcadians was then the +favourite study of swains and damsels throughout merry England. +Entertaining such suspicions, Phœbe was at a loss how to conduct +herself on the occasion, and yet resolved she would not see the +slightest chance of the course of Colonel Everard’s true love being +obstructed, without attempting a remedy. She had a peculiar favour for +Markham herself; and, moreover, he was, according to her phrase, as +handsome and personable a young man as was in Oxfordshire; and this +Scottish scarecrow was no more to be compared to him than chalk was to +cheese. And yet she allowed that Master Girnigy had a wonderfully +well-oiled tongue, and that such gallants were not to be despised. What +was to be done?—she had no facts to offer, only vague suspicion; and +was afraid to speak to her mistress, whose kindness, great as it was, +did not, nevertheless, encourage familiarity. + +She sounded Joceline; but he was, she knew not why, so deeply +interested about this unlucky lad, and held his importance so high, +that she could make no impression on him. To speak to the old knight +would have been to raise a general tempest. The worthy chaplain, who +was, at Woodstock, grand referee on all disputed matters, would have +been the damsel’s most natural resource, for he was peaceful as well as +moral by profession, and politic by practice. But it happened he had +given Phœbe unintentional offence by speaking of her under the +classical epithet of _Rustica Fidele_, the which epithet, as she +understood it not, she held herself bound to resent as contumelious, +and declaring she was not fonder of a _fiddle_ than other folk, had +ever since shunned all intercourse with Dr. Rochecliffe which she could +easily avoid. + +Master Tomkins was always coming and going about the house under +various pretexts; but he was a roundhead, and she was too true to the +cavaliers to introduce any of the enemy as parties to their internal +discords; besides, he had talked to Phœbe herself in a manner which +induced her to decline everything in the shape of familiarity with him. +Lastly, Cavaliero Wildrake might have been consulted; but Phœbe had her +own reasons for saying, as she did with some emphasis, that Cavaliero +Wildrake was an impudent London rake. At length she resolved to +communicate her suspicions to the party having most interest in +verifying or confuting them. + +“I’ll let Master Markham Everard know, that there is a wasp buzzing +about his honey-comb,” said Phœbe; “and, moreover, that I know that +this young Scotch Scapegrace shifted himself out of a woman’s into a +man’s dress at Goody Green’s, and gave Goody Green’s Dolly a gold-piece +to say nothing about it; and no more she did to any one but me, and she +knows best herself whether she gave change for the gold or not—but +Master Louis is a saucy jackanapes, and like enough to ask it.” + +Three or four days elapsed while matters continued in this +condition—the disguised Prince sometimes thinking on the intrigue which +Fortune seemed to have thrown in his way for his amusement, and taking +advantage of such opportunities as occurred to increase his intimacy +with Alice Lee; but much oftener harassing Dr. Rochecliffe with +questions about the possibility of escape, which the good man finding +himself unable to answer, secured his leisure against royal +importunity, by retreating into the various unexplored recesses of the +Lodge, known perhaps only to himself, who had been for nearly a score +of years employed in writing the Wonders of Woodstock. + +It chanced on the fourth day, that some trifling circumstance had +called the knight abroad; and he had left the young Scotsman, now +familiar in the family, along with Alice, in the parlour of Victor Lee. +Thus situated, he thought the time not unpropitious for entering upon a +strain of gallantry, of a kind which might be called experimental, such +as is practised by the Croats in skirmishing, when they keep bridle in +hand, ready to attack the enemy, or canter off without coming to close +quarters, as circumstances may recommend. After using for nearly ten +minutes a sort of metaphysical jargon, which might, according to +Alice’s pleasure, have been interpreted either into gallantry, or the +language of serious pretension, and when he supposed her engaged in +fathoming his meaning, he had the mortification to find, by a single +and brief question, that he had been totally unattended to, and that +Alice was thinking on anything at the moment rather than the sense of +what he had been saying. She asked him if he could tell what it was +o’clock, and this with an air of real curiosity concerning the lapse of +time, which put coquetry wholly out of the question. + +“I will go look at the sundial, Mistress Alice,” said the gallant, +rising and colouring, through a sense of the contempt with which he +thought himself treated. + +“You will do me a pleasure, Master Kerneguy,” said Alice, without the +least consciousness of the indignation she had excited. + +Master Louis Kerneguy left the room accordingly, not, however, to +procure the information required, but to vent his anger and +mortification, and to swear, with more serious purpose than he had +dared to do before, that Alice should rue her insolence. Good-natured +as he was, he was still a prince, unaccustomed to contradiction, far +less to contempt, and his self pride felt, for the moment, wounded to +the quick. With a hasty step he plunged into the Chase, only +remembering his own safety so far as to choose the deeper and +sequestered avenues, where, walking on with the speedy and active step, +which his recovery from fatigue now permitted him to exercise according +to his wont, he solaced his angry purposes, by devising schemes of +revenge on the insolent country coquette, from which no consideration +of hospitality was in future to have weight enough to save her. + +The irritated gallant passed + +“The dial-stone, aged and green,” + + +without deigning to ask it a single question; nor could it have +satisfied his curiosity if he had, for no sun happened to shine at the +moment. He then hastened forward, muffling himself in his cloak, and +assuming a stooping and slouching gait, which diminished his apparent +height. He was soon involved in the deep and dim alleys of the wood, +into which he had insensibly plunged himself, and was traversing it at +a great rate, without having any distinct idea in what direction he was +going, when suddenly his course was arrested, first by a loud hello, +and then by a summons to stand, accompanied by what seemed still more +startling and extraordinary, the touch of a cane upon his shoulder, +imposed in a good-humoured but somewhat imperious manner. + +There were few symptoms of recognition which would have been welcome at +this moment; but the appearance of the person who had thus arrested his +course, was least of all that he could have anticipated as timely or +agreeable. When he turned, on receiving the signal, he beheld himself +close to a young man, nearly six feet in height, well made in joint and +limb, but the gravity of whose apparel, although handsome and +gentlemanlike, and a sort of precision in his habit, from the cleanness +and stiffness of his band to the unsullied purity of his +Spanish-leather shoes, bespoke a love of order which was foreign to the +impoverished and vanquished cavaliers, and proper to the habits of +those of the victorious party, who could afford to dress themselves +handsomely; and whose rule—that is, such as regarded the higher and +more respectable classes—enjoined decency and sobriety of garb and +deportment. There was yet another weight against the Prince in the +scale, and one still more characteristic of the inequality in the +comparison, under which he seemed to labour. There was strength in the +muscular form of the stranger who had brought him to this involuntary +parley, authority and determination in his brow, a long rapier on the +left, and a poniard or dagger on the right side of his belt, and a pair +of pistols stuck into it, which would have been sufficient to give the +unknown the advantage, (Louis Kerneguy having no weapon but his sword,) +even had his personal strength approached nearer than it did to that of +the person by whom he was thus suddenly stopped. + +Bitterly regretting the thoughtless fit of passion that brought him +into his present situation, but especially the want of the pistols he +had left behind, and which do so much to place bodily strength and +weakness upon an equal footing, Charles yet availed himself of the +courage and presence of mind, in which few of his unfortunate family +had for centuries been deficient. He stood firm and without motion, his +cloak still wrapped round the lower part of his face, to give time for +explanation, in case he was mistaken for some other person. + +This coolness produced its effect; for the other party said,—with doubt +and surprise on his part, “Joceline Joliffe, is it not?—if I know not +Joceline Joliffe, I should at least know my own cloak.” + +“I am not Joceline Joliffe, as you may see, sir,” said Kerneguy, +calmly, drawing himself erect to show the difference of size, and +dropping the cloak from his face and person. + +“Indeed!” replied the stranger, in surprise; “then, Sir Unknown, I have +to express my regret at having used my cane in intimating that I wished +you to stop. From that dress, which I certainly recognise for my own, I +concluded you must be Joceline, in whose custody I had left my habit at +the Lodge.” + +“If it had been Joceline, sir,” replied the supposed Kerneguy, with +perfect composure, “methinks you should not have struck so hard.” The +other party was obviously confused by the steady calmness with which he +was encountered. The sense of politeness dictated, in the first place, +an apology for a mistake, when he thought he had been tolerably certain +of the person. Master Kerneguy was not in a situation to be +punctilious; he bowed gravely, as indicating his acceptance of the +excuse offered, then turned, and walked, as he conceived, towards the +Lodge; though he had traversed the woods which were cut with various +alleys in different directions, too hastily to be certain of the real +course which he wished to pursue. + +He was much embarrassed to find that this did not get him rid of the +companion whom he had thus involuntarily acquired. Walked he slow, +walked he fast, his friend in the genteel but puritanic habit, strong +in person, and well armed, as we have described him, seemed determined +to keep him company, and, without attempting to join, or enter into +conversation, never suffered him to outstrip his surveillance for more +than two or three yards. The Wanderer mended his pace; but, although he +was then, in his youth, as afterwards in his riper age, one of the best +walkers in Britain, the stranger, without advancing his pace to a run, +kept fully equal to him, and his persecution became so close and +constant, and inevitable, that the pride and fear of Charles were both +alarmed, and he began to think that, whatever the danger might be of a +single-handed rencontre, he would nevertheless have a better bargain of +this tall satellite if they settled the debate betwixt them in the +forest, than if they drew near any place of habitation, where the man +in authority was likely to find friends and concurrents. + +Betwixt anxiety, therefore, vexation, and anger, Charles faced suddenly +round on his pursuer, as they reached a small narrow glade, which led +to the little meadow over which presided the King’s Oak, the ragged and +scathed branches and gigantic trunk of which formed a vista to the +little wild avenue. + +“Sir,” said he to his pursuer, “you have already been guilty of one +piece of impertinence towards me. You have apologised; and knowing no +reason why you should distinguish me as an object of incivility, I have +accepted your excuse without scruple. Is there any thing remains to be +settled betwixt us, which causes you to follow me in this manner? If +so, I shall be glad to make it a subject of explanation or +satisfaction, as the case may admit of. I think you can owe me no +malice; for I never saw you before to my knowledge. If you can give any +good reason for asking it, I am willing to render you personal +satisfaction. If your purpose is merely impertinent curiosity, I let +you know that I will not suffer myself to be dogged in my private walks +by any one.” + +“When I recognise my own cloak on another man’s shoulders,” replied the +stranger, dryly, “methinks I have a natural right to follow and see +what becomes of it; for know, sir, though I have been mistaken as to +the wearer, yet I am confident I had as good a right to stretch my cane +across the cloak you are muffled in, as ever had any one to brush his +own garments. If, therefore, we are to be friends, I must ask, for +instance, how you came by that cloak, and where you are going with it? +I shall otherwise make bold to stop you, as one who has sufficient +commission to do so.” + +“Oh, unhappy cloak,” thought the Wanderer, “ay, and thrice unhappy the +idle fancy that sent me here with it wrapped around my nose, to pick +quarrels and attract observation, when quiet and secrecy were +peculiarly essential to my safety!” + +“If you will allow me to guess, sir,” continued the stranger, who was +no other than Markham Everard, “I will convince you that you are better +known than you think for.” + +“Now, Heaven forbid!” prayed the party addressed, in silence, but with +as much devotion as ever he applied to a prayer in his life. Yet even +in this moment of extreme urgency, his courage and composure did not +fail; and he recollected it was of the utmost importance not to seem +startled, and to answer so as, if possible, to lead the dangerous +companion with whom he had met, to confess the extent of his actual +knowledge or suspicions concerning him. + +“If you know me, sir,” he said, “and are a gentleman, as your +appearance promises, you cannot be at a loss to discover to what +accident you must attribute my wearing these clothes, which you say are +yours.” “Oh, sir,” replied Colonel Everard, his wrath in no sort turned +away by the mildness of the stranger’s answer—“we have learned our +Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and we know for what purposes young men of +quality travel in disguise—we know that even female attire is resorted +to on certain occasions—We have heard of Vertumnus and Pomona.” + +The Monarch, as he weighed these words, again uttered a devout prayer, +that this ill-looking affair might have no deeper root than the +jealousy of some admirer of Alice Lee, promising to himself, that, +devotee as he was to the fair sex, he would make no scruple of +renouncing the fairest of Eve’s daughters in order to get out of the +present dilemma. + +“Sir,” he said, “you seem to be a gentleman. I have no objection to +tell you, as such, that I also am of that class.” + +“Or somewhat higher, perhaps?” said Everard. + +“A gentleman,” replied Charles, “is a term which comprehends all ranks +entitled to armorial bearings—A duke, a lord, a prince, is no more than +a gentleman; and if in misfortune as I am, he may be glad if that +general term of courtesy is allowed him.” + +“Sir,” replied Everard, “I have no purpose to entrap you to any +acknowledgment fatal to your own safety,—nor do I hold it my business +to be active in the arrest of private individuals, whose perverted +sense of national duty may have led them into errors, rather to be +pitied than punished by candid men. But if those who have brought civil +war and disturbance into their native country, proceed to carry +dishonour and disgrace into the bosom of families—if they attempt to +carry on their private debaucheries to the injury of the hospitable +roofs which afford them refuge from the consequences of their public +crimes, do you think, my lord, that we shall bear it with patience?” + +“If it is your purpose to quarrel with me,” said the Prince, “speak it +out at once like a gentleman. You have the advantage, no doubt, of +arms; but it is not that odds which will induce me to fly from a single +man. If, on the other hand, you are disposed to hear reason, I tell you +in calm words, that I neither suspect the offence to which you allude, +nor comprehend why you give me the title of my Lord.” + +“You deny, then, being the Lord Wilmot?” said Everard. + +“I may do so most safely,” said the Prince. + +“Perhaps you rather style yourself Earl of Rochester? We heard that the +issuing of some such patent by the King of Scots was a step which your +ambition proposed.” + +“Neither lord nor earl am I, as sure as I have a Christian soul to be +saved. My name is”— + +“Do not degrade yourself by unnecessary falsehood, my lord; and that to +a single man, who, I promise you, will not invoke public justice to +assist his own good sword should he see cause to use it. Can you look +at that ring, and deny that you are Lord Wilmot?” + +He handed to the disguised Prince a ring which he took from his purse, +and his opponent instantly knew it for the same he had dropped into +Alice’s pitcher at the fountain, obeying only, through imprudently, the +gallantry of the moment, in giving a pretty gem to a handsome girl, +whom he had accidentally frightened. + +“I know the ring,” he said; “it has been in my possession. How it +should prove me to be Lord Wilmot, I cannot conceive; and beg to say, +it bears false witness against me.” + +“You shall see the evidence,” answered Everard; and, resuming the ring, +he pressed a spring ingeniously contrived in the collet of the setting, +on which the stone flew back, and showed within it the cipher of Lord +Wilmot beautifully engraved in miniature, with a coronet.—“What say you +now, sir?” + +“That probabilities are no proofs,” said the Prince; “there is nothing +here save what may be easily accounted for. I am the son of a Scottish +nobleman, who was mortally wounded and made prisoner at Worcester +fight. When he took leave, and bid me fly, he gave me the few valuables +he possessed, and that among others. I have heard him talk of having +changed rings with Lord Wilmot, on some occasion in Scotland, but I +never knew the trick of the gem which you have shown me.” + +In this it may be necessary to say, Charles spoke very truly; nor would +he have parted with it in the way he did, had he suspected it would be +easily recognised. He proceeded after a minute’s pause:—“Once more, +sir—I have told you much that concerns my safety—if you are generous, +you will let me pass, and I may do you on some future day as good +service. If you mean to arrest me, you must do so here, and at your own +peril, for I will neither walk farther your way, nor permit you to dog +me on mine. If you let me pass, I will thank you: if not, take to your +weapon.” + +“Young gentleman,” said Colonel Everard, “whether you be actually the +gay young nobleman for whom I took you, you have made me uncertain; +but, intimate as you say your family has been with him, I have little +doubt that you are proficient in the school of debauchery, of which +Wilmot and Villiers are professors, and their hopeful Master a +graduated student. Your conduct at Woodstock, where you have rewarded +the hospitality of the family by meditating the most deadly wound to +their honour, has proved you too apt a scholar in such an academy. I +intended only to warn you on this subject—it will be your own fault if +I add chastisement to admonition.” + +“Warn me, sir!” said the Prince indignantly, “and chastisement! This is +presuming more on my patience than is consistent with your own safety— +Draw, sir.”—So saying, he laid his hand on his sword. + +“My religion,” said Everard, “forbids me to be rash in shedding +blood—Go home, sir—be wise—consult the dictates of honour as well as +prudence. Respect the honour of the House of Lee, and know there is one +nearly allied to it, by whom your motions will be called to severe +account.” + +“Aha!” said the Prince, with a bitter laugh, “I see the whole matter +now—we have our roundheaded Colonel, our puritan cousin before us—the +man of texts and morals, whom Alice Lee laughs at so heartily. If your +religion, sir, prevents you from giving satisfaction, it should prevent +you from offering insult to a person of honour.” + +The passions of both were now fully up—they drew mutually, and began to +fight, the Colonel relinquishing the advantage he could have obtained +by the use of his fire-arms. A thrust of the arm, or a slip of the +foot, might, at the moment, have changed the destinies of Britain, when +the arrival of a third party broke off the combat. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. + + +Stay—for the King has thrown his warder down. + + +RICHARD II. + + +The combatants, whom we left engaged at the end of the last chapter, +made mutual passes at each other with apparently equal skill and +courage. Charles had been too often in action, and too long a party as +well as a victim to civil war, to find any thing new or surprising in +being obliged to defend himself with his own hands; and Everard had +been distinguished, as well for his personal bravery, as for the other +properties of a commander. But the arrival of a third party prevented +the tragic conclusion of a combat, in which the success of either party +must have given him much cause for regretting his victory. + +It was the old knight himself, who arrived, mounted upon a forest pony, +for the war and sequestration had left him no steed of a more dignified +description. He thrust himself between the combatants, and commanded +them on their lives to hold. So soon as a glance from one to the other +had ascertained to him whom he had to deal with, he demanded, “Whether +the devils of Woodstock, whom folk talked about, had got possession of +them both, that they were tilting at each other within the verge of the +royal liberties? Let me tell both of you,” he said, “that while old +Henry Lee is at Woodstock, the immunities of the Park shall be +maintained as much as if the King were still on the throne. None shall +fight duellos here, excepting the stags in their season. Put up, both +of you, or I shall lug out as thirdsman, and prove perhaps the worst +devil of the three!—As Will says— + +‘I’ll so maul you and your toasting-irons, +That you shall think the devil has come from hell.’” + + +The combatants desisted from their encounter, but stood looking at each +other sullenly, as men do in such a situation, each unwilling to seem +to desire peace more than the other, and averse therefore to be the +first to sheathe his sword. + +“Return your weapons, gentlemen, upon the spot,” said the knight yet +more peremptorily, “one and both of you, or you will have something to +do with me, I promise you. You may be thankful times are changed. I +have known them such, that your insolence might have cost each of you +your right hand, if not redeemed with a round sum of money. Nephew, if +you do not mean to alienate me for ever, I command you to put +up.—Master Kerneguy, you are my guest. I request of you not to do me +the insult of remaining with your sword drawn, where it is my duty to +see peace observed.” + +“I obey you, Sir Henry,” said the King, sheathing his rapier—“I hardly +indeed know wherefore I was assaulted by this gentleman. I assure you, +none respects the King’s person or privileges more than myself—though +the devotion is somewhat out of fashion.” + +“We may find a place to meet, sir,” replied Everard, “where neither the +royal person nor privileges can be offended.” + +“Faith, very hardly, sir,” said Charles, unable to suppress the rising +jest—“I mean, the King has so few followers, that the loss of the least +of them might be some small damage to him; but, risking all that, I +will meet you wherever there is fair field for a poor cavalier to get +off in safety, if he has the luck in fight.” + +Sir Henry Lee’s first idea had been fixed upon the insult offered to +the royal demesne; he now began to turn them towards the safety of his +kinsman, and of the young royalist, as he deemed him. “Gentlemen,” he +said, “I must insist on this business being put to a final end. Nephew +Markham, is this your return for my condescension in coming back to +Woodstock on your warrant, that you should take an opportunity to cut +the throat of my guest?” + +“If you knew his purpose as well as I do,”—said Markham, and then +paused, conscious that he might only incense his uncle without +convincing him, as any thing he might say of Kerneguy’s addresses to +Alice was likely to be imputed to his own jealous suspicions—he looked +on the ground, therefore, and was silent. + +“And you, Master Kerneguy,” said Sir Henry, “can you give me any reason +why you seek to take the life of this young man, in whom, though +unhappily forgetful of his loyalty and duty, I must yet take some +interest, as my nephew by affinity?” + +“I was not aware the gentleman enjoyed that honour, which certainly +would have protected him from my sword,” answered Kerneguy. “But the +quarrel is his; nor can I tell any reason why he fixed it upon me, +unless it were the difference of our political opinions.” + +“You know the contrary,” said Everard; “you know that I told you you +were safe from me as a fugitive royalist—and your last words showed you +were at no loss to guess my connexion with Sir Henry. That, indeed, is +of little consequence. I should debase myself did I use the +relationship as a means of protection from you, or any one.” + +As they thus disputed, neither choosing to approach the real cause of +quarrel, Sir Henry looked from one to the other, with a peace-making +conscience, exclaiming— + +“‘Why, what an intricate impeach is this? +I think you both have drunk of Circe’s cup.’ + + +“Come, my young masters, allow an old man to mediate between you. I am +not shortsighted in such matters—The mother of mischief is no bigger +than a gnat’s wing; and I have known fifty instances in my own day, +when, as Will says— + +‘Gallants have been confronted hardily, +In single opposition, hand to hand.’ + + +in which, after the field was fought, no one could remember the cause +of quarrel.—Tush! a small thing will do it—the taking of the wall—or +the gentle rub of the shoulder in passing each other, or a hasty word, +or a misconceived gesture—Come, forget your cause of quarrel, be what +it will—you have had your breathing, and though you put up your rapiers +unbloodied, that was no default of yours, but by command of your elder, +and one who had right to use authority. In Malta, where the duello is +punctiliously well understood, the persons engaged in a single combat +are bound to halt on the command of a knight, or priest, or lady, and +the quarrel so interrupted is held as honourably terminated, and may +not be revived.—Nephew, it is, I think, impossible that you can nourish +spleen against this young gentleman for having fought for his king. +Hear my honest proposal, Markham—You know I bear no malice, though I +have some reason to be offended with you—Give the young man your hand +in friendship, and we will back to the Lodge, all three together, and +drink a cup of sack in token of reconciliation.” + +Markham Everard found himself unable to resist this approach towards +kindness on his uncle’s part. He suspected, indeed, what was partly the +truth, that it was not entirely from reviving good-will, but also, that +his uncle thought, by such attention, to secure his neutrality at +least, if not his assistance, for the safety of the fugitive royalist. +He was sensible that he was placed in an awkward predicament; and that +he might incur the suspicions of his own party, for holding intercourse +even with a near relation, who harboured such guests. But, on the other +hand, he thought his services to the Commonwealth had been of +sufficient importance to outweigh whatever envy might urge on that +topic. Indeed, although the Civil War had divided families much, and in +many various ways, yet when it seemed ended by the triumph of the +republicans, the rage of political hatred began to relent, and the +ancient ties of kindred and friendship regained at least a part of +their former influence. Many reunions were formed; and those who, like +Everard, adhered to the conquering party, often exerted themselves for +the protection of their deserted relatives. + +As these things rushed through his mind, accompanied with the prospect +of a renewed intercourse with Alice Lee, by means of which he might be +at hand to protect her against every chance, either of injury or +insult, he held out his hand to the supposed Scottish page, saying at +the same time, “That, for his part, he was very ready to forget the +cause of quarrel, or rather, to consider it as arising out of a +misapprehension, and to offer Master Kerneguy such friendship as might +exist between honourable men, who had embraced different sides in +politics.” + +Unable to overcome the feeling of personal dignity, which prudence +recommended him to forget, Louis Kerneguy in return bowed low, but +without accepting Everard’s proffered hand. + +“He had no occasion,” he said, “to make any exertions to forget the +cause of quarrel, for he had never been able to comprehend it; but as +he had not shunned the gentleman’s resentment, so he was now willing to +embrace and return any degree of his favour, with which he might be +pleased to honour him.” + +Everard withdrew his hand with a smile, and bowed in return to the +salutation of the page, whose stiff reception of his advances he +imputed to the proud pettish disposition of a Scotch boy, trained up in +extravagant ideas of family consequence and personal importance, which +his acquaintance with the world had not yet been sufficient to dispel. + +Sir Henry Lee, delighted with the termination of the quarrel, which he +supposed to be in deep deference to his own authority, and not +displeased with the opportunity of renewing some acquaintance with his +nephew, who had, notwithstanding his political demerits, a warmer +interest in his affections than he was, perhaps, himself aware of, +said, in a tone of consolation, “Never be mortified, young gentlemen. I +protest it went to my heart to part you, when I saw you stretching +yourselves so handsomely, and in fair love of honour, without any +malicious or blood-thirsty thoughts. I promise you, had it not been for +my duty as Ranger here, and sworn to the office, I would rather have +been your umpire than your hinderance.—But a finished quarrel is a +forgotten quarrel; and your tilting should have no further consequence +excepting the appetite it may have given you.” + +So saying, he urged forward his pony, and moved in triumph towards the +Lodge by the nearest alley. His feet almost touching the ground, the +ball of his toe just resting in the stirrup,—the forepart of the thigh +brought round to the saddle,—the heels turned outwards, and sunk as +much as possible,—his body precisely erect,—the reins properly and +systematically divided in his left hand, his right holding a riding-rod +diagonally pointed towards the horse’s left ear,—he seemed a champion +of the manege, fit to have reined Bucephalus himself. His youthful +companions, who attended on either hand like equerries, could scarcely +suppress a smile at the completely adjusted and systematic posture of +the rider, contrasted with the wild and diminutive appearance of the +pony, with its shaggy coat, and long tail and mane, and its keen eyes +sparkling like red coals from amongst the mass of hair which fell over +its small countenance. If the reader has the Duke of Newcastle’s book +on horsemanship, (_splendida moles!_) he may have some idea of the +figure of the good knight, if he can conceive such a figure as one of +the cavaliers there represented, seated, in all the graces of his art, +on a Welsh or Exmoor pony, in its native savage state, without grooming +or discipline of any kind; the ridicule being greatly enhanced by the +disproportion of size betwixt the animal and its rider. + +Perhaps the knight saw their wonder, for the first words he said after +they left the ground were, “Pixie, though small, is mettlesome, +gentlemen,” (here he contrived that Pixie should himself corroborate +the assertion, by executing a gambade,)—“he is diminutive, but full of +spirit;—indeed, save that I am somewhat too large for an elfin +horseman,” (the knight was upwards of six feet high,) “I should remind +myself, when I mount him, of the Fairy King, as described by Mike +Drayton:— + +Himself he on an earwig set, +Yet scarce upon his back could get, +So oft and high he did curvet, + Ere he himself did settle. +He made him stop, and turn, and bound, +To gallop, and to trot the round. +He scarce could stand on any ground, + He was so full of mettle.’” + + +“My old friend, Pixie,” said Everard, stroking the pony’s neck, “I am +glad that he has survived all these bustling days—Pixie must be above +twenty years old, Sir Henry?” + +“Above twenty years, certainly. Yes, nephew Markham, war is a whirlwind +in a plantation, which only spares what is least worth leaving. Old +Pixie and his old master have survived many a tall fellow, and many a +great horse—neither of them good for much themselves. Yet, as Will +says, an old man can do somewhat. So Pixie and I still survive.” + +So saying, he again contrived that Pixie should show some remnants of +activity. + +“Still survive?” said the young Scot, completing the sentence which the +good knight had left unfinished—“ay, still survive, + +‘To witch the world with noble horsemanship.’” + + +Everard coloured, for he felt the irony; but not so his uncle, whose +simple vanity never permitted him to doubt the sincerity of the +compliment. + +“Are you advised of that?” he said. “In King James’s time, indeed, I +have appeared in the tilt-yard, and there you might have said— + +‘You saw young Harry with his beaver up.’ + + +“As to seeing _old_ Harry, why”—Here the knight paused, and looked as a +bashful man in labour of a pun—“As to old Harry—why, you might as well +see the _devil_. You take me, Master Kerneguy—the devil, you know, is +my namesake—ha—ha—ha!—Cousin Everard, I hope your precision is not +startled by an innocent jest?” + +He was so delighted with the applause of both his companions, that he +recited the whole of the celebrated passage referred to, and concluded +with defying the present age, bundle all its wits, Donne, Cowley, +Waller, and the rest of them together, to produce a poet of a tenth +part of the genius of old Will. + +“Why, we are said to have one of his descendants among us—Sir William +D’Avenant,” said Louis Kerneguy; “and many think him as clever a +fellow.” + +“What!” exclaimed Sir Henry—“Will D’Avenant, whom I knew in the North, +an officer under Newcastle, when the Marquis lay before Hull?—why, he +was an honest cavalier, and wrote good doggrel enough; but how came he +a-kin to Will Shakspeare, I trow?” + +“Why,” replied the young Scot, “by the surer side of the house, and +after the old fashion, if D’Avenant speaks truth. It seems that his +mother was a good-looking, laughing, buxom mistress of an inn between +Stratford and London, at which Will Shakspeare often quartered as he +went down to his native town; and that out of friendship and gossipred, +as we say in Scotland, Will Shakspeare became godfather to Will +D’Avenant; and not contented with this spiritual affinity, the younger +Will is for establishing some claim to a natural one, alleging that his +mother was a great admirer of wit, and there were no bounds to her +complaisance for men of genius.” + +“Out upon the hound!” said Colonel Everard; “would he purchase the +reputation of descending from poet, or from prince, at the expense of +his mother’s good fame?—his nose ought to be slit.” + +“That would be difficult,” answered the disguised Prince, recollecting +the peculiarity of the bard’s countenance.[1] + + [1] D’Avenant actually wanted the nose, the foundation of many a jest + of the day. + + +“Will D’Avenant the son of Will Shakspeare?” said the knight, who had +not yet recovered his surprise at the enormity of the pretension; “why, +it reminds me of a verse in the Puppet-show of Phaeton, where the hero +complains to his mother— + +‘Besides, by all the village boys I am sham’d, +You the Sun’s son, you rascal, you be d—d!’ + + +“I never heard such unblushing assurance in my life!—Will D’Avenant the +son of the brightest and best poet that ever was, is, or will be?—But I +crave your pardon, nephew—You, I believe, love no stage plays.” + +“Nay, I am not altogether so precise as you would make me, uncle. I +have loved them perhaps too well in my time, and now I condemn them not +altogether, or in gross, though I approve not their excesses and +extravagances.—I cannot, even in Shakspeare, but see many things both +scandalous to decency and prejudicial to good manners—many things which +tend to ridicule virtue, or to recommend vice,—at least to mitigate the +hideousness of its features. I cannot think these fine poems are an +useful study, and especially for the youth of either sex, in which +bloodshed is pointed out as the chief occupation of the men, and +intrigue as the sole employment of the women.” + +In making these observations, Everard was simple enough to think that +he was only giving his uncle an opportunity of defending a favourite +opinion, without offending him by a contradiction, which was so limited +and mitigated. But here, as on other occasions, he forgot how obstinate +his uncle was in his views, whether of religion, policy, or taste, and +that it would be as easy to convert him to the Presbyterian form of +government, or engage him to take the abjuration oath, as to shake his +belief in Shakspeare. There was another peculiarity in the good +knight’s mode of arguing, which Everard, being himself of a plain and +downright character, and one whose religious tenets were in some degree +unfavourable to the suppressions and simulations often used in society, +could never perfectly understand. Sir Henry, sensible of his natural +heat of temper, was wont scrupulously to guard against it, and would +for some time, when in fact much offended, conduct a debate with all +the external appearance of composure, till the violence of his feelings +would rise so high as to overcome and bear away the artificial barriers +opposed to it, and rush down upon the adversary with accumulating +wrath. It thus frequently happened, that, like a wily old general, he +retreated in the face of his disputant in good order and by degrees, +with so moderate a degree of resistance, as to draw on his antagonist’s +pursuit to the spot, where, at length, making a sudden and unexpected +attack, with horse, foot, and artillery at once, he seldom failed to +confound the enemy, though he might not overthrow him. + +It was on this principle, therefore, that, hearing Everard’s last +observation, he disguised his angry feelings, and answered, with a tone +where politeness was called in to keep guard upon passion, “That +undoubtedly the Presbyterian gentry had given, through the whole of +these unhappy times, such proofs of an humble, unaspiring, and +unambitious desire of the public good, as entitled them to general +credit for the sincerity of those very strong scruples which they +entertained against works, in which the noblest, sentiments of religion +and virtue,—sentiments which might convert hardened sinners, and be +placed with propriety in the mouths of dying saints and martyrs,— +happened, from the rudeness and coarse taste of the times, to be mixed +with some broad jests, and similar matter, which lay not much in the +way, excepting of those who painfully sought such stuff out, that they +might use it in vilifying what was in itself deserving of the highest +applause. But what he wished especially to know from his nephew was, +whether any of those gifted men, who had expelled the learned scholars +and deep divines of the Church of England from the pulpit, and now +flourished in their stead, received any inspiration from the muses, (if +he might use so profane a term without offence to Colonel Everard,) or +whether they were not as sottishly and brutally averse from elegant +letters, as they were from humanity and common sense?” + +Colonel Everard might have guessed, by the ironical tone in which this +speech was delivered, what storm was mustering within his uncle’s +bosom—nay, he might have conjectured the state of the old knight’s +feelings from his emphasis on the word Colonel, by which epithet, as +that which most connected his nephew with the party he hated, he never +distinguished Everard, unless when his wrath was rising; while, on the +contrary, when disposed to be on good terms with him, he usually called +him Kinsman, or Nephew Markham. Indeed, it was under a partial sense +that this was the case, and in the hope to see his cousin Alice, that +the Colonel forbore making any answer to the harangue of his uncle, +which had concluded just as the old knight had alighted at the door of +the Lodge, and was entering the hall, followed by his two attendants. + +Phœbe at the same time made her appearance in the hall, and received +orders to bring some “beverage” for the gentlemen. The Hebe of +Woodstock failed not to recognise and welcome Everard by an almost +imperceptible curtsy; but she did not serve her interest, as she +designed, when she asked the knight, as a question of course, whether +he commanded the attendance of Mistress Alice. A stern _No_, was the +decided reply; and the ill-timed interference seemed to increase his +previous irritation against Everard for his depreciation of Shakspeare. +“I would insist,” said Sir Henry, resuming the obnoxious subject, “were +it fit for a poor disbanded cavalier to use such a phrase towards a +commander of the conquering army,—upon, knowing whether the convulsion +which has sent us saints and prophets without end, has not also +afforded us a poet with enough both of gifts and grace to outshine poor +old Will, the oracle and idol of us blinded and carnal cavaliers.” + +“Surely, sir,” replied Colonel Everard; “I know verses written by a +friend of the Commonwealth, and those, too, of a dramatic character, +which, weighed in an impartial scale, might equal even the poetry of +Shakspeare, and which are free from the fustian and indelicacy with +which that great bard was sometimes content to feed the coarse +appetites of his barbarous audience.” + +“Indeed!” said the knight, keeping down his wrath with difficulty. “I +should like to be acquainted with this master-piece of poetry!—May we +ask the name of this distinguished person?” + +“It must be Vicars, or Withers, at least,” said the feigned page. + +“No, sir,” replied Everard, “nor Drummond of Hawthornden, nor Lord +Stirling neither. And yet the verses will vindicate what I say, if you +will make allowance for indifferent recitation, for I am better +accustomed to speak to a battalion than to those who love the muses. +The speaker is a lady benighted, who, having lost her way in a pathless +forest, at first expresses herself agitated by the supernatural fears +to which her situation gave rise.” + +“A play, too, and written by a roundhead author!” said Sir Henry in +surprise. + +“A dramatic production at least,” replied his nephew; and began to +recite simply, but with feeling, the lines now so well known, but which +had then obtained no celebrity, the fame of the author resting upon the +basis rather of his polemical and political publications, than on the +poetry doomed in after days to support the eternal structure of his +immortality. + +‘These thoughts may startle, but will not, astound +The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended +By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.’” + + +“My own opinion, nephew Markham, my own opinion,” said Sir Henry, with +a burst of admiration; “better expressed, but just what I said when the +scoundrelly roundheads pretended to see ghosts at Woodstock—Go on, I +prithee.” + +Everard proceeded:— + +“‘O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, +Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings, +And thou unblemish’d form of Chastity! +I see ye visibly, and now believe +That he the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill +Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, +Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, +To keep my life and honour unassail’d.— +Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud. +Turn forth her silver lining on the night?’” + + +“The rest has escaped me,” said the reciter; “and I marvel I have been +able to remember so much.” + +Sir Henry Lee, who had expected some effusion very different from those +classical and beautiful lines, soon changed the scornful expression of +his countenance, relaxed his contorted upper lip, and, stroking down +his beard with his left hand, rested the forefinger of the right upon +his eyebrow, in sign of profound attention. After Everard had ceased +speaking, the old man signed as at the end of a strain of sweet music. +He then spoke in a gentler manner than formerly. + +“Cousin Markham,” he said, “these verses flow sweetly, and sound in my +ears like the well-touched warbling of a lute. But thou knowest I am +somewhat slow of apprehending the full meaning of that which I hear for +the first time. Repeat me these verses again, slowly and deliberately; +for I always love to hear poetry twice, the first time for sound, and +the latter time for sense.” + +Thus encouraged, Everard recited again the lines with more hardihood +and better effect; the knight distinctly understanding, and from his +looks and motions, highly applauding them. + +“Yes!” he broke out, when Everard was again silent—“Yes, I do call that +poetry—though it were even written by a Presbyterian, or an Anabaptist +either. Ay, there were good and righteous people to be found even +amongst the offending towns which were destroyed by fire. And certainly +I have heard, though with little credence (begging your pardon, cousin. +Everard,) that there are men among you who have seen the error of their +ways in rebelling against the best and kindest of masters, and bringing +it to that pass that he was murdered by a gang yet fiercer than +themselves. Ay, doubtless, the gentleness of spirit, and the purity of +mind, which dictated those beautiful lines, has long ago taught a man +so amiable to say, I have sinned, I have sinned. Yes, I doubt not so +sweet a harp has been broken, even in remorse, for the crimes he was +witness to; and now he sits drooping for the shame and sorrow of +England,—all his noble rhymes, as Will says, + +‘Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh.’ + + +Dost thou not think so, Master Kerneguy?” + +“Not I, Sir Henry,” answered the page, somewhat maliciously. + +“What, dost not believe the author of these lines must needs be of the +better file, and leaning to our persuasion?” + +“I think, Sir Henry, that the poetry qualifies the author to write a +play on the subject of Dame Potiphar and her recusant lover; and as for +his calling—that last metaphor of the cloud in a black coat or cloak, +with silver lining, would have dubbed him a tailor with me, only that I +happen to know that he is a schoolmaster by profession, and by +political opinions qualified to be Poet Laureate to Cromwell; for what +Colonel Everard has repeated with such unction, is the production of no +less celebrated a person than John Milton.” + +“John Milton!” exclaimed Sir Henry in astonishment—“What! John Milton, +the blasphemous and bloody-minded author of the _Defensio Populi +Anglicani_!—the advocate of the infernal High Court of Fiends; the +creature and parasite of that grand impostor, that loathsome hypocrite, +that detestable monster, that prodigy of the universe, that disgrace of +mankind, that landscape of iniquity, that sink of sin, and that +compendium of baseness, Oliver Cromwell!” + +“Even the same John Milton,” answered Charles; “schoolmaster to little +boys, and tailor to the clouds, which he furnishes with suits of black, +lined with silver, at no other expense than that of common sense.” + +“Markham Everard,” said the old knight, “I will never forgive thee— +never, never. Thou hast made me speak words of praise respecting one +whose offal should fatten the region-kites. Speak not to me, sir, but +begone! Am I, your kinsman and benefactor, a fit person to be juggled +out of my commendation and eulogy, and brought to bedaub such a +whitened sepulchre as the sophist Milton?” + +“I profess,” said Everard, “this is hard measure, Sir Henry. You +pressed me—you defied me, to produce poetry as good as Shakspeare’s. I +only thought of the verses, not of the politics of Milton.” + +“Oh yes, sir,” replied Sir Henry; “we well know your power of making +distinctions; you could make war against the King’s prerogative, +without having the least design against his person. Oh Heaven forbid! +But Heaven will hear and judge you. Set down the beverage, Phœbe”—(this +was added by way of parenthesis to Phœbe, who entered with +refreshment)—“Colonel Everard is not thirsty—You have wiped your +mouths, and said you have done no evil. But though you have deceived +man, yet God you cannot deceive. And you shall wipe no lips in +Woodstock, either after meat or drink, I promise you.” + +Charged thus at once with the faults imputed to his whole religious +sect and political party, Everard felt too late of what imprudence he +had been guilty in giving the opening, by disputing his uncle’s taste +in dramatic poetry. He endeavoured to explain—to apologise. + +“I mistook your purpose, honoured sir, and thought you really desired +to know something of our literature; and in repeating what you deemed +not unworthy your hearing, I profess I thought I was doing you +pleasure, instead of stirring your indignation.” + +“O ay!” returned the knight, with unmitigated rigour of resentment— +“profess—profess—Ay, that is the new phrase of asseveration, instead of +the profane adjuration of courtiers and cavaliers—Oh, sir, _profess_ +less and _practise_ more—and so good day to you. Master Kerneguy, you +will find beverage in my apartment.” + +While Phœbe stood gaping in admiration at the sudden quarrel which had +arisen, Colonel Everard’s vexation and resentment was not a little +increased by the nonchalance of the young Scotsman, who, with his hands +thrust into his pockets, (with a courtly affectation of the time,) had +thrown himself into one of the antique chairs, and, though habitually +too polite to laugh aloud, and possessing that art of internal laughter +by which men of the world learn to indulge their mirth without +incurring quarrels, or giving direct offence, was at no particular +pains to conceal that he was exceedingly amused by the result of the +Colonel’s visit to Woodstock. Colonel Everard’s patience, however, had +reached bounds which it was very likely to surpass; for, though +differing widely in politics, there was a resemblance betwixt the +temper of the uncle and nephew. + +“Damnation” exclaimed the Colonel, in a tone which became a puritan as +little as did the exclamation itself. + +“Amen!” said Louis Kerneguy, but in a tone so soft and gentle, that the +ejaculation seemed rather to escape him than to be designedly uttered. +“Sir!” said Everard, striding towards him in that sort of humour, when +a man, full of resentment, would not unwillingly find an object on +which to discharge it. + +“_Plait-il?_” said the page, in the most equable tone, looking up in +his face with the most unconscious innocence. + +“I wish to know, sir,” retorted Everard, “the meaning of that which you +said just now?” + +“Only a pouring out of the spirit, worthy sir,” returned Kerneguy—“a +small skiff dispatched to Heaven on my own account, to keep company +with your holy petition just now expressed.” + +“Sir, I have known a merry gentleman’s bones broke for such a smile as +you wear just now,” replied Everard. + +“There, look you now” answered the malicious page, who could not weigh +even the thoughts of his safety against the enjoyment of his jest—“If +you had stuck to your professions, worthy sir, you must have choked by +this time; but your round execration bolted like a cork from a bottle +of cider, and now allows your wrath to come foaming out after it, in +the honest unbaptized language of common ruffians.” + +“For Heaven’s sake, Master Girnegy,” said Phœbe, “forbear giving the +Colonel these bitter words! And do you, good Colonel Markham, scorn to +take offence at his hands—he is but a boy.” + +“If the Colonel or you choose, Mistress Phœbe, you shall find me a +man—I think the gentleman can say something to the purpose already.— +Probably he may recommend to you the part of the Lady in Comus; and I +only hope his own admiration of John Milton will not induce him to +undertake the part of Samson Agonistes, and blow up this old house with +execration, or pull it down in wrath about our ears.” + +“Young man,” said the Colonel, still in towering passion, “if you +respect my principles for nothing else, be grateful to the protection +which, but for them, you would not easily attain.” + +“Nay, then,” said the attendant, “I must fetch those who have more +influence with you than I have,” and away tripped Phœbe; while Kerneguy +answered Everard in the same provoking tone of calm indifference,— +“Before you menace me with a thing so formidable as your resentment, +you ought to be certain whether I may not be compelled by circumstances +to deny you the opportunity you seem to point at.” + +At this moment Alice, summoned no doubt by her attendant, entered the +hall hastily. + +“Master Kerneguy,” she said, “my father requests to see you in Victor +Lee’s apartment.” + +Kerneguy arose and bowed, but seemed determined to remain till +Everard’s departure, so as to prevent any explanation betwixt the +cousins. “Markham,” said Alice, hurriedly—“Cousin Everard—I have but a +moment to remain here—for God’s sake, do you instantly begone!—be +cautious and patient—but do not tarry here—my father is fearfully +incensed.” + +“I have had my uncle’s word for that, madam,” replied Everard, “as well +as his injunction to depart, which I will obey without delay. I was not +aware that you would have seconded so harsh an order quite so +willingly; but I go, madam, sensible I leave those behind whose company +is more agreeable.” + +“Unjust—ungenerous—ungrateful!” said Alice; but fearful her words might +reach ears for which they were not designed, she spoke them in a voice +so feeble, that her cousin, for whom they were intended, lost the +consolation they were calculated to convey. + +He bowed coldly to Alice, as taking leave, and said, with an air of +that constrained courtesy which sometimes covers, among men of +condition, the most deadly hatred, “I believe, Master Kerneguy, that I +must make it convenient at present to suppress my own peculiar opinions +on the matter which we have hinted at in our conversation, in which +case I will send a gentleman, who, I hope, may be able to conquer +yours.” + +The supposed Scotsman made him a stately, and at the same time a +condescending bow, said he should expect the honour of his commands, +offered his hand to Mistress Alice, to conduct her back to her father’s +apartment, and took a triumphant leave of his rival. + +Everard, on the other hand, stung beyond his patience, and, from the +grace and composed assurance of the youth’s carriage, still conceiving +him to be either Wilmot, or some of his compeers in rank and +profligacy, returned to the town of Woodstock, determined not to be +outbearded, even though he should seek redress by means which his +principles forbade him to consider as justifiable. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. + + + Boundless intemperance +In nature is a tyranny—it hath been +The untimely emptying of many a throne, +And fall of many kings. + + +MACBETH. + + +While Colonel Everard retreated in high indignation from the little +refection, which Sir Henry Lee had in his good-humour offered, and +withdrawn under the circumstances of provocation which we have +detailed, the good old knight, scarce recovered from his fit of +passion, partook of it with his daughter and guest, and shortly after, +recollecting some silvan task, (for, though to little efficient +purpose, he still regularly attended to his duties as Ranger,) he +called Bevis, and went out, leaving the two young people together. + +“Now,” said the amorous Prince to himself, “that Alice is left without +her lion, it remains to see whether she is herself of a tigress breed.— +So, Sir Bevis has left his charge,” he said loud; “I thought the +knights of old, those stern guardians of which he is so fit a +representative, were more rigorous in maintaining a vigilant guard.” + +“Bevis,” said Alice, “knows that his attendance on me is totally +needless; and, moreover, he has other duties to perform, which every +true knight prefers to dangling the whole morning by a lady’s sleeve.” + +“You speak treason against all true affection,” said the gallant; “a +lady’s lightest wish should to a true knight be more binding than aught +excepting the summons of his sovereign. I wish, Mistress Alice, you +would but intimate your slightest desire to me, and you should see how +I have practised obedience.” + +“You never brought me word what o’clock it was this morning,” replied +the young lady, “and there I sate questioning of the wings of Time, +when I should have remembered that gentlemen’s gallantry can be quite +as fugitive as Time himself. How do you know what your disobedience may +have cost me and others? Pudding and pasty may have been burned to a +cinder, for, sir, I practise the old domestic rule of visiting the +kitchen; or I may have missed prayers, or I may have been too late for +an appointment, simply by the negligence of Master Louis Kerneguy +failing to let me know the hour of the day.” + +“O,” replied Kerneguy, “I am one of those lovers who cannot endure +absence—I must be eternally at the feet of my fair enemy—such, I think, +is the title with which romances teach us to grace the fair and cruel +to whom we devote our hearts and lives.—Speak for me, good lute,” he +added, taking up the instrument, “and show whether I know not my duty.” + +He sung, but with more taste than execution, the air of a French +rondelai, to which some of the wits or sonnetteers, in his gay and +roving train, had adapted English verses. + +An hour with thee!—When earliest day +Dapples with gold the eastern grey, +Oh, what, can frame my mind to bear +The toil and turmoil, cark and care. +New griefs, which coming hours unfold, +And sad remembrance of the old?— + One hour with thee! + +One hour with thee!—When burning June +Waves his red flag at pitch of noon; +What shall repay the faithful swain, +His labour on the sultry plain, +And more than cave or sheltering bough, +Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?— + One hour with thee! + +One hour with thee!—When sun is set, +O, what can teach me to forget +The thankless labours of the day; +The hopes, the wishes, flung away: +The increasing wants, and lessening gains, +The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?— + One hour with thee! + + +“Truly, there is another verse,” said the songster; “but I sing it not +to you, Mistress Alice, because some of the prudes of the court liked +it not.” “I thank you, Master Louis,” answered the young lady, “both +for your discretion in singing what has given me pleasure, and in +forbearing what might offend me. Though a country girl, I pretend to be +so far of the court mode, as to receive nothing which does not pass +current among the better class there.” + +“I would,” answered Louis, “that you were so well confirmed in their +creed, as to let all pass with you, to which court ladies would give +currency.” + +“And what would be the consequence?” said Alice, with perfect +composure. + +“In that case,” said Louis, embarrassed like a general who finds that +his preparations for attack do not seem to strike either fear or +confusion into the enemy—“in that case you would forgive me, fair +Alice, if I spoke to you in a warmer language than that of mere +gallantry—if I told you how much my heart was interested in what you +consider as idle jesting—if I seriously owned it was in your power to +make me the happiest or the most miserable of human beings.” + +“Master Kerneguy,” said Alice, with the same unshaken nonchalance, “let +us understand each other. I am little acquainted with high-bred +manners, and I am unwilling, I tell you plainly, to be accounted a +silly country girl, who, either from ignorance or conceit, is startled +at every word of gallantry addressed to her by a young man, who, for +the present, has nothing better to do than coin and circulate such +false compliments. But I must not let this fear of seeming rustic and +awkwardly timorous carry me too far; and being ignorant of the exact +limits, I will take care to stop within them.” + +“I trust, madam,” said Kerneguy, “that however severely you may be +disposed to judge of me, your justice will not punish me too severely +for an offence, of which your charms are alone the occasion?” + +“Hear me out, sir, if you please,” resumed Alice. “I have listened to +you when you spoke _en berger_—nay, my complaisance has been so great, +as to answer you _en bergère_—for I do not think any thing except +ridicule can come of dialogues between Lindor and Jeanneton; and the +principal fault of the style is its extreme and tiresome silliness and +affectation. But when you begin to kneel, offer to take my hand, and +speak with a more serious tone, I must remind you of our real +characters. I am the daughter of Sir Henry Lee, sir; you are, or +profess to be, Master Louis Kerneguy, my brother’s page, and a fugitive +for shelter under my father’s roof, who incurs danger by the harbour he +affords you, and whose household, therefore, ought not to be disturbed +by your unpleasing importunities.” + +“I would to Heaven, fair Alice,” said the King, “that your objections +to the suit which I am urging, not in jest, but most seriously, as that +on which my happiness depends, rested only on the low and precarious +station of Louis Kerneguy!—Alice, thou hast the soul of thy family, and +must needs love honour. I am no more the needy Scottish page, whom I +have, for my own purposes, personated, than I am the awkward lout, +whose manners I adopted on the first night of our acquaintance. This +hand, poor as I seem, can confer a coronet.” + +“Keep it,” said Alice, “for some more ambitious damsel, my lord,—for +such I conclude is your title, if this romance be true,—I would not +accept your hand, could you confer a duchy.” + +“In one sense, lovely Alice, you have neither overrated my power nor my +affection. It is your King—it is Charles Stewart who speaks to you!—he +can confer duchies, and if beauty can merit them, it is that of Alice +Lee. Nay, nay—rise—do not kneel—it is for your sovereign to kneel to +thee, Alice, to whom he is a thousand times more devoted than the +wanderer Louis dared venture to profess himself. My Alice has, I know, +been trained up in those principles of love and obedience to her +sovereign, that she cannot, in conscience or in mercy, inflict on him +such a wound as would be implied in the rejection of his suit.” + +In spite of all Charles’s attempts to prevent her, Alice had persevered +in kneeling on one knee, until she had touched with her lip the hand +with which he attempted to raise her. But this salutation ended, she +stood upright, with her arms folded on her bosom—her looks humble, but +composed, keen, and watchful, and so possessed of herself, so little +flattered by the communication which the King had supposed would have +been overpowering, that he scarce knew in what terms next to urge his +solicitation. + +“Thou art silent—thou art silent,” he said, “my pretty Alice. Has the +King no more influence with thee than the poor Scottish page?” + +“In one sense, every influence,” said Alice; “for he commands my best +thoughts, my best wishes, my earnest prayers, my devoted loyalty, +which, as the men of the House of Lee have been ever ready to testify +with the sword, so are the women bound to seal, if necessary, with +their blood. But beyond the duties of a true and devoted subject, the +King is even less to Alice Lee than poor Louis Kerneguy. The Page could +have tendered an honourable union—the Monarch can but offer a +contaminated coronet.” + +“You mistake, Alice—you mistake,” said the King, eagerly. “Sit down and +let me speak to you—sit down—What is’t you fear?” + +“I fear nothing, my liege,” answered Alice. “What _can_ I fear from the +King of Britain—I, the daughter of his loyal subject, and under my +father’s roof? But I remember the distance betwixt us; and though I +might trifle and jest with mine equal, to my King I must only appear in +the dutiful posture of a subject, unless where his safety may seem to +require that I do not acknowledge his dignity.” + +Charles, though young, being no novice in such scenes, was surprised to +encounter resistance of a kind which had not been opposed to him in +similar pursuits, even in cases where he had been unsuccessful. There +was neither anger, nor injured pride, nor disorder, nor disdain, real +or affected, in the manners and conduct of Alice. She stood, as it +seemed, calmly prepared to argue on the subject, which is generally +decided by passion—showed no inclination to escape from the apartment, +but appeared determined to hear with patience the suit of the +lover—while her countenance and manner intimated that she had this +complaisance only in deference to the commands of the King. + +“She is ambitious,” thought Charles; “it is by dazzling her love of +glory, not by mere passionate entreaties, that I must hope to be +successful.—I pray you be seated, my fair Alice,” he said; “the lover +entreats—the King commands you.” + +“The King,” said Alice, “may permit the relaxation of the ceremonies +due to royalty, but he cannot abrogate the subject’s duty, even by +express command. I stand here while it is your Majesty’s pleasure to +address—a patient listener, as in duty bound.” + +“Know then, simple girl,” said the King, “that in accepting my +proffered affection and protection, you break through no law either of +virtue or morality. Those who are born to royalty are deprived of many +of the comforts of private life—chiefly that which is, perhaps, the +dearest and most precious, the power of choosing their own mates for +life. Their formal weddings are guided upon principles of political +expedience only, and those to whom they are wedded are frequently, in +temper, person, and disposition, the most unlikely to make them happy. +Society has commiseration, therefore, towards us, and binds our +unwilling and often unhappy wedlocks with chains of a lighter and more +easy character than those which fetter other men, whose marriage ties, +as more voluntarily assumed, ought, in proportion, to be more strictly +binding. And therefore, ever since the time that old Henry built these +walls, priests and prelates, as well as nobles and statesmen, have been +accustomed to see a fair Rosamond rule the heart of an affectionate +monarch, and console him for the few hours of constraint and state +which he must bestow upon some angry and jealous Eleanor. To such a +connection the world attaches no blame; they rush to the festival to +admire the beauty of the lovely Esther, while the imperious Vashti is +left to queen it in solitude; they throng the palace to ask her +protection, whose influence is more in the state an hundred times than +that of the proud consort; her offspring rank with the nobles of the +land, and vindicate by their courage, like the celebrated Longsword, +Earl of Salisbury, their descent from royalty and from love. From such +connections our richest ranks of nobles are recruited; and the mother +lives, in the greatness of her posterity honoured and blest, as she +died lamented and wept in the arms of love and friendship.” + +“Did Rosamond so die, my lord?” said Alice. “Our records say she was +poisoned by the injured Queen—poisoned, without time allowed to call to +God for the pardon of her many faults. Did her memory so live? I have +heard that, when the Bishop purified the church at Godstowe, her +monument was broken open by his orders, and her bones thrown out into +unconsecrated ground.” + +“Those were rude old days, sweet Alice,” answered Charles; “queens are +not now so jealous, nor bishops so rigorous. And know, besides, that in +the lands to which I would lead the loveliest of her sex, other laws +obtain, which remove from such ties even the slightest show of scandal. +There is a mode of matrimony, which, fulfilling all the rites of the +Church, leaves no stain on the conscience; yet investing the bride with +none of the privileges peculiar to her husband’s condition, infringes +not upon the duties which the King owes to his subjects. So that Alice +Lee may, in all respects, become the real and lawful wife of Charles +Stewart, except that their private union gives her no title to be Queen +of England.” + +“My ambition,” said Alice, “will be sufficiently gratified to see +Charles king, without aiming to share either his dignity in public, or +his wealth and regal luxury in private.” + +“I understand thee, Alice,” said the King, hurt but not displeased. +“You ridicule me, being a fugitive, for speaking like a king. It is a +habit, I admit, which I have learned, and of which even misfortune +cannot cure me. But my case is not so desperate as you may suppose. My +friends are still many in these kingdoms; my allies abroad are bound, +by regard to their own interest, to espouse my cause. I have hopes +given me from Spain, from France, and from other nations; and I have +confidence that my father’s blood has not been poured forth in vain, +nor is doomed to dry up without due vengeance. My trust is in Him from +whom princes derive their title, and, think what thou wilt of my +present condition, I have perfect confidence that I shall one day sit +on the throne of England.” + +“May God grant it!” said Alice; “and that he _may_ grant it, noble +Prince, deign to consider—whether you now pursue a conduct likely to +conciliate his favour. Think of the course you recommend to a +motherless maiden, who has no better defence against your sophistry, +than what a sense of morality, together with the natural feeling of +female dignity inspires. Whether the death of her father, which would +be the consequence of her imprudence;—whether the despair of her +brother, whose life has been so often in peril to save that of your +Majesty;— whether the dishonour of the roof which has sheltered you, +will read well in your annals, or are events likely to propitiate God, +whose controversy with your House has been but too visible, or recover +the affections of the people of England, in whose eyes such actions are +an abomination, I leave to your own royal mind to consider.” + +Charles paused, struck with a turn to the conversation which placed his +own interests more in collision with the gratification of his present +passion than he had supposed. + +“If your Majesty,” said Alice, curtsying deeply, “has no farther +commands for my attendance, may I be permitted to withdraw?” + +“Stay yet a little, strange and impracticable girl,” said the King; +“and answer me but one question:—Is it the lowness of my present +fortunes that makes my suit contemptible?” + +“I have nothing to conceal, my liege,” she said, “and my answer shall +be as plain and direct as the question you have asked. If I could have +been moved to an act of ignominious, insane, and ungrateful folly, it +could only arise from my being blinded by that passion, which I believe +is pleaded as an excuse for folly and for crime much more often than it +has a real existence. I must, in short, have been in love, as it is +called—and that might have been—with my equal, but surely never with my +sovereign, whether such only in title, or in possession of his +kingdom.” + +“Yet loyalty was ever the pride, almost the ruling passion, of your +family, Alice,” said the King. + +“And could I reconcile that loyalty,” said Alice, “with indulging my +sovereign, by permitting him to prosecute a suit dishonourable to +himself as to me? Ought I, as a faithful subject, to join him in a +folly, which might throw yet another stumbling-block in the path to his +restoration, and could only serve to diminish his security, even if he +were seated upon his throne?” + +“At this rate,” said Charles, discontentedly, “I had better have +retained my character of the page, than assumed that of a sovereign, +which it seems is still more irreconcilable with my wishes.” + +“My candour shall go still farther,” said Alice. “I could have felt as +little for Louis Kerneguy as for the heir of Britain; for such love as +I have to bestow, (and it is not such as I read of in romance, or hear +poured forth in song,) has been already conferred on another object. +This gives your Majesty pain—I am sorry for it—but the wholesomest +medicines are often bitter.” + +“Yes,” answered the King, with some asperity, “and physicians are +reasonable enough to expect their patients to swallow them, as if they +were honeycomb. It is true, then, that whispered tale of the cousin +Colonel, and the daughter of the loyal Lee has set her heart upon a +rebellious fanatic?” + +“My love was given ere I knew what these words fanatic and rebel meant. +I recalled it not, for I am satisfied, that amidst the great +distractions which divide the kingdom, the person to whom you allude +has chosen his part, erroneously, perhaps, but conscientiously—he, +therefore, has still the highest place in my affection and esteem. More +he cannot have, and will not ask, until some happy turn shall reconcile +these public differences, and my father be once more reconciled to him. +Devoutly do I pray that such an event may occur by your Majesty’s +speedy and unanimous restoration!” + +“You have found out a reason,” said the King, pettishly, “to make me +detest the thought of such a change—nor have you, Alice, any sincere +interest to pray for it. On the contrary, do you not see that your +lover, walking side by side with Cromwell, may, or rather must, share +his power? nay, if Lambert does not anticipate him, he may trip up +Oliver’s heels, and reign in his stead. And think you not he will find +means to overcome the pride of the loyal Lees, and achieve an union, +for which things are better prepared than that which Cromwell is said +to meditate betwixt one of his brats and the no less loyal heir of +Fauconberg?” + +“Your Majesty,” said Alice, “has found a way at length to avenge +yourself—if what I have said deserves vengeance.” + +“I could point out a yet shorter road to your union,” said Charles, +without minding her distress, or perhaps enjoying the pleasure of +retaliation. “Suppose that you sent your Colonel word that there was +one Charles Stewart here, who had come to disturb the Saints in their +peaceful government, which they had acquired by prayer and preaching, +pike and gun,—and suppose he had the art to bring down a half-score of +troopers, quite enough, as times go, to decide the fate of this heir of +royalty—think you not the possession of such a prize as this might +obtain from the Rumpers, or from Cromwell, such a reward as might +overcome your father’s objections to a roundhead’s alliance, and place +the fair Alice and her cousin Colonel in full possession of their +wishes?” + +“My liege,” said Alice, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling—for +she too had her share of the hereditary temperament of her family,— +“this passes my patience. I have heard, without expressing anger, the +most ignominious persuasions addressed to myself, and I have vindicated +myself for refusing to be the paramour of a fugitive Prince, as if I +had been excusing myself from accepting a share of an actual crown. But +do you think I can hear all who are dear to me slandered without +emotion or reply? I will not, sir; and were you seated with all the +terrors of your father’s Star-chamber around you, you should hear me +defend the absent and the innocent. Of my father I will say nothing, +but that if he is now without wealth—without state, almost without a +sheltering home and needful food—it is because he spent all in the +service of the King. He needed not to commit any act of treachery or +villany to obtain wealth— he had an ample competence in his own +possessions. For Markham Everard— he knows no such thing as +selfishness—he would not, for broad England, had she the treasures of +Peru in her bosom, and a paradise on her surface, do a deed that would +disgrace his own name, or injure the feelings of another—Kings, my +liege, may take a lesson from him. My liege, for the present I take my +leave.” + +“Alice, Alice—stay!” exclaimed the King. “She is gone.—This must be +virtue—real, disinterested, overawing virtue—or there is no such thing +on earth. Yet Wilmot and Villiers will not believe a word of it, but +add the tale to the other wonders of Woodstock. ’Tis a rare wench! and +I profess, to use the Colonel’s obtestation, that I know not whether to +forgive and be friends with her, or study a dire revenge. If it were +not for that accursed cousin—that puritan Colonel—I could forgive every +thing else to so noble a wench. But a roundheaded rebel preferred to +me—the preference avowed to my face, and justified with the assertion, +that a king might take a lesson from him—it is gall and wormwood. If +the old man had not come up this morning as he did, the King should +have taken or given a lesson, and a severe one. It was a mad rencontre +to venture upon with my rank and responsibility—and yet this wench has +made me so angry with her, and so envious of him, that if an +opportunity offered, I should scarce be able to forbear him.—Ha! whom +have we here?” + +The interjection at the conclusion of this royal soliloquy, was +occasioned by the unexpected entrance of another personage of the +drama. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. + + +_Benedict_. Shall I speak a word in your ear? +_Claudio_. God bless me from a challenge. + + +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. + + +As Charles was about to leave the apartment, he was prevented by the +appearance of Wildrake, who entered with an unusual degree of swagger +in his gait, and of fantastic importance on his brow. “I crave your +pardon, fair sir,” he said; “but, as they say in my country, when doors +are open dogs enter. I have knocked and called in the hall to no +purpose; so, knowing the way to this parlour, sir,—for I am a light +partisan, and the road I once travel I never forget,—I ventured to +present myself unannounced.” + +“Sir Henry Lee is abroad, sir, I believe, in the Chase,” said Charles, +coldly, for the appearance of this somewhat vulgar debauchee was not +agreeable to him at the moment, “and Master Albert Lee has left the +Lodge for two or three days.” + +“I am aware of it, sir,” said Wildrake; “but I have no business at +present with either.” + +“And with whom is your business?” said Charles; “that is, if I may be +permitted to ask—since I think it cannot in possibility be with me.” + +“Pardon me in turn, sir,” answered the cavalier; “in no possibility can +it be imparted to any other but yourself, if you be, as I think you +are, though in something better habit, Master Louis Girnigo, the +Scottish gentleman who waits upon Master Albert Lee.” + +“I am all you are like to find for him,” answered Charles. + +“In truth,” said the cavalier, “I do perceive a difference, but rest, +and better clothing, will do much; and I am glad of it, since I would +be sorry to have brought a message, such as I am charged with, to a +tatterdemalion.” + +“Let us get to the business, sir, if you please,” said the King—“you +have a message for me, you say?” + +“True, sir,” replied Wildrake; “I am the friend of Colonel Markham +Everard, sir, a tall man, and a worthy person in the field, although I +could wish him a better cause—A message I have to you, it is certain, +in a slight note, which I take the liberty of presenting with the usual +formalities.” So saying, he drew his sword, put the billet he mentioned +upon the point, and making a profound bow, presented it to Charles. + +The disguised Monarch accepted of it, with a grave return of the +salute, and said, as he was about to open the letter, “I am not, I +presume, to expect friendly contents in an epistle presented in so +hostile a manner?” + +“A-hem, sir,” replied the ambassador, clearing his voice, while he +arranged a suitable answer, in which the mild strain of diplomacy might +be properly maintained; “not utterly hostile, I suppose, sir, is the +invitation, though it be such as must be construed in the commencement +rather bellicose and pugnacious. I trust, sir, we shall find that a few +thrusts will make a handsome conclusion of the business; and so, as my +old master used to say, _Pax mascitur ex bello_. For my own poor share, +I am truly glad to have been graced by my friend, Markham Everard, in +this matter—the rather as I feared the puritan principles with which he +is imbued, (I will confess the truth to you, worthy sir,) might have +rendered him unwilling, from certain scruples, to have taken the +gentlemanlike and honourable mode of righting himself in such a case as +the present. And as I render a friend’s duty to my friend, so I humbly +hope, Master Louis Girnigo, that I do no injustice to you, in preparing +the way for the proposed meeting, where, give me leave to say, I trust, +that if no fatal accident occur, we shall be all better friends when +the skirmish is over than we were before it began.” + +“I should suppose so, sir, in any case,” said Charles, looking at the +letter; “worse than mortal enemies we can scarce be, and it is that +footing upon which this billet places us.” + +“You say true, sir,” said Wildrake; “it is, sir, a cartel, introducing +to a single combat, for the pacific object of restoring a perfect good +understanding betwixt the survivors—in case that fortunately that word +can be used in the plural after the event of the meeting.” + +“In short, we only fight, I suppose,” replied the King, “that we may +come to a perfectly good and amicable understanding?” + +“You are right again, sir; and I thank you for the clearness of your +apprehension,” said Wildrake.—“Ah, sir, it is easy to do with a person +of honour and of intellect in such a case as this. And I beseech you, +sir, as a personal kindness to myself, that, as the morning is like to +be frosty, and myself am in some sort rheumatic—as war will leave its +scars behind, sir,—I say, I will entreat of you to bring with you some +gentleman of honour, who will not disdain to take part in what is going +forward—a sort of pot-luck, sir—with a poor old soldier like myself— +that we may take no harm by standing unoccupied during such cold +weather.” + +“I understand, sir,” replied Charles; “if this matter goes forward, be +assured I will endeavour to provide you with a suitable opponent.” + +“I shall remain greatly indebted to you, sir,” said Wildrake; “and I am +by no means curious about the quality of my antagonist. It is true I +write myself esquire and gentleman, and should account myself +especially honoured by crossing my sword with that of Sir Henry or +Master Albert Lee; but, should that not be convenient, I will not +refuse to present my poor person in opposition to any gentleman who has +served the King,— which I always hold as a sort of letters of nobility +in itself, and, therefore, would on no account decline the duello with +such a person.” + +“The King is much obliged to you, sir,” said Charles, “for the honour +you do his faithful subjects.” + +“O, sir, I am scrupulous on that point—very scrupulous.—When there is a +roundhead in question, I consult the Herald’s books, to see that he is +entitled to bear arms, as is Master Markham Everard, without which, I +promise you, I had borne none of his cartel. But a cavalier is with me +a gentleman, of course—Be his birth ever so low, his loyalty has +ennobled his condition.” + +“It is well, sir,” said the King. “This paper requests me to meet +Master Everard at six to-morrow morning, at the tree called the King’s +Oak—I object neither to place nor time. He proffers the sword, at +which, he says, we possess some equality—I do not decline the weapon; +for company, two gentlemen—I shall endeavour to procure myself an +associate, and a suitable partner for you, sir, if you incline to join +in the dance.” + +“I kiss your hand, sir, and rest yours, under a sense of obligation,” +answered the envoy. + +“I thank you, sir,” continued the King; “I will therefore be ready at +place and time, and suitably furnished; and I will either give your +friend such satisfaction with my sword as he requires, or will render +him such cause for not doing so as he will be contented with.” + +“You will excuse me, sir,” said Wildrake, “if my mind is too dull, +under the circumstances, to conceive any alternative that can remain +betwixt two men of honour in such a case, excepting—sa—sa—.” He threw +himself into a fencing position, and made a pass with his sheathed +rapier, but not directed towards the person of the King, whom he +addressed. + +“Excuse me, sir,” said Charles, “if I do not trouble your intellects +with the consideration of a case which may not occur.—But, for example, +I may plead urgent employment on the part of the public.” This he spoke +in a low and mysterious tone of voice, which Wildrake appeared +perfectly to comprehend; for he laid his forefinger on his nose with +what he meant for a very intelligent and apprehensive nod. + +“Sir,” said he, “if you be engaged in any affair for the King, my +friend shall have every reasonable degree of patience—Nay, I will fight +him myself in your stead, merely to stay his stomach, rather than you +should be interrupted.—And, sir, if you can find room in your +enterprise for a poor gentleman that has followed Lunsford and Goring, +you have but to name day, time, and place of rendezvous; for truly, +sir, I am tired of the scald hat, cropped hair, and undertaker’s cloak, +with which my friend has bedizened me, and would willingly ruffle it +out once more in the King’s cause, when whether I be banged or hanged, +I care not.” + +“I shall remember what you say, sir, should an opportunity occur,” said +the King; “and I wish his Majesty had many such subjects—I presume our +business is now settled?” + +“When you shall have been pleased, sir, to give me a trifling scrap of +writing, to serve for my credentials—for such, you know, is the +custom—your written cartel hath its written answer.” + +“That, sir, will I presently do,” said Charles, “and in good time, here +are the materials.” + +“And, sir,” continued the envoy—“Ah!—ahem!—if you have interest in the +household for a cup of sack—I am a man of few words, and am somewhat +hoarse with much speaking—moreover, a serious business of this kind +always makes one thirsty.—Besides, sir, to part with dry lips argues +malice, which God forbid should exist in such an honourable +conjuncture.” + +“I do not boast much influence in the house, sir,” said the King; “but +if you would have the condescension to accept of this broad piece +towards quenching your thirst at the George”— + +“Sir,” said the cavalier, (for the times admitted of this strange +species of courtesy, nor was Wildrake a man of such peculiar delicacy +as keenly to dispute the matter,)—“I am once again beholden to you. But +I see not how it consists with my honour to accept of such +accommodation, unless you were to accompany and partake?” + +“Pardon me, sir,” replied Charles, “my safety recommends that I remain +rather private at present.” + +“Enough said,” Wildrake observed; “poor cavaliers must not stand on +ceremony. I see, sir, you understand cutter’s law—when one tall fellow +has coin, another must not be thirsty. I wish you, sir, a continuance +of health and happiness until to-morrow, at the King’s Oak, at six +o’clock.” + +“Farewell, sir,” said the King, and added, as Wildrake went down the +stair whistling, “Hey for cavaliers,” to which air his long rapier, +jarring against the steps and banisters, bore no unsuitable burden— +“Farewell, thou too just emblem of the state, to which war, and defeat, +and despair, have reduced many a gallant gentleman.” + +During the rest of the day, there occurred nothing peculiarly deserving +of notice. Alice sedulously avoided showing towards the disguised +Prince any degree of estrangement or shyness, which could be discovered +by her father, or by any one else. To all appearance, the two young +persons continued on the same footing in every respect. Yet she made +the gallant himself sensible, that this apparent intimacy was assumed +merely to save appearances, and in no way designed as retracting from +the severity with which she had rejected his suit. The sense that this +was the case, joined to his injured self-love, and his enmity against a +successful rival, induced Charles early to withdraw himself to a +solitary walk in the wilderness, where, like Hercules in the Emblem of +Cebes, divided betwixt the personifications of Virtue and of Pleasure, +he listened alternately to the voice of Wisdom and of passionate Folly. + +Prudence urged to him the importance of his own life to the future +prosecution of the great object in which he had for the present +miscarried—the restoration of monarchy in England, the rebuilding of +the throne, the regaining the crown of his father, the avenging his +death, and restoring to their fortunes and their country the numerous +exiles, who were suffering poverty and banishment on account of their +attachment to his cause. Pride too, or rather a just and natural sense +of dignity, displayed the unworthiness of a Prince descending to actual +personal conflict with a subject of any degree, and the ridicule which +would be thrown on his memory, should he lose his life for an obscure +intrigue by the hand of a private gentleman. What would his sage +counsellors, Nicholas and Hyde—what would his kind and wise governor, +the Marquis of Hertford, say to such an act of rashness and folly? +Would it not be likely to shake the allegiance of the staid and prudent +persons of the royalist party, since wherefore should they expose their +lives and estates to raise to the government of a kingdom a young man +who could not command his own temper? To this was to be added, the +consideration that even his success would add double difficulties to +his escape, which already seemed sufficiently precarious. If, stopping +short of death, he merely had the better of his antagonist, how did he +know that he might not seek revenge by delivering up to government the +malignant Louis Kerneguy, whose real character could not in that case +fail to be discovered? + +These considerations strongly recommended to Charles that he should +clear himself of the challenge without fighting; and the reservation +under which he had accepted it, afforded him some opportunity of doing +so. + +But Passion also had her arguments, which she addressed to a temper +rendered irritable by recent distress and mortification. In the first +place, if he was a prince, he was also a gentleman, entitled to resent +as such, and obliged to give or claim the satisfaction expected on +occasion of differences among gentlemen. With Englishmen, she urged, he +could never lose interest by showing himself ready, instead of +sheltering himself under his royal birth and pretensions, to come +frankly forward and maintain what he had done or said on his own +responsibility. In a free nation, it seemed as if he would rather gain +than lose in the public estimation by a conduct which could not but +seem gallant and generous. Then a character for courage was far more +necessary to support his pretensions than any other kind of reputation; +and the lying under a challenge, without replying to it, might bring +his spirit into question. What would Villiers and Wilmot say of an +intrigue, in which he had allowed himself to be shamefully baffled by a +country girl, and had failed to revenge himself on his rival? The +pasquinades which they would compose, the witty sarcasms which they +would circulate on the occasion, would be harder to endure than the +grave rebukes of Hertford, Hyde, and Nicholas. This reflection, added +to the stings of youthful and awakened courage, at length fixed his +resolution, and he returned to Woodstock determined to keep his +appointment, come of it what might. + +Perhaps there mingled with his resolution a secret belief that such a +rencontre would not prove fatal. He was in the flower of his youth, +active in all his exercises, and no way inferior to Colonel Everard, as +far as the morning’s experiment had gone, in that of self-defence. At +least, such recollection might pass through his royal mind, as he +hummed to himself a well-known ditty, which he had picked up during his +residence in Scotland— + +“A man may drink and not be drunk; + A man may fight and not be slain; +A man may kiss a bonnie lass, + And yet be welcome back again.” + + +Meanwhile the busy and all-directing Dr. Rochecliffe had contrived to +intimate to Alice that she must give him a private audience, and she +found him by appointment in what was called the study, once filled with +ancient books, which, long since converted into cartridges, had made +more noise in the world at their final exit, than during the space +which had intervened betwixt that and their first publication. The +Doctor seated himself in a high-backed leathern easy-chair, and signed +to Alice to fetch a stool and sit down beside him. + +“Alice,” said the old man, taking her hand affectionately, “thou art a +good girl, a wise girl, a virtuous girl, one of those whose price is +above rubies—not that _rubies_ is the proper translation—but remind me +to tell you of that another time. Alice, thou knowest who this Louis +Kerneguy is—nay, hesitate not to me—I know every thing—I am well aware +of the whole matter. Thou knowest this honoured house holds the +Fortunes of England.” Alice was about to answer. “Nay, speak not, but +listen to me, Alice—How does he bear himself towards you?” + +Alice coloured with the deepest crimson. “I am a country-bred girl,” +she said, “and his manners are too courtlike for me.” + +“Enough said—I know it all. Alice, he is exposed to a great danger +to-morrow, and you must be the happy means to prevent him.” + +“I prevent him!—how, and in what manner?” said Alice, in surprise. “It +is my duty, as a subject, to do anything—anything that may become my +father’s daughter”— + +Here she stopped, considerably embarrassed. + +“Yes,” continued the Doctor, “to-morrow he hath made an appointment—an +appointment with Markham Everard; the hour and place are set—six in the +morning, by the King’s Oak. If they meet, one will probably fall.” + +“Now, may God forefend they should meet,” said Alice, turning as +suddenly pale as she had previously reddened. “But harm cannot come of +it; Everard will never lift his sword against the King.” + +“For that,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “I would not warrant. But if that +unhappy young gentleman shall have still some reserve of the loyalty +which his general conduct entirely disavows, it would not serve us +here; for he knows not the King, but considers him merely as a +cavalier, from whom he has received injury.” + +“Let him know the truth, Doctor Rochecliffe, let him know it +instantly,” said Alice; “_he_ lift hand against the King, a fugitive +and defenceless! He is incapable of it. My life on the issue, he +becomes most active in his preservation.” + +“That is the thought of a maiden, Alice,” answered the Doctor; “and, as +I fear, of a maiden whose wisdom is misled by her affections. It were +worse than treason to admit a rebel officer, the friend of the +arch-traitor Cromwell, into so great a secret. I dare not answer for +such rashness. Hammond was trusted by his father, and you know what +came of it.” + +“Then let my father know. He will meet Markham, or send to him, +representing the indignity done to him by attacking his guest.” + +“We dare not let your father into the secret who Louis Kerneguy really +is. I did but hint the possibility of Charles taking refuge at +Woodstock, and the rapture into which Sir Henry broke out, the +preparations for accommodation and the defence which he began to talk +of, plainly showed that the mere enthusiasm of his loyalty would have +led to a risk of discovery. It is you, Alice, who must save the hopes +of every true royalist.” + +“I!” answered Alice; “it is impossible.—Why cannot my father be induced +to interfere, as in behalf of his friend and guest, though he know him +as no other than Louis Kerneguy?” + +“You have forgot your father’s character, my young friend,” said the +Doctor; “an excellent man, and the best of Christians, till there is a +clashing of swords, and then he starts up the complete martialist, as +deaf to every pacific reasoning as if he were a game-cock.” + +“You forget, Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, “that this very morning, +if I understand the thing aright, my father prevented them from +fighting.” + +“Ay,” answered the Doctor, “because he deemed himself bound to keep the +peace in the Royal-Park; but it was done with such regret, Alice, that, +should he find them at it again, I am clear to foretell he will only so +far postpone the combat as to conduct them to some unprivileged ground, +and there bid them tilt and welcome, while he regaled his eyes with a +scene so pleasing. No, Alice, it is you, and you only, who can help us +in this extremity.” + +“I see no possibility,” said she, again colouring, “how I can be of the +least use.” + +“You must send a note,” answered Dr. Rochecliffe, “to the King—a note +such as all women know how to write better than any man can teach +them—to meet you at the precise hour of the rendezvous. He will not +fail you, for I know his unhappy foible.” + +“Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice gravely,—“you have known me from +infancy,—What have you seen in me to induce you to believe that I +should ever follow such unbecoming counsel?” + +“And if you have known _me_ from infancy,” retorted the Doctor, “what +have you seen of _me_ that you should suspect me of giving counsel to +my friend’s daughter, which it would be misbecoming in her to follow? +You cannot be fool enough, I think, to suppose, that I mean you should +carry your complaisance farther than to keep him in discourse for an +hour or two, till I have all in readiness for his leaving this place, +from which I can frighten him by the terrors of an alleged search?—So, +C. S. mounts his horse and rides off, and Mistress Alice Lee has the +honour of saving him.” + +“Yes, at the expense of my own reputation,” said Alice, “and the risk +of an eternal stain on my family. You say you know all. What can the +King think of my appointing an assignation with him after what has +passed, and how will it be possible to disabuse him respecting the +purpose of my doing so?” + +“I will disabuse him, Alice; I will explain the whole.” + +“Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, “you propose what is impossible. You +can do much by your ready wit and great wisdom; but if new-fallen snow +were once sullied, not all your art could wash it clean again; and it +is altogether the same with a maiden’s reputation.” + +“Alice, my dearest child,” said the Doctor, “bethink you that if I +recommended this means of saving the life of the King, at least +rescuing him from instant peril, it is because I see no other of which +to avail myself. If I bid you assume, even for a moment, the semblance +of what is wrong, it is but in the last extremity, and under +circumstances which cannot return—I will take the surest means to +prevent all evil report which can arise from what I recommend.” + +“Say not so, Doctor,” said Alice; “better undertake to turn back the +Isis than to stop the course of calumny. The King will make boast to +his whole licentious court, of the ease with which, but for a sudden +alarm, he could have brought off Alice Lee as a paramour—the mouth +which confers honour on others, will then be the means to deprive me of +mine. Take a fitter course, one more becoming your own character and +profession. Do not lead him to fail in an engagement of honour, by +holding out the prospect of another engagement equally dishonourable, +whether false or true. Go to the King himself, speak to him, as the +servants of God have a right to speak, even to earthly sovereigns. +Point out to him the folly and the wickedness of the course he is about +to pursue—urge upon him, that he fear the sword, since wrath bringeth +the punishment of the sword. Tell him, that the friends who died for +him in the field at Worcester, on the scaffolds, and on the gibbets, +since that bloody day—that the remnant who are in prison, scattered, +fled, and ruined on his account, deserve better of him and his father’s +race, than that he should throw away his life in an idle brawl—Tell +him, that it is dishonest to venture that which is not his own, +dishonourable to betray the trust which brave men have reposed in his +virtue and in his courage.” + +Dr. Rochecliffe looked on her with a melancholy smile, his eyes +glistening as he said, “Alas! Alice, even I could not plead that just +cause to him so eloquently or so impressively as thou dost. But, alack! +Charles would listen to neither. It is not from priests or women, he +would say, that men should receive counsel in affairs of honour.” + +“Then, hear me, Doctor Rochecliffe—I will appear at the place of +rendezvous, and I will prevent the combat—do not fear that I can do +what I say—at a sacrifice, indeed, but not that of my reputation. My +heart may be broken”—she endeavoured to stifle her sobs with +difficulty—“for the consequence; but not in the imagination of a man, +and far less that man her sovereign, shall a thought of Alice Lee be +associated with dishonour.” She hid her face in her handkerchief, and +burst out into unrestrained tears. + +“What means this hysterical passion?” said Dr. Rochecliffe, surprised +and somewhat alarmed by the vehemence of her grief—“Maiden, I must have +no concealments; I must know.” + +“Exert your ingenuity, then, and discover it,” said Alice—for a moment +put out of temper at the Doctor’s pertinacious self-importance—“Guess +my purpose, as you can guess at every thing else. It is enough to have +to go through my task, I will not endure the distress of telling it +over, and that to one who—forgive me, dear Doctor—might not think my +agitation on this occasion fully warranted.” + +“Nay, then, my young mistress, you must be ruled,” said Rochecliffe; +“and if I cannot make you explain yourself, I must see whether your +father can gain so far on you.” So saying, he arose somewhat +displeased, and walked towards the door. + +“You forget what you yourself told me, Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, +“of the risk of communicating this great secret to my father.” + +“It is too true,” he said, stopping short and turning round; “and I +think, wench, thou art too smart for me, and I have not met many such. +But thou art a good girl, and wilt tell me thy device of free-will—it +concerns my character and influence with the King, that I should be +fully acquainted with whatever is _actum atque tractatum_, done and +treated of in this matter.” + +“Trust your character to me, good Doctor,” said Alice, attempting to +smile; “it is of firmer stuff than those of women, and will be safer in +my custody than mine could have been in yours. And thus much I +condescend—you shall see the whole scene—you shall go with me yourself, +and much will I feel emboldened and heartened by your company.” + +“That is something,” said the Doctor, though not altogether satisfied +with this limited confidence. “Thou wert ever a clever wench, and I +will trust thee; indeed, trust thee I find I must, whether voluntarily +or no.” + +“Meet me, then,” said Alice, “in the wilderness to-morrow. But first +tell me, are you well assured of time and place?—a mistake were fatal.” + +“Assure yourself my information is entirely accurate,” said the Doctor, +resuming his air of consequence, which had been a little diminished +during the latter part of their conference. + +“May I ask,” said Alice, “through what channel you acquired such +important information?” + +“You may ask, unquestionably,” he answered, now completely restored to +his supremacy; “but whether I will answer or not, is a very different +question. I conceive neither your reputation nor my own is interested +in your remaining in ignorance on that subject. So I have my secrets as +well as you, mistress; and some of them, I fancy, are a good deal more +worth knowing.” + +“Be it so,” said Alice, quietly; “if you will meet me in the wilderness +by the broken dial at half-past five exactly, we will go together +to-morrow, and watch them as they come to the rendezvous. I will on the +way get the better of my present timidity, and explain to you the means +I design to employ to prevent mischief. You can perhaps think of making +some effort which may render my interference, unbecoming and painful as +it must be, altogether unnecessary.” + +“Nay, my child,” said the Doctor, “if you place yourself in my hands, +you will be the first that ever had reason to complain of my want of +conduct, and you may well judge you are the very last (one excepted) +whom I would see suffer for want of counsel. At half-past five, then, +at the dial in the wilderness—and God bless our undertaking!” + +Here their interview was interrupted by the sonorous voice of Sir Henry +Lee, which shouted their names, “Daughter Alice—Doctor Rochecliffe,” +through passage and gallery. + +“What do you here,” said he, entering, “sitting like two crows in a +mist, when we have such rare sport below? Here is this wild +crack-brained boy Louis Kerneguy, now making me laugh till my sides are +fit to split, and now playing on his guitar sweetly enough to win a +lark from the heavens.—Come away with you, come away. It is hard work +to laugh alone.” + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. + + +This is the place, the centre of the grove; +Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood. + + +JOHN HOME. + + +The sun had risen on the broad boughs of the forest, but without the +power of penetrating into its recesses, which hung rich with heavy +dewdrops, and were beginning on some of the trees to exhibit the varied +tints of autumn; it being the season when Nature, like a prodigal whose +race is well-nigh run, seems desirous to make up in profuse gaiety and +variety of colours, for the short space which her splendour has then to +endure. The birds were silent—and even Robin-redbreast, whose +chirruping song was heard among the bushes near the Lodge, emboldened +by the largesses with which the good old knight always encouraged his +familiarity, did not venture into the recesses of the wood, where he +encountered the sparrow-hawk, and other enemies of a similar +description, preferring the vicinity of the dwellings of man, from whom +he, almost solely among the feathered tribes, seems to experience +disinterested protection. + +The scene was therefore at once lovely and silent, when the good Dr. +Rochecliffe, wrapped in a scarlet roquelaure, which had seen service in +its day, muffling his face more from habit than necessity, and +supporting Alice on his arm, (she also defended by a cloak against the +cold and damp of the autumn morning,) glided through the tangled and +long grass of the darkest alleys, almost ankle-deep in dew, towards the +place appointed for the intended duel. Both so eagerly maintained the +consultation in which they were engaged, that they were alike +insensible of the roughness and discomforts of the road, though often +obliged to force their way through brushwood and coppice, which poured +down on them all the liquid pearls with which they were loaded, till +the mantles they were wrapped in hung lank by their sides, and clung to +their shoulders heavily charged with moisture. They stopped when they +had attained a station under the coppice, and shrouded by it, from +which they could see all that passed on the little esplanade before the +King’s Oak, whose broad and scathed form, contorted and shattered +limbs, and frowning brows, made it appear like some ancient war-worn +champion, well selected to be the umpire of a field of single combat. + +The first person who appeared at the rendezvous was the gay cavalier +Roger Wildrake. He also was wrapped in his cloak, but had discarded his +puritanic beaver, and wore in its stead a Spanish hat, with a feather +and gilt hatband, all of which had encountered bad weather and hard +service; but to make amends for the appearance of poverty by the show +of pretension, the castor was accurately adjusted after what was rather +profanely called the d—me cut, used among the more desperate cavaliers. +He advanced hastily, and exclaimed aloud—“First in the field after all, +by Jove, though I bilked Everard in order to have my morning draught.— +It has done me much good,” he added, smacking his lips.—“Well, I +suppose I should search the ground ere my principal comes up, whose +Presbyterian watch trudges as slow as his Presbyterian step.” + +He took his rapier from under his cloak, and seemed about to search the +thickets around. + +“I will prevent him,” whispered the Doctor to Alice. “I will keep faith +with you—you shall not come on the scene—_nisi dignus vindice nodus_— +I’ll explain that another time. _Vindex_ is feminine as well as +masculine, so the quotation is defensible.—Keep you close.” + +So saying, he stepped forward on the esplanade, and bowed to Wildrake. + +“Master Louis Kerneguy,” said Wildrake, pulling off his hat; but +instantly discovering his error, he added, “But no—I beg your pardon, +sir—Fatter, shorter, older.—Mr. Kerneguy’s friend, I suppose, with whom +I hope to have a turn by and by.—And why not now, sir, before our +principals come up? Just a snack to stay the orifice of the stomach, +till the dinner is served, sir? What say you?” + +“To open the orifice of the stomach more likely, or to give it a new +one,” said the Doctor. + +“True, sir,” said Roger, who seemed now in his element; “you say +well—that is as thereafter may be.—But come, sir, you wear your face +muffled. I grant you, it is honest men’s fashion at this unhappy time; +the more is the pity. But we do all above board—we have no traitors +here. I’ll get into my gears first, to encourage you, and show you that +you have to deal with a gentleman, who honours the King, and is a match +fit to fight with any who follow him, as doubtless you do, sir, since +you are the friend of Master Louis Kerneguy.” + +All this while, Wildrake was busied undoing the clasps of his +square-caped cloak. + +“Off—off, ye lendings,” he said, “borrowings I should more properly +call you— + +Via the curtain which shadow’d Borgia!” + + +So saying, he threw the cloak from him, and appeared _in cuerpo_, in a +most cavalier-like doublet, of greasy crimson satin, pinked and slashed +with what had been once white tiffany; breeches of the same; and +nether-stocks, or, as we now call them, stockings, darned in many +places, and which, like those of Poins, had been once peach-coloured. A +pair of pumps, ill calculated for a walk through the dew, and a broad +shoulderbelt of tarnished embroidery, completed his equipment. + +“Come, sir!” he exclaimed; “make haste, off with your slough—Here I +stand tight and true—as loyal a lad as ever stuck rapier through a +roundhead.—Come, sir, to your tools!” he continued; “we may have +half-a-dozen thrusts before they come yet, and shame them for their +tardiness.—Pshaw!” he exclaimed, in a most disappointed tone, when the +Doctor, unfolding his cloak, showed his clerical dress; “Tush! it’s but +the parson after all!” + +Wildrake’s respect for the Church, however, and his desire to remove +one who might possibly interrupt a scene to which he looked forward +with peculiar satisfaction, induced him presently to assume another +tone. + +“I beg pardon,” he said, “my dear Doctor—I kiss the hem of your +cassock—I do, by the thundering Jove—I beg your pardon again.—But I am +happy I have met with you—They are raving for your presence at the +Lodge—to marry, or christen, or bury, or confess, or something very +urgent.—For Heaven’s sake, make haste!” + +“At the Lodge?” said the Doctor; “why, I left the Lodge this instant—I +was there later, I am sure, than you could be, who came the Woodstock +road.” + +“Well,” replied Wildrake, “it is at Woodstock they want you.—Rat it, +did I say the Lodge?—No, no—Woodstock—Mine host cannot be hanged—his +daughter married—his bastard christened, or his wife buried—without the +assistance of a _real_ clergyman—Your Holdenoughs won’t do for +them.—He’s a true man mine host; so, as you value your function, make +haste.” + +“You will pardon me, Master Wildrake,” said the Doctor—“I wait for +Master Louis Kerneguy.” + +“The devil you do!” exclaimed Wildrake. “Why, I always knew the Scots +could do nothing without their minister; but d—n it, I never thought +they put them to this use neither. But I have known jolly customers in +orders, who understood how to handle the sword as well as their +prayer-book. You know the purpose of our meeting, Doctor. Do you come +only as a ghostly comforter—or as a surgeon, perhaps—or do you ever +take bilboa in hand?—Sa—sa!” + +Here he made a fencing demonstration with his sheathed rapier. + +“I have done so, sir, on necessary occasion,” said Dr. Rochecliffe. + +“Good sir, let this stand for a necessary one,” said Wildrake. “You +know my devotion for the Church. If a divine of your skill would do me +the honour to exchange but three passes with me, I should think myself +happy for ever.” + +“Sir,” said Rochecliffe, smiling, “were there no other objection to +what you propose, I have not the means—I have no weapon.” + +“What? you want the _de quoi_? that is unlucky indeed. But you have a +stout cane in your hand—what hinders our trying a pass (my rapier being +sheathed of course) until our principals come up? My pumps are full of +this frost-dew; and I shall be a toe or two out of pocket, if I am to +stand still all the time they are stretching themselves; for, I fancy, +Doctor, you are of my opinion, that the matter will not be a fight of +cock-sparrows.” + +“My business here is to make it, if possible, be no fight at all,” said +the divine. + +“Now, rat me, Doctor, but that is too spiteful,” said Wildrake; “and +were it not for my respect for the Church, I could turn Presbyterian, +to be revenged.” + +“Stand back a little, if you please, sir,” said the Doctor; “do not +press forward in that direction.”—For Wildrake, in the agitation of his +movements, induced by his disappointment, approached the spot where +Alice remained still concealed. + +“And wherefore not, I pray you, Doctor?” said the cavalier. + +But on advancing a step, he suddenly stopped short, and muttered to +himself, with a round oath of astonishment, “A petticoat in the +coppice, by all that is reverend, and at this hour in the morning— +_Whew—ew—ew_!”—He gave vent to his surprise in a long low +interjectional whistle; then turning to the Doctor, with his finger on +the side of his nose, “You’re sly, Doctor, d—d sly! But why not give me +a hint of your—your commodity there—your contraband goods? Gad, sir, I +am not a man to expose the eccentricities of the Church.” + +“Sir,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “you are impertinent; and if time served, +and it were worth my while, I would chastise you.” + +And the Doctor, who had served long enough in the wars to have added +some of the qualities of a captain of horse to those of a divine, +actually raised his cane, to the infinite delight of the rake, whose +respect for the Church was by no means able to subdue his love of +mischief. + +“Nay, Doctor,” said he, “if you wield your weapon broadsword-fashion, +in that way, and raise it as high as your head, I shall be through you +in a twinkling.” So saying, he made a pass with his sheathed rapier, +not precisely at the Doctor’s person, but in that direction; when +Rochecliffe, changing the direction of his cane from the broadsword +guard to that of the rapier, made the cavalier’s sword spring ten yards +out of his hand, with all the dexterity of my friend Francalanza. At +this moment both the principal parties appeared on the field. + +Everard exclaimed angrily to Wildrake, “Is this your friendship? In +Heaven’s name, what make you in that fool’s jacket, and playing the +pranks of a jack-pudding?” while his worthy second, somewhat +crest-fallen, held down his head, like a boy caught in roguery, and +went to pick up his weapon, stretching his head, as he passed, into the +coppice, to obtain another glimpse, if possible, of the concealed +object of his curiosity. + +Charles in the meantime, still more surprised at what he beheld, called +out on his part—“What! Doctor Rochecliffe become literally one of the +church militant, and tilting with my friend cavalier Wildrake? May I +use the freedom to ask him to withdraw, as Colonel Everard and I have +some private business to settle?” + +It was Dr. Rochecliffe’s cue, on this important occasion, to have armed +himself with the authority of his sacred office, and used a tone of +interference which might have overawed even a monarch, and made him +feel that his monitor spoke by a warrant higher than his own. But the +indiscreet latitude he had just given to his own passion, and the +levity in which he had been detected, were very unfavourable to his +assuming that superiority, to which so uncontrollable a spirit as that +of Charles, wilful as a prince, and capricious as a wit, was at all +likely to submit. The Doctor did, however, endeavour to rally his +dignity, and replied, with the gravest, and at the same time the most +respectful, tone he could assume, that he also had business of the most +urgent nature, which prevented him from complying with Master +Kerneguy’s wishes and leaving the spot. + +“Excuse this untimely interruption,” said Charles, taking off his hat, +and bowing to Colonel Everard, “which I will immediately put an end +to.” Everard gravely returned his salute, and was silent. + +“Are you mad, Doctor Rochecliffe?” said Charles—“or are you deaf?—or +have you forgotten your mother-tongue? I desired you to leave this +place.” + +“I am not mad,” said the divine, rousing up his resolution, and +regaining the natural firmness of his voice—“I would prevent others +from being so; I am not deaf—I would pray others to hear the voice of +reason and religion; I have not forgotten my mother-tongue—but I have +come hither to speak the language of the Master of kings and princes.” + +“To fence with broomsticks, I should rather suppose,” said the King— +“Come, Doctor Rochecliffe, this sudden fit of assumed importance befits +you as little as your late frolic. You are not, I apprehend, either a +Catholic priest or a Scotch Mass-John to claim devoted obedience from +your hearers, but a Church-of-England-man, subject to the rules of that +Communion—and to its HEAD.” In speaking the last words, the King +lowered his voice to a low and impressive whisper. Everard observing +this drew back, the natural generosity of his temper directing him to +avoid overhearing private discourse, in which the safety of the +speakers might be deeply concerned. They continued, however, to observe +great caution in their forms of expression. + +“Master Kerneguy,” said the clergyman, “it is not I who assume +authority or control over your wishes—God forbid; I do but tell you +what reason, Scripture, religion, and morality, alike prescribe for +your rule of conduct.” + +“And I, Doctor,” said the King, smiling, and pointing to the unlucky +cane, “will take your example rather than your precept. If a reverend +clergyman will himself fight a bout at single-stick, what right can he +have to interfere in gentlemen’s quarrels?—Come, sir, remove yourself, +and do not let your present obstinacy cancel former obligations.” + +“Bethink yourself,” said the divine,—“I can say one word which will +prevent all this.” + +“Do it,” replied the King, “and in doing so belie the whole tenor and +actions of an honourable life—abandon the principles of your Church, +and become a perjured traitor and an apostate, to prevent another +person from discharging his duty as a gentleman! This were indeed +killing your friend to prevent the risk of his running himself into +danger. Let the Passive Obedience, which is so often in your mouth, and +no doubt in your head, put your feet for once into motion, and step +aside for ten minutes. Within that space your assistance may be needed, +either as body-curer or soul-curer.” + +“Nay, then,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “I have but one argument left.” + +While this conversation was carried on apart, Everard had almost +forcibly detained by his own side his follower, Wildrake, whose greater +curiosity, and lesser delicacy, would otherwise have thrust him +forward, to get, if possible, into the secret. But when he saw the +Doctor turn into the coppice, he whispered eagerly to Everard—“A gold +Carolus to a commonwealth farthing, the Doctor has not only come to +preach a peace, but has brought the principal conditions along with +him!” + +Everard made no answer; he had already unsheathed his sword; and +Charles hardly saw Rochecliffe’s back fairly turned, than he lost no +time in following his example. But, ere they had done more than salute +each other, with the usual courteous nourish of their weapons, Dr. +Rochecliffe again stood between them, leading in his hand Alice Lee, +her garments dank with dew, and her long hair heavy with moisture, and +totally uncurled. Her face was extremely pale, but it was the paleness +of desperate resolution, not of fear. There was a dead pause of +astonishment—the combatants rested on their swords—and even the +forwardness of Wildrake only vented itself in half-suppressed +ejaculations, as, “Well done, Doctor—this beats the ‘parson among the +pease’—No less than your patron’s daughter—And Mistress Alice, whom I +thought a very snowdrop, turned out a dog-violet after all—a +Lindabrides, by heavens, and altogether one of ourselves.” + +Excepting these unheeded mutterings, Alice was the first to speak. + +“Master Everard,” she said—“Master Kerneguy, you are surprised to see +me here—Yet, why should I not tell the reason at once? Convinced that I +am, however guiltlessly, the unhappy cause of your misunderstanding, I +am too much interested to prevent fatal consequences to pause upon any +step which may end it.—Master Kerneguy, have my wishes, my entreaties, +my prayers—have your noble thoughts—the recollections of your own high +duties, no weight with you in this matter? Let me entreat you to +consult reason, religion, and common sense, and return your weapon.” + +“I am obedient as an Eastern slave, madam,” answered Charles, sheathing +his sword; “but I assure you, the matter about which you distress +yourself is a mere trifle, which will be much better settled betwixt +Colonel Everard and myself in five minutes, than with the assistance of +the whole Convocation of the Church, with a female parliament to assist +their reverend deliberations.—Mr. Everard, will you oblige me by +walking a little farther?—We must change ground, it seems.” + +“I am ready to attend you, sir,” said Everard, who had sheathed his +sword so soon as his antagonist did so. + +“I have then no interest with you, sir,” said Alice, continuing to +address the King—“Do you not fear I should use the secret in my power +to prevent this affair going to extremity? Think you this gentleman, +who raises his hand against you, if he knew”— + +“If he knew that I were Lord Wilmot, you would say?—Accident has given +him proof to that effect, with which he is already satisfied, and I +think you would find it difficult to induce him to embrace a different +opinion.” + +Alice paused, and looked on the King with great indignation, the +following words dropping from her mouth by intervals, as if they burst +forth one by one in spite of feelings that would have restrained +them—“Cold—selfish—ungrateful—unkind!—Woe to the land which”—Here she +paused with marked emphasis, then added—“which shall number thee, or +such as thee, among her nobles and rulers!” + +“Nay, fair Alice,” said Charles, whose good nature could not but feel +the severity of this reproach, though too slightly to make all the +desired impression, “You are too unjust to me—too partial to a happier +man. Do not call me unkind; I am but here to answer Mr. Everard’s +summons. I could neither decline attending, nor withdraw now I am here, +without loss of honour; and my loss of honour would be a disgrace which +must extend to many—I cannot fly from Mr. Everard—it would be too +shameful. If he abides by his message, it must be decided as such +affairs usually are. If he retreats or yields it up, I will, for your +sake, wave punctilio. I will not even ask an apology for the trouble it +has afforded me, but let all pass as if it were the consequence of some +unhappy mistake, the grounds of which shall remain on my part +unenquired into.—This I will do for your sake, and it is much for a man +of honour to condescend so far—You know that the condescension from me +in particular is great indeed. Then do not call me ungenerous, or +ungrateful, or unkind, since I am ready to do all, which, as a man, I +can do, and more perhaps than as a man of honour I ought to do.” + +“Do you hear this, Markham Everard?” exclaimed Alice—“do you hear +this?—The dreadful option is left entirely at your disposal. You were +wont to be temperate in passion, religious, forgiving—will you, for a +mere punctilio, drive on this private and unchristian broil to a +murderous extremity? Believe me, if you now, contrary to all the better +principles of your life, give the reins to your passions, the +consequences may be such as you will rue for your lifetime, and even, +if Heaven have not mercy, rue after your life is finished.” + +Markham Everard remained for a moment gloomily silent,—with his eyes +fixed on the ground. At length he looked up, and answered her—“Alice, +you are a soldier’s daughter—a soldier’s sister. All your relations, +even including one whom you then entertained some regard for, have been +made soldiers by these unhappy discords. Yet you have seen them take +the field—in some instances on contrary sides, to do their duty where +their principles called them, without manifesting this extreme degree +of interest.” + +He continued, “However, what is the true concern here is our relations +with your own self, and mine is with this gentleman’s interest in you. +I had expected that our disagreement could be dealt with as men dispute +matters of honor. With your intrusion this cannot be done. I have few +other options for politely resolving this, for you would surely hate +the one who killed the other, to the loss of us both. Therefore,” +addressing Charles, “in the interest of avoid this fate, I am forced to +yield my interest in her to you; and, as I will never be the means of +giving her pain, I trust you will not think I act unworthily in +retracting the letter which gave you the trouble of attending this +place at this hour.—Alice,” he said, turning his head towards her, +“Farewell, Alice, at once, and for ever!” + +The poor young lady, whose adventitious spirit had almost deserted her, +attempted to repeat the word farewell, but failing in the attempt, only +accomplished a broken and imperfect sound, and would have sunk to the +ground, but for Dr. Rochecliffe, who caught her as she fell. Roger +Wildrake, also, who had twice or thrice put to his eyes what remained +of a kerchief, interested by the lady’s evident distress, though unable +to comprehend the mysterious cause, hastened to assist the divine in +supporting so fair a burden. + +Meanwhile, the disguised Prince had beheld the whole in silence, but +with an agitation to which he was unwonted, and which his swarthy +features, and still more his motions, began to betray. His posture was +at first absolutely stationary, with his arms folded on his bosom, as +one who waits to be guided by the current of events; presently after, +he shifted his position, advanced and retired his foot, clenched and +opened his hand, and otherwise showed symptoms that he was strongly +agitated by contending feelings—was on the point, too, of forming some +sudden resolution, and yet still in uncertainty what course he should +pursue. + +But when he saw Markham Everard, after one look of unspeakable anguish +towards Alice, turning his back to depart, he broke out into his +familiar ejaculation, “Oddsfish! this must not be.” In three strides he +overtook the slowly retiring Everard, tapped him smartly on the +shoulder, and, as he turned round, said, with an air of command, which +he well knew how to adopt at pleasure, “One word with you, sir.” + +“At your pleasure, sir,” replied Everard; and naturally conjecturing +the purpose of his antagonist to be hostile, took hold of his rapier +with the left hand, and laid the right on the hilt, not displeased at +the supposed call; for anger is at least as much akin to disappointment +as pity is said to be to love. + +“Pshaw!” answered the King, “that cannot be _now_—Colonel Everard, I am +CHARLES STEWART!” + +Everard recoiled in the greatest surprise, and next exclaimed, +“Impossible—it cannot be! The King of Scots has escaped from +Bristol.—My Lord Wilmot, your talents for intrigue are well known; but +this will not pass upon me.” + +“The King of Scots, Master Everard,” replied Charles, “since you are so +pleased to limit his sovereignty—at any rate, the Eldest Son of the +late Sovereign of Britain—is now before you; therefore it is impossible +he could have escaped from Bristol. Doctor Rochecliffe shall be my +voucher, and will tell you, moreover, that Wilmot is of a fair +complexion and light hair; mine, you may see, is swart as a raven.” + +Rochecliffe, seeing what was passing, abandoned Alice to the care of +Wildrake, whose extreme delicacy in the attempts he made to bring her +back to life, formed an amiable contrast to his usual wildness, and +occupied him so much, that he remained for the moment ignorant of the +disclosure in which he would have been so much interested. As for Dr. +Rochecliffe, he came forward, wringing his hands in all the +demonstration of extreme anxiety, and with the usual exclamations +attending such a state. + +“Peace, Doctor Rochecliffe!” said the King, with such complete +self-possession as indeed became a prince; “we are in the hands, I am +satisfied, of a man of honour. Master Everard must be pleased in +finding only a fugitive prince in the person in whom he thought he had +discovered a successful rival. He cannot but be aware of the feelings +which prevented me from taking advantage of the cover which this young +lady’s devoted loyalty afforded me, at the risk of her own happiness. +He is the party who is to profit by my candour; and certainly I have a +right to expect that my condition, already indifferent enough, shall +not be rendered worse by his becoming privy to it under such +circumstances. At any rate, the avowal is made; and it is for Colonel +Everard to consider how he is to conduct himself.” + +“Oh, your Majesty! my Liege! my King! my royal Prince!” exclaimed +Wildrake, who, at length discovering what was passing, had crawled on +his knees, and seizing the King’s hand, was kissing it, more like a +child mumbling gingerbread, or like a lover devouring the yielded hand +of his mistress, than in the manner in which such salutations pass at +court—“If my dear friend Mark Everard should prove a dog on this +occasion, rely on me I will cut his throat on the spot, were I to do +the same for myself the moment afterwards!” + +“Hush, hush, my good friend and loyal subject,” said the King, “and +compose yourself; for though I am obliged to put on the Prince for a +moment, we have not privacy or safety to receive our subjects in King +Cambyses’ vein.” + +Everard, who had stood for a time utterly confounded, awoke at length +like a man from a dream. + +“Sire,” he said, bowing low, and with profound deference, “if I do not +offer you the homage of a subject with knee and sword, it is because +God, by whom kings reign, has denied you for the present the power of +ascending your throne without rekindling civil war. For your safety +being endangered by me, let not such an imagination for an instant +cross your mind. Had I not respected your person—were I not bound to +you for the candour with which your noble avowal has prevented the +misery of my future life, your misfortunes would have rendered your +person as sacred, so far as I can protect it, as it could be esteemed +by the most devoted royalist in the kingdom. If your plans are soundly +considered, and securely laid, think that all which is now passed is +but a dream. If they are in such a state that I can aid them, saving my +duty to the Commonwealth, which will permit me to be privy to no +schemes of actual violence, your Majesty may command my services.” + +“It may be I may be troublesome to you, sir,” said the King; “for my +fortunes are not such as to permit me to reject even the most limited +offers of assistance; but if I can, I will dispense with applying to +you. I would not willingly put any man’s compassion at war with his +sense of duty on my account.—Doctor, I think there will be no farther +tilting to-day, either with sword or cane; so we may as well return to +the Lodge, and leave these”—looking at Alice and Everard—“who may have +more to say in explanation.” + +“No—no!” exclaimed Alice, who was now perfectly come to herself, and +partly by her own observation, and partly from the report of Dr. +Rochecliffe, comprehended all that had taken place—“My cousin Everard +and I have nothing to explain; he will forgive me for having riddled +with him when I dared not speak plainly; and I forgive him for having +read my riddle wrong. But my father has my promise—we must not +correspond or converse for the present—I return instantly to the Lodge, +and he to Woodstock, unless you, sire,” bowing to the King, “command +his duty otherwise. Instant to the town, Cousin Markham; and if danger +should approach, give us warning.” + +Everard would have delayed her departure, would have excused himself +for his unjust suspicion, would have said a thousand things; but she +would not listen to him, saying, for all other answer,—“Farewell, +Markham, till God send better days!” + +“She is an angel of truth and beauty,” said Roger Wildrake; “and I, +like a blasphemous heretic, called her a Lindabrides![1]—But has your +Majesty, craving your pardon, no commands for poor Hodge Wildrake, who +will blow out his own or any other man’s brains in England, to do your +Grace a pleasure?” + + [1] A sort of court name for a female of no reputation. + + +“We entreat our good friend Wildrake to do nothing hastily,” said +Charles, smiling; “such brains as his are rare, and should not be +rashly dispersed, as the like may not be easily collected. We recommend +him to be silent and prudent—to tilt no more with loyal clergymen of +the Church of England, and to get himself a new jacket with all +convenient speed, to which we beg to contribute our royal aid. When fit +time comes, we hope to find other service for him.” + +As he spoke, he slid ten pieces into the hand of poor Wildrake, who, +confounded with the excess of his loyal gratitude, blubbered like a +child, and would have followed the King, had not Dr. Rochecliffe, in +few words, but peremptory, insisted that he should return with his +patron, promising him he should certainly be employed in assisting the +King’s escape, could an opportunity be found of using his services. + +“Be so generous, reverend sir, and you bind me to you for ever,” said +the cavalier; “and I conjure you not to keep malice against me on +account of the foolery you wot of.” + +“I have no occasion, Captain Wildrake,” said the Doctor, “for I think I +had the best of it.” + +“Well, then, Doctor, I forgive you on my part: and I pray you, for +Christian charity, let me have a finger in this good service; for as I +live in hope of it, rely that I shall die of disappointment.” + +While the Doctor and soldier thus spoke together, Charles took leave of +Everard, (who remained uncovered while he spoke to him,) with his usual +grace—“I need not bid you no longer be jealous of me,” said the King; +“for I presume you will scarce think of a match betwixt Alice and me, +which would be too losing a one on her side. For other thoughts, the +wildest libertine could not entertain them towards so high-minded a +creature; and believe me, that my sense of her merit did not need this +last distinguished proof of her truth and loyalty. I saw enough of her +from her answers to some idle sallies of gallantry, to know with what a +lofty character she is endowed. Mr. Everard, her happiness I see +depends on you, and I trust you will be the careful guardian of it. If +we can take any obstacle out of the way of your joint happiness, be +assured we will use our influence.—Farewell, sir; if we cannot be +better friends, do not at least let us entertain harder or worse +thoughts of each other than we have now.” + +There was something in the manner of Charles that was extremely +affecting; something too, in his condition as a fugitive in the kingdom +which was his own by inheritance, that made a direct appeal to +Everard’s bosom—though in contradiction to the dictates of that policy +which he judged it his duty to pursue in the distracted circumstances +of the country. He remained, as we have said, uncovered; and in his +manner testified the highest expression of reverence, up to the point +when such might seem a symbol of allegiance. He bowed so low as almost +to approach his lips to the hand of Charles—but he did not kiss it.—“I +would rescue your person, sir,” he said, “with the purchase of my own +life. More”—He stopped short, and the King took up his sentence where +it broke off—“More you cannot do,” said Charles, “to maintain an +honourable consistency—but what you have said is enough. You cannot +render homage to my proffered hand as that of a sovereign, but you will +not prevent my taking yours as a friend—if you allow me to call myself +so—I am sure, as a well-wisher at least.” + +The generous soul of Everard was touched—He took the King’s hand, and +pressed it to his lips. + +“Oh!” he said, “were better times to come”— + +“Bind yourself to nothing, dear Everard,” said the good-natured Prince, +partaking his emotion—“We reason ill while our feelings are moved. I +will recruit no man to his loss, nor will I have my fallen fortunes +involve those of others, because they have humanity enough to pity my +present condition. If better times come, why we will meet again, and I +hope to our mutual satisfaction. If not, as your future father-in-law +would say,” (a benevolent smile came over his face, and accorded not +unmeetly with his glistening eyes,)—“If not, this parting was well +made.” + +Everard turned away with a deep bow, almost choking under contending +feelings; the uppermost of which was a sense of the generosity with +which Charles, at his own imminent risk, had cleared away the darkness +that seemed about to overwhelm his prospects of happiness for life— +mixed with a deep sense of the perils by which he was environed. He +returned to the little town, followed by his attendant Wildrake, who +turned back so often, with weeping eyes, and hands clasped and uplifted +as supplicating Heaven, that Everard was obliged to remind him that his +gestures might be observed by some one, and occasion suspicion. + +The generous conduct of the King during the closing part of this +remarkable scene, had not escaped Alice’s notice; and, erasing at once +from her mind all resentment of Charles’s former conduct, and all the +suspicions they had deservedly excited, awakened in her bosom a sense +of the natural goodness of his disposition, which permitted her to +unite regard for his person, with that reverence for his high office in +which she had been educated as a portion of her creed. She felt +convinced, and delighted with the conviction, that his virtues were his +own, his libertinism the fault of education, or rather want of +education, and the corrupting advice of sycophants and flatterers. She +could not know, or perhaps did not in that moment consider, that in a +soil where no care is taken to eradicate tares, they will outgrow and +smother the wholesome seed, even if the last is more natural to the +soil. For, as Dr. Rochecliffe informed her afterwards for her +edification, promising, as was his custom, to explain the precise words +on some future occasion, if she would put him in mind—_Virtus rectorem +ducemque desiderat; Vitia sine magistro discuntur_.[2] + + [2] The quotations of the learned doctor and antiquary were often left + uninterpreted, though seldom incommunicated, owing to his contempt for + those who did not understand the learned languages, and his dislike to + the labour of translation, for the benefit of ladies and of country + gentlemen. That fair readers and country thanes may not on this + occasion burst in ignorance, we add the meaning of the passage in the + text—“_Virtue requires the aid of a governor and director; vices are + learned without a teacher_.” + + +There was no room for such reflections at present. Conscious of mutual +sincerity, by a sort of intellectual communication, through which +individuals are led to understand each other better, perhaps, in +delicate circumstances, than by words, reserve and simulation appeared +to be now banished from the intercourse between the King and Alice. +With manly frankness, and, at the same time, with princely +condescension, he requested her, exhausted as she was, to accept of his +arm on the way homeward, instead of that of Dr. Rochecliffe; and Alice +accepted of his support with modest humility, but without a shadow of +mistrust or fear. It seemed as if the last half hour had satisfied them +perfectly with the character of each other, and that each had full +conviction of the purity and sincerity of the other’s intentions. + +Dr. Rochecliffe, in the meantime, had fallen some four or five paces +behind; for, less light and active than Alice, (who had, besides, the +assistance of the King’s support,) he was unable, without effort and +difficulty, to keep up with the pace of Charles, who then was, as we +have elsewhere noticed, one of the best walkers in England, and was +sometimes apt to forget (as great men will) that others were inferior +to him in activity. + +“Dear Alice,” said the King, but as if the epithet were entirely +fraternal, “I like your Everard much—I would to God he were of our +determination—But since that cannot be, I am sure he will prove a +generous enemy.” “May it please you, sire,” said Alice, modestly, but +with some firmness, “my cousin will never be your Majesty’s personal +enemy—and he is one of the few on whose slightest word you may rely +more than on the oath of those who profess more strongly and formally. +He is utterly incapable of abusing your Majesty’s most generous and +voluntary confidence.” + +“On my honour, I believe so, Alice,” replied the King: “But oddsfish! +my girl, let Majesty sleep for the present—it concerns my safety, as I +told your brother lately—Call me sir, then, which belongs alike to +king, peer, knight, and gentleman—or rather let me be wild Louis +Kerneguy again.” Alice looked down, and shook her head. “That cannot +be, please your Majesty.” + +“What! Louis was a saucy companion—a naughty presuming boy—and you +cannot abide him?—Well, perhaps you are right—But we will wait for Dr. +Rochecliffe”—he said, desirous, with good-natured delicacy, to make +Alice aware that he had no purpose of engaging her in any discussion +which could recall painful ideas. They paused accordingly, and again +she felt relieved and grateful. + +“I cannot persuade our fair friend, Mistress Alice, Doctor,” said the +King, “that she must, in prudence, forbear using titles of respect to +me, while there are such very slender means of sustaining them.” + +“It is a reproach to earth and to fortune,” answered the divine, as +fast as his recovered breath would permit him, “that your most sacred +Majesty’s present condition should not accord with the rendering of +those honours which are your own by birth, and which, with God’s +blessing on the efforts of your loyal subjects, I hope to see rendered +to you as your hereditary right, by the universal voice of the three +kingdoms.” + +“True, Doctor,” replied the King; “but, in the meanwhile, can you +expound to Mistress Alice Lee two lines of Horace, which I have carried +in my thick head several years, till now they have come pat to my +purpose. As my canny subjects of Scotland say, If you keep a thing +seven years you are sure to find a use for it at last—_Telephus_—ay, so +it begins— + +‘Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque, +Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba.’” + + +“I will explain the passage to Mistress Alice,” said the Doctor, “when +she reminds me of it—or rather,” (he added, recollecting that his +ordinary dilatory answer on such occasions ought not to be returned +when the order for exposition emanated from his Sovereign,) “I will +repeat a poor couplet from my own translation of the poem— + +‘Heroes and kings, in exile forced to roam. +Leave swelling phrase and seven-leagued words at home.’” + + +“A most admirable version, Doctor,” said Charles; “I feel all its +force, and particularly the beautiful rendering of _sesquipedalia +verba_ into seven-leagued boots—words I mean—it reminds me, like half +the things I meet with in this world, of the _Contes de Commère +L’Oye_.”[3] + + [3] Tales of Mother Goose. + + +Thus conversing they reached the Lodge; and as the King went to his +chamber to prepare for the breakfast summons, now impending, the idea +crossed his mind, “Wilmot, and Villiers, and Killigrew, would laugh at +me, did they hear of a campaign in which neither man nor woman had been +conquered—But, oddsfish! let them laugh as they will, there is +something at my heart which tells me, that for once in my life I have +acted well.” + +That day and the next were spent in tranquillity, the King waiting +impatiently for the intelligence, which was to announce to him that a +vessel was prepared somewhere on the coast. None such was yet in +readiness; but he learned that the indefatigable Albert Lee was, at +great personal risk, traversing the sea-coast from town to village, and +endeavouring to find means of embarkation among the friends of the +royal cause, and the correspondents of Dr. Rochecliffe. + + + + +CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. + + +Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch! + + +TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. + + +At this time we should give some account of the other actors in our +drama, the interest due to the principal personages having for some +time engrossed our attention exclusively. + +We are, therefore, to inform the reader, that the lingering longings of +the Commissioners, who had been driven forth of their proposed paradise +of Woodstock, not by a cherub indeed, but, as they thought, by spirits +of another sort, still detained them in the vicinity. They had, indeed, +left the little borough under pretence of indifferent accommodation. +The more palpable reasons were, that they entertained some resentment +against Everard, as the means of their disappointment, and had no mind +to reside where their proceedings could be overlooked by him, although +they took leave in terms of the utmost respect. They went, however, no +farther than Oxford, and remained there, as ravens, who are accustomed +to witness the chase, sit upon a tree or crag, at a little distance, +and watch the disembowelling of the deer, expecting the relics which +fall to their share. Meantime, the University and City, but especially +the former, supplied them with some means of employing their various +faculties to advantage, until the expected moment, when, as they hoped, +they should either be summoned to Windsor, or Woodstock should once +more be abandoned to their discretion. + +Bletson, to pass the time, vexed the souls of such learned and pious +divines and scholars, as he could intrude his hateful presence upon, by +sophistry, atheistical discourse, and challenges to them to impugn the +most scandalous theses. Desborough, one of the most brutally ignorant +men of the period, got himself nominated the head of a college, and +lost no time in cutting down trees, and plundering plate. As for +Harrison, he preached in full uniform in Saint Mary’s Church, wearing +his buff-coat, boots, and spurs, as if he were about to take the field +for the fight at Armageddon. And it was hard to say, whether the seat +of Learning, Religion, and Loyalty, as it is called by Clarendon, was +more vexed by the rapine of Desborough, the cold scepticism of Bletson, +or the frantic enthusiasm of the Fifth-Monarchy Champion. + +Ever and anon, soldiers, under pretence of relieving guard, or +otherwise, went and came betwixt Woodstock and Oxford, and maintained, +it may be supposed, a correspondence with Trusty Tomkins, who, though +he chiefly resided in the town of Woodstock, visited the Lodge +occasionally, and to whom, therefore, they doubtless trusted for +information concerning the proceedings there. + +Indeed, this man Tomkins seemed by some secret means to have gained the +confidence in part, if not in whole, of almost every one connected with +these intrigues. All closeted him, all conversed with him in private; +those who had the means propitiated him with gifts, those who had not +were liberal of promises. When he chanced to appear at Woodstock, which +always seemed as it were by accident—if he passed through the hall, the +knight was sure to ask him to take the foils, and was equally certain +to be, after less or more resistance, victorious in the encounter; so, +in consideration of so many triumphs, the good Sir Henry almost forgave +him the sins of rebellion and puritanism. Then, if his slow and formal +step was heard in the passages approaching the gallery, Dr. +Rochecliffe, though he never introduced him to his peculiar boudoir, +was sure to meet Master Tomkins in some neutral apartment, and to +engage him in long conversations, which apparently had great interest +for both. + +Neither was the Independent’s reception below stairs less gracious than +above. Joceline failed not to welcome him with the most cordial +frankness; the pasty and the flagon were put in immediate requisition, +and good cheer was the general word. The means for this, it may be +observed, had grown more plenty at Woodstock since the arrival of Dr. +Rochecliffe, who, in quality of agent for several royalists, had +various sums of money at his disposal. By these funds it is likely that +Trusty Tomkins also derived his own full advantage. + +In his occasional indulgence in what he called a fleshly frailty, (and +for which he said he had a privilege,) which was in truth an attachment +to strong liquors, and that in no moderate degree, his language, at +other times remarkably decorous and reserved, became wild and animated. +He sometimes talked with all the unction of an old debauchee, of former +exploits, such as deer-stealing, orchard-robbing, drunken gambols, and +desperate affrays in which he had been engaged in the earlier part of +his life, sung bacchanalian and amorous ditties, dwelt sometimes upon +adventures which drove Phœbe Mayflower from the company, and penetrated +even the deaf ears of Dame Jellicot, so as to make the buttery in which +he held his carousals no proper place for the poor old woman. + +In the middle of these wild rants, Tomkins twice or thrice suddenly ran +into religious topics, and spoke mysteriously, but with great +animation, and a rich eloquence, on the happy and pre-eminent saints, +who were saints, as he termed them, indeed—Men who had stormed the +inner treasure-house of Heaven, and possessed themselves of its +choicest jewels. All other sects he treated with the utmost contempt, +as merely quarrelling, as he expressed it, like hogs over a trough +about husks and acorns; under which derogatory terms, he included alike +the usual rites and ceremonies of public devotion, the ordinances of +the established churches of Christianity, and the observances, nay, the +forbearances, enjoined by every class of Christians. Scarcely hearing, +and not at all understanding him, Joceline, who seemed his most +frequent confidant on such occasions, generally led him back into some +strain of rude mirth, or old recollection of follies before the Civil +Wars, without caring about or endeavouring to analyze the opinion of +this saint of an evil fashion, but fully sensible of the protection +which his presence afforded at Woodstock, and confident in the honest +meaning of so freespoken a fellow, to whom ale and brandy, when better +liquor was not to be come by, seemed to be principal objects of life, +and who drank a health to the King, or any one else, whenever required, +provided the cup in which he was to perform the libation were but a +brimmer. + +These peculiar doctrines, which were entertained by a sect sometimes +termed the Family of Love, but more commonly Ranters, had made some +progress in times when such variety of religious opinions were +prevalent, that men pushed the jarring heresies to the verge of +absolute and most impious insanity. Secrecy had been enjoined on these +frantic believers in a most blasphemous doctrine, by the fear of +consequences, should they come to be generally announced; and it was +the care of Master Tomkins to conceal the spiritual freedom which he +pretended to have acquired, from all whose resentment would have been +stirred by his public avowal of them. This was not difficult; for their +profession of faith permitted, nay, required their occasional +conformity with the sectaries or professors of any creed which chanced +to be uppermost. + +Tomkins had accordingly the art to pass himself on Dr. Rochecliffe as +still a zealous member of the Church of England, though serving under +the enemy’s colours, as a spy in their camp; and as he had on several +times given him true and valuable intelligence, this active intriguer +was the more easily induced to believe his professions. + +Nevertheless, lest this person’s occasional presence at the Lodge, +which there were perhaps no means to prevent without exciting +suspicion, should infer danger to the King’s person, Rochecliffe, +whatever confidence he otherwise reposed in him, recommended that, if +possible, the King should keep always out of his sight, and when +accidentally discovered, that he should only appear in the character of +Louis Kerneguy. Joseph Tomkins, he said, was, he really believed, +Honest Joe; but honesty was a horse which might be overburdened, and +there was no use in leading our neighbour into temptation. + +It seemed as if Tomkins himself had acquiesced in this limitation of +confidence exercised towards him, or that he wished to seem blinder +than he really was to the presence of this stranger in the family. It +occurred to Joceline, who was a very shrewd fellow, that once or twice, +when by inevitable accident Tomkins had met Kerneguy, he seemed less +interested in the circumstance than he would have expected from the +man’s disposition, which was naturally prying and inquisitive. “He +asked no questions about the young stranger,” said Joceline—“God avert +that he knows or suspects too much!” But his suspicions were removed, +when, in the course of their subsequent conversation, Joseph Tomkins +mentioned the King’s escape from Bristol as a thing positively certain, +and named both the vessel in which, he said, he had gone off, and the +master who commanded her, seeming so convinced of the truth of the +report, that Joceline judged it impossible he could have the slightest +suspicion of the reality. + +Yet, notwithstanding this persuasion, and the comradeship which had +been established between them, the faithful under-keeper resolved to +maintain a strict watch over his gossip Tomkins, and be in readiness to +give the alarm should occasion arise. True, he thought, he had reason +to believe that his said friend, notwithstanding his drunken and +enthusiastic rants, was as trustworthy as he was esteemed by Dr. +Rochecliffe; yet still he was an adventurer, the outside and lining of +whose cloak were of different colours, and a high reward, and pardon +for past acts of malignancy, might tempt him once more to turn his +tippet. For these reasons Joceline kept a strict, though unostentatious +watch over Trusty Tomkins. + +We have said, that the discreet seneschal was universally well received +at Woodstock, whether in the borough or at the Lodge, and that even +Joceline Joliffe was anxious to conceal any suspicions which he could +not altogether repress, under a great show of cordial hospitality. +There were, however, two individuals, who, for very different reasons, +nourished personal dislike against the individual so generally +acceptable. + +One was Nehemiah Holdenough, who remembered, with great bitterness of +spirit, the Independent’s violent intrusion into his pulpit, and who +ever spoke of him in private as a lying missionary, into whom Satan had +put a spirit of delusion; and preached, besides, a solemn sermon on the +subject of the false prophet, out of whose mouth came frogs. The +discourse was highly prized by the Mayor and most of the better class, +who conceived that their minister had struck a heavy blow at the very +root of Independency. On the other hand, those of the private spirit +contended, that Joseph Tomkins had made a successful and triumphant +rally, in an exhortation on the evening of the same day, in which he +proved, to the conviction of many handicraftsmen, that the passage in +Jeremiah, “The prophets prophesy falsely, and the priests bare rule by +their means,” was directly applicable to the Presbyterian system of +church government. The clergyman dispatched an account of his +adversary’s conduct to the Reverend Master Edwards, to be inserted in +the next edition of Gangraena, as a pestilent heretic; and Tomkins +recommended the parson to his master, Desborough, as a good subject on +whom to impose a round fine, for vexing the private spirit; assuring +him, at the same time, that though the minister might seem poor, yet if +a few troopers were quartered on him till the fine was paid, every rich +shopkeeper’s wife in the borough would rob the till, rather than go +without the mammon of unrighteousness with which to redeem their priest +from sufferance; holding, according to his expression, with Laban, “You +have taken from me my gods, and what have I more?” There was, of +course, little cordiality between the polemical disputants, when +religious debate took so worldly a turn. + +But Joe Tomkins was much more concerned at the evil opinion which +seemed to be entertained against him, by one whose good graces he was +greatly more desirous to obtain than those of Nehemiah Holdenough. This +was no other than pretty Mistress Phœbe Mayflower, for whose conversion +he had felt a strong vocation, ever since his lecture upon Shakspeare +on their first meeting at the Lodge. He seemed desirous, however, to +carry on this more serious work in private, and especially to conceal +his labours from his friend Joceline Joliffe, lest, perchance, he had +been addicted to jealousy. But it was in vain that he plied the +faithful damsel, sometimes with verses from the Canticles, sometimes +with quotations from Green’s Arcadia, or pithy passages from Venus and +Adonis, and doctrines of a nature yet more abstruse, from the popular +work entitled Aristotle’s Masterpiece. Unto no wooing of his, sacred or +profane, metaphysical or physical, would Phœbe Mayflower seriously +incline. + +The maiden loved Joceline Joliffe, on the one hand; and, on the other, +if she disliked Joseph Tomkins when she first saw him, as a rebellious +puritan, she had not been at all reconciled by finding reason to regard +him as a hypocritical libertine. She hated him in both capacities—never +endured his conversation when she could escape from it—and when obliged +to remain, listened to him only because she knew he had been so deeply +trusted, that to offend him might endanger the security of the family, +in the service of which she had been born and bred up, and to whose +interest she was devoted. For reasons somewhat similar, she did not +suffer her dislike of the steward to become manifest before Joceline +Joliffe, whose spirit, as a forester and a soldier, might have been +likely to bring matters to an arbitrement, in which the _couteau de +chasse_ and quarterstaff of her favourite, would have been too +unequally matched with the long rapier and pistols which his dangerous +rival always carried about his person. But it is difficult to blind +jealousy— when there is any cause of doubt; and perhaps the sharp watch +maintained by Joceline on his comrade, was prompted not only by his +zeal for the King’s safety, but by some vague suspicion that Tomkins +was not ill disposed to poach upon his own fair manor. + +Phœbe, in the meanwhile, like a prudent girl, sheltered herself as much +as possible by the presence of Goody Jellicot. Then, indeed, it is true +the Independent, or whatever he was, used to follow her with his +addresses to very little purpose; for Phœbe seemed as deaf, through +wilfulness, as the old matron by natural infirmity. This indifference +highly incensed her new lover, and induced him anxiously to watch for a +time and place, in which he might plead his suit with an energy that +should command attention. Fortune, that malicious goddess, who so often +ruins us by granting the very object of our vows, did at length procure +him such an opportunity as he had long coveted. + +It was about sunset, or shortly after, when Phœbe, upon whose activity +much of the domestic arrangements depended, went as far as fair +Rosamond’s spring to obtain water for the evening meal, or rather to +gratify the prejudice of the old knight, who believed that celebrated +fountain afforded the choicest supplies of the necessary element. Such +was the respect in which he was held by his whole family, that to +neglect any of his wishes that could be gratified, though with +inconvenience to themselves, would, in their estimation, have been +almost equal to a breach of religious duty. + +To fill the pitcher had, we know, been of late a troublesome task; but +Joceline’s ingenuity had so far rendered it easy, by repairing rudely a +part of the ruined front of the ancient fountain, that the water was +collected, and trickling along a wooden spout, dropped from a height of +about two feet. A damsel was thereby enabled to place her pitcher under +the slowly dropping supply, and, without toil to herself, might wait +till her vessel was filled. + +Phœbe Mayflower, on the evening we allude to, saw, for the first time, +this little improvement; and, justly considering it as a piece of +gallantry of her silvan admirer, designed to save her the trouble of +performing her task in a more inconvenient manner, she gratefully +employed the minutes of ease which the contrivance procured her, in +reflecting on the good-nature and ingenuity of the obliging engineer, +and perhaps in thinking he might have done as wisely to have waited +till she came to the fountain, that he might have secured personal +thanks for the trouble he had taken. But then she knew he was detained +in the buttery with that odious Tomkins, and rather than have seen the +Independent along with him, she would have renounced the thought of +meeting Joceline. + +As she was thus reflecting, Fortune was malicious enough to send +Tomkins to the fountain, and without Joceline. When she saw his figure +darken the path up which he came, an anxious reflection came over the +poor maiden’s breast, that she was alone, and within the verge of the +forest, where in general persons were prohibited to come during the +twilight, for fear of disturbing the deer settling to their repose. She +encouraged herself, however, and resolved to show no sense of fear, +although, as the steward approached, there was something in the man’s +look and eye no way calculated to allay her apprehensions. + +“The blessings of the evening upon you, my pretty maiden,” he said. “I +meet you even as the chief servant of Abraham, who was a steward like +myself, met Rebecca, the daughter of Bethuel, the son of Milcah, at the +well of the city of Nahor, in Mesopotamia. Shall I not, therefore, say +to you, set down thy pitcher that I may drink?” + +“The pitcher is at your service, Master Tomkins,” she replied, “and you +may drink as much as you will; but you have, I warrant, drank better +liquor, and that not long since.” + +It was, indeed, obvious that the steward had arisen from a revel, for +his features were somewhat flushed, though he had stopped far short of +intoxication. But Phœbe’s alarm at his first appearance was rather +increased when she observed how he had been lately employed. + +“I do but use my privilege, my pretty Rebecca; the earth is given to +the saints, and the fulness thereof. They shall occupy and enjoy it, +both the riches of the mine, and the treasures of the vine; and they +shall rejoice, and their hearts be merry within them. Thou hast yet to +learn the privileges of the saints, my Rebecca.” + +“My name is Phœbe,” said the maiden, in order to sober the enthusiastic +rapture which he either felt or affected. + +“Phœbe after the flesh,” he said, “but Rebecca being spiritualised; for +art thou not a wandering and stray sheep?—and am I not sent to fetch +thee within the fold?—Wherefore else was it said, Thou shalt find her +seated by the well, in the wood which is called after the ancient +harlot, Rosamond?” + +“You have found me sitting here sure enough,” said Phœbe; “but if you +wish to keep me company, you must walk to the Lodge with me; and you +shall carry my pitcher for me, if you will be so kind. I will hear all +the good things you have to say to me as we go along. But Sir Henry +calls for his glass of water regularly before prayers.” + +“What!” exclaimed Tomkins, “hath the old man of bloody hand and +perverse heart sent thee hither to do the work of a bondswoman? Verily +thou shalt return enfranchised; and for the water thou hast drawn for +him, it shall be poured forth, even as David caused to be poured forth +the water of the well of Bethlehem.” + +So saying, he emptied the water pitcher, in spite of Phœbe’s +exclamations and entreaties. He then replaced the vessel beneath the +little conduit, and continued:—“Know that this shall be a token to +thee. The filling of that pitcher shall be like the running of a +sand-glass; and if within the time which shall pass ere it rises to the +brim, thou shalt listen to the words which I shall say to thee, then it +shall be well with thee, and thy place shall be high among those who, +forsaking the instruction which is as milk for babes and sucklings, eat +the strong food which nourishes manhood. But if the pitcher shall +overbrim with water ere thy ear shall hear and understand, thou shalt +then be given as a prey, and as a bondsmaiden, unto those who shall +possess the fat and the fair of the earth.” + +“You frighten me, Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, “though I am sure you do +not mean to do so. I wonder how you dare speak words so like the good +words in the Bible, when you know how you laughed at your own master, +and all the rest of them—when you helped to play the hobgoblins at the +Lodge.” + +“Think’st thou then, thou simple fool, that in putting that deceit upon +Harrison and the rest, I exceeded my privileges?—Nay, verily.—Listen to +me, foolish girl. When in former days I lived the most wild, malignant +rakehell in Oxfordshire, frequenting wakes and fairs, dancing around +May-poles, and showing my lustihood at football and cudgel-playing—Yea, +when I was called, in the language of the uncircumcised, Philip +Hazeldine, and was one of the singers in the choir, and one of the +ringers in the steeple, and served the priest yonder, by name +Rochecliffe, I was not farther from the straight road than when, after +long reading, I at length found one blind guide after another, all +burners of bricks in Egypt. I left them one by one, the poor tool +Harrison being the last; and by my own unassisted strength, I have +struggled forward to the broad and blessed light, whereof thou too, +Phœbe, shalt be partaker.” + +“I thank you, Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, suppressing some fear under +an appearance of indifference; “but I shall have light enough to carry +home my pitcher, would you but let me take it; and that is all the want +of light I shall have this evening.” + +So saying, she stooped to take the pitcher from the fountain; but he +snatched hold of her by the arm, and prevented her from accomplishing +her purpose. Phœbe, however, was the daughter of a bold forester, +prompt at thoughts of self-defence; and though she missed getting hold +of the pitcher, she caught up instead a large pebble, which she kept +concealed in her right hand. + +“Stand up, foolish maiden, and listen,” said the Independent, sternly; +“and know, in one word, that sin, for which the spirit of man is +punished with the vengeance of Heaven, lieth not in the corporal act, +but in the thought of the sinner. Believe, lovely Phœbe, that to the +pure all acts are pure, and that sin is in our thought, not in our +actions—even as the radiance of the day is dark to a blind man, but +seen and enjoyed by him whose eyes receive it. To him who is but a +novice in the things of the spirit, much is enjoined, much is +prohibited; and he is fed with milk fit for babes—for him are +ordinances, prohibitions, and commands. But the saint is above these +ordinances and restraints.—To him, as to the chosen child of the house, +is given the pass-key to open all locks which withhold him from the +enjoyment of his heart’s desire. Into such pleasant paths will I guide +thee, lovely Phœbe, as shall unite in joy, in innocent freedom, +pleasures, which, to the unprivileged, are sinful and prohibited.” “I +really wish, Master Tomkins, you would let me go home.” said Phœbe, not +comprehending the nature of his doctrine, but disliking at once his +words and his manner. He went on, however, with the accursed and +blasphemous doctrines, which, in common with others of the pretended +saints, he had adopted, after having long shifted from one sect to +another, until he settled in the vile belief, that sin, being of a +character exclusively spiritual, only existed in the thoughts, and that +the worst actions were permitted to those who had attained to the pitch +of believing themselves above ordinance. “Thus, my Phœbe,” he +continued, endeavouring to draw her towards him “I can offer thee more +than ever was held out to woman since Adam first took his bride by the +hand. It shall be for others to stand dry-lipped, doing penance, like +papists, by abstinence, when the vessel of pleasure pours forth its +delights. Dost thou love money?—I have it, and can procure more—am at +liberty to procure it on every hand, and by every means—the earth is +mine and its fulness. Do you desire power?—which of these poor cheated +commissioner-fellows’ estates dost thou covet, I will work it out for +thee; for I deal with a mightier spirit than any of them. And it is not +without warrant that I have aided the malignant Rochecliffe, and the +clown Joliffe, to frighten and baffle them in the guise they did. Ask +what thou wilt, Phœbe, I can give, or I can procure it for thee—Then +enter with me into a life of delight in this world, which shall prove +but an anticipation of the joys of Paradise hereafter!” + +Again the fanatical voluptuary endeavoured to pull the poor girl +towards him, while she, alarmed, but not scared out of her presence of +mind, endeavoured, by fair entreaty, to prevail on him to release her. +But his features, in themselves not marked, had acquired a frightful +expression, and he exclaimed, “No, Phœbe—do not think to escape—thou +art given to me as a captive—thou hast neglected the hour of grace, and +it has glided past—See, the water trickles over thy pitcher, which was +to be a sign between us—Therefore I will urge thee no more with words, +of which thou art not worthy, but treat thee as a recusant of offered +grace.” + +“Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, in an imploring tone, “consider, for +God’s sake, I am a fatherless child—do me no injury, it would be a +shame to your strength and your manhood—I cannot understand your fine +words—I will think on them till to-morrow.” Then, in rising resentment, +she added more vehemently—“I will not be used rudely—stand off, or I +will do you a mischief.” But, as he pressed upon her with a violence, +of which the object could not be mistaken, and endeavoured to secure +her right hand, she exclaimed, “Take it then, with a wanion to +you!”—and struck him an almost stunning blow on the face, with the +pebble which she held ready for such an extremity. + +The fanatic let her go, and staggered backward, half stupified; while +Phœbe instantly betook herself to flight, screaming for help as she +ran, but still grasping the victorious pebble. Irritated to frenzy by +the severe blow which he had received, Tomkins pursued, with every +black passion in his soul and in his face, mingled with fear least his +villany should be discovered. He called on Phœbe loudly to stop, and +had the brutality to menace her with one of his pistols if she +continued to fly. Yet she slacked not her pace for his threats, and he +must either have executed them, or seen her escape to carry the tale to +the Lodge, had she not unhappily stumbled over the projecting root of a +fir-tree. But as he rushed upon his prey, rescue interposed in the +person of Joceline Joliffe, with his quarterstaff on his shoulder. “How +now? what means this?” he said, stepping between Phœbe and her pursuer. +Tomkins, already roused to fury, made no other answer than by +discharging at Joceline the pistol which he held in his hand. The ball +grazed the under keeper’s face, who, in requital of the assault, and +saying “Aha! Let ash answer iron,” applied his quarterstaff with so +much force to the Independent’s head, that lighting on the left temple, +the blow proved almost instantly mortal. + +A few convulsive struggles were accompanied with these broken words,— +“Joceline—I am gone—but I forgive thee—Doctor Rochecliffe—I wish I had +minded more—Oh!—the clergyman—the funeral service”—As he uttered these +words, indicative, it may be, of his return to a creed, which perhaps +he had never abjured so thoroughly as he had persuaded himself, his +voice was lost in a groan, which, rattling in the throat, seemed unable +to find its way to the air. These were the last symptoms of life: the +clenched hands presently relaxed—the closed eyes opened, and stared on +the heavens a lifeless jelly—the limbs extended themselves and +stiffened. The body, which was lately animated with life, was now a +lump of senseless clay—the soul, dismissed from its earthly tenement in +a moment so unhallowed, was gone before the judgment-seat. + +“Oh, what have you done?—what have you done, Joceline!” exclaimed +Phœbe; “you have killed the man!” + +“Better than he should have killed me,” answered Joceline; “for he was +none of the blinkers that miss their mark twice running.—And yet I am +sorry for him.—Many a merry bout have we had together when he was wild +Philip Hazeldine, and then he was bad enough; but since he daubed over +his vices with hypocrisy, he seems to have proved worse devil than +ever.” + +“Oh, Joceline, come away,” said poor Phœbe, “and do not stand gazing on +him thus;” for the woodsman, resting on his fatal weapon, stood looking +down on the corpse with the appearance of a man half stunned at the +event. + +“This comes of the ale pitcher,” she continued, in the true style of +female consolation, “as I have often told you—For Heaven’s sake, come +to the Lodge, and let us consult what is to be done.” + +“Stay first, girl, and let me drag him out of the path; we must not +have him lie herein all men’s sight—Will you not help me, wench?” + +“I cannot, Joceline—I would not touch a lock on him for all Woodstock.” + +“I must to this gear myself, then,” said Joceline, who, a soldier as +well as a woodsman, still had great reluctance to the necessary task. +Something in the face and broken words of the dying man had made a deep +and terrific impression on nerves not easily shaken. He accomplished +it, however, so far as to drag the late steward out of the open path, +and bestow his body amongst the undergrowth of brambles and briers, so +as not to be visible unless particularly looked for. He then returned +to Phœbe, who had sate speechless all the while beneath the tree over +whose roots she had stumbled. + +“Come away, wench,” he said, “come away to the Lodge, and let us study +how this is to be answered for—the mishap of his being killed will +strangely increase our danger. What had he sought of thee, wench, when +you ran from him like a madwoman?—But I can guess—Phil was always a +devil among the girls, and I think, as Doctor Rochecliffe says, that, +since he turned saint, he took to himself seven devils worse than +himself.—Here is the very place where I saw him, with his sword in his +hand raised against the old knight, and he a child of the parish—it was +high treason at least—but, by my faith, he hath paid for it at last.” + +“But, oh, Joceline,” said Phœbe, “how could you take so wicked a man +into your counsels, and join him in all his plots about scaring the +roundhead gentlemen?” + +“Why look thee, wench, I thought I knew him at the first meeting +especially when Bevis, who was bred here when he was a dog-leader, +would not fly at him; and when we made up our old acquaintance at the +Lodge, I found he kept up a close correspondence with Doctor +Rochecliffe, who was persuaded that he was a good King’s man, and held +consequently good intelligence with him.—The doctor boasts to have +learned much through his means; I wish to Heaven he may not have been +as communicative in turn.” + +“Oh, Joceline,” said the waiting-woman, “you should never have let him +within the gate of the Lodge!” + +“No more I would, if I had known how to keep him out; but when he went +so frankly into our scheme, and told me how I was to dress myself like +Robinson the player, whose ghost haunted Harrison—I wish no ghost may +haunt me!—when he taught me how to bear myself to terrify his lawful +master, what could I think, wench? I only trust the Doctor has kept the +great secret of all from his knowledge.—But here we are at the Lodge. +Go to thy chamber, wench, and compose thyself. I must seek out Doctor +Rochecliffe; he is ever talking of his quick and ready invention. Here +come times, I think, that will demand it all.” + +Phœbe went to her chamber accordingly; but the strength arising from +the pressure of danger giving way when the danger was removed, she +quickly fell into a succession of hysterical fits, which required the +constant attention of Dame Jellicot, and the less alarmed, but more +judicious care of Mistress Alice, before they even abated in their +rapid recurrence. + +The under-keeper carried his news to the politic Doctor, who was +extremely disconcerted, alarmed, nay angry with Joceline, for having +slain a person on whose communications he had accustomed himself to +rely. Yet his looks declared his suspicion, whether his confidence had +not been too rashly conferred—a suspicion which pressed him the more +anxiously, that he was unwilling to avow it, as a derogation from his +character for shrewdness, on which he valued himself. + +Dr. Rochecliffe’s reliance, however, on the fidelity of Tomkins, had +apparently good grounds. Before the Civil Wars, as may be partly +collected from what has been already hinted at, Tomkins, under his true +name of Hazeldine, had been under the protection of the Rector of +Woodstock, occasionally acted as his clerk, was a distinguished member +of his choir, and, being a handy and ingenious fellow, was employed in +assisting the antiquarian researches of Dr. Rochecliffe through the +interior of Woodstock. When he engaged in the opposite side in the +Civil Wars, he still kept up his intelligence with the divine, to whom +he had afforded what seemed valuable information from time to time. His +assistance had latterly been eminently useful in aiding the Doctor, +with the assistance of Joceline and Phœbe, in contriving and executing +the various devices by which the Parliamentary Commissioners had been +expelled from Woodstock. Indeed, his services in this respect had been +thought worthy of no less a reward than a present of what plate +remained at the Lodge, which had been promised to the Independent +accordingly. The Doctor, therefore, while admitting he might be a bad +man, regretted him as a useful one, whose death, if enquired after, was +likely to bring additional danger on a house which danger already +surrounded, and which contained a pledge so precious. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. + + +_Cassio_. That thrust had been my enemy indeed, +But that my coat is better than thou know’st. + + +OTHELLO. + + +On the dark October night succeeding the evening on which Tomkins was +slain, Colonel Everard, besides his constant attendant Roger Wildrake, +had Master Nehemiah Holdenough with him as a guest at supper. The +devotions of the evening having been performed according to the +Presbyterian fashion, a light entertainment, and a double quart of +burnt claret, were placed before his friends at nine o’clock, an hour +unusually late. Master Holdenough soon engaged himself in a polemical +discourse against Sectaries and Independents, without being aware that +his eloquence was not very interesting to his principal hearer, whose +ideas in the meanwhile wandered to Woodstock and all which it +contained—the Prince, who lay concealed there—his uncle—above all, +Alice Lee. As for Wildrake, after bestowing a mental curse both on +Sectaries and Presbyterians, as being, in his opinion, never a barrel +the better herring, he stretched out his limbs, and would probably have +composed himself to rest, but that he as well as his patron had +thoughts which murdered sleep. + +The party were waited upon by a little gipsy-looking boy, in an +orange-tawny doublet, much decayed, and garnished with blue worsted +lace. The rogue looked somewhat stinted in size, but active both in +intelligence and in limb, as his black eyes seemed to promise by their +vivacity. He was an attendant of Wildrake’s choice, who had conferred +on him the _nom de guerre_ of Spitfire, and had promised him promotion +so soon as his young protegé, Breakfast, was fit to succeed him in his +present office. It need scarce be said that the manege was maintained +entirely at the expense of Colonel Everard, who allowed Wildrake to +arrange the household very much according to his pleasure. The page did +not omit, in offering the company wine from time to time, to +accommodate Wildrake with about twice the number of opportunities of +refreshing himself which he considered it necessary to afford to the +Colonel or his reverend guest. + +While they were thus engaged, the good divine lost in his own argument, +and the hearers in their private thoughts, their attention was about +half-past ten arrested by a knocking at the door of the house. To those +who have anxious hearts, trifles give cause of alarm. + +Even a thing so simple as a knock at the door may have a character +which excites apprehension. This was no quiet gentle tap, intimating a +modest intruder; no redoubled rattle, as the pompous annunciation of +some vain person; neither did it resemble the formal summons to formal +business, nor the cheerful visit of some welcome friend. It was a +single blow, solemn and stern, if not actually menacing in the sound. +The door was opened by some of the persons of the house; a heavy foot +ascended the stair, a stout man entered the room, and drawing the cloak +from his face, said, “Markham Everard, I greet thee in God’s name.” + +It was General Cromwell. + +Everard, surprised and taken at unawares, endeavoured in vain to find +words to express his astonishment. A bustle occurred in receiving the +General, assisting him to uncloak himself, and offering in dumb show +the civilities of reception. The General cast his keen eye around the +apartment, and fixing it first on the divine, addressed Everard as +follows: “A reverend man I see is with thee. Thou art not one of those, +good Markham, who let the time unnoted and unimproved pass away. +Casting aside the things of this world—pressing forward to those of the +next—it is by thus using our time in this poor seat of terrestrial sin +and care, that we may, as it were—But how is this?” he continued, +suddenly changing his tone, and speaking briefly, sharply, and +anxiously; “one hath left the room since I entered?” + +Wildrake had, indeed, been absent for a minute or two, but had now +returned, and stepped forward from a bay window, as if he had been out +of sight only, not out of the apartment. “Not so, sir; I stood but in +the background out of respect. Noble General, I hope all is well with +the Estate, that your Excellency makes us so late a visit? Would not +your Excellency choose some”— + +“Ah!” said Oliver, looking sternly and fixedly at him—“Our trusty +Go-between—our faithful confidant.—No, sir; at present I desire nothing +more than a kind reception, which, methinks, my friend Markham Everard +is in no hurry to give me.” + +“You bring your own welcome, my lord,” said Everard, compelling himself +to speak. “I can only trust it was no bad news that made your +Excellency a late traveller, and ask, like my follower, what +refreshment I shall command for your accommodation.” + +“The state is sound and healthy, Colonel Everard,” said the General; +“and yet the less so, that many of its members, who have been hitherto +workers together, and propounders of good counsel, and advancers of the +public weal, have now waxed cold in their love and in their affection +for the Good Cause, for which we should be ready, in our various +degrees, to act and do so soon as we are called to act that whereunto +we are appointed, neither rashly nor over-slothfully, neither +lukewarmly nor over-violently, but with such a frame and disposition, +in which zeal and charity may, as it were, meet and kiss each other in +our streets. Howbeit, because we look back after we have put our hand +to the plough, therefore is our force waxed dim.” + +“Pardon me, sir,” said Nehemiah Holdenough, who, listening with some +impatience, began to guess in whose company he stood—“Pardon me, for +unto this I have a warrant to speak.” + +“Ah! ah!” said Cromwell. “Surely, most worthy sir, we grieve the Spirit +when we restrain those pourings forth, which, like water from a rock”— + +“Nay, therein I differ from you, sir,” said Holdenough; “for as there +is the mouth to transmit the food, and the profit to digest what Heaven +hath sent; so is the preacher ordained to teach and the people to hear; +the shepherd to gather the flock into the sheepfold, the sheep to +profit by the care of the shepherd.” + +“Ah! my worthy sir,” said Cromwell, with much unction, “methinks you +verge upon the great mistake, which supposes that churches are tall +large houses built by masons, and hearers are men—wealthy men, who pay +tithes, the larger as well as the less; and that the priests, men in +black gowns or grey cloaks, who receive the same, are in guerdon the +only distributors of Christian blessings; whereas, in my apprehension, +there is more of Christian liberty in leaving it to the discretion of +the hungry soul to seek his edification where it can be found, whether +from the mouth of a lay teacher, who claimeth his warrant from Heaven +alone, or at the dispensation of those who take ordinations and degrees +from synods and universities, at best but associations of poor sinful +creatures like themselves.” + +“You speak you know not what, sir,” replied Holdenough, impatiently. +“Can light come out of darkness, sense out of ignorance, or knowledge +of the mysteries of religion from such ignorant mediciners as give +poisons instead of wholesome medicaments, and cram with filth the +stomachs of such as seek to them for food?” This, which the +Presbyterian divine uttered rather warmly, the General answered with +the utmost mildness. + +“Lack-a-day, lack-a-day! a learned man, but intemperate; over-zeal hath +eaten him up.—A well-a-day, sir, you may talk of your regular +gospel-meals, but a word spoken in season by one whose heart is with +your heart, just perhaps when you are riding on to encounter an enemy, +or are about to mount a breach, is to the poor spirit like a rasher on +the coals, which the hungry shall find preferable to a great banquet, +at such times when the full soul loatheth the honey-comb. Nevertheless, +although I speak thus in my poor judgment, I would not put force on the +conscience of any man, leaving to the learned to follow the learned, +and the wise to be instructed by the wise, while poor simple wretched +souls are not to be denied a drink from the stream which runneth by the +way.—Ay, verily, it will be a comely sight in England when men shall go +on as in a better world, bearing with each other’s infirmities, joining +in each other’s comforts.—Ay, truly, the rich drink out of silver +flagons, and goblets of silver, the poor out of paltry bowls of +wood—and even so let it be, since they both drink the same element.” + +Here an officer opened the door and looked in, to whom Cromwell, +exchanging the canting drawl, in which it seemed he might have gone on +interminably, for the short brief tone of action, called out, “Pearson, +is he come?” + +“No, sir,” replied Pearson; “we have enquired for him at the place you +noted, and also at other haunts of his about the town.” + +“The knave!” said Cromwell, with bitter emphasis; “can he have proved +false?—No, no, his interest is too deeply engaged. We shall find him by +and by. Hark thee hither.” + +While this conversation was going forward, the reader must imagine the +alarm of Everard. He was certain that the personal attendance of +Cromwell must be on some most important account, and he could not but +strongly suspect that the General had some information respecting +Charles’s lurking place. If taken, a renewal of the tragedy of the 30th +of January was instantly to be apprehended, and the ruin of the whole +family of Lee, with himself probably included, must be the necessary +consequence. + +He looked eagerly for consolation at Wildrake, whose countenance +expressed much alarm, which he endeavoured to bear out with his usual +look of confidence. But the weight within was too great; he shuffled +with his feet, rolled his eyes, and twisted his hands, like an +unassured witness before an acute and not to be deceived judge. + +Oliver, meanwhile, left his company not a minute’s leisure to take +counsel together. Even while his perplexed eloquence flowed on in a +stream so mazy that no one could discover which way its course was +tending, his sharp watchful eye rendered all attempts of Everard to +hold communication with Wildrake, even by signs, altogether vain. +Everard, indeed, looked for an instant at the window, then glanced at +Wildrake, as if to hint there might be a possibility to escape that +way. But the cavalier had replied with a disconsolate shake of the +head, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. Everard, therefore, lost +all hope, and the melancholy feeling of approaching and inevitable +evil, was only varied by anxiety concerning the shape and manner in +which it was about to make its approach. + +But Wildrake had a spark of hope left. The very instant Cromwell +entered he had got out of the room, and down to the door of the house. +“Back— back!” repeated by two armed sentinels, convinced him that, as +his fears had anticipated, the General had come neither unattended nor +unprepared. He turned on his heel, ran up stairs, and meeting on the +landing-place the boy whom he called Spitfire, hurried him into the +small apartment which he occupied as his own. Wildrake had been +shooting that morning, and game lay on the table. He pulled a feather +from a woodcock’s wing, and saying hastily, “For thy life, Spitfire, +mind my orders—I will put thee safe out at the window into the +court—the yard wall is not high—and there will be no sentry there—Fly +to the Lodge, as thou wouldst win Heaven, and give this feather to +Mistress Alice Lee, if possible—if not, to Joceline Joliffe—say I have +won the wages of the young lady. Dost mark me, boy?” + +The sharp-witted youth clapped his hand in his master’s, and only +replied, “Done, and done.” + +Wildrake opened the window, and, though the height was considerable, he +contrived to let the boy down safely by holding his cloak. A heap of +straw on which Spitfire lighted rendered the descent perfectly safe, +and Wildrake saw him scramble over the wall of the court-yard, at the +angle which bore on a back lane; and so rapidly was this accomplished, +that the cavalier had just re-entered the room, when, the bustle +attending Cromwell’s arrival subsiding, his own absence began to be +noticed. + +He remained during Cromwell’s lecture on the vanity of creeds, anxious +in mind whether he might not have done better to send an explicit +verbal message, since there was no time to write. But the chance of the +boy being stopped, or becoming confused with feeling himself the +messenger of a hurried and important communication, made him, on the +whole, glad that he had preferred a more enigmatical way of conveying +the intelligence. He had, therefore, the advantage of his patron, for +he was conscious still of a spark of hope. + +Pearson had scarce shut the door, when Holdenough, as ready in arms +against the future Dictator as he had been prompt to encounter the +supposed phantoms and fiends of Woodstock, resumed his attack upon the +schismatics, whom he undertook to prove to be at once soul-slayers, +false brethren, and false messengers; and was proceeding to allege +texts in behalf of his proposition, when Cromwell, apparently tired of +the discussion, and desirous to introduce a discourse more accordant +with his real feelings, interrupted him, though very civilly, and took +the discourse into his own hands. + +“Lack-a-day,” he said, “the good man speaks truth, according to his +knowledge and to his lights,—ay, bitter truths, and hard to be +digested, while we see as men see, and not with the eyes of angels.— +False messengers, said the reverend man?—ay, truly, the world is full +of such. You shall see them who will carry your secret message to the +house of your mortal foe, and will say to him, ‘Lo! my master is going +forth with a small train, by such and such desolate places; be you +speedy, therefore, that you may arise and slay him.’ And another, who +knoweth where the foe of your house, and enemy of your person, lies +hidden, shall, instead of telling his master thereof, carry tidings to +the enemy even where he lurketh, saying, ‘Lo! my master knoweth of your +secret abode—up now, and fly, lest he come on thee like a lion on his +prey.’—But shall this go without punishment?” looking at Wildrake with +a withering glance. “Now, as my soul liveth, and as He liveth who hath +made me a ruler in Israel, such false messengers shall be knitted to +gibbets on the wayside, and their right hands shall be nailed above +their heads, in an extended position, as if pointing out to others the +road from which they themselves have strayed!” + +“Surely,” said Master Holdenough, “it is right to cut off such +offenders.” + +“Thank ye, Mass-John,” muttered Wildrake; “when did the Presbyterian +fail to lend the devil a shove?” + +“But, I say,” continued Holdenough, “that the matter is estranged from +our present purpose, for the false brethren of whom I spoke are”— + +“Right, excellent sir, they be those of our own house,” answered +Cromwell; “the good man is right once more. Ay, of whom can we now say +that he is a true brother, although he has lain in the same womb with +us? Although we have struggled in the same cause, eat at the same +table, fought in the same battle, worshipped at the same throne, there +shall be no truth in him.—Ah, Markham Everard, Markham Everard!” + +He paused at this ejaculation; and Everard, desirous at once of knowing +how far he stood committed, replied, “Your Excellency seems to have +something in your mind in which I am concerned. May I request you will +speak it out, that I may know what I am accused of?” + +“Ah, Mark, Mark,” replied the General, “there needeth no accuser speak +when the still small voice speaks within us. Is there not moisture on +thy brow, Mark Everard? Is there not trouble in thine eye? Is there not +a failure in thy frame? And who ever saw such things in noble and stout +Markham Everard, whose brow was only moist after having worn the helmet +for a summer’s day; whose hand only shook when it had wielded for hours +the weighty falchion?—But go to, man! thou doubtest over much. Hast +thou not been to me as a brother, and shall I not forgive thee even the +seventy-seventh time? The knave hath tarried somewhere, who should have +done by this time an office of much import. Take advantage of his +absence, Mark; it is a grace that God gives thee beyond expectance. I +do not say, fall at my feet; but speak to me as a friend to his +friend.” + +“I have never said any thing to your Excellency that was in the least +undeserving the title you have assigned to me,” said Colonel Everard, +proudly. + +“Nay, nay, Markham,” answered Cromwell; “I say not you have. But—but +you ought to have remembered the message I sent you by that person” +(pointing to Wildrake;) “and you must reconcile it with your +conscience, how, having such a message, guarded with such reasons, you +could think yourself at liberty to expel my friends from Woodstock, +being determined to disappoint my object, whilst you availed yourself +of the boon, on condition of which my warrant was issued.” + +Everard was about to reply, when, to his astonishment, Wildrake stepped +forward; and with a voice and look very different from his ordinary +manner, and approaching a good deal to real dignity of mind, said, +boldly and calmly, “You are mistaken, Master Cromwell; and address +yourself to the wrong party here.” + +The speech was so sudden and intrepid that Cromwell stepped a pace +back, and motioned with his right hand towards his weapon, as if he had +expected that an address of a nature so unusually bold was to be +followed by some act of violence. He instantly resumed his indifferent +posture; and, irritated at a smile which he observed on Wildrake’s +countenance, he said, with the dignity of one long accustomed to see +all tremble before him, “This to me, fellow! Know you to whom you +speak?” + +“Fellow!” echoed Wildrake, whose reckless humour was now completely set +afloat—“No fellow of yours, Master Oliver. I have known the day when +Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln, a handsome young gallant, +with a good estate, would have been thought no fellow of the bankrupt +brewer of Huntingdon.” + +“Be silent!” said Everard; “be silent, Wildrake, if you love your +life!” + +“I care not a maravedi for my life,” said Wildrake. “Zounds, if he +dislikes what I say, let him take to his tools! I know, after all, he +hath good blood in his veins! and I will indulge him with a turn in the +court yonder, had he been ten times a brewer.” + +“Such ribaldry, friend,” said Oliver, “I treat with the contempt it +deserves. But if thou hast any thing to say touching the matter in +question speak out like a man, though thou look’st more like a beast.” + +“All I have to say is,” replied Wildrake, “that whereas you blame +Everard for acting on your warrant, as you call it, I can tell you he +knew not a word of the rascally conditions you talk of. I took care of +that; and you may take the vengeance on me, if you list.” + +“Slave! dare you tell this to _me_?” said Cromwell, still heedfully +restraining his passion, which he felt was about to discharge itself +upon an unworthy object. + +“Ay, you will make every Englishman a slave, if you have your own way,” +said Wildrake, not a whit abashed;—for the awe which had formerly +overcome him when alone with this remarkable man, had vanished, now +that they were engaged in an altercation before witnesses.—“But do your +worst, Master Oliver; I tell you beforehand, the bird has escaped you.” + +“You dare not say so!—Escaped?—So ho! Pearson! tell the soldiers to +mount instantly.—Thou art a lying fool!—Escaped?—Where, or from +whence?” + +“Ay, that is the question,” said Wildrake; “for look you, sir—that men +do go from hence is certain—but how they go, or to what quarter”— + +Cromwell stood attentive, expecting some useful hint from the careless +impetuosity of the cavalier, upon the route which the King might have +taken. + +—“Or to what quarter, as I said before, why, your Excellency, Master +Oliver, may e’en find that out yourself.” + +As he uttered the last words he unsheathed his rapier, and made a full +pass at the General’s body. Had his sword met no other impediment than +the buff jerkin, Cromwell’s course had ended on the spot. But, fearful +of such attempts, the General wore under his military dress a shirt of +the finest mail, made of rings of the best steel, and so light and +flexible that it was little or no encumbrance to the motions of the +wearer. It proved his safety on this occasion, for the rapier sprung in +shivers; while the owner, now held back by Everard and Holdenough, +flung the hilt with passion on the ground, exclaiming, “Be damned the +hand that forged thee!—To serve me so long, and fail me when thy true +service would have honoured us both for ever! But no good could come of +thee, since thou wert pointed, even in jest, at a learned divine of the +Church of England.” + +In the first instant of alarm,—and perhaps suspecting Wildrake might be +supported by others, Cromwell half drew from his bosom a concealed +pistol, which he hastily returned, observing that both Everard and the +clergyman were withholding the cavalier from another attempt. + +Pearson and a soldier or two rushed in—“Secure that fellow,” said the +General, in the indifferent tone of one to whom imminent danger was too +familiar to cause irritation—“Bind him—but not so hard, Pearson;”—for +the men, to show their zeal, were drawing their belts, which they used +for want of cords, brutally tight round Wildrake’s limbs. “He would +have assassinated me, but I would reserve him for his fit doom.” + +“Assassinated!—I scorn your words, Master Oliver,” said Wildrake; “I +proffered you a fair duello.” + +“Shall we shoot him in the street, for an example?” said Pearson to +Cromwell; while Everard endeavoured to stop Wildrake from giving +further offence. + +“On your life harm him not; but let him be kept in safe ward, and well +looked after,” said Cromwell; while the prisoner exclaimed to Everard, +“I prithee let me alone—I am now neither thy follower, nor any man’s, +and I am as willing to die as ever I was to take a cup of liquor.—And +hark ye, speaking of that, Master Oliver, you were once a jolly fellow, +prithee let one of thy lobsters here advance yonder tankard to my lips, +and your Excellency shall hear a toast, a song, and a—secret.” + +“Unloose his head, and hand the debauched beast the tankard,” said +Oliver; “while yet he exists, it were shame to refuse him the element +he lives in.” + +“Blessings on your head for once,” said Wildrake, whose object in +continuing this wild discourse was, if possible, to gain a little +delay, when every moment was precious. “Thou hast brewed good ale, and +that’s warrant for a blessing. For my toast and my song, here they go +together— + +Son of a witch, +Mayst thou die in a ditch, + With the hutchers who back thy quarrels; +And rot above ground, +While the world shall resound + A welcome to Royal King Charles. + + +And now for my secret, that you may not say I had your liquor for +nothing—I fancy my song will scarce pass current for much—My secret is, +Master Cromwell—that the bird is flown—and your red nose will be as +white as your winding-sheet before you can smell out which way.” + +“Pshaw, rascal,” answered Cromwell, contemptuously, “keep your scurrile +jests for the gibbet foot.” + +“I shall look on the gibbet more boldly,” replied Wildrake, “than I +have seen you look on the Royal Martyr’s picture.” + +This reproach touched Cromwell to the very quick.—“Villain!” he +exclaimed; “drag him hence, draw out a party, and—But hold, not now—to +prison with him—let him be close watched, and gagged, if he attempts to +speak to the sentinels—Nay, hold—I mean, put a bottle of brandy into +his cell, and he will gag himself in his own way, I warrant you—When +day comes, that men can see the example, he shall be gagged after my +fashion.” + +During the various breaks in his orders, the General was evidently +getting command of his temper; and though he began in fury, he ended +with the contemptuous sneer of one who overlooks the abusive language +of an inferior. Something remained on his mind notwithstanding, for he +continued standing, as if fixed to the same spot in the apartment, his +eyes bent on the ground, and with closed hand pressed against his lips, +like a man who is musing deeply. Pearson, who was about to speak to +him, drew back, and made a sign to those in the room to be silent. + +Master Holdenough did not mark, or, at least, did not obey it. +Approaching the General, he said, in a respectful but firm tone, “Did I +understand it to be your Excellency’s purpose that this poor man shall +die next morning?” + +“Hah!” exclaimed Cromwell, starting from his reverie, “what say’st +thou?” + +“I took leave to ask, if it was your will that this unhappy man should +die to-morrow?” + +“Whom saidst thou?” demanded Cromwell: “Markham Everard—shall he die, +saidst thou?” + +“God forbid!” replied Holdenough, stepping back—“I asked whether this +blinded creature, Wildrake, was to be so suddenly cut off?” + +“Ay, marry is he,” said Cromwell, “were the whole General Assembly of +Divines at Westminster—the whole Sanhedrim of Presbytery—to offer bail +for him.” + +“If you will not think better of it, sir,” said Holdenough, “at least +give not the poor man the means of destroying his senses—Let me go to +him as a divine, to watch with him, in case he may yet be admitted into +the vineyard at the latest hour—yet brought into the sheepfold, though +he has neglected the call of the pastor till time is wellnigh closed +upon him.” + +“For God’s sake,” said Everard, who had hitherto kept silence, because +he knew Cromwell’s temper on such occasions, “think better of what you +do!” + +“Is it for thee to teach me?” replied Cromwell; “think thou of thine +own matters, and believe me it will require all thy wit.—And for you, +reverend sir, I will have no father-confessors attend my prisoners—no +tales out of school. If the fellow thirsts after ghostly comfort, as he +is much more like to thirst after a quartern of brandy, there is +Corporal Humgudgeon, who commands the _corps de garde_, will preach and +pray as well as the best of ye.—But this delay is intolerable—Comes not +this fellow yet?” + +“No, sir,” replied Pearson. “Had we not better go down to the Lodge? +The news of our coming hither may else get there before us.” + +“True,” said Cromwell, speaking aside to his officer, “but you know +Tomkins warned us against doing so, alleging there were so many +postern-doors, and sallyports, and concealed entrances in the old +house, that it was like a rabbit-warren, and that an escape might be +easily made under our very noses, unless he were with us, to point out +all the ports which should be guarded. He hinted, too, that he might be +delayed a few minutes after his time of appointment—but we have now +waited half-an-hour.” + +“Does your Excellency think Tomkins is certainly to be depended upon?” +said Pearson. + +“As far as his interest goes, unquestionably,” replied the General. “He +has ever been the pump by which I have sucked the marrow out of many a +plot, in special those of the conceited fool Rochecliffe, who is goose +enough to believe that such a fellow as Tomkins would value any thing +beyond the offer of the best bidder. And yet it groweth late—I fear we +must to the Lodge without him—Yet, all things well considered, I will +tarry here till midnight.—Ah! Everard, thou mightest put this gear to +rights if thou wilt! Shall some foolish principle of fantastic +punctilio have more weight with thee, man, than have the pacification +and welfare of England; the keeping of faith to thy friend and +benefactor, and who will be yet more so, and the fortune and security +of thy relations? Are these, I say, lighter in the balance than the +cause of a worthless boy, who, with his father and his father’s house, +have troubled Israel for fifty years?” + +“I do not understand your Excellency, nor at what service you point, +which I can honestly render,” replied Everard. “That which is dishonest +I should be loth that you proposed.” + +“Then this at least might suit your honesty, or scrupulous humour, call +it which thou wilt,” said Cromwell. “Thou knowest, surely, all the +passages about Jezebel’s palace down yonder?—Let me know how they may +be guarded against the escape of any from within.” + +“I cannot pretend to aid you in this matter,” said Everard; “I know not +all the entrances and posterns about Woodstock, and if I did, I am not +free in conscience to communicate with you on this occasion.” + +“We shall do without you, sir,” replied Cromwell, haughtily; “and if +aught is found which may criminate you, remember you have lost right to +my protection.” + +“I shall be sorry,” said Everard, “to have lost your friendship, +General; but I trust my quality as an Englishman may dispense with the +necessity of protection from any man. I know no law which obliges me to +be spy or informer, even if I were in the way of having opportunity to +do service in either honourable capacity.” + +“Well, sir,” said Cromwell, “for all your privileges and qualities, I +will make bold to take you down to the Lodge at Woodstock to-night, to +enquire into affairs in which the State is concerned.—Come hither, +Pearson.” He took a paper from his pocket, containing a rough sketch or +ground-plan of Woodstock Lodge, with the avenues leading to it.—“Look +here,” he said, “we must move in two bodies on foot, and with all +possible silence—thou must march to the rear of the old house of +iniquity with twenty file of men, and dispose them around it the wisest +thou canst. Take the reverend man there along with you. He must be +secured at any rate, and may serve as a guide. I myself will occupy the +front of the Lodge, and thus having stopt all the earths, thou wilt +come to me for farther orders—silence and dispatch is all.—But for the +dog Tomkins, who broke appointment with me, he had need render a good +excuse, or woe to his father’s son!—Reverend sir, be pleased to +accompany that officer.—Colonel Everard, you are to follow me; but +first give your sword to Captain Pearson, and consider yourself as +under arrest.” + +Everard gave his sword to Pearson without any comment, and with the +most anxious presage of evil followed the Republican General, in +obedience to commands which it would have been useless to dispute. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. + + +“Were my son William here but now, + He wadna fail the pledge.” +Wi’ that in at the door there ran + A ghastly-looking page— +“I saw them, master, O! I saw, + Beneath the thornie brae, +Of black-mail’d warriors many a rank; + ‘Revenge!’ he cried, ‘and gae.’” + + +HENRY MACKENZIE. + + +The little party at the Lodge were assembled at supper, at the early +hour of eight o’clock. Sir Henry Lee, neglecting the food that was +placed on the table, stood by a lamp on the chimney-piece, and read a +letter with mournful attention. + +“Does my son write to you more particularly than to me, Doctor +Rochecliffe?” said the knight. “He only says here, that he will return +probably this night; and that Master Kerneguy must be ready to set off +with him instantly. What can this haste mean? Have you heard of any new +search after our suffering party? I wish they would permit me to enjoy +my son’s company in quiet but for a day.” + +“The quiet which depends on the wicked ceasing from troubling,” said +Dr. Rochecliffe, “is connected, not by days and hours, but by minutes. +Their glut of blood at Worcester had satiated them for a moment, but +their appetite, I fancy, has revived.” + +“You have news, then, to that purpose?” said Sir Henry. + +“Your son,” replied the Doctor, “wrote to me by the same messenger: he +seldom fails to do so, being aware of what importance it is that I +should know every thing that passes. Means of escape are provided on +the coast, and Master Kerneguy must be ready to start with your son the +instant he appears.” + +“It is strange,” said the knight; “for forty years I have dwelt in this +house, man and boy, and the point only was how to make the day pass +over our heads; for if I did not scheme out some hunting match or +hawking, or the like, I might have sat here on my arm-chair, as +undisturbed as a sleeping dormouse, from one end of the year to the +other; and now I am more like a hare on her form, that dare not sleep +unless with her eyes open, and scuds off when the wind rustles among +the fern.” + +“It is strange,” said Alice, looking at Dr. Rochecliffe, “that the +roundhead steward has told you nothing of this. He is usually +communicative enough of the motions of his party; and I saw you close +together this morning.” + +“I must be closer with him this evening,” said the Doctor gloomily; +“but he will not blab.” + +“I wish you may not trust him too much,” said Alice in reply.—“To me, +that man’s face, with all its shrewdness, evinces such a dark +expression, that methinks I read treason in his very eye.” + +“Be assured, that matter is looked to,” answered the Doctor, in the +same ominous tone as before. No one replied, and there was a chilling +and anxious feeling of apprehension which seemed to sink down on the +company at once, like those sensations which make such constitutions as +are particularly subject to the electrical influence, conscious of an +approaching thunder-storm. + +The disguised Monarch, apprised that day to be prepared on short notice +to quit his temporary asylum, felt his own share of the gloom which +involved the little society. But he was the first also to shake it off, +as what neither suited his character nor his situation. Gaiety was the +leading distinction of the former, and presence of mind, not depression +of spirits, was required by the latter. + +“We make the hour heavier,” he said, “by being melancholy about it. Had +you not better join me, Mistress Alice, in Patrick Carey’s jovial +farewell?—Ah, you do not know Pat Carey—a younger brother of Lord +Falkland’s?” + +“A brother of the immortal Lord Falkland’s, and write songs!” said the +Doctor. + +“Oh, Doctor, the Muses take tithe as well as the Church,” said Charles, +“and have their share in every family of distinction. You do not know +the words, Mistress Alice, but you can aid me, notwithstanding, in the +burden at least— + +‘Come, now that we’re parting, and ’tis one to ten +If the towers of sweet Woodstock I e’er see agen, +Let us e’en have a frolic, and drink like tall men, + While the goblet goes merrily round.’” + + +The song arose, but not with spirit. It was one of those efforts at +forced mirth, by which, above all other modes of expressing it, the +absence of real cheerfulness is most distinctly animated. Charles stopt +the song, and upbraided the choristers. + +“You sing, my dear Mistress Alice, as if you were chanting one of the +seven penitential psalms; and you, good Doctor, as if you recited the +funeral service.” + +The Doctor rose hastily from the table, and turned to the window; for +the expression connected singularly with the task which he was that +evening to discharge. Charles looked at him with some surprise; for the +peril in which he lived, made him watchful of the slightest motions of +those around him—then turned to Sir Henry, and said, “My honoured host, +can you tell any reason for this moody fit, which has so strangely +crept upon us all?” + +“Not I, my dear Louis,” replied the knight; “I have no skill in these +nice quillets of philosophy. I could as soon undertake to tell you the +reason why Bevis turns round three times before he lies down. I can +only say for myself, that if age and sorrow and uncertainty be enough +to break a jovial spirit, or at least to bend it now and then, I have +my share of them all; so that I, for one, cannot say that I am sad +merely because I am not merry. I have but too good cause for sadness. I +would I saw my son, were it but for a minute.” + +Fortune seemed for once disposed to gratify the old man; for Albert Lee +entered at that moment. He was dressed in a riding suit, and appeared +to have travelled hard. He cast his eye hastily around as he entered. +It rested for a second on that of the disguised Prince, and, satisfied +with the glance which he received in lieu, he hastened, after the +fashion of the olden day, to kneel down to his father, and request his +blessing. + +“It is thine, my boy,” said the old man; a tear springing to his eyes +as he laid his hand on the long locks, which distinguished the young +cavalier’s rank and principles, and which, usually combed and curled +with some care, now hung wild and dishevelled about his shoulders. They +remained an instant in this posture, when the old man suddenly started +from it, as if ashamed of the emotion which he had expressed before so +many witnesses, and passing the back of his hand hastily across his +eyes, bid Albert get up and mind his supper, “since I dare say you have +ridden fast and far since you last baited—and we’ll send round a cup to +his health, if Doctor Rochecliffe and the company pleases—Joceline, +thou knave, skink about—thou look’st as if thou hadst seen a ghost.” + +“Joceline,” said Alice, “is sick for sympathy—one of the stags ran at +Phœbe Mayflower to-day, and she was fain to have Joceline’s assistance +to drive the creature off—the girl has been in fits since she came +home.” + +“Silly slut,” said the old knight—“She a woodman’s daughter!—But, +Joceline, if the deer gets dangerous, you must send a broad arrow +through him.” + +“It will not need, Sir Henry,” said Joceline, speaking with great +difficulty of utterance—“he is quiet enough now—he will not offend in +that sort again.” + +“See it be so,” replied the knight; “remember Mistress Alice often +walks in the Chase. And now, fill round, and fill too, a cup to thyself +to overred thy fear, as mad Will has it. Tush, man, Phœbe will do well +enough—she only screamed and ran, that thou might’st have the pleasure +to help her. Mind what thou dost, and do not go spilling the wine after +that fashion.—Come, here is a health to our wanderer, who has come to +us again.” + +“None will pledge it more willingly than I,” said the disguised Prince, +unconsciously assuming an importance which the character he personated +scarce warranted; but Sir Henry, who had become fond of the supposed +page, with all his peculiarities, imposed only a moderate rebuke upon +his petulance. “Thou art a merry, good-humoured youth, Louis,” he said, +“but it is a world to see how the forwardness of the present generation +hath gone beyond the gravity and reverence which in my youth was so +regularly observed towards those of higher rank and station—I dared no +more have given my own tongue the rein, when there was a doctor of +divinity in company, than I would have dared to have spoken in church +in service time.” + +“True, sir,” said Albert, hastily interfering; “but Master Kerneguy had +the better right to speak at present, that I have been absent on his +business as well as my own, have seen several of his friends, and bring +him important intelligence.” + +Charles was about to rise and beckon Albert aside, naturally impatient +to know what news he had procured, or what scheme of safe escape was +now decreed for him. But Dr. Rochecliffe twitched his cloak, as a hint +to him to sit still, and not show any extraordinary motive for anxiety, +since, in case of a sudden discovery of his real quality, the violence +of Sir Henry Lee’s feelings might have been likely to attract too much +attention. + +Charles, therefore, only replied, as to the knight’s stricture, that he +had a particular title to be sudden and unceremonious in expressing his +thanks to Colonel Lee—that gratitude was apt to be unmannerly—finally, +that he was much obliged to Sir Henry for his admonition; and that quit +Woodstock when he would, “he was sure to leave it a better man than he +came there.” + +His speech was of course ostensibly directed towards the father; but a +glance at Alice assured her that she had her full share in the +compliment. + +“I fear,” he concluded, addressing Albert, “that you come to tell us +our stay here must be very short.” + +“A few hours only,” said Albert—“just enough for needful rest for +ourselves and our horses. I have procured two which are good and tried. +But Doctor Rochecliffe broke faith with me. I expected to have met some +one down at Joceline’s hut, where I left the horses; and finding no +person, I was delayed an hour in littering them down myself, that they +might be ready for to-morrow’s work—for we must be off before day.” + +“I—I—intended to have sent Tomkins—but—but”—hesitated the Doctor, “I”— + +“The roundheaded rascal was drunk, or out of the way, I presume,” said +Albert. “I am glad of it—you may easily trust him too far.” + +“Hitherto he has been faithful,” said the Doctor, “and I scarce think +he will fail me now. But Joceline will go down and have the horses in +readiness in the morning.” + +Joceline’s countenance was usually that of alacrity itself on a case +extraordinary. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. + +“You will go with me a little way, Doctor?” he said, as he edged +himself closely to Rochecliffe. + +“How? puppy, fool, and blockhead,” said the knight, “wouldst thou ask +Doctor Rochecliffe to bear thee company at this hour?—Out, hound!—get +down to the kennel yonder instantly, or I will break the knave’s pate +of thee.” + +Joceline looked with an eye of agony at the divine, as if entreating +him to interfere in his behalf; but just as he was about to speak, a +most melancholy howling arose at the hall-door, and a dog was heard +scratching for admittance. + +“What ails Bevis next?” said the old knight. “I think this must be +All-Fools-day, and that every thing around me is going mad!” + +The same sound startled Albert and Charles from a private conference in +which they had engaged, and Albert ran to the hall-door to examine +personally into the cause of the noise. + +“It is no alarm,” said the old knight to Kerneguy, “for in such cases +the dog’s bark is short, sharp, and furious. These long howls are said +to be ominous. It was even so that Bevis’s grandsire bayed the whole +livelong night on which my poor father died. If it comes now as a +presage, God send it regard the old and useless, not the young, and +those who may yet serve King and country!” + +The dog had pushed past Colonel Lee, who stood a little while at the +hall-door to listen if there were any thing stirring without, while +Bevis advanced into the room where the company were assembled, bearing +something in his mouth, and exhibiting, in an unusual degree, that +sense of duty and interest which a dog seems to show when he thinks he +has the charge of something important. He entered therefore, drooping +his long tail, slouching his head and ears, and walking with the +stately yet melancholy dignity of a war-horse at his master’s funeral. +In this manner he paced through the room, went straight up to Joceline, +who had been regarding him with astonishment, and uttering a short and +melancholy howl, laid at his feet the object which he bore in his +mouth. Joceline stooped, and took from the floor a man’s glove, of the +fashion worn by the troopers, having something like the old-fashioned +gauntleted projections of thick leather arising from the wrist, which +go half way up to the elbow, and secure the arm against a cut with a +sword. But Joceline had no sooner looked at what in itself was so +common an object, than he dropped it from his hand, staggered backward, +uttered a groan, and nearly fell to the ground. + +“Now, the coward’s curse be upon thee for an idiot!” said the knight, +who had picked up the glove, and was looking at it—“thou shouldst be +sent back to school, and flogged till the craven’s blood was switched +out of thee—What dost thou look at but a glove, thou base poltroon, and +a very dirty glove, too? Stay, here is writing—Joseph Tomkins? Why, +that is the roundheaded fellow—I wish he hath not come to some +mischief, for this is not dirt on the cheveron, but blood. Bevis may +have bit the fellow, and yet the dog seemed to love him well too, or +the stag may have hurt him. Out, Joceline, instantly, and see where he +is—wind your bugle.” + +“I cannot go,” said Joliffe, “unless”—and again he looked piteously at +Dr. Rochecliffe, who saw no time was to be lost in appeasing the +ranger’s terrors, as his ministry was most needful in the present +circumstances.—“Get spade and mattock,” he whispered to him, “and a +dark lantern, and meet me in the Wilderness.” + +Joceline left the room; and the Doctor, before following him, had a few +words of explanation with Colonel Lee. His own spirit, far from being +dismayed on the occasion, rather rose higher, like one whose natural +element was intrigue and danger. “Here hath been wild work,” he said, +“since you parted. Tomkins was rude to the wench Phœbe—Joceline and he +had a brawl together, and Tomkins is lying dead in the thicket, not far +from Rosamond’s Well. It will be necessary that Joceline and I go +directly to bury the body; for besides that some one might stumble upon +it, and raise an alarm, this fellow Joceline will never be fit for any +active purpose till it is under ground. Though as stout as a lion, the +under-keeper has his own weak side, and is more afraid of a dead body +than a living one. When do you propose to start to-morrow?” + +“By daybreak, or earlier,” said Colonel Lee; “but we will meet again. A +vessel is provided, and I have relays in more places than one—we go off +from the coast of Sussex; and I am to get a letter at ——, acquainting +me precisely with the spot.” + +“Wherefore not go off instantly?” said the Doctor. + +“The horses would fail us,” replied Albert; “they have been hard ridden +to-day.” + +“Adieu,” said Rochecliffe, “I must to my task—Do you take rest and +repose for yours. To conceal a slaughtered body, and convey on the same +night a king from danger and captivity, are two feats which have fallen +to few folks save myself; but let me not, while putting on my harness, +boast myself as if I were taking it off after a victory.” So saying he +left the apartment, and, muffling himself in his cloak, went out into +what was called the Wilderness. + +The weather was a raw frost. The mists lay in partial wreaths upon the +lower grounds; but the night, considering that the heavenly bodies were +in a great measure hidden by the haze, was not extremely dark. Dr. +Rochecliffe could not, however, distinguish the under-keeper until he +had hemmed once or twice, when Joceline answered the signal by showing +a glimpse of light from the dark lantern which he carried. Guided by +this intimation of his presence, the divine found him leaning against a +buttress which had once supported a terrace, now ruinous. He had a +pickaxe and shovel, together with a deer’s hide hanging over his +shoulder. + +“What do you want with the hide, Joceline,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “that +you lumber it about with you on such an errand?” + +“Why, look you, Doctor,” he answered, “it is as well to tell you all +about it. The man and I—he there—you know whom I mean—had many years +since a quarrel about this deer. For though we were great friends, and +Philip was sometimes allowed by my master’s permission to help me in +mine office, yet I knew, for all that, Philip Hazeldine was sometimes a +trespasser. The deer-stealers were very bold at that time, it being +just before the breaking out of the war, when men were becoming +unsettled— And so it chanced, that one day, in the Chase, I found two +fellows, with their faces blacked and shirts over their clothes, +carrying as prime a buck between them as any was in the park. I was +upon them in the instant—one escaped, but I got hold of the other +fellow, and who should it prove to be but trusty Phil Hazeldine! Well, +I don’t know whether it was right or wrong, but he was my old friend +and pot-companion, and I took his word for amendment in future; and he +helped me to hang up the deer on a tree, and I came back with a horse +to carry him to the Lodge, and tell the knight the story, all but +Phil’s name. But the rogues had been too clever for me; for they had +flayed and dressed the deer, and quartered him, and carried him off, +and left the hide and horns, with a chime, saying,— + +‘The haunch to thee, +The breast to me, +The hide and the horns for the keeper’s fee.’ + + +And this I knew for one of Phil’s mad pranks, that he would play in +those days with any lad in the country. But I was so nettled that I +made the deer’s hide be curried and dressed by a tanner, and swore that +it should be his winding-sheet or mine; and though I had long repented +my rash oath, yet now, Doctor, you see what it is come to—though I +forgot it, the devil did not.” + +“It was a very wrong thing to make a vow so sinful,” said Rochecliffe; +“but it would have been greatly worse had you endeavoured to keep it. +Therefore, I bid you cheer up,” said the good divine; “for in this +unhappy case, I could not have wished, after what I have heard from +Phœbe and yourself, that you should have kept your hand still, though I +may regret that the blow has proved fatal. Nevertheless, thou hast done +even that which was done by the great and inspired legislator, when he +beheld an Egyptian tyrannizing over a Hebrew, saving that, in the case +present, it was a female, when, says the Septuagint, _Percussum +Egyptium abscondit sabulo_; the meaning whereof I will explain to you +another time. Wherefore, I exhort you not to grieve beyond measure; for +although this circumstance is unhappy in time and place, yet, from what +Phœbe hath informed me of yonder wretch’s opinions, it is much to be +regretted that his brains had not been beaten out in his cradle, rather +than that he had grown up to be one of those Grindlestonians, or +Muggletonians, in whom is the perfection of every foul and blasphemous +heresy, united with such an universal practice of hypocritical +assentation as would deceive their master, even Satan himself.” + +“Nevertheless, sir,” said the forester, “I hope you will bestow some of +the service of the Church on this poor man, as it was his last wish, +naming you, sir, at the same time; and unless this were done, I should +scarce dare to walk out in the dark again for my whole life.” + +“Thou art a silly fellow; but if,” continued the Doctor, “he named me +as he departed, and desired the last rites of the Church, there was, it +may be, a turning from evil and a seeking to good even in his last +moments; and if Heaven granted him grace to form a prayer so fitting, +wherefore should man refuse it? All I fear is the briefness of time.” + +“Nay, your reverence may cut the service somewhat short,” said +Joceline; “assuredly he does not deserve the whole of it; only if +something were not to be done, I believe I should flee the country. +They were his last words; and methinks he sent Bevis with his glove to +put me in mind of them.” + +“Out, fool! Do you think,” said the Doctor, “dead men send gauntlets to +the living, like knights in a romance; or, if so, would they choose +dogs to carry their challenges? I tell thee, fool, the cause was +natural enough. Bevis, questing about, found the body, and brought the +glove to you to intimate where it was lying, and to require assistance; +for such is the high instinct of these animals towards one in peril.” + +“Nay, if you think so, Doctor,” said Joceline—“and, doubtless, I must +say, Bevis took an interest in the man—if indeed it was not something +worse in the shape of Bevis, for methought his eyes looked wild and +fiery, as if he would have spoken.” + +As he talked thus, Joceline rather hung back, and, in doing so, +displeased the Doctor, who exclaimed, “Come along, thou lazy laggard! +Art thou a soldier, and a brave one, and so much afraid of a dead man? +Thou hast killed men in battle and in chase, I warrant thee.” + +“Ay, but their backs were to me,” said Joceline. “I never saw one of +them cast back his head, and glare at me as yonder fellow did, his eye +retaining a glance of hatred, mixed with terror and reproach, till it +became fixed like a jelly. And were you not with me, and my master’s +concerns, and something else, very deeply at stake, I promise you I +would not again look at him for all Woodstock.” + +“You must, though,” said the Doctor, suddenly pausing, “for here is the +place where he lies. Come hither deep into the copse; take care of +stumbling—Here is a place just fitting, and we will draw the briars +over the grave afterwards.” + +As the Doctor thus issued his directions, he assisted also in the +execution of them; and while his attendant laboured to dig a shallow +and mishapen grave, a task which the state of the soil, perplexed with +roots, and hardened by the influence of the frost, rendered very +difficult, the divine read a few passages out of the funeral service, +partly in order to appease the superstitious terrors of Joceline, and +partly because he held it matter of conscience not to deny the Church’s +rites to one who had requested their aid in extremity. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY SECOND. + + +Case ye, case ye,—on with your vizards. + + +HENRY IV. + + +The company whom we had left in Victor Lee’s parlour were about to +separate for the night, and had risen to take a formal leave of each +other, when a tap was heard at the hall-door. Albert, the vidette of +the party, hastened to open it, enjoining, as he left the room, the +rest to remain quiet, until he had ascertained the cause of the +knocking. When he gained the portal, he called to know who was there, +and what they wanted at so late an hour. + +“It is only me,” answered a treble voice. + +“And what is your name, my little fellow?” said Albert. + +“Spitfire, sir,” replied the voice without. + +“Spitfire?” said Albert. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the voice; “all the world calls me so, and Colonel +Everard himself. But my name is Spittal for all that.” + +“Colonel Everard? arrive you from him?” demanded young Lee. + +“No, sir; I come, sir, from Roger Wildrake, esquire, of +Squattlesea-mere, if it like you,” said the boy; “and I have brought a +token to Mistress Lee, which I am to give into her own hands, if you +would but open the door, sir, and let me in—but I can do nothing with a +three-inch board between us.” + +“It is some freak of that drunken rakehell,” said Albert, in a low +voice, to his sister, who had crept out after him on tiptoe. + +“Yet, let us not be hasty in concluding so,” said the young lady; “at +this moment the least trifle may be of consequence.—What tokens has +Master Wildrake sent me, my little boy?” + +“Nay, nothing very valuable neither,” replied the boy; “but he was so +anxious you should get it, that he put me out of window as one would +chuck out a kitten, that I might not be stopped by the soldiers.” + +“Hear you?” said Alice to her brother; “undo the gate, for God’s sake.” +Her brother, to whom her feelings of suspicion were now sufficiently +communicated, opened the gate in haste, and admitted the boy, whose +appearance, not much dissimilar to that of a skinned rabbit in a +livery, or a monkey at a fair, would at another time have furnished +them with amusement. The urchin messenger entered the hall, making +several odd bows, and delivered the woodcock’s feather with much +ceremony to the young lady, assuring her it was the prize she had won +upon a wager about hawking. + +“I prithee, my little man,” said Albert, “was your master drunk or +sober, when he sent thee all this way with a feather at this time of +night?” + +“With reverence, sir,” said the boy, “he was what he calls sober, and +what I would call concerned in liquor for any other person.” + +“Curse on the drunken coxcomb!” said Albert,—“There is a tester for +thee, boy, and tell thy master to break his jests on suitable persons, +and at fitting times.” + +“Stay yet a minute,” exclaimed Alice; “we must not go too fast—this +craves wary walking.” + +“A feather,” said Albert; “all this work about a feather! Why, Doctor +Rochecliffe, who can suck intelligence out of every trifle as a magpie +would suck an egg, could make nothing of this.” + +“Let us try what we can do without him then,” said Alice. Then +addressing herself to the boy,—“So there are strangers at your +master’s?” + +“At Colonel Everard’s, madam, which is the same thing,” said Spitfire. + +“And what manner of strangers,” said Alice; “guests, I suppose?” + +“Ay, mistress,” said the boy, “a sort of guests that make themselves +welcome wherever they come, if they meet not a welcome from their +landlord—soldiers, madam.” + +“The men that have long been lying at Woodstock,” said Albert. + +“No, sir,” said Spitfire, “new comers, with gallant buff-coats and +steel breastplates; and their commander—your honour and your ladyship +never saw such a man—at least I am sure Bill Spitfire never did.” + +“Was he tall or short?” said Albert, now much alarmed. + +“Neither one nor other,” said the boy; “stout made, with slouching +shoulders; a nose large, and a face one would not like to say No to. He +had several officers with him, I saw him but for a moment, but I shall +never forget him while I live.” + +“You are right,” said Albert Lee to his sister, pulling her to one +side, “quite right—the Archfiend himself is upon us!” + +“And the feather,” said Alice, whom fear had rendered apprehensive of +slight tokens, “means flight—and a woodcock is a bird of passage.” + +“You have hit it,” said her brother; “but the time has taken us cruelly +short. Give the boy a trifle more—nothing that can excite suspicion, +and dismiss him. I must summon Rochecliffe and Joceline.” + +He went accordingly, but, unable to find those he sought, he returned +with hasty steps to the parlour, where, in his character of Louis, the +page was exerting himself to detain the old knight, who, while laughing +at the tales he told him, was anxious to go to see what was passing in +the hall. + +“What is the matter, Albert?” said the old man; “who calls at the Lodge +at so undue an hour, and wherefore is the hall-door opened to them? I +will not have my rules, and the regulations laid down for keeping this +house, broken through, because I am old and poor. Why answer you not? +why keep a chattering with Louis Kerneguy, and neither of you all the +while minding what I say?—Daughter Alice, have you sense and civility +enough to tell me, what or who it is that is admitted here contrary to +my general orders?” + +“No one, sir,” replied Alice; “a boy brought a message, which I fear is +an alarming one.” + +“There is only fear, sir,” said Albert, stepping forward, “that whereas +we thought to have stayed with you till to-morrow, we must now take +farewell of you to-night.” + +“Not so, brother,” said Alice, “you must stay and aid the defence +here—if you and Master Kerneguy are both missed, the pursuit will be +instant, and probably successful; but if you stay, the hiding-places +about this house will take some time to search. You can change coats +with Kerneguy too.” + +“Right, noble wench,” said Albert; “most excellent—yes—Louis, I remain +as Kerneguy, you fly as young Master Lee.” + +“I cannot see the justice of that,” said Charles. + +“Nor I neither,” said the knight, interfering. “Men come and go, lay +schemes, and alter them, in my house, without deigning to consult me! +And who is Master Kerneguy, or what is he to me, that my son must stay +and take the chance of mischief, and this your Scotch page is to escape +in his dress? I will have no such contrivance carried into effect, +though it were the finest cobweb that was ever woven in Doctor +Rochecliffe’s brains.—I wish you no ill, Louis; thou art a lively boy; +but I have been somewhat too lightly treated in this, man.” + +“I am fully of your opinion, Sir Henry,” replied the person whom he +addressed. “You have been, indeed, repaid for your hospitality by want +of that confidence, which could never have been so justly reposed. But +the moment is come, when I must say, in a word, I am that unfortunate +Charles Stewart, whose lot it has been to become the cause of ruin to +his best friends, and whose present residence in your family threatens +to bring destruction to you, and all around you.” + +“Master Louis Kerneguy,” said the knight very angrily, “I will teach +you to choose the subjects of your mirth better when you address them +to me; and, moreover, very little provocation would make me desire to +have an ounce or two of that malapert blood from you.” + +“Be still, sir, for God’s sake!” said Albert to his father. “This is +indeed THE KING; and such is the danger of his person, that every +moment we waste may bring round a fatal catastrophe.” + +“Good God!” said the father, clasping his hands together, and about to +drop on his knees, “has my earnest wish been accomplished! and is it in +such a manner as to make me pray it had never taken place!” + +He then attempted to bend his knee to the King—kissed his hand, while +large tears trickled from his eyes—then said, “Pardon, my Lord—your +Majesty, I mean—permit me to sit in your presence but one instant till +my blood beats more freely, and then”— + +Charles raised his ancient and faithful subject from the ground; and +even in that moment of fear, and anxiety, and danger, insisted on +leading him to his seat, upon which he sunk in apparent exhaustion, his +head drooping upon his long white beard, and big unconscious tears +mingling with its silver hairs. Alice and Albert remained with the +King, arguing and urging his instant departure. + +“The horses are at the under-keeper’s hut,” said Albert, “and the +relays only eighteen or twenty miles off. If the horses can but carry +you so far”— + +“Will you not rather,” interrupted Alice, “trust to the concealments of +this place, so numerous and so well tried—Rochecliffe’s apartments, and +the yet farther places of secrecy?” + +“Alas!” said Albert, “I know them only by name. My father was sworn to +confide them to but one man, and he had chosen Rochecliffe.” + +“I prefer taking the field to any hiding-hole in England,” said the +King. “Could I but find my way to this hut where the horses are, I +would try what arguments whip and spur could use to get them to the +rendezvous, where I am to meet Sir Thomas Acland and fresh cattle. Come +with me, Colonel Lee, and let us run for it. The roundheads have beat +us in battle; but if it come to a walk or a race, I think I can show +which has the best mettle.” + +“But then,” said Albert, “we lose all the time which may otherwise be +gained by the defence of this house—leaving none here but my poor +father, incapable from his state of doing any thing; and you will be +instantly pursued by fresh horses, while ours are unfit for the road. +Oh, where is the villain Joceline!” + +“What can have become of Doctor Rochecliffe?” said Alice; “he that is +so ready with advice;—where can they be gone? Oh, if my father could +but rouse himself!” + +“Your father _is_ roused,” said Sir Henry, rising and stepping up to +them with all the energy of full manhood in his countenance and +motions—“I did but gather my thoughts—for when did they fail a Lee when +his King needed counsel or aid?” He then began to speak, with the ready +and distinct utterance of a general at the head of an army, ordering +every motion for attack and defence—unmoved himself, and his own energy +compelling obedience, and that cheerful obedience, from all who heard +him. “Daughter,” he said, “beat up dame Jellicot—Let Phœbe rise if she +were dying, and secure doors and windows.” + +“That hath been done regularly since—we have been thus far honoured,” +said his daughter, looking at the King—“yet, let them go through the +chambers once more.” And Alice retired to give the orders, and +presently returned. + +The old knight proceeded, in the same decided tone of promptitude and +dispatch—“Which is your first stage?” + +“Gray’s—Rothebury, by Henley, where Sir Thomas Acland and young Knolles +are to have horses in readiness,” said Albert; “but how to get there +with our weary cattle?” + +“Trust me for that,” said the knight; and proceeding with the same tone +of authority—“Your Majesty must instantly to Joceline’s lodge,” he +said, “there are your horses and your means of flight. The secret +places of this house, well managed, will keep the rebel dogs in play +two or three hours good—Rochecliffe is, I fear, kidnapped, and his +Independent hath betrayed him—Would I had judged the villain better! I +would have struck him through at one of our trials of fence, with an +unbated weapon, as Will says.—But for your guide when on horseback, +half a bowshot from Joceline’s hut is that of old Martin the verdurer; +he is a score of years older than I, but as fresh as an old oak—beat up +his quarters, and let him ride with you for death and life. He will +guide you to your relay, for no fox that ever earthed in the Chase +knows the country so well for seven leagues around.” + +“Excellent, my dearest father, excellent,” said Albert; “I had forgot +Martin the verdurer.” + +“Young men forget all,” answered the knight—“Alas, that the limbs +should fail, when the head which can best direct them—is come perhaps +to its wisest!” + +“But the tired horses,” said the King—“could we not get fresh cattle?” + +“Impossible at this time of night,” answered Sir Henry; “but tired +horses may do much with care and looking to.” He went hastily to the +cabinet which stood in one of the oriel windows, and searched for +something in the drawers, pulling out one after another. + +“We lose time, father,” said Albert, afraid that the intelligence and +energy which the old man displayed had been but a temporary flash of +the lamp, which was about to relapse into evening twilight. + +“Go to, sir boy,” said his father, sharply; “is it for thee to tax me +in this presence!—Know, that were the whole roundheads that are out of +hell in present assemblage round Woodstock, I could send away the Royal +Hope of England by a way that the wisest of them could never guess.— +Alice, my love, ask no questions, but speed to the kitchen, and fetch a +slice or two of beef, or better of venison; cut them long, and thin, +d’ye mark me”— + +“This is wandering of the mind,” said Albert apart to the King. “We do +him wrong, and your Majesty harm, to listen to him.” + +“I think otherwise,” said Alice, “and I know my father better than +you.” So saying, she left the room, to fulfil her father’s orders. + +“I think so, too,” said Charles—“in Scotland the Presbyterian +ministers, when thundering in their pulpits on my own sins and those of +my house, took the freedom to call me to my face Jeroboam, or Rehoboam, +or some such name, for following the advice of young counsellors— +Oddsfish, I will take that of the grey beard for once, for never saw I +more sharpness and decision than in the countenance of that noble old +man.” + +By this time Sir Henry had found what he was seeking. “In this tin +box,” he said, “are six balls prepared of the most cordial spices, +mixed with medicaments of the choicest and most invigorating quality. +Given from hour to hour, wrapt in a covering of good beef or venison, a +horse of spirit will not flag for five hours, at the speed of fifteen +miles an hour; and, please God, the fourth of the time places your +Majesty in safety—what remains may be useful on some future occasion. +Martin knows how to administer them; and Albert’s weary cattle shall be +ready, if walked gently for ten minutes, in running to devour the way, +as old Will says—nay, waste not time in speech, your Majesty does me +but too much honour in using what is your own.—Now, see if the coast is +clear, Albert, and let his Majesty set off instantly—We will play our +parts but ill, if any take the chase after him for these two hours that +are between night and day—Change dresses, as you proposed, in yonder +sleeping apartment—something may be made of that too.” + +“But, good Sir Henry,” said the King, “your zeal overlooks a principal +point. I have, indeed, come from the under-keeper’s hut you mention to +this place, but it was by daylight, and under guidance—I shall never +find my way thither in utter darkness, and without a guide—I fear you +must let the Colonel go with me; and I entreat and command, you will +put yourself to no trouble or risk to defend the house—only make what +delay you can in showing its secret recesses.” + +“Rely on me, my royal and liege Sovereign,” said Sir Henry; “but Albert +_must_ remain here, and Alice shall guide your Majesty to Joceline’s +hut in his stead.” + +“Alice!” said Charles, stepping back in surprise—“why, it is dark +night—and—and—and—” He glanced his eye towards Alice, who had by this +time returned to the apartment, and saw doubt and apprehension in her +look; an intimation, that the reserve under which he had placed his +disposition for gallantry, since the morning of the proposed duel, had +not altogether effaced the recollection of his previous conduct. He +hastened to put a strong negative upon a proposal which appeared so +much to embarrass her. “It is impossible for me, indeed, Sir Henry, to +use Alice’s services—I must walk as if blood-hounds were at my heels.” + +“Alice shall trip it,” said the knight, “with any wench in Oxfordshire; +and what would your Majesty’s best speed avail, if you know not the way +to go?” + +“Nay, nay, Sir Henry,” continued the King, “the night is too dark—we +stay too long—I will find it myself.” + +“Lose no time in exchanging your dress with Albert,” said Sir +Henry—“leave me to take care of the rest.” + +Charles, still inclined to expostulate, withdrew, however, into the +apartment where young Lee and he were to exchange clothes; while Sir +Henry said to his daughter, “Get thee a cloak, wench, and put on thy +thickest shoes. Thou might’st have ridden Pixie, but he is something +spirited, and them art a timid horsewoman, and ever wert so—the only +weakness I have known of thee.” + +“But, my father,” said Alice, fixing her eyes earnestly on Sir Henry’s +face, “must I really go along with the King? might not Phœbe, or dame +Jellicot, go with us?” + +“No—no—no,” answered Sir Henry; “Phœbe, the silly slut, has, as you +well know, been in fits to-night, and I take it, such a walk as you +must take is no charm for hysterics—Dame Jellicot hobbles as slow as a +broken-winded mare—besides, her deafness, were there occasion to speak +to her—No—no—you shall go alone and entitle yourself to have it written +on your tomb, ‘Here lies she who saved the King!’—And, hark you, do not +think of returning to-night, but stay at the verdurer’s with his +niece—the Park and Chase will shortly be filled with our enemies, and +whatever chances here you will learn early enough in the morning.” + +“And what is it I may then learn?” said Alice—“Alas, who can tell?—O, +dearest father, let me stay and share your fate! I will pull off the +timorous woman, and fight for the King, if it be necessary.—But—I +cannot think of becoming his only attendant in the dark night, and +through a road so lonely.” + +“How!” said the knight, raising his voice; “do you bring ceremonious +and silly scruples forward, when the King’s safety, nay his life is at +stake! By this mark of loyalty,” stroking his grey beard as he spoke, +“could I think thou wert other than becomes a daughter of the house of +Lee, I would”— + +At this moment the King and Albert interrupted him by entering the +apartment, having exchanged dresses, and, from their stature, bearing +some resemblance to each other, though Charles was evidently a plain, +and Lee a handsome young man. Their complexions were different; but the +difference could not be immediately noticed, Albert having adopted a +black peruque, and darkened his eyebrows. + +Albert Lee walked out to the front of the mansion, to give one turn +around the Lodge, in order to discover in what direction any enemies +might be approaching, that they might judge of the road which it was +safest for the royal fugitive to adopt. Meanwhile the King, who was +first in entering the apartment, had heard a part of the angry answer +which the old knight made to his daughter, and was at no loss to guess +the subject of his resentment. He walked up to him with the dignity +which he perfectly knew how to assume when he chose it. + +“Sir Henry,” he said, “it is our pleasure, nay our command, that you +forbear all exertion of paternal authority in this matter. Mistress +Alice, I am sure, must have good and strong reasons for what she +wishes; and I should never pardon myself were she placed in an +unpleasant situation on my account. I am too well acquainted with woods +and wildernesses to fear losing my way among my native oaks of +Woodstock.” + +“Your Majesty shall not incur the danger,” said Alice, her temporary +hesitation entirely removed by the calm, clear, and candid manner in +which Charles uttered these last words. “You shall run no risk that I +can prevent; and the unhappy chances of the times in which I have lived +have from experience made the forest as well known to me by night as by +day. So, if you scorn not my company, let us away instantly.” + +“If your company is given with good-will, I accept it with gratitude,” +replied the monarch. + +“Willingly,” she said, “most willingly. Let me be one of the first to +show that zeal and that confidence, which I trust all England will one +day emulously display in behalf of your Majesty.” + +She uttered these words with an alacrity of spirit, and made the +trifling change of habit with a speed and dexterity, which showed that +all her fears were gone, and that her heart was entirely in the mission +on which her father had dispatched her. + +“All is safe around,” said Albert Lee, showing himself; “you may take +which passage you will—the most private is the best.” + +Charles went gracefully up to Sir Henry Lee ere his departure, and took +him by the hand.—“I am too proud to make professions,” he said, “which +I may be too poor ever to realize. But while Charles Stewart lives, he +lives the obliged and indebted debtor of Sir Henry Lee.” + +“Say not so, please your Majesty, say not so,” exclaimed the old man, +struggling with the hysterical sobs which rose to his throat. “He who +might claim all, cannot become indebted by accepting some small part.” + +“Farewell, good friend, farewell!” said the King; “think of me as a +son, a brother to Albert and to Alice, who are, I see, already +impatient. Give me a father’s blessing, and let me be gone.” + +“The God, through whom kings reign, bless your Majesty,” said Sir +Henry, kneeling and turning his reverend face and clasped hands up to +Heaven—“The Lord of Hosts bless you, and save your Majesty from your +present dangers, and bring you in his own good time to the safe +possession of the crown that is your due!” + +Charles received this blessing like that of a father, and Alice and he +departed on their journey. + +As they left the apartment, the old knight let his hands sink gently as +he concluded this fervent ejaculation, his head sinking at the same +time. His son dared not disturb his meditation, yet feared the strength +of his feelings might overcome that of his constitution, and that he +might fall into a swoon. At length, he ventured to approach and +gradually touch him. The old knight started to his feet, and was at +once the same alert, active-minded, forecasting director, which he had +shown himself a little before. + +“You are right, boy,” he said, “we must be up and doing. They lie, the +roundheaded traitors, that call him dissolute and worthless! He hath +feelings worthy the son of the blessed Martyr. You saw, even in the +extremity of danger, he would have perilled his safety rather than take +Alice’s guidance when the silly wench seemed in doubt about going. +Profligacy is intensely selfish, and thinks not of the feelings of +others. But hast thou drawn bolt and bar after them? I vow I scarce saw +when they left the hall.” + +“I let them out at the little postern,” said the Colonel; “and when I +returned, I was afraid I had found you ill.” + +“Joy—joy, only joy, Albert—I cannot allow a thought of doubt to cross +my breast. God will not desert the descendant of an hundred kings—the +rightful heir will not be given up to the ruffians. There was a tear in +his eye as he took leave of me—I am sure of it. Wouldst not die for +him, boy?” + +“If I lay my life down for him to-night,” said Albert, “I would only +regret it, because I should not hear of his escape to-morrow.” + +“Well, let us to this gear,” said the knight; “think’st thou know’st +enough of his manner, clad as thou art in his dress, to induce the +women to believe thee to be the page Kerneguy?” + +“Umph,” replied Albert, “it is not easy to bear out a personification +of the King, when women are in the case. But there is only a very +little light below, and I can try.” + +“Do so instantly,” said his father; “the knaves will be here +presently.” Albert accordingly left the apartment, while the knight +continued—“If the women be actually persuaded that Kerneguy be still +here, it will add strength to my plot—the beagles will open on a false +scent, and the royal stag be safe in cover ere they regain the slot of +him. Then to draw them on from hiding-place to hiding-place! Why, the +east will be grey before they have sought the half of them!—Yes, I will +play at bob-cherry with them, hold the bait to their nose which they +are never to gorge upon! I will drag a trail for them which will take +them some time to puzzle out.—But at what cost do I do this?” continued +the old knight, interrupting his own joyous soliloquy—“Oh, Absalom, +Absalom, my son! my son!—But let him go; he can but die as his fathers +have died; and in the cause for which they lived. But he +comes—Hush!—Albert, hast thou succeeded? hast thou taken royalty upon +thee so as to pass current?” + +“I have, sir,” replied Albert; “the women will swear that Louis +Kerneguy was in the house this very last minute.” + +“Right, for they are good and faithful creatures,” said the knight, +“and would swear what was for his Majesty’s safety at any rate; yet +they will do it with more nature and effect, if they believe they are +swearing truth.—How didst thou impress the deceit upon them?” + +“By a trifling adoption of the royal manner, sir, not worth +mentioning.” + +“Out, rogue!” replied the knight. “I fear the King’s character will +suffer under your mummery.” + +“Umph,” said Albert, muttering what he dared not utter aloud—“were I to +follow the example close up, I know whose character would be in the +greatest danger.” + +“Well, now we must adjust the defence of the outworks, the signals, &c. +betwixt us both, and the best way to baffle the enemy for the longest +time possible.” He then again had recourse to the secret drawers of his +cabinet, and pulled out a piece of parchment, on which was a plan. +“This,” said he, “is a scheme of the citadel, as I call it, which may +hold out long enough after you have been forced to evacuate the places +of retreat you are already acquainted with. The ranger was always sworn +to keep this plan secret, save from one person only, in case of sudden +death.—Let us sit down and study it together.” + +They accordingly adjusted their measures in a manner which will better +show itself from what afterwards took place, than were we to state the +various schemes which they proposed, and provisions made against events +that did not arrive. + +At length young Lee, armed and provided with some food and liquor, took +leave of his father, and went and shut himself up in Victor Lee’s +apartment, from which was an opening to the labyrinth of private +apartments, or hiding-places, that had served the associates so well in +the fantastic tricks which they had played off at the expense of the +Commissioners of the Commonwealth. + +“I trust,” said Sir Henry, sitting down by his desk, after having taken +a tender farewell of his son, “that Rochecliffe has not blabbed out the +secret of the plot to yonder fellow Tomkins, who was not unlikely to +prate of it out of school.—But here am I seated—perhaps for the last +time, with my Bible on the one hand, and old Will on the other, +prepared, thank God, to die as I have lived.—I marvel they come not +yet,” he said, after waiting for some time—“I always thought the devil +had a smarter spur to give his agents, when they were upon his own +special service.” + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD. + + +But see, his face is black, and full of blood; +His eye-balls farther out than when he lived, +Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man; +His hair uprear’d—his nostrils stretch’d with struggling, +His hands abroad display’d, as one who grasp’d +And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdued. + + +HENRY VI. PART I. + + +Had those whose unpleasant visit Sir Henry expected come straight to +the Lodge, instead of staying for three hours at Woodstock, they would +have secured their prey. But the Familist, partly to prevent the King’s +escape, partly to render himself of more importance in the affair, had +represented the party at the Lodge as being constantly on the alert, +and had therefore inculcated upon Cromwell the necessity of his +remaining quiet until he (Tomkins) should appear to give him notice +that the household were retired to rest. On this condition he +undertook, not only to discover the apartment in which the unfortunate +Charles slept, but, if possible, to find some mode of fastening the +door on the outside, so as to render flight impossible. He had also +promised to secure the key of a postern, by which the soldiers might be +admitted into the house without exciting alarm. Nay, the matter might, +by means of his local knowledge, be managed, as he represented it, with +such security, that he would undertake to place his Excellency, or +whomsoever he might appoint for the service, by the side of Charles +Stewart’s bed, ere he had slept off the last night’s claret. Above all, +he had stated, that, from the style of the old house, there were many +passages and posterns which must be carefully guarded before the least +alarm was caught by those within, otherwise the success of the whole +enterprise might be endangered. He had therefore besought Cromwell to +wait for him at the village, if he found him not there on his arrival; +and assured him that the marching and countermarching of soldiers was +at present so common, that even if any news were carried to the Lodge +that fresh troops had arrived in the borough, so ordinary a +circumstance would not give them the least alarm. He recommended that +the soldiers chosen for this service should be such as could be +depended upon—no fainters in spirit—none who turn back from Mount +Gilead for fear of the Amalekites, but men of war, accustomed to strike +with the sword, and to need no second blow. Finally, he represented +that it would be wisely done if the General should put Pearson, or any +other officer whom he could completely trust, into the command of the +detachment, and keep his own person, if he should think it proper to +attend, secret even from the soldiers. + +All this man’s counsels Cromwell had punctually followed. He had +travelled in the van of this detachment of one hundred picked soldiers, +whom he had selected for the service, men of dauntless resolution, bred +in a thousand dangers, and who were steeled against all feelings of +hesitation and compassion, by the deep and gloomy fanaticism which was +their chief principle of action—men to whom, as their General, and no +less as the chief among the Elect, the commands of Oliver were like a +commission from the Deity. + +Great and deep was the General’s mortification at the unexpected +absence of the personage on whose agency he so confidently reckoned, +and many conjectures he formed as to the cause of such mysterious +conduct. Some times he thought Tomkins had been overcome by liquor, a +frailty to which Cromwell knew him to be addicted; and when he held +this opinion he discharged his wrath in maledictions, which, of a +different kind from the wild oaths and curses of the cavaliers, had yet +in them as much blasphemy, and more determined malevolence. At other +times he thought some unexpected alarm, or perhaps some drunken +cavalier revel, had caused the family of Woodstock Lodge to make later +hours than usual. To this conjecture, which appeared the most probable +of any, his mind often recurred; and it was the hope that Tomkins would +still appear at the rendezvous, which induced him to remain at the +borough, anxious to receive communication from his emissary, and afraid +of endangering the success of the enterprise by any premature exertion +on his own part. + +In the meantime, Cromwell, finding it no longer possible to conceal his +personal presence, disposed of every thing so as to be ready at a +minute’s notice. Half his soldiers he caused to dismount, and had the +horses put into quarters; the other half were directed to keep their +horses saddled, and themselves ready to mount at a moment’s notice. The +men were brought into the house by turns, and had some refreshment, +leaving a sufficient guard on the horses, which was changed from time +to time. + +Thus Cromwell waited with no little uncertainty, often casting an +anxious eye upon Colonel Everard, who, he suspected, could, if he chose +it, well supply the place of his absent confidant. Everard endured this +calmly, with unaltered countenance, and brow neither ruffled nor +dejected. + +Midnight at length tolled, and it became necessary to take some +decisive step. Tomkins might have been treacherous; or, a suspicion +which approached more near to the reality, his intrigue might have been +discovered, and he himself murdered or kidnapped by the vengeful +royalists. In a word, if any use was to be made of the chance which +fortune afforded of securing the most formidable claimant of the +supreme power, which he already aimed at, no farther time was to be +lost. He at length gave orders to Pearson to get the men under arms; he +directed him concerning the mode of forming them, and that they should +march with the utmost possible silence; or as it was given out in the +orders, “Even as Gideon marched in silence when he went down against +the camp of the Midianites, with only Phurah his servant. +Peradventure,” continued this strange document, “we too may learn of +what yonder Midianites have dreamed.” + +A single patrol, followed by a corporal and five steady, experienced +soldiers, formed the advanced guard of the party; then followed the +main body. A rear-guard of ten men guarded Everard and the minister. +Cromwell required the attendance of the former, as it might be +necessary to examine him, or confront him with others; and he carried +Master Holdenough with him, because he might escape if left behind, and +perhaps raise some tumult in the village. The Presbyterians, though +they not only concurred with, but led the way in the civil war, were at +its conclusion highly dissatisfied with the ascendency of the military +sectaries, and not to be trusted as cordial agents in anything where +their interest was concerned. The infantry being disposed of as we have +noticed, marched off from the left of their line, Cromwell and Pearson, +both on foot, keeping at the head of the centre, or main body of the +detachment. They were all armed with petronels, short guns similar to +the modern carabine, and, like them, used by horsemen. They marched in +the most profound silence and with the utmost regularity, the whole +body moving like one man. + +About one hundred yards behind the rearmost of the dismounted party, +came the troopers who remained on horseback; and it seemed as if even +the irrational animals were sensible to Cromwell’s orders, for the +horses did not neigh, and even appeared to place their feet on the +earth cautiously, and with less noise than usual. + +Their leader, full of anxious thoughts, never spoke, save to enforce by +whispers his caution respecting silence, while the men, surprised and +delighted to find themselves under the command of their renowned +General, and destined, doubtless, for some secret service of high +import, used the utmost precaution in attending to his reiterated +orders. + +They marched down the street of the little borough in the order we have +mentioned. Few of the townsmen were abroad; and one or two, who had +protracted the orgies of the evening to that unusual hour, were too +happy to escape the notice of a strong party of soldiers, who often +acted in the character of police, to inquire about their purpose for +being under arms so late, or the route which they were pursuing. + +The external gate of the Chase had, ever since the party had arrived at +Woodstock, been strictly guarded by three file of troopers, to cut off +all communication between the Lodge and the town. Spitfire, Wildrake’s +emissary, who had often been a-bird-nesting, or on similar mischievous +excursions in the forest, had evaded these men’s vigilance by climbing +over a breach, with which he was well acquainted, in a different part +of the wall. + +Between this party and the advanced guard of Cromwell’s detachment, a +whispered challenge was exchanged, according to the rules of +discipline. The infantry entered the Park, and were followed by the +cavalry, who were directed to avoid the hard road, and ride as much as +possible upon the turf which bordered on the avenue. Here, too, an +additional precaution was used, a file or two of foot soldiers being +detached to search the woods on either hand, and make prisoner, or, in +the event of resistance, put to death, any whom they might find lurking +there, under what pretence soever. + +Meanwhile, the weather began to show itself as propitious to Cromwell, +as he had found most incidents in the course of his successful career. +The grey mist, which had hitherto obscured everything, and rendered +marching in the wood embarrassing and difficult, had now given way to +the moon, which, after many efforts, at length forced her way through +the vapour, and hung her dim dull cresset in the heavens, which she +enlightened, as the dying lamp of an anchorite does the cell in which +he reposes. The party were in sight of the front of the palace, when +Holdenough whispered to Everard, as they walked near each other—“See ye +not, yonder flutters the mysterious light in the turret of the +incontinent Rosamond? This night will try whether the devil of the +Sectaries or the devil of the Malignants shall prove the stronger. O, +sing jubilee, for the kingdom of Satan is divided against itself!” + +Here the divine was interrupted by a non-commissioned officer, who came +hastily, yet with noiseless steps, to say, in a low stern whisper— +“Silence, prisoner in the rear—silence on pain of death.” + +A moment afterwards the whole party stopped their march, the word halt +being passed from one to another, and instantly obeyed. + +The cause of this interruption was the hasty return of one of the +flanking party to the main body, bringing news to Cromwell that they +had seen a light in the wood at some distance on the left. + +“What can it be?” said Cromwell, his low stern voice, even in a +whisper, making itself distinctly heard. “Does it move, or is it +stationary?” + +“So far as we can judge, it moveth not,” answered the trooper. + +“Strange—there is no cottage near the spot where it is seen.” + +“So please your Excellency, it may be a device of Sathan,” said +Corporal Humgudgeon, snuffing through his nose; “he is mighty powerful +in these parts of late.” + +“So please your idiocy, thou art an ass,” said Cromwell; but, instantly +recollecting that the corporal had been one of the adjutators or +tribunes of the common soldiers, and was therefore to be treated with +suitable respect, he said, “Nevertheless, if it be the device of Satan, +please it the Lord we will resist him, and the foul slave shall fly +from us.—Pearson,” he said, resuming his soldierlike brevity, “take +four file, and see what is yonder—No—the knaves may shrink from thee. +Go thou straight to the Lodge—invest it in the way we agreed, so that a +bird shall not escape out of it—form an outward and an inward ring of +sentinels, but give no alarm until I come. Should any attempt to +escape, KILL them.”—He spoke that command with terrible emphasis.—“Kill +them on the spot,” he repeated, “be they who or what they will. Better +so than trouble the Commonwealth with prisoners.” + +Pearson heard, and proceeded to obey his commander’s orders. + +Meanwhile, the future Protector disposed the small force which remained +with him in such a manner that they should approach from different +points at once the light which excited his suspicions, and gave them +orders to creep as near to it as they could, taking care not to lose +each other’s support, and to be ready to rush in at the same moment, +when he should give the sign, which was to be a loud whistle. Anxious +to ascertain the truth with his own eyes, Cromwell, who had by instinct +all the habits of military foresight, which, in others, are the result +of professional education and long experience, advanced upon the object +of his curiosity. He skulked from tree to tree with the light step and +prowling sagacity of an Indian bush-fighter; and before any of his men +had approached so near as to descry them, he saw, by the lantern which +was placed on the ground, two men, who had been engaged in digging what +seemed to be an ill-made grave. Near them lay extended something +wrapped in a deer’s hide, which greatly resembled the dead body of a +man. They spoke together in a low voice, yet so that their dangerous +auditor could perfectly overhear what they said. + +“It is done at last,” said one; “the worst and hardest labour I ever +did in my life. I believe there is no luck about me left. My very arms +feel as if they did not belong to me; and, strange to tell, toil as +hard as I would, I could not gather warmth in my limbs.” + +“I have warmed me enough,” said Rochecliffe, breathing short with +fatigue. + +“But the cold lies at my heart,” said Joceline; “I scarce hope ever to +be warm again. It is strange, and a charm seems to be on us. Here have +we been nigh two hours in doing what Diggon the sexton would have done +to better purpose in half a one.” + +“We are wretched spadesmen enough,” answered Dr. Rochecliffe. “Every +man to his tools—thou to thy bugle-horn, and I to my papers in +cipher.—But do not be discouraged; it is the frost on the ground, and +the number of roots, which rendered our task difficult. And now, all +due rites done to this unhappy man, and having read over him the +service of the Church, _valeat quantum_, let us lay him decently in +this place of last repose; there will be small lack of him above +ground. So cheer up thy heart, man, like a soldier as thou art; we have +read the service over his body; and should times permit it, we will +have him removed to consecrated ground, though he is all unworthy of +such favour. Here, help me to lay him in the earth; we will drag briers +and thorns over the spot, when we have shovelled dust upon dust; and do +thou think of this chance more manfully; and remember, thy secret is in +thine own keeping.” + +“I cannot answer for that,” said Joceline. “Methinks the very night +winds among the leaves will tell of what we have been doing—methinks +the trees themselves will say, ‘there is a dead corpse lies among our +roots.’ Witnesses are soon found when blood hath been spilled.” + +“They are so, and that right early,” exclaimed Cromwell, starting from +the thicket, laying hold on Joceline, and putting a pistol to his head. +At any other period of his life, the forester would, even against the +odds of numbers, have made a desperate resistance; but the horror he +had felt at the slaughter of an old companion, although in defence of +his own life, together with fatigue and surprise, had altogether +unmanned him, and he was seized as easily as a sheep is secured by the +butcher. Dr. Rochecliffe offered some resistance, but was presently +secured by the soldiers who pressed around him. + +“Look, some of you,” said Cromwell, “what corpse this is upon whom +these lewd sons of Belial have done a murder—Corporal Grace-be-here +Humgudgeon, see if thou knowest the face.” + +“I profess I do, even as I should do mine own in a mirror,” snuffled +the corporal, after looking on the countenance of the dead man by the +help of the lantern. “Of a verity it is our trusty brother in the +faith, Joseph Tomkins.” + +“Tomkins!” exclaimed Cromwell, springing forward and satisfying himself +with a glance at the features of the corpse—“Tomkins!—and murdered, as +the fracture of the temple intimates!—dogs that ye are, confess the +truth—You have murdered him because you have discovered his treachery— +I should say his true spirit towards the Commonwealth of England, and +his hatred of those complots in which you would have engaged his honest +simplicity.” + +“Ay,” said Grace-be-here Humgudgeon, “and then to misuse his dead body +with your papistical doctrines, as if you had crammed cold porridge +into its cold mouth. I pray thee, General, let these men’s bonds be +made strong.” + +“Forbear, corporal,” said Cromwell; “our time presses.—Friend, to +you,—whom I believe to be Doctor Anthony Rochecliffe by name and +surname, I have to give the choice of being hanged at daybreak +to-morrow, or making atonement for the murder of one of the Lord’s +people, by telling what thou knowest of the secrets which are in yonder +house.” + +“Truly, sir,” replied Rochecliffe, “you found me but in my duty as a +clergyman, interring the dead; and respecting answering your questions, +I am determined myself, and do advise my fellow-sufferer on this +occasion”— + +“Remove him,” said Cromwell; “I know his stiffneckedness of old, though +I have made him plough in my furrow, when he thought he was turning up +his own swathe—Remove him to the rear, and bring hither the other +fellow.—Come thou here—this way—closer—closer.—Corporal Grace-be-here, +do thou keep thy hand upon the belt with which he is bound. We must +take care of our life for the sake of this distracted country, though, +lack-a-day, for its own proper worth we could peril it for a pin’s +point.—Now, mark me, fellow, choose betwixt buying thy life by a full +confession, or being tucked presently up to one of these old oaks—How +likest thou that?” + +“Truly, master,” answered the under-keeper, affecting more rusticity +than was natural to him, (for his frequent intercourse with Sir Henry +Lee had partly softened and polished his manners,) “I think the oak is +like to bear a lusty acorn—that is all.” + +“Dally not with me, friend,” continued Oliver; “I profess to thee in +sincerity I am no trifler. What guests have you seen at yonder house +called the Lodge?” + +“Many a brave guest in my day, I’se warrant ye, master,” said Joceline. +“Ah, to see how the chimneys used to smoke some twelve years back! Ah, +sir, a sniff of it would have dined a poor man.” + +“Out, rascal!” said the General, “dost thou jeer me? Tell me at once +what guests have been of late in the Lodge—and look thee, friend, be +assured, that in rendering me this satisfaction, thou shalt not only +rescue thy neck from the halter, but render also an acceptable service +to the State, and one which I will see fittingly rewarded. For, truly, +I am not of those who would have the rain fall only on the proud and +stately plants, but rather would, so far as my poor wishes and prayers +are concerned, that it should also fall upon the lowly and humble grass +and corn, that the heart of the husbandman may be rejoiced, and that as +the cedar of Lebanon waxes in its height, in its boughs, and in its +roots, so may the humble and lowly hyssop that groweth upon the walls +flourish, and—and, truly—Understand’st thou me, knave?” + +“Not entirely, if it please your honour,” said Joceline; “but it sounds +as if you were preaching a sermon, and has a marvellous twang of +doctrine with it.” + +“Then, in one word—thou knowest there is one Louis Kerneguy, or +Carnego, or some such name, in hiding at the Lodge yonder?” + +“Nay, sir,” replied the under-keeper, “there have been many coming and +going since Worcester-field; and how should I know who they are?—my +service is out of doors, I trow.” + +“A thousand pounds,” said Cromwell, “do I tell down to thee, if thou +canst place that boy in my power.” + +“A thousand pounds is a marvellous matter, sir,” said Joceline; “but I +have more blood on my hand than I like already. I know not how the +price of life may thrive—and, ’scape or hang, I have no mind to try.” + +“Away with him to the rear,” said the General; “and let him not speak +with his yoke-fellow yonder—Fool that I am, to waste time in expecting +to get milk from mules.—Move on towards the Lodge.” + +They moved with the same silence as formerly, notwithstanding the +difficulties which they encountered from being unacquainted with the +road and its various intricacies. At length they were challenged, in a +low voice, by one of their own sentinels, two concentric circles of +whom had been placed around the Lodge, so close to each other, as to +preclude the possibility of an individual escaping from within. The +outer guard was maintained partly by horse upon the roads and open +lawn, and where the ground was broken and bushy, by infantry. The inner +circle was guarded by foot soldiers only. The whole were in the highest +degree alert, expecting some interesting and important consequences +from the unusual expedition on which they were engaged. + +“Any news, Pearson?” said the General to his aide-de-camp, who came +instantly to report to his superior. + +He received for answer, “None.” + +Cromwell led his officer forward just opposite to the door of the +Lodge, and there paused betwixt the circles of guards, so that their +conversation could not be overheard. + +He then pursued his enquiry, demanding, “Were there any lights—any +appearances of stirring—any attempt at sally—any preparation for +defence?” + +“All as silent as the valley of the shadow of death—Even as the vale of +Jehosaphat.” + +“Pshaw! tell me not of Jehosaphat, Pearson,” said Cromwell. “These +words are good for others, but not for thee. Speak plainly, and like a +blunt soldier as thou art. Each man hath his own mode of speech; and +bluntness, not sanctity, is thine.” + +“Well then, nothing has been stirring,” said Pearson.—“Yet +peradventure”— + +“Peradventure not me,” said Cromwell, “or thou wilt tempt me to knock +thy teeth out. I ever distrust a man when he speaks after another +fashion from his own.” + +“Zounds! let me speak to an end,” answered Pearson, “and I will speak +in what language your Excellency will.” + +“Thy zounds, friend,” said Oliver, “showeth little of grace, but much +of sincerity. Go to then—thou knowest I love and trust thee. Hast thou +kept close watch? It behoves us to know that, before giving the alarm.” + +“On my soul,” said Pearson, “I have watched as closely as a cat at a +mouse-hole. It is beyond possibility that any thing could have eluded +our vigilance, or even stirred within the house, without our being +aware of it.” + +“’Tis well,” said Cromwell; “thy services shall not be forgotten, +Pearson. Thou canst not preach and pray, but thou canst obey thine +orders, Gilbert Pearson, and that may make amends.” + +“I thank your Excellency,” replied Pearson; “but I beg leave to chime +in with the humours of the times. A poor fellow hath no right to hold +himself singular.” + +He paused, expecting Cromwell’s orders what next was to be done, and, +indeed, not a little surprised that the General’s active and prompt +spirit had suffered him during a moment so critical to cast away a +thought upon a circumstance so trivial as his officer’s peculiar mode +of expressing himself. He wondered still more, when, by a brighter +gleam of moonshine than he had yet enjoyed, he observed that Cromwell +was standing motionless, his hands supported upon his sword, which he +had taken out of the belt, and his stern brows bent on the ground. He +waited for some time impatiently, yet afraid to interfere, lest he +should awaken this unwonted fit of ill-timed melancholy into anger and +impatience. He listened to the muttering sounds which escaped from the +half-opening lips of his principal, in which the words, “hard +necessity,” which occurred more than once, were all of which the sense +could be distinguished. “My Lord-General,” at length he said, “time +flies.” + +“Peace, busy fiend, and urge me not!” said Cromwell. “Think’st thou, +like other fools, that I have made a paction with the devil for +success, and am bound to do my work within an appointed hour, lest the +spell should lose its force?” + +“I only think, my Lord-General,” said Pearson, “that Fortune has put +into your coffer what you have long desired to make prize of, and that +you hesitate.” + +Cromwell sighed deeply as he answered, “Ah, Pearson, in this troubled +world, a man, who is called like me to work great things in Israel, had +need to be, as the poets feign, a thing made of hardened metal, +immovable to feelings of human charities, impassible, resistless. +Pearson, the world will hereafter, perchance, think of me as being such +a one as I have described, ‘an iron man, and made of iron mould.’—Yet +they will wrong my memory—my heart is flesh, and my blood is mild as +that of others. When I was a sportsman, I have wept for the gallant +heron that was struck down, by my hawk, and sorrowed for the hare which +lay screaming under the jaws of my greyhound; and canst thou think it a +light thing to me, that, the blood of this lad’s father lying in some +measure upon my head, I should now put in peril that of the son? They +are of the kindly race of English sovereigns, and, doubtless, are +adored like to demigods by those of their own party. I am called +Parricide, Blood-thirsty Usurper, already, for shedding the blood of +one man, that the plague might be stayed—or as Achan was slain that +Israel might thereafter stand against the face of their enemies. +Nevertheless, who has spoke unto me graciously since that high deed? +Those who acted in the matter with me are willing that I should be the +scape-goat of the atonement—those who looked on and helped not, bear +themselves now as if they had been borne down by violence; and while I +looked that they should shout applause on me, because of the victory of +Worcester, whereof the Lord had made me the poor instrument, they look +aside to say, ‘Ha! ha! the King-killer, the Parricide—soon shall his +place be made desolate.’—Truly it is a great thing, Gilbert Pearson, to +be lifted above the multitude; but when one feeleth that his exaltation +is rather hailed with hate and scorn than with love and reverence—in +sooth, it is still a hard matter for a mild, tender-conscienced, infirm +spirit to bear—and God be my witness, that, rather than do this new +deed, I would shed my own best heart’s-blood in a pitched field, twenty +against one.” Here he fell into a flood of tears, which he sometimes +was wont to do. This extremity of emotion was of a singular character. +It was not actually the result of penitence, and far less that of +absolute hypocrisy, but arose merely from the temperature of that +remarkable man, whose deep policy, and ardent enthusiasm, were +intermingled with a strain of hypochondriacal passion, which often led +him to exhibit scenes of this sort, though seldom, as now, when he was +called to the execution of great undertakings. + +Pearson, well acquainted as he was with the peculiarities of his +General, was baffled and confounded by this fit of hesitation and +contrition, by which his enterprising spirit appeared to be so suddenly +paralysed. After a moment’s silence, he said, with some dryness of +manner, “If this be the case, it is a pity your Excellency came hither. +Corporal Humgudgeon and I, the greatest saint and greatest sinner in +your army, had done the deed, and divided the guilt and the honour +betwixt us.” + +“Ha!” said Cromwell, as if touched to the quick, “wouldst thou take the +prey from the lion?” + +“If the lion behaves like a village cur,” said Pearson boldly, “who now +barks and seems as if he would tear all to pieces, and now flies from a +raised stick or a stone, I know not why I should fear him. If Lambert +had been here, there had been less speaking and more action.” + +“Lambert! What of Lambert?” said Cromwell, very sharply. + +“Only,” said Pearson, “that I long since hesitated whether I should +follow your Excellency or him—and I begin to be uncertain whether I +have made the best choice, that’s all.” + +“Lambert!” exclaimed Cromwell impatiently, yet softening his voice lest +he should be overheard descanting on the character of his rival,—“What +is Lambert?—a tulip-fancying fellow, whom nature intended for a Dutch +gardener at Delft or Rotterdam. Ungrateful as thou art, what could +Lambert have done for thee?” + +“He would not,” answered Pearson, “have stood here hesitating before a +locked door, when fortune presented the means of securing, by one blow, +his own fortune, and that of all who followed him.” + +“Thou art right, Gilbert Pearson,” said Cromwell, grasping his +officer’s hand, and strongly pressing it. “Be the half of this bold +accompt thine, whether the reckoning be on earth or heaven.” + +“Be the whole of it mine hereafter,” said Pearson hardily, “so your +Excellency have the advantage of it upon earth. Step back to the rear +till I force the door—there may be danger, if despair induce them to +make a desperate sally.” + +“And if they do sally, is there one of my Ironsides who fears fire or +steel less than myself?” said the General. “Let ten of the most +determined men follow us, two with halberts, two with petronels, the +others with pistols—Let all their arms be loaded, and fire without +hesitation, if there is any attempt to resist or to sally forth—Let +Corporal Humgudgeon be with them, and do thou remain here, and watch +against escape, as thou wouldst watch for thy salvation.” + +The General then struck at the door with the hilt of his sword—at first +with a single blow or two, then with a reverberation of strokes that +made the ancient building ring again. This noisy summons was repeated +once or twice without producing the least effect. + +“What can this mean?” said Cromwell; “they cannot surely have fled, and +left the house empty.” + +“No,” replied Pearson, “I will ensure you against that; but your +Excellency strikes so fiercely, you allow no time for an answer. Hark! +I hear the baying of a hound, and the voice of a man who is quieting +him—Shall we break in at once, or hold parley?” + +“I will speak to them first,” said Cromwell.—“Hollo! who is within +there?” + +“Who is it enquires?” answered Sir Henry Lee from the interior; “or +what want you here at this dead hour?” + +“We come by warrant of the Commonwealth of England,” said the General. + +“I must see your warrant ere I undo either bolt or latch,” replied the +knight; “we are enough of us to make good the castle: neither I nor my +fellows will deliver it up but upon good quarter and conditions; and we +will not treat for these save in fair daylight.” + +“Since you will not yield to our right, you must try our might,” +replied Cromwell. “Look to yourselves within; the door will be in the +midst of you in five minutes.” + +“Look to yourselves without,” replied the stout-hearted Sir Henry; “we +will pour our shot upon you, if you attempt the least violence.” + +But, alas! while he assumed this bold language, his whole garrison +consisted of two poor terrified women; for his son, in conformity with +the plan which they had fixed upon, had withdrawn from the hall into +the secret recesses of the palace. + +“What can they be doing now, sir?” said Phœbe, hearing a noise as it +were of a carpenter turning screw-nails, mixed with a low buzz of men +talking. + +“They are fixing a petard,” said the knight, with great composure. “I +have noted thee for a clever wench, Phœbe, and I will explain it to +thee: ’Tis a metal pot, shaped much like one of the roguish knaves’ own +sugarloaf hats, supposing it had narrower brims—it is charged with some +few pounds of fine gunpowder. Then”— + +“Gracious! we shall be all blown up!” exclaimed Phœbe,—the word +gunpowder being the only one which she understood in the knight’s +description. + +“Not a bit, foolish girl. Pack old Dame Jellicot into the embrasure of +yonder window,” said the knight, “on that side of the door, and we will +ensconce ourselves on this, and we shall have time to finish my +explanation, for they have bungling engineers. We had a clever French +fellow at Newark would have done the job in the firing of a pistol.” + +They had scarce got into the place of security when the knight +proceeded with his description.—“The petard being formed, as I tell +you, is secured with a thick and strong piece of plank, termed the +madrier, and the whole being suspended, or rather secured against the +gate to be forced—But thou mindest me not?” + +“How can I, Sir Henry,” she said, “within reach of such a thing as you +speak of?—O Lord! I shall go mad with very terror—we shall be +crushed—blown up—in a few minutes!” + +“We are secure from the explosion,” replied the knight, gravely, “which +will operate chiefly in a forward direction into the middle of the +chamber; and from any fragments that may fly laterally, we are +sufficiently guarded by this deep embrasure.” + +“But they will slay us when they enter,” said Phœbe. + +“They will give thee fair quarter, wench,” said Sir Henry; “and if I do +not bestow a brace of balls on that rogue engineer, it is because I +would not incur the penalty inflicted by martial law, which condemns to +the edge of the sword all persons who attempt to defend an untenable +post. Not that I think the rigour of the law could reach Dame Jellicot +or thyself, Phœbe, considering that you carry no arms. If Alice had +been here she might indeed have done somewhat, for she can use a +birding-piece.” + +Phœbe might have appealed to her own deeds of that day, as more allied +to feats of mêlée and battle, than any which her young lady ever acted; +but she was in an agony of inexpressible terror, expecting, from the +knight’s account of the petard, some dreadful catastrophe, of what +nature she did not justly understand, notwithstanding his liberal +communication on the subject. + +“They are strangely awkward at it,” said Sir Henry; “little Boutirlin +would have blown the house up before now.—Ah! he is a fellow would take +the earth like a rabbit—if he had been here, never may I stir but he +would have countermined them ere now, and + +—‘’Tis sport to have the engineer +Hoist with his own petard.’ + + +as our immortal Shakspeare has it.” + +“Oh, Lord, the poor mad old gentleman,” thought Phœbe—“Oh, sir, had you +not better leave alone playbooks, and think of your end?” uttered she +aloud, in sheer terror and vexation of spirit. + +“If I had not made up my mind to that many days since,” answered the +knight, “I had not now met this hour with a free bosom— + +‘As gentle and as jocund as to rest, +Go I to death—truth hath a quiet breast.’” + + +As he spoke, a broad glare of light flashed from without, through the +windows of the hall, and betwixt the strong iron stanchions with which +they were secured—a broad discoloured light it was, which shed a red +and dusky illumination on the old armour and weapons, as if it had been +the reflection of a conflagration. Phœbe screamed aloud, and, forgetful +of reverence in the moment of passion, clung close to the knight’s +cloak and arm, while Dame Jellicot, from her solitary niche, having the +use of her eyes, though bereft of her hearing, yelled like an owl when +the moon breaks out suddenly. + +“Take care, good Phœbe,” said the knight; “you will prevent my using my +weapon if you hang upon me thus.—The bungling fools cannot fix their +petard without the use of torches! Now let me take the advantage of +this interval.—Remember what I told thee, and how to put off time.” + +“Oh, Lord—ay, sir,” said Phœbe, “I will say any thing, Oh, Lord, that +it were but over!—Ah! ah!”—(two prolonged screams)—“I hear something +hissing like a serpent.” + +“It is the fusee, as we martialists call it,” replied the knight; “that +is, Phœbe, the match which fires the petard, and which is longer or +shorter, according to the distance.” + +Here the knight’s discourse was cut short by a dreadful explosion, +which, as he had foretold, shattered the door, strong as it was, to +pieces, and brought down the glass clattering from the windows with all +the painted heroes and heroines, who had been recorded on that fragile +place of memory for centuries. The women shrieked incessantly, and were +answered by the bellowing of Bevis, though shut up at a distance from +the scene of action. The knight, shaking Phœbe from him with +difficulty, advanced into the hall to meet those who rushed in, with +torches lighted and weapons prepared. + +“Death to all who resist—life to those who surrender!” exclaimed +Cromwell, stamping with his foot. “Who commands this garrison?” + +“Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley,” answered the old knight, stepping forward; +“who, having no other garrison than two weak women, is compelled to +submit to what he would willingly have resisted.” + +“Disarm the inveterate and malignant rebel,” cried Oliver. “Art thou +not ashamed, sir, to detain me before the door of a house which you had +no force to defend? Wearest thou so white a beard, and knowest thou +not, that to refuse surrendering an indefensible post, by the martial +law, deserves hanging?” + +“My beard and I,” said Sir Henry, “have settled that matter between us, +and agree right cordially. It is better to run the risk of being +hanged, like honest men, than to give up our trust like cowards and +traitors.” + +“Ha! say’st thou?” said Cromwell; “thou hast powerful motives, I doubt +not, for running thy head into a noose. But I will speak with thee by +and by.—Ho! Pearson, Gilbert Pearson, take this scroll—Take the elder +woman with thee—Let her guide you to the various places therein +mentioned—Search every room therein set down, and arrest, or slay upon +the slightest resistance, whomsoever you find there. Then note those +places marked as commanding points for cutting off intercourse through +the mansion—the landing-places of the great staircase, the great +gallery, and so forth. Use the woman civilly. The plan annexed to the +scroll will point out the posts, even if she prove stupid or +refractory. Meanwhile, the corporal, with a party, will bring the old +man and the girl there to some apartment—the parlour, I think, called +Victor Lee’s, will do as well as another.—We will then be out of this +stifling smell of gunpowder.” + +So saying, and without requiring any farther assistance or guidance, he +walked towards the apartment he had named. Sir Henry had his own +feelings, when he saw the unhesitating decision with which the General +led the way, and which seemed to intimate a more complete acquaintance +with the various localities of Woodstock than was consistent with his +own present design, to engage the Commonwealth party in a fruitless +search through the intricacies of the Lodge. + +“I will now ask thee a few questions, old man,” said the General, when +they had arrived in the room; “and I warn thee, that hope of pardon for +thy many and persevering efforts against the Commonwealth, can be no +otherwise merited than by the most direct answers to the questions I am +about to ask.” + +Sir Henry bowed. He would have spoken, but he felt his temper rising +high, and became afraid it might be exhausted before the part he had +settled to play, in order to afford the King time for his escape, +should be brought to an end. + +“What household have you had here, Sir Henry Lee, within these few +days—what guests—what visitors? We know that your means of +house-keeping are not so profuse as usual, so the catalogue cannot be +burdensome to your memory.” + +“Far from it,” replied the knight, with unusual command of temper, “my +daughter, and latterly my son, have been my guests; and I have had +these females, and one Joceline Joliffe, to attend upon us.” + +“I do not ask after the regular members of your household, but after +those who have been within your gates, either as guests, or as +malignant fugitives taking shelter.” + +“There may have been more of both kinds, sir, than I, if it please your +valour, am able to answer for,” replied the knight. “I remember my +kinsman Everard was here one morning—Also, I bethink me, a follower of +his, called Wildrake.” + +“Did you not also receive a young cavalier, called Louis Garnegey?” +said Cromwell. + +“I remember no such name, were I to hang for it,” said the knight. +“Kerneguy, or some such word,” said the General; “we will not quarrel +for a sound.” + +“A Scotch lad, called Louis Kerneguy, was a guest of mine,” said Sir +Henry, “and left me this morning for Dorsetshire.” + +“So late!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot—“How fate +contrives to baffle us, even when she seems most favourable!—What +direction did he take, old man?” continued Cromwell—“what horse did he +ride—who went with him?” + +“My son went with him,” replied the knight; “he brought him here as the +son of a Scottish lord.—I pray you, sir, to be finished with these +questions; for although I owe thee, as Will Shakspeare says, + +Respect for thy great place, and let the devil +Be sometimes honoured for his burning throne,— + + +yet I feel my patience wearing thin.” + +Cromwell here whispered to the corporal, who in turn uttered orders to +two soldiers, who left the room. “Place the knight aside; we will now +examine the servant damsel,” said the General.—“Dost them know,” said +he to Phœbe, “of the presence of one Louis Kerneguy, calling himself a +Scotch page, who came here a few days since?” + +“Surely, sir,” she replied, “I cannot easily forget him; and I warrant +no well-looking wench that comes into his way will be like to forget +him either.” + +“Aha,” said Cromwell, “sayst thou so? truly I believe the woman will +prove the truer witness.—When did he leave this house?” + +“Nay, I know nothing of his movements, not I,” said Phœbe; “I am only +glad to keep out of his way. But if he have actually gone hence, I am +sure he was here some two hours since, for he crossed me in the lower +passage, between the hall and the kitchen.” + +“How did you know it was he?” demanded Cromwell. + +“By a rude enough token,” said Phœbe.—“La, sir, you do ask such +questions!” she added, hanging down her head. + +Humgudgeon here interfered, taking upon himself the freedom of a +co-adjutor. “Verily,” he said, “if what the damsel is called to speak +upon hath aught unseemly, I crave your Excellency’s permission to +withdraw, not desiring that my nightly meditations may be disturbed +with tales of such a nature.” + +“Nay, your honour,” said Phœbe, “I scorn the old man’s words, in the +way of seemliness or unseemliness either. Master Louis did but snatch a +kiss, that is the truth of it, if it must be told.” + +Here Humgudgeon groaned deeply, while his Excellency avoided laughing +with some difficulty. “Thou hast given excellent tokens, Phœbe,” he +said; “and if they be true, as I think they seem to be, thou shalt not +lack thy reward.—And here comes our spy from the stables.” + +“There are not the least signs,” said the trooper, “that horses have +been in the stables for a month—there is no litter in the stalls, no +hay in the racks, the corn-bins are empty, and the mangers are full of +cobwebs.” + +“Ay, ay,” said the old knight, “I have seen when I kept twenty good +horses in these stalls, with many a groom and stable-boy to attend +them.” + +“In the meanwhile,” said Cromwell, “their present state tells little +for the truth of your own story, that there were horses to-day, on +which this Kerneguy and your son fled from justice.” + +“I did not say that the horses were kept there,” said the knight. “I +have horses and stables elsewhere.” + +“Fie, fie, for shame, for shame!” said the General; “can a +white-bearded man, I ask it once more, be a false witness?” + +“Faith, sir,” said Sir Henry Lee, “it is a thriving trade, and I wonder +not that you who live on it are so severe in prosecuting interlopers. +But it is the times, and those who rule the times, that make +grey-beards deceivers.” + +“Thou art facetious friend, as well as daring in thy malignity,” said +Cromwell; “but credit me, I will cry quittance with you ere I am done. +Whereunto lead these doors?” + +“To bedrooms,” answered the knight. + +“Bedrooms! only to bedrooms?” said the Republican General, in a voice +which indicated such was the internal occupation of his thoughts, that +he had not fully understood the answer. + +“Lord, sir,” said the knight, “why should you make it so strange? I say +these doors lead to bedrooms—to places where honest men sleep, and +rogues lie awake.” + +“You are running up a farther account, Sir Henry,” said the General; +“but we will balance it once and for all.” + +During the whole of the scene, Cromwell, whatever might be the internal +uncertainty of his mind, maintained the most strict temperance in +language and manner, just as if he had no farther interest in what was +passing, than as a military man employed in discharging the duty +enjoined him by his superiors. But the restraint upon his passion was +but + +“The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below.”[1] + + + [1] But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth? +The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash, below. + CAMPBELL’S _Gertrude of Wyoming_. + + +The course of his resolution was hurried on even more forcibly, because +no violence of expression attended or announced its current. He threw +himself into a chair, with a countenance that indicated no indecision +of mind, but a determination which awaited only the signal for action. +Meanwhile the knight, as if resolved in nothing to forego the +privileges of his rank and place, sat himself down in turn, and putting +on his hat, which lay on a table, regarded the General with a calm look +of fearless indifference. The soldiers stood around, some holding the +torches, which illuminated the apartment with a lurid and sombre glare +of light, the others resting upon their weapons. Phœbe, with her hands +folded, her eyes turned upwards till the pupils were scarce visible, +and every shade of colour banished from her ruddy cheek, stood like one +in immediate apprehension of the sentence of death being pronounced, +and instant execution commanded. + +Heavy steps were at last heard, and Pearson and some of the soldiers +returned. This seemed to be what Cromwell waited for. He started up, +and asked hastily, “Any news, Pearson? any prisoners—any malignants +slain in thy defence?” + +“None, so please your Excellency,” said the officer. + +“And are thy sentinels all carefully placed, as Tomkins’ scroll gave +direction, and with fitting orders?” + +“With the most deliberate care,” said Pearson. + +“Art thou very sure,” said Cromwell, pulling him a little to one side, +“that this is all well and duly cared for? Bethink thee, that when we +engage ourselves in the private communications, all will be lost should +the party we look for have the means of dodging us by an escape into +the more open rooms, and from thence perhaps into the forest.” + +“My Lord-General,” answered Pearson, “if placing the guards on the +places pointed out in this scroll be sufficient, with the strictest +orders to stop, and, if necessary, to stab or shoot, whoever crosses +their post, such orders are given to men who will not fail to execute +them. If more is necessary, your Excellency has only to speak.” + +“No—no—no, Pearson,” said the General, “thou hast done well.—This night +over, and let it end but as we hope, thy reward shall not be +wanting.—And now to business.—Sir Henry Lee, undo me the secret spring +of yonder picture of your ancestor. Nay, spare yourself the trouble and +guilt of falsehood or equivocation, and, I say, undo me that spring +presently.” + +“When I acknowledge you for my master, and wear your livery, I may obey +your commands,” answered the knight; “even then I would need first to +understand them.” + +“Wench,” said Cromwell, addressing Phœbe, “go thou undo the spring—you +could do it fast enough when you aided at the gambols of the demons of +Woodstock, and terrified even Mark Everard, who, I judged, had more +sense.” + +“Oh Lord, sir, what shall I do?” said Phœbe, looking to the knight; +“they know all about it. What shall I do?” + +“For thy life, hold out to the last, wench! Every minute is worth a +million.” + +“Ha! heard you that, Pearson?” said Cromwell to the officer; then, +stamping with his foot, he added, “Undo the spring, or I will else use +levers and wrenching-irons—Or, ha! another petard were well bestowed— +Call the engineer.” + +“O Lord, sir,” cried Phœbe, “I shall never live another peter—I will +open the spring.” + +“Do as thou wilt,” said Sir Henry; “it shall profit them but little.” + +Whether from real agitation, or from a desire to gain time, Phœbe was +some minutes ere she could get the spring to open; it was indeed +secured with art, and the machinery on which it acted was concealed in +the frame of the portrait. The whole, when fastened, appeared quite +motionless, and betrayed, as when examined by Colonel Everard, no +external mark of its being possible to remove it. It was now withdrawn, +however, and showed a narrow recess, with steps which ascended on one +side into the thickness of the wall. Cromwell was now like a greyhound +slipped from the leash with the prey in full view.—“Up,” he cried, +“Pearson, thou art swifter than I—Up thou next, corporal.” With more +agility than could have been expected from his person or years, which +were past the meridian of life, and exclaiming, “Before, those with the +torches!” he followed the party, like an eager huntsman in the rear of +his hounds, to encourage at once and direct them, as they penetrated +into the labyrinth described by Dr. Rochecliffe in the “Wonders of +Woodstock.” + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH. + + +The King, therefore, for his defence + Against the furious Queen, +At Woodstock builded such a bower, + As never yet was seen. +Most curiously that bower was built, + Of stone and timber strong; +An hundred and fifty doors + Did to this bower belong; +And they so cunningly contrived, + With turnings round about, +That none but with a clew of thread + Could enter in or out. + + +BALLAD OF FAIR ROSAMOND. + + +The tradition of the country, as well as some historical evidence, +confirmed the opinion that there existed, within the old Royal Lodge at +Woodstock, a labyrinth, or connected series of subterranean passages, +built chiefly by Henry II., for the security of his mistress, Rosamond +Clifford, from the jealousy of his Queen, the celebrated Eleanor. Dr. +Rochecliffe, indeed, in one of those fits of contradiction with which +antiquaries are sometimes seized, was bold enough to dispute the +alleged purpose of the perplexed maze of rooms and passages, with which +the walls of the ancient palace were perforated; but the fact was +undeniable, that in raising the fabric some Norman architect had +exerted the utmost of the complicated art, which they have often shown +elsewhere, in creating secret passages, and chambers of retreat and +concealment. There were stairs, which were ascended merely, as it +seemed, for the purpose of descending again—passages, which, after +turning and winding for a considerable way, returned to the place where +they set out—there were trapdoors and hatchways, panels and +portcullises. Although Oliver was assisted by a sort of ground-plan, +made out and transmitted by Joseph Tomkins, whose former employment in +Dr. Rochecliffe’s service had made him fully acquainted with the place, +it was found imperfect; and, moreover, the most serious obstacles to +their progress occurred in the shape of strong doors, party-walls, and +iron-grates—so that the party blundered on in the dark, uncertain +whether they were not going farther from, rather than approaching, the +extremity of the labyrinth. They were obliged to send for mechanics, +with sledge-hammers and other instruments, to force one or two of those +doors, which resisted all other means of undoing them. Labouring along +in these dusky passages, where, from time to time, they were like to be +choked by the dust which their acts of violence excited, the soldiers +were obliged to be relieved oftener than once, and the bulky Corporal +Grace-be-here himself puffed and blew like a grampus that has got into +shoal water. Cromwell alone continued, with unabated zeal, to push on +his researches—to encourage the soldiers, by the exhortations which +they best understood, against fainting for lack of faith—and to secure, +by sentinels at proper places, possession of the ground which they had +already explored. His acute and observing eye detected, with a sneering +smile, the cordage and machinery by which the bed of poor Desborough +had been inverted, and several remains of the various disguises, as +well as private modes of access, by which Desborough, Bletson, and +Harrison, had been previously imposed upon. He pointed them out to +Pearson, with no farther comment than was implied in the exclamation, +“The simple fools!” + +But his assistants began to lose heart and be discouraged, and required +all his spirit to raise theirs. He then called their attention to +voices which they seemed to hear before them, and urged these as +evidence that they were moving on the track of some enemy of the +Commonwealth, who, for the execution of his malignant plots, had +retreated into these extraordinary fastnesses. + +The spirits of the men became at last downcast, notwithstanding all +this encouragement. They spoke to each other in whispers, of the devils +of Woodstock, who might be all the while decoying them forward to a +room said to exist in the Palace, where the floor, revolving on an +axis, precipitated those who entered into a bottomless abyss. +Humgudgeon hinted, that he had consulted the Scripture that morning by +way of lot, and his fortune had been to alight on the passage, +“Eutychus fell down from the third loft.” The energy and authority of +Cromwell, however, and the refreshment of some food and strong waters, +reconciled them to pursuing their task. + +Nevertheless, with all their unwearied exertions, morning dawned on the +search before they had reached Dr. Rochecliffe’s sitting apartment, +into which, after all, they obtained entrance by a mode much more +difficult than that which the Doctor himself employed. But here their +ingenuity was long at fault. From the miscellaneous articles that were +strewed around, and the preparations made for food and lodging, it +seemed they had gained the very citadel of the labyrinth; but though +various passages opened from it, they all terminated in places with +which they were already acquainted, or communicated with the other +parts of the house, where their own sentinels assured them none had +passed. Cromwell remained long in deep uncertainty. Meantime he +directed Pearson to take charge of the ciphers, and more important +papers which lay on the table. “Though there is little there,” he said, +“that I have not already known, by means of Trusty Tomkins—Honest +Joseph—for an artful and thorough-paced agent, the like of thee is not +left in England.” + +After a considerable pause, during which he sounded with the pommel of +his sword almost every stone in the building, and every plank on the +floor, the General gave orders to bring the old knight and Dr. +Rochecliffe to the spot, trusting that he might work out of them some +explanation of the secrets of this apartment. + +“So please your Excellency, to let me deal with him,” said Pearson, who +was a true soldier of fortune, and had been a buccaneer in the West +Indies, “I think that, by a whipcord twitched tight round their +forehead, and twisted about with a pistol-but, I could make either the +truth start from their lips, or the eyes from their head.” + +“Out upon thee, Pearson!” said Cromwell, with abhorrence; “we have no +warrant for such cruelty, neither as Englishmen nor Christians. We may +slay malignants as we crush noxious animals, but to torture them is a +deadly sin; for it is written, ‘He made them to be pitied of those who +carried them captive.’ Nay, I recall the order even for their +examination, trusting that wisdom will be granted us without it, to +discover their most secret devices.” + +There was a pause accordingly, during which an idea seized upon +Cromwell’s imagination—“Bring me hither,” he said, “yonder stool;” and +placing it beneath one of the windows, of which there were two so high +in the wall as not to be accessible from the floor, he clambered up +into the entrance of the window, which was six or seven feet deep, +corresponding with the thickness of the wall. “Come up hither, +Pearson,” said the General; “but ere thou comest, double the guard at +the foot of the turret called Love’s Ladder, and bid them bring up the +other petard—So now, come thou hither.” + +The inferior officer, however brave in the field, was one of those whom +a great height strikes with giddiness and sickness. He shrunk back from +the view of the precipice, on the verge of which Cromwell was standing +with complete indifference, till the General, catching the hand of his +follower, pulled him forward as far as he would advance. “I think,” +said the General, “I have found the clew, but by this light it is no +easy one! See you, we stand in the portal near the top of Rosamond’s +Tower; and yon turret, which rises opposite to our feet, is that which +is called Love’s Ladder, from which the drawbridge reached that +admitted the profligate Norman tyrant to the bower of his mistress.” + +“True, my lord, but the drawbridge is gone,” said Pearson. + +“Ay, Pearson,” replied the General; “but an active man might spring +from the spot we stand upon to the battlements of yonder turret.” + +“I do not think so, my lord,” said Pearson. + +“What?” said Cromwell; “not if the avenger of blood were behind you, +with his slaughter-weapon in his hand?” + +“The fear of instant death might do much,” answered Pearson; “but when +I look at that sheer depth on either side, and at the empty chasm +between us and yonder turret, which is, I warrant you, twelve feet +distant, I confess the truth, nothing short of the most imminent danger +should induce me to try. Pah—the thought makes my head grow giddy!—I +tremble to see your Highness stand there, balancing yourself as if you +meditated a spring into the empty air. I repeat, I would scarce stand +so near the verge as does your Highness, for the rescue of my life.” + +“Ah, base and degenerate spirit!” said the General; “soul of mud and +clay, wouldst thou not do it, and much more, for the possession of +empire!—that is, peradventure,” continued he, changing his tone as one +who has said too much, “shouldst thou be called on to do this, that +thereby becoming a great man in the tribes of Israel, thou mightest +redeem the captivity of Jerusalem—ay, and it may be, work some great +work for the afflicted people of this land?” + +“Your Highness may feel such calls,” said the officer; “but they are +not for poor Gilbert Pearson, your faithful follower. You made a jest +of me yesterday, when I tried to speak your language; and I am no more +able to fulfil your designs than to use your mode of speech.” + +“But, Pearson,” said Cromwell, “thou hast thrice, yea, four times, +called me your Highness.” + +“Did I, my lord? I was not sensible of it. I crave your pardon,” said +the officer. + +“Nay,” said Oliver, “there was no offence. I do indeed stand high, and +I may perchance stand higher—though, alas, it were fitter for a simple +soul like me to return to my plough and my husbandry. Nevertheless, I +will not wrestle against the Supreme will, should I be called on to do +yet more in that worthy cause. For surely he who hath been to our +British Israel as a shield of help, and a sword of excellency, making +her enemies be found liars unto her, will not give over the flock to +those foolish shepherds of Westminster, who shear the sheep and feed +them not, and who are in very deed hirelings, not shepherds.” + +“I trust to see your lordship quoit them all down stairs,” answered +Pearson. “But may I ask why we pursue this discourse even now, until we +have secured the common enemy?” + +“I will tarry no jot of time,” said the General; “fence the +communication of Love’s Ladder, as it is called, below, as I take it +for almost certain, that the party whom we have driven from fastness to +fastness during the night, has at length sprung to the top of yonder +battlements from the place where we now stand. Finding the turret is +guarded below, the place he has chosen for his security will prove a +rat-trap, from whence there is no returning.” + +“There is a cask of gunpowder in this cabinet,” said Pearson; “were it +not better, my lord, to mine the tower, if he will not render himself, +and send the whole turret with its contents one hundred feet in the +air?” + +“Ah, silly man,” said Cromwell, striking him familiarly on the +shoulder; “if thou hadst done this without telling me, it had been good +service. But we will first summon the turret, and then think whether +the petard will serve our turn—it is but mining at last.—Blow a summons +there, down below.” + +The trumpets rang at his bidding, till the old walls echoed from every +recess and vaulted archway. Cromwell, as if he cared not to look upon +the person whom he expected to appear, drew back, like a necromancer +afraid of the spectre which he has evoked. + +“He has come to the battlement,” said Pearson to his General. + +“In what dress or appearance?” answered Cromwell, from within the +chamber. + +“A grey riding-suit, passmented with silver, russet walking-boots, a +cut band, a grey hat and plume, black hair.” + +“It is he, it is he!” said Cromwell; “and another crowning mercy is +vouchsafed!” + +Meantime, Pearson and young Lee exchanged defiance from their +respective posts. + +“Surrender,” said the former, “or we blow you up in your fastness.” + +“I am come of too high a race to surrender to rebels,” said Albert, +assuming the air with which, in such a condition, a king might have +spoken. “I bear you to witness,” cried Cromwell, exultingly, “he hath +refused quarter. Of a surety, his blood be on his head.—One of you +bring down the barrel of powder. As he loves to soar high, we will add +what can be taken from the soldiers’ bandoliers.—Come with me, Pearson; +thou understandest this gear.—Corporal Grace-be-here, stand thou fast +on the platform of the window where Captain Pearson and I stood but +even now, and bend the point of thy partisan against any who shall +attempt to pass. Thou art as strong as a bull; and I will back thee +against despair itself.” + +“But,” said the corporal, mounting reluctantly, “the place is as the +pinnacle of the Temple; and it is written, that Eutychus fell down from +the third loft and was taken up dead.” + +“Because he slept upon his post,” answered Cromwell readily. “Beware +thou of carelessness, and thus thy feet shall be kept from stumbling.— +You four soldiers, remain here to support the corporal, if it be +necessary; and you, as well as the corporal, will draw into the vaulted +passage the minute the trumpets sound a retreat. It is as strong as a +casemate, and you may lie there safe from the effects of the mine. +Thou, Zerubbabel Robins, I know wilt be their lance-prisade.”[1] + + [1] “Lance-prisade,” or “lance-brisade,” a private appointed to a + small command—a sort of temporary corporal. + + +Robins bowed, and the General departed to join those who were without. + +As he reached the door of the hall, the petard was heard to explode, +and he saw that it had succeeded; for the soldiers rushed, brandishing +their swords and pistols, in at the postern of the turret, whose gate +had been successfully forced. A thrill of exultation, but not unmingled +with horror shot across the veins of the ambitious soldier. + +“Now—now!” he cried; “they are dealing with him!” + +His expectations were deceived. Pearson and the others returned +disappointed, and reported they had been stopt by a strong trap-door of +grated iron, extended over the narrow stair; and they could see there +was an obstacle of the same kind some ten feet higher. To remove it by +force, while a desperate and well armed man had the advantage of the +steps above them, might cost many lives. “Which, lack-a-day,” said the +General, “it is our duty to be tender of. What dost thou advise, +Gilbert Pearson?” + +“We must use powder, my lord,” answered Pearson, who saw his master was +too modest to reserve to himself the whole merit of the proceeding— +“There may be a chamber easily and conveniently formed under the foot +of the stair. We have a sausage, by good luck, to form the train—and +so”— + +“Ah!” said Cromwell, “I know thou canst manage such gear well—But, +Gilbert, I go to visit the posts, and give them orders to retire to a +safe distance when the retreat is sounded. You will allow them five +minutes for this purpose.” + +“Three is enough for any knave of them all,” said Pearson. “They will +be lame indeed, that require more on such a service.—I ask but one, +though I fire the train myself.” + +“Take heed,” said Cromwell, “that the poor soul be listened to, if he +asks quarter. It may be, he may repent him of his hard-heartedness and +call for mercy.” + +“And mercy he shall have,” answered Pearson, “provided he calls loud +enough to make me hear him; for the explosion of that damned petard has +made me as deaf as the devil’s dam.” + +“Hush, Gilbert, hush!” said Cromwell; “you offend in your language.” + +“Zooks, sir, I must speak either in your way, or in my own,” said +Pearson, “unless I am to be dumb as well as deaf!—Away with you, my +lord, to visit the posts; and you will presently hear me make some +noise in the world.” + +Cromwell smiled gently at his aide-de-camp’s petulance, patted him on +the shoulder, and called him a mad fellow, walked a little way, then +turned back to whisper, “What thou dost, do quickly;” then returned +again towards the outer circle of guards, turning his head from time to +time, as if to assure himself that the corporal, to whom he had +intrusted the duty, still kept guard with his advanced weapon upon the +terrific chasm between Rosamond’s Tower and the corresponding turret. +Seeing him standing on his post, the General muttered between his +mustaches, “The fellow hath the strength and courage of a bear; and +yonder is a post where one shall do more to keep back than an hundred +in making way.” He cast a last look on the gigantic figure, who stood +in that airy position, like some Gothic statue, the weapon half +levelled against the opposite turret, with the but rested against his +right foot, his steel cap and burnished corslet glittering in the +rising sun. + +Cromwell then passed on to give the necessary orders, that such +sentinels as might be endangered at their present posts by the effect +of the mine, should withdraw at the sound of the trumpet to the places +which he pointed out to them. Never, on any occasion of his life, did +he display more calmness and presence of mind. He was kind, nay, +facetious, with the soldiers, who adored him; and yet he resembled the +volcano before the eruption commences—all peaceful and quiet without, +while an hundred contradictory passions were raging in his bosom. + +Corporal Humgudgeon, meanwhile, remained steady upon his post; yet, +though as determined a soldier as ever fought among the redoubted +regiment of Ironsides, and possessed of no small share of that exalted +fanaticism which lent so keen an edge to the natural courage of those +stern religionists, the veteran felt his present situation to be highly +uncomfortable. Within a pike’s length of him arose a turret, which was +about to be dispersed in massive fragments through the air; and he felt +small confidence in the length of time which might be allowed for his +escape from such a dangerous vicinity. The duty of constant vigilance +upon his post, was partly divided by this natural feeling, which +induced him from time to time to bend his eyes on the miners below, +instead of keeping them riveted on the opposite turret. + +At length the interest of the scene arose to the uttermost. After +entering and returning from the turret, and coming out again more than +once, in the course of about twenty minutes Pearson issued, as it might +be supposed, for the last time, carrying in his hand, and uncoiling, as +he went along, the sausage, or linen bag, (so called from its +appearance,) which, strongly sewed together, and crammed with +gunpowder, was to serve as a train betwixt the mine to be sprung, and +the point occupied by the engineer who was to give fire. He was in the +act of finally adjusting it, when the attention of the corporal on the +tower became irresistibly and exclusively riveted upon the preparations +for the explosion. But while he watched the aide-de-camp drawing his +pistol to give fire, and the trumpeter handling his instrument as +waiting the order to sound the retreat, fate rushed on the unhappy +sentinel in a way he least expected. + +Young, active, bold, and completely possessed of his presence of mind, +Albert Lee, who had been from the loopholes a watchful observer of +every measure which had been taken by his besiegers, had resolved to +make one desperate effort for self-preservation. While the head of the +sentinel on the opposite platform was turned from him, and bent rather +downwards, he suddenly sprung across the chasm, though the space on +which he lighted was scarce wide enough for two persons, threw the +surprised soldier from his precarious stand, and jumped himself down +into the chamber. The gigantic trooper went sheer down twenty feet, +struck against a projecting battlement, which launched the wretched man +outwards, and then fell on the earth with such tremendous force, that +the head, which first touched the ground, dinted a hole in the soil of +six inches in depth, and was crushed like an eggshell. Scarce knowing +what had happened, yet startled and confounded at the descent of this +heavy body, which fell at no great distance from him, Pearson snapt his +pistol at the train, no previous warning given; the powder caught, and +the mine exploded. Had it been strongly charged with powder, many of +those without might have suffered; but the explosion was only powerful +enough to blow out, in a lateral direction, a part of the wall just +above the foundation, sufficient, however, to destroy the equipoise of +the building. Then, amid a cloud of smoke, which began gradually to +encircle the turret like a shroud, arising slowly from its base to its +summit, it was seen to stagger and shake by all who had courage to look +steadily at a sight so dreadful. Slowly, at first, the building +inclined outwards, then rushed precipitately to its base, and fell to +the ground in huge fragments, the strength of its resistance showing +the excellence of the mason-work. The engineer, so soon as he had fired +the train, fled in such alarm that he wellnigh ran against his General, +who was advancing towards him, while a huge stone from the summit of +the building, flying farther than the rest, lighted within a yard of +them. + +“Thou hast been over hasty, Pearson,” said Cromwell, with the greatest +composure possible—“hath no one fallen in that same tower of Siloe?” + +“Some one fell,” said Pearson, still in great agitation, “and yonder +lies his body half-buried in the rubbish.” + +With a quick and resolute step Cromwell approached the spot, and +exclaimed, “Pearson, thou hast ruined me—the young Man hath +escaped.—This is our own sentinel—plague on the idiot! Let him rot +beneath the ruins which crushed him!” + +A cry now resounded from the platform of Rosamond’s Tower, which +appeared yet taller than formerly, deprived of the neighbouring turret, +which emulated though it did not attain to its height,—“A prisoner, +noble General—a prisoner—the fox whom we have chased all night is now +in the snare—the Lord hath delivered him into the hand of his +servants.” + +“Look you keep him in safe custody,” exclaimed Cromwell, “and bring him +presently down to the apartment from which the secret passages have +their principal entrance.” + +“Your Excellency shall be obeyed.” + +The proceedings of Albert Lee, to which these exclamations related, had +been unfortunate. He had dashed from the platform, as we have related, +the gigantic strength of the soldier opposed to him, and had instantly +jumped down into Rochecliffe’s chamber. But the soldiers stationed +there threw themselves upon him, and after a struggle, which was +hopelessly maintained against such advantage of numbers, had thrown the +young cavalier to the ground, two of them, drawn down by his strenuous +exertions, falling across him. At the same moment a sharp and severe +report was heard, which, like a clap of thunder in the immediate +vicinity, shook all around them, till the strong and solid tower +tottered like the masts of a stately vessel when about to part by the +board. In a few seconds, this was followed by another sullen sound, at +first low, and deep, but augmenting like the roar of a cataract, as it +descends, reeling, bellowing, and rushing, as if to astound both heaven +and earth. So awful, indeed, was the sound of the neighbour tower as it +fell, that both the captive, and those who struggled with him, +continued for a minute or two passive in each other’s grasp. + +Albert was the first who recovered consciousness and activity. He shook +off those who lay above him, and made a desperate effort to gain his +feet, in which he partly succeeded. But as he had to deal with men +accustomed to every species of danger, and whose energies were +recovered nearly as soon as his own, he was completely secured, and his +arms held down. Loyal and faithful to his trust, and resolved to +sustain to the last the character which he had assumed, he exclaimed, +as his struggles were finally overpowered, “Rebel villains! would you +slay your king?” + +“Ha, heard you that?” cried one of the soldiers to the lance-prisade, +who commanded the party. “Shall I not strike this son of a wicked +father under the fifth rib, even as the tyrant of Moab was smitten by +Ehud with a dagger of a cubit’s length?” + +But Robins answered, “Be it far from us, Merciful Strickalthrow, to +slay in cold blood the captive of our bow and of our spear. Me thinks, +since the storm of Tredagh[2] we have shed enough of blood—therefore, +on your lives do him no evil; but take from him his arms, and let us +bring him before the chosen Instrument, even our General, that he may +do with him what is meet in his eyes.” + + [2] Tredagh, or Drogheda, was taken by Cromwell in 1649, by storm, and + the governor and the whole garrison put to the sword. + + +By this time the soldier, whose exultation had made him the first to +communicate the intelligence from the battlements to Cromwell, +returned, and brought commands corresponding to the orders of their +temporary officer; and Albert Lee, disarmed and bound, was conducted as +a captive into the apartment which derived its name from the victories +of his ancestor, and placed in the presence of General Cromwell. + +Running over in his mind the time which had elapsed since the departure +Charles till the siege, if it may be termed so, had terminated in his +own capture, Albert had every reason to hope that his Royal Master must +have had time to accomplish his escape. Yet he determined to maintain +to the last a deceit which might for a time insure the King’s safety. +The difference betwixt them could not, he thought, be instantly +discovered, begrimed as he was with dust and smoke, and with blood +issuing from some scratches received in the scuffle. + +In this evil plight, but bearing himself with such dignity as was +adapted to the princely character, Albert was ushered into the +apartment of Victor Lee, where, in his father’s own chair, reclined the +triumphant enemy of the cause to which the house of Lee had been +hereditarily faithful. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH. + + +A barren title hast thou bought too dear, +Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king? + + +HENRY IV. PART I. + + +Oliver Cromwell arose from his seat as the two veteran soldiers, +Zerubbabel Robins and Merciful Strickalthrow, introduced into the +apartment the prisoner, whom they held by the arms, and fixed his stern +hazel eye on Albert long before he could give vent to the ideas which +were swelling in his bosom. Exultation was the most predominant. + +“Art not thou,” he at length said, “that Egyptian which, before these +days, madest an uproar, and leddest out into the wilderness many +thousand men, who were murderers!—Ha, youth, I have hunted thee from +Stirling to Worcester, from Worcester to Woodstock, and we have met at +last!” + +“I would,” replied Albert, speaking in the character which he had +assumed, “that we had met where I could have shown thee the difference +betwixt a rightful King and an ambitious Usurper!” + +“Go to, young man,” said Cromwell; “say rather the difference between a +judge raised up for the redemption of England, and the son of those +Kings whom the Lord in his anger permitted to reign over her. But we +will not waste useless words. God knows that it is not of our will that +we are called to such high matters, being as humble in our thoughts as +we are of ourselves; and in our unassisted nature frail and foolish; +and unable to render a reason but for the better spirit within us, +which is not of us.—Thou art weary, young man, and thy nature requires +rest and refection, being doubtless dealt with delicately, as one who +hath fed on the fat, and drunk of the sweet, and who hath been clothed +in purple and fine linen.” + +Here the General suddenly stopt, and then abruptly exclaimed—“But is +this—Ay! whom have we here? These are not the locks of the swarthy lad +Charles Stewart?—A cheat! a cheat!” + +Albert hastily cast his eyes on a mirror which stood in the room, and +perceived that a dark peruke, found among Dr. Rochecliffe’s +miscellaneous wardrobe, had been disordered in the scuffle with the +soldiery, and that his own light-brown hair was escaping from beneath +it. + +“Who is this?” said Cromwell, stamping with fury—“Pluck the disguise +from him.” + +The soldiers did so; and bringing him at the same time towards the +light, the deception could not be maintained for a moment longer with +any possibility of success. Cromwell came up to him with his teeth set, +and grinding against each other as he spoke, his hands clenched, and +trembling with emotion, and speaking with a voice low-pitched, bitterly +and deeply emphatic, such as might have preceded a stab with his +dagger. “Thy name, young man?” + +He was answered calmly and firmly, while the countenance of the speaker +wore a cast of triumph, and even contempt. + +“Albert Lee of Ditchley, a faithful subject of King Charles.” + +“I might have guessed it,” said Cromwell.—“Ay, and to King Charles +shalt thou go as soon as it is noon on the dial.—Pearson,” he +continued, “let him be carried to the others; and let them be executed +at twelve exactly.” + +“All, sir?” said Pearson, surprised; for Cromwell, though he at times +made formidable examples, was, in general, by no means sanguinary. + +“_All_”—repeated Cromwell, fixing his eye on young Lee. “Yes, young +sir, your conduct has devoted to death thy father, thy kinsman, and the +stranger that was in thine household. Such wreck hast thou brought on +thy father’s house.” + +“My father, too—my aged father!” said Albert, looking upward, and +endeavouring to raise his hands in the same direction, which was +prevented by his bonds. “The Lord’s will be done!” + +“All this havoc can be saved, if,” said the General, “thou wilt answer +one question—Where is the young Charles Stewart, who was called King of +Scotland?” + +“Under Heaven’s protection, and safe from thy power,” was the firm and +unhesitating answer of the young royalist. + +“Away with him to prison!” said Cromwell; “and from thence to execution +with the rest of them, as malignants taken in the fact. Let a +courtmartial sit on them presently.” + +“One word,” said young Lee, as they led him from the room. “Stop, +stop,” said Cromwell, with the agitation of renewed hope—“let him be +heard.” + +“You love texts of Scripture,” said Albert—“Let this be the subject of +your next homily—‘Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?’” + +“Away with him,” said the General; “let him die the death.—I have said +it.” + +As Cromwell spoke these words, his aide-de-camp observed that he became +unwontedly pale. + +“Your Excellency is overtoiled in the public service,” said Pearson; “a +course of the stag in the evening will refresh you. The old knight hath +a noble hound here, if we can but get him to hunt without his master, +which may be hard, as he is faithful, and”— + +“Hang him up!” said Cromwell. + +“What—whom—hang the noble dog? Your Excellency was wont to love a good +hound?” + +“It matters not,” said Cromwell; “let him be killed. Is it not written, +that they slew in the valley of Achor, not only the accursed Achan, +with his sons and his daughters, but also his oxen and asses, and his +sheep, and every live thing belonging unto him? And even thus shall we +do to the malignant family of Lee, who have aided Sisera in his flight, +when Israel might have been delivered of his trouble for ever. But send +out couriers and patrols—Follow, pursue, watch in every direction—Let +my horse be ready at the door in five minutes, or bring me the first +thou canst find.” + +It seemed to Pearson that this was something wildly spoken, and that +the cold perspiration was standing upon the General’s brow as he said +it. He therefore again pressed the necessity of repose, and it would +appear that nature seconded strongly the representation. Cromwell +arose, and made a step or two towards the door of the apartment; but +stopped, staggered, and, after a pause, sate down in a chair. “Truly, +friend Pearson,” he said, “this weary carcass of ours is an impediment +to us, even in our most necessary business, and I am fitter to sleep +than to watch, which is not my wont. Place guards, therefore, till we +repose ourselves for an hour or two. Send out in every direction, and +spare not for horses’ flesh. Wake me if the court-martial require +instruction, and forget not to see the sentence punctually executed on +the Lees, and those who were arrested with them.” + +As Cromwell spoke thus, he arose and half-opened a bedroom door, when +Pearson again craved pardon for asking if he had rightly understood his +Excellency, that all the prisoners were to be executed. + +“Have I not said it?” answered Cromwell, displeasedly. “Is it because +thou art a man of blood, and hast ever been, that thou dost affect +these scruples to show thyself tenderhearted at my expense? I tell +thee, that if there lack one in the full tale of execution, thine own +life shall pay the forfeit.” + +So saying, he entered the apartment, followed by the groom of his +chamber, who attended upon Pearson’s summons. + +When his General had retired, Pearson remained in great perplexity what +he ought to do; and that from no scruples of conscience, but from +uncertainty whether he might not err either in postponing, or in too +hastily and too literally executing, the instructions he had received. + +In the meantime, Strickalthrow and Robins had returned, after lodging +Albert in prison, to the room where Pearson was still musing on his +General’s commands. Both these men were adjutators in their army, and +old soldiers, whom Cromwell was accustomed to treat with great +familiarity; so that Robins had no hesitation to ask Captain Pearson, +“Whether he meant to execute the commands of the General, even to the +letter?” + +Pearson shook his head with an air of doubt, but added, “There was no +choice left.” + +“Be assured,” said the old man, “that if thou dost this folly, thou +wilt cause Israel to sin, and that the General will not be pleased with +your service. Thou knowest, and none better than thou, that Oliver, +although he be like unto David the son of Jesse, in faith, and wisdom, +and courage, yet there are times when the evil spirit cometh upon him +as it did upon Saul, and he uttereth commands which he will not thank +any one for executing.” + +Pearson was too good a politician to assent directly to a proposition +which he could not deny—he only shook his head once more, and said that +it was easy for those to talk who were not responsible, but the +soldier’s duty was to obey his orders, and not to judge of them. + +“Very righteous truth,” said Merciful Strickalthrow, a grim old +Scotchman; “I marvel where our brother Zerubbabel caught up this +softness of heart?” + +“Why, I do but wish,” said Zerubbabel, “that four or five human +creatures may draw the breath of God’s air for a few hours more; there +can be small harm done by delaying the execution,—and the General will +have some time for reflection.” + +“Ay,” said Captain Pearson, “but I in my service must be more pointedly +obsequious, than thou in thy plainness art bound to be, friend +Zerubbabel.” + +“Then shall the coarse frieze cassock of the private soldier help the +golden gaberdine of the captain to bear out the blast,” said +Zerubbabel. “Ay, indeed, I can show you warrant why we be aidful to +each other in doing acts of kindness and long-suffering, seeing the +best of us are poor sinful creatures, who might suffer, being called to +a brief accounting.” + +“Of a verity you surprise me, brother Zerubbabel,” said Strickalthrow; +“that thou, being an old and experienced soldier, whose head hath grown +grey in battle, shouldst give such advice to a young officer. Is not +the General’s commission to take away the wicked from the land, and to +root out the Amalekite, and the Jebusite, and the Perizzite, and the +Hittite, and the Girgashite, and the Amorite? and are not these men +justly to be compared to the five kings, who took shelter in the cave +of Makedah, who were delivered into the hands of Joshua the son of Nun? +and he caused his captains and his soldiers to come near and tread on +their necks—and then he smote them, and he slew them, and then he +hanged them on five trees, even till evening—And thou, Gilbert Pearson +by name, be not withheld from the duty which is appointed to thee, but +do even as has been commanded by him who is raised up to judge and to +deliver Israel; for it is written, ‘cursed is he who holdeth back his +sword from the slaughter.’” + +Thus wrangled the two military theologians, while Pearson, much more +solicitous to anticipate the wishes of Oliver than to know the will of +Heaven, listened to them with great indecision and perplexity. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH. + + +But let us now, like soldiers on the watch, +Put the soul’s armour on, alike prepared +For all a soldier’s warfare brings. + + +JOANNA BAILLIE. + + +The reader will recollect, that when Rochecliffe and Joceline were made +prisoners, the party which escorted them had two other captives in +their train, Colonel Everard, namely, and the Rev. Nehemiah Holdenough. +When Cromwell had obtained entrance into Woodstock, and commenced his +search after the fugitive Prince, the prisoners were placed in what had +been an old guardroom, and which was by its strength well calculated to +serve for a prison, and a guard was placed over them by Pearson. No +light was allowed, save that of a glimmering fire of charcoal. The +prisoners remained separated from each other, Colonel Everard +conversing with Nehemiah Holdenough, at a distance from Dr. +Rochecliffe, Sir Henry Lee, and Joceline. The party was soon after +augmented by Wildrake, who was brought down to the Lodge, and thrust in +with so little ceremony, that, his arms being bound, he had very nearly +fallen on his nose in the middle of the prison. + +“I thank you, my good friend,” he said, looking back to the door, which +they who had pushed him in were securing—“_Point de cérémonie_—no +apology for tumbling, so we light in good company.—Save ye, save ye, +gentlemen all—What, _á la mort_, and nothing stirring to keep the +spirits up, and make a night on’t?—the last we shall have, I take it; +for a make[1] to a million, but we trine to the nubbing cheat[2] +to-morrow.—Patron—noble patron, how goes it? This was but a scurvy +trick of Noll so far as you were concerned: as for me, why I might have +deserved something of the kind at his hand.” + + [1] A half-penny. + + + [2] Hang on the gallows. + + +“Prithee, Wildrake, sit down,” said Everard; “thou art drunk—disturb us +not.” + +“Drunk? I drunk?” cried Wildrake, “I have been splicing the mainbrace, +as Jack says at Wapping—have been tasting Noll’s brandy in a bumper to +the King’s health, and another to his Excellency’s confusion, and +another to the d—n of Parliament—and it may be one or two more, but all +to devilish good toasts. But I’m not drunk.” + +“Prithee, friend, be not profane,” said Nehemiah Holdenough. + +“What, my little Presbyterian Parson, my slender Mass-John? thou shalt +say amen to this world instantly”—said Wildrake; “I have had a weary +time in’t for one.—Ha, noble Sir Henry, I kiss your hand—I tell thee, +knight, the point of my Toledo was near Cromwell’s heart last night, as +ever a button on the breast of his doublet. Rat him, he wears secret +armour.—He a soldier! Had it not been for a cursed steel shirt, I would +have spitted him like a lark.—Ha, Doctor Rochecliffe!—thou knowest I +can wield my weapon.” + +“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “and you know I can use mine.” + +“I prithee be quiet, Master Wildrake,” said Sir Henry. + +“Nay, good knight,” answered Wildrake, “be somewhat more cordial with a +comrade in distress. This is a different scene from the Brentford +storming-party. The jade Fortune has been a very step-mother to me. I +will sing you a song I made on my own ill-luck.” + +“At this moment, Captain Wildrake, we are not in a fitting mood for +singing,” said Sir Henry, civilly and gravely. + +“Nay, it will aid your devotions—Egad, it sounds like a penitential +psalm. + + ‘When I was a young lad, + My fortune was bad, +If ere I do well ’tis a wonder. + I spent all my means + Amid sharpers and queans; +Then I got a commission to plunder. + I have stockings ’tis true, + But the devil a shoe, +I am forced to wear boots in all weather, + Be d——d the hoot sole, + Curse on the spur-roll. +Confounded be the upper-leather.’”[3] + + + [3] Such a song, or something very like it, may be found in Ramsay’s + Tea-table Miscellany, among the wild slips of minstrelsy which are + there collected. + + +The door opened as Wildrake finished this stanza at the top of his +voice, and in rushed a sentinel, who, greeting him by the title of a +“blasphemous bellowing bull of Bashan,” bestowed a severe blow, with +his ramrod, on the shoulders of the songster, whose bonds permitted him +no means of returning the compliment. + +“Your humble servant again, sir,” said Wildrake, shrugging his +shoulders,—“sorry I have no means of showing my gratitude. I am bound +over to keep the peace, like Captain Bobadil—Ha, knight, did you hear +my bones clatter? that blow came twankingly off—the fellow might +inflict the bastinado, were it in presence of the Grand Seignior—he has +no taste for music, knight—is no way moved by the ‘concord of sweet +sounds.’ I will warrant him fit for treason, stratagem, and spoil— +Eh?—all down in the mouth—well—I’ll go to sleep to-night on a bench, as +I’ve done many a night, and I will be ready to be hanged decently in +the morning, which never happened to me before in all my life— + +When I was a young lad, +My fortune was bad—’ + + +Pshaw! This is not the tune it goes to.” Here he fell fast asleep, and +sooner or later all his companions in misfortune followed his example. + +The benches intended for the repose of the soldiers of the guard, +afforded the prisoners convenience enough to lie down, though their +slumbers, it may be believed, were neither sound nor undisturbed. But +when daylight was but a little while broken, the explosion of gunpowder +which took place, and the subsequent fall of the turret to which the +mine was applied, would have awakened the Seven Sleepers, or Morpheus +himself. The smoke, penetrating through the windows, left them at no +loss for the cause of the din. + +“There went my gunpowder,” said Rochecliffe, “which has, I trust, blown +up as many rebel villains as it might have been the means of destroying +otherwise in a fair field. It must have caught fire by chance.” + +“By chance?—No,” said Sir Henry; “depend on it, my bold Albert has +fired the train, and that in yonder blast Cromwell was flying towards +the heaven whose battlements he will never reach—Ah, my brave boy! and +perhaps thou art thyself sacrificed, like a youthful Samson among the +rebellious Philistines.—But I will not be long behind thee, Albert.” + +Everard hastened to the door, hoping to obtain from the guard, to whom +his name and rank might be known, some explanation of the noise, which +seemed to announce some dreadful catastrophe. + +But Nehemiah Holdenough, whose rest had been broken by the trumpet +which gave signal for the explosion, appeared in the very acme of +horror—“It is the trumpet of the Archangel!” he cried,—“it is the +crushing of this world of elements—it is the summons to the +Judgment-seat! The dead are obeying the call—they are with us—they are +amongst us—they arise in their bodily frames—they come to summon us!” + +As he spoke his eyes were riveted upon Dr. Rochecliffe, who stood +directly opposite to him. In rising hastily, the cap which he commonly +wore, according to a custom then usual both among clergymen and gownmen +of a civil profession, had escaped from his head, and carried with it +the large silk patch which he probably wore for the purpose of +disguise; for the cheek which was disclosed was unscarred, and the eye +as good as that which was usually uncovered. + +Colonel Everard returning from the door, endeavoured in vain to make +Master Holdenough comprehend what he learned from the guard without, +that the explosion had involved only the death of one of Cromwell’s +soldiers. The Presbyterian divine continued to stare wildly at him of +the Episcopal persuasion. + +But Dr. Rochecliffe heard and understood the news brought by Colonel +Everard, and, relieved from the instant anxiety which had kept him +stationary, he advanced towards the retiring Calvinist, extending his +hand in the most friendly manner. + +“Avoid thee—Avoid thee!” said Holdenough, “the living may not join +hands with the dead.” + +“But I,” said Rochecliffe, “am as much alive as you are.” + +“Thou alive!—thou! Joseph Albany, whom my own eyes saw precipitated +from the battlements of Clidesthrow Castle?” + +“Ay,” answered the Doctor, “but you did not see me swim ashore on a +marsh covered with sedges—_fugit ad salices_—after a manner which I +will explain to you another time.” + +Holdenough touched his hand with doubt and uncertainty. “Thou art +indeed warm and alive,” he said, “and yet after so many blows, and a +fall so tremendous—thou canst not be _my_ Joseph Albany.” + +“I am Joseph Albany Rochecliffe,” said the Doctor, “become so in virtue +of my mother’s little estate, which fines and confiscations have made +an end of.” + +“And is it so indeed?” said Holdenough, “and have I recovered mine old +chum?” + +“Even so,” replied Rochecliffe, “by the same token I appeared to you in +the Mirror Chamber—Thou wert so bold, Nehemiah, that our whole scheme +would have been shipwrecked, had I not appeared to thee in the shape of +a departed friend. Yet, believe me, it went against my heart to do it.” + +“Ah, fie on thee, fie on thee,” said Holdenough, throwing himself into +his arms, and clasping him to his bosom, “thou wert ever a naughty wag. +How couldst thou play me such a trick?—Ah, Albany, dost thou remember +Dr. Purefoy and Caius College?” + +“Marry, do I,” said the Doctor, thrusting his arm through the +Presbyterian divine’s, and guiding him to a seat apart from the other +prisoners, who witnessed this scene with much surprise. “Remember Caius +College?” said Rochecliffe; “ay, and the good ale we drank, and our +parties to mother Huffcap’s.” + +“Vanity of vanities,” said Holdenough, smiling kindly at the same time, +and still holding his recovered friend’s arm enclosed and hand-locked +in his. + +“But the breaking the Principal’s orchard, so cleanly done,” said the +Doctor; “it was the first plot I ever framed, and much work I had to +prevail on thee to go into it.” + +“Oh, name not that iniquity,” said Nehemiah, “since I may well say, as +the pious Master Baxter, that these boyish offences have had their +punishment in later years, inasmuch as that inordinate appetite for +fruit hath produced stomachic affections under which I yet labour.” + +“True, true, dear Nehemiah,” said Rochecliffe, “but care not for them—a +dram of brandy will correct it all. Mr. Baxter was,” he was about to +say “an ass,” but checked himself, and only filled up the sentence with +“a good man, I dare say, but over scrupulous.” + +So they sat down together the best of friends, and for half an hour +talked with mutual delight over old college stories. By degrees they +got on the politics of the day; and though then they unclasped their +hands, and there occurred between them such expressions as, “Nay, my +dear brother,” and, “there I must needs differ,” and, “on this point I +crave leave to think;” yet a hue and cry against the Independents and +other sectarists being started, they followed like brethren in full +hollo, and it was hard to guess which was most forward. Unhappily, in +the course of this amicable intercourse, something was mentioned about +the bishopric of Titus, which at once involved them in the doctrinal +question of Church Government. Then, alas! the floodgates were opened, +and they showered on each other Greek and Hebrew texts, while their +eyes kindled, their cheeks glowed, their hands became clenched, and +they looked more like fierce polemics about to rend each other’s eyes +out, than Christian divines. + +Roger Wildrake, by making himself an auditor of the debate, contrived +to augment its violence. He took, of course, a most decided part in a +question, the merits of which were totally unknown to him. Somewhat +overawed by Holdenough’s ready oratory and learning, the cavalier +watched with a face of anxiety the countenance of Dr. Rochecliffe; but +when he saw the proud eye and steady bearing of the Episcopal champion, +and heard him answer Greek with Greek, and Hebrew with Hebrew, Wildrake +backed his arguments as he closed them, with a stout rap upon the +bench, and an exulting laugh in the face of the antagonist. It was with +some difficulty that Sir Henry and Colonel Everard, having at length +and reluctantly interfered, prevailed on the two alienated friends to +adjourn their dispute, removing at the same time to a distance, and +regarding each other with looks in which old friendship appeared to +have totally given way to mutual animosity. + +But while they sat lowering on each other, and longing to renew a +contest in which each claimed the victory, Pearson entered the prison, +and in a low and troubled voice, desired the persons whom it contained +to prepare for instant death. + +Sir Henry Lee received the doom with the stern composure which he had +hitherto displayed. Colonel Everard attempted the interposition of a +strong and resentful appeal to the Parliament, against the judgment of +the court-martial and the General. But Pearson declined to receive or +transmit any such remonstrance, and with a dejected look and mien of +melancholy presage, renewed his exhortation to them to prepare for the +hour of noon, and withdrew from the prison. + +The operation of this intelligence on the two clerical disputants was +more remarkable. They gazed for a moment on each other with eyes in +which repentant kindness and a feeling of generous shame quenched every +lingering feeling of resentment, and joined in the mutual exclamation— +“My brother—my brother, I have sinned, I have sinned in offending +thee!” they rushed into each other’s arms, shed tears as they demanded +each other’s forgiveness, and, like two warriors, who sacrifice a +personal quarrel to discharge their duty against the common enemy, they +recalled nobler ideas of their sacred character, and assuming the part +which best became them on an occasion so melancholy, began to exhort +those around them to meet the doom that had been announced, with the +firmness and dignity which Christianity alone can give. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH. + + +Most gracious prince, good Cannyng cried, + Leave vengeance to our God, +And lay the iron rule aside, + Be thine the olive rod. + + +BALLAD OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. + + +The hour appointed for execution had been long past, and it was about +five in the evening when the Protector summoned Pearson to his +presence. He went with fear and reluctance, uncertain how he might be +received. After remaining about a quarter of an hour, the aide-de-camp +returned to Victor Lee’s parlour, where he found the old soldier, +Zerubbabel Robins, in attendance for his return. + +“How is Oliver?” said the old man, anxiously. + +“Why, well,” answered Pearson, “and hath asked no questions of the +execution, but many concerning the reports we have been able to make +regarding the flight of the young Man, and is much moved at thinking he +must now be beyond pursuit. Also I gave him certain papers belonging to +the malignant Doctor Rochecliffe.” + +“Then will I venture upon him,” said the adjutator; “so give me a +napkin that I may look like a sewer, and fetch up the food which I +directed should be in readiness.” + +Two troopers attended accordingly with a ration of beef, such as was +distributed to the private soldiers, and dressed after their fashion—a +pewter pot of ale, a trencher with salt, black pepper, and a loaf of +ammunition bread. “Come with me,” he said to Pearson, “and fear +not—Noll loves an innocent jest.” He boldly entered the General’s +sleeping apartment, and said aloud, “Arise, thou that art called to be +a judge in Israel—let there be no more folding of the hands to sleep. +Lo, I come as a sign to thee; wherefore arise, eat, drink, and let thy +heart be glad within thee; for thou shalt eat with joy the food of him +that laboureth in the trenches, seeing that since thou wert commander +over the host, the poor sentinel hath had such provisions as I have now +placed for thine own refreshment.” + +“Truly, brother Zerubbabel,” said Cromwell, accustomed to such acts of +enthusiasm among his followers, “we would wish that it were so; neither +is it our desire to sleep soft, nor feed more highly than the meanest +that ranks under our banners. Verily, thou hast chosen well for my +refreshment, and the smell of the food is savoury in my nostrils.” + +He arose from the bed, on which he had lain down half dressed, and +wrapping his cloak around him, sate down by the bedside, and partook +heartily of the plain food which was prepared for him. While he was +eating, Cromwell commanded Pearson to finish his report—“You need not +desist for the presence of a worthy soldier, whose spirit is as my +spirit.” + +“Nay, but,” interrupted Robins, “you are to know that Gilbert Pearson +hath not fully executed thy commands, touching a part of those +malignants, all of whom should have died at noon.” + +“What execution—what malignants?” said Cromwell, laying down his knife +and fork. + +“Those in the prison here at Woodstock,” answered Zerubbabel, “whom +your Excellency commanded should be executed at noon, as taken in the +fact of rebellion against the Commonwealth.” + +“Wretch!” said Cromwell, starting up and addressing Pearson, “thou hast +not touched Mark Everard, in whom there was no guilt, for he was +deceived by him who passed between us—neither hast thou put forth thy +hand on the pragmatic Presbyterian minister, to have all those of their +classes cry sacrilege, and alienate them from us for ever?” + +“If your Excellency wish them to live, they live—their life and death +are in the power of a word,” said Pearson. + +“Enfranchise them; I must gain the Presbyterian interest over to us if +I can.” + +“Rochecliffe, the arch-plotter,” said Pearson, “I thought to have +executed, but”— + +“Barbarous man,” said Cromwell, “alike ungrateful and impolitic—wouldst +thou have destroyed our decoy-duck? This doctor is but like a well, a +shallow one indeed, but something deeper than the springs which +discharge their secret tribute into his keeping; then come I with a +pump, and suck it all up to the open air. Enlarge him, and let him have +money if he wants it. I know his haunts; he can go nowhere but our eye +will be upon him.—But you look at each other darkly, as if you had more +to say than you durst. I trust you have not done to death Sir Henry +Lee?” + +“No. Yet the man,” replied Pearson, “is a confirmed malignant, and”— + +“Ay, but he is also a noble relic of the ancient English Gentleman,” +said the General. “I would I knew how to win the favour of that race. +But we, Pearson, whose royal robes are the armour which we wear on our +bodies, and whose leading staves are our sceptres, are too newly set up +to draw the respect of the proud malignants, who cannot brook to submit +to less than royal lineage. Yet what can they see in the longest kingly +line in Europe, save that it runs back to a successful soldier? I +grudge that one man should be honoured and followed, because he is the +descendant of a victorious commander, while less honour and allegiance +is paid to another, who, in personal qualities, and in success, might +emulate the founder of his rival’s dynasty. Well, Sir Henry Lee lives, +and shall live for me. His son, indeed, hath deserved the death which +he has doubtless sustained.” + +“My lord,” stammered Pearson, “since your Excellency has found I am +right in suspending your order in so many instances, I trust you will +not blame me in this also—I thought it best to await more special +orders.” + +“Thou art in a mighty merciful humour this morning, Pearson,” said +Cromwell, not entirely satisfied. + +“If your Excellency please, the halter is ready, and so is the +provost-marshal.” + +“Nay, if such a bloody fellow as thou hast spared him, it would ill +become me to destroy him,” said the General. “But then, here is among +Rochecliffe’s papers the engagement of twenty desperadoes to take us +off—some example ought to be made.” + +“My lord,” said Zerubbabel, “consider now how often this young man, +Albert Lee, hath been near you, nay, probably, quite close to your +Excellency, in these dark passages which he knew, and we did not. Had +he been of an assassin’s nature, it would have cost him but a +pistol-shot, and the light of Israel was extinguished. Nay, in the +unavoidable confusion which must have ensued, the sentinels quitting +their posts, he might have had a fair chance of escape.” + +“Enough Zerubbabel; he lives,” said the General. “He shall remain in +custody for some time, however, and be then banished from England. The +other two are safe, of course; for you would not dream of considering +such paltry fellows as fit victims for my revenge.” + +“One fellow, the under-keeper, called Joliffe, deserves death, +however,” said Pearson, “since he has frankly admitted that he slew +honest Joseph Tomkins.” + +“He deserves a reward for saving us a labour,” said Cromwell; “that +Tomkins was a most double-hearted villain. I have found evidence among +these papers here, that if we had lost the fight at Worcester, we +should have had reason to regret that we had ever trusted Master +Tomkins—it was only our success which anticipated his treachery—write +us down debtor, not creditor, to Joceline, an you call him so, and to +his quarter-staff.” + +“There remains the sacrilegious and graceless cavalier who attempted +your Excellency’s life last night,” said Pearson. + +“Nay,” said the General, “that were stooping too low for revenge. His +sword had no more power than had he thrusted with a tobacco-pipe. +Eagles stoop not at mallards, or wild-drakes either.” + +“Yet, sir,” said Pearson, “the fellow should be punished as a libeller. +The quantity of foul and pestilential abuse which we found in his +pockets makes me loth he should go altogether free—Please to look at +them, sir.” + +“A most vile hand,” said Oliver, as he looked at a sheet or two of our +friend Wildrake’s poetical miscellanies—“The very handwriting seems to +be drunk, and the very poetry not sober—What have we here? + +‘When I was a young lad, +My fortune was bad— +If e’er I do well, ’tis a wonder’— + + +Why, what trash is this?—and then again— + +‘Now a plague on the poll +Of old politic Noll! +We will drink till we bring +In triumph back the King.’ + + +In truth, if it could be done that way, this poet would be a stout +champion. Give the poor knave five pieces, Pearson, and bid him go sell +his ballads. If he come within twenty miles of our person, though, we +will have him flogged till the blood runs down to his heels.” + +“There remains only one sentenced person,” said Pearson, “a noble +wolf-hound, finer than any your Excellency saw in Ireland. He belongs +to the old knight Sir Henry Lee. Should your Excellency not desire to +keep the fine creature yourself, might I presume to beg that I might +have leave?” + +“No, Pearson,” said Cromwell; “the old man, so faithful himself, shall +not be deprived of his faithful dog—I would _I_ had any creature, were +it but a dog, that followed me because it loved me, not for what it +could make of me.” + +“Your Excellency is unjust to your faithful soldiers,” said Zerubbabel, +bluntly, “who follow you like dogs, fight for you like dogs, and have +the grave of a dog on the spot where they happen to fall.” + +“How now, old grumbler,” said the General, “what means this change of +note?” + +“Corporal Humgudgeon’s remains are left to moulder under the ruins of +yonder tower, and Tomkins is thrust into a hole in a thicket like a +beast.” + +“True, true,” said Cromwell, “they shall be removed to the churchyard, +and every soldier shall attend with cockades of sea-green and blue +ribbon—Every one of the non-commissioned officers and adjutators shall +have a mourning-scarf; we ourselves will lead the procession, and there +shall be a proper dole of wine, burnt brandy, and rosemary. See that it +is done, Pearson. After the funeral, Woodstock shall be dismantled and +destroyed, that its recesses may not again afford shelter to rebels and +malignants.” + +The commands of the General were punctually obeyed, and when the other +prisoners were dismissed, Albert Lee remained for some time in custody. +He went abroad after his liberation, entered in King Charles’s Guards, +where he was promoted by that monarch. But his fate, as we shall see +hereafter, only allowed him a short though bright career. + +We return to the liberation of the other prisoners from Woodstock. The +two divines, completely reconciled to each other, retreated arm in arm +to the parsonage-house, formerly the residence of Dr. Rochecliffe, but +which he now visited as the guest of his successor, Nehemiah +Holdenough. The Presbyterian had no sooner installed his friend under +his roof, than he urged upon him an offer to partake it, and the income +annexed to it, as his own. Dr. Rochecliffe was much affected, but +wisely rejected the generous offer, considering the difference of their +tenets on Church government, which each entertained as religiously as +his creed. Another debate, though a light one, on the subject of the +office of Bishops in the Primitive Church, confirmed him in his +resolution. They parted the next day, and their friendship remained +undisturbed by controversy till Mr. Holdenough’s death, in 1658; a +harmony which might be in some degree owing to their never meeting +again after their imprisonment. Dr. Rochecliffe was restored to his +living after the Restoration, and ascended from thence to high clerical +preferment. + +The inferior personages of the grand jail-delivery at Woodstock Lodge, +easily found themselves temporary accommodations in the town among old +acquaintance; but no one ventured to entertain the old knight, +understood to be so much under the displeasure of the ruling powers; +and even the innkeeper of the George, who had been one of his tenants, +scarce dared to admit him to the common privileges of a traveller, who +has food and lodging for his money. Everard attended him unrequested, +unpermitted, but also unforbidden. The heart of the old man had been +turned once more towards him when he learned how he had behaved at the +memorable rencontre at the King’s Oak, and saw that he was an object of +the enmity, rather than the favour, of Cromwell. But there was another +secret feeling which tended to reconcile him to his nephew—the +consciousness that Everard shared with him the deep anxiety which he +experienced on account of his daughter, who had not yet returned from +her doubtful and perilous expedition. He felt that he himself would +perhaps be unable to discover where Alice had taken refuge during the +late events, or to obtain her deliverance if she was taken into +custody. He wished Everard to offer him his service in making a search +for her, but shame prevented his preferring the request; and Everard, +who could not suspect the altered state of his uncle’s mind, was afraid +to make the proposal of assistance, or even to name the name of Alice. + +The sun had already set—they sat looking each other in the face in +silence, when the trampling of horses was heard—there was knocking at +the door—there was a light step on the stair, and Alice, the subject of +their anxiety, stood before them. She threw herself joyfully into her +father’s arms, who glanced his eye needfully round the room, as he said +in a whisper, “Is all safe?” + +“Safe and out of danger, as I trust,” replied Alice—“I have a token for +you.” + +Her eye then rested on Everard—she blushed, was embarrassed, and +silent. + +“You need not fear your Presbyterian cousin,” said the knight, with a +good-humoured smile, “he has himself proved a confessor at least for +loyalty, and ran the risk of being a martyr.” + +She pulled from her bosom the royal rescript, written on a small and +soiled piece of paper, and tied round with a worsted thread instead of +a seal. Such as it was, Sir Henry ere he opened it pressed the little +packet with oriental veneration to his lips, to his heart, to his +forehead; and it was not before a tear had dropt on it that he found +courage to open and read the billet. It was in these words:— + +“LOYAL OUR MUCH ESTEEMED FRIEND, AND OUR TRUSTY SUBJECT,—“It having +become known to us that a purpose of marriage has been entertained +betwixt Mrs. Alice Lee, your only daughter, and Markham Everard, Esq. +of Eversly Chase, her kinsman, and by affiancy your nephew: And being +assured that this match would be highly agreeable to you, had it not +been for certain respects to our service, which induced you to refuse +your consent thereto—We do therefore acquaint you, that, far from our +affairs suffering by such an alliance, we do exhort, and so far as we +may, require you to consent to the same, as you would wish to do us +good pleasure, and greatly to advance our affairs. Leaving to you, +nevertheless, as becometh a Christian King, the full exercise of your +own discretion concerning other obstacles to such an alliance, which +may exist, independent of those connected with our service. Witness our +hand, together with our thankful recollections of your good services to +our late Royal Father as well as ourselves, + + +“C. R.” + + +Long and steadily did Sir Henry gaze on the letter, so that it might +almost seem as if he were getting it by heart. He then placed it +carefully in his pocket-book, and asked Alice the account of her +adventures the preceding night. They were briefly told. Their midnight +walk through the Chase had been speedily and safely accomplished. Nor +had the King once made the slightest relapse into the naughty Louis +Kerneguy. When she had seen Charles and his attendant set off, she had +taken some repose in the cottage where they parted. With the morning +came news that Woodstock was occupied by soldiers, so that return +thither might have led to danger, suspicion, and enquiry. Alice, +therefore, did not attempt it, but went to a house in the +neighbourhood, inhabited by a lady of established loyalty, whose +husband had been major of Sir Henry Lee’s regiment, and had fallen at +the battle of Naseby. Mrs. Aylmer was a sensible woman, and indeed the +necessities of the singular times had sharpened every one’s faculties +for stratagem and intrigue. She sent a faithful servant to scout about +the mansion at Woodstock, who no sooner saw the prisoners dismissed and +in safety, and ascertained the knight’s destination for the evening, +than he carried the news to his mistress, and by her orders attended +Alice on horseback to join her father. + +There was seldom, perhaps, an evening meal made in such absolute +silence as by this embarrassed party, each occupied with their own +thoughts, and at a loss how to fathom those of the others. At length +the hour came when Alice felt herself at liberty to retire to repose +after a day so fatiguing. Everard handed her to the door of her +apartment, and was then himself about to take leave, when, to his +surprise, his uncle asked him to return, pointed to a chair, and giving +him the King’s letter to read, fixed his looks on him steadily during +the perusal; determined that if he could discover aught short of the +utmost delight in the reading, the commands of the King himself should +be disobeyed, rather than Alice should be sacrificed to one who +received not her hand as the greatest blessing earth had to bestow. But +the features of Everard indicated joyful hope, even beyond what the +father could have anticipated, yet mingled with surprise; and when he +raised his eye to the knight’s with timidity and doubt, a smile was on +Sir Henry’s countenance as he broke silence. “The King,” he said, “had +he no other subject in England, should dispose at will of those of the +house of Lee. But methinks the family of Everard have not been so +devoted of late to the crown as to comply with a mandate, inviting its +heir to marry the daughter of a beggar.” + +“The daughter of Sir Henry Lee,” said Everard, kneeling to his uncle, +and perforce kissing his hand, “would grace the house of a duke.” + +“The girl is well enough,” said the knight proudly; “for myself, my +poverty shall neither shame nor encroach on my friends. Some few pieces +I have by Doctor Rochecliffe’s kindness, and Joceline and I will strike +out something.” + +“Nay, my dear uncle, you are richer than you think for,” said Everard. +“That part of your estate, which my father redeemed for payment of a +moderate composition, is still your own, and held by trustees in your +name, myself being one of them. You are only our debtor for an advance +of monies, for which, if it will content you, we will count with you +like usurers. My father is incapable of profiting by making a bargain +on his own account for the estate of a distressed friend; and all this +you would have learned long since, but that you would not—I mean, time +did not serve for explanation—I mean”— + +“You mean I was too hot to hear reason, Mark, and I believe it is very +true. But I think we understand each other _now_. To-morrow I go with +my family to Kingston, where is an old house I may still call mine. +Come hither at thy leisure, Mark,—or thy best speed, as thou wilt—but +come with thy father’s consent.” + +“With my father in person,” said Everard, “if you will permit.” + +“Be that,” answered the knight, “as he and you will—I think Joceline +will scarce shut the door in thy face, or Bevis growl as he did after +poor Louis Kerneguy.—Nay, no more raptures, but good-night, Mark, +good-night; and if thou art not tired with the fatigue of +yesterday—why, if you appear here at seven in the morning, I think we +must bear with your company on the Kingston road.” + +Once more Everard pressed the knight’s hand, caressed Bevis, who +received his kindness graciously, and went home to dreams of happiness, +which were realized, as far as this motley world permits, within a few +months afterwards. + + + + +CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH. + + + My life was of a piece. +Spent in your service—dying at your feet. + + +DON SEBASTIAN. + + +Years rush by us like the wind. We see not whence the eddy comes, nor +whitherward it is tending, and we seem ourselves to witness their +flight without a sense that we are changed; and yet Time is beguiling +man of his strength, as the winds rob the woods of their foliage. + +After the marriage of Alice and Markham Everard, the old knight resided +near them, in an ancient manor-house, belonging to the redeemed portion +of his estate, where Joceline and Phœbe, now man and wife, with one or +two domestics, regulated the affairs of his household. When he tired of +Shakspeare and solitude, he was ever a welcome guest at his +son-in-law’s, where he went the more frequently that Markham had given +up all concern in public affairs, disapproving of the forcible +dismissal of the Parliament, and submitting to Cromwell’s subsequent +domination, rather as that which was the lesser evil, than as to a +government which he regarded as legal. Cromwell seemed ever willing to +show himself his friend; but Everard, resenting highly the proposal to +deliver up the King, which he considered as an insult to his honour, +never answered such advances, and became, on the contrary, of the +opinion, which was now generally prevalent in the nation, that a +settled government could not be obtained without the recall of the +banished family. There is no doubt that the personal kindness which he +had received from Charles, rendered him the more readily disposed to +such a measure. He was peremptory, however, in declining all +engagements during Oliver’s life, whose power he considered as too +firmly fixed to be shaken by any plots which could be formed against +it. + +Meantime, Wildrake continued to be Everard’s protected dependent as +before, though sometimes the connexion tended not a little to his +inconvenience. That respectable person, indeed, while he remained +stationary in his patron’s house, or that of the old knight, discharged +many little duties in the family, and won Alice’s heart by his +attention to the children, teaching the boys, of whom they had three, +to ride, fence, toss the pike, and many similar exercises; and, above +all, filling up a great blank in her father’s existence, with whom he +played at chess and backgammon, or read Shakspeare, or was clerk to +prayers when any sequestrated divine ventured to read the service of +the Church. Or he found game for him while the old gentleman continued +to go a-sporting; and, especially he talked over the storming of +Brentford, and the battles of Edgehill, Banbury, Roundwaydown, and +others, themes which the aged cavalier delighted in, but which he could +not so well enter upon with Colonel Everard, who had gained his laurels +in the Parliament service. + +The assistance which he received from Wildrake’s society became more +necessary, after Sir Henry was deprived of his gallant and only son, +who was slain in the fatal battle of Dunkirk, where, unhappily, English +colours were displayed on both the contending sides, the French being +then allied with Oliver, who sent to their aid a body of auxiliaries, +and the troops of the banished King fighting in behalf of the +Spaniards. Sir Henry received the melancholy news like an old man, that +is, with more external composure than could have been anticipated. He +dwelt for weeks and months on the lines forwarded by the indefatigable +Dr. Rochecliffe, superscribed in small letters, C. R., and subscribed +Louis Kerneguy, in which the writer conjured him to endure this +inestimable loss with the greater firmness, that he had still left one +son, (intimating himself,) who would always regard him as a father. + +But in spite of this balsam, sorrow, acting imperceptibly, and sucking +the blood like a vampire, seemed gradually drying up the springs of +life; and, without any formed illness, or outward complaint, the old +man’s strength and vigour gradually abated, and the ministry of +Wildrake proved daily more indispensable. + +It was not, however, always to be had. The cavalier was one of those +happy persons whom a strong constitution, an unreflecting mind, and +exuberant spirits, enable to play through their whole lives the part of +a school-boy—happy for the moment, and careless of consequences. + +Once or twice every year, when he had collected a few pieces, the +Cavaliero Wildrake made a start to London, where, as he described it, +he went on the ramble, drank as much wine as he could come by, and led +a _skeldering_ life, to use his own phrase, among roystering cavaliers +like himself, till by some rash speech or wild action, he got into the +Marshalsea, the Fleet, or some other prison, from which he was to be +delivered at the expense of interest, money, and sometimes a little +reputation. + +At length Cromwell died, his son resigned the government, and the +various changes which followed induced Everard, as well as many others, +to adopt more active measures in the King’s behalf. Everard even +remitted considerable sums for his service, but with the utmost +caution, and corresponding with no intermediate agent, but with the +Chancellor himself, to whom he communicated much useful information +upon public affairs. With all his prudence he was very nearly engaged +in the ineffectual rising of Booth and Middleton in the west, and with +great difficulty escaped from the fatal consequences of that ill-timed +attempt. After this, although the estate of the kingdom was trebly +unsettled, yet no card seemed to turn up favourable to the royal cause, +until the movement of General Monk from Scotland. Even then, it was +when at the point of complete success, that the fortunes of Charles +seemed at a lower ebb than ever, especially when intelligence had +arrived at the little Court which he then kept in Brussels, that Monk, +on arriving in London, had put himself under the orders of the +Parliament. + +It was at this time, and in the evening, while the King, Buckingham, +Wilmot, and some other gallants of his wandering Court, were engaged in +a convivial party, that the Chancellor (Clarendon) suddenly craved +audience, and, entering with less ceremony than he would have done at +another time, announced extraordinary news. For the messenger, he said, +he could say nothing, saving that he appeared to have drunk much, and +slept little; but that he had brought a sure token of credence from a +man for whose faith he would venture his life. The King demanded to see +the messenger himself. + +A man entered, with something the manners of a gentleman, and more +those of a rakebelly debauchee—his eyes swelled and inflamed—his gait +disordered and stumbling, partly through lack of sleep, partly through +the means he had taken to support his fatigue. He staggered without +ceremony to the head of the table, seized the King’s hand, which he +mumbled like a piece of gingerbread; while Charles, who began to +recollect him from his mode of salutation, was not very much pleased +that their meeting should have taken place before so many witnesses. + +“I bring good news,” said the uncouth messenger, “glorious news!—the +King shall enjoy his own again!—My feet are beautiful on the mountains. +Gad, I have lived with Presbyterians till I have caught their language— +but we are all one man’s children now—all your Majesty’s poor babes. +The Rump is all ruined in London—Bonfires flaming, music playing, rumps +roasting, healths drinking, London in a blaze of light from the Strand +to Rotherhithe—tankards clattering”— + +“We can guess at that,” said the Duke of Buckingham. + +“My old friend, Mark Everard, sent me off with the news; I’m a villain +if I’ve slept since. Your Majesty recollects me, I am sure. Your +Majesty remembers, sa—sa—at the King’s Oak, at Woodstock?— + +‘O, we’ll dance, and sing, and play, +For ’twill be a joyous day +When the King shall enjoy his own again.’” + + +“Master Wildrake, I remember you well,” said the King. “I trust the +good news is certain?” + +“Certain! your Majesty; did I not hear the bells?—did I not see the +bonfires?—did I not drink your Majesty’s health so often, that my legs +would scarce carry me to the wharf? It is as certain as that I am poor +Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln.” + +The Duke of Buckingham here whispered to the King, “I have always +suspected your Majesty kept odd company during the escape from +Worcester, but this seems a rare sample.” + +“Why, pretty much like yourself, and other company I have kept here so +many years—as stout a heart, as empty a head,” said Charles—“as much +lace, though somewhat tarnished, as much brass on the brow, and nearly +as much copper in the pocket.” + +“I would your Majesty would intrust this messenger of good news with +me, to get the truth out of him,” said Buckingham. + +“Thank your Grace,” replied the King; “but he has a will as well as +yourself, and such seldom agree. My Lord Chancellor hath wisdom, and to +that we must trust ourselves.—Master Wildrake, you will go with my Lord +Chancellor, who will bring us a report of your tidings; meantime, I +assure you that you shall be no loser for being the first messenger of +good news.” So saying, he gave a signal to the Chancellor to take away +Wildrake, whom he judged, in his present humour, to be not unlikely to +communicate some former passages at Woodstock which might rather +entertain than edify the wits of his court. + +Corroboration of the joyful intelligence soon arrived, and Wildrake was +presented with a handsome gratuity and small pension, which, by the +King’s special desire, had no duty whatever attached to it. + +Shortly afterwards, all England was engaged in chorusing his favourite +ditty— + +“Oh, the twenty-ninth of May, +It was a glorious day, +When the King did enjoy his own again.” + + +On that memorable day, the King prepared to make his progress from +Rochester to London, with a reception on the part of his subjects so +unanimously cordial, as made him say gaily, it must have been his own +fault to stay so long away from a country where his arrival gave so +much joy. On horseback, betwixt his brothers, the Dukes of York and +Gloucester, the Restored Monarch trode slowly over roads strewn with +flowers—by conduits running wine, under triumphal arches, and through +streets hung with tapestry. There were citizens in various bands, some +arrayed in coats of black velvet, with gold chains; some in military +suits of cloth of gold, or cloth of silver, followed by all those +craftsmen who, having hooted the father from Whitehall, had now come to +shout the son into possession of his ancestral place. On his progress +through Blackheath, he passed that army which, so long formidable to +England herself, as well as to Europe, had been the means of restoring +the Monarchy which their own hands had destroyed. As the King passed +the last files of this formidable host, he came to an open part of the +heath, where many persons of quality, with others of inferior rank, had +stationed themselves to gratulate him as he passed towards the capital. + +There was one group, however, which attracted peculiar attention from +those around, on account of the respect shown to the party by the +soldiers who kept the ground, and who, whether Cavaliers or Roundheads, +seemed to contest emulously which should contribute most to their +accommodation; for both the elder and younger gentlemen of the party +had been distinguished in the Civil War. + +It was a family group, of which the principal figure was an old man +seated in a chair, having a complacent smile on his face, and a tear +swelling to his eye, as he saw the banners wave on in interminable +succession, and heard the multitude shouting the long silenced +acclamation, “God save King Charles.” His cheek was ashy pale, and his +long beard bleached like the thistle down; his blue eye was cloudless, +yet it was obvious that its vision was failing. His motions were +feeble, and he spoke little, except when he answered the prattle of his +grandchildren, or asked a question of his daughter, who sate beside +him, matured in matronly beauty, or of Colonel Everard who stood +behind. There, too, the stout yeoman, Joceline Joliffe, still in his +silvan dress, leaned, like a second Benaiah, on the quarter-staff that +had done the King good service in its day, and his wife, a buxom matron +as she had been a pretty maiden, laughed at her own consequence; and +ever and anon joined her shrill notes to the stentorian halloo which +her husband added to the general acclamation. + +These fine boys and two pretty girls prattled around their grandfather, +who made them such answers as suited their age, and repeatedly passed +his withered hand over the fair locks of the little darlings, while +Alice, assisted by Wildrake, (blazing in a splendid dress, and his eyes +washed with only a single cup of canary,) took off the children’s +attention from time to time, lest they should weary their grandfather. +We must not omit one other remarkable figure in the group—a gigantic +dog, which bore the signs of being at the extremity of canine life, +being perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. But though exhibiting the +ruin only of his former appearance, his eyes dim, his joints stiff, his +head slouched down, and his gallant carriage and graceful motions +exchanged for a stiff, rheumatic, hobbling gait, the noble hound had +lost none of his instinctive fondness for his master. To lie by Sir +Henry’s feet in the summer or by the fire in winter, to raise his head +to look on him, to lick his withered hand or his shrivelled cheek from +time to time, seemed now all that Bevis lived for. + +Three or four livery servants attended to protect this group from the +thronging multitude, but it needed not. The high respectability and +unpretending simplicity of their appearance gave them, even in the eyes +of the coarsest of the people, an air of patriarchal dignity, which +commanded general regard; and they sat upon the bank which they had +chosen for their station by the way-side, as undisturbed as if they had +been in their own park. + +And now the distant clarions announced the Royal Presence. Onward came +pursuivant and trumpet—onward came plumes and cloth of gold, and waving +standards displayed, and swords gleaming to the sun; and at length, +heading a group of the noblest in England, and supported by his royal +brothers on either side, onward came King Charles. He had already +halted more than once, in kindness perhaps as well as policy, to +exchange a word with persons whom he recognized among the spectators, +and the shouts of the bystanders applauded a courtesy which seemed so +well timed. But when he had gazed an instant on the party we have +described, it was impossible, if even Alice had been too much changed +to be recognized, not instantly to know Bevis and his venerable master. +The Monarch sprung from his horse, and walked instantly up to the old +knight, amid thundering acclamations which rose from the multitudes +around, when they saw Charles with his own hand oppose the feeble +attempts of the old man to rise to do his homage. Gently replacing him +on his seat—“Bless,” he said, “father—bless your son, who has returned +in safety, as you blessed him when he departed in danger.” + +“May God bless—and preserve”—muttered the old man, overcome by his +feelings; and the King, to give him a few moments’ repose, turned to +Alice— + +“And you,” he said, “my fair guide, how have you been employed since +our perilous night-walk? But I need not ask,” glancing around—“in the +service of King and Kingdom, bringing up subjects, as loyal as their +ancestors.—A fair lineage, by my faith, and a beautiful sight, to the +eye of an English King!—Colonel Everard, we shall see you, I trust, at +Whitehall?” Here he nodded to Wildrake. “And thou, Joceline, thou canst +hold thy quarter-staff with one hand, sure?—Thrust forward the other +palm.” + +Looking down in sheer bashfulness, Joceline, like a bull about to push, +extended to the King, over his lady’s shoulder, a hand as broad and +hard as a wooden trencher, which the King filled with gold coins. “Buy +a handful for my friend Phœbe with some of these,” said Charles, “she +too has been doing her duty to Old England.” + +The King then turned once more to the knight, who seemed making an +effort to speak. He took his aged hand in both his own, and stooped his +head towards him to catch his accents, while the old man, detaining him +with the other hand, said something faltering, of which Charles could +only catch the quotation— + +“Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, +And welcome home again discarded faith.” + + +Extricating himself, therefore, as gently as possible, from a scene +which began to grow painfully embarrassing, the good-natured King said, +speaking with unusual distinctness to insure the old man’s +comprehending him, “This is something too public a place for all we +have to say. But if you come not soon to see King Charles at Whitehall, +he will send down Louis Kerneguy to visit you, that you may see how +rational that mischievous lad is become since his travels.” + +So saying, he once more pressed affectionately the old man’s hand, +bowed to Alice and all around, and withdrew; Sir Henry Lee listening +with a smile, which showed he comprehended the gracious tendency of +what had been said. The old man leaned back on his seat, and muttered +the _Nunc dimittas_. + +“Excuse me for having made you wait, my lords,” said the King, as he +mounted his horse; “indeed, had it not been for these good folks, you +might have waited for me long enough to little purpose.—Move on, sirs.” + +The array moved on accordingly; the sound of trumpets and drums again +rose amid the acclamations, which had been silent while the King +stopped; while the effect of the whole procession resuming its motion, +was so splendidly dazzling, that even Alice’s anxiety about for her +father’s health was for a moment suspended, while her eye followed the +long line of varied brilliancy that proceeded over the heath. When she +looked again at Sir Henry, she was startled to see that his cheek, +which had gained some colour during his conversation with the King, had +relapsed into earthly paleness; that his eyes were closed, and opened +not again; and that his features expressed, amid their quietude, a +rigidity which is not that of sleep. They ran to his assistance, but it +was too late. The light that burned so low in the socket, had leaped +up, and expired in one exhilarating flash. + +The rest must be conceived. I have only to add that his faithful dog +did not survive him many days; and that the image of Bevis lies carved +at his master’s feet, on the tomb which was erected to the memory of +Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley.[1] + + [1] It may interest some readers to know that Bevis, the gallant + hound, one of the handsomest and active of the ancient Highland + deer-hounds, had his prototype in a dog called Maida, the gift of the + late Chief of Glengarry to the author. A beautiful sketch was made by + Edwin Landseer, and afterwards engraved. I cannot suppress the avowal + of some personal vanity when I mention that a friend, going through + Munich, picked up a common snuff-box, such as are sold for one franc, + on which was displayed the form of this veteran favourite, simply + marked as Der lieblung hund von Walter Scott. Mr. Landseer’s painting + is at Blair-Adam, the property of my venerable friend, the Right + Honourable Lord Chief Commissioner Adam. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WOODSTOCK; OR, THE CAVALIER *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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