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,” (as the keeper’s followers in the New Forest are called in popular language,) “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?”
“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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe, trip it as fast as a fawn down to my lodge–I will soon be there, and”–
“Your lodge, indeed” said Phoebe; “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! Phoebe– 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 Phoebe, as”–
The rest of the asseveration was lost in Phoebe’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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe’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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe, “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 Phoebe; “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 Phoebe; “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 Phoebe.
“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, Phoebe.”
But Phoebe 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, Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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. Phoebe 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 Phoebe, “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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe 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