Wildrake was left in the cabinet, as we have said, astonished and
alone. It was often noised about, that Cromwell, the deep and sagacious
statesman, the calm and intrepid commander, he who had overcome such
difficulties, and ascended to such heights, that he seemed already to
bestride the land which he had conquered, had, like many other men of
great genius, a constitutional taint of melancholy, which sometimes
displayed itself both in words and actions, and had been first observed
in that sudden and striking change, when, abandoning entirely the
dissolute freaks of his youth, he embraced a very strict course of
religious observances, which, upon some occasions, he seemed to
consider as bringing him into more near and close contact with the
spiritual world. This extraordinary man is said sometimes, during that
period of his life, to have given way to spiritual delusions, or, as he
himself conceived them, prophetic inspirations of approaching grandeur,
and of strange, deep, and mysterious agencies, in which he was in
future to be engaged, in the same manner as his younger years had been
marked by fits of exuberant and excessive frolic and debaucheries.
Something of this kind seemed to explain the ebullition of passion
which he had now manifested.
With wonder at what he had witnessed, Wildrake felt some anxiety on his
own account. Though not the most reflecting of mortals, he had sense
enough to know, that it is dangerous to be a witness of the infirmities
of men high in power; and he was left so long by himself, as induced
him to entertain some secret doubts, whether the General might not be
tempted to take means of confining or removing a witness, who had seen
him lowered, as it seemed, by the suggestions of his own conscience,
beneath that lofty flight, which, in general, he affected to sustain
above the rest of the sublunary world.
In this, however, he wronged Cromwell, who was free either from an
extreme degree of jealous suspicion, or from any thing which approached
towards blood-thirstiness. Pearson appeared, after a lapse of about an
hour, and, intimating to Wildrake that he was to follow, conducted him
into a distant apartment, in which he found the General seated on a
couch. His daughter was in the apartment, but remained at some
distance, apparently busied with some female needle-work, and scarce
turned her head as Pearson and Wildrake entered.
At a sign from the Lord-General, Wildrake approached him as before.
“Comrade,” he said, “your old friends the cavaliers look on me as their
enemy, and conduct themselves towards me as if they desired to make me
such. I profess they are labouring to their own prejudice; for I
regard, and have ever regarded them, as honest and honourable fools,
who were silly enough to run their necks into nooses and their heads
against stonewalls, that a man called Stewart, and no other, should be
king over them. Fools! are there no words made of letters that would
sound as well as Charles Stewart, with that magic title beside them?
Why, the word King is like a lighted lamp, that throws the same bright
gilding upon any combination of the alphabet, and yet you must shed
your blood for a name! But thou, for thy part, shalt have no wrong from
me. Here is an order, well warranted, to clear the Lodge at Woodstock,
and abandon it to thy master’s keeping, or those whom he shall appoint.
He will have his uncle and pretty cousin with him, doubtless. Fare thee
well—think on what I told thee. They say beauty is a loadstone to
yonder long lad thou dost wot of; but I reckon he has other stars at
present to direct his course than bright eyes and fair hair. Be it as
it may, thou knowst my purpose—peer out, peer out; keep a constant and
careful look-out on every ragged patch that wanders by hedge-row or
lane—these are days when a beggar’s cloak may cover a king’s ransom.
There are some broad Portugal pieces for thee—something strange to thy
pouch, I ween.—Once more, think on what thou hast heard, and,” he
added, in a lower and more impressive tone of voice, “forget what thou
hast seen. My service to thy master;—and, yet once again,
_remember_—and _forget_.”—Wildrake made his obeisance, and, returning
to his inn, left Windsor with all possible speed.
It was afternoon in the same day when the cavalier rejoined his
round-head friend, who was anxiously expecting him at the inn in
Woodstock appointed for their rendezvous.
“Where hast thou been?—what hast thou seen?—what strange uncertainty is
in thy looks?—and why dost thou not answer me?”
“Because,” said Wildrake, laying aside his riding cloak and rapier,
“you ask so many questions at once. A man has but one tongue to answer
with, and mine is well-nigh glued to the roof of my mouth.”
“Will drink unloosen it?” said the Colonel; “though I dare say thou
hast tried that spell at every ale-house on the road. Call for what
thou wouldst have, man, only be quick.”
“Colonel Everard,” answered Wildrake, “I have not tasted so much as a
cup of cold water this day.”
“Then thou art out of humour for that reason,” said the Colonel; “salve
thy sore with brandy, if thou wilt, but leave being so fantastic and
unlike to thyself, as thou showest in this silent mood.”
“Colonel Everard,” replied the cavalier, very gravely, “I am an altered
man.”
“I think thou dost alter,” said Everard, “every day in the year, and
every hour of the day. Come, good now, tell me, hast thou seen the
General, and got his warrant for clearing out the sequestrators from
Woodstock?”
“I have seen the devil,” said Wildrake, “and have, as thou say’st, got
a warrant from him.”
“Give it me hastily,” said Everard, catching at the packet.
“Forgive me, Mark,” said Wildrake; “if thou knewest the purpose with
which this deed is granted—if thou knewest—what it is not my purpose to
tell thee—what manner of hopes are founded on thy accepting it, I have
that opinion of thee, Mark Everard, that thou wouldst as soon take a
red-hot horse-shoe from the anvil with thy bare hand, as receive into
it this slip of paper.”
“Come, come,” said Everard, “this comes of some of your exalted ideas
of loyalty, which, excellent within certain bounds, drive us mad when
encouraged up to some heights. Do not think, since I must needs speak
plainly with thee, that I see without sorrow the downfall of our
ancient monarchy, and the substitution of another form of government in
its stead; but ought my regret for the past to prevent my acquiescing
and aiding in such measures as are likely to settle the future? The
royal cause is ruined, hadst thou and every cavalier in England sworn
the contrary; ruined, not to rise again—for many a day at least. The
Parliament, so often draughted and drained of those who were courageous
enough to maintain their own freedom of opinion, is now reduced to a
handful of statesmen, who have lost the respect of the people, from the
length of time during which they have held the supreme management of
affairs. They cannot stand long unless they were to reduce the army;
and the army, late servants, are now masters, and will refuse to be
reduced. They know their strength, and that they may be an army
subsisting on pay and free quarters throughout England as long as they
will. I tell thee, Wildrake, unless we look to the only man who can
rule and manage them, we may expect military law throughout the land;
and I, for mine own part, look for any preservation of our privileges
that may be vouchsafed to us, only through the wisdom and forbearance
of Cromwell. Now you have my secret. You are aware that I am not doing
the best I would, but the best I can. I wish—not so ardently as thou,
perhaps—yet I _do_ wish that the King could have been restored on good
terms of composition, safe for us and for himself. And now, good
Wildrake, rebel as thou thinkest me, make me no worse a rebel than an
unwilling one. God knows, I never laid aside love and reverence to the
King, even in drawing my sword against his ill advisers.”
“Ah, plague on you,” said Wildrake, “that is the very cant of it—that’s
what you all say. All of you fought against the King in pure love and
loyalty, and not otherwise. However, I see your drift, and I own that I
like it better than I expected. The army is your bear now, and old Noll
is your bearward; and you are like a country constable, who makes
interest with the bearward that he may prevent him from letting bruin
loose. Well, there may come a day when the sun will shine on our side
of the fence, and thereon shall you, and all the good fair-weather
folks who love the stronger party, come and make common cause with us.”
Without much attending to what his friend said, Colonel Everard
carefully studied the warrant of Cromwell. “It is bolder and more
peremptory than I expected,” he said. “The General must feel himself
strong, when he opposes his own authority so directly to that of the
Council of State and the Parliament.”
“You will not hesitate to act upon it?” said Wildrake.
“That I certainly will not,” answered Everard; “but I must wait till I
have the assistance of the Mayor, who, I think, will gladly see these
fellows ejected from the Lodge. I must not go altogether upon military
authority, if possible.” Then, stepping to the door of the apartment,
he despatched a servant of the house in quest of the Chief Magistrate,
desiring he should be made acquainted that Colonel Everard desired to
see him with as little loss of time as possible.
“You are sure he will come, like a dog at a whistle,” said Wildrake.
“The word captain, or colonel, makes the fat citizen trot in these
days, when one sword is worth fifty corporation charters. But there are
dragoons yonder, as well as the grim-faced knave whom I frightened the
other evening when I showed my face in at the window. Think’st thou the
knaves will show no rough play?”
“The General’s warrant will weigh more with them than a dozen acts of
Parliament,” said Everard.—“But it is time thou eatest, if thou hast in
truth ridden from Windsor hither without baiting.”
“I care not about it,” said Wildrake: “I tell thee, your General gave
me a breakfast, which, I think, will serve me one while, if I am ever
able to digest it. By the mass, it lay so heavy on my conscience, that
I carried it to church to see if I could digest it there with my other
sins. But not a whit.”
“To church!—to the door of the church, thou meanest,” said Everard. “I
know thy way—thou art ever wont to pull thy hat off reverently at the
threshold; but for crossing it, that day seldom comes.”
“Well,” replied Wildrake, “and if I do pull off my castor and kneel, is
it not seemly to show the same respects in a church which we offer in a
palace? It is a dainty matter, is it not, to see your Anabaptists, and
Brownists, and the rest of you, gather to a sermon with as little
ceremony as hogs to a trough! But here comes food, and now for a grace,
if I can remember one.”
Everard was too much interested about the fate of his uncle and his
fair cousin, and the prospect of restoring them to their quiet home,
under the protection of that formidable truncheon which was already
regarded as the leading-staff of England, to remark, that certainly a
great alteration had taken place in the manners and outward behaviour
at least of his companion. His demeanour frequently evinced a sort of
struggle betwixt old habits of indulgence, and some newly formed
resolutions of abstinence; and it was almost ludicrous to see how often
the hand of the neophyte directed itself naturally to a large black
leathern jack, which contained two double flagons of strong ale, and
how often, diverted from its purpose by the better reflections of the
reformed toper, it seized, instead, upon a large ewer of salubrious and
pure water.
It was not difficult to see that the task of sobriety was not yet
become easy, and that, if it had the recommendation of the intellectual
portion of the party who had resolved upon it, the outward man yielded
a reluctant and restive compliance. But honest Wildrake had been
dreadfully frightened at the course proposed to him by Cromwell, and,
with a feeling not peculiar to the Catholic religion, had formed a
solemn resolution within his own mind, that, if he came off safe and
with honour from this dangerous interview, he would show his sense of
Heaven’s favour, by renouncing some of the sins which most easily beset
him, and especially that of intemperance, to which, like many of his
wild compeers, he was too much addicted.
This resolution, or vow, was partly prudential as well as religious;
for it occurred to him as very possible, that some matters of a
difficult and delicate nature might be thrown into his hands at the
present emergency, during the conduct of which it would be fitting for
him to act by some better oracle than that of the Bottle, celebrated by
Rabelais. In full compliance with this prudent determination, he
touched neither the ale nor the brandy which were placed before him,
and declined peremptorily the sack with which his friend would have
garnished the board. Nevertheless, just as the boy removed the
trenchers and napkins, together with the large black-jack which we have
already mentioned, and was one or two steps on his way to the door, the
sinewy arm of the cavalier, which seemed to elongate itself on purpose,
(as it extended far beyond the folds of the threadbare jacket,)
arrested the progress of the retiring Ganymede, and seizing on the
black-jack, conveyed it to the lips, which were gently breathing forth
the aspiration, “D—n—I mean. Heaven forgive me—we are poor creatures of
clay—one modest sip must be permitted to our frailty.”
So murmuring, he glued the huge flagon to his lips, and as the head was
slowly and gradually inclined backwards, in proportion as the right
hand elevated the bottom of the pitcher, Everard had great doubts
whether the drinker and the cup were likely to part until the whole
contents of the latter had been transferred to the person of the
former. Roger Wildrake stinted, however, when, by a moderate
computation, he had swallowed at one draught about a quart and a half.
He then replaced it on the salver, fetched a long breath to refresh his
lungs, bade the boy get him gone with the rest of the liquors, in a
tone which inferred some dread of his constancy, and then, turning to
his friend Everard, he expatiated in praise of moderation, observing,
that the mouthful which he had just taken had been of more service to
him than if he had remained quaffing healths at table for four hours
together.
His friend made no reply, but could not help being privately of opinion
that Wildrake’s temperance had done as much execution on the tankard in
his single draught, as some more moderate topers might have effected if
they had sat sipping for an evening. But the subject was changed by the
entrance of the landlord, who came to announce to his honour Colonel
Everard, that the worshipful Mayor of Woodstock, with the Rev. Master
Holdenough, were come to wait upon him.