Colonel Everard’s departure at the late hour, for, so it was then
thought, of seven in the evening, excited much speculation. There was a
gathering of menials and dependents in the outer chamber or hall, for
no one doubted that his sudden departure was owing to his having, as
they expressed it, “seen something,” and all desired to know how a man
of such acknowledged courage as Everard, looked under the awe of a
recent apparition. But he gave them no time to make comments; for,
striding through the hall wrapt in his riding suit, he threw himself on
horseback, and rode furiously through the Chase, towards the hut of the
keeper Joliffe.
It was the disposition of Markham Everard to be hot, keen, earnest,
impatient, and decisive to a degree of precipitation. The acquired
habits which education had taught, and which the strong moral and
religious discipline of his sect had greatly strengthened, were such as
to enable him to conceal, as well as to check, this constitutional
violence, and to place him upon his guard against indulging it. But
when in the high tide of violent excitation, the natural impetuosity of
the young soldier’s temper was sometimes apt to overcome these
artificial obstacles, and then, like a torrent foaming over a wear, it
became more furious, as if in revenge for the constrained calm which it
had been for some time obliged to assume. In these instances he was
accustomed to see only that point to which his thoughts were bent, and
to move straight towards it, whether a moral object, or the storming of
a breach, without either calculating, or even appearing to see, the
difficulties which were before him.
At present, his ruling and impelling motive was to detach his beloved
cousin, if possible, from the dangerous and discreditable machinations
in which he suspected her to have engaged, or, on the other hand, to
discover that she really had no concern with these stratagems. He
should know how to judge of that in some measure, he thought, by
finding her present or absent at the hut, towards which he was now
galloping. He had read, indeed, in some ballad or minstrel’s tale, of a
singular deception practised on a jealous old man, by means of a
subterranean communication between his house and that of a neighbour,
which the lady in question made use of to present herself in the two
places alternately, with such speed, and so much address, that, after
repeated experiments, the dotard was deceived into the opinion, that
his wife, and the lady who was so very like her, and to whom his
neighbour paid so much attention, were two different persons. But in
the present case there was no room for such a deception; the distance
was too great, and as he took by much the nearest way from the castle,
and rode full speed, it would be impossible, he knew, for his cousin,
who was a timorous horsewoman even by daylight, to have got home before
him.
Her father might indeed be displeased at his interference; but what
title had he to be so?—Was not Alice Lee the near relation of his
blood, the dearest object of his heart, and would he now abstain from
an effort to save her from the consequences of a silly and wild
conspiracy, because the old knight’s spleen might be awakened by
Everard’s making his appearance at their present dwelling contrary to
his commands? No. He would endure the old man’s harsh language, as he
endured the blast of the autumn wind, which was howling around him, and
swinging the crashing branches of the trees under which he passed, but
could not oppose, or even retard, his journey.
If he found not Alice, as he had reason to believe she would be absent,
to Sir Henry Lee himself he would explain what he had witnessed.
However she might have become accessory to the juggling tricks
performed at Woodstock, he could not but think it was without her
father’s knowledge, so severe a judge was the old knight of female
propriety, and so strict an assertor of female decorum. He would take
the same opportunity, he thought, of stating to him the well-grounded
hopes he entertained, that his dwelling at the Lodge might be
prolonged, and the sequestrators removed from the royal mansion and
domains, by other means than those of the absurd species of
intimidation which seemed to be resorted to, to scare them from thence.
All this seemed to be so much within the line of his duty as a
relative, that it was not until he halted at the door of the ranger’s
hut, and threw his bridle into Wildrake’s hand, that Everard
recollected the fiery, high, and unbending character of Sir Henry Lee,
and felt, even when his fingers were on the latch, a reluctance to
intrude himself upon the presence of the irritable old knight.
But there was no time for hesitation. Bevis, who had already bayed more
than once from within the Lodge, was growing impatient, and Everard had
but just time to bid Wildrake hold the horses until he should send
Joceline to his assistance, when old Joan unpinned the door, to demand
who was without at that time of the night. To have attempted anything
like an explanation with poor dame Joan, would have been quite
hopeless; the Colonel, therefore, put her gently aside, and shaking
himself loose from the hold she had laid on his cloak, entered the
kitchen of Joceline’s dwelling. Bevis, who had advanced to support Joan
in her opposition, humbled his lion-port, with that wonderful instinct
which makes his race remember so long those with whom they have been
familiar, and acknowledged his master’s relative, by doing homage in
his fashion, with his head and tail.
Colonel Everard, more uncertain in his purpose every moment as the
necessity of its execution drew near, stole over the floor like one who
treads in a sick chamber, and opening the door of the interior
apartment with a slow and trembling hand, as he would have withdrawn
the curtains of a dying friend, he saw, within, the scene which we are
about to describe.
Sir Henry Lee sat in a wicker arm-chair by the fire. He was wrapped in
a cloak, and his limbs extended on a stool, as if he were suffering
from gout or indisposition. His long white beard flowing over the
dark-coloured garment, gave him more the appearance of a hermit than of
an aged soldier or man of quality; and that character was increased by
the deep and devout attention with which he listened to a respectable
old man, whose dilapidated dress showed still something of the clerical
habit, and who, with a low, but full and deep voice, was reading the
Evening Service according to the Church of England. Alice Lee kneeled
at the feet of her father, and made the responses with a voice that
might have suited the choir of angels; and a modest and serious
devotion, which suited the melody of her tone. The face of the
officiating clergyman would have been good-looking, had it not been
disfigured with a black patch which covered the left eye and a part of
his face, and had not the features which were visible been marked with
the traces of care and suffering.
When Colonel Everard entered, the clergyman raised his finger, as
cautioning him to forbear disturbing the divine service of the evening,
and pointed to a seat; to which, struck deeply with the scene he had
witnessed, the intruder stole with as light a step as possible, and
knelt devoutly down as one of the little congregation.
Everard had been bred by his father what was called a Puritan; a member
of a sect who, in the primitive sense of the word, were persons that
did not except against the doctrines of the Church of England, or even
in all respects against its hierarchy, but chiefly dissented from it on
the subject of certain ceremonies, habits, and forms of ritual, which
were insisted upon by the celebrated and unfortunate Laud with
ill-timed tenacity. But even if, from the habits of his father’s house,
Everard’s opinions had been diametrically opposed to the doctrines of
the English Church, he must have been reconciled to them by the
regularity with which the service was performed in his uncle’s family
at Woodstock, who, during the blossom of his fortunes, generally had a
chaplain residing in the Lodge for that special purpose.
Yet deep as was the habitual veneration with which he heard the
impressive service of the Church, Everard’s eyes could not help
straying towards Alice, and his thoughts wandering to the purpose of
his presence there. She seemed to have recognised him at once, for
there was a deeper glow than usual upon her cheek, her fingers trembled
as they turned the leaves of her prayerbook, and her voice, lately as
firm as it was melodious, faltered when she repeated the responses. It
appeared to Everard, as far as he could collect by the stolen glances
which he directed towards her, that the character of her beauty, as
well as of her outward appearance, had changed with her fortunes.
The beautiful and high-born young lady had now approached as nearly as
possible to the brown stuff dress of an ordinary village maiden; but
what she had lost in gaiety of appearance, she had gained as it seemed
in dignity. Her beautiful light-brown tresses, now folded around her
head, and only curled where nature had so arranged them, gave her an
air of simplicity, which did not exist when her head-dress showed the
skill of a curious tire-woman. A light joyous air, with something of a
humorous expression, which seemed to be looking for amusement, had
vanished before the touch of affliction, and a calm melancholy supplied
its place, which seemed on the watch to administer comfort to others.
Perhaps the former arch, though innocent expression of countenance, was
uppermost in her lover’s recollection, when he concluded that Alice had
acted a part in the disturbances which had taken place at the Lodge. It
is certain, that when he now looked upon her, it was with shame for
having nourished such a suspicion, and the resolution to believe rather
that the devil had imitated her voice, than that a creature, who seemed
so much above the feelings of this world, and so nearly allied to the
purity of the next, should have had the indelicacy to mingle in such
manoeuvres as he himself and others had been subjected to.
These thoughts shot through his mind, in spite of the impropriety of
indulging them at such a moment. The service now approached the close,
and a good deal to Colonel Everard’s surprise, as well as confusion,
the officiating priest, in firm and audible tone, and with every
attribute of dignity, prayed to the Almighty to bless and preserve “Our
Sovereign Lord, King Charles, the lawful and undoubted King of these
realms.” The petition (in those days most dangerous) was pronounced
with a full, raised, and distinct articulation, as if the priest
challenged all who heard him to dissent, if they dared. If the
republican officer did not assent to the petition, he thought at least
it was no time to protest against it.
The service was concluded in the usual manner, and the little
congregation arose. It now included Wildrake, who had entered during
the latter prayer, and was the first of the party to speak, running up
to the priest, and shaking him by the hand most heartily, swearing at
the same time, that he truly rejoiced to see him. The good clergyman
returned the pressure with a smile, observing he should have believed
his asseveration without an oath. In the meanwhile, Colonel Everard,
approaching his uncle’s seat, made a deep inclination of respect, first
to Sir Henry Lee, and then to Alice, whose colour now spread from her
cheek to her brow and bosom.
“I have to crave your excuse,” said the Colonel with hesitation, “for
having chosen for my visit, which I dare not hope would be very
agreeable at any time, a season most peculiarly unsuitable.”
“So far from it, nephew,” answered Sir Henry, with much more mildness
of manner than Everard had dared to expect, “that your visits at other
times would be much more welcome, had we the fortune to see you often
at our hours of worship.”
“I hope the time will soon come, sir, when Englishmen of all sects and
denominations,” replied Everard, “will be free in conscience to worship
in common the great Father, whom they all after their manner call by
that affectionate name.”
“I hope so too, nephew,” said the old man in the same unaltered tone;
“and we will not at present dispute, whether you would have the Church
of England coalesce with the Conventicle, or the Conventicle conform to
the Church. It was, I ween, not to settle jarring creeds, that you have
honoured our poor dwelling, where, to say the truth, we dared scarce
have expected to see you again, so coarse was our last welcome.”
“I should be happy to believe,” said Colonel Everard, hesitating,
“that—that—in short my presence was not now so unwelcome here as on
that occasion.”
“Nephew,” said Sir Henry, “I will be frank with you. When you were last
here, I thought you had stolen from me a precious pearl, which at one
time it would have been my pride and happiness to have bestowed on you;
but which, being such as you have been of late, I would bury in the
depths of the earth rather than give to your keeping. This somewhat
chafed, as honest Will says, ‘the rash humour which my mother gave me.’
I thought I was robbed, and I thought I saw the robber before me. I am
mistaken—I am not robbed; and the attempt without the deed I can
pardon.”
“I would not willingly seek offence in your words, sir,” said Colonel
Everard, “when their general purport sounds kind; but I can protest
before Heaven, that my views and wishes towards you and your family are
as void of selfish hopes and selfish ends, as they are fraught with
love to you and to yours.”
“Let us hear them, man; we are not much accustomed to good wishes
now-a-days; and their very rarity will make them welcome.”
“I would willingly, Sir Henry, since you might not choose me to give
you a more affectionate name, convert those wishes into something
effectual for your comfort. Your fate, as the world now stands, is bad,
and, I fear, like to be worse.”
“Worse than I expect it cannot be. Nephew, I do not shrink before my
changes of fortune. I shall wear coarser clothes,—I shall feed on more
ordinary food,—men will not doff their cap to me as they were wont,
when I was the great and the wealthy. What of that? Old Harry Lee loved
his honour better than his title, his faith better than his land and
lordship. Have I not seen the 30th of January? I am neither Philomath
nor astrologer; but old Will teaches me, that when green leaves fall
winter is at hand, and that darkness will come when the sun sets.”
“Bethink you, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “if, without any submission
asked, any oath taken, any engagement imposed, express or tacit,
excepting that you are not to excite disturbances in the public peace,
you can be restored to your residence in the Lodge, and your usual
fortunes and perquisities there—I have great reason to hope this may be
permitted, if not expressly, at least on sufferance.”
“Yes, I understand you. I am to be treated like the royal coin, marked
with the ensign of the Rump to make it pass current, although I am too
old to have the royal insignia grinded off from me. Kinsman, I will
have none of this. I have lived at the Lodge too long; and let me tell
you, I had left it in scorn long since, but for the orders of one whom
I may yet live to do service to. I will take nothing from the usurpers,
be their name Rump or Cromwell—be they one devil or legion—I will not
take from them an old cap to cover my grey hairs—a cast cloak to
protect my frail limbs from the cold. They shall not say they have, by
their unwilling bounty, made Abraham rich—I will live, as I will die,
the Loyal Lee.”
“May I hope you will think of it, sir; and that you will, perhaps,
considering what slight submission is asked, give me a better answer?”
“Sir, if I retract my opinion, which is not my wont, you shall hear of
it.—And now, cousin, have you more to say? We keep that worthy
clergyman in the outer room.”
“Something I had to say—something touching my cousin Alice,” said
Everard, with embarrassment; “but I fear that the prejudices of both
are so strong against me”—
“Sir, I dare turn my daughter loose to you—I will go join the good
doctor in dame Joan’s apartment. I am not unwilling that you should
know that the girl hath, in all reasonable sort, the exercise of her
free will.”
He withdrew, and left the cousins together.
Colonel Everard advanced to Alice, and was about to take her hand. She
drew back, took the seat which her father had occupied, and pointed out
to him one at some distance.
“Are we then so much estranged, my dearest Alice?” he said.
“We will speak of that presently,” she replied. “In the first place,
let me ask the cause of your visit here at so late an hour.”
“You heard,” said Everard, “what I stated to your father?”
“I did; but that seems to have been only part of your errand—something
there seemed to be which applied particularly to me.”
“It was a fancy—a strange mistake,” answered Everard. “May I ask if you
have been abroad this evening?”
“Certainly not,” she replied. “I have small temptation to wander from
my present home, poor as it is; and whilst here, I have important
duties to discharge. But why does Colonel Everard ask so strange a
question?”
“Tell me in turn, why your cousin Markham has lost the name of
friendship and kindred, and even of some nearer feeling, and then I
will answer you, Alice?”
“It is soon answered,” she said. “When you drew your sword against my
father’s cause—almost against his person—I studied, more than I should
have done, to find excuse for you. I knew, that is, I thought I knew
your high feelings of public duty—I knew the opinions in which you had
been bred up; and I said, I will not, even for this, cast him off—he
opposes his King because he is loyal to his country. You endeavoured to
avert the great and concluding tragedy of the 30th of January; and it
confirmed me in my opinion, that Markham Everard might be misled, but
could not be base or selfish.”
“And what has changed your opinion, Alice? or who dare,” said Everard,
reddening, “attach such epithets to the name of Markham Everard?”
“I am no subject,” she said, “for exercising your valour, Colonel
Everard, nor do I mean to offend. But you will find enough of others
who will avow, that Colonel Everard is truckling to the usurper
Cromwell, and that all his fair pretexts of forwarding his country’s
liberties, are but a screen for driving a bargain with the successful
encroacher, and obtaining the best terms he can for himself and his
family.”
“For myself—never!”
“But for your family you have—Yes, I am well assured that you have
pointed out to the military tyrant, the way in which he and his satraps
may master the government. Do you think my father or I would accept an
asylum purchased at the price of England’s liberty, and your honour?”
“Gracious Heaven, Alice, what is this? You accuse me of pursuing the
very course which so lately had your approbation!”
“When you spoke with authority of your father, and recommended our
submission to the existing government, such as it was, I own I
thought—that my father’s grey head might, without dishonour, have
remained under the roof where it had so long been sheltered. But did
your father sanction your becoming the adviser of yonder ambitious
soldier to a new course of innovation, and his abettor in the
establishment of a new species of tyranny?—It is one thing to submit to
oppression, another to be the agent of tyrants—And O, Markham—their
bloodhound!”
“How! bloodhound?—what mean you?—I own it is true I could see with
content the wounds of this bleeding country stanched, even at the
expense of beholding Cromwell, after his matchless rise, take a yet
farther step to power—but to be his bloodhound! What is your meaning?”
“It is false, then?—I thought I could swear it had been false.”
“What, in the name of God, is it you ask?”
“It is false that you are engaged to betray the young King of
Scotland?”
“Betray him! _I_ betray him, or any fugitive? Never! I would he were
well out of England—I would lend him my aid to escape, were he in the
house at this instant; and think in acting so I did his enemies good
service, by preventing their soiling themselves with his blood—but
betray him, never!”
“I knew it—I was sure it was impossible. Oh, be yet more honest;
disengage yourself from yonder gloomy and ambitious soldier! Shun him
and his schemes, which are formed in injustice, and can only be
realized in yet more blood!”
“Believe me,” replied Everard, “that I choose the line of policy best
befitting the times.”
“Choose that,” she said, “which best befits duty, Markham—which best
befits truth and honour. Do your duty, and let Providence decide the
rest.—Farewell! we tempt my father’s patience too far—you know his
temper—farewell, Markham.”
She extended her hand, which he pressed to his lips, and left the
apartment. A silent bow to his uncle, and a sign to Wildrake, whom he
found in the kitchen of the cabin, were the only tokens of recognition
exhibited, and leaving the hut, he was soon mounted, and, with his
companion, advanced on his return to the Lodge.