While the Commissioners were preparing to remove themselves from the
Lodge to the inn at the borough of Woodstock, with all that state and
bustle which attend the movements of great persons, and especially of
such to whom greatness is not entirely familiar, Everard held some
colloquy with the Presbyterian clergyman, Master Holdenough, who had
issued from the apartment which he had occupied, as it were in defiance
of the spirits by whom the mansion was supposed to be disturbed, and
whose pale cheek, and pensive brow, gave token that he had not passed
the night more comfortably than the other inmates of the Lodge of
Woodstock. Colonel Everard having offered to procure the reverend
gentleman some refreshment, received this reply:—“This day shall I not
taste food, saving that which we are assured of as sufficient for our
sustenance, where it is promised that our bread shall be given us, and
our water shall be sure. Not that I fast, in the papistical opinion
that it adds to those merits, which are but an accumulation of filthy
rags; but because I hold it needful that no grosser sustenance should
this day cloud my understanding, or render less pure and vivid the
thanks I owe to Heaven for a most wonderful preservation.”
“Master Holdenough,” said Everard, “you are, I know, both a good man
and a bold one, and I saw you last night courageously go upon your
sacred duty, when soldiers, and tried ones, seemed considerably
alarmed.”
“Too courageous—too venturous” was Master Holdenough’s reply, the
boldness of whose aspect seemed completely to have died away. “We are
frail creatures, Master Everard, and frailest when we think ourselves
strongest. Oh, Colonel Everard,” he added, after a pause, and as if the
confidence was partly involuntary, “I have seen that which I shall
never survive!”
“You surprise me, reverend sir,” said Everard;—“may I request you will
speak more plainly? I have heard some stories of this wild night, nay,
have witnessed strange things myself; but, methinks, I would be much
interested in knowing the nature of your disturbance.”
“Sir,” said the clergyman, “you are a discreet gentleman; and though I
would not willingly that these heretics, schismatics, Brownists,
Muggletonians, Anabaptists, and so forth, had such an opportunity of
triumph, as my defeat in this matter would have afforded them, yet with
you, who have been ever a faithful follower of our Church, and are
pledged to the good cause by the great National League and Covenant,
surely I would be more open. Sit we down, therefore, and let me call
for a glass of pure water, for as yet I feel some bodily faltering;
though, I thank Heaven, I am in mind resolute and composed as a merely
mortal man may after such a vision.—They say, worthy Colonel, that
looking on such things foretells, or causes, speedy death—I know not if
it be true; but if so, I only depart like the tired sentinel when his
officer releases him from his post; and glad shall I be to close these
wearied eyes against the sight, and shut these harassed ears against
the croaking, as of frogs, of Antinomians, and Pelagians, and
Socinians, and Arminians, and Arians, and Nullifidians, which have come
up into our England, like those filthy reptiles into the house of
Pharaoh.”
Here one of the servants who had been summoned, entered with a cup of
water, gazing at the same time in the face of the clergyman, as if his
stupid grey eyes were endeavouring to read what tragic tale was written
on his brow; and shaking his empty skull as he left the room, with the
air of one who was proud of having discovered that all was not exactly
right, though he could not so well guess what was wrong.
Colonel Everard invited the good man to take some refreshment more
genial than the pure element, but he declined: “I am in some sort a
champion” he said; “and though I have been foiled in the late
controversy with the Enemy, still I have my trumpet to give the alarm,
and my sharp sword to smite withal; therefore, like the Nazarites of
old, I will eat nothing that cometh of the vine, neither drink wine nor
strong drink, until these my days of combat shall have passed away.”
Kindly and respectfully the Colonel anew pressed Master Holdenough to
communicate the events that had befallen him on the preceding night;
and the good clergyman proceeded as follows, with that little
characteristic touch of vanity in his narrative, which naturally arose
out of the part he had played in the world, and the influence which he
had exercised over the minds of others. “I was a young man at the
University of Cambridge,” he said, “when I was particularly bound in
friendship to a fellow-student, perhaps because we were esteemed
(though it is vain to mention it) the most hopeful scholars at our
college; and so equally advanced, that it was difficult, perhaps, to
say which was the greater proficient in his studies. Only our tutor,
Master Purefoy, used to say, that if my comrade had the advantage of me
in gifts, I had the better of him in grace; for he was attached to the
profane learning of the classics, always unprofitable, often impious
and impure; and I had light enough to turn my studies into the sacred
tongues. Also we differed in our opinions touching the Church of
England, for he held Arminian opinions, with Laud, and those who would
connect our ecclesiastical establishment with the civil, and make the
Church dependent on the breath of an earthly man. In fine, he favoured
Prelacy both in essentials and ceremonial; and although, we parted with
tears and embraces, it was to follow very different courses. He
obtained a living, and became a great controversial writer in behalf of
the Bishops and of the Court. I also, as is well known to you, to the
best of my poor abilities, sharpened my pen in the cause of the poor
oppressed people, whose tender consciences rejected the rites and
ceremonies more befitting a papistical than a reformed Church, and
which, according to the blinded policy of the Court, were enforced by
pains and penalties. Then came the Civil War, and I—called thereunto by
my conscience, and nothing fearing or suspecting what miserable
consequences have chanced through the rise of these
Independents—consented to lend my countenance and labour to the great
work, by becoming chaplain to Colonel Harrison’s regiment. Not that I
mingled with carnal weapons in the field—which Heaven forbid that a
minister of the altar should—but I preached, exhorted, and, in time of
need, was a surgeon, as well to the wounds of the body as of the soul.
Now, it fell, towards the end of the war, that a party of malignants
had seized on a strong house in the shire of Shrewsbury, situated on a
small island advanced into a lake, and accessible only by a small and
narrow causeway. From thence they made excursions, and vexed the
country; and high time it was to suppress them, so that a part of our
regiment went to reduce them; and I was requested to go, for they were
few in number to take in so strong a place, and the Colonel judged that
my exhortations would make them do valiantly. And so, contrary to my
wont, I went forth with them, even to the field, where there was
valiant fighting on both sides. Nevertheless, the malignants shooting
their wall-pieces at us, had so much the advantage, that, after
bursting their gates with a salvo of our cannon, Colonel Harrison
ordered his men to advance on the causeway, and try to carry the place
by storm. Nonetheless, although our men did valiantly, advancing in
good order, yet being galled on every side by the fire, they at length
fell into disorder, and were retreating with much loss, Harrison
himself valiantly bringing up the rear, and defending them as he could
against the enemy, who sallied forth in pursuit of them, to smite them
hip and thigh. Now, Colonel Everard, I am a man of a quick and vehement
temper by nature, though better teaching than the old law hath made me
mild and patient as you now see me. I could not bear to see our
Israelites flying before the Philistines, so I rushed upon the
causeway, with the Bible in one hand, and a halberd, which I had caught
up, in the other, and turned back the foremost fugitives, by
threatening to strike them down, pointing out to them at the same time
a priest in his cassock, as they call it, who was among the malignants,
and asking them whether they would not do as much for a true servant of
Heaven, as the uncircumcised would for a priest of Baal. My words and
strokes prevailed; they turned at once, and shouting out, Down with
Baal and his worshippers! they charged the malignants so unexpectedly
home, that they not only drove them back into their house of garrison,
but entered it with them, as the phrase is, pell-mell. I also was
there, partly hurried on by the crowd, partly to prevail on our enraged
soldiers to give quarter; for it grieved my heart to see Christians and
Englishmen hashed down with swords and gunstocks, like curs in the
street, when there is an alarm of mad-dogs. In this way, the soldiers
fighting and slaughtering, and I calling to them to stay their hand, we
gained the very roof of the building, which was in part leaded, and to
which, as a last tower of refuge, those of the cavaliers, who yet
escaped, had retired. I was myself, I may say, forced up the narrow
winding staircase by our soldiers, who rushed on like dogs of chase
upon their prey; and when extricated from the passage, I found myself
in the midst of a horrid scene. The scattered defenders were, some
resisting with the fury of despair; some on their knees, imploring for
compassion in words and tones to break a man’s heart when he thinks on
them; some were calling on God for mercy; and it was time, for man had
none. They were stricken down, thrust through, flung from the
battlements into the lake; and the wild cries of the victors, mingled
with the groans, shrieks, and clamours, of the vanquished, made a sound
so horrible, that only death can erase it from my memory. And the men
who butchered their fellow-creatures thus, were neither pagans from
distant savage lands, nor ruffians, the refuse and offscourings of our
own people. They were in calm blood reasonable, nay, religious men,
maintaining a fair repute both heavenward and earthward. Oh, Master
Everard, your trade of war should be feared and avoided, since it
converts such men into wolves towards their fellow creatures.”
“It is a stern necessity,” said Everard, looking down, “and as such
alone is justifiable. But proceed, reverend sir; I see not how this
storm, an incident but e’en too frequent on both sides during the late
war, connects with the affair of last night.”
“You shall hear anon,” said Mr. Holdenough; then paused as one who
makes an effort to compose himself before continuing a relation, the
tenor of which agitated him with much violence. “In this infernal
tumult,” he resumed,—“for surely nothing on earth could so much
resemble hell, as when men go thus loose in mortal malice on their
fellow-creatures,—I saw the same priest whom I had distinguished on the
causeway, with one or two other malignants, pressed into a corner by
the assailants, and defending themselves to the last, as those who had
no hope.—I saw him—I knew him—Oh, Colonel Everard!”
He grasped Everard’s hand with his own left hand, and pressed the palm
of his right to his face and forehead, sobbing aloud.
“It was your college companion?” said Everard, anticipating the
catastrophe.
“Mine ancient—mine only friend—with whom I had spent the happy days of
youth!—I rushed forward—I struggled—I entreated.—But my eagerness left
me neither voice nor language—all was drowned in the wretched cry which
I had myself raised—Down with the priest of Baal! Slay Mattan— slay him
were he between the altars!—Forced over the battlements, but struggling
for life, I could see him cling to one of those projections which were
formed to carry the water from the leads, but they hacked at his arms
and hands. I heard the heavy fall into the bottomless abyss below.
Excuse me—I cannot go on.”
“He may have escaped.”
“Oh! no, no, no—the tower was four stories in height. Even those who
threw themselves into the lake from the lower windows, to escape by
swimming, had no safety; for mounted troopers on the shore caught the
same bloodthirsty humour which had seized the storming party, galloped
around the margin of the lake, and shot those who were struggling for
life in the water, or cut them down as they strove to get to land. They
were all cut off and destroyed.—Oh! may the blood shed on that day
remain silent!—Oh! that the earth may receive it in her recesses!—Oh!
that it may be mingled for ever with the dark waters of that lake, so
that it may never cry for vengeance against those whose anger was
fierce, and who slaughtered in their wrath!—And, oh! may the erring man
be forgiven who came into their assembly, and lent his voice to
encourage their, cruelty!—Oh! Albany, my brother, my brother, I have
lamented for thee even as David for Jonathan!”[1]
[1] Michael Hudson, the _plain-dealing_ chaplain of King Charles I.,
resembled, in his loyalty to that unfortunate monarch, the fictitious
character of Dr. Rochecliffe; and the circumstances of his death were
copied in the narrative of the Presbyterian’s account of the slaughter
of his school-fellow;—he was chosen by Charles I., along with John
Ashburnham, as his guide and attendant, when he adopted the
ill-advised resolution of surrendering his person to the Scots army.
He was taken prisoner by the Parliament, remained long in their
custody, and was treated with great severity. He made his escape
for about a year in 1647; was retaken, and again escaped in 1648.
and heading an insurrection of cavaliers, seized on a strong moated
house in Lincolnshire, called Woodford House. He gained the place
without resistance; and there are among Peck’s Desiderata Curiosa
several accounts of his death, among which we shall transcribe that
of Bishop Kenneth, as the most correct, and concise:—“I have been
on the spot,” saith his Lordship, “and made all possible enquiries,
and find that the relation given by Mr. Wood may be a little
rectified and supplied.
“Mr. Hudson and his party did not fly to Woodford, but had quietly
taken possession of it, and held it for a garrison, with a good
party of horse, who made a stout defence, and frequent sallies,
against a party of the Parliament at Stamford, till the colonel
commanding them sent a stronger detachment, under a captain, his
own kinsman, who was shot from the house, upon which the colonel
himself came up to renew the attack, and to demand surrender, and
brought them to capitulate upon terms of safe quarter. But the
colonel, in base revenge, commanded that they should not spare that
rogue Hudson. Upon which, Hudson fought his way up to the leads;
and when he saw they were pushing in upon him, threw himself over
the battlements (another account says, he caught hold of a spout or
outstone,) and hung by the hands, as intending to fall into the
moat beneath, till they cut off his wrists and let him drop, and
then ran down to hunt him in the water, where they found him
paddling with his stumps, and barbarously knocked him on the
head.”—_Peck’s Desiderata Curiosa_, Book ix.
Other accounts mention he was refused the poor charity of coming to
die on land, by one Egborough, servant to Mr. Spinks, the intruder
into the parsonage. A man called Walker, a chandler or grocer, cut
out the tongue of the unfortunate divine, and showed it as a trophy
through the country. But it was remarked, with vindictive
satisfaction, that Egborough was killed by the bursting of his own
gun; and that Walker, obliged to abandon his trade through poverty,
became a scorned mendicant.
For some time a grave was not vouchsafed to the remains of this
brave and loyal divine, till one of the other party said, “Since he
is dead, let him be buried.”
The good man sobbed aloud, and so much did Colonel Everard sympathize
with his emotions, that he forebore to press him upon the subject of
his own curiosity until the full tide of remorseful passion had for the
time abated. It was, however, fierce and agitating, the more so,
perhaps, that indulgence in strong mental feeling of any kind was
foreign to the severe and ascetic character of the man, and was
therefore the more overpowering when it had at once surmounted all
restraints. Large tears flowed down the trembling features of his thin,
and usually stern, or at least austere countenance; he eagerly returned
the compression of Everard’s hand, as if thankful for the sympathy
which the caress implied.
Presently after, Master Holdenough wiped his eyes, withdrew his hand
gently from that of Everard, shaking it kindly as they parted, and
proceeded with more composure: “Forgive me this burst of passionate
feeling, worthy Colonel. I am conscious it little becomes a man of my
cloth, who should be the bearer of consolation to others, to give way
in mine own person to an extremity of grief, weak at least, if indeed
it is not sinful; for what are we, that we should weep and murmur
touching that which is permitted? But Albany was to me as a brother.
The happiest days of my life, ere my call to mingle myself in the
strife of the land had awakened me to my duties, were spent in his
company. I—but I will make the rest of my story short.”—Here he drew
his chair close to that of Everard, and spoke in a solemn and
mysterious tone of voice, almost lowered to a whisper—“I saw him last
night.”
“Saw _him_—saw whom?” said Everard. “Can you mean the person whom”—
“Whom I saw so ruthlessly slaughtered,” said the clergyman—“My ancient
college friend—Joseph Albany.”
“Master Holdenough, your cloth and your character alike must prevent
your jesting on such a subject as this.”
“Jesting!” answered Holdenough; “I would as soon jest on my
death-bed—as soon jest upon the Bible.”
“But you must have been deceived,” answered Everard, hastily; “this
tragical story necessarily often returns to your mind, and in moments
when the imagination overcomes the evidence of the outward senses, your
fancy must have presented to you an unreal appearance. Nothing more
likely, when the mind is on the stretch after something supernatural,
than that the imagination should supply the place with a chimera, while
the over-excited feelings render it difficult to dispel the delusion.”
“Colonel Everard,” replied Holdenough, with austerity, “in discharge of
my duty I must not fear the face of man; and, therefore, I tell you
plainly, as I have done before with more observance, that when you
bring your carnal learning and judgment, as it is but too much your
nature to do, to investigate the hidden things of another world, you
might as well measure with the palm of your hand the waters of the
Isis. Indeed, good sir, you err in this, and give men too much pretence
to confound your honourable name with witch-advocates, free-thinkers,
and atheists, even with such as this man Bletson, who, if the
discipline of the church had its hand strengthened, as it was in the
beginning of the great conflict, would have been long ere now cast out
of the pale, and delivered over to the punishment of the flesh, that
his spirit might, if possible, be yet saved.”
“You mistake, Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard; “I do not deny
the existence of such preternatural visitations, because I cannot, and
dare not, raise the voice of my own opinion against the testimony of
ages, supported by such learned men as yourself. Nevertheless, though I
grant the possibility of such things, I have scarce yet heard of an
instance in my days so well fortified by evidence, that I could at once
and distinctly say, This must have happened by supernatural agency, and
not otherwise.”
“Hear, then, what I have to tell,” said the divine, “on the faith of a
man, a Christian, and, what is more, a servant of our Holy Church; and,
therefore, though unworthy, an elder and a teacher among Christians. I
had taken my post yester evening in the half-furnished apartment,
wherein hangs a huge mirror, which might have served Goliath of Gath to
have admired himself in, when clothed from head to foot in his brazen
armour. I the rather chose this place, because they informed me it was
the nearest habitable room to the gallery in which they say you had
been yourself assailed that evening by the Evil One.—Was it so, I pray
you?”
“By some one with no good intentions I was assailed in that apartment.
So far,” said Colonel Everard, “you were correctly informed.”
“Well, I chose my post as well as I might, even as a resolved general
approaches his camp, and casts up his mound as nearly as he can to the
besieged city. And, of a truth, Colonel Everard, if I felt some
sensation of bodily fear,—for even Elias, and the prophets, who
commanded the elements, had a portion in our frail nature, much more
such a poor sinful being as myself,—yet was my hope and my courage
high; and I thought of the texts which I might use, not in the wicked
sense of periapts, or spells, as the blinded papists employ them,
together with the sign of the cross and other fruitless forms, but as
nourishing and supporting that true trust and confidence in the blessed
promises, being the true shield of faith wherewith the fiery darts of
Satan may be withstood and quenched. And thus armed and prepared, I
sate me down to read, at the same time to write, that I might compel my
mind to attend to those subjects which became the situation in which I
was placed, as preventing any unlicensed excursions of the fancy, and
leaving no room for my imagination to brood over idle fears. So I
methodised, and wrote down what I thought meet for the time, and
peradventure some hungry souls may yet profit by the food which I then
prepared.”
“It was wisely and worthily done, good and reverend sir,” replied
Colonel Everard. “I pray you to proceed.”
“While I was thus employed, sir, and had been upon the matter for about
three hours, not yielding to weariness, a strange thrilling came over
my senses, and the large and old-fashioned apartment seemed to wax
larger, more gloomy, and more cavernous, while the air of the night
grew more cold and chill. I know not if it was that the fire began to
decay, or whether there cometh before such things as were then about to
happen, a breath and atmosphere, as it were, of terror, as Job saith in
a well-known passage, ‘Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made my
bones to shake;’ and there was a tingling noise in my ears, and a
dizziness in my brain, so that I felt like those who call for aid when
there is no danger, and was even prompted to flee, when I saw no one to
pursue. It was then that something seemed to pass behind me, casting a
reflection on the great mirror before which I had placed my
writing-table, and which I saw by assistance of the large standing
light which was then in front of the glass. And I looked up, and I saw
in the glass distinctly the appearance of a man—as sure as these words
issue from my mouth, it was no other than the same Joseph Albany—the
companion of my youth—he whom I had seen precipitated down the
battlements of Clidesbrough Castle into the deep lake below!”
“What did you do?”
“It suddenly rushed on my mind,” said the divine, “that the stoical
philosopher Athenodorus had eluded the horrors of such a vision by
patiently pursuing his studies; and it shot at the same time across my
mind, that I, a Christian divine, and a Steward of the Mysteries, had
less reason to fear evil, and better matter on which to employ my
thoughts, than was possessed by a Heathen, who was blinded even by his
own wisdom. So, instead of betraying any alarm, or even turning my head
around, I pursued my writing, but with a beating heart, I admit, and
with a throbbing hand.”
“If you could write at all,” said the Colonel, “with such an impression
on your mind, you may take the head of the English army for dauntless
resolution.”
“Our courage is not our own, Colonel,” said the divine, “and not as
ours should it be vaunted of. And again, when you speak of this strange
vision as an impression on my fancy, and not a reality obvious to my
senses, let me tell you once more, your worldly wisdom is but
foolishness touching the things that are not worldly.”
“Did you not look again upon the mirror?” said the Colonel.
“I did, when I had copied out the comfortable text, ‘Thou shalt tread
down Satan under thy feet.’”
“And what did you then see?”
“The reflection of the same Joseph Albany,” said Holdenough, “passing
slowly as from behind my chair—the same in member and lineament that I
had known him in his youth, excepting that his cheek had the marks of
the more advanced age at which he died, and was very pale.”
“What did you then?”
“I turned from the glass, and plainly saw the figure which had made the
reflection in the mirror retreating towards the door, not fast, nor
slow, but with a gliding steady pace. It turned again when near the
door, and again showed me its pale, ghastly countenance, before it
disappeared. But how it left the room, whether by the door, or
otherwise, my spirits were too much hurried to remark exactly; nor have
I been able, by any effort of recollection, distinctly to remember.”
“This is a strange, and, as coming from you, a most excellently
well-attested apparition,” answered Everard. “And yet, Master
Holdenough, if the other world has been actually displayed, as you
apprehend, and I will not dispute the possibility, assure yourself
there are also wicked men concerned in these machinations. I myself
have undergone some rencontres with visitants who possessed bodily
strength, and wore, I am sure, earthly weapons.”
“Oh! doubtless, doubtless,” replied Master Holdenough; “Beelzebub loves
to charge with horse and foot mingled, as was the fashion of the old
Scottish general, Davie Leslie. He has his devils in the body as well
as his devils disembodied, and uses the one to support and back the
other.”
“It may be as you say, reverend sir,” answered the Colonel.—“But what
do you advise in this case?”
“For that I must consult with my brethren,” said the divine; “and if
there be but left in our borders five ministers of the true kirk, we
will charge Satan in full body, and you shall see whether we have not
power over him to resist till he shall flee from us. But failing that
ghostly armament against these strange and unearthly enemies, truly I
would recommend, that as a house of witchcraft and abomination, this
polluted den of ancient tyranny and prostitution should be totally
consumed by fire, lest Satan, establishing his head-quarters so much to
his mind, should find a garrison and a fastness from which he might
sally forth to infest the whole neighbourhood. Certain it is, that I
would recommend to no Christian soul to inhabit the mansion; and, if
deserted, it would become a place for wizards to play their pranks, and
witches to establish their Sabbath, and those who, like Demas, go about
after the wealth of this world, seeking for gold and silver to practise
spells and charms to the prejudice of the souls of the covetous. Trust
me, therefore, it were better that it were spoiled and broken down, not
leaving one stone upon another.”
“I say nay to that, my good friend,” said the Colonel; “for the
Lord-General hath permitted, by his license, my mother’s brother, Sir
Henry Lee, and his family, to return into the house of his fathers,
being indeed the only roof under which he hath any chance of obtaining
shelter for his grey hairs.”
“And was this done by your advice, Markham Everard?” said the divine
austerely.
“Certainly it was,” returned the Colonel.—“And wherefore should I not
exert mine influence to obtain a place of refuge for the brother of my
mother?”
“Now, as sure as thy soul liveth,” answered the presbyter, “I had
believed this from no tongue but thine own. Tell me, was it not this
very Sir Henry Lee, who, by the force of his buffcoats and his
greenjerkins, enforced the Papist Laie’s order to remove the altar to
the eastern end of the church at Woodstock?—and did not he swear by his
beard, that he would hang in the very street of Woodstock whoever
should deny to drink the King’s health?—and is not his hand red with
the blood of the saints?—and hath there been a ruffler in the field for
prelacy and high prerogative more unmitigable or fiercer?”
“All this may have been as you say, good Master Holdenough,” answered
the Colonel; “but my uncle is now old and feeble, and hath scarce a
single follower remaining, and his daughter is a being whom to look
upon would make the sternest weep for pity; a being who”—
“Who is dearer to Everard,” said Holdenough, “than his good name, his
faith to his friends, his duty to his religion;—this is no time to
speak with sugared lips. The paths in which you tread are dangerous.
You are striving to raise the papistical candlestick which Heaven in
its justice removed out of its place—to bring back to this hall of
sorceries those very sinners who are bewitched with them. I will not
permit the land to be abused by their witchcrafts.—They shall not come
hither.”
He spoke this with vehemence, and striking his stick against the
ground; and the Colonel, very much dissatisfied, began to express
himself haughtily in return. “You had better consider your power to
accomplish your threats, Master Holdenough,” he said, “before you urge
them so peremptorily.”
“And have I not the power to bind and to loose?” said the clergyman.
“It is a power little available, save over those of your own Church,”
said Everard, with a tone something contemptuous.
“Take heed—take heed,” said the divine, who, though an excellent, was,
as we have elsewhere seen, an irritable man.—“Do not insult me; but
think honourably of the messenger, for the sake of Him whose commission
he carries.—Do not, I say, defy me—I am bound to discharge my duty,
were it to the displeasing of my twin brother.”
“I can see nought your office has to do in the matter,” said Colonel
Everard; “and I, on my side, give you warning not to attempt to meddle
beyond your commission.”
“Right—you hold me already to be as submissive as one of your
grenadiers,” replied the clergyman, his acute features trembling with a
sense of indignity, so as even to agitate his grey hair; “but beware,
sir, I am not so powerless as you suppose. I will invoke every true
Christian in Woodstock to gird up his loins, and resist the restoration
of prelacy, oppression, and malignancy within our borders. I will stir
up the wrath of the righteous against the oppressor—the Ishmaelite—the
Edomite—and against his race, and against those who support him and
encourage him to rear up his horn. I will call aloud, and spare not,
and arouse the many whose love hath waxed cold, and the multitude who
care for none of these things. There shall be a remnant to listen to
me; and I will take the stick of Joseph, which was in the hand of
Ephraim, and go down to cleanse this place of witches and sorcerers,
and of enchantments, and will cry and exhort, saying—Will you plead for
Baal?—will you serve him? Nay, take the prophets of Baal—let not a man
escape!”
“Master Holdenough, Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard, with much
impatience, “by the tale yourself told me, you have exhorted upon that
text once too often already.”
The old man struck his palm forcibly against his forehead, and fell
back into a chair as these words were uttered, as suddenly, and as much
without power of resistance, as if the Colonel had fired a pistol
through his head. Instantly regretting the reproach which he had
suffered to escape him in his impatience, Everard hastened to
apologise, and to offer every conciliatory excuse, however
inconsistent, which occurred to him on the moment. But the old man was
too deeply affected—he rejected his hand, lent no ear to what he said,
and finally started up, saying sternly, “You have abused my confidence,
sir—abused it vilely, to turn it into my own reproach: had I been a man
of the sword, you dared not—But enjoy your triumph, sir, over an old
man, and your father’s friend—strike at the wound his imprudent
confidence showed you.”
“Nay, my worthy and excellent friend,” said the Colonel—
“Friend!” answered the old man, starting up—“We are foes, sir—foes now,
and for ever!”
So saying, and starting from the seat into which he had rather fallen
than thrown himself, he ran out of the room with a precipitation of
step which he was apt to use upon occasions of irritable feeling, and
which was certainly more eager than dignified, especially as he
muttered while he ran, and seemed as if he were keeping up his own
passion, by recounting over and over the offence which he had received.
“So!” said Colonel Everard, “and there was not strife enough between
mine uncle and the people of Woodstock already, but I must needs
increase it, by chafing this irritable and quick-tempered old man,
eager as I knew him to be in his ideas of church-government, and stiff
in his prejudices respecting all who dissent from him! The mob of
Woodstock will rise; for though he would not get a score of them to
stand by him in any honest or intelligible purpose, yet let him cry
havoc and destruction, and I will warrant he has followers enow. And my
uncle is equally wild and unpersuadable. For the value of all the
estate he ever had, he would not allow a score of troopers to be
quartered in the house for defence; and if he be alone, or has but
Joceline to stand by him, he will be as sure to fire upon those who
come to attack the Lodge, as if he had a hundred men in garrison; and
then what can chance but danger and bloodshed?”
This progress of melancholy anticipation was interrupted by the return
of Master Holdenough, who, hurrying into the room, with the same
precipitate pace at which he had left it, ran straight up to the
Colonel, and said, “Take my hand, Markham—take my hand hastily; for the
old Adam is whispering at my heart, that it is a disgrace to hold it
extended so long.”
“Most heartily do I receive your hand, my venerable friend,” said
Everard, “and I trust in sign of renewed amity.”
“Surely, surely,”—said the divine, shaking his hand kindly; “thou hast,
it is true, spoken bitterly, but thou hast spoken truth in good time;
and I think—though your words were severe—with a good and kindly
purpose. Verily, and of a truth, it were sinful in me again to be hasty
in provoking violence, remembering that which you have upbraided me
with”—
“Forgive me, good Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard, “it was a
hasty word; I meant not in serious earnest to _upbraid_.”
“Peace, I pray you, peace,” said the divine; “I say, the allusion to
that which you have _most justly_ upbraided me with—though the charge
aroused the gall of the old man within me, the inward tempter being
ever on the watch to bring us to his lure—ought, instead of being
resented, to have been acknowledged by me as a favour, for so are the
wounds of a friend termed faithful. And surely I, who have by one
unhappy exhortation to battle and strife sent the living to the
dead—and I fear brought back even the dead among the living—should now
study peace and good will, and reconciliation of difference, leaving
punishment to the Great Being whose laws are broken, and vengeance to
Him who hath said, I will repay it.”
The old man’s mortified features lighted up with a humble confidence as
he made this acknowledgment; and Colonel Everard, who knew the
constitutional infirmities, and the early prejudices of professional
consequence and exclusive party opinion, which he must have subdued ere
arriving at such a tone of candour, hastened to express his admiration
of his Christian charity, mingled with reproaches on himself for having
so deeply injured his feelings.
“Think not of it—think not of it, excellent young man,” said
Holdenough; “we have both erred—I in suffering my zeal to outrun my
charity, you perhaps in pressing hard on an old and peevish man, who
had so lately poured out his sufferings into your friendly bosom. Be it
all forgotten. Let your friends, if they are not deterred by what has
happened at this manor of Woodstock, resume their habitation as soon as
they will. If they can protect themselves against the powers of the
air, believe me, that if I can prevent it by aught in my power, they
shall have no annoyance from earthly neighbours; and assure yourself,
good sir, that my voice is still worth something with the worthy Mayor,
and the good Aldermen, and the better sort of housekeepers up yonder in
the town, although the lower classes are blown about with every wind of
doctrine. And yet farther, be assured, Colonel, that should your
mother’s brother, or any of his family, learn that they have taken up a
rash bargain in returning to this unhappy and unhallowed house, or
should they find any qualms in their own hearts and consciences which
require a ghostly comforter, Nehemiah Holdenough will be as much at
their command by night or day, as if they had been bred up within the
holy pale of the Church in which he is an unworthy minister; and
neither the awe of what is fearful to be seen within these walls, nor
his knowledge of their blinded and carnal state, as bred up under a
prelatic dispensation, shall prevent him doing what lies in his poor
abilities for their protection and edification.”
“I feel all the force of your kindness, reverend sir,” said Colonel
Everard, “but I do not think it likely that my uncle will give you
trouble on either score. He is a man much accustomed to be his own
protector in temporal danger, and in spiritual doubts to trust to his
own prayers and those of his Church.”
“I trust I have not been superfluous in offering mine assistance,” said
the old man, something jealous that his proffered spiritual aid had
been held rather intrusive. “I ask pardon if that is the case, I humbly
ask pardon—I would not willingly be superfluous.”
The Colonel hastened to appease this new alarm of the watchful jealousy
of his consequence, which, joined with a natural heat of temper which
he could not always subdue, were the good man’s only faults.
They had regained their former friendly footing, when Roger Wildrake
returned from the hut of Joceline, and whispered his master that his
embassy had been successful. The Colonel then addressed the divine, and
informed him, that as the Commissioners had already given up Woodstock,
and as his uncle, Sir Henry Lee, proposed to return to the Lodge about
noon, he would, if his reverence pleased, attend him up to the borough.
“Will you not tarry,” said the reverend man, with something like
inquisitive apprehension in his voice, “to welcome your relatives upon
their return to this their house?”
“No, my good friend,” said Colonel Everard; “the part which I have
taken in these unhappy broils, perhaps also the mode of worship in
which I have been educated, have so prejudiced me in mine uncle’s
opinion, that I must be for some time a stranger to his house and
family.”
“Indeed! I rejoice to hear it with all my heart and soul,” said the
divine. “Excuse my frankness—I do indeed rejoice; I had thought—no
matter what I had thought; I would not again give offence. But truly
though the maiden hath a pleasant feature, and he, as all men say, is
in human things unexceptionable, yet—but I give you pain—in sooth, I
will say no more unless you ask my sincere and unprejudiced advice,
which you shall command, but which I will not press on you
superfluously. Wend we to the borough together—the pleasant solitude of
the forest may dispose us to open our hearts to each other.”
They did walk up to the little town in company, and somewhat to Master
Holdenough’s surprise, the Colonel, though they talked on various
subjects, did not request of him any ghostly advice on the subject of
his love to his fair cousin, while, greatly beyond the expectation of
the soldier, the clergyman kept his word, and in his own phrase, was
not so superfluous as to offer upon so delicate a point his unasked
counsel.