There was a little attempt at preparation, now that the dinner hour was
arrived, which showed that, in the opinion of his few but faithful
domestics, the good knight had returned in triumph to his home.
The great tankard, exhibiting in bas-relief the figure of Michael
subduing the Arch-enemy, was placed on the table, and Joceline and
Phœbe dutifully attended; the one behind the chair of Sir Henry, the
other to wait upon her young mistress, and both to make out, by formal
and regular observance, the want of a more numerous train.
“A health to King Charles!” said the old knight, handing the massive
tankard to his daughter; “drink it, my love, though it be rebel ale
which they have left us. I will pledge thee; for the toast will excuse
the liquor, had Noll himself brewed it.”
The young lady touched the goblet with her lip, and returned it to her
father, who took a copious draught.
“I will not say blessing on their hearts,” said he; “though I must own
they drank good ale.”
“No wonder, sir; they come lightly by the malt, and need not spare it,”
said Joceline.
“Say’st thou?” said the knight; “thou shalt finish the tankard thyself
for that very jest’s sake.”
Nor was his follower slow in doing reason to the royal pledge. He
bowed, and replaced the tankard, saying, after a triumphant glance at
the sculpture, “I had a gibe with that same red-coat about the Saint
Michael just now.”
“Red-coat—ha! what red-coat?” said the hasty old man. “Do any of these
knaves still lurk about Woodstock?—Quoit him down stairs instantly,
Joceline.—Know we not Galloway nags?”
“So please you, he is in some charge here, and will speedily be
gone.—It is he—he who had a rencontre with your honour in the wood.”
“Ay, but I paid him off for it in the hall, as you yourself saw.—I was
never in better fence in my life, Joceline. That same steward fellow is
not so utterly black-hearted a rogue as the most of them, Joceline. He
fences well—excellent well. I will have thee try a bout in the hall
with him to-morrow, though I think he will be too hard for thee. I know
thy strength to an inch.”
He might say this with some truth; for it was Joceline’s fashion, when
called on, as sometimes happened, to fence with his patron, just to put
forth as much of his strength and skill as obliged the Knight to
contend hard for the victory, which, in the long run, he always
contrived to yield up to him, like a discreet serving-man.
“And what said this roundheaded steward of our great Saint Michael’s
standing cup?”
“Marry, he scoffed at our good saint, and said he was little better
than one of the golden calves of Bethel. But I told him he should not
talk so, until one of their own roundheaded saints had given the devil
as complete a cross-buttock as Saint Michael had given him, as ’tis
carved upon the cup there. I trow that made him silent enough. And then
he would know whether your honour and Mistress Alice, not to mention
old Joan and myself, since it is your honour’s pleasure I should take
my bed here, were not afraid to sleep in a house that had been so much
disturbed. But I told him we feared no fiends or goblins, having the
prayers of the Church read every evening.”
“Joceline,” said Alice, interrupting him, “wert thou mad? You know at
what risk to ourselves and the good doctor the performance of that duty
takes place.”
“Oh, Mistress Alice,” said Joceline, a little abashed, “you may be sure
I spoke not a word of the doctor—No, no—I did not let him into the
secret that we had such a reverend chaplain.—I think I know the length
of this man’s foot. We have had a jollification or so together. He is
hand and glove with me, for as great a fanatic as he is.”
“Trust him not too far,” said the knight. “Nay, I fear thou hast been
imprudent already, and that it will be unsafe for the good man to come
here after nightfall, as is proposed. These Independents have noses
like bloodhounds, and can smell out a loyalist under any disguise.”
“If your honour thinks so,” said Joceline, “I’ll watch for the doctor
with good will, and bring him into the Lodge by the old condemned
postern, and so up to this apartment; and sure this man Tomkins would
never presume to come hither; and the doctor may have a bed in
Woodstock Lodge, and he never the wiser; or, if your honour does not
think that safe, I can cut his throat for you, and I would not mind it
a pin.”
“God forbid!” said the knight. “He is under our roof, and a guest,
though not an invited one.—Go, Joceline; it shall be thy penance, for
having given thy tongue too much license, to watch for the good doctor,
and to take care of his safety while he continues with us. An October
night or two in the forest would finish the good man.”
“He’s more like to finish our October than our October is to finish
him,” said the keeper; and withdrew under the encouraging smile of his
patron.
He whistled Bevis along with him to share in his watch; and having
received exact information where the clergyman was most likely to be
found, assured his master that he would give the most pointed attention
to his safety. When the attendants had withdrawn, having previously
removed the remains of the meal, the old knight, leaning back in his
chair, encouraged pleasanter visions than had of late passed through
his imagination, until by degrees he was surprised by actual slumber;
while his daughter, not venturing to move but on tiptoe, took some
needle-work, and bringing it close by the old man’s side, employed her
fingers on this task, bending her eyes from time to time on her parent,
with the affectionate zeal, if not the effective power, of a guardian
angel. At length, as the light faded away, and night came on, she was
about to order candles to be brought. But, remembering how indifferent
a couch Joceline’s cottage had afforded, she could not think of
interrupting the first sound and refreshing sleep which her father had
enjoyed, in all probability, for the last two nights and days.
She herself had no other amusement, as she sat facing one of the great
oriel windows, the same by which Wildrake had on a former occasion
looked in upon Tomkins and Joceline while at their compotations, than
watching the clouds, which a lazy wind sometimes chased from the broad
disk of the harvest-moon, sometimes permitted to accumulate, and
exclude her brightness. There is, I know not why, something peculiarly
pleasing to the imagination, in contemplating the Queen of Night, when
she is _wading_, as the expression is, among the vapours which she has
not power to dispel, and which on their side are unable entirely to
quench her lustre. It is the striking image of patient virtue, calmly
pursuing her path through good report and bad report, having that
excellence in herself which ought to command all admiration, but
bedimmed in the eyes of the world, by suffering, by misfortune, by
calumny.
As some such reflections, perhaps, were passing through Alice’s
imagination, she became sensible, to her surprise and alarm, that some
one had clambered up upon the window, and was looking into the room.
The idea of supernatural fear did not in the slightest degree agitate
Alice. She was too much accustomed to the place and situation; for folk
do not see spectres in the scenes with which they have been familiar
from infancy. But danger from maurauders in a disturbed country was a
more formidable subject of apprehension, and the thought armed Alice,
who was naturally high spirited, with such desperate courage, that she
snatched a pistol from the wall, on which some fire-arms hung, and
while she screamed to her father to awake, had the presence of mind to
present it at the intruder. She did so the more readily, because she
imagined she recognised in the visage, which she partially saw, the
features of the woman whom she had met with at Rosamond’s Well, and
which had appeared to her peculiarly harsh and suspicious. Her father
at the same time seized his sword and came forward, while the person at
the window, alarmed at these demonstrations, and endeavouring to
descend, missed footing, as had Cavaliero Wildrake before, and went
down to the earth with no small noise. Nor was the reception on the
bosom of our common mother either soft or safe; for, by a most terrific
bark and growl, they heard that Bevis had come up and seized on the
party, ere he or she could gain their feet.
“Hold fast, but worry not,” said the old knight.—“Alice, thou art the
queen of wenches! Stand fast here till I run down and secure the
rascal.”
“For God’s sake, no, my dearest father!” Alice exclaimed; “Joceline
will be up immediately—Hark!—I hear him.”
There was indeed a bustle below, and more than one light danced to and
fro in confusion, while those who bore them called to each other, yet
suppressing their voices as they spoke, as men who would only be heard
by those they addressed. The individual who had fallen under the power
of Bevis was most impatient in his situation, and called with least
precaution—“Here, Lee,—Forester—take the dog off, else I must shoot
him.”
“If thou dost,” said Sir Henry, from the window, “I blow thy brains out
on the spot. Thieves, Joceline, thieves! come up and secure this
ruffian.—Bevis, hold on!”
“Back, Bevis; down, sir!” cried Joceline. “I am coming, I am coming,
Sir Henry—Saint Michael, I shall go distracted!”
A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Alice; could Joceline have
become unfaithful, that he was calling Bevis off the villain, instead
of encouraging the trusty dog to secure him? Her father, meantime,
moved perhaps by some suspicion of the same kind, hastily stepped aside
out of the moonlight, and pulled Alice close to him, so as to be
invisible from without, yet so placed as to hear what should pass. The
scuffle between Bevis and his prisoner seemed to be ended by Joceline’s
interference, and there was close whispering for an instant, as of
people in consultation.
“All is quiet now,” said one voice; “I will up and prepare the way for
you.” And immediately a form presented itself on the outside of the
window, pushed open the lattice, and sprung into the parlour. But
almost ere his step was upon the floor, certainly before he had
obtained any secure footing, the old knight, who stood ready with his
rapier drawn, made a desperate pass, which bore the intruder to the
ground. Joceline, who clambered up next with a dark lantern in his
hand, uttered a dreadful exclamation, when he saw what had happened,
crying out, “Lord in heaven, he has slain his own son!”
“No, no—I tell you no,” said the fallen young man, who was indeed young
Albert Lee, the only son of the old knight; “I am not hurt. No noise,
on your lives; get lights instantly.” At the same time, he started from
the floor as quickly as he could, under the embarrassment of a cloak
and doublet skewered as it were together by the rapier of the old
knight, whose pass, most fortunately, had been diverted from the body
of Albert by the interruption of his cloak, the blade passing right
across his back, piercing the clothes, while the hilt coming against
his side with the whole force of the lunge, had borne him to the
ground.
Joceline all the while enjoined silence to every one, under the
strictest conjurations. “Silence, as you would long live on
earth—silence, as ye would have a place in heaven; be but silent for a
few minutes—all our lives depend on it.”
Meantime he procured lights with inexpressible dispatch, and they then
beheld that Sir Henry, on hearing the fatal words, had sunk back on one
of the large chairs, without either motion, colour, or sign of life.
“Oh, brother, how could you come in this manner?” said Alice.
“Ask no questions—Good God! for what am I reserved!” He gazed on his
father as he spoke, who, with clay-cold features rigidly fixed, and his
arms extended in the most absolute helplessness, looked rather the
image of death upon a monument, than a being in whom existence was only
suspended. “Was my life spared,” said Albert, raising his hands with a
wild gesture to heaven, “only to witness such a sight as this!”
“We suffer what Heaven permits, young man; we endure our lives while
Heaven continues them. Let me approach.” The same clergyman who had
read the prayers at Joceline’s hut now came forward. “Get water,” he
said, “instantly.” And the helpful hand and light foot of Alice, with
the ready-witted tenderness which never stagnates in vain lamentations
while there is any room for hope, provided with incredible celerity all
that the clergyman called for.
“It is but a swoon,” he said, on feeling Sir Henry’s palm; “a swoon
produced from the instant and unexpected shock. Rouse thee up, Albert;
I promise thee it will be nothing save a syncope—A cup, my dearest
Alice, and a ribbon or a bandage. I must take some blood—some
aromatics, too, if they can be had, my good Alice.”
But while Alice procured the cup and bandage, stripped her father’s
sleeve, and seemed by intuition even to anticipate every direction of
the reverend doctor, her brother, hearing no word, and seeing no sign
of comfort, stood with both hands clasped and elevated into the air, a
monument of speechless despair. Every feature in his face seemed to
express the thought, “Here lies my father’s corpse, and it is I whose
rashness has slain him!”
But when a few drops of blood began to follow the lancet—at first
falling singly, and then trickling in a freer stream—when, in
consequence of the application of cold water to the temples, and
aromatics to the nostrils, the old man sighed feebly, and made an
effort to move his limbs, Albert Lee changed his posture, at once to
throw himself at the feet of the clergyman, and kiss, if he would have
permitted him, his shoes and the hem of his raiment.
“Rise, foolish youth,” said the good man, with a reproving tone; “must
it be always thus with you? Kneel to Heaven, not to the feeblest of its
agents. You have been saved once again from great danger; would you
deserve Heaven’s bounty, remember you have been preserved for other
purposes than you now think on. Begone, you and Joceline—you have a
duty to discharge; and be assured it will go better with your father’s
recovery that he see you not for a few minutes. Down—down to the
wilderness, and bring in your attendant.”
“Thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks,” answered Albert Lee; and,
springing through the lattice, he disappeared as unexpectedly as he had
entered. At the same time Joceline followed him, and by the same road.
Alice, whose fears for her father were now something abated, upon this
new movement among the persons of the scene, could not resist appealing
to her venerable assistant. “Good doctor, answer me but one question.
Was my brother Albert here just now, or have I dreamed all that has
happened for these ten minutes past? Methinks, but for your presence, I
could suppose the whole had passed in my sleep; that horrible
thrust—that death-like, corpse-like old man—that soldier in mute
despair; I must indeed have dreamed.”
“If you have dreamed, my sweet Alice,” said the doctor, “I wish every
sick-nurse had your property, since you have been attending to our
patient better during your sleep than most of these old dormice can do
when they are most awake. But your dream came through the gate of horn,
my pretty darling, which you must remind me to explain to you at
leisure. Albert has really been here, and will be here again.”
“Albert!” repeated Sir Henry, “who names my son?”
“It is I, my kind patron,” said the doctor; “permit me to bind up your
arm.”
“My wound?—with all my heart, doctor,” said Sir Henry, raising himself,
and gathering his recollection by degrees. “I knew of old thou wert
body-curer as well as soul-curer, and served my regiment for surgeon as
well as chaplain.—But where is the rascal I killed?—I never made a
fairer _stramaçon_ in my life. The shell of my rapier struck against
his ribs. So, dead he must be, or my right hand has forgot its
cunning.”
“Nobody was slain,” said the doctor; “we must thank God for that, since
there were none but friends to slay. Here is a good cloak and doublet,
though, wounded in a fashion which will require some skill in
tailor-craft to cure. But I was your last antagonist, and took a little
blood from you, merely to prepare you for the pleasure and surprise of
seeing your son, who, though hunted pretty close, as you may believe,
hath made his way from Worcester hither, where, with Joceline’s
assistance, we will care well enough for his safety. It was even for
this reason that I pressed you to accept of your nephew’s proposal to
return to the old Lodge, where a hundred men might be concealed, though
a thousand were making search to discover them. Never such a place for
hide-and-seek, as I shall make good when I can find means to publish my
Wonders of Woodstock.”
“But, my son—my dear son,” said the knight, “shall I not then instantly
see him! and wherefore did you not forewarn me of this joyful event?”
“Because I was uncertain of his motions,” said the doctor, “and rather
thought he was bound for the sea-side, and that it would be best to
tell you of his fate when he was safe on board, and in full sail for
France. We had appointed to let you know all when I came hither
to-night to join you. But there is a red-coat in the house whom we care
not to trust farther than we could not help. We dared not, therefore,
venture in by the hall; and so, prowling round the building, Albert
informed us, that an old prank of his, when a boy, consisted of
entering by this window. A lad who was with us would needs make the
experiment, as there seemed to be no light in the chamber, and the
moonlight without made us liable to be detected. His foot slipped, and
our friend Bevis came upon us.”
“In good truth, you acted simply,” said Sir Henry, “to attack a
garrison without a summons. But all this is nothing to my son,
Albert—where is he?—Let me see him.”
“But, Sir Henry, wait,” said the doctor, “till your restored strength”—
“A plague of my restored strength, man!” answered the knight, as his
old spirit began to awaken within him.—“Dost not remember, that I lay
on Edgehill-field all night, bleeding like a bullock from five several
wounds, and wore my armour within six weeks? and you talk to me of the
few drops of blood that follow such a scratch as a cat’s claw might
have made!”
“Nay, if you feel so courageous,” said the doctor, “I will fetch your
son—he is not far distant.”
So saying, he left the apartment, making a sign to Alice to remain, in
case any symptoms of her father’s weakness should return.
It was fortunate, perhaps, that Sir Henry never seemed to recollect the
precise nature of the alarm, which had at once, and effectually as the
shock of the thunderbolt, for the moment suspended his faculties.
Something he said more than once of being certain he had done mischief
with that _stramaçon_, as he called it; but his mind did not recur to
that danger, as having been incurred by his son. Alice, glad to see
that her father appeared to have forgotten a circumstance so fearful,
(as men often forget the blow, or other sudden cause, which has thrown
them into a swoon,) readily excused herself from throwing much light on
the matter, by pleading the general confusion. And in a few minutes,
Albert cut off all farther enquiry, by entering the room, followed by
the doctor, and throwing himself alternately into the arms of his
father and of his sister.