The fugitive Prince slept, in spite of danger, with the profound repose
which youth and fatigue inspire. But the young cavalier, his guide and
guard, spent a more restless night, starting from time to time, and
listening; anxious, notwithstanding Dr. Rochecliffe’s assurances, to
procure yet more particular knowledge concerning the state of things
around them, than he had been yet able to collect.
He rose early after daybreak; but although he moved with as little
noise as was possible, the slumbers of the hunted Prince were easily
disturbed. He started up in his bed, and asked if there was any alarm.
“None, please your Majesty,” replied Lee; “only, thinking on the
questions your Majesty was asking last night, and the various chances
there are of your Majesty’s safety being endangered from unforeseen
accidents, I thought of going thus early, both to communicate with Dr.
Rochecliffe, and to keep such a look-out as befits the place, where are
lodged for the time the Fortunes of England. I fear I must request of
your Majesty, for your own gracious security, that you have the
goodness to condescend to secure the door with your own hand after I go
out.”
“Oh, talk not to Majesty, for Heaven’s sake, dear Albert!” answered the
poor King, endeavouring in vain to put on a part of his clothes, in
order to traverse the room.—“When a King’s doublet and hose are so
ragged that he can no more find his way into them than he could have
travelled through the forest of Deane without a guide, good faith,
there should be an end of Majesty, until it chances to be better
accommodated. Besides, there is the chance of these big words bolting
out at unawares, when there are ears to hear them whom we might think
dangerous.”
“Your commands shall be obeyed,” said Lee, who had now succeeded in
opening the door; from which he took his departure, leaving the King,
who had hustled along the floor for that purpose, with his dress
wofully ill arranged, to make it fast again behind him, and begging him
in no case to open to any one, unless he or Rochecliffe were of the
party who summoned him.
Albert then set out in quest of Dr. Rochecliffe’s apartment, which was
only known to himself and the faithful Joliffe, and had at different
times accommodated that steady churchman with a place of concealment,
when, from his bold and busy temper, which led him into the most
extensive and hazardous machinations on the King’s behalf, he had been
strictly sought after by the opposite party. Of late, the inquest after
him had died entirely away, as he had prudently withdrawn himself from
the scene of his intrigues. Since the loss of the battle of Worcester,
he had been afloat again, and more active than ever; and had, by
friends and correspondents, and especially the Bishop of ——, been the
means of directing the King’s flight towards Woodstock, although it was
not until the very day of his arrival that he could promise him a safe
reception at that ancient mansion.
Albert Lee, though he revered both the undaunted spirit and ready
resources of the bustling and intriguing churchman, felt he had not
been enabled by him to answer some of Charles’s questions yesternight,
in a way so distinct as one trusted with the King’s safety ought to
have done; and it was now his object to make himself personally
acquainted, if possible, with the various bearings of so weighty a
matter, as became a man on whom so much of the responsibility was
likely to descend.
Even his local knowledge was scarce adequate to find the Doctor’s
secret apartment, had he not traced his way after a genial flavour of
roasted game through divers blind passages, and up and down certain
very useless stairs, through cupboards and hatchways, and so forth, to
a species of sanctum sanctorum, where Joceline Joliffe was ministering
to the good Doctor a solemn breakfast of wild-fowl, with a cup of small
beer stirred with a sprig of rosemary, which Dr. Rochecliffe preferred
to all strong potations. Beside him sat Bevis on his tail, slobbering
and looking amiable, moved by the rare smell of the breakfast, which
had quite overcome his native dignity of disposition.
The chamber in which the Doctor had established himself was a little
octangular room, with walls of great thickness, within which were
fabricated various issues, leading in different directions, and
communicating with different parts of the building. Around him were
packages with arms, and near him one small barrel, as it seemed, of
gunpowder; many papers in different parcels, and several keys for
correspondence in cipher; two or three scrolls covered with
hieroglyphics were also beside him, which Albert took for plans of
nativity; and various models of machinery, in which Dr. Rochecliffe was
an adept. There were also tools of various kinds, masks, cloaks, and a
dark lantern, and a number of other indescribable trinkets belonging to
the trade of a daring plotter in dangerous times. Last, there was a
casket with gold and silver coin of different countries, which was left
carelessly open, as if it were the least of Dr. Rochecliffe’s concern,
although his habits in general announced narrow circumstances, if not
actual poverty. Close by the divine’s plate lay a Bible and
Prayer-book, with some proof sheets, as they are technically called,
seemingly fresh from the press. There was also within the reach of his
hand a dirk, or Scottish poniard, a powder-horn, and a musketoon, or
blunderbuss, with a pair of handsome pocket-pistols. In the midst of
this miscellaneous collection, the Doctor sat eating his breakfast with
great appetite, as little dismayed by the various implements of danger
around him, as a workman is when accustomed to the perils of a
gunpowder manufactory.
“So, young gentleman,” he said, getting up and extending his hand, “are
you come to breakfast with me in good fellowship, or to spoil my meal
this morning, as you did my supper last night, by asking untimely
questions?”
“I will pick a bone with you with all my heart,” said Albert; “and if
you please, Doctor, I would ask some questions which seem not quite
untimely.”
So saying he sat down, and assisted the Doctor in giving a very
satisfactory account of a brace of wild-ducks and a leash of teal.
Bevis, who maintained his place with great patience and insinuation,
had his share of a collop, which was also placed on the well-furnished
board; for, like most high-bred dogs, he declined eating waterfowl.
“Come hither then, Albert Lee,” said the Doctor, laying down his knife
and fork, and plucking the towel from his throat, so soon as Joceline
was withdrawn; “thou art still the same lad thou wert when I was thy
tutor—never satisfied with having got a grammar rule, but always
persecuting me with questions why the rule stood so, and not otherwise—
over-curious after information which thou couldst not comprehend, as
Bevis slobbered and whined for the duck-wing, which he could not eat.”
“I hope you will find me more reasonable, Doctor,” answered Albert;
“and at the same time, that you will recollect I am not now _sub
ferula_, but am placed in circumstances where I am not at liberty to
act upon the _ipse dixit_ of any man, unless my own judgment be
convinced. I shall deserve richly to be hanged, drawn, and quartered,
should any misfortune happen by my misgovernment in this business.”
“And it is therefore, Albert, that I would have thee trust the whole to
me, without interfering. Thou sayest, forsooth, thou art not _sub
ferula_; but recollect that while you have been fighting in the field,
I have been plotting in the study—that I know all the combinations of
the King’s friends, ay, and all the motions of his enemies, as well as
a spider knows every mesh of his web. Think of my experience, man. Not
a cavalier in the land but has heard of Rochecliffe, the Plotter. I
have been a main limb in every thing that has been attempted since
forty-two—penned declarations, conducted correspondence, communicated
with chiefs, recruited followers, commissioned arms, levied money,
appointed rendezvouses. I was in the Western Riding; and before that,
in the City Petition, and in Sir John Owen’s stir in Wales; in short,
almost in every plot for the King, since Tomkins and Challoner’s
matter.”
“But were not all these plots unsuccessful?” said Albert; “and were not
Tomkins and Challoner hanged, Doctor?”
“Yes, my young friend,” answered the Doctor, gravely, “as many others
have been with whom I have acted; but only because they did not follow
my advice implicitly. You never heard that I was hanged myself?”
“The time may come, Doctor,” said Albert; “The pitcher goes oft to the
well.—The proverb, as my father would say, is somewhat musty. But I,
too, have some confidence in my own judgment; and, much as I honour the
Church, I cannot altogether subscribe to passive obedience. I will tell
you in one word what points I must have explanation on; and it will
remain with you to give it, or to return a message to the King that you
will not explain your plan; in which case, if he acts by my advice, he
will leave Woodstock, and resume his purpose of getting to the coast
without delay.”
“Well, then,” said the Doctor, “thou suspicious monster, make thy
demands, and, if they be such as I can answer without betraying
confidence, I will reply to them.”
“In the first place, then, what is all this story about ghosts, and
witch-crafts, and apparitions? and do you consider it as safe for his
Majesty to stay in a house subject to such visitations, real or
pretended?”
“You must be satisfied with my answer _in verbo sacerdotis_—the
circumstances you allude to will not give the least annoyance to
Woodstock during the King’s residence. I cannot explain farther; but
for this I will be bound, at the risk of my neck.”
“Then,” said Lee, “we must take Dr. Rochecliffe’s bail that the devil
will keep the peace towards our Sovereign Lord the King—good. Now there
lurked about this house the greater part of yesterday, and perhaps
slept here, a fellow called Tomkins,—a bitter Independent, and a
secretary, or clerk, or something or other, to the regicide dog
Desborough. The man is well known—a wild ranter in religious opinions,
but in private affairs far-sighted, cunning, and interested even as any
rogue of them all.”
“Be assured we will avail ourselves of his crazy fanaticism to mislead
his wicked cunning;—a child may lead a hog, if it has wit to fasten a
cord to the ring in its nose,” replied the Doctor.
“You may be deceived,” said Albert; “the age has many such as this
fellow, whose views of the spiritual and temporal world are so
different, that they resemble the eyes of a squinting man; one of
which, oblique and distorted, sees nothing but the end of his nose,
while the other, instead of partaking the same defect, views strongly,
sharply, and acutely, whatever is subjected to its scrutiny.”
“But we will put a patch on the better eye,” said the Doctor, “and he
shall only be allowed to speculate with the imperfect optic. You must
know, this fellow has always seen the greatest number, and the most
hideous apparitions; he has not the courage of a cat in such matters,
though stout enough when he hath temporal antagonists before him. I
have placed him under the charge of Joceline Joliffe, who, betwixt
plying him with sack and ghost-stories, would make him incapable of
knowing what was done, if you were to proclaim the King in his
presence.”
“But why keep such a fellow here at all?”
“Oh, sir, content you;—he lies leaguer, as a sort of ambassador for his
worthy masters, and we are secure from any intrusion so long as they
get all the news of Woodstock from Trusty Tomkins.”
“I know Joceline’s honesty well,” said Albert; “and if he can assure me
that he will keep a watch over this fellow, I will so far trust in him.
He does not know the depth of the stake, ’tis true, but that my life is
concerned will be quite enough to keep him vigilant.—Well, then, I
proceed:—What if Markham Everard comes down on us?”
“We have his word to the contrary,” answered Rochecliffe—“his word of
honour, transmitted by his friend:—Do you think it likely he will break
it?”
“I hold him incapable of doing so,” answered Albert; “and, besides, I
think Markham would make no bad use of any thing which might come to
his knowledge—Yet God forbid we should be under the necessity of
trusting any who ever wore the Parliament’s colours in a matter of such
dear concernment!”
“Amen!” said the Doctor.—“Are your doubts silenced now?”
“I still have an objection,” said Albert, “to yonder impudent rakehelly
fellow, styling himself a cavalier, who rushed himself on our company
last night, and gained my father’s heart by a story of the storm of
Brentford, which I dare say the rogue never saw.”
“You mistake him, dear Albert,” replied Rochecliffe—“Roger Wildrake,
although till of late I only knew him by name, is a gentleman, was bred
at the Inns of Court, and spent his estate in the King’s service.”
“Or rather in the devil’s service,” said Albert. “It is such fellows as
he, who, sunk from the license of their military habits into idle
debauched ruffians, infest the land with riots and robberies, brawl in
hedge alehouses and cellars where strong waters are sold at midnight,
and, with their deep oaths, their hot loyalty, and their drunken
valour, make decent men abominate the very name of cavalier.”
“Alas!” said the Doctor, “it is but too true; but what can you expect?
When the higher and more qualified classes are broken down and mingled
undistinguishably with the lower orders, they are apt to lose the most
valuable marks of their quality in the general confusion of morals and
manners—just as a handful of silver medals will become defaced and
discoloured if jumbled about among the vulgar copper coin. Even the
prime medal of all, which we royalists would so willingly wear next our
very hearts, has not, perhaps, entirely escaped some deterioration—But
let other tongues than mine speak on that subject.”
Albert Lee paused deeply after having heard these communications on the
part of Rochecliffe. “Doctor,” he said, “it is generally agreed, even
by some who think you may occasionally have been a little over busy in
putting men upon dangerous actions”—
“May God forgive them who entertain so false an opinion of me,” said
the Doctor.
—“That, nevertheless, you have done and suffered more in the King’s
behalf than any man of your function.”
“They do me but justice there,” said Dr. Rochecliffe—“absolute
justice.”
“I am therefore disposed to abide by your opinion, if, all things
considered, you think it safe that we should remain at Woodstock.”
“That is not the question,” answered the divine.
“And what is the question, then?” replied the young soldier.
“Whether any safer course can be pointed out. I grieve to say, that the
question must be comparative, as to the point of option. Absolute
safety is—alas the while!—out of the question on all sides. Now, I say
Woodstock is, fenced and guarded as at present, by far the most
preferable place of concealment.”
“Enough,” replied Albert; “I give up to you the question, as to a
person whose knowledge of such important affairs, not to mention your
age and experience, is more intimate and extensive than mine can be.”
“You do well,” answered Rochecliffe; “and if others had acted with the
like distrust of their own knowledge, and confidence in competent
persons, it had been better for the age. This makes Understanding bar
himself up within his fortalice, and Wit betake himself to his high
tower.” (Here he looked around his cell with an air of
self-complacence.) “The wise man forseeth the tempest, and hideth
himself.”
“Doctor,” said Albert, “let our foresight serve others far more
precious than either of us. Let me ask you, if you have well considered
whether our precious charge should remain in society with the family,
or betake himself to some of the more hidden corners of the house?”
“Hum!” said the Doctor, with an air of deep reflection—“I think he will
be safest as Louis Kerneguy, keeping himself close beside you”—
“I fear it will be necessary,” added Albert, “that I scout abroad a
little, and show myself in some distant part of the country, lest,
coming here in quest of me, they should find higher game.”
“Pray do not interrupt me—Keeping himself close beside you or your
father, in or near to Victor Lee’s apartment, from which you are aware
he can make a ready escape, should danger approach. This occurs to me
as best for the present—I hope to hear of the vessel to-day—to-morrow
at farthest.”
Albert Lee bid the active but opiniated man good morrow; admiring how
this species of intrigue had become a sort of element in which the
Doctor seemed to enjoy himself, notwithstanding all that the poet has
said concerning the horrors which intervene betwixt the conception and
execution of a conspiracy.
In returning from Dr. Rochecliffe’s sanctuary, he met with Joceline,
who was anxiously seeking him. “The young Scotch gentleman,” he said,
in a mysterious manner, “has arisen from bed, and, hearing me pass, he
called me into his apartment.”
“Well,” replied Albert, “I will see him presently.”
“And he asked me for fresh linen and clothes. Now, sir, he is like a
man who is quite accustomed to be obeyed, so I gave him a suit which
happened to be in a wardrobe in the west tower, and some of your linen
to conform; and when he was dressed, he commanded me to show him to the
presence of Sir Henry Lee and my young lady. I would have said
something, sir, about waiting till you came back, but he pulled me
goodnaturedly by the hair, (as, indeed, he has a rare humour of his
own,) and told me, he was guest to Master Albert Lee, and not his
prisoner; so, sir, though I thought you might be displeased with me for
giving him the means of stirring abroad, and perhaps being seen by
those who should not see him, what could I say?”
“You are a sensible fellow, Joceline, and comprehend always what is
recommended to you. This youth will not be controlled, I fear, by
either of us; but we must look the closer after his safety. You keep
your watch over that prying fellow the steward?”
“Trust him to my care—on that side have no fear. But ah, sir! I would
we had the young Scot in his old clothes again, for the riding-suit of
yours which he now wears hath set him off in other-guess fashion.”
From the manner in which the faithful dependent expressed himself,
Albert saw that he suspected who the Scottish page in reality was; yet
he did not think it proper to acknowledge to him a fact of such
importance, secure as he was equally of his fidelity, whether
explicitly trusted to the full extent, or left to his own conjectures.
Full of anxious thought, he went to the apartment of Victor Lee, in
which Joliffe told him he would find the party assembled. The sound of
laughter, as he laid his hand on the lock of the door, almost made him
start, so singularly did it jar with the doubtful and melancholy
reflections which engaged his own mind. He entered, and found his
father in high good-humour, laughing and conversing freely with his
young charge, whose appearance was, indeed, so much changed to the
better in externals, that it seemed scarce possible a night’s rest, a
toilet, and a suit of decent clothes, could have done so much in his
favour in so short a time. It could not, however, be imputed to the
mere alteration of dress, although that, no doubt, had its effect.
There was nothing splendid in that which Louis Kerneguy (we continue to
call him by his assumed name) now wore. It was merely a riding-suit of
grey cloth, with some silver lace, in the fashion of a country
gentleman of the time. But it happened to fit him very well, and to
become his very dark complexion, especially as he now held up his head,
and used the manners, not only of a well-behaved but of a
highly-accomplished gentleman. When he moved, his clumsy and awkward
limp was exchanged for a sort of shuffle, which, as it might be the
consequence of a wound in those perilous times, had rather an
interesting than an ungainly effect. At least it was as genteel an
expression that the party had been overhard travelled, as the most
polite pedestrian could propose to himself.
The features of the Wanderer were harsh as ever, but his red shock
peruke, for such it proved, was laid aside, his sable elf-locks were
trained, by a little of Joceline’s assistance, into curls, and his fine
black eyes shone from among the shade of these curls, and corresponded
with the animated, though not handsome, character of the whole head. In
his conversation, he had laid aside all the coarseness of dialect which
he had so strongly affected on the preceding evening; and although he
continued to speak a little Scotch, for the support of his character as
a young gentleman of that nation, yet it was not in a degree which
rendered his speech either uncouth or unintelligible, but merely
afforded a certain Doric tinge essential to the personage he
represented. No person on earth could better understand the society in
which he moved; exile had made him acquainted with life in all its
shades and varieties;—his spirits, if not uniform, were elastic—he had
that species of Epicurean philosophy, which, even in the most extreme
difficulties and dangers, can, in an interval of ease, however brief,
avail itself of the enjoyments of the moment—he was, in short, in youth
and misfortune, as afterwards in his regal condition, a good-humoured
but hard-hearted voluptuary—wise, save where his passions
intervened—beneficent, save when prodigality had deprived him of the
means, or prejudice of the wish, to confer benefits—his faults such as
might often have drawn down hatred, but that they were mingled with so
much urbanity, that the injured person felt it impossible to retain the
full sense of his wrongs.
Albert Lee found the party, consisting of his father, sister, and the
supposed page, seated by the breakfast-table, at which he also took his
place. He was a pensive and anxious beholder of what passed, while the
page, who had already completely gained the heart of the good old
cavalier, by mimicking the manner in which the Scottish divines
preached in favour of Ma gude Lord Marquis of Argyle and the Solemn
League and Covenant, was now endeavouring to interest the fair Alice by
such anecdotes, partly of warlike and perilous adventure, as possessed
the same degree of interest for the female ear which they have had ever
since Desdemona’s days. But it was not only of dangers by land and sea
that the disguised page spoke; but much more, and much oftener, on
foreign revels, banquets, balls, where the pride of France, of Spain,
or of the Low Countries, was exhibited in the eyes of their most
eminent beauties. Alice being a very young girl, who, in consequence of
the Civil War, had been almost entirely educated in the country, and
often in great seclusion, it was certainly no wonder that she should
listen with willing ears, and a ready smile, to what the young
gentleman, their guest, and her brother’s protege, told with so much
gaiety, and mingled with such a shade of dangerous adventure, and
occasionally of serious reflection, as prevented the discourse from
being regarded as merely light and frivolous.
In a word, Sir Henry Lee laughed, Alice smiled from time to time, and
all were satisfied but Albert, who would himself, however, have been
scarce able to allege a sufficient reason for his depression of
spirits. The materials of breakfast were at last removed, under the
active superintendence of the neat-handed Phœbe, who looked over her
shoulder, and lingered more than once, to listen to the fluent
discourse of their new guest, whom, on the preceding evening, she had,
while in attendance at supper, accounted one of the most stupid inmates
to whom the gates of Woodstock had been opened since the times of Fair
Rosamond.
Louis Kerneguy then, when they were left only four in the chamber,
without the interruption of domestics, and the successive bustle
occasioned by the discussion and removal of the morning meal, became
apparently sensible, that his friend and ostensible patron Albert ought
not altogether to be suffered to drop to leeward in the conversation,
while he was himself successfully engaging the attention of those
members of his family to whom he had become so recently known. He went
behind his chair, therefore, and, leaning on the back, said with a
good-humoured tone, which made his purpose entirely intelligible,—
“Either my good friend, guide, and patron, has heard worse news this
morning than he cares to tell us, or he must have stumbled over my
tattered jerkin and leathern hose, and acquired, by contact, the whole
mass of stupidity which I threw off last night with those most dolorous
garments. Cheer up, my dear Colonel Albert, if your affectionate page
may presume to say so—you are in company with those whose society, dear
to strangers, must be doubly so to you. Oddsfish, man, cheer up! I have
seen you gay on a biscuit and a mouthful of water-cresses—don’t let
your heart fail you on Rhenish wine and venison.”
“Dear Louis,” said Albert, rousing himself into exertion, and somewhat
ashamed of his own silence, “I have slept worse, and been astir earlier
than you.”
“Be it so,” said his father; “yet I hold it no good excuse for your
sullen silence. Albert, you have met your sister and me, so long
separated from you, so anxious on your behalf, almost like mere
strangers, and yet you are returned safe to us, and you find us well.”
“Returned indeed—but for safety, my dear father, that word must be a
stranger to us Worcester folk for some time. However, it is not my own
safety about which I am anxious.”
“About whose, then, should you be anxious?—All accounts agree that the
King is safe out of the dogs’ jaws.”
“Not without some danger, though,” muttered Louis, thinking of his
encounter with Bevis on the preceding evening.
“No, not without danger, indeed,” echoed the knight; “but, as old Will
says,—
‘There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,
That treason dares not peep at what it would.’
“No, no—thank God, that’s cared for; our Hope and Fortune is escaped,
so all news affirm, escaped from Bristol—if I thought otherwise,
Albert, I should be as sad as you are. For the rest of it, I have
lurked a month in this house when discovery would have been death, and
that is no longer since than after Lord Holland and the Duke of
Buckingham’s rising at Kingston; and hang me, if I thought once of
twisting my brow into such a tragic fold as yours, but cocked my hat at
misfortune as a cavalier should.”
“If I might put in a word,” said Louis, “it would be to assure Colonel
Albert Lee that I verily believe the King would think his own hap,
wherever he may be, much the worse that his best subjects were seized
with dejection on his account.”
“You answer boldly on the King’s part, young man,” said Sir Henry.
“Oh, my father was meikle about the King’s hand,” answered Louis,
recollecting his present character.
“No wonder, then,” said Sir Henry, “that you have so soon recovered
your good spirits and good breeding, when you heard of his Majesty’s
escape. Why, you are no more like the lad we saw last night, than the
best hunter I ever had was like a dray-horse.”
“Oh, there is much in rest, and food, and grooming,” answered Louis.
“You would hardly know the tired jade you dismounted from last night,
when she is brought out prancing and neighing the next morning, rested,
refreshed, and ready to start again—especially if the brute hath some
good blood, for such pick up unco fast.”
“Well, then, but since thy father was a courtier, and thou hast
learned, I think, something of the trade, tell us a little, Master
Kerneguy, of him we love most to hear about—the King; we are all safe
and secret, you need not be afraid. He was a hopeful youth; I trust his
flourishing blossom now gives promise of fruit?”
As the knight spoke, Louis bent his eyes on the ground, and seemed at
first uncertain what to answer. But, admirable at extricating himself
from such dilemmas, he replied, “that he really could not presume to
speak on such a subject in the presence of his patron, Colonel Albert
Lee, who must be a much better judge of the character of King Charles
than he could pretend to be.”
Albert was accordingly next assailed by the Knight, seconded by Alice,
for some account of his Majesty’s character.
“I will speak but according to facts,” said Albert; “and then I must be
acquitted of partiality. If the King had not possessed enterprise and
military skill, he never would have attempted the expedition to
Worcester;—had he not had personal courage, he had not so long disputed
the battle that Cromwell almost judged it lost. That he possesses
prudence and patience, must be argued from the circumstances attending
his flight; and that he has the love of his subjects is evident, since,
necessarily known to many, he has been betrayed by none.”
“For shame, Albert!” replied his sister; “is that the way a good
cavalier doles out the character of his Prince, applying an instance at
every concession, like a pedlar measuring linen with his rod?—Out upon
you!—no wonder you were beaten, if you fought as coldly for your King
as you now talk for him.”
“I did my best to trace a likeness from what I have seen and known of
the original, sister Alice,” replied her brother.—“If you would have a
fancy portrait, you must get an artist of more imagination than I have
to draw it for you.”
“I will be that artist myself” said Alice; “and, in _my_ portrait, our
Monarch shall show all that he ought to be, having such high
pretensions—all that he must be, being so loftily descended—all that I
am sure he is, and that every loyal heart in the kingdom ought to
believe him.”
“Well said, Alice,” quoth the old knight—“Look thou upon this picture,
and on this!—Here is our young friend shall judge. I wager my best
nag—that is, I would wager him had I one left—that Alice proves the
better painter of the two.—My son’s brain is still misty, I think,
since his defeat—he has not got the smoke of Worcester out of it.
Plague on thee!—a young man, and cast down for one beating? Had you
been banged twenty times like me, it had been time to look grave.—But
come, Alice, forward; the colours are mixed on your pallet—forward with
something that shall show like one of Vandyck’s living portraits,
placed beside the dull dry presentation there of our ancestor Victor
Lee.”
Alice, it must be observed, had been educated by her father in the
notions of high and even exaggerated loyalty, which characterized the
cavaliers, and she was really an enthusiast in the royal cause. But,
besides, she was in good spirits at her brother’s happy return, and
wished to prolong the gay humour in which her father had of late
scarcely ever indulged.
“Well, then,” she said, “though I am no Apelles, I will try to paint an
Alexander, such as I hope, and am determined to believe, exists in the
person of our exiled sovereign, soon I trust to be restored. And I will
not go farther than his own family. He shall have all the chivalrous
courage, all the warlike skill, of Henry of France, his grandfather, in
order to place him on the throne; all his benevolence, love of his
people, patience even of unpleasing advice, sacrifice of his own wishes
and pleasures to the commonweal, that, seated there, he may be blest
while living, and so long remembered when dead, that for ages after it
shall be thought sacrilege to breathe an aspersion against the throne
which he had occupied! Long after he is dead, while there remains an
old man who has seen him, were the condition of that survivor no higher
than a groom or a menial, his age shall be provided for at the public
charge, and his grey hairs regarded with more distinction than an
earl’s coronet, because he remembers the Second Charles, the monarch of
every heart in England!”
While Alice spoke, she was hardly conscious of the presence of any one
save her father and brother; for the page withdrew himself somewhat
from the circle, and there was nothing to remind her of him. She gave
the reins, therefore, to her enthusiasm; and as the tears glittered in
her eye, and her beautiful features became animated, she seemed like a
descended cherub proclaiming the virtues of a patriot monarch. The
person chiefly interested in her description held himself back, as we
have said, and concealed his own features, yet so as to preserve a full
view of the beautiful speaker.
Albert Lee, conscious in whose presence this eulogium was pronounced,
was much embarrassed; but his father, all whose feelings were flattered
by the panegyric, was in rapture.
“So much for the _King_, Alice,” he said, “and now for the _Man_.”
“For the man,” replied Alice, in the same tone, “need I wish him more
than the paternal virtues of his unhappy father, of whom his worst
enemies have recorded, that if moral virtues and religious faith were
to be selected as the qualities which merited a crown, no man could
plead the possession of them in a higher or more indisputable degree.
Temperate, wise, and frugal, yet munificent in rewarding merit—a friend
to letters and the muses, but a severe discourager of the misuse of
such gifts—a worthy gentleman—a kind master—the best friend, the best
father, the best Christian”—Her voice began to falter, and her father’s
handkerchief was already at his eyes.
“He was, girl, he was!” exclaimed Sir Henry; “but no more on’t, I
charge ye—no more on’t—enough; let his son but possess his virtues,
with better advisers, and better fortunes, and he will be all that
England, in her warmest wishes, could desire.”
There was a pause after this; for Alice felt as if she had spoken too
frankly and too zealously for her sex and youth. Sir Henry was occupied
in melancholy recollections on the fate of his late sovereign, while
Kerneguy and his supposed patron felt embarrassed, perhaps from a
consciousness that the real Charles fell far short of his ideal
character, as designed in such glowing colours. In some cases,
exaggerated or unappropriate praise becomes the most severe satire.
But such reflections were not of a nature to be long willingly
cherished by the person to whom they might have been of great
advantage. He assumed a tone of raillery, which is, perhaps, the
readiest mode of escaping from the feelings of self-reproof. “Every
cavalier,” he said, “should bend his knee to thank Mistress Alice Lee
for having made such a flattering portrait of the King their master, by
laying under contribution for his benefit the virtues of all his
ancestors; only there was one point he would not have expected a female
painter to have passed over in silence. When she made him, in right of
his grandfather and father, a muster of royal and individual
excellences, why could she not have endowed him at the same time with
his mother’s personal charms? Why should not the son of Henrietta
Maria, the finest woman of her day, add the recommendations of a
handsome face and figure to his internal qualities? He had the same
hereditary title to good looks as to mental qualifications; and the
picture, with such an addition, would be perfect in its way—and God
send it might be a resemblance.”
“I understand you, Master Kerneguy,” said Alice; “but I am no fairy, to
bestow, as those do in the nursery tales, gifts which Providence has
denied. I am woman enough to have made enquiries on the subject, and I
know the general report is, that the King, to have been the son of such
handsome parents, is unusually hard-favoured.”
“Good God, sister!” said Albert, starting impatiently from his seat.
“Why, you yourself told me so,” said Alice, surprised at the emotion he
testified; “and you said”—
“This is intolerable,” muttered Albert; “I must out to speak with
Joceline without delay—Louis,” (with an imploring look to Kerneguy,)
“you will surely come with me?”
“I would with all my heart,” said Kerneguy, smiling maliciously; “but
you see how I suffer still from lameness.—Nay, nay, Albert,” he
whispered, resisting young Lee’s attempt to prevail on him to leave the
room, “can you suppose I am fool enough to be hurt by this?—on the
contrary, I have a desire of profiting by it.”
“May God grant it!” said Lee to himself, as he left the room—“it will
be the first lecture you ever profited by; and the devil confound the
plots and plotters who made me bring you to this place!” So saying, he
carried his discontent forth into the Park.