“The dial-stone, aged and green,”
without deigning to ask it a single question; nor could it have
satisfied his curiosity if he had, for no sun happened to shine at the
moment. He then hastened forward, muffling himself in his cloak, and
assuming a stooping and slouching gait, which diminished his apparent
height. He was soon involved in the deep and dim alleys of the wood,
into which he had insensibly plunged himself, and was traversing it at
a great rate, without having any distinct idea in what direction he was
going, when suddenly his course was arrested, first by a loud hello,
and then by a summons to stand, accompanied by what seemed still more
startling and extraordinary, the touch of a cane upon his shoulder,
imposed in a good-humoured but somewhat imperious manner.
There were few symptoms of recognition which would have been welcome at
this moment; but the appearance of the person who had thus arrested his
course, was least of all that he could have anticipated as timely or
agreeable. When he turned, on receiving the signal, he beheld himself
close to a young man, nearly six feet in height, well made in joint and
limb, but the gravity of whose apparel, although handsome and
gentlemanlike, and a sort of precision in his habit, from the cleanness
and stiffness of his band to the unsullied purity of his
Spanish-leather shoes, bespoke a love of order which was foreign to the
impoverished and vanquished cavaliers, and proper to the habits of
those of the victorious party, who could afford to dress themselves
handsomely; and whose rule—that is, such as regarded the higher and
more respectable classes—enjoined decency and sobriety of garb and
deportment. There was yet another weight against the Prince in the
scale, and one still more characteristic of the inequality in the
comparison, under which he seemed to labour. There was strength in the
muscular form of the stranger who had brought him to this involuntary
parley, authority and determination in his brow, a long rapier on the
left, and a poniard or dagger on the right side of his belt, and a pair
of pistols stuck into it, which would have been sufficient to give the
unknown the advantage, (Louis Kerneguy having no weapon but his sword,)
even had his personal strength approached nearer than it did to that of
the person by whom he was thus suddenly stopped.
Bitterly regretting the thoughtless fit of passion that brought him
into his present situation, but especially the want of the pistols he
had left behind, and which do so much to place bodily strength and
weakness upon an equal footing, Charles yet availed himself of the
courage and presence of mind, in which few of his unfortunate family
had for centuries been deficient. He stood firm and without motion, his
cloak still wrapped round the lower part of his face, to give time for
explanation, in case he was mistaken for some other person.
This coolness produced its effect; for the other party said,—with doubt
and surprise on his part, “Joceline Joliffe, is it not?—if I know not
Joceline Joliffe, I should at least know my own cloak.”
“I am not Joceline Joliffe, as you may see, sir,” said Kerneguy,
calmly, drawing himself erect to show the difference of size, and
dropping the cloak from his face and person.
“Indeed!” replied the stranger, in surprise; “then, Sir Unknown, I have
to express my regret at having used my cane in intimating that I wished
you to stop. From that dress, which I certainly recognise for my own, I
concluded you must be Joceline, in whose custody I had left my habit at
the Lodge.”
“If it had been Joceline, sir,” replied the supposed Kerneguy, with
perfect composure, “methinks you should not have struck so hard.” The
other party was obviously confused by the steady calmness with which he
was encountered. The sense of politeness dictated, in the first place,
an apology for a mistake, when he thought he had been tolerably certain
of the person. Master Kerneguy was not in a situation to be
punctilious; he bowed gravely, as indicating his acceptance of the
excuse offered, then turned, and walked, as he conceived, towards the
Lodge; though he had traversed the woods which were cut with various
alleys in different directions, too hastily to be certain of the real
course which he wished to pursue.
He was much embarrassed to find that this did not get him rid of the
companion whom he had thus involuntarily acquired. Walked he slow,
walked he fast, his friend in the genteel but puritanic habit, strong
in person, and well armed, as we have described him, seemed determined
to keep him company, and, without attempting to join, or enter into
conversation, never suffered him to outstrip his surveillance for more
than two or three yards. The Wanderer mended his pace; but, although he
was then, in his youth, as afterwards in his riper age, one of the best
walkers in Britain, the stranger, without advancing his pace to a run,
kept fully equal to him, and his persecution became so close and
constant, and inevitable, that the pride and fear of Charles were both
alarmed, and he began to think that, whatever the danger might be of a
single-handed rencontre, he would nevertheless have a better bargain of
this tall satellite if they settled the debate betwixt them in the
forest, than if they drew near any place of habitation, where the man
in authority was likely to find friends and concurrents.
Betwixt anxiety, therefore, vexation, and anger, Charles faced suddenly
round on his pursuer, as they reached a small narrow glade, which led
to the little meadow over which presided the King’s Oak, the ragged and
scathed branches and gigantic trunk of which formed a vista to the
little wild avenue.
“Sir,” said he to his pursuer, “you have already been guilty of one
piece of impertinence towards me. You have apologised; and knowing no
reason why you should distinguish me as an object of incivility, I have
accepted your excuse without scruple. Is there any thing remains to be
settled betwixt us, which causes you to follow me in this manner? If
so, I shall be glad to make it a subject of explanation or
satisfaction, as the case may admit of. I think you can owe me no
malice; for I never saw you before to my knowledge. If you can give any
good reason for asking it, I am willing to render you personal
satisfaction. If your purpose is merely impertinent curiosity, I let
you know that I will not suffer myself to be dogged in my private walks
by any one.”
“When I recognise my own cloak on another man’s shoulders,” replied the
stranger, dryly, “methinks I have a natural right to follow and see
what becomes of it; for know, sir, though I have been mistaken as to
the wearer, yet I am confident I had as good a right to stretch my cane
across the cloak you are muffled in, as ever had any one to brush his
own garments. If, therefore, we are to be friends, I must ask, for
instance, how you came by that cloak, and where you are going with it?
I shall otherwise make bold to stop you, as one who has sufficient
commission to do so.”
“Oh, unhappy cloak,” thought the Wanderer, “ay, and thrice unhappy the
idle fancy that sent me here with it wrapped around my nose, to pick
quarrels and attract observation, when quiet and secrecy were
peculiarly essential to my safety!”
“If you will allow me to guess, sir,” continued the stranger, who was
no other than Markham Everard, “I will convince you that you are better
known than you think for.”
“Now, Heaven forbid!” prayed the party addressed, in silence, but with
as much devotion as ever he applied to a prayer in his life. Yet even
in this moment of extreme urgency, his courage and composure did not
fail; and he recollected it was of the utmost importance not to seem
startled, and to answer so as, if possible, to lead the dangerous
companion with whom he had met, to confess the extent of his actual
knowledge or suspicions concerning him.
“If you know me, sir,” he said, “and are a gentleman, as your
appearance promises, you cannot be at a loss to discover to what
accident you must attribute my wearing these clothes, which you say are
yours.” “Oh, sir,” replied Colonel Everard, his wrath in no sort turned
away by the mildness of the stranger’s answer—“we have learned our
Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and we know for what purposes young men of
quality travel in disguise—we know that even female attire is resorted
to on certain occasions—We have heard of Vertumnus and Pomona.”
The Monarch, as he weighed these words, again uttered a devout prayer,
that this ill-looking affair might have no deeper root than the
jealousy of some admirer of Alice Lee, promising to himself, that,
devotee as he was to the fair sex, he would make no scruple of
renouncing the fairest of Eve’s daughters in order to get out of the
present dilemma.
“Sir,” he said, “you seem to be a gentleman. I have no objection to
tell you, as such, that I also am of that class.”
“Or somewhat higher, perhaps?” said Everard.
“A gentleman,” replied Charles, “is a term which comprehends all ranks
entitled to armorial bearings—A duke, a lord, a prince, is no more than
a gentleman; and if in misfortune as I am, he may be glad if that
general term of courtesy is allowed him.”
“Sir,” replied Everard, “I have no purpose to entrap you to any
acknowledgment fatal to your own safety,—nor do I hold it my business
to be active in the arrest of private individuals, whose perverted
sense of national duty may have led them into errors, rather to be
pitied than punished by candid men. But if those who have brought civil
war and disturbance into their native country, proceed to carry
dishonour and disgrace into the bosom of families—if they attempt to
carry on their private debaucheries to the injury of the hospitable
roofs which afford them refuge from the consequences of their public
crimes, do you think, my lord, that we shall bear it with patience?”
“If it is your purpose to quarrel with me,” said the Prince, “speak it
out at once like a gentleman. You have the advantage, no doubt, of
arms; but it is not that odds which will induce me to fly from a single
man. If, on the other hand, you are disposed to hear reason, I tell you
in calm words, that I neither suspect the offence to which you allude,
nor comprehend why you give me the title of my Lord.”
“You deny, then, being the Lord Wilmot?” said Everard.
“I may do so most safely,” said the Prince.
“Perhaps you rather style yourself Earl of Rochester? We heard that the
issuing of some such patent by the King of Scots was a step which your
ambition proposed.”
“Neither lord nor earl am I, as sure as I have a Christian soul to be
saved. My name is”—
“Do not degrade yourself by unnecessary falsehood, my lord; and that to
a single man, who, I promise you, will not invoke public justice to
assist his own good sword should he see cause to use it. Can you look
at that ring, and deny that you are Lord Wilmot?”
He handed to the disguised Prince a ring which he took from his purse,
and his opponent instantly knew it for the same he had dropped into
Alice’s pitcher at the fountain, obeying only, through imprudently, the
gallantry of the moment, in giving a pretty gem to a handsome girl,
whom he had accidentally frightened.
“I know the ring,” he said; “it has been in my possession. How it
should prove me to be Lord Wilmot, I cannot conceive; and beg to say,
it bears false witness against me.”
“You shall see the evidence,” answered Everard; and, resuming the ring,
he pressed a spring ingeniously contrived in the collet of the setting,
on which the stone flew back, and showed within it the cipher of Lord
Wilmot beautifully engraved in miniature, with a coronet.—“What say you
now, sir?”
“That probabilities are no proofs,” said the Prince; “there is nothing
here save what may be easily accounted for. I am the son of a Scottish
nobleman, who was mortally wounded and made prisoner at Worcester
fight. When he took leave, and bid me fly, he gave me the few valuables
he possessed, and that among others. I have heard him talk of having
changed rings with Lord Wilmot, on some occasion in Scotland, but I
never knew the trick of the gem which you have shown me.”
In this it may be necessary to say, Charles spoke very truly; nor would
he have parted with it in the way he did, had he suspected it would be
easily recognised. He proceeded after a minute’s pause:—“Once more,
sir—I have told you much that concerns my safety—if you are generous,
you will let me pass, and I may do you on some future day as good
service. If you mean to arrest me, you must do so here, and at your own
peril, for I will neither walk farther your way, nor permit you to dog
me on mine. If you let me pass, I will thank you: if not, take to your
weapon.”
“Young gentleman,” said Colonel Everard, “whether you be actually the
gay young nobleman for whom I took you, you have made me uncertain;
but, intimate as you say your family has been with him, I have little
doubt that you are proficient in the school of debauchery, of which
Wilmot and Villiers are professors, and their hopeful Master a
graduated student. Your conduct at Woodstock, where you have rewarded
the hospitality of the family by meditating the most deadly wound to
their honour, has proved you too apt a scholar in such an academy. I
intended only to warn you on this subject—it will be your own fault if
I add chastisement to admonition.”
“Warn me, sir!” said the Prince indignantly, “and chastisement! This is
presuming more on my patience than is consistent with your own safety—
Draw, sir.”—So saying, he laid his hand on his sword.
“My religion,” said Everard, “forbids me to be rash in shedding
blood—Go home, sir—be wise—consult the dictates of honour as well as
prudence. Respect the honour of the House of Lee, and know there is one
nearly allied to it, by whom your motions will be called to severe
account.”
“Aha!” said the Prince, with a bitter laugh, “I see the whole matter
now—we have our roundheaded Colonel, our puritan cousin before us—the
man of texts and morals, whom Alice Lee laughs at so heartily. If your
religion, sir, prevents you from giving satisfaction, it should prevent
you from offering insult to a person of honour.”
The passions of both were now fully up—they drew mutually, and began to
fight, the Colonel relinquishing the advantage he could have obtained
by the use of his fire-arms. A thrust of the arm, or a slip of the
foot, might, at the moment, have changed the destinies of Britain, when
the arrival of a third party broke off the combat.