As Charles was about to leave the apartment, he was prevented by the
appearance of Wildrake, who entered with an unusual degree of swagger
in his gait, and of fantastic importance on his brow. “I crave your
pardon, fair sir,” he said; “but, as they say in my country, when doors
are open dogs enter. I have knocked and called in the hall to no
purpose; so, knowing the way to this parlour, sir,—for I am a light
partisan, and the road I once travel I never forget,—I ventured to
present myself unannounced.”
“Sir Henry Lee is abroad, sir, I believe, in the Chase,” said Charles,
coldly, for the appearance of this somewhat vulgar debauchee was not
agreeable to him at the moment, “and Master Albert Lee has left the
Lodge for two or three days.”
“I am aware of it, sir,” said Wildrake; “but I have no business at
present with either.”
“And with whom is your business?” said Charles; “that is, if I may be
permitted to ask—since I think it cannot in possibility be with me.”
“Pardon me in turn, sir,” answered the cavalier; “in no possibility can
it be imparted to any other but yourself, if you be, as I think you
are, though in something better habit, Master Louis Girnigo, the
Scottish gentleman who waits upon Master Albert Lee.”
“I am all you are like to find for him,” answered Charles.
“In truth,” said the cavalier, “I do perceive a difference, but rest,
and better clothing, will do much; and I am glad of it, since I would
be sorry to have brought a message, such as I am charged with, to a
tatterdemalion.”
“Let us get to the business, sir, if you please,” said the King—“you
have a message for me, you say?”
“True, sir,” replied Wildrake; “I am the friend of Colonel Markham
Everard, sir, a tall man, and a worthy person in the field, although I
could wish him a better cause—A message I have to you, it is certain,
in a slight note, which I take the liberty of presenting with the usual
formalities.” So saying, he drew his sword, put the billet he mentioned
upon the point, and making a profound bow, presented it to Charles.
The disguised Monarch accepted of it, with a grave return of the
salute, and said, as he was about to open the letter, “I am not, I
presume, to expect friendly contents in an epistle presented in so
hostile a manner?”
“A-hem, sir,” replied the ambassador, clearing his voice, while he
arranged a suitable answer, in which the mild strain of diplomacy might
be properly maintained; “not utterly hostile, I suppose, sir, is the
invitation, though it be such as must be construed in the commencement
rather bellicose and pugnacious. I trust, sir, we shall find that a few
thrusts will make a handsome conclusion of the business; and so, as my
old master used to say, _Pax mascitur ex bello_. For my own poor share,
I am truly glad to have been graced by my friend, Markham Everard, in
this matter—the rather as I feared the puritan principles with which he
is imbued, (I will confess the truth to you, worthy sir,) might have
rendered him unwilling, from certain scruples, to have taken the
gentlemanlike and honourable mode of righting himself in such a case as
the present. And as I render a friend’s duty to my friend, so I humbly
hope, Master Louis Girnigo, that I do no injustice to you, in preparing
the way for the proposed meeting, where, give me leave to say, I trust,
that if no fatal accident occur, we shall be all better friends when
the skirmish is over than we were before it began.”
“I should suppose so, sir, in any case,” said Charles, looking at the
letter; “worse than mortal enemies we can scarce be, and it is that
footing upon which this billet places us.”
“You say true, sir,” said Wildrake; “it is, sir, a cartel, introducing
to a single combat, for the pacific object of restoring a perfect good
understanding betwixt the survivors—in case that fortunately that word
can be used in the plural after the event of the meeting.”
“In short, we only fight, I suppose,” replied the King, “that we may
come to a perfectly good and amicable understanding?”
“You are right again, sir; and I thank you for the clearness of your
apprehension,” said Wildrake.—“Ah, sir, it is easy to do with a person
of honour and of intellect in such a case as this. And I beseech you,
sir, as a personal kindness to myself, that, as the morning is like to
be frosty, and myself am in some sort rheumatic—as war will leave its
scars behind, sir,—I say, I will entreat of you to bring with you some
gentleman of honour, who will not disdain to take part in what is going
forward—a sort of pot-luck, sir—with a poor old soldier like myself—
that we may take no harm by standing unoccupied during such cold
weather.”
“I understand, sir,” replied Charles; “if this matter goes forward, be
assured I will endeavour to provide you with a suitable opponent.”
“I shall remain greatly indebted to you, sir,” said Wildrake; “and I am
by no means curious about the quality of my antagonist. It is true I
write myself esquire and gentleman, and should account myself
especially honoured by crossing my sword with that of Sir Henry or
Master Albert Lee; but, should that not be convenient, I will not
refuse to present my poor person in opposition to any gentleman who has
served the King,— which I always hold as a sort of letters of nobility
in itself, and, therefore, would on no account decline the duello with
such a person.”
“The King is much obliged to you, sir,” said Charles, “for the honour
you do his faithful subjects.”
“O, sir, I am scrupulous on that point—very scrupulous.—When there is a
roundhead in question, I consult the Herald’s books, to see that he is
entitled to bear arms, as is Master Markham Everard, without which, I
promise you, I had borne none of his cartel. But a cavalier is with me
a gentleman, of course—Be his birth ever so low, his loyalty has
ennobled his condition.”
“It is well, sir,” said the King. “This paper requests me to meet
Master Everard at six to-morrow morning, at the tree called the King’s
Oak—I object neither to place nor time. He proffers the sword, at
which, he says, we possess some equality—I do not decline the weapon;
for company, two gentlemen—I shall endeavour to procure myself an
associate, and a suitable partner for you, sir, if you incline to join
in the dance.”
“I kiss your hand, sir, and rest yours, under a sense of obligation,”
answered the envoy.
“I thank you, sir,” continued the King; “I will therefore be ready at
place and time, and suitably furnished; and I will either give your
friend such satisfaction with my sword as he requires, or will render
him such cause for not doing so as he will be contented with.”
“You will excuse me, sir,” said Wildrake, “if my mind is too dull,
under the circumstances, to conceive any alternative that can remain
betwixt two men of honour in such a case, excepting—sa—sa—.” He threw
himself into a fencing position, and made a pass with his sheathed
rapier, but not directed towards the person of the King, whom he
addressed.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Charles, “if I do not trouble your intellects
with the consideration of a case which may not occur.—But, for example,
I may plead urgent employment on the part of the public.” This he spoke
in a low and mysterious tone of voice, which Wildrake appeared
perfectly to comprehend; for he laid his forefinger on his nose with
what he meant for a very intelligent and apprehensive nod.
“Sir,” said he, “if you be engaged in any affair for the King, my
friend shall have every reasonable degree of patience—Nay, I will fight
him myself in your stead, merely to stay his stomach, rather than you
should be interrupted.—And, sir, if you can find room in your
enterprise for a poor gentleman that has followed Lunsford and Goring,
you have but to name day, time, and place of rendezvous; for truly,
sir, I am tired of the scald hat, cropped hair, and undertaker’s cloak,
with which my friend has bedizened me, and would willingly ruffle it
out once more in the King’s cause, when whether I be banged or hanged,
I care not.”
“I shall remember what you say, sir, should an opportunity occur,” said
the King; “and I wish his Majesty had many such subjects—I presume our
business is now settled?”
“When you shall have been pleased, sir, to give me a trifling scrap of
writing, to serve for my credentials—for such, you know, is the
custom—your written cartel hath its written answer.”
“That, sir, will I presently do,” said Charles, “and in good time, here
are the materials.”
“And, sir,” continued the envoy—“Ah!—ahem!—if you have interest in the
household for a cup of sack—I am a man of few words, and am somewhat
hoarse with much speaking—moreover, a serious business of this kind
always makes one thirsty.—Besides, sir, to part with dry lips argues
malice, which God forbid should exist in such an honourable
conjuncture.”
“I do not boast much influence in the house, sir,” said the King; “but
if you would have the condescension to accept of this broad piece
towards quenching your thirst at the George”—
“Sir,” said the cavalier, (for the times admitted of this strange
species of courtesy, nor was Wildrake a man of such peculiar delicacy
as keenly to dispute the matter,)—“I am once again beholden to you. But
I see not how it consists with my honour to accept of such
accommodation, unless you were to accompany and partake?”
“Pardon me, sir,” replied Charles, “my safety recommends that I remain
rather private at present.”
“Enough said,” Wildrake observed; “poor cavaliers must not stand on
ceremony. I see, sir, you understand cutter’s law—when one tall fellow
has coin, another must not be thirsty. I wish you, sir, a continuance
of health and happiness until to-morrow, at the King’s Oak, at six
o’clock.”
“Farewell, sir,” said the King, and added, as Wildrake went down the
stair whistling, “Hey for cavaliers,” to which air his long rapier,
jarring against the steps and banisters, bore no unsuitable burden—
“Farewell, thou too just emblem of the state, to which war, and defeat,
and despair, have reduced many a gallant gentleman.”
During the rest of the day, there occurred nothing peculiarly deserving
of notice. Alice sedulously avoided showing towards the disguised
Prince any degree of estrangement or shyness, which could be discovered
by her father, or by any one else. To all appearance, the two young
persons continued on the same footing in every respect. Yet she made
the gallant himself sensible, that this apparent intimacy was assumed
merely to save appearances, and in no way designed as retracting from
the severity with which she had rejected his suit. The sense that this
was the case, joined to his injured self-love, and his enmity against a
successful rival, induced Charles early to withdraw himself to a
solitary walk in the wilderness, where, like Hercules in the Emblem of
Cebes, divided betwixt the personifications of Virtue and of Pleasure,
he listened alternately to the voice of Wisdom and of passionate Folly.
Prudence urged to him the importance of his own life to the future
prosecution of the great object in which he had for the present
miscarried—the restoration of monarchy in England, the rebuilding of
the throne, the regaining the crown of his father, the avenging his
death, and restoring to their fortunes and their country the numerous
exiles, who were suffering poverty and banishment on account of their
attachment to his cause. Pride too, or rather a just and natural sense
of dignity, displayed the unworthiness of a Prince descending to actual
personal conflict with a subject of any degree, and the ridicule which
would be thrown on his memory, should he lose his life for an obscure
intrigue by the hand of a private gentleman. What would his sage
counsellors, Nicholas and Hyde—what would his kind and wise governor,
the Marquis of Hertford, say to such an act of rashness and folly?
Would it not be likely to shake the allegiance of the staid and prudent
persons of the royalist party, since wherefore should they expose their
lives and estates to raise to the government of a kingdom a young man
who could not command his own temper? To this was to be added, the
consideration that even his success would add double difficulties to
his escape, which already seemed sufficiently precarious. If, stopping
short of death, he merely had the better of his antagonist, how did he
know that he might not seek revenge by delivering up to government the
malignant Louis Kerneguy, whose real character could not in that case
fail to be discovered?
These considerations strongly recommended to Charles that he should
clear himself of the challenge without fighting; and the reservation
under which he had accepted it, afforded him some opportunity of doing
so.
But Passion also had her arguments, which she addressed to a temper
rendered irritable by recent distress and mortification. In the first
place, if he was a prince, he was also a gentleman, entitled to resent
as such, and obliged to give or claim the satisfaction expected on
occasion of differences among gentlemen. With Englishmen, she urged, he
could never lose interest by showing himself ready, instead of
sheltering himself under his royal birth and pretensions, to come
frankly forward and maintain what he had done or said on his own
responsibility. In a free nation, it seemed as if he would rather gain
than lose in the public estimation by a conduct which could not but
seem gallant and generous. Then a character for courage was far more
necessary to support his pretensions than any other kind of reputation;
and the lying under a challenge, without replying to it, might bring
his spirit into question. What would Villiers and Wilmot say of an
intrigue, in which he had allowed himself to be shamefully baffled by a
country girl, and had failed to revenge himself on his rival? The
pasquinades which they would compose, the witty sarcasms which they
would circulate on the occasion, would be harder to endure than the
grave rebukes of Hertford, Hyde, and Nicholas. This reflection, added
to the stings of youthful and awakened courage, at length fixed his
resolution, and he returned to Woodstock determined to keep his
appointment, come of it what might.
Perhaps there mingled with his resolution a secret belief that such a
rencontre would not prove fatal. He was in the flower of his youth,
active in all his exercises, and no way inferior to Colonel Everard, as
far as the morning’s experiment had gone, in that of self-defence. At
least, such recollection might pass through his royal mind, as he
hummed to himself a well-known ditty, which he had picked up during his
residence in Scotland—
“A man may drink and not be drunk;
A man may fight and not be slain;
A man may kiss a bonnie lass,
And yet be welcome back again.”
Meanwhile the busy and all-directing Dr. Rochecliffe had contrived to
intimate to Alice that she must give him a private audience, and she
found him by appointment in what was called the study, once filled with
ancient books, which, long since converted into cartridges, had made
more noise in the world at their final exit, than during the space
which had intervened betwixt that and their first publication. The
Doctor seated himself in a high-backed leathern easy-chair, and signed
to Alice to fetch a stool and sit down beside him.
“Alice,” said the old man, taking her hand affectionately, “thou art a
good girl, a wise girl, a virtuous girl, one of those whose price is
above rubies—not that _rubies_ is the proper translation—but remind me
to tell you of that another time. Alice, thou knowest who this Louis
Kerneguy is—nay, hesitate not to me—I know every thing—I am well aware
of the whole matter. Thou knowest this honoured house holds the
Fortunes of England.” Alice was about to answer. “Nay, speak not, but
listen to me, Alice—How does he bear himself towards you?”
Alice coloured with the deepest crimson. “I am a country-bred girl,”
she said, “and his manners are too courtlike for me.”
“Enough said—I know it all. Alice, he is exposed to a great danger
to-morrow, and you must be the happy means to prevent him.”
“I prevent him!—how, and in what manner?” said Alice, in surprise. “It
is my duty, as a subject, to do anything—anything that may become my
father’s daughter”—
Here she stopped, considerably embarrassed.
“Yes,” continued the Doctor, “to-morrow he hath made an appointment—an
appointment with Markham Everard; the hour and place are set—six in the
morning, by the King’s Oak. If they meet, one will probably fall.”
“Now, may God forefend they should meet,” said Alice, turning as
suddenly pale as she had previously reddened. “But harm cannot come of
it; Everard will never lift his sword against the King.”
“For that,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “I would not warrant. But if that
unhappy young gentleman shall have still some reserve of the loyalty
which his general conduct entirely disavows, it would not serve us
here; for he knows not the King, but considers him merely as a
cavalier, from whom he has received injury.”
“Let him know the truth, Doctor Rochecliffe, let him know it
instantly,” said Alice; “_he_ lift hand against the King, a fugitive
and defenceless! He is incapable of it. My life on the issue, he
becomes most active in his preservation.”
“That is the thought of a maiden, Alice,” answered the Doctor; “and, as
I fear, of a maiden whose wisdom is misled by her affections. It were
worse than treason to admit a rebel officer, the friend of the
arch-traitor Cromwell, into so great a secret. I dare not answer for
such rashness. Hammond was trusted by his father, and you know what
came of it.”
“Then let my father know. He will meet Markham, or send to him,
representing the indignity done to him by attacking his guest.”
“We dare not let your father into the secret who Louis Kerneguy really
is. I did but hint the possibility of Charles taking refuge at
Woodstock, and the rapture into which Sir Henry broke out, the
preparations for accommodation and the defence which he began to talk
of, plainly showed that the mere enthusiasm of his loyalty would have
led to a risk of discovery. It is you, Alice, who must save the hopes
of every true royalist.”
“I!” answered Alice; “it is impossible.—Why cannot my father be induced
to interfere, as in behalf of his friend and guest, though he know him
as no other than Louis Kerneguy?”
“You have forgot your father’s character, my young friend,” said the
Doctor; “an excellent man, and the best of Christians, till there is a
clashing of swords, and then he starts up the complete martialist, as
deaf to every pacific reasoning as if he were a game-cock.”
“You forget, Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, “that this very morning,
if I understand the thing aright, my father prevented them from
fighting.”
“Ay,” answered the Doctor, “because he deemed himself bound to keep the
peace in the Royal-Park; but it was done with such regret, Alice, that,
should he find them at it again, I am clear to foretell he will only so
far postpone the combat as to conduct them to some unprivileged ground,
and there bid them tilt and welcome, while he regaled his eyes with a
scene so pleasing. No, Alice, it is you, and you only, who can help us
in this extremity.”
“I see no possibility,” said she, again colouring, “how I can be of the
least use.”
“You must send a note,” answered Dr. Rochecliffe, “to the King—a note
such as all women know how to write better than any man can teach
them—to meet you at the precise hour of the rendezvous. He will not
fail you, for I know his unhappy foible.”
“Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice gravely,—“you have known me from
infancy,—What have you seen in me to induce you to believe that I
should ever follow such unbecoming counsel?”
“And if you have known _me_ from infancy,” retorted the Doctor, “what
have you seen of _me_ that you should suspect me of giving counsel to
my friend’s daughter, which it would be misbecoming in her to follow?
You cannot be fool enough, I think, to suppose, that I mean you should
carry your complaisance farther than to keep him in discourse for an
hour or two, till I have all in readiness for his leaving this place,
from which I can frighten him by the terrors of an alleged search?—So,
C. S. mounts his horse and rides off, and Mistress Alice Lee has the
honour of saving him.”
“Yes, at the expense of my own reputation,” said Alice, “and the risk
of an eternal stain on my family. You say you know all. What can the
King think of my appointing an assignation with him after what has
passed, and how will it be possible to disabuse him respecting the
purpose of my doing so?”
“I will disabuse him, Alice; I will explain the whole.”
“Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, “you propose what is impossible. You
can do much by your ready wit and great wisdom; but if new-fallen snow
were once sullied, not all your art could wash it clean again; and it
is altogether the same with a maiden’s reputation.”
“Alice, my dearest child,” said the Doctor, “bethink you that if I
recommended this means of saving the life of the King, at least
rescuing him from instant peril, it is because I see no other of which
to avail myself. If I bid you assume, even for a moment, the semblance
of what is wrong, it is but in the last extremity, and under
circumstances which cannot return—I will take the surest means to
prevent all evil report which can arise from what I recommend.”
“Say not so, Doctor,” said Alice; “better undertake to turn back the
Isis than to stop the course of calumny. The King will make boast to
his whole licentious court, of the ease with which, but for a sudden
alarm, he could have brought off Alice Lee as a paramour—the mouth
which confers honour on others, will then be the means to deprive me of
mine. Take a fitter course, one more becoming your own character and
profession. Do not lead him to fail in an engagement of honour, by
holding out the prospect of another engagement equally dishonourable,
whether false or true. Go to the King himself, speak to him, as the
servants of God have a right to speak, even to earthly sovereigns.
Point out to him the folly and the wickedness of the course he is about
to pursue—urge upon him, that he fear the sword, since wrath bringeth
the punishment of the sword. Tell him, that the friends who died for
him in the field at Worcester, on the scaffolds, and on the gibbets,
since that bloody day—that the remnant who are in prison, scattered,
fled, and ruined on his account, deserve better of him and his father’s
race, than that he should throw away his life in an idle brawl—Tell
him, that it is dishonest to venture that which is not his own,
dishonourable to betray the trust which brave men have reposed in his
virtue and in his courage.”
Dr. Rochecliffe looked on her with a melancholy smile, his eyes
glistening as he said, “Alas! Alice, even I could not plead that just
cause to him so eloquently or so impressively as thou dost. But, alack!
Charles would listen to neither. It is not from priests or women, he
would say, that men should receive counsel in affairs of honour.”
“Then, hear me, Doctor Rochecliffe—I will appear at the place of
rendezvous, and I will prevent the combat—do not fear that I can do
what I say—at a sacrifice, indeed, but not that of my reputation. My
heart may be broken”—she endeavoured to stifle her sobs with
difficulty—“for the consequence; but not in the imagination of a man,
and far less that man her sovereign, shall a thought of Alice Lee be
associated with dishonour.” She hid her face in her handkerchief, and
burst out into unrestrained tears.
“What means this hysterical passion?” said Dr. Rochecliffe, surprised
and somewhat alarmed by the vehemence of her grief—“Maiden, I must have
no concealments; I must know.”
“Exert your ingenuity, then, and discover it,” said Alice—for a moment
put out of temper at the Doctor’s pertinacious self-importance—“Guess
my purpose, as you can guess at every thing else. It is enough to have
to go through my task, I will not endure the distress of telling it
over, and that to one who—forgive me, dear Doctor—might not think my
agitation on this occasion fully warranted.”
“Nay, then, my young mistress, you must be ruled,” said Rochecliffe;
“and if I cannot make you explain yourself, I must see whether your
father can gain so far on you.” So saying, he arose somewhat
displeased, and walked towards the door.
“You forget what you yourself told me, Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice,
“of the risk of communicating this great secret to my father.”
“It is too true,” he said, stopping short and turning round; “and I
think, wench, thou art too smart for me, and I have not met many such.
But thou art a good girl, and wilt tell me thy device of free-will—it
concerns my character and influence with the King, that I should be
fully acquainted with whatever is _actum atque tractatum_, done and
treated of in this matter.”
“Trust your character to me, good Doctor,” said Alice, attempting to
smile; “it is of firmer stuff than those of women, and will be safer in
my custody than mine could have been in yours. And thus much I
condescend—you shall see the whole scene—you shall go with me yourself,
and much will I feel emboldened and heartened by your company.”
“That is something,” said the Doctor, though not altogether satisfied
with this limited confidence. “Thou wert ever a clever wench, and I
will trust thee; indeed, trust thee I find I must, whether voluntarily
or no.”
“Meet me, then,” said Alice, “in the wilderness to-morrow. But first
tell me, are you well assured of time and place?—a mistake were fatal.”
“Assure yourself my information is entirely accurate,” said the Doctor,
resuming his air of consequence, which had been a little diminished
during the latter part of their conference.
“May I ask,” said Alice, “through what channel you acquired such
important information?”
“You may ask, unquestionably,” he answered, now completely restored to
his supremacy; “but whether I will answer or not, is a very different
question. I conceive neither your reputation nor my own is interested
in your remaining in ignorance on that subject. So I have my secrets as
well as you, mistress; and some of them, I fancy, are a good deal more
worth knowing.”
“Be it so,” said Alice, quietly; “if you will meet me in the wilderness
by the broken dial at half-past five exactly, we will go together
to-morrow, and watch them as they come to the rendezvous. I will on the
way get the better of my present timidity, and explain to you the means
I design to employ to prevent mischief. You can perhaps think of making
some effort which may render my interference, unbecoming and painful as
it must be, altogether unnecessary.”
“Nay, my child,” said the Doctor, “if you place yourself in my hands,
you will be the first that ever had reason to complain of my want of
conduct, and you may well judge you are the very last (one excepted)
whom I would see suffer for want of counsel. At half-past five, then,
at the dial in the wilderness—and God bless our undertaking!”
Here their interview was interrupted by the sonorous voice of Sir Henry
Lee, which shouted their names, “Daughter Alice—Doctor Rochecliffe,”
through passage and gallery.
“What do you here,” said he, entering, “sitting like two crows in a
mist, when we have such rare sport below? Here is this wild
crack-brained boy Louis Kerneguy, now making me laugh till my sides are
fit to split, and now playing on his guitar sweetly enough to win a
lark from the heavens.—Come away with you, come away. It is hard work
to laugh alone.”