The sun had risen on the broad boughs of the forest, but without the
power of penetrating into its recesses, which hung rich with heavy
dewdrops, and were beginning on some of the trees to exhibit the varied
tints of autumn; it being the season when Nature, like a prodigal whose
race is well-nigh run, seems desirous to make up in profuse gaiety and
variety of colours, for the short space which her splendour has then to
endure. The birds were silent—and even Robin-redbreast, whose
chirruping song was heard among the bushes near the Lodge, emboldened
by the largesses with which the good old knight always encouraged his
familiarity, did not venture into the recesses of the wood, where he
encountered the sparrow-hawk, and other enemies of a similar
description, preferring the vicinity of the dwellings of man, from whom
he, almost solely among the feathered tribes, seems to experience
disinterested protection.
The scene was therefore at once lovely and silent, when the good Dr.
Rochecliffe, wrapped in a scarlet roquelaure, which had seen service in
its day, muffling his face more from habit than necessity, and
supporting Alice on his arm, (she also defended by a cloak against the
cold and damp of the autumn morning,) glided through the tangled and
long grass of the darkest alleys, almost ankle-deep in dew, towards the
place appointed for the intended duel. Both so eagerly maintained the
consultation in which they were engaged, that they were alike
insensible of the roughness and discomforts of the road, though often
obliged to force their way through brushwood and coppice, which poured
down on them all the liquid pearls with which they were loaded, till
the mantles they were wrapped in hung lank by their sides, and clung to
their shoulders heavily charged with moisture. They stopped when they
had attained a station under the coppice, and shrouded by it, from
which they could see all that passed on the little esplanade before the
King’s Oak, whose broad and scathed form, contorted and shattered
limbs, and frowning brows, made it appear like some ancient war-worn
champion, well selected to be the umpire of a field of single combat.
The first person who appeared at the rendezvous was the gay cavalier
Roger Wildrake. He also was wrapped in his cloak, but had discarded his
puritanic beaver, and wore in its stead a Spanish hat, with a feather
and gilt hatband, all of which had encountered bad weather and hard
service; but to make amends for the appearance of poverty by the show
of pretension, the castor was accurately adjusted after what was rather
profanely called the d—me cut, used among the more desperate cavaliers.
He advanced hastily, and exclaimed aloud—“First in the field after all,
by Jove, though I bilked Everard in order to have my morning draught.—
It has done me much good,” he added, smacking his lips.—“Well, I
suppose I should search the ground ere my principal comes up, whose
Presbyterian watch trudges as slow as his Presbyterian step.”
He took his rapier from under his cloak, and seemed about to search the
thickets around.
“I will prevent him,” whispered the Doctor to Alice. “I will keep faith
with you—you shall not come on the scene—_nisi dignus vindice nodus_—
I’ll explain that another time. _Vindex_ is feminine as well as
masculine, so the quotation is defensible.—Keep you close.”
So saying, he stepped forward on the esplanade, and bowed to Wildrake.
“Master Louis Kerneguy,” said Wildrake, pulling off his hat; but
instantly discovering his error, he added, “But no—I beg your pardon,
sir—Fatter, shorter, older.—Mr. Kerneguy’s friend, I suppose, with whom
I hope to have a turn by and by.—And why not now, sir, before our
principals come up? Just a snack to stay the orifice of the stomach,
till the dinner is served, sir? What say you?”
“To open the orifice of the stomach more likely, or to give it a new
one,” said the Doctor.
“True, sir,” said Roger, who seemed now in his element; “you say
well—that is as thereafter may be.—But come, sir, you wear your face
muffled. I grant you, it is honest men’s fashion at this unhappy time;
the more is the pity. But we do all above board—we have no traitors
here. I’ll get into my gears first, to encourage you, and show you that
you have to deal with a gentleman, who honours the King, and is a match
fit to fight with any who follow him, as doubtless you do, sir, since
you are the friend of Master Louis Kerneguy.”
All this while, Wildrake was busied undoing the clasps of his
square-caped cloak.
“Off—off, ye lendings,” he said, “borrowings I should more properly
call you—
Via the curtain which shadow’d Borgia!”
So saying, he threw the cloak from him, and appeared _in cuerpo_, in a
most cavalier-like doublet, of greasy crimson satin, pinked and slashed
with what had been once white tiffany; breeches of the same; and
nether-stocks, or, as we now call them, stockings, darned in many
places, and which, like those of Poins, had been once peach-coloured. A
pair of pumps, ill calculated for a walk through the dew, and a broad
shoulderbelt of tarnished embroidery, completed his equipment.
“Come, sir!” he exclaimed; “make haste, off with your slough—Here I
stand tight and true—as loyal a lad as ever stuck rapier through a
roundhead.—Come, sir, to your tools!” he continued; “we may have
half-a-dozen thrusts before they come yet, and shame them for their
tardiness.—Pshaw!” he exclaimed, in a most disappointed tone, when the
Doctor, unfolding his cloak, showed his clerical dress; “Tush! it’s but
the parson after all!”
Wildrake’s respect for the Church, however, and his desire to remove
one who might possibly interrupt a scene to which he looked forward
with peculiar satisfaction, induced him presently to assume another
tone.
“I beg pardon,” he said, “my dear Doctor—I kiss the hem of your
cassock—I do, by the thundering Jove—I beg your pardon again.—But I am
happy I have met with you—They are raving for your presence at the
Lodge—to marry, or christen, or bury, or confess, or something very
urgent.—For Heaven’s sake, make haste!”
“At the Lodge?” said the Doctor; “why, I left the Lodge this instant—I
was there later, I am sure, than you could be, who came the Woodstock
road.”
“Well,” replied Wildrake, “it is at Woodstock they want you.—Rat it,
did I say the Lodge?—No, no—Woodstock—Mine host cannot be hanged—his
daughter married—his bastard christened, or his wife buried—without the
assistance of a _real_ clergyman—Your Holdenoughs won’t do for
them.—He’s a true man mine host; so, as you value your function, make
haste.”
“You will pardon me, Master Wildrake,” said the Doctor—“I wait for
Master Louis Kerneguy.”
“The devil you do!” exclaimed Wildrake. “Why, I always knew the Scots
could do nothing without their minister; but d—n it, I never thought
they put them to this use neither. But I have known jolly customers in
orders, who understood how to handle the sword as well as their
prayer-book. You know the purpose of our meeting, Doctor. Do you come
only as a ghostly comforter—or as a surgeon, perhaps—or do you ever
take bilboa in hand?—Sa—sa!”
Here he made a fencing demonstration with his sheathed rapier.
“I have done so, sir, on necessary occasion,” said Dr. Rochecliffe.
“Good sir, let this stand for a necessary one,” said Wildrake. “You
know my devotion for the Church. If a divine of your skill would do me
the honour to exchange but three passes with me, I should think myself
happy for ever.”
“Sir,” said Rochecliffe, smiling, “were there no other objection to
what you propose, I have not the means—I have no weapon.”
“What? you want the _de quoi_? that is unlucky indeed. But you have a
stout cane in your hand—what hinders our trying a pass (my rapier being
sheathed of course) until our principals come up? My pumps are full of
this frost-dew; and I shall be a toe or two out of pocket, if I am to
stand still all the time they are stretching themselves; for, I fancy,
Doctor, you are of my opinion, that the matter will not be a fight of
cock-sparrows.”
“My business here is to make it, if possible, be no fight at all,” said
the divine.
“Now, rat me, Doctor, but that is too spiteful,” said Wildrake; “and
were it not for my respect for the Church, I could turn Presbyterian,
to be revenged.”
“Stand back a little, if you please, sir,” said the Doctor; “do not
press forward in that direction.”—For Wildrake, in the agitation of his
movements, induced by his disappointment, approached the spot where
Alice remained still concealed.
“And wherefore not, I pray you, Doctor?” said the cavalier.
But on advancing a step, he suddenly stopped short, and muttered to
himself, with a round oath of astonishment, “A petticoat in the
coppice, by all that is reverend, and at this hour in the morning—
_Whew—ew—ew_!”—He gave vent to his surprise in a long low
interjectional whistle; then turning to the Doctor, with his finger on
the side of his nose, “You’re sly, Doctor, d—d sly! But why not give me
a hint of your—your commodity there—your contraband goods? Gad, sir, I
am not a man to expose the eccentricities of the Church.”
“Sir,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “you are impertinent; and if time served,
and it were worth my while, I would chastise you.”
And the Doctor, who had served long enough in the wars to have added
some of the qualities of a captain of horse to those of a divine,
actually raised his cane, to the infinite delight of the rake, whose
respect for the Church was by no means able to subdue his love of
mischief.
“Nay, Doctor,” said he, “if you wield your weapon broadsword-fashion,
in that way, and raise it as high as your head, I shall be through you
in a twinkling.” So saying, he made a pass with his sheathed rapier,
not precisely at the Doctor’s person, but in that direction; when
Rochecliffe, changing the direction of his cane from the broadsword
guard to that of the rapier, made the cavalier’s sword spring ten yards
out of his hand, with all the dexterity of my friend Francalanza. At
this moment both the principal parties appeared on the field.
Everard exclaimed angrily to Wildrake, “Is this your friendship? In
Heaven’s name, what make you in that fool’s jacket, and playing the
pranks of a jack-pudding?” while his worthy second, somewhat
crest-fallen, held down his head, like a boy caught in roguery, and
went to pick up his weapon, stretching his head, as he passed, into the
coppice, to obtain another glimpse, if possible, of the concealed
object of his curiosity.
Charles in the meantime, still more surprised at what he beheld, called
out on his part—“What! Doctor Rochecliffe become literally one of the
church militant, and tilting with my friend cavalier Wildrake? May I
use the freedom to ask him to withdraw, as Colonel Everard and I have
some private business to settle?”
It was Dr. Rochecliffe’s cue, on this important occasion, to have armed
himself with the authority of his sacred office, and used a tone of
interference which might have overawed even a monarch, and made him
feel that his monitor spoke by a warrant higher than his own. But the
indiscreet latitude he had just given to his own passion, and the
levity in which he had been detected, were very unfavourable to his
assuming that superiority, to which so uncontrollable a spirit as that
of Charles, wilful as a prince, and capricious as a wit, was at all
likely to submit. The Doctor did, however, endeavour to rally his
dignity, and replied, with the gravest, and at the same time the most
respectful, tone he could assume, that he also had business of the most
urgent nature, which prevented him from complying with Master
Kerneguy’s wishes and leaving the spot.
“Excuse this untimely interruption,” said Charles, taking off his hat,
and bowing to Colonel Everard, “which I will immediately put an end
to.” Everard gravely returned his salute, and was silent.
“Are you mad, Doctor Rochecliffe?” said Charles—“or are you deaf?—or
have you forgotten your mother-tongue? I desired you to leave this
place.”
“I am not mad,” said the divine, rousing up his resolution, and
regaining the natural firmness of his voice—“I would prevent others
from being so; I am not deaf—I would pray others to hear the voice of
reason and religion; I have not forgotten my mother-tongue—but I have
come hither to speak the language of the Master of kings and princes.”
“To fence with broomsticks, I should rather suppose,” said the King—
“Come, Doctor Rochecliffe, this sudden fit of assumed importance befits
you as little as your late frolic. You are not, I apprehend, either a
Catholic priest or a Scotch Mass-John to claim devoted obedience from
your hearers, but a Church-of-England-man, subject to the rules of that
Communion—and to its HEAD.” In speaking the last words, the King
lowered his voice to a low and impressive whisper. Everard observing
this drew back, the natural generosity of his temper directing him to
avoid overhearing private discourse, in which the safety of the
speakers might be deeply concerned. They continued, however, to observe
great caution in their forms of expression.
“Master Kerneguy,” said the clergyman, “it is not I who assume
authority or control over your wishes—God forbid; I do but tell you
what reason, Scripture, religion, and morality, alike prescribe for
your rule of conduct.”
“And I, Doctor,” said the King, smiling, and pointing to the unlucky
cane, “will take your example rather than your precept. If a reverend
clergyman will himself fight a bout at single-stick, what right can he
have to interfere in gentlemen’s quarrels?—Come, sir, remove yourself,
and do not let your present obstinacy cancel former obligations.”
“Bethink yourself,” said the divine,—“I can say one word which will
prevent all this.”
“Do it,” replied the King, “and in doing so belie the whole tenor and
actions of an honourable life—abandon the principles of your Church,
and become a perjured traitor and an apostate, to prevent another
person from discharging his duty as a gentleman! This were indeed
killing your friend to prevent the risk of his running himself into
danger. Let the Passive Obedience, which is so often in your mouth, and
no doubt in your head, put your feet for once into motion, and step
aside for ten minutes. Within that space your assistance may be needed,
either as body-curer or soul-curer.”
“Nay, then,” said Dr. Rochecliffe, “I have but one argument left.”
While this conversation was carried on apart, Everard had almost
forcibly detained by his own side his follower, Wildrake, whose greater
curiosity, and lesser delicacy, would otherwise have thrust him
forward, to get, if possible, into the secret. But when he saw the
Doctor turn into the coppice, he whispered eagerly to Everard—“A gold
Carolus to a commonwealth farthing, the Doctor has not only come to
preach a peace, but has brought the principal conditions along with
him!”
Everard made no answer; he had already unsheathed his sword; and
Charles hardly saw Rochecliffe’s back fairly turned, than he lost no
time in following his example. But, ere they had done more than salute
each other, with the usual courteous nourish of their weapons, Dr.
Rochecliffe again stood between them, leading in his hand Alice Lee,
her garments dank with dew, and her long hair heavy with moisture, and
totally uncurled. Her face was extremely pale, but it was the paleness
of desperate resolution, not of fear. There was a dead pause of
astonishment—the combatants rested on their swords—and even the
forwardness of Wildrake only vented itself in half-suppressed
ejaculations, as, “Well done, Doctor—this beats the ‘parson among the
pease’—No less than your patron’s daughter—And Mistress Alice, whom I
thought a very snowdrop, turned out a dog-violet after all—a
Lindabrides, by heavens, and altogether one of ourselves.”
Excepting these unheeded mutterings, Alice was the first to speak.
“Master Everard,” she said—“Master Kerneguy, you are surprised to see
me here—Yet, why should I not tell the reason at once? Convinced that I
am, however guiltlessly, the unhappy cause of your misunderstanding, I
am too much interested to prevent fatal consequences to pause upon any
step which may end it.—Master Kerneguy, have my wishes, my entreaties,
my prayers—have your noble thoughts—the recollections of your own high
duties, no weight with you in this matter? Let me entreat you to
consult reason, religion, and common sense, and return your weapon.”
“I am obedient as an Eastern slave, madam,” answered Charles, sheathing
his sword; “but I assure you, the matter about which you distress
yourself is a mere trifle, which will be much better settled betwixt
Colonel Everard and myself in five minutes, than with the assistance of
the whole Convocation of the Church, with a female parliament to assist
their reverend deliberations.—Mr. Everard, will you oblige me by
walking a little farther?—We must change ground, it seems.”
“I am ready to attend you, sir,” said Everard, who had sheathed his
sword so soon as his antagonist did so.
“I have then no interest with you, sir,” said Alice, continuing to
address the King—“Do you not fear I should use the secret in my power
to prevent this affair going to extremity? Think you this gentleman,
who raises his hand against you, if he knew”—
“If he knew that I were Lord Wilmot, you would say?—Accident has given
him proof to that effect, with which he is already satisfied, and I
think you would find it difficult to induce him to embrace a different
opinion.”
Alice paused, and looked on the King with great indignation, the
following words dropping from her mouth by intervals, as if they burst
forth one by one in spite of feelings that would have restrained
them—“Cold—selfish—ungrateful—unkind!—Woe to the land which”—Here she
paused with marked emphasis, then added—“which shall number thee, or
such as thee, among her nobles and rulers!”
“Nay, fair Alice,” said Charles, whose good nature could not but feel
the severity of this reproach, though too slightly to make all the
desired impression, “You are too unjust to me—too partial to a happier
man. Do not call me unkind; I am but here to answer Mr. Everard’s
summons. I could neither decline attending, nor withdraw now I am here,
without loss of honour; and my loss of honour would be a disgrace which
must extend to many—I cannot fly from Mr. Everard—it would be too
shameful. If he abides by his message, it must be decided as such
affairs usually are. If he retreats or yields it up, I will, for your
sake, wave punctilio. I will not even ask an apology for the trouble it
has afforded me, but let all pass as if it were the consequence of some
unhappy mistake, the grounds of which shall remain on my part
unenquired into.—This I will do for your sake, and it is much for a man
of honour to condescend so far—You know that the condescension from me
in particular is great indeed. Then do not call me ungenerous, or
ungrateful, or unkind, since I am ready to do all, which, as a man, I
can do, and more perhaps than as a man of honour I ought to do.”
“Do you hear this, Markham Everard?” exclaimed Alice—“do you hear
this?—The dreadful option is left entirely at your disposal. You were
wont to be temperate in passion, religious, forgiving—will you, for a
mere punctilio, drive on this private and unchristian broil to a
murderous extremity? Believe me, if you now, contrary to all the better
principles of your life, give the reins to your passions, the
consequences may be such as you will rue for your lifetime, and even,
if Heaven have not mercy, rue after your life is finished.”
Markham Everard remained for a moment gloomily silent,—with his eyes
fixed on the ground. At length he looked up, and answered her—“Alice,
you are a soldier’s daughter—a soldier’s sister. All your relations,
even including one whom you then entertained some regard for, have been
made soldiers by these unhappy discords. Yet you have seen them take
the field—in some instances on contrary sides, to do their duty where
their principles called them, without manifesting this extreme degree
of interest.”
He continued, “However, what is the true concern here is our relations
with your own self, and mine is with this gentleman’s interest in you.
I had expected that our disagreement could be dealt with as men dispute
matters of honor. With your intrusion this cannot be done. I have few
other options for politely resolving this, for you would surely hate
the one who killed the other, to the loss of us both. Therefore,”
addressing Charles, “in the interest of avoid this fate, I am forced to
yield my interest in her to you; and, as I will never be the means of
giving her pain, I trust you will not think I act unworthily in
retracting the letter which gave you the trouble of attending this
place at this hour.—Alice,” he said, turning his head towards her,
“Farewell, Alice, at once, and for ever!”
The poor young lady, whose adventitious spirit had almost deserted her,
attempted to repeat the word farewell, but failing in the attempt, only
accomplished a broken and imperfect sound, and would have sunk to the
ground, but for Dr. Rochecliffe, who caught her as she fell. Roger
Wildrake, also, who had twice or thrice put to his eyes what remained
of a kerchief, interested by the lady’s evident distress, though unable
to comprehend the mysterious cause, hastened to assist the divine in
supporting so fair a burden.
Meanwhile, the disguised Prince had beheld the whole in silence, but
with an agitation to which he was unwonted, and which his swarthy
features, and still more his motions, began to betray. His posture was
at first absolutely stationary, with his arms folded on his bosom, as
one who waits to be guided by the current of events; presently after,
he shifted his position, advanced and retired his foot, clenched and
opened his hand, and otherwise showed symptoms that he was strongly
agitated by contending feelings—was on the point, too, of forming some
sudden resolution, and yet still in uncertainty what course he should
pursue.
But when he saw Markham Everard, after one look of unspeakable anguish
towards Alice, turning his back to depart, he broke out into his
familiar ejaculation, “Oddsfish! this must not be.” In three strides he
overtook the slowly retiring Everard, tapped him smartly on the
shoulder, and, as he turned round, said, with an air of command, which
he well knew how to adopt at pleasure, “One word with you, sir.”
“At your pleasure, sir,” replied Everard; and naturally conjecturing
the purpose of his antagonist to be hostile, took hold of his rapier
with the left hand, and laid the right on the hilt, not displeased at
the supposed call; for anger is at least as much akin to disappointment
as pity is said to be to love.
“Pshaw!” answered the King, “that cannot be _now_—Colonel Everard, I am
CHARLES STEWART!”
Everard recoiled in the greatest surprise, and next exclaimed,
“Impossible—it cannot be! The King of Scots has escaped from
Bristol.—My Lord Wilmot, your talents for intrigue are well known; but
this will not pass upon me.”
“The King of Scots, Master Everard,” replied Charles, “since you are so
pleased to limit his sovereignty—at any rate, the Eldest Son of the
late Sovereign of Britain—is now before you; therefore it is impossible
he could have escaped from Bristol. Doctor Rochecliffe shall be my
voucher, and will tell you, moreover, that Wilmot is of a fair
complexion and light hair; mine, you may see, is swart as a raven.”
Rochecliffe, seeing what was passing, abandoned Alice to the care of
Wildrake, whose extreme delicacy in the attempts he made to bring her
back to life, formed an amiable contrast to his usual wildness, and
occupied him so much, that he remained for the moment ignorant of the
disclosure in which he would have been so much interested. As for Dr.
Rochecliffe, he came forward, wringing his hands in all the
demonstration of extreme anxiety, and with the usual exclamations
attending such a state.
“Peace, Doctor Rochecliffe!” said the King, with such complete
self-possession as indeed became a prince; “we are in the hands, I am
satisfied, of a man of honour. Master Everard must be pleased in
finding only a fugitive prince in the person in whom he thought he had
discovered a successful rival. He cannot but be aware of the feelings
which prevented me from taking advantage of the cover which this young
lady’s devoted loyalty afforded me, at the risk of her own happiness.
He is the party who is to profit by my candour; and certainly I have a
right to expect that my condition, already indifferent enough, shall
not be rendered worse by his becoming privy to it under such
circumstances. At any rate, the avowal is made; and it is for Colonel
Everard to consider how he is to conduct himself.”
“Oh, your Majesty! my Liege! my King! my royal Prince!” exclaimed
Wildrake, who, at length discovering what was passing, had crawled on
his knees, and seizing the King’s hand, was kissing it, more like a
child mumbling gingerbread, or like a lover devouring the yielded hand
of his mistress, than in the manner in which such salutations pass at
court—“If my dear friend Mark Everard should prove a dog on this
occasion, rely on me I will cut his throat on the spot, were I to do
the same for myself the moment afterwards!”
“Hush, hush, my good friend and loyal subject,” said the King, “and
compose yourself; for though I am obliged to put on the Prince for a
moment, we have not privacy or safety to receive our subjects in King
Cambyses’ vein.”
Everard, who had stood for a time utterly confounded, awoke at length
like a man from a dream.
“Sire,” he said, bowing low, and with profound deference, “if I do not
offer you the homage of a subject with knee and sword, it is because
God, by whom kings reign, has denied you for the present the power of
ascending your throne without rekindling civil war. For your safety
being endangered by me, let not such an imagination for an instant
cross your mind. Had I not respected your person—were I not bound to
you for the candour with which your noble avowal has prevented the
misery of my future life, your misfortunes would have rendered your
person as sacred, so far as I can protect it, as it could be esteemed
by the most devoted royalist in the kingdom. If your plans are soundly
considered, and securely laid, think that all which is now passed is
but a dream. If they are in such a state that I can aid them, saving my
duty to the Commonwealth, which will permit me to be privy to no
schemes of actual violence, your Majesty may command my services.”
“It may be I may be troublesome to you, sir,” said the King; “for my
fortunes are not such as to permit me to reject even the most limited
offers of assistance; but if I can, I will dispense with applying to
you. I would not willingly put any man’s compassion at war with his
sense of duty on my account.—Doctor, I think there will be no farther
tilting to-day, either with sword or cane; so we may as well return to
the Lodge, and leave these”—looking at Alice and Everard—“who may have
more to say in explanation.”
“No—no!” exclaimed Alice, who was now perfectly come to herself, and
partly by her own observation, and partly from the report of Dr.
Rochecliffe, comprehended all that had taken place—“My cousin Everard
and I have nothing to explain; he will forgive me for having riddled
with him when I dared not speak plainly; and I forgive him for having
read my riddle wrong. But my father has my promise—we must not
correspond or converse for the present—I return instantly to the Lodge,
and he to Woodstock, unless you, sire,” bowing to the King, “command
his duty otherwise. Instant to the town, Cousin Markham; and if danger
should approach, give us warning.”
Everard would have delayed her departure, would have excused himself
for his unjust suspicion, would have said a thousand things; but she
would not listen to him, saying, for all other answer,—“Farewell,
Markham, till God send better days!”
“She is an angel of truth and beauty,” said Roger Wildrake; “and I,
like a blasphemous heretic, called her a Lindabrides![1]—But has your
Majesty, craving your pardon, no commands for poor Hodge Wildrake, who
will blow out his own or any other man’s brains in England, to do your
Grace a pleasure?”
[1] A sort of court name for a female of no reputation.
“We entreat our good friend Wildrake to do nothing hastily,” said
Charles, smiling; “such brains as his are rare, and should not be
rashly dispersed, as the like may not be easily collected. We recommend
him to be silent and prudent—to tilt no more with loyal clergymen of
the Church of England, and to get himself a new jacket with all
convenient speed, to which we beg to contribute our royal aid. When fit
time comes, we hope to find other service for him.”
As he spoke, he slid ten pieces into the hand of poor Wildrake, who,
confounded with the excess of his loyal gratitude, blubbered like a
child, and would have followed the King, had not Dr. Rochecliffe, in
few words, but peremptory, insisted that he should return with his
patron, promising him he should certainly be employed in assisting the
King’s escape, could an opportunity be found of using his services.
“Be so generous, reverend sir, and you bind me to you for ever,” said
the cavalier; “and I conjure you not to keep malice against me on
account of the foolery you wot of.”
“I have no occasion, Captain Wildrake,” said the Doctor, “for I think I
had the best of it.”
“Well, then, Doctor, I forgive you on my part: and I pray you, for
Christian charity, let me have a finger in this good service; for as I
live in hope of it, rely that I shall die of disappointment.”
While the Doctor and soldier thus spoke together, Charles took leave of
Everard, (who remained uncovered while he spoke to him,) with his usual
grace—“I need not bid you no longer be jealous of me,” said the King;
“for I presume you will scarce think of a match betwixt Alice and me,
which would be too losing a one on her side. For other thoughts, the
wildest libertine could not entertain them towards so high-minded a
creature; and believe me, that my sense of her merit did not need this
last distinguished proof of her truth and loyalty. I saw enough of her
from her answers to some idle sallies of gallantry, to know with what a
lofty character she is endowed. Mr. Everard, her happiness I see
depends on you, and I trust you will be the careful guardian of it. If
we can take any obstacle out of the way of your joint happiness, be
assured we will use our influence.—Farewell, sir; if we cannot be
better friends, do not at least let us entertain harder or worse
thoughts of each other than we have now.”
There was something in the manner of Charles that was extremely
affecting; something too, in his condition as a fugitive in the kingdom
which was his own by inheritance, that made a direct appeal to
Everard’s bosom—though in contradiction to the dictates of that policy
which he judged it his duty to pursue in the distracted circumstances
of the country. He remained, as we have said, uncovered; and in his
manner testified the highest expression of reverence, up to the point
when such might seem a symbol of allegiance. He bowed so low as almost
to approach his lips to the hand of Charles—but he did not kiss it.—“I
would rescue your person, sir,” he said, “with the purchase of my own
life. More”—He stopped short, and the King took up his sentence where
it broke off—“More you cannot do,” said Charles, “to maintain an
honourable consistency—but what you have said is enough. You cannot
render homage to my proffered hand as that of a sovereign, but you will
not prevent my taking yours as a friend—if you allow me to call myself
so—I am sure, as a well-wisher at least.”
The generous soul of Everard was touched—He took the King’s hand, and
pressed it to his lips.
“Oh!” he said, “were better times to come”—
“Bind yourself to nothing, dear Everard,” said the good-natured Prince,
partaking his emotion—“We reason ill while our feelings are moved. I
will recruit no man to his loss, nor will I have my fallen fortunes
involve those of others, because they have humanity enough to pity my
present condition. If better times come, why we will meet again, and I
hope to our mutual satisfaction. If not, as your future father-in-law
would say,” (a benevolent smile came over his face, and accorded not
unmeetly with his glistening eyes,)—“If not, this parting was well
made.”
Everard turned away with a deep bow, almost choking under contending
feelings; the uppermost of which was a sense of the generosity with
which Charles, at his own imminent risk, had cleared away the darkness
that seemed about to overwhelm his prospects of happiness for life—
mixed with a deep sense of the perils by which he was environed. He
returned to the little town, followed by his attendant Wildrake, who
turned back so often, with weeping eyes, and hands clasped and uplifted
as supplicating Heaven, that Everard was obliged to remind him that his
gestures might be observed by some one, and occasion suspicion.
The generous conduct of the King during the closing part of this
remarkable scene, had not escaped Alice’s notice; and, erasing at once
from her mind all resentment of Charles’s former conduct, and all the
suspicions they had deservedly excited, awakened in her bosom a sense
of the natural goodness of his disposition, which permitted her to
unite regard for his person, with that reverence for his high office in
which she had been educated as a portion of her creed. She felt
convinced, and delighted with the conviction, that his virtues were his
own, his libertinism the fault of education, or rather want of
education, and the corrupting advice of sycophants and flatterers. She
could not know, or perhaps did not in that moment consider, that in a
soil where no care is taken to eradicate tares, they will outgrow and
smother the wholesome seed, even if the last is more natural to the
soil. For, as Dr. Rochecliffe informed her afterwards for her
edification, promising, as was his custom, to explain the precise words
on some future occasion, if she would put him in mind—_Virtus rectorem
ducemque desiderat; Vitia sine magistro discuntur_.[2]
[2] The quotations of the learned doctor and antiquary were often left
uninterpreted, though seldom incommunicated, owing to his contempt for
those who did not understand the learned languages, and his dislike to
the labour of translation, for the benefit of ladies and of country
gentlemen. That fair readers and country thanes may not on this
occasion burst in ignorance, we add the meaning of the passage in the
text—“_Virtue requires the aid of a governor and director; vices are
learned without a teacher_.”
There was no room for such reflections at present. Conscious of mutual
sincerity, by a sort of intellectual communication, through which
individuals are led to understand each other better, perhaps, in
delicate circumstances, than by words, reserve and simulation appeared
to be now banished from the intercourse between the King and Alice.
With manly frankness, and, at the same time, with princely
condescension, he requested her, exhausted as she was, to accept of his
arm on the way homeward, instead of that of Dr. Rochecliffe; and Alice
accepted of his support with modest humility, but without a shadow of
mistrust or fear. It seemed as if the last half hour had satisfied them
perfectly with the character of each other, and that each had full
conviction of the purity and sincerity of the other’s intentions.
Dr. Rochecliffe, in the meantime, had fallen some four or five paces
behind; for, less light and active than Alice, (who had, besides, the
assistance of the King’s support,) he was unable, without effort and
difficulty, to keep up with the pace of Charles, who then was, as we
have elsewhere noticed, one of the best walkers in England, and was
sometimes apt to forget (as great men will) that others were inferior
to him in activity.
“Dear Alice,” said the King, but as if the epithet were entirely
fraternal, “I like your Everard much—I would to God he were of our
determination—But since that cannot be, I am sure he will prove a
generous enemy.” “May it please you, sire,” said Alice, modestly, but
with some firmness, “my cousin will never be your Majesty’s personal
enemy—and he is one of the few on whose slightest word you may rely
more than on the oath of those who profess more strongly and formally.
He is utterly incapable of abusing your Majesty’s most generous and
voluntary confidence.”
“On my honour, I believe so, Alice,” replied the King: “But oddsfish!
my girl, let Majesty sleep for the present—it concerns my safety, as I
told your brother lately—Call me sir, then, which belongs alike to
king, peer, knight, and gentleman—or rather let me be wild Louis
Kerneguy again.” Alice looked down, and shook her head. “That cannot
be, please your Majesty.”
“What! Louis was a saucy companion—a naughty presuming boy—and you
cannot abide him?—Well, perhaps you are right—But we will wait for Dr.
Rochecliffe”—he said, desirous, with good-natured delicacy, to make
Alice aware that he had no purpose of engaging her in any discussion
which could recall painful ideas. They paused accordingly, and again
she felt relieved and grateful.
“I cannot persuade our fair friend, Mistress Alice, Doctor,” said the
King, “that she must, in prudence, forbear using titles of respect to
me, while there are such very slender means of sustaining them.”
“It is a reproach to earth and to fortune,” answered the divine, as
fast as his recovered breath would permit him, “that your most sacred
Majesty’s present condition should not accord with the rendering of
those honours which are your own by birth, and which, with God’s
blessing on the efforts of your loyal subjects, I hope to see rendered
to you as your hereditary right, by the universal voice of the three
kingdoms.”
“True, Doctor,” replied the King; “but, in the meanwhile, can you
expound to Mistress Alice Lee two lines of Horace, which I have carried
in my thick head several years, till now they have come pat to my
purpose. As my canny subjects of Scotland say, If you keep a thing
seven years you are sure to find a use for it at last—_Telephus_—ay, so
it begins—
‘Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba.’”
“I will explain the passage to Mistress Alice,” said the Doctor, “when
she reminds me of it—or rather,” (he added, recollecting that his
ordinary dilatory answer on such occasions ought not to be returned
when the order for exposition emanated from his Sovereign,) “I will
repeat a poor couplet from my own translation of the poem—
‘Heroes and kings, in exile forced to roam.
Leave swelling phrase and seven-leagued words at home.’”
“A most admirable version, Doctor,” said Charles; “I feel all its
force, and particularly the beautiful rendering of _sesquipedalia
verba_ into seven-leagued boots—words I mean—it reminds me, like half
the things I meet with in this world, of the _Contes de Commère
L’Oye_.”[3]
[3] Tales of Mother Goose.
Thus conversing they reached the Lodge; and as the King went to his
chamber to prepare for the breakfast summons, now impending, the idea
crossed his mind, “Wilmot, and Villiers, and Killigrew, would laugh at
me, did they hear of a campaign in which neither man nor woman had been
conquered—But, oddsfish! let them laugh as they will, there is
something at my heart which tells me, that for once in my life I have
acted well.”
That day and the next were spent in tranquillity, the King waiting
impatiently for the intelligence, which was to announce to him that a
vessel was prepared somewhere on the coast. None such was yet in
readiness; but he learned that the indefatigable Albert Lee was, at
great personal risk, traversing the sea-coast from town to village, and
endeavouring to find means of embarkation among the friends of the
royal cause, and the correspondents of Dr. Rochecliffe.