At this time we should give some account of the other actors in our
drama, the interest due to the principal personages having for some
time engrossed our attention exclusively.
We are, therefore, to inform the reader, that the lingering longings of
the Commissioners, who had been driven forth of their proposed paradise
of Woodstock, not by a cherub indeed, but, as they thought, by spirits
of another sort, still detained them in the vicinity. They had, indeed,
left the little borough under pretence of indifferent accommodation.
The more palpable reasons were, that they entertained some resentment
against Everard, as the means of their disappointment, and had no mind
to reside where their proceedings could be overlooked by him, although
they took leave in terms of the utmost respect. They went, however, no
farther than Oxford, and remained there, as ravens, who are accustomed
to witness the chase, sit upon a tree or crag, at a little distance,
and watch the disembowelling of the deer, expecting the relics which
fall to their share. Meantime, the University and City, but especially
the former, supplied them with some means of employing their various
faculties to advantage, until the expected moment, when, as they hoped,
they should either be summoned to Windsor, or Woodstock should once
more be abandoned to their discretion.
Bletson, to pass the time, vexed the souls of such learned and pious
divines and scholars, as he could intrude his hateful presence upon, by
sophistry, atheistical discourse, and challenges to them to impugn the
most scandalous theses. Desborough, one of the most brutally ignorant
men of the period, got himself nominated the head of a college, and
lost no time in cutting down trees, and plundering plate. As for
Harrison, he preached in full uniform in Saint Mary’s Church, wearing
his buff-coat, boots, and spurs, as if he were about to take the field
for the fight at Armageddon. And it was hard to say, whether the seat
of Learning, Religion, and Loyalty, as it is called by Clarendon, was
more vexed by the rapine of Desborough, the cold scepticism of Bletson,
or the frantic enthusiasm of the Fifth-Monarchy Champion.
Ever and anon, soldiers, under pretence of relieving guard, or
otherwise, went and came betwixt Woodstock and Oxford, and maintained,
it may be supposed, a correspondence with Trusty Tomkins, who, though
he chiefly resided in the town of Woodstock, visited the Lodge
occasionally, and to whom, therefore, they doubtless trusted for
information concerning the proceedings there.
Indeed, this man Tomkins seemed by some secret means to have gained the
confidence in part, if not in whole, of almost every one connected with
these intrigues. All closeted him, all conversed with him in private;
those who had the means propitiated him with gifts, those who had not
were liberal of promises. When he chanced to appear at Woodstock, which
always seemed as it were by accident—if he passed through the hall, the
knight was sure to ask him to take the foils, and was equally certain
to be, after less or more resistance, victorious in the encounter; so,
in consideration of so many triumphs, the good Sir Henry almost forgave
him the sins of rebellion and puritanism. Then, if his slow and formal
step was heard in the passages approaching the gallery, Dr.
Rochecliffe, though he never introduced him to his peculiar boudoir,
was sure to meet Master Tomkins in some neutral apartment, and to
engage him in long conversations, which apparently had great interest
for both.
Neither was the Independent’s reception below stairs less gracious than
above. Joceline failed not to welcome him with the most cordial
frankness; the pasty and the flagon were put in immediate requisition,
and good cheer was the general word. The means for this, it may be
observed, had grown more plenty at Woodstock since the arrival of Dr.
Rochecliffe, who, in quality of agent for several royalists, had
various sums of money at his disposal. By these funds it is likely that
Trusty Tomkins also derived his own full advantage.
In his occasional indulgence in what he called a fleshly frailty, (and
for which he said he had a privilege,) which was in truth an attachment
to strong liquors, and that in no moderate degree, his language, at
other times remarkably decorous and reserved, became wild and animated.
He sometimes talked with all the unction of an old debauchee, of former
exploits, such as deer-stealing, orchard-robbing, drunken gambols, and
desperate affrays in which he had been engaged in the earlier part of
his life, sung bacchanalian and amorous ditties, dwelt sometimes upon
adventures which drove Phœbe Mayflower from the company, and penetrated
even the deaf ears of Dame Jellicot, so as to make the buttery in which
he held his carousals no proper place for the poor old woman.
In the middle of these wild rants, Tomkins twice or thrice suddenly ran
into religious topics, and spoke mysteriously, but with great
animation, and a rich eloquence, on the happy and pre-eminent saints,
who were saints, as he termed them, indeed—Men who had stormed the
inner treasure-house of Heaven, and possessed themselves of its
choicest jewels. All other sects he treated with the utmost contempt,
as merely quarrelling, as he expressed it, like hogs over a trough
about husks and acorns; under which derogatory terms, he included alike
the usual rites and ceremonies of public devotion, the ordinances of
the established churches of Christianity, and the observances, nay, the
forbearances, enjoined by every class of Christians. Scarcely hearing,
and not at all understanding him, Joceline, who seemed his most
frequent confidant on such occasions, generally led him back into some
strain of rude mirth, or old recollection of follies before the Civil
Wars, without caring about or endeavouring to analyze the opinion of
this saint of an evil fashion, but fully sensible of the protection
which his presence afforded at Woodstock, and confident in the honest
meaning of so freespoken a fellow, to whom ale and brandy, when better
liquor was not to be come by, seemed to be principal objects of life,
and who drank a health to the King, or any one else, whenever required,
provided the cup in which he was to perform the libation were but a
brimmer.
These peculiar doctrines, which were entertained by a sect sometimes
termed the Family of Love, but more commonly Ranters, had made some
progress in times when such variety of religious opinions were
prevalent, that men pushed the jarring heresies to the verge of
absolute and most impious insanity. Secrecy had been enjoined on these
frantic believers in a most blasphemous doctrine, by the fear of
consequences, should they come to be generally announced; and it was
the care of Master Tomkins to conceal the spiritual freedom which he
pretended to have acquired, from all whose resentment would have been
stirred by his public avowal of them. This was not difficult; for their
profession of faith permitted, nay, required their occasional
conformity with the sectaries or professors of any creed which chanced
to be uppermost.
Tomkins had accordingly the art to pass himself on Dr. Rochecliffe as
still a zealous member of the Church of England, though serving under
the enemy’s colours, as a spy in their camp; and as he had on several
times given him true and valuable intelligence, this active intriguer
was the more easily induced to believe his professions.
Nevertheless, lest this person’s occasional presence at the Lodge,
which there were perhaps no means to prevent without exciting
suspicion, should infer danger to the King’s person, Rochecliffe,
whatever confidence he otherwise reposed in him, recommended that, if
possible, the King should keep always out of his sight, and when
accidentally discovered, that he should only appear in the character of
Louis Kerneguy. Joseph Tomkins, he said, was, he really believed,
Honest Joe; but honesty was a horse which might be overburdened, and
there was no use in leading our neighbour into temptation.
It seemed as if Tomkins himself had acquiesced in this limitation of
confidence exercised towards him, or that he wished to seem blinder
than he really was to the presence of this stranger in the family. It
occurred to Joceline, who was a very shrewd fellow, that once or twice,
when by inevitable accident Tomkins had met Kerneguy, he seemed less
interested in the circumstance than he would have expected from the
man’s disposition, which was naturally prying and inquisitive. “He
asked no questions about the young stranger,” said Joceline—“God avert
that he knows or suspects too much!” But his suspicions were removed,
when, in the course of their subsequent conversation, Joseph Tomkins
mentioned the King’s escape from Bristol as a thing positively certain,
and named both the vessel in which, he said, he had gone off, and the
master who commanded her, seeming so convinced of the truth of the
report, that Joceline judged it impossible he could have the slightest
suspicion of the reality.
Yet, notwithstanding this persuasion, and the comradeship which had
been established between them, the faithful under-keeper resolved to
maintain a strict watch over his gossip Tomkins, and be in readiness to
give the alarm should occasion arise. True, he thought, he had reason
to believe that his said friend, notwithstanding his drunken and
enthusiastic rants, was as trustworthy as he was esteemed by Dr.
Rochecliffe; yet still he was an adventurer, the outside and lining of
whose cloak were of different colours, and a high reward, and pardon
for past acts of malignancy, might tempt him once more to turn his
tippet. For these reasons Joceline kept a strict, though unostentatious
watch over Trusty Tomkins.
We have said, that the discreet seneschal was universally well received
at Woodstock, whether in the borough or at the Lodge, and that even
Joceline Joliffe was anxious to conceal any suspicions which he could
not altogether repress, under a great show of cordial hospitality.
There were, however, two individuals, who, for very different reasons,
nourished personal dislike against the individual so generally
acceptable.
One was Nehemiah Holdenough, who remembered, with great bitterness of
spirit, the Independent’s violent intrusion into his pulpit, and who
ever spoke of him in private as a lying missionary, into whom Satan had
put a spirit of delusion; and preached, besides, a solemn sermon on the
subject of the false prophet, out of whose mouth came frogs. The
discourse was highly prized by the Mayor and most of the better class,
who conceived that their minister had struck a heavy blow at the very
root of Independency. On the other hand, those of the private spirit
contended, that Joseph Tomkins had made a successful and triumphant
rally, in an exhortation on the evening of the same day, in which he
proved, to the conviction of many handicraftsmen, that the passage in
Jeremiah, “The prophets prophesy falsely, and the priests bare rule by
their means,” was directly applicable to the Presbyterian system of
church government. The clergyman dispatched an account of his
adversary’s conduct to the Reverend Master Edwards, to be inserted in
the next edition of Gangraena, as a pestilent heretic; and Tomkins
recommended the parson to his master, Desborough, as a good subject on
whom to impose a round fine, for vexing the private spirit; assuring
him, at the same time, that though the minister might seem poor, yet if
a few troopers were quartered on him till the fine was paid, every rich
shopkeeper’s wife in the borough would rob the till, rather than go
without the mammon of unrighteousness with which to redeem their priest
from sufferance; holding, according to his expression, with Laban, “You
have taken from me my gods, and what have I more?” There was, of
course, little cordiality between the polemical disputants, when
religious debate took so worldly a turn.
But Joe Tomkins was much more concerned at the evil opinion which
seemed to be entertained against him, by one whose good graces he was
greatly more desirous to obtain than those of Nehemiah Holdenough. This
was no other than pretty Mistress Phœbe Mayflower, for whose conversion
he had felt a strong vocation, ever since his lecture upon Shakspeare
on their first meeting at the Lodge. He seemed desirous, however, to
carry on this more serious work in private, and especially to conceal
his labours from his friend Joceline Joliffe, lest, perchance, he had
been addicted to jealousy. But it was in vain that he plied the
faithful damsel, sometimes with verses from the Canticles, sometimes
with quotations from Green’s Arcadia, or pithy passages from Venus and
Adonis, and doctrines of a nature yet more abstruse, from the popular
work entitled Aristotle’s Masterpiece. Unto no wooing of his, sacred or
profane, metaphysical or physical, would Phœbe Mayflower seriously
incline.
The maiden loved Joceline Joliffe, on the one hand; and, on the other,
if she disliked Joseph Tomkins when she first saw him, as a rebellious
puritan, she had not been at all reconciled by finding reason to regard
him as a hypocritical libertine. She hated him in both capacities—never
endured his conversation when she could escape from it—and when obliged
to remain, listened to him only because she knew he had been so deeply
trusted, that to offend him might endanger the security of the family,
in the service of which she had been born and bred up, and to whose
interest she was devoted. For reasons somewhat similar, she did not
suffer her dislike of the steward to become manifest before Joceline
Joliffe, whose spirit, as a forester and a soldier, might have been
likely to bring matters to an arbitrement, in which the _couteau de
chasse_ and quarterstaff of her favourite, would have been too
unequally matched with the long rapier and pistols which his dangerous
rival always carried about his person. But it is difficult to blind
jealousy— when there is any cause of doubt; and perhaps the sharp watch
maintained by Joceline on his comrade, was prompted not only by his
zeal for the King’s safety, but by some vague suspicion that Tomkins
was not ill disposed to poach upon his own fair manor.
Phœbe, in the meanwhile, like a prudent girl, sheltered herself as much
as possible by the presence of Goody Jellicot. Then, indeed, it is true
the Independent, or whatever he was, used to follow her with his
addresses to very little purpose; for Phœbe seemed as deaf, through
wilfulness, as the old matron by natural infirmity. This indifference
highly incensed her new lover, and induced him anxiously to watch for a
time and place, in which he might plead his suit with an energy that
should command attention. Fortune, that malicious goddess, who so often
ruins us by granting the very object of our vows, did at length procure
him such an opportunity as he had long coveted.
It was about sunset, or shortly after, when Phœbe, upon whose activity
much of the domestic arrangements depended, went as far as fair
Rosamond’s spring to obtain water for the evening meal, or rather to
gratify the prejudice of the old knight, who believed that celebrated
fountain afforded the choicest supplies of the necessary element. Such
was the respect in which he was held by his whole family, that to
neglect any of his wishes that could be gratified, though with
inconvenience to themselves, would, in their estimation, have been
almost equal to a breach of religious duty.
To fill the pitcher had, we know, been of late a troublesome task; but
Joceline’s ingenuity had so far rendered it easy, by repairing rudely a
part of the ruined front of the ancient fountain, that the water was
collected, and trickling along a wooden spout, dropped from a height of
about two feet. A damsel was thereby enabled to place her pitcher under
the slowly dropping supply, and, without toil to herself, might wait
till her vessel was filled.
Phœbe Mayflower, on the evening we allude to, saw, for the first time,
this little improvement; and, justly considering it as a piece of
gallantry of her silvan admirer, designed to save her the trouble of
performing her task in a more inconvenient manner, she gratefully
employed the minutes of ease which the contrivance procured her, in
reflecting on the good-nature and ingenuity of the obliging engineer,
and perhaps in thinking he might have done as wisely to have waited
till she came to the fountain, that he might have secured personal
thanks for the trouble he had taken. But then she knew he was detained
in the buttery with that odious Tomkins, and rather than have seen the
Independent along with him, she would have renounced the thought of
meeting Joceline.
As she was thus reflecting, Fortune was malicious enough to send
Tomkins to the fountain, and without Joceline. When she saw his figure
darken the path up which he came, an anxious reflection came over the
poor maiden’s breast, that she was alone, and within the verge of the
forest, where in general persons were prohibited to come during the
twilight, for fear of disturbing the deer settling to their repose. She
encouraged herself, however, and resolved to show no sense of fear,
although, as the steward approached, there was something in the man’s
look and eye no way calculated to allay her apprehensions.
“The blessings of the evening upon you, my pretty maiden,” he said. “I
meet you even as the chief servant of Abraham, who was a steward like
myself, met Rebecca, the daughter of Bethuel, the son of Milcah, at the
well of the city of Nahor, in Mesopotamia. Shall I not, therefore, say
to you, set down thy pitcher that I may drink?”
“The pitcher is at your service, Master Tomkins,” she replied, “and you
may drink as much as you will; but you have, I warrant, drank better
liquor, and that not long since.”
It was, indeed, obvious that the steward had arisen from a revel, for
his features were somewhat flushed, though he had stopped far short of
intoxication. But Phœbe’s alarm at his first appearance was rather
increased when she observed how he had been lately employed.
“I do but use my privilege, my pretty Rebecca; the earth is given to
the saints, and the fulness thereof. They shall occupy and enjoy it,
both the riches of the mine, and the treasures of the vine; and they
shall rejoice, and their hearts be merry within them. Thou hast yet to
learn the privileges of the saints, my Rebecca.”
“My name is Phœbe,” said the maiden, in order to sober the enthusiastic
rapture which he either felt or affected.
“Phœbe after the flesh,” he said, “but Rebecca being spiritualised; for
art thou not a wandering and stray sheep?—and am I not sent to fetch
thee within the fold?—Wherefore else was it said, Thou shalt find her
seated by the well, in the wood which is called after the ancient
harlot, Rosamond?”
“You have found me sitting here sure enough,” said Phœbe; “but if you
wish to keep me company, you must walk to the Lodge with me; and you
shall carry my pitcher for me, if you will be so kind. I will hear all
the good things you have to say to me as we go along. But Sir Henry
calls for his glass of water regularly before prayers.”
“What!” exclaimed Tomkins, “hath the old man of bloody hand and
perverse heart sent thee hither to do the work of a bondswoman? Verily
thou shalt return enfranchised; and for the water thou hast drawn for
him, it shall be poured forth, even as David caused to be poured forth
the water of the well of Bethlehem.”
So saying, he emptied the water pitcher, in spite of Phœbe’s
exclamations and entreaties. He then replaced the vessel beneath the
little conduit, and continued:—“Know that this shall be a token to
thee. The filling of that pitcher shall be like the running of a
sand-glass; and if within the time which shall pass ere it rises to the
brim, thou shalt listen to the words which I shall say to thee, then it
shall be well with thee, and thy place shall be high among those who,
forsaking the instruction which is as milk for babes and sucklings, eat
the strong food which nourishes manhood. But if the pitcher shall
overbrim with water ere thy ear shall hear and understand, thou shalt
then be given as a prey, and as a bondsmaiden, unto those who shall
possess the fat and the fair of the earth.”
“You frighten me, Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, “though I am sure you do
not mean to do so. I wonder how you dare speak words so like the good
words in the Bible, when you know how you laughed at your own master,
and all the rest of them—when you helped to play the hobgoblins at the
Lodge.”
“Think’st thou then, thou simple fool, that in putting that deceit upon
Harrison and the rest, I exceeded my privileges?—Nay, verily.—Listen to
me, foolish girl. When in former days I lived the most wild, malignant
rakehell in Oxfordshire, frequenting wakes and fairs, dancing around
May-poles, and showing my lustihood at football and cudgel-playing—Yea,
when I was called, in the language of the uncircumcised, Philip
Hazeldine, and was one of the singers in the choir, and one of the
ringers in the steeple, and served the priest yonder, by name
Rochecliffe, I was not farther from the straight road than when, after
long reading, I at length found one blind guide after another, all
burners of bricks in Egypt. I left them one by one, the poor tool
Harrison being the last; and by my own unassisted strength, I have
struggled forward to the broad and blessed light, whereof thou too,
Phœbe, shalt be partaker.”
“I thank you, Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, suppressing some fear under
an appearance of indifference; “but I shall have light enough to carry
home my pitcher, would you but let me take it; and that is all the want
of light I shall have this evening.”
So saying, she stooped to take the pitcher from the fountain; but he
snatched hold of her by the arm, and prevented her from accomplishing
her purpose. Phœbe, however, was the daughter of a bold forester,
prompt at thoughts of self-defence; and though she missed getting hold
of the pitcher, she caught up instead a large pebble, which she kept
concealed in her right hand.
“Stand up, foolish maiden, and listen,” said the Independent, sternly;
“and know, in one word, that sin, for which the spirit of man is
punished with the vengeance of Heaven, lieth not in the corporal act,
but in the thought of the sinner. Believe, lovely Phœbe, that to the
pure all acts are pure, and that sin is in our thought, not in our
actions—even as the radiance of the day is dark to a blind man, but
seen and enjoyed by him whose eyes receive it. To him who is but a
novice in the things of the spirit, much is enjoined, much is
prohibited; and he is fed with milk fit for babes—for him are
ordinances, prohibitions, and commands. But the saint is above these
ordinances and restraints.—To him, as to the chosen child of the house,
is given the pass-key to open all locks which withhold him from the
enjoyment of his heart’s desire. Into such pleasant paths will I guide
thee, lovely Phœbe, as shall unite in joy, in innocent freedom,
pleasures, which, to the unprivileged, are sinful and prohibited.” “I
really wish, Master Tomkins, you would let me go home.” said Phœbe, not
comprehending the nature of his doctrine, but disliking at once his
words and his manner. He went on, however, with the accursed and
blasphemous doctrines, which, in common with others of the pretended
saints, he had adopted, after having long shifted from one sect to
another, until he settled in the vile belief, that sin, being of a
character exclusively spiritual, only existed in the thoughts, and that
the worst actions were permitted to those who had attained to the pitch
of believing themselves above ordinance. “Thus, my Phœbe,” he
continued, endeavouring to draw her towards him “I can offer thee more
than ever was held out to woman since Adam first took his bride by the
hand. It shall be for others to stand dry-lipped, doing penance, like
papists, by abstinence, when the vessel of pleasure pours forth its
delights. Dost thou love money?—I have it, and can procure more—am at
liberty to procure it on every hand, and by every means—the earth is
mine and its fulness. Do you desire power?—which of these poor cheated
commissioner-fellows’ estates dost thou covet, I will work it out for
thee; for I deal with a mightier spirit than any of them. And it is not
without warrant that I have aided the malignant Rochecliffe, and the
clown Joliffe, to frighten and baffle them in the guise they did. Ask
what thou wilt, Phœbe, I can give, or I can procure it for thee—Then
enter with me into a life of delight in this world, which shall prove
but an anticipation of the joys of Paradise hereafter!”
Again the fanatical voluptuary endeavoured to pull the poor girl
towards him, while she, alarmed, but not scared out of her presence of
mind, endeavoured, by fair entreaty, to prevail on him to release her.
But his features, in themselves not marked, had acquired a frightful
expression, and he exclaimed, “No, Phœbe—do not think to escape—thou
art given to me as a captive—thou hast neglected the hour of grace, and
it has glided past—See, the water trickles over thy pitcher, which was
to be a sign between us—Therefore I will urge thee no more with words,
of which thou art not worthy, but treat thee as a recusant of offered
grace.”
“Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, in an imploring tone, “consider, for
God’s sake, I am a fatherless child—do me no injury, it would be a
shame to your strength and your manhood—I cannot understand your fine
words—I will think on them till to-morrow.” Then, in rising resentment,
she added more vehemently—“I will not be used rudely—stand off, or I
will do you a mischief.” But, as he pressed upon her with a violence,
of which the object could not be mistaken, and endeavoured to secure
her right hand, she exclaimed, “Take it then, with a wanion to
you!”—and struck him an almost stunning blow on the face, with the
pebble which she held ready for such an extremity.
The fanatic let her go, and staggered backward, half stupified; while
Phœbe instantly betook herself to flight, screaming for help as she
ran, but still grasping the victorious pebble. Irritated to frenzy by
the severe blow which he had received, Tomkins pursued, with every
black passion in his soul and in his face, mingled with fear least his
villany should be discovered. He called on Phœbe loudly to stop, and
had the brutality to menace her with one of his pistols if she
continued to fly. Yet she slacked not her pace for his threats, and he
must either have executed them, or seen her escape to carry the tale to
the Lodge, had she not unhappily stumbled over the projecting root of a
fir-tree. But as he rushed upon his prey, rescue interposed in the
person of Joceline Joliffe, with his quarterstaff on his shoulder. “How
now? what means this?” he said, stepping between Phœbe and her pursuer.
Tomkins, already roused to fury, made no other answer than by
discharging at Joceline the pistol which he held in his hand. The ball
grazed the under keeper’s face, who, in requital of the assault, and
saying “Aha! Let ash answer iron,” applied his quarterstaff with so
much force to the Independent’s head, that lighting on the left temple,
the blow proved almost instantly mortal.
A few convulsive struggles were accompanied with these broken words,—
“Joceline—I am gone—but I forgive thee—Doctor Rochecliffe—I wish I had
minded more—Oh!—the clergyman—the funeral service”—As he uttered these
words, indicative, it may be, of his return to a creed, which perhaps
he had never abjured so thoroughly as he had persuaded himself, his
voice was lost in a groan, which, rattling in the throat, seemed unable
to find its way to the air. These were the last symptoms of life: the
clenched hands presently relaxed—the closed eyes opened, and stared on
the heavens a lifeless jelly—the limbs extended themselves and
stiffened. The body, which was lately animated with life, was now a
lump of senseless clay—the soul, dismissed from its earthly tenement in
a moment so unhallowed, was gone before the judgment-seat.
“Oh, what have you done?—what have you done, Joceline!” exclaimed
Phœbe; “you have killed the man!”
“Better than he should have killed me,” answered Joceline; “for he was
none of the blinkers that miss their mark twice running.—And yet I am
sorry for him.—Many a merry bout have we had together when he was wild
Philip Hazeldine, and then he was bad enough; but since he daubed over
his vices with hypocrisy, he seems to have proved worse devil than
ever.”
“Oh, Joceline, come away,” said poor Phœbe, “and do not stand gazing on
him thus;” for the woodsman, resting on his fatal weapon, stood looking
down on the corpse with the appearance of a man half stunned at the
event.
“This comes of the ale pitcher,” she continued, in the true style of
female consolation, “as I have often told you—For Heaven’s sake, come
to the Lodge, and let us consult what is to be done.”
“Stay first, girl, and let me drag him out of the path; we must not
have him lie herein all men’s sight—Will you not help me, wench?”
“I cannot, Joceline—I would not touch a lock on him for all Woodstock.”
“I must to this gear myself, then,” said Joceline, who, a soldier as
well as a woodsman, still had great reluctance to the necessary task.
Something in the face and broken words of the dying man had made a deep
and terrific impression on nerves not easily shaken. He accomplished
it, however, so far as to drag the late steward out of the open path,
and bestow his body amongst the undergrowth of brambles and briers, so
as not to be visible unless particularly looked for. He then returned
to Phœbe, who had sate speechless all the while beneath the tree over
whose roots she had stumbled.
“Come away, wench,” he said, “come away to the Lodge, and let us study
how this is to be answered for—the mishap of his being killed will
strangely increase our danger. What had he sought of thee, wench, when
you ran from him like a madwoman?—But I can guess—Phil was always a
devil among the girls, and I think, as Doctor Rochecliffe says, that,
since he turned saint, he took to himself seven devils worse than
himself.—Here is the very place where I saw him, with his sword in his
hand raised against the old knight, and he a child of the parish—it was
high treason at least—but, by my faith, he hath paid for it at last.”
“But, oh, Joceline,” said Phœbe, “how could you take so wicked a man
into your counsels, and join him in all his plots about scaring the
roundhead gentlemen?”
“Why look thee, wench, I thought I knew him at the first meeting
especially when Bevis, who was bred here when he was a dog-leader,
would not fly at him; and when we made up our old acquaintance at the
Lodge, I found he kept up a close correspondence with Doctor
Rochecliffe, who was persuaded that he was a good King’s man, and held
consequently good intelligence with him.—The doctor boasts to have
learned much through his means; I wish to Heaven he may not have been
as communicative in turn.”
“Oh, Joceline,” said the waiting-woman, “you should never have let him
within the gate of the Lodge!”
“No more I would, if I had known how to keep him out; but when he went
so frankly into our scheme, and told me how I was to dress myself like
Robinson the player, whose ghost haunted Harrison—I wish no ghost may
haunt me!—when he taught me how to bear myself to terrify his lawful
master, what could I think, wench? I only trust the Doctor has kept the
great secret of all from his knowledge.—But here we are at the Lodge.
Go to thy chamber, wench, and compose thyself. I must seek out Doctor
Rochecliffe; he is ever talking of his quick and ready invention. Here
come times, I think, that will demand it all.”
Phœbe went to her chamber accordingly; but the strength arising from
the pressure of danger giving way when the danger was removed, she
quickly fell into a succession of hysterical fits, which required the
constant attention of Dame Jellicot, and the less alarmed, but more
judicious care of Mistress Alice, before they even abated in their
rapid recurrence.
The under-keeper carried his news to the politic Doctor, who was
extremely disconcerted, alarmed, nay angry with Joceline, for having
slain a person on whose communications he had accustomed himself to
rely. Yet his looks declared his suspicion, whether his confidence had
not been too rashly conferred—a suspicion which pressed him the more
anxiously, that he was unwilling to avow it, as a derogation from his
character for shrewdness, on which he valued himself.
Dr. Rochecliffe’s reliance, however, on the fidelity of Tomkins, had
apparently good grounds. Before the Civil Wars, as may be partly
collected from what has been already hinted at, Tomkins, under his true
name of Hazeldine, had been under the protection of the Rector of
Woodstock, occasionally acted as his clerk, was a distinguished member
of his choir, and, being a handy and ingenious fellow, was employed in
assisting the antiquarian researches of Dr. Rochecliffe through the
interior of Woodstock. When he engaged in the opposite side in the
Civil Wars, he still kept up his intelligence with the divine, to whom
he had afforded what seemed valuable information from time to time. His
assistance had latterly been eminently useful in aiding the Doctor,
with the assistance of Joceline and Phœbe, in contriving and executing
the various devices by which the Parliamentary Commissioners had been
expelled from Woodstock. Indeed, his services in this respect had been
thought worthy of no less a reward than a present of what plate
remained at the Lodge, which had been promised to the Independent
accordingly. The Doctor, therefore, while admitting he might be a bad
man, regretted him as a useful one, whose death, if enquired after, was
likely to bring additional danger on a house which danger already
surrounded, and which contained a pledge so precious.