‘Now a plague on the poll
Of old politic Noll!
We will drink till we bring
In triumph back the King.’
In truth, if it could be done that way, this poet would be a stout
champion. Give the poor knave five pieces, Pearson, and bid him go sell
his ballads. If he come within twenty miles of our person, though, we
will have him flogged till the blood runs down to his heels.”
“There remains only one sentenced person,” said Pearson, “a noble
wolf-hound, finer than any your Excellency saw in Ireland. He belongs
to the old knight Sir Henry Lee. Should your Excellency not desire to
keep the fine creature yourself, might I presume to beg that I might
have leave?”
“No, Pearson,” said Cromwell; “the old man, so faithful himself, shall
not be deprived of his faithful dog—I would _I_ had any creature, were
it but a dog, that followed me because it loved me, not for what it
could make of me.”
“Your Excellency is unjust to your faithful soldiers,” said Zerubbabel,
bluntly, “who follow you like dogs, fight for you like dogs, and have
the grave of a dog on the spot where they happen to fall.”
“How now, old grumbler,” said the General, “what means this change of
note?”
“Corporal Humgudgeon’s remains are left to moulder under the ruins of
yonder tower, and Tomkins is thrust into a hole in a thicket like a
beast.”
“True, true,” said Cromwell, “they shall be removed to the churchyard,
and every soldier shall attend with cockades of sea-green and blue
ribbon—Every one of the non-commissioned officers and adjutators shall
have a mourning-scarf; we ourselves will lead the procession, and there
shall be a proper dole of wine, burnt brandy, and rosemary. See that it
is done, Pearson. After the funeral, Woodstock shall be dismantled and
destroyed, that its recesses may not again afford shelter to rebels and
malignants.”
The commands of the General were punctually obeyed, and when the other
prisoners were dismissed, Albert Lee remained for some time in custody.
He went abroad after his liberation, entered in King Charles’s Guards,
where he was promoted by that monarch. But his fate, as we shall see
hereafter, only allowed him a short though bright career.
We return to the liberation of the other prisoners from Woodstock. The
two divines, completely reconciled to each other, retreated arm in arm
to the parsonage-house, formerly the residence of Dr. Rochecliffe, but
which he now visited as the guest of his successor, Nehemiah
Holdenough. The Presbyterian had no sooner installed his friend under
his roof, than he urged upon him an offer to partake it, and the income
annexed to it, as his own. Dr. Rochecliffe was much affected, but
wisely rejected the generous offer, considering the difference of their
tenets on Church government, which each entertained as religiously as
his creed. Another debate, though a light one, on the subject of the
office of Bishops in the Primitive Church, confirmed him in his
resolution. They parted the next day, and their friendship remained
undisturbed by controversy till Mr. Holdenough’s death, in 1658; a
harmony which might be in some degree owing to their never meeting
again after their imprisonment. Dr. Rochecliffe was restored to his
living after the Restoration, and ascended from thence to high clerical
preferment.
The inferior personages of the grand jail-delivery at Woodstock Lodge,
easily found themselves temporary accommodations in the town among old
acquaintance; but no one ventured to entertain the old knight,
understood to be so much under the displeasure of the ruling powers;
and even the innkeeper of the George, who had been one of his tenants,
scarce dared to admit him to the common privileges of a traveller, who
has food and lodging for his money. Everard attended him unrequested,
unpermitted, but also unforbidden. The heart of the old man had been
turned once more towards him when he learned how he had behaved at the
memorable rencontre at the King’s Oak, and saw that he was an object of
the enmity, rather than the favour, of Cromwell. But there was another
secret feeling which tended to reconcile him to his nephew—the
consciousness that Everard shared with him the deep anxiety which he
experienced on account of his daughter, who had not yet returned from
her doubtful and perilous expedition. He felt that he himself would
perhaps be unable to discover where Alice had taken refuge during the
late events, or to obtain her deliverance if she was taken into
custody. He wished Everard to offer him his service in making a search
for her, but shame prevented his preferring the request; and Everard,
who could not suspect the altered state of his uncle’s mind, was afraid
to make the proposal of assistance, or even to name the name of Alice.
The sun had already set—they sat looking each other in the face in
silence, when the trampling of horses was heard—there was knocking at
the door—there was a light step on the stair, and Alice, the subject of
their anxiety, stood before them. She threw herself joyfully into her
father’s arms, who glanced his eye needfully round the room, as he said
in a whisper, “Is all safe?”
“Safe and out of danger, as I trust,” replied Alice—“I have a token for
you.”
Her eye then rested on Everard—she blushed, was embarrassed, and
silent.
“You need not fear your Presbyterian cousin,” said the knight, with a
good-humoured smile, “he has himself proved a confessor at least for
loyalty, and ran the risk of being a martyr.”
She pulled from her bosom the royal rescript, written on a small and
soiled piece of paper, and tied round with a worsted thread instead of
a seal. Such as it was, Sir Henry ere he opened it pressed the little
packet with oriental veneration to his lips, to his heart, to his
forehead; and it was not before a tear had dropt on it that he found
courage to open and read the billet. It was in these words:—
“LOYAL OUR MUCH ESTEEMED FRIEND, AND OUR TRUSTY SUBJECT,—“It having
become known to us that a purpose of marriage has been entertained
betwixt Mrs. Alice Lee, your only daughter, and Markham Everard, Esq.
of Eversly Chase, her kinsman, and by affiancy your nephew: And being
assured that this match would be highly agreeable to you, had it not
been for certain respects to our service, which induced you to refuse
your consent thereto—We do therefore acquaint you, that, far from our
affairs suffering by such an alliance, we do exhort, and so far as we
may, require you to consent to the same, as you would wish to do us
good pleasure, and greatly to advance our affairs. Leaving to you,
nevertheless, as becometh a Christian King, the full exercise of your
own discretion concerning other obstacles to such an alliance, which
may exist, independent of those connected with our service. Witness our
hand, together with our thankful recollections of your good services to
our late Royal Father as well as ourselves,
“C. R.”
Long and steadily did Sir Henry gaze on the letter, so that it might
almost seem as if he were getting it by heart. He then placed it
carefully in his pocket-book, and asked Alice the account of her
adventures the preceding night. They were briefly told. Their midnight
walk through the Chase had been speedily and safely accomplished. Nor
had the King once made the slightest relapse into the naughty Louis
Kerneguy. When she had seen Charles and his attendant set off, she had
taken some repose in the cottage where they parted. With the morning
came news that Woodstock was occupied by soldiers, so that return
thither might have led to danger, suspicion, and enquiry. Alice,
therefore, did not attempt it, but went to a house in the
neighbourhood, inhabited by a lady of established loyalty, whose
husband had been major of Sir Henry Lee’s regiment, and had fallen at
the battle of Naseby. Mrs. Aylmer was a sensible woman, and indeed the
necessities of the singular times had sharpened every one’s faculties
for stratagem and intrigue. She sent a faithful servant to scout about
the mansion at Woodstock, who no sooner saw the prisoners dismissed and
in safety, and ascertained the knight’s destination for the evening,
than he carried the news to his mistress, and by her orders attended
Alice on horseback to join her father.
There was seldom, perhaps, an evening meal made in such absolute
silence as by this embarrassed party, each occupied with their own
thoughts, and at a loss how to fathom those of the others. At length
the hour came when Alice felt herself at liberty to retire to repose
after a day so fatiguing. Everard handed her to the door of her
apartment, and was then himself about to take leave, when, to his
surprise, his uncle asked him to return, pointed to a chair, and giving
him the King’s letter to read, fixed his looks on him steadily during
the perusal; determined that if he could discover aught short of the
utmost delight in the reading, the commands of the King himself should
be disobeyed, rather than Alice should be sacrificed to one who
received not her hand as the greatest blessing earth had to bestow. But
the features of Everard indicated joyful hope, even beyond what the
father could have anticipated, yet mingled with surprise; and when he
raised his eye to the knight’s with timidity and doubt, a smile was on
Sir Henry’s countenance as he broke silence. “The King,” he said, “had
he no other subject in England, should dispose at will of those of the
house of Lee. But methinks the family of Everard have not been so
devoted of late to the crown as to comply with a mandate, inviting its
heir to marry the daughter of a beggar.”
“The daughter of Sir Henry Lee,” said Everard, kneeling to his uncle,
and perforce kissing his hand, “would grace the house of a duke.”
“The girl is well enough,” said the knight proudly; “for myself, my
poverty shall neither shame nor encroach on my friends. Some few pieces
I have by Doctor Rochecliffe’s kindness, and Joceline and I will strike
out something.”
“Nay, my dear uncle, you are richer than you think for,” said Everard.
“That part of your estate, which my father redeemed for payment of a
moderate composition, is still your own, and held by trustees in your
name, myself being one of them. You are only our debtor for an advance
of monies, for which, if it will content you, we will count with you
like usurers. My father is incapable of profiting by making a bargain
on his own account for the estate of a distressed friend; and all this
you would have learned long since, but that you would not—I mean, time
did not serve for explanation—I mean”—
“You mean I was too hot to hear reason, Mark, and I believe it is very
true. But I think we understand each other _now_. To-morrow I go with
my family to Kingston, where is an old house I may still call mine.
Come hither at thy leisure, Mark,—or thy best speed, as thou wilt—but
come with thy father’s consent.”
“With my father in person,” said Everard, “if you will permit.”
“Be that,” answered the knight, “as he and you will—I think Joceline
will scarce shut the door in thy face, or Bevis growl as he did after
poor Louis Kerneguy.—Nay, no more raptures, but good-night, Mark,
good-night; and if thou art not tired with the fatigue of
yesterday—why, if you appear here at seven in the morning, I think we
must bear with your company on the Kingston road.”
Once more Everard pressed the knight’s hand, caressed Bevis, who
received his kindness graciously, and went home to dreams of happiness,
which were realized, as far as this motley world permits, within a few
months afterwards.