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Woodstock; or, The Cavalier

S >> Sir Walter Scott >> Woodstock; or, The Cavalier




"I am not she for whom you take me," said the voice; "and dearer regards
than aught connected with her life or death, bid me warn you to keep
aloof, and leave this place."

"Not till I have convinced you of your childish folly," said the
Colonel, springing forward, and endeavouring to catch hold of her who
spoke to him. But no female form was within his grasp. On the contrary,
he was met by a shock which could come from no woman's arm, and which
was rude enough to stretch him on his back on the floor. At the same
time he felt the point of a sword at his throat, and his hands so
completely mastered, that not the slightest defence remained to him.

"A cry for assistance," said a voice near him, but not that which he had
hitherto heard, "will be stifled in your blood!--No harm is meant
you--be wise and be silent."

The fear of death, which Everard had often braved in the field of
battle, became more intense as he felt himself in the hands of unknown
assassins, and totally devoid of all means of defence. The sharp point
of the sword pricked his bare throat, and the foot of him who held it
was upon his breast. He felt as if a single thrust would put an end to
life, and all the feverish joys and sorrows which agitate us so
strangely, and from which we are yet so reluctant to part. Large drops
of perspiration stood upon his forehead--his heart throbbed, as if it
would burst from its confinement in the bosom--he experienced the agony
which fear imposes on the brave man, acute in proportion to that which
pain inflicts when it subdues the robust and healthy.

"Cousin Alice,"--he attempted to speak, and the sword's point pressed
his throat yet more closely,--"Cousin, let me not be murdered in a
manner so fearful!"

"I tell you," replied the voice, "that you speak to one who is not here;
but your life is not aimed at, provided you swear on your faith as a
Christian, and your honour as a gentleman, that you will conceal what
has happened, whether from the people below, or from any other person.
On this condition you may rise; and if you seek her, you will find Alice
Lee at Joceline's cottage, in the forest."

"Since I may not help myself otherwise," said Everard, "I swear, as I
have a sense of religion and honour, I will say nothing of this
violence, nor make any search after those who are concerned in it."

"For that we care nothing," said the voice. "Thou hast an example how
well thou mayst catch mischief on thy own part; but we are in case to
defy thee. Rise, and begone!"

The foot, the sword's-point, were withdrawn, and Everard was about to
start up hastily, when the voice, in the same softness of tone which
distinguished it at first, said, "No haste--cold and bare steel is yet
around thee. Now--now--now--(the words dying away as at a distance)--
thou art free. Be secret and be safe."

Markham Everard arose, and, in rising, embarrassed his feet with his own
sword, which he had dropped when springing forward, as he supposed, to
lay hold of his fair cousin. He snatched it up in haste, and as his hand
clasped the hilt, his courage, which had given way under the
apprehension of instant death, began to return; he considered, with
almost his usual composure, what was to be done next. Deeply affronted
at the disgrace which he had sustained, he questioned for an instant
whether he ought to keep his extorted promise, or should not rather
summon assistance, and make haste to discover and seize those who had
been recently engaged in such violence on his person. But these persons,
be they who they would, had had his life in their power--he had pledged
his word in ransom of it--and what was more, he could not divest himself
of the idea that his beloved Alice was a confidant, at least, if not an
actor, in the confederacy which had thus baffled him. This prepossession
determined his conduct; for, though angry at supposing she must have
been accessory to his personal ill-treatment, he could not in any event
think of an instant search through the mansion, which might have
compromised her safety, or that of his uncle. "But I will to the hut,"
he said--"I will instantly to the hut, ascertain her share in this wild
and dangerous confederacy, and snatch her from ruin, if it be possible."

As, under the influence of the resolution which he had formed, Everard
groped his way through the gallery and regained the vestibule, he heard
his name called by the well-known voice of Wildrake. "What--ho!--
holloa!--Colonel Everard--Mark Everard--it is dark as the devil's
mouth--speak--where are you?--The witches are keeping their hellish
sabbath here, as I think.--Where are you?"

"Here, here!" answered Everard. "Cease your bawling. Turn to the left,
and you will meet me."

Guided by his voice, Wildrake soon appeared, with a light in one hand,
and his drawn sword in the other. "Where have you been?" he said--"What
has detained you?--Here are Bletson and the brute Desborough terrified
out of their lives, and Harrison raving mad, because the devil will not
be civil enough to rise to fight him in single _duello_."

"Saw or heard you nothing as you came along?" said Everard.

"Nothing," said his friend, "excepting that when I first entered this
cursed ruinous labyrinth, the light was struck out of my hand, as if by
a switch, which obliged me to return for another."

"I must come by a horse instantly, Wildrake, and another for thyself, if
it be possible."

"We can take two of those belonging to the troopers," answered Wildrake.
"But for what purpose should we run away, like rats, at this time in the
evening?--Is the house falling?"

"I cannot answer you," said the Colonel, pushing forward into a room
where there were some remains of furniture.

Here the cavalier took a more strict view of his person, and exclaimed
in wonder, "What the devil have you been fighting with, Markham, that
has bedizened you after this sorry fashion?"

"Fighting!" exclaimed Everard.

"Yes," replied his trusty attendant. "I say fighting. Look at yourself
in the mirror."

He did, and saw he was covered with dust and blood. The latter proceeded
from a scratch which he had received in the throat, as he struggled to
extricate himself. With unaffected alarm, Wildrake undid his friend's
collar, and with eager haste proceeded to examine the wound, his hands
trembling, and his eyes glistening with apprehension for his
benefactor's life. When, in spite of Everard's opposition, he had
examined the hurt, and found it trifling, he resumed the natural
wildness of his character, perhaps the more readily that he had felt
shame in departing from it, into one which expressed more of feeling
than he would be thought to possess.

"If that be the devil's work, Mark," said he, "the foul fiend's claws
are not nigh so formidable as they are represented; but no one shall say
that your blood has been shed unrevenged, while Roger Wildrake was by
your side. Where left you this same imp? I will back to the field of
fight, confront him with my rapier, and were his nails tenpenny nails,
and his teeth as long as those of a harrow, he shall render me reason
for the injury he has done you."

"Madness--madness!" exclaimed Everard; "I had this trifling hurt by a
fall--a basin and towel will wipe it away. Meanwhile, if you will ever
do me kindness, get the troop-horses--command them for the service of
the public, in the name of his Excellency the General. I will but wash,
and join you in an instant before the gate."

"Well, I will serve you, Everard, as a mute serves the Grand Signior,
without knowing why or wherefore. But will you go without seeing these
people below?"

"Without seeing any one," said Everard; "lose no time, for God's sake."

He found out the non-commissioned officer, and demanded the horses in a
tone of authority, to which the corporal yielded undisputed obedience,
as one well aware of Colonel Everard's military rank and consequence. So
all was in a minute or two ready for the expedition.

* * * * *

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.


She kneeled, and saintlike
Cast her eyes to heaven, and pray'd devoutly.
KING HENRY VIII.

Colonel Everard's departure at the late hour, for, so it was then
thought, of seven in the evening, excited much speculation. There was a
gathering of menials and dependents in the outer chamber or hall, for no
one doubted that his sudden departure was owing to his having, as they
expressed it, "seen something," and all desired to know how a man of
such acknowledged courage as Everard, looked under the awe of a recent
apparition. But he gave them no time to make comments; for, striding
through the hall wrapt in his riding suit, he threw himself on
horseback, and rode furiously through the Chase, towards the hut of the
keeper Joliffe.

It was the disposition of Markham Everard to be hot, keen, earnest,
impatient, and decisive to a degree of precipitation. The acquired
habits which education had taught, and which the strong moral and
religious discipline of his sect had greatly strengthened, were such as
to enable him to conceal, as well as to check, this constitutional
violence, and to place him upon his guard against indulging it. But when
in the high tide of violent excitation, the natural impetuosity of the
young soldier's temper was sometimes apt to overcome these artificial
obstacles, and then, like a torrent foaming over a wear, it became more
furious, as if in revenge for the constrained calm which it had been for
some time obliged to assume. In these instances he was accustomed to see
only that point to which his thoughts were bent, and to move straight
towards it, whether a moral object, or the storming of a breach, without
either calculating, or even appearing to see, the difficulties which
were before him.

At present, his ruling and impelling motive was to detach his beloved
cousin, if possible, from the dangerous and discreditable machinations
in which he suspected her to have engaged, or, on the other hand, to
discover that she really had no concern with these stratagems. He should
know how to judge of that in some measure, he thought, by finding her
present or absent at the hut, towards which he was now galloping. He had
read, indeed, in some ballad or minstrel's tale, of a singular deception
practised on a jealous old man, by means of a subterranean communication
between his house and that of a neighbour, which the lady in question
made use of to present herself in the two places alternately, with such
speed, and so much address, that, after repeated experiments, the dotard
was deceived into the opinion, that his wife, and the lady who was so
very like her, and to whom his neighbour paid so much attention, were
two different persons. But in the present case there was no room for
such a deception; the distance was too great, and as he took by much the
nearest way from the castle, and rode full speed, it would be
impossible, he knew, for his cousin, who was a timorous horsewoman even
by daylight, to have got home before him.

Her father might indeed be displeased at his interference; but what
title had he to be so?--Was not Alice Lee the near relation of his
blood, the dearest object of his heart, and would he now abstain from an
effort to save her from the consequences of a silly and wild conspiracy,
because the old knight's spleen might be awakened by Everard's making
his appearance at their present dwelling contrary to his commands? No.
He would endure the old man's harsh language, as he endured the blast of
the autumn wind, which was howling around him, and swinging the crashing
branches of the trees under which he passed, but could not oppose, or
even retard, his journey.

If he found not Alice, as he had reason to believe she would be absent,
to Sir Henry Lee himself he would explain what he had witnessed. However
she might have become accessory to the juggling tricks performed at
Woodstock, he could not but think it was without her father's knowledge,
so severe a judge was the old knight of female propriety, and so strict
an assertor of female decorum. He would take the same opportunity, he
thought, of stating to him the well-grounded hopes he entertained, that
his dwelling at the Lodge might be prolonged, and the sequestrators
removed from the royal mansion and domains, by other means than those of
the absurd species of intimidation which seemed to be resorted to, to
scare them from thence.

All this seemed to be so much within the line of his duty as a relative,
that it was not until he halted at the door of the ranger's hut, and
threw his bridle into Wildrake's hand, that Everard recollected the
fiery, high, and unbending character of Sir Henry Lee, and felt, even
when his fingers were on the latch, a reluctance to intrude himself upon
the presence of the irritable old knight.

But there was no time for hesitation. Bevis, who had already bayed more
than once from within the Lodge, was growing impatient, and Everard had
but just time to bid Wildrake hold the horses until he should send
Joceline to his assistance, when old Joan unpinned the door, to demand
who was without at that time of the night. To have attempted anything
like an explanation with poor dame Joan, would have been quite hopeless;
the Colonel, therefore, put her gently aside, and shaking himself loose
from the hold she had laid on his cloak, entered the kitchen of
Joceline's dwelling. Bevis, who had advanced to support Joan in her
opposition, humbled his lion-port, with that wonderful instinct which
makes his race remember so long those with whom they have been familiar,
and acknowledged his master's relative, by doing homage in his fashion,
with his head and tail.

Colonel Everard, more uncertain in his purpose every moment as the
necessity of its execution drew near, stole over the floor like one who
treads in a sick chamber, and opening the door of the interior apartment
with a slow and trembling hand, as he would have withdrawn the curtains
of a dying friend, he saw, within, the scene which we are about to
describe.

Sir Henry Lee sat in a wicker arm-chair by the fire. He was wrapped in a
cloak, and his limbs extended on a stool, as if he were suffering from
gout or indisposition. His long white beard flowing over the
dark-coloured garment, gave him more the appearance of a hermit than of
an aged soldier or man of quality; and that character was increased by
the deep and devout attention with which he listened to a respectable
old man, whose dilapidated dress showed still something of the clerical
habit, and who, with a low, but full and deep voice, was reading the
Evening Service according to the Church of England. Alice Lee kneeled at
the feet of her father, and made the responses with a voice that might
have suited the choir of angels; and a modest and serious devotion,
which suited the melody of her tone. The face of the officiating
clergyman would have been good-looking, had it not been disfigured with
a black patch which covered the left eye and a part of his face, and had
not the features which were visible been marked with the traces of care
and suffering.

When Colonel Everard entered, the clergyman raised his finger, as
cautioning him to forbear disturbing the divine service of the evening,
and pointed to a seat; to which, struck deeply with the scene he had
witnessed, the intruder stole with as light a step as possible, and
knelt devoutly down as one of the little congregation.

Everard had been bred by his father what was called a Puritan; a member
of a sect who, in the primitive sense of the word, were persons that did
not except against the doctrines of the Church of England, or even in
all respects against its hierarchy, but chiefly dissented from it on the
subject of certain ceremonies, habits, and forms of ritual, which were
insisted upon by the celebrated and unfortunate Laud with ill-timed
tenacity. But even if, from the habits of his father's house, Everard's
opinions had been diametrically opposed to the doctrines of the English
Church, he must have been reconciled to them by the regularity with
which the service was performed in his uncle's family at Woodstock, who,
during the blossom of his fortunes, generally had a chaplain residing in
the Lodge for that special purpose.

Yet deep as was the habitual veneration with which he heard the
impressive service of the Church, Everard's eyes could not help straying
towards Alice, and his thoughts wandering to the purpose of his presence
there. She seemed to have recognised him at once, for there was a deeper
glow than usual upon her cheek, her fingers trembled as they turned the
leaves of her prayerbook, and her voice, lately as firm as it was
melodious, faltered when she repeated the responses. It appeared to
Everard, as far as he could collect by the stolen glances which he
directed towards her, that the character of her beauty, as well as of
her outward appearance, had changed with her fortunes.

The beautiful and high-born young lady had now approached as nearly as
possible to the brown stuff dress of an ordinary village maiden; but
what she had lost in gaiety of appearance, she had gained as it seemed
in dignity. Her beautiful light-brown tresses, now folded around her
head, and only curled where nature had so arranged them, gave her an air
of simplicity, which did not exist when her head-dress showed the skill
of a curious tire-woman. A light joyous air, with something of a
humorous expression, which seemed to be looking for amusement, had
vanished before the touch of affliction, and a calm melancholy supplied
its place, which seemed on the watch to administer comfort to others.
Perhaps the former arch, though innocent expression of countenance, was
uppermost in her lover's recollection, when he concluded that Alice had
acted a part in the disturbances which had taken place at the Lodge. It
is certain, that when he now looked upon her, it was with shame for
having nourished such a suspicion, and the resolution to believe rather
that the devil had imitated her voice, than that a creature, who seemed
so much above the feelings of this world, and so nearly allied to the
purity of the next, should have had the indelicacy to mingle in such
manoeuvres as he himself and others had been subjected to.

These thoughts shot through his mind, in spite of the impropriety of
indulging them at such a moment. The service now approached the close,
and a good deal to Colonel Everard's surprise, as well as confusion, the
officiating priest, in firm and audible tone, and with every attribute
of dignity, prayed to the Almighty to bless and preserve "Our Sovereign
Lord, King Charles, the lawful and undoubted King of these realms." The
petition (in those days most dangerous) was pronounced with a full,
raised, and distinct articulation, as if the priest challenged all who
heard him to dissent, if they dared. If the republican officer did not
assent to the petition, he thought at least it was no time to protest
against it.

The service was concluded in the usual manner, and the little
congregation arose. It now included Wildrake, who had entered during the
latter prayer, and was the first of the party to speak, running up to
the priest, and shaking him by the hand most heartily, swearing at the
same time, that he truly rejoiced to see him. The good clergyman
returned the pressure with a smile, observing he should have believed
his asseveration without an oath. In the meanwhile, Colonel Everard,
approaching his uncle's seat, made a deep inclination of respect, first
to Sir Henry Lee, and then to Alice, whose colour now spread from her
cheek to her brow and bosom.

"I have to crave your excuse," said the Colonel with hesitation, "for
having chosen for my visit, which I dare not hope would be very
agreeable at any time, a season most peculiarly unsuitable."

"So far from it, nephew," answered Sir Henry, with much more mildness of
manner than Everard had dared to expect, "that your visits at other
times would be much more welcome, had we the fortune to see you often at
our hours of worship."

"I hope the time will soon come, sir, when Englishmen of all sects and
denominations," replied Everard, "will be free in conscience to worship
in common the great Father, whom they all after their manner call by
that affectionate name."

"I hope so too, nephew," said the old man in the same unaltered tone;
"and we will not at present dispute, whether you would have the Church
of England coalesce with the Conventicle, or the Conventicle conform to
the Church. It was, I ween, not to settle jarring creeds, that you have
honoured our poor dwelling, where, to say the truth, we dared scarce
have expected to see you again, so coarse was our last welcome."

"I should be happy to believe," said Colonel Everard, hesitating,
"that--that--in short my presence was not now so unwelcome here as on
that occasion."

"Nephew," said Sir Henry, "I will be frank with you. When you were last
here, I thought you had stolen from me a precious pearl, which at one
time it would have been my pride and happiness to have bestowed on you;
but which, being such as you have been of late, I would bury in the
depths of the earth rather than give to your keeping. This somewhat
chafed, as honest Will says, 'the rash humour which my mother gave me.'
I thought I was robbed, and I thought I saw the robber before me. I am
mistaken--I am not robbed; and the attempt without the deed I can
pardon."

"I would not willingly seek offence in your words, sir," said Colonel
Everard, "when their general purport sounds kind; but I can protest
before Heaven, that my views and wishes towards you and your family are
as void of selfish hopes and selfish ends, as they are fraught with love
to you and to yours."

"Let us hear them, man; we are not much accustomed to good wishes
now-a-days; and their very rarity will make them welcome."

"I would willingly, Sir Henry, since you might not choose me to give you
a more affectionate name, convert those wishes into something effectual
for your comfort. Your fate, as the world now stands, is bad, and, I
fear, like to be worse."

"Worse than I expect it cannot be. Nephew, I do not shrink before my
changes of fortune. I shall wear coarser clothes,--I shall feed on more
ordinary food,--men will not doff their cap to me as they were wont,
when I was the great and the wealthy. What of that? Old Harry Lee loved
his honour better than his title, his faith better than his land and
lordship. Have I not seen the 30th of January? I am neither Philomath
nor astrologer; but old Will teaches me, that when green leaves fall
winter is at hand, and that darkness will come when the sun sets."

"Bethink you, sir," said Colonel Everard, "if, without any submission
asked, any oath taken, any engagement imposed, express or tacit,
excepting that you are not to excite disturbances in the public peace,
you can be restored to your residence in the Lodge, and your usual
fortunes and perquisities there--I have great reason to hope this may be
permitted, if not expressly, at least on sufferance."

"Yes, I understand you. I am to be treated like the royal coin, marked
with the ensign of the Rump to make it pass current, although I am too
old to have the royal insignia grinded off from me. Kinsman, I will have
none of this. I have lived at the Lodge too long; and let me tell you, I
had left it in scorn long since, but for the orders of one whom I may
yet live to do service to. I will take nothing from the usurpers, be
their name Rump or Cromwell--be they one devil or legion--I will not
take from them an old cap to cover my grey hairs--a cast cloak to
protect my frail limbs from the cold. They shall not say they have, by
their unwilling bounty, made Abraham rich--I will live, as I will die,
the Loyal Lee."

"May I hope you will think of it, sir; and that you will, perhaps,
considering what slight submission is asked, give me a better answer?"

"Sir, if I retract my opinion, which is not my wont, you shall hear of
it.--And now, cousin, have you more to say? We keep that worthy
clergyman in the outer room."

"Something I had to say--something touching my cousin Alice," said
Everard, with embarrassment; "but I fear that the prejudices of both are
so strong against me"--

"Sir, I dare turn my daughter loose to you--I will go join the good
doctor in dame Joan's apartment. I am not unwilling that you should know
that the girl hath, in all reasonable sort, the exercise of her free
will."

He withdrew, and left the cousins together.

Colonel Everard advanced to Alice, and was about to take her hand. She
drew back, took the seat which her father had occupied, and pointed out
to him one at some distance.

"Are we then so much estranged, my dearest Alice?" he said.

"We will speak of that presently," she replied. "In the first place, let
me ask the cause of your visit here at so late an hour."

"You heard," said Everard, "what I stated to your father?"

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