A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Woodstock; or, The Cavalier

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




"You frighten me, Master Tomkins," said Phoebe, "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,
Phoebe, shalt be partaker."

"I thank you, Master Tomkins," said Phoebe, 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. Phoebe, 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe, 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 Phoebe," 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, Phoebe, 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, Phoebe--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 Phoebe, 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
Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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 Phoebe 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
Phoebe; "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 Phoebe, "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
Phoebe, 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 Phoebe, "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."

Phoebe 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 Phoebe, 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.

* * * * *

CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH.


_Cassio_. That thrust had been my enemy indeed,
But that my coat is better than thou know'st.
OTHELLO.

On the dark October night succeeding the evening on which Tomkins was
slain, Colonel Everard, besides his constant attendant Roger Wildrake,
had Master Nehemiah Holdenough with him as a guest at supper. The
devotions of the evening having been performed according to the
Presbyterian fashion, a light entertainment, and a double quart of burnt
claret, were placed before his friends at nine o'clock, an hour
unusually late. Master Holdenough soon engaged himself in a polemical
discourse against Sectaries and Independents, without being aware that
his eloquence was not very interesting to his principal hearer, whose
ideas in the meanwhile wandered to Woodstock and all which it
contained--the Prince, who lay concealed there--his uncle--above all,
Alice Lee. As for Wildrake, after bestowing a mental curse both on
Sectaries and Presbyterians, as being, in his opinion, never a barrel
the better herring, he stretched out his limbs, and would probably have
composed himself to rest, but that he as well as his patron had thoughts
which murdered sleep.

The party were waited upon by a little gipsy-looking boy, in an
orange-tawny doublet, much decayed, and garnished with blue worsted
lace. The rogue looked somewhat stinted in size, but active both in
intelligence and in limb, as his black eyes seemed to promise by their
vivacity. He was an attendant of Wildrake's choice, who had conferred on
him the _nom de guerre_ of Spitfire, and had promised him promotion so
soon as his young protegé, Breakfast, was fit to succeed him in his
present office. It need scarce be said that the manege was maintained
entirely at the expense of Colonel Everard, who allowed Wildrake to
arrange the household very much according to his pleasure. The page did
not omit, in offering the company wine from time to time, to accommodate
Wildrake with about twice the number of opportunities of refreshing
himself which he considered it necessary to afford to the Colonel or his
reverend guest.

While they were thus engaged, the good divine lost in his own argument,
and the hearers in their private thoughts, their attention was about
half-past ten arrested by a knocking at the door of the house. To those
who have anxious hearts, trifles give cause of alarm.

Even a thing so simple as a knock at the door may have a character which
excites apprehension. This was no quiet gentle tap, intimating a modest
intruder; no redoubled rattle, as the pompous annunciation of some vain
person; neither did it resemble the formal summons to formal business,
nor the cheerful visit of some welcome friend. It was a single blow,
solemn and stern, if not actually menacing in the sound. The door was
opened by some of the persons of the house; a heavy foot ascended the
stair, a stout man entered the room, and drawing the cloak from his
face, said, "Markham Everard, I greet thee in God's name."

It was General Cromwell.

Everard, surprised and taken at unawares, endeavoured in vain to find
words to express his astonishment. A bustle occurred in receiving the
General, assisting him to uncloak himself, and offering in dumb show the
civilities of reception. The General cast his keen eye around the
apartment, and fixing it first on the divine, addressed Everard as
follows: "A reverend man I see is with thee. Thou art not one of those,
good Markham, who let the time unnoted and unimproved pass away. Casting
aside the things of this world--pressing forward to those of the
next--it is by thus using our time in this poor seat of terrestrial sin
and care, that we may, as it were--But how is this?" he continued,
suddenly changing his tone, and speaking briefly, sharply, and
anxiously; "one hath left the room since I entered?"

Wildrake had, indeed, been absent for a minute or two, but had now
returned, and stepped forward from a bay window, as if he had been out
of sight only, not out of the apartment. "Not so, sir; I stood but in
the background out of respect. Noble General, I hope all is well with
the Estate, that your Excellency makes us so late a visit? Would not
your Excellency choose some"--

"Ah!" said Oliver, looking sternly and fixedly at him--"Our trusty
Go-between--our faithful confidant.--No, sir; at present I desire
nothing more than a kind reception, which, methinks, my friend Markham
Everard is in no hurry to give me."

"You bring your own welcome, my lord," said Everard, compelling himself
to speak. "I can only trust it was no bad news that made your Excellency
a late traveller, and ask, like my follower, what refreshment I shall
command for your accommodation."

"The state is sound and healthy, Colonel Everard," said the General;
"and yet the less so, that many of its members, who have been hitherto
workers together, and propounders of good counsel, and advancers of the
public weal, have now waxed cold in their love and in their affection
for the Good Cause, for which we should be ready, in our various
degrees, to act and do so soon as we are called to act that whereunto we
are appointed, neither rashly nor over-slothfully, neither lukewarmly
nor over-violently, but with such a frame and disposition, in which zeal
and charity may, as it were, meet and kiss each other in our streets.
Howbeit, because we look back after we have put our hand to the plough,
therefore is our force waxed dim."

"Pardon me, sir," said Nehemiah Holdenough, who, listening with some
impatience, began to guess in whose company he stood--"Pardon me, for
unto this I have a warrant to speak."

"Ah! ah!" said Cromwell. "Surely, most worthy sir, we grieve the Spirit
when we restrain those pourings forth, which, like water from a rock"--

"Nay, therein I differ from you, sir," said Holdenough; "for as there is
the mouth to transmit the food, and the profit to digest what Heaven
hath sent; so is the preacher ordained to teach and the people to hear;
the shepherd to gather the flock into the sheepfold, the sheep to profit
by the care of the shepherd."

"Ah! my worthy sir," said Cromwell, with much unction, "methinks you
verge upon the great mistake, which supposes that churches are tall
large houses built by masons, and hearers are men--wealthy men, who pay
tithes, the larger as well as the less; and that the priests, men in
black gowns or grey cloaks, who receive the same, are in guerdon the
only distributors of Christian blessings; whereas, in my apprehension,
there is more of Christian liberty in leaving it to the discretion of
the hungry soul to seek his edification where it can be found, whether
from the mouth of a lay teacher, who claimeth his warrant from Heaven
alone, or at the dispensation of those who take ordinations and degrees
from synods and universities, at best but associations of poor sinful
creatures like themselves."

"You speak you know not what, sir," replied Holdenough, impatiently.
"Can light come out of darkness, sense out of ignorance, or knowledge of
the mysteries of religion from such ignorant mediciners as give poisons
instead of wholesome medicaments, and cram with filth the stomachs of
such as seek to them for food?" This, which the Presbyterian divine
uttered rather warmly, the General answered with the utmost mildness.

"Lack-a-day, lack-a-day! a learned man, but intemperate; over-zeal hath
eaten him up.--A well-a-day, sir, you may talk of your regular
gospel-meals, but a word spoken in season by one whose heart is with
your heart, just perhaps when you are riding on to encounter an enemy,
or are about to mount a breach, is to the poor spirit like a rasher on
the coals, which the hungry shall find preferable to a great banquet, at
such times when the full soul loatheth the honey-comb. Nevertheless,
although I speak thus in my poor judgment, I would not put force on the
conscience of any man, leaving to the learned to follow the learned, and
the wise to be instructed by the wise, while poor simple wretched souls
are not to be denied a drink from the stream which runneth by the
way.--Ay, verily, it will be a comely sight in England when men shall go
on as in a better world, bearing with each other's infirmities, joining
in each other's comforts.--Ay, truly, the rich drink out of silver
flagons, and goblets of silver, the poor out of paltry bowls of
wood--and even so let it be, since they both drink the same element."

Here an officer opened the door and looked in, to whom Cromwell,
exchanging the canting drawl, in which it seemed he might have gone on
interminably, for the short brief tone of action, called out, "Pearson,
is he come?"

"No, sir," replied Pearson; "we have enquired for him at the place you
noted, and also at other haunts of his about the town."

"The knave!" said Cromwell, with bitter emphasis; "can he have proved
false?--No, no, his interest is too deeply engaged. We shall find him by
and by. Hark thee hither."

While this conversation was going forward, the reader must imagine the
alarm of Everard. He was certain that the personal attendance of
Cromwell must be on some most important account, and he could not but
strongly suspect that the General had some information respecting
Charles's lurking place. If taken, a renewal of the tragedy of the 30th
of January was instantly to be apprehended, and the ruin of the whole
family of Lee, with himself probably included, must be the necessary
consequence.

He looked eagerly for consolation at Wildrake, whose countenance
expressed much alarm, which he endeavoured to bear out with his usual
look of confidence. But the weight within was too great; he shuffled
with his feet, rolled his eyes, and twisted his hands, like an unassured
witness before an acute and not to be deceived judge.

Oliver, meanwhile, left his company not a minute's leisure to take
counsel together. Even while his perplexed eloquence flowed on in a
stream so mazy that no one could discover which way its course was
tending, his sharp watchful eye rendered all attempts of Everard to hold
communication with Wildrake, even by signs, altogether vain. Everard,
indeed, looked for an instant at the window, then glanced at Wildrake,
as if to hint there might be a possibility to escape that way. But the
cavalier had replied with a disconsolate shake of the head, so slight as
to be almost imperceptible. Everard, therefore, lost all hope, and the
melancholy feeling of approaching and inevitable evil, was only varied
by anxiety concerning the shape and manner in which it was about to make
its approach.

But Wildrake had a spark of hope left. The very instant Cromwell entered
he had got out of the room, and down to the door of the house. "Back--
back!" repeated by two armed sentinels, convinced him that, as his fears
had anticipated, the General had come neither unattended nor unprepared.
He turned on his heel, ran up stairs, and meeting on the landing-place
the boy whom he called Spitfire, hurried him into the small apartment
which he occupied as his own. Wildrake had been shooting that morning,
and game lay on the table. He pulled a feather from a woodcock's wing,
and saying hastily, "For thy life, Spitfire, mind my orders--I will put
thee safe out at the window into the court--the yard wall is not
high--and there will be no sentry there--Fly to the Lodge, as thou
wouldst win Heaven, and give this feather to Mistress Alice Lee, if
possible--if not, to Joceline Joliffe--say I have won the wages of the
young lady. Dost mark me, boy?"

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