become his enemies!”
“You must remember you are my clerk.”
“Secretary,” answered Wildrake: “let it be secretary, if you love me.”
“It must be clerk, and nothing else—plain clerk—and remember to be civil and obedient,” replied Everard.
“But you should not lay on your commands with so much ostentatious superiority, Master Markham Everard. Remember, I am your senior of three years’ standing. Confound me, if I know how to take it!”
“Was ever such a fantastic wrong-head!—For my sake, if not for thine own, bend thy freakish folly to listen to reason. Think that I have incurred both risk and shame on thy account.”
“Nay, thou art a right good fellow, Mark,” replied the cavalier; “and for thy sake I will do much—but remember to cough, and cry hem! when thou seest me like to break bounds. And now, tell me whither we are bound for the night.”
“To Woodstock Lodge, to look after my uncle’s property,” answered Markham Everard: “I am informed that soldiers have taken possession—Yet how could that be if thou foundest the party drinking in Woodstock?”
“There was a kind of commissary or steward, or some such rogue, had gone down to the Lodge,” replied Wildrake; “I had a peep at him.”
“Indeed!” replied Everard.
“Ay, verily,” said Wildrake, “to speak your own language. Why, as I passed through the park in quest of you, scarce half an hour since, I saw a light in the Lodge—Step this way, you will see it yourself.”
“In the northwest angle?” returned Everard. “It is from a window in what they call Victor Lee’s apartment.”
“Well,” resumed Wildrake, “I had been long one of Lundsford’s lads, and well used to patrolling duty—So, rat me, says I, if I leave a light in my rear, without knowing what it means. Besides, Mark, thou hadst said so much to me of thy pretty cousin, I thought I might as well have a peep, if I could.”
“Thoughtless, incorrigible man! to what dangers do you expose yourself and your friends, in mere wantonness!—But go on.”
“By this fair moonshine, I believe thou art jealous, Mark Everard!” replied his gay companion; “there is no occasion; for, in any case, I, who was to see the lady, was steeled by honour against the charms of my friend’s Chloe—Then the lady was not to see me, so could make no comparisons to thy disadvantage, thou knowest—Lastly, as it fell out, neither of us saw the other at all.”
“Of that I am well aware. Mrs. Alice left the Lodge long before sunset, and never returned. What didst thou see to introduce with such preface?”
“Nay, no great matter,” replied Wildrake; “only getting upon a sort of buttress, (for I can climb like any cat that ever mewed in any gutter,) and holding on by the vines and creepers which grew around, I obtained a station where I could see into the inside of that same parlour thou spokest of just now.”
“And what saw’st thou there?” once more demanded Everard.
“Nay, no great matter, as I said before,” replied the cavalier; “for in these times it is no new thing to see churls carousing in royal or noble chambers. I saw two rascallions engaged in emptying a solemn stoup of strong waters, and dispatching a huge venison pasty, which greasy mess, for their convenience, they had placed on a lady’s worktable—One of them was trying an air on a lute.”
“The profane villains!” exclaimed Everard, “it was Alice’s.”
“Well said, comrade—I am glad your phlegm can be moved. I did but throw in these incidents of the lute and the table, to try if it was possible to get a spark of human spirit out of you, besanctified as you are.”
“What like were the men?” said young Everard.
“The one a slouch-hatted, long-cloaked, sour-faced fanatic, like the rest of you, whom I took to be the steward or commissary I heard spoken of in the town; the other was a short sturdy fellow, with a wood-knife at his girdle, and a long quarterstaff lying beside him—a black-haired knave, with white teeth and a merry countenance—one of the under-rangers or bow-bearers of these walks, I fancy.”
“They must have been Desborough’s favourite, trusty Tomkins,” said Everard, “and Joceline Joliffe, the keeper. Tomkins is Desborough’s right hand—an Independent, and hath pourings forth, as he calls them. Some think that his gifts have the better of his grace. I have heard of his abusing opportunities.”
“They were improving them when I saw them,” replied Wildrake, “and made the bottle smoke for it—when, as the devil would have it, a stone, which had been dislodged from the crumbling buttress, gave way under my weight. A clumsy fellow like thee would have been so long thinking what was to be done, that he must needs have followed it before he could make up his mind; but I, Mark, I hopped like a squirrel to an ivy twig, and stood fast—was wellnigh shot, though, for the noise alarmed them both. They looked to the oriel, and saw me on the outside; the fanatic fellow took out a pistol—as they have always such texts in readiness hanging beside the little clasped Bible, thou know’st—the keeper seized his hunting-pole—I treated them both to a roar and a grin—thou must know I can grimace like a baboon—I learned the trick from a French player, who could twist his jaws into a pair of nut-crackers—and therewithal I dropped myself sweetly on the grass, and ran off so trippingly, keeping the dark side of the wall as long as I could, that I am wellnigh persuaded they thought I was their kinsman, the devil, come among them uncalled. They were abominably startled.”
“Thou art most fearfully rash, Wildrake,” said his companion; “we are now bound for the house—what if they should remember thee?”
“Why, it is no treason, is it? No one has paid for peeping since Tom of Coventry’s days; and if he came in for a reckoning, belike it was for a better treat than mine. But trust me, they will no more know me, than a man who had only seen your friend Noll at a conventicle of saints, would know the same Oliver on horseback, and charging with his lobster-tailed squadron; or the same Noll cracking a jest and a bottle with wicked Waller the poet.”
“Hush! not a word of Oliver, as thou dost value thyself and me. It is ill jesting with the rock you may split on.—But here is the gate—we will disturb these honest gentlemen’s recreations.”
As he spoke, he applied the large and ponderous knocker to the hall-door. “Rat-tat-tat-too!” said Wildrake; “there is a fine alarm to you cuckolds and roundheads.” He then half-mimicked, half-sung the march so called:—
“Cuckolds, come dig, cuckolds, come dig;
Round about cuckolds, come dance to my jig!”
“By Heaven! this passes Midsummer frenzy,” said Everard, turning angrily to him.
“Not a bit, not a bit,” replied Wildrake; “it is but a slight expectoration, just like what one makes before beginning a long speech. I will be grave for an hour together, now I have got that point of war out of my head.”
As he spoke, steps were heard in the hall, and the wicket of the great door was partly opened, but secured with a chain in case of accidents. The visage of Tomkins, and that of Joceline beneath it, appeared at the chink, illuminated by the lamp which the latter held in his hand, and Tomkins demanded the meaning of this alarm.
“I demand instant admittance!” said Everard. “Joliffe, you know me well?”
“I do, sir,” replied Joceline, “and could admit you with all my heart; but, alas! sir, you see I am not key-keeper—Here is the gentleman whose warrant I must walk by—The Lord help me, seeing times are such as they be!”
“And when that gentleman, who I think may be Master Desborough’s valet”—
“His honour’s unworthy secretary, an it please you,” interposed Tomkins; while Wildrake whispered in Everard’s ear; “I will be no longer