Spent in your service — dying at your feet.
DON SEBASTIAN.
Years rush by us like the wind. We see not whence the eddy1 comes, nor whitherward it is tending, and we seem ourselves to witness their flight without a sense that we are changed; and yet Time is beguiling2 man of his strength, as the winds rob the woods of their foliage3.
After the marriage of Alice and Markham Everard, the old knight4 resided near them, in an ancient manor-house, belonging to the redeemed5 portion of his estate, where Joceline and Phoebe, now man and wife, with one or two domestics, regulated the affairs of his household. When he tired of Shakspeare and solitude6, he was ever a welcome guest at his son-inlaw’s, where he went the more frequently that Markham had given up all concern in public affairs, disapproving7 of the forcible dismissal of the Parliament, and submitting to Cromwell’s subsequent domination, rather as that which was the lesser8 evil, than as to a government which he regarded as legal. Cromwell seemed ever willing to show himself his friend; but Everard, resenting highly the proposal to deliver up the King, which he considered as an insult to his honour, never answered such advances, and became, on the contrary, of the opinion, which was now generally prevalent in the nation, that a settled government could not be obtained without the recall of the banished9 family. There is no doubt that the personal kindness which he had received from Charles, rendered him the more readily disposed to such a measure. He was peremptory10, however, in declining all engagements during Oliver’s life, whose power he considered as too firmly fixed11 to be shaken by any plots which could be formed against it.
Meantime, Wildrake continued to be Everard’s protected dependent as before, though sometimes the connexion tended not a little to his inconvenience. That respectable person, indeed, while he remained stationary12 in his patron’s house, or that of the old knight, discharged many little duties in the family, and won Alice’s heart by his attention to the children, teaching the boys, of whom they had three, to ride, fence, toss the pike, and many similar exercises; and, above all, filling up a great blank in her father’s existence, with whom he played at chess and backgammon, or read Shakspeare, or was clerk to prayers when any sequestrated divine ventured to read the service of the Church. Or he found game for him while the old gentleman continued to go a-sporting; and, especially he talked over the storming of Brentford, and the battles of Edgehill, Banbury, Roundwaydown, and others, themes which the aged13 cavalier delighted in, but which he could not so well enter upon with Colonel Everard, who had gained his laurels14 in the Parliament service.
The assistance which he received from Wildrake’s society became more necessary, after Sir Henry was deprived of his gallant15 and only son, who was slain16 in the fatal battle of Dunkirk, where, unhappily, English colours were displayed on both the contending sides, the French being then allied17 with Oliver, who sent to their aid a body of auxiliaries18, and the troops of the banished King fighting in behalf of the Spaniards. Sir Henry received the melancholy19 news like an old man, that is, with more external composure than could have been anticipated. He dwelt for weeks and months on the lines forwarded by the indefatigable20 Dr. Rochecliffe, superscribed in small letters, C. R., and subscribed21 Louis Kerneguy, in which the writer conjured22 him to endure this inestimable loss with the greater firmness, that he had still left one son, (intimating himself,) who would always regard him as a father.
But in spite of this balsam, sorrow, acting23 imperceptibly, and sucking the blood like a vampire24, seemed gradually drying up the springs of life; and, without any formed illness, or outward complaint, the old man’s strength and vigour25 gradually abated26, and the ministry27 of Wildrake proved daily more indispensable.
It was not, however, always to be had. The cavalier was one of those happy persons whom a strong constitution, an unreflecting mind, and exuberant28 spirits, enable to play through their whole lives the part of a school-boy — happy for the moment, and careless of consequences.
Once or twice every year, when he had collected a few pieces, the Cavaliero Wildrake made a start to London, where, as he described it, he went on the ramble29, drank as much wine as he could come by, and led a skeldering life, to use his own phrase, among roystering cavaliers like himself, till by some rash speech or wild action, he got into the Marshalsea, the Fleet, or some other prison, from which he was to be delivered at the expense of interest, money, and sometimes a little reputation.
At length Cromwell died, his son resigned the government, and the various changes which followed induced Everard, as well as many others, to adopt more active measures in the King’s behalf. Everard even remitted30 considerable sums for his service, but with the utmost caution, and corresponding with no intermediate agent, but with the Chancellor31 himself, to whom he communicated much useful information upon public affairs. With all his prudence32 he was very nearly engaged in the ineffectual rising of Booth and Middleton in the west, and with great difficulty escaped from the fatal consequences of that ill-timed attempt. After this, although the estate of the kingdom was trebly unsettled, yet no card seemed to turn up favourable33 to the royal cause, until the movement of General Monk34 from Scotland. Even then, it was when at the point of complete success, that the fortunes of Charles seemed at a lower ebb35 than ever, especially when intelligence had arrived at the little Court which he then kept in Brussels, that Monk, on arriving in London, had put himself under the orders of the Parliament.
It was at this time, and in the evening, while the King, Buckingham, Wilmot, and some other gallants of his wandering Court, were engaged in a convivial36 party, that the Chancellor (Clarendon) suddenly craved37 audience, and, entering with less ceremony than he would have done at another time, announced extraordinary news. For the messenger, he said, he could say nothing, saving that he appeared to have drunk much, and slept little; but that he had brought a sure token of credence38 from a man for whose faith he would venture his life. The King demanded to see the messenger himself.
A man entered, with something the manners of a gentleman, and more those of a rakebelly debauchee — his eyes swelled39 and inflamed40 — his gait disordered and stumbling, partly through lack of sleep, partly through the means he had taken to support his fatigue41. He staggered without ceremony to the head of the table, seized the King’s hand, which he mumbled42 like a piece of gingerbread; while Charles, who began to recollect43 him from his mode of salutation, was not very much pleased that their meeting should have taken place before so many witnesses.
“I bring good news,” said the uncouth44 messenger, “glorious news! — the King shall enjoy his own again! — My feet are beautiful on the mountains. Gad45, I have lived with Presbyterians till I have caught their language — but we are all one man’s children now — all your Majesty46’s poor babes. The Rump is all ruined in London — Bonfires flaming, music playing, rumps roasting, healths drinking, London in a blaze of light from the Strand47 to Rotherhithe — tankards clattering”—
“We can guess at that,” said the Duke of Buckingham.
“My old friend, Mark Everard, sent me off with the news; I’m a villain48 if I’ve slept since. Your Majesty recollects49 me, I am sure. Your Majesty remembers, sa — sa — at the King’s Oak, at Woodstock? —
‘O, we’ll dance, and sing, and play,
For ’twill be a joyous50 day
When the King shall enjoy his own again.’”
“Master Wildrake, I remember you well,” said the King. “I trust the good news is certain?”
“Certain! your Majesty; did I not hear the bells? — did I not see the bonfires? — did I not drink your Majesty’s health so often, that my legs would scarce carry me to the wharf51? It is as certain as that I am poor Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln.”
The Duke of Buckingham here whispered to the King, “I have always suspected your Majesty kept odd company during the escape from Worcester, but this seems a rare sample.”
“Why, pretty much like yourself, and other company I have kept here so many years — as stout52 a heart, as empty a head,” said Charles —“as much lace, though somewhat tarnished53, as much brass54 on the brow, and nearly as much copper55 in the pocket.”
“I would your Majesty would intrust this messenger of good news with me, to get the truth out of him,” said Buckingham.
“Thank your Grace,” replied the King; “but he has a will as well as yourself, and such seldom agree. My Lord Chancellor hath wisdom, and to that we must trust ourselves. — Master Wildrake, you will go with my Lord Chancellor, who will bring us a report of your tidings; meantime, I assure you that you shall be no loser for being the first messenger of good news.” So saying, he gave a signal to the Chancellor to take away Wildrake, whom he judged, in his present humour, to be not unlikely to communicate some former passages at Woodstock which might rather entertain than edify56 the wits of his court.
Corroboration57 of the joyful58 intelligence soon arrived, and Wildrake was presented with a handsome gratuity59 and small pension, which, by the King’s special desire, had no duty whatever attached to it.
Shortly afterwards, all England was engaged in chorusing his favourite ditty —
“Oh, the twenty-ninth of May,
It was a glorious day,
When the King did enjoy his own again.”
On that memorable60 day, the King prepared to make his progress from Rochester to London, with a reception on the part of his subjects so unanimously cordial, as made him say gaily61, it must have been his own fault to stay so long away from a country where his arrival gave so much joy. On horseback, betwixt his brothers, the Dukes of York and Gloucester, the Restored Monarch62 trode slowly over roads strewn with flowers — by conduits running wine, under triumphal arches, and through streets hung with tapestry63. There were citizens in various bands, some arrayed in coats of black velvet64, with gold chains; some in military suits of cloth of gold, or cloth of silver, followed by all those craftsmen65 who, having hooted66 the father from Whitehall, had now come to shout the son into possession of his ancestral place. On his progress through Blackheath, he passed that army which, so long formidable to England herself, as well as to Europe, had been the means of restoring the Monarchy67 which their own hands had destroyed. As the King passed the last files of this formidable host, he came to an open part of the heath, where many persons of quality, with others of inferior rank, had stationed themselves to gratulate him as he passed towards the capital.
There was one group, however, which attracted peculiar68 attention from those around, on account of the respect shown to the party by the soldiers who kept the ground, and who, whether Cavaliers or Roundheads, seemed to contest emulously which should contribute most to their accommodation; for both the elder and younger gentlemen of the party had been distinguished69 in the Civil War.
It was a family group, of which the principal figure was an old man seated in a chair, having a complacent70 smile on his face, and a tear swelling71 to his eye, as he saw the banners wave on in interminable succession, and heard the multitude shouting the long silenced acclamation, “God save King Charles.” His cheek was ashy pale, and his long beard bleached72 like the thistle down; his blue eye was cloudless, yet it was obvious that its vision was failing. His motions were feeble, and he spoke73 little, except when he answered the prattle74 of his grandchildren, or asked a question of his daughter, who sate75 beside him, matured in matronly beauty, or of Colonel Everard who stood behind. There, too, the stout yeoman, Joceline Joliffe, still in his silvan dress, leaned, like a second Benaiah, on the quarter-staff that had done the King good service in its day, and his wife, a buxom76 matron as she had been a pretty maiden77, laughed at her own consequence; and ever and anon joined her shrill78 notes to the stentorian79 halloo which her husband added to the general acclamation.
These fine boys and two pretty girls prattled80 around their grandfather, who made them such answers as suited their age, and repeatedly passed his withered81 hand over the fair locks of the little darlings, while Alice, assisted by Wildrake, (blazing in a splendid dress, and his eyes washed with only a single cup of canary,) took off the children’s attention from time to time, lest they should weary their grandfather. We must not omit one other remarkable82 figure in the group — a gigantic dog, which bore the signs of being at the extremity83 of canine84 life, being perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. But though exhibiting the ruin only of his former appearance, his eyes dim, his joints85 stiff, his head slouched down, and his gallant carriage and graceful86 motions exchanged for a stiff, rheumatic, hobbling gait, the noble hound had lost none of his instinctive87 fondness for his master. To lie by Sir Henry’s feet in the summer or by the fire in winter, to raise his head to look on him, to lick his withered hand or his shrivelled cheek from time to time, seemed now all that Bevis lived for.
Three or four livery servants attended to protect this group from the thronging88 multitude, but it needed not. The high respectability and unpretending simplicity89 of their appearance gave them, even in the eyes of the coarsest of the people, an air of patriarchal dignity, which commanded general regard; and they sat upon the bank which they had chosen for their station by the way-side, as undisturbed as if they had been in their own park.
And now the distant clarions announced the Royal Presence. Onward90 came pursuivant and trumpet91 — onward came plumes92 and cloth of gold, and waving standards displayed, and swords gleaming to the sun; and at length, heading a group of the noblest in England, and supported by his royal brothers on either side, onward came King Charles. He had already halted more than once, in kindness perhaps as well as policy, to exchange a word with persons whom he recognized among the spectators, and the shouts of the bystanders applauded a courtesy which seemed so well timed. But when he had gazed an instant on the party we have described, it was impossible, if even Alice had been too much changed to be recognized, not instantly to know Bevis and his venerable master. The Monarch sprung from his horse, and walked instantly up to the old knight, amid thundering acclamations which rose from the multitudes around, when they saw Charles with his own hand oppose the feeble attempts of the old man to rise to do his homage93. Gently replacing him on his seat —“Bless,” he said, “father — bless your son, who has returned in safety, as you blessed him when he departed in danger.”
“May God bless — and preserve”— muttered the old man, overcome by his feelings; and the King, to give him a few moments’ repose94, turned to Alice —
“And you,” he said, “my fair guide, how have you been employed since our perilous95 night-walk? But I need not ask,” glancing around —“in the service of King and Kingdom, bringing up subjects, as loyal as their ancestors. — A fair lineage, by my faith, and a beautiful sight, to the eye of an English King! — Colonel Everard, we shall see you, I trust, at Whitehall?” Here he nodded to Wildrake. “And thou, Joceline, thou canst hold thy quarter-staff with one hand, sure? — Thrust forward the other palm.”
Looking down in sheer bashfulness, Joceline, like a bull about to push, extended to the King, over his lady’s shoulder, a hand as broad and hard as a wooden trencher, which the King filled with gold coins. “Buy a handful for my friend Phoebe with some of these,” said Charles, “she too has been doing her duty to Old England.”
The King then turned once more to the knight, who seemed making an effort to speak. He took his aged hand in both his own, and stooped his head towards him to catch his accents, while the old man, detaining him with the other hand, said something faltering96, of which Charles could only catch the quotation97 —
“Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,
And welcome home again discarded faith.”
Extricating98 himself, therefore, as gently as possible, from a scene which began to grow painfully embarrassing, the good-natured King said, speaking with unusual distinctness to insure the old man’s comprehending him, “This is something too public a place for all we have to say. But if you come not soon to see King Charles at Whitehall, he will send down Louis Kerneguy to visit you, that you may see how rational that mischievous99 lad is become since his travels.”
So saying, he once more pressed affectionately the old man’s hand, bowed to Alice and all around, and withdrew; Sir Henry Lee listening with a smile, which showed he comprehended the gracious tendency of what had been said. The old man leaned back on his seat, and muttered the Nunc dimittas.
“Excuse me for having made you wait, my lords,” said the King, as he mounted his horse; “indeed, had it not been for these good folks, you might have waited for me long enough to little purpose. — Move on, sirs.”
The array moved on accordingly; the sound of trumpets100 and drums again rose amid the acclamations, which had been silent while the King stopped; while the effect of the whole procession resuming its motion, was so splendidly dazzling, that even Alice’s anxiety about for her father’s health was for a moment suspended, while her eye followed the long line of varied101 brilliancy that proceeded over the heath. When she looked again at Sir Henry, she was startled to see that his cheek, which had gained some colour during his conversation with the King, had relapsed into earthly paleness; that his eyes were closed, and opened not again; and that his features expressed, amid their quietude, a rigidity102 which is not that of sleep. They ran to his assistance, but it was too late. The light that burned so low in the socket103, had leaped up, and expired in one exhilarating flash.
The rest must be conceived. I have only to add that his faithful dog did not survive him many days; and that the image of Bevis lies carved at his master’s feet, on the tomb which was erected104 to the memory of Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley.
The End
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1
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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8
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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9
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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auxiliaries
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| n.助动词 ( auxiliary的名词复数 )；辅助工，辅助人员 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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vampire
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| n.吸血鬼 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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recollects
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的第三人称单数 ) | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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53
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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54
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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56
edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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60
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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61
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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62
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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63
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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64
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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65
craftsmen
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| n. 技工 | |
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66
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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68
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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69
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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70
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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71
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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72
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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73
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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74
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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75
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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76
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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78
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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80
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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81
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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82
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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83
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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85
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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86
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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88
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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89
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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92
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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99
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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100
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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101
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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102
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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103
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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104
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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