When civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When foul words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folk together by the ears--
--BUTLER.
William, the Conqueror of England, was, or supposed himself to be, the
father of a certain William Peveril, who attended him to the battle of
Hastings, and there distinguished himself. The liberal-minded monarch,
who assumed in his charters the veritable title of Gulielmus Bastardus,
was not likely to let his son’s illegitimacy be any bar to the course of
his royal favour, when the laws of England were issued from the mouth
of the Norman victor, and the lands of the Saxons were at his unlimited
disposal. William Peveril obtained a liberal grant of property and
lordships in Derbyshire, and became the erecter of that Gothic fortress,
which, hanging over the mouth of the Devil’s Cavern, so well known to
tourists, gives the name of Castleton to the adjacent village.
From this feudal Baron, who chose his nest upon the principles on which
an eagle selects her eyry, and built it in such a fashion as if he had
intended it, as an Irishman said of the Martello towers, for the sole
purpose of puzzling posterity, there was, or conceived themselves to be,
descended (for their pedigree was rather hypothetical) an opulent
family of knightly rank, in the same county of Derby. The great fief
of Castleton, with its adjacent wastes and forests, and all the wonders
which they contain, had been forfeited in King John’s stormy days, by
one William Peveril, and had been granted anew to the Lord Ferrers of
that day. Yet this William’s descendants, though no longer possessed
of what they alleged to have been their original property, were long
distinguished by the proud title of Peverils of the Peak, which served
to mark their high descent and lofty pretensions.
In Charles the Second’s time, the representative of this ancient family
was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, a man who had many of the ordinary attributes
of an old-fashioned country gentleman, and very few individual traits
to distinguish him from the general portrait of that worthy class
of mankind. He was proud of small advantages, angry at small
disappointments, incapable of forming any resolution or opinion
abstracted from his own prejudices--he was proud of his birth, lavish
in his housekeeping, convivial with those kindred and acquaintances, who
would allow his superiority in rank--contentious and quarrelsome with
all that crossed his pretensions--kind to the poor, except when they
plundered his game--a Royalist in his political opinions, and one who
detested alike a Roundhead, a poacher, and a Presbyterian. In religion
Sir Geoffrey was a high-churchman, of so exalted a strain that many
thought he still nourished in private the Roman Catholic tenets, which
his family had only renounced in his father’s time, and that he had a
dispensation for conforming in outward observances to the Protestant
faith. There was at least such a scandal amongst the Puritans, and
the influence which Sir Geoffrey Peveril certainly appeared to possess
amongst the Catholic gentlemen of Derbyshire and Cheshire, seemed to
give countenance to the rumour.
Such was Sir Geoffrey, who might have passed to his grave without
further distinction than a brass-plate in the chancel, had he not lived
in times which forced the most inactive spirits into exertion, as a
tempest influences the sluggish waters of the deadest mere. When the
Civil Wars broke out, Peveril of the Peak, proud from pedigree, and
brave by constitution, raised a regiment for the King, and showed upon
several occasions more capacity for command than men had heretofore
given him credit for.
Even in the midst of the civil turmoil, he fell in love with, and
married, a beautiful and amiable young lady of the noble house of
Stanley; and from that time had the more merit in his loyalty, as it
divorced him from her society, unless at very brief intervals, when his
duty permitted an occasional visit to his home. Scorning to be allured
from his military duty by domestic inducements, Peveril of the Peak
fought on for several rough years of civil war, and performed his part
with sufficient gallantry, until his regiment was surprised and cut
to pieces by Poyntz, Cromwell’s enterprising and successful general of
cavalry. The defeated Cavalier escaped from the field of battle, and,
like a true descendant of William the Conqueror, disdaining submission,
threw himself into his own castellated mansion, which was attacked and
defended in a siege of that irregular kind which caused the destruction
of so many baronial residences during the course of those unhappy wars.
Martindale Castle, after having suffered severely from the cannon which
Cromwell himself brought against it, was at length surrendered when in
the last extremity. Sir Geoffrey himself became a prisoner, and while
his liberty was only restored upon a promise of remaining a peaceful
subject to the Commonwealth in future, his former delinquencies, as
they were termed by the ruling party, were severely punished by fine and
sequestration.
But neither his forced promise, nor the fear of farther unpleasant
consequences to his person or property, could prevent Peveril of the
Peak from joining the gallant Earl of Derby the night before the fatal
engagement in Wiggan Lane, where the Earl’s forces were dispersed. Sir
Geoffrey having had his share in that action, escaped with the relics
of the Royalists after the defeat, to join Charles II. He witnessed also
the final defeat of Worcester, where he was a second time made prisoner;
and as, in the opinion of Cromwell and the language of the times, he
was regarded as an obstinate malignant, he was in great danger of having
shared with the Earl of Derby his execution at Bolton-le-Moor, having
partaken with him the dangers of two actions. But Sir Geoffrey’s life
was preserved by the interest of a friend, who possessed influence in
the councils of Oliver.--This was a Mr. Bridgenorth, a gentleman of
middling quality, whose father had been successful in some commercial
adventure during the peaceful reign of James I.; and who had bequeathed
his son a considerable sum of money, in addition to the moderate
patrimony which he inherited from his father.
The substantial, though small-sized, brick building of Moultrassie
Hall, was but two miles distant from Martindale Castle, and the young
Bridgenorth attended the same school with the heir of the Peverils. A
sort of companionship, if not intimacy, took place betwixt them, which
continued during their youthful sports--the rather that Bridgenorth,
though he did not at heart admit Sir Geoffrey’s claims of superiority to
the extent which the other’s vanity would have exacted, paid deference
in a reasonable degree to the representative of a family so much more
ancient and important than his own, without conceiving that he in any
respect degraded himself by doing so.
Mr. Bridgenorth did not, however, carry his complaisance so far as to
embrace Sir Geoffrey’s side during the Civil War. On the contrary, as an
active Justice of the Peace, he rendered much assistance in arraying
the militia in the cause of the Parliament, and for some time held
a military commission in that service. This was partly owing to his
religious principles, for he was a zealous Presbyterian, partly to his
political ideas, which, without being absolutely democratical, favoured
the popular side of the great national question. Besides, he was a
moneyed man, and to a certain extent had a shrewd eye to his worldly
interest. He understood how to improve the opportunities which civil war
afforded, of advancing his fortune, by a dexterous use of his capital;
and he was not at a loss to perceive that these were likely to be
obtained in joining the Parliament; while the King’s cause, as it was
managed, held out nothing to the wealthy but a course of exaction
and compulsory loans. For these reasons, Bridgenorth became a decided
Roundhead, and all friendly communication betwixt his neighbour and him
was abruptly broken asunder. This was done with the less acrimony, that,
during the Civil War, Sir Geoffrey was almost constantly in the field,
following the vacillating and unhappy fortunes of his master; while
Major Bridgenorth, who soon renounced active military service, resided
chiefly in London, and only occasionally visited the Hall.
Upon these visits, it was with great pleasure he received the
intelligence, that Lady Peveril had shown much kindness to Mrs.
Bridgenorth, and had actually given her and her family shelter in
Martindale Castle, when Moultrassie Hall was threatened with pillage by
a body of Prince Rupert’s ill-disciplined Cavaliers. This acquaintance
had been matured by frequent walks together, which the vicinity of
their places of residence suffered the Lady Peveril to have with Mrs.
Bridgenorth, who deemed herself much honoured in being thus admitted
into the society of so distinguished a lady. Major Bridgenorth heard of
this growing intimacy with great pleasure, and he determined to repay
the obligation, as far as he could without much hurt to himself,
by interfering with all his influence, in behalf of her unfortunate
husband. It was chiefly owing to Major Bridgenorth’s mediation, that Sir
Geoffrey’s life was saved after the battle of Worcester. He obtained him
permission to compound for his estate on easier terms than many who had
been less obstinate in malignancy; and, finally, when, in order to
raise the money to the composition, the Knight was obliged to sell a
considerable portion of his patrimony, Major Bridgenorth became the
purchaser, and that at a larger price than had been paid to any
Cavalier under such circumstances, by a member of the Committee for
Sequestrations. It is true, the prudent committeeman did not, by any
means, lose sight of his own interest in the transaction, for the
price was, after all, very moderate, and the property lay adjacent
to Moultrassie Hall, the value of which was at least trebled by the
acquisition. But then it was also true, that the unfortunate owner must
have submitted to much worse conditions, had the committeeman used,
as others did, the full advantages which his situation gave him; and
Bridgenorth took credit to himself, and received it from others,
for having, on this occasion, fairly sacrificed his interest to his
liberality.
Sir Geoffrey Peveril was of the same opinion, and the rather that Mr.
Bridgenorth seemed to bear his exaltation with great moderation, and
was disposed to show him personally the same deference in his present
sunshine of prosperity, which he had exhibited formerly in their early
acquaintance. It is but justice to Major Bridgenorth to observe, that
in this conduct he paid respect as much to the misfortunes as to the
pretensions of his far-descended neighbour, and that, with the frank
generosity of a blunt Englishman, he conceded points of ceremony, about
which he himself was indifferent, merely because he saw that his doing
so gave pleasure to Sir Geoffrey.
Peveril of the Peak did justice to his neighbour’s delicacy, in
consideration of which he forgot many things. He forgot that Major
Bridgenorth was already in possession of a fair third of his estate, and
had various pecuniary claims affecting the remainder, to the extent of
one-third more. He endeavoured even to forget, what it was still more
difficult not to remember, the altered situation in which they and their
mansions now stood to each other.
Before the Civil War, the superb battlements and turrets of Martindale
Castle looked down on the red brick-built Hall, as it stole out from the
green plantations, just as an oak in Martindale Chase would have looked
beside one of the stunted and formal young beech-trees with which
Bridgenorth had graced his avenue; but after the siege which we have
commemorated, the enlarged and augmented Hall was as much predominant in
the landscape over the shattered and blackened ruins of the Castle, of
which only one wing was left habitable, as the youthful beech, in all
its vigour of shoot and bud, would appear to the same aged oak stripped
of its boughs, and rifted by lightning, one-half laid in shivers on the
ground, and the other remaining a blackened and ungraceful trunk, rent
and splintered, and without either life or leaves. Sir Geoffrey could
not but feel, that the situation and prospects were exchanged as
disadvantageously for himself as the appearance of their mansions; and
that though the authority of the man in office under the Parliament,
the sequestrator, and the committeeman, had been only exerted for the
protection of the Cavalier and the malignant, they would have been as
effectual if applied to procure his utter ruin; and that he was become a
client, while his neighbour was elevated into a patron.
There were two considerations, besides the necessity of the case and
the constant advice of his lady, which enabled Peveril of the Peak to
endure, with some patience, this state of degradation. The first
was, that the politics of Major Bridgenorth began, on many points, to
assimilate themselves to his own. As a Presbyterian, he was not an utter
enemy to monarchy, and had been considerably shocked at the unexpected
trial and execution of the King; as a civilian and a man of property, he
feared the domination of the military; and though he wished not to see
Charles restored by force of arms, yet he arrived at the conclusion,
that to bring back the heir of the royal family on such terms of
composition as might ensure the protection of those popular immunities
and privileges for which the Long Parliament had at first contended,
would be the surest and most desirable termination to the mutations in
state affairs which had agitated Britain. Indeed, the Major’s ideas
on this point approached so nearly those of his neighbour, that he had
well-nigh suffered Sir Geoffrey, who had a finger in almost all the
conspiracies of the Royalists, to involve him in the unfortunate rising
of Penruddock and Groves, in the west, in which many of the Presbyterian
interest, as well as the Cavalier party, were engaged. And though his
habitual prudence eventually kept him out of this and other dangers,
Major Bridgenorth was considered during the last years of Cromwell’s
domination, and the interregnum which succeeded, as a disaffected person
to the Commonwealth, and a favourer of Charles Stewart.
But besides this approximation to the same political opinions, another
bond of intimacy united the families of the Castle and the Hall.
Major Bridgenorth, fortunate, and eminently so, in all his worldly
transactions, was visited by severe and reiterated misfortunes in his
family, and became, in this particular, an object of compassion to his
poorer and more decayed neighbour. Betwixt the breaking out of the Civil
War and the Restoration, he lost successively a family of no less than
six children, apparently through a delicacy of constitution, which cut
off the little prattlers at the early age when they most wind themselves
round the heart of the parents.
In the beginning of the year 1658, Major Bridgenorth was childless; ere
it ended, he had a daughter, indeed, but her birth was purchased by the
death of an affectionate wife, whose constitution had been exhausted by
maternal grief, and by the anxious and harrowing reflection, that from
her the children they had lost derived that delicacy of health, which
proved unable to undergo the tear and wear of existence. The same voice
which told Bridgenorth that he was the father of a living child (it was
the friendly voice of Lady Peveril), communicated to him the melancholy
intelligence that he was no longer a husband. The feelings of Major
Bridgenorth were strong and deep, rather than hasty and vehement; and
his grief assumed the form of a sullen stupor, from which neither the
friendly remonstrances of Sir Geoffrey, who did not fail to be with his
neighbour at this distressing conjuncture, even though he knew he must
meet the Presbyterian pastor, nor the ghastly exhortations of this
latter person, were able to rouse the unfortunate widower.
At length Lady Peveril, with the ready invention of a female sharped
by the sight of distress and the feelings of sympathy, tried on the
sufferer one of those experiments by which grief is often awakened from
despondency into tears. She placed in Bridgenorth’s arms the infant
whose birth had cost him so dear, and conjured him to remember that his
Alice was not yet dead, since she survived in the helpless child she had
left to his paternal care.
“Take her away--take her away!” said the unhappy man, and they were the
first words he had spoken; “let me not look on her--it is but another
blossom that has bloomed to fade, and the tree that bore it will never
flourish more!”
He almost threw the child into Lady Peveril’s arms, placed his
hands before his face, and wept aloud. Lady Peveril did not say “be
comforted,” but she ventured to promise that the blossom should ripen to
fruit.
“Never, never!” said Bridgenorth; “take the unhappy child away, and let
me only know when I shall wear black for her--Wear black!” he exclaimed,
interrupting himself, “what other colour shall I wear during the
remainder of my life?”
“I will take the child for a season,” said Lady Peveril, “since the
sight of her is so painful to you; and the little Alice shall share the
nursery of our Julian, until it shall be pleasure and not pain for you
to look on her.”
“That hour will never come,” said the unhappy father; “her doom is
written--she will follow the rest--God’s will be done.--Lady, I thank
you--I trust her to your care; and I thank God that my eye shall not see
her dying agonies.”
Without detaining the reader’s attention longer on this painful theme,
it is enough to say that the Lady Peveril did undertake the duties of
a mother to the little orphan; and perhaps it was owing, in a great
measure, to her judicious treatment of the infant, that its feeble hold
of life was preserved, since the glimmering spark might probably have
been altogether smothered, had it, like the Major’s former children,
undergone the over-care and over-nursing of a mother rendered nervously
cautious and anxious by so many successive losses. The lady was the more
ready to undertake this charge, that she herself had lost two infant
children; and that she attributed the preservation of the third, now a
fine healthy child of three years old, to Julian’s being subjected to
rather a different course of diet and treatment than was then generally
practised. She resolved to follow the same regiment with the little
orphan, which she had observed in the case of her own boy; and it was
equally successful. By a more sparing use of medicine, by a bolder
admission of fresh air, by a firm, yet cautious attention to encourage
rather than to supersede the exertions of nature, the puny infant, under
the care of an excellent nurse, gradually improved in strength and in
liveliness.
Sir Geoffrey, like most men of his frank and good-natured disposition,
was naturally fond of children, and so much compassionated the sorrows
of his neighbour, that he entirely forgot his being a Presbyterian,
until it became necessary that the infant should be christened by a
teacher of that persuasion.
This was a trying case--the father seemed incapable of giving direction;
and that the threshold of Martindale Castle should be violated by the
heretical step of a dissenting clergyman, was matter of horror to its
orthodox owner. He had seen the famous Hugh Peters, with a Bible in one
hand and a pistol in the other, ride in triumph through the court-door
when Martindale was surrendered; and the bitterness of that hour had
entered like iron into his soul. Yet such was Lady Peveril’s influence
over the prejudices of her husband, that he was induced to connive
at the ceremony taking place in a remote garden house, which was not
properly within the precincts of the Castle-wall. The lady even dared
to be present while the ceremony was performed by the Reverend Master
Solsgrace, who had once preached a sermon of three hours’ length before
the House of Commons, upon a thanksgiving occasion after the relief of
Exeter. Sir Geoffrey Peveril took care to be absent the whole day from
the Castle, and it was only from the great interest which he took in
the washing, perfuming, and as it were purification of the summer-house,
that it could have been guessed he knew anything of what had taken place
in it.
But, whatever prejudices the good Knight might entertain against his
neighbour’s form of religion, they did not in any way influence his
feelings towards him as a sufferer under severe affliction. The mode in
which he showed his sympathy was rather singular, but exactly suited the
character of both, and the terms on which they stood with each other.
Morning after morning the good Baronet made Moultrassie Hall the
termination of his walk or ride, and said a single word of kindness as
he passed. Sometimes he entered the old parlour where the proprietor sat
in solitary wretchedness and despondency; but more frequently (for Sir
Geoffrey did not pretend to great talents of conversation), he paused on
the terrace, and stopping or halting his horse by the latticed window,
said aloud to the melancholy inmate, “How is it with you, Master
Bridgenorth?” (the Knight would never acknowledge his neighbour’s
military rank of Major); “I just looked in to bid you keep a good heart,
man, and to tell you that Julian is well, and little Alice is well, and
all are well at Martindale Castle.”
A deep sigh, sometimes coupled with “I thank you, Sir Geoffrey; my
grateful duty waits on Lady Peveril,” was generally Bridgenorth’s only
answer. But the news was received on the one part with the kindness
which was designed upon the other; it gradually became less painful
and more interesting; the lattice window was never closed, nor was the
leathern easy-chair which stood next to it ever empty, when the
usual hour of the Baronet’s momentary visit approached. At length the
expectation of that passing minute became the pivot upon which the
thoughts of poor Bridgenorth turned during all the rest of the day. Most
men have known the influence of such brief but ruling moments at some
period of their lives. The moment when a lover passes the window of his
mistress--the moment when the epicure hears the dinner-bell,--is that
into which is crowded the whole interest of the day; the hours which
precede it are spent in anticipation; the hours which follow, in
reflection on what has passed; and fancy dwelling on each brief
circumstance, gives to seconds the duration of minutes, to minutes that
of hours. Thus seated in his lonely chair, Bridgenorth could catch at
a distance the stately step of Sir Geoffrey, or the heavy tramp of his
war-horse, Black Hastings, which had borne him in many an action; he
could hear the hum of “The King shall enjoy his own again,” or the
habitual whistle of “Cuckolds and Roundheads,” die unto reverential
silence, as the Knight approached the mansion of affliction; and then
came the strong hale voice of the huntsman soldier with its usual
greeting.
By degrees the communication became something more protracted, as Major
Bridgenorth’s grief, like all human feelings, lost its overwhelming
violence, and permitted him to attend, in some degree, to what passed
around him, to discharge various duties which pressed upon him, and to
give a share of attention to the situation of the country, distracted as
it was by the contending factions, whose strife only terminated in the
Restoration. Still, however, though slowly recovering from the effects
of the shock which he had sustained, Major Bridgenorth felt himself
as yet unable to make up his mind to the effort necessary to see his
infant; and though separated by so short a distance from the being
in whose existence he was more interested than in anything the world
afforded, he only made himself acquainted with the windows of the
apartment where little Alice was lodged, and was often observed to
watch them from the terrace, as they brightened in the evening under the
influence of the setting sun. In truth, though a strong-minded man in
most respects, he was unable to lay aside the gloomy impression that
this remaining pledge of affection was soon to be conveyed to that grave
which had already devoured all besides that was dear to him; and he
awaited in miserable suspense the moment when he should hear that
symptoms of the fatal malady had begun to show themselves.
The voice of Peveril continued to be that of a comforter until the month
of April 1660, when it suddenly assumed a new and different tone. “The
King shall enjoy his own again,” far from ceasing, as the hasty tread
of Black Hastings came up the avenue, bore burden to the clatter of
his hoofs on the paved courtyard, as Sir Geoffrey sprang from his great
war-saddle, now once more garnished with pistols of two feet in length,
and, armed with steel-cap, back and breast, and a truncheon in his hand,
he rushed into the apartment of the astonished Major, with his eyes
sparkling, and his cheek inflamed, while he called out, “Up! up,
neighbour! No time now to mope in the chimney-corner! Where is your
buff-coat and broadsword, man? Take the true side once in your life, and
mend past mistakes. The King is all lenity, man--all royal nature and
mercy. I will get your full pardon.”
“What means all this?” said Bridgenorth--“Is all well with you--all well
at Martindale Castle, Sir Geoffrey?”
“Well as you could wish them, Alice, and Julian, and all. But I have
news worth twenty of that--Monk has declared at London against those
stinking scoundrels the Rump. Fairfax is up in Yorkshire--for the
King--for the King, man! Churchmen, Presbyterians, and all, are in buff
and bandoleer for King Charles. I have a letter from Fairfax to secure
Derby and Chesterfield with all the men I can make. D--n him, fine that
I should take orders from him! But never mind that--all are friends now,
and you and I, good neighbour, will charge abreast, as good neighbours
should. See there! read--read--read--and then boot and saddle in an
instant.
‘Hey for cavaliers--ho for cavaliers,
Pray for cavaliers,
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub,
Have at old Beelzebub,
Oliver shakes in his bier!’”
After thundering forth this elegant effusion of loyal enthusiasm, the
sturdy Cavalier’s heart became too full. He threw himself on a seat, and
exclaiming, “Did ever I think to live to see this happy day!” he wept,
to his own surprise, as much as to that of Bridgenorth.
Upon considering the crisis in which the country was placed, it appeared
to Major Bridgenorth, as it had done to Fairfax, and other leaders of
the Presbyterian party, that their frank embracing of the royal interest
was the wisest and most patriotic measure which they could adopt in the
circumstances, when all ranks and classes of men were seeking refuge
from the uncertainty and varied oppression attending the repeated
contests between the factions of Westminster Hall and of Wallingford
House. Accordingly he joined with Sir Geoffrey, with less enthusiasm
indeed, but with equal sincerity, taking such measures as seemed proper
to secure their part of the country on the King’s behalf, which was
done as effectually and peaceably as in other parts of England. The
neighbours were both at Chesterfield, when news arrived that the King
had landed in England; and Sir Geoffrey instantly announced his purpose
of waiting upon his Majesty, even before his return to the Castle of
Martindale.
“Who knows, neighbour,” he said, “whether Sir Geoffrey Peveril will ever
return to Martindale? Titles must be going amongst them yonder, and
I have deserved something among the rest.--Lord Peveril would sound
well--or stay, Earl of Martindale--no, not of Martindale--Earl of the
Peak.--Meanwhile, trust your affairs to me--I will see you secured--I
would you had been no Presbyterian, neighbour--a knighthood,--I mean
a knight-bachelor, not a knight-baronet,--would have served your turn
well.”
“I leave these things to my betters, Sir Geoffrey,” said the Major, “and
desire nothing so earnestly as to find all well at Martindale when I
return.”
“You will--you will find them all well,” said the Baronet; “Julian,
Alice, Lady Peveril, and all of them--Bear my commendations to them, and
kiss them all, neighbour, Lady Peveril and all--you may kiss a Countess
when I come back; all will go well with you now you are turned honest
man.”
“I always meant to be so, Sir Geoffrey,” said Bridgenorth calmly.
“Well, well, well--no offence meant,” said the Knight, “all is well
now--so you to Moultrassie Hall, and I to Whitehall. Said I well, aha!
So ho, mine host, a stoup of Canary to the King’s health ere we get to
horse--I forgot, neighbour--you drink no healths.”
“I wish the King’s health as sincerely as if I drank a gallon to it,”
replied the Major; “and I wish you, Sir Geoffrey, all success on your
journey, and a safe return.”