_Fang._--A rescue! a rescue!
_Mrs. Quickly._--Good people, bring a rescue or two.
--Henry IV. _Part I._
The followers of Peveril were so well accustomed to the sound of “Boot
and Saddle,” that they were soon mounted and in order; and in all the
form, and with some of the dignity of danger, proceeded to escort the
Countess of Derby through the hilly and desert tract of country which
connects the frontier of the shire with the neighbouring county of
Cheshire. The cavalcade moved with considerable precaution, which
they had been taught by the discipline of the Civil Wars. One wary and
well-mounted trooper rode about two hundred yards in advance; followed,
at about half that distance, by two more, with their carabines advanced,
as if ready for action. About one hundred yards behind the advance, came
the main body; where the Countess of Derby, mounted on Lady Peveril’s
ambling palfrey (for her own had been exhausted by the journey from
London to Martindale Castle), accompanied by one groom, of approved
fidelity, and one waiting-maid, was attended and guarded by the Knight
of the Peak, and three files of good and practised horsemen. In the rear
came Whitaker, with Lance Outram, as men of especial trust, to whom the
covering the retreat was confided. They rode, as the Spanish proverb
expresses it, “with the beard on the shoulder,” looking around, that
is, from time to time, and using every precaution to have the speediest
knowledge of any pursuit which might take place.
But, however wise in discipline, Peveril and his followers were somewhat
remiss in civil policy. The Knight had communicated to Whitaker, though
without any apparent necessity, the precise nature of their present
expedition; and Whitaker was equally communicative to his comrade Lance,
the keeper. “It is strange enough, Master Whitaker,” said the latter,
when he had heard the case, “and I wish you, being a wise man, would
expound it;--why, when we have been wishing for the King--and praying
for the King--and fighting for the King--and dying for the King, for
these twenty years, the first thing we find to do on his return, is to
get into harness to resist his warrant?”
“Pooh! you silly fellow,” said Whitaker, “that is all you know of the
true bottom of our quarrel! Why, man, we fought for the King’s person
against his warrant, all along from the very beginning; for I remember
the rogues’ proclamations, and so forth, always ran in the name of the
King and Parliament.”
“Ay! was it even so?” replied Lance. “Nay, then, if they begin the old
game so soon again, and send out warrants in the King’s name against his
loyal subjects, well fare our stout Knight, say I, who is ready to take
them down in their stocking-soles. And if Bridgenorth takes the chase
after us, I shall not be sorry to have a knock at him for one.”
“Why, the man, bating he is a pestilent Roundhead and Puritan,” said
Whitaker, “is no bad neighbour. What has he done to thee, man?”
“He has poached on the manor,” answered the keeper.
“The devil he has!” replied Whitaker. “Thou must be jesting, Lance.
Bridgenorth is neither hunter nor hawker; he hath not so much of honesty
in him.”
“Ay, but he runs after game you little think of, with his sour,
melancholy face, that would scare babes and curdle milk,” answered
Lance.
“Thou canst not mean the wenches?” said Whitaker; “why, he hath been
melancholy mad with moping for the death of his wife. Thou knowest our
lady took the child, for fear he should strangle it for putting him in
mind of its mother, in some of his tantrums. Under her favour, and among
friends, there are many poor Cavaliers’ children, that care would be
better bestowed upon--But to thy tale.”
“Why, thus it runs,” said Lance. “I think you may have noticed, Master
Whitaker, that a certain Mistress Deborah hath manifested a certain
favour for a certain person in a certain household.”
“For thyself, to wit,” answered Whitaker; “Lance Outram, thou art the
vainest coxcomb----”
“Coxcomb?” said Lance; “why, ‘twas but last night the whole family saw
her, as one would say, fling herself at my head.”
“I would she had been a brickbat then, to have broken it, for thy
impertinence and conceit,” said the steward.
“Well, but do but hearken. The next morning--that is, this very blessed
morning--I thought of going to lodge a buck in the park, judging a bit
of venison might be wanted in the larder, after yesterday’s wassail;
and, as I passed under the nursery window, I did but just look up to see
what madam governante was about; and so I saw her, through the
casement, whip on her hood and scarf as soon as she had a glimpse of me.
Immediately after I saw the still-room door open, and made sure she was
coming through the garden, and so over the breach and down to the park;
and so, thought I, ‘Aha, Mistress Deb, if you are so ready to dance
after my pipe and tabor, I will give you a couranto before you shall
come up with me.’ And so I went down Ivy-tod Dingle, where the copse is
tangled, and the ground swampy, and round by Haxley-bottom, thinking all
the while she was following, and laughing in my sleeve at the round I
was giving her.”
“You deserved to be ducked for it,” said Whitaker, “for a weather-headed
puppy; but what is all this Jack-a-lantern story to Bridgenorth?”
“Why, it was all along of he, man,” continued Lance, “that is, of
Bridgenorth, that she did not follow me--Gad, I first walked slow, and
then stopped, and then turned back a little, and then began to wonder
what she had made of herself, and to think I had borne myself something
like a jackass in the matter.”
“That I deny,” said Whitaker, “never jackass but would have borne him
better--but go on.”
“Why, turning my face towards the Castle, I went back as if I had my
nose bleeding, when just by the Copely thorn, which stands, you know, a
flight-short from the postern-gate, I saw Madam Deb in close conference
with the enemy.”
“What enemy?” said the steward.
“What enemy! why, who but Bridgenorth? They kept out of sight, and among
the copse; but, thought I, it is hard if I cannot stalk you, that have
stalked so many bucks. If so, I had better give my shafts to be pudding
pins. So I cast round the thicket, to watch their waters; and may I
never bend crossbow again, if I did not see him give her gold, and
squeeze her by the hand!”
“And was that all you saw pass between them?” said the steward.
“Faith, and it was enough to dismount me from my hobby,” said Lance.
“What! when I thought I had the prettiest girl in the Castle dancing
after my whistle, to find that she gave me the bag to hold, and was
smuggling in a corner with a rich old Puritan!”
“Credit me, Lance, it is not as thou thinkest,” said Whitaker.
“Bridgenorth cares not for these amorous toys, and thou thinkest of
nothing else. But it is fitting our Knight should know that he has met
with Deborah in secret, and given her gold; for never Puritan gave gold
yet, but it was earnest for some devil’s work done, or to be done.”
“Nay, but,” said Lance, “I would not be such a dog-bolt as to go and
betray the girl to our master. She hath a right to follow her fancy, as
the dame said who kissed her cow--only I do not much approve her choice,
that is all. He cannot be six years short of fifty; and a verjuice
countenance, under the penthouse of a slouched beaver, and bag of
meagre dried bones, swaddled up in a black cloak, is no such temptation,
methinks.”
“I tell you once more,” said Whitaker, “you are mistaken; and that there
neither is, nor can be, any matter of love between them, but only some
intrigue, concerning, perhaps, this same noble Countess of Derby. I tell
thee, it behoves my master to know it, and I will presently tell it to
him.”
So saying, and in spite of all the remonstrances which Lance continued
to make on behalf of Mistress Deborah, the steward rode up to the
main body of their little party, and mentioned to the Knight, and the
Countess of Derby, what he had just heard from the keeper, adding at
the same time his own suspicions, that Master Bridgenorth of Moultrassie
Hall was desirous to keep up some system of espial in the Castle of
Martindale, either in order to secure his menaced vengeance on the
Countess of Derby, as authoress of his brother-in-law’s death, or for
some unknown, but probably sinister purpose.
The Knight of the Peak was filled with high resentment at Whitaker’s
communication. According to his prejudices, those of the opposite
faction were supposed to make up by wit and intrigue what they wanted
in open force; and he now hastily conceived that his neighbour,
whose prudence he always respected, and sometimes even dreaded, was
maintaining for his private purposes, a clandestine correspondence with
a member of his family. If this was for the betrayal of his noble guest,
it argued at once treachery and presumption; or, viewing the whole as
Lance had done, a criminal intrigue with a woman so near the person
of Lady Peveril, was in itself, he deemed, a piece of sovereign
impertinence and disrespect on the part of such a person as Bridgenorth,
against whom Sir Geoffrey’s anger was kindled accordingly.
Whitaker had scarce regained his post in the rear, when he again quitted
it, and galloped to the main body with more speed than before, with the
unpleasing tidings that they were pursued by half a score of horseman,
and better.
“Ride on briskly to Hartley-nick,” said the Knight, “and there, with
God to help, we will bide the knaves.--Countess of Derby--one word and
a short one--Farewell!--you must ride forward with Whitaker and another
careful fellow, and let me alone to see that no one treads on your
skirts.”
“I will abide with you and stand them,” said the Countess; “you know of
old, I fear not to look on man’s work.”
“You _must_ ride on, madam,” said the Knight, “for the sake of the young
Earl, and the rest of my noble friends’ family. There is no manly work
which can be worth your looking upon; it is but child’s play that these
fellows bring with them.”
As she yielded a reluctant consent to continue her flight, they reached
the bottom of Hartley-nick, a pass very steep and craggy, and where the
road, or rather path, which had hitherto passed over more open ground,
became pent up and confined betwixt copsewood on the one side, and, on
the other, the precipitous bank of a mountain stream.
The Countess of Derby, after an affectionate adieu to Sir Geoffrey,
and having requested him to convey her kind commendations to her little
page-elect and his mother, proceeded up the pass at a round pace, and
with her attendants and escort, was soon out of sight. Immediately after
she had disappeared, the pursuers came up with Sir Geoffrey Peveril, who
had divided and drawn up his party so as completely to occupy the road
at three different points.
The opposite party was led, as Sir Geoffrey had expected, by Major
Bridgenorth. At his side was a person in black, with a silver greyhound
on his arm; and he was followed by about eight or ten inhabitants of the
village of Martindale Moultrassie, two or three of whom were officers of
the peace, and others were personally known to Sir Geoffrey as favourers
of the subverted government.
As the party rode briskly up, Sir Geoffrey called to them to halt; and
as they continued advancing, he ordered his own people to present their
pistols and carabines; and after assuming that menacing attitude, he
repeated, with a voice of thunder, “Halt, or we fire!”
The other party halted accordingly, and Major Bridgenorth advanced, as
if to parley.
“Why, how now, neighbour,” said Sir Geoffrey, as if he had at that
moment recognised him for the first time,--“what makes you ride so
sharp this morning? Are you not afraid to harm your horse, or spoil your
spurs?”
“Sir Geoffrey,” said the Major, “I have not time for jesting--I’m on the
King’s affairs.”
“Are you sure it is not upon Old Noll’s, neighbour? You used to hold his
the better errand,” said the Knight, with a smile which gave occasion to
a horse-laugh among his followers.
“Show him your warrant,” said Bridgenorth to the man in black formerly
mentioned, who was a pursuivant. Then taking the warrant from the
officer, he gave it to Sir Geoffrey--“To this, at least, you will pay
regard.”
“The same regard which you would have paid to it a month back or so,”
said the Knight, tearing the warrant to shreds.--“What a plague do you
stare at? Do you think you have a monopoly of rebellion, and that we
have not a right to show a trick of disobedience in our turn?”
“Make way, Sir Geoffrey Peveril,” said Bridgenorth, “or you will compel
me to do that I may be sorry for. I am in this matter the avenger of
the blood of one of the Lord’s saints, and I will follow the chase while
Heaven grants me an arm to make my way.”
“You shall make no way here but at your peril,” said Sir Geoffrey; “this
is my ground--I have been harassed enough for these twenty years by
saints, as you call yourselves. I tell you, master, you shall neither
violate the security of my house, nor pursue my friends over the
grounds, nor tamper, as you have done, amongst my servants, with
impunity. I have had you in respect for certain kind doings, which I
will not either forget or deny, and you will find it difficult to make
me draw a sword or bend a pistol against you; but offer any hostile
movement, or presume to advance a foot, and I will make sure of you
presently. And for those rascals, who come hither to annoy a noble lady
on my bounds, unless you draw them off, I will presently send some of
them to the devil before their time.”
“Make room at your proper peril,” said Major Bridgenorth; and he put
his right hand on his holster-pistol. Sir Geoffrey closed with him
instantly, seized him by the collar, and spurred Black Hastings,
checking him at the same time, so that the horse made a courbette, and
brought the full weight of his chest against the counter of the other. A
ready soldier might, in Bridgenorth’s situation, have rid himself of his
adversary with a bullet. But Bridgenorth’s courage, notwithstanding his
having served some time with the Parliament army, was rather of a civil
than a military character; and he was inferior to his adversary, not
only in strength and horsemanship, but also and especially in the daring
and decisive resolution which made Sir Geoffrey thrust himself readily
into personal contest. While, therefore, they tugged and grappled
together upon terms which bore such little accordance with their long
acquaintance and close neighbourhood, it was no wonder that Bridgenorth
should be unhorsed with much violence. While Sir Geoffrey sprung from
the saddle, the party of Bridgenorth advanced to rescue their leader,
and that of the Knight to oppose them. Swords were unsheathed, and
pistols presented; but Sir Geoffrey, with the voice of a herald,
commanded both parties to stand back, and to keep the peace.
The pursuivant took the hint, and easily found a reason for not
prosecuting a dangerous duty. “The warrant,” he said, “was destroyed.
They that did it must be answerable to the Council; for his part, he
could proceed no farther without his commission.”
“Well said, and like a peaceable fellow!” said Sir Geoffrey.--“Let
him have refreshment at the Castle--his nag is sorely out of
condition.--Come, neighbour Bridgenorth, get up, man--I trust you have
had no hurt in this mad affray? I was loath to lay hand on you, man,
till you plucked out your petronel.”
As he spoke thus, he aided the Major to rise. The pursuivant, meanwhile,
drew aside; and with him the constable and head-borough, who were not
without some tacit suspicion, that though Peveril was interrupting
the direct course of law in this matter, yet he was likely to have his
offence considered by favourable judges; and therefore it might be as
much for their interest and safety to give way as to oppose him. But the
rest of the party, friends of Bridgenorth, and of his principles, kept
their ground notwithstanding this defection, and seemed, from their
looks, sternly determined to rule their conduct by that of their leader,
whatever it might be.
But it was evident that Bridgenorth did not intend to renew the
struggle. He shook himself rather roughly free from the hands of Sir
Geoffrey Peveril; but it was not to draw his sword. On the contrary, he
mounted his horse with a sullen and dejected air; and, making a sign to
his followers, turned back the same road which he had come. Sir Geoffrey
looked after him for some minutes. “Now, there goes a man,” said
he, “who would have been a right honest fellow had he not been a
Presbyterian. But there is no heartiness about them--they can never
forgive a fair fall upon the sod--they bear malice, and that I hate as I
do a black cloak, or a Geneva skull-cap, and a pair of long ears rising
on each side on’t, like two chimneys at the gable ends of a thatched
cottage. They are as sly as the devil to boot; and, therefore, Lance
Outram, take two with you, and keep after them, that they may not turn
our flank, and get on the track of the Countess again after all.”
“I had as soon they should course my lady’s white tame doe,” answered
Lance, in the spirit of his calling. He proceeded to execute his
master’s orders by dogging Major Bridgenorth at a distance, and
observing his course from such heights as commanded the country. But it
was soon evident that no manoeuvre was intended, and that the Major was
taking the direct road homeward. When this was ascertained, Sir Geoffrey
dismissed most of his followers; and retaining only his own domestics,
rode hastily forward to overtake the Countess.
It is only necessary to say farther, that he completed his purpose
of escorting the Countess of Derby to Vale Royal, without meeting any
further hindrance by the way. The lord of the mansion readily undertook
to conduct the high-minded lady to Liverpool, and the task of seeing her
safely embarked for her son’s hereditary dominions, where there was no
doubt of her remaining in personal safety until the accusation against
her for breach of the Royal Indemnity, by the execution of Christian,
could be brought to some compromise.
For a length of time this was no easy matter. Clarendon, then at the
head of Charles’s administration, considered her rash action, though
dictated by motives which the human breast must, in some respects,
sympathise with, as calculated to shake the restored tranquillity of
England, by exciting the doubts and jealousies of those who had to
apprehend the consequences of what is called, in our own time, a
_reaction_. At the same time, the high services of this distinguished
family--the merits of the Countess herself--the memory of her gallant
husband--and the very peculiar circumstances of jurisdiction which took
the case out of all common rules, pleaded strongly in her favour; and
the death of Christian was at length only punished by the imposition of
a heavy fine, amounting, we believe, to many thousand pounds; which was
levied, with great difficulty, out of the shattered estates of the young
Earl of Derby.