Mona--long hid from those who roam the main.
--COLLINS.
The Isle of Man, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was very
different, as a place of residence, from what it is now. Men had not
then discovered its merit as a place of occasional refuge from the
storms of life, and the society to be there met with was of a very
uniform tenor. There were no smart fellows, whom fortune had tumbled
from the seat of their barouches--no plucked pigeons or winged rooks--no
disappointed speculators--no ruined miners--in short, no one worth
talking to. The society of the island was limited to the natives
themselves, and a few merchants, who lived by contraband trade. The
amusements were rare and monotonous, and the mercurial young Earl was
soon heartily tired of his dominions. The islanders, also, become
too wise for happiness, had lost relish for the harmless and somewhat
childish sports in which their simple ancestors had indulged themselves.
May was no longer ushered in by the imaginary contest between the
Queen of returning winter and advancing spring; the listeners no longer
sympathised with the lively music of the followers of the one, or the
discordant sounds with which the other asserted a more noisy claim to
attention. Christmas, too, closed, and the steeples no longer jangled
forth a dissonant peal. The wren, to seek for which used to be the sport
dedicated to the holytide, was left unpursued and unslain. Party spirit
had come among these simple people, and destroyed their good humour,
while it left them their ignorance. Even the races, a sport generally
interesting to people of all ranks, were no longer performed, because
they were no longer interesting. The gentlemen were divided by feuds
hitherto unknown, and each seemed to hold it scorn to be pleased with
the same diversions that amused those of the opposite faction. The
hearts of both parties revolted from the recollection of former days,
when all was peace among them, when the Earl of Derby, now slaughtered,
used to bestow the prize, and Christian, since so vindictively executed,
started horses to add to the amusement.
Julian was seated in the deep recess which led to a latticed window
of the old Castle; and, with his arms crossed, and an air of profound
contemplation, was surveying the long perspective of ocean, which rolled
its successive waves up to the foot of the rock on which the ancient
pile is founded. The Earl was suffering under the infliction of
ennui--now looking into a volume of Homer--now whistling--now swinging
on his chair--now traversing the room--till, at length, his attention
became swallowed up in admiration of the tranquillity of his companion.
“King of Men!” he said, repeating the favourite epithet by which Homer
describes Agamemnon,--“I trust, for the old Greek’s sake, he had a
merrier office than being King of Man--Most philosophical Julian, will
nothing rouse thee--not even a bad pun on my own royal dignity?”
“I wish you would be a little more the King in Man,” said Julian,
starting from his reverie, “and then you would find more amusement in
your dominions.”
“What! dethrone that royal Semiramis my mother,” said the young lord,
“who has as much pleasure in playing Queen as if she were a real
Sovereign?--I wonder you can give me such counsel.”
“Your mother, as you well know, my dear Derby, would be delighted, did
you take any interest in the affairs of the island.”
“Ay, truly, she would permit me to be King; but she would choose to
remain Viceroy over me. Why, she would only gain a subject the more,
by my converting my spare time, which is so very valuable to me, to the
cares of royalty. No, no, Julian, she thinks it power, to direct all
the affairs of these poor Manxmen; and, thinking it power, she finds it
pleasure. I shall not interfere, unless she hold a high court of
justice again. I cannot afford to pay another fine to my brother, King
Charles--But I forget--this is a sore point with you.”
“With the Countess, at least,” replied Julian; “and I wonder you will
speak of it.”
“Why, I bear no malice against the poor man’s memory any more than
yourself, though I have not the same reasons for holding it in
veneration,” replied the Earl of Derby; “and yet I have some respect
for it too. I remember their bringing him out to die--It was the first
holiday I ever had in my life, and I heartily wish it had been on some
other account.”
“I would rather hear you speak of anything else, my lord,” said Julian.
“Why, there it goes,” answered the Earl; “whenever I talk of anything
that puts you on your mettle, and warms your blood, that runs as cold as
a merman’s--to use a simile of this happy island--hey pass! you press me
to change the subject.--Well, what shall we talk of?--O Julian, if you
had not gone down to earth yourself among the castles and caverns
of Derbyshire, we should have had enough of delicious topics--the
play-houses, Julian--Both the King’s house and the Duke’s--Louis’s
establishment is a jest to them;--and the Ring in the Park, which beats
the Corso at Naples--and the beauties, who beat the whole world!”
“I am very willing to hear you speak on the subject, my lord,” answered
Julian; “the less I have seen of London world myself, the more I am
likely to be amused by your account of it.”
“Ay, my friend--but where to begin?--with the wit of Buckingham, and
Sedley, and Etherege, or with the grace of Harry Jermyn--the courtesy
of the Duke of Monmouth, or with the loveliness of La Belle Hamilton--of
the Duchess of Richmond--of Lady ----, the person of Roxalana, the smart
humour of Mrs. Nelly----”
“Or what say you to the bewitching sorceries of Lady Cynthia?” demanded
his companion.
“Faith, I would have kept these to myself,” said the Earl, “to follow
your prudent example. But since you ask me, I fairly own I cannot tell
what to say of them; only I think of them twenty times as often as all
the beauties I have spoken of. And yet she is neither the twentieth part
so beautiful as the plainest of these Court beauties, nor so witty as
the dullest I have named, nor so modish--that is the great matter--as
the most obscure. I cannot tell what makes me dote on her, except that
she is a capricious as her whole sex put together.”
“That I should think a small recommendation,” answered his companion.
“Small, do you term it,” replied the Earl, “and write yourself a brother
of the angle? Why, which like you best? to pull a dead strain on a
miserable gudgeon, which you draw ashore by main force, as the fellows
here tow in their fishing-boats--or a lively salmon, that makes your
rod crack, and your line whistle--plays you ten thousand mischievous
pranks--wearies your heart out with hopes and fears--and is only laid
panting on the bank, after you have shown the most unmatchable display
of skill, patience, and dexterity?--But I see you have a mind to go
on angling after your own old fashion. Off laced coat, and on brown
jerkin;--lively colours scare fish in the sober waters of the Isle of
Man;--faith, in London you will catch few, unless the bait glistens a
little. But you _are_ going?--Well, good luck to you. I will take to
the barge;--the sea and wind are less inconstant than the tide you have
embarked on.”
“You have learned to say all these smart things in London, my lord,”
answered Julian; “but we shall have you a penitent for them, if Lady
Cynthia be of my mind. Adieu, and pleasure till we meet.”
The young men parted accordingly; and while the Earl betook him to his
pleasure voyage, Julian, as his friend had prophesied, assumed the dress
of one who means to amuse himself with angling. The hat and feather were
exchanged for a cap of grey cloth; the deeply-laced cloak and doublet
for a simple jacket of the same colour, with hose conforming; and
finally, with rod in hand, and pannier at his back, mounted upon a
handsome Manx pony, young Peveril rode briskly over the country which
divided him from one of those beautiful streams that descend to the sea
from the Kirk-Merlagh mountains.
Having reached the spot where he meant to commence his day’s sport,
Julian let his little steed graze, which, accustomed to the situation,
followed him like a dog; and now and then, when tired of picking herbage
in the valley through which the stream winded, came near her master’s
side, and, as if she had been a curious amateur of the sport, gazed on
the trouts as Julian brought them struggling to the shore. But Fairy’s
master showed, on that day, little of the patience of a real angler, and
took no heed to old Isaac Walton’s recommendation, to fish the streams
inch by inch. He chose, indeed, with an angler’s eye, the most promising
casts, which the stream broke sparkling over a stone, affording the
wonted shelter to a trout; or where, gliding away from a rippling
current to a still eddy it streamed under the projecting bank, or dashed
from the pool of some low cascade. By this judicious selection of spots
whereon to employ his art, the sportsman’s basket was soon sufficiently
heavy, to show that his occupation was not a mere pretext; and so soon
as this was the case, he walked briskly up the glen, only making a
cast from time to time, in case of his being observed from any of the
neighbouring heights.
It was a little green and rocky valley through which the brook strayed,
very lonely, although the slight track of an unformed road showed that
it was occasionally traversed, and that it was not altogether void of
inhabitants. As Peveril advanced still farther, the right bank reached
to some distance from the stream, leaving a piece of meadow ground, the
lower part of which, being close to the brook, was entirely covered with
rich herbage, being possibly occasionally irrigated by its overflow. The
higher part of the level ground afforded a stance for an old house, of
singular structure, with a terraced garden, and a cultivated field or
two beside it. In former times, a Danish or Norwegian fastness had stood
here, called the Black Fort, from the colour of a huge healthy hill,
which, rising behind the building, appeared to be the boundary of
the valley, and to afford the source of the brook. But the original
structure had been long demolished, as, indeed, it probably only
consisted of dry stones, and its materials had been applied to the
construction of the present mansion--the work of some churchman during
the sixteenth century, as was evident from the huge stone-work of its
windows, which scarce left room for light to pass through, as well as
from two or three heavy buttresses, which projected from the front of
the house, and exhibited on their surface little niches for images.
These had been carefully destroyed, and pots of flowers were placed in
the niches in their stead, besides their being ornamented by creeping
plants of various kinds, fancifully twined around them. The garden was
also in good order; and though the spot was extremely solitary, there
was about it altogether an air of comfort, accommodation, and even
elegance, by no means generally characteristic of the habitations of the
island at the time.
With much circumspection, Julian Peveril approached the low Gothic
porch, which defended the entrance of the mansion from the tempests
incident to its situation, and was, like the buttresses, overrun with
ivy and other creeping plants. An iron ring, contrived so as when drawn
up and down to rattle against the bar of notched iron through which it
was suspended, served the purpose of a knocker; and to this he applied
himself, though with the greatest precaution.
He received no answer for some time, and indeed it seemed as if the
house was totally uninhabited; when, at length, his impatience getting
the upper hand, he tried to open the door, and, as it was only upon
the latch, very easily succeeded. He passed through a little low-arched
hall, the upper end of which was occupied by a staircase, and turning
to the left, opened the door of a summer parlour, wainscoted with
black oak, and very simply furnished with chairs and tables of the same
materials; the former cushioned with the leather. The apartment was
gloomy--one of those stone-shafted windows which we have mentioned, with
its small latticed panes, and thick garland of foliage, admitting but an
imperfect light.
Over the chimneypiece (which was of the same massive materials with
the panelling of the apartment) was the only ornament of the room; a
painting, namely, representing an officer in the military dress of the
Civil Wars. It was a green jerkin, then the national and peculiar wear
of the Manxmen; his short band which hung down on the cuirass--the
orange-coloured scarf, but, above all, the shortness of his close-cut
hair, showing evidently to which of the great parties he had belonged.
His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword; and in the left he
held a small Bible, bearing the inscription, “_In hoc signo_.” The
countenance was of a light complexion, with fair and almost effeminate
blue eyes, and an oval form of face--one of those physiognomies, to
which, though not otherwise unpleasing, we naturally attach the idea of
melancholy and of misfortune.[*] Apparently it was well known to Julian
Peveril; for after having looked at it for a long time, he could not
forbear muttering aloud, “What would I give that that man had never been
born, or that he still lived!”
[*] I am told that a portrait of the unfortunate William Christian is
still preserved in the family of Waterson of Ballnabow of Kirk
Church, Rushin. William Dhône is dressed in a green coat without
collar or cape, after the fashion of those puritanic times, with
the head in a close cropt wig, resembling the bishop’s peruke of
the present day. The countenance is youthful and well-looking,
very unlike the expression of foreboding melancholy. I have so far
taken advantage of this criticism, as to bring my ideal portrait
in the present edition, nearer to the complexion at least of the
fair-haired William Dhône.
“How now--how is this?” said a female, who entered the room as he
uttered this reflection. “_You_ here, Master Peveril, in spite of all
the warnings you have had! You here in the possession of folk’s house
when they are abroad, and talking to yourself, as I shall warrant!”
“Yes, Mistress Deborah,” said Peveril, “I am here once more, as you
see, against every prohibition, and in defiance of all danger.--Where is
Alice?”
“Where you will never see her, Master Julian--you may satisfy yourself
of that,” answered Mistress Deborah, for it was that respectable
governante; and sinking down at the same time upon one of the large
leathern chairs, she began to fan herself with her handkerchief, and
complain of the heat in a most ladylike fashion.
In fact, Mistress Debbitch, while her exterior intimated a considerable
change of condition for the better, and her countenance showed the less
favourable effects of the twenty years which had passed over her head,
was in mind and manners very much what she had been when she battled
the opinions of Madam Ellesmere at Martindale Castle. In a word, she
was self-willed, obstinate, and coquettish as ever, otherwise no
ill-disposed person. Her present appearance was that of a woman of the
better rank. From the sobriety of the fashion of her dress, and the
uniformity of its colours, it was plain she belonged to some sect which
condemned superfluous gaiety in attire; but no rules, not those of a
nunnery or of a quaker’s society, can prevent a little coquetry in that
particular, where a woman is desirous of being supposed to retain some
claim to personal attention. All Mistress Deborah’s garments were so
arranged as might best set off a good-looking woman, whose countenance
indicated ease and good cheer--who called herself five-and-thirty, and
was well entitled, if she had a mind, to call herself twelve or fifteen
years older.
Julian was under the necessity of enduring all her tiresome and
fantastic airs, and awaiting with patience till she had “prinked
herself and pinned herself”--flung her hoods back, and drawn them
forward--snuffed at a little bottle of essences--closed her eyes like a
dying fowl--turned them up like duck in a thunderstorm; when at length,
having exhausted her round of _minauderies_, she condescended to open
the conversation.
“These walks will be the death of me,” she said, “and all on your
account, Master Julian Peveril; for if Dame Christian should learn that
you have chosen to make your visits to her niece, I promise you Mistress
Alice would be soon obliged to find other quarters, and so should I.”
“Come now, Mistress Deborah, be good-humoured,” said Julian; “consider,
was not all this intimacy of ours of your own making? Did you not make
yourself known to me the very first time I strolled up this glen with my
fishing-rod, and tell me that you were my former keeper, and that Alice
had been my little playfellow? And what could there be more natural,
than that I should come back and see two such agreeable persons as often
as I could?”
“Yes,” said Dame Deborah; “but I did not bid you fall in love with us,
though, or propose such a matter as marriage either to Alice or myself.”
“To do you justice, you never did, Deborah,” answered the youth; “but
what of that? Such things will come out before one is aware. I am sure
you must have heard such proposals fifty times when you least expected
them.”
“Fie, fie, fie, Master Julian Peveril,” said the governante; “I would
have you to know that I have always so behaved myself, that the best of
the land would have thought twice of it, and have very well considered
both what he was going to say, and how he was going to say it, before he
came out with such proposals to me.”
“True, true, Mistress Deborah,” continued Julian; “but all the world
hath not your discretion. Then Alice Bridgenorth is a child--a mere
child; and one always asks a baby to be one’s little wife, you know.
Come, I know you will forgive me. Thou wert ever the best-natured,
kindest woman in the world; and you know you have said twenty times we
were made for each other.”
“Oh no, Master Julian Peveril; no, no, no!” ejaculated Deborah. “I may
indeed have said your estates were born to be united; and to be sure it
is natural for me, that come of the old stock of the yeomanry of Peveril
of the Peak’s estate, to wish that it was all within the ring
fence again; which sure enough it might be, were you to marry Alice
Bridgenorth. But then there is the knight your father, and my lady your
mother; and there is her father, that is half crazy with his religion;
and her aunt that wears eternal black grogram for that unlucky Colonel
Christian; and there is the Countess of Derby, that would serve us all
with the same sauce if we were thinking of anything that would displease
her. And besides all that, you have broke your word with Mistress Alice,
and everything is over between you; and I am of opinion it is quite
right it should be all over. And perhaps it may be, Master Julian, that
I should have thought so a long time ago, before a child like Alice put
it into my head; but I am so good-natured.”
No flatterer like a lover, who wishes to carry his point.
“You are the best-natured, kindest creature in the world, Deborah.--But
you have never seen the ring I bought for you at Paris. Nay, I will
put it on your finger myself;--what! your foster-son, whom you loved so
well, and took such care of?”
He easily succeeded in putting a pretty ring of gold, with a humorous
affectation of gallantry, on the fat finger of Mistress Deborah
Debbitch. Hers was a soul of a kind often to be met with, both among
the lower and higher vulgar, who, without being, on a broad scale,
accessible to bribes or corruption, are nevertheless much attached to
perquisites, and considerably biassed in their line of duty, though
perhaps insensibly, by the love of petty observances, petty presents,
and trivial compliments. Mistress Debbitch turned the ring round, and
round, and round, and at length said, in a whisper, “Well, Master Julian
Peveril, it signifies nothing denying anything to such a young gentleman
as you, for young gentlemen are always so obstinate! and so I may as
well tell you, that Mistress Alice walked back from the Kirk-Truagh
along with me, just now, and entered the house at the same time with
myself.”
“Why did you not tell me so before?” said Julian, starting up;
“where--where is she?”
“You had better ask why I tell you so _now_, Master Julian,” said Dame
Deborah; “for, I promise you, it is against her express commands; and
I would not have told you, had you not looked so pitiful;--but as for
seeing you, that she will not--and she is in her own bedroom, with a
good oak door shut and bolted upon her--that is one comfort.--And so, as
for any breach of trust on my part--I promise you the little saucy minx
gives it no less name--it is quite impossible.”
“Do not say so, Deborah--only go--only try--tell her to hear me--tell
her I have a hundred excuses for disobeying her commands--tell her I
have no doubt to get over all obstacles at Martindale Castle.”
“Nay, I tell you it is all in vain,” replied the Dame. “When I saw your
cap and rod lying in the hall, I did but say, ‘There he is again,’ and
she ran up the stairs like a young deer; and I heard key turned, and
bolt shot, ere I could say a single word to stop her--I marvel you heard
her not.”
“It was because I am, as I ever was, an owl--a dreaming fool, who let
all those golden minutes pass, which my luckless life holds out to me
so rarely.--Well--tell her I go--go for ever--go where she will hear no
more of me--where no one shall hear more of me!”
“Oh, the Father!” said the dame, “hear how he talks!--What will become
of Sir Geoffrey, and your mother, and of me, and of the Countess, if you
were to go so far as you talk of? And what would become of poor Alice
too? for I will be sworn she likes you better than she says, and I know
she used to sit and look the way that you used to come up the stream,
and now and then ask me if the morning were good for fishing. And all
the while you were on the continent, as they call it, she scarcely
smiled once, unless it was when she got two beautiful long letters about
foreign parts.”
“Friendship, Dame Deborah--only friendship--cold and calm remembrance
of one who, by your kind permission, stole in on your solitude now
and then, with news from the living world without--Once, indeed, I
thought--but it is all over--farewell.”
So saying, he covered his face with one hand, and extended the other,
in the act of bidding adieu to Dame Debbitch, whose kind heart became
unable to withstand the sight of his affliction.
“Now, do not be in such haste,” she said; “I will go up again, and tell
her how it stands with you, and bring her down, if it is in woman’s
power to do it.”
And so saying, she left the apartment, and ran upstairs.
Julian Peveril, meanwhile, paced the apartment in great agitation,
waiting the success of Deborah’s intercession; and she remained long
enough absent to give us time to explain, in a short retrospect, the
circumstances which had led to his present situation.