Now rede me, rede me, brother dear,
Throughout Merry England,
Where will I find a messenger,
Betwixt us two to send.
--BALLAD OF KING ESTMERE.
Julian’s first encounter, after re-entering the Castle, was with its
young Lord, who received him with his usual kindness and lightness of
humour.
“Thrice welcome, Sir Knight of Dames,” said the Earl; “here you rove
gallantly, and at free will, through our dominions, fulfilling of
appointments, and achieving amorous adventures; while we are condemned
to sit in our royal halls, as dull and as immovable as if our Majesty
was carved on the stern of some Manx smuggling dogger, and christened
the King Arthur of Ramsey.”
“Nay, in that case you would take the sea,” said Julian, “and so enjoy
travel and adventure enough.”
“Oh, but suppose me wind-bound, or detained in harbour by a revenue
pink, or ashore, if you like it, and lying high and dry upon the sand.
Imagine the royal image in the dullest of all predicaments, and you have
not equalled mine.”
“I am happy to hear, at least, that you have had no disagreeable
employment,” said Julian; “the morning’s alarm has blown over, I
suppose?”
“In faith it has, Julian; and our close inquiries cannot find any cause
for the apprehended insurrection. That Bridgenorth is in the island
seems certain; but private affairs of consequence are alleged as the
cause of his visit; and I am not desirous to have him arrested unless I
could prove some malpractices against him and his companions. In fact,
it would seem we had taken the alarm too soon. My mother speaks of
consulting you on the subject, Julian; and I will not anticipate her
solemn communication. It will be partly apologetical, I suppose; for we
begin to think our retreat rather unroyal, and that, like the wicked, we
have fled when no man pursued. This idea afflicts my mother, who, as a
Queen-Dowager, a Queen-Regent, a heroine, and a woman in general, would
be extremely mortified to think that her precipitate retreat hither had
exposed her to the ridicule of the islanders; and she is disconcerted
and out of humour accordingly. In the meanwhile, my sole amusement has
been the grimaces and fantastic gestures of that ape Fenella, who is
more out of humour, and more absurd, in consequence, than you ever saw
her. Morris says, it is because you pushed her downstairs, Julian--how
is that?”
“Nay, Morris has misreported me,” answered Julian; “I did but lift her
_up_ stairs to be rid of her importunity; for she chose, in her way, to
contest my going abroad in such an obstinate manner, that I had no other
mode of getting rid of her.”
“She must have supposed your departure, at a moment so critical, was
dangerous to the state of our garrison,” answered the Earl; “it shows
how dearly she esteems my mother’s safety, how highly she rates your
prowess. But, thank Heaven, there sounds the dinner-bell. I would the
philosophers, who find a sin and waste of time in good cheer, could
devise us any pastime half so agreeable.”
The meal which the young Earl had thus longed for, as a means of
consuming a portion of the time which hung heavy on his hands, was soon
over; as soon, at least, as the habitual and stately formality of
the Countess’s household permitted. She herself, accompanied by her
gentlewomen and attendants, retired early after the tables were drawn;
and the young gentlemen were left to their own company. Wine had, for
the moment, no charms for either; for the Earl was out of spirits from
ennui, and impatience of his monotonous and solitary course of life; and
the events of the day had given Peveril too much matter for reflection,
to permit his starting amusing or interesting topics of conversation.
After having passed the flask in silence betwixt them once or twice,
they withdrew each to a separate embrasure of the windows of the dining
apartment, which, such was the extreme thickness of the wall, were deep
enough to afford a solitary recess, separated, as it were, from the
chamber itself. In one of these sat the Earl of Derby, busied in looking
over some of the new publications which had been forwarded from London;
and at intervals confessing how little power or interest these had for
him, by yawning fearfully as he looked out on the solitary expanse
of waters, which, save from the flight of a flock of sea-gulls, or
a solitary cormorant, offered so little of variety to engage his
attention.
Peveril, on his part, held a pamphlet also in his hand, without giving,
or affecting to give it, even his occasional attention. His whole
soul turned upon the interview which he had had that day with Alice
Bridgenorth, and with her father; while he in vain endeavoured to form
any hypothesis which could explain to him why the daughter, to whom he
had no reason to think himself indifferent, should have been so suddenly
desirous of their eternal separation, while her father, whose opposition
he so much dreaded, seemed to be at least tolerant of his addresses. He
could only suppose, in explanation, that Major Bridgenorth had some
plan in prospect, which it was in his own power to farther or to impede;
while, from the demeanour, and indeed the language, of Alice, he had
but too much reason to apprehend that her father’s favour could only be
conciliated by something, on his own part, approaching to dereliction of
principle. But by no conjecture which he could form, could he make
the least guess concerning the nature of that compliance, of which
Bridgenorth seemed desirous. He could not imagine, notwithstanding Alice
had spoken of treachery, that her father would dare to propose to him
uniting in any plan by which the safety of the Countess, or the security
of her little kingdom of Man, was to be endangered. This carried such
indelible disgrace in the front, that he could not suppose the scheme
proposed to him by any who was not prepared to defend with his sword,
upon the spot, so flagrant an insult offered to his honour. And such
a proceeding was totally inconsistent with the conduct of Major
Bridgenorth in every other respect, besides his being too calm and
cold-blooded to permit of his putting a mortal affront upon the son of
his old neighbour, to whose mother he confessed so much of obligation.
While Peveril in vain endeavoured to extract something like a
probable theory out of the hints thrown out by the father and by
the daughter--not without the additional and lover-like labour of
endeavouring to reconcile his passion to his honour and conscience--he
felt something gently pull him by the cloak. He unclasped his arms,
which, in meditation, had been folded on his bosom; and withdrawing his
eyes from the vacant prospect of sea-coast and sea which they perused,
without much consciousness upon what they rested, he beheld beside
him the little dumb maiden, the elfin Fenella. She was seated on a low
cushion or stool, with which she had nestled close to Peveril’s side,
and had remained there for a short space of time, expecting, no doubt,
he would become conscious of her presence; until, tired of remaining
unnoticed, she at length solicited his attention in the manner which we
have described. Startled out of his reverie by this intimation of her
presence, he looked down, and could not, without interest, behold this
singular and helpless being.
Her hair was unloosened, and streamed over her shoulders in such length,
that much of it lay upon the ground, and in such quantity, that it
formed a dark veil, or shadow, not only around her face, but over her
whole slender and minute form. From the profusion of her tresses looked
forth her small and dark, but well-formed features, together with the
large and brilliant black eyes; and her whole countenance was composed
into the imploring look of one who is doubtful of the reception she is
about to meet with from a valued friend, while she confesses a fault,
pleads an apology, or solicits a reconciliation. In short, the whole
face was so much alive with expression, that Julian, though her aspect
was so familiar to him, could hardly persuade himself but that her
countenance was entirely new. The wild, fantastic, elvish vivacity
of the features, seemed totally vanished, and had given place to a
sorrowful, tender, and pathetic cast of countenance, aided by the
expression of the large dark eyes, which, as they were turned up towards
Julian, glistened with moisture, that, nevertheless, did not overflow
the eyelids.
Conceiving that her unwonted manner arose from a recollection of the
dispute which had taken place betwixt them in the morning, Peveril was
anxious to restore the little maiden’s gaiety, by making her sensible
that there dwelt on his mind no unpleasing recollection of their
quarrel. He smiled kindly, and shook her hand in one of his; while, with
the familiarity of one who had known her from childhood, he stroked
down her long dark tresses with the other. She stooped her head, as if
ashamed, and, at the same time, gratified with his caresses--and he was
thus induced to continue them, until, under the veil of her rich and
abundant locks, he suddenly felt his other hand, which she still held in
hers, slightly touched with her lips, and, at the same time, moistened
with a tear.
At once, and for the first time in his life, the danger of being
misinterpreted in his familiarity with a creature to whom the usual
modes of explanation were a blank, occurred to Julian’s mind; and,
hastily withdrawing his hand, and changing his posture, he asked her,
by a sign which custom had rendered familiar, whether she brought any
message to him from the Countess. She started up, and arranged herself
in her seat with the rapidity of lightning; and, at the same moment,
with one turn of her hand, braided her length of locks into a natural
head-dress of the most beautiful kind. There was, indeed, when she
looked up, a blush still visible on her dark features; but their
melancholy and languid expression had given place to that of wild and
restless vivacity, which was most common to them. Her eyes gleamed with
more than their wonted fire, and her glances were more piercingly wild
and unsettled than usual. To Julian’s inquiry, she answered, by laying
her hand on her heart--a motion by which she always indicated the
Countess--and rising, and taking the direction of her apartment, she
made a sign to Julian to follow her.
The distance was not great betwixt the dining apartment and that to
which Peveril now followed his mute guide; yet, in going thither, he
had time enough to suffer cruelly from the sudden suspicion, that this
unhappy girl had misinterpreted the uniform kindness with which he had
treated her, and hence come to regard him with feelings more tender than
those which belong to friendship. The misery which such a passion was
likely to occasion to a creature in her helpless situation, and actuated
by such lively feelings, was great enough to make him refuse credit to
the suspicion which pressed itself upon his mind; while, at the same
time, he formed the internal resolution so to conduct himself towards
Fenella, as to check such misplaced sentiments, if indeed she unhappily
entertained them towards him.
When they reached the Countess’s apartment, they found her with writing
implements, and many sealed letters before her. She received Julian with
her usual kindness; and having caused him to be seated, beckoned to
the mute to resume her needle. In an instant Fenella was seated at
an embroidering-frame; where, but for the movement of her dexterous
fingers, she might have seemed a statue, so little did she move from her
work either head or eye. As her infirmity rendered her presence no bar
to the most confidential conversation, the Countess proceeded to address
Peveril as if they had been literally alone together.
“Julian,” she said, “I am not now about to complain to you of the
sentiments and conduct of Derby. He is your friend--he is my son. He has
kindness of heart and vivacity of talent; and yet----”
“Dearest lady,” said Peveril, “why will you distress yourself with
fixing your eye on deficiencies which arise rather from a change of
times and manners, than any degeneracy of my noble friend? Let him be
once engaged in his duty, whether in peace or war, and let me pay the
penalty if he acquits not himself becoming his high station.”
“Ay,” replied the Countess; “but when will the call of duty prove
superior to that of the most idle or trivial indulgence which can serve
to drive over the lazy hour? His father was of another mould; and how
often was it my lot to entreat that he would spare, from the rigid
discharge of those duties which his high station imposed, the relaxation
absolutely necessary to recruit his health and his spirits!”
“Still, my dearest lady,” said Peveril, “you must allow, that the duties
to which the times summoned your late honoured lord, were of a more
stirring, as well as a more peremptory cast, than those which await your
son.”
“I know not that,” said the Countess. “The wheel appears to be again
revolving; and the present period is not unlikely to bring back such
scenes as my young years witnessed.--Well, be it so; they will not find
Charlotte de la Tremouille broken in spirit, though depressed by years.
It was even on this subject I would speak with you, my young friend.
Since our first early acquaintance--when I saw your gallant behaviour as
I issued forth to your childish eye, like an apparition, from my place
of concealment in your father’s castle--it has pleased me to think you a
true son of Stanley and Peveril. I trust your nurture in this family has
been ever suited to the esteem in which I hold you.--Nay, I desire no
thanks.--I have to require of you, in return, a piece of service,
not perhaps entirely safe to yourself, but which, as times are
circumstanced, no person is so well able to render to my house.”
“You have been ever my good and noble lady,” answered Peveril, “as well
as my kind, and I may say maternal, protectress. You have a right to
command the blood of Stanley in the veins of every one--You have a
thousand rights to command it in mine.” [*]
[*] The reader cannot have forgotten that the Earl of Derby was head
of the great house of Stanley.
“My advices from England,” said the Countess, “resemble more the dreams
of a sick man, than the regular information which I might have expected
from such correspondents as mine;--their expressions are like those of
men who walk in their sleep, and speak by snatches of what passes in
their dreams. It is said, a plot, real or fictitious, has been detected
among the Catholics, which has spread far wider and more uncontrollable
terror than that of the fifth of November. Its outlines seem utterly
incredible, and are only supported by the evidence of wretches, the
meanest and most worthless in the creation; yet it is received by the
credulous people of England with the most undoubting belief.”
“This is a singular delusion, to rise without some real ground,”
answered Julian.
“I am no bigot, cousin, though a Catholic,” replied the Countess. “I
have long feared that the well-meant zeal of our priests for increasing
converts, would draw on them the suspicion of the English nation. These
efforts have been renewed with double energy since the Duke of York
conformed to the Catholic faith; and the same event has doubled the hate
and jealousy of the Protestants. So far, I fear, there may be just cause
of suspicion, that the Duke is a better Catholic than an Englishman,
and that bigotry has involved him, as avarice, or the needy greed of
a prodigal, has engaged his brother, in relations with France, whereof
England may have too much reason to complain. But the gross, thick,
and palpable fabrications of conspiracy and murder, blood and fire--the
imaginary armies--the intended massacres--form a collection of
falsehoods, that one would have thought indigestible, even by the coarse
appetite of the vulgar for the marvellous and horrible; but which
are, nevertheless, received as truth by both Houses of Parliament, and
questioned by no one who is desirous to escape the odious appellation of
friend to the bloody Papists, and favourer of their infernal schemes of
cruelty.”
“But what say those who are most likely to be affected by these wild
reports?” said Julian. “What say the English Catholics themselves?--a
numerous and wealthy body, comprising so many noble names?”
“Their hearts are dead within them,” said the Countess. “They are like
sheep penned up in the shambles, that the butcher may take his choice
among them. In the obscure and brief communications which I have had by
a secure hand, they do but anticipate their own utter ruin, and ours--so
general is the depression, so universal the despair.”
“But the King,” said Peveril,--“the King and the Protestant
Royalists--what say they to this growing tempest?”
“Charles,” replied the Countess, “with his usual selfish prudence,
truckles to the storm; and will let cord and axe do their work on the
most innocent men in his dominions, rather than lose an hour of pleasure
in attempting their rescue. And, for the Royalists, either they have
caught the general delirium which has seized on Protestants in general,
or they stand aloof and neutral, afraid to show any interest in the
unhappy Catholics, lest they be judged altogether such as themselves,
and abettors of the fearful conspiracy in which they are alleged to be
engaged. In fact, I cannot blame them. It is hard to expect that mere
compassion for a persecuted sect--or, what is yet more rare, an abstract
love of justice--should be powerful enough to engage men to expose
themselves to the awakened fury of a whole people; for, in the present
state of general agitation, whoever disbelieves the least tittle of the
enormous improbabilities which have been accumulated by these wretched
reformers, is instantly hunted down, as one who would smother the
discovery of the Plot. It is indeed an awful tempest; and, remote as we
lie from its sphere, we must expect soon to feel its effects.”
“Lord Derby already told me something of this,” said Julian; “and
that there were agents in this island whose object was to excite
insurrection.”
“Yes,” answered the Countess, and her eye flashed fire as she spoke;
“and had my advice been listened to, they had been apprehended in the
very fact; and so dealt with, as to be a warning to all others how they
sought this independent principality on such an errand. But my son, who
is generally so culpably negligent of his own affairs, was pleased to
assume the management of them upon this crisis.”
“I am happy to learn, madam,” answered Peveril, “that the measures of
precaution which my kinsman has adopted, have had the complete effect of
disconcerting the conspiracy.”
“For the present, Julian; but they should have been such as would have
made the boldest tremble to think of such infringement of our rights in
future. But Derby’s present plan is fraught with greater danger; and yet
there is something in it of gallantry, which has my sympathy.”
“What is it, madam?” inquired Julian anxiously; “and in what can I aid
it, or avert its dangers?”
“He purposes,” said the Countess, “instantly to set forth for London. He
is, he says, not merely the feudal chief of a small island, but one of
the noble Peers of England, who must not remain in the security of an
obscure and distant castle, when his name, or that of his mother, is
slandered before his Prince and people. He will take his place, he says,
in the House of Lords, and publicly demand justice for the insult thrown
on his house, by perjured and interested witnesses.”
“It is a generous resolution, and worthy of my friend,” said Julian
Peveril. “I will go with him and share his fate, be it what it may.”
“Alas, foolish boy!” answered the Countess, “as well may you ask a
hungry lion to feel compassion, as a prejudiced and furious people to do
justice. They are like the madman at the height of frenzy, who murders
without compunction his best and dearest friend; and only wonders and
wails over his own cruelty, when he is recovered from his delirium.”
“Pardon me, dearest lady,” said Julian, “this cannot be. The noble and
generous people of England cannot be thus strangely misled. Whatever
prepossessions may be current among the more vulgar, the House of
Legislature cannot be deeply infected by them--they will remember their
own dignity.”
“Alas! cousin,” answered the Countess, “when did Englishmen, even of the
highest degree, remember anything, when hurried away by the violence
of party feeling? Even those who have too much sense to believe in
the incredible fictions which gull the multitude, will beware how they
expose them, if their own political party can gain a momentary advantage
by their being accredited. It is amongst such, too, that your kinsman
has found friends and associates. Neglecting the old friends of his
house, as too grave and formal companions for the humour of the times,
his intercourse has been with the versatile Shaftesbury--the mercurial
Buckingham--men who would not hesitate to sacrifice to the popular
Moloch of the day, whatsoever or whomsoever, whose ruin could propitiate
the deity.--Forgive a mother’s tears, kinsman; but I see the scaffold
at Bolton again erected. If Derby goes to London while these bloodhounds
are in full cry, obnoxious as he is, and I have made him by my religious
faith, and my conduct in this island, he dies his father’s death. And
yet upon what other course to resolve!----”
“Let me go to London, madam,” said Peveril, much moved by the distress
of his patroness; “your ladyship was wont to rely something on my
judgment. I will act for the best--will communicate with those whom
you point out to me, and only with them; and I trust soon to send you
information that this delusion, however strong it may now be, is in the
course of passing away; at the worst, I can apprise you of the danger,
should it menace the Earl or yourself; and may be able also to point out
the means by which it may be eluded.”
The Countess listened with a countenance in which the anxiety of
maternal affection, which prompted her to embrace Peveril’s generous
offer, struggled with her native disinterested and generous disposition.
“Think what you ask of me, Julian,” she replied with a sigh. “Would you
have me expose the life of my friend’s son to those perils to which I
refuse my own?--No, never!”
“Nay, but madam,” replied Julian, “I do not run the same risk--my person
is not known in London--my situation, though not obscure in my own
country, is too little known to be noticed in that huge assemblage of
all that is noble and wealthy. No whisper, I presume, however indirect,
has connected my name with the alleged conspiracy. I am a Protestant,
above all; and can be accused of no intercourse, direct or indirect,
with the Church of Rome. My connections also lie amongst those, who, if
they do not, or cannot, befriend me, cannot, at least, be dangerous to
me. In a word, I run no danger where the Earl might incur great peril.”
“Alas!” said the Countess of Derby, “all this generous reasoning may be
true; but it could only be listened to by a widowed mother. Selfish as
I am, I cannot but reflect that my kinswoman has, in all events, the
support of an affectionate husband--such is the interested reasoning to
which we are not ashamed to subject our better feelings.”
“Do not call it so, madam,” answered Peveril; “think of me as the
younger brother of my kinsman. You have ever done by me the duties of
a mother; and have a right to my filial service, were it at a risk ten
times greater than a journey to London, to inquire into the temper of
the times. I will instantly go and announce my departure to the Earl.”
“Stay, Julian,” said the Countess; “if you must make this journey in our
behalf,--and, alas! I have not generosity enough to refuse your noble
proffer,--you must go alone, and without communication with Derby. I
know him well; his lightness of mind is free from selfish baseness; and
for the world, would he not suffer you to leave Man without his company.
And if he went with you, your noble and disinterested kindness would be
of no avail--you would but share his ruin, as the swimmer who attempts
to save a drowning man is involved in his fate, if he permit the
sufferer to grapple with him.”
“It shall be as you please, madam,” said Peveril. “I am ready to depart
upon half-an-hour’s notice.”
“This night, then,” said the Countess, after a moment’s pause--“this
night I will arrange the most secret means of carrying your generous
project into effect; for I would not excite that prejudice against you,
which will instantly arise, were it known you had so lately left this
island, and its Popish lady. You will do well, perhaps, to use a feigned
name in London.”
“Pardon me, madam,” said Julian; “I will do nothing that can draw on
me unnecessary attention; but to bear a feigned name, or affect any
disguise beyond living with extreme privacy, would, I think, be
unwise as well as unworthy; and what, if challenged, I might find some
difficulty in assigning a reason for, consistent with perfect fairness
of intentions.”
“I believe you are right,” answered the Countess, after a moment’s
consideration; and then added, “You propose, doubtless, to pass through
Derbyshire, and visit Martindale Castle?”
“I should wish it, madam, certainly,” replied Peveril, “did time permit,
and circumstances render it advisable.”
“Of that,” said the Countess, “you must yourself judge. Despatch
is, doubtless, desirable; on the other hand, arriving from your own
family-seat, you will be less an object of doubt and suspicion, than if
you posted up from hence, without even visiting your parents. You
must be guided in this,--in all,--by your own prudence. Go, my dearest
son--for to me you should be dear as a son--go, and prepare for your
journey. I will get ready some despatches, and a supply of money--Nay,
do not object. Am I not your mother; and are you not discharging a son’s
duty? Dispute not my right of defraying your expenses. Nor is this all;
for, as I must trust your zeal and prudence to act in our behalf when
occasion shall demand, I will furnish you with effectual recommendations
to our friends and kindred, entreating and enjoining them to render
whatever aid you may require, either for your own protection, or the
advancement of what you may propose in our favour.”
Peveril made no farther opposition to an arrangement, which in truth the
moderate state of his own finances rendered almost indispensable, unless
with his father’s assistance; and the Countess put into his hand bills
of exchange to the amount of two hundred pounds, upon a merchant in the
city. She then dismissed Julian for the space of an hour; after which,
she said, she must again require his presence.
The preparations for his journey were not of a nature to divert the
thoughts which speedily pressed on him. He found that half-an-hour’s
conversation had once more completely changed his immediate prospects
and plans for the future. He had offered to the Countess of Derby a
service, which her uniform kindness had well deserved at his hand; but,
by her accepting it, he was upon the point of being separated from Alice
Bridgenorth, at a time when she was become dearer to him than ever, by
her avowal of mutual passion. Her image rose before him, such as he had
that day pressed her to his bosom--her voice was in his ear, and seemed
to ask whether he could desert her in the crisis which everything seemed
to announce as impending. But Julian Peveril, his youth considered, was
strict in judging his duty, and severely resolved in executing it. He
trusted not his imagination to pursue the vision which presented itself;
but resolutely seizing his pen, wrote to Alice the following letter,
explaining his situation, as far as justice to the Countess permitted
him to do so:--
“I leave you, dearest Alice,” thus ran the letter.--“I leave you;
and though, in doing so, I but obey the command you have laid on
me, yet I can claim little merit for my compliance, since, without
additional and most forcible reasons in aid of your orders, I fear
I should have been unable to comply with them. But family affairs
of importance compel me to absent myself from this island, for, I
fear, more than one week. My thoughts, hopes, and wishes will be
on the moment that shall restore me to the Black Fort, and its
lovely valley. Let me hope that yours will sometimes rest on the
lonely exile, whom nothing could render such, but the command of
honour and duty. Do not fear that I mean to involve you in a
private correspondence, and let not your father fear it. I could
not love you so much, but for the openness and candour of your
nature; and I would not that you concealed from Major Bridgenorth
one syllable of what I now avow. Respecting other matters, he
himself cannot desire the welfare of our common country with more
zeal than I do. Differences may occur concerning the mode in which
that is to be obtained; but, in the principle, I am convinced
there can be only one mind between us; nor can I refuse to listen
to his experience and wisdom, even where they may ultimately fail
to convince me. Farewell--Alice, farewell! Much might be added to
that melancholy word, but nothing that could express the
bitterness with which it is written. Yet I could transcribe it
again and again, rather than conclude the last communication which
I can have with you for some time. My sole comfort is, that my
stay will scarce be so long as to permit you to forget one who
never can forget you.”
He held the paper in his hand for a minute after he had folded, but
before he had sealed it, while he hurriedly debated in his own mind
whether he had not expressed himself towards Major Bridgenorth in so
conciliating a manner as might excite hopes of proselytism, which his
conscience told him he could not realise with honour. Yet, on the other
hand, he had no right, from what Bridgenorth had said, to conclude that
their principles were diametrically irreconcilable; for though the son
of a high Cavalier, and educated in the family of the Countess of Derby,
he was himself, upon principle, an enemy of prerogative, and a friend
to the liberty of the subject. And with such considerations, he silenced
all internal objections on the point of honour; although his conscience
secretly whispered that these conciliatory expressions towards the
father were chiefly dictated by the fear, that during his absence Major
Bridgenorth might be tempted to change the residence of his daughter,
and perhaps to convey her altogether out of his reach.
Having sealed his letter, Julian called his servant, and directed him
to carry it under cover of one addressed to Mrs. Debbitch, to a house in
the town of Rushin, where packets and messages intended for the family
at Black Fort were usually deposited; and for that purpose to take horse
immediately. He thus got rid of an attendant, who might have been in
some degree a spy on his motions. He then exchanged the dress he usually
wore for one more suited to travelling; and, having put a change or two
of linen into a small cloak-bag, selected as arms a strong double-edged
sword and an excellent pair of pistols, which last he carefully loaded
with double bullets. Thus appointed, and with twenty pieces in his
purse, and the bills we have mentioned secured in a private pocket-book,
he was in readiness to depart as soon as he should receive the
Countess’s commands.
The buoyant spirit of youth and hope, which had, for a moment, been
chilled by the painful and dubious circumstances in which he was placed,
as well as the deprivation which he was about to undergo, now revived in
full vigour. Fancy, turning from more painful anticipations, suggested
to him that he was now entering upon life, at a crisis when resolution
and talents were almost certain to make the fortune of their possessor.
How could he make a more honourable entry on the bustling scene, than
sent by, and acting in behalf of, one of the noblest houses in England;
and should he perform what his charge might render incumbent with
the resolution and the prudence necessary to secure success, how many
occurrences might take place to render his mediation necessary to
Bridgenorth; and thus enable him, on the most equal and honourable
terms, to establish a claim to his gratitude and to his daughter’s hand.
Whilst he was dwelling on such pleasing, though imaginary prospects, he
could not help exclaiming aloud--“Yes, Alice, I will win thee nobly!”
The words had scarce escaped his lips, when he heard at the door of his
apartment, which the servant had left ajar, a sound like a deep sigh,
which was instantly succeeded by a gentle tap--“Come in,” replied
Julian, somewhat ashamed of his exclamation, and not a little afraid
that it had been caught up by some eavesdropper--“Come in,” he again
repeated; but his command was not obeyed; on the contrary, the knock was
repeated somewhat louder. He opened the door, and Fenella stood before
him.
With eyes that seemed red with recent tears, and with a look of the
deepest dejection, the little mute, first touching her bosom, and
beckoning with her finger, made to him the usual sign that the Countess
desired to see him--then turned, as if to usher him to her apartment. As
he followed her through the long gloomy vaulted passages which afforded
communication betwixt the various apartments of the castle, he could
not but observe that her usual light trip was exchanged for a tardy
and mournful step, which she accompanied with low inarticulate moaning
(which she was probably the less able to suppress, because she could not
judge how far it was audible), and also with wringing of the hands, and
other marks of extreme affliction.
At this moment a thought came across Peveril’s mind, which, in spite of
his better reason, made him shudder involuntarily. As a Peaksman, and
a long resident in the Isle of Man, he was well acquainted with many a
superstitious legend, and particularly with a belief, which attached
to the powerful family of the Stanleys, for their peculiar demon, a
Banshie, or female spirit, who was wont to shriek “foreboding evil
times;” and who was generally seen weeping and bemoaning herself before
the death of any person of distinction belonging to the family. For an
instant, Julian could scarcely divest himself of the belief that the
wailing, jibbering form, which glided before him, with a lamp in her
hand, was a genius of his mother’s race, come to announce to him as an
analogous reflection, that if the suspicion which had crossed his mind
concerning Fenella was a just one, her ill-fated attachment to him,
like that of the prophetic spirit to his family, could bode nothing but
disaster, and lamentation, and woe.