In these distracted times, when each man dreads
The bloody stratagems of busy hands.
--OTWAY.
At the door of the Cat and Fiddle, Julian received the usual attention
paid to the customers of an inferior house of entertainment. His horse
was carried by a ragged lad, who acted as hostler, into a paltry stable;
where, however, the nag was tolerably supplied with food and litter.
Having seen the animal on which his comfort, perhaps his safety,
depended, properly provided for, Peveril entered the kitchen, which
indeed was also the parlour and hall of the little hostelry, to try what
refreshment he could obtain for himself. Much to his satisfaction, he
found there was only one guest in the house besides himself; but he was
less pleased when he found that he must either go without dinner, or
share with that single guest the only provisions which chanced to be
in the house, namely, a dish of trouts and eels, which their host, the
miller, had brought in from his mill-stream.
At the particular request of Julian, the landlady undertook to add a
substantial dish of eggs and bacon, which perhaps she would not have
undertaken for, had not the sharp eye of Peveril discovered the flitch
hanging in its smoky retreat, when, as its presence could not be denied,
the hostess was compelled to bring it forward as a part of her supplies.
She was a buxom dame about thirty, whose comely and cheerful countenance
did honour to the choice of the jolly miller, her loving mate; and
was now stationed under the shade of an old-fashioned huge projecting
chimney, within which it was her province to “work i’ the fire,” and
provide for the wearied wayfaring man, the good things which were to
send him rejoicing on his course. Although, at first, the honest woman
seemed little disposed to give herself much additional trouble on
Julian’s account, yet the good looks, handsome figure, and easy civility
of her new guest, soon bespoke the principal part of her attention; and
while busy in his service, she regarded him, from time to time, with
looks, where something like pity mingled with complacency. The rich
smoke of the rasher, and the eggs with which it was flanked, already
spread itself through the apartment; and the hissing of these savoury
viands bore chorus to the simmering of the pan, in which the fish
were undergoing a slower decoction. The table was covered with a clean
huck-aback napkin, and all was in preparation for the meal, which Julian
began to expect with a good deal of impatience, when the companion, who
was destined to share it with him, entered the apartment.
At the first glance Julian recognised, to his surprise, the same
indifferently dressed, thin-looking person, who, during the first
bargain which he had made with Bridlesley, had officiously interfered
with his advice and opinion. Displeased at having the company of any
stranger forced upon him, Peveril was still less satisfied to find one
who might make some claim of acquaintance with him, however slender,
since the circumstances in which he stood compelled him to be as
reserved as possible. He therefore turned his back upon his destined
messmate, and pretended to amuse himself by looking out of the window,
determined to avoid all intercourse until it should be inevitably forced
upon him.
In the meanwhile, the other stranger went straight up to the landlady,
where she toiled on household cares intent, and demanded of her, what
she meant by preparing bacon and eggs, when he had positively charged
her to get nothing ready but the fish.
The good woman, important as every cook in the discharge of her duty,
deigned not for some time so much as to acknowledge that she heard the
reproof of her guest; and when she did so, it was only to repel it in a
magisterial and authoritative tone.--“If he did not like bacon--(bacon
from their own hutch, well fed on pease and bran)--if he did not like
bacon and eggs--(new-laid eggs, which she had brought in from the
hen-roost with her own hands)--why so put case--it was the worse for his
honour, and the better for those who did.”
“The better for those who like them?” answered the guest; “that is as
much as to say I am to have a companion, good woman.”
“Do not good woman me, sir,” replied the miller’s wife, “till I call you
good man; and, I promise you, many would scruple to do that to one who
does not love eggs and bacon of a Friday.”
“Nay, my good lady,” said her guest, “do not fix any misconstruction
upon me--I dare say the eggs and the bacon are excellent; only they are
rather a dish too heavy for my stomach.”
“Ay, or your conscience perhaps, sir,” answered the hostess. “And now, I
bethink me, you must needs have your fish fried with oil, instead of
the good drippings I was going to put to them. I would I could spell
the meaning of all this now; but I warrant John Bigstaff, the constable,
could conjure something out of it.”
There was a pause here; but Julian, somewhat alarmed at the tone which
the conversation assumed, became interested in watching the dumb show
which succeeded. By bringing his head a little towards the left, but
without turning round, or quitting the projecting latticed window where
he had taken his station, he could observe that the stranger, secured,
as he seemed to think himself, from observation, had sidled close up to
the landlady, and, as he conceived, had put a piece of money into her
hand. The altered tone of the miller’s moiety corresponded very much
with this supposition.
“Nay, indeed, and forsooth,” she said, “her house was Liberty Hall; and
so should every publican’s be. What was it to her what gentlefolks ate
or drank, providing they paid for it honestly? There were many honest
gentlemen, whose stomachs could not abide bacon, grease, or dripping,
especially on a Friday; and what was that to her, or any one in her
line, so gentlefolks paid honestly for the trouble? Only, she would say,
that her bacon and eggs could not be mended betwixt this and Liverpool,
and that she would live and die upon.”
“I shall hardly dispute it,” said the stranger; and turning towards
Julian, he added, “I wish this gentleman, who I suppose is my
trencher-companion, much joy of the dainties which I cannot assist him
in consuming.”
“I assure you, sir,” answered Peveril, who now felt himself compelled
to turn about, and reply with civility, “that it was with difficulty I
could prevail on my landlady to add my cover to yours, though she seems
now such a zealot for the consumption of eggs and bacon.”
“I am zealous for nothing,” said the landlady, “save that men would eat
their victuals, and pay their score; and if there be enough in one dish
to serve two guests, I see little purpose in dressing them two; however,
they are ready now, and done to a nicety.--Here, Alice! Alice!”
The sound of that well-known name made Julian start; but the Alice
who replied to the call ill resembled the vision which his imagination
connected with the accents, being a dowdy slipshod wench, the drudge
of the low inn which afforded him shelter. She assisted her mistress
in putting on the table the dishes which the latter had prepared; and a
foaming jug of home-brewed ale being placed betwixt them, was warranted
by Dame Whitecraft as excellent; “for,” said she, “we know by practice
that too much water drowns the miller, and we spare it on our malt as we
would in our mill-dam.”
“I drink to your health in it, dame,” said the elder stranger; “and
a cup of thanks for these excellent fish; and to the drowning of all
unkindness between us.”
“I thank you, sir,” said the dame, “and wish you the like; but I dare
not pledge you, for our Gaffer says that ale is brewed too strong for
women; so I only drink a glass of canary at a time with a gossip, or any
gentleman guest that is so minded.”
“You shall drink one with me, then, dame,” said Peveril, “so you will
let me have a flagon.”
“That you shall, sir, and as good as ever was broached; but I must to
the mill, to get the key from the goodman.”
So saying, and tucking her clean gown through the pocket-holes, that
her steps might be the more alert, and her dress escape dust, off she
tripped to the mill, which lay close adjoining.
“A dainty dame, and dangerous, is the miller’s wife,” said the stranger,
looking at Peveril. “Is not that old Chaucer’s phrase?”
“I--I believe so,” said Peveril, not much read in Chaucer, who was then
even more neglected than at present; and much surprised at a literary
quotation from one of the mean appearance exhibited by the person before
him.
“Yes,” answered the stranger, “I see that you, like other young
gentlemen of the time, are better acquainted with Cowley and Waller,
than with the ‘well of English undefiled.’ I cannot help differing.
There are touches of nature about the old bard of Woodstock, that, to
me, are worth all the turns of laborious wit in Cowley, and all
the ornate and artificial simplicity of his courtly competitor. The
description, for instance, of his country coquette--
‘Wincing she was, as is a wanton colt,
Sweet as a flower, and upright as a bolt.’
Then, again, for pathos, where will you mend the dying scene of Arcite?
‘Alas, my heart’s queen! alas, my wife!
Giver at once, and ender of my life.
What is this world?--What axen men to have?
Now with his love--now in his cold grave
Alone, withouten other company.’
But I tire you, sir; and do injustice to the poet, whom I remember but
by halves.”
“On the contrary, sir,” replied Peveril, “you make him more intelligible
to me in your recitation, than I have found him when I have tried to
peruse him myself.”
“You were only frightened by the antiquated spelling, and ‘the letters
black,’” said his companion. “It is many a scholar’s case, who mistakes
a nut, which he could crack with a little exertion, for a bullet, which
he must needs break his teeth on; but yours are better employed.--Shall
I offer you some of this fish?”
“Not so, sir,” replied Julian, willing to show himself a man of reading
in his turn; “I hold with old Caius, and profess to fear judgment, to
fight where I cannot choose, and to eat no fish.”
The stranger cast a startled look around him at this observation, which
Julian had thrown out, on purpose to ascertain, if possible, the quality
of his companion, whose present language was so different from the
character he had assumed at Bridlesley’s. His countenance, too, although
the features were of an ordinary, not to say mean cast, had that
character of intelligence which education gives to the most homely face;
and his manners were so easy and disembarrassed, as plainly showed a
complete acquaintance with society, as well as the habit of mingling
with it in the higher stages. The alarm which he had evidently shown at
Peveril’s answer, was but momentary; for he almost instantly replied,
with a smile, “I promise you, sir, that you are in no dangerous company;
for notwithstanding my fish dinner, I am much disposed to trifle with
some of your savoury mess, if you will indulge me so far.”
Peveril accordingly reinforced the stranger’s trencher with what
remained of the bacon and eggs, and saw him swallow a mouthful or two
with apparent relish; but presently after began to dally with his knife
and fork, like one whose appetite was satiated; and then took a long
draught of the black jack, and handed his platter to the large mastiff
dog, who, attracted by the smell of the dinner, had sat down before
him for some time, licking his chops, and following with his eye every
morsel which the guest raised to his head.
“Here, my poor fellow,” said he, “thou hast had no fish, and needest
this supernumerary trencher-load more than I do. I cannot withstand thy
mute supplication any longer.”
The dog answered these courtesies by a civil shake of the tail, while he
gobbled up what was assigned him by the stranger’s benevolence, in the
greater haste, that he heard his mistress’s voice at the door.
“Here is the canary, gentlemen,” said the landlady; “and the goodman
has set off the mill, to come to wait on you himself. He always does so,
when company drink wine.”
“That he may come in for the host’s, that is, for the lion’s share,”
said the stranger, looking at Peveril.
“The shot is mine,” said Julian; “and if mine host will share it, I will
willingly bestow another quart on him, and on you, sir. I never break
old customs.”
These sounds caught the ear of Gaffer Whitecraft, who had entered the
room, a strapping specimen of his robust trade, prepared to play
the civil, or the surly host, as his company should be acceptable or
otherwise. At Julian’s invitation, he doffed his dusty bonnet--brushed
from his sleeve the looser particles of his professional dust--and
sitting down on the end of a bench, about a yard from the table, filled
a glass of canary, and drank to his guests, and “especially to this
noble gentleman,” indicating Peveril, who had ordered the canary.
Julian returned the courtesy by drinking his health, and asking what
news were about in the country?
“Nought, sir, I hears on nought, except this Plot, as they call it, that
they are pursuing the Papishers about; but it brings water to my mill,
as the saying is. Between expresses hurrying hither and thither,
and guards and prisoners riding to and again, and the custom of the
neighbours, that come to speak over the news of an evening, nightly, I
may say, instead of once a week, why, the spigot is in use, gentlemen,
and your land thrives; and then I, serving as constable, and being a
known Protestant, I have tapped, I may venture to say, it may be ten
stands of ale extraordinary, besides a reasonable sale of wine for a
country corner. Heaven make us thankful, and keep all good Protestants
from Plot and Popery.”
“I can easily conceive, my friend,” said Julian, “that curiosity is
a passion which runs naturally to the alehouse; and that anger,
and jealousy, and fear, are all of them thirsty passions, and great
consumers of home-brewed. But I am a perfect stranger in these parts;
and I would willingly learn, from a sensible man like you, a little
of this same Plot, of which men speak so much, and appear to know so
little.”
“Learn a little of it?--Why, it is the most horrible--the most damnable,
bloodthirsty beast of a Plot--But hold, hold, my good master; I hope,
in the first place, you believe there is a Plot; for, otherwise,
the Justice must have a word with you, as sure as my name is John
Whitecraft.”
“It shall not need,” said Peveril; “for I assure you, mine host, I
believe in the Plot as freely and fully as a man can believe in anything
he cannot understand.”
“God forbid that anybody should pretend to understand it,” said the
implicit constable; “for his worship the Justice says it is a mile
beyond him; and he be as deep as most of them. But men may believe,
though they do not understand; and that is what the Romanists say
themselves. But this I am sure of, it makes a rare stirring time for
justices, and witnesses, and constables.--So here’s to your health
again, gentlemen, in a cup of neat canary.”
“Come, come, John Whitecraft,” said the wife, “do not you demean
yourself by naming witnesses along with justices and constables. All the
world knows how they come by their money.”
“Ay, but all the world knows that they _do_ come by it, dame; and that
is a great comfort. They rustle in their canonical silks, and swagger
in their buff and scarlet, who but they?--Ay, ay, the cursed fox
thrives--and not so cursed neither. Is there not Doctor Titus Oates, the
saviour of the nation--does he not live at Whitehall, and eat off plate,
and have a pension of thousands a year, for what I know? and is he not
to be Bishop of Litchfield, so soon as Dr. Doddrum dies?”
“Then I hope Dr. Doddrum’s reverence will live these twenty years; and I
dare say I am the first that ever wished such a wish,” said the hostess.
“I do not understand these doings, not I; and if a hundred Jesuits came
to hold a consult at my house, as they did at the White Horse Tavern,
I should think it quite out of the line of business to bear witness
against them, provided they drank well, and paid their score.”
“Very true, dame,” said her elder guest; “that is what I call keeping a
good publican conscience; and so I will pay my score presently, and be
jogging on my way.”
Peveril, on his part, also demanded a reckoning, and discharged it
so liberally, that the miller flourished his hat as he bowed, and the
hostess courtesied down to the ground.
The horses of both guests were brought forth; and they mounted, in order
to depart in company. The host and hostess stood in the doorway, to see
them depart. The landlord proffered a stirrup-cup to the elder guest,
while the landlady offered Peveril a glass from her own peculiar bottle.
For this purpose, she mounted on the horse-block, with flask and glass
in hand; so that it was easy for the departing guest, although on
horse-back, to return the courtesy in the most approved manner, namely,
by throwing his arm over his landlady’s shoulder, and saluting her at
parting.
Dame Whitecraft did not decline this familiarity; for there is no room
for traversing upon a horse-block, and the hands which might have served
her for resistance, were occupied with glass and bottle--matters too
precious to be thrown away in such a struggle. Apparently, however, she
had something else in her head; for as, after a brief affectation of
reluctance, she permitted Peveril’s face to approach hers, she whispered
in his ear, “Beware of trepans!”--an awful intimation, which, in
those days of distrust, suspicion, and treachery, was as effectual
in interdicting free and social intercourse, as the advertisement of
“man-traps and spring-guns,” to protect an orchard. Pressing her hand,
in intimation that he comprehended her hint, she shook his warmly in
return, and bade God speed him. There was a cloud on John Whitecraft’s
brow; nor did his final farewell sound half so cordial as that which
had been spoken within doors. But then Peveril reflected, that the same
guest is not always equally acceptable to landlord and landlady; and
unconscious of having done anything to excite the miller’s displeasure,
he pursued his journey without thinking farther of the matter.
Julian was a little surprised, and not altogether pleased, to find that
his new acquaintance held the same road with him. He had many reasons
for wishing to travel alone; and the hostess’s caution still rung in his
ears. If this man, possessed of so much shrewdness as his countenance
and conversation intimated, versatile, as he had occasion to remark, and
disguised beneath his condition, should prove, as was likely, to be a
concealed Jesuit or seminary-priest, travelling upon their great task
of the conversion of England, and rooting out of the Northern heresy,--a
more dangerous companion, for a person in his own circumstances,
could hardly be imagined; since keeping society with him might seem to
authorise whatever reports had been spread concerning the attachment
of his family to the Catholic cause. At the same time, it was very
difficult, without actual rudeness, to shake off the company of one who
seemed so determined, whether spoken to or not, to remain alongside of
him.
Peveril tried the experiment of riding slow; but his companion,
determined not to drop him, slackened his pace, so as to keep close
by him. Julian then spurred his horse to a full trot; and was soon
satisfied, that the stranger, notwithstanding the meanness of his
appearance, was so much better mounted than himself, as to render
vain any thought of outriding him. He pulled up his horse to a more
reasonable pace, therefore, in a sort of despair. Upon his doing so, his
companion, who had been hitherto silent, observed, that Peveril was not
so well qualified to try speed upon the road, as he would have been had
he abode by his first bargain of horse-flesh that morning.
Peveril assented dryly, but observed, that the animal would serve his
immediate purpose, though he feared it would render him indifferent
company for a person better mounted.
“By no means,” answered his civil companion; “I am one of those who have
travelled so much, as to be accustomed to make my journey at any rate of
motion which may be most agreeable to my company.”
Peveril made no reply to this polite intimation, being too sincere to
tender the thanks which, in courtesy, were the proper answer.--A second
pause ensued, which was broken by Julian asking the stranger whether
their roads were likely to lie long together in the same direction.
“I cannot tell,” said the stranger, smiling, “unless I knew which way
you were travelling.”
“I am uncertain how far I shall go to-night,” said Julian, willingly
misunderstanding the purport of the reply.
“And so am I,” replied the stranger; “but though my horse goes better
than yours, I think it will be wise to spare him; and in case our road
continues to lie the same way, we are likely to sup, as we have dined
together.”
Julian made no answer whatever to this round intimation, but continued
to ride on, turning, in his own mind, whether it would not be wisest to
come to a distinct understanding with his pertinacious attendant, and
to explain, in so many words, that it was his pleasure to travel alone.
But, besides that the sort of acquaintance which they had formed during
dinner, rendered him unwilling to be directly uncivil towards a person
of gentleman-like manners, he had also to consider that he might very
possibly be mistaken in this man’s character and purpose; in which case,
the cynically refusing the society of a sound Protestant, would afford
as pregnant matter of suspicion, as travelling in company with a
disguised Jesuit.
After brief reflection, therefore, he resolved to endure the encumbrance
of the stranger’s society, until a fair opportunity should occur to rid
himself of it; and, in the meantime, to act with as much caution as he
possibly could, in any communication that might take place between them;
for Dame Whitecraft’s parting caution still rang anxiously in his ears,
and the consequences of his own arrest upon suspicion, must deprive him
of every opportunity of serving his father, or the countess, or Major
Bridgenorth, upon whose interest, also, he had promised himself to keep
an eye.
While he revolved these things in his mind, they had journeyed several
miles without speaking; and now entered upon a more waste country, and
worse roads, than they had hitherto found, being, in fact, approaching
the more hilly district of Derbyshire. In travelling on a very stony and
uneven lane, Julian’s horse repeatedly stumbled; and, had he not been
supported by the rider’s judicious use of the bridle, must at length
certainly have fallen under him.
“These are times which crave wary riding, sir,” said his companion;
“and by your seat in the saddle, and your hand on the rein, you seem to
understand it to be so.”
“I have been long a horseman, sir,” answered Peveril.
“And long a traveller, too, sir, I should suppose; since by the great
caution you observe, you seem to think the human tongue requires a curb,
as well as the horse’s jaws.”
“Wiser men than I have been of opinion,” answered Peveril, “that it
were a part of prudence to be silent, when men have little or nothing to
say.”
“I cannot approve of their opinion,” answered the stranger. “All
knowledge is gained by communication, either with the dead, through
books, or, more pleasingly, through the conversation of the living. The
_deaf and dumb_, alone, are excluded from improvement; and surely their
situation is not so enviable that we should imitate them.”
At this illustration, which awakened a startling echo in Peveril’s
bosom, the young man looked hard at his companion; but in the composed
countenance, and calm blue eye, he read no consciousness of a farther
meaning than the words immediately and directly implied. He paused a
moment, and then answered, “You seem to be a person, sir, of shrewd
apprehension; and I should have thought it might have occurred to you,
that in the present suspicious times, men may, without censure, avoid
communication with strangers. You know not me; and to me you are totally
unknown. There is not room for much discourse between us, without
trespassing on the general topics of the day, which carry in them seeds
of quarrel between friends, much more betwixt strangers. At any other
time, the society of an intelligent companion would have been most
acceptable upon my solitary ride; but at present----”
“At present!” said the other, interrupting him. “You are like the old
Romans, who held that _hostis_ meant both a stranger and an enemy.
I will therefore be no longer a stranger. My name is Ganlesse--by
profession I am a Roman Catholic priest--I am travelling here in dread
of my life--and I am very glad to have you for a companion.”
“I thank you for the information with all my heart,” said Peveril; “and
to avail myself of it to the uttermost, I must beg you to ride forward,
or lag behind, or take a side-path, at your own pleasure; for as I am
no Catholic, and travel upon business of high concernment, I am exposed
both to risk and delay, and even to danger, by keeping such suspicious
company. And so, Master Ganlesse, keep your own pace, and I will keep
the contrary; for I beg leave to forbear your company.”
As Peveril spoke thus, he pulled up his horse, and made a full stop.
The stranger burst out a-laughing. “What!” he said, “you forbear my
company for a trifle of danger? Saint Anthony! How the warm blood of
the Cavaliers is chilled in the young men of the present day! This
young gallant, now, has a father, I warrant, who has endured as many
adventures for hunting priests, as a knight-errant for distressed
damsels.”
“This raillery avails nothing, sir,” said Peveril. “I must request you
will keep your own way.”
“My way is yours,” said the pertinacious Master Ganlesse, as he called
himself; “and we will both travel the safer, that we journey in company.
I have the receipt of fern-seed, man, and walk invisible. Besides, you
would not have me quit you in this lane, where there is no turn to right
or left?”
Peveril moved on, desirous to avoid open violence--for which the
indifferent tone of the traveller, indeed, afforded no apt pretext--yet
highly disliking his company, and determined to take the first
opportunity to rid himself of it.
The stranger proceeded at the same pace with him, keeping cautiously on
his bridle hand, as if to secure that advantage in case of a struggle.
But his language did not intimate the least apprehension. “You do me
wrong,” he said to Peveril, “and you equally wrong yourself. You are
uncertain where to lodge to-night--trust to my guidance. Here is an
ancient hall, within four miles, with an old knightly Pantaloon for its
lord--an all-be-ruffed Dame Barbara for the lady gay--a Jesuit, in a
butler’s habit, to say grace--an old tale of Edgehill and Worster fights
to relish a cold venison pasty, and a flask of claret mantled with
cobwebs--a bed for you in the priest’s hiding-hole--and, for aught I
know, pretty Mistress Betty, the dairy-maid, to make it ready.”
“This has no charms for me, sir,” said Peveril, who, in spite of
himself, could not but be amused with the ready sketch which the
stranger gave of many an old mansion in Cheshire and Derbyshire, where
the owners retained the ancient faith of Rome.
“Well, I see I cannot charm you in this way,” continued his companion;
“I must strike another key. I am no longer Ganlesse, the seminary
priest, but (changing his tone, and snuffling in the nose) Simon Canter,
a poor preacher of the Word, who travels this way to call sinners to
repentance; and to strengthen, and to edify, and to fructify among the
scattered remnant who hold fast the truth.--What say you to this, sir?”
“I admire your versatility, sir, and could be entertained with it at
another time. At present sincerity is more in request.”
“Sincerity!” said the stranger;--“a child’s whistle, with but two notes
in it--yea, yea, and nay, nay. Why, man, the very Quakers have renounced
it, and have got in its stead a gallant recorder, called Hypocrisy, that
is somewhat like Sincerity in form, but of much greater compass, and
combines the whole gamut. Come, be ruled--be a disciple of Simon Canter
for the evening, and we will leave the old tumble-down castle of the
knight aforesaid, on the left hand, for a new brick-built mansion,
erected by an eminent salt-boiler from Namptwich, who expects the said
Simon to make a strong spiritual pickle for the preservation of a soul
somewhat corrupted by the evil communications of this wicked world.
What say you? He has two daughters--brighter eyes never beamed under a
pinched hood; and for myself, I think there is more fire in those who
live only to love and to devotion, than in your court beauties, whose
hearts are running on twenty follies besides. You know not the pleasure
of being conscience-keeper to a pretty precisian, who in one breath
repeats her foibles, and in the next confesses her passion. Perhaps,
though, you may have known such in your day? Come, sir, it grows too
dark to see your blushes; but I am sure they are burning on your cheek.”
“You take great freedom, sir,” said Peveril, as they now approached the
end of the lane, where it opened on a broad common; “and you seem rather
to count more on my forbearance, than you have room to do with safety.
We are now nearly free of the lane which has made us companions for this
late half hour. To avoid your farther company, I will take the turn to
the left, upon that common; and if you follow me, it shall be at your
peril. Observe, I am well armed; and you will fight at odds.”
“Not at odds,” returned the provoking stranger, “while I have my brown
jennet, with which I can ride round and round you at pleasure; and this
text, of a handful in length (showing a pistol which he drew from his
bosom), which discharges very convincing doctrine on the pressure of a
forefinger, and is apt to equalise all odds, as you call them, of youth
and strength. Let there be no strife between us, however--the moor lies
before us--choose your path on it--I take the other.”
“I wish you good night, sir,” said Peveril to the stranger. “I ask your
forgiveness, if I have misconstrued you in anything; but the times
are perilous, and a man’s life may depend on the society in which he
travels.”
“True,” said the stranger; “but in your case, the danger is already
undergone, and you should seek to counteract it. You have travelled in
my company long enough to devise a handsome branch of the Popish Plot.
How will you look, when you see come forth, in comely folio form, The
Narrative of Simon Canter, otherwise called Richard Ganlesse, concerning
the horrid Popish Conspiracy for the Murder of the King, and Massacre
of all Protestants, as given on oath to the Honourable House of Commons;
setting forth, how far Julian Peveril, younger of Martindale Castle, is
concerned in carrying on the same----”
“How, sir? What mean you?” said Peveril, much startled.
“Nay, sir,” replied his companion, “do not interrupt my title-page.
Now that Oates and Bedloe have drawn the great prizes, the subordinate
discoverers get little but by the sale of their Narrative; and Janeway,
Newman, Simmons, and every bookseller of them, will tell you that the
title is half the narrative. Mine shall therefore set forth the various
schemes you have communicated to me, of landing ten thousand soldiers
from the Isle of Man upon the coast of Lancashire; and marching into
Wales, to join the ten thousand pilgrims who are to be shipped from
Spain; and so completing the destruction of the Protestant religion,
and of the devoted city of London. Truly, I think such a Narrative, well
spiced with a few horrors, and published _cum privilegio parliamenti_,
might, though the market be somewhat overstocked, be still worth some
twenty or thirty pieces.”
“You seem to know me, sir,” said Peveril; “and if so, I think I may
fairly ask you your purpose in thus bearing me company, and the meaning
of all this rhapsody. If it be mere banter, I can endure it within
proper limit; although it is uncivil on the part of a stranger. If you
have any farther purpose, speak it out; I am not to be trifled with.”
“Good, now,” said the stranger, laughing, “into what an unprofitable
chafe you have put yourself! An Italian _fuoruscito_, when he desires
a parley with you, takes aim from behind a wall, with his long gun, and
prefaces his conference with _Posso tirare_. So does your man-of-war
fire a gun across the bows of a Hansmogan Indiaman, just to bring her
to; and so do I show Master Julian Peveril, that, if I were one of the
honourable society of witnesses and informers, with whom his imagination
has associated me for these two hours past, he is as much within my
danger now, as what he is ever likely to be.” Then, suddenly changing
his tone to serious, which was in general ironical, he added, “Young
man, when the pestilence is diffused through the air of a city, it is in
vain men would avoid the disease, by seeking solitude, and shunning the
company of their fellow-sufferers.”
“In what, then, consists their safety?” said Peveril, willing to
ascertain, if possible, the drift of his companion’s purpose.
“In following the counsels of wise physicians;” such was the stranger’s
answer.
“And as such,” said Peveril, “you offer me your advice?”
“Pardon me, young man,” said the stranger haughtily, “I see no reason
I should do so.--I am not,” he added, in his former tone, “your fee’d
physician--I offer no advice--I only say it would be wise that you
sought it.”
“And from whom, or where, can I obtain it?” said Peveril. “I wander in
this country like one in a dream; so much a few months have changed it.
Men who formerly occupied themselves with their own affairs, are now
swallowed up in matters of state policy; and those tremble under the
apprehension of some strange and sudden convulsion of empire, who were
formerly only occupied by the fear of going to bed supperless. And to
sum up the matter, I meet a stranger apparently well acquainted with my
name and concerns, who first attaches himself to me, whether I will or
no; and then refuses me an explanation of his business, while he menaces
me with the strangest accusations.”
“Had I meant such infamy,” said the stranger, “believe me, I had not
given you the thread of my intrigue. But be wise, and come one with
me. There is, hard by, a small inn, where, if you can take a stranger’s
warrant for it, we shall sleep in perfect security.”
“Yet, you yourself,” said Peveril, “but now were anxious to avoid
observation; and in that case, how can you protect me?”
“Pshaw! I did but silence that tattling landlady, in the way in which
such people are most readily hushed; and for Topham, and his brace
of night owls, they must hawk at other and lesser game than I should
prove.”
Peveril could not help admiring the easy and confident indifference
with which the stranger seemed to assume a superiority to all the
circumstances of danger around him; and after hastily considering the
matter with himself, came to the resolution to keep company with him for
this night at least; and to learn, if possible, who he really was, and
to what party in the estate he was attached. The boldness and freedom
of his talk seemed almost inconsistent with his following the perilous,
though at that time the gainful trade of an informer. No doubt, such
persons assumed every appearance which could insinuate them into the
confidence of their destined victims; but Julian thought he discovered
in this man’s manner, a wild and reckless frankness, which he could not
but connect with the idea of sincerity in the present case. He therefore
answered, after a moment’s recollection, “I embrace your proposal, sir;
although, by doing so, I am reposing a sudden, and perhaps an unwary,
confidence.”
“And what am I, then, reposing in you?” said the stranger. “Is not our
confidence mutual?”
“No; much the contrary. I know nothing of you whatever--you have named
me; and, knowing me to be Julian Peveril, know you may travel with me in
perfect security.”
“The devil I do!” answered his companion. “I travel in the same security
as with a lighted petard, which I may expect to explode every moment.
Are you not the son of Peveril of the Peak, with whose name Prelacy
and Popery are so closely allied, that no old woman of either sex in
Derbyshire concludes her prayer without a petition to be freed from all
three? And do you not come from the Popish Countess of Derby, bringing,
for aught I know, a whole army of Manxmen in your pocket, with
full complement of arms, ammunition, baggage, and a train of field
artillery?”
“It is not very likely I should be so poorly mounted,” said Julian,
laughing, “if I had such a weight to carry. But lead on, sir. I see I
must wait for your confidence, till you think proper to confer it; for
you are already so well acquainted with my affairs, that I have nothing
to offer you in exchange for it.”
“_Allons_, then,” said his companion; “give your horse the spur, and
raise the curb rein, lest he measure the ground with his nose instead of
his paces. We are not now more than a furlong or two from the place of
entertainment.”
They mended their pace accordingly, and soon arrived at the small
solitary inn which the traveller had mentioned. When its light began to
twinkle before them, the stranger, as if recollecting something he had
forgotten, “By the way, you must have a name to pass by; for it may be
ill travelling under your own, as the fellow who keeps this house is
an old Cromwellian. What will you call yourself?--My name is--for the
present--Ganlesse.”
“There is no occasion to assume a name at all,” answered Julian. “I do
not incline to use a borrowed one, especially as I may meet with some
one who knows my own.”
“I will call you Julian, then,” said Master Ganlesse; “for Peveril will
smell, in the nostrils of mine host, of idolatry, conspiracy, Smithfield
faggots, fish on Fridays, the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the
fire of purgatory.”
As he spoke thus, they alighted under the great broad-branched oak tree,
that served to canopy the ale-bench, which, at an earlier hour, had
groaned under the weight of a frequent conclave of rustic politicians.
Ganlesse, as he dismounted, whistled in a particularly shrill note, and
was answered from within the house.