The Gordon then his bugle blew,
And said, awa, awa;
The House of Rhodes is all on flame,
I hauld it time to ga’.
--OLD BALLAD.
When Julian awaked the next morning, all was still and vacant in the
apartment. The rising sun, which shone through the half-closed shutters,
showed some relics of the last night’s banquet, which his confused and
throbbing head assured him had been carried into a debauch.
Without being much of a boon companion, Julian, like other young men of
the time, was not in the habit of shunning wine, which was then used in
considerable quantities; and he could not help being surprised, that the
few cups he had drunk over night had produced on his frame the effects
of excess. He rose up, adjusted his dress, and sought in the apartment
for water to perform his morning ablutions, but without success. Wine
there was on the table; and beside it one stool stood, and another lay,
as if thrown down in the heedless riot of the evening. “Surely,” he
thought to himself, “the wine must have been very powerful, which
rendered me insensible to the noise my companions must have made ere
they finished their carouse.”
With momentary suspicion he examined his weapons, and the packet which
he had received from the Countess, and kept in a secret pocket of his
upper coat, bound close about his person. All was safe; and the very
operation reminded him of the duties which lay before him. He left the
apartment where they had supped, and went into another, wretched enough,
where, in a truckle-bed, were stretched two bodies, covered with a rug,
the heads belonging to which were amicably deposited upon the same truss
of hay. The one was the black shock-head of the groom; the other,
graced with a long thrum nightcap, showed a grizzled pate, and a grave
caricatured countenance, which the hook-nose and lantern-jaws proclaimed
to belong to the Gallic minister of good cheer, whose praises he had
heard sung forth on the preceding evening. These worthies seemed to have
slumbered in the arms of Bacchus as well as of Morpheus, for there were
broken flasks on the floor; and their deep snoring alone showed that
they were alive.
Bent upon resuming his journey, as duty and expedience alike dictated,
Julian next descended the trap-stair, and essayed a door at the bottom
of the steps. It was fastened within. He called--no answer was returned.
It must be, he thought, the apartment of the revellers, now probably
sleeping as soundly as their dependants still slumbered, and as he
himself had done a few minutes before. Should he awake them?--To what
purpose? They were men with whom accident had involved him against
his own will; and situated as he was, he thought it wise to take the
earliest opportunity of breaking off from society which was suspicious,
and might be perilous. Ruminating thus, he essayed another door, which
admitted him to a bedroom, where lay another harmonious slumberer. The
mean utensils, pewter measures, empty cans and casks, with which this
room was lumbered, proclaimed it that of the host, who slept surrounded
by his professional implements of hospitality and stock-in-trade.
This discovery relieved Peveril from some delicate embarrassment which
he had formerly entertained. He put upon the table a piece of money,
sufficient, as he judged, to pay his share of the preceding night’s
reckoning; not caring to be indebted for his entertainment to the
strangers, whom he was leaving without the formality of an adieu.
His conscience cleared of this gentleman-like scruple, Peveril proceeded
with a light heart, though somewhat a dizzy head, to the stable, which
he easily recognised among a few other paltry outhouses. His horse,
refreshed with rest, and perhaps not unmindful of his services the
evening before, neighed as his master entered the stable; and Peveril
accepted the sound as an omen of a prosperous journey. He paid the
augury with a sieveful of corn; and, while his palfrey profited by
his attention, walked into the fresh air to cool his heated blood, and
consider what course he should pursue in order to reach the Castle of
Martindale before sunset. His acquaintance with the country in general
gave him confidence that he could not have greatly deviated from the
nearest road; and with his horse in good condition, he conceived he
might easily reach Martindale before nightfall.
Having adjusted his route in his mind, he returned into the stable to
prepare his steed for the journey, and soon led him into the ruinous
courtyard of the inn, bridled, saddled, and ready to be mounted. But as
Peveril’s hand was upon the mane, and his left foot in the stirrup, a
hand touched his cloak, and the voice of Ganlesse said, “What, Master
Peveril, is this your foreign breeding? or have you learned in France to
take French leave of your friends?”
Julian started like a guilty thing, although a moment’s reflection
assured him that he was neither wrong nor in danger. “I cared not to
disturb you,” he said, “although I did come as far as the door of your
chamber. I supposed your friend and you might require, after our last
night’s revel, rather sleep than ceremony. I left my own bed, though a
rough one, with more reluctance than usual; and as my occasions oblige
me to be an early traveller, I thought it best to depart without
leave-taking. I have left a token for mine host on the table of his
apartment.”
“It was unnecessary,” said Ganlesse; “the rascal is already
overpaid.--But are you not rather premature in your purpose of
departing? My mind tells me that Master Julian Peveril had better
proceed with me to London, than turn aside for any purpose whatever. You
may see already that I am no ordinary person, but a master-spirit of the
time. For the cuckoo I travel with, and whom I indulge in his prodigal
follies, he also has his uses. But you are a different cast; and I not
only would serve you, but even wish you, to be my own.”
Julian gazed on this singular person when he spoke. We have already
said his figure was mean and slight, with very ordinary and unmarked
features, unless we were to distinguish the lightnings of a keen grey
eye, which corresponded in its careless and prideful glance, with the
haughty superiority which the stranger assumed in his conversation.
It was not till after a momentary pause that Julian replied, “Can you
wonder, sir, that in my circumstances--if they are indeed known to you
so well as they seem--I should decline unnecessary confidence on the
affairs of moment which have called me hither, or refuse the company of
a stranger, who assigns no reason for desiring mine?”
“Be it as you list, young man,” answered Ganlesse; “only remember
hereafter, you had a fair offer--it is not every one to whom I would
have made it. If we should meet hereafter, on other, and on worse terms,
impute it to yourself and not to me.”
“I understand not your threat,” answered Peveril, “If a threat be indeed
implied. I have done no evil--I feel no apprehension--and I cannot, in
common sense, conceive why I should suffer for refusing my confidence
to a stranger, who seems to require that I should submit me blindfold to
his guidance.”
“Farewell, then, Sir Julian of the Peak,--that may soon be,” said the
stranger, removing the hand which he had as yet left carelessly on the
horse’s bridle.
“How mean you by that phrase?” said Julian; “and why apply such a title
to me?”
The stranger smiled, and only answered, “Here our conference ends. The
way is before you. You will find it longer and rougher than that by
which I would have guided you.”
So saying, Ganlesse turned his back and walked toward the house. On the
threshold he turned about once more, and seeing that Peveril had not yet
moved from the spot, he again smiled and beckoned to him; but Julian,
recalled by that sign to recollection, spurred his horse and set forward
on his journey.
It was not long ere his local acquaintance with the country enabled
him to regain the road to Martindale, from which he had diverged on
the preceding evening for about two miles. But the roads, or rather the
paths, of this wild country, so much satirised by their native poet,
Cotton, were so complicated in some places, so difficult to be traced in
others, and so unfit for hasty travelling in almost all, that in spite
of Julian’s utmost exertions, and though he made no longer delay upon
the journey than was necessary to bait his horse at a small hamlet
through which he passed at noon, it was nightfall ere he reached an
eminence, from which, an hour sooner, the battlements of Martindale
Castle would have been visible; and where, when they were hid in night,
their situation was indicated by a light constantly maintained in a
lofty tower, called the Warder’s Turret; and which domestic beacon had
acquired, through all the neighbourhood, the name of Peveril’s Polestar.
This was regularly kindled at curfew toll, and supplied with as much
wood and charcoal as maintained the light till sunrise; and at no period
was the ceremonial omitted, saving during the space intervening between
the death of a Lord of the Castle and his interment. When this last
event had taken place, the nightly beacon was rekindled with some
ceremony, and continued till fate called the successor to sleep with
his fathers. It is not known from which circumstance the practice
of maintaining this light originally sprung. Tradition spoke of it
doubtfully. Some thought it was the signal of general hospitality,
which, in ancient times, guided the wandering knight, or the weary
pilgrim, to rest and refreshment. Others spoke of it as a “love-lighted
watchfire,” by which the provident anxiety of a former lady of
Martindale guided her husband homeward through the terrors of a midnight
storm. The less favourable construction of unfriendly neighbours of
the dissenting persuasion, ascribed the origin and continuance of this
practice to the assuming pride of the family of Peveril, who thereby
chose to intimate their ancient _suzerainté_ over the whole country, in
the manner of the admiral who carries the lantern in the poop, for the
guidance of the fleet. And in the former times, our old friend, Master
Solsgrace, dealt from the pulpit many a hard hit against Sir Geoffrey,
as he that had raised his horn, and set up his candlestick on high.
Certain it is, that all the Peverils, from father to son, had been
especially attentive to the maintenance of this custom, as something
intimately connected with the dignity of their family; and in the hands
of Sir Geoffrey, the observance was not likely to be omitted.
Accordingly, the polar-star of Peveril had continued to beam more
or less brightly during all the vicissitudes of the Civil War; and
glimmered, however faintly, during the subsequent period of Sir
Geoffrey’s depression. But he was often heard to say, and sometimes to
swear, that while there was a perch of woodland left to the estate, the
old beacon-grate should not lack replenishing. All this his son Julian
well knew; and therefore it was with no ordinary feelings of surprise
and anxiety, that, looking in the direction of the Castle, he perceived
that the light was not visible. He halted--rubbed his eyes--shifted
his position--and endeavoured, in vain, to persuade himself that he had
mistaken the point from which the polar-star of his house was visible,
or that some newly intervening obstacle, the growth of a plantation,
perhaps, or the erection of some building, intercepted the light of the
beacon. But a moment’s reflection assured him, that from the high
and free situation which Martindale Castle bore in reference to the
surrounding country, this could not have taken place; and the inference
necessarily forced itself upon his mind, that Sir Geoffrey, his father,
was either deceased, or that the family must have been disturbed by some
strange calamity, under the pressure of which, their wonted custom and
solemn usage had been neglected.
Under the influence of undefinable apprehension, young Peveril now
struck the spurs into his jaded steed, and forcing him down the broken
and steep path, at a pace which set safety at defiance, he arrived at
the village of Martindale-Moultrassie, eagerly desirous to ascertain the
cause of this ominous eclipse. The street, through which his tired horse
paced slow and reluctantly, was now deserted and empty; and scarcely a
candle twinkled from a casement, except from the latticed window of the
little inn, called the Peveril Arms, from which a broad light shone, and
several voices were heard in rude festivity.
Before the door of this inn, the jaded palfrey, guided by the instinct
or experience which makes a hackney well acquainted with the outside of
a house of entertainment, made so sudden and determined a pause, that,
notwithstanding his haste, the rider thought it best to dismount,
expecting to be readily supplied with a fresh horse by Roger Raine, the
landlord, the ancient dependant of his family. He also wished to relive
his anxiety, by inquiring concerning the state of things at the Castle,
when he was surprised to hear, bursting from the taproom of the loyal
old host, a well-known song of the Commonwealth time, which some
puritanical wag had written in reprehension of the Cavaliers, and their
dissolute courses, and in which his father came in for a lash of the
satirist.
“Ye thought in the world there was no power to tame ye,
So you tippled and drabb’d till the saints overcame ye;
‘Forsooth,’ and ‘Ne’er stir,’ sir, have vanquish’d ‘G-- d--n me,’
Which nobody can deny.
There was bluff old Sir Geoffrey loved brandy and mum well,
And to see a beer-glass turned over the thumb well;
But he fled like the wind, before Fairfax and Cromwell,
Which nobody can deny.”
Some strange revolution, Julian was aware, must have taken place, both
in the village and in the Castle, ere these sounds of unseemly insult
could have been poured forth in the very inn which was decorated with
the armorial bearings of his family; and not knowing how far it might be
advisable to intrude on these unfriendly revellers, without the power
of repelling or chastising their insolence, he led his horse to a
back-door, which as he recollected, communicated with the landlord’s
apartment, having determined to make private inquiry of him concerning
the state of matters at the Castle. He knocked repeatedly, and as often
called on Roger Raine with an earnest but stifled voice. At length a
female voice replied by the usual inquiry, “Who is there?”
“It is I, Dame Raine--I, Julian Peveril--tell your husband to come to me
presently.”
“Alack, and a well-a-day, Master Julian, if it be really you--you are
to know my poor goodman has gone where he can come to no one; but,
doubtless, we shall all go to him, as Matthew Chamberlain says.”
“He is dead, then?” said Julian. “I am extremely sorry----”
“Dead six months and more, Master Julian; and let me tell you, it is a
long time for a lone woman, as Matt Chamberlain says.”
“Well, do you or your chamberlain undo the door. I want a fresh horse;
and I want to know how things are at the Castle.”
“The Castle--lack-a-day!--Chamberlain--Matthew Chamberlain--I say,
Matt!”
Matt Chamberlain apparently was at no great distance, for he presently
answered her call; and Peveril, as he stood close to the door, could
hear them whispering to each other, and distinguish in a great measure
what they said. And here it may be noticed, that Dame Raine, accustomed
to submit to the authority of old Roger, who vindicated as well the
husband’s domestic prerogative, as that of the monarch in the state,
had, when left a buxom widow, been so far incommoded by the exercise
of her newly acquired independence, that she had recourse, upon all
occasions, to the advice of Matt Chamberlain; and as Matt began no
longer to go slipshod, and in a red nightcap, but wore Spanish shoes,
and a high-crowned beaver (at least of a Sunday), and moreover was
called Master Matthew by his fellow-servants, the neighbours in the
village argued a speedy change of the name of the sign-post; nay,
perhaps, of the very sign itself, for Matthew was a bit of a Puritan,
and no friend to Peveril of the Peak.
“Now counsel me, an you be a man, Matt Chamberlain,” said Widow Raine;
“for never stir, if here be not Master Julian’s own self, and he wants a
horse, and what not, and all as if things were as they wont to be.”
“Why, dame, an ye will walk by my counsel,” said the Chamberlain, “e’en
shake him off--let him be jogging while his boots are green. This is no
world for folks to scald their fingers in other folks’ broth.”
“And that is well spoken, truly,” answered Dame Raine; “but then look
you, Matt, we have eaten their bread, and, as my poor goodman used to
say----”
“Nay, nay, dame, they that walk by the counsel of the dead, shall have
none of the living; and so you may do as you list; but if you will
walk by mine, drop latch, and draw bolt, and bid him seek quarters
farther--that is my counsel.”
“I desire nothing of you, sirrah,” said Peveril, “save but to know how
Sir Geoffrey and his lady do?”
“Lack-a-day!--lack-a-day!” in a tone of sympathy, was the only answer
he received from the landlady; and the conversation betwixt her and her
chamberlain was resumed, but in a tone too low to be overheard.
At length Matt Chamberlain spoke aloud, and with a tone of authority:
“We undo no doors at this time of night, for it is against the Justices’
orders, and might cost us our licence; and for the Castle, the road up
to it lies before you, and I think you know it as well as we do.”
“And I know you,” said Peveril, remounting his wearied horse, “for
an ungrateful churl, whom, on the first opportunity, I will assuredly
cudgel to a mummy.”
To this menace Matthew made no reply, and Peveril presently heard him
leave the apartment, after a few earnest words betwixt him and his
mistress.
Impatient at this delay, and at the evil omen implied in these people’s
conversation and deportment, Peveril, after some vain spurring of his
horse, which positively refused to move a step farther, dismounted once
more, and was about to pursue his journey on foot, notwithstanding the
extreme disadvantage under which the high riding-boots of the period
laid those who attempted to walk with such encumbrances, when he was
stopped by a gentle call from the window.
Her counsellor was no sooner gone, than the good-nature and habitual
veneration of the dame for the house of Peveril, and perhaps some fear
for her counsellor’s bones, induced her to open the casement, and cry,
but in a low and timid tone, “Hist! hist! Master Julian--be you gone?”
“Not yet, dame,” said Julian; “though it seems my stay is unwelcome.”
“Nay, but good young master, it is because men counsel so differently;
for here was my poor old Roger Raine would have thought the chimney
corner too cold for you; and here is Matt Chamberlain thinks the cold
courtyard is warm enough.”
“Never mind that, dame,” said Julian; “do but only tell me what has
happened at Martindale Castle? I see the beacon is extinguished.”
“Is it in troth?--ay, like enough--then good Sir Geoffrey has gone to
heaven with my old Roger Raine!”
“Sacred Heaven!” exclaimed Peveril; “when was my father taken ill?”
“Never as I knows of,” said the dame; “but, about three hours since,
arrived a party at the Castle, with buff-coats and bandoleers, and one
of the Parliament’s folks, like in Oliver’s time. My old Roger Raine
would have shut the gates of the inn against them, but he is in the
churchyard, and Matt says it is against law; and so they came in and
refreshed men and horses, and sent for Master Bridgenorth, that is at
Moultrassie Hall even now; and so they went up to the Castle, and there
was a fray, it is like, as the old Knight was no man to take napping, as
poor Roger Raine used to say. Always the officers had the best on’t; and
reason there is, since they had the law of their side, as our Matthew
says. But since the pole-star of the Castle is out, as your honour says,
why, doubtless, the old gentleman is dead.”
“Gracious Heaven!--Dear dame, for love or gold, let me have a horse to
make for the Castle!”
“The Castle?” said the dame; “the Roundheads, as my poor Roger called
them, will kill you as they have killed your father! Better creep into
the woodhouse, and I will send Bett with a blanket and some supper--Or
stay--my old Dobbin stands in the little stable beside the hencoop--e’en
take him, and make the best of your way out of the country, for there is
no safety here for you. Hear what songs some of them are singing at
the tap!--so take Dobbin, and do not forget to leave your own horse
instead.”
Peveril waited to hear no farther, only, that just as he turned to go
off to the stable, the compassionate female was heard to exclaim--“O
Lord! what will Matthew Chamberlain say!” but instantly added, “Let him
say what he will, I may dispose of what’s my own.”
With the haste of a double-fee’d hostler did Julian exchange the
equipments of his jaded brute with poor Dobbin, who stood quietly
tugging at his rackful of hay, without dreaming of the business which
was that night destined for him. Notwithstanding the darkness of the
place, Julian succeeded marvellous quickly in preparing for his journey;
and leaving his own horse to find its way to Dobbin’s rack by instinct,
he leaped upon his new acquisition, and spurred him sharply against the
hill, which rises steeply from the village to the Castle. Dobbin, little
accustomed to such exertions, snorted, panted, and trotted as briskly as
he could, until at length he brought his rider before the entrance-gate
of his father’s ancient seat.
The moon was now rising, but the portal was hidden from its beams, being
situated, as we have mentioned elsewhere, in a deep recess betwixt two
large flanking towers. Peveril dismounted, turned his horse loose, and
advanced to the gate, which, contrary to his expectation, he found open.
He entered the large courtyard; and could then perceive that lights yet
twinkled in the lower part of the building, although he had not before
observed them, owing to the height of the outward walls. The main door,
or great hall-gate, as it was called, was, since the partially decayed
state of the family, seldom opened, save on occasions of particular
ceremony. A smaller postern door served the purpose of ordinary
entrance; and to that Julian now repaired. This also was open--a
circumstance which would of itself have alarmed him, had he not already
had so many causes for apprehension. His heart sunk within him as he
turned to the left, through a small outward hall, towards the great
parlour, which the family usually occupied as a sitting apartment; and
his alarm became still greater, when, on a nearer approach, he heard
proceeding from thence the murmur of several voices. He threw the door
of the apartment wide; and the sight which was thus displayed, warranted
all the evil bodings which he had entertained.
In front of him stood the old Knight, whose arms were strongly secured,
over the elbows, by a leathern belt drawn tight round them, and made
fast behind; two ruffianly-looking men, apparently his guards, had hold
of his doublet. The scabbard-less sword which lay on the floor, and the
empty sheath which hung by Sir Geoffrey’s side, showed the stout old
Cavalier had not been reduced to this state of bondage without an
attempt at resistance. Two or three persons, having their backs turned
towards Julian, sat round a table, and appeared engaged in writing--the
voices which he had heard were theirs, as they murmured to each other.
Lady Peveril--the emblem of death, so pallid was her countenance--stood
at the distance of a yard or two from her husband, upon whom her eyes
were fixed with an intenseness of gaze, like that of one who looks
her last on the object which she loves the best. She was the first to
perceive Julian; and she exclaimed, “Merciful Heaven!--my son!--the
misery of our house is complete!”
“My son!” echoed Sir Geoffrey, starting from the sullen state of
dejection, and swearing a deep oath--“thou art come in the right time,
Julian. Strike me one good blow--cleave me that traitorous thief from
the crown to the brisket! and that done, I care not what comes next.”
The sight of his father’s situation made the son forget the inequality
of the contest which he was about to provoke.
“Villains,” he said, “unhand him!” and rushing on the guards with his
drawn sword, compelled them to let go Sir Geoffrey, and stand on their
own defence.
Sir Geoffrey, thus far liberated, shouted to his lady. “Undo the belt,
dame, and we will have three good blows for it yet--they must fight well
that beat both father and son.”
But one of those men who had started up from the writing-table when the
fray commenced, prevented Lady Peveril from rendering her husband this
assistance; while another easily mastered the hampered Knight, though
not without receiving several severe kicks from his heavy boots--his
condition permitting him no other mode of defence. A third, who saw that
Julian, young, active, and animated with the fury of a son who fights
for his parents, was compelling the two guards to give ground, seized
on his collar, and attempted to master his sword. Suddenly dropping that
weapon, and snatching one of his pistols, Julian fired it at the head
of the person by whom he was thus assailed. He did not drop, but,
staggering back as if he had received a severe blow, showed Peveril, as
he sunk into a chair, the features of old Bridgenorth, blackened with
the explosion, which had even set fire to a part of his grey hair. A cry
of astonishment escaped from Julian; and in the alarm and horror of the
moment, he was easily secured and disarmed by those with whom he had
been at first engaged.
“Heed it not, Julian,” said Sir Geoffrey; “heed it not, my brave
boy--that shot has balanced all accounts!--but how--what the devil--he
lives!--Was your pistol loaded with chaff? or has the foul fiend given
him proof against lead?”
There was some reason for Sir Geoffrey’s surprise, since, as he spoke,
Major Bridgenorth collected himself--sat up in the chair as one
who recovers from a stunning blow--then rose, and wiping with his
handkerchief the marks of the explosion from his face, he approached
Julian, and said, in the same cold unaltered tone in which he usually
expressed himself, “Young man, you have reason to bless God, who has
this day saved you from the commission of a great crime.”
“Bless the devil, ye crop-eared knave!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey; “for
nothing less than the father of all fanatics saved your brains from
being blown about like the rinsings of Beelzebub’s porridge pot!”
“Sir Geoffrey,” said Major Bridgenorth, “I have already told you, that
with you I will hold no argument; for to you I am not accountable for
any of my actions.”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said the lady, making a strong effort to speak,
and to speak with calmness, “whatever revenge your Christian state of
conscience may permit you to take on my husband--I--I, who have some
right to experience compassion at your hand, for most sincerely did I
compassionate you when the hand of Heaven was heavy on you--I implore
you not to involve my son in our common ruin!--Let the destruction of
the father and mother, with the ruin of our ancient house, satisfy your
resentment for any wrong which you have ever received at my husband’s
hand.”
“Hold your peace, housewife,” said the Knight, “you speak like a fool,
and meddle with what concerns you not.--Wrong at _my_ hand? The cowardly
knave has ever had but even too much right. Had I cudgelled the cur
soundly when he first bayed at me, the cowardly mongrel had been now
crouching at my feet, instead of flying at my throat. But if I get
through this action, as I have got through worse weather, I will pay off
old scores, as far as tough crab-tree and cold iron will bear me out.”
“Sir Geoffrey,” replied Bridgenorth, “if the birth you boast of has
made you blind to better principles, it might have at least taught you
civility. What do you complain of? I am a magistrate; and I execute a
warrant, addressed to me by the first authority in that state. I am a
creditor also of yours; and law arms me with powers to recover my own
property from the hands of an improvident debtor.”
“You a magistrate!” said the Knight; “much such a magistrate as Noll
was a monarch. Your heart is up, I warrant, because you have the King’s
pardon; and are replaced on the bench, forsooth, to persecute the poor
Papist. There was never turmoil in the state, but knaves had their
vantage by it--never pot boiled, but the scum was cast uppermost.”
“For God’s sake, my dearest husband,” said Lady Peveril, “cease this
wild talk! It can but incense Master Bridgenorth, who might otherwise
consider, that in common charity----”
“Incense him!” said Sir Geoffrey, impatiently interrupting her;
“God’s-death, madam, you will drive me mad! Have you lived so long in
this world, and yet expect consideration and charity from an old starved
wolf like that? And if he had it, do you think that I, or you, madam,
as my wife, are subjects for his charity?--Julian, my poor fellow, I
am sorry thou hast come so unluckily, since thy petronel was not better
loaded--but thy credit is lost for ever as a marksman.”
This angry colloquy passed so rapidly on all sides, that Julian,
scarce recovered from the extremity of astonishment with which he was
overwhelmed at finding himself suddenly plunged into a situation of such
extremity, had no time to consider in what way he could most effectually
act for the succour of his parents. To speak to Bridgenorth fair seemed
the more prudent course; but to this his pride could hardly stoop; yet
he forced himself to say, with as much calmness as he could assume,
“Master Bridgenorth, since you act as a magistrate, I desire to be
treated according to the laws of England; and demand to know of what we
are accused, and by whose authority we are arrested?”
“Here is another howlet for ye!” exclaimed the impetuous old Knight;
“his mother speaks to a Puritan of charity; and thou must talk of law to
a round-headed rebel, with a wannion to you! What warrant hath he, think
ye, beyond the Parliament’s or the devil’s?”
“Who speaks of the Parliament?” said a person entering, whom Peveril
recognised as the official person whom he had before seen at the
horse-dealer’s, and who now bustled in with all the conscious dignity
of plenary authority,--“Who talks of the Parliament?” he exclaimed.
“I promise you, enough has been found in this house to convict twenty
plotters--Here be arms, and that good store. Bring them in, Captain.”
“The very same,” exclaimed the Captain, approaching, “which I mention in
my printed Narrative of Information, lodged before the Honourable House
of Commons; they were commissioned from old Vander Huys of Rotterdam, by
orders of Don John of Austria, for the service of the Jesuits.”
“Now, by this light,” said Sir Geoffrey, “they are the pikes,
musketoons, and pistols, that have been hidden in the garret ever since
Naseby fight!”
“And here,” said the Captain’s yoke-fellow, Everett, “are proper
priest’s trappings--antiphoners, and missals, and copes, I warrant
you--ay, and proper pictures, too, for Papists to mutter and bow over.”
“Now plague on thy snuffling whine,” said Sir Geoffrey; “here is a
rascal will swear my grandmother’s old farthingale to be priest’s
vestments, and the story book of Owlenspiegel a Popish missal!”
“But how’s this, Master Bridgenorth?” said Topham, addressing the
magistrate; “your honour has been as busy as we have; and you have
caught another knave while we recovered these toys.”
“I think, sir,” said Julian, “if you look into your warrant, which, if I
mistake not, names the persons whom you are directed to arrest, you will
find you have not title to apprehend me.”
“Sir,” said the officer, puffing with importance, “I do not know who you
are; but I would you were the best man in England, that I might teach
you the respect due to the warrant of the House. Sir, there steps not
the man within the British seas, but I will arrest him on authority of
this bit of parchment; and I do arrest you accordingly.--What do you
accuse him of, gentlemen?”
Dangerfield swaggered forward, and peeping under Julian’s hat, “Stop my
vital breath,” he exclaimed, “but I have seen you before, my friend, an
I could but think where; but my memory is not worth a bean, since I have
been obliged to use it so much of late, in the behalf of the poor state.
But I do know the fellow; and I have seen him amongst the Papists--,
I’ll take that on my assured damnation.”
“Why, Captain Dangerfield,” said the Captain’s smoother, but more
dangerous associate,--“verily, it is the same youth whom we saw at the
horse-merchant’s yesterday; and we had matter against him then, only
Master Topham did not desire us to bring it out.”
“Ye may bring out what ye will against him now,” said Topham, “for he
hath blasphemed the warrant of the House. I think ye said ye saw him
somewhere.”
“Ay, verily,” said Everett, “I have seen him amongst the seminary pupils
at Saint Omer’s--he was who but he with the regents there.”
“Nay, Master Everett, collect yourself,” said Topham; “for as I think,
you said you saw him at a consult of the Jesuits in London.”
“It was I said so, Master Topham,” said the undaunted Dangerfield; “and
mine is the tongue that will swear it.”
“Good Master Topham,” said Bridgenorth, “you may suspend farther inquiry
at present, as it doth but fatigue and perplex the memory of the King’s
witnesses.”
“You are wrong, Master Bridgenorth--clearly wrong. It doth but keep them
in wind--only breathes them like greyhounds before a coursing match.”
“Be it so,” said Bridgenorth, with his usual indifference of manner;
“but at present this youth must stand committed upon a warrant, which
I will presently sign, of having assaulted me while in discharge of my
duty as a magistrate, for the rescue of a person legally attached. Did
you not hear the report of a pistol?”
“I will swear to it,” said Everett.
“And I,” said Dangerfield. “While we were making search in the cellar,
I heard something very like a pistol-shot; but I conceived it to be the
drawing of a long-corked bottle of sack, to see whether there were any
Popish relics in the inside on’t.”
“A pistol-shot!” exclaimed Topham; “here might have been a second
Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey’s matter.--Oh, thou real spawn of the red old
dragon! for he too would have resisted the House’s warrant, had we
not taken him something at unawares.--Master Bridgenorth, you are a
judicious magistrate, and a worthy servant of the state--I would we had
many such sound Protestant justices. Shall I have this young fellow
away with his parents--what think you?--or will you keep him for
re-examination?”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said Lady Peveril, in spite of her husband’s
efforts to interrupt her, “for God’s sake, if ever you knew what it was
to love one of the many children you have lost, or her who is now left
to you, do not pursue your vengeance to the blood of my poor boy! I will
forgive you all the rest--all the distress you have wrought--all the yet
greater misery with which you threaten us; but do not be extreme with
one who never can have offended you! Believe, that if your ears are
shut against the cry of a despairing mother, those which are open to the
complaint of all who sorrow, will hear my petition and your answer!”
The agony of mind and of voice with which Lady Peveril uttered these
words, seemed to thrill through all present, though most of them were
but too much inured to such scenes. Every one was silent, when, ceasing
to speak, she fixed on Bridgenorth her eyes, glistening with tears, with
the eager anxiety of one whose life or death seemed to depend upon the
answer to be returned. Even Bridgenorth’s inflexibility seemed to be
shaken; and his voice was tremulous, as he answered, “Madam, I would to
God I had the present means of relieving your great distress, otherwise
than by recommending to you a reliance upon Providence; and that you
take heed to your spirit, that it murmur not under this crook in your
lot. For me, I am but as a rod in the hand of the strong man, which
smites not of itself, but because it is wielded by the arm of him who
holds the same.”
“Even as I and my black rod are guided by the Commons of England,” said
Master Topham, who seemed marvellously pleased with the illustration.
Julian now thought it time to say something in his own behalf; and he
endeavoured to temper it with as much composure as it was possible for
him to assume. “Master Bridgenorth,” he said, “I neither dispute your
authority, nor this gentleman’s warrant----”
“You do not?” said Topham. “Oh, ho, master youngster, I thought we
should bring you to your senses presently!”
“Then, if you so will it, Master Topham,” said Bridgenorth, “thus it
shall be. You shall set out with early day, taking you, towards London,
the persons of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Peveril; and that they may
travel according to their quality, you will allow them their coach,
sufficiently guarded.”
“I will travel with them myself,” said Topham; “for these rough
Derbyshire roads are no easy riding; and my very eyes are weary with
looking on these bleak hills. In the coach I can sleep as sound as if I
were in the House, and Master Bodderbrains on his legs.”
“It will become you so to take your ease, Master Topham,” answered
Bridgenorth. “For this youth, I will take him under my charge, and bring
him up myself.”
“I may not be answerable for that, worthy Master Bridgenorth,” said
Topham, “since he comes within the warrant of the House.”
“Nay, but,” said Bridgenorth, “he is only under custody for an assault,
with the purpose of a rescue; and I counsel you against meddling with
him, unless you have stronger guard. Sir Geoffrey is now old and broken,
but this young fellow is in the flower of his youth, and hath at his
beck all the debauched young Cavaliers of the neighbourhood--You will
scarce cross the country without a rescue.”
Topham eyed Julian wistfully, as a spider may be supposed to look upon
a stray wasp which has got into his web, and which he longs to secure,
though he fears the consequences of attempting him.
Julian himself replied, “I know not if this separation be well or ill
meant on your part, Master Bridgenorth; but on mine, I am only desirous
to share the fate of my parents; and therefore I will give my word of
honour to attempt neither rescue nor escape, on condition you do not
separate me from them.”
“Do not say so, Julian,” said his mother; “abide with Master
Bridgenorth--my mind tells me he cannot mean so ill by us as his rough
conduct would now lead us to infer.”
“And I,” said Sir Geoffrey, “know, that between the doors of my father’s
house and the gates of hell, there steps not such a villain on the
ground! And if I wish my hands ever to be unbound again, it is because
I hope for one downright blow at a grey head, that has hatched more
treason than the whole Long Parliament.”
“Away with thee,” said the zealous officer; “is Parliament a word for
so foul a mouth as thine?--Gentlemen,” he added, turning to Everett and
Dangerfield, “you will bear witness to this.”
“To his having reviled the House of Commons--by G--d, that I will!” said
Dangerfield; “I will take it on my damnation.”
“And verily,” said Everett, “as he spoke of Parliament generally, he
hath contemned the House of Lords also.”
“Why, ye poor insignificant wretches,” said Sir Geoffrey, “whose very
life is a lie--and whose bread is perjury--would you pervert my innocent
words almost as soon as they have quitted my lips? I tell you the
country is well weary of you; and should Englishmen come to their
senses, the jail, the pillory, the whipping-post, and the gibbet, will
be too good preferment for such base blood-suckers.--And now, Master
Bridgenorth, you and they may do your worst; for I will not open my
mouth to utter a single word while I am in the company of such knaves.”
“Perhaps, Sir Geoffrey,” answered Bridgenorth, “you would better
have consulted your own safety in adopting that resolution a little
sooner--the tongue is a little member, but it causes much strife.--You,
Master Julian, will please to follow me, and without remonstrance or
resistance; for you must be aware that I have the means of compelling.”
Julian was, indeed, but too sensible, that he had no other course but
that of submission to superior force; but ere he left the apartment,
he kneeled down to receive his father’s blessing, which the old man
bestowed not without a tear in his eye, and in the emphatic words, “God
bless thee, my boy; and keep thee good and true to Church and King,
whatever wind shall bring foul weather!”
His mother was only able to pass her hand over his head, and to implore
him, in a low tone of voice, not to be rash or violent in any attempt
to render them assistance. “We are innocent,” she said, “my son--we are
innocent--and we are in God’s hands. Be the thought our best comfort and
protection.”
Bridgenorth now signed to Julian to follow him, which he did,
accompanied, or rather conducted, by the two guards who had first
disarmed him. When they had passed from the apartment, and were at the
door of the outward hall, Bridgenorth asked Julian whether he should
consider him as under parole; in which case, he said, he would dispense
with all other security but his own promise.
Peveril, who could not help hoping somewhat from the favourable and
unresentful manner in which he was treated by one whose life he had so
recently attempted, replied, without hesitation, that he would give his
parole for twenty-four hours, neither to attempt to escape by force nor
by flight.
“It is wisely said,” replied Bridgenorth; “for though you might cause
bloodshed, be assured that your utmost efforts could do no service to
your parents.--Horses there--horses to the courtyard!”
The trampling of horses was soon heard; and in obedience to
Bridgenorth’s signal, and in compliance with his promise, Julian mounted
one which was presented to him, and prepared to leave the house of his
fathers, in which his parents were now prisoners, and to go, he knew not
whither, under the custody of one known to be the ancient enemy of his
family. He was rather surprised at observing, that Bridgenorth and he
were about to travel without any other attendants.
When they were mounted, and as they rode slowly towards the outer gate
of the courtyard, Bridgenorth said to him, “it is not every one who
would thus unreservedly commit his safety by travelling at night, and
unaided, with the hot-brained youth who so lately attempted his life.”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said Julian, “I might tell you truly, that I knew
you not at the time when I directed my weapon against you; but I must
also add, that the cause in which I used it, might have rendered me,
even had I known you, a slight respecter of your person. At present,
I do know you; and have neither malice against your person, nor the
liberty of a parent to fight for. Besides, you have my word; and when
was a Peveril known to break it?”
“Ay,” replied his companion, “a Peveril--a Peveril of the Peak!--a name
which has long sounded like a war-trumpet in the land; but which has
now perhaps sounded its last loud note. Look back, young man, on the
darksome turrets of your father’s house, which uplift themselves above
the sons of their people. Think upon your father, a captive--yourself
in some sort a fugitive--your light quenched--your glory abased--your
estate wrecked and impoverished. Think that Providence has subjected
the destinies of the race of Peveril to one, whom, in their aristocratic
pride, they held as a plebeian upstart. Think of this; and when you
again boast of your ancestry, remember, that he who raiseth the lowly
can also abase the high in heart.”
Julian did indeed gaze for an instant, with a swelling heart, upon
the dimly seen turrets of his paternal mansion, on which poured the
moonlight, mixed with long shadows of the towers and trees. But while
he sadly acknowledged the truth of Bridgenorth’s observation, he felt
indignant at his ill-timed triumph. “If fortune had followed worth,” he
said, “the Castle of Martindale, and the name of Peveril, had afforded
no room for their enemy’s vainglorious boast. But those who have
stood high on Fortune’s wheel, must abide by the consequence of its
revolutions. This much I will at least say for my father’s house,
that it has not stood unhonoured; nor will it fall--if it is to
fall--unlamented. Forbear, then, if you are indeed the Christian you
call yourself, to exult in the misfortunes of others, or to confide in
your own prosperity. If the light of our house be now quenched, God can
rekindle it in His own good time.”
Peveril broke off in extreme surprise; for as he spake the last words,
the bright red beams of the family beacon began again to glimmer from
its wonted watch-tower, checkering the pale moonbeam with a ruddier
glow. Bridgenorth also gazed on this unexpected illumination with
surprise, and not, as it seemed, without disquietude. “Young man,”
he resumed, “it can scarcely be but that Heaven intends to work great
things by your hand, so singularly has that augury followed on your
words.”
So saying, he put his horse once more in motion; and looking back, from
time to time, as if to assure himself that the beacon of the Castle
was actually rekindled, he led the way through the well-known paths
and alleys, to his own house of Moultrassie, followed by Peveril, who
although sensible that the light might be altogether accidental, could
not but receive as a good omen an event so intimately connected with the
traditions and usages of his family.
They alighted at the hall-door, which was hastily opened by a female;
and while the deep tone of Bridgenorth called on the groom to take their
horses, the well-known voice of his daughter Alice was heard to exclaim
in thanksgiving to God, who had restored her father in safety.