A short hough’d man, but full of pride.
--ALLAN RAMSAY.
The blood of Julian Peveril was so much fevered by the state in which
his invisible visitor left him, that he was unable, for a length of
time, to find repose. He swore to himself, that he would discover and
expose the nocturnal demon which stole on his hours of rest, only to add
gall to bitterness, and to pour poison into those wounds which already
smarted so severely. There was nothing which his power extended to,
that, in his rage, he did not threaten. He proposed a closer and a more
rigorous survey of his cell, so that he might discover the mode by which
his tormentor entered, were it as unnoticeable as an auger-hole. If his
diligence should prove unavailing, he determined to inform the jailers,
to whom it could not be indifferent to know, that their prison was open
to such intrusions. He proposed to himself, to discover from their looks
whether they were already privy to these visits; and if so, to denounce
them to the magistrates, to the judges, to the House of Commons, was the
least that his resentment proposed. Sleep surprised his worn-out
frame in the midst of his projects of discovery and vengeance, and, as
frequently happens, the light of the ensuing day proved favourable to
calmer resolutions.
He now reflected that he had no ground to consider the motives of his
visitor as positively malevolent, although he had afforded him little
encouragement to hope for assistance on the points he had most at heart.
Towards himself, there had been expressed a decided feeling, both of
sympathy and interest; if through means of these he could acquire his
liberty, he might, when possessed of freedom, turn it to the benefit of
those for whom he was more interested than for his own welfare. “I have
behaved like a fool,” he said; “I ought to have temporised with this
singular being, learned the motives of its interference, and availed
myself of its succour, provided I could do so without any dishonourable
conditions. It would have been always time enough to reject such when
they should have been proposed to me.”
So saying, he was forming projects for regulating his intercourse with
the stranger more prudently, in case their communication should be
renewed, when his meditations were interrupted by the peremptory summons
of Sir Geoffrey Hudson, that he would, in his turn, be pleased to
perform those domestic duties of their common habitation, which the
dwarf had yesterday taken upon himself.
There was no resisting a request so reasonable, and Peveril accordingly
rose and betook himself to the arrangement of their prison, while Sir
Hudson, perched upon a stool from which his legs did not by half-way
reach the ground, sat in a posture of elegant languor, twangling upon
an old broken-winded guitar, and singing songs in Spanish, Moorish,
and Lingua Franca, most detestably out of tune. He failed not, at the
conclusion of each ditty, to favour Julian with some account of what he
had sung, either in the way of translation, or historical anecdote, or
as the lay was connected with some peculiar part of his own eventful
history, in the course of which the poor little man had chanced to have
been taken by a Sallee rover, and carried captive into Morocco.
This part of his life Hudson used to make the era of many strange
adventures; and, if he could himself be believed, he had made wild work
among the affections of the Emperor’s seraglio. But, although few were
in a situation to cross-examine him on gallantries and intrigues of
which the scene was so remote, the officers of the garrison of Tangier
had a report current amongst them, that the only use to which the
tyrannical Moors could convert a slave of such slender corporeal
strength, was to employ him to lie a-bed all day and hatch turkey’s
eggs. The least allusion to this rumour used to drive him well-nigh
frantic, and the fatal termination of his duel with young Crofts, which
began in wanton mirth, and ended in bloodshed, made men more coy than
they had formerly been, of making the fiery little hero the subject of
their raillery.
While Peveril did the drudgery of the apartment, the dwarf remained
much at his ease, carolling in the manner we have described; but when
he beheld Julian attempting the task of the cook, Sir Geoffrey Hudson
sprang from the stool on which he sat _en Signor_, at the risk of
breaking both his guitar and his neck, exclaiming, “That he would rather
prepare breakfast every morning betwixt this and the day of judgment,
than commit a task of such consequence to an inexperienced bungler like
his companion.”
The young man gladly resigned his task to the splenetic little Knight,
and only smiled at his resentment when he added, that, to be but a
mortal of middle stature, Julian was as stupid as a giant. Leaving
the dwarf to prepare the meal after his own pleasure, Peveril employed
himself in measuring the room with his eyes on every side, and in
endeavouring to discover some private entrance, such as might admit his
midnight visitant, and perhaps could be employed in case of need for
effecting his own escape. The floor next engaged a scrutiny equally
minute, but more successful.
Close by his own pallet, and dropped in such a manner that he must have
seen it sooner but for the hurry with which he obeyed the summons of
the impatient dwarf, lay a slip of paper, sealed, and directed with the
initial letters, J.P., which seemed to ascertain that it was addressed
to himself. He took the opportunity of opening it while the soup was in
the very moment of projection, and the full attention of his companion
was occupied by what he, in common with wiser and taller men, considered
as one of the principal occupations of life; so that, without incurring
his observation or awaking his curiosity, Julian had the opportunity to
read as follows:--
“Rash and infatuated as you are, there is one who would forfeit
much to stand betwixt you and your fate. You are to-morrow to be
removed to the Tower, where your life cannot be assured for a
single day; for, during the few hours you have been in London, you
have provoked a resentment which is not easily slaked. There is
but one chance for you,--renounce A.B.--think no more of her. If
that be impossible, think of her but as one whom you can never see
again. If your heart can resolve to give up an attachment which it
should never have entertained, and which it would be madness to
cherish longer, make your acquiescence in this condition known by
putting on your hat a white band, or white feather, or knot of
ribbon of the same colour, whichever you may most easily come by.
A boat will, in that case, run, as if by accident, on board of
that which is to convey you to the Tower. Do you in the confusion
jump overboard, and swim to the Southwark side of the Thames.
Friends will attend there to secure your escape, and you will find
yourself with one who will rather lose character and life, than
that a hair of your head should fall to the ground; but who, if
you reject the warning, can only think of you as of the fool who
perishes in his folly. May Heaven guide you to a sound judgment of
your condition! So prays one who would be your friend, if you
pleased,
“UNKNOWN.”
The Tower!--it was a word of terror, even more so than a civil prison;
for how many passages to death did that dark structure present! The
severe executions which it had witnessed in preceding reigns, were not
perhaps more numerous than the secret murders which had taken place
within its walls; yet Peveril did not a moment hesitate on the part
which he had to perform. “I will share my father’s fate,” he said; “I
thought but of him when they brought me hither; I will think of
nothing else when they convey me to yonder still more dreadful place
of confinement; it is his, and it is but meet that it should be his
son’s.--And thou, Alice Bridgenorth, the day that I renounce thee, may I
be held alike a traitor and a dastard!--Go, false adviser, and share the
fate of seducers and heretical teachers!”
He could not help uttering this last expression aloud, as he threw the
billet into the fire, with a vehemence which made the dwarf start with
surprise. “What say you of burning heretics, young man?” he exclaimed;
“by my faith, your zeal must be warmer than mine, if you talk on such a
subject when the heretics are the prevailing number. May I measure six
feet without my shoes, but the heretics would have the best of it if we
came to that work. Beware of such words.”
“Too late to beware of words spoken and heard,” said the turnkey, who,
opening the door with unusual precautions to avoid noise, had stolen
unperceived into the room; “However, Master Peveril has behaved like a
gentlemen, and I am no tale-bearer, on condition he will consider I have
had trouble in his matters.”
Julian had no alternative but to take the fellow’s hint and administer a
bribe, with which Master Clink was so well satisfied, that he exclaimed,
“It went to his heart to take leave of such a kind-natured gentleman,
and that he could have turned the key on him for twenty years with
pleasure. But the best friends must part.”
“I am to be removed, then?” said Julian.
“Ay, truly, master, the warrant is come from the Council.”
“To convey me to the Tower.”
“Whew!” exclaimed the officer of the law--“who the devil told you that?
But since you do know it, there is no harm to say ay. So make yourself
ready to move immediately; and first, hold out your dew-beaters till I
take off the darbies.”
“Is that usual?” said Peveril, stretching out his feet as the fellow
directed, while his fetters were unlocked.
“Why, ay, master, these fetters belong to the keeper; they are not
a-going to send them to the Lieutenant, I trow. No, no, the warders
must bring their own gear with them; they get none here, I promise them.
Nevertheless, if your honour hath a fancy to go in fetters, as thinking
it may move compassion of your case----”
“I have no intention to make my case seem worse than it is,” said
Julian; whilst at the same time it crossed his mind that his anonymous
correspondent must be well acquainted both with his own personal habits,
since the letter proposed a plan of escape which could only be executed
by a bold swimmer, and with the fashions of prison, since it was
foreseen that he would not be ironed on his passage to the Tower. The
turnkey’s next speech made him carry conjecture still farther.
“There is nothing in life I would not do for so brave a guest,” said
Clink; “I would nab one of my wife’s ribbons for you, if your honour had
the fancy to mount the white flag in your beaver.”
“To what good purpose?” said Julian, shortly connecting, as was natural,
the man’s proposed civility with the advice given and the signal
prescribed in the letter.
“Nay, to no good purpose I know of,” said the turnkey; “only it is the
fashion to seem white and harmless--a sort of token of not-guiltiness,
as I may say, which folks desire to show the world, whether they be
truly guilty or not; but I cannot say that guiltiness or not-guiltiness
argufies much, saving they be words in the verdict.”
“Strange,” thought Peveril, although the man seemed to speak quite
naturally, and without any double meaning, “strange that all should
apparently combine to realise the plan of escape, could I but give my
consent to it! And had I not better consent? Whoever does so much for
me must wish me well, and a well-wisher would never enforce the unjust
conditions on which I am required to consent to my liberation.”
But this misgiving of his resolution was but for a moment. He speedily
recollected, that whoever aided him in escaping, must be necessarily
exposed to great risk, and had a right to name the stipulation on
which he was willing to incur it. He also recollected that falsehood is
equally base, whether expressed in words or in dumb show; and that he
should lie as flatly by using the signal agreed upon in evidence of his
renouncing Alice Bridgenorth, as he would in direct terms if he made
such renunciation without the purpose of abiding by it.
“If you would oblige me,” he said to the turnkey, “let me have a piece
of black silk or crape for the purpose you mention.”
“Of crape!” said the fellow; “what should that signify? Why, the bien
morts, who bing out to tour at you,[*] will think you a chimney-sweeper
on Mayday.”
[*] The smart girls, who turn out to look at you.
“It will show my settled sorrow,” said Julian, “as well as my determined
resolution.”
“As you will, sir,” answered the fellow; “I’ll provide you with a black
rag of some kind or other. So, now; let us be moving.”
Julian intimated his readiness to attend him, and proceeded to bid
farewell to his late companion, the stout Geoffrey Hudson. The parting
was not without emotion on both sides, more particularly on that of the
poor little man, who had taken a particular liking to the companion of
whom he was now about to be deprived. “Fare ye well,” he said, “my young
friend,” taking Julian’s hand in both his own uplifted palms, in which
action he somewhat resembled the attitude of a sailor pulling a rope
overhead,--“Many in my situation would think himself wronged, as a
soldier and servant of the king’s chamber, in seeing you removed to a
more honourable prison than that which I am limited unto. But, I thank
God, I grudge you not the Tower, nor the rocks of Scilly, nor even
Carisbrooke Castle, though the latter was graced with the captivity of
my blessed and martyred master. Go where you will, I wish you all
the distinction of an honourable prison-house, and a safe and speedy
deliverance in God’s own time. For myself, my race is near a close, and
that because I fall martyr to the over-tenderness of my own heart. There
is a circumstance, good Master Julian Peveril, which should have been
yours, had Providence permitted our farther intimacy, but it fits not
the present hour. Go, then, my friend, and bear witness in life and
death, that Geoffrey Hudson scorns the insults and persecutions of
fortune, as he would despise, and has often despised, the mischievous
pranks of an overgrown schoolboy.”
So saying, he turned away, and hid his face with his little
handkerchief, while Julian felt towards him that tragi-comic sensation
which makes us pity the object which excites it, not the less that we
are somewhat inclined to laugh amid our sympathy. The jailer made him
a signal, which Peveril obeyed, leaving the dwarf to disconsolate
solitude.
As Julian followed the keeper through the various windings of his penal
labyrinth, the man observed, that “he was a rum fellow, that little Sir
Geoffrey, and, for gallantry, a perfect Cock of Bantam, for as old as he
was. There was a certain gay wench,” he said, “that had hooked him; but
what she could make of him, save she carried him to Smithfield, and took
money for him, as for a motion of puppets, it was,” he said, “hard to
gather.”
Encouraged by this opening, Julian asked if his attendant knew why
his prison was changed. “To teach you to become a King’s post without
commission,” answered the fellow.
He stopped in his tattle as they approached that formidable central
point, in which lay couched on his leathern elbow-chair the fat
commander of the fortress, stationed apparently for ever in the midst
of his citadel, as the huge Boa is sometimes said to lie stretched as a
guard upon the subterranean treasures of Eastern Rajas. This overgrown
man of authority eyed Julian wistfully and sullenly, as the miser the
guinea which he must part with, or the hungry mastiff the food which is
carried to another kennel. He growled to himself as he turned the leaves
of his ominous register, in order to make the necessary entry respecting
the removal of his prisoner. “To the Tower--to the Tower--ay, ay, all
must to the Tower--that’s the fashion of it--free Britons to a military
prison, as if we had neither bolts nor chains here!--I hope Parliament
will have it up, this Towering work, that’s all.--Well, the youngster
will take no good by the change, and that is one comfort.”
Having finished at once his official act of registration, and his
soliloquy, he made a signal to his assistants to remove Julian, who
was led along the same stern passages which he had traversed upon his
entrance, to the gate of the prison, whence a coach, escorted by two
officers of justice, conveyed him to the water-side.
A boat here waited him, with four warders of the Tower, to whose custody
he was formally resigned by his late attendants. Clink, however, the
turnkey, with whom he was more especially acquainted, did not take leave
of him without furnishing him with the piece of black crape which he
requested. Peveril fixed it on his hat amid the whispers of his new
guardians. “The gentleman is in a hurry to go into mourning,” said one;
“mayhap he had better wait till he has cause.”
“Perhaps others may wear mourning for him, ere he can mourn for any
one,” answered another of these functionaries.
Yet notwithstanding the tenor of these whispers, their behaviour to
their prisoner was more respectful than he had experienced from his
former keepers, and might be termed a sullen civility. The ordinary
officers of the law were in general rude, as having to do with felons
of every description; whereas these men were only employed with persons
accused of state crimes--men who were from birth and circumstances
usually entitled to expect, and able to reward, decent usage.
The change of keepers passed unnoticed by Julian, as did the gay and
busy scene presented by the broad and beautiful river on which he was
now launched. A hundred boats shot past them, bearing parties intent on
business, or on pleasure. Julian only viewed them with the stern hope,
that whoever had endeavoured to bribe him from his fidelity by the
hope of freedom, might see, from the colour of the badge which he had
assumed, how determined he was to resist the temptation presented to
him.
It was about high-water, and a stout wherry came up the river, with sail
and oar, so directly upon that in which Julian was embarked, that it
seemed as if likely to run her aboard. “Get your carabines ready,”
cried the principal warder to his assistants. “What the devil can these
scoundrels mean?”
But the crew in the other boat seemed to have perceived their error,
for they suddenly altered their course, and struck off into the middle
stream, while a torrent of mutual abuse was exchanged betwixt them and
the boat whose course they had threatened to impede.
“The Unknown has kept his faith,” said Julian to himself; “I too have
kept mine.”
It even seemed to him, as the boats neared each other, that he heard,
from the other wherry, something like a stifled scream or groan; and
when the momentary bustle was over, he asked the warder who sat next
him, what boat that was.
“Men-of-war’s-men, on a frolic, I suppose,” answered the warder. “I know
no one else would be so impudent as run foul of the King’s boat; for I
am sure the fellow put the helm up on purpose. But mayhap you, sir, know
more of the matter than I do.”
This insinuation effectually prevented Julian from putting farther
questions, and he remained silent until the boat came under the dusky
bastions of the Tower. The tide carried them up under a dark and
lowering arch, closed at the upper end by the well-known Traitor’s
gate,[*] formed like a wicket of huge intersecting bars of wood, through
which might be seen a dim and imperfect view of soldiers and warders
upon duty, and of the steep ascending causeway which leads up from the
river into the interior of the fortress. By this gate,--and it is the
well-known circumstance which assigned its name,--those accused of state
crimes were usually committed to the Tower. The Thames afforded a secret
and silent mode of conveyance for transporting thither such whose fallen
fortunes might move the commiseration, or whose popular qualities might
excite the sympathy, of the public; and even where no cause for especial
secrecy existed, the peace of the city was undisturbed by the tumult
attending the passage of the prisoner and his guards through the most
frequented streets.
[*] See note, “Fortunes of Nigel.”
Yet this custom, however recommended by state policy, must have often
struck chill upon the heart of the criminal, who thus, stolen, as it
were, out of society, reached the place of his confinement, without
encountering even one glance of compassion on the road; and as, from
under the dusky arch, he landed on those flinty steps, worn by many a
footstep anxious as his own, against which the tide lapped fitfully with
small successive waves, and hence looked forward to the steep ascent
into a Gothic state prison, and backward to such part of the river as
the low-brow’d vault suffered to become visible, he must often have felt
that he was leaving daylight, hope, and life itself, behind him.
While the warder’s challenge was made and answered, Peveril endeavoured
to obtain information from his conductors where he was likely to be
confined; but the answer was brief and general--“Where the Lieutenant
should direct.”
“Could he not be permitted to share the imprisonment of his father, Sir
Geoffrey Peveril?” He forgot not, on this occasion, to add the surname
of his house.
The warder, an old man of respectable appearance, stared, as if at the
extravagance of the demand, and said bluntly, “It is impossible.”
“At least,” said Peveril, “show me where my father is confined, that I
may look upon the walls which separate us.”
“Young gentleman,” said the senior warder, shaking his grey head, “I
am sorry for you; but asking questions will do you no service. In this
place we know nothing of fathers and sons.”
Yet chance seemed, in a few minutes afterwards, to offer Peveril that
satisfaction which the rigour of his keepers was disposed to deny to
him. As he was conveyed up the steep passage which leads under what is
called the Wakefield Tower, a female voice, in a tone wherein grief and
joy were indescribably mixed, exclaimed, “My son!--My dear son!”
Even those who guarded Julian seemed softened by a tone of such acute
feeling. They slackened their pace. They almost paused to permit him
to look up towards the casement from which the sounds of maternal agony
proceeded; but the aperture was so narrow, and so closely grated, that
nothing was visible save a white female hand, which grasped one of those
rusty barricadoes, as if for supporting the person within, while another
streamed a white handkerchief, and then let it fall. The casement was
instantly deserted.
“Give it me,” said Julian to the officer who lifted the handkerchief;
“it is perhaps a mother’s last gift.”
The old warder lifted the napkin, and looked at it with the jealous
minuteness of one who is accustomed to detect secret correspondence in
the most trifling acts of intercourse.
“There may be writing on it with invisible ink,” said one of his
comrades.
“It is wetted, but I think it is only with tears,” answered the senior.
“I cannot keep it from the poor young gentleman.”
“Ah, Master Coleby,” said his comrade, in a gentle tone of reproach,
“you would have been wearing a better coat than a yeoman’s to-day, had
it not been for your tender heart.”
“It signifies little,” said old Coleby, “while my heart is true to my
King, what I feel in discharging my duty, or what coat keeps my old
bosom from the cold weather.”
Peveril, meanwhile, folded in his breast the token of his mother’s
affection which chance had favoured him with; and when placed in the
small and solitary chamber which he was told to consider as his own
during his residence in the Tower, he was soothed even to weeping by
this trifling circumstance, which he could not help considering as
an omen, that his unfortunate house was not entirely deserted by
Providence.
But the thoughts and occurrences of a prison are too uniform for a
narrative, and we must now convey our readers into a more bustling
scene.