In the King’s name,
Let fall your swords and daggers!
--CRITIC.
When the father and son entered the cabinet of audience, it was easily
visible that Sir Geoffrey had obeyed the summons as he would have
done the trumpet’s call to horse; and his dishevelled grey locks and
half-arranged dress, though they showed zeal and haste, such as he would
have used when Charles I. called him to attend a council of war, seemed
rather indecorous in a pacific drawing-room. He paused at the door of
the cabinet, but when the King called on him to advance, came hastily
forward, with every feeling of his earlier and later life afloat, and
contending in his memory, threw himself on his knees before the King,
seized his hand, and, without even an effort to speak, wept aloud.
Charles, who generally felt deeply so long as an impressive object was
before his eyes, indulged for a moment the old man’s rapture.--“My good
Sir Geoffrey,” he said, “you have had some hard measure; we owe you
amends, and will find time to pay our debt.”
“No suffering--no debt,” said the old man; “I cared not what the rogues
said of me--I knew they could never get twelve honest fellows to believe
a word of their most damnable lies. I did long to beat them when they
called me traitor to your Majesty--that I confess--But to have such an
early opportunity of paying my duty to your Majesty, overpays it all.
The villains would have persuaded me I ought not to come to Court--aha!”
The Duke of Ormond perceived that the King coloured much; for in truth
it was from the Court that the private intimation had been given to Sir
Geoffrey to go down to the country, without appearing at Whitehall; and
he, moreover, suspected that the jolly old Knight had not risen from
his dinner altogether dry-lipped, after the fatigues of a day so
agitating.--“My old friend,” he whispered, “you forget that your son is
to be presented--permit me to have that honour.”
“I crave your Grace’s pardon humbly,” said Sir Geoffrey, “but it is
an honour I design for myself, as I apprehend no one can so utterly
surrender and deliver him up to his Majesty’s service as the father that
begot him is entitled to do.--Julian, come forward, and kneel.--Here
he is, please your Majesty--Julian Peveril--a chip of the old block--as
stout, though scarce so tall a tree, as the old trunk, when at the
freshest. Take him to you, sir, for a faithful servant, _à pendre_,
as the French say; if he fears fire or steel, axe or gallows, in your
Majesty’s service, I renounce him--he is no son of mine--I disown him,
and he may go to the Isle of Man, the Isle of Dogs, or the Isle of
Devils, for what I care.”
Charles winked to Ormond, and having, with his wonted courtesy,
expressed his thorough conviction that Julian would imitate the loyalty
of his ancestors, and especially of his father, added, that he
believed his Grace of Ormond had something to communicate which was of
consequence to his service. Sir Geoffrey made his military reverence
at this hint, and marched off in the rear of the Duke, who proceeded
to inquire of him concerning the events of the day. Charles, in the
meanwhile, having in the first place, ascertained that the son was not
in the same genial condition with the father, demanded and received from
him a precise account of all the proceedings subsequent to the trial.
Julian, with the plainness and precision which such a subject demanded,
when treated in such a presence, narrated all that happened down to the
entrance of Bridgenorth; and his Majesty was so much pleased with his
manner, that he congratulated Arlington on their having gained the
evidence of at least one man of sense to these dark and mysterious
events. But when Bridgenorth was brought upon the scene, Julian
hesitated to bestow a name upon him; and although he mentioned the
chapel which he had seen filled with men in arms, and the violent
language of the preacher, he added, with earnestness, that
notwithstanding all this, the men departed without coming to any
extremity, and had all left the place before his father and he were set
at liberty.
“And you retired quietly to your dinner in Fleet Street, young man,”
said the King severely, “without giving a magistrate notice of the
dangerous meeting which was held in the vicinity of our palace, and who
did not conceal their intention of proceeding to extremities?”
Peveril blushed, and was silent. The King frowned, and stepped aside
to communicate with Ormond, who reported that the father seemed to have
known nothing of the matter.
“And the son, I am sorry to say,” said the King, “seems more unwilling
to speak the truth than I should have expected. We have all variety of
evidence in this singular investigation--a mad witness like the dwarf, a
drunken witness like the father, and now a dumb witness.--Young man,”
he continued, addressing Julian, “your behaviour is less frank than I
expected from your father’s son. I must know who this person is with
whom you held such familiar intercourse--you know him, I presume?”
Julian acknowledged that he did, but, kneeling on one knee, entreated
his Majesty’s forgiveness for concealing his name; “he had been freed,”
he said, “from his confinement, on promising to that effect.”
“That was a promise made, by your own account, under compulsion,”
answered the King, “and I cannot authorise your keeping it; it is your
duty to speak the truth--if you are afraid of Buckingham, the Duke shall
withdraw.”
“I have no reason to fear the Duke of Buckingham,” said Peveril; “that I
had an affair with one of his household, was the man’s own fault and not
mine.”
“Oddsfish!” said the King, “the light begins to break in on me--I
thought I remembered thy physiognomy. Wert thou not the very fellow whom
I met at Chiffinch’s yonder morning?--The matter escaped me since; but
now I recollect thou saidst then, that thou wert the son of that jolly
old three-bottle Baronet yonder.”
“It is true,” said Julian, “that I met your Majesty at Master
Chiffinch’s, and I am afraid had the misfortune to displease you;
but----”
“No more of that, young man--no more of that--But I recollect you had
with you that beautiful dancing siren.--Buckingham, I will hold you gold
to silver, that she was the intended tenant of that bass-fiddle?”
“Your Majesty has rightly guessed it,” said the Duke; “and I suspect
she has put a trick upon me, by substituting the dwarf in her place; for
Christian thinks----”
“Damn Christian!” said the King hastily--“I wish they would bring
him hither, that universal referee.”--And as the wish was uttered,
Christian’s arrival was announced. “Let him attend,” said the King: “But
hark--a thought strikes me.--Here, Master Peveril--yonder dancing maiden
that introduced you to us by the singular agility of her performance, is
she not, by your account, a dependent of the Countess of Derby?”
“I have known her such for years,” answered Julian.
“Then will we call the Countess hither,” said the King: “It is fit
we should learn who this little fairy really is; and if she be now
so absolutely at the beck of Buckingham, and this Master Christian of
his--why I think it would be but charity to let her ladyship know so
much, since I question if she will wish, in that case, to retain her in
her service. Besides,” he continued, speaking apart, “this Julian, to
whom suspicion attaches in these matters from his obstinate silence,
is also of the Countess’s household. We will sift this matter to the
bottom, and do justice to all.”
The Countess of Derby, hastily summoned, entered the royal closet at one
door, just as Christian and Zarah, or Fenella, were ushered in by the
other. The old Knight of Martindale, who had ere this returned to the
presence, was scarce controlled, even by the signs which she made, so
much was he desirous of greeting his old friend; but as Ormond laid a
kind restraining hand upon his arm, he was prevailed on to sit still.
The Countess, after a deep reverence to the King, acknowledged the
rest of the nobility present by a slighter reverence, smiled to Julian
Peveril, and looked with surprise at the unexpected apparition of
Fenella. Buckingham bit his lip, for he saw the introduction of Lady
Derby was likely to confuse and embroil every preparation which he had
arranged for his defence; and he stole a glance at Christian, whose eye,
when fixed on the Countess, assumed the deadly sharpness which sparkles
in the adder’s, while his cheek grew almost black under the influence of
strong emotion.
“Is there any one in this presence whom your ladyship recognises,” said
the King graciously, “besides your old friends of Ormond and Arlington?”
“I see, my liege, two worthy friends of my husband’s house,” replied the
Countess; “Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son--the latter a distinguished
member of my son’s household.”
“Any one else?” continued the King.
“An unfortunate female of my family, who disappeared from the Island
of Man at the same time when Julian Peveril left it upon business of
importance. She was thought to have fallen from the cliff into the sea.”
“Had your ladyship any reason to suspect--pardon me,” said the King,
“for putting such a question--any improper intimacy between Master
Peveril and this same female attendant?”
“My liege,” said the Countess, colouring indignantly, “my household is
of reputation.”
“Nay, my lady, be not angry,” said the King; “I did but ask--such things
will befall in the best regulated families.”
“Not in mine, sire,” said the Countess. “Besides that, in common pride
and in common honesty, Julian Peveril is incapable of intriguing with an
unhappy creature, removed by her misfortune almost beyond the limits of
humanity.”
Zarah looked at her, and compressed her lips, as if to keep in the words
that would fain break from them.
“I know how it is,” said the King--“What your ladyship says may be true
in the main, yet men’s tastes have strange vagaries. This girl is lost
in Man as soon as the youth leaves it, and is found in Saint Jame’s
Park, bouncing and dancing like a fairy, so soon as he appears in
London.”
“Impossible!” said the Countess; “she cannot dance.”
“I believe,” said the King, “she can do more feats than your ladyship
either suspects or would approve of.”
The Countess drew up, and was indignantly silent.
The King proceeded--“No sooner is Peveril in Newgate, than, by the
account of the venerable little gentleman, this merry maiden is even
there also for company. Now, without inquiring how she got in, I think
charitably that she had better taste than to come there on the dwarf’s
account.--Ah ha! I think Master Julian is touched in conscience!”
Julian did indeed start as the King spoke, for it reminded him of the
midnight visit in his cell.
The King looked fixedly at him, and then proceeded--“Well, gentlemen,
Peveril is carried to his trial, and is no sooner at liberty, than we
find him in the house where the Duke of Buckingham was arranging what he
calls a musical mask.--Egad, I hold it next to certain, that this wench
put the change on his Grace, and popt the poor dwarf into the bass-viol,
reserving her own more precious hours to be spent with Master Julian
Peveril.--Think you not so, Sir Christian, you, the universal referee?
Is there any truth in this conjecture?”
Christian stole a glance at Zarah, and read that in her eye which
embarrassed him. “He did not know,” he said; “he had indeed engaged this
unrivalled performer to take the proposed part in the mask; and she
was to have come forth in the midst of a shower of lambent fire, very
artificially prepared with perfumes, to overcome the smell of the
powder; but he knew not why--excepting that she was wilful and
capricious, like all great geniuses--she had certainly spoiled the
concert by cramming in that more bulky dwarf.”
“I should like,” said the King, “to see this little maiden stand forth,
and bear witness, in such manner as she can express herself, on
this mysterious matter. Can any one here understand her mode of
communication?”
Christian said, he knew something of it since he had become acquainted
with her in London. The Countess spoke not till the King asked her,
and then owned dryly, that she had necessarily some habitual means of
intercourse with one who had been immediately about her person for so
many years.
“I should think,” said Charles, “that this same Master Peveril has the
more direct key to her language, after all we have heard.”
The King looked first at Peveril, who blushed like a maiden at the
inference which the King’s remark implied, and then suddenly turned his
eyes on the supposed mute, on whose cheek a faint colour was dying away.
A moment afterwards, at a signal from the Countess, Fenella, or Zarah,
stepped forward, and having kissed her lady’s hand, stood with her arms
folded on her breast, with a humble air, as different from that which
she wore in the harem of the Duke of Buckingham, as that of a Magdalene
from a Judith. Yet this was the least show of her talent of versatility,
for so well did she play the part of the dumb girl, that Buckingham,
sharp as his discernment was, remained undecided whether the creature
which stood before him could possibly be the same with her, who had, in
a different dress, made such an impression on his imagination, or indeed
was the imperfect creature she now represented. She had at once all
that could mark the imperfection of hearing, and all that could show the
wonderful address by which nature so often makes up of the deficiency.
There was the lip that trembles not at any sound--the seeming
insensibility to the conversation that passed around; while, on the
other hand, was the quick and vivid glance; that seemed anxious to
devour the meaning of those sounds, which she could gather no otherwise
than by the motion of the lips.
Examined after her own fashion, Zarah confirmed the tale of Christian in
all its points, and admitted that she had deranged the project laid for
a mask, by placing the dwarf in her own stead; the cause of her doing so
she declined to assign, and the Countess pressed her no farther.
“Everything tells to exculpate my Lord of Buckingham,” said Charles,
“from so absurd an accusation: the dwarf’s testimony is too fantastic,
that of the two Peverils does not in the least affect the Duke; that
of the dumb damsel completely contradicts the possibility of his guilt.
Methinks, my lords, we should acquaint him that he stands acquitted of
a complaint, too ridiculous to have been subjected to a more serious
scrutiny than we have hastily made upon this occasion.”
Arlington bowed in acquiescence, but Ormond spoke plainly.--“I should
suffer, sire, in the opinion of the Duke of Buckingham, brilliant as his
talents are known to be, should I say that I am satisfied in my own
mind on this occasion. But I subscribe to the spirit of the times; and I
agree it would be highly dangerous, on such accusations as we have been
able to collect, to impeach the character of a zealous Protestant
like his Grace--Had he been a Catholic, under such circumstances of
suspicion, the Tower had been too good a prison for him.”
Buckingham bowed to the Duke of Ormond, with a meaning which even his
triumph could not disguise.--“_Tu me la pagherai!_” he muttered, in a
tone of deep and abiding resentment; but the stout old Irishman, who had
long since braved his utmost wrath, cared little for this expression of
his displeasure.
The King then, signing to the other nobles to pass into the public
apartments, stopped Buckingham as he was about to follow them; and when
they were alone, asked, with a significant tone, which brought all the
blood in the Duke’s veins into his countenance, “When was it, George,
that your useful friend Colonel Blood became a musician?--You are
silent,” he said; “do not deny the charge, for yonder villain, once
seen, is remembered for ever. Down, down on your knees, George,
and acknowledge that you have abused my easy temper.--Seek for no
apology--none will serve your turn. I saw the man myself, among your
Germans as you call them; and you know what I must needs believe from
such a circumstance.”
“Believe that I have been guilty--most guilty, my liege and King,” said
the Duke, conscience-stricken, and kneeling down;--“believe that I was
misguided--that I was mad--Believe anything but that I was capable of
harming, or being accessory to harm, your person.”
“I do not believe it,” said the King; “I think of you, Villiers, as the
companion of my dangers and my exile, and am so far from supposing you
mean worse than you say, that I am convinced you acknowledge more than
ever you meant to attempt.”
“By all that is sacred,” said the Duke, still kneeling, “had I not
been involved to the extent of life and fortune with the villain
Christian----”
“Nay, if you bring Christian on the stage again,” said the King,
smiling, “it is time for me to withdraw. Come, Villiers, rise--I forgive
thee, and only recommend one act of penance--the curse you yourself
bestowed on the dog who bit you--marriage, and retirement to your
country-seat.”
The Duke rose abashed, and followed the King into the circle, which
Charles entered, leaning on the shoulder of his repentant peer; to whom
he showed so much countenance, as led the most acute observers present,
to doubt the possibility of there existing any real cause for the
surmises to the Duke’s prejudice.
The Countess of Derby had in the meanwhile consulted with the Duke of
Ormond, with the Peverils, and with her other friends; and, by their
unanimous advice, though with considerable difficulty, became satisfied,
that to have thus shown herself at Court, was sufficient to vindicate
the honour of her house; and that it was her wisest course, after having
done so, to retire to her insular dominions, without farther provoking
the resentment of a powerful faction. She took farewell of the King in
form, and demanded his permission to carry back with her the helpless
creature who had so strangely escaped from her protection, into a
world where her condition rendered her so subject to every species of
misfortune.
“Will your ladyship forgive me?” said Charles. “I have studied your sex
long--I am mistaken if your little maiden is not as capable of caring
for herself as any of us.”
“Impossible!” said the Countess.
“Possible, and most true,” whispered the King. “I will instantly
convince you of the fact, though the experiment is too delicate to be
made by any but your ladyship. Yonder she stands, looking as if she
heard no more than the marble pillar against which she leans. Now, if
Lady Derby will contrive either to place her hand near the region of
the damsel’s heart, or at least on her arm, so that she can feel the
sensation of the blood when the pulse increases, then do you, my Lord of
Ormond, beckon Julian Peveril out of sight--I will show you in a moment
that it can stir at sounds spoken.”
The Countess, much surprised, afraid of some embarrassing pleasantry on
the part of Charles, yet unable to repress her curiosity, placed herself
near Fenella, as she called her little mute; and, while making signs to
her, contrived to place her hand on her wrist.
At this moment the King, passing near them, said, “This is a horrid
deed--the villain Christian has stabbed young Peveril!”
The mute evidence of the pulse, which bounded as if a cannon had been
discharged close by the poor girl’s ear, was accompanied by such a loud
scream of agony, as distressed, while it startled, the good-natured
monarch himself. “I did but jest,” he said; “Julian is well, my pretty
maiden. I only used the wand of a certain blind deity, called Cupid, to
bring a deaf and dumb vassal of his to the exercise of her faculties.”
“I am betrayed!” she said, with her eyes fixed on the ground--“I
am betrayed!--and it is fit that she, whose life has been spent in
practising treason on others, should be caught in her own snare. But
where is my tutor in iniquity?--where is Christian, who taught me to
play the part of spy on this unsuspicious lady, until I had well-nigh
delivered her into his bloody hands?”
“This,” said the King, “craves more secret examination. Let all leave
the apartment who are not immediately connected with these proceedings,
and let this Christian be again brought before us.--Wretched man,”
he continued, addressing Christian, “what wiles are these you have
practised, and by what extraordinary means?”
“She has betrayed me, then!” said Christian--“Betrayed me to bonds and
death, merely for an idle passion, which can never be successful!--But
know, Zarah,” he added, addressing her sternly, “when my life is
forfeited through thy evidence, the daughter has murdered the father!”
The unfortunate girl stared on him in astonishment. “You said,” at
length she stammered forth, “that I was the daughter of your slaughtered
brother?”
“That was partly to reconcile thee to the part thou wert to play in my
destined drama of vengeance--partly to hide what men call the infamy of
thy birth. But _my_ daughter thou art! and from the eastern clime, in
which thy mother was born, you derive that fierce torrent of passion
which I laboured to train to my purposes, but which, turned into another
channel, has become the cause of your father’s destruction.--My destiny
is the Tower, I suppose?”
He spoke these words with great composure, and scarce seemed to regard
the agonies of his daughter, who, throwing herself at his feet, sobbed
and wept most bitterly.
“This must not be,” said the King, moved with compassion at this scene
of misery. “If you consent, Christian, to leave this country, there is a
vessel in the river bound for New England--Go, carry your dark intrigues
to other lands.”
“I might dispute the sentence,” said Christian boldly; “and if I submit
to it, it is a matter of my own choice.--One half-hour had made me
even with that proud woman, but fortune hath cast the balance against
me.--Rise, Zarah, Fenella no more! Tell the Lady of Derby, that, if the
daughter of Edward Christian, the niece of her murdered victim, served
her as a menial, it was but for the purpose of vengeance--miserably,
miserably frustrated!--Thou seest thy folly now--thou wouldst follow
yonder ungrateful stripling--thou wouldst forsake all other thoughts to
gain his slightest notice; and now thou art a forlorn outcast, ridiculed
and insulted by those on whose necks you might have trod, had you
governed yourself with more wisdom!--But come, thou art still my
daughter--there are other skies than that which canopies Britain.”
“Stop him,” said the King; “we must know by what means this maiden found
access to those confined in our prisons.”
“I refer your Majesty to your most Protestant jailer, and to the most
Protestant Peers, who, in order to obtain perfect knowledge of the
depth of the Popish Plot, have contrived these ingenious apertures for
visiting them in their cells by night or day. His Grace of Buckingham
can assist your Majesty, if you are inclined to make the inquiry.” [*]
[*] It was said that very unfair means were used to compel the
prisoners, committed on account of the Popish Plot, to make
disclosures, and that several of them were privately put to the
torture.
“Christian,” said the Duke, “thou art the most barefaced villain who
ever breathed.”
“Of a commoner, I may,” answered Christian, and led his daughter out of
the presence.
“See after him, Selby,” said the King; “lose not sight of him till the
ship sail; if he dare return to Britain, it shall be at his peril.
Would to God we had as good riddance of others as dangerous! And I
would also,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “that all our political
intrigues and feverish alarms could terminate as harmlessly as now. Here
is a plot without a drop of blood; and all the elements of a romance,
without its conclusion. Here we have a wandering island princess (I pray
my Lady of Derby’s pardon), a dwarf, a Moorish sorceress, an impenitent
rogue, and a repentant man of rank, and yet all ends without either
hanging or marriage.”
“Not altogether without the latter,” said the Countess, who had an
opportunity, during the evening, of much private conversation with
Julian Peveril. “There is a certain Major Bridgenorth, who, since your
Majesty relinquishes farther inquiry into these proceedings, which he
had otherwise intended to abide, designs, as we are informed, to leave
England for ever. Now, this Bridgenorth, by dint of law, hath acquired
strong possession over the domains of Peveril, which he is desirous
to restore to the ancient owners, with much fair land besides,
conditionally, that our young Julian will receive them as the dowry of
his only child and heir.”
“By my faith,” said the King, “she must be a foul-favoured wench,
indeed, if Julian requires to be pressed to accept her on such fair
conditions.”
“They love each other like lovers of the last age,” said the Countess;
“but the stout old Knight likes not the round-headed alliance.”
“Our royal recommendation shall put that to rights,” said the King; “Sir
Geoffrey Peveril has not suffered hardship so often at our command, that
he will refuse our recommendation when it comes to make him amends for
all his losses.”
It may be supposed the King did not speak without being fully aware
of the unlimited ascendancy which he possessed over the old Tory; for
within four weeks afterwards, the bells of Martindale-Moultrassie were
ringing for the union of the families, from whose estates it takes its
compound name, and the beacon-light of the Castle blazed high over hill
and dale, and summoned all to rejoice who were within twenty miles of
its gleam.
THE END