summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/old/files/relative.htm
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      Peveril of the Peak, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Peveril of the Peak, by Sir Walter Scott

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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Peveril of the Peak

Author: Sir Walter Scott

Release Date: May 1, 2009 [EBook #5959]
Last Updated: July 25, 2014

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEVERIL OF THE PEAK ***




Produced by Emma Wong Shee, John Bickers, Dagny, and David Widger






</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      PEVERIL OF THE PEAK
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Sir Walter Scott, Bart.
    </h2>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0001m.jpg" alt="0001m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0001.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0013m.jpg" alt="0013m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0013.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0581m.jpg" alt="0581m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0581.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0006m.jpg" alt="0006m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0006.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0012m.jpg" alt="0012m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0012.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0011m.jpg" alt="0011m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0011.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>PEVERIL OF THE PEAK</b></big>
        </a><br /><br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h1>
      PEVERIL OF THE PEAK
    </h1>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               When civil dudgeon first grew high,
               And men fell out, they knew not why;
               When foul words, jealousies, and fears,
               Set folk together by the ears&mdash;
                                             &mdash;BUTLER.
</pre>
    <p>
      William, the Conqueror of England, was, or supposed himself to be, the
      father of a certain William Peveril, who attended him to the battle of
      Hastings, and there distinguished himself. The liberal-minded monarch, who
      assumed in his charters the veritable title of Gulielmus Bastardus, was
      not likely to let his son's illegitimacy be any bar to the course of his
      royal favour, when the laws of England were issued from the mouth of the
      Norman victor, and the lands of the Saxons were at his unlimited disposal.
      William Peveril obtained a liberal grant of property and lordships in
      Derbyshire, and became the erecter of that Gothic fortress, which, hanging
      over the mouth of the Devil's Cavern, so well known to tourists, gives the
      name of Castleton to the adjacent village.
    </p>
    <p>
      From this feudal Baron, who chose his nest upon the principles on which an
      eagle selects her eyry, and built it in such a fashion as if he had
      intended it, as an Irishman said of the Martello towers, for the sole
      purpose of puzzling posterity, there was, or conceived themselves to be,
      descended (for their pedigree was rather hypothetical) an opulent family
      of knightly rank, in the same county of Derby. The great fief of
      Castleton, with its adjacent wastes and forests, and all the wonders which
      they contain, had been forfeited in King John's stormy days, by one
      William Peveril, and had been granted anew to the Lord Ferrers of that
      day. Yet this William's descendants, though no longer possessed of what
      they alleged to have been their original property, were long distinguished
      by the proud title of Peverils of the Peak, which served to mark their
      high descent and lofty pretensions.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Charles the Second's time, the representative of this ancient family
      was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, a man who had many of the ordinary attributes of
      an old-fashioned country gentleman, and very few individual traits to
      distinguish him from the general portrait of that worthy class of mankind.
      He was proud of small advantages, angry at small disappointments,
      incapable of forming any resolution or opinion abstracted from his own
      prejudices&mdash;he was proud of his birth, lavish in his housekeeping,
      convivial with those kindred and acquaintances, who would allow his
      superiority in rank&mdash;contentious and quarrelsome with all that
      crossed his pretensions&mdash;kind to the poor, except when they plundered
      his game&mdash;a Royalist in his political opinions, and one who detested
      alike a Roundhead, a poacher, and a Presbyterian. In religion Sir Geoffrey
      was a high-churchman, of so exalted a strain that many thought he still
      nourished in private the Roman Catholic tenets, which his family had only
      renounced in his father's time, and that he had a dispensation for
      conforming in outward observances to the Protestant faith. There was at
      least such a scandal amongst the Puritans, and the influence which Sir
      Geoffrey Peveril certainly appeared to possess amongst the Catholic
      gentlemen of Derbyshire and Cheshire, seemed to give countenance to the
      rumour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was Sir Geoffrey, who might have passed to his grave without further
      distinction than a brass-plate in the chancel, had he not lived in times
      which forced the most inactive spirits into exertion, as a tempest
      influences the sluggish waters of the deadest mere. When the Civil Wars
      broke out, Peveril of the Peak, proud from pedigree, and brave by
      constitution, raised a regiment for the King, and showed upon several
      occasions more capacity for command than men had heretofore given him
      credit for.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even in the midst of the civil turmoil, he fell in love with, and married,
      a beautiful and amiable young lady of the noble house of Stanley; and from
      that time had the more merit in his loyalty, as it divorced him from her
      society, unless at very brief intervals, when his duty permitted an
      occasional visit to his home. Scorning to be allured from his military
      duty by domestic inducements, Peveril of the Peak fought on for several
      rough years of civil war, and performed his part with sufficient
      gallantry, until his regiment was surprised and cut to pieces by Poyntz,
      Cromwell's enterprising and successful general of cavalry. The defeated
      Cavalier escaped from the field of battle, and, like a true descendant of
      William the Conqueror, disdaining submission, threw himself into his own
      castellated mansion, which was attacked and defended in a siege of that
      irregular kind which caused the destruction of so many baronial residences
      during the course of those unhappy wars. Martindale Castle, after having
      suffered severely from the cannon which Cromwell himself brought against
      it, was at length surrendered when in the last extremity. Sir Geoffrey
      himself became a prisoner, and while his liberty was only restored upon a
      promise of remaining a peaceful subject to the Commonwealth in future, his
      former delinquencies, as they were termed by the ruling party, were
      severely punished by fine and sequestration.
    </p>
    <p>
      But neither his forced promise, nor the fear of farther unpleasant
      consequences to his person or property, could prevent Peveril of the Peak
      from joining the gallant Earl of Derby the night before the fatal
      engagement in Wiggan Lane, where the Earl's forces were dispersed. Sir
      Geoffrey having had his share in that action, escaped with the relics of
      the Royalists after the defeat, to join Charles II. He witnessed also the
      final defeat of Worcester, where he was a second time made prisoner; and
      as, in the opinion of Cromwell and the language of the times, he was
      regarded as an obstinate malignant, he was in great danger of having
      shared with the Earl of Derby his execution at Bolton-le-Moor, having
      partaken with him the dangers of two actions. But Sir Geoffrey's life was
      preserved by the interest of a friend, who possessed influence in the
      councils of Oliver.&mdash;This was a Mr. Bridgenorth, a gentleman of
      middling quality, whose father had been successful in some commercial
      adventure during the peaceful reign of James I.; and who had bequeathed
      his son a considerable sum of money, in addition to the moderate patrimony
      which he inherited from his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      The substantial, though small-sized, brick building of Moultrassie Hall,
      was but two miles distant from Martindale Castle, and the young
      Bridgenorth attended the same school with the heir of the Peverils. A sort
      of companionship, if not intimacy, took place betwixt them, which
      continued during their youthful sports&mdash;the rather that Bridgenorth,
      though he did not at heart admit Sir Geoffrey's claims of superiority to
      the extent which the other's vanity would have exacted, paid deference in
      a reasonable degree to the representative of a family so much more ancient
      and important than his own, without conceiving that he in any respect
      degraded himself by doing so.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Bridgenorth did not, however, carry his complaisance so far as to
      embrace Sir Geoffrey's side during the Civil War. On the contrary, as an
      active Justice of the Peace, he rendered much assistance in arraying the
      militia in the cause of the Parliament, and for some time held a military
      commission in that service. This was partly owing to his religious
      principles, for he was a zealous Presbyterian, partly to his political
      ideas, which, without being absolutely democratical, favoured the popular
      side of the great national question. Besides, he was a moneyed man, and to
      a certain extent had a shrewd eye to his worldly interest. He understood
      how to improve the opportunities which civil war afforded, of advancing
      his fortune, by a dexterous use of his capital; and he was not at a loss
      to perceive that these were likely to be obtained in joining the
      Parliament; while the King's cause, as it was managed, held out nothing to
      the wealthy but a course of exaction and compulsory loans. For these
      reasons, Bridgenorth became a decided Roundhead, and all friendly
      communication betwixt his neighbour and him was abruptly broken asunder.
      This was done with the less acrimony, that, during the Civil War, Sir
      Geoffrey was almost constantly in the field, following the vacillating and
      unhappy fortunes of his master; while Major Bridgenorth, who soon
      renounced active military service, resided chiefly in London, and only
      occasionally visited the Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon these visits, it was with great pleasure he received the
      intelligence, that Lady Peveril had shown much kindness to Mrs.
      Bridgenorth, and had actually given her and her family shelter in
      Martindale Castle, when Moultrassie Hall was threatened with pillage by a
      body of Prince Rupert's ill-disciplined Cavaliers. This acquaintance had
      been matured by frequent walks together, which the vicinity of their
      places of residence suffered the Lady Peveril to have with Mrs.
      Bridgenorth, who deemed herself much honoured in being thus admitted into
      the society of so distinguished a lady. Major Bridgenorth heard of this
      growing intimacy with great pleasure, and he determined to repay the
      obligation, as far as he could without much hurt to himself, by
      interfering with all his influence, in behalf of her unfortunate husband.
      It was chiefly owing to Major Bridgenorth's mediation, that Sir Geoffrey's
      life was saved after the battle of Worcester. He obtained him permission
      to compound for his estate on easier terms than many who had been less
      obstinate in malignancy; and, finally, when, in order to raise the money
      to the composition, the Knight was obliged to sell a considerable portion
      of his patrimony, Major Bridgenorth became the purchaser, and that at a
      larger price than had been paid to any Cavalier under such circumstances,
      by a member of the Committee for Sequestrations. It is true, the prudent
      committeeman did not, by any means, lose sight of his own interest in the
      transaction, for the price was, after all, very moderate, and the property
      lay adjacent to Moultrassie Hall, the value of which was at least trebled
      by the acquisition. But then it was also true, that the unfortunate owner
      must have submitted to much worse conditions, had the committeeman used,
      as others did, the full advantages which his situation gave him; and
      Bridgenorth took credit to himself, and received it from others, for
      having, on this occasion, fairly sacrificed his interest to his
      liberality.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Geoffrey Peveril was of the same opinion, and the rather that Mr.
      Bridgenorth seemed to bear his exaltation with great moderation, and was
      disposed to show him personally the same deference in his present sunshine
      of prosperity, which he had exhibited formerly in their early
      acquaintance. It is but justice to Major Bridgenorth to observe, that in
      this conduct he paid respect as much to the misfortunes as to the
      pretensions of his far-descended neighbour, and that, with the frank
      generosity of a blunt Englishman, he conceded points of ceremony, about
      which he himself was indifferent, merely because he saw that his doing so
      gave pleasure to Sir Geoffrey.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril of the Peak did justice to his neighbour's delicacy, in
      consideration of which he forgot many things. He forgot that Major
      Bridgenorth was already in possession of a fair third of his estate, and
      had various pecuniary claims affecting the remainder, to the extent of
      one-third more. He endeavoured even to forget, what it was still more
      difficult not to remember, the altered situation in which they and their
      mansions now stood to each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the Civil War, the superb battlements and turrets of Martindale
      Castle looked down on the red brick-built Hall, as it stole out from the
      green plantations, just as an oak in Martindale Chase would have looked
      beside one of the stunted and formal young beech-trees with which
      Bridgenorth had graced his avenue; but after the siege which we have
      commemorated, the enlarged and augmented Hall was as much predominant in
      the landscape over the shattered and blackened ruins of the Castle, of
      which only one wing was left habitable, as the youthful beech, in all its
      vigour of shoot and bud, would appear to the same aged oak stripped of its
      boughs, and rifted by lightning, one-half laid in shivers on the ground,
      and the other remaining a blackened and ungraceful trunk, rent and
      splintered, and without either life or leaves. Sir Geoffrey could not but
      feel, that the situation and prospects were exchanged as disadvantageously
      for himself as the appearance of their mansions; and that though the
      authority of the man in office under the Parliament, the sequestrator, and
      the committeeman, had been only exerted for the protection of the Cavalier
      and the malignant, they would have been as effectual if applied to procure
      his utter ruin; and that he was become a client, while his neighbour was
      elevated into a patron.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were two considerations, besides the necessity of the case and the
      constant advice of his lady, which enabled Peveril of the Peak to endure,
      with some patience, this state of degradation. The first was, that the
      politics of Major Bridgenorth began, on many points, to assimilate
      themselves to his own. As a Presbyterian, he was not an utter enemy to
      monarchy, and had been considerably shocked at the unexpected trial and
      execution of the King; as a civilian and a man of property, he feared the
      domination of the military; and though he wished not to see Charles
      restored by force of arms, yet he arrived at the conclusion, that to bring
      back the heir of the royal family on such terms of composition as might
      ensure the protection of those popular immunities and privileges for which
      the Long Parliament had at first contended, would be the surest and most
      desirable termination to the mutations in state affairs which had agitated
      Britain. Indeed, the Major's ideas on this point approached so nearly
      those of his neighbour, that he had well-nigh suffered Sir Geoffrey, who
      had a finger in almost all the conspiracies of the Royalists, to involve
      him in the unfortunate rising of Penruddock and Groves, in the west, in
      which many of the Presbyterian interest, as well as the Cavalier party,
      were engaged. And though his habitual prudence eventually kept him out of
      this and other dangers, Major Bridgenorth was considered during the last
      years of Cromwell's domination, and the interregnum which succeeded, as a
      disaffected person to the Commonwealth, and a favourer of Charles Stewart.
    </p>
    <p>
      But besides this approximation to the same political opinions, another
      bond of intimacy united the families of the Castle and the Hall. Major
      Bridgenorth, fortunate, and eminently so, in all his worldly transactions,
      was visited by severe and reiterated misfortunes in his family, and
      became, in this particular, an object of compassion to his poorer and more
      decayed neighbour. Betwixt the breaking out of the Civil War and the
      Restoration, he lost successively a family of no less than six children,
      apparently through a delicacy of constitution, which cut off the little
      prattlers at the early age when they most wind themselves round the heart
      of the parents.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the beginning of the year 1658, Major Bridgenorth was childless; ere it
      ended, he had a daughter, indeed, but her birth was purchased by the death
      of an affectionate wife, whose constitution had been exhausted by maternal
      grief, and by the anxious and harrowing reflection, that from her the
      children they had lost derived that delicacy of health, which proved
      unable to undergo the tear and wear of existence. The same voice which
      told Bridgenorth that he was the father of a living child (it was the
      friendly voice of Lady Peveril), communicated to him the melancholy
      intelligence that he was no longer a husband. The feelings of Major
      Bridgenorth were strong and deep, rather than hasty and vehement; and his
      grief assumed the form of a sullen stupor, from which neither the friendly
      remonstrances of Sir Geoffrey, who did not fail to be with his neighbour
      at this distressing conjuncture, even though he knew he must meet the
      Presbyterian pastor, nor the ghastly exhortations of this latter person,
      were able to rouse the unfortunate widower.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length Lady Peveril, with the ready invention of a female sharped by
      the sight of distress and the feelings of sympathy, tried on the sufferer
      one of those experiments by which grief is often awakened from despondency
      into tears. She placed in Bridgenorth's arms the infant whose birth had
      cost him so dear, and conjured him to remember that his Alice was not yet
      dead, since she survived in the helpless child she had left to his
      paternal care.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take her away&mdash;take her away!" said the unhappy man, and they were
      the first words he had spoken; "let me not look on her&mdash;it is but
      another blossom that has bloomed to fade, and the tree that bore it will
      never flourish more!"
    </p>
    <p>
      He almost threw the child into Lady Peveril's arms, placed his hands
      before his face, and wept aloud. Lady Peveril did not say "be comforted,"
      but she ventured to promise that the blossom should ripen to fruit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never, never!" said Bridgenorth; "take the unhappy child away, and let me
      only know when I shall wear black for her&mdash;Wear black!" he exclaimed,
      interrupting himself, "what other colour shall I wear during the remainder
      of my life?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will take the child for a season," said Lady Peveril, "since the sight
      of her is so painful to you; and the little Alice shall share the nursery
      of our Julian, until it shall be pleasure and not pain for you to look on
      her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That hour will never come," said the unhappy father; "her doom is written&mdash;she
      will follow the rest&mdash;God's will be done.&mdash;Lady, I thank you&mdash;I
      trust her to your care; and I thank God that my eye shall not see her
      dying agonies."
    </p>
    <p>
      Without detaining the reader's attention longer on this painful theme, it
      is enough to say that the Lady Peveril did undertake the duties of a
      mother to the little orphan; and perhaps it was owing, in a great measure,
      to her judicious treatment of the infant, that its feeble hold of life was
      preserved, since the glimmering spark might probably have been altogether
      smothered, had it, like the Major's former children, undergone the
      over-care and over-nursing of a mother rendered nervously cautious and
      anxious by so many successive losses. The lady was the more ready to
      undertake this charge, that she herself had lost two infant children; and
      that she attributed the preservation of the third, now a fine healthy
      child of three years old, to Julian's being subjected to rather a
      different course of diet and treatment than was then generally practised.
      She resolved to follow the same regiment with the little orphan, which she
      had observed in the case of her own boy; and it was equally successful. By
      a more sparing use of medicine, by a bolder admission of fresh air, by a
      firm, yet cautious attention to encourage rather than to supersede the
      exertions of nature, the puny infant, under the care of an excellent
      nurse, gradually improved in strength and in liveliness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Geoffrey, like most men of his frank and good-natured disposition, was
      naturally fond of children, and so much compassionated the sorrows of his
      neighbour, that he entirely forgot his being a Presbyterian, until it
      became necessary that the infant should be christened by a teacher of that
      persuasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a trying case&mdash;the father seemed incapable of giving
      direction; and that the threshold of Martindale Castle should be violated
      by the heretical step of a dissenting clergyman, was matter of horror to
      its orthodox owner. He had seen the famous Hugh Peters, with a Bible in
      one hand and a pistol in the other, ride in triumph through the court-door
      when Martindale was surrendered; and the bitterness of that hour had
      entered like iron into his soul. Yet such was Lady Peveril's influence
      over the prejudices of her husband, that he was induced to connive at the
      ceremony taking place in a remote garden house, which was not properly
      within the precincts of the Castle-wall. The lady even dared to be present
      while the ceremony was performed by the Reverend Master Solsgrace, who had
      once preached a sermon of three hours' length before the House of Commons,
      upon a thanksgiving occasion after the relief of Exeter. Sir Geoffrey
      Peveril took care to be absent the whole day from the Castle, and it was
      only from the great interest which he took in the washing, perfuming, and
      as it were purification of the summer-house, that it could have been
      guessed he knew anything of what had taken place in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, whatever prejudices the good Knight might entertain against his
      neighbour's form of religion, they did not in any way influence his
      feelings towards him as a sufferer under severe affliction. The mode in
      which he showed his sympathy was rather singular, but exactly suited the
      character of both, and the terms on which they stood with each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Morning after morning the good Baronet made Moultrassie Hall the
      termination of his walk or ride, and said a single word of kindness as he
      passed. Sometimes he entered the old parlour where the proprietor sat in
      solitary wretchedness and despondency; but more frequently (for Sir
      Geoffrey did not pretend to great talents of conversation), he paused on
      the terrace, and stopping or halting his horse by the latticed window,
      said aloud to the melancholy inmate, "How is it with you, Master
      Bridgenorth?" (the Knight would never acknowledge his neighbour's military
      rank of Major); "I just looked in to bid you keep a good heart, man, and
      to tell you that Julian is well, and little Alice is well, and all are
      well at Martindale Castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      A deep sigh, sometimes coupled with "I thank you, Sir Geoffrey; my
      grateful duty waits on Lady Peveril," was generally Bridgenorth's only
      answer. But the news was received on the one part with the kindness which
      was designed upon the other; it gradually became less painful and more
      interesting; the lattice window was never closed, nor was the leathern
      easy-chair which stood next to it ever empty, when the usual hour of the
      Baronet's momentary visit approached. At length the expectation of that
      passing minute became the pivot upon which the thoughts of poor
      Bridgenorth turned during all the rest of the day. Most men have known the
      influence of such brief but ruling moments at some period of their lives.
      The moment when a lover passes the window of his mistress&mdash;the moment
      when the epicure hears the dinner-bell,&mdash;is that into which is
      crowded the whole interest of the day; the hours which precede it are
      spent in anticipation; the hours which follow, in reflection on what has
      passed; and fancy dwelling on each brief circumstance, gives to seconds
      the duration of minutes, to minutes that of hours. Thus seated in his
      lonely chair, Bridgenorth could catch at a distance the stately step of
      Sir Geoffrey, or the heavy tramp of his war-horse, Black Hastings, which
      had borne him in many an action; he could hear the hum of "The King shall
      enjoy his own again," or the habitual whistle of "Cuckolds and
      Roundheads," die unto reverential silence, as the Knight approached the
      mansion of affliction; and then came the strong hale voice of the huntsman
      soldier with its usual greeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      By degrees the communication became something more protracted, as Major
      Bridgenorth's grief, like all human feelings, lost its overwhelming
      violence, and permitted him to attend, in some degree, to what passed
      around him, to discharge various duties which pressed upon him, and to
      give a share of attention to the situation of the country, distracted as
      it was by the contending factions, whose strife only terminated in the
      Restoration. Still, however, though slowly recovering from the effects of
      the shock which he had sustained, Major Bridgenorth felt himself as yet
      unable to make up his mind to the effort necessary to see his infant; and
      though separated by so short a distance from the being in whose existence
      he was more interested than in anything the world afforded, he only made
      himself acquainted with the windows of the apartment where little Alice
      was lodged, and was often observed to watch them from the terrace, as they
      brightened in the evening under the influence of the setting sun. In
      truth, though a strong-minded man in most respects, he was unable to lay
      aside the gloomy impression that this remaining pledge of affection was
      soon to be conveyed to that grave which had already devoured all besides
      that was dear to him; and he awaited in miserable suspense the moment when
      he should hear that symptoms of the fatal malady had begun to show
      themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of Peveril continued to be that of a comforter until the month
      of April 1660, when it suddenly assumed a new and different tone. "The
      King shall enjoy his own again," far from ceasing, as the hasty tread of
      Black Hastings came up the avenue, bore burden to the clatter of his hoofs
      on the paved courtyard, as Sir Geoffrey sprang from his great war-saddle,
      now once more garnished with pistols of two feet in length, and, armed
      with steel-cap, back and breast, and a truncheon in his hand, he rushed
      into the apartment of the astonished Major, with his eyes sparkling, and
      his cheek inflamed, while he called out, "Up! up, neighbour! No time now
      to mope in the chimney-corner! Where is your buff-coat and broadsword,
      man? Take the true side once in your life, and mend past mistakes. The
      King is all lenity, man&mdash;all royal nature and mercy. I will get your
      full pardon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What means all this?" said Bridgenorth&mdash;"Is all well with you&mdash;all
      well at Martindale Castle, Sir Geoffrey?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well as you could wish them, Alice, and Julian, and all. But I have news
      worth twenty of that&mdash;Monk has declared at London against those
      stinking scoundrels the Rump. Fairfax is up in Yorkshire&mdash;for the
      King&mdash;for the King, man! Churchmen, Presbyterians, and all, are in
      buff and bandoleer for King Charles. I have a letter from Fairfax to
      secure Derby and Chesterfield with all the men I can make. D&mdash;n him,
      fine that I should take orders from him! But never mind that&mdash;all are
      friends now, and you and I, good neighbour, will charge abreast, as good
      neighbours should. See there! read&mdash;read&mdash;read&mdash;and then
      boot and saddle in an instant.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'Hey for cavaliers&mdash;ho for cavaliers,
  Pray for cavaliers,
    Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub,
    Have at old Beelzebub,
  Oliver shakes in his bier!'"
</pre>
    <p>
      After thundering forth this elegant effusion of loyal enthusiasm, the
      sturdy Cavalier's heart became too full. He threw himself on a seat, and
      exclaiming, "Did ever I think to live to see this happy day!" he wept, to
      his own surprise, as much as to that of Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon considering the crisis in which the country was placed, it appeared
      to Major Bridgenorth, as it had done to Fairfax, and other leaders of the
      Presbyterian party, that their frank embracing of the royal interest was
      the wisest and most patriotic measure which they could adopt in the
      circumstances, when all ranks and classes of men were seeking refuge from
      the uncertainty and varied oppression attending the repeated contests
      between the factions of Westminster Hall and of Wallingford House.
      Accordingly he joined with Sir Geoffrey, with less enthusiasm indeed, but
      with equal sincerity, taking such measures as seemed proper to secure
      their part of the country on the King's behalf, which was done as
      effectually and peaceably as in other parts of England. The neighbours
      were both at Chesterfield, when news arrived that the King had landed in
      England; and Sir Geoffrey instantly announced his purpose of waiting upon
      his Majesty, even before his return to the Castle of Martindale.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who knows, neighbour," he said, "whether Sir Geoffrey Peveril will ever
      return to Martindale? Titles must be going amongst them yonder, and I have
      deserved something among the rest.&mdash;Lord Peveril would sound well&mdash;or
      stay, Earl of Martindale&mdash;no, not of Martindale&mdash;Earl of the
      Peak.&mdash;Meanwhile, trust your affairs to me&mdash;I will see you
      secured&mdash;I would you had been no Presbyterian, neighbour&mdash;a
      knighthood,&mdash;I mean a knight-bachelor, not a knight-baronet,&mdash;would
      have served your turn well."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I leave these things to my betters, Sir Geoffrey," said the Major, "and
      desire nothing so earnestly as to find all well at Martindale when I
      return."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You will&mdash;you will find them all well," said the Baronet; "Julian,
      Alice, Lady Peveril, and all of them&mdash;Bear my commendations to them,
      and kiss them all, neighbour, Lady Peveril and all&mdash;you may kiss a
      Countess when I come back; all will go well with you now you are turned
      honest man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I always meant to be so, Sir Geoffrey," said Bridgenorth calmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, well, well&mdash;no offence meant," said the Knight, "all is well
      now&mdash;so you to Moultrassie Hall, and I to Whitehall. Said I well,
      aha! So ho, mine host, a stoup of Canary to the King's health ere we get
      to horse&mdash;I forgot, neighbour&mdash;you drink no healths."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish the King's health as sincerely as if I drank a gallon to it,"
      replied the Major; "and I wish you, Sir Geoffrey, all success on your
      journey, and a safe return."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       Why, then, we will have bellowing of beeves,
       Broaching of barrels, brandishing of spigots;
       Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore
       Of herds and flocks, and venison and poultry,
       Join'd to the brave heart's-blood of John-a-Barleycorn!
                                                &mdash;OLD PLAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      Whatever rewards Charles might have condescended to bestow in
      acknowledgement of the sufferings and loyalty of Peveril of the Peak, he
      had none in his disposal equal to the pleasure which Providence had
      reserved for Bridgenorth on his return to Derbyshire. The exertion to
      which he had been summoned, had had the usual effect of restoring to a
      certain extent the activity and energy of his character, and he felt it
      would be unbecoming to relapse into the state of lethargic melancholy from
      which it had roused him. Time also had its usual effect in mitigating the
      subjects of his regret; and when he had passed one day at the Hall in
      regretting that he could not expect the indirect news of his daughter's
      health, which Sir Geoffrey used to communicate in his almost daily call,
      he reflected that it would be in every respect becoming that he should pay
      a personal visit at Martindale Castle, carry thither the remembrances of
      the Knight to his lady, assure her of his health, and satisfy himself
      respecting that of his daughter. He armed himself for the worst&mdash;he
      called to recollection the thin cheeks, faded eye, wasted hand, pallid
      lip, which had marked the decaying health of all his former infants.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I shall see," he said, "these signs of mortality once more&mdash;I shall
      once more see a beloved being to whom I have given birth, gliding to the
      grave which ought to enclose me long before her. No matter&mdash;it is
      unmanly so long to shrink from that which must be&mdash;God's will be
      done!"
    </p>
    <p>
      He went accordingly, on the subsequent morning, to Martindale Castle, and
      gave the lady the welcome assurances of her husband's safety, and of his
      hopes of preferment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the first, may Almighty God be praised!" said the Lady Peveril; "and
      be the other as our gracious and restored Sovereign may will it. We are
      great enough for our means, and have means sufficient for contentment,
      though not for splendour. And now I see, good Master Bridgenorth, the
      folly of putting faith in idle presentiments of evil. So often had Sir
      Geoffrey's repeated attempts in favour of the Stewarts led him into new
      misfortunes, that when, the other morning, I saw him once more dressed in
      his fatal armour, and heard the sound of his trumpet, which had been so
      long silent, it seemed to me as if I saw his shroud, and heard his
      death-knell. I say this to you, good neighbour, the rather because I fear
      your own mind has been harassed with anticipations of impending calamity,
      which it may please God to avert in your case as it has done in mine; and
      here comes a sight which bears good assurance of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The door of the apartment opened as she spoke, and two lovely children
      entered. The eldest, Julian Peveril, a fine boy betwixt four and five
      years old, led in his hand, with an air of dignified support and
      attention, a little girl of eighteen months, who rolled and tottered
      along, keeping herself with difficulty upright by the assistance of her
      elder, stronger, and masculine companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth cast a hasty and fearful glance upon the countenance of his
      daughter, and, even in that glimpse, perceived, with exquisite delight,
      that his fears were unfounded. He caught her in his arms, pressed her to
      his heart, and the child, though at first alarmed at the vehemence of his
      caresses, presently, as if prompted by Nature, smiled in reply to them.
      Again he held her at some distance from him, and examined her more
      attentively; he satisfied himself that the complexion of the young cherub
      he had in his arms was not the hectic tinge of disease, but the clear hue
      of ruddy health; and that though her little frame was slight, it was firm
      and springy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not think that it could have been thus," he said, looking to Lady
      Peveril, who had sat observing the scene with great pleasure; "but praise
      be to God in the first instance, and next, thanks to you, madam, who have
      been His instrument."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Julian must lose his playfellow now, I suppose?" said the lady; "but the
      Hall is not distant, and I will see my little charge often. Dame Martha,
      the housekeeper at Moultrassie, has sense, and is careful. I will tell her
      the rules I have observed with little Alice, and&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "God forbid my girl should ever come to Moultrassie," said Major
      Bridgenorth hastily; "it has been the grave of her race. The air of the
      low grounds suited them not&mdash;or there is perhaps a fate connected
      with the mansion. I will seek for her some other place of abode."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That you shall not, under your favour be it spoken, Major Bridgenorth,"
      answered the lady. "If you do so, we must suppose that you are
      undervaluing my qualities as a nurse. If she goes not to her father's
      house, she shall not quit mine. I will keep the little lady as a pledge of
      her safety and my own skill; and since you are afraid of the damp of the
      low grounds, I hope you will come here frequently to visit her."
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a proposal which went to the heart of Major Bridgenorth. It was
      precisely the point which he would have given worlds to arrive at, but
      which he saw no chance of attaining.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is too well known, that those whose families are long pursued by such a
      fatal disease as existed in his, become, it may be said, superstitious
      respecting its fatal effects, and ascribe to place, circumstance, and
      individual care, much more perhaps than these can in any case contribute
      to avert the fatality of constitutional distemper. Lady Peveril was aware
      that this was peculiarly the impression of her neighbour; that the
      depression of his spirits, the excess of his care, the feverishness of his
      apprehensions, the restraint and gloom of the solitude in which he dwelt,
      were really calculated to produce the evil which most of all he dreaded.
      She pitied him, she felt for him, she was grateful for former protection
      received at his hands&mdash;she had become interested in the child itself.
      What female fails to feel such interest in the helpless creature she has
      tended? And to sum the whole up, the dame had a share of human vanity; and
      being a sort of Lady Bountiful in her way (for the character was not then
      confined to the old and the foolish), she was proud of the skill by which
      she had averted the probable attacks of hereditary malady, so inveterate
      in the family of Bridgenorth. It needed not, perhaps, in other cases, that
      so many reasons should be assigned for an act of neighbourly humanity; but
      civil war had so lately torn the country asunder, and broken all the usual
      ties of vicinage and good neighbourhood, that it was unusual to see them
      preserved among persons of different political opinions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Bridgenorth himself felt this; and while the tear of joy in his eye
      showed how gladly he would accept Lady Peveril's proposal, he could not
      help stating the obvious inconveniences attendant upon her scheme, though
      it was in the tone of one who would gladly hear them overruled. "Madam,"
      he said, "your kindness makes me the happiest and most thankful of men;
      but can it be consistent with your own convenience? Sir Geoffrey has his
      opinions on many points, which have differed, and probably do still
      differ, from mine. He is high-born, and I of middling parentage only. He
      uses the Church Service, and I the Catechism of the Assembly of Divines at
      Westminster&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hope you will find prescribed in neither of them," said the Lady
      Peveril, "that I may not be a mother to your motherless child. I trust,
      Master Bridgenorth, the joyful Restoration of his Majesty, a work wrought
      by the direct hand of Providence, may be the means of closing and healing
      all civil and religious dissensions among us, and that, instead of showing
      the superior purity of our faith, by persecuting those who think otherwise
      from ourselves on doctrinal points, we shall endeavour to show its real
      Christian tendency, by emulating each other in actions of good-will
      towards man, as the best way of showing our love to God."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your ladyship speaks what your own kind heart dictates," answered
      Bridgenorth, who had his own share of the narrow-mindedness of the time;
      "and sure am I, that if all who call themselves loyalists and Cavaliers,
      thought like you&mdash;and like my friend Sir Geoffrey"&mdash;(this he
      added after a moment's pause, being perhaps rather complimentary than
      sincere)&mdash;"we, who thought it our duty in time past to take arms for
      freedom of conscience, and against arbitrary power, might now sit down in
      peace and contentment. But I wot not how it may fall. You have sharp and
      hot spirits amongst you; I will not say our power was always moderately
      used, and revenge is sweet to the race of fallen Adam."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril gaily, "those evil
      omenings do but point out conclusions, which, unless they were so
      anticipated, are most unlikely to come to pass. You know what Shakespeare
      says&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'To fly the boar before the boar pursues,
  Were to incense the boar to follow us,
  And make pursuit when he did mean no chase.'
</pre>
    <p>
      "But I crave your pardon&mdash;it is so long since we have met, that I
      forgot you love no play-books."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With reverence to your ladyship," said Bridgenorth, "I were much to blame
      did I need the idle words of a Warwickshire stroller, to teach me my
      grateful duty to your ladyship on this occasion, which appoints me to be
      directed by you in all things which my conscience will permit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Since you permit me such influence, then," replied the Lady Peveril, "I
      shall be moderate in exercising it, in order that I may, in my domination
      at least, give you a favourable impression of the new order of things. So,
      if you will be a subject of mine for one day, neighbour, I am going, at my
      lord and husband's command, to issue out my warrants to invite the whole
      neighbourhood to a solemn feast at the Castle, on Thursday next; and I not
      only pray you to be personally present yourself, but to prevail on your
      worthy pastor, and such neighbours and friends, high and low, as may think
      in your own way, to meet with the rest of the neighbourhood, to rejoice on
      this joyful occasion of the King's Restoration, and thereby to show that
      we are to be henceforward a united people."
    </p>
    <p>
      The parliamentarian Major was considerably embarrassed by this proposal.
      He looked upward, and downward, and around, cast his eye first to the
      oak-carved ceiling, and anon fixed it upon the floor; then threw it around
      the room till it lighted on his child, the sight of whom suggested another
      and a better train of reflections than ceiling and floor had been able to
      supply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Madam," he said, "I have long been a stranger to festivity, perhaps from
      constitutional melancholy, perhaps from the depression which is natural to
      a desolate and deprived man, in whose ear mirth is marred, like a pleasant
      air when performed on a mistuned instrument. But though neither my
      thoughts nor temperament are Jovial or Mercurial, it becomes me to be
      grateful to Heaven for the good He has sent me by the means of your
      ladyship. David, the man after God's own heart, did wash and eat bread
      when his beloved child was removed&mdash;mine is restored to me, and shall
      I not show gratitude under a blessing, when he showed resignation under an
      affliction? Madam, I will wait on your gracious invitation with
      acceptance; and such of my friends with whom I may possess influence, and
      whose presence your ladyship may desire, shall accompany me to the
      festivity, that our Israel may be as one people."
    </p>
    <p>
      Having spoken these words with an aspect which belonged more to a martyr
      than to a guest bidden to a festival, and having kissed, and solemnly
      blessed his little girl, Major Bridgenorth took his departure for
      Moultrassie Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            Here's neither want of appetite nor mouths;
            Pray Heaven we be not scant of meat or mirth!
                                                &mdash;OLD PLAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      Even upon ordinary occasions, and where means were ample, a great
      entertainment in those days was not such a sinecure as in modern times,
      when the lady who presides has but to intimate to her menials the day and
      hour when she wills it to take place. At that simple period, the lady was
      expected to enter deeply into the arrangement and provision of the whole
      affair; and from a little gallery, which communicated with her own private
      apartment, and looked down upon the kitchen, her shrill voice was to be
      heard, from time to time, like that of the warning spirit in a tempest,
      rising above the clash of pots and stewpans&mdash;the creaking spits&mdash;the
      clattering of marrowbones and cleavers&mdash;the scolding of cooks&mdash;and
      all the other various kinds of din which form an accompaniment to dressing
      a large dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all this toil and anxiety was more than doubled in the case of the
      approaching feast at Martindale Castle, where the presiding Genius of the
      festivity was scarce provided with adequate means to carry her hospitable
      purpose into effect. The tyrannical conduct of husbands, in such cases, is
      universal; and I scarce know one householder of my acquaintance who has
      not, on some ill-omened and most inconvenient season, announced suddenly
      to his innocent helpmate, that he had invited
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "Some odious Major Rock,
  To drop in at six o'clock."
</pre>
    <p>
      to the great discomposure of the lady, and the discredit, perhaps, of her
      domestic arrangements.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril of the Peak was still more thoughtless; for he had directed his
      lady to invite the whole honest men of the neighbourhood to make good
      cheer at Martindale Castle, in honour of the blessed Restoration of his
      most sacred Majesty, without precisely explaining where the provisions
      were to come from. The deer-park had lain waste ever since the siege; the
      dovecot could do little to furnish forth such an entertainment; the
      fishponds, it is true, were well provided (which the neighbouring
      Presbyterians noted as a suspicious circumstance); and game was to be had
      for the shooting, upon the extensive heaths and hills of Derbyshire. But
      these were but the secondary parts of a banquet; and the house-steward and
      bailiff, Lady Peveril's only coadjutors and counsellors, could not agree
      how the butcher-meat&mdash;the most substantial part, or, as it were, the
      main body of the entertainment&mdash;was to be supplied. The house-steward
      threatened the sacrifice of a fine yoke of young bullocks, which the
      bailiff, who pleaded the necessity of their agricultural services,
      tenaciously resisted; and Lady Peveril's good and dutiful nature did not
      prevent her from making some impatient reflections on the want of
      consideration of her absent Knight, who had thus thoughtlessly placed her
      in so embarrassing a situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      These reflections were scarcely just, if a man is only responsible for
      such resolutions as he adopts when he is fully master of himself. Sir
      Geoffrey's loyalty, like that of many persons in his situation, had, by
      dint of hopes and fears, victories and defeats, struggles and sufferings,
      all arising out of the same moving cause, and turning, as it were, on the
      same pivot, acquired the character of an intense and enthusiastic passion;
      and the singular and surprising change of fortune, by which his highest
      wishes were not only gratified, but far exceeded, occasioned for some time
      a kind of intoxication of loyal rapture which seemed to pervade the whole
      kingdom. Sir Geoffrey had seen Charles and his brothers, and had been
      received by the merry monarch with that graceful, and at the same time
      frank urbanity, by which he conciliated all who approached him; the
      Knight's services and merits had been fully acknowledged, and recompense
      had been hinted at, if not expressly promised. Was it for Peveril of the
      Peak, in the jubilee of his spirits, to consider how his wife was to find
      beef and mutton to feast his neighbours?
    </p>
    <p>
      Luckily, however, for the embarrassed lady, there existed some one who had
      composure of mind sufficient to foresee this difficulty. Just as she had
      made up her mind, very reluctantly, to become debtor to Major Bridgenorth
      for the sum necessary to carry her husband's commands into effect, and
      whilst she was bitterly regretting this departure from the strictness of
      her usual economy, the steward, who, by-the-bye, had not been absolutely
      sober since the news of the King's landing at Dover, burst into the
      apartment, snapping his fingers, and showing more marks of delight than
      was quite consistent with the dignity of my lady's large parlour.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What means this, Whitaker?" said the lady, somewhat peevishly; for she
      was interrupted in the commencement of a letter to her neighbour on the
      unpleasant business of the proposed loan,&mdash;"Is it to be always thus
      with you?&mdash;Are you dreaming?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A vision of good omen, I trust," said the steward, with a triumphant
      flourish of the hand; "far better than Pharaoh's, though, like his, it be
      of fat kine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I prithee be plain, man," said the lady, "or fetch some one who can speak
      to purpose."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, odds-my-life, madam," said the steward, "mine errand can speak for
      itself. Do you not hear them low? Do you not hear them bleat? A yoke of
      fat oxen, and half a score prime wethers. The Castle is victualled for
      this bout, let them storm when they will; and Gatherill may have his d&mdash;d
      mains ploughed to the boot."
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady, without farther questioning her elated domestic, rose and went
      to the window, where she certainly beheld the oxen and sheep which had
      given rise to Whitaker's exultation. "Whence come they?" said she, in some
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let them construe that who can," answered Whitaker; "the fellow who drove
      them was a west-country man, and only said they came from a friend to help
      to furnish out your ladyship's entertainment; the man would not stay to
      drink&mdash;I am sorry he would not stay to drink&mdash;I crave your
      ladyship's pardon for not keeping him by the ears to drink&mdash;it was
      not my fault."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I'll be sworn it was not," said the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, madam, by G&mdash;, I assure you it was not," said the zealous
      steward; "for, rather than the Castle should lose credit, I drank his
      health myself in double ale, though I had had my morning draught already.
      I tell you the naked truth, my lady, by G&mdash;!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was no great compulsion, I suppose," said the lady; "but, Whitaker,
      suppose you should show your joy on such occasions, by drinking and
      swearing a little less, rather than a little more, would it not be as
      well, think you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I crave your ladyship's pardon," said Whitaker, with much reverence; "I
      hope I know my place. I am your ladyship's poor servant; and I know it
      does not become me to drink and swear like your ladyship&mdash;that is,
      like his honour, Sir Geoffrey, I would say. But I pray you, if I am not to
      drink and swear after my degree, how are men to know Peveril of the Peak's
      steward,&mdash;and I may say butler too, since I have had the keys of the
      cellar ever since old Spigots was shot dead on the northwest turret, with
      a black jack in his hand,&mdash;I say, how is an old Cavalier like me to
      be known from those cuckoldly Roundheads that do nothing but fast and
      pray, if we are not to drink and swear according to our degree?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady was silent, for she well knew speech availed nothing; and, after
      a moment's pause, proceeded to intimate to the steward that she would have
      the persons, whose names were marked in a written paper, which she
      delivered to him, invited to the approaching banquet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whitaker, instead of receiving the list with the mute acquiescence of a
      modern Major Domo, carried it into the recess of one of the windows, and,
      adjusting his spectacles, began to read it to himself. The first names,
      being those of distinguished Cavalier families in the neighbourhood, he
      muttered over in a tone of approbation&mdash;paused and pshawed at that of
      Bridgenorth&mdash;yet acquiesced, with the observation, "But he is a good
      neighbour, so it may pass for once." But when he read the name and surname
      of Nehemiah Solsgrace, the Presbyterian parson, Whitaker's patience
      altogether forsook him; and he declared he would as soon throw himself
      into Eldon-hole,[*] as consent that the intrusive old puritan howlet, who
      had usurped the pulpit of a sound orthodox divine, should ever darken the
      gates of Martindale Castle by any message or mediation of his.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] A chasm in the earth supposed to be unfathomable, one of the
    wonders of the Peak.
</pre>
    <p>
      "The false crop-eared hypocrites," cried he, with a hearty oath, "have had
      their turn of the good weather. The sun is on our side of the hedge now,
      and we will pay off old scores, as sure as my name is Richard Whitaker."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You presume on your long services, Whitaker, and on your master's
      absence, or you had not dared to use me thus," said the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unwonted agitation of her voice attracted the attention of the
      refractory steward, notwithstanding his present state of elevation; but he
      no sooner saw that her eye glistened, and her cheek reddened, than his
      obstinacy was at once subdued.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A murrain on me," he said, "but I have made my lady angry in good
      earnest! and that is an unwonted sight for to see.&mdash;I crave your
      pardon, my lady! It was not poor Dick Whitaker disputed your honourable
      commands, but only that second draught of double ale. We have put a double
      stroke of malt to it, as your ladyship well knows, ever since the happy
      Restoration. To be sure I hate a fanatic as I do the cloven foot of Satan;
      but then your honourable ladyship hath a right to invite Satan himself,
      cloven foot and all, to Martindale Castle; and to send me to hell's gate
      with a billet of invitation&mdash;and so your will shall be done."
    </p>
    <p>
      The invitations were sent round accordingly, in all due form; and one of
      the bullocks was sent down to be roasted whole at the market-place of a
      little village called Martindale-Moultrassie, which stood considerably to
      the eastward both of the Castle and Hall, from which it took its double
      name, at about an equal distance from both; so that, suppose a line drawn
      from the one manor-house to the other, to be the base of a triangle, the
      village would have occupied the salient angle. As the said village, since
      the late transference of a part of Peveril's property, belonged to Sir
      Geoffrey and to Bridgenorth in nearly equal portions, the lady judged it
      not proper to dispute the right of the latter to add some hogsheads of
      beer to the popular festivity.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, she could not but suspect the Major of being the unknown
      friend who had relieved her from the dilemma arising from the want of
      provisions; and she esteemed herself happy when a visit from him, on the
      day preceding the proposed entertainment, gave her, as she thought, an
      opportunity of expressing her gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          No, sir&mdash;I will not pledge&mdash;I'm one of those
          Who think good wine needs neither bush nor preface
          To make it welcome. If you doubt my word,
          Fill the quart-cup, and see if I will choke on't.
                                                   &mdash;OLD PLAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      There was a serious gravity of expression in the disclamation with which
      Major Bridgenorth replied to the thanks tendered to him by Lady Peveril,
      for the supply of provisions which had reached her Castle so opportunely.
      He seemed first not to be aware what she alluded to; and, when she
      explained the circumstance, he protested so seriously that he had no share
      in the benefit conferred, that Lady Peveril was compelled to believe him,
      the rather that, being a man of plain downright character, affecting no
      refined delicacy of sentiment, and practising almost a quaker-like
      sincerity of expression, it would have been much contrary to his general
      character to have made such a disavowal, unless it were founded in truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My present visit to you, madam," said he, "had indeed some reference to
      the festivity of to-morrow." Lady Peveril listened, but as her visitor
      seemed to find some difficulty in expressing himself, she was compelled to
      ask an explanation. "Madam," said the Major, "you are not perhaps entirely
      ignorant that the more tender-conscienced among us have scruples at
      certain practices, so general amongst your people at times of rejoicing,
      that you may be said to insist upon them as articles of faith, or at least
      greatly to resent their omission."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I trust, Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, not fully
      comprehending the drift of his discourse, "that we shall, as your
      entertainers, carefully avoid all allusions or reproaches founded on past
      misunderstanding."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We would expect no less, madam, from your candour and courtesy," said
      Bridgenorth; "but I perceive you do not fully understand me. To be plain,
      then, I allude to the fashion of drinking healths, and pledging each other
      in draughts of strong liquor, which most among us consider as a
      superfluous and sinful provoking of each other to debauchery, and the
      excessive use of strong drink; and which, besides, if derived, as learned
      divines have supposed, from the custom of the blinded Pagans, who made
      libations and invoked idols when they drank, may be justly said to have
      something in it heathenish, and allied to demon-worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady had already hastily considered all the topics which were likely
      to introduce discord into the proposed festivity; but this very
      ridiculous, yet fatal discrepancy, betwixt the manners of the parties on
      convivial occasions, had entirely escaped her. She endeavoured to soothe
      the objecting party, whose brows were knit like one who had fixed an
      opinion by which he was determined to abide.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I grant," she said, "my good neighbour, that this custom is at least
      idle, and may be prejudicial if it leads to excess in the use of liquor,
      which is apt enough to take place without such conversation. But I think,
      when it hath not this consequence, it is a thing indifferent, affords a
      unanimous mode of expressing our good wishes to our friends, and our loyal
      duty to our sovereign; and, without meaning to put any force upon the
      inclination of those who believe otherwise, I cannot see how I can deny my
      guests and friends the privilege of drinking a health to the King, or to
      my husband, after the old English fashion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My lady," said the Major, "if the age of fashion were to command it,
      Popery is one of the oldest English fashions that I have heard of; but it
      is our happiness that we are not benighted like our fathers, and therefore
      we must act according to the light that is in us, and not after their
      darkness. I had myself the honour to attend the Lord-Keeper Whitelocke,
      when, at the table of the Chamberlain of the kingdom of Sweden, he did
      positively refuse to pledge the health of his Queen, Christina, thereby
      giving great offence, and putting in peril the whole purpose of that
      voyage; which it is not to be thought so wise a man would have done, but
      that he held such compliance a thing not merely indifferent, but rather
      sinful and damnable."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all respect to Whitelocke," said the Lady Peveril, "I continue of my
      own opinion, though, Heaven knows, I am no friend to riot or wassail. I
      would fain accommodate myself to your scruples, and will discourage all
      other pledges; but surely those of the King and of Peveril of the Peak may
      be permitted?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I dare not," answered Bridgenorth, "lay even the ninety-ninth part of a
      grain of incense upon an altar erected to Satan."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, sir!" said the lady; "do you bring Satan into comparison with our
      master King Charles, and with my noble lord and husband?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, madam," answered Bridgenorth, "I have no such thoughts&mdash;indeed
      they would ill become me. I do wish the King's health and Sir Geoffrey's
      devoutly, and I will pray for both. But I see not what good it should do
      their health if I should prejudice my own by quaffing pledges out of quart
      flagons."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Since we cannot agree upon this matter," said Lady Peveril, "we must find
      some resource by which to offend those of neither party. Suppose you
      winked at our friends drinking these pledges, and we should connive at
      your sitting still?"
    </p>
    <p>
      But neither would this composition satisfy Bridgenorth, who was of
      opinion, as he expressed himself, that it would be holding a candle to
      Beelzebub. In fact, his temper, naturally stubborn, was at present
      rendered much more so by a previous conference with his preacher, who,
      though a very good man in the main, was particularly and illiberally
      tenacious of the petty distinctions which his sect adopted; and while he
      thought with considerable apprehension on the accession of power which
      Popery, Prelacy, and Peveril of the Peak, were like to acquire by the late
      Revolution, became naturally anxious to put his flock on their guard, and
      prevent their being kidnapped by the wolf. He disliked extremely that
      Major Bridgenorth, indisputably the head of the Presbyterian interest in
      that neighbourhood, should have given his only daughter to be, as he
      termed it, nursed by a Canaanitish woman; and he told him plainly that he
      liked not this going to feast in the high places with the uncircumcised in
      heart, and looked on the whole conviviality only as a making-merry in the
      house of Tirzah.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon receiving this rebuke from his pastor, Bridgenorth began to suspect
      he might have been partly wrong in the readiness which, in his first
      ardour of gratitude, he had shown to enter into intimate intercourse with
      the Castle of Martindale; but he was too proud to avow this to the
      preacher, and it was not till after a considerable debate betwixt them,
      that it was mutually agreed their presence at the entertainment should
      depend upon the condition, that no healths or pledges should be given in
      their presence. Bridgenorth, therefore, as the delegate and representative
      of his party, was bound to stand firm against all entreaty, and the lady
      became greatly embarrassed. She now regretted sincerely that her
      well-intended invitation had ever been given, for she foresaw that its
      rejection was to awaken all former subjects of quarrel, and perhaps to
      lead to new violences amongst people who had not many years since been
      engaged in civil war. To yield up the disputed point to the Presbyterians,
      would have been to offend the Cavalier party, and Sir Geoffrey in
      particular, in the most mortal degree; for they made it as firm a point of
      honour to give healths, and compel others to pledge them, as the Puritans
      made it a deep article of religion to refuse both. At length the lady
      changed the discourse, introduced that of Major Bridgenorth's child,
      caused it to be sent for, and put into his arms. The mother's stratagem
      took effect; for, though the parliamentary major stood firm, the father,
      as in the case of the Governor of Tilbury, was softened, and he agreed
      that his friends should accept a compromise. This was, that the major
      himself, the reverend divine, and such of their friends as held strict
      Puritan tenets, should form a separate party in the Large Parlour, while
      the Hall should be occupied by the jovial Cavaliers; and that each party
      should regulate their potations after their own conscience, or after their
      own fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Bridgenorth himself seemed greatly relieved after this important
      matter had been settled. He had held it matter of conscience to be
      stubborn in maintaining his own opinion, but was heartily glad when he
      escaped from the apparently inevitable necessity of affronting Lady
      Peveril by the refusal of her invitation. He remained longer than usual,
      and spoke and smiled more than was his custom. His first care on his
      return was to announce to the clergyman and his congregation the
      compromise which he had made, and this not as a matter for deliberation,
      but one upon which he had already resolved; and such was his authority
      among them, that though the preacher longed to pronounce a separation of
      the parties, and to exclaim&mdash;"To your tents, O Israel!" he did not
      see the chance of being seconded by so many, as would make it worth while
      to disturb the unanimous acquiescence in their delegate's proposal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nevertheless, each party being put upon the alert by the consequences of
      Major Bridgenorth's embassy, so many points of doubt and delicate
      discussion were started in succession, that the Lady Peveril, the only
      person, perhaps, who was desirous of achieving an effectual reconciliation
      between them, incurred, in reward for her good intentions, the censure of
      both factions, and had much reason to regret her well-meant project of
      bringing the Capulets and Montagues of Derbyshire together on the same
      occasion of public festivity.
    </p>
    <p>
      As it was now settled that the guests were to form two different parties,
      it became not only a subject of dispute betwixt themselves, which should
      be first admitted within the Castle of Martindale, but matter of serious
      apprehension to Lady Peveril and Major Bridgenorth, lest, if they were to
      approach by the same avenue and entrance, a quarrel might take place
      betwixt them, and proceed to extremities, even before they reached the
      place of entertainment. The lady believed she had discovered an admirable
      expedient for preventing the possibility of such interference, by
      directing that the Cavaliers should be admitted by the principal entrance,
      while the Roundheads should enter the Castle through a great breach which
      had been made in the course of the siege, and across which there had been
      made a sort of by-path to drive the cattle down to their pasture in the
      wood. By this contrivance the Lady Peveril imagined she had altogether
      avoided the various risks which might occur from two such parties
      encountering each other, and disputing for precedence. Several other
      circumstances of less importance were adjusted at the same time, and
      apparently so much to the satisfaction of the Presbyterian teacher, that,
      in a long lecture on the subject of the Marriage Garment, he was at the
      pains to explain to his hearers, that outward apparel was not alone meant
      by that scriptural expression, but also a suitable frame of mind for
      enjoyment of peaceful festivity; and therefore he exhorted the brethren,
      that whatever might be the errors of the poor blinded malignants, with
      whom they were in some sort to eat and drink upon the morrow they ought
      not on this occasion to show any evil will against them, lest they should
      therein become troublers of the peace of Israel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Honest Doctor Dummerar, the elected Episcopal Vicar of Martindale <i>cum</i>
      Moultrassie, preached to the Cavaliers on the same subject. He had served
      the cure before the breaking out of the rebellion, and was in high favour
      with Sir Geoffrey, not merely on account of his sound orthodoxy and deep
      learning, but his exquisite skill in playing at bowls, and his facetious
      conversation over a pipe and tankard of October. For these latter
      accomplishments, the Doctor had the honour to be recorded by old Century
      White amongst the roll of lewd, incompetent, profligate clergymen of the
      Church of England, whom he denounced to God and man, on account chiefly of
      the heinous sin of playing at games of skill and chance, and of
      occasionally joining in the social meetings of their parishioners. When
      the King's party began to lose ground, Doctor Dummerar left his vicarage,
      and, betaking himself to the camp, showed upon several occasions, when
      acting as chaplain to Sir Geoffrey Peveril's regiment, that his portly
      bodily presence included a stout and masculine heart. When all was lost,
      and he himself, with most other loyal divines, was deprived of his living,
      he made such shift as he could; now lurking in the garrets of old friends
      in the University, who shared with him, and such as him, the slender means
      of livelihood which the evil times had left them; and now lying hid in the
      houses of the oppressed and sequestered gentry, who respected at once his
      character and sufferings. When the Restoration took place, Doctor Dummerar
      emerged from some one of his hiding-places, and hied him to Martindale
      Castle, to enjoy the triumph inseparable from this happy change.
    </p>
    <p>
      His appearance at the Castle in his full clerical dress, and the warm
      reception which he received from the neighbouring gentry, added not a
      little to the alarm which was gradually extending itself through the party
      which were so lately the uppermost. It is true, Doctor Dummerar framed
      (honest worthy man) no extravagant views of elevation or preferment; but
      the probability of his being replaced in the living, from which he had
      been expelled under very flimsy pretences, inferred a severe blow to the
      Presbyterian divine, who could not be considered otherwise than as an
      intruder. The interest of the two preachers, therefore, as well as the
      sentiments of their flocks, were at direct variance; and here was another
      fatal objection in the way of Lady Peveril's scheme of a general and
      comprehensive healing ordinance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nevertheless, as we have already hinted, Doctor Dummerar behaved as
      handsomely upon the occasion as the Presbyterian incumbent had done. It is
      true, that in a sermon which he preached in the Castle hall to several of
      the most distinguished Cavalier families, besides a world of boys from the
      village, who went to see the novel circumstance of a parson in a cassock
      and surplice, he went at great length into the foulness of the various
      crimes committed by the rebellious party during the late evil times, and
      greatly magnified the merciful and peaceful nature of the honourable Lady
      of the Manor, who condescended to look upon, or receive into her house in
      the way of friendship and hospitality, men holding the principles which
      had led to the murder of the King&mdash;the slaying and despoiling his
      loyal subjects&mdash;and the plundering and breaking down of the Church of
      God. But then he wiped all this handsomely up again, with the observation,
      that since it was the will of their gracious and newly-restored Sovereign,
      and the pleasure of the worshipful Lady Peveril, that this contumacious
      and rebellious race should be, for a time, forborne by their faithful
      subjects, it would be highly proper that all the loyal liegemen should,
      for the present, eschew subjects of dissension or quarrel with these sons
      of Shimei; which lesson of patience he enforced by the comfortable
      assurance, that they could not long abstain from their old rebellious
      practices; in which case, the Royalists would stand exculpated before God
      and man, in extirpating them from the face of the earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The close observers of the remarkable passages of the times from which we
      draw the events of our history, have left it upon record, that these two
      several sermons, much contrary, doubtless, to the intention of the worthy
      divines by whom they were delivered, had a greater effect in exasperating,
      than in composing, the disputes betwixt the two factions. Under such evil
      auspices, and with corresponding forebodings on the mind of Lady Peveril,
      the day of festivity at length arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      By different routes, and forming each a sort of procession, as if the
      adherents of each party were desirous of exhibiting its strength and
      numbers, the two several factions approached Martindale Castle; and so
      distinct did they appear in dress, aspect, and manners, that it seemed as
      if the revellers of a bridal party, and the sad attendants upon a funeral
      solemnity, were moving towards the same point from different quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      The puritanical party was by far the fewer in numbers, for which two
      excellent reasons might be given. In the first place, they had enjoyed
      power for several years, and, of course, became unpopular among the common
      people, never at any time attached to those, who, being in the immediate
      possession of authority, are often obliged to employ it in controlling
      their humours. Besides, the country people of England had, and still have,
      an animated attachment to field sports, and a natural unrestrained
      joviality of disposition, which rendered them impatient under the severe
      discipline of the fanatical preachers; while they were not less naturally
      discontented with the military despotism of Cromwell's Major-Generals.
      Secondly, the people were fickle as usual, and the return of the King had
      novelty in it, and was therefore popular. The side of the Puritans was
      also deserted at this period by a numerous class of more thinking and
      prudential persons, who never forsook them till they became unfortunate.
      These sagacious personages were called in that age the Waiters upon
      Providence, and deemed it a high delinquency towards Heaven if they
      afforded countenance to any cause longer than it was favoured by fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, though thus forsaken by the fickle and the selfish, a solemn
      enthusiasm, a stern and determined depth of principle, a confidence in the
      sincerity of their own motives, and the manly English pride which inclined
      them to cling to their former opinions, like the traveller in the fable to
      his cloak, the more strongly that the tempest blew around them, detained
      in the ranks of the Puritans many, who, if no longer formidable from
      numbers, were still so from their character. They consisted chiefly of the
      middling gentry, with others whom industry or successful speculations in
      commerce or in mining had raised into eminence&mdash;the persons who feel
      most umbrage from the overshadowing aristocracy, and are usually the most
      vehement in defence of what they hold to be their rights. Their dress was
      in general studiously simple and unostentatious, or only remarkable by the
      contradictory affectation of extreme simplicity or carelessness. The dark
      colour of their cloaks, varying from absolute black to what was called
      sad-coloured&mdash;their steeple-crowned hats, with their broad shadowy
      brims&mdash;their long swords, suspended by a simple strap around the
      loins, without shoulder-belt, sword-knot, plate, buckles, or any of the
      other decorations with which the Cavaliers loved to adorn their trusty
      rapiers,&mdash;the shortness of their hair, which made their ears appear
      of disproportioned size,&mdash;above all, the stern and gloomy gravity of
      their looks, announced their belonging to that class of enthusiasts, who,
      resolute and undismayed, had cast down the former fabric of government,
      and who now regarded with somewhat more than suspicion, that which had
      been so unexpectedly substituted in its stead. There was gloom in their
      countenances; but it was not that of dejection, far less of despair. They
      looked like veterans after a defeat, which may have checked their career
      and wounded their pride, but has left their courage undiminished.
    </p>
    <p>
      The melancholy, now become habitual, which overcast Major Bridgenorth's
      countenance, well qualified him to act as the chief of the group who now
      advanced from the village. When they reached the point by which they were
      first to turn aside into the wood which surrounded the Castle, they felt a
      momentary impression of degradation, as if they were yielding the high
      road to their old and oft-defeated enemies the Cavaliers. When they began
      to ascend the winding path, which had been the daily passage of the
      cattle, the opening of the wooded glade gave them a view of the Castle
      ditch, half choked with the rubbish of the breach, and of the breach
      itself, which was made at the angle of a large square flanking-tower,
      one-half of which had been battered into ruins, while the other fragment
      remained in a state strangely shattered and precarious, and seemed to be
      tottering above the huge aperture in the wall. A stern still smile was
      exchanged among the Puritans, as the sight reminded them of the victories
      of former days. Holdfast Clegg, a millwright of Derby, who had been
      himself active at the siege, pointed to the breach, and said, with a grim
      smile to Mr. Solsgrace, "I little thought, that when my own hand helped to
      level the cannon which Oliver pointed against yon tower, we should have
      been obliged to climb like foxes up the very walls which we won by our bow
      and by our spear. Methought these malignants had then enough of shutting
      their gates and making high their horn against us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be patient, my brother," said Solsgrace; "be patient, and let not thy
      soul be disquieted. We enter not this high place dishonourably, seeing we
      ascend by the gate which the Lord opened to the godly."
    </p>
    <p>
      The words of the pastor were like a spark to gunpowder. The countenances
      of the mournful retinue suddenly expanded, and, accepting what had fallen
      from him as an omen and a light from heaven how they were to interpret
      their present situation, they uplifted, with one consent, one of the
      triumphant songs in which the Israelites celebrated the victories which
      had been vouchsafed to them over the heathen inhabitants of the Promised
      Land:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "Let God arise, and then His foes
    Shall turn themselves to flight,
  His enemies for fear shall run,
    And scatter out of sight;

  And as wax melts before the fire,
    And wind blows smoke away,
  So in the presence of the Lord,
    The wicked shall decay.

  God's army twenty thousand is,
    Of angels bright and strong,
  The Lord also in Sinai
    Is present them among.

  Thou didst, O Lord, ascend on high,
    And captive led'st them all,
  Who, in times past, Thy chosen flock
    In bondage did enthral."
</pre>
    <p>
      These sounds of devotional triumph reached the joyous band of the
      Cavaliers, who, decked in whatever pomp their repeated misfortunes and
      impoverishment had left them, were moving towards the same point, though
      by a different road, and were filling the principal avenue to the Castle,
      with tiptoe mirth and revelry. The two parties were strongly contrasted;
      for, during that period of civil dissension, the manners of the different
      factions distinguished them as completely as separate uniforms might have
      done. If the Puritan was affectedly plain in his dress, and ridiculously
      precise in his manners, the Cavalier often carried his love of ornament
      into tawdry finery, and his contempt of hypocrisy into licentious
      profligacy. Gay gallant fellows, young and old, thronged together towards
      the ancient Castle, with general and joyous manifestation of those
      spirits, which, as they had been buoyant enough to support their owners
      during the worst of times, as they termed Oliver's usurpation, were now so
      inflated as to transport them nearly beyond the reach of sober reason.
      Feathers waved, lace glittered, spears jingled, steeds caracoled; and here
      and there a petronel, or pistol, was fired off by some one, who found his
      own natural talents for making a noise inadequate to the dignity of the
      occasion. Boys&mdash;for, as we said before, the rabble were with the
      uppermost party, as usual&mdash;halloo'd and whooped, "Down with the
      Rump," and "Fie upon Oliver!" Musical instruments, of as many different
      fashions as were then in use, played all at once, and without any regard
      to each other's tune; and the glee of the occasion, while it reconciled
      the pride of the high-born of the party to fraternise with the general
      rout, derived an additional zest from the conscious triumph, that their
      exultation was heard by their neighbours, the crestfallen Roundheads.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the loud and sonorous swell of the psalm-tune, multiplied by all the
      echoes of the cliffs and ruinous halls, came full upon their ear, as if to
      warn them how little they were to reckon upon the depression of their
      adversaries, at first it was answered with a scornful laugh, raised to as
      much height as the scoffers' lungs would permit, in order that it might
      carry to the psalmodists the contempt of their auditors; but this was a
      forced exertion of party spleen. There is something in melancholy feelings
      more natural to an imperfect and suffering state than in those of gaiety,
      and when they are brought into collision, the former seldom fail to
      triumph. If a funeral-train and wedding-procession were to meet
      unexpectedly, it will readily be allowed that the mirth of the last would
      be speedily merged in the gloom of the others. But the Cavaliers,
      moreover, had sympathies of a different kind. The psalm-tune, which now
      came rolling on their ear, had been heard too often, and upon too many
      occasions had preceded victory gained over the malignants, to permit them,
      even in their triumph, to hear it without emotion. There was a sort of
      pause, of which the party themselves seemed rather ashamed, until the
      silence was broken by the stout old knight, Sir Jasper Cranbourne, whose
      gallantry was so universally acknowledged, that he could afford, if we may
      use such an expression, to confess emotions, which men whose courage was
      in any respect liable to suspicion, would have thought it imprudent to
      acknowledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Adad," said the old Knight, "may I never taste claret again, if that is
      not the very tune with which the prick-eared villains began their onset at
      Wiggan Lane, where they trowled us down like so many ninepins! Faith,
      neighbours, to say truth, and shame the devil, I did not like the sound of
      it above half."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I thought the round-headed rogues did it in scorn of us," said Dick
      Wildblood of the Dale, "I would cudgel their psalmody out of their
      peasantly throats with this very truncheon;" a motion which, being
      seconded by old Roger Raine, the drunken tapster of the Peveril Arms in
      the village, might have brought on a general battle, but that Sir Jasper
      forbade the feud.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We'll have no ranting, Dick," said the old Knight to the young Franklin;
      "adad, man, we'll have none, for three reasons: first, because it would be
      ungentle to Lady Peveril; then, because it is against the King's peace;
      and, lastly, Dick, because if we did set on the psalm-singing knaves, thou
      mightest come by the worst, my boy, as has chanced to thee before."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who, I! Sir Jasper?" answered Dick&mdash;"I come by the worst!&mdash;I'll
      be d&mdash;d if it ever happened but in that accursed lane, where we had
      no more flank, front, or rear, than if we had been so many herrings in a
      barrel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That was the reason, I fancy," answered Sir Jasper, "that you, to mend
      the matter, scrambled into the hedge, and stuck there, horse and man, till
      I beat thee through it with my leading-staff; and then, instead of
      charging to the front, you went right-about, and away as fast as your feet
      would carry you."
    </p>
    <p>
      This reminiscence produced a laugh at Dick's expense, who was known, or at
      least suspected, to have more tongue in his head than mettle in his bosom.
      And this sort of rallying on the part of the Knight having fortunately
      abated the resentment which had begun to awaken in the breasts of the
      royalist cavalcade, farther cause for offence was removed, by the sudden
      ceasing of the sounds which they had been disposed to interpret into those
      of premeditated insult.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was owing to the arrival of the Puritans at the bottom of the large
      and wide breach, which had been formerly made in the wall of the Castle by
      their victorious cannon. The sight of its gaping heaps of rubbish, and
      disjointed masses of building, up which slowly winded a narrow and steep
      path, such as is made amongst ancient ruins by the rare passage of those
      who occasionally visit them, was calculated, when contrasted with the grey
      and solid massiveness of the towers and curtains which yet stood
      uninjured, to remind them of their victory over the stronghold of their
      enemies, and how they had bound nobles and princes with fetters of iron.
    </p>
    <p>
      But feelings more suitable to the purpose of their visit to Martindale
      Castle, were awakened in the bosoms even of these stern sectaries, when
      the Lady of the Castle, still in the very prime of beauty and of
      womanhood, appeared at the top of the breach with her principal female
      attendants, to receive her guests with the honour and courtesy becoming
      her invitation. She had laid aside the black dress which had been her sole
      attire for several years, and was arrayed with a splendour not unbecoming
      her high descent and quality. Jewels, indeed, she had none; but her long
      and dark hair was surmounted with a chaplet made of oak leaves,
      interspersed with lilies; the former being the emblem of the King's
      preservation in the Royal Oak, and the latter of his happy Restoration.
      What rendered her presence still more interesting to those who looked on
      her, was the presence of the two children whom she held in either hand;
      one of whom was well known to them all to be the child of their leader,
      Major Bridgenorth, who had been restored to life and health by the almost
      maternal care of the Lady Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      If even the inferior persons of the party felt the healing influence of
      her presence, thus accompanied, poor Bridgenorth was almost overwhelmed
      with it. The strictness of his cast and manners permitted him not to sink
      on his knee, and kiss the hand which held his little orphan; but the
      deepness of his obeisance&mdash;the faltering tremor of his voice&mdash;and
      the glistening of his eye, showed a grateful respect for the lady whom he
      addressed, deeper and more reverential than could have been expressed even
      by Persian prostration. A few courteous and mild words, expressive of the
      pleasure she found in once more seeing her neighbours as her friends&mdash;a
      few kind inquiries, addressed to the principal individuals among her
      guests, concerning their families and connections, completed her triumph
      over angry thoughts and dangerous recollections, and disposed men's bosoms
      to sympathise with the purposes of the meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Solsgrace himself, although imagining himself bound by his office and
      duty to watch over and counteract the wiles of the "Amalekitish woman,"
      did not escape the sympathetic infection; being so much struck with the
      marks of peace and good-will exhibited by Lady Peveril, that he
      immediately raised the psalm&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "O what a happy thing it is,
    And joyful, for to see
  Brethren to dwell together in
    Friendship and unity!"
</pre>
    <p>
      Accepting this salutation as a mark of courtesy repaid, the Lady Peveril
      marshalled in person this party of her guests to the apartment, where
      ample good cheer was provided for them; and had even the patience to
      remain while Master Nehemiah Solsgrace pronounced a benediction of
      portentous length, as an introduction to the banquet. Her presence was in
      some measure a restraint on the worthy divine, whose prolusion lasted the
      longer, and was the more intricate and embarrassed, that he felt himself
      debarred from rounding it off by his usual alliterative petition for
      deliverance from Popery, Prelacy, and Peveril of the Peak, which had
      become so habitual to him, that, after various attempts to conclude with
      some other form of words, he found himself at last obliged to pronounce
      the first words of his usual <i>formula</i> aloud, and mutter the rest in
      such a manner as not to be intelligible even by those who stood nearest to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister's silence was followed by all the various sounds which
      announce the onset of a hungry company on a well-furnished table; and at
      the same time gave the lady an opportunity to leave the apartment, and
      look to the accommodation of her other company. She felt, indeed, that it
      was high time to do so; and that the royalist guests might be disposed to
      misapprehend, or even to resent, the prior attentions which she had
      thought it prudent to offer to the Puritans.
    </p>
    <p>
      These apprehensions were not altogether ill-founded. It was in vain that
      the steward had displayed the royal standard, with its proud motto of <i>Tandem
      Triumphans</i>, on one of the great towers which flanked the main entrance
      of the Castle; while, from the other, floated the banner of Peveril of the
      Peak, under which many of those who now approached had fought during all
      the vicissitudes of civil war. It was in vain he repeated his clamorous
      "Welcome, noble Cavaliers! welcome, generous gentlemen!" There was a
      slight murmur amongst them, that their welcome ought to have come from the
      mouth of the Colonel's lady&mdash;not from that of a menial. Sir Jasper
      Cranbourne, who had sense as well as spirit and courage, and who was aware
      of his fair cousin's motives, having been indeed consulted by her upon all
      the arrangements which she had adopted, saw matters were in such a state
      that no time ought to be lost in conducting the guests to the banqueting
      apartment, where a fortunate diversion from all these topics of rising
      discontent might be made, at the expense of the good cheer of all sorts,
      which the lady's care had so liberally provided.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stratagem of the old soldier succeeded in its utmost extent. He
      assumed the great oaken-chair usually occupied by the steward at his
      audits; and Dr. Dummerar having pronounced a brief Latin benediction
      (which was not the less esteemed by the hearers that none of them
      understood it), Sir Jasper exhorted the company to wet their appetites to
      the dinner by a brimming cup to his Majesty's health, filled as high and
      as deep as their goblets would permit. In a moment all was bustle, with
      the clank of wine-cups and of flagons. In another moment the guests were
      on their feet like so many statues, all hushed as death, but with eyes
      glancing with expectation, and hands outstretched, which displayed their
      loyal brimmers. The voice of Sir Jasper, clear, sonorous, and emphatic, as
      the sound of his war-trumpet, announced the health of the restored
      Monarch, hastily echoed back by the assemblage, impatient to render it due
      homage. Another brief pause was filled by the draining of their cups, and
      the mustering breath to join in a shout so loud, that not only the rafters
      of the old hall trembled while they echoed it back, but the garlands of
      oaken boughs and flowers with which they were decorated, waved wildly, and
      rustled as if agitated by a sudden whirlwind. This rite observed, the
      company proceeded to assail the good cheer with which the table groaned,
      animated as they were to the attack both by mirth and melody, for they
      were attended by all the minstrels of the district, who, like the
      Episcopal clergy, had been put to silence during the reign of the
      self-entitled saints of the Commonwealth. The social occupation of good
      eating and drinking, the exchange of pledges betwixt old neighbours who
      had been fellow-soldiers in the moment of resistance&mdash;fellow-sufferers
      in the time of depression and subjugation, and were now partners in the
      same general subject of congratulation, soon wiped from their memory the
      trifling cause of complaint, which in the minds of some had darkened the
      festivity of the day; so that when the Lady Peveril walked into the hall,
      accompanied as before with the children and her female attendants, she was
      welcomed with the acclamations due to the mistress of the banquet and of
      the Castle&mdash;the dame of the noble Knight, who had led most of them to
      battle with an undaunted and persevering valour, which was worthy of
      better success.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her address to them was brief and matronly, yet spoken with so much
      feeling as found its way to every bosom. She apologised for the lateness
      of her personal welcome, by reminding them that there were then present in
      Martindale Castle that day, persons whom recent happy events had converted
      from enemies into friends, but on whom the latter character was so
      recently imposed, that she dared not neglect with them any point of
      ceremonial. But those whom she now addressed, were the best, the dearest
      the most faithful friends of her husband's house, to whom and to their
      valour Peveril had not only owed those successes, which had given them and
      him fame during the late unhappy times, but to whose courage she in
      particular had owed the preservation of their leader's life, even when it
      could not avert defeat. A word or two of heartfelt authority, completed
      all which she had boldness to add, and, bowing gracefully round her, she
      lifted a cup to her lips as if to welcome her guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      There still remained, and especially amongst the old Cavaliers of the
      period, some glimmering of that spirit which inspired Froissart, when he
      declares that a knight hath double courage at need, when animated by the
      looks and words of a beautiful and virtuous woman. It was not until the
      reign which was commencing at the moment we are treating of, that the
      unbounded licence of the age, introducing a general course of profligacy,
      degraded the female sex into mere servants of pleasure, and, in so doing,
      deprived society of that noble tone of feeling towards the sex, which,
      considered as a spur to "raise the clear spirit," is superior to every
      other impulse, save those of religion and of patriotism. The beams of the
      ancient hall of Martindale Castle instantly rang with a shout louder and
      shriller than that at which they had so lately trembled, and the names of
      the Knight of the Peak and his lady were proclaimed amid waving of caps
      and hats, and universal wishes for their health and happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under these auspices the Lady Peveril glided from the hall, and left free
      space for the revelry of the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      That of the Cavaliers may be easily conceived, since it had the usual
      accompaniments of singing, jesting, quaffing of healths, and playing of
      tunes, which have in almost every age and quarter of the world been the
      accompaniments of festive cheer. The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a
      different and less noisy character. They neither sung, jested, heard
      music, nor drank healths; and yet they seemed not the less, in their own
      phrase, to enjoy the creature-comforts, which the frailty of humanity
      rendered grateful to their outward man. Old Whitaker even protested, that,
      though much the smaller party in point of numbers, they discussed nearly
      as much sack and claret as his own more jovial associates. But those who
      considered the steward's prejudices, were inclined to think, that, in
      order to produce such a result, he must have thrown in his own
      by-drinkings&mdash;no inconsiderable item&mdash;to the sum total of the
      Presbyterian potations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without adopting such a partial and scandalous report, we shall only say,
      that on this occasion, as on most others, the rareness of indulgence
      promoted the sense of enjoyment, and that those who made abstinence, or at
      least moderation, a point of religious principle, enjoyed their social
      meeting the better that such opportunities rarely presented themselves. If
      they did not actually drink each other's healths, they at least showed, by
      looking and nodding to each other as they raised their glasses, that they
      all were sharing the same festive gratification of the appetite, and felt
      it enhanced, because it was at the same time enjoyed by their friends and
      neighbours. Religion, as it was the principal topic of their thoughts,
      became also the chief subject of their conversation, and as they sat
      together in small separate knots, they discussed doctrinal and
      metaphysical points of belief, balanced the merits of various preachers,
      compared the creeds of contending sects, and fortified by scriptural
      quotations those which they favoured. Some contests arose in the course of
      these debates, which might have proceeded farther than was seemly, but for
      the cautious interference of Major Bridgenorth. He suppressed also, in the
      very bud, a dispute betwixt Gaffer Hodgeson of Charnelycot and the
      Reverend Mr. Solsgrace, upon the tender subject of lay-preaching and
      lay-ministering; nor did he think it altogether prudent or decent to
      indulge the wishes of some of the warmer enthusiasts of the party, who
      felt disposed to make the rest partakers of their gifts in extemporaneous
      prayer and exposition. These were absurdities that belonged to the time,
      which, however, the Major had sense enough to perceive were unfitted,
      whether the offspring of hypocrisy or enthusiasm, for the present time and
      place.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Major was also instrumental in breaking up the party at an early and
      decorous hour, so that they left the Castle long before their rivals, the
      Cavaliers, had reached the springtide of their merriment; an arrangement
      which afforded the greatest satisfaction to the lady, who dreaded the
      consequences which might not improbably have taken place, had both parties
      met at the same period and point of retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was near midnight ere the greater part of the Cavaliers, meaning such
      as were able to effect their departure without assistance, withdrew to the
      village of Martindale Moultrassie, with the benefit of the broad moon to
      prevent the chance of accidents. Their shouts, and the burden of their
      roaring chorus of&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "The King shall enjoy his own again!"
</pre>
    <p>
      were heard with no small pleasure by the lady, heartily glad that the riot
      of the day was over without the occurrence of any unpleasing accident. The
      rejoicing was not, however, entirely ended; for the elevated Cavaliers,
      finding some of the villagers still on foot around a bonfire on the
      street, struck merrily in with them&mdash;sent to Roger Raine of the
      Peveril Arms, the loyal publican whom we have already mentioned, for two
      tubs of merry stingo (as it was termed), and lent their own powerful
      assistance at the <i>dusting</i> it off to the health of the King and the
      loyal General Monk. Their shouts for a long time disturbed, and even
      alarmed, the little village; but no enthusiasm is able to withstand for
      ever the natural consequences of late hours, and potations pottle-deep.
      The tumult of the exulting Royalists at last sunk into silence, and the
      moon and the owl were left in undisturbed sovereignty over the old tower
      of the village church, which, rising white above a circle of knotty oaks,
      was tenanted by the bird, and silvered by the planet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
             'Twas when they raised, 'mid sap and siege,
             The banners of their rightful liege,
               At their she-captain's call,
             Who, miracle of womankind!
             Lent mettle to the meanest hind
               That mann'd her castle wall.
                                           &mdash;WILLIAM S. ROSE.
</pre>
    <p>
      On the morning succeeding the feast, the Lady Peveril, fatigued with the
      exertions and the apprehensions of the former day, kept her apartment for
      two or three hours later than her own active habits, and the matutinal
      custom of the time, rendered usual. Meanwhile, Mistress Ellesmere, a
      person of great trust in the family, and who assumed much authority in her
      mistress's absence, laid her orders upon Deborah, the governante,
      immediately to carry the children to their airing in the park, and not to
      let any one enter the gilded chamber, which was usually their
      sporting-place. Deborah, who often rebelled, and sometimes successfully,
      against the deputed authority of Ellesmere, privately resolved that it was
      about to rain, and that the gilded chamber was a more suitable place for
      the children's exercise than the wet grass of the park on a raw morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a woman's brain is sometimes as inconstant as a popular assembly; and
      presently after she had voted the morning was like to be rainy, and that
      the gilded chamber was the fittest play-room for the children, Mistress
      Deborah came to the somewhat inconsistent resolution, that the park was
      the fittest place for her own morning walk. It is certain, that during the
      unrestrained joviality of the preceding evening, she had danced till
      midnight with Lance Outram the park-keeper; but how far the seeing him
      just pass the window in his woodland trim, with a feather in his hat, and
      a crossbow under his arm, influenced the discrepancy of the opinions
      Mistress Deborah formed concerning the weather, we are far from presuming
      to guess. It is enough for us, that, so soon as Mistress Ellesmere's back
      was turned, Mistress Deborah carried the children into the gilded chamber,
      not without a strict charge (for we must do her justice) to Master Julian
      to take care of his little wife, Mistress Alice; and then, having taken so
      satisfactory a precaution, she herself glided into the park by the
      glass-door of the still-room, which was nearly opposite to the great
      breach.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gilded chamber in which the children were, by this arrangement, left
      to amuse themselves, without better guardianship than what Julian's
      manhood afforded, was a large apartment, hung with stamped Spanish
      leather, curiously gilded, representing, in a manner now obsolete, but far
      from unpleasing, a series of tilts and combats betwixt the Saracens of
      Grenada, and the Spaniards under the command of King Ferdinand and Queen
      Isabella, during that memorable siege, which was terminated by the
      overthrow of the last fragments of the Moorish empire in Spain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little Julian was careering about the room for the amusement of his
      infant friend, as well as his own, mimicking with a reed the menacing
      attitude of the Abencerrages and Zegris engaged in the Eastern sport of
      hurling the JERID, or javelin; and at times sitting down beside her, and
      caressing her into silence and good humour, when the petulant or timid
      child chose to become tired of remaining an inactive spectator of his
      boisterous sport; when, on a sudden, he observed one of the panelled
      compartments of the leather hangings slide apart, so as to show a fair
      hand, with its fingers resting upon its edge, prepared, it would seem, to
      push it still farther back. Julian was much surprised, and somewhat
      frightened, at what he witnessed, for the tales of the nursery had
      strongly impressed on his mind the terrors of the invisible world. Yet,
      naturally bold and high-spirited, the little champion placed himself
      beside his defenceless sister, continuing to brandish his weapon in her
      defence, as boldly as he had himself been an Abencerrage of Grenada.
    </p>
    <p>
      The panel, on which his eye was fixed, gradually continued to slide back,
      and display more and more the form to which the hand appertained, until,
      in the dark aperture which was disclosed, the children saw the figure of a
      lady in a mourning dress, past the meridian of life, but whose countenance
      still retained traces of great beauty, although the predominant character
      both of her features and person was an air of almost royal dignity. After
      pausing a moment on the threshold of the portal which she had thus
      unexpectedly disclosed, and looking with some surprise at the children,
      whom she had not probably observed while engaged with the management of
      the panel, the stranger stepped into the apartment, and the panel, upon a
      touch of a spring, closed behind her so suddenly, that Julian almost
      doubted it had ever been open, and began to apprehend that the whole
      apparition had been a delusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stately lady, however, advanced to him, and said, "Are not you the
      little Peveril?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said the boy, reddening, not altogether without a juvenile feeling
      of that rule of chivalry which forbade any one to disown his name,
      whatever danger might be annexed to the avowal of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then," said the stately stranger, "go to your mother's room, and tell her
      to come instantly to speak with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wo'not," said the little Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How?" said the lady,&mdash;"so young and so disobedient?&mdash;but you do
      but follow the fashion of the time. Why will you not go, my pretty boy,
      when I ask it of you as a favour?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would go, madam," said the boy, "but"&mdash;and he stopped short, still
      drawing back as the lady advanced on him, but still holding by the hand
      Alice Bridgenorth, who, too young to understand the nature of the
      dialogue, clung, trembling, to her companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger saw his embarrassment, smiled, and remained standing fast,
      while she asked the child once more, "What are you afraid of, my brave boy&mdash;and
      why should you not go to your mother on my errand?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because," answered Julian firmly, "if I go, little Alice must stay alone
      with you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are a gallant fellow," said the lady, "and will not disgrace your
      blood, which never left the weak without protection."
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy understood her not, and still gazed with anxious apprehension,
      first on her who addressed him, and then upon his little companion, whose
      eyes, with the vacant glance of infancy, wandered from the figure of the
      lady to that of her companion and protector, and at length, infected by a
      portion of the fear which the latter's magnanimous efforts could not
      entirely conceal, she flew into Julian's arms, and, clinging to him,
      greatly augmented his alarm, and by screaming aloud, rendered it very
      difficult for him to avoid the sympathetic fear which impelled him to do
      the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in the manner and bearing of this unexpected inmate
      which might justify awe at least, if not fear, when joined to the singular
      and mysterious mode in which she had made her appearance. Her dress was
      not remarkable, being the hood and female riding attire of the time, such
      as was worn by the inferior class of gentlewomen; but her black hair was
      very long, and, several locks having escaped from under her hood, hung
      down dishevelled on her neck and shoulders. Her eyes were deep black,
      keen, and piercing, and her features had something of a foreign
      expression. When she spoke, her language was marked by a slight foreign
      accent, although, in construction, it was pure English. Her slightest tone
      and gesture had the air of one accustomed to command and to be obeyed; the
      recollection of which probably suggested to Julian the apology he
      afterwards made for being frightened, that he took the stranger for an
      "enchanted queen."
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0153m.jpg" alt="0153m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0153.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      While the stranger lady and the children thus confronted each other, two
      persons entered almost at the same instant, but from different doors,
      whose haste showed that they had been alarmed by the screams of the
      latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first was Major Bridgenorth, whose ears had been alarmed with the
      cries of his child, as he entered the hall, which corresponded with what
      was called the gilded chamber. His intention had been to remain in the
      more public apartment, until the Lady Peveril should make her appearance,
      with the good-natured purpose of assuring her that the preceding day of
      tumult had passed in every respect agreeably to his friends, and without
      any of those alarming consequences which might have been apprehended from
      a collision betwixt the parties. But when it is considered how severely he
      had been agitated by apprehensions for his child's safety and health, too
      well justified by the fate of those who had preceded her, it will not be
      thought surprising that the infantine screams of Alice induced him to
      break through the barriers of form, and intrude farther into the interior
      of the house than a sense of strict propriety might have warranted.
    </p>
    <p>
      He burst into the gilded chamber, therefore, by a side-door and narrow
      passage, which communicated betwixt that apartment and the hall, and,
      snatching the child up in his arms, endeavoured, by a thousand caresses,
      to stifle the screams which burst yet more violently from the little girl,
      on beholding herself in the arms of one to whose voice and manner she was,
      but for one brief interview, an entire stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course, Alice's shrieks were redoubled, and seconded by those of Julian
      Peveril, who, on the appearance of this second intruder, was frightened
      into resignation of every more manly idea of rescue than that which
      consisted in invoking assistance at the very top of his lungs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alarmed by this noise, which in half a minute became very clamorous, Lady
      Peveril, with whose apartment the gilded chamber was connected by a
      private door of communication opening into her wardrobe, entered on the
      scene. The instant she appeared, the little Alice, extricating herself
      from the grasp of her father, ran towards <i>her</i> protectress, and when
      she had once taken hold of her skirts, not only became silent, but turned
      her large blue eyes, in which the tears were still glistening, with a look
      of wonder rather than alarm, towards the strange lady. Julian manfully
      brandished his reed, a weapon which he had never parted with during the
      whole alarm, and stood prepared to assist his mother if there should be
      danger in the encounter betwixt her and the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, it might have puzzled an older person to account for the sudden
      and confused pause which the Lady Peveril made, as she gazed on her
      unexpected guest, as if dubious whether she did, or did not recognise, in
      her still beautiful though wasted and emaciated features, a countenance
      which she had known well under far different circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger seemed to understand the cause of hesitation, for she said in
      that heart-thrilling voice which was peculiarly her own&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Time and misfortune have changed me much, Margaret&mdash;that every
      mirror tells me&mdash;yet methinks, Margaret Stanley might still have
      known Charlotte de la Tremouille."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Lady Peveril was little in the custom of giving way to sudden emotion,
      but in the present case she threw herself on her knees in a rapture of
      mingled joy and grief, and, half embracing those of the stranger,
      exclaimed, in broken language&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "My kind, my noble benefactress&mdash;the princely Countess of Derby&mdash;the
      royal queen in Man&mdash;could I doubt your voice, your features, for a
      moment&mdash;Oh, forgive, forgive me!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess raised the suppliant kinswoman of her husband's house, with
      all the grace of one accustomed from early birth to receive homage and to
      grant protection. She kissed the Lady Peveril's forehead, and passed her
      hand in a caressing manner over her face as she said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "You too are changed, my fair cousin, but it is a change becomes you, from
      a pretty and timid maiden to a sage and comely matron. But my own memory,
      which I once held a good one, has failed me strangely, if this gentleman
      be Sir Geoffrey Peveril."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A kind and good neighbour only, madam," said Lady Peveril; "Sir Geoffrey
      is at Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understood so much," said the Countess of Derby, "when I arrived here
      last night."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, madam!" said Lady Peveril&mdash;"Did you arrive at Martindale Castle&mdash;at
      the house of Margaret Stanley, where you have such right to command, and
      did not announce your presence to her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, I know you are a dutiful subject, Margaret," answered the Countess,
      "though it be in these days a rare character&mdash;but it was our
      pleasure," she added, with a smile, "to travel incognito&mdash;and finding
      you engaged in general hospitality, we desired not to disturb you with our
      royal presence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But how and where were you lodged, madam?" said Lady Peveril; "or why
      should you have kept secret a visit which would, if made, have augmented
      tenfold the happiness of every true heart that rejoiced here yesterday?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My lodging was well cared for by Ellesmere&mdash;your Ellesmere now, as
      she was formerly mine&mdash;she has acted as quartermaster ere now, you
      know, and on a broader scale; you must excuse her&mdash;she had my
      positive order to lodge me in the most secret part of your Castle"&mdash;(here
      she pointed to the sliding panel)&mdash;"she obeyed orders in that, and I
      suppose also in sending you now hither."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed I have not yet seen her," said the lady, "and therefore was
      totally ignorant of a visit so joyful, so surprising."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I," said the Countess, "was equally surprised to find none but these
      beautiful children in the apartment where I thought I heard you moving.
      Our Ellesmere has become silly&mdash;your good-nature has spoiled her&mdash;she
      has forgotten the discipline she learned under me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I saw her run through the wood," said the Lady Peveril, after a moment's
      recollection, "undoubtedly to seek the person who has charge of the
      children, in order to remove them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your own darlings, I doubt not," said the Countess, looking at the
      children. "Margaret, Providence has blessed you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is my son," said the Lady Peveril, pointing to Julian, who stood
      devouring their discourse with greedy ear; "the little girl&mdash;I may
      call mine too." Major Bridgenorth, who had in the meantime again taken up
      his infant, and was engaged in caressing it, set it down as the Countess
      of Derby spoke, sighed deeply, and walked towards the oriel window. He was
      well aware that the ordinary rules of courtesy would have rendered it
      proper that he should withdraw entirely, or at least offer to do so; but
      he was not a man of ceremonious politeness, and he had a particular
      interest in the subjects on which the Countess's discourse was likely to
      turn, which induced him to dispense with ceremony. The ladies seemed
      indeed scarce to notice his presence. The Countess had now assumed a
      chair, and motioned to the Lady Peveril to sit upon a stool which was
      placed by her side. "We will have old times once more, though there are
      here no roaring of rebel guns to drive you to take refuge at my side, and
      almost in my pocket."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have a gun, madam," said little Julian, "and the park-keeper is to
      teach me how to fire it next year."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will list you for my soldier, then," said the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ladies have no soldiers," said the boy, looking wistfully at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He has the true masculine contempt of our frail sex, I see," said the
      Countess; "it is born with the insolent varlets of mankind, and shows
      itself so soon as they are out of their long clothes.&mdash;Did Ellesmere
      never tell you of Latham House and Charlotte of Derby, my little master?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A thousand thousand times," said the boy, colouring; "and how the Queen
      of Man defended it six weeks against three thousand Roundheads, under
      Rogue Harrison the butcher."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was your mother defended Latham House," said the Countess, "not I, my
      little soldier&mdash;Hadst thou been there, thou hadst been the best
      captain of the three."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not say so, madam," said the boy, "for mamma would not touch a gun for
      all the universe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not I, indeed, Julian," said his mother; "there I was for certain, but as
      useless a part of the garrison&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You forget," said the Countess, "you nursed our hospital, and made lint
      for the soldiers' wounds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But did not papa come to help you?" said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Papa came at last," said the Countess, "and so did Prince Rupert&mdash;but
      not, I think, till they were both heartily wished for.&mdash;Do you
      remember that morning, Margaret, when the round-headed knaves, that kept
      us pent up so long, retreated without bag or baggage, at the first glance
      of the Prince's standards appearing on the hill&mdash;and how you took
      every high-crested captain you saw for Peveril of the Peak, that had been
      your partner three months before at the Queen's mask? Nay, never blush for
      the thought of it&mdash;it was an honest affection&mdash;and though it was
      the music of trumpets that accompanied you both to the old chapel, which
      was almost entirely ruined by the enemy's bullets; and though Prince
      Rupert, when he gave you away at the altar, was clad in buff and
      bandoleer, with pistols in his belt, yet I trust these warlike signs were
      no type of future discord?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Heaven has been kind to me," said the Lady Peveril, "in blessing me with
      an affectionate husband."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And in preserving him to you," said the Countess, with a deep sigh;
      "while mine, alas! sealed with his blood his devotion to his king[*]&mdash;Oh,
      had he lived to see this day!"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] The Earl of Derby and King in Man was beheaded at Bolton-on-the-
    Moors, after having been made prisoner in a previous skirmish in
    Wiggan Lane.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Alas! alas! that he was not permitted!" answered Lady Peveril; "how had
      that brave and noble Earl rejoiced in the unhoped-for redemption of our
      captivity!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess looked on Lady Peveril with an air of surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou hast not then heard, cousin, how it stands with our house?&mdash;How
      indeed had my noble lord wondered, had he been told that the very monarch
      for whom he had laid down his noble life on the scaffold at
      Bolton-le-Moor, should make it his first act of restored monarchy to
      complete the destruction of our property, already well-nigh ruined in the
      royal cause, and to persecute me his widow!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You astonish me, madam!" said the Lady Peveril. "It cannot be, that you&mdash;that
      you, the wife of the gallant, the faithful, the murdered Earl&mdash;you,
      Countess of Derby, and Queen in Man&mdash;you, who took on you even the
      character of a soldier, and seemed a man when so many men proved women&mdash;that
      you should sustain evil from the event which has fulfilled&mdash;exceeded&mdash;the
      hopes of every faithful subject&mdash;it cannot be!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art as simple, I see, in this world's knowledge as ever, my fair
      cousin," answered the Countess. "This restoration, which has given others
      security, has placed me in danger&mdash;this change which relieved other
      Royalists, scarce less zealous, I presume to think, than I&mdash;has sent
      me here a fugitive, and in concealment, to beg shelter and assistance from
      you, fair cousin."
    </p>
    <p>
      "From me," answered the Lady Peveril&mdash;"from me, whose youth your
      kindness sheltered&mdash;from the wife of Peveril, your gallant Lord's
      companion in arms&mdash;you have a right to command everything; but, alas!
      that you should need such assistance as I can render&mdash;forgive me, but
      it seems like some ill-omened vision of the night&mdash;I listen to your
      words as if I hoped to be relieved from their painful import by awaking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is indeed a dream&mdash;a vision," said the Countess of Derby; "but it
      needs no seer to read it&mdash;the explanation hath been long since given&mdash;Put
      not your faith in princes. I can soon remove your surprise.&mdash;This
      gentleman, your friend, is doubtless <i>honest?</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Lady Peveril well knew that the Cavaliers, like other factions,
      usurped to themselves the exclusive denomination of the <i>honest</i>
      party, and she felt some difficulty in explaining that her visitor was not
      honest in that sense of the word.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Had we not better retire, madam?" she said to the Countess, rising, as if
      in order to attend her. But the Countess retained her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was but a question of habit," she said; "the gentleman's principles
      are nothing to me, for what I have to tell you is widely blazed, and I
      care not who hears my share of it. You remember&mdash;you must have heard,
      for I think Margaret Stanley would not be indifferent to my fate&mdash;that
      after my husband's murder at Bolton, I took up the standard which he never
      dropped until his death, and displayed it with my own hand in our
      Sovereignty of Man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did indeed hear so, madam," said the Lady Peveril; "and that you had
      bidden a bold defiance to the rebel government, even after all other parts
      of Britain had submitted to them. My husband, Sir Geoffrey, designed at
      one time to have gone to your assistance with some few followers; but we
      learned that the island was rendered to the Parliament party, and that
      you, dearest lady, were thrown into prison."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But you heard not," said the Countess, "how that disaster befell me.&mdash;Margaret,
      I would have held out that island against the knaves as long as the sea
      continued to flow around it. Till the shoals which surround it had become
      safe anchorage&mdash;till its precipices had melted beneath the sunshine&mdash;till
      of all its strong abodes and castles not one stone remained upon another,&mdash;would
      I have defended against these villainous hypocritical rebels, my dear
      husband's hereditary dominion. The little kingdom of Man should have been
      yielded only when not an arm was left to wield a sword, not a finger to
      draw a trigger in its defence. But treachery did what force could never
      have done. When we had foiled various attempts upon the island by open
      force&mdash;treason accomplished what Blake and Lawson, with their
      floating castles, had found too hazardous an enterprise&mdash;a base
      rebel, whom we had nursed in our own bosoms, betrayed us to the enemy.
      This wretch was named Christian&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Bridgenorth started and turned towards the speaker, but instantly
      seemed to recollect himself, and again averted his face. The Countess
      proceeded, without noticing the interruption, which, however, rather
      surprised Lady Peveril, who was acquainted with her neighbour's general
      habits of indifference and apathy, and therefore the more surprised at his
      testifying such sudden symptoms of interest. She would once again have
      moved the Countess to retire to another apartment, but Lady Derby
      proceeded with too much vehemence to endure interruption.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This Christian," she said, "had eaten of my lord his sovereign's bread,
      and drunk of his cup, even from childhood&mdash;for his fathers had been
      faithful servants to the House of Man and Derby. He himself had fought
      bravely by my husband's side, and enjoyed all his confidence; and when my
      princely Earl was martyred by the rebels, he recommended to me, amongst
      other instructions communicated in the last message I received from him,
      to continue my confidence in Christian's fidelity. I obeyed, although I
      never loved the man. He was cold and phlegmatic, and utterly devoid of
      that sacred fire which is the incentive to noble deeds, suspected, too, of
      leaning to the cold metaphysics of Calvinistic subtlety. But he was brave,
      wise, and experienced, and, as the event proved, possessed but too much
      interest with the islanders. When these rude people saw themselves without
      hope of relief, and pressed by a blockade, which brought want and disease
      into their island, they began to fall off from the faith which they had
      hitherto shown."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said the Lady Peveril, "could they forget what was due to the
      widow of their benefactor&mdash;she who had shared with the generous Derby
      the task of bettering their condition?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not blame them," said the Countess; "the rude herd acted but according
      to their kind&mdash;in present distress they forgot former benefits, and,
      nursed in their earthen hovels, with spirits suited to their dwellings,
      they were incapable of feeling the glory which is attached to constancy in
      suffering. But that Christian should have headed their revolt&mdash;that
      he, born a gentleman, and bred under my murdered Derby's own care in all
      that was chivalrous and noble&mdash;that <i>he</i> should have forgot a
      hundred benefits&mdash;why do I talk of benefits?&mdash;that he should
      have forgotten that kindly intercourse which binds man to man far more
      than the reciprocity of obligation&mdash;that he should have headed the
      ruffians who broke suddenly into my apartment&mdash;immured me with my
      infants in one of my own castles, and assumed or usurped the tyranny of
      the island&mdash;that this should have been done by William Christian, my
      vassal, my servant, my friend, was a deed of ungrateful treachery, which
      even this age of treason will scarcely parallel!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you were then imprisoned," said the Lady Peveril, "and in your own
      sovereignty?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For more than seven years I have endured strict captivity," said the
      Countess. "I was indeed offered my liberty, and even some means of
      support, if I would have consented to leave the island, and pledge my word
      that I would not endeavour to repossess my son in his father's rights. But
      they little knew the princely house from which I spring&mdash;and as
      little the royal house of Stanley which I uphold, who hoped to humble
      Charlotte of Tremouille into so base a composition. I would rather have
      starved in the darkest and lowest vault of Rushin Castle, than have
      consented to aught which might diminish in one hair's-breadth the right of
      my son over his father's sovereignty!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And could not your firmness, in a case where hope seemed lost, induce
      them to be generous and dismiss you without conditions?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They knew me better than thou dost, wench," answered the Countess; "once
      at liberty, I had not been long without the means of disturbing their
      usurpation, and Christian would have as soon encaged a lioness to combat
      with, as have given me the slightest power of returning to the struggle
      with him. But time had liberty and revenge in store&mdash;I had still
      friends and partisans in the island, though they were compelled to give
      way to the storm. Even among the islanders at large, most had been
      disappointed in the effects which they expected from the change of power.
      They were loaded with exactions by their new masters, their privileges
      were abridged, and their immunities abolished, under the pretext of
      reducing them to the same condition with the other subjects of the
      pretended republic. When the news arrived of the changes which were
      current in Britain, these sentiments were privately communicated to me.
      Calcott and others acted with great zeal and fidelity; and a rising,
      effected as suddenly and effectually as that which had made me a captive,
      placed me at liberty and in possession of the sovereignty of Man, as
      Regent for my son, the youthful Earl of Derby. Do you think I enjoyed that
      sovereignty long without doing justice on that traitor Christian?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, madam," said Lady Peveril, who, though she knew the high and
      ambitious spirit of the Countess, scarce anticipated the extremities to
      which it was capable of hurrying her&mdash;"have you imprisoned
      Christian?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, wench&mdash;in that sure prison which felon never breaks from,"
      answered the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth, who had insensibly approached them, and was listening with an
      agony of interest which he was unable any longer to suppress, broke in
      with the stern exclamation&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lady, I trust you have not dared&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess interrupted him in her turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not who you are who question&mdash;and you know not me when you
      speak to me of that which I dare, or dare not do. But you seem interested
      in the fate of this Christian, and you shall hear it.&mdash;I was no
      sooner placed in possession of my rightful power, than I ordered the
      Dempster of the island to hold upon the traitor a High Court of Justice,
      with all the formalities of the isle, as prescribed in its oldest records.
      The Court was held in the open air, before the Dempster and the Keys of
      the island, assembled under the vaulted cope of heaven, and seated on the
      terrace of the Zonwald Hill, where of old Druid and Scald held their
      courts of judgment. The criminal was heard at length in his own defence,
      which amounted to little more than those specious allegations of public
      consideration, which are ever used to colour the ugly front of treason. He
      was fully convicted of his crime, and he received the doom of a traitor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But which, I trust, is not yet executed?" said Lady Peveril, not without
      an involuntary shudder.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are a fool, Margaret," said the Countess sharply; "think you I
      delayed such an act of justice, until some wretched intrigues of the new
      English Court might have prompted their interference? No, wench&mdash;he
      passed from the judgment-seat to the place of execution, with no farther
      delay than might be necessary for his soul's sake. He was shot to death by
      a file of musketeers in the common place of execution called Hango Hill."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth clasped his hands together, wrung them, and groaned bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As you seem interested for this criminal," added the Countess, addressing
      Bridgenorth, "I do him but justice in repeating to you, that his death was
      firm and manly, becoming the general tenor of his life, which, but for
      that gross act of traitorous ingratitude, had been fair and honourable.
      But what of that? The hypocrite is a saint, and the false traitor a man of
      honour, till opportunity, that faithful touchstone, proves their metal to
      be base."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is false, woman&mdash;it is false!" said Bridgenorth, no longer
      suppressing his indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What means this bearing, Master Bridgenorth?" said Lady Peveril, much
      surprised. "What is this Christian to you, that you should insult the
      Countess of Derby under my roof?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak not to me of countesses and of ceremonies," said Bridgenorth;
      "grief and anger leave me no leisure for idle observances to humour the
      vanity of overgrown children.&mdash;O Christian&mdash;worthy, well worthy,
      of the name thou didst bear! My friend&mdash;my brother&mdash;the brother
      of my blessed Alice&mdash;the only friend of my desolate estate! art thou
      then cruelly murdered by a female fury, who, but for thee, had deservedly
      paid with her own blood that of God's saints, which she, as well as her
      tyrant husband, had spilled like water!&mdash;Yes, cruel murderess!" he
      continued, addressing the Countess, "he whom thou hast butchered in thy
      insane vengeance, sacrificed for many a year the dictates of his own
      conscience to the interest of thy family, and did not desert it till thy
      frantic zeal for royalty had well-nigh brought to utter perdition the
      little community in which he was born. Even in confining thee, he acted
      but as the friends of the madman, who bind him with iron for his own
      preservation; and for thee, as I can bear witness, he was the only barrier
      between thee and the wrath of the Commons of England; and but for his
      earnest remonstrances, thou hadst suffered the penalty of thy malignancy,
      even like the wicked wife of Ahab."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, "I will allow for your
      impatience upon hearing these unpleasing tidings; but there is neither use
      nor propriety in farther urging this question. If in your grief you forget
      other restraints, I pray you to remember that the Countess is my guest and
      kinswoman, and is under such protection as I can afford her. I beseech
      you, in simple courtesy, to withdraw, as what must needs be the best and
      most becoming course in these trying circumstances."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, let him remain," said the Countess, regarding him with composure,
      not unmingled with triumph; "I would not have it otherwise; I would not
      that my revenge should be summed up in the stinted gratification which
      Christian's death hath afforded. This man's rude and clamorous grief only
      proves that the retribution I have dealt has been more widely felt than by
      the wretched sufferer himself. I would I knew that it had but made sore as
      many rebel hearts, as there were loyal breasts afflicted by the death of
      my princely Derby!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "So please you, madam," said Lady Peveril, "since Master Bridgenorth hath
      not the manners to leave us upon my request, we will, if your ladyship
      lists, leave him, and retire to my apartment.&mdash;Farewell, Master
      Bridgenorth; we will meet hereafter on better terms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, madam," said the Major, who had been striding hastily through
      the room, but now stood fast, and drew himself up, as one who has taken a
      resolution;&mdash;"to yourself I have nothing to say but what is
      respectful; but to this woman I must speak as a magistrate. She has
      confessed a murder in my presence&mdash;the murder too of my
      brother-in-law&mdash;as a man, and as a magistrate, I cannot permit her to
      pass from hence, excepting under such custody as may prevent her farther
      flight. She has already confessed that she is a fugitive, and in search of
      a place of concealment, until she should be able to escape into foreign
      parts.&mdash;Charlotte, Countess of Derby, I attach thee of the crime of
      which thou hast but now made thy boast."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I shall not obey your arrest," said the Countess composedly; "I was born
      to give, but not to receive such orders. What have your English laws to do
      with my acts of justice and of government, within my son's hereditary
      kingdom? Am I not Queen in Man, as well as Countess of Derby? A feudatory
      Sovereign indeed; but yet independent so long as my dues of homage are
      duly discharged. What right can you assert over me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That given by the precepts of Scripture," answered Bridgenorth&mdash;"'Whoso
      spilleth man's blood, by man shall his blood be spilled.' Think not the
      barbarous privileges of ancient feudal customs will avail to screen you
      from the punishment due for an Englishman murdered upon pretexts
      inconsistent with the act of indemnity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, "if by fair terms you desist
      not from your present purpose, I tell you that I neither dare, nor will,
      permit any violence against this honourable lady within the walls of my
      husband's castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You will find yourself unable to prevent me from executing my duty,
      madam," said Bridgenorth, whose native obstinacy now came in aid of his
      grief and desire of revenge; "I am a magistrate, and act by authority."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not that," said Lady Peveril. "That you <i>were</i> a magistrate,
      Master Bridgenorth, under the late usurping powers, I know well; but till
      I hear of your having a commission in the name of the King, I now hesitate
      to obey you as such."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I shall stand on small ceremony," said Bridgenorth. "Were I no
      magistrate, every man has title to arrest for murder against the terms of
      the indemnities held out by the King's proclamations, and I will make my
      point good."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What indemnities? What proclamations?" said the Countess of Derby
      indignantly. "Charles Stuart may, if he pleases (and it doth seem to
      please him), consort with those whose hands have been red with the blood,
      and blackened with the plunder, of his father and of his loyal subjects.
      He may forgive them if he will, and count their deeds good service. What
      has that to do with this Christian's offence against me and mine? Born a
      Mankesman&mdash;bred and nursed in the island&mdash;he broke the laws
      under which he lived, and died for the breach of them, after the fair
      trial which they allowed.&mdash;Methinks, Margaret, we have enough of this
      peevish and foolish magistrate&mdash;I attend you to your apartment."
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Bridgenorth placed himself betwixt them and the door, in a manner
      which showed him determined to interrupt their passage; when the Lady
      Peveril, who thought she already showed more deference to him in this
      matter than her husband was likely to approve of, raised her voice, and
      called loudly on her steward, Whitaker. That alert person, who had heard
      high talking, and a female voice with which he was unacquainted, had
      remained for several minutes stationed in the anteroom, much afflicted
      with the anxiety of his own curiosity. Of course he entered in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let three of the men instantly take arms," said the lady; "bring them
      into the anteroom, and wait my farther orders."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            You shall have no worse prison than my chamber,
            Nor jailer than myself.
                                               &mdash;THE CAPTAIN.
</pre>
    <p>
      The command which Lady Peveril laid on her domestics to arm themselves,
      was so unlike the usual gentle acquiescence of her manners, that Major
      Bridgenorth was astonished. "How mean you, madam?" said he; "I thought
      myself under a friendly roof."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you are so, Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, without
      departing from the natural calmness of her voice and manner; "but it is a
      roof which must not be violated by the outrage of one friend against
      another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is well, madam," said Bridgenorth, turning to the door of the
      apartment. "The worthy Master Solsgrace has already foretold, that the
      time was returned when high houses and proud names should be once more an
      excuse for the crimes of those who inhabit the one and bear the other. I
      believed him not, but now see he is wiser than I. Yet think not I will
      endure this tamely. The blood of my brother&mdash;of the friend of my
      bosom&mdash;shall not long call from the altar, 'How long, O Lord, how
      long!' If there is one spark of justice left in this unhappy England, that
      proud woman and I shall meet where she can have no partial friend to
      protect her."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he was about to leave the apartment, when Lady Peveril said,
      "You depart not from this place, Master Bridgenorth, unless you give me
      your word to renounce all purpose against the noble Countess's liberty
      upon the present occasion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would sooner," answered he, "subscribe to my own dishonour, madam,
      written down in express words, than to any such composition. If any man
      offers to interrupt me, his blood be on his own head!" As Major
      Bridgenorth spoke, Whitaker threw open the door, and showed that, with the
      alertness of an old soldier, who was not displeased to see things tend
      once more towards a state of warfare, he had got with him four stout
      fellows in the Knight of the Peak's livery, well armed with swords and
      carabines, buff-coats, and pistols at their girdles.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will see," said Major Bridgenorth, "if any of these men be so desperate
      as to stop me, a freeborn Englishman, and a magistrate in the discharge of
      my duty."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he advanced upon Whitaker and his armed assistants, with his
      hand on the hilt of his sword.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not be so desperate, Master Bridgenorth," exclaimed Lady Peveril; and
      added, in the same moment, "Lay hold upon, and disarm him, Whitaker; but
      do him no injury."
    </p>
    <p>
      Her commands were obeyed. Bridgenorth, though a man of moral resolution,
      was not one of those who undertook to cope in person with odds of a
      description so formidable. He half drew his sword, and offered such show
      of resistance as made it necessary to secure him by actual force; but then
      yielded up his weapon, and declared that, submitting to force which one
      man was unable to resist, he made those who commanded, and who employed
      it, responsible for assailing his liberty without a legal warrant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never mind a warrant on a pinch, Master Bridgenorth," said old Whitaker;
      "sure enough you have often acted upon a worse yourself. My lady's word is
      as good as a warrant, sure, as Old Noll's commission; and you bore that
      many a day, Master Bridgenorth, and, moreover, you laid me in the stocks
      for drinking the King's health, Master Bridgenorth, and never cared a
      farthing about the laws of England."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold your saucy tongue, Whitaker," said the Lady Peveril; "and do you,
      Master Bridgenorth, not take it to heart that you are detained prisoner
      for a few hours, until the Countess of Derby can have nothing to fear from
      your pursuit. I could easily send an escort with her that might bid
      defiance to any force you could muster; but I wish, Heaven knows, to bury
      the remembrance of old civil dissensions, not to awaken new. Once more,
      will you think better of it&mdash;assume your sword again, and forget whom
      you have now seen at Martindale Castle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never," said Bridgenorth. "The crime of this cruel woman will be the last
      of human injuries which I can forget. The last thought of earthly kind
      which will leave me, will be the desire that justice shall be done on
      her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If such be your sentiments," said Lady Peveril, "though they are more
      allied to revenge than to justice, I must provide for my friend's safety,
      by putting restraint upon your person. In this room you will be supplied
      with every necessary of life, and every convenience; and a message shall
      relieve your domestics of the anxiety which your absence from the Hall is
      not unlikely to occasion. When a few hours, at most two days, are over, I
      will myself relieve you from confinement, and demand your pardon for now
      acting as your obstinacy compels me to do."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Major made no answer, but that he was in her hands, and must submit to
      her pleasure; and then turned sullenly to the window, as if desirous to be
      rid of their presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess and the Lady Peveril left the apartment arm in arm; and the
      lady issued forth her directions to Whitaker concerning the mode in which
      she was desirous that Bridgenorth should be guarded and treated during his
      temporary confinement; at the same time explaining to him, that the safety
      of the Countess of Derby required that he should be closely watched.
    </p>
    <p>
      In all proposals for the prisoner's security, such as the regular relief
      of guards, and the like, Whitaker joyfully acquiesced, and undertook, body
      for body, that he should be detained in captivity for the necessary
      period. But the old steward was not half so docile when it came to be
      considered how the captive's bedding and table should be supplied; and he
      thought Lady Peveril displayed a very undue degree of attention to her
      prisoner's comforts. "I warrant," he said, "that the cuckoldly Roundhead
      ate enough of our fat beef yesterday to serve him for a month; and a
      little fasting will do his health good. Marry, for drink, he shall have
      plenty of cold water to cool his hot liver, which I will be bound is still
      hissing with the strong liquors of yesterday. And as for bedding, there
      are the fine dry board&mdash;more wholesome than the wet straw I lay upon
      when I was in the stocks, I trow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whitaker," said the lady peremptorily, "I desire you to provide Master
      Bridgenorth's bedding and food in the way I have signified to you; and to
      behave yourself towards him in all civility."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lack-a-day! yes, my lady," said Whitaker; "you shall have all your
      directions punctually obeyed; but as an old servant, I cannot but speak my
      mind."
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies retired after this conference with the steward in the
      antechamber, and were soon seated in another apartment, which was
      peculiarly dedicated to the use of the mistress of the mansion&mdash;having,
      on the one side, access to the family bedroom; and, on the other, to the
      still-room which communicated with the garden. There was also a small door
      which, ascending a few steps, led to that balcony, already mentioned, that
      overhung the kitchen; and the same passage, by a separate door, admitted
      to the principal gallery in the chapel; so that the spiritual and temporal
      affairs of the Castle were placed almost at once within the reach of the
      same regulating and directing eye.[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] This peculiar collocation of apartments may be seen at Haddon
    Hall, Derbyshire, once a seat of the Vernons, where, in the lady's
    pew in the chapel, there is a sort of scuttle, which opens into
    the kitchen, so that the good lady could ever and anon, without
    much interruption of her religious duties, give an eye that the
    roast-meat was not permitted to burn, and that the turn-broche did
    his duty.
</pre>
    <p>
      In the tapestried room, from which issued these various sally-ports, the
      Countess and Lady Peveril were speedily seated; and the former, smiling
      upon the latter, said, as she took her hand, "Two things have happened
      to-day, which might have surprised me, if anything ought to surprise me in
      such times:&mdash;the first is, that yonder roundheaded fellow should have
      dared to use such insolence in the house of Peveril of the Peak. If your
      husband is yet the same honest and downright Cavalier whom I once knew,
      and had chanced to be at home, he would have thrown the knave out of
      window. But what I wonder at still more, Margaret, is your generalship. I
      hardly thought you had courage sufficient to have taken such decided
      measures, after keeping on terms with the man so long. When he spoke of
      justices and warrants, you looked so overawed that I thought I felt the
      clutch of the parish-beadles on my shoulder, to drag me to prison as a
      vagrant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We owe Master Bridgenorth some deference, my dearest lady," answered the
      Lady Peveril; "he has served us often and kindly, in these late times; but
      neither he, nor any one else, shall insult the Countess of Derby in the
      house of Margaret Stanley."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art become a perfect heroine, Margaret," replied the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Two sieges, and alarms innumerable," said Lady Peveril, "may have taught
      me presence of mind. My courage is, I believe, as slender as ever."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Presence of mind <i>is</i> courage," answered the Countess. "Real valour
      consists not in being insensible to danger, but in being prompt to
      confront and disarm it;&mdash;and we may have present occasion for all
      that we possess," she added, with some slight emotion, "for I hear the
      trampling of horses' steps on the pavement of the court."
    </p>
    <p>
      In one moment, the boy Julian, breathless with joy, came flying into the
      room, to say that papa was returned, with Lamington and Sam Brewer; and
      that he was himself to ride Black Hastings to the stable. In the second
      the tramp of the honest Knight's heavy jack-boots was heard, as, in his
      haste to see his lady, he ascended the staircase by two steps at a time.
      He burst into the room; his manly countenance and disordered dress showing
      marks that he had been riding fast; and without looking to any one else,
      caught his good lady in his arms, and kissed her a dozen of times.&mdash;Blushing,
      and with some difficulty, Lady Peveril extricated herself from Sir
      Geoffrey's arms; and in a voice of bashful and gentle rebuke, bid him, for
      shame, observe who was in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "One," said the Countess, advancing to him, "who is right glad to see that
      Sir Geoffrey Peveril, though turned courtier and favourite, still values
      the treasure which she had some share in bestowing upon him. You cannot
      have forgot the raising of the leaguer of Latham House!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The noble Countess of Derby!" said Sir Geoffrey, doffing his plumed hat
      with an air of deep deference, and kissing with much reverence the hand
      which she held out to him; "I am as glad to see your ladyship in my poor
      house, as I would be to hear that they had found a vein of lead in the
      Brown Tor. I rode hard, in the hope of being your escort through the
      country. I feared you might have fallen into bad hands, hearing there was
      a knave sent out with a warrant from the Council."
    </p>
    <p>
      "When heard you so? and from whom?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was from Cholmondley of Vale Royal," said Sir Geoffrey; "he is come
      down to make provision for your safety through Cheshire; and I promised to
      bring you there in safety. Prince Rupert, Ormond, and other friends, do
      not doubt the matter will be driven to a fine; but they say the
      Chancellor, and Harry Bennet, and some others of the over-sea counsellors,
      are furious at what they call a breach of the King's proclamation. Hang
      them, say I!&mdash;They left us to bear all the beating; and now they are
      incensed that we should wish to clear scores with those who rode us like
      nightmares!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What did they talk of for my chastisement?" said the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wot not," said Sir Geoffrey; "some friends, as I said, from our kind
      Cheshire, and others, tried to bring it to a fine; but some, again, spoke
      of nothing but the Tower, and a long imprisonment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have suffered imprisonment long enough for King Charles's sake," said
      the Countess; "and have no mind to undergo it at his hand. Besides, if I
      am removed from the personal superintendence of my son's dominions in Man,
      I know not what new usurpation may be attempted there. I must be obliged
      to you, cousin, to contrive that I may get in security to Vale Royal, and
      from thence I know I shall be guarded safely to Liverpool."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You may rely on my guidance and protection, noble lady," answered her
      host, "though you had come here at midnight, and with the rogue's head in
      your apron, like Judith in the Holy Apocrypha, which I joy to hear once
      more read in churches."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do the gentry resort much to the Court?" said the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, madam," replied Sir Geoffrey; "and according to our saying, when
      miners do begin to bore in these parts, it is <i>for the grace of God, and
      what they there may find</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Meet the old Cavaliers with much countenance?" continued the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Faith, madam, to speak truth," replied the Knight, "the King hath so
      gracious a manner, that it makes every man's hopes blossom, though we have
      seen but few that have ripened into fruit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have not, yourself, my cousin," answered the Countess, "had room to
      complain of ingratitude, I trust? Few have less deserved it at the King's
      hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Geoffrey was unwilling, like most prudent persons, to own the
      existence of expectations which had proved fallacious, yet had too little
      art in his character to conceal his disappointment entirely. "Who, I,
      madam?" he said; "Alas! what should a poor country knight expect from the
      King, besides the pleasure of seeing him in Whitehall once more, and
      enjoying his own again? And his Majesty was very gracious when I was
      presented, and spoke to me of Worcester, and of my horse, Black Hastings&mdash;he
      had forgot his name, though&mdash;faith, and mine, too, I believe, had not
      Prince Rupert whispered it to him. And I saw some old friends, such as his
      Grace of Ormond, Sir Marmaduke Langdale, Sir Philip Musgrave, and so
      forth; and had a jolly rouse or two, to the tune of old times."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should have thought so many wounds received&mdash;so many dangers
      risked&mdash;such considerable losses&mdash;merited something more than a
      few smooth words," said the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, my lady, there were other friends of mine who had the same thought,"
      answered Peveril. "Some were of opinion that the loss of so many hundred
      acres of fair land was worth some reward of honour at least; and there
      were who thought my descent from William the Conqueror&mdash;craving your
      ladyship's pardon for boasting it in your presence&mdash;would not have
      become a higher rank or title worse than the pedigree of some who have
      been promoted. But what said the witty Duke of Buckingham, forsooth?
      (whose grandsire was a Lei'stershire Knight&mdash;rather poorer, and
      scarcely so well-born as myself)&mdash;Why, he said, that if all of my
      degree who deserved well of the King in the late times were to be made
      peers, the House of Lords must meet upon Salisbury Plain!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And that bad jest passed for a good argument!" said the Countess; "and
      well it might, where good arguments pass for bad jests. But here comes one
      I must be acquainted with."
    </p>
    <p>
      This was little Julian, who now re-entered the hall, leading his little
      sister, as if he had brought her to bear witness to the boastful tale
      which he told his father, of his having manfully ridden Black Hastings to
      the stable-yard, alone in the saddle; and that Saunders though he walked
      by the horse's head, did not once put his hand upon the rein, and Brewer,
      though he stood beside him, scarce held him by the knee. The father kissed
      the boy heartily; and the Countess, calling him to her so soon as Sir
      Geoffrey had set him down, kissed his forehead also, and then surveyed all
      his features with a keen and penetrating eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is a true Peveril," said she, "mixed as he should be with some touch
      of the Stanley. Cousin, you must grant me my boon, and when I am safely
      established, and have my present affair arranged, you must let me have
      this little Julian of yours some time hence, to be nurtured in my house,
      held as my page, and the playfellow of the little Derby. I trust in
      Heaven, they will be such friends as their fathers have been, and may God
      send them more fortunate times!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Marry, and I thank you for the proposal with all my heart, madam," said
      the Knight. "There are so many noble houses decayed, and so many more in
      which the exercise and discipline for the training of noble youths is
      given up and neglected, that I have often feared I must have kept Gil to
      be young master at home; and I have had too little nurture myself to teach
      him much, and so he would have been a mere hunting hawking knight of
      Derbyshire. But in your ladyship's household, and with the noble young
      Earl, he will have all, and more than all, the education which I could
      desire."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There shall be no distinction betwixt them, cousin," said the Countess;
      "Margaret Stanley's son shall be as much the object of care to me as my
      own, since you are kindly disposed to entrust him to my charge.&mdash;You
      look pale, Margaret," she continued, "and the tear stands in your eye? Do
      not be so foolish, my love&mdash;what I ask is better than you can desire
      for your boy; for the house of my father, the Duke de la Tremouille, was
      the most famous school of chivalry in France; nor have I degenerated from
      him, or suffered any relaxation in that noble discipline which trained
      young gentlemen to do honour to their race. You can promise your Julian no
      such advantages, if you train him up a mere home-bred youth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I acknowledge the importance of the favour, madam," said Lady Peveril,
      "and must acquiesce in what your ladyship honours us by proposing, and Sir
      Geoffrey approves of; but Julian is an only child, and&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "An only son," said the Countess, "but surely not an only child. You pay
      too high deference to our masters, the male sex, if you allow Julian to
      engross all your affection, and spare none for this beautiful girl."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, she set down Julian, and, taking Alice Bridgenorth on her lap,
      began to caress her; and there was, notwithstanding her masculine
      character, something so sweet in the tone of her voice and in the cast of
      her features, that the child immediately smiled, and replied to her marks
      of fondness. This mistake embarrassed Lady Peveril exceedingly. Knowing
      the blunt impetuosity of her husband's character, his devotion to the
      memory of the deceased Earl of Derby, and his corresponding veneration for
      his widow, she was alarmed for the consequences of his hearing the conduct
      of Bridgenorth that morning, and was particularly desirous that he should
      not learn it save from herself in private, and after due preparation. But
      the Countess's error led to a more precipitate disclosure.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That pretty girl, madam," answered Sir Geoffrey, "is none of ours&mdash;I
      wish she were. She belongs to a neighbour hard by&mdash;a good man, and,
      to say truth, a good neighbour&mdash;though he was carried off from his
      allegiance in the late times by a d&mdash;d Presbyterian scoundrel, who
      calls himself a parson, and whom I hope to fetch down from his perch
      presently, with a wannion to him! He has been cock of the roost long
      enough.&mdash;There are rods in pickle to switch the Geneva cloak with, I
      can tell the sour-faced rogues that much. But this child is the daughter
      of Bridgenorth&mdash;neighbour Bridgenorth, of Moultrassie Hall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bridgenorth?" said the Countess; "I thought I had known all the
      honourable names in Derbyshire&mdash;I remember nothing of Bridgenorth.&mdash;But
      stay&mdash;was there not a sequestrator and committeeman of that name?
      Sure, it cannot be he?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril took some shame to himself, as he replied, "It is the very man
      whom your ladyship means, and you may conceive the reluctance with which I
      submitted to receive good offices from one of his kidney; but had I not
      done so, I should have scarce known how to find a roof to cover Dame
      Margaret's head."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess, as he spoke, raised the child gently from her lap, and
      placed it upon the carpet, though little Alice showed a disinclination to
      the change of place, which the lady of Derby and Man would certainly have
      indulged in a child of patrician descent and loyal parentage.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I blame you not," she said; "no one knows what temptation will bring us
      down to. Yet I <i>did</i> think Peveril of the Peak would have resided in
      its deepest cavern, sooner than owed an obligation to a regicide."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, madam," answered the Knight, "my neighbour is bad enough, but not so
      bad as you would make him; he is but a Presbyterian&mdash;that I must
      confess&mdash;but not an Independent."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A variety of the same monster," said the Countess, "who hallooed while
      the others hunted, and bound the victim whom the Independents massacred.
      Betwixt such sects I prefer the Independents. They are at least bold,
      bare-faced, merciless villains, have more of the tiger in them, and less
      of the crocodile. I have no doubt it was that worthy gentleman who took it
      upon him this morning&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped short, for she saw Lady Peveril was vexed and embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am," she said, "the most luckless of beings. I have said something, I
      know not what, to distress you, Margaret&mdash;Mystery is a bad thing, and
      betwixt us there should be none."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is none, madam," said Lady Peveril, something impatiently; "I
      waited but an opportunity to tell my husband what had happened&mdash;Sir
      Geoffrey, Master Bridgenorth was unfortunately here when the Lady Derby
      and I met; and he thought it part of his duty to speak of&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To speak of what?" said the Knight, bending his brows. "You were ever
      something too fond, dame, of giving way to the usurpation of such people."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I only mean," said Lady Peveril, "that as the person&mdash;he to whom
      Lord Derby's story related&mdash;was the brother of his late lady, he
      threatened&mdash;but I cannot think that he was serious."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Threaten?&mdash;threaten the Lady of Derby and Man in my house!&mdash;the
      widow of my friend&mdash;the noble Charlotte of Latham House!&mdash;by
      Heaven, the prick-eared slave shall answer it! How comes it that my knaves
      threw him not out of the window?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas! Sir Geoffrey, you forget how much we owe him," said the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Owe him!" said the Knight, still more indignant; for in his singleness of
      apprehension he conceived that his wife alluded to pecuniary obligations,&mdash;"if
      I do owe him some money, hath he not security for it? and must he have the
      right, over and above, to domineer and play the magistrate in Martindale
      Castle?&mdash;Where is he?&mdash;what have you made of him? I will&mdash;I
      must speak with him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be patient, Sir Geoffrey," said the Countess, who now discerned the cause
      of her kinswoman's apprehension; "and be assured I did not need your
      chivalry to defend me against this discourteous faitour, as <i>Morte
      d'Arthur</i> would have called him. I promise you my kinswoman hath fully
      righted my wrong; and I am so pleased to owe my deliverance entirely to
      her gallantry, that I charge and command you, as a true knight, not to
      mingle in the adventure of another."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril, who knew her husband's blunt and impatient temper, and
      perceived that he was becoming angry, now took up the story, and plainly
      and simply pointed out the cause of Master Bridgenorth's interference.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am sorry for it," said the Knight; "I thought he had more sense; and
      that this happy change might have done some good upon him. But you should
      have told me this instantly&mdash;It consists not with my honour that he
      should be kept prisoner in this house, as if I feared anything he could do
      to annoy the noble Countess, while she is under my roof, or within twenty
      miles of this Castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and bowing to the Countess, he went straight to the gilded
      chamber, leaving Lady Peveril in great anxiety for the event of an angry
      meeting between a temper hasty as that of her husband, and stubborn like
      that of Bridgenorth. Her apprehensions were, however, unnecessary; for the
      meeting was not fated to take place.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Sir Geoffrey Peveril, having dismissed Whitaker and his sentinels,
      entered the gilded chamber, in which he expected to find his captive, the
      prisoner had escaped, and it was easy to see in what manner. The sliding
      panel had, in the hurry of the moment, escaped the memory of Lady Peveril,
      and of Whitaker, the only persons who knew anything of it. It was probable
      that a chink had remained open, sufficient to indicate its existence to
      Bridgenorth; who withdrawing it altogether, had found his way into the
      secret apartment with which it communicated, and from thence to the
      postern of the Castle by another secret passage, which had been formed in
      the thickness of the wall, as is not uncommon in ancient mansions; the
      lords of which were liable to so many mutations of fortune, that they
      usually contrived to secure some lurking place and secret mode of retreat
      from their fortresses. That Bridgenorth had discovered and availed himself
      of this secret mode of retreat was evident; because the private doors
      communicating with the postern and the sliding panel in the gilded chamber
      were both left open.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Geoffrey returned to the ladies with looks of perplexity. While he
      deemed Bridgenorth within his reach, he was apprehensive of nothing he
      could do; for he felt himself his superior in personal strength, and in
      that species of courage which induces a man to rush, without hesitation,
      upon personal danger. But when at a distance, he had been for many years
      accustomed to consider Bridgenorth's power and influence as something
      formidable; and notwithstanding the late change of affairs, his ideas so
      naturally reverted to his neighbour as a powerful friend or dangerous
      enemy, that he felt more apprehension on the Countess's score, than he was
      willing to acknowledge even to himself. The Countess observed his downcast
      and anxious brow, and requested to know if her stay there was likely to
      involve him in any trouble, or in any danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The trouble should be welcome," said Sir Geoffrey, "and more welcome the
      danger, which should come on such an account. My plan was, that your
      ladyship should have honoured Martindale with a few days' residence, which
      might have been kept private until the search after you was ended. Had I
      seen this fellow Bridgenorth, I have no doubt I could have compelled him
      to act discreetly; but he is now at liberty, and will keep out of my
      reach; and, what is worse, he has the secret of the priest's chamber."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the Knight paused, and seemed much embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You can, then, neither conceal nor protect me?" said the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon, my honoured lady," answered the Knight, "and let me say out my
      say. The plain truth is, that this man hath many friends among the
      Presbyterians here, who are more numerous than I would wish them; and if
      he falls in with the pursuivant fellow who carries the warrant of the
      Privy Council, it is likely he will back him with force sufficient to try
      to execute it. And I doubt whether any of our friends can be summoned
      together in haste, sufficient to resist such a power as they are like to
      bring together."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor would I wish any friends to take arms, in my name, against the King's
      warrant, Sir Geoffrey," said the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, for that matter," replied the Knight, "an his Majesty will grant
      warrants against his best friends, he must look to have them resisted. But
      the best I can think of in this emergence is&mdash;though the proposal be
      something inhospitable&mdash;that your ladyship should take presently to
      horse, if your fatigue will permit. I will mount also, with some brisk
      fellows, who will lodge you safe at Vale Royal, though the Sheriff stopped
      the way with a whole <i>posse comitatus</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess of Derby willingly acquiesced in this proposal. She had
      enjoyed a night's sound repose in the private chamber, to which Ellesmere
      had guided her on the preceding evening, and was quite ready to resume her
      route, or flight&mdash;"she scarce knew," she said, "which of the two she
      should term it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril wept at the necessity which seemed to hurry her earliest
      friend and protectress from under her roof, at the instant when the clouds
      of adversity were gathering around her; but she saw no alternative equally
      safe. Nay, however strong her attachment to Lady Derby, she could not but
      be more readily reconciled to her hasty departure, when she considered the
      inconvenience, and even danger, in which her presence, at such a time, and
      in such circumstances, was likely to involve a man so bold and
      hot-tempered as her husband Sir Geoffrey.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Lady Peveril, therefore, made every arrangement which time permitted
      and circumstances required, for the Countess prosecuting her journey, her
      husband, whose spirits always rose with the prospect of action, issued his
      orders to Whitaker to get together a few stout fellows, with back and
      breast pieces, and steel-caps. "There are the two lackeys, and Outram and
      Saunders, besides the other groom fellow, and Roger Raine, and his son;
      but bid Roger not come drunk again;&mdash;thyself, young Dick of the Dale
      and his servant, and a file or two of the tenants,&mdash;we shall be
      enough for any force they can make. All these are fellows that will strike
      hard, and ask no question why&mdash;their hands are ever readier than
      their tongues, and their mouths are more made for drinking than speaking."
    </p>
    <p>
      Whitaker, apprised of the necessity of the case, asked if he should not
      warn Sir Jasper Cranbourne.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not a word to him, as you live," said the Knight; "this may be an
      outlawry, as they call it, for what I know; and therefore I will bring no
      lands or tenements into peril, saving mine own. Sir Jasper hath had a
      troublesome time of it for many a year. By my will, he shall sit quiet for
      the rest of's days."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         <i>Fang.</i>&mdash;A rescue! a rescue!
         <i>Mrs. Quickly.</i>&mdash;Good people, bring a rescue or two.
                                            &mdash;Henry IV. <i>Part I.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      The followers of Peveril were so well accustomed to the sound of "Boot and
      Saddle," that they were soon mounted and in order; and in all the form,
      and with some of the dignity of danger, proceeded to escort the Countess
      of Derby through the hilly and desert tract of country which connects the
      frontier of the shire with the neighbouring county of Cheshire. The
      cavalcade moved with considerable precaution, which they had been taught
      by the discipline of the Civil Wars. One wary and well-mounted trooper
      rode about two hundred yards in advance; followed, at about half that
      distance, by two more, with their carabines advanced, as if ready for
      action. About one hundred yards behind the advance, came the main body;
      where the Countess of Derby, mounted on Lady Peveril's ambling palfrey
      (for her own had been exhausted by the journey from London to Martindale
      Castle), accompanied by one groom, of approved fidelity, and one
      waiting-maid, was attended and guarded by the Knight of the Peak, and
      three files of good and practised horsemen. In the rear came Whitaker,
      with Lance Outram, as men of especial trust, to whom the covering the
      retreat was confided. They rode, as the Spanish proverb expresses it,
      "with the beard on the shoulder," looking around, that is, from time to
      time, and using every precaution to have the speediest knowledge of any
      pursuit which might take place.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, however wise in discipline, Peveril and his followers were somewhat
      remiss in civil policy. The Knight had communicated to Whitaker, though
      without any apparent necessity, the precise nature of their present
      expedition; and Whitaker was equally communicative to his comrade Lance,
      the keeper. "It is strange enough, Master Whitaker," said the latter, when
      he had heard the case, "and I wish you, being a wise man, would expound
      it;&mdash;why, when we have been wishing for the King&mdash;and praying
      for the King&mdash;and fighting for the King&mdash;and dying for the King,
      for these twenty years, the first thing we find to do on his return, is to
      get into harness to resist his warrant?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pooh! you silly fellow," said Whitaker, "that is all you know of the true
      bottom of our quarrel! Why, man, we fought for the King's person against
      his warrant, all along from the very beginning; for I remember the rogues'
      proclamations, and so forth, always ran in the name of the King and
      Parliament."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay! was it even so?" replied Lance. "Nay, then, if they begin the old
      game so soon again, and send out warrants in the King's name against his
      loyal subjects, well fare our stout Knight, say I, who is ready to take
      them down in their stocking-soles. And if Bridgenorth takes the chase
      after us, I shall not be sorry to have a knock at him for one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, the man, bating he is a pestilent Roundhead and Puritan," said
      Whitaker, "is no bad neighbour. What has he done to thee, man?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He has poached on the manor," answered the keeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil he has!" replied Whitaker. "Thou must be jesting, Lance.
      Bridgenorth is neither hunter nor hawker; he hath not so much of honesty
      in him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, but he runs after game you little think of, with his sour, melancholy
      face, that would scare babes and curdle milk," answered Lance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou canst not mean the wenches?" said Whitaker; "why, he hath been
      melancholy mad with moping for the death of his wife. Thou knowest our
      lady took the child, for fear he should strangle it for putting him in
      mind of its mother, in some of his tantrums. Under her favour, and among
      friends, there are many poor Cavaliers' children, that care would be
      better bestowed upon&mdash;But to thy tale."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, thus it runs," said Lance. "I think you may have noticed, Master
      Whitaker, that a certain Mistress Deborah hath manifested a certain favour
      for a certain person in a certain household."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For thyself, to wit," answered Whitaker; "Lance Outram, thou art the
      vainest coxcomb&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Coxcomb?" said Lance; "why, 'twas but last night the whole family saw
      her, as one would say, fling herself at my head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would she had been a brickbat then, to have broken it, for thy
      impertinence and conceit," said the steward.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, but do but hearken. The next morning&mdash;that is, this very
      blessed morning&mdash;I thought of going to lodge a buck in the park,
      judging a bit of venison might be wanted in the larder, after yesterday's
      wassail; and, as I passed under the nursery window, I did but just look up
      to see what madam governante was about; and so I saw her, through the
      casement, whip on her hood and scarf as soon as she had a glimpse of me.
      Immediately after I saw the still-room door open, and made sure she was
      coming through the garden, and so over the breach and down to the park;
      and so, thought I, 'Aha, Mistress Deb, if you are so ready to dance after
      my pipe and tabor, I will give you a couranto before you shall come up
      with me.' And so I went down Ivy-tod Dingle, where the copse is tangled,
      and the ground swampy, and round by Haxley-bottom, thinking all the while
      she was following, and laughing in my sleeve at the round I was giving
      her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You deserved to be ducked for it," said Whitaker, "for a weather-headed
      puppy; but what is all this Jack-a-lantern story to Bridgenorth?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, it was all along of he, man," continued Lance, "that is, of
      Bridgenorth, that she did not follow me&mdash;Gad, I first walked slow,
      and then stopped, and then turned back a little, and then began to wonder
      what she had made of herself, and to think I had borne myself something
      like a jackass in the matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I deny," said Whitaker, "never jackass but would have borne him
      better&mdash;but go on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, turning my face towards the Castle, I went back as if I had my nose
      bleeding, when just by the Copely thorn, which stands, you know, a
      flight-short from the postern-gate, I saw Madam Deb in close conference
      with the enemy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What enemy?" said the steward.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What enemy! why, who but Bridgenorth? They kept out of sight, and among
      the copse; but, thought I, it is hard if I cannot stalk you, that have
      stalked so many bucks. If so, I had better give my shafts to be pudding
      pins. So I cast round the thicket, to watch their waters; and may I never
      bend crossbow again, if I did not see him give her gold, and squeeze her
      by the hand!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And was that all you saw pass between them?" said the steward.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Faith, and it was enough to dismount me from my hobby," said Lance.
      "What! when I thought I had the prettiest girl in the Castle dancing after
      my whistle, to find that she gave me the bag to hold, and was smuggling in
      a corner with a rich old Puritan!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Credit me, Lance, it is not as thou thinkest," said Whitaker.
      "Bridgenorth cares not for these amorous toys, and thou thinkest of
      nothing else. But it is fitting our Knight should know that he has met
      with Deborah in secret, and given her gold; for never Puritan gave gold
      yet, but it was earnest for some devil's work done, or to be done."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, but," said Lance, "I would not be such a dog-bolt as to go and
      betray the girl to our master. She hath a right to follow her fancy, as
      the dame said who kissed her cow&mdash;only I do not much approve her
      choice, that is all. He cannot be six years short of fifty; and a verjuice
      countenance, under the penthouse of a slouched beaver, and bag of meagre
      dried bones, swaddled up in a black cloak, is no such temptation,
      methinks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell you once more," said Whitaker, "you are mistaken; and that there
      neither is, nor can be, any matter of love between them, but only some
      intrigue, concerning, perhaps, this same noble Countess of Derby. I tell
      thee, it behoves my master to know it, and I will presently tell it to
      him."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and in spite of all the remonstrances which Lance continued to
      make on behalf of Mistress Deborah, the steward rode up to the main body
      of their little party, and mentioned to the Knight, and the Countess of
      Derby, what he had just heard from the keeper, adding at the same time his
      own suspicions, that Master Bridgenorth of Moultrassie Hall was desirous
      to keep up some system of espial in the Castle of Martindale, either in
      order to secure his menaced vengeance on the Countess of Derby, as
      authoress of his brother-in-law's death, or for some unknown, but probably
      sinister purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Peak was filled with high resentment at Whitaker's
      communication. According to his prejudices, those of the opposite faction
      were supposed to make up by wit and intrigue what they wanted in open
      force; and he now hastily conceived that his neighbour, whose prudence he
      always respected, and sometimes even dreaded, was maintaining for his
      private purposes, a clandestine correspondence with a member of his
      family. If this was for the betrayal of his noble guest, it argued at once
      treachery and presumption; or, viewing the whole as Lance had done, a
      criminal intrigue with a woman so near the person of Lady Peveril, was in
      itself, he deemed, a piece of sovereign impertinence and disrespect on the
      part of such a person as Bridgenorth, against whom Sir Geoffrey's anger
      was kindled accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whitaker had scarce regained his post in the rear, when he again quitted
      it, and galloped to the main body with more speed than before, with the
      unpleasing tidings that they were pursued by half a score of horseman, and
      better.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ride on briskly to Hartley-nick," said the Knight, "and there, with God
      to help, we will bide the knaves.&mdash;Countess of Derby&mdash;one word
      and a short one&mdash;Farewell!&mdash;you must ride forward with Whitaker
      and another careful fellow, and let me alone to see that no one treads on
      your skirts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will abide with you and stand them," said the Countess; "you know of
      old, I fear not to look on man's work."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You <i>must</i> ride on, madam," said the Knight, "for the sake of the
      young Earl, and the rest of my noble friends' family. There is no manly
      work which can be worth your looking upon; it is but child's play that
      these fellows bring with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      As she yielded a reluctant consent to continue her flight, they reached
      the bottom of Hartley-nick, a pass very steep and craggy, and where the
      road, or rather path, which had hitherto passed over more open ground,
      became pent up and confined betwixt copsewood on the one side, and, on the
      other, the precipitous bank of a mountain stream.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess of Derby, after an affectionate adieu to Sir Geoffrey, and
      having requested him to convey her kind commendations to her little
      page-elect and his mother, proceeded up the pass at a round pace, and with
      her attendants and escort, was soon out of sight. Immediately after she
      had disappeared, the pursuers came up with Sir Geoffrey Peveril, who had
      divided and drawn up his party so as completely to occupy the road at
      three different points.
    </p>
    <p>
      The opposite party was led, as Sir Geoffrey had expected, by Major
      Bridgenorth. At his side was a person in black, with a silver greyhound on
      his arm; and he was followed by about eight or ten inhabitants of the
      village of Martindale Moultrassie, two or three of whom were officers of
      the peace, and others were personally known to Sir Geoffrey as favourers
      of the subverted government.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the party rode briskly up, Sir Geoffrey called to them to halt; and as
      they continued advancing, he ordered his own people to present their
      pistols and carabines; and after assuming that menacing attitude, he
      repeated, with a voice of thunder, "Halt, or we fire!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The other party halted accordingly, and Major Bridgenorth advanced, as if
      to parley.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, how now, neighbour," said Sir Geoffrey, as if he had at that moment
      recognised him for the first time,&mdash;"what makes you ride so sharp
      this morning? Are you not afraid to harm your horse, or spoil your spurs?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Geoffrey," said the Major, "I have not time for jesting&mdash;I'm on
      the King's affairs."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are you sure it is not upon Old Noll's, neighbour? You used to hold his
      the better errand," said the Knight, with a smile which gave occasion to a
      horse-laugh among his followers.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Show him your warrant," said Bridgenorth to the man in black formerly
      mentioned, who was a pursuivant. Then taking the warrant from the officer,
      he gave it to Sir Geoffrey&mdash;"To this, at least, you will pay regard."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The same regard which you would have paid to it a month back or so," said
      the Knight, tearing the warrant to shreds.&mdash;"What a plague do you
      stare at? Do you think you have a monopoly of rebellion, and that we have
      not a right to show a trick of disobedience in our turn?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Make way, Sir Geoffrey Peveril," said Bridgenorth, "or you will compel me
      to do that I may be sorry for. I am in this matter the avenger of the
      blood of one of the Lord's saints, and I will follow the chase while
      Heaven grants me an arm to make my way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You shall make no way here but at your peril," said Sir Geoffrey; "this
      is my ground&mdash;I have been harassed enough for these twenty years by
      saints, as you call yourselves. I tell you, master, you shall neither
      violate the security of my house, nor pursue my friends over the grounds,
      nor tamper, as you have done, amongst my servants, with impunity. I have
      had you in respect for certain kind doings, which I will not either forget
      or deny, and you will find it difficult to make me draw a sword or bend a
      pistol against you; but offer any hostile movement, or presume to advance
      a foot, and I will make sure of you presently. And for those rascals, who
      come hither to annoy a noble lady on my bounds, unless you draw them off,
      I will presently send some of them to the devil before their time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Make room at your proper peril," said Major Bridgenorth; and he put his
      right hand on his holster-pistol. Sir Geoffrey closed with him instantly,
      seized him by the collar, and spurred Black Hastings, checking him at the
      same time, so that the horse made a courbette, and brought the full weight
      of his chest against the counter of the other. A ready soldier might, in
      Bridgenorth's situation, have rid himself of his adversary with a bullet.
      But Bridgenorth's courage, notwithstanding his having served some time
      with the Parliament army, was rather of a civil than a military character;
      and he was inferior to his adversary, not only in strength and
      horsemanship, but also and especially in the daring and decisive
      resolution which made Sir Geoffrey thrust himself readily into personal
      contest. While, therefore, they tugged and grappled together upon terms
      which bore such little accordance with their long acquaintance and close
      neighbourhood, it was no wonder that Bridgenorth should be unhorsed with
      much violence. While Sir Geoffrey sprung from the saddle, the party of
      Bridgenorth advanced to rescue their leader, and that of the Knight to
      oppose them. Swords were unsheathed, and pistols presented; but Sir
      Geoffrey, with the voice of a herald, commanded both parties to stand
      back, and to keep the peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pursuivant took the hint, and easily found a reason for not
      prosecuting a dangerous duty. "The warrant," he said, "was destroyed. They
      that did it must be answerable to the Council; for his part, he could
      proceed no farther without his commission."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well said, and like a peaceable fellow!" said Sir Geoffrey.&mdash;"Let
      him have refreshment at the Castle&mdash;his nag is sorely out of
      condition.&mdash;Come, neighbour Bridgenorth, get up, man&mdash;I trust
      you have had no hurt in this mad affray? I was loath to lay hand on you,
      man, till you plucked out your petronel."
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke thus, he aided the Major to rise. The pursuivant, meanwhile,
      drew aside; and with him the constable and head-borough, who were not
      without some tacit suspicion, that though Peveril was interrupting the
      direct course of law in this matter, yet he was likely to have his offence
      considered by favourable judges; and therefore it might be as much for
      their interest and safety to give way as to oppose him. But the rest of
      the party, friends of Bridgenorth, and of his principles, kept their
      ground notwithstanding this defection, and seemed, from their looks,
      sternly determined to rule their conduct by that of their leader, whatever
      it might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was evident that Bridgenorth did not intend to renew the struggle.
      He shook himself rather roughly free from the hands of Sir Geoffrey
      Peveril; but it was not to draw his sword. On the contrary, he mounted his
      horse with a sullen and dejected air; and, making a sign to his followers,
      turned back the same road which he had come. Sir Geoffrey looked after him
      for some minutes. "Now, there goes a man," said he, "who would have been a
      right honest fellow had he not been a Presbyterian. But there is no
      heartiness about them&mdash;they can never forgive a fair fall upon the
      sod&mdash;they bear malice, and that I hate as I do a black cloak, or a
      Geneva skull-cap, and a pair of long ears rising on each side on't, like
      two chimneys at the gable ends of a thatched cottage. They are as sly as
      the devil to boot; and, therefore, Lance Outram, take two with you, and
      keep after them, that they may not turn our flank, and get on the track of
      the Countess again after all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had as soon they should course my lady's white tame doe," answered
      Lance, in the spirit of his calling. He proceeded to execute his master's
      orders by dogging Major Bridgenorth at a distance, and observing his
      course from such heights as commanded the country. But it was soon evident
      that no manoeuvre was intended, and that the Major was taking the direct
      road homeward. When this was ascertained, Sir Geoffrey dismissed most of
      his followers; and retaining only his own domestics, rode hastily forward
      to overtake the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is only necessary to say farther, that he completed his purpose of
      escorting the Countess of Derby to Vale Royal, without meeting any further
      hindrance by the way. The lord of the mansion readily undertook to conduct
      the high-minded lady to Liverpool, and the task of seeing her safely
      embarked for her son's hereditary dominions, where there was no doubt of
      her remaining in personal safety until the accusation against her for
      breach of the Royal Indemnity, by the execution of Christian, could be
      brought to some compromise.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a length of time this was no easy matter. Clarendon, then at the head
      of Charles's administration, considered her rash action, though dictated
      by motives which the human breast must, in some respects, sympathise with,
      as calculated to shake the restored tranquillity of England, by exciting
      the doubts and jealousies of those who had to apprehend the consequences
      of what is called, in our own time, a <i>reaction</i>. At the same time,
      the high services of this distinguished family&mdash;the merits of the
      Countess herself&mdash;the memory of her gallant husband&mdash;and the
      very peculiar circumstances of jurisdiction which took the case out of all
      common rules, pleaded strongly in her favour; and the death of Christian
      was at length only punished by the imposition of a heavy fine, amounting,
      we believe, to many thousand pounds; which was levied, with great
      difficulty, out of the shattered estates of the young Earl of Derby.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                     My native land, good night!
                                           &mdash;BYRON.
</pre>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril remained in no small anxiety for several hours after her
      husband and the Countess had departed from Martindale Castle; more
      especially when she learned that Major Bridgenorth, concerning whose
      motions she made private inquiry, had taken horse with a party, and was
      gone to the westward in the same direction with Sir Geoffrey.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length her immediate uneasiness in regard to the safety of her husband
      and the Countess was removed, by the arrival of Whitaker, with her
      husband's commendations, and an account of the scuffle betwixt himself and
      Major Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril shuddered to see how nearly they had approached to renewal of
      the scenes of civil discord; and while she was thankful to Heaven for her
      husband's immediate preservation, she could not help feeling both regret
      and apprehension for the consequences of his quarrel with Major
      Bridgenorth. They had now lost an old friend, who had showed himself such
      under those circumstances of adversity by which friendship is most
      severely tried; and she could not disguise from herself that Bridgenorth,
      thus irritated, might be a troublesome, if not a dangerous enemy. His
      rights as a creditor, he had hitherto used with gentleness; but if he
      should employ rigour, Lady Peveril, whose attention to domestic economy
      had made her much better acquainted with her husband's affairs than he was
      himself, foresaw considerable inconvenience from the measures which the
      law put in his power. She comforted herself with the recollection,
      however, that she had still a strong hold on Bridgenorth, through his
      paternal affection, and from the fixed opinion which he had hitherto
      manifested, that his daughter's health could only flourish while under her
      charge. But any expectations of reconciliation which Lady Peveril might
      probably have founded on this circumstance, were frustrated by an incident
      which took place in the course of the following morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The governante, Mistress Deborah, who has been already mentioned, went
      forth, as usual, with the children, to take their morning exercise in the
      Park, attended by Rachael, a girl who acted occasionally as her assistant
      in attending upon them. But not as usual did she return. It was near the
      hour of breakfast, when Ellesmere, with an unwonted degree of primness in
      her mouth and manner, came to acquaint her lady that Mistress Deborah had
      not thought proper to come back from the Park, though the breakfast hour
      approached so near.
    </p>
    <p>
      "She will come, then, presently," said Lady Peveril with indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ellesmere gave a short and doubtful cough, and then proceeded to say, that
      Rachael had been sent home with little Master Julian, and that Mistress
      Deborah had been pleased to say, she would walk on with Miss Bridgenorth
      as far as Moultrassie Holt; which was a point at which the property of the
      Major, as matters now stood, bounded that of Sir Geoffrey Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is the wench turned silly," exclaimed the lady, something angrily, "that
      she does not obey my orders, and return at regular hours?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She may be turning silly," said Ellesmere mysteriously; "or she may be
      turning too sly; and I think it were as well your ladyship looked to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Looked to what, Ellesmere?" said the lady impatiently. "You are strangely
      oracular this morning. If you know anything to the prejudice of this young
      woman, I pray you speak it out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I prejudice!" said Ellesmere; "I scorn to prejudice man, woman, or child,
      in the way of a fellow-servant; only I wish your ladyship to look about
      you, and use your own eyes&mdash;that is all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You bid me use my own eyes, Ellesmere; but I suspect," answered the lady,
      "you would be better pleased were I contented to see through your
      spectacles. I charge you&mdash;and you know I will be obeyed&mdash;I
      charge you to tell me what you know or suspect about this girl, Deborah
      Debbitch."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see through spectacles!" exclaimed the indignant Abigail; "your
      ladyship will pardon me in that, for I never use them, unless a pair that
      belonged to my poor mother, which I put on when your ladyship wants your
      pinners curiously wrought. No woman above sixteen ever did white-seam
      without barnacles. And then as to suspecting, I suspect nothing; for as
      your ladyship hath taken Mistress Deborah Debbitch from under my hand, to
      be sure it is neither bread nor butter of mine. Only" (here she began to
      speak with her lips shut, so as scarce to permit a sound to issue, and
      mincing her words as if she pinched off the ends of them before she
      suffered them to escape),&mdash;"only, madam, if Mistress Deborah goes so
      often of a morning to Moultrassie Holt, why, I should not be surprised if
      she should never find the way back again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Once more, what do you mean, Ellesmere? You were wont to have some sense&mdash;let
      me know distinctly what the matter is."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Only, madam," pursued the Abigail, "that since Bridgenorth came back from
      Chesterfield, and saw you at the Castle Hall, Mistress Deborah has been
      pleased to carry the children every morning to that place; and it has so
      happened that she has often met the Major, as they call him, there in his
      walks; for he can walk about now like other folks; and I warrant you she
      hath not been the worse of the meeting&mdash;one way at least, for she
      hath bought a new hood might serve yourself, madam; but whether she hath
      had anything in hand besides a piece of money, no doubt your ladyship is
      best judge."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril, who readily adopted the more good-natured construction of
      the governante's motives, could not help laughing at the idea of a man of
      Bridgenorth's precise appearance, strict principles, and reserved habits,
      being suspected of a design of gallantry; and readily concluded, that
      Mistress Deborah had found her advantage in gratifying his parental
      affection by a frequent sight of his daughter during the few days which
      intervened betwixt his first seeing little Alice at the Castle, and the
      events which had followed. But she was somewhat surprised, when, an hour
      after the usual breakfast hour, during which neither the child nor
      Mistress Deborah appeared, Major Bridgenorth's only man-servant arrived at
      the Castle on horseback, dressed as for a journey; and having delivered a
      letter addressed to herself, and another to Mistress Ellesmere, rode away
      without waiting any answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      There would have been nothing remarkable in this, had any other person
      been concerned; but Major Bridgenorth was so very quiet and orderly in all
      his proceedings&mdash;so little liable to act hastily or by impulse, that
      the least appearance of bustle where he was concerned, excited surprise
      and curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril broke her letter hastily open, and found that it contained
      the following lines:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "<i>For the Hands of the Honourable and Honoured Lady Peveril&mdash;
  These:</i>

 "Madam&mdash;Please it your Ladyship,&mdash;I write more to excuse myself to
  your ladyship, than to accuse either you or others, in respect
  that I am sensible it becomes our frail nature better to confess
  our own imperfections, than to complain of those of others.
  Neither do I mean to speak of past times, particularly in respect
  of your worthy ladyship, being sensible that if I have served you
  in that period when our Israel might be called triumphant, you
  have more than requited me, in giving to my arms a child,
  redeemed, as it were, from the vale of the shadow of death. And
  therefore, as I heartily forgive to your ladyship the unkind and
  violent measure which you dealt to me at our last meeting (seeing
  that the woman who was the cause of strife is accounted one of
  your kindred people), I do entreat you, in like manner, to pardon
  my enticing away from your service the young woman called Deborah
  Debbitch, whose direction, is, it may be, indispensable to the
  health of my dearest child. I had purposed, madam, with your
  gracious permission, that Alice should have remained at Martindale
  Castle, under your kind charge, until she could so far discern
  betwixt good and evil, that it should be matter of conscience to
  teach her the way in which she should go. For it is not unknown to
  your ladyship, and in no way do I speak it reproachfully, but
  rather sorrowfully, that a person so excellently gifted as
  yourself&mdash;I mean touching natural qualities&mdash;has not yet received
  that true light, which is a lamp to the paths, but are contented
  to stumble in darkness, and among the graves of dead men. It has
  been my prayer in the watches of the night, that your ladyship
  should cease from the doctrine which causeth to err; but I grieve
  to say, that our candlestick being about to be removed, the land
  will most likely be involved in deeper darkness than ever; and the
  return of the King, to which I and many looked forward as a
  manifestation of divine favour, seems to prove little else than a
  permitted triumph of the Prince of the Air, who setteth about to
  restore his Vanity-fair of bishops, deans, and such like,
  extruding the peaceful ministers of the word, whose labours have
  proved faithful to many hungry souls. So, hearing from a sure
  hand, that commission has gone forth to restore these dumb dogs,
  the followers of Laud and of Williams, who were cast forth by the
  late Parliament, and that an Act of Conformity, or rather of
  deformity, of worship, was to be expected, it is my purpose to
  flee from the wrath to come, and to seek some corner where I may
  dwell in peace, and enjoy liberty of conscience. For who would
  abide in the Sanctuary, after the carved work thereof is broken
  down, and when it hath been made a place for owls, and satyrs of
  the wilderness?&mdash;And herein I blame myself, madam, that I went in
  the singleness of my heart too readily into that carousing in the
  house of feasting, wherein my love of union, and my desire to show
  respect to your ladyship, were made a snare to me. But I trust it
  will be an atonement, that I am now about to absent myself from
  the place of my birth, and the house of my fathers, as well as
  from the place which holdeth the dust of those pledges of my
  affection. I have also to remember, that in this land my honour
  (after the worldly estimation) hath been abated, and my utility
  circumscribed, by your husband, Sir Geoffrey Peveril; and that
  without any chance of my obtaining reparation at his hand, whereby
  I may say the hand of a kinsman was lifted up against my credit
  and my life. These things are bitter to the taste of the old Adam;
  wherefore to prevent farther bickerings, and, it may be,
  bloodshed, it is better that I leave this land for a time. The
  affairs which remain to be settled between Sir Geoffrey and
  myself, I shall place in the hand of the righteous Master Joachim
  Win-the-Fight, an attorney in Chester, who will arrange them with
  such attention to Sir Geoffrey's convenience, as justice, and the
  due exercise of the law, will permit; for, as I trust I shall
  have grace to resist the temptation to make the weapons of carnal
  warfare the instruments of my revenge, so I scorn to effect it
  through the means of Mammon. Wishing, madam, that the Lord may
  grant you every blessing, and, in especial, that which is over all
  others, namely, the true knowledge of His way, I remain, your
  devoted servant to command,     RALPH BRIDGENORTH.

 "<i>Written at Moultrassie Hall, this tenth
        day of July, 1660.</i>"
</pre>
    <p>
      So soon as Lady Peveril had perused this long and singular homily, in
      which it seemed to her that her neighbour showed more spirit of religious
      fanaticism than she could have supposed him possessed of, she looked up
      and beheld Ellesmere,&mdash;with a countenance in which mortification, and
      an affected air of contempt, seemed to struggle together,&mdash;who, tired
      with watching the expression of her mistress's countenance, applied for
      confirmation of her suspicions in plain terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I suppose, madam," said the waiting-woman, "the fanatic fool intends to
      marry the wench? They say he goes to shift the country. Truly it's time,
      indeed; for, besides that the whole neighbourhood would laugh him to
      scorn, I should not be surprised if Lance Outram, the keeper, gave him a
      buck's head to bear; for that is all in the way of his office."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no great occasion for your spite at present, Ellesmere," replied
      her lady. "My letter says nothing of marriage; but it would appear that
      Master Bridgenorth, being to leave this country, has engaged Deborah to
      take care of his child; and I am sure I am heartily glad of it, for the
      infant's sake."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I am glad of it for my own," said Ellesmere; "and, indeed, for the
      sake of the whole house.&mdash;And your ladyship thinks she is not like to
      be married to him? Troth, I could never see how he should be such an
      idiot; but perhaps she is going to do worse; for she speaks here of coming
      to high preferment, and that scarce comes by honest servitude nowadays;
      then she writes me about sending her things, as if I were mistress of the
      wardrobe to her ladyship&mdash;ay, and recommends Master Julian to the
      care of my age and experience, forsooth, as if she needed to recommend the
      dear little jewel to me; and then, to speak of my age&mdash;But I will
      bundle away her rags to the Hall, with a witness!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do it with all civility," said the lady, "and let Whitaker send her the
      wages for which she has served, and a broad-piece over and above; for
      though a light-headed young woman, she was kind to the children."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know who is kind to their servants, madam, and would spoil the best
      ever pinned a gown."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I spoiled a good one, Ellesmere, when I spoiled thee," said the lady;
      "but tell Mistress Deborah to kiss the little Alice for me, and to offer
      my good wishes to Major Bridgenorth, for his temporal and future
      happiness."
    </p>
    <p>
      She permitted no observation or reply, but dismissed her attendant,
      without entering into farther particulars.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ellesmere had withdrawn, Lady Peveril began to reflect, with much
      feeling of compassion, on the letter of Major Bridgenorth; a person in
      whom there were certainly many excellent qualities, but whom a series of
      domestic misfortunes, and the increasing gloom of a sincere, yet stern
      feeling of devotion, rendered lonely and unhappy; and she had more than
      one anxious thought for the happiness of the little Alice, brought up, as
      she was likely to be, under such a father. Still the removal of
      Bridgenorth was, on the whole, a desirable event; for while he remained at
      the Hall, it was but too likely that some accidental collision with Sir
      Geoffrey might give rise to a rencontre betwixt them, more fatal than the
      last had been.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, she could not help expressing to Doctor Dummerar her
      surprise and sorrow, that all which she had done and attempted, to
      establish peace and unanimity betwixt the contending factions, had been
      perversely fated to turn out the very reverse of what she had aimed at.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But for my unhappy invitation," she said, "Bridgenorth would not have
      been at the Castle on the morning which succeeded the feast, would not
      have seen the Countess, and would not have incurred the resentment and
      opposition of my husband. And but for the King's return, an event which
      was so anxiously expected as the termination of all our calamities,
      neither the noble lady nor ourselves had been engaged in this new path of
      difficulty and danger."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Honoured madam," said Doctor Dummerar, "were the affairs of this world to
      be guided implicitly by human wisdom, or were they uniformly to fall out
      according to the conjectures of human foresight, events would no longer be
      under the domination of that time and chance, which happen unto all men,
      since we should, in the one case, work out our own purposes to a
      certainty, by our own skill, and in the other, regulate our conduct
      according to the views of unerring prescience. But man is, while in this
      vale of tears, like an uninstructed bowler, so to speak, who thinks to
      attain the jack, by delivering his bowl straight forward upon it, being
      ignorant that there is a concealed bias within the spheroid, which will
      make it, in all probability, swerve away, and lose the cast."
    </p>
    <p>
      Having spoken this with a sententious air, the Doctor took his
      shovel-shaped hat, and went down to the Castle green, to conclude a match
      of bowls with Whitaker, which had probably suggested this notable
      illustration of the uncertain course of human events.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two days afterwards, Sir Geoffrey arrived. He had waited at Vale Royal
      till he heard of the Countess's being safely embarked for Man, and then
      had posted homeward to his Castle and Dame Margaret. On his way, he
      learned from some of his attendants, the mode in which his lady had
      conducted the entertainment which she had given to the neighbourhood at
      his order; and notwithstanding the great deference he usually showed in
      cases where Lady Peveril was concerned, he heard of her liberality towards
      the Presbyterian party with great indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could have admitted Bridgenorth," he said, "for he always bore him in
      neighbourly and kindly fashion till this last career&mdash;I could have
      endured him, so he would have drunk the King's health, like a true man&mdash;but
      to bring that snuffling scoundrel Solsgrace, with all his beggarly,
      long-eared congregation, to hold a conventicle in my father's house&mdash;to
      let them domineer it as they listed&mdash;why, I would not have permitted
      them such liberty, when they held their head the highest! They never, in
      the worst of times, found any way into Martindale Castle but what Noll's
      cannon made for them; and that they should come and cant there, when good
      King Charles is returned&mdash;By my hand, Dame Margaret shall hear of
      it!"
    </p>
    <p>
      But, notwithstanding these ireful resolutions, resentment altogether
      subsided in the honest Knight's breast, when he saw the fair features of
      his lady lightened with affectionate joy at his return in safety. As he
      took her in his arms and kissed her, he forgave her ere he mentioned her
      offence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou hast played the knave with me, Meg," he said, shaking his head, and
      smiling at the same time, "and thou knowest in what manner; but I think
      thou art true church-woman, and didst only act from silly womanish fancy
      of keeping fair with these roguish Roundheads. But let me have no more of
      this. I had rather Martindale Castle were again rent by their bullets,
      than receive any of the knaves in the way of friendship&mdash;I always
      except Ralph Bridgenorth of the Hall, if he should come to his senses
      again."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril was here under the necessity of explaining what she had heard
      of Master Bridgenorth&mdash;the disappearance of the governante with his
      daughter, and placed Bridgenorth's letter in his hand. Sir Geoffrey shook
      his head at first, and then laughed extremely at the idea that there was
      some little love-intrigue between Bridgenorth and Mistress Deborah.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is the true end of a dissenter," he said, "to marry his own
      maid-servant, or some other person's. Deborah is a good likely wench, and
      on the merrier side of thirty, as I should think."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, nay," said the Lady Peveril, "you are as uncharitable as Ellesmere&mdash;I
      believe it but to be affection to his child."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw! pshaw!" answered the Knight, "women are eternally thinking of
      children; but among men, dame, many one carresses the infant that he may
      kiss the child's maid; and where's the wonder or the harm either, if
      Bridgenorth should marry the wench? Her father is a substantial yeoman;
      his family has had the same farm since Bosworthfield&mdash;as good a
      pedigree as that of the great-grandson of a Chesterfield brewer, I trow.
      But let us hear what he says for himself&mdash;I shall spell it out if
      there is any roguery in the letter about love and liking, though it might
      escape your innocence, Dame Margaret."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Peak began to peruse the letter accordingly, but was
      much embarrassed by the peculiar language in which it was couched. "What
      he means by moving of candlesticks, and breaking down of carved work in
      the church, I cannot guess; unless he means to bring back the large silver
      candlesticks which my grandsire gave to be placed on the altar at
      Martindale Moultrassie; and which his crop-eared friends, like
      sacrilegious villains as they are, stole and melted down. And in like
      manner, the only breaking I know of, was when they pulled down the rails
      of the communion table (for which some of their fingers are hot enough by
      this time), and when the brass ornaments were torn down from Peveril
      monuments; and that was breaking and removing with a vengeance. However,
      dame, the upshot is, that poor Bridgenorth is going to leave the
      neighbourhood. I am truly sorry for it, though I never saw him oftener
      than once a day, and never spoke to him above two words. But I see how it
      is&mdash;that little shake by the shoulder sticks in his stomach; and yet,
      Meg, I did but lift him out of the saddle as I might have lifted thee into
      it, Margaret&mdash;I was careful not to hurt him; and I did not think him
      so tender in point of honour as to mind such a thing much; but I see
      plainly where his sore lies; and I warrant you I will manage that he stays
      at the Hall, and that you get back Julian's little companion. Faith, I am
      sorry myself at the thought of losing the baby, and of having to choose
      another ride when it is not hunting weather, than round by the Hall, with
      a word at the window."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should be very glad, Sir Geoffrey," said the Lady Peveril, "that you
      could come to a reconciliation with this worthy man, for such I must hold
      Master Bridgenorth to be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But for his dissenting principles, as good a neighbour as ever lived,"
      said Sir Geoffrey.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I scarce see," continued the lady, "any possibility of bringing about
      a conclusion so desirable."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tush, dame," answered the Knight, "thou knowest little of such matters. I
      know the foot he halts upon, and you shall see him go as sound as ever."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril had, from her sincere affection and sound sense, as good a
      right to claim the full confidence of her husband, as any woman in
      Derbyshire; and, upon this occasion, to confess the truth, she had more
      anxiety to know his purpose than her sense of their mutual and separate
      duties permitted her in general to entertain. She could not imagine what
      mode of reconciliation with his neighbour, Sir Geoffrey (no very acute
      judge of mankind or their peculiarities) could have devised, which might
      not be disclosed to her; and she felt some secret anxiety lest the means
      resorted to might be so ill chosen as to render the breach rather wider.
      But Sir Geoffrey would give no opening for farther inquiry. He had been
      long enough colonel of a regiment abroad, to value himself on the right of
      absolute command at home; and to all the hints which his lady's ingenuity
      could devise and throw out, he only answered, "Patience, Dame Margaret,
      patience. This is no case for thy handling. Thou shalt know enough on't
      by-and-by, dame.&mdash;Go, look to Julian. Will the boy never have done
      crying for lack of that little sprout of a Roundhead? But we will have
      little Alice back with us in two or three days, and all will be well
      again."
    </p>
    <p>
      As the good Knight spoke these words, a post winded his horn in the court,
      and a large packet was brought in, addressed to the worshipful Sir
      Geoffrey Peveril, Justice of the Peace, and so forth; for he had been
      placed in authority as soon as the King's Restoration was put upon a
      settled basis. Upon opening the packet, which he did with no small feeling
      of importance, he found that it contained the warrant which he had
      solicited for replacing Doctor Dummerar in the parish, from which he had
      been forcibly ejected during the usurpation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Few incidents could have given more delight to Sir Geoffrey. He could
      forgive a stout able-bodied sectary or nonconformist, who enforced his
      doctrines in the field by downright blows on the casques and cuirasses of
      himself and other Cavaliers. But he remembered with most vindictive
      accuracy, the triumphant entrance of Hugh Peters through the breach of his
      Castle; and for his sake, without nicely distinguishing betwixt sects or
      their teachers, he held all who mounted a pulpit without warrant from the
      Church of England&mdash;perhaps he might also in private except that of
      Rome&mdash;to be disturbers of the public tranquillity&mdash;seducers of
      the congregation from their lawful preachers&mdash;instigators of the late
      Civil War&mdash;and men well disposed to risk the fate of a new one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, on the other hand, besides gratifying his dislike to Solsgrace, he
      saw much satisfaction in the task of replacing his old friend and
      associate in sport and in danger, the worthy Doctor Dummerar, in his
      legitimate rights and in the ease and comforts of his vicarage. He
      communicated the contents of the packet, with great triumph, to the lady,
      who now perceived the sense of the mysterious paragraph in Major
      Bridgenorth's letter, concerning the removal of the candlestick, and the
      extinction of light and doctrine in the land. She pointed this out to Sir
      Geoffrey, and endeavoured to persuade him that a door was now opened to
      reconciliation with his neighbour, by executing the commission which he
      had received in an easy and moderate manner, after due delay, and with all
      respect to the feelings both of Solsgrace and his congregation, which
      circumstances admitted of. This, the lady argued, would be doing no injury
      whatever to Doctor Dummerar;&mdash;nay, might be the means of reconciling
      many to his ministry, who might otherwise be disgusted with it for ever,
      by the premature expulsion of a favourite preacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was much wisdom, as well as moderation, in this advice; and, at
      another time, Sir Geoffrey would have sense enough to have adopted it. But
      who can act composedly or prudently in the hour of triumph? The ejection
      of Mr. Solsgrace was so hastily executed, as to give it some appearance of
      persecution; though, more justly considered, it was the restoring of his
      predecessor to his legal rights. Solsgrace himself seemed to be desirous
      to make his sufferings as manifest as possible. He held out to the last;
      and on the Sabbath after he had received intimation of his ejection,
      attempted to make his way to the pulpit, as usual, supported by Master
      Bridgenorth's attorney, Win-the-Fight, and a few zealous followers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as their party came into the churchyard on the one side, Doctor
      Dummerar, dressed in full pontificals, in a sort of triumphal procession
      accompanied by Peveril of the Peak, Sir Jasper Cranbourne, and other
      Cavaliers of distinction, entered at the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      To prevent an actual struggle in the church, the parish officers were sent
      to prevent the farther approach of the Presbyterian minister; which was
      effected without farther damage than a broken head, inflicted by Roger
      Raine, the drunken innkeeper of the Peveril Arms, upon the Presbyterian
      attorney of Chesterfield.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unsubdued in spirit, though compelled to retreat by superior force, the
      undaunted Mr. Solsgrace retired to the vicarage; where under some legal
      pretext which had been started by Mr. Win-the-Fight (in that day unaptly
      named), he attempted to maintain himself&mdash;bolted gates&mdash;barred
      windows&mdash;and, as report said (though falsely), made provision of
      fire-arms to resist the officers. A scene of clamour and scandal
      accordingly took place, which being reported to Sir Geoffrey, he came in
      person, with some of his attendants carrying arms&mdash;forced the
      outer-gate and inner-doors of the house; and proceeding to the study,
      found no other garrison save the Presbyterian parson, with the attorney,
      who gave up possession of the premises, after making protestation against
      the violence that had been used.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rabble of the village being by this time all in motion, Sir Geoffrey,
      both in prudence and good-nature, saw the propriety of escorting his
      prisoners, for so they might be termed, safely through the tumult; and
      accordingly conveyed them in person, through much noise and clamour, as
      far as the avenue of Moultrassie Hall, which they chose for the place of
      their retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the absence of Sir Geoffrey gave the rein to some disorders, which, if
      present, he would assuredly have restrained. Some of the minister's books
      were torn and flung about as treasonable and seditious trash, by the
      zealous parish-officers or their assistants. A quantity of his ale was
      drunk up in healths to the King and Peveril of the Peak. And, finally, the
      boys, who bore the ex-parson no good-will for his tyrannical interference
      with their games at skittles, foot-ball, and so forth, and, moreover,
      remembered the unmerciful length of his sermons, dressed up an effigy with
      his Geneva gown and band, and his steeple-crowned hat, which they paraded
      through the village, and burned on the spot whilom occupied by a stately
      Maypole, which Solsgrace had formerly hewed down with his own reverend
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Geoffrey was vexed at all this and sent to Mr. Solsgrace, offering
      satisfaction for the goods which he had lost; but the Calvinistical divine
      replied, "From a thread to a shoe-latchet, I will not take anything that
      is thine. Let the shame of the work of thy hands abide with thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Considerable scandal, indeed, arose against Sir Geoffrey Peveril as having
      proceeded with indecent severity and haste upon this occasion; and rumour
      took care to make the usual additions to the reality. It was currently
      reported, that the desperate Cavalier, Peveril of the Peak, had fallen on
      a Presbyterian congregation, while engaged in the peaceable exercise of
      religion, with a band of armed men&mdash;had slain some, desperately
      wounded many more, and finally pursued the preacher to his vicarage which
      he burned to the ground. Some alleged the clergyman had perished in the
      flames; and the most mitigated report bore, that he had only been able to
      escape by disposing his gown, cap, and band, near a window, in such a
      manner as to deceive them with the idea of his person being still
      surrounded by flames, while he himself fled by the back part of the house.
      And although few people believed in the extent of the atrocities thus
      imputed to our honest Cavalier, yet still enough of obloquy attached to
      him to infer very serious consequences, as the reader will learn at a
      future period of our history.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
             <i>Bessus</i>.&mdash;'Tis a challenge, sir, is it not?
             <i>Gentleman</i>.&mdash;'Tis an inviting to the field.
                                           &mdash;King and No King.
</pre>
    <p>
      For a day or two after this forcible expulsion from the vicarage, Mr.
      Solsgrace continued his residence at Moultrassie Hall, where the natural
      melancholy attendant on his situation added to the gloom of the owner of
      the mansion. In the morning, the ejected divine made excursions to
      different families in the neighbourhood, to whom his ministry had been
      acceptable in the days of his prosperity, and from whose grateful
      recollections of that period he now found sympathy and consolation. He did
      not require to be condoled with, because he was deprived of an easy and
      competent maintenance, and thrust out upon the common of life, after he
      had reason to suppose he would be no longer liable to such mutations of
      fortune. The piety of Mr. Solsgrace was sincere; and if he had many of the
      uncharitable prejudices against other sects, which polemical controversy
      had generated, and the Civil War brought to a head, he had also that deep
      sense of duty, by which enthusiasm is so often dignified, and held his
      very life little, if called upon to lay it down in attestation of the
      doctrines in which he believed. But he was soon to prepare for leaving the
      district which Heaven, he conceived, had assigned to him as his corner of
      the vineyard; he was to abandon his flock to the wolf&mdash;was to forsake
      those with whom he had held sweet counsel in religious communion&mdash;was
      to leave the recently converted to relapse into false doctrines, and
      forsake the wavering, whom his continued cares might have directed into
      the right path,&mdash;these were of themselves deep causes of sorrow, and
      were aggravated, doubtless, by those natural feelings with which all men,
      especially those whose duties or habits have confined them to a limited
      circle, regard the separation from wonted scenes, and their accustomed
      haunts of solitary musing, or social intercourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was, indeed, a plan of placing Mr. Solsgrace at the head of a
      nonconforming congregation in his present parish, which his followers
      would have readily consented to endow with a sufficient revenue. But
      although the act for universal conformity was not yet passed, such a
      measure was understood to be impending, and there existed a general
      opinion among the Presbyterians, that in no hands was it likely to be more
      strictly enforced, than in those of Peveril of the Peak. Solsgrace himself
      considered not only his personal danger as being considerable,&mdash;for,
      assuming perhaps more consequence than was actually attached to him or his
      productions, he conceived the honest Knight to be his mortal and
      determined enemy,&mdash;but he also conceived that he should serve the
      cause of his Church by absenting himself from Derbyshire.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Less known pastors," he said, "though perhaps more worthy of the name,
      may be permitted to assemble the scattered flocks in caverns or in secret
      wilds, and to them shall the gleaning of the grapes of Ephraim be better
      than the vintage of Abiezer. But I, that have so often carried the banner
      forth against the mighty&mdash;I, whose tongue hath testified, morning and
      evening, like the watchman upon the tower, against Popery, Prelacy, and
      the tyrant of the Peak&mdash;for me to abide here, were but to bring the
      sword of bloody vengeance amongst you, that the shepherd might be smitten,
      and the sheep scattered. The shedders of blood have already assailed me,
      even within that ground which they themselves call consecrated; and
      yourselves have seen the scalp of the righteous broken, as he defended my
      cause. Therefore, I will put on my sandals, and gird my loins, and depart
      to a far country, and there do as my duty shall call upon me, whether it
      be to act or to suffer&mdash;to bear testimony at the stake or in the
      pulpit."
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the sentiments which Mr. Solsgrace expressed to his desponding
      friends, and which he expatiated upon at more length with Major
      Bridgenorth; not failing, with friendly zeal, to rebuke the haste which
      the latter had shown to thrust out the hand of fellowship to the Amalekite
      woman, whereby he reminded him, "He had been rendered her slave and
      bondsman for a season, like Samson, betrayed by Delilah, and might have
      remained longer in the house of Dagon, had not Heaven pointed to him a way
      out of the snare. Also, it sprung originally from the Major's going up to
      feast in the high place of Baal, that he who was the champion of the truth
      was stricken down, and put to shame by the enemy, even in the presence of
      the host."
    </p>
    <p>
      These objurgations seeming to give some offence to Major Bridgenorth, who
      liked, no better than any other man, to hear of his own mishaps, and at
      the same time to have them imputed to his own misconduct, the worthy
      divine proceeded to take shame to himself for his own sinful compliance in
      that matter; for to the vengeance justly due for that unhappy dinner at
      Martindale Castle (which was, he said, a crying of peace when there was no
      peace, and a dwelling in the tents of sin), he imputed his ejection from
      his living, with the destruction of some of his most pithy and highly
      prized volumes of divinity, with the loss of his cap, gown, and band, and
      a double hogshead of choice Derby ale.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mind of Major Bridgenorth was strongly tinged with devotional feeling,
      which his late misfortunes had rendered more deep and solemn; and it is
      therefore no wonder, that, when he heard these arguments urged again and
      again, by a pastor whom he so much respected, and who was now a confessor
      in the cause of their joint faith, he began to look back with disapproval
      on his own conduct, and to suspect that he had permitted himself to be
      seduced by gratitude towards Lady Peveril, and by her special arguments in
      favour of a mutual and tolerating liberality of sentiments, into an action
      which had a tendency to compromise his religious and political principles.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning, as Major Bridgenorth had wearied himself with several details
      respecting the arrangement of his affairs, he was reposing in the leathern
      easy-chair, beside the latticed window, a posture which, by natural
      association, recalled to him the memory of former times, and the feelings
      with which he was wont to expect the recurring visit of Sir Geoffrey, who
      brought him news of his child's welfare,&mdash;"Surely," he said,
      thinking, as it were, aloud, "there was no sin in the kindness with which
      I then regarded that man."
    </p>
    <p>
      Solsgrace, who was in the apartment, and guessed what passed through his
      friend's mind, acquainted as he was with every point of his history,
      replied&mdash;"When God caused Elijah to be fed by ravens, while hiding at
      the brook Cherith, we hear not of his fondling the unclean birds, whom,
      contrary to their ravening nature, a miracle compelled to minister to
      him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be so," answered Bridgenorth, "yet the flap of their wings must
      have been gracious in the ear of the famished prophet, like the tread of
      his horse in mine. The ravens, doubtless, resumed their nature when the
      season was passed, and even so it has fared with him.&mdash;Hark!" he
      exclaimed, starting, "I hear his horse's hoof tramp even now."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was seldom that the echoes of that silent house and courtyard were
      awakened by the trampling of horses, but such was now the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both Bridgenorth and Solsgrace were surprised at the sound, and even
      disposed to anticipate some farther oppression on the part of the
      government, when the Major's old servant introduced, with little ceremony
      (for his manners were nearly as plain as his master's), a tall gentleman
      on the farther side of middle life, whose vest and cloak, long hair,
      slouched hat and drooping feather, announced him as a Cavalier. He bowed
      formally, but courteously, to both gentlemen, and said, that he was "Sir
      Jasper Cranbourne, charged with an especial message to Master Ralph
      Bridgenorth of Moultrassie Hall, by his honourable friend Sir Geoffrey
      Peveril of the Peak, and that he requested to know whether Master
      Bridgenorth would be pleased to receive his acquittal of commission here
      or elsewhere."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Anything which Sir Geoffrey Peveril can have to say to me," said Major
      Bridgenorth, "may be told instantly, and before my friend, from whom I
      have no secrets."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The presence of any other friend were, instead of being objectionable,
      the thing in the world most to be desired," said Sir Jasper, after a
      moment's hesitation, and looking at Mr. Solsgrace; "but this gentleman
      seems to be a sort of clergyman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not conscious of any secrets," answered Bridgenorth, "nor do I
      desire to have any, in which a clergyman is unfitting confidant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At your pleasure," replied Sir Jasper. "The confidence, for aught I know,
      may be well enough chosen, for your divines (always under your favour)
      have proved no enemies to such matters as I am to treat with you upon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Proceed, sir," answered Mr. Bridgenorth gravely; "and I pray you to be
      seated, unless it is rather your pleasure to stand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must, in the first place, deliver myself of my small commission,"
      answered Sir Jasper, drawing himself up; "and it will be after I have seen
      the reception thereof, that I shall know whether I am, or am not, to sit
      down at Moultrassie Hall.&mdash;Sir Geoffrey Peveril, Master Bridgenorth,
      hath carefully considered with himself the unhappy circumstances which at
      present separate you as neighbours. And he remembers many passages in
      former times&mdash;I speak his very words&mdash;which incline him to do
      all that can possibly consist with his honour, to wipe out unkindness
      between you; and for this desirable object, he is willing to condescend in
      a degree, which, as you could not have expected, it will no doubt give you
      great pleasure to learn."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Allow me to say, Sir Jasper," said Bridgenorth, "that this is
      unnecessary. I have made no complaints of Sir Geoffrey&mdash;I have
      required no submission from him&mdash;I am about to leave this country;
      and what affairs we may have together, can be as well settled by others as
      by ourselves."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In a word," said the divine, "the worthy Major Bridgenorth hath had
      enough of trafficking with the ungodly, and will no longer, on any terms,
      consort with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gentleman both," said Sir Jasper, with imperturbable politeness, bowing,
      "you greatly mistake the tenor of my commission, which you will do as well
      to hear out, before making any reply to it.&mdash;I think, Master
      Bridgenorth, you cannot but remember your letter to the Lady Peveril, of
      which I have here a rough copy, in which you complain of the hard measure
      which you have received at Sir Geoffrey's hand, and, in particular, when
      he pulled you from your horse at or near Hartley-nick. Now, Sir Geoffrey
      thinks so well of you, as to believe, that, were it not for the wide
      difference betwixt his descent and rank and your own, you would have
      sought to bring this matter to a gentleman-like arbitrament, as the only
      mode whereby your stain may be honourably wiped away. Wherefore, in this
      slight note, he gives you, in his generosity, the offer of what you, in
      your modesty (for to nothing else does he impute your acquiescence), have
      declined to demand of him. And withal, I bring you the measure of his
      weapon; and when you have accepted the cartel which I now offer you, I
      shall be ready to settle the time, place, and other circumstances of your
      meeting."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I," said Solsgrace, with a solemn voice, "should the Author of Evil
      tempt my friend to accept of so bloodthirsty a proposal, would be the
      first to pronounce against him sentence of the greater excommunication."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not you whom I address, reverend sir," replied the envoy; "your
      interest, not unnaturally, may determine you to be more anxious about your
      patron's life than about his honour. I must know, from himself, to which
      <i>he</i> is disposed to give the preference."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and with a graceful bow, he again tendered the challenge to
      Major Bridgenorth. There was obviously a struggle in that gentleman's
      bosom, between the suggestions of human honour and those of religious
      principle; but the latter prevailed. He calmly waived receiving the paper
      which Sir Jasper offered to him, and spoke to the following purpose:&mdash;"It
      may not be known to you, Sir Jasper, that since the general pouring out of
      Christian light upon this kingdom, many solid men have been led to doubt
      whether the shedding human blood by the hand of a fellow-creature be in <i>any</i>
      respect justifiable. And although this rule appears to me to be scarcely
      applicable to our state in this stage of trial, seeing that such
      non-resistance, if general, would surrender our civil and religious rights
      into the hands of whatsoever daring tyrants might usurp the same; yet I
      am, and have been, inclined to limit the use of carnal arms to the case of
      necessary self-defence, whether such regards our own person, or the
      protection of our country against invasion; or of our rights of property,
      and the freedom of our laws and of our conscience, against usurping power.
      And as I have never shown myself unwilling to draw my sword in any of the
      latter causes, so you shall excuse my suffering it now to remain in the
      scabbard, when, having sustained a grievous injury, the man who inflicted
      it summons me to combat, either upon an idle punctilio, or, as is more
      likely, in mere bravado."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have heard you with patience," said Sir Jasper; "and now, Master
      Bridgenorth, take it not amiss, if I beseech you to bethink yourself
      better on this matter. I vow to Heaven, sir, that your honour lies
      a-bleeding; and that in condescending to afford you this fair meeting, and
      thereby giving you some chance to stop its wounds, Sir Geoffrey has been
      moved by a tender sense of your condition, and an earnest wish to redeem
      your dishonour. And it will be but the crossing of your blade with his
      honoured sword for the space of some few minutes, and you will either live
      or die a noble and honoured gentleman. Besides, that the Knight's
      exquisite skill of fence may enable him, as his good-nature will incline
      him, to disarm you with some flesh wound, little to the damage of your
      person, and greatly to the benefit of your reputation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The tender mercies of the wicked," said Master Solsgrace emphatically, by
      way of commenting on this speech, which Sir Jasper had uttered very
      pathetically, "are cruel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I pray to have no farther interruption from your reverence," said Sir
      Jasper; "especially as I think this affair very little concerns you; and I
      entreat that you permit me to discharge myself regularly of my commission
      from my worthy friend."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he took his sheathed rapier from his belt, and passing the
      point through the silk thread which secured the letter, he once more, and
      literally at sword point, gracefully tendered it to Major Bridgenorth who
      again waved it aside, though colouring deeply at the same time, as if he
      was putting a marked constraint upon himself&mdash;drew back, and made Sir
      Jasper Cranbourne a deep bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Since it is to be thus," said Sir Jasper, "I must myself do violence to
      the seal of Sir Geoffrey's letter, and read it to you, that I may fully
      acquit myself of the charge entrusted to me, and make you, Master
      Bridgenorth, equally aware of the generous intentions of Sir Geoffrey on
      your behalf."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If," said Major Bridgenorth, "the contents of the letter be to no other
      purpose than you have intimated, methinks farther ceremony is unnecessary
      on this occasion, as I have already taken my course."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nevertheless," said Sir Jasper, breaking open the letter, "it is fitting
      that I read to you the letter of my worshipful friend." And he read
      accordingly as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       "<i>For the worthy hands of Ralph Bridgenorth, Esquire, of
                      Moultrassie Hall&mdash;These:</i>

       "By the honoured conveyance of the Worshipful Sir Jasper
               Cranbourne, Knight, of Long-Mallington.

 "Master Bridgenorth,&mdash;We have been given to understand by your
  letter to our loving wife, Dame Margaret Peveril, that you hold
  hard construction of certain passages betwixt you and I, of a late
  date, as if your honour should have been, in some sort, prejudiced
  by what then took place. And although you have not thought it fit
  to have direct recourse to me, to request such satisfaction as is
  due from one gentleman of condition to another, yet I am fully
  minded that this proceeds only from modesty, arising out of the
  distinction of our degree, and from no lack of that courage which
  you have heretofore displayed, I would I could say in a good
  cause. Wherefore I am purposed to give you, by my friend, Sir
  Jasper Cranbourne, a meeting, for the sake of doing that which
  doubtless you entirely long for. Sir Jasper will deliver you the
  length of my weapon, and appoint circumstances and an hour for our
  meeting; which, whether early or late&mdash;on foot or horseback&mdash;with
  rapier or backsword&mdash;I refer to yourself, with all the other
  privileges of a challenged person; only desiring, that if you
  decline to match my weapon, you will send me forthwith the length
  and breadth of your own. And nothing doubting that the issue of
  this meeting must needs be to end, in one way or other, all
  unkindness betwixt two near neighbours,&mdash;I remain, your humble
  servant to command,
                                    "Geoffrey Peveril of the Peak."

 "Given from my poor house of Martindale Castle, this same ____ of
  ____, sixteen hundred and sixty."
</pre>
    <p>
      "Bear back my respects to Sir Geoffrey Peveril," said Major Bridgenorth.
      "According to his light, his meaning may be fair towards me; but tell him
      that our quarrel had its rise in his own wilful aggression towards me; and
      that though I wish to be in charity with all mankind, I am not so wedded
      to his friendship as to break the laws of God, and run the risk of
      suffering or committing murder, in order to regain it. And for you, sir,
      methinks your advanced years and past misfortunes might teach you the
      folly of coming on such idle errands."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I shall do your message, Master Ralph Bridgenorth," said Sir Jasper; "and
      shall then endeavour to forget your name, as a sound unfit to be
      pronounced, or even remembered, by a man of honour. In the meanwhile, in
      return for your uncivil advice, be pleased to accept of mine; namely, that
      as your religion prevents your giving a gentleman satisfaction, it ought
      to make you very cautious of offering him provocation."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and with a look of haughty scorn, first at the Major, and then
      at the divine, the envoy of Sir Geoffrey put his hat on his head, replaced
      his rapier in its belt, and left the apartment. In a few minutes
      afterwards, the tread of his horse died away at a considerable distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth had held his hand upon his brow ever since his departure, and
      a tear of anger and shame was on his face as he raised it when the sound
      was heard no more. "He carries this answer to Martindale Castle," he said.
      "Men will hereafter think of me as a whipped, beaten, dishonourable
      fellow, whom every one may baffle and insult at their pleasure. It is well
      I am leaving the house of my father."
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Solsgrace approached his friend with much sympathy, and grasped him
      by the hand. "Noble brother," he said, with unwonted kindness of manner,
      "though a man of peace, I can judge what this sacrifice hath cost to thy
      manly spirit. But God will not have from us an imperfect obedience. We
      must not, like Ananias and Sapphira, reserve behind some darling lust,
      some favourite sin, while we pretend to make sacrifice of our worldly
      affections. What avails it to say that we have but secreted a little
      matter, if the slightest remnant of the accursed thing remain hidden in
      our tent? Would it be a defence in thy prayers to say, I have not murdered
      this man for the lucre of gain, like a robber&mdash;nor for the
      acquisition of power, like a tyrant,&mdash;nor for the gratification of
      revenge, like a darkened savage; but because the imperious voice of
      worldly honour said, 'Go forth&mdash;kill or be killed&mdash;is it not I
      that have sent thee?' Bethink thee, my worthy friend, how thou couldst
      frame such a vindication in thy prayers; and if thou art forced to tremble
      at the blasphemy of such an excuse, remember in thy prayers the thanks due
      to Heaven, which enabled thee to resist the strong temptation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Reverend and dear friend," answered Bridgenorth, "I feel that you speak
      the truth. Bitterer, indeed, and harder, to the old Adam, is the text
      which ordains him to suffer shame, than that which bids him to do
      valiantly for the truth. But happy am I that my path through the
      wilderness of this world will, for some space at least, be along with one,
      whose zeal and friendship are so active to support me when I am fainting
      in the way."
    </p>
    <p>
      While the inhabitants of Moultrassie Hall thus communicated together upon
      the purport of Sir Jasper Cranbourne's visit, that worthy knight greatly
      excited the surprise of Sir Geoffrey Peveril, by reporting the manner in
      which his embassy had been received.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I took him for a man of other metal," said Sir Geoffrey;&mdash;"nay, I
      would have sworn it, had any one asked my testimony. But there is no
      making a silken purse out of a sow's ear. I have done a folly for him that
      I will never do for another: and that is, to think a Presbyterian would
      fight without his preacher's permission. Give them a two hours' sermon,
      and let them howl a psalm to a tune that is worse than the cries of a
      flogged hound, and the villains will lay on like threshers; but for a
      calm, cool, gentleman-like turn upon the sod, hand to hand, in a
      neighbourly way, they have not honour enough to undertake it. But enough
      of our crop-eared cur of a neighbour.&mdash;Sir Jasper, you will tarry
      with us to dine, and see how Dame Margaret's kitchen smokes; and after
      dinner I will show you a long-winged falcon fly. She is not mine, but the
      Countess's, who brought her from London on her fist almost the whole way,
      for all the haste she was in, and left her with me to keep the perch for a
      season."
    </p>
    <p>
      This match was soon arranged, and Dame Margaret overheard the good
      Knight's resentment mutter itself off, with those feelings with which we
      listen to the last growling of the thunderstorm; which, as the black cloud
      sinks beneath the hill, at once assures us that there has been danger, and
      that the peril is over. She could not, indeed, but marvel in her own mind
      at the singular path of reconciliation with his neighbour which her
      husband had, with so much confidence, and in the actual sincerity of his
      goodwill to Mr. Bridgenorth, attempted to open; and she blessed God
      internally that it had not terminated in bloodshed. But these reflections
      she locked carefully within her own bosom, well knowing that they referred
      to subjects in which the Knight of the Peak would neither permit his
      sagacity to be called in question, nor his will to be controlled.
    </p>
    <p>
      The progress of the history hath hitherto been slow; but after this period
      so little matter worth of mark occurred at Martindale, that we must hurry
      over hastily the transactions of several years.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              <i>Cleopatra.</i>&mdash;Give me to drink mandragora,
              That I may sleep away this gap of time.
                                       &mdash;Antony and Cleopatra.
</pre>
    <p>
      There passed, as we hinted at the conclusion of the last chapter, four or
      five years after the period we have dilated upon; the events of which
      scarcely require to be discussed, so far as our present purpose is
      concerned, in as many lines. The Knight and his Lady continued to reside
      at their Castle&mdash;she, with prudence and with patience, endeavouring
      to repair the damages which the Civil Wars had inflicted upon their
      fortune; and murmuring a little when her plans of economy were interrupted
      by the liberal hospitality, which was her husband's principal expense, and
      to which he was attached, not only from his own English heartiness of
      disposition, but from ideas of maintaining the dignity of his ancestry&mdash;no
      less remarkable, according to the tradition of their buttery, kitchen, and
      cellar, for the fat beeves which they roasted, and the mighty ale which
      they brewed, than for their extensive estates, and the number of their
      retainers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The world, however, upon the whole, went happily and easily with the
      worthy couple. Sir Geoffrey's debt to his neighbour Bridgenorth continued,
      it is true, unabated; but he was the only creditor upon the Martindale
      estate&mdash;all others being paid off. It would have been most desirable
      that this encumbrance also should be cleared, and it was the great object
      of Dame Margaret's economy to effect the discharge; for although interest
      was regularly settled with Master Win-the-Fight, the Chesterfield
      attorney, yet the principal sum, which was a large one, might be called
      for at an inconvenient time. The man, too, was gloomy, important, and
      mysterious, and always seemed as if he was thinking upon his broken head
      in the churchyard of Martindale-cum-Moultrassie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dame Margaret sometimes transacted the necessary business with him in
      person; and when he came to the Castle on these occasions, she thought she
      saw a malicious and disobliging expression in his manner and countenance.
      Yet his actual conduct was not only fair, but liberal; for indulgence was
      given, in the way of delay of payment, whenever circumstances rendered it
      necessary to the debtor to require it. It seemed to Lady Peveril that the
      agent, in such cases, was acting under the strict orders of his absent
      employer, concerning whose welfare she could not help feeling a certain
      anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shortly after the failure of the singular negotiation for attaining peace
      by combat, which Peveril had attempted to open with Major Bridgenorth,
      that gentleman left his seat of Moultrassie Hall in the care of his old
      housekeeper, and departed, no one knew whither, having in company with him
      his daughter Alice and Mrs. Deborah Debbitch, now formally installed in
      all the duties of a governante; to these was added the Reverend Master
      Solsgrace. For some time public rumour persisted in asserting, that Major
      Bridgenorth had only retreated to a distant part of the country for a
      season, to achieve his supposed purpose of marrying Mrs. Deborah, and of
      letting the news be cold, and the laugh of the neighbourhood be ended, ere
      he brought her down as mistress of Moultrassie Hall. This rumour died
      away; and it was then affirmed, that he had removed to foreign parts, to
      ensure the continuance of health in so delicate a constitution as that of
      little Alice. But when the Major's dread of Popery was remembered,
      together with the still deeper antipathies of worthy Master Nehemiah
      Solsgrace, it was resolved unanimously, that nothing less than what they
      might deem a fair chance of converting the Pope would have induced the
      parties to trust themselves within Catholic dominions. The most prevailing
      opinion was, that they had gone to New England, the refuge then of many
      whom too intimate concern with the affairs of the late times, or the
      desire of enjoying uncontrolled freedom of conscience, had induced to
      emigrate from Britain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril could not help entertaining a vague idea, that Bridgenorth
      was not so distant. The extreme order in which everything was maintained
      at Moultrassie Hall, seemed&mdash;no disparagement to the care of Dame
      Dickens the housekeeper, and the other persons engaged&mdash;to argue,
      that the master's eye was not so very far off, but that its occasional
      inspection might be apprehended. It is true, that neither the domestics
      nor the attorney answered any questions respecting the residence of Master
      Bridgenorth; but there was an air of mystery about them when interrogated,
      that seemed to argue more than met the ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      About five years after Master Bridgenorth had left the country, a singular
      incident took place. Sir Geoffrey was absent at the Chesterfield races,
      and Lady Peveril, who was in the habit of walking around every part of the
      neighbourhood unattended, or only accompanied by Ellesmere, or her little
      boy, had gone down one evening upon a charitable errand to a solitary hut,
      whose inhabitant lay sick of a fever, which was supposed to be infectious.
      Lady Peveril never allowed apprehensions of this kind to stop "devoted
      charitable deeds;" but she did not choose to expose either her son or her
      attendant to the risk which she herself, in some confidence that she knew
      precautions for escaping the danger, did not hesitate to incur.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril had set out at a late hour in the evening, and the way proved
      longer than she expected&mdash;several circumstances also occurred to
      detain her at the hut of her patient. It was a broad autumn moonlight,
      when she prepared to return homeward through the broken glades and upland
      which divided her from the Castle. This she considered as a matter of very
      little importance, in so quiet and sequestered a country, where the road
      lay chiefly through her own domains, especially as she had a lad about
      fifteen years old, the son of her patient, to escort her on the way. The
      distance was better than two miles, but might be considerably abridged by
      passing through an avenue belonging to the estate of Moultrassie Hall,
      which she had avoided as she came, not from the ridiculous rumours which
      pronounced it to be haunted, but because her husband was much displeased
      when any attempt was made to render the walks of the Castle and Hall
      common to the inhabitants of both. The good lady, in consideration,
      perhaps, of extensive latitude allowed to her in the more important
      concerns of the family, made a point of never interfering with her
      husband's whims or prejudices; and it is a compromise which we would
      heartily recommend to all managing matrons of our acquaintance; for it is
      surprising how much real power will be cheerfully resigned to the fair
      sex, for the pleasure of being allowed to ride one's hobby in peace and
      quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon the present occasion, however, although the Dobby's Walk[*] was
      within the inhabited domains of the Hall, the Lady Peveril determined to
      avail herself of it, for the purpose of shortening her road home, and she
      directed her steps accordingly. But when the peasant-boy, her companion,
      who had hitherto followed her, whistling cheerily, with a hedge-bill in
      his hand, and his hat on one side, perceived that she turned to the stile
      which entered to the Dobby's Walk, he showed symptoms of great fear, and
      at length coming to the lady's side, petitioned her, in a whimpering tone,&mdash;"Don't
      ye now&mdash;don't ye now, my lady, don't ye go yonder."
    </p>
    <p>
      [*] Dobby, an old English name for goblin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril, observing that his teeth chattered in his head, and that his
      whole person exhibited great signs of terror, began to recollect the
      report, that the first Squire of Moultrassie, the brewer of Chesterfield,
      who had brought the estate, and then died of melancholy for lack of
      something to do (and, as was said, not without suspicions of suicide), was
      supposed to walk in this sequestered avenue, accompanied by a large
      headless mastiff, which, when he was alive, was a particular favourite of
      the ex-brewer. To have expected any protection from her escort, in the
      condition to which superstitious fear had reduced him, would have been
      truly a hopeless trust; and Lady Peveril, who was not apprehensive of any
      danger, thought there would be great cruelty in dragging the cowardly boy
      into a scene which he regarded with so much apprehension. She gave him,
      therefore, a silver piece, and permitted him to return. The latter boon
      seemed even more acceptable than the first; for ere she could return the
      purse into her pocket, she heard the wooden clogs of her bold convoy in
      full retreat, by the way from whence they came.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smiling within herself at the fear she esteemed so ludicrous, Lady Peveril
      ascended the stile, and was soon hidden from the broad light of the
      moonbeams, by the numerous and entangled boughs of the huge elms, which,
      meeting from either side, totally overarched the old avenue. The scene was
      calculated to excite solemn thoughts; and the distant glimmer of a light
      from one of the numerous casements in the front of Moultrassie Hall, which
      lay at some distance, was calculated to make them even melancholy. She
      thought of the fate of that family&mdash;of the deceased Mrs. Bridgenorth,
      with whom she had often walked in this very avenue, and who, though a
      woman of no high parts or accomplishments, had always testified the
      deepest respect, and the most earnest gratitude, for such notice as she
      had shown to her. She thought of her blighted hopes&mdash;her premature
      death&mdash;the despair of her self-banished husband&mdash;the uncertain
      fate of their orphan child, for whom she felt, even at this distance of
      time, some touch of a mother's affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon such sad subjects her thoughts were turned, when, just as she
      attained the middle of the avenue, the imperfect and checkered light which
      found its way through the silvan archway, showed her something which
      resembled the figure of a man. Lady Peveril paused a moment, but instantly
      advanced;&mdash;her bosom, perhaps, gave one startled throb, as a debt to
      the superstitious belief of the times, but she instantly repelled the
      thought of supernatural appearances. From those that were merely mortal,
      she had nothing to fear. A marauder on the game was the worst character
      whom she was likely to encounter; and he would be sure to hide himself
      from her observation. She advanced, accordingly, steadily; and, as she did
      so, had the satisfaction to observe that the figure, as she expected, gave
      place to her, and glided away amongst the trees on the left-hand side of
      the avenue. As she passed the spot on which the form had been so lately
      visible, and bethought herself that this wanderer of the night might, nay
      must, be in her vicinity, her resolution could not prevent her mending her
      pace, and that with so little precaution, that, stumbling over the limb of
      a tree, which, twisted off by a late tempest, still lay in the avenue, she
      fell, and, as she fell, screamed aloud. A strong hand in a moment
      afterwards added to her fears by assisting her to rise, and a voice, to
      whose accents she was not a stranger, though they had been long unheard,
      said, "Is it not you, Lady Peveril?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is I," said she, commanding her astonishment and fear; "and if my ear
      deceive me not, I speak to Master Bridgenorth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was that man," said he, "while oppression left me a name."
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke nothing more, but continued to walk beside her for a minute or
      two in silence. She felt her situation embarrassing; and to divest it of
      that feeling, as well as out of real interest in the question, she asked
      him, "How her god-daughter Alice now was?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of god-daughter, madam," answered Major Bridgenorth, "I know nothing;
      that being one of the names which have been introduced, to the corruption
      and pollution of God's ordinances. The infant who owed to your ladyship
      (so called) her escape from disease and death, is a healthy and thriving
      girl, as I am given to understand by those in whose charge she is lodged,
      for I have not lately seen her. And it is even the recollection of these
      passages, which in a manner impelled me, alarmed also by your fall, to
      offer myself to you at this time and mode, which in other respects is no
      way consistent with my present safety."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With your safety, Master Bridgenorth?" said the Lady Peveril; "surely, I
      could never have thought that it was in danger!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have some news, then, yet to learn, madam," said Major Bridgenorth;
      "but you will hear in the course of tomorrow, reasons why I dare not
      appear openly in the neighbourhood of my own property, and wherefore there
      is small judgment in committing the knowledge of my present residence to
      any one connected with Martindale Castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Master Bridgenorth," said the lady, "you were in former times prudent and
      cautious&mdash;I hope you have been misled by no hasty impression&mdash;by
      no rash scheme&mdash;I hope&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon my interrupting you, madam," said Bridgenorth. "I have indeed been
      changed&mdash;ay, my very heart within me hath been changed. In the times
      to which your ladyship (so called) thinks proper to refer, I was a man of
      this world&mdash;bestowing on it all my thoughts&mdash;all my actions,
      save formal observances&mdash;little deeming what was the duty of a
      Christian man, and how far his self-denial ought to extend&mdash;even unto
      his giving all as if he gave nothing. Hence I thought chiefly on carnal
      things&mdash;on the adding of field to field, and wealth to wealth&mdash;of
      balancing between party and party&mdash;securing a friend here, without
      losing a friend there&mdash;But Heaven smote me for my apostasy, the
      rather that I abused the name of religion, as a self-seeker, and a most
      blinded and carnal will-worshipper&mdash;But I thank Him who hath at
      length brought me out of Egypt."
    </p>
    <p>
      In our day&mdash;although we have many instances of enthusiasm among us&mdash;we
      might still suspect one who avowed it thus suddenly and broadly of
      hypocrisy, or of insanity; but according to the fashion of the times, such
      opinions as those which Bridgenorth expressed were openly pleaded, as the
      ruling motives of men's actions. The sagacious Vane&mdash;the brave and
      skilful Harrison&mdash;were men who acted avowedly under the influence of
      such. Lady Peveril, therefore, was more grieved than surprised at the
      language she heard Major Bridgenorth use, and reasonably concluded that
      the society and circumstances in which he might lately have been engaged,
      had blown into a flame the spark of eccentricity which always smouldered
      in his bosom. This was the more probable, considering that he was
      melancholy by constitution and descent&mdash;that he had been unfortunate
      in several particulars&mdash;and that no passion is more easily nursed by
      indulgence, than the species of enthusiasm of which he now showed tokens.
      She therefore answered him by calmly hoping, "That the expression of his
      sentiments had not involved him in suspicion or in danger."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In suspicion, madam?" answered the Major;&mdash;"for I cannot forbear
      giving to you, such is the strength of habit, one of those idle titles by
      which we poor potsherds are wont, in our pride, to denominate each other&mdash;I
      walk not only in suspicion, but in that degree of danger, that, were your
      husband to meet me at this instant&mdash;me, a native Englishman, treading
      on my own lands&mdash;I have no doubt he would do his best to offer me to
      the Moloch of Roman superstition, who now rages abroad for victims among
      God's people."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You surprise me by your language, Major Bridgenorth," said the lady, who
      now felt rather anxious to be relieved from his company, and with that
      purpose walked on somewhat hastily. He mended his pace, however, and kept
      close by her side.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Know you not," said he, "that Satan hath come down upon earth with great
      wrath, because his time is short? The next heir to the crown is an avowed
      Papist; and who dare assert, save sycophants and time-servers, that he who
      wears it is not equally ready to stoop to Rome, were he not kept in awe by
      a few noble spirits in the Commons' House? You believe not this&mdash;yet
      in my solitary and midnight walks, when I thought on your kindness to the
      dead and to the living, it was my prayer that I might have the means
      granted to warn you&mdash;and lo! Heaven hath heard me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What I was while in the gall of bitterness and in the bond of iniquity,
      it signifies not to recall," answered he. "I was then like to Gallio, who
      cared for none of these things. I doted on creature comforts&mdash;I clung
      to worldly honour and repute&mdash;my thoughts were earthward&mdash;or
      those I turned to Heaven were cold, formal, pharisaical meditations&mdash;I
      brought nothing to the altar save straw and stubble. Heaven saw need to
      chastise me in love&mdash;I was stript of all I clung to on earth&mdash;my
      worldly honour was torn from me&mdash;I went forth an exile from the home
      of my fathers, a deprived and desolate man&mdash;a baffled, and beaten,
      and dishonoured man. But who shall find out the ways of Providence? Such
      were the means by which I was chosen forth as a champion for the truth&mdash;holding
      my life as nothing, if thereby that may be advanced. But this was not what
      I wished to speak of. Thou hast saved the earthly life of my child&mdash;let
      me save the eternal welfare of yours."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril was silent. They were now approaching the point where the
      avenue terminated in a communication with a public road, or rather
      pathway, running through an unenclosed common field; this the lady had to
      prosecute for a little way, until a turn of the path gave her admittance
      into the Park of Martindale. She now felt sincerely anxious to be in the
      open moonshine, and avoided reply to Bridgenorth that she might make the
      more haste. But as they reached the junction of the avenue and the public
      road, he laid his hand on her arm, and commanded rather than requested her
      to stop. She obeyed. He pointed to a huge oak, of the largest size, which
      grew on the summit of a knoll in the open ground which terminated the
      avenue, and was exactly so placed as to serve for a termination to the
      vista. The moonshine without the avenue was so strong, that, amidst the
      flood of light which it poured on the venerable tree, they could easily
      discover, from the shattered state of the boughs on one side, that it had
      suffered damage from lightning. "Remember you," he said, "when we last
      looked together on that tree? I had ridden from London, and brought with
      me a protection from the committee for your husband; and as I passed the
      spot&mdash;here on this spot where we now stand, you stood with my lost
      Alice&mdash;two&mdash;the last two of my beloved infants gambolled before
      you. I leaped from my horse&mdash;to her I was a husband&mdash;to those a
      father&mdash;to you a welcome and revered protector&mdash;What am I now to
      any one?" He pressed his hand on his brow, and groaned in agony of spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not in the Lady Peveril's nature to hear sorrow without an attempt
      at consolation. "Master Bridgenorth," she said, "I blame no man's creed,
      while I believe and follow my own; and I rejoice that in yours you have
      sought consolation for temporal afflictions. But does not every Christian
      creed teach us alike, that affliction should soften our heart?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, woman," said Bridgenorth sternly, "as the lightning which shattered
      yonder oak hath softened its trunk. No; the seared wood is the fitter for
      the use of the workmen&mdash;the hardened and the dried-up heart is that
      which can best bear the task imposed by these dismal times. God and man
      will no longer endure the unbridled profligacy of the dissolute&mdash;the
      scoffing of the profane&mdash;the contempt of the divine laws&mdash;the
      infraction of human rights. The times demand righters and avengers, and
      there will be no want of them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I deny not the existence of much evil," said Lady Peveril, compelling
      herself to answer, and beginning at the same time to walk forward; "and
      from hearsay, though not, I thank Heaven, from observation, I am convinced
      of the wild debauchery of the times. But let us trust it may be corrected
      without such violent remedies as you hint at. Surely the ruin of a second
      civil war&mdash;though I trust your thoughts go not that dreadful length&mdash;were
      at best a desperate alternative."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sharp, but sure," replied Bridgenorth. "The blood of the Paschal lamb
      chased away the destroying angel&mdash;the sacrifices offered on the
      threshing-floor of Araunah, stayed the pestilence. Fire and sword are
      severe remedies, but they pure and purify."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas! Major Bridgenorth," said the lady, "wise and moderate in your
      youth, can you have adopted in your advanced life the thoughts and
      language of those whom you yourself beheld drive themselves and the nation
      to the brink of ruin?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not what I then was&mdash;you know not what I now am," he replied,
      and suddenly broke off; for they even then came forth into the open light,
      and it seemed as if, feeling himself under the lady's eye, he was disposed
      to soften his tone and his language.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the first distinct view which she had of his person, she was aware that
      he was armed with a short sword, a poniard, and pistols at his belt&mdash;precautions
      very unusual for a man who formerly had seldom, and only on days of
      ceremony, carried a walking rapier, though such was the habitual and
      constant practice of gentlemen of his station in life. There seemed also
      something of more stern determination than usual in his air, which indeed
      had always been rather sullen than affable; and ere she could repress the
      sentiment, she could not help saying, "Master Bridgenorth, you are indeed
      changed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You see but the outward man," he replied; "the change within is yet
      deeper. But it was not of myself that I desired to talk&mdash;I have
      already said, that as you have preserved my child from the darkness of the
      grave, I would willingly preserve yours from that more utter darkness,
      which, I fear, hath involved the path and walks of his father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must not hear this of Sir Geoffrey," said the Lady Peveril; "I must bid
      you farewell for the present; and when we again meet at a more suitable
      time, I will at least listen to your advice concerning Julian, although I
      should not perhaps incline to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That more suitable time may never come," replied Bridgenorth. "Time
      wanes, eternity draws nigh. Hearken! it is said to be your purpose to send
      the young Julian to be bred up in yonder bloody island, under the hand of
      your kinswoman, that cruel murderess, by whom was done to death a man more
      worthy of vital existence than any that she can boast among her vaunted
      ancestry. These are current tidings&mdash;Are they true?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not blame you, Master Bridgenorth, for thinking harshly of my cousin
      of Derby," said Lady Peveril; "nor do I altogether vindicate the rash
      action of which she hath been guilty. Nevertheless, in her habitation, it
      is my husband's opinion and my own, that Julian may be trained in the
      studies and accomplishments becoming his rank, along with the young Earl
      of Derby."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Under the curse of God, and the blessing of the Pope of Rome," said
      Bridgenorth. "You, lady, so quick-sighted in matters of earthly prudence,
      are you blind to the gigantic pace at which Rome is moving to regain this
      country, once the richest gem in her usurped tiara? The old are seduced by
      gold&mdash;the youth by pleasure&mdash;the weak by flattery&mdash;cowards
      by fear&mdash;and the courageous by ambition. A thousand baits for each
      taste, and each bait concealing the same deadly hook."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am well aware, Master Bridgenorth," said Lady Peveril, "that my
      kinswoman is a Catholic;[*] but her son is educated in the Church of
      England's principles, agreeably to the command of her deceased husband."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     [*] I have elsewhere noticed that this is a deviation from
     the truth   Charlotte, Countess of Derby, was a Huguenot.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Is it likely," answered Bridgenorth, "that she, who fears not shedding
      the blood of the righteous, whether on the field or scaffold, will regard
      the sanction of her promise when her religion bids her break it? Or, if
      she does, what shall your son be the better, if he remain in the mire of
      his father? What are your Episcopal tenets but mere Popery? save that ye
      have chosen a temporal tyrant for your Pope, and substitute a mangled mass
      in English for that which your predecessors pronounced in Latin.&mdash;But
      why speak I of these things to one who hath ears, indeed, and eyes, yet
      cannot see, listen to, or understand what is alone worthy to be heard,
      seen, and known? Pity that what hath been wrought so fair and exquisite in
      form and disposition, should be yet blind, deaf, and ignorant, like the
      things which perish!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "We shall not agree on these subjects, Master Bridgenorth," said the lady,
      anxious still to escape from this strange conference, though scarce
      knowing what to apprehend; "once more, I must bid you farewell."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stay yet an instant," he said, again laying his hand on her arm; "I would
      stop you if I saw you rushing on the brink of an actual precipice&mdash;let
      me prevent you from a danger still greater. How shall I work upon your
      unbelieving mind? Shall I tell you that the debt of bloodshed yet remains
      a debt to be paid by the bloody house of Derby? And wilt thou send thy son
      to be among those from whom it shall be exacted?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You wish to alarm me in vain, Master Bridgenorth," answered the lady;
      "what penalty can be exacted from the Countess, for an action, which I
      have already called a rash one, has been long since levied."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You deceive yourself," retorted he sternly. "Think you a paltry sum of
      money, given to be wasted on the debaucheries of Charles, can atone for
      the death of such a man as Christian&mdash;a man precious alike to heaven
      and to earth? Not on such terms is the blood of the righteous to be poured
      forth! Every hour's delay is numbered down as adding interest to the
      grievous debt, which will one day be required from that blood-thirsty
      woman."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the distant tread of horses was heard on the road on which
      they held this singular dialogue. Bridgenorth listened a moment, and then
      said, "Forget that you have seen me&mdash;name not my name to your nearest
      or dearest&mdash;lock my counsel in your breast&mdash;profit by it, and it
      shall be well with you."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he turned from her, and plunging through a gap in the fence,
      regained the cover of his own wood, along which the path still led.
    </p>
    <p>
      The noise of horses advancing at full trot now came nearer; and Lady
      Peveril was aware of several riders, whose forms rose indistinctly on the
      summit of the rising ground behind her. She became also visible to them;
      and one or two of the foremost made towards her at increased speed,
      challenging her as they advanced with the cry of "Stand! Who goes there?"
      The foremost who came up, however, exclaimed, "Mercy on us, if it be not
      my lady!" and Lady Peveril, at the same moment, recognised one of her own
      servants. Her husband rode up immediately afterwards, with, "How now, Dame
      Margaret? What makes you abroad so far from home and at an hour so late?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril mentioned her visit at the cottage, but did not think it
      necessary to say aught of having seen Major Bridgenorth; afraid, it may
      be, that her husband might be displeased with that incident.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Charity is a fine thing and a fair," answered Sir Geoffrey; "but I must
      tell you, you do ill, dame, to wander about the country like a
      quacksalver, at the call of every old woman who has a colic-fit; and at
      this time of night especially, and when the land is so unsettled besides."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am sorry to hear that it so," said the lady. "I had heard no such
      news."
    </p>
    <p>
      "News?" repeated Sir Geoffrey, "why, here has a new plot broken out among
      the Roundheads, worse than Venner's by a butt's length;[*] and who should
      be so deep in it as our old neighbour Bridgenorth? There is search for him
      everywhere; and I promise you if he is found, he is like to pay old
      scores."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] The celebrated insurrection of the Anabaptists and Fifth Monarchy
    men in London, in the year 1661.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Then I am sure, I trust he will not be found," said Lady Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you so?" replied Sir Geoffrey. "Now I, on my part hope that he will;
      and it shall not be my fault if he be not; for which effect I will
      presently ride down to Moultrassie, and make strict search, according to
      my duty; there shall neither rebel nor traitor earth so near Martindale
      Castle, that I will assure them. And you, my lady, be pleased for once to
      dispense with a pillion, and get up, as you have done before, behind
      Saunders, who shall convey you safe home."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Lady obeyed in silence; indeed she did not dare to trust her voice in
      an attempt to reply, so much was she disconcerted with the intelligence
      she had just heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rode behind the groom to the Castle, where she awaited in great
      anxiety the return of her husband. He came back at length; but to her
      great relief, without any prisoner. He then explained more fully than his
      haste had before permitted, that an express had come down to Chesterfield,
      with news from Court of a proposed insurrection amongst the old
      Commonwealth men, especially those who had served in the army; and that
      Bridgenorth, said to be lurking in Derbyshire, was one of the principal
      conspirators.
    </p>
    <p>
      After some time, this report of a conspiracy seemed to die away like many
      others of that period. The warrants were recalled, but nothing more was
      seen or heard of Major Bridgenorth; although it is probable he might
      safely enough have shown himself as openly as many did who lay under the
      same circumstances of suspicion.
    </p>
    <p>
      About this time also, Lady Peveril, with many tears, took a temporary
      leave of her son Julian, who was sent, as had long been intended, for the
      purpose of sharing the education of the young Earl of Derby. Although the
      boding words of Bridgenorth sometimes occurred to Lady Peveril's mind, she
      did not suffer them to weigh with her in opposition to the advantages
      which the patronage of the Countess of Derby secured to her son.
    </p>
    <p>
      The plan seemed to be in every respect successful; and when, from time to
      time, Julian visited the house of his father, Lady Peveril had the
      satisfaction to see him, on every occasion, improved in person and in
      manner, as well as ardent in the pursuit of more solid acquirements. In
      process of time he became a gallant and accomplished youth, and travelled
      for some time upon the continent with the young Earl. This was the more
      especially necessary for the enlarging of their acquaintance with the
      world; because the Countess had never appeared in London, or at the Court
      of King Charles, since her flight to the Isle of Man in 1660; but had
      resided in solitary and aristocratic state, alternately on her estates in
      England and in that island.
    </p>
    <p>
      This had given to the education of both the young men, otherwise as
      excellent as the best teachers could render it, something of a narrow and
      restricted character; but though the disposition of the young Earl was
      lighter and more volatile than that of Julian, both the one and the other
      had profited, in a considerable degree, by the opportunities afforded
      them. It was Lady Derby's strict injunction to her son, now returning from
      the continent, that he should not appear at the Court of Charles. But
      having been for some time of age, he did not think it absolutely necessary
      to obey her in this particular; and had remained for some time in London,
      partaking the pleasures of the gay Court there, with all the ardour of a
      young man bred up in comparative seclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      In order to reconcile the Countess to this transgression of her authority
      (for he continued to entertain for her the profound respect in which he
      had been educated), Lord Derby agreed to make a long sojourn with her in
      her favourite island, which he abandoned almost entirely to her
      management.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril had spent at Martindale Castle a good deal of the time
      which his friend had bestowed in London; and at the period to which,
      passing over many years, our story has arrived, as it were, <i>per saltum</i>,
      they were both living as the Countess's guests, in the Castle of Rushin,
      in the venerable kingdom of Man.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
             Mona&mdash;long hid from those who roam the main.
                                                   &mdash;COLLINS.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Isle of Man, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was very
      different, as a place of residence, from what it is now. Men had not then
      discovered its merit as a place of occasional refuge from the storms of
      life, and the society to be there met with was of a very uniform tenor.
      There were no smart fellows, whom fortune had tumbled from the seat of
      their barouches&mdash;no plucked pigeons or winged rooks&mdash;no
      disappointed speculators&mdash;no ruined miners&mdash;in short, no one
      worth talking to. The society of the island was limited to the natives
      themselves, and a few merchants, who lived by contraband trade. The
      amusements were rare and monotonous, and the mercurial young Earl was soon
      heartily tired of his dominions. The islanders, also, become too wise for
      happiness, had lost relish for the harmless and somewhat childish sports
      in which their simple ancestors had indulged themselves. May was no longer
      ushered in by the imaginary contest between the Queen of returning winter
      and advancing spring; the listeners no longer sympathised with the lively
      music of the followers of the one, or the discordant sounds with which the
      other asserted a more noisy claim to attention. Christmas, too, closed,
      and the steeples no longer jangled forth a dissonant peal. The wren, to
      seek for which used to be the sport dedicated to the holytide, was left
      unpursued and unslain. Party spirit had come among these simple people,
      and destroyed their good humour, while it left them their ignorance. Even
      the races, a sport generally interesting to people of all ranks, were no
      longer performed, because they were no longer interesting. The gentlemen
      were divided by feuds hitherto unknown, and each seemed to hold it scorn
      to be pleased with the same diversions that amused those of the opposite
      faction. The hearts of both parties revolted from the recollection of
      former days, when all was peace among them, when the Earl of Derby, now
      slaughtered, used to bestow the prize, and Christian, since so
      vindictively executed, started horses to add to the amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was seated in the deep recess which led to a latticed window of the
      old Castle; and, with his arms crossed, and an air of profound
      contemplation, was surveying the long perspective of ocean, which rolled
      its successive waves up to the foot of the rock on which the ancient pile
      is founded. The Earl was suffering under the infliction of ennui&mdash;now
      looking into a volume of Homer&mdash;now whistling&mdash;now swinging on
      his chair&mdash;now traversing the room&mdash;till, at length, his
      attention became swallowed up in admiration of the tranquillity of his
      companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "King of Men!" he said, repeating the favourite epithet by which Homer
      describes Agamemnon,&mdash;"I trust, for the old Greek's sake, he had a
      merrier office than being King of Man&mdash;Most philosophical Julian,
      will nothing rouse thee&mdash;not even a bad pun on my own royal dignity?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish you would be a little more the King in Man," said Julian, starting
      from his reverie, "and then you would find more amusement in your
      dominions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! dethrone that royal Semiramis my mother," said the young lord, "who
      has as much pleasure in playing Queen as if she were a real Sovereign?&mdash;I
      wonder you can give me such counsel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your mother, as you well know, my dear Derby, would be delighted, did you
      take any interest in the affairs of the island."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, truly, she would permit me to be King; but she would choose to remain
      Viceroy over me. Why, she would only gain a subject the more, by my
      converting my spare time, which is so very valuable to me, to the cares of
      royalty. No, no, Julian, she thinks it power, to direct all the affairs of
      these poor Manxmen; and, thinking it power, she finds it pleasure. I shall
      not interfere, unless she hold a high court of justice again. I cannot
      afford to pay another fine to my brother, King Charles&mdash;But I forget&mdash;this
      is a sore point with you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With the Countess, at least," replied Julian; "and I wonder you will
      speak of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, I bear no malice against the poor man's memory any more than
      yourself, though I have not the same reasons for holding it in
      veneration," replied the Earl of Derby; "and yet I have some respect for
      it too. I remember their bringing him out to die&mdash;It was the first
      holiday I ever had in my life, and I heartily wish it had been on some
      other account."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would rather hear you speak of anything else, my lord," said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, there it goes," answered the Earl; "whenever I talk of anything that
      puts you on your mettle, and warms your blood, that runs as cold as a
      merman's&mdash;to use a simile of this happy island&mdash;hey pass! you
      press me to change the subject.&mdash;Well, what shall we talk of?&mdash;O
      Julian, if you had not gone down to earth yourself among the castles and
      caverns of Derbyshire, we should have had enough of delicious topics&mdash;the
      play-houses, Julian&mdash;Both the King's house and the Duke's&mdash;Louis's
      establishment is a jest to them;&mdash;and the Ring in the Park, which
      beats the Corso at Naples&mdash;and the beauties, who beat the whole
      world!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am very willing to hear you speak on the subject, my lord," answered
      Julian; "the less I have seen of London world myself, the more I am likely
      to be amused by your account of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, my friend&mdash;but where to begin?&mdash;with the wit of Buckingham,
      and Sedley, and Etherege, or with the grace of Harry Jermyn&mdash;the
      courtesy of the Duke of Monmouth, or with the loveliness of La Belle
      Hamilton&mdash;of the Duchess of Richmond&mdash;of Lady &mdash;&mdash;,
      the person of Roxalana, the smart humour of Mrs. Nelly&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Or what say you to the bewitching sorceries of Lady Cynthia?" demanded
      his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Faith, I would have kept these to myself," said the Earl, "to follow your
      prudent example. But since you ask me, I fairly own I cannot tell what to
      say of them; only I think of them twenty times as often as all the
      beauties I have spoken of. And yet she is neither the twentieth part so
      beautiful as the plainest of these Court beauties, nor so witty as the
      dullest I have named, nor so modish&mdash;that is the great matter&mdash;as
      the most obscure. I cannot tell what makes me dote on her, except that she
      is a capricious as her whole sex put together."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I should think a small recommendation," answered his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Small, do you term it," replied the Earl, "and write yourself a brother
      of the angle? Why, which like you best? to pull a dead strain on a
      miserable gudgeon, which you draw ashore by main force, as the fellows
      here tow in their fishing-boats&mdash;or a lively salmon, that makes your
      rod crack, and your line whistle&mdash;plays you ten thousand mischievous
      pranks&mdash;wearies your heart out with hopes and fears&mdash;and is only
      laid panting on the bank, after you have shown the most unmatchable
      display of skill, patience, and dexterity?&mdash;But I see you have a mind
      to go on angling after your own old fashion. Off laced coat, and on brown
      jerkin;&mdash;lively colours scare fish in the sober waters of the Isle of
      Man;&mdash;faith, in London you will catch few, unless the bait glistens a
      little. But you <i>are</i> going?&mdash;Well, good luck to you. I will
      take to the barge;&mdash;the sea and wind are less inconstant than the
      tide you have embarked on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have learned to say all these smart things in London, my lord,"
      answered Julian; "but we shall have you a penitent for them, if Lady
      Cynthia be of my mind. Adieu, and pleasure till we meet."
    </p>
    <p>
      The young men parted accordingly; and while the Earl betook him to his
      pleasure voyage, Julian, as his friend had prophesied, assumed the dress
      of one who means to amuse himself with angling. The hat and feather were
      exchanged for a cap of grey cloth; the deeply-laced cloak and doublet for
      a simple jacket of the same colour, with hose conforming; and finally,
      with rod in hand, and pannier at his back, mounted upon a handsome Manx
      pony, young Peveril rode briskly over the country which divided him from
      one of those beautiful streams that descend to the sea from the
      Kirk-Merlagh mountains.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having reached the spot where he meant to commence his day's sport, Julian
      let his little steed graze, which, accustomed to the situation, followed
      him like a dog; and now and then, when tired of picking herbage in the
      valley through which the stream winded, came near her master's side, and,
      as if she had been a curious amateur of the sport, gazed on the trouts as
      Julian brought them struggling to the shore. But Fairy's master showed, on
      that day, little of the patience of a real angler, and took no heed to old
      Isaac Walton's recommendation, to fish the streams inch by inch. He chose,
      indeed, with an angler's eye, the most promising casts, which the stream
      broke sparkling over a stone, affording the wonted shelter to a trout; or
      where, gliding away from a rippling current to a still eddy it streamed
      under the projecting bank, or dashed from the pool of some low cascade. By
      this judicious selection of spots whereon to employ his art, the
      sportsman's basket was soon sufficiently heavy, to show that his
      occupation was not a mere pretext; and so soon as this was the case, he
      walked briskly up the glen, only making a cast from time to time, in case
      of his being observed from any of the neighbouring heights.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a little green and rocky valley through which the brook strayed,
      very lonely, although the slight track of an unformed road showed that it
      was occasionally traversed, and that it was not altogether void of
      inhabitants. As Peveril advanced still farther, the right bank reached to
      some distance from the stream, leaving a piece of meadow ground, the lower
      part of which, being close to the brook, was entirely covered with rich
      herbage, being possibly occasionally irrigated by its overflow. The higher
      part of the level ground afforded a stance for an old house, of singular
      structure, with a terraced garden, and a cultivated field or two beside
      it. In former times, a Danish or Norwegian fastness had stood here, called
      the Black Fort, from the colour of a huge healthy hill, which, rising
      behind the building, appeared to be the boundary of the valley, and to
      afford the source of the brook. But the original structure had been long
      demolished, as, indeed, it probably only consisted of dry stones, and its
      materials had been applied to the construction of the present mansion&mdash;the
      work of some churchman during the sixteenth century, as was evident from
      the huge stone-work of its windows, which scarce left room for light to
      pass through, as well as from two or three heavy buttresses, which
      projected from the front of the house, and exhibited on their surface
      little niches for images. These had been carefully destroyed, and pots of
      flowers were placed in the niches in their stead, besides their being
      ornamented by creeping plants of various kinds, fancifully twined around
      them. The garden was also in good order; and though the spot was extremely
      solitary, there was about it altogether an air of comfort, accommodation,
      and even elegance, by no means generally characteristic of the habitations
      of the island at the time.
    </p>
    <p>
      With much circumspection, Julian Peveril approached the low Gothic porch,
      which defended the entrance of the mansion from the tempests incident to
      its situation, and was, like the buttresses, overrun with ivy and other
      creeping plants. An iron ring, contrived so as when drawn up and down to
      rattle against the bar of notched iron through which it was suspended,
      served the purpose of a knocker; and to this he applied himself, though
      with the greatest precaution.
    </p>
    <p>
      He received no answer for some time, and indeed it seemed as if the house
      was totally uninhabited; when, at length, his impatience getting the upper
      hand, he tried to open the door, and, as it was only upon the latch, very
      easily succeeded. He passed through a little low-arched hall, the upper
      end of which was occupied by a staircase, and turning to the left, opened
      the door of a summer parlour, wainscoted with black oak, and very simply
      furnished with chairs and tables of the same materials; the former
      cushioned with the leather. The apartment was gloomy&mdash;one of those
      stone-shafted windows which we have mentioned, with its small latticed
      panes, and thick garland of foliage, admitting but an imperfect light.
    </p>
    <p>
      Over the chimneypiece (which was of the same massive materials with the
      panelling of the apartment) was the only ornament of the room; a painting,
      namely, representing an officer in the military dress of the Civil Wars.
      It was a green jerkin, then the national and peculiar wear of the Manxmen;
      his short band which hung down on the cuirass&mdash;the orange-coloured
      scarf, but, above all, the shortness of his close-cut hair, showing
      evidently to which of the great parties he had belonged. His right hand
      rested on the hilt of his sword; and in the left he held a small Bible,
      bearing the inscription, "<i>In hoc signo</i>." The countenance was of a
      light complexion, with fair and almost effeminate blue eyes, and an oval
      form of face&mdash;one of those physiognomies, to which, though not
      otherwise unpleasing, we naturally attach the idea of melancholy and of
      misfortune.[*] Apparently it was well known to Julian Peveril; for after
      having looked at it for a long time, he could not forbear muttering aloud,
      "What would I give that that man had never been born, or that he still
      lived!"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] I am told that a portrait of the unfortunate William Christian is
    still preserved in the family of Waterson of Ballnabow of Kirk
    Church, Rushin. William Dhône is dressed in a green coat without
    collar or cape, after the fashion of those puritanic times, with
    the head in a close cropt wig, resembling the bishop's peruke of
    the present day. The countenance is youthful and well-looking,
    very unlike the expression of foreboding melancholy. I have so far
    taken advantage of this criticism, as to bring my ideal portrait
    in the present edition, nearer to the complexion at least of the
    fair-haired William Dhône.
</pre>
    <p>
      "How now&mdash;how is this?" said a female, who entered the room as he
      uttered this reflection. "<i>You</i> here, Master Peveril, in spite of all
      the warnings you have had! You here in the possession of folk's house when
      they are abroad, and talking to yourself, as I shall warrant!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, Mistress Deborah," said Peveril, "I am here once more, as you see,
      against every prohibition, and in defiance of all danger.&mdash;Where is
      Alice?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where you will never see her, Master Julian&mdash;you may satisfy
      yourself of that," answered Mistress Deborah, for it was that respectable
      governante; and sinking down at the same time upon one of the large
      leathern chairs, she began to fan herself with her handkerchief, and
      complain of the heat in a most ladylike fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, Mistress Debbitch, while her exterior intimated a considerable
      change of condition for the better, and her countenance showed the less
      favourable effects of the twenty years which had passed over her head, was
      in mind and manners very much what she had been when she battled the
      opinions of Madam Ellesmere at Martindale Castle. In a word, she was
      self-willed, obstinate, and coquettish as ever, otherwise no ill-disposed
      person. Her present appearance was that of a woman of the better rank.
      From the sobriety of the fashion of her dress, and the uniformity of its
      colours, it was plain she belonged to some sect which condemned
      superfluous gaiety in attire; but no rules, not those of a nunnery or of a
      quaker's society, can prevent a little coquetry in that particular, where
      a woman is desirous of being supposed to retain some claim to personal
      attention. All Mistress Deborah's garments were so arranged as might best
      set off a good-looking woman, whose countenance indicated ease and good
      cheer&mdash;who called herself five-and-thirty, and was well entitled, if
      she had a mind, to call herself twelve or fifteen years older.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was under the necessity of enduring all her tiresome and fantastic
      airs, and awaiting with patience till she had "prinked herself and pinned
      herself"&mdash;flung her hoods back, and drawn them forward&mdash;snuffed
      at a little bottle of essences&mdash;closed her eyes like a dying fowl&mdash;turned
      them up like duck in a thunderstorm; when at length, having exhausted her
      round of <i>minauderies</i>, she condescended to open the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "These walks will be the death of me," she said, "and all on your account,
      Master Julian Peveril; for if Dame Christian should learn that you have
      chosen to make your visits to her niece, I promise you Mistress Alice
      would be soon obliged to find other quarters, and so should I."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come now, Mistress Deborah, be good-humoured," said Julian; "consider,
      was not all this intimacy of ours of your own making? Did you not make
      yourself known to me the very first time I strolled up this glen with my
      fishing-rod, and tell me that you were my former keeper, and that Alice
      had been my little playfellow? And what could there be more natural, than
      that I should come back and see two such agreeable persons as often as I
      could?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said Dame Deborah; "but I did not bid you fall in love with us,
      though, or propose such a matter as marriage either to Alice or myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To do you justice, you never did, Deborah," answered the youth; "but what
      of that? Such things will come out before one is aware. I am sure you must
      have heard such proposals fifty times when you least expected them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fie, fie, fie, Master Julian Peveril," said the governante; "I would have
      you to know that I have always so behaved myself, that the best of the
      land would have thought twice of it, and have very well considered both
      what he was going to say, and how he was going to say it, before he came
      out with such proposals to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, true, Mistress Deborah," continued Julian; "but all the world hath
      not your discretion. Then Alice Bridgenorth is a child&mdash;a mere child;
      and one always asks a baby to be one's little wife, you know. Come, I know
      you will forgive me. Thou wert ever the best-natured, kindest woman in the
      world; and you know you have said twenty times we were made for each
      other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh no, Master Julian Peveril; no, no, no!" ejaculated Deborah. "I may
      indeed have said your estates were born to be united; and to be sure it is
      natural for me, that come of the old stock of the yeomanry of Peveril of
      the Peak's estate, to wish that it was all within the ring fence again;
      which sure enough it might be, were you to marry Alice Bridgenorth. But
      then there is the knight your father, and my lady your mother; and there
      is her father, that is half crazy with his religion; and her aunt that
      wears eternal black grogram for that unlucky Colonel Christian; and there
      is the Countess of Derby, that would serve us all with the same sauce if
      we were thinking of anything that would displease her. And besides all
      that, you have broke your word with Mistress Alice, and everything is over
      between you; and I am of opinion it is quite right it should be all over.
      And perhaps it may be, Master Julian, that I should have thought so a long
      time ago, before a child like Alice put it into my head; but I am so
      good-natured."
    </p>
    <p>
      No flatterer like a lover, who wishes to carry his point.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are the best-natured, kindest creature in the world, Deborah.&mdash;But
      you have never seen the ring I bought for you at Paris. Nay, I will put it
      on your finger myself;&mdash;what! your foster-son, whom you loved so
      well, and took such care of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He easily succeeded in putting a pretty ring of gold, with a humorous
      affectation of gallantry, on the fat finger of Mistress Deborah Debbitch.
      Hers was a soul of a kind often to be met with, both among the lower and
      higher vulgar, who, without being, on a broad scale, accessible to bribes
      or corruption, are nevertheless much attached to perquisites, and
      considerably biassed in their line of duty, though perhaps insensibly, by
      the love of petty observances, petty presents, and trivial compliments.
      Mistress Debbitch turned the ring round, and round, and round, and at
      length said, in a whisper, "Well, Master Julian Peveril, it signifies
      nothing denying anything to such a young gentleman as you, for young
      gentlemen are always so obstinate! and so I may as well tell you, that
      Mistress Alice walked back from the Kirk-Truagh along with me, just now,
      and entered the house at the same time with myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why did you not tell me so before?" said Julian, starting up; "where&mdash;where
      is she?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You had better ask why I tell you so <i>now</i>, Master Julian," said
      Dame Deborah; "for, I promise you, it is against her express commands; and
      I would not have told you, had you not looked so pitiful;&mdash;but as for
      seeing you, that she will not&mdash;and she is in her own bedroom, with a
      good oak door shut and bolted upon her&mdash;that is one comfort.&mdash;And
      so, as for any breach of trust on my part&mdash;I promise you the little
      saucy minx gives it no less name&mdash;it is quite impossible."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not say so, Deborah&mdash;only go&mdash;only try&mdash;tell her to
      hear me&mdash;tell her I have a hundred excuses for disobeying her
      commands&mdash;tell her I have no doubt to get over all obstacles at
      Martindale Castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, I tell you it is all in vain," replied the Dame. "When I saw your
      cap and rod lying in the hall, I did but say, 'There he is again,' and she
      ran up the stairs like a young deer; and I heard key turned, and bolt
      shot, ere I could say a single word to stop her&mdash;I marvel you heard
      her not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was because I am, as I ever was, an owl&mdash;a dreaming fool, who let
      all those golden minutes pass, which my luckless life holds out to me so
      rarely.&mdash;Well&mdash;tell her I go&mdash;go for ever&mdash;go where
      she will hear no more of me&mdash;where no one shall hear more of me!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, the Father!" said the dame, "hear how he talks!&mdash;What will
      become of Sir Geoffrey, and your mother, and of me, and of the Countess,
      if you were to go so far as you talk of? And what would become of poor
      Alice too? for I will be sworn she likes you better than she says, and I
      know she used to sit and look the way that you used to come up the stream,
      and now and then ask me if the morning were good for fishing. And all the
      while you were on the continent, as they call it, she scarcely smiled
      once, unless it was when she got two beautiful long letters about foreign
      parts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Friendship, Dame Deborah&mdash;only friendship&mdash;cold and calm
      remembrance of one who, by your kind permission, stole in on your solitude
      now and then, with news from the living world without&mdash;Once, indeed,
      I thought&mdash;but it is all over&mdash;farewell."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he covered his face with one hand, and extended the other, in
      the act of bidding adieu to Dame Debbitch, whose kind heart became unable
      to withstand the sight of his affliction.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, do not be in such haste," she said; "I will go up again, and tell
      her how it stands with you, and bring her down, if it is in woman's power
      to do it."
    </p>
    <p>
      And so saying, she left the apartment, and ran upstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril, meanwhile, paced the apartment in great agitation, waiting
      the success of Deborah's intercession; and she remained long enough absent
      to give us time to explain, in a short retrospect, the circumstances which
      had led to his present situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
            Could ever hear by tale or history,
            The course of true love never did run smooth!
                                       &mdash;Midsummer Night's Dream.
</pre>
    <p>
      The celebrated passage which we have prefixed to this chapter has, like
      most observations of the same author, its foundation in real experience.
      The period at which love is formed for the first time, and felt most
      strongly, is seldom that at which there is much prospect of its being
      brought to a happy issue. The state of artificial society opposes many
      complicated obstructions to early marriages; and the chance is very great,
      that such obstacles prove insurmountable. In fine, there are few men who
      do not look back in secret to some period of their youth, at which a
      sincere and early affection was repulsed, or betrayed, or become abortive
      from opposing circumstances. It is these little passages of secret
      history, which leave a tinge of romance in every bosom, scarce permitting
      us, even in the most busy or the most advanced period of life, to listen
      with total indifference to a tale of true love.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril had so fixed his affections, as to insure the fullest share
      of that opposition which early attachments are so apt to encounter. Yet
      nothing so natural as that he should have done so. In early youth, Dame
      Debbitch had accidentally met with the son of her first patroness, and who
      had himself been her earliest charge, fishing in the little brook already
      noticed, which watered the valley in which she resided with Alice
      Bridgenorth. The dame's curiosity easily discovered who he was; and
      besides the interest which persons in her condition usually take in the
      young people who have been under their charge, she was delighted with the
      opportunity to talk about former times&mdash;about Martindale Castle, and
      friends there&mdash;about Sir Geoffrey and his good lady&mdash;and, now
      and then, about Lance Outram the park-keeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mere pleasure of gratifying her inquiries, would scarce have had power
      enough to induce Julian to repeat his visits to the lonely glen; but
      Deborah had a companion&mdash;a lovely girl&mdash;bred in solitude, and in
      the quiet and unpretending tastes which solitude encourages&mdash;spirited,
      also, and inquisitive, and listening, with laughing cheek, and an eager
      eye, to every tale which the young angler brought from the town and
      castle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The visits of Julian to the Black Fort were only occasional&mdash;so far
      Dame Deborah showed common-sense&mdash;which was, perhaps, inspired by the
      apprehension of losing her place, in case of discovery. She had, indeed,
      great confidence in the strong and rooted belief&mdash;amounting almost to
      superstition&mdash;which Major Bridgenorth entertained, that his
      daughter's continued health could only be insured by her continuing under
      the charge of one who had acquired Lady Peveril's supposed skill in
      treating those subject to such ailments. This belief Dame Deborah had
      improved to the utmost of her simple cunning,&mdash;always speaking in
      something of an oracular tone, upon the subject of her charge's health,
      and hinting at certain mysterious rules necessary to maintain it in the
      present favourable state. She had availed herself of this artifice, to
      procure for herself and Alice a separate establishment at the Black Fort;
      for it was originally Major Bridgenorth's resolution, that his daughter
      and her governante should remain under the same roof with the
      sister-in-law of his deceased wife, the widow of the unfortunate Colonel
      Christian. But this lady was broken down with premature age, brought on by
      sorrow; and, in a short visit which Major Bridgenorth made to the island,
      he was easily prevailed on to consider her house at Kirk-Truagh, as a very
      cheerless residence for his daughter. Dame Deborah, who longed for
      domestic independence, was careful to increase this impression by alarming
      her patron's fears on account of Alice's health. The mansion of
      Kirk-Truagh stood, she said, much exposed to the Scottish winds, which
      could not but be cold, as they came from a country where, as she was
      assured, there was ice and snow at midsummer. In short, she prevailed, and
      was put into full possession of the Black Fort, a house which, as well as
      Kirk-Truagh, belonged formerly to Christian, and now to his widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, however, it was enjoined on the governante and her charge, to visit
      Kirk-Truagh from time to time, and to consider themselves as under the
      management and guardianship of Mistress Christian&mdash;a state of
      subjection, the sense of which Deborah endeavoured to lessen, by assuming
      as much freedom of conduct as she possibly dared, under the influence,
      doubtless, of the same feelings of independence, which induced her, at
      Martindale Hall, to spurn the advice of Mistress Ellesmere.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was this generous disposition to defy control which induced her to
      procure for Alice, secretly, some means of education, which the stern
      genius of puritanism would have proscribed. She ventured to have her
      charge taught music&mdash;nay, even dancing; and the picture of the stern
      Colonel Christian trembled on the wainscot where it was suspended, while
      the sylph-like form of Alice, and the substantial person of Dame Deborah,
      executed French <i>chaussées</i> and <i>borrées</i>, to the sound of a
      small kit, which screamed under the bow of Monsieur De Pigal, half
      smuggler, half dancing-master. This abomination reached the ears of the
      Colonel's widow, and by her was communicated to Bridgenorth, whose sudden
      appearance in the island showed the importance he attached to the
      communication. Had she been faithless to her own cause, that had been the
      latest hour of Mrs. Deborah's administration. But she retreated into her
      stronghold.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dancing," she said, "was exercise, regulated and timed by music; and it
      stood to reason, that it must be the best of all exercise for a delicate
      person, especially as it could be taken within doors, and in all states of
      the weather."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth listened, with a clouded and thoughtful brow, when, in
      exemplification of her doctrine, Mistress Deborah, who was no contemptible
      performer on the viol, began to jangle Sellenger's Round, and desired
      Alice to dance an old English measure to the tune. As the half-bashful,
      half-smiling girl, about fourteen&mdash;for such was her age&mdash;moved
      gracefully to the music, the father's eye unavoidably followed the light
      spring of her step, and marked with joy the rising colour in her cheek.
      When the dance was over, he folded her in his arms, smoothed her somewhat
      disordered locks with a father's affectionate hand, smiled, kissed her
      brow, and took his leave, without one single word farther interdicting the
      exercise of dancing. He did not himself communicate the result of his
      visit at the Black Fort to Mrs. Christian, but she was not long of
      learning it, by the triumph of Dame Deborah on her next visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is well," said the stern old lady; "my brother Bridgenorth hath
      permitted you to make a Herodias of Alice, and teach her dancing. You have
      only now to find her a partner for life&mdash;I shall neither meddle nor
      make more in their affairs."
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, the triumph of Dame Deborah, or rather of Dame Nature, on this
      occasion, had more important effects than the former had ventured to
      anticipate; for Mrs. Christian, though she received with all formality the
      formal visits of the governante and her charge, seemed thenceforth so
      pettish with the issue of her remonstrance, upon the enormity of her niece
      dancing to a little fiddle, that she appeared to give up interference in
      her affairs, and left Dame Debbitch and Alice to manage both education and
      housekeeping&mdash;in which she had hitherto greatly concerned herself&mdash;much
      after their own pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in this independent state that they lived, when Julian first
      visited their habitation; and he was the rather encouraged to do so by
      Dame Deborah, that she believed him to be one of the last persons in the
      world with whom Mistress Christian would have desired her niece to be
      acquainted&mdash;the happy spirit of contradiction superseding, with Dame
      Deborah, on this, as on other occasions, all consideration of the fitness
      of things. She did not act altogether without precaution neither. She was
      aware she had to guard not only against any reviving interest or curiosity
      on the part of Mistress Christian, but against the sudden arrival of Major
      Bridgenorth, who never failed once in the year to make his appearance at
      the Black Fort when least expected, and to remain there for a few days.
      Dame Debbitch, therefore, exacted of Julian, that his visits should be few
      and far between; that he should condescend to pass for a relation of her
      own, in the eyes of two ignorant Manx girls and a lad, who formed her
      establishment; and that he should always appear in his angler's dress made
      of the simple <i>Loughtan</i>, or buff-coloured wool of the island, which
      is not subjected to dyeing. By these cautions, she thought his intimacy at
      the Black Fort would be entirely unnoticed, or considered as immaterial,
      while, in the meantime, it furnished much amusement to her charge and
      herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was accordingly the case during the earlier part of their
      intercourse, while Julian was a lad, and Alice a girl two or three years
      younger. But as the lad shot up to youth, and the girl to womanhood, even
      Dame Deborah Debbitch's judgment saw danger in their continued intimacy.
      She took an opportunity to communicate to Julian who Miss Bridgenorth
      actually was, and the peculiar circumstances which placed discord between
      their fathers. He heard the story of their quarrel with interest and
      surprise, for he had only resided occasionally at Martindale Castle, and
      the subject of Bridgenorth's quarrel with his father had never been
      mentioned in his presence. His imagination caught fire at the sparks
      afforded by this singular story; and, far from complying with the prudent
      remonstrance of Dame Deborah, and gradually estranging himself from the
      Black Fort and its fair inmate, he frankly declared, he considered his
      intimacy there, so casually commenced, as intimating the will of Heaven,
      that Alice and he were designed for each other, in spite of every obstacle
      which passion or prejudice could raise up betwixt them. They had been
      companions in infancy; and a little exertion of memory enabled him to
      recall his childish grief for the unexpected and sudden disappearance of
      his little companion, whom he was destined again to meet with in the early
      bloom of opening beauty, in a country which was foreign to them both.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dame Deborah was confounded at the consequences of her communication,
      which had thus blown into a flame the passion which she hoped it would
      have either prevented or extinguished. She had not the sort of head which
      resists the masculine and energetic remonstrances of passionate
      attachment, whether addressed to her on her own account, or on behalf of
      another. She lamented, and wondered, and ended her feeble opposition, by
      weeping, and sympathising, and consenting to allow the continuance of
      Julian's visits, provided he should only address himself to Alice as a
      friend; to gain the world, she would consent to nothing more. She was not,
      however, so simple, but that she also had her forebodings of the designs
      of Providence on this youthful couple; for certainly they could not be
      more formed to be united than the good estates of Martindale and
      Moultrassie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then came a long sequence of reflections. Martindale Castle wanted but
      some repairs to be almost equal to Chatsworth. The Hall might be allowed
      to go to ruin; or, what would be better, when Sir Geoffrey's time came
      (for the good knight had seen service, and must be breaking now), the Hall
      would be a good dowery-house, to which my lady and Ellesmere might
      retreat; while (empress of the still-room, and queen of the pantry)
      Mistress Deborah Debbitch should reign housekeeper at the Castle, and
      extend, perhaps, the crown-matrimonial to Lance Outram, provided he was
      not become too old, too fat, or too fond of ale.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the soothing visions under the influence of which the dame
      connived at an attachment, which lulled also to pleasing dreams, though of
      a character so different, her charge and her visitant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The visits of the young angler became more and more frequent; and the
      embarrassed Deborah, though foreseeing all the dangers of discovery, and
      the additional risk of an explanation betwixt Alice and Julian, which must
      necessarily render their relative situation so much more delicate, felt
      completely overborne by the enthusiasm of the young lover, and was
      compelled to let matters take their course.
    </p>
    <p>
      The departure of Julian for the continent interrupted the course of his
      intimacy at the Black Fort, and while it relieved the elder of its inmates
      from much internal apprehension, spread an air of languor and dejection
      over the countenance of the younger, which, at Bridgenorth's next visit to
      the Isle of Man, renewed all his terrors for his daughter's constitutional
      malady.
    </p>
    <p>
      Deborah promised faithfully she should look better the next morning, and
      she kept her word. She had retained in her possession for some time a
      letter which Julian had, by some private conveyance, sent to her charge,
      for his youthful friend. Deborah had dreaded the consequences of
      delivering it as a billet-doux, but, as in the case of the dance, she
      thought there could be no harm in administering it as a remedy.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had complete effect; and next day the cheeks of the maiden had a tinge
      of the rose, which so much delighted her father, that, as he mounted his
      horse, he flung his purse into Deborah's hand, with the desire she should
      spare nothing that could make herself and his daughter happy, and the
      assurance that she had his full confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      This expression of liberality and confidence from a man of Major
      Bridgenorth's reserved and cautious disposition, gave full plumage to
      Mistress Deborah's hopes; and emboldened her not only to deliver another
      letter of Julian's to the young lady, but to encourage more boldly and
      freely than formerly the intercourse of the lovers when Peveril returned
      from abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, in spite of all Julian's precaution, the young Earl became
      suspicious of his frequent solitary fishing parties; and he himself, now
      better acquainted with the world than formerly, became aware that his
      repeated visits and solitary walks with a person so young and beautiful as
      Alice, might not only betray prematurely the secret of his attachment, but
      be of essential prejudice to her who was its object.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under the influence of this conviction, he abstained, for an unusual
      period, from visiting the Black Fort. But when he next indulged himself
      with spending an hour in the place where he would gladly have abode for
      ever, the altered manner of Alice&mdash;the tone in which she seemed to
      upbraid his neglect, penetrated his heart, and deprived him of that power
      of self-command, which he had hitherto exercised in their interviews. It
      required but a few energetic words to explain to Alice at once his
      feelings, and to make her sensible of the real nature of her own. She wept
      plentifully, but her tears were not all of bitterness. She sat passively
      still, and without reply, while he explained to her, with many an
      interjection, the circumstances which had placed discord between their
      families; for hitherto, all that she had known was, that Master Peveril,
      belonging to the household of the great Countess or Lady of Man, must
      observe some precautions in visiting a relative of the unhappy Colonel
      Christian. But, when Julian concluded his tale with the warmest
      protestations of eternal love, "My poor father!" she burst forth, "and was
      this to be the end of all thy precautions?&mdash;This, that the son of him
      that disgraced and banished thee, should hold such language to your
      daughter?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You err, Alice, you err," cried Julian eagerly. "That I hold this
      language&mdash;that the son of Peveril addresses thus the daughter of your
      father&mdash;that he thus kneels to you for forgiveness of injuries which
      passed when we were both infants, shows the will of Heaven, that in our
      affection should be quenched the discord of our parents. What else could
      lead those who parted infants on the hills of Derbyshire, to meet thus in
      the valleys of Man?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Alice, however new such a scene, and, above all, her own emotions, might
      be, was highly endowed with that exquisite delicacy which is imprinted in
      the female heart, to give warning of the slightest approach to impropriety
      in a situation like hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rise, rise, Master Peveril," she said; "do not do yourself and me this
      injustice&mdash;we have done both wrong&mdash;very wrong; but my fault was
      done in ignorance. O God! my poor father, who needs comfort so much&mdash;is
      it for me to add to his misfortunes? Rise!" she added more firmly; "if you
      retain this unbecoming posture any longer, I will leave the room and you
      shall never see me more."
    </p>
    <p>
      The commanding tone of Alice overawed the impetuosity of her lover, who
      took in silence a seat removed to some distance from hers, and was again
      about to speak. "Julian," said she in a milder tone, "you have spoken
      enough, and more than enough. Would you had left me in the pleasing dream
      in which I could have listened to you for ever! but the hour of wakening
      is arrived." Peveril waited the prosecution of her speech as a criminal
      while he waits his doom; for he was sufficiently sensible that an answer,
      delivered not certainly without emotion, but with firmness and resolution,
      was not to be interrupted. "We have done wrong," she repeated, "very
      wrong; and if we now separate for ever, the pain we may feel will be but a
      just penalty for our error. We should never have met: meeting, we should
      part as soon as possible. Our farther intercourse can but double our pain
      at parting. Farewell, Julian; and forget we ever have seen each other!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Forget!" said Julian; "never, never. To <i>you</i>, it is easy to speak
      the word&mdash;to think the thought. To <i>me</i>, an approach to either
      can only be by utter destruction. Why should you doubt that the feud of
      our fathers, like so many of which we have heard, might be appeased by our
      friendship? You are my only friend. I am the only one whom Heaven has
      assigned to you. Why should we separate for the fault of others, which
      befell when we were but children?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak in vain, Julian," said Alice; "I pity you&mdash;perhaps I pity
      myself&mdash;indeed, I should pity myself, perhaps, the most of the two;
      for you will go forth to new scenes and new faces, and will soon forget
      me; but, I, remaining in this solitude, how shall <i>I</i> forget?&mdash;that,
      however, is not now the question&mdash;I can bear my lot, and it commands
      us to part."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hear me yet a moment," said Peveril; "this evil is not, cannot be
      remediless. I will go to my father,&mdash;I will use the intercession of
      my mother, to whom he can refuse nothing&mdash;I will gain their consent&mdash;they
      have no other child&mdash;and they must consent, or lose him for ever.
      Say, Alice, if I come to you with my parents' consent to my suit, will you
      again say, with that tone so touching and so sad, yet so incredibly
      determined&mdash;Julian, we must part?" Alice was silent. "Cruel girl,
      will you not even deign to answer me?" said her lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would refer you to my father," said Alice, blushing and casting her
      eyes down; but instantly raising them again, she repeated, in a firmer and
      a sadder tone, "Yes, Julian, I would refer you to my father; and you would
      find that your pilot, Hope, had deceived you; and that you had but escaped
      the quicksands to fall upon the rocks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would that could be tried!" said Julian. "Methinks I could persuade
      your father that in ordinary eyes our alliance is not undesirable. My
      family have fortune, rank, long descent&mdash;all that fathers look for
      when they bestow a daughter's hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All this would avail you nothing," said Alice. "The spirit of my father
      is bent upon the things of another world; and if he listened to hear you
      out, it would be but to tell you that he spurned your offers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You know not&mdash;you know not, Alice," said Julian. "Fire can soften
      iron&mdash;thy father's heart cannot be so hard, or his prejudices so
      strong, but I shall find some means to melt him. Forbid me not&mdash;Oh,
      forbid me not at least the experiment!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can but advise," said Alice; "I can forbid you nothing; for, to forbid,
      implies power to command obedience. But if you will be wise, and listen to
      me&mdash;Here, and on this spot, we part for ever!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so, by Heaven!" said Julian, whose bold and sanguine temper scarce
      saw difficulty in attaining aught which he desired. "We now part, indeed,
      but it is that I may return armed with my parents' consent. They desire
      that I should marry&mdash;in their last letters they pressed it more
      openly&mdash;they shall have their desire; and such a bride as I will
      present to them has not graced their house since the Conqueror gave it
      origin. Farewell, Alice! Farewell, for a brief space!"
    </p>
    <p>
      She replied, "Farewell, Julian! Farewell for ever!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, within a week of this interview, was at Martindale Castle, with
      the view of communicating his purpose. But the task which seems easy at a
      distance, proves as difficult, upon a nearer approach, as the fording of a
      river, which from afar appeared only a brook. There lacked not
      opportunities of entering upon the subject; for in the first ride which he
      took with his father, the Knight resumed the subject of his son's
      marriage, and liberally left the lady to his choice; but under the strict
      proviso, that she was of a loyal and an honourable family;&mdash;if she
      had fortune, it was good and well, or rather, it was better than well; but
      if she was poor, why, "there is still some picking," said Sir Geoffrey,
      "on the bones of the old estate; and Dame Margaret and I will be content
      with the less, that you young folks may have your share of it. I am turned
      frugal already, Julian. You see what a north-country shambling bit of a
      Galloway nag I ride upon&mdash;a different beast, I wot, from my own old
      Black Hastings, who had but one fault, and that was his wish to turn down
      Moultrassie avenue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Was that so great a fault?" said Julian, affecting indifference, while
      his heart was trembling, as it seemed to him, almost in his very throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It used to remind me of that base, dishonourable Presbyterian fellow,
      Bridgenorth," said Sir Geoffrey; "and I would as lief think of a toad:&mdash;they
      say he has turned Independent, to accomplish the full degree of rascality.&mdash;I
      tell you, Gill, I turned off the cow-boy, for gathering nuts in his woods&mdash;I
      would hang a dog that would so much as kill a hare there.&mdash;But what
      is the matter with you? You look pale."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian made some indifferent answer, but too well understood, from the
      language and tone which his father used, that his prejudices against
      Alice's father were both deep and envenomed, as those of country gentlemen
      often become, who, having little to do or think of, are but too apt to
      spend their time in nursing and cherishing petty causes of wrath against
      their next neighbours.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the course of the same day, he mentioned the Bridgenorth to his mother,
      as if in a casual manner. But the Lady Peveril instantly conjured him
      never to mention the name, especially in his father's presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Was that Major Bridgenorth, of whom I have heard the name mentioned,"
      said Julian, "so very bad a neighbour?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not say so," said Lady Peveril; "nay, we were more than once obliged
      to him, in the former unhappy times; but your father and he took some
      passages so ill at each other's hands, that the least allusion to him
      disturbs Sir Geoffrey's temper, in a manner quite unusual, and which, now
      that his health is somewhat impaired, is sometimes alarming to me. For
      Heaven's sake, then, my dear Julian, avoid upon all occasions the
      slightest allusion to Moultrassie, or any of its inhabitants."
    </p>
    <p>
      This warning was so seriously given, that Julian himself saw that
      mentioning his secret purpose would be the sure way to render it abortive,
      and therefore he returned disconsolate to the Isle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril had the boldness, however, to make the best he could of what had
      happened, by requesting an interview with Alice, in order to inform her
      what had passed betwixt his parents and him on her account. It was with
      great difficulty that this boon was obtained; and Alice Bridgenorth showed
      no slight degree of displeasure, when she discovered, after much
      circumlocution, and many efforts to give an air of importance to what he
      had to communicate, that all amounted but to this, that Lady Peveril
      continued to retain a favourable opinion of her father, Major Bridgenorth,
      which Julian would fain have represented as an omen of their future more
      perfect reconciliation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not think you would thus have trifled with me, Master Peveril,"
      said Alice, assuming an air of dignity; "but I will take care to avoid
      such intrusion in future&mdash;I request you will not again visit the
      Black Fort; and I entreat of you, good Mistress Debbitch, that you will no
      longer either encourage or permit this gentleman's visits, as the result
      of such persecution will be to compel me to appeal to my aunt and father
      for another place of residence, and perhaps also for another and more
      prudent companion."
    </p>
    <p>
      This last hint struck Mistress Deborah with so much terror, that she
      joined her ward in requiring and demanding Julian's instant absence, and
      he was obliged to comply with their request. But the courage of a youthful
      lover is not easily subdued; and Julian, after having gone through the
      usual round of trying to forget his ungrateful mistress, and entertaining
      his passion with augmented violence, ended by the visit to the Black Fort,
      the beginning of which we narrated in the last chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      We then left him anxious for, yet almost fearful of, an interview with
      Alice, which he prevailed upon Deborah to solicit; and such was the tumult
      of his mind, that, while he traversed the parlour, it seemed to him that
      the dark melancholy eyes of the slaughtered Christian's portrait followed
      him wherever he went, with the fixed, chill, and ominous glance, which
      announced to the enemy of his race mishap and misfortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door of the apartment opened at length, and these visions were
      dissipated.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         Parents have flinty hearts! No tears can move them.
                                                       &mdash;OTWAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      When Alice Bridgenorth at length entered the parlour where her anxious
      lover had so long expected her, it was with a slow step, and a composed
      manner. Her dress was arranged with an accurate attention to form, which
      at once enhanced the appearance of its puritanic simplicity, and struck
      Julian as a bad omen; for although the time bestowed upon the toilet may,
      in many cases, intimate the wish to appear advantageously at such an
      interview, yet a ceremonious arrangement of attire is very much allied
      with formality, and a preconceived determination to treat a lover with
      cold politeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sad-coloured gown&mdash;the pinched and plaited cap, which carefully
      obscured the profusion of long dark-brown hair&mdash;the small ruff, and
      the long sleeves, would have appeared to great disadvantage on a shape
      less graceful than Alice Bridgenorth's; but an exquisite form, though not,
      as yet, sufficiently rounded in the outlines to produce the perfection of
      female beauty, was able to sustain and give grace even to this unbecoming
      dress. Her countenance, fair and delicate, with eyes of hazel, and a brow
      of alabaster, had, notwithstanding, less regular beauty than her form, and
      might have been justly subjected to criticism. There was, however, a life
      and spirit in her gaiety, and a depth of sentiment in her gravity, which
      made Alice, in conversation with the very few persons with whom she
      associated, so fascinating in her manners and expression, whether of
      language or countenance&mdash;so touching, also, in her simplicity and
      purity of thought, that brighter beauties might have been overlooked in
      her company. It was no wonder, therefore, that an ardent character like
      Julian, influenced by these charms, as well as by the secrecy and mystery
      attending his intercourse with Alice, should prefer the recluse of the
      Black Fort to all others with whom he had become acquainted in general
      society.
    </p>
    <p>
      His heart beat high as she came into the apartment, and it was almost
      without an attempt to speak that his profound obeisance acknowledged her
      entrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is a mockery, Master Peveril," said Alice, with an effort to speak
      firmly, which yet was disconcerted by a slightly tremulous inflection of
      voice&mdash;"a mockery, and a cruel one. You come to this lone place,
      inhabited only by two women, too simple to command your absence&mdash;too
      weak to enforce it&mdash;you come, in spite of my earnest request&mdash;to
      the neglect of your own time&mdash;to the prejudice, I may fear, of my
      character&mdash;you abuse the influence you possess over the simple person
      to whom I am entrusted&mdash;All this you do, and think to make up by low
      reverences and constrained courtesy! Is this honourable, or is it fair?&mdash;Is
      it," she added, after a moment's hesitation&mdash;"is it kind?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The tremulous accent fell especially on the last word she uttered, and it
      was spoken in a low tone of gentle reproach, which went to Julian's heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If," said he, "there was a mode by which, at the peril of my life, Alice,
      I could show my regard&mdash;my respect&mdash;my devoted tenderness&mdash;the
      danger would be dearer to me than ever was pleasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have said such things often," said Alice, "and they are such as I
      ought not to hear, and do not desire to hear. I have no tasks to impose on
      you&mdash;no enemies to be destroyed&mdash;no need or desire of protection&mdash;no
      wish, Heaven knows, to expose you to danger&mdash;It is your visits here
      alone to which danger attaches. You have but to rule your own wilful
      temper&mdash;to turn your thoughts and your cares elsewhere, and I can
      have nothing to ask&mdash;nothing to wish for. Use your own reason&mdash;consider
      the injury you do yourself&mdash;the injustice you do us&mdash;and let me,
      once more, in fair terms, entreat you to absent yourself from this place&mdash;till&mdash;till&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      She paused, and Julian eagerly interrupted her.&mdash;"Till when, Alice?&mdash;till
      when?&mdash;impose on me any length of absence which your severity can
      inflict, short of a final separation&mdash;Say, Begone for years, but
      return when these years are over; and, slow and wearily as they must pass
      away, still the thought that they must at length have their period, will
      enable me to live through them. Let me, then, conjure thee, Alice, to name
      a date&mdash;to fix a term&mdash;to say till <i>when!</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Till you can bear to think of me only as a friend and sister."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is a sentence of eternal banishment indeed!" said Julian; "it is
      seeming, no doubt, to fix a term of exile, but attaching to it an
      impossible condition."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why impossible, Julian?" said Alice, in a tone of persuasion; "were
      we not happier ere you threw the mask from your own countenance, and tore
      the veil from my foolish eyes? Did we not meet with joy, spend our time
      happily, and part cheerily, because we transgressed no duty, and incurred
      no self-reproach? Bring back that state of happy ignorance, and you shall
      have no reason to call me unkind. But while you form schemes which I know
      to be visionary, and use language of such violence and passion, you shall
      excuse me if I now, and once for all, declare, that since Deborah shows
      herself unfit for the trust reposed in her, and must needs expose me to
      persecutions of this nature, I will write to my father, that he may fix me
      another place of residence; and in the meanwhile I will take shelter with
      my aunt at Kirk-Truagh."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hear me, unpitying girl," said Peveril, "hear me, and you shall see how
      devoted I am to obedience, in all that I can do to oblige you! You say you
      were happy when we spoke not on such topics&mdash;well&mdash;at all
      expense of my own suppressed feelings, that happy period shall return. I
      will meet you&mdash;walk with you&mdash;read with you&mdash;but only as a
      brother would with his sister, or a friend with his friend; the thoughts I
      may nourish, be they of hope or of despair, my tongue shall not give birth
      to, and therefore I cannot offend; Deborah shall be ever by your side, and
      her presence shall prevent my even hinting at what might displease you&mdash;only
      do not make a crime to me of those thoughts which are the dearest part of
      my existence; for believe me it were better and kinder to rob me of
      existence itself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is the mere ecstasy of passion, Julian," answered Alice Bridgenorth;
      "that which is unpleasant, our selfish and stubborn will represents as
      impossible. I have no confidence in the plan you propose&mdash;no
      confidence in your resolution, and less than none in the protection of
      Deborah. Till you can renounce, honestly and explicitly, the wishes you
      have lately expressed, we must be strangers;&mdash;and could you renounce
      them even at this moment, it were better that we should part for a long
      time; and, for Heaven's sake, let it be as soon as possible&mdash;perhaps
      it is even now too late to prevent some unpleasant accident&mdash;I
      thought I heard a noise."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was Deborah," answered Julian. "Be not afraid, Alice; we are secure
      against surprise."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not," said Alice, "what you mean by such security&mdash;I have
      nothing to hide. I sought not this interview; on the contrary, averted it
      as long as I could&mdash;and am now most desirous to break it off."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And wherefore, Alice, since you say it must be our last? Why should you
      shake the sand which is passing so fast? the very executioner hurries not
      the prayers of the wretches upon the scaffold.&mdash;And see you not&mdash;I
      will argue as coldly as you can desire&mdash;see you not that you are
      breaking your own word, and recalling the hope which yourself held out to
      me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What hope have I suggested? What word have I given, Julian?" answered
      Alice. "You yourself build wild hopes in the air, and accuse me of
      destroying what had never any earthly foundation. Spare yourself, Julian&mdash;spare
      me&mdash;and in mercy to us both depart, and return not again till you can
      be more reasonable."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Reasonable?" replied Julian; "it is you, Alice, who will deprive me
      altogether of reason. Did you not say, that if our parents could be
      brought to consent to our union, you would no longer oppose my suit?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No&mdash;no&mdash;no," said Alice eagerly, and blushing deeply,&mdash;"I
      did not say so, Julian&mdash;it was your own wild imagination which put
      construction on my silence and my confusion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You do <i>not</i> say so, then?" answered Julian; "and if all other
      obstacles were removed, I should find one in the cold flinty bosom of her
      who repays the most devoted and sincere affection with contempt and
      dislike?&mdash;Is that," he added, in a deep tone of feeling&mdash;"is
      that what Alice Bridgenorth says to Julian Peveril?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed&mdash;indeed, Julian," said the almost weeping girl, "I do not say
      so&mdash;I say nothing, and I ought not to say anything concerning what I
      might do, in a state of things which can never take place. Indeed, Julian,
      you ought not thus to press me. Unprotected as I am&mdash;wishing you well&mdash;very
      well&mdash;why should you urge me to say or do what would lessen me in my
      own eyes? to own affection for one from whom fate has separated me for
      ever? It is ungenerous&mdash;it is cruel&mdash;it is seeking a momentary
      and selfish gratification to yourself, at the expense of every feeling
      which I ought to entertain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have said enough, Alice," said Julian, with sparkling eyes; "you have
      said enough in deprecating my urgency, and I will press you no farther.
      But you overrate the impediments which lie betwixt us&mdash;they must and
      shall give way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So you said before," answered Alice, "and with what probability, your own
      account may show. You dared not to mention the subject to your own father&mdash;how
      should you venture to mention it to mine?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will soon enable you to decide upon. Major Bridgenorth, by my
      mother's account, is a worthy and an estimable man. I will remind him,
      that to my mother's care he owes the dearest treasure and comfort of his
      life; and I will ask him if it is a just retribution to make that mother
      childless. Let me but know where to find him, Alice, and you shall soon
      hear if I have feared to plead my cause with him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas!" answered Alice, "you well know my uncertainty as to my dear
      father's residence. How often has it been my earnest request to him that
      he would let me share his solitary abode, or his obscure wanderings! But
      the short and infrequent visits which he makes to this house are all that
      he permits me of his society. Something I might surely do, however little,
      to alleviate the melancholy by which he is oppressed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Something we might both do," said Peveril. "How willingly would I aid you
      in so pleasing a task! All old griefs should be forgotten&mdash;all old
      friendships revived. My father's prejudices are those of an Englishman&mdash;strong,
      indeed, but not insurmountable by reason. Tell me, then, where Major
      Bridgenorth is, and leave the rest to me; or let me but know by what
      address your letters reach him, and I will forthwith essay to discover his
      dwelling."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not attempt it, I charge you," said Alice. "He is already a man of
      sorrows; and what would he think were I capable of entertaining a suit so
      likely to add to them? Besides, I could not tell you, if I would, where he
      is now to be found. My letters reach him from time to time, by means of my
      aunt Christian; but of his address I am entirely ignorant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, by Heaven," answered Julian, "I will watch his arrival in this
      island, and in this house; and ere he has locked thee in his arms, he
      shall answer to me on the subject of my suit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then demand that answer now," said a voice from without the door, which
      was at the same time slowly opened&mdash;"Demand that answer now, for here
      stands Ralph Bridgenorth."
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he entered the apartment with his usual slow and sedate step&mdash;raised
      his flapp'd and steeple-crowned hat from his brows, and, standing in the
      midst of the room, eyed alternately his daughter and Julian Peveril with a
      fixed and penetrating glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Father!" said Alice, utterly astonished, and terrified besides, by his
      sudden appearance at such a conjuncture,&mdash;"Father, I am not to
      blame."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of that anon, Alice," said Bridgenorth; "meantime retire to your
      apartment&mdash;I have that to say to this youth which will not endure
      your presence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed&mdash;indeed, father," said Alice, alarmed at what she supposed
      these words indicated, "Julian is as little to be blamed as I! It was
      chance, it was fortune, which caused our meeting together." Then suddenly
      rushing forward, she threw her arms around her father, saying, "Oh, do him
      no injury&mdash;he meant no wrong! Father, you were wont to be a man of
      reason and religious peace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And wherefore should I not be so now, Alice?" said Bridgenorth, raising
      his daughter from the ground, on which she had almost sunk in the
      earnestness of her supplication. "Dost thou know aught, maiden, which
      should inflame my anger against this young man, more than reason or
      religion may bridle? Go&mdash;go to thy chamber. Compose thine own
      passions&mdash;learn to rule these&mdash;and leave it to me to deal with
      this stubborn young man."
    </p>
    <p>
      Alice arose, and, with her eyes fixed on the ground, retired slowly from
      the apartment. Julian followed her steps with his eyes till the last wave
      of her garment was visible at the closing door; then turned his looks to
      Major Bridgenorth, and then sunk them on the ground. The Major continued
      to regard him in profound silence; his looks were melancholy and even
      austere; but there was nothing which indicated either agitation or keen
      resentment. He motioned to Julian to take a seat, and assumed one himself.
      After which he opened the conversation in the following manner:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "You seemed but now, young gentleman, anxious to learn where I was to be
      found. Such I at least conjectured, from the few expressions which I
      chanced to overhear; for I made bold, though it may be contrary to the
      code of modern courtesy, to listen a moment or two, in order to gather
      upon what subject so young a man as you entertained so young a woman as
      Alice, in a private interview."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I trust, sir," said Julian, rallying spirits in what he felt to be a case
      of extremity, "you have heard nothing on my part which has given offence
      to a gentleman, whom, though unknown, I am bound to respect so highly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On the contrary," said Bridgenorth, with the same formal gravity, "I am
      pleased to find that your business is, or appears to be, with me, rather
      than with my daughter. I only think you had done better to have entrusted
      it to me in the first instance, as my sole concern."
    </p>
    <p>
      The utmost sharpness of attention which Julian applied, could not discover
      if Bridgenorth spoke seriously or ironically to the above purpose. He was,
      however, quick-witted beyond his experience, and was internally determined
      to endeavour to discover something of the character and the temper of him
      with whom he spoke. For that purpose, regulating his reply in the same
      tone with Bridgenorth's observation, he said, that not having the
      advantage to know his place of residence, he had applied for information
      to his daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who is now known to you for the first time?" said Bridgenorth. "Am I so
      to understand you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "By no means," answered Julian, looking down; "I have been known to your
      daughter for many years; and what I wished to say, respects both her
      happiness and my own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must understand you," said Bridgenorth, "even as carnal men understand
      each other on the matters of this world. You are attached to my daughter
      by the cords of love; I have long known this."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You, Master Bridgenorth?" exclaimed Peveril&mdash;"<i>You</i> have long
      known it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, young man. Think you, that as the father of an only child, I could
      have suffered Alice Bridgenorth&mdash;the only living pledge of her who is
      now an angel in heaven&mdash;to have remained in this seclusion without
      the surest knowledge of all her material actions? I have, in person, seen
      more, both of her and of you, than you could be aware of; and when absent
      in the body, I had the means of maintaining the same superintendence.
      Young man, they say that such love as you entertain for my daughter
      teaches much subtilty; but believe not that it can overreach the affection
      which a widowed father bears to an only child."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If," said Julian, his heart beating thick and joyfully, "if you have
      known this intercourse so long, may I not hope that it has not met your
      disapprobation?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Major paused for an instant, and then answered, "In some respects,
      certainly not. Had it done so&mdash;had there seemed aught on your side,
      or on my daughter's, to have rendered your visits here dangerous to her,
      or displeasing to me, she had not been long the inhabitant of this
      solitude, or of this island. But be not so hasty as to presume, that all
      which you may desire in this matter can be either easily or speedily
      accomplished."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I foresee, indeed, difficulties," answered Julian; "but with your kind
      acquiescence, they are such as I trust to remove. My father is generous&mdash;my
      mother is candid and liberal. They loved you once; I trust they will love
      you again. I will be the mediator betwixt you&mdash;peace and harmony
      shall once more inhabit our neighbourhood, and&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth interrupted him with a grim smile; for such it seemed, as it
      passed over a face of deep melancholy. "My daughter well said, but short
      while past, that you were a dreamer of dreams&mdash;an architect of plans
      and hopes fantastic as the visions of the night. It is a great thing you
      ask of me;&mdash;the hand of my only child&mdash;the sum of my worldly
      substance, though that is but dross in comparison. You ask the key of the
      only fountain from which I may yet hope to drink one pleasant draught; you
      ask to be the sole and absolute keeper of my earthly happiness&mdash;and
      what have you offered, or what have you to offer in return, for the
      surrender you require of me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am but too sensible," said Peveril, abashed at his own hasty
      conclusions, "how difficult it may be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, but interrupt me not," replied Bridgenorth, "till I show you the
      amount of what you offer me in exchange for a boon, which, whatever may be
      its intrinsic value, is earnestly desired by you, and comprehends all that
      is valuable on earth which I have it in my power to bestow. You may have
      heard that in the late times I was the antagonist of your father's
      principles and his profane faction, but not the enemy of his person."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have ever heard," replied Julian, "much the contrary; and it was but
      now that I reminded you that you had been his friend."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay. When he was in affliction and I in prosperity, I was neither
      unwilling, nor altogether unable, to show myself such. Well, the tables
      are turned&mdash;the times are changed. A peaceful and unoffending man
      might have expected from a neighbour, now powerful in his turn, such
      protection, when walking in the paths of the law, as all men, subjects of
      the same realm, have a right to expect even from perfect strangers. What
      chances? I pursue, with the warrant of the King and law, a murderess,
      bearing on her hand the blood of my near connection, and I had, in such a
      case, a right to call on every liege subject to render assistance to the
      execution. My late friendly neighbour, bound, as a man and a magistrate,
      to give ready assistance to a legal action&mdash;bound, as a grateful and
      obliged friend, to respect my rights and my person&mdash;thrusts himself
      betwixt me&mdash;me, the avenger of blood&mdash;and my lawful captive;
      beats me to the earth, at once endangering my life, and, in mere human
      eyes, sullying mine honour; and under his protection, the Midianitish
      woman reaches, like a sea-eagle, the nest which she hath made in the
      wave-surrounded rocks, and remains there till gold, duly administered at
      Court, wipes out all memory of her crime, and baffles the vengeance due to
      the memory of the best and bravest of men.&mdash;But," he added,
      apostrophising the portrait of Christian, "thou art not yet forgotten, my
      fair-haired William! The vengeance which dogs thy murderess is slow,&mdash;but
      it is sure!"
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause of some moments, which Julian Peveril, willing to hear
      to what conclusion Major Bridgenorth was finally to arrive, did not care
      to interrupt. Accordingly, in a few minutes, the latter proceeded.&mdash;"These
      things," he said, "I recall not in bitterness, so far as they are personal
      to me&mdash;I recall them not in spite of heart, though they have been the
      means of banishing me from my place of residence, where my fathers dwelt,
      and where my earthly comforts lie interred. But the public cause sets
      further strife betwixt your father and me. Who so active as he to execute
      the fatal edict of black St. Bartholomew's day, when so many hundreds of
      gospel-preachers were expelled from house and home&mdash;from hearth and
      altar&mdash;from church and parish, to make room for belly-gods and
      thieves? Who, when a devoted few of the Lord's people were united to lift
      the fallen standard, and once more advance the good cause, was the
      readiest to break their purpose&mdash;to search for, persecute, and
      apprehend them? Whose breath did I feel warm on my neck&mdash;whose naked
      sword was thrust within a foot of my body, whilst I lurked darkling, like
      a thief in concealment, in the house of my fathers?&mdash;It was Geoffrey
      Peveril's&mdash;it was your father's!&mdash;What can you answer to all
      this, or how can you reconcile it with your present wishes?
    </p>
    <p>
      "These things I point out to you, Julian, that I may show you how
      impossible, in the eyes of a merely worldly man, would be the union which
      you are desirous of. But Heaven hath at times opened a door, where man
      beholds no means of issue. Julian, your mother, for one to whom the truth
      is unknown, is, after the fashion of the world, one of the best, and one
      of the wisest of women; and Providence, which gave her so fair a form, and
      tenanted that form with a mind as pure as the original frailty of our vile
      nature will permit, means not, I trust, that she shall continue to the end
      to be a vessel of wrath and perdition. Of your father I say nothing&mdash;he
      is what the times and example of others, and the counsels of his lordly
      priest, have made him; and of him, once more, I say nothing, save that I
      have power over him, which ere now he might have felt, but that there is
      one within his chambers, who might have suffered in his suffering. Nor do
      I wish to root up your ancient family. If I prize not your boast of family
      honours and pedigree, I would not willingly destroy them; more than I
      would pull down a moss-grown tower, or hew to the ground an ancient oak,
      save for the straightening of the common path, and advantage of the
      public. I have, therefore, no resentment against the humbled House of
      Peveril&mdash;nay, I have regard to it in its depression."
    </p>
    <p>
      He here made a second pause, as if he expected Julian to say something.
      But notwithstanding the ardour with which the young man had pressed his
      suit, he was too much trained in ideas of the importance of his family,
      and in the better habit of respect for his parents, to hear, without
      displeasure, some part of Bridgenorth's discourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The House of Peveril," he replied, "was never humbled."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Had you said the sons of that House had never been <i>humble</i>,"
      answered Bridgenorth, "you would have come nearer the truth.&mdash;Are <i>you</i>
      not humbled? Live you not here, the lackey of a haughty woman, the
      play-companion of an empty youth? If you leave this Isle, and go to the
      Court of England, see what regard will there be paid to the old pedigree
      that deduces your descent from kings and conquerors. A scurril or obscene
      jest, an impudent carriage, a laced cloak, a handful of gold, and the
      readiness to wager it on a card, or a die, will better advance you at the
      Court of Charles, than your father's ancient name, and slavish devotion of
      blood and fortune to the cause of <i>his</i> father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is, indeed, but too probable," said Peveril; "but the Court shall be
      no element of mine. I will live like my fathers, among my people, care for
      their comforts, decide their differences&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Build Maypoles, and dance around them," said Bridgenorth, with another of
      those grim smiles which passed over his features like the light of a
      sexton's torch, as it glares and is reflected by the window of the church,
      when he comes from locking a funeral vault. "No, Julian, these are not
      times in which, by the dreaming drudgery of a country magistrate, and the
      petty cares of a country proprietor, a man can serve his unhappy country.
      There are mighty designs afloat, and men are called to make their choice
      betwixt God and Baal. The ancient superstition&mdash;the abomination of
      our fathers&mdash;is raising its head, and flinging abroad its snares,
      under the protection of the princes of the earth; but she raises not her
      head unmarked or unwatched; the true English hearts are as thousands,
      which wait but a signal to arise as one man, and show the kings of the
      earth that they have combined in vain! We will cast their cords from us&mdash;the
      cup of their abominations we will not taste."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak in darkness, Master Bridgenorth," said Peveril. "Knowing so
      much of me, you may, perhaps, also be aware, that I at least have seen too
      much of the delusions of Rome, to desire that they should be propagated at
      home."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Else, wherefore do I speak to thee friendly and so free?" said
      Bridgenorth. "Do I not know, with what readiness of early wit you baffled
      the wily attempts of the woman's priest, to seduce thee from the
      Protestant faith? Do I not know, how thou wast beset when abroad, and that
      thou didst both hold thine own faith, and secure the wavering belief of
      thy friend? Said I not, this was done like the son of Margaret Peveril?
      Said I not, he holdeth, as yet, but the dead letter&mdash;but the seed
      which is sown shall one day sprout and quicken?&mdash;Enough, however, of
      this. For to-day this is thy habitation. I will see in thee neither the
      servant of the daughter of Eshbaal, nor the son of him who pursued my
      life, and blemished my honours; but thou shalt be to me, for this day, as
      the child of her, without whom my house had been extinct."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he stretched out his thin, bony hand, and grasped that of
      Julian Peveril; but there was such a look of mourning in his welcome, that
      whatever delight the youth anticipated, spending so long a time in the
      neighbourhood of Alice Bridgenorth, perhaps in her society, or however
      strongly he felt the prudence of conciliating her father's good-will, he
      could not help feeling as if his heart was chilled in his company.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           This day at least is friendship's&mdash;on the morrow
           Let strife come an she will.
                                                       &mdash;OTWAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      Deborah Debbitch, summoned by her master, now made her appearance, with
      her handkerchief at her eyes, and an appearance of great mental trouble.
      "It was not my fault, Major Bridgenorth," she said; "how could I help it?
      like will to like&mdash;the boy would come&mdash;the girl would see him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peace, foolish woman," said Bridgenorth, "and hear what I have got to
      say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know what your honour has to say well enough," said Deborah. "Service,
      I wot, is no inheritance nowadays&mdash;some are wiser than other some&mdash;if
      I had not been wheedled away from Martindale, I might have had a house of
      mine own by this time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peace, idiot!" said Bridgenorth; but so intent was Deborah on her
      vindication, that he could but thrust the interjection, as it were
      edgewise, between her exclamations, which followed as thick as is usual in
      cases, where folks endeavour to avert deserved censure by a clamorous
      justification ere the charge be brought.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No wonder she was cheated," she said, "out of sight of her own interest,
      when it was to wait on pretty Miss Alice. All your honour's gold should
      never have tempted me, but that I knew she was but a dead castaway, poor
      innocent, if she were taken away from my lady or me.&mdash;And so this is
      the end on't!&mdash;up early, and down late&mdash;and this is all my
      thanks!&mdash;But your honour had better take care what you do&mdash;she
      has the short cough yet sometimes&mdash;and should take physic, spring and
      fall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peace, chattering fool!" said her master, so soon as her failing breath
      gave him an opportunity to strike in, "thinkest thou I knew not of this
      young gentleman's visits to the Black Fort, and that, if they had
      displeased me, I would not have known how to stop them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did I know that your honour knew of his visits!" exclaimed Deborah, in a
      triumphant tone,&mdash;for, like most of her condition, she never sought
      farther for her defence than a lie, however inconsistent and improbable&mdash;"<i>Did</i>
      I know that your honour knew of it!&mdash;Why, how should I have permitted
      his visits else? I wonder what your honour takes me for! Had I not been
      sure it was the thing in this world that your honour most desired would I
      have presumed to lend it a hand forward? I trust I know my duty better.
      Hear if I ever asked another youngster into the house, save himself&mdash;for
      I knew your honour was wise, and quarrels cannot last for ever, and love
      begins where hatred ends; and, to be sure, they love as if they were born
      one for the other&mdash;and then, the estates of Moultrassie and
      Martindale suit each other like sheath and knife."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Parrot of a woman, hold your tongue!" said Bridgenorth, his patience
      almost completely exhausted; "or, if you will prate, let it be to your
      playfellows in the kitchen, and bid them get ready some dinner presently,
      for Master Peveril is far from home."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will, and with all my heart," said Deborah; "and if there are a
      pair of fatter fowls in Man than shall clap their wings on the table
      presently, your honour shall call me goose as well as parrot." She then
      left the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is to such a woman as that," said Bridgenorth, looking after her
      significantly, "that you conceived me to have abandoned the charge of my
      only child! But enough of this subject&mdash;we will walk abroad, if you
      will, while she is engaged in a province fitter for her understanding."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he left the house, accompanied by Julian Peveril, and they were
      soon walking side by side, as if they had been old acquaintances.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may have happened to many of our readers, as it has done to ourselves,
      to be thrown by accident into society with some individual whose claims to
      what is called a <i>serious</i> character stand considerably higher than
      our own, and with whom, therefore, we have conceived ourselves likely to
      spend our time in a very stiff and constrained manner; while, on the other
      hand, our destined companion may have apprehended some disgust from the
      supposed levity and thoughtless gaiety of a disposition that when we, with
      that urbanity and good-humour which is our principal characteristic, have
      accommodated ourself to our companion, by throwing as much seriousness
      into our conversation as our habits will admit, he, on the other hand,
      moved by our liberal example, hath divested his manners of part of their
      austerity; and our conversation has, in consequence, been of that pleasant
      texture, betwixt the useful and agreeable, which best resembles "the
      fairy-web of night and day," usually called in prose the twilight. It is
      probable both parties may, on such occasions, have been the better for
      their encounter, even if it went no farther than to establish for the time
      a community of feeling between men, who, separated more perhaps by temper
      than by principle, are too apt to charge each other with profane frivolity
      on the one hand, or fanaticism on the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      It fared thus in Peveril's walk with Bridgenorth, and in the conversation
      which he held with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carefully avoiding the subject on which he had already spoken, Major
      Bridgenorth turned his conversation chiefly on foreign travel, and on the
      wonders he had seen in distant countries, and which he appeared to have
      marked with a curious and observant eye. This discourse made the time fly
      light away; for although the anecdotes and observations thus communicated
      were all tinged with the serious and almost gloomy spirit of the narrator,
      they yet contained traits of interest and of wonder, such as are usually
      interesting to a youthful ear, and were particularly so to Julian, who
      had, in his disposition, some cast of the romantic and adventurous.
    </p>
    <p>
      It appeared that Bridgenorth knew the south of France, and could tell many
      stories of the French Huguenots, who already began to sustain those
      vexations which a few years afterwards were summed up by the revocation of
      the Edict of Nantz. He had even been in Hungary, for he spoke as from
      personal knowledge of the character of several of the heads of the great
      Protestant insurrection, which at this time had taken place under the
      celebrated Tekeli; and laid down solid reasons why they were entitled to
      make common cause with the Great Turk, rather than submit to the Pope of
      Rome. He talked also of Savoy, where those of the reformed religion still
      suffered a cruel persecution; and he mentioned with a swelling spirit, the
      protection which Oliver had afforded to the oppressed Protestant Churches;
      "therein showing himself," he added, "more fit to wield the supreme power,
      than those who, claiming it by right of inheritance, use it only for their
      own vain and voluptuous pursuits."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not expect," said Peveril modestly, "to have heard Oliver's
      panegyric from you, Master Bridgenorth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not panegyrise him," answered Bridgenorth; "I speak but truth of
      that extraordinary man, now being dead, whom, when alive, I feared not to
      withstand to his face. It is the fault of the present unhappy King, if he
      make us look back with regret to the days when the nation was respected
      abroad, and when devotion and sobriety were practised at home.&mdash;But I
      mean not to vex your spirit by controversy. You have lived amongst those
      who find it more easy and more pleasant to be the pensioners of France
      than her controllers&mdash;to spend the money which she doles out to
      themselves, than to check the tyranny with which she oppresses our poor
      brethren of the religion. When the scales shall fall from thine eyes, all
      this thou shalt see; and seeing, shalt learn to detest and despise it."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time they had completed their walk, and were returned to the Black
      Fort, by a different path from that which had led them up the valley. The
      exercise and the general tone of conversation had removed, in some degree,
      the shyness and embarrassment which Peveril originally felt in
      Bridgenorth's presence and which the tenor of his first remarks had rather
      increased than diminished. Deborah's promised banquet was soon on the
      board; and in simplicity as well as neatness and good order, answered the
      character she had claimed for it. In one respect alone, there seemed some
      inconsistency, perhaps a little affectation. Most of the dishes were of
      silver, and the plates were of the same metal; instead of the trenchers
      and pewter which Peveril had usually seen employed on similar occasions at
      the Black Fort.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently, with the feeling of one who walks in a pleasant dream from
      which he fears to awake, and whose delight is mingled with wonder and with
      uncertainty, Julian Peveril found himself seated between Alice Bridgenorth
      and her father&mdash;the being he most loved on earth, and the person whom
      he had ever considered as the great obstacle to their intercourse. The
      confusion of his mind was such, that he could scarcely reply to the
      importunate civilities of Dame Deborah; who, seated with them at table in
      her quality of governante, now dispensed the good things which had been
      prepared under her own eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for Alice she seemed to have found a resolution to play the mute; for
      she answered not, excepting briefly, to the questions of Dame Debbitch;
      nay, even when her father, which happened once or twice, attempted to
      bring her forward in the conversation, she made no further reply than
      respect for him rendered absolutely necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon Bridgenorth himself, then, devolved the task of entertaining the
      company; and contrary to his ordinary habits, he did not seem to shrink
      from it. His discourse was not only easy, but almost cheerful, though ever
      and anon crossed by some expressions indicative of natural and habitual
      melancholy, or prophetic of future misfortune and woe. Flashes of
      enthusiasm, too, shot along his conversation, gleaming like the
      sheet-lightening of an autumn eve, which throws a strong, though momentary
      illumination, across the sober twilight, and all the surrounding objects,
      which, touched by it, assume a wilder and more striking character. In
      general, however, Bridgenorth's remarks were plain and sensible; and as he
      aimed at no graces of language, any ornament which they received arose out
      of the interest with which they were impressed on his hearers. For
      example, when Deborah, in the pride and vulgarity of her heart, called
      Julian's attention to the plate from which they had been eating,
      Bridgenorth seemed to think an apology necessary for such superfluous
      expense.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was a symptom," he said, "of approaching danger, when such men, as
      were not usually influenced by the vanities of life employed much money in
      ornaments composed of the precious metals. It was a sign that the merchant
      could not obtain a profit for the capital, which, for the sake of
      security, he invested in this inert form. It was a proof that the noblemen
      or gentlemen feared the rapacity of power, when they put their wealth into
      forms the most portable and the most capable of being hidden; and it
      showed the uncertainty of credit, when a man of judgment preferred the
      actual possession of a mass of a silver to the convenience of a
      goldsmith's or a banker's receipt. While a shadow of liberty remained," he
      said, "domestic rights were last invaded; and, therefore, men disposed
      upon their cupboards and tables the wealth which in these places would
      remain longest, though not perhaps finally, sacred from the grasp of a
      tyrannical government. But let there be a demand for capital to support a
      profitable commerce, and the mass is at once consigned to the furnace,
      and, ceasing to be a vain and cumbrous ornament of the banquet, becomes a
      potent and active agent for furthering the prosperity of the country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In war, too," said Peveril, "plate has been found a ready resource."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But too much so," answered Bridgenorth. "In the late times, the plate of
      the nobles and gentry, with that of the colleges, and the sale of the
      crown-jewels, enabled the King to make his unhappy stand, which prevented
      matters returning to a state of peace and good order, until the sword had
      attained an undue superiority both over King and Parliament."
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at Julian as he spoke, much as he who proves a horse offers some
      object suddenly to his eyes, then watches to see if he starts or blenches
      from it. But Julian's thoughts were too much bent on other topics to
      manifest any alarm. His answer referred to a previous part of
      Bridgenorth's discourse, and was not returned till after a brief pause.
      "War, then," he said, "war, the grand impoverisher, is also a creator of
      wealth which it wastes and devours?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," replied Bridgenorth, "even as the sluice brings into action the
      sleeping waters of the lake, which it finally drains. Necessity invents
      arts and discovers means; and what necessity is sterner than that of civil
      war? Therefore, even war is not in itself unmixed evil, being the creator
      of impulses and energies which could not otherwise have existed in
      society."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Men should go to war, then," said Peveril, "that they may send their
      silver plate to the mint, and eat from pewter dishes and wooden plates?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so, my son," said Bridgenorth. Then checking himself as he observed
      the deep crimson in Julian's cheek and brow, he added, "I crave your
      pardon for such familiarity; but I meant not to limit what I said even now
      to such trifling consequences, although it may be something salutary to
      tear men from their pomps and luxuries, and teach those to be Romans who
      would otherwise be Sybarites. But I would say, that times of public
      danger, as they call into circulation the miser's hoard and the proud
      man's bullion, and so add to the circulating wealth of the country, do
      also call into action many a brave and noble spirit, which would otherwise
      lie torpid, give no example to the living, and bequeath no name to future
      ages. Society knows not, and cannot know, the mental treasures which
      slumber in her bosom, till necessity and opportunity call forth the
      statesman and the soldier from the shades of lowly life to the parts they
      are designed by Providence to perform, and the stations which nature had
      qualified them to hold. So rose Oliver&mdash;so rose Milton&mdash;so rose
      many another name which cannot be forgotten&mdash;even as the tempest
      summons forth and displays the address of the mariner."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak," said Peveril, "as if national calamity might be, in some
      sort, an advantage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And if it were not so," replied Bridgenorth, "it had not existed in this
      state of trial, where all temporal evil is alleviated by something good in
      its progress or result, and where all that is good is close coupled with
      that which is in itself evil."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It must be a noble sight," said Julian, "to behold the slumbering
      energies of a great mind awakened into energy, and to see it assume the
      authority which is its due over spirits more meanly endowed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I once witnessed," said Bridgenorth, "something to the same effect; and
      as the tale is brief, I will tell it you, if you will:&mdash;Amongst my
      wanderings, the Transatlantic settlements have not escaped me; more
      especially the country of New England, into which our native land has
      shaken from her lap, as a drunkard flings from him his treasures, so much
      that is precious in the eyes of God and of His children. There thousands
      of our best and most godly men&mdash;such whose righteousness might come
      of cities&mdash;are content to be the inhabitants of the desert, rather
      encountering the unenlightened savages, than stooping to extinguish, under
      the oppression practised in Britain, the light that is within their own
      minds. There I remained for a time, during the wars which the colony
      maintained with Philip, a great Indian Chief, or Sachem, as they were
      called, who seemed a messenger sent from Satan to buffet them. His cruelty
      was great&mdash;his dissimulation profound; and the skill and promptitude
      with which he maintained a destructive and desultory warfare, inflicted
      many dreadful calamities on the settlement. I was, by chance, at a small
      village in the woods, more than thirty miles from Boston, and in its
      situation exceedingly lonely, and surrounded with thickets. Nevertheless,
      there was no idea of any danger from the Indians at that time, for men
      trusted to the protection of a considerable body of troops who had taken
      the field for protection of the frontiers, and who lay, or were supposed
      to lie, betwixt the hamlet and the enemy's country. But they had to do
      with a foe, whom the devil himself had inspired at once with cunning and
      cruelty. It was on a Sabbath morning, when we had assembled to take sweet
      counsel together in the Lord's house. Our temple was but constructed of
      wooden logs; but when shall the chant of trained hirelings, or the
      sounding of tin and brass tubes amid the aisles of a minster, arise so
      sweetly to Heaven, as did the psalm in which we united at once our voices
      and our hearts! An excellent worthy, who now sleeps in the Lord, Nehemia
      Solsgrace, long the companion of my pilgrimage, had just begun to wrestle
      in prayer, when a woman, with disordered looks and dishevelled hair,
      entered our chapel in a distracted manner, screaming incessantly, 'The
      Indians! The Indians!'&mdash;In that land no man dares separate himself
      from his means of defence; and whether in the city or in the field, in the
      ploughed land or the forest, men keep beside them their weapons, as did
      the Jews at the rebuilding of the Temple. So we sallied forth with our
      guns and pikes, and heard the whoop of these incarnate devils, already in
      possession of a part of the town, and exercising their cruelty on the few
      whom weighty causes or indisposition had withheld from public worship; and
      it was remarked as a judgment, that, upon that bloody Sabbath, Adrian
      Hanson, a Dutchman, a man well enough disposed towards man, but whose mind
      was altogether given to worldly gain, was shot and scalped as he was
      summing his weekly gains in his warehouse. In fine, there was much damage
      done; and although our arrival and entrance into combat did in some sort
      put them back, yet being surprised and confused, and having no appointed
      leader of our band, the devilish enemy shot hard at us and had some
      advantage. It was pitiful to hear the screams of women and children amid
      the report of guns and the whistling of bullets, mixed with the ferocious
      yells of these savages, which they term their war-whoop. Several houses in
      the upper part of the village were soon on fire; and the roaring of the
      flames, and crackling of the great beams as they blazed, added to the
      horrible confusion; while the smoke which the wind drove against us gave
      farther advantage to the enemy, who fought as it were, invisible, and
      under cover, whilst we fell fast by their unerring fire. In this state of
      confusion, and while we were about to adopt the desperate project of
      evacuating the village, and, placing the women and children in the centre,
      of attempting a retreat to the nearest settlement, it pleased Heaven to
      send us unexpected assistance. A tall man, of a reverend appearance, whom
      no one of us had ever seen before, suddenly was in the midst of us, as we
      hastily agitated the resolution of retreating. His garments were of the
      skin of the elk, and he wore sword and carried gun; I never saw anything
      more august than his features, overshadowed by locks of grey hair, which
      mingled with a long beard of the same colour. 'Men and brethren,' he said,
      in a voice like that which turns back the flight, 'why sink your hearts?
      and why are you thus disquieted? Fear ye that the God we serve will give
      you up to yonder heathen dogs? Follow me, and you shall see this day that
      there is a captain in Israel!' He uttered a few brief but distinct orders,
      in a tone of one who was accustomed to command; and such was the influence
      of his appearance, his mien, his language, and his presence of mind, that
      he was implicitly obeyed by men who had never seen him until that moment.
      We were hastily divided, by his orders, into two bodies; one of which
      maintained the defence of the village with more courage than ever,
      convinced that the Unknown was sent by God to our rescue. At his command
      they assumed the best and most sheltered positions for exchanging their
      deadly fire with the Indians; while, under cover of the smoke, the
      stranger sallied from the town, at the head of the other division of the
      New England men, and, fetching a circuit, attacked the Red Warriors in the
      rear. The surprise, as is usual amongst savages, had complete effect; for
      they doubted not that they were assailed in their turn, and placed betwixt
      two hostile parties by the return of a detachment from the provincial
      army. The heathens fled in confusion, abandoning the half-won village, and
      leaving behind them such a number of their warriors, that the tribe hath
      never recovered its loss. Never shall I forget the figure of our venerable
      leader, when our men, and not they only, but the women and children of the
      village, rescued from the tomahawk and scalping-knife, stood crowded
      around him, yet scarce venturing to approach his person, and more minded,
      perhaps, to worship him as a descended angel, than to thank him as a
      fellow-mortal. 'Not unto me be the glory,' he said; 'I am but an
      implement, frail as yourselves, in the hand of Him who is strong to
      deliver. Bring me a cup of water, that I may allay my parched throat, ere
      I essay the task of offering thanks where they are most due.' I was
      nearest to him as he spoke, and I gave into his hand the water he
      requested. At that moment we exchanged glances, and it seemed to me that I
      recognised a noble friend whom I had long since deemed in glory; but he
      gave me no time to speak, had speech been prudent. Sinking on his knees,
      and signing us to obey him, he poured forth a strong and energetic
      thanksgiving for the turning back of the battle, which, pronounced with a
      voice loud and clear as a war-trumpet, thrilled through the joints and
      marrow of the hearers. I have heard many an act of devotion in my life,
      had Heaven vouchsafed me grace to profit by them; but such a prayer as
      this, uttered amid the dead and the dying, with a rich tone of mingled
      triumph and adoration, was beyond them all&mdash;it was like the song of
      the inspired prophetess who dwelt beneath the palm-tree between Ramah and
      Bethel. He was silent; and for a brief space we remained with our faces
      bent to the earth&mdash;no man daring to lift his head. At length we
      looked up, but our deliverer was no longer amongst us; nor was he ever
      again seen in the land which he had rescued."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Bridgenorth, who had told this singular story with an eloquence and
      vivacity of detail very contrary to the usual dryness of his conversation,
      paused for an instant, and then resumed&mdash;"Thou seest, young man, that
      men of valour and of discretion are called forth to command in
      circumstances of national exigence, though their very existence is unknown
      in the land which they are predestined to deliver."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But what thought the people of the mysterious stranger?" said Julian, who
      had listened with eagerness, for the story was of a kind interesting to
      the youthful and the brave.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Many things," answered Bridgenorth, "and, as usual, little to the
      purpose. The prevailing opinion was, notwithstanding his own disclamation,
      that the stranger was really a supernatural being; others believed him an
      inspired champion, transported in the body from some distant climate, to
      show us the way to safety; others, again, concluded that he was a recluse,
      who, either from motives of piety, or other cogent reasons, had become a
      dweller in the wilderness, and shunned the face of man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And, if I may presume to ask," said Julian, "to which of these opinions
      were you disposed to adhere?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The last suited best with the transient though close view with which I
      had perused the stranger's features," replied Bridgenorth; "for although I
      dispute not that it may please Heaven, on high occasions, even to raise
      one from the dead in defence of his country, yet I doubted not then, as I
      doubt not now, that I looked on the living form of one, who had indeed
      powerful reasons to conceal him in the cleft of the rock."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are these reasons a secret?" said Julian Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not properly a secret," replied Bridgenorth; "for I fear not thy
      betraying what I might tell thee in private discourse; and besides, wert
      thou so base, the prey lies too distant for any hunters to whom thou
      couldst point out its traces. But the name of this worthy will sound harsh
      in thy ear, on account of one action of his life&mdash;being his accession
      to a great measure, which made the extreme isles of the earth to tremble.
      Have you never heard of Richard Whalley?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of the regicide?" exclaimed Peveril, starting.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Call his act what thou wilt," said Bridgenorth; "he was not less the
      rescuer of that devoted village, that, with other leading spirits of the
      age, he sat in the judgment-seat when Charles Stewart was arraigned at the
      bar, and subscribed the sentence that went forth upon him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have ever heard," said Julian, in an altered voice, and colouring
      deeply, "that you, Master Bridgenorth, with other Presbyterians, were
      totally averse to that detestable crime, and were ready to have made
      joint-cause with the Cavaliers in preventing so horrible a parricide."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If it were so," said Bridgenorth, "we have been richly rewarded by his
      successor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rewarded!" exclaimed Julian; "does the distinction of good and evil, and
      our obligation to do the one and forbear the other, depend on the reward
      which may attach to our actions?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "God forbid," answered Bridgenorth; "yet those who view the havoc which
      this house of Stewart have made in the Church and State&mdash;the tyranny
      which they exercise over men's persons and consciences&mdash;may well
      doubt whether it be lawful to use weapons in their defence. Yet you hear
      me not praise, or even vindicate the death of the King, though so far
      deserved, as he was false to his oath as a Prince and Magistrate. I only
      tell you what you desired to know, that Richard Whalley, one of the late
      King's judges, was he of whom I have just been speaking. I knew his lofty
      brow, though time had made it balder and higher; his grey eye retained all
      its lustre; and though the grizzled beard covered the lower part of his
      face, it prevented me not from recognising him. The scent was hot after
      him for his blood; but by the assistance of those friends whom Heaven had
      raised up for his preservation, he was concealed carefully, and emerged
      only to do the will of Providence in the matter of that battle. Perhaps
      his voice may be heard in the field once more, should England need one of
      her noblest hearts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, God forbid!" said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Amen," returned Bridgenorth. "May God avert civil war, and pardon those
      whose madness would bring it on us!"
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a long pause, during which Julian, who had scarce lifted his
      eyes towards Alice, stole a glance in that direction, and was struck by
      the deep cast of melancholy which had stolen over features, to which a
      cheerful, if not gay expression, was most natural. So soon as she caught
      his eye, she remarked, and, as Julian thought, with significance, that the
      shadows were lengthening, and evening coming on.
    </p>
    <p>
      He heard; and although satisfied that she hinted at his departure, he
      could not, upon the instant, find resolution to break the spell which
      detained him. The language which Bridgenorth held was not only new and
      alarming, but so contrary to the maxims in which he was brought up, that,
      as a son of Sir Geoffrey Peveril of the Peak, he would, in another case,
      have thought himself called upon to dispute its conclusions, even at the
      sword's point. But Bridgenorth's opinions were delivered with so much
      calmness&mdash;seemed so much the result of conviction&mdash;that they
      excited in Julian rather a spirit of wonder, than of angry controversy.
      There was a character of sober decision, and sedate melancholy, in all
      that he said, which, even had he not been the father of Alice (and perhaps
      Julian was not himself aware how much he was influenced by that
      circumstance), would have rendered it difficult to take personal offence.
      His language and sentiments were of that quiet, yet decided kind, upon
      which it is difficult either to fix controversy, or quarrel, although it
      be impossible to acquiesce in the conclusions to which they lead.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Julian remained, as if spell-bound to his chair, scarce more
      surprised at the company in which he found himself, than at the opinions
      to which he was listening, another circumstance reminded him that the
      proper time of his stay at Black Fort had been expended. Little Fairy, the
      Manx pony, which, well accustomed to the vicinity of Black Fort, used to
      feed near the house while her master made his visits there, began to find
      his present stay rather too long. She had been the gift of the Countess to
      Julian, whilst a youth, and came of a high-spirited mountain breed,
      remarkable alike for hardiness, for longevity, and for a degree of
      sagacity approaching to that of the dog. Fairy showed the latter quality,
      by the way in which she chose to express her impatience to be moving
      homewards. At least such seemed the purpose of the shrill neigh with which
      she startled the female inmates of the parlour, who, the moment
      afterwards, could not forbear smiling to see the nose of the pony advanced
      through the opened casement.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fairy reminds me," said Julian, looking to Alice, and rising, "that the
      term of my stay here is exhausted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak with me yet one moment," said Bridgenorth, withdrawing him into a
      Gothic recess of the old-fashioned apartment, and speaking so low that he
      could not be overheard by Alice and her governante, who, in the meantime,
      caressed, and fed with fragments of bread the intruder Fairy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have not, after all," said Bridgenorth, "told me the cause of your
      coming hither." He stopped, as if to enjoy his embarrassment, and then
      added, "And indeed it were most unnecessary that you should do so. I have
      not so far forgotten the days of my youth, or those affections which bind
      poor frail humanity but too much to the things of this world. Will you
      find no words to ask of me the great boon which you seek, and which,
      peradventure, you would not have hesitated to have made your own, without
      my knowledge, and against my consent?&mdash;Nay, never vindicate thyself,
      but mark me farther. The patriarch bought his beloved by fourteen years'
      hard service to her father Laban, and they seemed to him but as a few
      days. But he that would wed my daughter must serve, in comparison, but a
      few days; though in matters of such mighty import, that they shall seem as
      the service of many years. Reply not to me now, but go, and peace be with
      you."
    </p>
    <p>
      He retired so quickly, after speaking, that Peveril had literally not an
      instant to reply. He cast his eyes around the apartment, but Deborah and
      her charge had also disappeared. His gaze rested for a moment on the
      portrait of Christian, and his imagination suggested that his dark
      features were illuminated by a smile of haughty triumph. He stared, and
      looked more attentively&mdash;it was but the effect of the evening beam,
      which touched the picture at the instant. The effect was gone, and there
      remained but the fixed, grave, inflexible features of the republican
      soldier.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian left the apartment as one who walks in a dream; he mounted Fairy,
      and, agitated by a variety of thoughts, which he was unable to reduce to
      order, he returned to Castle Rushin before the night sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he found all in movement. The Countess, with her son, had, upon some
      news received, or resolution formed, during his absence, removed, with a
      principal part of their family, to the yet stronger Castle of Holm-Peel,
      about eight miles' distance across the island; and which had been suffered
      to fall into a much more dilapidated condition than that of Castletown, so
      far as it could be considered as a place of residence. But as a fortress,
      Holm-Peel was stronger than Castletown; nay, unless assailed regularly,
      was almost impregnable; and was always held by a garrison belonging to the
      Lords of Man. Here Peveril arrived at nightfall. He was told in the
      fishing-village, that the night-bell of the Castle had been rung earlier
      than usual, and the watch set with circumstances of unusual and jealous
      repetition.
    </p>
    <p>
      Resolving, therefore, not to disturb the garrison by entering at that late
      hour, he obtained an indifferent lodging in the town for the night, and
      determined to go to the Castle early on the succeeding morning. He was not
      sorry thus to gain a few hours of solitude, to think over the agitating
      events of the preceding day.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                &mdash;&mdash;What seem'd its head,
                The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
                                           &mdash;PARADISE LOST.
</pre>
    <p>
      Sodor, or Holm-Peel, so is named the castle to which our Julian directed
      his course early on the following morning, is one of those extraordinary
      monuments of antiquity with which this singular and interesting island
      abounds. It occupies the whole of a high rocky peninsula, or rather an
      island, for it is surrounded by the sea at high-water, and scarcely
      accessible even when the tide is out, although a stone causeway, of great
      solidity, erected for the express purpose, connects the island with the
      mainland. The whole space is surrounded by double walls of great strength
      and thickness; and the access to the interior, at the time which we treat
      of, was only by two flights of steep and narrow steps, divided from each
      other by a strong tower and guard-house; under the former of which, there
      is an entrance-arch. The open space within the walls extends to two acres,
      and contains many objects worthy of antiquarian curiosity. There were
      besides the castle itself, two cathedral churches, dedicated, the earlier
      to St. Patrick, the latter to St. Germain; besides two smaller churches;
      all of which had become, even in that day, more or less ruinous. Their
      decayed walls, exhibiting the rude and massive architecture of the most
      remote period, were composed of a ragged grey-stone, which formed a
      singular contrast with the bright red freestone of which the window-cases,
      corner-stones, arches, and other ornamental parts of the building, were
      composed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides these four ruinous churches, the space of ground enclosed by the
      massive exterior walls of Holm-Peel exhibited many other vestiges of the
      olden time. There was a square mound of earth, facing, with its angles to
      the points of the compass, one of those motes, as they were called, on
      which, in ancient times, the northern tribes elected or recognised their
      chiefs, and held their solemn popular assemblies, or <i>comitia</i>. There
      was also one of those singular towers, so common in Ireland as to have
      proved the favourite theme of her antiquaries; but of which the real use
      and meaning seems yet to be hidden in the mist of ages. This of Holm-Peel
      had been converted to the purpose of a watch-tower. There were, besides,
      Runic monuments, of which legends could not be deciphered; and later
      inscriptions to the memory of champions, of whom the names only were
      preserved from oblivion. But tradition and superstitious eld, still most
      busy where real history is silent, had filled up the long blank of
      accurate information with tales of Sea-kings and Pirates, Hebridean Chiefs
      and Norwegian Resolutes, who had formerly warred against, and in defence
      of, this famous castle. Superstition, too, had her tales of fairies,
      ghosts, and spectres&mdash;her legions of saints and demons, of fairies
      and of familiar spirits, which in no corner of the British empire are told
      and received with more absolute credulity than in the Isle of Man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amidst all these ruins of an older time arose the Castle itself,&mdash;now
      ruinous&mdash;but in Charles II.'s reign well garrisoned, and, in a
      military point of view, kept in complete order. It was a venerable and
      very ancient building, containing several apartments of sufficient size
      and height to be termed noble. But in the surrender of the island by
      Christian, the furniture had been, in a great measure, plundered or
      destroyed by the republican soldiers; so that, as we have before hinted,
      its present state was ill adapted for the residence of the noble
      proprietor. Yet it had been often the abode, not only of the Lords of Man,
      but of those state prisoners whom the Kings of Britain sometimes committed
      to their charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this Castle of Holm-Peel the great king-maker, Richard, Earl of
      Warwick, was confined, during one period of his eventful life, to ruminate
      at leisure on his farther schemes of ambition. And here, too, Eleanor, the
      haughty wife of the good Duke of Gloucester, pined out in seclusion the
      last days of her banishment. The sentinels pretended that her discontented
      spectre was often visible at night, traversing the battlements of the
      external walls, or standing motionless beside a particular solitary turret
      of one of the watch-towers with which they are flanked; but dissolving
      into air at cock-crow, or when the bell tolled from the yet remaining
      tower of St. Germain's church.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was Holm-Peel, as records inform us, till towards the end of the
      seventeenth century.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in one of the lofty but almost unfurnished apartments of this
      ancient Castle that Julian Peveril found his friend the Earl of Derby, who
      had that moment sat down to a breakfast composed of various sorts of fish.
      "Welcome, most imperial Julian," he said; "welcome to our royal fortress;
      in which, as yet, we are not like to be starved with hunger, though
      well-nigh dead for cold."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian answered by inquiring the meaning of this sudden movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Upon my word," replied the Earl, "you know nearly as much of it as I do.
      My mother has told me nothing about it; supposing I believe, that I shall
      at length be tempted to inquire; but she will find herself much mistaken.
      I shall give her credit for full wisdom in her proceedings, rather than
      put her to the trouble to render a reason, though no woman can render one
      better."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, come; this is affectation, my good friend," said Julian. "You
      should inquire into these matters a little more curiously."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To what purpose?" said the Earl. "To hear old stories about the Tinwald
      laws, and the contending rights of the lords and the clergy, and all the
      rest of that Celtic barbarism, which, like Burgesse's thorough-paced
      doctrine enters at one ear, paces through, and goes out at the other?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, my lord," said Julian, "you are not so indifferent as you would
      represent yourself&mdash;you are dying of curiosity to know what this
      hurry is about; only you think it the courtly humour to appear careless
      about your own affairs."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, what should it be about," said the young Earl "unless some factious
      dispute between our Majesty's minister, Governor Nowel, and our vassals?
      or perhaps some dispute betwixt our Majesty and the ecclesiastical
      jurisdictions? for all which our Majesty cares as little as any king in
      Christendom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I rather suppose there is intelligence from England," said Julian. "I
      heard last night in Peel-town, that Greenhalgh is come over with
      unpleasant news."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He brought me nothing that was pleasant, I wot well," said the Earl. "I
      expected something from St. Evremond or Hamilton&mdash;some new plays by
      Dryden or Lee, and some waggery or lampoons from the Rose Coffee-house;
      and the fellow has brought me nothing but a parcel of tracts about
      Protestants and Papists, and a folio play-book, one of the conceptions, as
      she calls them, of that old mad-woman the Duchess of Newcastle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, my lord, for Heaven's sake," said Peveril; "here comes the
      Countess; and you know she takes fire at the least slight to her ancient
      friend."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let her read her ancient friend's works herself, then," said the Earl,
      "and think her as wise as she can; but I would not give one of Waller's
      songs, or Denham's satires, for a whole cart-load of her Grace's trash.&mdash;But
      here comes our mother with care on her brow."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess of Derby entered the apartment accordingly, holding in her
      hand a number of papers. Her dress was a mourning habit, with a deep train
      of black velvet, which was borne by a little favourite attendant, a deaf
      and dumb girl, whom, in compassion to her misfortune, the Countess had
      educated about her person for some years. Upon this unfortunate being,
      with the touch of romance which marked many of her proceedings, Lady Derby
      had conferred the name of Fenella, after some ancient princess of the
      island. The Countess herself was not much changed since we last presented
      her to our readers. Age had rendered her step more slow, but not less
      majestic; and while it traced some wrinkles on her brow, had failed to
      quench the sedate fire of her dark eye. The young men rose to receive her
      with the formal reverence which they knew she loved, and were greeted by
      her with equal kindness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Cousin Peveril," she said (for so she always called Julian, in respect of
      his mother being a kinswoman of her husband), "you were ill abroad last
      night, when we much needed your counsel."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian answered with a blush which he could not prevent, "That he had
      followed his sport among the mountains too far&mdash;had returned late&mdash;and
      finding her ladyship was removed from Castletown, had instantly followed
      the family hither; but as the night-bell was rung, and the watch set, he
      had deemed it more respectful to lodge for the night in the town."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is well," said the Countess; "and, to do you justice, Julian, you are
      seldom a truant neglecter of appointed hours, though, like the rest of the
      youth of this age, you sometimes suffer your sports to consume too much of
      time that should be spent otherwise. But for your friend Philip, he is an
      avowed contemner of good order, and seems to find pleasure in wasting
      time, even when he does not enjoy it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have been enjoying my time just now at least," said the Earl, rising
      from table, and picking his teeth carelessly. "These fresh mullets are
      delicious, and so is the Lachrymæ Christi. I pray you to sit down to
      breakfast, Julian, and partake the goods my royal foresight has provided.
      Never was King of Man nearer being left to the mercy of the execrable
      brandy of his dominions. Old Griffiths would never, in the midst of our
      speedy retreat of last night, have had sense enough to secure a few
      flasks, had I not given him a hint on that important subject. But presence
      of mind amid danger and tumult, is a jewel I have always possessed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish, then, Philip, you would exert it to better purpose," said the
      Countess, half smiling, half displeased; for she doated upon her son with
      all a mother's fondness, even when she was most angry with him for being
      deficient in the peculiar and chivalrous disposition which had
      distinguished his father, and which was so analogous to her own romantic
      and high-minded character. "Lend me your signet," she added with a sigh;
      "for it were, I fear, vain to ask you to read over these despatches from
      England, and execute the warrants which I have thought necessary to
      prepare in consequence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My signet you shall command with all my heart, madam," said Earl Philip;
      "but spare me the revision of what you are much more capable to decide
      upon. I am, you know, a most complete <i>Roi fainéant</i>, and never once
      interfered with my <i>Maire de palais</i> in her proceedings."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess made signs to her little train-bearer, who immediately went
      to seek for wax and a light, with which she presently returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile the Countess continued, addressing Peveril. "Philip does
      himself less than justice. When you were absent, Julian (for if you had
      been here I would have given you the credit of prompting your friend), he
      had a spirited controversy with the Bishop, for an attempt to enforce
      spiritual censures against a poor wretch, by confining her in the vault
      under the chapel."[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Beneath the only one of the four churches in Castle Rushin, which
    is or was kept a little in repair, is a prison or dungeon, for
    ecclesiastical offenders. "This," says Waldron, "is certainly one
    of the most dreadful places that imagination can form; the sea
    runs under it through the hollows of the rock with such a
    continual roar, that you would think it were every moment breaking
    in upon you, and over it are the vaults for burying the dead. The
    stairs descending to this place of terrors are not above thirty,
    but so steep and narrow, that they are very difficult to go down,
    a child of eight or nine years not being able to pass them but
    sideways."&mdash;WALDRON'S <i>Description of the Isle of Man, in his
    Works</i>, p. 105, folio.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Do not think better of me than I deserve," said the Earl to Peveril; "my
      mother has omitted to tell you the culprit was pretty Peggy of Ramsey, and
      her crime what in Cupid's courts would have been called a peccadillo."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not make yourself worse than you are," replied Peveril, who observed
      the Countess's cheek redden,&mdash;"you know you would have done as much
      for the oldest and poorest cripple in the island. Why, the vault is under
      the burial-ground of the chapel, and, for aught I know, under the ocean
      itself, such a roaring do the waves make in its vicinity. I think no one
      could remain there long, and retain his reason."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is an infernal hole," answered the Earl, "and I will have it built up
      one day&mdash;that is full certain.&mdash;But hold&mdash;hold&mdash;for
      God's sake, madam&mdash;what are you going to do?&mdash;Look at the seal
      before you put it to the warrant&mdash;you will see it is a choice antique
      cameo Cupid, riding on a flying fish&mdash;I had it for twenty zechins,
      from Signor Furabosco at Rome&mdash;a most curious matter for an
      antiquary, but which will add little faith to a Manx warrant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My signet&mdash;my signet&mdash;Oh! you mean that with the three
      monstrous legs, which I supposed was devised as the most preposterous
      device, to represent our most absurd Majesty of Man.&mdash;The signet&mdash;I
      have not seen it since I gave it to Gibbon, my monkey, to play with.&mdash;He
      did whine for it most piteously&mdash;I hope he has not gemmed the green
      breast of ocean with my symbol of sovereignty!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, by Heaven," said the Countess, trembling, and colouring deeply with
      anger, "it was your father's signet! the last pledge which he sent, with
      his love to me, and his blessing to thee, the night before they murdered
      him at Bolton!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mother, dearest mother," said the Earl, startled out of his apathy, and
      taking her hand, which he kissed tenderly, "I did but jest&mdash;the
      signet is safe&mdash;Peveril knows that it is so.&mdash;Go fetch it,
      Julian, for Heaven's sake&mdash;here are my keys&mdash;it is in the
      left-hand drawer of my travelling cabinet&mdash;Nay, mother, forgive me&mdash;it
      was but a <i>mauvaise plaisanterie</i>; only an ill-imagined jest,
      ungracious, and in bad taste, I allow&mdash;but only one of Philip's
      follies. Look at me, dearest mother, and forgive me."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess turned her eyes towards him, from which the tears were fast
      falling.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Philip," she said, "you try me too unkindly, and too severely. If times
      are changed, as I have heard you allege&mdash;if the dignity of rank, and
      the high feelings of honour and duty, are now drowned in giddy jests and
      trifling pursuits, let <i>me</i> at least, who live secluded from all
      others, die without perceiving the change which has happened, and, above
      all, without perceiving it in mine own son. Let me not learn the general
      prevalence of this levity, which laughs at every sense of dignity or duty,
      through your personal disrespect&mdash;Let me not think that when I die&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak nothing of it, mother," said the Earl, interrupting her
      affectionately. "It is true, I cannot promise to be all my father and his
      fathers were; for we wear silk vests for their steel coats, and feathered
      beavers for their crested helmets. But believe me, though to be an
      absolute Palmerin of England is not in my nature, no son ever loved a
      mother more dearly, or would do more to oblige her. And that you may own
      this, I will forthwith not only seal the warrants, to the great
      endangerment of my precious fingers, but also read the same from end to
      end, as well as the despatches thereunto appertaining."
    </p>
    <p>
      A mother is easily appeased, even when most offended; and it was with an
      expanding heart that the Countess saw her son's very handsome features,
      while reading these papers, settle into an expression of deep seriousness,
      such as they seldom wore. It seemed to her as if the family likeness to
      his gallant but unfortunate father increased, when the expression of their
      countenances became similar in gravity. The Earl had no sooner perused the
      despatches, which he did with great attention, than he rose and said,
      "Julian, come with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess looked surprised. "I was wont to share your father's
      counsels, my son," she said; "but do not think that I wish to intrude
      myself upon yours. I am too well pleased to see you assume the power and
      the duty of thinking for yourself, which is what I have so long urged you
      to do. Nevertheless, my experience, who have been so long administrator of
      your authority in Man, might not, I think, be superfluous to the matter in
      hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold me excused, dearest mother," said the Earl gravely. "The
      interference was none of my seeking; had you taken your own course,
      without consulting me, it had been well; but since I have entered on the
      affair&mdash;and it appears sufficiently important&mdash;I must transact
      it to the best of my own ability."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go, then, my son," said the Countess, "and may Heaven enlighten thee with
      its counsel, since thou wilt have none of mine.&mdash;I trust that you,
      Master Peveril, will remind him of what is fit for his own honour; and
      that only a coward abandons his rights, and only a fool trusts his
      enemies."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Earl answered not, but, taking Peveril by the arm, led him up a
      winding stair to his own apartment, and from thence into a projecting
      turret, where, amidst the roar of waves and sea-mews' clang, he held with
      him the following conversation:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peveril, it is well I looked into these warrants. My mother queens it at
      such a rate as may cost me not only my crown, which I care little for, but
      perhaps my head, which, though others may think little of, I would feel it
      an inconvenience to be deprived of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What on earth is the matter?" said Peveril, with considerable anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It seems," said the Earl of Derby, "that old England who takes a
      frolicsome brain-fever once every two or three years, for the benefit of
      her doctors, and the purification of the torpid lethargy brought on by
      peace and prosperity, is now gone stark staring mad on the subject of a
      real or supposed Popish plot. I read one programme on the subject, by a
      fellow called Oates, and thought it the most absurd foolery I ever
      perused. But that cunning fellow Shaftesbury, and some others amongst the
      great ones, having taken it up, and are driving on at such a rate as makes
      harness crack, and horses smoke for it. The King, who has sworn never to
      kiss the pillow his father went to sleep on, temporises, and gives way to
      the current; the Duke of York, suspected and hated on account of his
      religion, is about to be driven to the continent; several principal
      Catholic nobles are in the Tower already; and the nation, like a bull at
      Tutbury-running, is persecuted with so many inflammatory rumours and
      pestilent pamphlets, that she has cocked her tail, flung up her heels,
      taken the bit betwixt her teeth and is as furiously unmanageable as in the
      year 1642."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All this you must have known already," said Peveril; "I wonder you told
      me not of news so important."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would have taken long to tell," said the Earl; "moreover, I desired to
      have you <i>solus</i>; thirdly, I was about to speak when my mother
      entered; and, to conclude, it was no business of mine. But these
      despatches of my politic mother's private correspondent put a new face on
      the whole matter; for it seems some of the informers&mdash;a trade which,
      having become a thriving one, is now pursued by many&mdash;have dared to
      glance at the Countess herself as an agent in this same plot&mdash;ay, and
      have found those that are willing enough to believe their report."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On mine honour," said Peveril, "you both take it with great coolness. I
      think the Countess the more composed of the two; for, except her movement
      hither, she exhibited no mark of alarm, and, moreover, seemed no way more
      anxious to communicate the matter to your lordship than decency rendered
      necessary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My good mother," said the Earl, "loves power, though it has cost her
      dear. I wish I could truly say that my neglect of business is entirely
      assumed in order to leave it in her hands, but that better motive combines
      with natural indolence. But she seems to have feared I should not think
      exactly like her in this emergency, and she was right in supposing so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How comes the emergency upon you?" said Julian; "and what form does the
      danger assume?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Marry, thus it is," said the Earl: "I need not bid you remember the
      affair of Colonel Christian. That man, besides his widow, who is possessed
      of large property&mdash;Dame Christian of Kirk Truagh, whom you have often
      heard of, and perhaps seen&mdash;left a brother called Edward Christian,
      whom you never saw at all. Now this brother&mdash;but I dare say you know
      all about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not I, on my honour," said Peveril; "you know the Countess seldom or
      never alludes to the subject."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why," replied the Earl, "I believe in her heart she is something ashamed
      of that gallant act of royalty and supreme jurisdiction, the consequences
      of which maimed my estate so cruelly.&mdash;Well, cousin, this same Edward
      Christian was one of the dempsters at the time, and, naturally enough, was
      unwilling to concur in the sentence which adjudged his <i>aîné</i> to be
      shot like a dog. My mother, who was then in high force, and not to be
      controlled by any one, would have served the dempster with the same sauce
      with which she dressed his brother, had he not been wise enough to fly
      from the island. Since that time, the thing has slept on all hands; and
      though we knew that Dempster Christian made occasionally secret visits to
      his friends in the island, along with two or three other Puritans of the
      same stamp, and particularly a prick-eared rogue, called Bridgenorth,
      brother-in-law to the deceased, yet my mother, thank Heaven, has hitherto
      had the sense to connive at them, though, for some reason or other, she
      holds this Bridgenorth in especial disfavour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why," said Peveril, forcing himself to speak, in order to conceal the
      very unpleasant surprise which he felt, "why does the Countess now depart
      from so prudent a line of conduct?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You must know the case is now different. The rogues are not satisfied
      with toleration&mdash;they would have supremacy. They have found friends
      in the present heat of the popular mind. My mother's name, and especially
      that of her confessor, Aldrick the Jesuit, have been mentioned in this
      beautiful maze of a plot, which if any such at all exists, she knows as
      little of as you or I. However, she is a Catholic, and that is enough; and
      I have little doubt, that if the fellows could seize on our scrap of a
      kingdom here, and cut all our throats, they would have the thanks of the
      present House of Commons, as willingly as old Christian had those of the
      Rump, for a similar service."
    </p>
    <p>
      "From whence did you receive all this information?" said Peveril, again
      speaking, though by the same effort which a man makes who talks in his
      sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Aldrick has seen the Duke of York in secret, and his Royal Highness, who
      wept while he confessed his want of power to protect his friends&mdash;and
      it is no trifle will wring tears from him&mdash;told him to send us
      information that we should look to our safety, for that Dempster Christian
      and Bridgenorth were in the island, with secret and severe orders; that
      they had formed a considerable party there, and were likely to be owned
      and protected in anything they might undertake against us. The people of
      Ramsey and Castletown are unluckily discontented about some new regulation
      of the imposts; and to tell you the truth, though I thought yesterday's
      sudden remove a whim of my mother's, I am almost satisfied they would have
      blockaded us in Rushin Castle, where we could not have held out for lack
      of provisions. Here we are better supplied, and, as we are on our guard,
      it is likely the intended rising will not take place."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what is to be done in this emergency?" said Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the very question, my gentle coz," answered the Earl. "My mother
      sees but one way of going to work, and that is by royal authority. Here
      are the warrants she had prepared, to search for, take, and apprehend the
      bodies of Edward Christian and Robert&mdash;no, Ralph Bridgenorth, and
      bring them to instant trial. No doubt, she would soon have had them in the
      Castle court, with a dozen of the old matchlocks levelled against them&mdash;that
      is her way of solving all sudden difficulties."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But in which, I trust, you do not acquiesce, my lord," answered Peveril,
      whose thoughts instantly reverted to Alice, if they could ever be said to
      be absent from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Truly I acquiesce in no such matter," said the Earl. "William Christian's
      death cost me a fair half of my inheritance. I have no fancy to fall under
      the displeasure of my royal brother, King Charles, for a new escapade of
      the same kind. But how to pacify my mother, I know not. I wish the
      insurrection would take place, and then, as we are better provided than
      they can be, we might knock the knaves on the head; and yet, since they
      began the fray, we should keep the law on our side."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Were it not better," said Peveril, "if by any means these men could be
      induced to quit the island?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Surely," replied the Earl; "but that will be no easy matter&mdash;they
      are stubborn on principle, and empty threats will not move them. This
      stormblast in London is wind in their sails, and they will run their
      length, you may depend on it. I have sent orders, however, to clap up the
      Manxmen upon whose assistance they depended, and if I can find the two
      worthies themselves, here are sloops enough in the harbour&mdash;I will
      take the freedom to send them on a pretty distant voyage, and I hope
      matters will be settled before they return to give an account of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a soldier belonging to the garrison approached the two
      young men, with many bows and tokens of respect. "How now, friend?" said
      the Earl to him. "Leave off thy courtesies, and tell thy business."
    </p>
    <p>
      The man, who was a native islander, answered in Manx, that he had a letter
      for his honour, Master Julian Peveril. Julian snatched the billet hastily,
      and asked whence it came.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was delivered to him by a young woman," the soldier replied, "who had
      given him a piece of money to deliver it into Master Peveril's own hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art a lucky fellow, Julian," said the Earl. "With that grave brow of
      thine, and thy character for sobriety and early wisdom, you set the girls
      a-wooing, without waiting till they are asked; whilst I, their drudge and
      vassal, waste both language and leisure, without getting a kind word or
      look, far less a billet-doux."
    </p>
    <p>
      This the young Earl said with a smile of conscious triumph, as in fact he
      valued himself not a little upon the interest which he supposed himself to
      possess with the fair sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the letter impressed on Peveril a different train of thoughts
      from what his companion apprehended. It was in Alice's hand, and contained
      these few words:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "I fear what I am going to do is wrong; but I must see you. Meet me
  at noon at Goddard Crovan's Stone, with as much secrecy as you
  may."
</pre>
    <p>
      The letter was signed only with the initials A. B.; but Julian had no
      difficulty in recognising the handwriting, which he had often seen, and
      which was remarkably beautiful. He stood suspended, for he saw the
      difficulty and impropriety of withdrawing himself from the Countess and
      his friend at this moment of impending danger; and yet, to neglect this
      invitation was not to be thought of. He paused in the utmost perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Shall I read your riddle?" said the Earl. "Go where love calls you&mdash;I
      will make an excuse to my mother&mdash;only, most grave anchorite, be
      hereafter more indulgent to the failings of others than you have been
      hitherto, and blaspheme not the power of the little deity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, but, Cousin Derby&mdash;" said Peveril, and stopped short, for he
      really knew not what to say. Secured himself by a virtuous passion from
      the contagious influence of the time, he had seen with regret his noble
      kinsman mingle more in its irregularities than he approved of, and had
      sometimes played the part of a monitor. Circumstances seemed at present to
      give the Earl a right of retaliation. He kept his eye fixed on his friend,
      as if he waited till he should complete his sentence, and at length
      exclaimed, "What! cousin, quite <i>à-la-mort!</i> Oh, most judicious
      Julian! Oh, most precise Peveril! have you bestowed so much wisdom on me
      that you have none left for yourself? Come, be frank&mdash;tell me name
      and place&mdash;or say but the colour of the eyes of the most emphatic she&mdash;or
      do but let me have the pleasure to hear thee say, 'I love!'&mdash;confess
      one touch of human frailty&mdash;conjugate the verb <i>amo</i>, and I will
      be a gentle schoolmaster, and you shall have, as father Richards used to
      say, when we were under his ferule, '<i>licentia exeundi</i>.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Enjoy your pleasant humour at my expense, my lord," said Peveril; "I
      fairly will confess thus much, that I would fain, if it consisted with my
      honour and your safety, have two hours at my own disposal; the more
      especially as the manner in which I shall employ them may much concern the
      safety of the island."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely, I dare say," answered the Earl, still laughing. "No doubt
      you are summoned out by some Lady Politic Wouldbe of the isle, to talk
      over some of the breast-laws: but never mind&mdash;go, and go speedily,
      that you may return as quickly as possible. I expect no immediate
      explosion of this grand conspiracy. When the rogues see us on our guard,
      they will be cautious how they break out. Only, once more make haste."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril thought this last advice was not to be neglected; and, glad to
      extricate himself from the raillery of his cousin, walked down towards the
      gate of the Castle, meaning to cross over to the village, and there take
      horse at the Earl's stables, for the place of rendezvous.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         <i>Acasto.</i>&mdash;Can she not speak?
         <i>Oswald.</i>&mdash;If speech be only in accented sounds,
         Framed by the tongue and lips, the maiden's dumb;
         But if by quick and apprehensive look,
         By motion, sign, and glance, to give each meaning,
         Express as clothed in language, be term'd speech,
         She hath that wondrous faculty; for her eyes,
         Like the bright stars of heaven, can hold discourse,
         Though it be mute and soundless.
                                                   &mdash;OLD PLAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      At the head of the first flight of steps which descended towards the
      difficult and well-defended entrance of the Castle of Holm-Peel, Peveril
      was met and stopped by the Countess's train-bearer. This little creature&mdash;for
      she was of the least and slightest size of womankind&mdash;was exquisitely
      well formed in all her limbs, which the dress she usually wore (a green
      silk tunic, of a peculiar form) set off to the best advantage. Her face
      was darker than the usual hue of Europeans; and the profusion of long and
      silken hair, which, when she undid the braids in which she commonly wore
      it, fell down almost to her ankles, was also rather a foreign attribute.
      Her countenance resembled a most beautiful miniature; and there was a
      quickness, decision, and fire, in Fenella's look, and especially in her
      eyes, which was probably rendered yet more alert and acute, because,
      through the imperfection of her other organs, it was only by sight that
      she could obtain information of what passed around her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pretty mute was mistress of many little accomplishments, which the
      Countess had caused to be taught to her in compassion for her forlorn
      situation, and which she learned with the most surprising quickness. Thus,
      for example, she was exquisite in the use of the needle, and so ready and
      ingenious a draughtswoman, that, like the ancient Mexicans, she sometimes
      made a hasty sketch with her pencil the means of conveying her ideas,
      either by direct or emblematical representation. Above all, in the art of
      ornamental writing, much studied at that period, Fenella was so great a
      proficient, as to rival the fame of Messrs. Snow, Shelley, and other
      masters of the pen, whose copybooks, preserved in the libraries of the
      curious, still show the artists smiling on the frontispiece in all the
      honours of flowing gowns and full-bottomed wigs, to the eternal glory of
      caligraphy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little maiden had, besides these accomplishments, much ready wit and
      acuteness of intellect. With Lady Derby, and with the two young gentlemen,
      she was a great favourite, and used much freedom in conversing with them,
      by means of a system of signs which had been gradually established amongst
      them, and which served all ordinary purposes of communication.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, though happy in the indulgence and favour of her mistress, from whom
      indeed she was seldom separate, Fenella was by no means a favourite with
      the rest of the household. In fact, it seemed that her temper, exasperated
      perhaps by a sense of her misfortune, was by no means equal to her
      abilities. She was very haughty in her demeanour, even towards the upper
      domestics, who in that establishment were of a much higher rank and better
      birth than in the families of the nobility in general. These often
      complained, not only of her pride and reserve, but of her high and
      irascible temper and vindictive disposition. Her passionate propensity had
      been indeed idly encouraged by the young men, and particularly by the
      Earl, who sometimes amused himself with teasing her, that he might enjoy
      the various singular motions and murmurs by which she expressed her
      resentment. Towards him, these were of course only petulant and whimsical
      indications of pettish anger. But when she was angry with others of
      inferior degree&mdash;before whom she did not control herself&mdash;the
      expression of her passion, unable to display itself in language, had
      something even frightful, so singular were the tones, contortions, and
      gestures, to which she had recourse. The lower domestics, to whom she was
      liberal almost beyond her apparent means, observed her with much deference
      and respect, but much more from fear than from any real attachment; for
      the caprices of her temper displayed themselves even in her gifts; and
      those who most frequently shared her bounty, seemed by no means assured of
      the benevolence of the motives which dictated her liberality.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these peculiarities led to a conclusion consonant with Manx
      superstition. Devout believers in all the legends of fairies so dear to
      the Celtic tribes, the Manx people held it for certainty that the elves
      were in the habit of carrying off mortal children before baptism, and
      leaving in the cradle of the new born babe one of their own brood, which
      was almost always imperfect in some one or other of the organs proper to
      humanity. Such a being they conceived Fenella to be; and the smallness of
      her size, her dark complexion, her long locks of silken hair, the
      singularity of her manners and tones, as well as the caprices of her
      temper, were to their thinking all attributes of the irritable, fickle,
      and dangerous race from which they supposed her to be sprung. And it
      seemed, that although no jest appeared to offend her more than when Lord
      Derby called her in sport the Elfin Queen, or otherwise alluded to her
      supposed connection with "the pigmy folk," yet still her perpetually
      affecting to wear the colour of green, proper to the fairies, as well as
      some other peculiarities, seemed voluntarily assumed by her, in order to
      countenance the superstition, perhaps because it gave her more authority
      among the lower orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many were the tales circulated respecting the Countess's <i>Elf</i>, as
      Fenella was currently called in the island; and the malcontents of the
      stricter persuasion were convinced, that no one but a Papist and a
      malignant would have kept near her person a creature of such doubtful
      origin. They conceived that Fenella's deafness and dumbness were only
      towards those of this world, and that she had been heard talking, and
      singing, and laughing most elvishly, with the invisibles of her own race.
      They alleged, also, that she had a <i>Double</i>, a sort of apparition
      resembling her, which slept in the Countess's ante-room, or bore her
      train, or wrought in her cabinet, while the real Fenella joined the song
      of the mermaids on the moonlight sands, or the dance of the fairies in the
      haunted valley of Glenmoy, or on the heights of Snawfell and Barool. The
      sentinels, too, would have sworn they had seen the little maiden trip past
      them in their solitary night walks, without their having it in their power
      to challenge her, any more than if they had been as mute as herself. To
      all this mass of absurdities the better informed paid no more attention
      than to the usual idle exaggerations of the vulgar, which so frequently
      connect that which is unusual with what is supernatural.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such, in form and habits, was the little female, who, holding in her hand
      a small old-fashioned ebony rod, which might have passed for a divining
      wand, confronted Julian on the top of the flight of steps which led down
      the rock from the Castle court. We ought to observe, that as Julian's
      manner to the unfortunate girl had been always gentle, and free from those
      teasing jests in which his gay friend indulged, with less regard to the
      peculiarity of her situation and feelings; so Fenella, on her part, had
      usually shown much greater deference to him than to any of the household,
      her mistress, the Countess, always excepted.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the present occasion, planting herself in the very midst of the narrow
      descent, so as to make it impossible for Peveril to pass by her, she
      proceeded to put him to the question by a series of gestures, which we
      will endeavour to describe. She commenced by extending her hand slightly,
      accompanied with the sharp inquisitive look which served her as a note of
      interrogation. This was meant as an inquiry whether he was going to a
      distance. Julian, in reply, extended his arm more than half, to intimate
      that the distance was considerable. Fenella looked grave, shook her head,
      and pointed to the Countess's window, which was visible from the spot
      where they stood. Peveril smiled, and nodded, to intimate there was no
      danger in quitting her mistress for a short space. The little maiden next
      touched an eagle's feather which she wore in her hair, a sign which she
      usually employed to designate the Earl, and then looked inquisitively at
      Julian once more, as if to say, "Goes he with you?" Peveril shook his
      head, and, somewhat wearied by these interrogatories, smiled, and made an
      effort to pass. Fenella frowned, struck the end of her ebony rod
      perpendicularly on the ground, and again shook her head, as if opposing
      his departure. But finding that Julian persevered in his purpose, she
      suddenly assumed another and milder mood, held him by the skirt of his
      cloak with one hand, and raised the other in an imploring attitude, whilst
      every feature of her lively countenance was composed into the like
      expression of supplication; and the fire of the large dark eyes, which
      seemed in general so keen and piercing as almost to over-animate the
      little sphere to which they belonged, seemed quenched, for the moment, in
      the large drops which hung on her long eyelashes, but without falling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril was far from being void of sympathy towards the poor girl,
      whose motives in opposing his departure appeared to be her affectionate
      apprehension for her mistress's safety. He endeavoured to reassure by
      smiles, and, at the same time, by such signs as he could devise, to
      intimate that there was no danger, and that he would return presently; and
      having succeeded in extricating his cloak from her grasp, and in passing
      her on the stair, he began to descend the steps as speedily as he could,
      in order to avoid farther importunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      But with activity much greater than his, the dumb maiden hastened to
      intercept him, and succeeded by throwing herself, at the imminent risk of
      life and limb, a second time into the pass which he was descending, so as
      to interrupt his purpose. In order to achieve this, she was obliged to let
      herself drop a considerable height from the wall of a small flanking
      battery, where two patereroes were placed to scour the pass, in case any
      enemy could have mounted so high. Julian had scarce time to shudder at her
      purpose, as he beheld her about to spring from the parapet, ere, like a
      thing of gossamer, she stood light and uninjured on the rocky platform
      below. He endeavoured, by the gravity of his look and gesture, to make her
      understand how much he blamed her rashness; but the reproof, though
      obviously quite intelligible, was entirely thrown away. A hasty wave of
      her hand intimated how she contemned the danger and the remonstrance;
      while, at the same time, she instantly resumed, with more eagerness than
      before, the earnest and impressive gestures by which she endeavoured to
      detain him in the fortress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was somewhat staggered by her pertinacity. "Is it possible," he
      thought, "that any danger can approach the Countess, of which this poor
      maiden has, by the extreme acuteness of her observation, obtained
      knowledge which has escaped others?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He signed to Fenella hastily to give him the tablets and the pencil which
      she usually carried with her, and wrote on them the question, "Is there
      danger near to your mistress, that you thus stop me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is danger around the Countess," was the answer instantly written
      down; "but there is much more in your own purpose."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How?&mdash;what?&mdash;what know you of my purpose?" said Julian,
      forgetting, in his surprise, that the party he addressed had neither ear
      to comprehend, nor voice to reply to uttered language. She had regained
      her book in the meantime, and sketched, with a rapid pencil, on one of the
      leaves, a scene which she showed to Julian. To his infinite surprise he
      recognised Goddard Crovan's Stone, a remarkable monument, of which she had
      given the outline with sufficient accuracy; together with a male and
      female figure, which, though only indicated by a few slight touches of the
      pencil, bore yet, he thought, some resemblance to himself and Alice
      Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had gazed on the sketch for an instant with surprise, Fenella took
      the book from his hand, laid her finger upon the drawing, and slowly and
      sternly shook her head, with a frown which seemed to prohibit the meeting
      which was there represented. Julian, however, though disconcerted, was in
      no shape disposed to submit to the authority of his monitress. By whatever
      means she, who so seldom stirred from the Countess's apartment, had become
      acquainted with a secret which he thought entirely his own, he esteemed it
      the more necessary to keep the appointed rendezvous, that he might learn
      from Alice, if possible, how the secret had transpired. He had also formed
      the intention of seeking out Bridgenorth; entertaining an idea that a
      person so reasonable and calm as he had shown himself in their late
      conference, might be persuaded, when he understood that the Countess was
      aware of his intrigues, to put an end to her danger and his own, by
      withdrawing from the island. And could he succeed in this point, he should
      at once, he thought, render a material benefit to the father of his
      beloved Alice&mdash;remove the Earl from his state of anxiety&mdash;save
      the Countess from a second time putting her feudal jurisdiction in
      opposition to that of the Crown of England&mdash;and secure quiet
      possession of the island to her and her family.
    </p>
    <p>
      With this scheme of mediation on his mind, Peveril determined to rid
      himself of the opposition of Fenella to his departure, with less ceremony
      than he had hitherto observed towards her; and suddenly lifting up the
      damsel in his arms before she was aware of his purpose, he turned about,
      set her down on the steps above him, and began to descend the pass himself
      as speedily as possible. It was then that the dumb maiden gave full course
      to the vehemence of her disposition; and clapping her hands repeatedly,
      expressed her displeasure in sound, or rather a shriek, so extremely
      dissonant, that it resembled more the cry of a wild creature, than
      anything which could have been uttered by female organs. Peveril was so
      astounded at the scream as it rung through the living rocks, that he could
      not help stopping and looking back in alarm, to satisfy himself that she
      had not sustained some injury. He saw her, however, perfectly safe, though
      her face seemed inflamed and distorted with passion. She stamped at him
      with her foot, shook her clenched hand, and turning her back upon him,
      without further adieu, ran up the rude steps as lightly as a kid could
      have tripped up that rugged ascent, and paused for a moment at the summit
      of the first flight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian could feel nothing but wonder and compassion for the impotent
      passion of a being so unfortunately circumstanced, cut off, as it were,
      from the rest of mankind, and incapable of receiving in childhood that
      moral discipline which teaches us mastery of our wayward passions, ere yet
      they have attained their meridian strength and violence. He waved his hand
      to her, in token of amicable farewell; but she only replied by once more
      menacing him with her little hand clenched; and then ascending the rocky
      staircase with almost preternatural speed, was soon out of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, on his part, gave no farther consideration to her conduct or its
      motives, but hastening to the village on the mainland, where the stables
      of the Castle were situated, he again took his palfrey from the stall, and
      was soon mounted and on his way to the appointed place of rendezvous, much
      marvelling, as he ambled forward with speed far greater than was promised
      by the diminutive size of the animal he was mounted on, what could have
      happened to produce so great a change in Alice's conduct towards him, that
      in place of enjoining his absence as usual, or recommending his departure
      from the island, she should now voluntarily invite him to a meeting. Under
      impression of the various doubts which succeeded each other in his
      imagination, he sometimes pressed Fairy's sides with his legs; sometimes
      laid his holly rod lightly on her neck; sometimes incited her by his
      voice, for the mettled animal needed neither whip nor spur, and achieved
      the distance betwixt the Castle of Holm-Peel and the stone at Goddard
      Crovan, at the rate of twelve miles within the hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The monumental stone, designed to commemorate some feat of an ancient King
      of Man, which had been long forgotten, was erected on the side of a narrow
      lonely valley, or rather glen, secluded from observation by the steepness
      of its banks, upon a projection of which stood the tall, shapeless,
      solitary rock, frowning, like a shrouded giant, over the brawling of the
      small rivulet which watered the ravine.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          This a love-meeting? See the maiden mourns,
          And the sad suitor bends his looks on earth.
          There's more hath pass'd between them than belongs
          To Love's sweet sorrows.
                                                   &mdash;OLD PLAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      As he approached the monument of Goddard Crovan, Julian cast many an
      anxious glance to see whether any object visible beside the huge grey
      stone should apprise him, whether he was anticipated, at the appointed
      place of rendezvous, by her who had named it. Nor was it long before the
      flutter of a mantle, which the breeze slightly waved, and the motion
      necessary to replace it upon the wearer's shoulders, made him aware that
      Alice had already reached their place of meeting. One instant set the
      palfrey at liberty, with slackened girths and loosened reins, to pick its
      own way through the dell at will; another placed Julian Peveril by the
      side of Alice Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      That Alice should extend her hand to her lover, as with the ardour of a
      young greyhound he bounded over the obstacles of the rugged path, was as
      natural as that Julian, seizing on the hand so kindly stretched out,
      should devour it with kisses, and, for a moment or two, without
      reprehension; while the other hand, which should have aided in the
      liberation of its fellow, served to hide the blushes of the fair owner.
      But Alice, young as she was, and attached to Julian by such long habits of
      kindly intimacy, still knew well how to subdue the tendency of her own
      treacherous affections.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is not right," she said, extricating her hand from Julian's grasp,
      "this is not right, Julian. If I have been too rash in admitting such a
      meeting as the present, it is not you that should make me sensible of my
      folly."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril's mind had been early illuminated with that touch of
      romantic fire which deprives passion of selfishness, and confers on it the
      high and refined tone of generous and disinterested devotion. He let go
      the hand of Alice with as much respect as he could have paid to that of a
      princess; and when she seated herself upon a rocky fragment, over which
      nature had stretched a cushion of moss and lichen, interspersed with wild
      flowers, backed with a bush of copsewood, he took his place beside her,
      indeed, but at such distance as to intimate the duty of an attendant, who
      was there only to hear and to obey. Alice Bridgenorth became more assured
      as she observed the power which she possessed over her lover; and the
      self-command which Peveril exhibited, which other damsels in her situation
      might have judged inconsistent with intensity of passion, she appreciated
      more justly, as a proof of his respectful and disinterested sincerity. She
      recovered, in addressing him, the tone of confidence which rather belonged
      to the scenes of their early acquaintance, than to those which had passed
      betwixt them since Peveril had disclosed his affection, and thereby had
      brought restraint upon their intercourse.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0093m.jpg" alt="0093m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0093.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      "Julian," she said, "your visit of yesterday&mdash;your most ill-timed
      visit, has distressed me much. It has misled my father&mdash;it has
      endangered you. At all risks, I resolved that you should know this, and
      blame me not if I have taken a bold and imprudent step in desiring this
      solitary interview, since you are aware how little poor Deborah is to be
      trusted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Can you fear misconstruction from me, Alice?" replied Peveril warmly;
      "from me, whom you have thus highly favoured&mdash;thus deeply obliged?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Cease your protestations, Julian," answered the maiden; "they do but make
      me the more sensible that I have acted over boldly. But I did for the
      best.&mdash;I could not see you whom I have known so long&mdash;you, who
      say you regard me with partiality&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Say</i> that I regard you with partiality!" interrupted Peveril in his
      turn. "Ah, Alice, with a cold and doubtful phrase you have used to express
      the most devoted, the most sincere affection!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then," said Alice sadly, "we will not quarrel about words; but do
      not again interrupt me.&mdash;I could not, I say, see you, who, I believe,
      regard me with sincere though vain and fruitless attachment, rush
      blindfold into a snare, deceived and seduced by those very feelings
      towards me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand you not, Alice," said Peveril; "nor can I see any danger to
      which I am at present exposed. The sentiments which your father has
      expressed towards me, are of a nature irreconcilable with hostile
      purposes. If he is not offended with the bold wishes I may have formed,&mdash;and
      his whole behaviour shows the contrary,&mdash;I know not a man on earth
      from whom I have less cause to apprehend any danger or ill-will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My father," said Alice, "means well by his country, and well by you; yet
      I sometimes fear he may rather injure than serve his good cause; and still
      more do I dread, that in attempting to engage you as an auxiliary, he may
      forget those ties which ought to bind you, and I am sure which will bind
      you, to a different line of conduct from his own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You lead me into still deeper darkness, Alice," answered Peveril. "That
      your father's especial line of politics differs widely from mine, I know
      well; but how many instances have occurred, even during the bloody scenes
      of civil warfare, of good and worthy men laying the prejudice of party
      affections aside, and regarding each other with respect, and even with
      friendly attachment, without being false to principle on either side?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be so," said Alice; "but such is not the league which my father
      desires to form with you, and that to which he hopes your misplaced
      partiality towards his daughter may afford a motive for your forming with
      him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what is it," said Peveril, "which I would refuse, with such a
      prospect before me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Treachery and dishonour!" replied Alice; "whatever would render you
      unworthy of the poor boon at which you aim&mdash;ay, were it more
      worthless than I confess it to be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Would your father," said Peveril, as he unwillingly received the
      impression which Alice designed to convey,&mdash;"would he, whose views of
      duty are so strict and severe&mdash;would he wish to involve me in aught,
      to which such harsh epithets as treachery and dishonour can be applied
      with the lightest shadow of truth?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not mistake me, Julian," replied the maiden; "my father is incapable
      of requesting aught of you that is not to his thinking just and
      honourable; nay, he conceives that he only claims from you a debt, which
      is due as a creature to the Creator, and as a man to your fellow-men."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So guarded, where can be the danger of our intercourse?" replied Julian.
      "If he be resolved to require, and I determined to accede to, nothing save
      what flows from conviction, what have I to fear, Alice? And how is my
      intercourse with your father dangerous? Believe not so; his speech has
      already made impression on me in some particulars, and he listened with
      candour and patience to the objections which I made occasionally. You do
      Master Bridgenorth less than justice in confounding him with the
      unreasonable bigots in policy and religion, who can listen to no argument
      but what favours their own prepossessions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Julian," replied Alice; "it is you who misjudge my father's powers, and
      his purpose with respect to you, and who overrate your own powers of
      resistance. I am but a girl, but I have been taught by circumstances to
      think for myself, and to consider the character of those around me. My
      father's views in ecclesiastical and civil policy are as dear to him as
      the life which he cherishes only to advance them. They have been, with
      little alteration, his companions through life. They brought him at one
      period into prosperity, and when they suited not the times, he suffered
      for having held them. They have become not only a part, but the very
      dearest part, of his existence. If he shows them not to you at first, in
      the flexible strength which they have acquired over his mind, do not
      believe that they are the less powerful. He who desires to make converts,
      must begin by degrees. But that he should sacrifice to an inexperienced
      young man, whose ruling motive he will term a childish passion, any part
      of those treasured principles which he has maintained through good repute
      and bad repute&mdash;Oh, do not dream of such an impossibility! If you
      meet at all, you must be the wax, he the seal&mdash;you must receive, he
      must bestow, an absolute impression."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said Peveril, "were unreasonable. I will frankly avow to you,
      Alice, that I am not a sworn bigot to the opinions entertained by my
      father, much as I respect his person. I could wish that our Cavaliers, or
      whatsoever they are pleased to call themselves, would have some more
      charity towards those who differ from them in Church and State. But to
      hope that I would surrender the principles in which I have lived, were to
      suppose me capable of deserting my benefactress, and breaking the hearts
      of my parents."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Even so I judged of you," answered Alice; "and therefore I asked this
      interview, to conjure that you will break off all intercourse with our
      family&mdash;return to your parents&mdash;or, what will be much safer,
      visit the continent once more, and abide till God send better days to
      England, for these are black with many a storm."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And can you bid me go, Alice?" said the young man, taking her unresisting
      hand; "can you bid me go, and yet own an interest in my fate?&mdash;Can
      you bid me, for fear of dangers, which, as a man, as a gentleman, and a
      loyal one, I am bound to show my face to, meanly abandon my parents, my
      friends, my country&mdash;suffer the existence of evils which I might aid
      to prevent&mdash;forego the prospect of doing such little good as might be
      in my power&mdash;fall from an active and honourable station, into the
      condition of a fugitive and time-server&mdash;Can you bid me do all this,
      Alice? Can you bid me do all this, and, in the same breath, bid farewell
      for ever to you and happiness?&mdash;It is impossible&mdash;I cannot
      surrender at once my love and my honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no remedy," said Alice, but she could not suppress a sigh while
      she said so&mdash;"there is no remedy&mdash;none whatever. What we might
      have been to each other, placed in more favourable circumstances, it
      avails not to think of now; and, circumstanced as we are, with open war
      about to break out betwixt our parents and friends, we can be but
      well-wishers&mdash;cold and distant well-wishers, who must part on this
      spot, and at this hour, never meet again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, by Heaven!" said Peveril, animated at the same time by his own
      feelings, and by the sight of the emotions which his companion in vain
      endeavoured to suppress,&mdash;"No, by Heaven!" he exclaimed, "we part not&mdash;Alice,
      we part not. If I am to leave my native land, you shall be my companion in
      my exile. What have you to lose?&mdash;Whom have you to abandon?&mdash;Your
      father?&mdash;The good old cause, as it is termed, is dearer to him than a
      thousand daughters; and setting him aside, what tie is there between you
      and this barren isle&mdash;between my Alice and any spot of the British
      dominions, where her Julian does not sit by her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "O Julian," answered the maiden, "why make my duty more painful by
      visionary projects, which you ought not to name, or I to listen to? Your
      parents&mdash;my father&mdash;it cannot be!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear not for my parents, Alice," replied Julian, and pressing close to
      his companion's side, he ventured to throw his arm around her; "they love
      me, and they will soon learn to love, in Alice, the only being on earth
      who could have rendered their son happy. And for your own father, when
      State and Church intrigues allow him to bestow a thought upon you, will he
      not think that your happiness, your security, is better cared for when you
      are my wife, than were you to continue under the mercenary charge of
      yonder foolish woman? What could his pride desire better for you, than the
      establishment which will one day be mine? Come then, Alice, and since you
      condemn me to banishment&mdash;since you deny me a share in those stirring
      achievements which are about to agitate England&mdash;come! do you&mdash;for
      you only can&mdash;do you reconcile me to exile and inaction, and give
      happiness to one, who, for your sake, is willing to resign honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It cannot&mdash;it cannot be," said Alice, faltering as she uttered her
      negative. "And yet," she said, "how many in my place&mdash;left alone and
      unprotected, as I am&mdash;But I must not&mdash;I must not&mdash;for your
      sake, Julian, I must not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say not for my sake you must not, Alice," said Peveril eagerly; "this is
      adding insult to cruelty. If you will do aught for my sake, you will say
      yes; or you will suffer this dear head to drop on my shoulder&mdash;the
      slightest sign&mdash;the moving of an eyelid, shall signify consent. All
      shall be prepared within an hour; within another the priest shall unite
      us; and within a third, we leave the isle behind us, and seek our fortunes
      on the continent." But while he spoke, in joyful anticipation of the
      consent which he implored, Alice found means to collect together her
      resolution, which, staggered by the eagerness of her lover, the impulse of
      her own affections, and the singularity of her situation,&mdash;seeming,
      in her case, to justify what would have been most blamable in another,&mdash;had
      more than half abandoned her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The result of a moment's deliberation was fatal to Julian's proposal. She
      extricated herself from the arm which had pressed her to his side&mdash;arose,
      and repelling his attempts to approach or detain her, said, with a
      simplicity not unmingled with dignity, "Julian, I always knew I risked
      much in inviting you to this meeting; but I did not guess that I could
      have been so cruel to both to you and to myself, as to suffer you to
      discover what you have to-day seen too plainly&mdash;that I love you
      better than you love me. But since you do know it, I will show you that
      Alice's love is disinterested&mdash;She will not bring an ignoble name
      into your ancient house. If hereafter, in your line, there should arise
      some who may think the claims of the hierarchy too exorbitant, the powers
      of the crown too extensive, men shall not say these ideas were derived
      from Alice Bridgenorth, their whig granddame."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Can you speak thus, Alice?" said her lover. "Can you use such
      expressions? and are you not sensible that they show plainly it is your
      own pride, not regard for me, that makes you resist the happiness of
      both?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so, Julian; not so," answered Alice, with tears in her eyes; "it is
      the command of duty to us both&mdash;of duty, which we cannot transgress,
      without risking our happiness here and hereafter. Think what I, the cause
      of all, should feel, when your father frowns, your mother weeps, your
      noble friends stand aloof, and you, even you yourself, shall have made the
      painful discovery, that you have incurred the contempt and resentment of
      all to satisfy a boyish passion; and that the poor beauty, once sufficient
      to mislead you, is gradually declining under the influence of grief and
      vexation. This I will not risk. I see distinctly it is best we should here
      break off and part; and I thank God, who gives me light enough to
      perceive, and strength enough to withstand, your folly as well as my own.
      Farewell, then, Julian; but first take the solemn advice which I called
      you hither to impart to you:&mdash;Shun my father&mdash;you cannot walk in
      his paths, and be true to gratitude and to honour. What he doth from pure
      and honourable motives, you cannot aid him in, except upon the suggestion
      of a silly and interested passion, at variance with all the engagements
      you have formed at coming into life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Once more, Alice," answered Julian, "I understand you not. If a course of
      action is good, it needs no vindication from the actor's motives&mdash;if
      bad, it can derive none."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You cannot blind me with your sophistry, Julian," replied Alice
      Bridgenorth, "any more than you can overpower me with your passion. Had
      the patriarch destined his son to death upon any less ground than faith
      and humble obedience to a divine commandment, he had meditated a murder
      and not a sacrifice. In our late bloody and lamentable wars, how many drew
      swords on either side, from the purest and most honourable motives? How
      many from the culpable suggestions of ambition, self-seeking, and love of
      plunder? Yet while they marched in the same ranks, and spurred their
      horses at the same trumpet-sound, the memory of the former is dear to us
      as patriots or loyalists&mdash;that of those who acted on mean or unworthy
      promptings, is either execrated or forgotten. Once more, I warn you, avoid
      my father&mdash;leave this island, which will be soon agitated by strange
      incidents&mdash;while you stay, be on your guard&mdash;distrust everything&mdash;be
      jealous of every one, even of those to whom it may seem almost impossible,
      from circumstances, to attach a shadow of suspicion&mdash;trust not the
      very stones of the most secret apartment in Holm-Peel, for that which hath
      wings shall carry the matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Alice broke off suddenly, and with a faint shriek; for, stepping from
      behind the stunted copse which had concealed him, her father stood
      unexpectedly before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reader cannot have forgotten that this was the second time in which
      the stolen interviews of the lovers had been interrupted by the unexpected
      apparition of Major Bridgenorth. On this second occasion his countenance
      exhibited anger mixed with solemnity, like that of the spirit to a
      ghost-seer, whom he upbraids with having neglected a charge imposed at
      their first meeting. Even his anger, however, produced no more violent
      emotion than a cold sternness of manner in his speech and action. "I thank
      you, Alice," he said to his daughter, "for the pains you have taken to
      traverse my designs towards this young man, and towards yourself. I thank
      you for the hints you have thrown out before my appearance, the suddenness
      of which alone has prevented you from carrying your confidence to a pitch
      which would have placed my life and that of others at the discretion of a
      boy, who, when the cause of God and his country is laid before him, has
      not leisure to think of them, so much is he occupied with such a baby-face
      as thine." Alice, pale as death, continued motionless, with her eyes fixed
      on the ground, without attempting the slightest reply to the ironical
      reproaches of her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you," continued Major Bridgenorth, turning from his daughter to her
      lover,&mdash;"you sir, have well repaid the liberal confidence which I
      placed in you with so little reserve. You I have to thank also for some
      lessons, which may teach me to rest satisfied with the churl's blood which
      nature has poured into my veins, and with the rude nurture which my father
      allotted to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand you not, sir," replied Julian Peveril, who, feeling the
      necessity of saying something, could not, at the moment, find anything
      more fitting to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, sir, I thank you," said Major Bridgenorth, in the same cold
      sarcastic tone, "for having shown me that breach of hospitality,
      infringement of good faith, and such like peccadilloes, are not utterly
      foreign to the mind and conduct of the heir of a knightly house of twenty
      descents. It is a great lesson to me, sir: for hitherto I had thought with
      the vulgar, that gentle manners went with gentle blood. But perhaps
      courtesy is too chivalrous a quality to be wasted in intercourse with a
      round-headed fanatic like myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Major Bridgenorth," said Julian, "whatever has happened in this interview
      which may have displeased you, has been the result of feelings suddenly
      and strongly animated by the crisis of the moment&mdash;nothing was
      premeditated."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not even your meeting, I suppose?" replied Bridgenorth, in the same cold
      tone. "You, sir, wandered hither from Holm-Peel&mdash;my daughter strolled
      forth from the Black Fort; and chance, doubtless, assigned you a meeting
      by the stone of Goddard Crovan?&mdash;Young man, disgrace yourself by no
      more apologies&mdash;they are worse than useless.&mdash;And you, maiden,
      who, in your fear of losing your lover, could verge on betraying what
      might have cost a father his life&mdash;begone to your home. I will talk
      with you at more leisure, and teach you practically those duties which you
      seem to have forgotten."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my honour, sir," said Julian, "your daughter is guiltless of all that
      can offend you; she resisted every offer which the headstrong violence of
      my passion urged me to press upon her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And, in brief," said Bridgenorth, "I am not to believe that you met in
      this remote place of rendezvous by Alice's special appointment?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril knew not what to reply, and Bridgenorth again signed with his hand
      to his daughter to withdraw.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I obey you, father," said Alice, who had by this time recovered from the
      extremity of her surprise,&mdash;"I obey you; but Heaven is my witness
      that you do me more than injustice in suspecting me capable of betraying
      your secrets, even had it been necessary to save my own life or that of
      Julian. That you are walking in a dangerous path I well know; but you do
      it with your eyes open, and are actuated by motives of which you can
      estimate the worth and value. My sole wish was, that this young man should
      not enter blindfold on the same perils; and I had a right to warn him,
      since the feelings by which he is hoodwinked had a direct reference to
      me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Tis well, minion," said Bridgenorth, "you have spoken your say. Retire,
      and let me complete the conference which you have so considerately
      commenced."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I go, sir," said Alice.&mdash;"Julian, to you my last words are, and I
      would speak them with my last breath&mdash;Farewell, and caution!"
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned from them, disappeared among the underwood, and was seen no
      more.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A true specimen of womankind," said her father, looking after her, "who
      would give the cause of nations up, rather than endanger a hair of her
      lover's head.&mdash;You, Master Peveril, doubtless, hold her opinion, that
      the best love is a safe love!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Were danger alone in my way," said Peveril, much surprised at the
      softened tone in which Bridgenorth made this observation, "there are few
      things which I would not face to&mdash;to&mdash;deserve your good
      opinion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Or rather to win my daughter's hand," said Bridgenorth. "Well, young man,
      one thing has pleased me in your conduct, though of much I have my reasons
      to complain&mdash;one thing <i>has</i> pleased me. You have surmounted
      that bounding wall of aristocratical pride, in which your father, and, I
      suppose, his fathers, remained imprisoned, as in the precincts of a feudal
      fortress&mdash;you have leaped over this barrier, and shown yourself not
      unwilling to ally yourself with a family whom your father spurns as
      low-born and ignoble."
    </p>
    <p>
      However favourable this speech sounded towards success in his suit, it so
      broadly stated the consequences of that success so far as his parents were
      concerned, that Julian felt it in the last degree difficult to reply. At
      length, perceiving that Major Bridgenorth seemed resolved quietly to await
      his answer, he mustered up courage to say, "The feelings which I entertain
      towards your daughter, Master Bridgenorth, are of a nature to supersede
      many other considerations, to which in any other case, I should feel it my
      duty to give the most reverential attention. I will not disguise from you,
      that my father's prejudices against such a match would be very strong; but
      I devoutly believe they would disappear when he came to know the merit of
      Alice Bridgenorth, and to be sensible that she only could make his son
      happy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the meanwhile, you are desirous to complete the union which you
      propose without the knowledge of your parents, and take the chance of
      their being hereafter reconciled to it? So I understand, from the proposal
      which you made but lately to my daughter."
    </p>
    <p>
      The turns of human nature, and of human passion, are so irregular and
      uncertain, that although Julian had but a few minutes before urged to
      Alice a private marriage, and an elopement to the continent, as a measure
      upon which the whole happiness of his life depended, the proposal seemed
      not to him half so delightful when stated by the calm, cold, dictatorial
      accents of her father. It sounded no longer like the dictates of ardent
      passion, throwing all other considerations aside, but as a distinct
      surrender of the dignity of his house to one who seemed to consider their
      relative situation as the triumph of Bridgenorth over Peveril. He was mute
      for a moment, in the vain attempt to shape his answer so as at once to
      intimate acquiescence in what Bridgenorth stated, and a vindication of his
      own regard for his parents, and for the honour of his house.
    </p>
    <p>
      This delay gave rise to suspicion, and Bridgenorth's eye gleamed, and his
      lip quivered while he gave vent to it. "Hark ye, young man&mdash;deal
      openly with me in this matter, if you would not have me think you the
      execrable villain who would have seduced an unhappy girl, under promises
      which he never designed to fulfil. Let me but suspect this, and you shall
      see, on the spot, how far your pride and your pedigree will preserve you
      against the just vengeance of a father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You do me wrong," said Peveril&mdash;"you do me infinite wrong, Major
      Bridgenorth, I am incapable of the infamy which you allude to. The
      proposal I made to your daughter was as sincere as ever was offered by man
      to woman. I only hesitated, because you think it necessary to examine me
      so very closely; and to possess yourself of all my purposes and
      sentiments, in their fullest extent, without explaining to me the tendency
      of your own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your proposal, then, shapes itself thus," said Bridgenorth:&mdash;"You
      are willing to lead my only child into exile from her native country, to
      give her a claim to kindness and protection from your family, which you
      know will be disregarded, on condition I consent to bestow her hand on
      you, with a fortune sufficient to have matched your ancestors, when they
      had most reason to boast of their wealth. This, young man, seems no equal
      bargain. And yet," he continued, after a momentary pause, "so little do I
      value the goods of this world, that it might not be utterly beyond thy
      power to reconcile me to the match which you have proposed to me, however
      unequal it may appear."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Show me but the means which can propitiate your favour, Major
      Bridgenorth," said Peveril,&mdash;"for I will not doubt that they will be
      consistent with my honour and duty&mdash;and you shall soon see how
      eagerly I will obey your directions, or submit to your conditions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are summed in few words," answered Bridgenorth. "Be an honest man,
      and the friend of your country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No one has ever doubted," replied Peveril, "that I am both."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me," replied the Major; "no one has, as yet, seen you show
      yourself either. Interrupt me not&mdash;I question not your will to be
      both; but you have hitherto neither had the light nor the opportunity
      necessary for the display of your principles, or the service of your
      country. You have lived when an apathy of mind, succeeding to the
      agitations of the Civil War, had made men indifferent to state affairs,
      and more willing to cultivate their own ease, than to stand in the gap
      when the Lord was pleading with Israel. But we are Englishmen; and with us
      such unnatural lethargy cannot continue long. Already, many of those who
      most desired the return of Charles Stewart, regard him as a King whom
      Heaven, importuned by our entreaties, gave to us in His anger. His
      unlimited licence&mdash;and example so readily followed by the young and
      the gay around him&mdash;has disgusted the minds of all sober and thinking
      men. I had not now held conference with you in this intimate fashion, were
      I not aware that you, Master Julian, were free from such stain of the
      times. Heaven, that rendered the King's course of license fruitful, had
      denied issue to his bed of wedlock; and in the gloomy and stern character
      of his bigoted successor, we already see what sort of monarch shall
      succeed to the crown of England. This is a critical period, at which it
      necessarily becomes the duty of all men to step forward, each in his
      degree, and aid in rescuing the country which gave us birth." Peveril
      remembered the warning which he had received from Alice, and bent his eyes
      on the ground, without returning any reply. "How is it, young man,"
      continued Bridgenorth, after a pause&mdash;"so young as thou art, and
      bound by no ties of kindred profligacy with the enemies of your country,
      you can be already hardened to the claims she may form on you at this
      crisis?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It were easy to answer you generally, Major Bridgenorth," replied Peveril&mdash;"It
      were easy to say that my country cannot make a claim on me which I will
      not promptly answer at the risk of lands and life. But in dealing thus
      generally, we should but deceive each other. What is the nature of this
      call? By whom is it to be sounded? And what are to be the results? for I
      think you have already seen enough of the evils of civil war, to be wary
      of again awakening its terrors in a peaceful and happy country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They that are drenched with poisonous narcotics," said the Major, "must
      be awakened by their physicians, though it were with the sound of the
      trumpet. Better that men should die bravely, with their arms in their
      hands, like free-born Englishmen, than that they should slide into the
      bloodless but dishonoured grave which slavery opens for its vassals&mdash;But
      it is not of war that I was about to speak," he added, assuming a milder
      tone. "The evils of which England now complains, are such as can be
      remedied by the wholesome administration of her own laws, even in the
      state in which they are still suffered to exist. Have these laws not a
      right to the support of every individual who lives under them? Have they
      not a right to yours?"
    </p>
    <p>
      As he seemed to pause for an answer, Peveril replied, "I have to learn,
      Major Bridgenorth, how the laws of England have become so far weakened as
      to require such support as mine. When that is made plain to me, no man
      will more willingly discharge the duty of a faithful liegeman to the law
      as well as the King. But the laws of England are under the guardianship of
      upright and learned judges, and of a gracious monarch."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And of a House of Commons," interrupted Bridgenorth, "no longer doting
      upon restored monarchy, but awakened, as with a peal of thunder, to the
      perilous state of our religion, and of our freedom. I appeal to your own
      conscience, Julian Peveril, whether this awakening hath not been in time,
      since you yourself know, and none better than you, the secret but rapid
      strides which Rome has made to erect her Dagon of idolatry within our
      Protestant land."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Julian seeing, or thinking he saw, the drift of Bridgenorth's
      suspicions, hastened to exculpate himself from the thought of favouring
      the Roman Catholic religion. "It is true," he said, "I have been educated
      in a family where that faith is professed by one honoured individual, and
      that I have since travelled in Popish countries; but even for these very
      reasons I have seen Popery too closely to be friendly to its tenets. The
      bigotry of the laymen&mdash;the persevering arts of the priesthood&mdash;the
      perpetual intrigue for the extension of the forms without the spirit of
      religion&mdash;the usurpation of that Church over the consciences of men&mdash;and
      her impious pretensions to infallibility, are as inconsistent to my mind
      as they can seem to yours, with common-sense, rational liberty, freedom of
      conscience, and pure religion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Spoken like the son of your excellent mother," said Bridgenorth, grasping
      his hand; "for whose sake I have consented to endure so much from your
      house unrequited, even when the means of requital were in my own hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was indeed from the instructions of that excellent parent," said
      Peveril, "that I was enabled, in my early youth, to resist and repel the
      insidious attacks made upon my religious faith by the Catholic priests
      into whose company I was necessarily thrown. Like her, I trust to live and
      die in the faith of the reformed Church of England."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Church of England!" said Bridgenorth, dropping his young friend's
      hand, but presently resuming it&mdash;"Alas! that Church, as now
      constituted, usurps scarcely less than Rome herself upon men's consciences
      and liberties; yet, out of the weakness of this half-reformed Church, may
      God be pleased to work out deliverance to England, and praise to Himself.
      I must not forget, that one whose services have been in the cause
      incalculable, wears the garb of an English priest, and hath had Episcopal
      ordination. It is not for us to challenge the instrument, so that our
      escape is achieved from the net of the fowler. Enough, that I find thee
      not as yet enlightened with the purer doctrine, but prepared to profit by
      it when the spark shall reach thee. Enough, in especial, that I find thee
      willing to uplift thy testimony to cry aloud and spare not, against the
      errors and arts of the Church of Rome. But remember, what thou hast now
      said, thou wilt soon be called upon to justify, in a manner the most
      solemn&mdash;the most awful."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What I have said," replied Julian Peveril, "being the unbiassed
      sentiments of my heart, shall, upon no proper occasion, want the support
      of my open avowal; and I think it strange you should doubt me so far."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I doubt thee not, my young friend," said Bridgenorth; "and I trust to see
      that name rank high amongst those by whom the prey shall be rent from the
      mighty. At present, thy prejudices occupy thy mind like the strong keeper
      of the house mentioned in Scripture. But there shall come a stronger than
      he, and make forcible entry, displaying on the battlements that sign of
      faith in which alone there is found salvation.&mdash;Watch, hope, and
      pray, that the hour may come."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause in the conversation, which was first broken by Peveril.
      "You have spoken to me in riddles, Major Bridgenorth; and I have asked you
      for no explanation. Listen to a caution on my part, given with the most
      sincere good-will. Take a hint from me, and believe it, though it is
      darkly expressed. You are here&mdash;at least are believed to be here&mdash;on
      an errand dangerous to the Lord of the island. That danger will be
      retorted on yourself, if you make Man long your place of residence. Be
      warned, and depart in time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And leave my daughter to the guardianship of Julian Peveril! Runs not
      your counsel so, young man?" answered Bridgenorth. "Trust my safety,
      Julian, to my own prudence. I have been accustomed to guide myself through
      worse dangers than now environ me. But I thank you for your caution, which
      I am willing to believe was at least partly disinterested."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We do not, then, part in anger?" said Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not in anger, my son," said Bridgenorth, "but in love and strong
      affection. For my daughter, thou must forbear every thought of seeing her,
      save through me. I accept not thy suit, neither do I reject it; only this
      I intimate to you, that he who would be my son, must first show himself
      the true and loving child of his oppressed and deluded country. Farewell;
      do not answer me now, thou art yet in the gall of bitterness, and it may
      be that strife (which I desire not) should fall between us. Thou shalt
      hear of me sooner than thou thinkest for."
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook Peveril heartily by the hand, and again bid him farewell, leaving
      him under the confused and mingled impression of pleasure, doubt, and
      wonder. Not a little surprised to find himself so far in the good graces
      of Alice's father, that his suit was even favoured with a sort of negative
      encouragement, he could not help suspecting, as well from the language of
      the daughter as of the father, that Bridgenorth was desirous, as the price
      of his favour, that he should adopt some line of conduct inconsistent with
      the principles in which he had been educated.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You need not fear, Alice," he said in his heart; "not even your hand
      would I purchase by aught which resembled unworthy or truckling compliance
      with tenets which my heart disowns; and well I know, were I mean enough to
      do so, even the authority of thy father were insufficient to compel thee
      to the ratification of so mean a bargain. But let me hope better things.
      Bridgenorth, though strong-minded and sagacious, is haunted by the fears
      of Popery, which are the bugbears of his sect. My residence in the family
      of the Countess of Derby is more than enough to inspire him with
      suspicions of my faith, from which, thank Heaven, I can vindicate myself
      with truth and a good conscience."
    </p>
    <p>
      So thinking, he again adjusted the girths of his palfrey, replaced the bit
      which he had slipped out of its mouth, that it might feed at liberty, and
      mounting, pursued his way back to the Castle of Holm-Peel, where he could
      not help fearing that something extraordinary might have happened in his
      absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the old pile soon rose before him, serene, and sternly still, amid the
      sleeping ocean. The banner, which indicated that the Lord of Man held
      residence within its ruinous precincts, hung motionless by the
      ensign-staff. The sentinels walked to and fro on their posts, and hummed
      or whistled their Manx airs. Leaving his faithful companion, Fairy, in the
      village as before, Julian entered the Castle, and found all within in the
      same state of quietness and good order which external appearances had
      announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                 Now rede me, rede me, brother dear,
                   Throughout Merry England,
                 Where will I find a messenger,
                   Betwixt us two to send.
                                       &mdash;BALLAD OF KING ESTMERE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Julian's first encounter, after re-entering the Castle, was with its young
      Lord, who received him with his usual kindness and lightness of humour.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thrice welcome, Sir Knight of Dames," said the Earl; "here you rove
      gallantly, and at free will, through our dominions, fulfilling of
      appointments, and achieving amorous adventures; while we are condemned to
      sit in our royal halls, as dull and as immovable as if our Majesty was
      carved on the stern of some Manx smuggling dogger, and christened the King
      Arthur of Ramsey."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, in that case you would take the sea," said Julian, "and so enjoy
      travel and adventure enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, but suppose me wind-bound, or detained in harbour by a revenue pink,
      or ashore, if you like it, and lying high and dry upon the sand. Imagine
      the royal image in the dullest of all predicaments, and you have not
      equalled mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am happy to hear, at least, that you have had no disagreeable
      employment," said Julian; "the morning's alarm has blown over, I suppose?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "In faith it has, Julian; and our close inquiries cannot find any cause
      for the apprehended insurrection. That Bridgenorth is in the island seems
      certain; but private affairs of consequence are alleged as the cause of
      his visit; and I am not desirous to have him arrested unless I could prove
      some malpractices against him and his companions. In fact, it would seem
      we had taken the alarm too soon. My mother speaks of consulting you on the
      subject, Julian; and I will not anticipate her solemn communication. It
      will be partly apologetical, I suppose; for we begin to think our retreat
      rather unroyal, and that, like the wicked, we have fled when no man
      pursued. This idea afflicts my mother, who, as a Queen-Dowager, a
      Queen-Regent, a heroine, and a woman in general, would be extremely
      mortified to think that her precipitate retreat hither had exposed her to
      the ridicule of the islanders; and she is disconcerted and out of humour
      accordingly. In the meanwhile, my sole amusement has been the grimaces and
      fantastic gestures of that ape Fenella, who is more out of humour, and
      more absurd, in consequence, than you ever saw her. Morris says, it is
      because you pushed her downstairs, Julian&mdash;how is that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, Morris has misreported me," answered Julian; "I did but lift her <i>up</i>
      stairs to be rid of her importunity; for she chose, in her way, to contest
      my going abroad in such an obstinate manner, that I had no other mode of
      getting rid of her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She must have supposed your departure, at a moment so critical, was
      dangerous to the state of our garrison," answered the Earl; "it shows how
      dearly she esteems my mother's safety, how highly she rates your prowess.
      But, thank Heaven, there sounds the dinner-bell. I would the philosophers,
      who find a sin and waste of time in good cheer, could devise us any
      pastime half so agreeable."
    </p>
    <p>
      The meal which the young Earl had thus longed for, as a means of consuming
      a portion of the time which hung heavy on his hands, was soon over; as
      soon, at least, as the habitual and stately formality of the Countess's
      household permitted. She herself, accompanied by her gentlewomen and
      attendants, retired early after the tables were drawn; and the young
      gentlemen were left to their own company. Wine had, for the moment, no
      charms for either; for the Earl was out of spirits from ennui, and
      impatience of his monotonous and solitary course of life; and the events
      of the day had given Peveril too much matter for reflection, to permit his
      starting amusing or interesting topics of conversation. After having
      passed the flask in silence betwixt them once or twice, they withdrew each
      to a separate embrasure of the windows of the dining apartment, which,
      such was the extreme thickness of the wall, were deep enough to afford a
      solitary recess, separated, as it were, from the chamber itself. In one of
      these sat the Earl of Derby, busied in looking over some of the new
      publications which had been forwarded from London; and at intervals
      confessing how little power or interest these had for him, by yawning
      fearfully as he looked out on the solitary expanse of waters, which, save
      from the flight of a flock of sea-gulls, or a solitary cormorant, offered
      so little of variety to engage his attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril, on his part, held a pamphlet also in his hand, without giving, or
      affecting to give it, even his occasional attention. His whole soul turned
      upon the interview which he had had that day with Alice Bridgenorth, and
      with her father; while he in vain endeavoured to form any hypothesis which
      could explain to him why the daughter, to whom he had no reason to think
      himself indifferent, should have been so suddenly desirous of their
      eternal separation, while her father, whose opposition he so much dreaded,
      seemed to be at least tolerant of his addresses. He could only suppose, in
      explanation, that Major Bridgenorth had some plan in prospect, which it
      was in his own power to farther or to impede; while, from the demeanour,
      and indeed the language, of Alice, he had but too much reason to apprehend
      that her father's favour could only be conciliated by something, on his
      own part, approaching to dereliction of principle. But by no conjecture
      which he could form, could he make the least guess concerning the nature
      of that compliance, of which Bridgenorth seemed desirous. He could not
      imagine, notwithstanding Alice had spoken of treachery, that her father
      would dare to propose to him uniting in any plan by which the safety of
      the Countess, or the security of her little kingdom of Man, was to be
      endangered. This carried such indelible disgrace in the front, that he
      could not suppose the scheme proposed to him by any who was not prepared
      to defend with his sword, upon the spot, so flagrant an insult offered to
      his honour. And such a proceeding was totally inconsistent with the
      conduct of Major Bridgenorth in every other respect, besides his being too
      calm and cold-blooded to permit of his putting a mortal affront upon the
      son of his old neighbour, to whose mother he confessed so much of
      obligation.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Peveril in vain endeavoured to extract something like a probable
      theory out of the hints thrown out by the father and by the daughter&mdash;not
      without the additional and lover-like labour of endeavouring to reconcile
      his passion to his honour and conscience&mdash;he felt something gently
      pull him by the cloak. He unclasped his arms, which, in meditation, had
      been folded on his bosom; and withdrawing his eyes from the vacant
      prospect of sea-coast and sea which they perused, without much
      consciousness upon what they rested, he beheld beside him the little dumb
      maiden, the elfin Fenella. She was seated on a low cushion or stool, with
      which she had nestled close to Peveril's side, and had remained there for
      a short space of time, expecting, no doubt, he would become conscious of
      her presence; until, tired of remaining unnoticed, she at length solicited
      his attention in the manner which we have described. Startled out of his
      reverie by this intimation of her presence, he looked down, and could not,
      without interest, behold this singular and helpless being.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0231m.jpg" alt="0231m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0231.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Her hair was unloosened, and streamed over her shoulders in such length,
      that much of it lay upon the ground, and in such quantity, that it formed
      a dark veil, or shadow, not only around her face, but over her whole
      slender and minute form. From the profusion of her tresses looked forth
      her small and dark, but well-formed features, together with the large and
      brilliant black eyes; and her whole countenance was composed into the
      imploring look of one who is doubtful of the reception she is about to
      meet with from a valued friend, while she confesses a fault, pleads an
      apology, or solicits a reconciliation. In short, the whole face was so
      much alive with expression, that Julian, though her aspect was so familiar
      to him, could hardly persuade himself but that her countenance was
      entirely new. The wild, fantastic, elvish vivacity of the features, seemed
      totally vanished, and had given place to a sorrowful, tender, and pathetic
      cast of countenance, aided by the expression of the large dark eyes,
      which, as they were turned up towards Julian, glistened with moisture,
      that, nevertheless, did not overflow the eyelids.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conceiving that her unwonted manner arose from a recollection of the
      dispute which had taken place betwixt them in the morning, Peveril was
      anxious to restore the little maiden's gaiety, by making her sensible that
      there dwelt on his mind no unpleasing recollection of their quarrel. He
      smiled kindly, and shook her hand in one of his; while, with the
      familiarity of one who had known her from childhood, he stroked down her
      long dark tresses with the other. She stooped her head, as if ashamed,
      and, at the same time, gratified with his caresses&mdash;and he was thus
      induced to continue them, until, under the veil of her rich and abundant
      locks, he suddenly felt his other hand, which she still held in hers,
      slightly touched with her lips, and, at the same time, moistened with a
      tear.
    </p>
    <p>
      At once, and for the first time in his life, the danger of being
      misinterpreted in his familiarity with a creature to whom the usual modes
      of explanation were a blank, occurred to Julian's mind; and, hastily
      withdrawing his hand, and changing his posture, he asked her, by a sign
      which custom had rendered familiar, whether she brought any message to him
      from the Countess. She started up, and arranged herself in her seat with
      the rapidity of lightning; and, at the same moment, with one turn of her
      hand, braided her length of locks into a natural head-dress of the most
      beautiful kind. There was, indeed, when she looked up, a blush still
      visible on her dark features; but their melancholy and languid expression
      had given place to that of wild and restless vivacity, which was most
      common to them. Her eyes gleamed with more than their wonted fire, and her
      glances were more piercingly wild and unsettled than usual. To Julian's
      inquiry, she answered, by laying her hand on her heart&mdash;a motion by
      which she always indicated the Countess&mdash;and rising, and taking the
      direction of her apartment, she made a sign to Julian to follow her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The distance was not great betwixt the dining apartment and that to which
      Peveril now followed his mute guide; yet, in going thither, he had time
      enough to suffer cruelly from the sudden suspicion, that this unhappy girl
      had misinterpreted the uniform kindness with which he had treated her, and
      hence come to regard him with feelings more tender than those which belong
      to friendship. The misery which such a passion was likely to occasion to a
      creature in her helpless situation, and actuated by such lively feelings,
      was great enough to make him refuse credit to the suspicion which pressed
      itself upon his mind; while, at the same time, he formed the internal
      resolution so to conduct himself towards Fenella, as to check such
      misplaced sentiments, if indeed she unhappily entertained them towards
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the Countess's apartment, they found her with writing
      implements, and many sealed letters before her. She received Julian with
      her usual kindness; and having caused him to be seated, beckoned to the
      mute to resume her needle. In an instant Fenella was seated at an
      embroidering-frame; where, but for the movement of her dexterous fingers,
      she might have seemed a statue, so little did she move from her work
      either head or eye. As her infirmity rendered her presence no bar to the
      most confidential conversation, the Countess proceeded to address Peveril
      as if they had been literally alone together.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Julian," she said, "I am not now about to complain to you of the
      sentiments and conduct of Derby. He is your friend&mdash;he is my son. He
      has kindness of heart and vivacity of talent; and yet&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dearest lady," said Peveril, "why will you distress yourself with fixing
      your eye on deficiencies which arise rather from a change of times and
      manners, than any degeneracy of my noble friend? Let him be once engaged
      in his duty, whether in peace or war, and let me pay the penalty if he
      acquits not himself becoming his high station."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," replied the Countess; "but when will the call of duty prove superior
      to that of the most idle or trivial indulgence which can serve to drive
      over the lazy hour? His father was of another mould; and how often was it
      my lot to entreat that he would spare, from the rigid discharge of those
      duties which his high station imposed, the relaxation absolutely necessary
      to recruit his health and his spirits!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still, my dearest lady," said Peveril, "you must allow, that the duties
      to which the times summoned your late honoured lord, were of a more
      stirring, as well as a more peremptory cast, than those which await your
      son."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not that," said the Countess. "The wheel appears to be again
      revolving; and the present period is not unlikely to bring back such
      scenes as my young years witnessed.&mdash;Well, be it so; they will not
      find Charlotte de la Tremouille broken in spirit, though depressed by
      years. It was even on this subject I would speak with you, my young
      friend. Since our first early acquaintance&mdash;when I saw your gallant
      behaviour as I issued forth to your childish eye, like an apparition, from
      my place of concealment in your father's castle&mdash;it has pleased me to
      think you a true son of Stanley and Peveril. I trust your nurture in this
      family has been ever suited to the esteem in which I hold you.&mdash;Nay,
      I desire no thanks.&mdash;I have to require of you, in return, a piece of
      service, not perhaps entirely safe to yourself, but which, as times are
      circumstanced, no person is so well able to render to my house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have been ever my good and noble lady," answered Peveril, "as well as
      my kind, and I may say maternal, protectress. You have a right to command
      the blood of Stanley in the veins of every one&mdash;You have a thousand
      rights to command it in mine."[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] The reader cannot have forgotten that the Earl of Derby was head
    of the great house of Stanley.
</pre>
    <p>
      "My advices from England," said the Countess, "resemble more the dreams of
      a sick man, than the regular information which I might have expected from
      such correspondents as mine;&mdash;their expressions are like those of men
      who walk in their sleep, and speak by snatches of what passes in their
      dreams. It is said, a plot, real or fictitious, has been detected among
      the Catholics, which has spread far wider and more uncontrollable terror
      than that of the fifth of November. Its outlines seem utterly incredible,
      and are only supported by the evidence of wretches, the meanest and most
      worthless in the creation; yet it is received by the credulous people of
      England with the most undoubting belief."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is a singular delusion, to rise without some real ground," answered
      Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am no bigot, cousin, though a Catholic," replied the Countess. "I have
      long feared that the well-meant zeal of our priests for increasing
      converts, would draw on them the suspicion of the English nation. These
      efforts have been renewed with double energy since the Duke of York
      conformed to the Catholic faith; and the same event has doubled the hate
      and jealousy of the Protestants. So far, I fear, there may be just cause
      of suspicion, that the Duke is a better Catholic than an Englishman, and
      that bigotry has involved him, as avarice, or the needy greed of a
      prodigal, has engaged his brother, in relations with France, whereof
      England may have too much reason to complain. But the gross, thick, and
      palpable fabrications of conspiracy and murder, blood and fire&mdash;the
      imaginary armies&mdash;the intended massacres&mdash;form a collection of
      falsehoods, that one would have thought indigestible, even by the coarse
      appetite of the vulgar for the marvellous and horrible; but which are,
      nevertheless, received as truth by both Houses of Parliament, and
      questioned by no one who is desirous to escape the odious appellation of
      friend to the bloody Papists, and favourer of their infernal schemes of
      cruelty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But what say those who are most likely to be affected by these wild
      reports?" said Julian. "What say the English Catholics themselves?&mdash;a
      numerous and wealthy body, comprising so many noble names?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Their hearts are dead within them," said the Countess. "They are like
      sheep penned up in the shambles, that the butcher may take his choice
      among them. In the obscure and brief communications which I have had by a
      secure hand, they do but anticipate their own utter ruin, and ours&mdash;so
      general is the depression, so universal the despair."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But the King," said Peveril,&mdash;"the King and the Protestant Royalists&mdash;what
      say they to this growing tempest?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Charles," replied the Countess, "with his usual selfish prudence,
      truckles to the storm; and will let cord and axe do their work on the most
      innocent men in his dominions, rather than lose an hour of pleasure in
      attempting their rescue. And, for the Royalists, either they have caught
      the general delirium which has seized on Protestants in general, or they
      stand aloof and neutral, afraid to show any interest in the unhappy
      Catholics, lest they be judged altogether such as themselves, and abettors
      of the fearful conspiracy in which they are alleged to be engaged. In
      fact, I cannot blame them. It is hard to expect that mere compassion for a
      persecuted sect&mdash;or, what is yet more rare, an abstract love of
      justice&mdash;should be powerful enough to engage men to expose themselves
      to the awakened fury of a whole people; for, in the present state of
      general agitation, whoever disbelieves the least tittle of the enormous
      improbabilities which have been accumulated by these wretched reformers,
      is instantly hunted down, as one who would smother the discovery of the
      Plot. It is indeed an awful tempest; and, remote as we lie from its
      sphere, we must expect soon to feel its effects."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lord Derby already told me something of this," said Julian; "and that
      there were agents in this island whose object was to excite insurrection."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," answered the Countess, and her eye flashed fire as she spoke; "and
      had my advice been listened to, they had been apprehended in the very
      fact; and so dealt with, as to be a warning to all others how they sought
      this independent principality on such an errand. But my son, who is
      generally so culpably negligent of his own affairs, was pleased to assume
      the management of them upon this crisis."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am happy to learn, madam," answered Peveril, "that the measures of
      precaution which my kinsman has adopted, have had the complete effect of
      disconcerting the conspiracy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the present, Julian; but they should have been such as would have
      made the boldest tremble to think of such infringement of our rights in
      future. But Derby's present plan is fraught with greater danger; and yet
      there is something in it of gallantry, which has my sympathy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is it, madam?" inquired Julian anxiously; "and in what can I aid it,
      or avert its dangers?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He purposes," said the Countess, "instantly to set forth for London. He
      is, he says, not merely the feudal chief of a small island, but one of the
      noble Peers of England, who must not remain in the security of an obscure
      and distant castle, when his name, or that of his mother, is slandered
      before his Prince and people. He will take his place, he says, in the
      House of Lords, and publicly demand justice for the insult thrown on his
      house, by perjured and interested witnesses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is a generous resolution, and worthy of my friend," said Julian
      Peveril. "I will go with him and share his fate, be it what it may."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas, foolish boy!" answered the Countess, "as well may you ask a hungry
      lion to feel compassion, as a prejudiced and furious people to do justice.
      They are like the madman at the height of frenzy, who murders without
      compunction his best and dearest friend; and only wonders and wails over
      his own cruelty, when he is recovered from his delirium."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, dearest lady," said Julian, "this cannot be. The noble and
      generous people of England cannot be thus strangely misled. Whatever
      prepossessions may be current among the more vulgar, the House of
      Legislature cannot be deeply infected by them&mdash;they will remember
      their own dignity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas! cousin," answered the Countess, "when did Englishmen, even of the
      highest degree, remember anything, when hurried away by the violence of
      party feeling? Even those who have too much sense to believe in the
      incredible fictions which gull the multitude, will beware how they expose
      them, if their own political party can gain a momentary advantage by their
      being accredited. It is amongst such, too, that your kinsman has found
      friends and associates. Neglecting the old friends of his house, as too
      grave and formal companions for the humour of the times, his intercourse
      has been with the versatile Shaftesbury&mdash;the mercurial Buckingham&mdash;men
      who would not hesitate to sacrifice to the popular Moloch of the day,
      whatsoever or whomsoever, whose ruin could propitiate the deity.&mdash;Forgive
      a mother's tears, kinsman; but I see the scaffold at Bolton again erected.
      If Derby goes to London while these bloodhounds are in full cry, obnoxious
      as he is, and I have made him by my religious faith, and my conduct in
      this island, he dies his father's death. And yet upon what other course to
      resolve!&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let me go to London, madam," said Peveril, much moved by the distress of
      his patroness; "your ladyship was wont to rely something on my judgment. I
      will act for the best&mdash;will communicate with those whom you point out
      to me, and only with them; and I trust soon to send you information that
      this delusion, however strong it may now be, is in the course of passing
      away; at the worst, I can apprise you of the danger, should it menace the
      Earl or yourself; and may be able also to point out the means by which it
      may be eluded."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess listened with a countenance in which the anxiety of maternal
      affection, which prompted her to embrace Peveril's generous offer,
      struggled with her native disinterested and generous disposition. "Think
      what you ask of me, Julian," she replied with a sigh. "Would you have me
      expose the life of my friend's son to those perils to which I refuse my
      own?&mdash;No, never!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, but madam," replied Julian, "I do not run the same risk&mdash;my
      person is not known in London&mdash;my situation, though not obscure in my
      own country, is too little known to be noticed in that huge assemblage of
      all that is noble and wealthy. No whisper, I presume, however indirect,
      has connected my name with the alleged conspiracy. I am a Protestant,
      above all; and can be accused of no intercourse, direct or indirect, with
      the Church of Rome. My connections also lie amongst those, who, if they do
      not, or cannot, befriend me, cannot, at least, be dangerous to me. In a
      word, I run no danger where the Earl might incur great peril."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas!" said the Countess of Derby, "all this generous reasoning may be
      true; but it could only be listened to by a widowed mother. Selfish as I
      am, I cannot but reflect that my kinswoman has, in all events, the support
      of an affectionate husband&mdash;such is the interested reasoning to which
      we are not ashamed to subject our better feelings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not call it so, madam," answered Peveril; "think of me as the younger
      brother of my kinsman. You have ever done by me the duties of a mother;
      and have a right to my filial service, were it at a risk ten times greater
      than a journey to London, to inquire into the temper of the times. I will
      instantly go and announce my departure to the Earl."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stay, Julian," said the Countess; "if you must make this journey in our
      behalf,&mdash;and, alas! I have not generosity enough to refuse your noble
      proffer,&mdash;you must go alone, and without communication with Derby. I
      know him well; his lightness of mind is free from selfish baseness; and
      for the world, would he not suffer you to leave Man without his company.
      And if he went with you, your noble and disinterested kindness would be of
      no avail&mdash;you would but share his ruin, as the swimmer who attempts
      to save a drowning man is involved in his fate, if he permit the sufferer
      to grapple with him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It shall be as you please, madam," said Peveril. "I am ready to depart
      upon half-an-hour's notice."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This night, then," said the Countess, after a moment's pause&mdash;"this
      night I will arrange the most secret means of carrying your generous
      project into effect; for I would not excite that prejudice against you,
      which will instantly arise, were it known you had so lately left this
      island, and its Popish lady. You will do well, perhaps, to use a feigned
      name in London."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, madam," said Julian; "I will do nothing that can draw on me
      unnecessary attention; but to bear a feigned name, or affect any disguise
      beyond living with extreme privacy, would, I think, be unwise as well as
      unworthy; and what, if challenged, I might find some difficulty in
      assigning a reason for, consistent with perfect fairness of intentions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe you are right," answered the Countess, after a moment's
      consideration; and then added, "You propose, doubtless, to pass through
      Derbyshire, and visit Martindale Castle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should wish it, madam, certainly," replied Peveril, "did time permit,
      and circumstances render it advisable."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of that," said the Countess, "you must yourself judge. Despatch is,
      doubtless, desirable; on the other hand, arriving from your own
      family-seat, you will be less an object of doubt and suspicion, than if
      you posted up from hence, without even visiting your parents. You must be
      guided in this,&mdash;in all,&mdash;by your own prudence. Go, my dearest
      son&mdash;for to me you should be dear as a son&mdash;go, and prepare for
      your journey. I will get ready some despatches, and a supply of money&mdash;Nay,
      do not object. Am I not your mother; and are you not discharging a son's
      duty? Dispute not my right of defraying your expenses. Nor is this all;
      for, as I must trust your zeal and prudence to act in our behalf when
      occasion shall demand, I will furnish you with effectual recommendations
      to our friends and kindred, entreating and enjoining them to render
      whatever aid you may require, either for your own protection, or the
      advancement of what you may propose in our favour."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril made no farther opposition to an arrangement, which in truth the
      moderate state of his own finances rendered almost indispensable, unless
      with his father's assistance; and the Countess put into his hand bills of
      exchange to the amount of two hundred pounds, upon a merchant in the city.
      She then dismissed Julian for the space of an hour; after which, she said,
      she must again require his presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The preparations for his journey were not of a nature to divert the
      thoughts which speedily pressed on him. He found that half-an-hour's
      conversation had once more completely changed his immediate prospects and
      plans for the future. He had offered to the Countess of Derby a service,
      which her uniform kindness had well deserved at his hand; but, by her
      accepting it, he was upon the point of being separated from Alice
      Bridgenorth, at a time when she was become dearer to him than ever, by her
      avowal of mutual passion. Her image rose before him, such as he had that
      day pressed her to his bosom&mdash;her voice was in his ear, and seemed to
      ask whether he could desert her in the crisis which everything seemed to
      announce as impending. But Julian Peveril, his youth considered, was
      strict in judging his duty, and severely resolved in executing it. He
      trusted not his imagination to pursue the vision which presented itself;
      but resolutely seizing his pen, wrote to Alice the following letter,
      explaining his situation, as far as justice to the Countess permitted him
      to do so:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "I leave you, dearest Alice," thus ran the letter.&mdash;"I leave you;
  and though, in doing so, I but obey the command you have laid on
  me, yet I can claim little merit for my compliance, since, without
  additional and most forcible reasons in aid of your orders, I fear
  I should have been unable to comply with them. But family affairs
  of importance compel me to absent myself from this island, for, I
  fear, more than one week. My thoughts, hopes, and wishes will be
  on the moment that shall restore me to the Black Fort, and its
  lovely valley. Let me hope that yours will sometimes rest on the
  lonely exile, whom nothing could render such, but the command of
  honour and duty. Do not fear that I mean to involve you in a
  private correspondence, and let not your father fear it. I could
  not love you so much, but for the openness and candour of your
  nature; and I would not that you concealed from Major Bridgenorth
  one syllable of what I now avow. Respecting other matters, he
  himself cannot desire the welfare of our common country with more
  zeal than I do. Differences may occur concerning the mode in which
  that is to be obtained; but, in the principle, I am convinced
  there can be only one mind between us; nor can I refuse to listen
  to his experience and wisdom, even where they may ultimately fail
  to convince me. Farewell&mdash;Alice, farewell! Much might be added to
  that melancholy word, but nothing that could express the
  bitterness with which it is written. Yet I could transcribe it
  again and again, rather than conclude the last communication which
  I can have with you for some time. My sole comfort is, that my
  stay will scarce be so long as to permit you to forget one who
  never can forget you."
</pre>
    <p>
      He held the paper in his hand for a minute after he had folded, but before
      he had sealed it, while he hurriedly debated in his own mind whether he
      had not expressed himself towards Major Bridgenorth in so conciliating a
      manner as might excite hopes of proselytism, which his conscience told him
      he could not realise with honour. Yet, on the other hand, he had no right,
      from what Bridgenorth had said, to conclude that their principles were
      diametrically irreconcilable; for though the son of a high Cavalier, and
      educated in the family of the Countess of Derby, he was himself, upon
      principle, an enemy of prerogative, and a friend to the liberty of the
      subject. And with such considerations, he silenced all internal objections
      on the point of honour; although his conscience secretly whispered that
      these conciliatory expressions towards the father were chiefly dictated by
      the fear, that during his absence Major Bridgenorth might be tempted to
      change the residence of his daughter, and perhaps to convey her altogether
      out of his reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having sealed his letter, Julian called his servant, and directed him to
      carry it under cover of one addressed to Mrs. Debbitch, to a house in the
      town of Rushin, where packets and messages intended for the family at
      Black Fort were usually deposited; and for that purpose to take horse
      immediately. He thus got rid of an attendant, who might have been in some
      degree a spy on his motions. He then exchanged the dress he usually wore
      for one more suited to travelling; and, having put a change or two of
      linen into a small cloak-bag, selected as arms a strong double-edged sword
      and an excellent pair of pistols, which last he carefully loaded with
      double bullets. Thus appointed, and with twenty pieces in his purse, and
      the bills we have mentioned secured in a private pocket-book, he was in
      readiness to depart as soon as he should receive the Countess's commands.
    </p>
    <p>
      The buoyant spirit of youth and hope, which had, for a moment, been
      chilled by the painful and dubious circumstances in which he was placed,
      as well as the deprivation which he was about to undergo, now revived in
      full vigour. Fancy, turning from more painful anticipations, suggested to
      him that he was now entering upon life, at a crisis when resolution and
      talents were almost certain to make the fortune of their possessor. How
      could he make a more honourable entry on the bustling scene, than sent by,
      and acting in behalf of, one of the noblest houses in England; and should
      he perform what his charge might render incumbent with the resolution and
      the prudence necessary to secure success, how many occurrences might take
      place to render his mediation necessary to Bridgenorth; and thus enable
      him, on the most equal and honourable terms, to establish a claim to his
      gratitude and to his daughter's hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whilst he was dwelling on such pleasing, though imaginary prospects, he
      could not help exclaiming aloud&mdash;"Yes, Alice, I will win thee nobly!"
      The words had scarce escaped his lips, when he heard at the door of his
      apartment, which the servant had left ajar, a sound like a deep sigh,
      which was instantly succeeded by a gentle tap&mdash;"Come in," replied
      Julian, somewhat ashamed of his exclamation, and not a little afraid that
      it had been caught up by some eavesdropper&mdash;"Come in," he again
      repeated; but his command was not obeyed; on the contrary, the knock was
      repeated somewhat louder. He opened the door, and Fenella stood before
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      With eyes that seemed red with recent tears, and with a look of the
      deepest dejection, the little mute, first touching her bosom, and
      beckoning with her finger, made to him the usual sign that the Countess
      desired to see him&mdash;then turned, as if to usher him to her apartment.
      As he followed her through the long gloomy vaulted passages which afforded
      communication betwixt the various apartments of the castle, he could not
      but observe that her usual light trip was exchanged for a tardy and
      mournful step, which she accompanied with low inarticulate moaning (which
      she was probably the less able to suppress, because she could not judge
      how far it was audible), and also with wringing of the hands, and other
      marks of extreme affliction.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a thought came across Peveril's mind, which, in spite of
      his better reason, made him shudder involuntarily. As a Peaksman, and a
      long resident in the Isle of Man, he was well acquainted with many a
      superstitious legend, and particularly with a belief, which attached to
      the powerful family of the Stanleys, for their peculiar demon, a Banshie,
      or female spirit, who was wont to shriek "foreboding evil times;" and who
      was generally seen weeping and bemoaning herself before the death of any
      person of distinction belonging to the family. For an instant, Julian
      could scarcely divest himself of the belief that the wailing, jibbering
      form, which glided before him, with a lamp in her hand, was a genius of
      his mother's race, come to announce to him as an analogous reflection,
      that if the suspicion which had crossed his mind concerning Fenella was a
      just one, her ill-fated attachment to him, like that of the prophetic
      spirit to his family, could bode nothing but disaster, and lamentation,
      and woe.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           Now, hoist the anchor, mates&mdash;and let the sails
           Give their broad bosom to the buxom wind,
           Like lass that woos a lover.
                                               &mdash;ANONYMOUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      The presence of the Countess dispelled the superstitious feeling, which,
      for an instant, had encroached on Julian's imagination, and compelled him
      to give attention to the matters of ordinary life. "Here are your
      credentials," she said, giving him a small packet, carefully packed up in
      a sealskin cover; "you had better not open them till you come to London.
      You must not be surprised to find that there are one or two addressed to
      men of my own persuasion. These, for all our sakes, you will observe
      caution in delivering."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I go your messenger, madam," said Peveril; "and whatever you desire me to
      charge myself with, of that I undertake the care. Yet allow me to doubt
      whether an intercourse with Catholics will at this moment forward the
      purposes of my mission."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have caught the general suspicion of this wicked sect already," said
      the Countess, smiling, "and are the fitter to go amongst Englishmen in
      their present mood. But, my cautious friend, these letters are so
      addressed, and the persons to whom they are addressed so disguised, that
      you will run no danger in conversing with them. Without their aid, indeed,
      you will not be able to obtain the accurate information you go in search
      of. None can tell so exactly how the wind sets, as the pilot whose vessel
      is exposed to the storm. Besides, though you Protestants deny our
      priesthood the harmlessness of the dove, you are ready enough to allow us
      a full share of the wisdom of the serpent; in plain terms, their means of
      information are extensive, and they are not deficient in the power of
      applying it. I therefore wish you to have the benefit of their
      intelligence and advice, if possible."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whatever you impose upon me as a part of my duty, madam, rely on its
      being discharged punctually," answered Peveril. "And, now, as there is
      little use in deferring the execution of a purpose when once fixed, let me
      know your ladyship's wishes concerning my departure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It must be sudden and secret," said the Countess; "the island is full of
      spies; and I would not wish that any of them should have notice that an
      envoy of mine was about to leave Man for London. Can you be ready to go on
      board to-morrow?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To-night&mdash;this instant if you will," said Julian,&mdash;"my little
      preparations are complete."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be ready, then, in your chamber, at two hours after midnight. I will send
      one to summon you, for our secret must be communicated, for the present,
      to as few as possible. A foreign sloop is engaged to carry you over; then
      make the best of your way to London, by Martindale Castle, or otherwise,
      as you find most advisable. When it is necessary to announce your absence,
      I will say you are gone to see your parents. But stay&mdash;your journey
      will be on horseback, of course, from Whitehaven. You have bills of
      exchange, it is true; but are you provided with ready money to furnish
      yourself with a good horse?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am sufficiently rich, madam," answered Julian; "and good nags are
      plenty in Cumberland. There are those among them who know how to come by
      them good and cheap."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Trust not to that," said the Countess. "Here is what will purchase for
      you the best horse on the Borders.&mdash;Can you be simple enough to
      refuse it?" she added, as she pressed on him a heavy purse, which he saw
      himself obliged to accept.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A good horse, Julian," continued the Countess, "and a good sword, next to
      a good heart and head, are the accomplishments of a cavalier."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I kiss your hands, then, madam," said Peveril, "and humbly beg you to
      believe, that whatever may fail in my present undertaking, my purpose to
      serve you, my noble kinswoman and benefactress, can at least never swerve
      or falter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know it, my son, I know it; and may God forgive me if my anxiety for
      your friend has sent you on dangers which should have been his! Go&mdash;go&mdash;May
      saints and angels bless you! Fenella shall acquaint him that you sup in
      your own apartment. So indeed will I; for to-night I should be unable to
      face my son's looks. Little will he thank me for sending you on his
      errand; and there will be many to ask, whether it was like the Lady of
      Latham to trust her friend's son on the danger which should have been
      braved by her own. But oh! Julian, I am now a forlorn widow, whom sorrow
      has made selfish!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tush, madam," answered Peveril; "it is more unlike the Lady of Latham to
      anticipate dangers which may not exist at all, and to which, if they do
      indeed occur, I am less obnoxious than my noble kinsman. Farewell!&mdash;All
      blessings attend you, madam. Commend me to Derby, and make him my excuses.
      I shall expect a summons at two hours after midnight."
    </p>
    <p>
      They took an affectionate leave of each other; the more affectionate,
      indeed, on the part of the Countess, that she could not entirely reconcile
      her generous mind to exposing Peveril to danger on her son's behalf; and
      Julian betook himself to his solitary apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      His servant soon afterwards brought him wine and refreshments; to which,
      notwithstanding the various matters he had to occupy his mind, he
      contrived to do reasonable justice. But when this needful occupation was
      finished, his thoughts began to stream in upon him like a troubled tide&mdash;at
      once recalling the past, and anticipating the future. It was in vain that
      he wrapped himself in his riding cloak, and, lying down on his bed,
      endeavoured to compose himself to sleep. The uncertainty of the prospect
      before him&mdash;the doubt how Bridgenorth might dispose of his daughter
      during his absence&mdash;the fear that the Major himself might fall into
      the power of the vindictive Countess, besides a numerous train of vague
      and half-formed apprehensions, agitated his blood, and rendered slumber
      impossible. Alternately to recline in the old oaken easy-chair, and listen
      to the dashing of the waves under the windows, mingled, as the sound was,
      with the scream of the sea-birds; or traverse the apartment with long and
      slow steps, pausing occasionally to look out on the sea, slumbering under
      the influence of a full moon, which tipped each wave with silver&mdash;such
      were the only pastimes he could invent, until midnight had passed for one
      hour; the next was wasted in anxious expectation of the summons of
      departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length it arrived&mdash;a tap at his door was followed by a low murmur,
      which made him suspect that the Countess had again employed her mute
      attendant as the most secure minister of her pleasure on this occasion. He
      felt something like impropriety in this selection; and it was with a
      feeling of impatience alien to the natural generosity of his temper, that,
      when he opened the door, he beheld the dumb maiden standing before him.
      The lamp which he held in his hand showed his features distinctly, and
      probably made Fenella aware of the expression which animated them. She
      cast her large dark eyes mournfully on the ground; and, without again
      looking him in the face, made him a signal to follow her. He delayed no
      longer than was necessary to secure his pistols in his belt, wrap his
      cloak closer around him, and take his small portmanteau under his arm.
      Thus accoutred, he followed her out of the Keep, or inhabited part of the
      Castle, by a series of obscure passages leading to a postern gate, which
      she unlocked with a key, selected from a bundle which she carried at her
      girdle.
    </p>
    <p>
      They now stood in the castle-yard, in the open moonlight, which glimmered
      white and ghastly on the variety of strange and ruinous objects to which
      we have formerly alluded, and which gave the scene rather the appearance
      of some ancient cemetery, than of the interior of a fortification. The
      round and elevated tower&mdash;the ancient mount, with its quadrangular
      sides facing the ruinous edifices which once boasted the name of Cathedral&mdash;seemed
      of yet more antique and anomalous form, when seen by the pale light which
      now displayed them. To one of these churches Fenella took the direct
      course, and was followed by Julian; although he at once divined, and was
      superstitious enough to dislike, the path which she was about to adopt. It
      was by a secret passage through this church that in former times the
      guard-room of the garrison, situated at the lower and external defences,
      communicated with the Keep of the Castle; and through this passage were
      the keys of the Castle every night carried to the Governor's apartment, so
      soon as the gates were locked, and the watch set. The custom was given up
      in James the First's time, and the passage abandoned, on account of the
      well-known legend of the <i>Mauthe Dog</i>&mdash;a fiend, or demon, in the
      shape of a large, shaggy, black mastiff, by which the church was said to
      be haunted. It was devoutly believed, that in former times this spectre
      became so familiar with mankind, as to appear nightly in the guard-room,
      issuing from the passage which we have mentioned at night, and retiring to
      it at daybreak. The soldiers became partly familiarised to its presence;
      yet not so much so as to use any licence of language while the apparition
      was visible; until one fellow, rendered daring by intoxication, swore he
      would know whether it was dog or devil, and, with his drawn sword,
      followed the spectre when it retreated by the usual passage. The man
      returned in a few minutes, sobered by terror, his mouth gaping, and his
      hair standing on end, under which horror he died; but, unhappily for the
      lovers of the marvellous, altogether unable to disclose the horrors which
      he had seen. Under the evil repute arising from this tale of wonder, the
      guard-room was abandoned, and a new one constructed. In like manner, the
      guards after that period held another and more circuitous communication
      with the Governor or Seneschal of the Castle; and that which lay through
      the ruinous church was entirely abandoned.
    </p>
    <p>
      In defiance of the legendary terrors which tradition had attached to the
      original communication, Fenella, followed by Peveril, now boldly traversed
      the ruinous vaults through which it lay&mdash;sometimes only guided over
      heaps of ruins by the precarious light of the lamp borne by the dumb
      maiden&mdash;sometimes having the advantage of a gleam of moonlight,
      darting into the dreary abyss through the shafted windows, or through
      breaches made by time. As the path was by no means a straight one, Peveril
      could not but admire the intimate acquaintance with the mazes which his
      singular companion displayed, as well as the boldness with which she
      traversed them. He himself was not so utterly void of the prejudices of
      the times, but that he contemplated, with some apprehension, the
      possibility of their intruding on the lair of the phantom hound, of which
      he had heard so often; and in every remote sight of the breeze among the
      ruins, he thought he heard him baying at the mortal footsteps which
      disturbed his gloomy realm. No such terrors, however, interrupted their
      journey; and in the course of a few minutes, they attained the deserted
      and now ruinous guard-house. The broken walls of the little edifice served
      to conceal them from the sentinels, one of whom was keeping a drowsy watch
      at the lower gate of the Castle; whilst another, seated on the stone steps
      which communicated with the parapet of the bounding and exterior wall, was
      slumbering, in full security, with his musket peacefully grounded by his
      side. Fenella made a sign to Peveril to move with silence and caution, and
      then showed him, to his surprise, from the window of the deserted
      guard-room, a boat, for it was now high water, with four rowers, lurking
      under the cliff on which the castle was built; and made him farther
      sensible that he was to have access to it by a ladder of considerable
      height placed at the window of the ruin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was both displeased and alarmed by the security and carelessness of
      the sentinels, who had suffered such preparations to be made without
      observation or alarm given; and he hesitated whether he should not call
      the officer of the guard, upbraid him with negligence, and show him how
      easily Holm-Peel, in spite of its natural strength, and although reported
      impregnable, might be surprised by a few resolute men. Fenella seemed to
      guess his thoughts with that extreme acuteness of observation which her
      deprivations had occasioned her acquiring. She laid one hand on his arm,
      and a finger of the other on her own lips, as if to enjoin forbearance;
      and Julian, knowing that she acted by the direct authority of the
      Countess, obeyed her accordingly; but with the internal resolution to lose
      no time in communicating his sentiments to the Earl, concerning the danger
      to which the Castle was exposed on this point.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime, he descended the ladder with some precaution, for the
      steps were unequal, broken, wet, and slippery; and having placed himself
      in the stern of the boat, made a signal to the men to push off, and turned
      to take farewell of his guide. To his utter astonishment, Fenella rather
      slid down, than descended regularly, the perilous ladder, and, the boat
      being already pushed off, made a spring from the last step of it with
      incredible agility, and seated herself beside Peveril, ere he could
      express either remonstrance or surprise. He commanded the men once more to
      pull in to the precarious landing-place; and throwing into his countenance
      a part of the displeasure which he really felt, endeavoured to make her
      comprehend the necessity of returning to her mistress. Fenella folded her
      arms, and looked at him with a haughty smile, which completely expressed
      the determination of her purpose. Peveril was extremely embarrassed; he
      was afraid of offending the Countess, and interfering with her plan, by
      giving alarm, which otherwise he was much tempted to have done. On
      Fenella, it was evident, no species of argument which he could employ was
      likely to make the least impression; and the question remained, how, if
      she went on with him, he was to rid himself of so singular and
      inconvenient a companion, and provide, at the same time, sufficiently for
      her personal security.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boatmen brought the matter to a decision; for, after lying on their
      oars for a minute, and whispering among themselves in Low Dutch or German,
      they began to pull stoutly, and were soon at some distance from the
      Castle. The possibility of the sentinels sending a musket-ball, or even a
      cannon-shot, after them, was one of the contingencies which gave Peveril
      momentary anxiety; but they left the fortress, as they must have
      approached it, unnoticed, or at least unchallenged&mdash;a carelessness on
      the part of the garrison, which, notwithstanding that the oars were
      muffled, and that the men spoke little, and in whispers, argued, in
      Peveril's opinion, great negligence on the part of the sentinels. When
      they were a little way from the Castle, the men began to row briskly
      towards a small vessel which lay at some distance. Peveril had, in the
      meantime, leisure to remark, that the boatmen spoke to each other
      doubtfully, and bent anxious looks on Fenella, as if uncertain whether
      they had acted properly in bringing her off.
    </p>
    <p>
      After about a quarter of an hour's rowing, they reached the little sloop,
      where Peveril was received by the skipper, or captain, on the
      quarter-deck, with an offer of spirits or refreshments. A word or two
      among the seamen withdrew the captain from his hospitable cares, and he
      flew to the ship's side, apparently to prevent Fenella from entering the
      vessel. The men and he talked eagerly in Dutch, looking anxiously at
      Fenella as they spoke together; and Peveril hoped the result would be,
      that the poor woman should be sent ashore again. But she baffled whatever
      opposition could be offered to her; and when the accommodation-ladder, as
      it is called, was withdrawn, she snatched the end of a rope, and climbed
      on board with the dexterity of a sailor, leaving them no means of
      preventing her entrance, save by actual violence, to which apparently they
      did not choose to have recourse. Once on deck, she took the captain by the
      sleeve, and led him to the head of the vessel, where they seemed to hold
      intercourse in a manner intelligible to both.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril soon forgot the presence of the mute, as he began to muse upon his
      own situation, and the probability that he was separated for some
      considerable time from the object of his affections. "Constancy," he
      repeated to himself,&mdash;"Constancy." And, as if in coincidence with the
      theme of his reflections, he fixed his eyes on the polar star, which that
      night twinkled with more than ordinary brilliancy. Emblem of pure passion
      and steady purpose&mdash;the thoughts which arose as he viewed its clear
      and unchanging light, were disinterested and noble. To seek his country's
      welfare, and secure the blessings of domestic peace&mdash;to discharge a
      bold and perilous duty to his friend and patron&mdash;to regard his
      passion for Alice Bridgenorth, as the loadstar which was to guide him to
      noble deeds&mdash;were the resolutions which thronged upon his mind, and
      which exalted his spirits to that state of romantic melancholy, which
      perhaps is ill exchanged even for feelings of joyful rapture.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was recalled from those contemplations by something which nestled
      itself softly and closely to his side&mdash;a woman's sigh sounded so near
      him, as to disturb his reverie; and as he turned his head, he saw Fenella
      seated beside him, with her eyes fixed on the same star which had just
      occupied his own. His first emotion was that of displeasure; but it was
      impossible to persevere in it towards a being so helpless in many
      respects, so interesting in others; whose large dark eyes were filled with
      dew, which glistened in the moonlight; and the source of whose emotions
      seemed to be in a partiality which might well claim indulgence, at least
      from him who was the object of it. At the same time, Julian resolved to
      seize the present opportunity, for such expostulations with Fenella on the
      strangeness of her conduct, as the poor maiden might be able to
      comprehend. He took her hand with great kindness, but at the same time
      with much gravity, pointed to the boat, and to the Castle, whose towers
      and extended walls were now scarce visible in the distance; and thus
      intimated to her the necessity of her return to Holm-Peel. She looked
      down, and shook her head, as if negativing his proposal with obstinate
      decision. Julian renewed his expostulation by look and gesture&mdash;pointed
      to his own heart, to intimate the Countess&mdash;and bent his brows, to
      show the displeasure which she must entertain. To all which the maiden
      only answered by her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, as if driven to explanation by his continued remonstrances, she
      suddenly seized him by the arm, to arrest his attention&mdash;cast her eye
      hastily around, as if to see whether she was watched by any one&mdash;then
      drew the other hand, edge-wise, across her slender throat&mdash;pointed to
      the boat, and to the Castle, and nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this series of signs, Peveril could put no interpretation, excepting
      that he was menaced with some personal danger, from which Fenella seemed
      to conceive that her presence was a protection. Whatever was her meaning,
      her purpose seemed unalterably adopted; at least it was plain he had no
      power to shake it. He must therefore wait till the end of their short
      voyage, to disembarrass himself of his companion; and, in the meanwhile,
      acting on the idea of her having harboured a misplaced attachment to him,
      he thought he should best consult her interest, and his own character, in
      keeping at as great a distance from her as circumstances admitted. With
      this purpose, he made the sign she used for going to sleep, by leaning his
      head on his palm; and having thus recommended to her to go to rest, he
      himself desired to be conducted to his berth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain readily showed him a hammock, in the after-cabin, into which
      he threw himself, to seek that repose which the exercise and agitation of
      the preceding day, as well as the lateness of the hour, made him now feel
      desirable. Sleep, deep and heavy, sunk down on him in a few minutes, but
      it did not endure long. In his sleep he was disturbed by female cries; and
      at length, as he thought, distinctly heard the voice of Alice Bridgenorth
      call on his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      He awoke, and starting up to quit his bed, became sensible, from the
      motion of the vessel, and the swinging of the hammock, that his dream had
      deceived him. He was still startled by its extreme vivacity and
      liveliness. "Julian Peveril, help! Julian Peveril!" The sounds still rung
      in his ears&mdash;the accents were those of Alice&mdash;and he could
      scarce persuade himself that his imagination had deceived him. Could she
      be in the same vessel? The thought was not altogether inconsistent with
      her father's character, and the intrigues in which he was engaged; but
      then, if so, to what peril was she exposed, that she invoked his name so
      loudly?
    </p>
    <p>
      Determined to make instant inquiry, he jumped out of his hammock,
      half-dressed as he was, and stumbling about the little cabin, which was as
      dark as pitch, at length, with considerable difficulty, reached the door.
      The door, however, he was altogether unable to open; and was obliged to
      call loudly to the watch upon deck. The skipper, or captain, as he was
      called, being the only person aboard who could speak English, answered to
      the summons, and replied to Peveril's demand, what noise that was?&mdash;that
      a boat was going off with the young woman&mdash;that she whimpered a
      little as she left the vessel&mdash;and "dat vaas all."
    </p>
    <p>
      His dream was thus fully explained. Fancy had caught up the inarticulate
      and vehement cries with which Fenella was wont to express resistance or
      displeasure&mdash;had coined them into language, and given them the
      accents of Alice Bridgenorth. Our imagination plays wilder tricks with us
      almost every night.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain now undid the door, and appeared with a lantern; without the
      aid of which Peveril could scarce have regained his couch, where he now
      slumbered secure and sound, until day was far advanced, and the invitation
      of the captain called him up to breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           Now, what is this that haunts me like my shadow,
           Frisking and mumming like an elf in moonlight!
                                               &mdash;BEN JONSON.
</pre>
    <p>
      Peveril found the master of the vessel rather less rude than those in his
      station of life usually are, and received from him full satisfaction
      concerning the fate of Fenella, upon whom the captain bestowed a hearty
      curse, for obliging him to lay-to until he had sent his boat ashore, and
      had her back again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hope," said Peveril, "no violence was necessary to reconcile her to go
      ashore? I trust she offered no foolish resistance?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Resist! mein Gott," said the captain, "she did resist like a troop of
      horse&mdash;she did cry, you might hear her at Whitehaven&mdash;she did go
      up the rigging like a cat up a chimney; but dat vas ein trick of her old
      trade."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What trade do you mean?" said Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh," said the seaman, "I vas know more about her than you, Meinheer. I
      vas know that she vas a little, very little girl, and prentice to one
      seiltanzer, when my lady yonder had the good luck to buy her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A seiltanzer!" said Peveril; "what do you mean by that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I mean a rope-danzer, a mountebank, a Hans pickel-harring. I vas know
      Adrian Brackel vell&mdash;he sell de powders dat empty men's stomach, and
      fill him's own purse. Not know Adrian Brackel, mein Gott! I have smoked
      many a pound of tabak with him."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril now remembered that Fenella had been brought into the family when
      he and the young Earl were in England, and while the Countess was absent
      on an expedition to the continent. Where the Countess found her, she never
      communicated to the young men; but only intimated, that she had received
      her out of compassion, in order to relieve her from a situation of extreme
      distress.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hinted so much to the communicative seaman, who replied, "that for
      distress he knew nocht's on't; only, that Adrian Brackel beat her when she
      would not dance on the rope, and starved her when she did, to prevent her
      growth." The bargain between the countess and the mountebank, he said, he
      had made himself; because the Countess had hired his brig upon her
      expedition to the continent. None else knew where she came from. The
      Countess had seen her on a public stage at Ostend&mdash;compassionated her
      helpless situation, and the severe treatment she received&mdash;and had
      employed him to purchase the poor creature from her master, and charged
      him with silence towards all her retinue.&mdash;"And so I do keep
      silence," continued the faithful confidant, "van I am in the havens of
      Man; but when I am on the broad seas, den my tongue is mine own, you know.
      Die foolish beoples in the island, they say she is a wechsel-balg&mdash;what
      you call a fairy-elf changeling. My faith, they do not never have seen ein
      wechsel-balg; for I saw one myself at Cologne, and it was twice as big as
      yonder girl, and did break the poor people, with eating them up, like de
      great big cuckoo in the sparrow's nest; but this Venella eat no more than
      other girls&mdash;it was no wechsel-balg in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      By a different train of reasoning, Julian had arrived at the same
      conclusion; in which, therefore, he heartily acquiesced. During the
      seaman's prosing, he was reflecting within himself, how much of the
      singular flexibility of her limbs and movements the unfortunate girl must
      have derived from the discipline and instructions of Adrian Brackel; and
      also how far the germs of her wilful and capricious passions might have
      been sown during her wandering and adventurous childhood. Aristocratic,
      also, as his education had been, these anecdotes respecting Fenella's
      original situation and education, rather increased his pleasure of having
      shaken off her company; and yet he still felt desirous to know any farther
      particulars which the seaman could communicate on the same subject. But he
      had already told all he knew. Of her parents he knew nothing, except that
      "her father must have been a damned hundsfoot, and a schelm, for selling
      his own flesh and blood to Adrian Brackel;" for by such a transaction had
      the mountebank become possessed of his pupil.
    </p>
    <p>
      This conversation tended to remove any passing doubts which might have
      crept on Peveril's mind concerning the fidelity of the master of the
      vessel, who appeared from thence to have been a former acquaintance of the
      Countess, and to have enjoyed some share of her confidence. The
      threatening motion used by Fenella, he no longer considered as worthy of
      any notice, excepting as a new mark of the irritability of her temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      He amused himself with walking the deck, and musing on his past and future
      prospects, until his attention was forcibly arrested by the wind, which
      began to rise in gusts from the north-west, in a manner so unfavourable to
      the course they intended to hold, that the master, after many efforts to
      beat against it, declared his bark, which was by no means an excellent
      sea-boat, was unequal to making Whitehaven; and that he was compelled to
      make a fair wind of it, and run for Liverpool. To this course Peveril did
      not object. It saved him some land journey, in case he visited his
      father's castle; and the Countess's commission would be discharged as
      effectually the one way as the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      The vessel was put, accordingly, before the wind, and ran with great
      steadiness and velocity. The captain, notwithstanding, pleading some
      nautical hazards, chose to lie off, and did not attempt the mouth of the
      Mersey until morning, when Peveril had at length the satisfaction of being
      landed upon the quay of Liverpool, which even then showed symptoms of the
      commercial prosperity that has since been carried to such a height.
    </p>
    <p>
      The master, who was well acquainted with the port, pointed out to Julian a
      decent place of entertainment, chiefly frequented by seafaring people;
      for, although he had been in the town formerly, he did not think it proper
      to go anywhere at present where he might have been unnecessarily
      recognised. Here he took leave of the seaman, after pressing upon him with
      difficulty a small present for his crew. As for his passage, the captain
      declined any recompense whatever; and they parted upon the most civil
      terms.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inn to which he was recommended was full of strangers, seamen, and
      mercantile people, all intent upon their own affairs, and discussing them
      with noise and eagerness, peculiar to the business of a thriving seaport.
      But although the general clamour of the public room, in which the guests
      mixed with each other, related chiefly to their own commercial dealings,
      there was a general theme mingling with them, which was alike common and
      interesting to all; so that, amidst disputes about freight, tonnage,
      demurrage, and such like, were heard the emphatic sounds of "Deep,
      damnable, accursed plot,"&mdash;"Bloody Papist villains,"&mdash;"The King
      in danger&mdash;the gallows too good for them," and so forth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fermentation excited in London had plainly reached even this remote
      seaport, and was received by the inhabitants with the peculiar stormy
      energy which invests men in their situation with the character of the
      winds and waves with which they are chiefly conversant. The commercial and
      nautical interests of England were indeed particularly anti-Catholic;
      although it is not, perhaps, easy to give any distinct reason why they
      should be so, since theological disputes in general could scarce be
      considered as interesting to them. But zeal, amongst the lower orders at
      least, is often in an inverse ratio to knowledge; and sailors were not
      probably the less earnest and devoted Protestants, that they did not
      understand the controversy between the Churches. As for the merchants,
      they were almost necessarily inimical to the gentry of Lancashire and
      Cheshire; many of whom still retained the faith of Rome, which was
      rendered ten times more odious to the men of commerce, as the badge of
      their haughty aristocratic neighbours.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the little which Peveril heard of the sentiments of the people of
      Liverpool, he imagined he should act most prudently in leaving the place
      as soon as possible, and before any suspicion should arise of his having
      any connection with the party which appeared to have become so obnoxious.
    </p>
    <p>
      In order to accomplish his journey, it was first necessary that he should
      purchase a horse; and for this purpose he resolved to have recourse to the
      stables of a dealer well known at the time, and who dwelt in the outskirts
      of the place; and having obtained directions to his dwelling, he went
      thither to provide himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joe Bridlesley's stables exhibited a large choice of good horses; for that
      trade was in former days more active than at present. It was an ordinary
      thing for a stranger to buy a horse for the purpose of a single journey,
      and to sell him, as well as he could, when he had reached the point of his
      destination; and hence there was a constant demand, and a corresponding
      supply; upon both of which, Bridlesley, and those of his trade, contrived,
      doubtless, to make handsome profits.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, who was no despicable horse-jockey, selected for his purpose a
      strong well-made horse, about sixteen hands high, and had him led into the
      yard, to see whether the paces corresponded with his appearance. As these
      also gave perfect satisfaction to the customer, it remained only to settle
      the price with Bridlesley; who of course swore his customer had pitched
      upon the best horse ever darkened the stable-door, since he had dealt that
      way; that no such horses were to be had nowadays, for that the mares were
      dead that foaled them; and having named a corresponding price, the usual
      haggling commenced betwixt the seller and purchaser, for adjustment of
      what the French dealers call <i>le prix juste</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reader, if he be at all acquainted with this sort of traffic, well
      knows it is generally a keen encounter of wits, and attracts the notice of
      all the idlers within hearing, who are usually very ready to offer their
      opinions, or their evidence. Amongst these, upon the present occasion, was
      a thin man, rather less than the ordinary size, and meanly dressed; but
      whose interference was in a confident tone, and such as showed himself
      master of the subject on which he spoke. The price of the horse being
      settled to about fifteen pounds, which was very high for the period, that
      of the saddle and bridle had next to be adjusted, and the thin
      mean-looking person before-mentioned, found nearly as much to say on this
      subject as on the other. As his remarks had a conciliating and obliging
      tendency towards the stranger, Peveril concluded he was one of those idle
      persons, who, unable or unwilling to supply themselves with the means of
      indulgence at their own cost, do not scruple to deserve them at the hands
      of others, by a little officious complaisance; and considering that he
      might acquire some useful information from such a person, was just about
      to offer him the courtesy of a morning draught, when he observed he had
      suddenly left the yard. He had scarce remarked this circumstance, before a
      party of customers entered the place, whose haughty assumption of
      importance claimed the instant attention of Bridlesley, and all his
      militia of grooms and stable-boys.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Three good horses," said the leader of the party, a tall bulky man, whose
      breath was drawn full and high, under a consciousness of fat, and of
      importance&mdash;"three good and able-bodied horses, for the service of
      the Commons of England."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridlesley said he had some horses which might serve the Speaker himself
      at need; but that, to speak Christian truth, he had just sold the best in
      his stable to that gentleman present, who, doubtless, would give up the
      bargain if the horse was needed for the service of the State.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak well, friend," said the important personage; and advancing to
      Julian, demanded, in a very haughty tone, the surrender of the purchase
      which he had just made.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril, with some difficulty, subdued the strong desire which he felt to
      return a round refusal to so unreasonable a request, but fortunately,
      recollecting that the situation in which he at present stood, required, on
      his part, much circumspection, he replied simply, that upon showing him
      any warrant to seize upon horses for the public service, he must of course
      submit to resign his purchase.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man, with an air of extreme dignity, pulled from his pocket, and
      thrust into Peveril's hand, a warrant, subscribed by the Speaker of the
      House of Commons, empowering Charles Topham, their officer of the Black
      Rod, to pursue and seize upon the persons of certain individuals named in
      the warrant; and of all other persons who are, or should be, accused by
      competent witnesses, of being accessory to, or favourers of, the hellish
      and damnable Popish Plot, at present carried on within the bowels of the
      kingdom; and charging all men, as they loved their allegiance, to render
      the said Charles Topham their readiest and most effective assistance, in
      execution of the duty entrusted to his care.
    </p>
    <p>
      On perusing a document of such weighty import, Julian had no hesitation to
      give up his horse to this formidable functionary; whom somebody compared
      to a lion, which, as the House of Commons was pleased to maintain such an
      animal, they were under the necessity of providing for by frequent
      commitments; until "<i>Take him, Topham</i>," became a proverb, and a
      formidable one, in the mouth of the public.
    </p>
    <p>
      The acquiescence of Peveril procured him some grace in the sight of the
      emissary; who, before selecting two horses for his attendants, gave
      permission to the stranger to purchase a grey horse, much inferior,
      indeed, to that which he had resigned, both in form and in action, but
      very little lower in price, as Mr. Bridlesley, immediately on learning the
      demand for horses upon the part of the Commons of England, had passed a
      private resolution in his own mind, augmenting the price of his whole
      stud, by an imposition of at least twenty per cent., <i>ad valorem</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril adjusted and paid the price with much less argument than on the
      former occasion; for, to be plain with the reader, he had noticed in the
      warrant of Mr. Topham, the name of his father, Sir Geoffrey Peveril of
      Martindale Castle, engrossed at full length, as one of those subjected to
      arrest by that officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      When aware of this material fact, it became Julian's business to leave
      Liverpool directly, and carry the alarm to Derbyshire, if, indeed, Mr.
      Topham had not already executed his charge in that county, which he
      thought unlikely, as it was probable they would commence by securing those
      who lived nearest to the seaports. A word or two which he overheard
      strengthened his hopes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And hark ye, friend," said Mr. Topham; "you will have the horses at the
      door of Mr. Shortell, the mercer, in two hours, as we shall refresh
      ourselves there with a cool tankard, and learn what folks live in the
      neighbourhood that may be concerned in my way. And you will please to have
      that saddle padded, for I am told the Derbyshire roads are rough.&mdash;And
      you, Captain Dangerfield, and Master Everett, you must put on your
      Protestant spectacles, and show me where there is the shadow of a priest,
      or of a priest's favourer; for I am come down with a broom in my cap to
      sweep this north country of such like cattle."
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the persons he thus addressed, who wore the garb of a broken-down
      citizen, only answered, "Ay, truly, Master Topham, it is time to purge the
      garner."
    </p>
    <p>
      The other, who had a formidable pair of whiskers, a red nose, and a
      tarnished laced coat, together with a hat of Pistol's dimensions, was more
      loquacious. "I take it on my damnation," said this zealous Protestant
      witness, "that I will discover the marks of the beast on every one of them
      betwixt sixteen and seventy, as plainly as if they had crossed themselves
      with ink, instead of holy water. Since we have a King willing to do
      justice, and a House of Commons to uphold prosecutions, why, damn me, the
      cause must not stand still for lack of evidence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stick to that, noble captain," answered the officer; "but, prithee,
      reserve thy oaths for the court of justice; it is but sheer waste to throw
      them away, as you do in your ordinary conversation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear you nothing, Master Topham," answered Dangerfield; "it is right to
      keep a man's gifts in use; and were I altogether to renounce oaths in my
      private discourse, how should I know how to use one when I needed it? But
      you hear me use none of your Papist abjurations. I swear not by the mass,
      or before George, or by anything that belongs to idolatry; but such
      downright oaths as may serve a poor Protestant gentleman, who would fain
      serve Heaven and the King."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bravely spoken, most noble Festus," said his yoke-fellow. "But do not
      suppose, that although I am not in the habit of garnishing my words with
      oaths out of season, I shall be wanting, when called upon, to declare the
      height and the depth, the width and the length, of this hellish plot
      against the King and the Protestant faith."
    </p>
    <p>
      Dizzy, and almost sick, with listening to the undisguised brutality of
      these fellows, Peveril, having with difficulty prevailed on Bridlesley to
      settle his purchase, at length led forth his grey steed; but was scarce
      out of the yard, when he heard the following alarming conversation pass,
      of which he seemed himself the object.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who is that youth?" said the slow soft voice of the more precise of the
      two witnesses. "Methinks I have seen him somewhere before. Is he from
      these parts?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not that I know of," said Bridlesley; who, like all the other inhabitants
      of England at the time, answered the interrogatories of these fellows with
      the deference which is paid in Spain to the questions of an inquisitor. "A
      stranger&mdash;entirely a stranger&mdash;never saw him before&mdash;a wild
      young colt, I warrant him; and knows a horse's mouth as well as I do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I begin to bethink me I saw such a face as his at the Jesuits' consult,
      in the White Horse Tavern," answered Everett.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I think I recollect," said Captain Dangerfield&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, come, master and captain," said the authoritative voice of Topham,
      "we will have none of your recollections at present. We all know what
      these are likely to end in. But I will have you know, you are not to run
      till the leash is slipped. The young man is a well-looking lad, and gave
      up his horse handsomely for the service of the House of Commons. He knows
      how to behave himself to his betters, I warrant you; and I scarce think he
      has enough in his purse to pay the fees."
    </p>
    <p>
      This speech concluded the dialogue, which Peveril, finding himself so much
      concerned in the issue, thought it best to hear to an end. Now, when it
      ceased, to get out of the town unobserved, and take the nearest way to his
      father's castle, seemed his wisest plan. He had settled his reckoning at
      the inn, and brought with him to Bridlesley's the small portmanteau which
      contained his few necessaries, so that he had no occasion to return
      thither. He resolved, therefore, to ride some miles before he stopped,
      even for the purpose of feeding his horse; and being pretty well
      acquainted with the country, he hoped to be able to push forward to
      Martindale Castle sooner than the worshipful Master Topham; whose saddle
      was, in the first place, to be padded, and who, when mounted, would, in
      all probability, ride with the precaution of those who require such
      security against the effects of a hard trot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under the influence of these feelings, Julian pushed for Warrington, a
      place with which he was well acquainted; but, without halting in the town,
      he crossed the Mersey, by the bridge built by an ancestor of his friend
      the Earl of Derby, and continued his route towards Dishley, on the borders
      of Derbyshire. He might have reached this latter village easily, had his
      horse been fitter for a forced march; but in the course of the journey, he
      had occasion, more than once, to curse the official dignity of the person
      who had robbed him of his better steed, while taking the best direction he
      could through a country with which he was only generally acquainted.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, near Altringham, a halt became unavoidable; and Peveril had
      only to look for some quiet and sequestered place of refreshment. This
      presented itself, in the form of a small cluster of cottages; the best of
      which united the characters of an alehouse and a mill, where the sign of
      the Cat (the landlord's faithful ally in defence of his meal-sacks),
      booted as high as Grimalkin in the fairy tale, and playing on the fiddle
      for the more grace, announced that John Whitecraft united the two honest
      occupations of landlord and miller; and, doubtless, took toll from the
      public in both capacities.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a place promised a traveller, who journeyed incognito, safer, if not
      better accommodation, than he was like to meet with in more frequented
      inns; and at the door of the Cat and Fiddle, Julian halted accordingly.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           In these distracted times, when each man dreads
           The bloody stratagems of busy hands.
                                                       &mdash;OTWAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      At the door of the Cat and Fiddle, Julian received the usual attention
      paid to the customers of an inferior house of entertainment. His horse was
      carried by a ragged lad, who acted as hostler, into a paltry stable;
      where, however, the nag was tolerably supplied with food and litter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having seen the animal on which his comfort, perhaps his safety, depended,
      properly provided for, Peveril entered the kitchen, which indeed was also
      the parlour and hall of the little hostelry, to try what refreshment he
      could obtain for himself. Much to his satisfaction, he found there was
      only one guest in the house besides himself; but he was less pleased when
      he found that he must either go without dinner, or share with that single
      guest the only provisions which chanced to be in the house, namely, a dish
      of trouts and eels, which their host, the miller, had brought in from his
      mill-stream.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the particular request of Julian, the landlady undertook to add a
      substantial dish of eggs and bacon, which perhaps she would not have
      undertaken for, had not the sharp eye of Peveril discovered the flitch
      hanging in its smoky retreat, when, as its presence could not be denied,
      the hostess was compelled to bring it forward as a part of her supplies.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a buxom dame about thirty, whose comely and cheerful countenance
      did honour to the choice of the jolly miller, her loving mate; and was now
      stationed under the shade of an old-fashioned huge projecting chimney,
      within which it was her province to "work i' the fire," and provide for
      the wearied wayfaring man, the good things which were to send him
      rejoicing on his course. Although, at first, the honest woman seemed
      little disposed to give herself much additional trouble on Julian's
      account, yet the good looks, handsome figure, and easy civility of her new
      guest, soon bespoke the principal part of her attention; and while busy in
      his service, she regarded him, from time to time, with looks, where
      something like pity mingled with complacency. The rich smoke of the
      rasher, and the eggs with which it was flanked, already spread itself
      through the apartment; and the hissing of these savoury viands bore chorus
      to the simmering of the pan, in which the fish were undergoing a slower
      decoction. The table was covered with a clean huck-aback napkin, and all
      was in preparation for the meal, which Julian began to expect with a good
      deal of impatience, when the companion, who was destined to share it with
      him, entered the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the first glance Julian recognised, to his surprise, the same
      indifferently dressed, thin-looking person, who, during the first bargain
      which he had made with Bridlesley, had officiously interfered with his
      advice and opinion. Displeased at having the company of any stranger
      forced upon him, Peveril was still less satisfied to find one who might
      make some claim of acquaintance with him, however slender, since the
      circumstances in which he stood compelled him to be as reserved as
      possible. He therefore turned his back upon his destined messmate, and
      pretended to amuse himself by looking out of the window, determined to
      avoid all intercourse until it should be inevitably forced upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, the other stranger went straight up to the landlady,
      where she toiled on household cares intent, and demanded of her, what she
      meant by preparing bacon and eggs, when he had positively charged her to
      get nothing ready but the fish.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good woman, important as every cook in the discharge of her duty,
      deigned not for some time so much as to acknowledge that she heard the
      reproof of her guest; and when she did so, it was only to repel it in a
      magisterial and authoritative tone.&mdash;"If he did not like bacon&mdash;(bacon
      from their own hutch, well fed on pease and bran)&mdash;if he did not like
      bacon and eggs&mdash;(new-laid eggs, which she had brought in from the
      hen-roost with her own hands)&mdash;why so put case&mdash;it was the worse
      for his honour, and the better for those who did."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The better for those who like them?" answered the guest; "that is as much
      as to say I am to have a companion, good woman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not good woman me, sir," replied the miller's wife, "till I call you
      good man; and, I promise you, many would scruple to do that to one who
      does not love eggs and bacon of a Friday."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, my good lady," said her guest, "do not fix any misconstruction upon
      me&mdash;I dare say the eggs and the bacon are excellent; only they are
      rather a dish too heavy for my stomach."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, or your conscience perhaps, sir," answered the hostess. "And now, I
      bethink me, you must needs have your fish fried with oil, instead of the
      good drippings I was going to put to them. I would I could spell the
      meaning of all this now; but I warrant John Bigstaff, the constable, could
      conjure something out of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a pause here; but Julian, somewhat alarmed at the tone which the
      conversation assumed, became interested in watching the dumb show which
      succeeded. By bringing his head a little towards the left, but without
      turning round, or quitting the projecting latticed window where he had
      taken his station, he could observe that the stranger, secured, as he
      seemed to think himself, from observation, had sidled close up to the
      landlady, and, as he conceived, had put a piece of money into her hand.
      The altered tone of the miller's moiety corresponded very much with this
      supposition.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, indeed, and forsooth," she said, "her house was Liberty Hall; and so
      should every publican's be. What was it to her what gentlefolks ate or
      drank, providing they paid for it honestly? There were many honest
      gentlemen, whose stomachs could not abide bacon, grease, or dripping,
      especially on a Friday; and what was that to her, or any one in her line,
      so gentlefolks paid honestly for the trouble? Only, she would say, that
      her bacon and eggs could not be mended betwixt this and Liverpool, and
      that she would live and die upon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I shall hardly dispute it," said the stranger; and turning towards
      Julian, he added, "I wish this gentleman, who I suppose is my
      trencher-companion, much joy of the dainties which I cannot assist him in
      consuming."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I assure you, sir," answered Peveril, who now felt himself compelled to
      turn about, and reply with civility, "that it was with difficulty I could
      prevail on my landlady to add my cover to yours, though she seems now such
      a zealot for the consumption of eggs and bacon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am zealous for nothing," said the landlady, "save that men would eat
      their victuals, and pay their score; and if there be enough in one dish to
      serve two guests, I see little purpose in dressing them two; however, they
      are ready now, and done to a nicety.&mdash;Here, Alice! Alice!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound of that well-known name made Julian start; but the Alice who
      replied to the call ill resembled the vision which his imagination
      connected with the accents, being a dowdy slipshod wench, the drudge of
      the low inn which afforded him shelter. She assisted her mistress in
      putting on the table the dishes which the latter had prepared; and a
      foaming jug of home-brewed ale being placed betwixt them, was warranted by
      Dame Whitecraft as excellent; "for," said she, "we know by practice that
      too much water drowns the miller, and we spare it on our malt as we would
      in our mill-dam."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I drink to your health in it, dame," said the elder stranger; "and a cup
      of thanks for these excellent fish; and to the drowning of all unkindness
      between us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank you, sir," said the dame, "and wish you the like; but I dare not
      pledge you, for our Gaffer says that ale is brewed too strong for women;
      so I only drink a glass of canary at a time with a gossip, or any
      gentleman guest that is so minded."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You shall drink one with me, then, dame," said Peveril, "so you will let
      me have a flagon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That you shall, sir, and as good as ever was broached; but I must to the
      mill, to get the key from the goodman."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and tucking her clean gown through the pocket-holes, that her
      steps might be the more alert, and her dress escape dust, off she tripped
      to the mill, which lay close adjoining.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A dainty dame, and dangerous, is the miller's wife," said the stranger,
      looking at Peveril. "Is not that old Chaucer's phrase?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I&mdash;I believe so," said Peveril, not much read in Chaucer, who was
      then even more neglected than at present; and much surprised at a literary
      quotation from one of the mean appearance exhibited by the person before
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," answered the stranger, "I see that you, like other young gentlemen
      of the time, are better acquainted with Cowley and Waller, than with the
      'well of English undefiled.' I cannot help differing. There are touches of
      nature about the old bard of Woodstock, that, to me, are worth all the
      turns of laborious wit in Cowley, and all the ornate and artificial
      simplicity of his courtly competitor. The description, for instance, of
      his country coquette&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'Wincing she was, as is a wanton colt,
  Sweet as a flower, and upright as a bolt.'
</pre>
    <p>
      Then, again, for pathos, where will you mend the dying scene of Arcite?
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'Alas, my heart's queen! alas, my wife!
  Giver at once, and ender of my life.
  What is this world?&mdash;What axen men to have?
  Now with his love&mdash;now in his cold grave
  Alone, withouten other company.'
</pre>
    <p>
      But I tire you, sir; and do injustice to the poet, whom I remember but by
      halves."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On the contrary, sir," replied Peveril, "you make him more intelligible
      to me in your recitation, than I have found him when I have tried to
      peruse him myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You were only frightened by the antiquated spelling, and 'the letters
      black,'" said his companion. "It is many a scholar's case, who mistakes a
      nut, which he could crack with a little exertion, for a bullet, which he
      must needs break his teeth on; but yours are better employed.&mdash;Shall
      I offer you some of this fish?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so, sir," replied Julian, willing to show himself a man of reading in
      his turn; "I hold with old Caius, and profess to fear judgment, to fight
      where I cannot choose, and to eat no fish."
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger cast a startled look around him at this observation, which
      Julian had thrown out, on purpose to ascertain, if possible, the quality
      of his companion, whose present language was so different from the
      character he had assumed at Bridlesley's. His countenance, too, although
      the features were of an ordinary, not to say mean cast, had that character
      of intelligence which education gives to the most homely face; and his
      manners were so easy and disembarrassed, as plainly showed a complete
      acquaintance with society, as well as the habit of mingling with it in the
      higher stages. The alarm which he had evidently shown at Peveril's answer,
      was but momentary; for he almost instantly replied, with a smile, "I
      promise you, sir, that you are in no dangerous company; for
      notwithstanding my fish dinner, I am much disposed to trifle with some of
      your savoury mess, if you will indulge me so far."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril accordingly reinforced the stranger's trencher with what remained
      of the bacon and eggs, and saw him swallow a mouthful or two with apparent
      relish; but presently after began to dally with his knife and fork, like
      one whose appetite was satiated; and then took a long draught of the black
      jack, and handed his platter to the large mastiff dog, who, attracted by
      the smell of the dinner, had sat down before him for some time, licking
      his chops, and following with his eye every morsel which the guest raised
      to his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here, my poor fellow," said he, "thou hast had no fish, and needest this
      supernumerary trencher-load more than I do. I cannot withstand thy mute
      supplication any longer."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dog answered these courtesies by a civil shake of the tail, while he
      gobbled up what was assigned him by the stranger's benevolence, in the
      greater haste, that he heard his mistress's voice at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here is the canary, gentlemen," said the landlady; "and the goodman has
      set off the mill, to come to wait on you himself. He always does so, when
      company drink wine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That he may come in for the host's, that is, for the lion's share," said
      the stranger, looking at Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The shot is mine," said Julian; "and if mine host will share it, I will
      willingly bestow another quart on him, and on you, sir. I never break old
      customs."
    </p>
    <p>
      These sounds caught the ear of Gaffer Whitecraft, who had entered the
      room, a strapping specimen of his robust trade, prepared to play the
      civil, or the surly host, as his company should be acceptable or
      otherwise. At Julian's invitation, he doffed his dusty bonnet&mdash;brushed
      from his sleeve the looser particles of his professional dust&mdash;and
      sitting down on the end of a bench, about a yard from the table, filled a
      glass of canary, and drank to his guests, and "especially to this noble
      gentleman," indicating Peveril, who had ordered the canary.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian returned the courtesy by drinking his health, and asking what news
      were about in the country?
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nought, sir, I hears on nought, except this Plot, as they call it, that
      they are pursuing the Papishers about; but it brings water to my mill, as
      the saying is. Between expresses hurrying hither and thither, and guards
      and prisoners riding to and again, and the custom of the neighbours, that
      come to speak over the news of an evening, nightly, I may say, instead of
      once a week, why, the spigot is in use, gentlemen, and your land thrives;
      and then I, serving as constable, and being a known Protestant, I have
      tapped, I may venture to say, it may be ten stands of ale extraordinary,
      besides a reasonable sale of wine for a country corner. Heaven make us
      thankful, and keep all good Protestants from Plot and Popery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can easily conceive, my friend," said Julian, "that curiosity is a
      passion which runs naturally to the alehouse; and that anger, and
      jealousy, and fear, are all of them thirsty passions, and great consumers
      of home-brewed. But I am a perfect stranger in these parts; and I would
      willingly learn, from a sensible man like you, a little of this same Plot,
      of which men speak so much, and appear to know so little."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Learn a little of it?&mdash;Why, it is the most horrible&mdash;the most
      damnable, bloodthirsty beast of a Plot&mdash;But hold, hold, my good
      master; I hope, in the first place, you believe there is a Plot; for,
      otherwise, the Justice must have a word with you, as sure as my name is
      John Whitecraft."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It shall not need," said Peveril; "for I assure you, mine host, I believe
      in the Plot as freely and fully as a man can believe in anything he cannot
      understand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God forbid that anybody should pretend to understand it," said the
      implicit constable; "for his worship the Justice says it is a mile beyond
      him; and he be as deep as most of them. But men may believe, though they
      do not understand; and that is what the Romanists say themselves. But this
      I am sure of, it makes a rare stirring time for justices, and witnesses,
      and constables.&mdash;So here's to your health again, gentlemen, in a cup
      of neat canary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, come, John Whitecraft," said the wife, "do not you demean yourself
      by naming witnesses along with justices and constables. All the world
      knows how they come by their money."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, but all the world knows that they <i>do</i> come by it, dame; and
      that is a great comfort. They rustle in their canonical silks, and swagger
      in their buff and scarlet, who but they?&mdash;Ay, ay, the cursed fox
      thrives&mdash;and not so cursed neither. Is there not Doctor Titus Oates,
      the saviour of the nation&mdash;does he not live at Whitehall, and eat off
      plate, and have a pension of thousands a year, for what I know? and is he
      not to be Bishop of Litchfield, so soon as Dr. Doddrum dies?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then I hope Dr. Doddrum's reverence will live these twenty years; and I
      dare say I am the first that ever wished such a wish," said the hostess.
      "I do not understand these doings, not I; and if a hundred Jesuits came to
      hold a consult at my house, as they did at the White Horse Tavern, I
      should think it quite out of the line of business to bear witness against
      them, provided they drank well, and paid their score."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very true, dame," said her elder guest; "that is what I call keeping a
      good publican conscience; and so I will pay my score presently, and be
      jogging on my way."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril, on his part, also demanded a reckoning, and discharged it so
      liberally, that the miller flourished his hat as he bowed, and the hostess
      courtesied down to the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      The horses of both guests were brought forth; and they mounted, in order
      to depart in company. The host and hostess stood in the doorway, to see
      them depart. The landlord proffered a stirrup-cup to the elder guest,
      while the landlady offered Peveril a glass from her own peculiar bottle.
      For this purpose, she mounted on the horse-block, with flask and glass in
      hand; so that it was easy for the departing guest, although on horse-back,
      to return the courtesy in the most approved manner, namely, by throwing
      his arm over his landlady's shoulder, and saluting her at parting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dame Whitecraft did not decline this familiarity; for there is no room for
      traversing upon a horse-block, and the hands which might have served her
      for resistance, were occupied with glass and bottle&mdash;matters too
      precious to be thrown away in such a struggle. Apparently, however, she
      had something else in her head; for as, after a brief affectation of
      reluctance, she permitted Peveril's face to approach hers, she whispered
      in his ear, "Beware of trepans!"&mdash;an awful intimation, which, in
      those days of distrust, suspicion, and treachery, was as effectual in
      interdicting free and social intercourse, as the advertisement of
      "man-traps and spring-guns," to protect an orchard. Pressing her hand, in
      intimation that he comprehended her hint, she shook his warmly in return,
      and bade God speed him. There was a cloud on John Whitecraft's brow; nor
      did his final farewell sound half so cordial as that which had been spoken
      within doors. But then Peveril reflected, that the same guest is not
      always equally acceptable to landlord and landlady; and unconscious of
      having done anything to excite the miller's displeasure, he pursued his
      journey without thinking farther of the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was a little surprised, and not altogether pleased, to find that
      his new acquaintance held the same road with him. He had many reasons for
      wishing to travel alone; and the hostess's caution still rung in his ears.
      If this man, possessed of so much shrewdness as his countenance and
      conversation intimated, versatile, as he had occasion to remark, and
      disguised beneath his condition, should prove, as was likely, to be a
      concealed Jesuit or seminary-priest, travelling upon their great task of
      the conversion of England, and rooting out of the Northern heresy,&mdash;a
      more dangerous companion, for a person in his own circumstances, could
      hardly be imagined; since keeping society with him might seem to authorise
      whatever reports had been spread concerning the attachment of his family
      to the Catholic cause. At the same time, it was very difficult, without
      actual rudeness, to shake off the company of one who seemed so determined,
      whether spoken to or not, to remain alongside of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril tried the experiment of riding slow; but his companion, determined
      not to drop him, slackened his pace, so as to keep close by him. Julian
      then spurred his horse to a full trot; and was soon satisfied, that the
      stranger, notwithstanding the meanness of his appearance, was so much
      better mounted than himself, as to render vain any thought of outriding
      him. He pulled up his horse to a more reasonable pace, therefore, in a
      sort of despair. Upon his doing so, his companion, who had been hitherto
      silent, observed, that Peveril was not so well qualified to try speed upon
      the road, as he would have been had he abode by his first bargain of
      horse-flesh that morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril assented dryly, but observed, that the animal would serve his
      immediate purpose, though he feared it would render him indifferent
      company for a person better mounted.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By no means," answered his civil companion; "I am one of those who have
      travelled so much, as to be accustomed to make my journey at any rate of
      motion which may be most agreeable to my company."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril made no reply to this polite intimation, being too sincere to
      tender the thanks which, in courtesy, were the proper answer.&mdash;A
      second pause ensued, which was broken by Julian asking the stranger
      whether their roads were likely to lie long together in the same
      direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot tell," said the stranger, smiling, "unless I knew which way you
      were travelling."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am uncertain how far I shall go to-night," said Julian, willingly
      misunderstanding the purport of the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so am I," replied the stranger; "but though my horse goes better than
      yours, I think it will be wise to spare him; and in case our road
      continues to lie the same way, we are likely to sup, as we have dined
      together."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian made no answer whatever to this round intimation, but continued to
      ride on, turning, in his own mind, whether it would not be wisest to come
      to a distinct understanding with his pertinacious attendant, and to
      explain, in so many words, that it was his pleasure to travel alone. But,
      besides that the sort of acquaintance which they had formed during dinner,
      rendered him unwilling to be directly uncivil towards a person of
      gentleman-like manners, he had also to consider that he might very
      possibly be mistaken in this man's character and purpose; in which case,
      the cynically refusing the society of a sound Protestant, would afford as
      pregnant matter of suspicion, as travelling in company with a disguised
      Jesuit.
    </p>
    <p>
      After brief reflection, therefore, he resolved to endure the encumbrance
      of the stranger's society, until a fair opportunity should occur to rid
      himself of it; and, in the meantime, to act with as much caution as he
      possibly could, in any communication that might take place between them;
      for Dame Whitecraft's parting caution still rang anxiously in his ears,
      and the consequences of his own arrest upon suspicion, must deprive him of
      every opportunity of serving his father, or the countess, or Major
      Bridgenorth, upon whose interest, also, he had promised himself to keep an
      eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he revolved these things in his mind, they had journeyed several
      miles without speaking; and now entered upon a more waste country, and
      worse roads, than they had hitherto found, being, in fact, approaching the
      more hilly district of Derbyshire. In travelling on a very stony and
      uneven lane, Julian's horse repeatedly stumbled; and, had he not been
      supported by the rider's judicious use of the bridle, must at length
      certainly have fallen under him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "These are times which crave wary riding, sir," said his companion; "and
      by your seat in the saddle, and your hand on the rein, you seem to
      understand it to be so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have been long a horseman, sir," answered Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And long a traveller, too, sir, I should suppose; since by the great
      caution you observe, you seem to think the human tongue requires a curb,
      as well as the horse's jaws."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wiser men than I have been of opinion," answered Peveril, "that it were a
      part of prudence to be silent, when men have little or nothing to say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot approve of their opinion," answered the stranger. "All knowledge
      is gained by communication, either with the dead, through books, or, more
      pleasingly, through the conversation of the living. The <i>deaf and dumb</i>,
      alone, are excluded from improvement; and surely their situation is not so
      enviable that we should imitate them."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this illustration, which awakened a startling echo in Peveril's bosom,
      the young man looked hard at his companion; but in the composed
      countenance, and calm blue eye, he read no consciousness of a farther
      meaning than the words immediately and directly implied. He paused a
      moment, and then answered, "You seem to be a person, sir, of shrewd
      apprehension; and I should have thought it might have occurred to you,
      that in the present suspicious times, men may, without censure, avoid
      communication with strangers. You know not me; and to me you are totally
      unknown. There is not room for much discourse between us, without
      trespassing on the general topics of the day, which carry in them seeds of
      quarrel between friends, much more betwixt strangers. At any other time,
      the society of an intelligent companion would have been most acceptable
      upon my solitary ride; but at present&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "At present!" said the other, interrupting him. "You are like the old
      Romans, who held that <i>hostis</i> meant both a stranger and an enemy. I
      will therefore be no longer a stranger. My name is Ganlesse&mdash;by
      profession I am a Roman Catholic priest&mdash;I am travelling here in
      dread of my life&mdash;and I am very glad to have you for a companion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank you for the information with all my heart," said Peveril; "and to
      avail myself of it to the uttermost, I must beg you to ride forward, or
      lag behind, or take a side-path, at your own pleasure; for as I am no
      Catholic, and travel upon business of high concernment, I am exposed both
      to risk and delay, and even to danger, by keeping such suspicious company.
      And so, Master Ganlesse, keep your own pace, and I will keep the contrary;
      for I beg leave to forbear your company."
    </p>
    <p>
      As Peveril spoke thus, he pulled up his horse, and made a full stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger burst out a-laughing. "What!" he said, "you forbear my
      company for a trifle of danger? Saint Anthony! How the warm blood of the
      Cavaliers is chilled in the young men of the present day! This young
      gallant, now, has a father, I warrant, who has endured as many adventures
      for hunting priests, as a knight-errant for distressed damsels."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This raillery avails nothing, sir," said Peveril. "I must request you
      will keep your own way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My way is yours," said the pertinacious Master Ganlesse, as he called
      himself; "and we will both travel the safer, that we journey in company. I
      have the receipt of fern-seed, man, and walk invisible. Besides, you would
      not have me quit you in this lane, where there is no turn to right or
      left?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril moved on, desirous to avoid open violence&mdash;for which the
      indifferent tone of the traveller, indeed, afforded no apt pretext&mdash;yet
      highly disliking his company, and determined to take the first opportunity
      to rid himself of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger proceeded at the same pace with him, keeping cautiously on
      his bridle hand, as if to secure that advantage in case of a struggle. But
      his language did not intimate the least apprehension. "You do me wrong,"
      he said to Peveril, "and you equally wrong yourself. You are uncertain
      where to lodge to-night&mdash;trust to my guidance. Here is an ancient
      hall, within four miles, with an old knightly Pantaloon for its lord&mdash;an
      all-be-ruffed Dame Barbara for the lady gay&mdash;a Jesuit, in a butler's
      habit, to say grace&mdash;an old tale of Edgehill and Worster fights to
      relish a cold venison pasty, and a flask of claret mantled with cobwebs&mdash;a
      bed for you in the priest's hiding-hole&mdash;and, for aught I know,
      pretty Mistress Betty, the dairy-maid, to make it ready."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This has no charms for me, sir," said Peveril, who, in spite of himself,
      could not but be amused with the ready sketch which the stranger gave of
      many an old mansion in Cheshire and Derbyshire, where the owners retained
      the ancient faith of Rome.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I see I cannot charm you in this way," continued his companion; "I
      must strike another key. I am no longer Ganlesse, the seminary priest, but
      (changing his tone, and snuffling in the nose) Simon Canter, a poor
      preacher of the Word, who travels this way to call sinners to repentance;
      and to strengthen, and to edify, and to fructify among the scattered
      remnant who hold fast the truth.&mdash;What say you to this, sir?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I admire your versatility, sir, and could be entertained with it at
      another time. At present sincerity is more in request."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sincerity!" said the stranger;&mdash;"a child's whistle, with but two
      notes in it&mdash;yea, yea, and nay, nay. Why, man, the very Quakers have
      renounced it, and have got in its stead a gallant recorder, called
      Hypocrisy, that is somewhat like Sincerity in form, but of much greater
      compass, and combines the whole gamut. Come, be ruled&mdash;be a disciple
      of Simon Canter for the evening, and we will leave the old tumble-down
      castle of the knight aforesaid, on the left hand, for a new brick-built
      mansion, erected by an eminent salt-boiler from Namptwich, who expects the
      said Simon to make a strong spiritual pickle for the preservation of a
      soul somewhat corrupted by the evil communications of this wicked world.
      What say you? He has two daughters&mdash;brighter eyes never beamed under
      a pinched hood; and for myself, I think there is more fire in those who
      live only to love and to devotion, than in your court beauties, whose
      hearts are running on twenty follies besides. You know not the pleasure of
      being conscience-keeper to a pretty precisian, who in one breath repeats
      her foibles, and in the next confesses her passion. Perhaps, though, you
      may have known such in your day? Come, sir, it grows too dark to see your
      blushes; but I am sure they are burning on your cheek."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You take great freedom, sir," said Peveril, as they now approached the
      end of the lane, where it opened on a broad common; "and you seem rather
      to count more on my forbearance, than you have room to do with safety. We
      are now nearly free of the lane which has made us companions for this late
      half hour. To avoid your farther company, I will take the turn to the
      left, upon that common; and if you follow me, it shall be at your peril.
      Observe, I am well armed; and you will fight at odds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not at odds," returned the provoking stranger, "while I have my brown
      jennet, with which I can ride round and round you at pleasure; and this
      text, of a handful in length (showing a pistol which he drew from his
      bosom), which discharges very convincing doctrine on the pressure of a
      forefinger, and is apt to equalise all odds, as you call them, of youth
      and strength. Let there be no strife between us, however&mdash;the moor
      lies before us&mdash;choose your path on it&mdash;I take the other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish you good night, sir," said Peveril to the stranger. "I ask your
      forgiveness, if I have misconstrued you in anything; but the times are
      perilous, and a man's life may depend on the society in which he travels."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said the stranger; "but in your case, the danger is already
      undergone, and you should seek to counteract it. You have travelled in my
      company long enough to devise a handsome branch of the Popish Plot. How
      will you look, when you see come forth, in comely folio form, The
      Narrative of Simon Canter, otherwise called Richard Ganlesse, concerning
      the horrid Popish Conspiracy for the Murder of the King, and Massacre of
      all Protestants, as given on oath to the Honourable House of Commons;
      setting forth, how far Julian Peveril, younger of Martindale Castle, is
      concerned in carrying on the same&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, sir? What mean you?" said Peveril, much startled.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, sir," replied his companion, "do not interrupt my title-page. Now
      that Oates and Bedloe have drawn the great prizes, the subordinate
      discoverers get little but by the sale of their Narrative; and Janeway,
      Newman, Simmons, and every bookseller of them, will tell you that the
      title is half the narrative. Mine shall therefore set forth the various
      schemes you have communicated to me, of landing ten thousand soldiers from
      the Isle of Man upon the coast of Lancashire; and marching into Wales, to
      join the ten thousand pilgrims who are to be shipped from Spain; and so
      completing the destruction of the Protestant religion, and of the devoted
      city of London. Truly, I think such a Narrative, well spiced with a few
      horrors, and published <i>cum privilegio parliamenti</i>, might, though
      the market be somewhat overstocked, be still worth some twenty or thirty
      pieces."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You seem to know me, sir," said Peveril; "and if so, I think I may fairly
      ask you your purpose in thus bearing me company, and the meaning of all
      this rhapsody. If it be mere banter, I can endure it within proper limit;
      although it is uncivil on the part of a stranger. If you have any farther
      purpose, speak it out; I am not to be trifled with."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good, now," said the stranger, laughing, "into what an unprofitable chafe
      you have put yourself! An Italian <i>fuoruscito</i>, when he desires a
      parley with you, takes aim from behind a wall, with his long gun, and
      prefaces his conference with <i>Posso tirare</i>. So does your man-of-war
      fire a gun across the bows of a Hansmogan Indiaman, just to bring her to;
      and so do I show Master Julian Peveril, that, if I were one of the
      honourable society of witnesses and informers, with whom his imagination
      has associated me for these two hours past, he is as much within my danger
      now, as what he is ever likely to be." Then, suddenly changing his tone to
      serious, which was in general ironical, he added, "Young man, when the
      pestilence is diffused through the air of a city, it is in vain men would
      avoid the disease, by seeking solitude, and shunning the company of their
      fellow-sufferers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In what, then, consists their safety?" said Peveril, willing to
      ascertain, if possible, the drift of his companion's purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In following the counsels of wise physicians;" such was the stranger's
      answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And as such," said Peveril, "you offer me your advice?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, young man," said the stranger haughtily, "I see no reason I
      should do so.&mdash;I am not," he added, in his former tone, "your fee'd
      physician&mdash;I offer no advice&mdash;I only say it would be wise that
      you sought it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And from whom, or where, can I obtain it?" said Peveril. "I wander in
      this country like one in a dream; so much a few months have changed it.
      Men who formerly occupied themselves with their own affairs, are now
      swallowed up in matters of state policy; and those tremble under the
      apprehension of some strange and sudden convulsion of empire, who were
      formerly only occupied by the fear of going to bed supperless. And to sum
      up the matter, I meet a stranger apparently well acquainted with my name
      and concerns, who first attaches himself to me, whether I will or no; and
      then refuses me an explanation of his business, while he menaces me with
      the strangest accusations."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Had I meant such infamy," said the stranger, "believe me, I had not given
      you the thread of my intrigue. But be wise, and come one with me. There
      is, hard by, a small inn, where, if you can take a stranger's warrant for
      it, we shall sleep in perfect security."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yet, you yourself," said Peveril, "but now were anxious to avoid
      observation; and in that case, how can you protect me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw! I did but silence that tattling landlady, in the way in which such
      people are most readily hushed; and for Topham, and his brace of night
      owls, they must hawk at other and lesser game than I should prove."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril could not help admiring the easy and confident indifference with
      which the stranger seemed to assume a superiority to all the circumstances
      of danger around him; and after hastily considering the matter with
      himself, came to the resolution to keep company with him for this night at
      least; and to learn, if possible, who he really was, and to what party in
      the estate he was attached. The boldness and freedom of his talk seemed
      almost inconsistent with his following the perilous, though at that time
      the gainful trade of an informer. No doubt, such persons assumed every
      appearance which could insinuate them into the confidence of their
      destined victims; but Julian thought he discovered in this man's manner, a
      wild and reckless frankness, which he could not but connect with the idea
      of sincerity in the present case. He therefore answered, after a moment's
      recollection, "I embrace your proposal, sir; although, by doing so, I am
      reposing a sudden, and perhaps an unwary, confidence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what am I, then, reposing in you?" said the stranger. "Is not our
      confidence mutual?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No; much the contrary. I know nothing of you whatever&mdash;you have
      named me; and, knowing me to be Julian Peveril, know you may travel with
      me in perfect security."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil I do!" answered his companion. "I travel in the same security
      as with a lighted petard, which I may expect to explode every moment. Are
      you not the son of Peveril of the Peak, with whose name Prelacy and Popery
      are so closely allied, that no old woman of either sex in Derbyshire
      concludes her prayer without a petition to be freed from all three? And do
      you not come from the Popish Countess of Derby, bringing, for aught I
      know, a whole army of Manxmen in your pocket, with full complement of
      arms, ammunition, baggage, and a train of field artillery?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not very likely I should be so poorly mounted," said Julian,
      laughing, "if I had such a weight to carry. But lead on, sir. I see I must
      wait for your confidence, till you think proper to confer it; for you are
      already so well acquainted with my affairs, that I have nothing to offer
      you in exchange for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Allons</i>, then," said his companion; "give your horse the spur, and
      raise the curb rein, lest he measure the ground with his nose instead of
      his paces. We are not now more than a furlong or two from the place of
      entertainment."
    </p>
    <p>
      They mended their pace accordingly, and soon arrived at the small solitary
      inn which the traveller had mentioned. When its light began to twinkle
      before them, the stranger, as if recollecting something he had forgotten,
      "By the way, you must have a name to pass by; for it may be ill travelling
      under your own, as the fellow who keeps this house is an old Cromwellian.
      What will you call yourself?&mdash;My name is&mdash;for the present&mdash;Ganlesse."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no occasion to assume a name at all," answered Julian. "I do not
      incline to use a borrowed one, especially as I may meet with some one who
      knows my own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will call you Julian, then," said Master Ganlesse; "for Peveril will
      smell, in the nostrils of mine host, of idolatry, conspiracy, Smithfield
      faggots, fish on Fridays, the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the
      fire of purgatory."
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke thus, they alighted under the great broad-branched oak tree,
      that served to canopy the ale-bench, which, at an earlier hour, had
      groaned under the weight of a frequent conclave of rustic politicians.
      Ganlesse, as he dismounted, whistled in a particularly shrill note, and
      was answered from within the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           He was a fellow in a peasant's garb;
           Yet one could censure you a woodcock's carving.
           Like any courtier at the ordinary.
                                                &mdash;THE ORDINARY.
</pre>
    <p>
      The person who appeared at the door of the little inn to receive Ganlesse,
      as we mentioned in our last chapter, sung, as he came forward, this scrap
      of an old ballad,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "Good even to you, Diccon;
    And how have you sped;
  Bring you the bonny bride
    To banquet and bed?"
</pre>
    <p>
      To which Ganlesse answered, in the same tone and tune,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "Content thee, kind Robin;
    He need little care,
  Who brings home a fat buck
    Instead of a hare."
</pre>
    <p>
      "You have missed your blow, then?" said the other, in reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell you I have not," answered Ganlesse; "but you will think of nought
      but your own thriving occupation&mdash;May the plague that belongs to it
      stick to it! though it hath been the making of thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A man must live, Diccon Ganlesse," said the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, well," said Ganlesse, "bid my friend welcome, for my sake. Hast
      thou got any supper?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Reeking like a sacrifice&mdash;Chaubert has done his best. That fellow is
      a treasure! give him a farthing candle, and he will cook a good supper out
      of it.&mdash;Come in, sir. My friend's friend is welcome, as we say in my
      country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We must have our horses looked to first," said Peveril, who began to be
      considerably uncertain about the character of his companions&mdash;"that
      done, I am for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Ganlesse gave a second whistle; a groom appeared, who took charge of both
      their horses, and they themselves entered the inn.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ordinary room of a poor inn seemed to have undergone some alterations,
      to render it fit for company of a higher description. There were a
      beaufet, a couch, and one or two other pieces of furniture, of a style
      inconsistent with the appearance of the place. The tablecloth, which was
      already laid, was of the finest damask; and the spoons, forks, &amp;c.,
      were of silver. Peveril looked at this apparatus with some surprise; and
      again turning his eyes attentively upon his travelling companion,
      Ganlesse, he could not help discovering (by the aid of imagination,
      perhaps), that though insignificant in person, plain in features, and
      dressed like one in indigence, there lurked still about his person and
      manners, that indefinable ease of manner which belongs only to men of
      birth and quality, or to those who are in the constant habit of
      frequenting the best company. His companion, whom he called Will Smith,
      although tall and rather good-looking, besides being much better dressed,
      had not, nevertheless, exactly the same ease of demeanour; and was obliged
      to make up for the want, by an additional proportion of assurance. Who
      these two persons could be, Peveril could not attempt even to form a
      guess. There was nothing for it but to watch their manner and
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      After speaking a moment in whispers, Smith said to his companion, "We must
      go look after our nags for ten minutes, and allow Chaubert to do his
      office."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will not he appear, and minister before us, then?" said Ganlesse.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! he?&mdash;he shift a trencher&mdash;he hand a cup?&mdash;No, you
      forget whom you speak of. Such an order were enough to make him fall on
      his own sword&mdash;he is already on the borders of despair, because no
      craw-fish are to be had."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alack-a day!" replied Ganlesse. "Heaven forbid I should add to such a
      calamity! To stable, then, and see we how our steeds eat their provender,
      while ours is getting ready."
    </p>
    <p>
      They adjourned to the stable accordingly, which, though a poor one, had
      been hastily supplied with whatever was necessary for the accommodation of
      four excellent horses; one of which, that from which Ganlesse was just
      dismounted, the groom we have mentioned was cleaning and dressing by the
      light of a huge wax-candle.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am still so far Catholic," said Ganlesse, laughing, as he saw that
      Peveril noticed this piece of extravagance. "My horse is my saint, and I
      dedicate a candle to him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Without asking so great a favour for mine, which I see standing behind
      yonder old hen-coop," replied Peveril, "I will at least relieve him of his
      saddle and bridle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave him to the lad of the inn," said Smith; "he is not worthy of any
      other person's handling; and I promise you, if you slip a single buckle,
      you will so flavour of that stable duty, that you might as well eat
      roast-beef as ragouts, for any relish you will have of them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I love roast-beef as well as ragouts, at any time," said Peveril,
      adjusting himself to a task which every young man should know how to
      perform when need is; "and my horse, though it be but a sorry jade, will
      champ better on hay and corn, than on an iron bit."
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was unsaddling his horse, and shaking down some litter for the
      poor wearied animal, he heard Smith observe to Ganlesse,&mdash;"By my
      faith, Dick, thou hast fallen into poor Slender's blunder; missed Anne
      Page, and brought us a great lubberly post-master's boy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, he will hear thee," answered Ganlesse; "there are reasons for all
      things&mdash;it is well as it is. But, prithee, tell thy fellow to help
      the youngster."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" replied Smith, "d'ye think I am mad?&mdash;Ask Tom Beacon&mdash;Tom
      of Newmarket&mdash;Tom of ten thousand, to touch such a four-legged brute
      as that?&mdash;Why, he would turn me away on the spot&mdash;discard me,
      i'faith. It was all he would do to take in hand your own, my good friend;
      and if you consider him not the better, you are like to stand groom to him
      yourself to-morrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Will," answered Ganlesse, "I will say that for thee, thou hast a
      set of the most useless, scoundrelly, insolent vermin about thee, that
      ever ate up a poor gentleman's revenues."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Useless? I deny it," replied Smith. "Every one of my fellows does
      something or other so exquisitely, that it were sin to make him do
      anything else&mdash;it is your jacks-of-all-trades who are masters of
      none.&mdash;But hark to Chaubert's signal. The coxcomb is twangling it on
      the lute, to the tune of <i>Eveillez-vous, belle endormie</i>.&mdash;Come,
      Master What d'ye call (addressing Peveril),&mdash;get ye some water, and
      wash this filthy witness from your hand, as Betterton says in the play;
      for Chaubert's cookery is like Friar Bacon's Head&mdash;time is&mdash;time
      was&mdash;time will soon be no more."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and scarce allowing Julian time to dip his hands in a bucket,
      and dry them on a horse-cloth, he hurried him from the stable back to the
      supper-chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here all was prepared for their meal, with an epicurean delicacy, which
      rather belonged to the saloon of a palace, than the cabin in which it was
      displayed. Four dishes of silver, with covers of the same metal, smoked on
      the table; and three seats were placed for the company. Beside the lower
      end of the board, was a small side-table, to answer the purpose of what is
      now called a dumb waiter; on which several flasks reared their tall,
      stately, and swan-like crests, above glasses and rummers. Clean covers
      were also placed within reach; and a small travelling-case of morocco,
      hooped with silver, displayed a number of bottles, containing the most
      approved sauces that culinary ingenuity had then invented.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smith, who occupied the lower seat, and seemed to act as president of the
      feast, motioned the two travellers to take their places and begin. "I
      would not stay a grace-time," he said, "to save a whole nation from
      perdition. We could bring no chauffettes with any convenience; and even
      Chaubert is nothing, unless his dishes are tasted in the very moment of
      projection. Come, uncover, and let us see what he has done for us.&mdash;Hum!&mdash;ha!&mdash;ay&mdash;squab-pigeons&mdash;wildfowl&mdash;young
      chickens&mdash;venison cutlets&mdash;and a space in the centre, wet, alas!
      by a gentle tear from Chaubert's eye, where should have been the <i>soupe
      aux écrevisses</i>. The zeal of that poor fellow is ill repaid by his
      paltry ten louis per month."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A mere trifle," said Ganlesse; "but, like yourself, Will, he serves a
      generous master."
    </p>
    <p>
      The repast now commenced; and Julian, though he had seen his young friend
      the Earl of Derby, and other gallants, affect a considerable degree of
      interest and skill in the science of the kitchen, and was not himself
      either an enemy or a stranger to the pleasures of a good table, found
      that, on the present occasion, he was a mere novice. Both his companions,
      but Smith in especial, seemed to consider that they were now engaged in
      the only true business of life; and weighed all its minutiæ with a
      proportional degree of accuracy. To carve the morsel in the most delicate
      manner&mdash;and to apportion the proper seasoning with the accuracy of
      the chemist,&mdash;to be aware, exactly, of the order in which one dish
      should succeed another, and to do plentiful justice to all&mdash;was a
      minuteness of science to which Julian had hitherto been a stranger. Smith
      accordingly treated him as a mere novice in epicurism, cautioning him to
      eat his soup before the bouilli, and to forget the Manx custom of bolting
      the boiled meat before the broth, as if Cutlar MacCulloch and all his
      whingers were at the door. Peveril took the hint in good part, and the
      entertainment proceeded with animation.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length Ganlesse paused, and declared the supper exquisite. "But, my
      friend Smith," he added, "are your wines curious? When you brought all
      that trash of plates and trumpery into Derbyshire, I hope you did not
      leave us at the mercy of the strong ale of the shire, as thick and muddy
      as the squires who drink it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did I not know that <i>you</i> were to meet me, Dick Ganlesse?" answered
      their host. "And can you suspect me of such an omission? It is true, you
      must make champagne and claret serve, for my burgundy would not bear
      travelling. But if you have a fancy for sherry, or Vin de Cahors, I have a
      notion Chaubert and Tom Beacon have brought some for their own drinking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps the gentlemen would not care to impart," said Ganlesse.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, fie!&mdash;anything in the way of civility," replied Smith. "They
      are, in truth, the best-natured lads alive, when treated respectfully; so
      that if you would prefer&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "By no means," said Ganlesse&mdash;"a glass of champagne will serve in a
      scarcity of better."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "The cork shall start obsequious to my thumb."
</pre>
    <p>
      said Smith; and as he spoke, he untwisted the wire, and the cork struck
      the roof of the cabin. Each guest took a large rummer glass of the
      sparkling beverage, which Peveril had judgment and experience enough to
      pronounce exquisite.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Give me your hand, sir," said Smith; "it is the first word of sense you
      have spoken this evening."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wisdom, sir," replied Peveril, "is like the best ware in the pedlar's
      pack, which he never produces till he knows his customer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sharp as mustard," returned the <i>bon vivant</i>; "but be wise, most
      noble pedlar, and take another rummer of this same flask, which you see I
      have held in an oblique position for your service&mdash;not permitting it
      to retrograde to the perpendicular. Nay, take it off before the bubble
      bursts on the rim, and the zest is gone."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You do me honour, sir," said Peveril, taking the second glass. "I wish
      you a better office than that of my cup-bearer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You cannot wish Will Smith one more congenial to his nature," said
      Ganlesse. "Others have a selfish delight in the objects of sense, Will
      thrives, and is happy by imparting them to his friends."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Better help men to pleasures than to pains, Master Ganlesse," answered
      Smith, somewhat angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, wrath thee not, Will," said Ganlesse; "and speak no words in haste,
      lest you may have cause to repent at leisure. Do I blame thy social
      concern for the pleasures of others? Why, man, thou dost therein most
      philosophically multiply thine own. A man has but one throat, and can but
      eat, with his best efforts, some five or six times a day; but thou dinest
      with every friend that cuts a capon, and art quaffing wine in other men's
      gullets, from morning to night&mdash;<i>et sic de cæteris</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Friend Ganlesse," returned Smith, "I prithee beware&mdash;thou knowest I
      can cut gullets as well as tickle them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, Will," answered Ganlesse carelessly; "I think I have seen thee wave
      thy whinyard at the throat of a Hogan-Mogan&mdash;a Netherlandish weasand,
      which expanded only on thy natural and mortal objects of aversion,&mdash;Dutch
      cheese, rye-bread, pickled herring, onion, and Geneva."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For pity's sake, forbear the description!" said Smith; "thy words
      overpower the perfumes, and flavour the apartment like a dish of
      salmagundi!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "But for an epiglottis like mine," continued Ganlesse, "down which the
      most delicate morsels are washed by such claret as thou art now pouring
      out, thou couldst not, in thy bitterest mood, wish a worse fate than to be
      necklaced somewhat tight by a pair of white arms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By a tenpenny cord," answered Smith; "but not till you were dead; that
      thereafter you be presently embowelled, you being yet alive; that your
      head be then severed from your body, and your body divided into quarters,
      to be disposed of at his Majesty's pleasure.&mdash;How like you that,
      Master Richard Ganlesse?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "E'en as you like the thoughts of dining on bran-bread and milk-porridge&mdash;an
      extremity which you trust never to be reduced to. But all this shall not
      prevent me from pledging you in a cup of sound claret."
    </p>
    <p>
      As the claret circulated, the glee of the company increased; and Smith
      placing the dishes which had been made use of upon the side-table, stamped
      with his foot on the floor, and the table sinking down a trap, again rose,
      loaded with olives, sliced neat's tongue, caviare, and other provocatives
      for the circulation of the bottle.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, Will," said Ganlesse, "thou art a more complete mechanist than I
      suspected; thou hast brought thy scene-shifting inventions to Derbyshire
      in marvellously short time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A rope and pullies can be easily come by," answered Will; "and with a saw
      and a plane, I can manage that business in half a day. I love the knack of
      clean and secret conveyance&mdash;thou knowest it was the foundation of my
      fortunes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be the wreck of them too, Will," replied his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, Diccon," answered Will; "but, <i>dum vivimus, vivamus</i>,&mdash;that
      is my motto; and therewith I present you a brimmer to the health of the
      fair lady you wot of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let it come, Will," replied his friend; and the flask circulated briskly
      from hand to hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian did not think it prudent to seem a check on their festivity, as he
      hoped in its progress something might occur to enable him to judge of the
      character and purposes of his companions. But he watched them in vain.
      Their conversation was animated and lively, and often bore reference to
      the literature of the period, in which the elder seemed particularly well
      skilled. They also talked freely of the Court, and of that numerous class
      of gallants who were then described as "men of wit and pleasure about
      town;" and to which it seemed probable they themselves appertained.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the universal topic of the Popish Plot was started; upon which
      Ganlesse and Smith seemed to entertain the most opposite opinions.
      Ganlesse, if he did not maintain the authority of Oates in its utmost
      extent, contended, that at least it was confirmed in a great measure by
      the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the letters written by Coleman
      to the confessor of the French King.
    </p>
    <p>
      With much more noise, and less power of reasoning, Will Smith hesitated
      not to ridicule and run down the whole discovery, as one of the wildest
      and most causeless alarms which had ever been sounded in the ears of a
      credulous public. "I shall never forget," he said, "Sir Godfrey's most
      original funeral. Two bouncing parsons, well armed with sword and pistol,
      mounted the pulpit, to secure the third fellow who preached from being
      murdered in the face of the congregation. Three parsons in one pulpit&mdash;three
      suns in one hemisphere&mdash;no wonder men stood aghast at such a
      prodigy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What then, Will," answered his companion, "you are one of those who think
      the good knight murdered himself, in order to give credit to the Plot?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my faith, not I," said the other; "but some true blue Protestant might
      do the job for him, in order to give the thing a better colour.&mdash;I
      will be judged by our silent friend, whether that be not the most feasible
      solution of the whole."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I pray you, pardon me, gentlemen," said Julian; "I am but just landed in
      England, and am a stranger to the particular circumstances which have
      thrown the nation into such a ferment. It would be the highest degree of
      assurance in me to give my opinion betwixt gentlemen who argue the matter
      so ably; besides, to say truth, I confess weariness&mdash;your wine is
      more potent than I expected, or I have drunk more of it than I meant to
      do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, if an hour's nap will refresh you," said the elder of the strangers,
      "make no ceremony with us. Your bed&mdash;all we can offer as such&mdash;is
      that old-fashioned Dutch-built sofa, as the last new phrase calls it. We
      shall be early stirrers tomorrow morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And that we may be so," said Smith, "I propose that we do sit up all this
      night&mdash;I hate lying rough, and detest a pallet-bed. So have at
      another flask, and the newest lampoon to help it out&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'Now a plague of their votes
  Upon Papists and Plots,
  And be d&mdash;d Doctor Oates.
                  Tol de rol.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      "Nay, but our Puritanic host," said Ganlesse.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have him in my pocket, man&mdash;his eyes, ears, nose, and tongue,"
      answered his boon companion, "are all in my possession."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case, when you give him back his eyes and nose, I pray you keep
      his ears and tongue," answered Ganlesse. "Seeing and smelling are organs
      sufficient for such a knave&mdash;to hear and tell are things he should
      have no manner of pretensions to."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I grant you it were well done," answered Smith; "but it were a robbing of
      the hangman and the pillory; and I am an honest fellow, who would give
      Dun[*] and the devil his due. So,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'All joy to great Cæsar,
  Long life, love, and pleasure;
  May the King live for ever,
                  'Tis no matter for us, boys.'"
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Dun was the hangman of the day at Tyburn. He was successor of
    Gregory Brunden, who was by many believed to be the same who
    dropped the axe upon Charles I., though others were suspected of
    being the actual regicide.
</pre>
    <p>
      While this Bacchanalian scene proceeded, Julian had wrapt himself closely
      in his cloak, and stretched himself on the couch which they had shown him.
      He looked towards the table he had left&mdash;the tapers seemed to become
      hazy and dim as he gazed&mdash;he heard the sound of voices, but they
      ceased to convey any impression to his understanding; and in a few
      minutes, he was faster asleep than he had ever been in the whole course of
      his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                 The Gordon then his bugle blew,
                   And said, awa, awa;
                 The House of Rhodes is all on flame,
                   I hauld it time to ga'.
                                           &mdash;OLD BALLAD.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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?&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was unnecessary," said Ganlesse; "the rascal is already overpaid.&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;if they are indeed known to you so well as
      they seem&mdash;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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be it as you list, young man," answered Ganlesse; "only remember
      hereafter, you had a fair offer&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand not your threat," answered Peveril, "If a threat be indeed
      implied. I have done no evil&mdash;I feel no apprehension&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Farewell, then, Sir Julian of the Peak,&mdash;that may soon be," said the
      stranger, removing the hand which he had as yet left carelessly on the
      horse's bridle.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How mean you by that phrase?" said Julian; "and why apply such a title to
      me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>suzerainté</i>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;rubbed his eyes&mdash;shifted
      his position&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "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&mdash; d&mdash;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."
</pre>
    <p>
      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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is I, Dame Raine&mdash;I, Julian Peveril&mdash;tell your husband to
      come to me presently."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alack, and a well-a-day, Master Julian, if it be really you&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is dead, then?" said Julian. "I am extremely sorry&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Castle&mdash;lack-a-day!&mdash;Chamberlain&mdash;Matthew Chamberlain&mdash;I
      say, Matt!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, dame, an ye will walk by my counsel," said the Chamberlain, "e'en
      shake him off&mdash;let him be jogging while his boots are green. This is
      no world for folks to scald their fingers in other folks' broth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;that
      is my counsel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I desire nothing of you, sirrah," said Peveril, "save but to know how Sir
      Geoffrey and his lady do?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lack-a-day!&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;be you gone?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not yet, dame," said Julian; "though it seems my stay is unwelcome."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never mind that, dame," said Julian; "do but only tell me what has
      happened at Martindale Castle? I see the beacon is extinguished."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it in troth?&mdash;ay, like enough&mdash;then good Sir Geoffrey has
      gone to heaven with my old Roger Raine!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sacred Heaven!" exclaimed Peveril; "when was my father taken ill?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gracious Heaven!&mdash;Dear dame, for love or gold, let me have a horse
      to make for the Castle!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;Or
      stay&mdash;my old Dobbin stands in the little stable beside the hencoop&mdash;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!&mdash;so take Dobbin, and do not forget to leave your own horse
      instead."
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;"O
      Lord! what will Matthew Chamberlain say!" but instantly added, "Let him
      say what he will, I may dispose of what's my own."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the
      voices which he had heard were theirs, as they murmured to each other.
      Lady Peveril&mdash;the emblem of death, so pallid was her countenance&mdash;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!&mdash;my son!&mdash;the misery of our
      house is complete!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My son!" echoed Sir Geoffrey, starting from the sullen state of
      dejection, and swearing a deep oath&mdash;"thou art come in the right
      time, Julian. Strike me one good blow&mdash;cleave me that traitorous
      thief from the crown to the brisket! and that done, I care not what comes
      next."
    </p>
    <p>
      The sight of his father's situation made the son forget the inequality of
      the contest which he was about to provoke.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0497m.jpg" alt="0497m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0497.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      "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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Geoffrey, thus far liberated, shouted to his lady. "Undo the belt,
      dame, and we will have three good blows for it yet&mdash;they must fight
      well that beat both father and son."
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0299m.jpg" alt="0299m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0299.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      "Heed it not, Julian," said Sir Geoffrey; "heed it not, my brave boy&mdash;that
      shot has balanced all accounts!&mdash;but how&mdash;what the devil&mdash;he
      lives!&mdash;Was your pistol loaded with chaff? or has the foul fiend
      given him proof against lead?"
    </p>
    <p>
      There was some reason for Sir Geoffrey's surprise, since, as he spoke,
      Major Bridgenorth collected himself&mdash;sat up in the chair as one who
      recovers from a stunning blow&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;I&mdash;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&mdash;I implore
      you not to involve my son in our common ruin!&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold your peace, housewife," said the Knight, "you speak like a fool, and
      meddle with what concerns you not.&mdash;Wrong at <i>my</i> 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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;never
      pot boiled, but the scum was cast uppermost."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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?&mdash;Julian, my poor fellow, I am
      sorry thou hast come so unluckily, since thy petronel was not better
      loaded&mdash;but thy credit is lost for ever as a marksman."
    </p>
    <p>
      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,
    </p>
    <p>
      "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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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,&mdash;"Who talks of the Parliament?" he exclaimed. "I
      promise you, enough has been found in this house to convict twenty
      plotters&mdash;Here be arms, and that good store. Bring them in, Captain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And here," said the Captain's yoke-fellow, Everett, "are proper priest's
      trappings&mdash;antiphoners, and missals, and copes, I warrant you&mdash;ay,
      and proper pictures, too, for Papists to mutter and bow over."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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.&mdash;What do you accuse him
      of, gentlemen?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;,
      I'll take that on my assured damnation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, Captain Dangerfield," said the Captain's smoother, but more
      dangerous associate,&mdash;"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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, verily," said Everett, "I have seen him amongst the seminary pupils
      at Saint Omer's&mdash;he was who but he with the regents there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, Master Everett, collect yourself," said Topham; "for as I think, you
      said you saw him at a consult of the Jesuits in London."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was I said so, Master Topham," said the undaunted Dangerfield; "and
      mine is the tongue that will swear it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are wrong, Master Bridgenorth&mdash;clearly wrong. It doth but keep
      them in wind&mdash;only breathes them like greyhounds before a coursing
      match."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will swear to it," said Everett.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A pistol-shot!" exclaimed Topham; "here might have been a second Sir
      Edmondsbury Godfrey's matter.&mdash;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.&mdash;Master Bridgenorth, you are a
      judicious magistrate, and a worthy servant of the state&mdash;I would we
      had many such sound Protestant justices. Shall I have this young fellow
      away with his parents&mdash;what think you?&mdash;or will you keep him for
      re-examination?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;all the distress you have wrought&mdash;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!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Even as I and my black rod are guided by the Commons of England," said
      Master Topham, who seemed marvellously pleased with the illustration.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You do not?" said Topham. "Oh, ho, master youngster, I thought we should
      bring you to your senses presently!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I may not be answerable for that, worthy Master Bridgenorth," said
      Topham, "since he comes within the warrant of the House."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;You will scarce
      cross the country without a rescue."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not say so, Julian," said his mother; "abide with Master Bridgenorth&mdash;my
      mind tells me he cannot mean so ill by us as his rough conduct would now
      lead us to infer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Away with thee," said the zealous officer; "is Parliament a word for so
      foul a mouth as thine?&mdash;Gentlemen," he added, turning to Everett and
      Dangerfield, "you will bear witness to this."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To his having reviled the House of Commons&mdash;by G&mdash;d, that I
      will!" said Dangerfield; "I will take it on my damnation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And verily," said Everett, "as he spoke of Parliament generally, he hath
      contemned the House of Lords also."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, ye poor insignificant wretches," said Sir Geoffrey, "whose very life
      is a lie&mdash;and whose bread is perjury&mdash;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.&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps, Sir Geoffrey," answered Bridgenorth, "you would better have
      consulted your own safety in adopting that resolution a little sooner&mdash;the
      tongue is a little member, but it causes much strife.&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;we are
      innocent&mdash;and we are in God's hands. Be the thought our best comfort
      and protection."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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.&mdash;Horses there&mdash;horses to the courtyard!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," replied his companion, "a Peveril&mdash;a Peveril of the Peak!&mdash;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&mdash;yourself in
      some sort a fugitive&mdash;your light quenched&mdash;your glory abased&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;if it is to fall&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        We meet, as men see phantoms in a dream,
        Which glide, and sigh, and sign, and move their lips,
        But make no sound; or, if they utter voice,
        'Tis but a low and undistinguish'd moaning,
        Which has nor word nor sense of utter'd sound.
                                               &mdash;THE CHIEFTAIN.
</pre>
    <p>
      We said, at the conclusion of the last chapter, that a female form
      appeared at the door of Moultrassie Hall; and that the well-known accents
      of Alice Bridgenorth were heard to hail the return of her father, from
      what she naturally dreaded as a perilous visit to the Castle of
      Martindale.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, who followed his conductor with a throbbing heart into the lighted
      hall, was therefore prepared to see her whom he best loved, with her arms
      thrown around her father. The instant she had quitted his paternal
      embrace, she was aware of the unexpected guest who had returned in his
      company. A deep blush, rapidly succeeded by a deadly paleness, and again
      by a slighter suffusion, showed plainly to her lover that his sudden
      appearance was anything but indifferent to her. He bowed profoundly&mdash;a
      courtesy which she returned with equal formality, but did not venture to
      approach more nearly, feeling at once the delicacy of his own situation
      and of hers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Bridgenorth turned his cold, fixed, grey, melancholy glance, first
      on the one of them and then on the other. "Some," he said gravely, "would,
      in my case, have avoided this meeting; but I have confidence in you both,
      although you are young, and beset with the snares incidental to your age.
      There are those within who should not know that ye have been acquainted.
      Wherefore, be wise, and be as strangers to each other."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian and Alice exchanged glances as her father turned from them, and
      lifting a lamp which stood in the entrance-hall, led the way to the
      interior apartment. There was little of consolation in this exchange of
      looks; for the sadness of Alice's glance was mingled with fear, and that
      of Julian clouded by an anxious sense of doubt. The look also was but
      momentary; for Alice, springing to her father, took the light out of his
      hand, and stepping before him, acted as the usher of both into the large
      oaken parlour, which has been already mentioned as the apartment in which
      Bridgenorth had spent the hours of dejection which followed the death of
      his consort and family. It was now lighted up as for the reception of
      company; and five or six persons sat in it, in the plain, black, stiff
      dress, which was affected by the formal Puritans of the time, in evidence
      of their contempt of the manners of the luxurious Court of Charles the
      Second; amongst whom, excess of extravagance in apparel, like excess of
      every other kind, was highly fashionable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian at first glanced his eyes but slightly along the range of grave and
      severe faces which composed this society&mdash;men sincere, perhaps, in
      their pretensions to a superior purity of conduct and morals, but in whom
      that high praise was somewhat chastened by an affected austerity in dress
      and manners, allied to those Pharisees of old, who made broad their
      phylacteries, and would be seen of man to fast, and to discharge with
      rigid punctuality the observances of the law. Their dress was almost
      uniformly a black cloak and doublet, cut straight and close, and
      undecorated with lace or embroidery of any kind, black Flemish breeches
      and hose, square-toed shoes, with large roses made of serge ribbon. Two or
      three had large loose boots of calf-leather, and almost every one was
      begirt with a long rapier, which was suspended by leathern thongs, to a
      plain belt of buff, or of black leather. One or two of the elder guests,
      whose hair had been thinned by time, had their heads covered with a
      skull-cap of black silk or velvet, which, being drawn down betwixt the
      ears and the skull, and permitting no hair to escape, occasioned the
      former to project in the ungraceful manner which may be remarked in old
      pictures, and which procured for the Puritans the term of "prickeared
      Roundheads," so unceremoniously applied to them by their contemporaries.
    </p>
    <p>
      These worthies were ranged against the wall, each in his ancient
      high-backed, long-legged chair; neither looking towards, nor apparently
      discoursing with each other; but plunged in their own reflections, or
      awaiting, like an assembly of Quakers, the quickening power of divine
      inspiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Bridgenorth glided along this formal society with noiseless step,
      and a composed severity of manner, resembling their own. He paused before
      each in succession, and apparently communicated, as he passed, the
      transactions of the evening, and the circumstances under which the heir of
      Martindale Castle was now a guest at Moultrassie Hall. Each seemed to stir
      at his brief detail, like a range of statues in an enchanted hall,
      starting into something like life, as a talisman is applied to them
      successively. Most of them, as they heard the narrative of their host,
      cast upon Julian a look of curiosity, blended with haughty scorn and the
      consciousness of spiritual superiority; though, in one or two instances,
      the milder influences of compassion were sufficiently visible.&mdash;Peveril
      would have undergone this gantlet of eyes with more impatience, had not
      his own been for the time engaged in following the motions of Alice, who
      glided through the apartment; and only speaking very briefly, and in
      whispers, to one or two of the company who addressed her, took her place
      beside a treble-hooded old lady, the only female of the party, and
      addressed herself to her in such earnest conversation, as might dispense
      with her raising her head, or looking at any others in the company.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her father put a question, to which she was obliged to return an answer&mdash;"Where
      was Mistress Debbitch?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has gone out," Alice replied, "early after sunset, to visit some old
      acquaintances in the neighbourhood, and she was not yet returned."
    </p>
    <p>
      Major Bridgenorth made a gesture indicative of displeasure; and, not
      content with that, expressed his determined resolution that Dame Deborah
      should no longer remain a member of his family. "I will have those," he
      said aloud, and without regarding the presence of his guests, "and those
      only, around me, who know to keep within the sober and modest bounds of a
      Christian family. Who pretends to more freedom, must go out from among us,
      as not being of us."
    </p>
    <p>
      A deep and emphatic humming noise, which was at that time the mode in
      which the Puritans signified their applause, as well of the doctrines
      expressed by a favourite divine in the pulpit, as of those delivered in
      private society, ratified the approbation of the assessors, and seemed to
      secure the dismission of the unfortunate governante, who stood thus
      detected of having strayed out of bounds. Even Peveril, although he had
      reaped considerable advantages, in his early acquaintance with Alice, from
      the mercenary and gossiping disposition of her governess, could not hear
      of her dismissal without approbation, so much was he desirous, that, in
      the hour of difficulty which might soon approach, Alice might have the
      benefit of countenance and advice from one of her own sex of better
      manners, and less suspicious probity, than Mistress Debbitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Almost immediately after this communication had taken place, a servant in
      mourning showed his thin, pinched, and wrinkled visage in the apartment,
      announcing, with a voice more like a passing bell than the herald of a
      banquet, that refreshments were provided in an adjoining apartment.
      Gravely leading the way, with his daughter on one side, and the
      puritanical female whom we have distinguished on the other, Bridgenorth
      himself ushered his company, who followed, with little attention to order
      or ceremony, into the eating-room, where a substantial supper was
      provided.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this manner, Peveril, although entitled according to ordinary
      ceremonial, to some degree of precedence&mdash;a matter at that time
      considered of much importance, although now little regarded&mdash;was left
      among the last of those who quitted the parlour; and might indeed have
      brought up the rear of all, had not one of the company, who was himself
      late in the retreat, bowed and resigned to Julian the rank in the company
      which had been usurped by others.
    </p>
    <p>
      This act of politeness naturally induced Julian to examine the features of
      the person who had offered him this civility; and he started to observe,
      under the pinched velvet cap, and above the short band-strings, the
      countenance of Ganlesse, as he called himself&mdash;his companion on the
      preceding evening. He looked again and again, especially when all were
      placed at the supper board, and when, consequently, he had frequent
      opportunities of observing this person fixedly without any breach of good
      manners. At first he wavered in his belief, and was much inclined to doubt
      the reality of his recollection; for the difference of dress was such as
      to effect a considerable change of appearance; and the countenance itself,
      far from exhibiting anything marked or memorable, was one of those
      ordinary visages which we see almost without remarking them, and which
      leave our memory so soon as the object is withdrawn from our eyes. But the
      impression upon his mind returned, and became stronger, until it induced
      him to watch with peculiar attention the manners of the individual who had
      thus attracted his notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the time of a very prolonged grace before meat, which was delivered
      by one of the company&mdash;who, from his Geneva band and serge doublet,
      presided, as Julian supposed, over some dissenting congregation&mdash;he
      noticed that this man kept the same demure and severe cast of countenance
      usually affected by the Puritans, and which rather caricatured the
      reverence unquestionably due upon such occasions. His eyes were turned
      upward, and his huge penthouse hat, with a high crown and broad brim, held
      in both hands before him, rose and fell with the cadences of the speaker's
      voice; thus marking time, as it were, to the periods of the benediction.
      Yet when the slight bustle took place which attends the adjusting of
      chairs, &amp;c., as men sit down to table, Julian's eye encountered that
      of the stranger; and as their looks met, there glanced from those of the
      latter an expression of satirical humour and scorn, which seemed to
      intimate internal ridicule of the gravity of his present demeanour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian again sought to fix his eye, in order to ascertain that he had not
      mistaken the tendency of this transient expression, but the stranger did
      not allow him another opportunity. He might have been discovered by the
      tone of his voice; but the individual in question spoke little, and in
      whispers, which was indeed the fashion of the whole company, whose
      demeanour at table resembled that of mourners at a funeral feast.
    </p>
    <p>
      The entertainment itself was coarse, though plentiful; and must, according
      to Julian's opinion, be distasteful to one so exquisitely skilled in good
      cheer, and so capable of enjoying, critically and scientifically, the
      genial preparations of his companion Smith, as Ganlesse had shown himself
      on the preceding evening. Accordingly, upon close observation, he remarked
      that the food which he took upon his plate remained there unconsumed; and
      that his actual supper consisted only of a crust of bread, with a glass of
      wine.
    </p>
    <p>
      The repast was hurried over with the haste of those who think it shame, if
      not sin, to make mere animal enjoyments the means of consuming time, or of
      receiving pleasure; and when men wiped their mouths and moustaches, Julian
      remarked that the object of his curiosity used a handkerchief of the
      finest cambric&mdash;an article rather inconsistent with the exterior
      plainness, not to say coarseness, of his appearance. He used also several
      of the more minute refinements, then only observed at tables of the higher
      rank; and Julian thought he could discern, at every turn, something of
      courtly manners and gestures, under the precise and rustic simplicity of
      the character which he had assumed.[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] A Scottish gentleman <i>in hiding</i>, as it was emphatically termed,
    for some concern in a Jacobite insurrection or plot, was
    discovered among a number of ordinary persons, by the use of his
    toothpick.
</pre>
    <p>
      But if this were indeed that same Ganlesse with whom Julian had met on the
      preceding evening, and who had boasted the facility with which he could
      assume any character which he pleased to represent for the time, what
      could be the purpose of this present disguise? He was, if his own words
      could be credited, a person of some importance, who dared to defy the
      danger of those officers and informers, before whom all ranks at that time
      trembled; nor was he likely, as Julian conceived, without some strong
      purpose, to subject himself to such a masquerade as the present, which
      could not be otherwise than irksome to one whose conversation proclaimed
      him of light life and free opinions. Was his appearance here for good or
      for evil? Did it respect his father's house, or his own person, or the
      family of Bridgenorth? Was the real character of Ganlesse known to the
      master of the house, inflexible as he was in all which concerned morals as
      well as religion? If not, might not the machinations of a brain so subtile
      affect the peace and happiness of Alice Bridgenorth?
    </p>
    <p>
      These were questions which no reflection could enable Peveril to answer.
      His eyes glanced from Alice to the stranger; and new fears, and undefined
      suspicions, in which the safety of that beloved and lovely girl was
      implicated, mingled with the deep anxiety which already occupied his mind,
      on account of his father and his father's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was in this tumult of mind, when after a thanksgiving as long as the
      grace, the company arose from table, and were instantly summoned to the
      exercise of family worship. A train of domestics, grave, sad, and
      melancholy as their superiors, glided in to assist at this act of
      devotion, and ranged themselves at the lower end of the apartment. Most of
      these men were armed with long tucks, as the straight stabbing swords,
      much used by Cromwell's soldiery, were then called. Several had large
      pistols also; and the corselets or cuirasses of some were heard to clank,
      as they seated themselves to partake in this act of devotion. The ministry
      of him whom Julian had supposed a preacher was not used on this occasion.
      Major Bridgenorth himself read and expounded a chapter of Scripture, with
      much strength and manliness of expression, although so as not to escape
      the charge of fanaticism. The nineteenth chapter of Jeremiah was the
      portion of Scripture which he selected; in which, under the type of
      breaking a potter's vessel, the prophet presages the desolation of the
      Jews. The lecturer was not naturally eloquent; but a strong, deep, and
      sincere conviction of the truth of what he said supplied him with language
      of energy and fire, as he drew parallel between the abominations of the
      worship of Baal, and the corruptions of the Church of Rome&mdash;so
      favourite a topic with the Puritans of that period; and denounced against
      the Catholics, and those who favoured them, that hissing and desolation
      which the prophet directed against the city of Jerusalem. His hearers made
      a yet closer application than the lecturer himself suggested; and many a
      dark proud eye intimated, by a glance on Julian, that on his father's
      house were already, in some part, realised those dreadful maledictions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lecture finished, Bridgenorth summoned them to unite with him in
      prayer; and on a slight change of arrangements amongst the company, which
      took place as they were about to kneel down, Julian found his place next
      to the single-minded and beautiful object of his affection, as she knelt,
      in her loveliness, to adore her Creator. A short time was permitted for
      mental devotion; during which Peveril could hear her half-breathed
      petition for the promised blessings of peace on earth, and good-will
      towards the children of men.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prayer which ensued was in a different tone. It was poured forth by
      the same person who had officiated as chaplain at the table; and was in
      the tone of a Boanerges, or Son of Thunder&mdash;a denouncer of crimes&mdash;an
      invoker of judgments&mdash;almost a prophet of evil and of destruction.
      The testimonies and the sins of the day were not forgotten&mdash;the
      mysterious murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey was insisted upon&mdash;and
      thanks and praise were offered, that the very night on which they were
      assembled, had not seen another offering of a Protestant magistrate, to
      the bloodthirsty fury of revengeful Catholics.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never had Julian found it more difficult, during an act of devotion, to
      maintain his mind in a frame befitting the posture and the occasion; and
      when he heard the speaker return thanks for the downfall and devastation
      of his family, he was strongly tempted to have started upon his feet, and
      charged him with offering a tribute, stained with falsehood and calumny,
      at the throne of truth itself. He resisted, however, an impulse which it
      would have been insanity to have yielded to, and his patience was not
      without its reward; for when his fair neighbour arose from her knees, the
      lengthened and prolonged prayer being at last concluded, he observed that
      her eyes were streaming with tears; and one glance with which she looked
      at him in that moment, showed more of affectionate interest for him in his
      fallen fortunes and precarious condition, than he had been able to obtain
      from her when his worldly estate seemed so much the more exalted of the
      two.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cheered and fortified with the conviction that one bosom in the company,
      and that in which he most eagerly longed to secure an interest,
      sympathised with his distress, he felt strong to endure whatever was to
      follow, and shrunk not from the stern still smile with which, one by one,
      the meeting regarded him, as, gliding to their several places of repose,
      they indulged themselves at parting with a look of triumph on one whom
      they considered as their captive enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alice also passed by her lover, her eyes fixed on the ground, and answered
      his low obeisance without raising them. The room was now empty, but for
      Bridgenorth and his guest, or prisoner; for it is difficult to say in
      which capacity Peveril ought to regard himself. He took an old brazen lamp
      from the table, and, leading the way, said at the same time, "I must be
      the uncourtly chamberlain, who am to usher you to a place of repose, more
      rude, perhaps, than you have been accustomed to occupy."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian followed him, in silence, up an old-fashioned winding staircase,
      within a turret. At the landing-place on the top was a small apartment,
      where an ordinary pallet bed, two chairs, and a small stone table, were
      the only furniture. "Your bed," continued Bridgenorth, as if desirous to
      prolong their interview, "is not of the softest; but innocence sleeps as
      sound upon straw as on down."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sorrow, Major Bridgenorth, finds little rest on either," replied Julian.
      "Tell me, for you seem to await some question from me, what is to be the
      fate of my parents, and why you separate me from them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth, for answer, indicated with his finger the mark which his
      countenance still showed from the explosion of Julian's pistol.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," replied Julian, "is not the real cause of your proceedings against
      me. It cannot be, that you, who have been a soldier, and are a man, can be
      surprised or displeased by my interference in the defence of my father.
      Above all, you cannot, and I must needs say you do not, believe that I
      would have raised my hand against you personally, had there been a
      moment's time for recognition."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I may grant all this," said Bridgenorth; "but what the better are you for
      my good opinion, or for the ease with which I can forgive you the injury
      which you aimed at me? You are in my custody as a magistrate, accused of
      abetting the foul, bloody, and heathenish plot, for the establishment of
      Popery, the murder of the King, and the general massacre of all true
      Protestants."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And on what grounds, either of fact or suspicion, dare any one accuse me
      of such a crime?" said Julian. "I have hardly heard of the plot, save by
      the mouth of common rumour, which, while it speaks of nothing else, takes
      care to say nothing distinctly even on that subject."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be enough for me to tell you," replied Bridgenorth, "and perhaps
      it is a word too much&mdash;that you are a discovered intriguer&mdash;a
      spied spy&mdash;who carries tokens and messages betwixt the Popish
      Countess of Derby and the Catholic party in London. You have not conducted
      your matters with such discretion, but that this is well known, and can be
      sufficiently proved. To this charge, which you are well aware you cannot
      deny, these men, Everett and Dangerfield, are not unwilling to add, from
      the recollection of your face, other passages, which will certainly cost
      you your life when you come before a Protestant jury."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They lie like villains," said Peveril, "who hold me accessory to any plot
      either against the King, the nation, or the state of religion; and for the
      Countess, her loyalty has been too long, and too highly proved, to permit
      her being implicated in such injurious suspicions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What she has already done," said Bridgenorth, his face darkening as he
      spoke, "against the faithful champions of pure religion, hath sufficiently
      shown of what she is capable. She hath betaken herself to her rock, and
      sits, as she thinks, in security, like the eagle reposing after his bloody
      banquet. But the arrow of the fowler may yet reach her&mdash;the shaft is
      whetted&mdash;the bow is bended&mdash;and it will be soon seen whether
      Amalek or Israel shall prevail. But for thee, Julian Peveril&mdash;why
      should I conceal it from thee?&mdash;my heart yearns for thee as a woman's
      for her first-born. To thee I will give, at the expense of my own
      reputation&mdash;perhaps at the risk of personal suspicion&mdash;for who,
      in these days of doubt, shall be exempted from it&mdash;to thee, I say, I
      will give means of escape, which else were impossible to thee. The
      staircase of this turret descends to the gardens&mdash;the postern-gate is
      unlatched&mdash;on the right hand lie the stables, where you will find
      your own horse&mdash;take it, and make for Liverpool&mdash;I will give you
      credit with a friend under the name of Simon Simonson, one persecuted by
      the prelates; and he will expedite your passage from the kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Major Bridgenorth," said Julian, "I will not deceive you. Were I to
      accept your offer of freedom, it would be to attend to a higher call than
      that of mere self-preservation. My father is in danger&mdash;my mother in
      sorrow&mdash;the voices of religion and nature call me to their side. I am
      their only child&mdash;their only hope&mdash;I will aid them, or perish
      with them!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art mad," said Bridgenorth&mdash;"aid them thou canst not&mdash;perish
      with them thou mayst, and even accelerate their ruin; for, in addition to
      the charges with which thy unhappy father is loaded, it would be no slight
      aggravation, that while he meditated arming and calling together the
      Catholics and High Churchmen of Cheshire and Derbyshire, his son should
      prove to be the confidential agent of the Countess of Derby, who aided her
      in making good her stronghold against the Protestant commissioners, and
      was despatched by her to open secret communication with the Popish
      interest in London."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have twice stated me as such an agent," said Peveril, resolved that
      his silence should not be construed into an admission of the charge,
      though he felt it was in some degree well founded&mdash;"What reason have
      you for such an allegation?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will it suffice for a proof of my intimate acquaintance with your
      mystery," replied Bridgenorth, "if I should repeat to you the last words
      which the Countess used to you when you left the Castle of that
      Amalekitish woman? Thus she spoke: 'I am now a forlorn widow,' she said,
      'whom sorrow has made selfish.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril started, for these were the very words the Countess had used; but
      he instantly recovered himself, and replied, "Be your information of what
      nature it will, I deny, and I defy it, so far as it attaches aught like
      guilt to me. There lives not a man more innocent of a disloyal thought, or
      of a traitorous purpose. What I say for myself, I will, to the best of my
      knowledge, say and maintain on account of the noble Countess, to whom I am
      indebted for nurture."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perish, then, in thy obstinacy!" said Bridgenorth; and turning hastily
      from him, he left the room, and Julian heard him hasten down the narrow
      staircase, as if distrusting his own resolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a heavy heart, yet with that confidence in an overruling Providence
      which never forsakes a good and brave man, Peveril betook himself to his
      lowly place of repose.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        The course of human life is changeful still,
        As is the fickle wind and wandering rill;
        Or, like the light dance which the wild-breeze weaves
        Amidst the fated race of fallen leaves;
        Which now its breath bears down, now tosses high,
        Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky.
        Such, and so varied, the precarious play
        Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day!
                                                   &mdash;ANONYMOUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      Whilst, overcome with fatigue, and worn out by anxiety, Julian Peveril
      slumbered as a prisoner in the house of his hereditary enemy, Fortune was
      preparing his release by one of those sudden frolics with which she loves
      to confound the calculations and expectancies of humanity; and as she
      fixes on strange agents for such purposes, she condescended to employ on
      the present occasion, no less a personage than Mistress Deborah Debbitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instigated, doubtless, by the pristine reminiscences of former times, no
      sooner had that most prudent and considerate dame found herself in the
      vicinity of the scenes of her earlier days, than she bethought herself of
      a visit to the ancient house-keeper of Martindale Castle, Dame Ellesmere
      by name, who, long retired from active service, resided at the keeper's
      lodge, in the west thicket, with her nephew, Lance Outram, subsisting upon
      the savings of her better days, and on a small pension allowed by Sir
      Geoffrey to her age and faithful services.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now Dame Ellesmere and Mistress Deborah had not by any means been formerly
      on so friendly a footing, as this haste to visit her might be supposed to
      intimate. But years had taught Deborah to forget and forgive; or perhaps
      she had no special objection, under cover of a visit to Dame Ellesmere, to
      take the chance of seeing what changes time had made on her old admirer
      the keeper. Both inhabitants were in the cottage when, after having seen
      her master set forth on his expedition to the Castle, Mistress Debbitch,
      dressed in her very best gown, footed it through gutter, and over stile,
      and by pathway green, to knock at their door, and to lift the hatch at the
      hospitable invitation which bade her come in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dame Ellesmere's eyes were so often dim, that, even with the aid of
      spectacles, she failed to recognise, in the portly and mature personage
      who entered their cottage, the tight well-made lass, who, presuming on her
      good looks and flippant tongue, had so often provoked her by
      insubordination; and her former lover, the redoubted Lance, not being
      conscious that ale had given rotundity to his own figure, which was
      formerly so slight and active, and that brandy had transferred to his nose
      the colour which had once occupied his cheeks, was unable to discover that
      Deborah's French cap, composed of sarsenet and Brussels lace, shaded the
      features which had so often procured him a rebuke from Dr. Dummerar, for
      suffering his eyes, during the time of prayers, to wander to the
      maid-servants' bench.
    </p>
    <p>
      In brief, the blushing visitor was compelled to make herself known; and
      when known, was received by aunt and nephew with the most sincere
      cordiality.
    </p>
    <p>
      The home-brewed was produced; and, in lieu of more vulgar food, a few
      slices of venison presently hissed in the frying pan, giving strong room
      for inference that Lance Outram, in his capacity of keeper, neglected not
      his own cottage when he supplied the larder at the Castle. A modest sip of
      the excellent Derbyshire ale, and a taste of the highly-seasoned hash,
      soon placed Deborah entirely at home with her old acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having put all necessary questions, and received all suitable answers,
      respecting the state of the neighbourhood, and such of her own friends as
      continued to reside there, the conversation began rather to flag, until
      Deborah found the art of again re-newing its interest, by communicating to
      her friends the dismal intelligence that they must soon look for deadly
      bad news from the Castle; for that her present master, Major Bridgenorth,
      had been summoned, by some great people from London, to assist in taking
      her old master, Sir Geoffrey; and that all Master Bridgenorth's servants,
      and several other persons whom she named, friends and adherents of the
      same interest, had assembled a force to surprise the Castle; and that as
      Sir Geoffrey was now so old, and gouty withal, it could not be expected he
      should make the defence he was wont; and then he was known to be so
      stout-hearted, that it was not to be supposed that he would yield up
      without stroke of sword; and then if he was killed, as he was like to be,
      amongst them that liked never a bone of his body, and now had him at their
      mercy, why, in that case, she, Dame Deborah, would look upon Lady Peveril
      as little better than a dead woman; and undoubtedly there would be a
      general mourning through all that country, where they had such great kin;
      and silks were likely to rise on it, as Master Lutestring, the mercer of
      Chesterfield, was like to feel in his purse bottom. But for her part, let
      matters wag how they would, an if Master Julian Peveril was to come to his
      own, she could give as near a guess as e'er another who was likely to be
      Lady at Martindale.
    </p>
    <p>
      The text of this lecture, or, in other words, the fact that Bridgenorth
      was gone with a party to attack Sir Geoffrey Peveril in his own Castle of
      Martindale, sounded so stunningly strange in the ears of those old
      retainers of his family, that they had no power either to attend to
      Mistress Deborah's inferences, or to interrupt the velocity of speech with
      which she poured them forth. And when at length she made a breathless
      pause, all that poor Dame Ellesmere could reply, was the emphatic
      question, "Bridgenorth brave Peveril of the Peak!&mdash;Is the woman mad?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, come, dame," said Deborah, "woman me no more than I woman you. I
      have not been called Mistress at the head of the table for so many years,
      to be woman'd here by you. And for the news, it is as true as that you are
      sitting there in a white hood, who will wear a black one ere long."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lance Outram," said the old woman, "make out, if thou be'st a man, and
      listen about if aught stirs up at the Castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If there should," said Outram, "I am even too long here;" and he caught
      up his crossbow, and one or two arrows, and rushed out of the cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well-a-day!" said Mistress Deborah, "see if my news have not frightened
      away Lance Outram too, whom they used to say nothing could start. But do
      not take on so, dame; for I dare say if the Castle and the lands pass to
      my new master, Major Bridgenorth, as it is like they will&mdash;for I have
      heard that he has powerful debts over the estate&mdash;you shall have my
      good word with him, and I promise you he is no bad man; something precise
      about preaching and praying, and about the dress which one should wear,
      which, I must own, beseems not a gentleman, as, to be sure, every woman
      knows best what becomes her. But for you, dame, that wear a prayer-book at
      your girdle, with your housewife-case, and never change the fashion of
      your white hood, I dare say he will not grudge you the little matter you
      need, and are not able to win."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Out, sordid jade!" exclaimed Dame Ellesmere, her very flesh quivering
      betwixt apprehension and anger, "and hold your peace this instant, or I
      will find those that shall flay the very hide from thee with dog-whips.
      Hast thou ate thy noble master's bread, not only to betray his trust, and
      fly from his service, but wouldst thou come here, like an ill-omened bird
      as thou art, to triumph over his downfall?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, dame," said Deborah, over whom the violence of the old woman had
      obtained a certain predominance; "it is not I that say it&mdash;only the
      warrant of the Parliament folks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thought we had done with their warrants ever since the blessed
      twenty-ninth of May," said the old housekeeper of Martindale Castle; "but
      this I tell thee, sweetheart, that I have seen such warrants crammed, at
      the sword's point, down the throats of them that brought them; and so
      shall this be, if there is one true man left to drink of the Dove."
    </p>
    <p>
      As she spoke, Lance Outram re-entered the cottage. "Naunt," he said in
      dismay, "I doubt it is true what she says. The beacon tower is as black as
      my belt. No Pole-star of Peveril. What does that betoken?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Death, ruin, and captivity," exclaimed old Ellesmere. "Make for the
      Castle, thou knave. Thrust in thy great body. Strike for the house that
      bred thee and fed thee; and if thou art buried under the ruins, thou diest
      a man's death."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, naunt, I shall not be slack," answered Outram. "But here come folks
      that I warrant can tell us more on't."
    </p>
    <p>
      One or two of the female servants, who had fled from the Castle during the
      alarm, now rushed in with various reports of the case; but all agreeing
      that a body of armed men were in possession of the Castle, and that Major
      Bridgenorth had taken young Master Julian prisoner, and conveyed him down
      to Moultrassie Hall, with his feet tied under the belly of the nag&mdash;a
      shameful sight to be seen&mdash;and he so well born and so handsome.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lance scratched his head; and though feeling the duty incumbent upon him
      as a faithful servant, which was indeed specially dinned into him by the
      cries and exclamations of his aunt, he seemed not a little dubious how to
      conduct himself. "I would to God, naunt," he said at last, "that old
      Whitaker were alive now, with his long stories about Marston Moor and Edge
      Hill, that made us all yawn our jaws off their hinges, in spite of broiled
      rashers and double beer! When a man is missed, he is moaned, as they say;
      and I would rather than a broad piece he had been here to have sorted this
      matter, for it is clean out of my way as a woodsman, that have no skill of
      war. But dang it, if old Sir Geoffrey go to the wall without a knock for
      it!&mdash;Here you, Nell"&mdash;(speaking to one of the fugitive maidens
      from the Castle)&mdash;"but, no&mdash;you have not the heart of a cat, and
      are afraid of your own shadow by moonlight&mdash;But, Cis, you are a
      stout-hearted wench, and know a buck from a bullfinch. Hark thee, Cis, as
      you would wish to be married, get up to the Castle again, and get thee in&mdash;thou
      best knowest where&mdash;for thou hast oft gotten out of postern to a
      dance or junketing, to my knowledge&mdash;Get thee back to the Castle, as
      ye hope to be married&mdash;See my lady&mdash;they cannot hinder thee of
      that&mdash;my lady has a head worth twenty of ours&mdash;If I am to gather
      force, light up the beacon for a signal; and spare not a tar barrel on't.
      Thou mayst do it safe enough. I warrant the Roundheads busy with drink and
      plunder.&mdash;And, hark thee, say to my lady I am gone down to the
      miners' houses at Bonadventure. The rogues were mutinying for their wages
      but yesterday; they will be all ready for good or bad. Let her send orders
      down to me; or do you come yourself, your legs are long enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whether they are or not, Master Lance (and you know nothing of the
      matter), they shall do your errand to-night, for love of the old knight
      and his lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      So Cisly Sellok, a kind of Derbyshire Camilla, who had won the smock at
      the foot-race at Ashbourne, sprung forward towards the Castle with a speed
      which few could have equalled.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There goes a mettled wench," said Lance; "and now, naunt, give me the old
      broadsword&mdash;it is above the bed-head&mdash;and my wood-knife; and I
      shall do well enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what is to become of me?" bleated the unfortunate Mistress Deborah
      Debbitch.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You must remain here with my aunt, Mistress Deb; and, for old
      acquaintance' sake, she will take care no harm befalls you; but take heed
      how you attempt to break bounds."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and pondering in his own mind the task which he had undertaken,
      the hardy forester strode down the moonlight glade, scarcely hearing the
      blessings and cautions which Dame Ellesmere kept showering after him. His
      thoughts were not altogether warlike. "What a tight ankle the jade hath!&mdash;she
      trips it like a doe in summer over dew. Well, but here are the huts&mdash;Let
      us to this gear.&mdash;Are ye all asleep, you dammers, sinkers, and
      drift-drivers? turn out, ye subterranean badgers. Here is your master, Sir
      Geoffrey, dead, for aught ye know or care. Do not you see the beacon is
      unlit, and you sit there like so many asses?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why," answered one of the miners, who now began to come out of their huts&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "An he be dead,
  He will eat no more bread."
</pre>
    <p>
      "And you are like to eat none neither," said Lance; "for the works will be
      presently stopped, and all of you turned off."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, and what of it, Master Lance? As good play for nought as work for
      nought. Here is four weeks we have scarce seen the colour of Sir
      Geoffrey's coin; and you ask us to care whether he be dead or in life? For
      you, that goes about, trotting upon your horse, and doing for work what
      all men do for pleasure, it may be well enough; but it is another matter
      to be leaving God's light, and burrowing all day and night in darkness,
      like a toad in a hole&mdash;that's not to be done for nought, I trow; and
      if Sir Geoffrey is dead, his soul will suffer for't; and if he's alive,
      we'll have him in the Barmoot Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hark ye, gaffer," said Lance, "and take notice, my mates, all of you,"
      for a considerable number of these rude and subterranean people had now
      assembled to hear the discussion&mdash;"Has Sir Geoffrey, think you, ever
      put a penny in his pouch out of this same Bonadventure mine?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot say as I think he has," answered old Ditchley, the party who
      maintained the controversy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Answer on your conscience, though it be but a leaden one. Do not you know
      that he hath lost a good penny?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, I believe he may," said Gaffer Ditchley. "What then!&mdash;lose
      to-day, win to-morrow&mdash;the miner must eat in the meantime."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True; but what will you eat when Master Bridgenorth gets the land, that
      will not hear of a mine being wrought on his own ground? Will he work on
      at dead loss, think ye?" demanded trusty Lance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bridgenorth?&mdash;he of Moultrassie Hall, that stopped the great
      Felicity Work, on which his father laid out, some say, ten thousand
      pounds, and never got in a penny? Why, what has he to do with Sir
      Geoffrey's property down here at Bonadventure? It was never his, I trow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, what do I know?" answered Lance, who saw the impression he had made.
      "Law and debt will give him half Derbyshire, I think, unless you stand by
      old Sir Geoffrey."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But if Sir Geoffrey be dead," said Ditchley cautiously, "what good will
      our standing by do to him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not say he was dead, but only as bad as dead; in the hands of the
      Roundheads&mdash;a prisoner up yonder, at his own Castle," said Lance;
      "and will have his head cut off, like the good Earl of Derby's at
      Bolton-le-Moors."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, then, comrades," said Gaffer Ditchley, "an it be as Master Lance
      says, I think we should bear a hand for stout old Sir Geoffrey, against a
      low-born mean-spirited fellow like Bridgenorth, who shut up a shaft had
      cost thousands, without getting a penny profit on't. So hurra for Sir
      Geoffrey, and down with the Rump! But hold ye a blink&mdash;hold"&mdash;(and
      the waving of his hand stopped the commencing cheer)&mdash;"Hark ye,
      Master Lance, it must be all over, for the beacon is as black as night;
      and you know yourself that marks the Lord's death."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It will kindle again in an instant," said Lance; internally adding, "I
      pray to God it may!&mdash;It will kindle in an instant&mdash;lack of fuel,
      and the confusion of the family."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, like enow, like enow," said Ditchley; "but I winna budge till I see
      it blazing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why then, there a-goes!" said Lance. "Thank thee, Cis&mdash;thank thee,
      my good wench.&mdash;Believe your own eyes, my lads, if you will not
      believe me; and now hurra for Peveril of the Peak&mdash;the King and his
      friends&mdash;and down with Rumps and Roundheads!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The sudden rekindling of the beacon had all the effect which Lance could
      have desired upon the minds of his rude and ignorant hearers, who, in
      their superstitious humour, had strongly associated the Polar-star of
      Peveril with the fortunes of the family. Once moved, according to the
      national character of their countrymen, they soon became enthusiastic; and
      Lance found himself at the head of thirty stout fellows and upwards, armed
      with their pick-axes, and ready to execute whatever task he should impose
      on them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Trusting to enter the Castle by the postern, which had served to
      accommodate himself and other domestics upon an emergency, his only
      anxiety was to keep his march silent; and he earnestly recommended to his
      followers to reserve their shouts for the moment of the attack. They had
      not advanced far on their road to the Castle, when Cisly Sellok met them
      so breathless with haste, that the poor girl was obliged to throw herself
      into Master Lance's arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stand up, my mettled wench," said he, giving her a sly kiss at the same
      time, "and let us know what is going on up at the Castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My lady bids you, as you would serve God and your master, not to come up
      to the Castle, which can but make bloodshed; for she says Sir Geoffrey is
      lawfully in hand, and that he must bide the issue; and that he is innocent
      of what he is charged with, and is going up to speak for himself before
      King and Council, and she goes up with him. And besides, they have found
      out the postern, the Roundhead rogues; for two of them saw me when I went
      out of door, and chased me; but I showed them a fair pair of heels."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As ever dashed dew from the cowslip," said Lance. "But what the foul
      fiend is to be done? for if they have secured the postern, I know not how
      the dickens we can get in."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All is fastened with bolt and staple, and guarded with gun and pistol, at
      the Castle," quoth Cisly; "and so sharp are they, that they nigh caught me
      coming with my lady's message, as I told you. But my lady says, if you
      could deliver her son, Master Julian, from Bridgenorth, that she would
      hold it good service."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said Lance, "is young master at the Castle? I taught him to shoot
      his first shaft. But how to get in!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He was at the Castle in the midst of the ruffle, but old Bridgenorth has
      carried him down prisoner to the hall," answered Cisly. "There was never
      faith nor courtesy in an old Puritan who never had pipe and tabor in his
      house since it was built."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Or who stopped a promising mine," said Ditchley, "to save a few thousand
      pounds, when he might have made himself as rich as Lord of Chatsworth, and
      fed a hundred good fellows all the whilst."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, then," said Lance, "since you are all of a mind, we will go draw the
      cover for the old badger; and I promise you that the Hall is not like one
      of your real houses of quality where the walls are as thick as
      whinstone-dikes, but foolish brick-work, that your pick-axes will work
      through as if it were cheese. Huzza once more for Peveril of the Peak!
      down with Bridgenorth, and all upstart cuckoldly Roundheads!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Having indulged the throats of his followers with one buxom huzza, Lance
      commanded them to cease their clamours, and proceeded to conduct them, by
      such paths as seemed the least likely to be watched, to the courtyard of
      Moultrassie Hall. On the road they were joined by several stout yeoman
      farmers, either followers of the Peveril family, or friends to the High
      Church and Cavalier party; most of whom, alarmed by the news which began
      to fly fast through the neighbourhood, were armed with sword and pistol.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lance Outram halted his party, at the distance, as he himself described
      it, of a flight-shot from the house, and advanced, alone, and in silence,
      to reconnoitre; and having previously commanded Ditchley and his
      subterranean allies to come to his assistance whenever he should whistle,
      he crept cautiously forward, and soon found that those whom he came to
      surprise, true to the discipline which had gained their party such decided
      superiority during the Civil War, had posted a sentinel, who paced through
      the courtyard, piously chanting a psalm-tune, while his arms, crossed on
      his bosom, supported a gun of formidable length.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, a true solder," said Lance Outram to himself, "would put a stop to
      thy snivelling ditty, by making a broad arrow quiver in your heart, and no
      great alarm given. But, dang it, I have not the right spirit for a soldier&mdash;I
      cannot fight a man till my blood's up; and for shooting him from behind a
      wall it is cruelly like to stalking a deer. I'll e'en face him, and try
      what to make of him."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this doughty resolution, and taking no farther care to conceal
      himself, he entered the courtyard boldly, and was making forward to the
      front door of the hall, as a matter of course. But the old Cromwellian,
      who was on guard, had not so learned his duty. "Who goes there?&mdash;Stand,
      friend&mdash;stand; or, verily, I will shoot thee to death!" were
      challenges which followed each other quick, the last being enforced by the
      levelling and presenting the said long-barrelled gun with which he was
      armed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, what a murrain!" answered Lance. "Is it your fashion to go
      a-shooting at this time o' night? Why, this is but a time for
      bat-fowling."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, but hark thee, friend," said the experienced sentinel, "I am none of
      those who do this work negligently. Thou canst not snare me with thy
      crafty speech, though thou wouldst make it to sound simple in mine ear. Of
      a verity I will shoot, unless thou tell thy name and business."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Name!" said Lance; "why, what a dickens should it be but Robin Round&mdash;honest
      Robin of Redham; and for business, an you must needs know, I come on a
      message from some Parliament man, up yonder at the Castle, with letters
      for worshipful Master Bridgenorth of Moultrassie Hall; and this be the
      place, as I think; though why ye be marching up and down at his door, like
      the sign of a Red Man, with your old firelock there, I cannot so well
      guess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Give me the letters, my friend," said the sentinel, to whom this
      explanation seemed very natural and probable, "and I will cause them
      forthwith to be delivered into his worship's own hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      Rummaging in his pockets, as if to pull out the letters which never
      existed, Master Lance approached within the sentinel's piece, and, before
      he was aware, suddenly seized him by the collar, whistled sharp and
      shrill, and exerting his skill as a wrestler, for which he had been
      distinguished in his youth, he stretched his antagonist on his back&mdash;the
      musket for which they struggled going off in the fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The miners rushed into the courtyard at Lance's signal; and hopeless any
      longer of prosecuting his design in silence, Lance commanded two of them
      to secure the prisoner, and the rest to cheer loudly, and attack the door
      of the house. Instantly the courtyard of the mansion rang with the cry of
      "Peveril of the Peak for ever!" with all the abuse which the Royalists had
      invented to cast upon the Roundheads, during so many years of contention;
      and at the same time, while some assailed the door with their mining
      implements, others directed their attack against the angle, where a kind
      of porch joined to the main front of the building; and there, in some
      degree protected by the projection of the wall, and of a balcony which
      overhung the porch, wrought in more security, as well as with more effect,
      than the others; for the doors being of oak, thickly studded with nails,
      offered a more effectual resistance to violence than the brick-work.
    </p>
    <p>
      The noise of this hubbub on the outside, soon excited wild alarm and
      tumult within. Lights flew from window to window, and voices were heard
      demanding the cause of the attack; to which the party cries of those who
      were in the courtyard afforded a sufficient, or at least the only answer,
      which was vouchsafed. At length the window of a projecting staircase
      opened, and the voice of Bridgenorth himself demanded authoritatively what
      the tumult meant, and commanded the rioters to desist, upon their own
      proper and immediate peril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We want our young master, you canting old thief," was the reply; "and if
      we have him not instantly, the topmost stone of your house shall lie as
      low as the foundation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We shall try that presently," said Bridgenorth; "for if there is another
      blow struck against the walls of my peaceful house, I will fire my
      carabine among you, and your blood be upon your own head. I have a score
      of friends, well armed with musket and pistol, to defend my house; and we
      have both the means and heart, with Heaven's assistance, to repay any
      violence you can offer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Master Bridgenorth," replied Lance, who, though no soldier, was sportsman
      enough to comprehend the advantage which those under cover, and using
      firearms, must necessarily have over his party, exposed to their aim, in a
      great measure, and without means of answering their fire,&mdash;"Master
      Bridgenorth, let us crave parley with you, and fair conditions. We desire
      to do you no evil, but will have back our young master; it is enough that
      you have got our old one and his lady. It is foul chasing to kill hart,
      hind, and fawn; and we will give you some light on the subject in an
      instant."
    </p>
    <p>
      This speech was followed by a great crash amongst the lower windows of the
      house, according to a new species of attack which had been suggested by
      some of the assailants.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would take the honest fellow's word, and let young Peveril go," said
      one of the garrison, who, carelessly yawning, approached on the inside of
      the post at which Bridgenorth had stationed himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are you mad?" said Bridgenorth; "or do you think me poor enough in spirit
      to give up the advantages I now possess over the family of Peveril, for
      the awe of a parcel of boors, whom the first discharge will scatter like
      chaff before the whirlwind?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," answered the speaker, who was the same individual that had struck
      Julian by his resemblance to the man who called himself Ganlesse, "I love
      a dire revenge, but we shall buy it somewhat too dear if these rascals set
      the house on fire, as they are like to do, while you are parleying from
      the window. They have thrown torches or firebrands into the hall; and it
      is all our friends can do to keep the flame from catching the wainscoting,
      which is old and dry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, may Heaven judge thee for thy lightness of spirit," answered
      Bridgenorth; "one would think mischief was so properly thy element, that
      to thee it was indifferent whether friend or foe was the sufferer."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he ran hastily downstairs towards the hall, into which, through
      broken casements, and betwixt the iron bars, which prevented human
      entrance, the assailants had thrust lighted straw, sufficient to excite
      much smoke and some fire, and to throw the defenders of the house into
      great confusion; insomuch, that of several shots fired hastily from the
      windows, little or no damage followed to the besiegers, who, getting warm
      on the onset, answered the hostile charges with loud shouts of "Peveril
      for ever!" and had already made a practicable breach through the
      brick-wall of the tenement, through which Lance, Ditchley, and several of
      the most adventurous among their followers, made their way into the hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The complete capture of the house remained, however, as far off as ever.
      The defenders mixed with much coolness and skill that solemn and deep
      spirit of enthusiasm which sets life at less than nothing, in comparison
      to real or supposed duty. From the half-open doors which led into the
      hall, they maintained a fire which began to grow fatal. One miner was shot
      dead; three or four were wounded; and Lance scarce knew whether he should
      draw his forces from the house, and leave it a prey to the flames, or,
      making a desperate attack on the posts occupied by the defenders, try to
      obtain unmolested possession of the place. At this moment, his course of
      conduct was determined by an unexpected occurrence, of which it is
      necessary to trace the cause.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0545m.jpg" alt="0545m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0545.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril had been, like other inhabitants of Moultrassie Hall on
      that momentous night, awakened by the report of the sentinel's musket,
      followed by the shouts of his father's vassals and followers; of which he
      collected enough to guess that Bridgenorth's house was attacked with a
      view to his liberation. Very doubtful of the issue of such an attempt,
      dizzy with the slumber from which he had been so suddenly awakened, and
      confounded with the rapid succession of events to which he had been lately
      a witness, he speedily put on a part of his clothes, and hastened to the
      window of his apartment. From this he could see nothing to relieve his
      anxiety, for it looked towards a quarter different from that on which the
      attack was made. He attempted his door; it was locked on the outside; and
      his perplexity and anxiety became extreme, when suddenly the lock was
      turned, and in an underdress, hastily assumed in the moment of alarm, her
      hair streaming on her shoulders, her eyes gleaming betwixt fear and
      resolution, Alice Bridgenorth rushed into his apartment, and seized his
      hand with the fervent exclamation, "Julian, save my father!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The light which she bore in her hand served to show those features which
      could rarely have been viewed by any one without emotion, but which bore
      an expression irresistible to a lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alice," he said, "what means this? What is the danger? Where is your
      father?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not stay to question," she answered; "but if you would save him,
      follow me!"
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same time she led the way, with great speed, half-way down the
      turret stair case which led to his room, thence turning through a side
      door, along a long gallery, to a larger and wider stair, at the bottom of
      which stood her father, surrounded by four or five of his friends, scarce
      discernible through the smoke of the fire which began to take hold in the
      hall, as well as that which arose from the repeated discharge of their own
      firearms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian saw there was not a moment to be lost, if he meant to be a
      successful mediator. He rushed through Bridgenorth's party ere they were
      aware of his approach, and throwing himself amongst the assailants who
      occupied the hall in considerable numbers, he assured them of his personal
      safety, and conjured them to depart.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not without a few more slices at the Rump, master," answered Lance. "I am
      principally glad to see you safe and well; but here is Joe Rimegap shot as
      dead as a buck in season, and more of us are hurt; and we'll have revenge,
      and roast the Puritans like apples for lambswool!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you shall roast me along with them," said Julian; "for I vow to God,
      I will not leave the hall, being bound by parole of honour to abide with
      Major Bridgenorth till lawfully dismissed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now out on you, an you were ten times a Peveril!" said Ditchley; "to give
      so many honest fellows loss and labour on your behalf, and to show them no
      kinder countenance.&mdash;I say, beat up the fire, and burn all together!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, nay; but peace, my masters, and hearken to reason," said Julian; "we
      are all here in evil condition, and you will only make it worse by
      contention. Do you help to put out this same fire, which will else cost us
      all dear. Keep yourselves under arms. Let Master Bridgenorth and me settle
      some grounds of accommodation, and I trust all will be favourably made up
      on both sides; and if not, you shall have my consent and countenance to
      fight it out; and come on it what will, I will never forget this night's
      good service."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then drew Ditchley and Lance Outram aside, while the rest stood
      suspended at his appearance and words, and expressing the utmost thanks
      and gratitude for what they had already done, urged them, as the greatest
      favour which they could do towards him and his father's house, to permit
      him to negotiate the terms of his emancipation from thraldom; at the same
      time forcing on Ditchley five or six gold pieces, that the brave lads of
      Bonadventure might drink his health; whilst to Lance he expressed the
      warmest sense of his active kindness, but protested he could only consider
      it as good service to his house, if he was allowed to manage the matter
      after his own fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why," answered Lance, "I am well out on it, Master Julian; for it is
      matter beyond my mastery. All that I stand to is, that I will see you safe
      out of this same Moultrassie Hall; for our old Naunt Ellesmere will else
      give me but cold comfort when I come home. Truth is, I began unwillingly;
      but when I saw the poor fellow Joe shot beside me, why, I thought we
      should have some amends. But I put it all in your Honour's hands."
    </p>
    <p>
      During this colloquy both parties had been amicably employed in
      extinguishing the fire, which might otherwise have been fatal to all. It
      required a general effort to get it under; and both parties agreed on the
      necessary labour, with as much unanimity, as if the water they brought in
      leathern buckets from the well to throw upon the fire, had some effect in
      slaking their mutual hostility.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              Necessity&mdash;thou best of peacemakers,
              As well as surest prompter of invention&mdash;
              Help us to composition!
                                               &mdash;ANONYMOUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      While the fire continued, the two parties laboured in active union, like
      the jarring factions of the Jews during the siege of Jerusalem, when
      compelled to unite in resisting an assault of the besiegers. But when the
      last bucket of water had hissed on the few embers that continued to
      glimmer&mdash;when the sense of mutual hostility, hitherto suspended by a
      feeling of common danger, was in its turn rekindled&mdash;the parties,
      mingled as they had hitherto been in one common exertion, drew off from
      each other, and began to arrange themselves at opposite sides of the hall,
      and handle their weapons, as if for a renewal of the fight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth interrupted any farther progress of this menaced hostility.
      "Julian Peveril," he said, "thou art free to walk thine own path, since
      thou wilt not walk with me that road which is more safe, as well as more
      honourable. But if you do by my counsel, you will get soon beyond the
      British seas."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ralph Bridgenorth," said one of his friends, "this is but evil and feeble
      conduct on thine own part. Wilt thou withhold thy hand from the battle, to
      defend, from these sons of Belial, the captive of thy bow and of thy
      spear? Surely we are enow to deal with them in the security of the old
      serpent, until we essay whether the Lord will not give us victory
      therein."
    </p>
    <p>
      A hum of stern assent followed; and had not Ganlesse now interfered, the
      combat would probably have been renewed. He took the advocate for war
      apart into one of the window recesses, and apparently satisfied his
      objections; for as he returned to his companions, he said to them, "Our
      friend hath so well argued this matter, that, verily, since he is of the
      same mind with the worthy Major Bridgenorth, I think the youth may be set
      at liberty."
    </p>
    <p>
      As no farther objection was offered, it only remained with Julian to thank
      and reward those who had been active in his assistance. Having first
      obtained from Bridgenorth a promise of indemnity to them for the riot they
      had committed, a few kind words conveyed his sense of their services; and
      some broad pieces, thrust into the hand of Lance Outram, furnished the
      means for affording them a holiday. They would have remained to protect
      him, but, fearful of farther disorder, and relying entirely on the good
      faith of Major Bridgenorth, he dismissed them all except Lance, whom he
      detained to attend upon him for a few minutes, till he should depart from
      Moultrassie. But ere leaving the Hall, he could not repress his desire to
      speak with Bridgenorth in secret; and advancing towards him, he expressed
      such a desire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tacitly granting what was asked of him, Bridgenorth led the way to a small
      summer saloon adjoining to the Hall, where, with his usual gravity and
      indifference of manner, he seemed to await in silence what Peveril had to
      communicate.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian found it difficult, where so little opening was afforded him, to
      find a tone in which to open the subjects he had at heart, that should be
      at once dignified and conciliating. "Major Bridgenorth," he said at
      length, "you have been a son, and an affectionate one&mdash;You may
      conceive my present anxiety&mdash;My father!&mdash;What has been designed
      for him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What the law will," answered Bridgenorth. "Had he walked by the counsels
      which I procured to be given to him, he might have dwelt safely in the
      house of his ancestors. His fate is now beyond my control&mdash;far beyond
      yours. It must be with him as his country decide."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And my mother?" said Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will consult, as she has ever done, her own duty; and create her own
      happiness by doing so," replied Bridgenorth. "Believe, my designs towards
      your family are better than they may seem through the mist which adversity
      has spread around your house. I may triumph as a man; but as a man I must
      also remember, in my hour, that mine enemies have had theirs.&mdash;Have
      you aught else to say?" he added, after a momentary pause. "You have
      rejected once, yea, and again, the hand I stretched out to you. Methinks
      little more remains between us."
    </p>
    <p>
      These words, which seemed to cut short farther discussion, were calmly
      spoken; so that though they appeared to discourage farther question, they
      could not interrupt that which still trembled on Julian's tongue. He made
      a step or two towards the door; then suddenly returned. "Your daughter?"
      he said&mdash;"Major Bridgenorth&mdash;I should ask&mdash;I <i>do</i> ask
      forgiveness for mentioning her name&mdash;but may I not inquire after her?&mdash;May
      I not express my wishes for her future happiness?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your interest in her is but too flattering," said Bridgenorth; "but you
      have already chosen your part; and you must be, in future, strangers to
      each other. I may have wished it otherwise, but the hour of grace is
      passed, during which your compliance with my advice might&mdash;I will
      speak it plainly&mdash;have led to your union. For her happiness&mdash;if
      such a word belongs to mortal pilgrimage&mdash;I shall care for it
      sufficiently. She leaves this place to-day, under the guardianship of a
      sure friend."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not of&mdash;&mdash;?" exclaimed Peveril, and stopped short; for he felt
      he had no right to pronounce the name which came to his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why do you pause?" said Bridgenorth; "a sudden thought is often a wise,
      almost always an honest one. With whom did you suppose I meant to entrust
      my child, that the idea called forth so anxious an expression?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Again I should ask your forgiveness," said Julian, "for meddling where I
      have little right to interfere. But I saw a face here that is known to me&mdash;the
      person calls himself Ganlesse&mdash;Is it with him that you mean to
      entrust your daughter?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Even to the person who call himself Ganlesse," said Bridgenorth, without
      expressing either anger or surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And do you know to whom you commit a charge so precious to all who know
      her, and so dear to yourself?" said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do <i>you</i> know, who ask me the question?" answered Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I own I do not," answered Julian; "but I have seen him in a character so
      different from that he now wears, that I feel it my duty to warn you, how
      you entrust the charge of your child to one who can alternately play the
      profligate or the hypocrite, as it suits his own interest or humour."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth smiled contemptuously. "I might be angry," he said, "with the
      officious zeal which supposes that its green conceptions can instruct my
      grey hairs; but, good Julian, I do but only ask from you the liberal
      construction, that I, who have had much converse with mankind, know with
      whom I trust what is dearest to me. He of whom thou speakest hath one
      visage to his friends, though he may have others to the world, living
      amongst those before whom honest features should be concealed under a
      grotesque vizard; even as in the sinful sports of the day, called maskings
      and mummeries, where the wise, if he show himself at all, must be
      contented to play the apish and fantastic fool."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would only pray your wisdom to beware," said Julian, "of one, who, as
      he has a vizard for others, may also have one which can disguise his real
      features from you yourself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is being over careful, young man," replied Bridgenorth, more shortly
      than he had hitherto spoken; "if you would walk by my counsel, you will
      attend to your own affairs, which, credit me, deserve all your care, and
      leave others to the management of theirs."
    </p>
    <p>
      This was too plain to be misunderstood; and Peveril was compelled to take
      his leave of Bridgenorth, and of Moultrassie Hall, without farther parley
      or explanation. The reader may imagine how oft he looked back, and tried
      to guess, amongst the lights which continued to twinkle in various parts
      of the building, which sparkle it was that gleamed from the bower of
      Alice. When the road turned into another direction, he sunk into deep
      reverie, from which he was at length roused by the voice of Lance, who
      demanded where he intended to quarter for the night. He was unprepared to
      answer the question, but the honest keeper himself prompted a solution of
      the problem, by requesting that he would occupy a spare bed in the Lodge;
      to which Julian willingly agreed. The rest of the inhabitants had retired
      to rest when they entered; but Dame Ellesmere, apprised by a messenger of
      her nephew's hospitable intent, had everything in the best readiness she
      could, for the son of her ancient patron. Peveril betook himself to rest;
      and, notwithstanding so many subjects of anxiety, slept soundly till the
      morning was far advanced.
    </p>
    <p>
      His slumbers were first broken by Lance, who had been long up, and already
      active in his service. He informed him, that his horse, arms, and small
      cloak-bag had been sent from the Castle by one of Major Bridgenorth's
      servants, who brought a letter, discharging from the Major's service the
      unfortunate Deborah Debbitch, and prohibiting her return to the Hall. The
      officer of the House of Commons, escorted by a strong guard, had left
      Martindale Castle that morning early, travelling in Sir Geoffrey's
      carriage&mdash;his lady being also permitted to attend on him. To this he
      had to add, that the property at the Castle was taken possession of by
      Master Win-the-fight, the attorney, from Chesterfield, with other officers
      of law, in name of Major Bridgenorth, a large creditor of the unfortunate
      knight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having told these Job's tidings, Lance paused; and, after a moment's
      hesitation, declared he was resolved to quit the country, and go up to
      London along with his young master. Julian argued the point with him; and
      insisted he had better stay to take charge of his aunt, in case she should
      be disturbed by these strangers. Lance replied, "She would have one with
      her, who would protect her well enough; for there was wherewithal to buy
      protection amongst them. But for himself, he was resolved to follow Master
      Julian to the death."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian heartily thanked him for his love.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, it is not altogether out of love neither," said Lance, "though I am
      as loving as another; but it is, as it were, partly out of fear, lest I be
      called over the coals for last night's matter; for as for the miners, they
      will never trouble them, as the creatures only act after their kind."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will write in your behalf to Major Bridgenorth, who is bound to afford
      you protection, if you have such fear," said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, for that matter, it is not altogether fear, more than altogether
      love," answered the enigmatical keeper, "although it hath a tasting of
      both in it. And, to speak plain truth, thus it is&mdash;Dame Debbitch and
      Naunt Ellesmere have resolved to set up their horses together, and have
      made up all their quarrels. And of all ghosts in the world, the worst is,
      when an old true-love comes back to haunt a poor fellow like me. Mistress
      Deborah, though distressed enow for the loss of her place, has been
      already speaking of a broken sixpence, or some such token, as if a man
      could remember such things for so many years, even if she had not gone
      over seas, like woodcock, in the meanwhile."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian could scarce forbear laughing. "I thought you too much of a man,
      Lance, to fear a woman marrying you whether you would or no."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It has been many an honest man's luck, for all that," said Lance; "and a
      woman in the very house has so many deuced opportunities. And then there
      would be two upon one; for Naunt, though high enough when any of <i>your</i>
      folks are concerned, hath some look to the main chance; and it seems
      Mistress Deb is as rich as a Jew."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you, Lance," said Julian, "have no mind to marry for cake and
      pudding."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, truly, master," answered Lance, "unless I knew of what dough they
      were baked. How the devil do I know how the jade came by so much? And then
      if she speaks of tokens and love-passages, let her be the same tight lass
      I broke the sixpence with, and I will be the same true lad to her. But I
      never heard of true love lasting ten years; and hers, if it lives at all,
      must be nearer twenty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, Lance," said Julian, "since you are resolved on the thing, we
      will go to London together; where, if I cannot retain you in my service,
      and if my father recovers not these misfortunes, I will endeavour to
      promote you elsewhere."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, nay," said Lance, "I trust to be back to bonny Martindale before it
      is long, and to keep the greenwood, as I have been wont to do; for, as to
      Dame Debbitch, when they have not me for their common butt, Naunt and she
      will soon bend bows on each other. So here comes old Dame Ellesmere with
      your breakfast. I will but give some directions about the deer to Rough
      Ralph, my helper, and saddle my forest pony, and your honour's horse,
      which is no prime one, and we will be ready to trot."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was not sorry for this addition to his establishment; for Lance had
      shown himself, on the preceding evening, a shrewd and bold fellow, and
      attached to his master. He therefore set himself to reconcile his aunt to
      parting with her nephew for some time. Her unlimited devotion for "the
      family," readily induced the old lady to acquiesce in his proposal, though
      not without a gentle sigh over the ruins of a castle in the air, which was
      founded on the well-saved purse of Mistress Deborah Debbitch. "At any
      rate," she thought, "it was as well that Lance should be out of the way of
      that bold, long-legged, beggarly trollop, Cis Sellok." But to poor Deb
      herself, the expatriation of Lance, whom she had looked to as a sailor to
      a port under his lee, for which he can run, if weather becomes foul, was a
      second severe blow, following close on her dismissal from the profitable
      service of Major Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian visited the disconsolate damsel, in hopes of gaining some light
      upon Bridgenorth's projects regarding his daughter&mdash;the character of
      this Ganlesse&mdash;and other matters, with which her residence in the
      family might have made her acquainted; but he found her by far too much
      troubled in mind to afford him the least information. The name of Ganlesse
      she did not seem to recollect&mdash;that of Alice rendered her hysterical&mdash;that
      of Bridgenorth, furious. She numbered up the various services she had
      rendered in the family&mdash;and denounced the plague of swartness to the
      linen&mdash;of leanness to the poultry&mdash;of dearth and dishonour to
      the housekeeping&mdash;and of lingering sickness and early death to Alice;&mdash;all
      which evils, she averred, had only been kept off by her continued,
      watchful, and incessant cares.&mdash;Then again turning to the subject of
      the fugitive Lance, she expressed such a total contempt of that
      mean-spirited fellow, in a tone between laughing and crying, as satisfied
      Julian it was not a topic likely to act as a sedative; and that,
      therefore, unless he made a longer stay than the urgent state of his
      affairs permitted, he was not likely to find Mistress Deborah in such a
      state of composure as might enable him to obtain from her any rational or
      useful information.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lance, who good-naturedly took upon himself the whole burden of Dame
      Debbitch's mental alienation, or "taking on," as such fits of <i>passio
      hysterica</i> are usually termed in the country, had too much feeling to
      present himself before the victim of her own sensibility, and of his
      obduracy. He therefore intimated to Julian, by his assistant Ralph, that
      the horses stood saddled behind the Lodge, and that all was ready for
      their departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian took the hint, and they were soon mounted, and clearing the road,
      at a rapid trot, in the direction of London; but not by the most usual
      route. Julian calculated that the carriage in which his father was
      transported would travel slowly; and it was his purpose, if possible, to
      get to London before it should arrive there, in order to have time to
      consult, with the friends of his family, what measures should be taken in
      his father's behalf.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this manner they advanced a day's journey towards London; at the
      conclusion of which, Julian found his resting-place in a small inn upon
      the road. No one came, at the first call, to attend upon the guests and
      their horses, although the house was well lighted up; and there was a
      prodigious chattering in the kitchen, such as can only be produced by a
      French cook when his mystery is in the very moment of projection. It
      instantly occurred to Julian&mdash;so rare was the ministry of these
      Gallic artists at that time&mdash;that the clamour he heard must
      necessarily be produced by the Sieur Chaubert, on whose <i>plats</i> he
      had lately feasted, along with Smith and Ganlesse.
    </p>
    <p>
      One, or both of these, were therefore probably in the little inn; and if
      so, he might have some opportunity to discover their real purpose and
      character. How to avail himself of such a meeting he knew not; but chance
      favoured him more than he could have expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can scarce receive you, gentlefolks," said the landlord, who at length
      appeared at the door; "here be a sort of quality in my house to-night,
      whom less than all will not satisfy; nor all neither, for that matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We are but plain fellows, landlord," said Julian; "we are bound for
      Moseley-market, and can get no farther to-night. Any hole will serve us,
      no matter what."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why," said the honest host, "if that be the case, I must e'en put one of
      you behind the bar, though the gentlemen have desired to be private; the
      other must take heart of grace and help me at the tap."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The tap for me," said Lance, without waiting his master's decision. "It
      is an element which I could live and die in."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The bar, then, for me," said Peveril; and stepping back, whispered to
      Lance to exchange cloaks with him, desirous, if possible, to avoid being
      recognised.
    </p>
    <p>
      The exchange was made in an instant; and presently afterwards the landlord
      brought a light; and as he guided Julian into his hostelry, cautioned him
      to sit quiet in the place where he should stow him; and if he was
      discovered, to say that he was one of the house, and leave him to make it
      good. "You will hear what the gallants say," he added; "but I think thou
      wilt carry away but little on it; for when it is not French, it is Court
      gibberish; and that is as hard to construe."
    </p>
    <p>
      The bar, into which our hero was inducted on these conditions, seemed
      formed, with respect to the public room, upon the principle of a citadel,
      intended to observe and bridle a rebellious capital. Here sat the host on
      the Saturday evenings, screened from the observation of his guests, yet
      with the power of observing both their wants and their behaviour, and also
      that of overhearing their conversation&mdash;a practice which he was much
      addicted to, being one of that numerous class of philanthropists, to whom
      their neighbours' business is of as much consequence, or rather more, than
      their own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he planted his new guest, with a repeated caution not to disturb the
      gentlemen by speech or motion; and a promise that he should be speedily
      accommodated with a cold buttock of beef, and a tankard of home-brewed.
      And here he left him with no other light than that which glimmered from
      the well-illuminated apartment within, through a sort of shuttle which
      accommodated the landlord with a view into it.
    </p>
    <p>
      This situation, inconvenient enough in itself, was, on the present
      occasion, precisely what Julian would have selected. He wrapped himself in
      the weather-beaten cloak of Lance Outram, which had been stained, by age
      and weather, into a thousand variations from its original Lincoln green;
      and with as little noise as he could, set himself to observe the two
      inmates, who had engrossed to themselves the whole of the apartment, which
      was usually open to the public. They sat by a table well covered with such
      costly rarities, as could only have been procured by much forecast, and
      prepared by the exquisite Mons. Chaubert; to which both seemed to do much
      justice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian had little difficulty in ascertaining, that one of the travellers
      was, as he had anticipated, the master of the said Chaubert, or, as he was
      called by Ganlesse, Smith; the other, who faced him, he had never seen
      before. This last was dressed like a gallant of the first order. His
      periwig, indeed, as he travelled on horseback, did not much exceed in size
      the bar-wig of a modern lawyer; but then the essence which he shook from
      it with every motion, impregnated a whole apartment, which was usually
      only perfumed by that vulgar herb, tobacco. His riding-coat was laced in
      the newest and most courtly style; and Grammont himself might have envied
      the embroidery of his waistcoat, and the peculiar cut of his breeches,
      which buttoned above the knee, permitting the shape of a very handsome leg
      to be completely seen. This, by the proprietor thereof, had been stretched
      out upon a stool, and he contemplated its proportions, from time to time,
      with infinite satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation between these worthies was so interesting, that we
      propose to assign to it another chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         &mdash;&mdash;This is some creature of the elements,
         Most like your sea-gull. He can wheel and whistle
         His screaming song, e'en when the storm is loudest&mdash;
         Take for his sheeted couch the restless foam
         Of the wild wave-crest&mdash;slumber in the calm,
         And daily with the storm. Yet 'tis a gull,
         An arrant gull, with all this.
                                               &mdash;THE CHAMPION.
</pre>
    <p>
      "And here is to thee," said the fashionable gallant whom we have
      described, "honest Tom; and a cup of welcome to thee out of Looby-land.
      Why, thou hast been so long in the country, that thou hast got a bumpkinly
      clod-compelling sort of look thyself. That greasy doublet fits thee as if
      it were thy reserved Sunday's apparel; and the points seem as if they were
      stay-laces bought for thy true-love Marjory. I marvel thou canst still
      relish a ragout. Methinks now, to a stomach bound in such a jacket, eggs
      and bacon were a diet more conforming."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rally away, my good lord, while wit lasts," answered his companion;
      "yours is not the sort of ammunition which will bear much expenditure. Or
      rather, tell me news from Court, since we have met so opportunely."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You would have asked me these an hour ago," said the lord, "had not your
      very soul been under Chaubert's covered dishes. You remembered King's
      affairs will keep cool, and <i>entre-mets</i> must be eaten hot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so, my lord; I only kept common talk whilst that eavesdropping rascal
      of a landlord was in the room; so that, now the coast is clear once more,
      I pray you for news from Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Plot is nonsuited," answered the courtier&mdash;"Sir George Wakeman
      acquitted&mdash;the witnesses discredited by the jury&mdash;Scroggs, who
      ranted on one side, is now ranting on t'other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rat the Plot, Wakeman, witnesses, Papists, and Protestants, all together!
      Do you think I care for such trash as that?&mdash;Till the Plot comes up
      the Palace backstair, and gets possession of old Rowley's own imagination,
      I care not a farthing who believes or disbelieves. I hang by him will bear
      me out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then," said the lord, "the next news is Rochester's disgrace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Disgraced!&mdash;How, and for what? The morning I came off he stood as
      fair as any one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's over&mdash;the epitaph[*] has broken his neck&mdash;and now he may
      write one for his own Court favour, for it is dead and buried."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] The epitaph alluded to is the celebrated epigram made by Rochester
    on Charles II. It was composed at the King's request, who
    nevertheless resented its poignancy.

    The lines are well known:&mdash;

     "Here lies our sovereign lord the King,
        Whose word no man relies on,
      Who never said a foolish thing,
        And never did a wise one."
</pre>
    <p>
      "The epitaph!" exclaimed Tom; "why, I was by when it was made; and it
      passed for an excellent good jest with him whom it was made upon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, so it did amongst ourselves," answered his companion; "but it got
      abroad, and had a run like a mill-race. It was in every coffee-house, and
      in half the diurnals. Grammont translated it into French too; and there is
      no laughing at so sharp a jest, when it is dinned into your ears on all
      sides. So disgraced is the author; and but for his Grace of Buckingham,
      the Court would be as dull as my Lord Chancellor's wig."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Or as the head it covers.&mdash;Well, my lord, the fewer at Court, there
      is the more room for those that can bustle there. But there are two
      mainstrings of Shaftesbury's fiddle broken&mdash;the Popish Plot fallen
      into discredit&mdash;and Rochester disgraced. Changeful times&mdash;but
      here is to the little man who shall mend them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I apprehend you," replied his lordship; "and meet your health with my
      love. Trust me, my lord loves you, and longs for you.&mdash;Nay, I have
      done you reason.&mdash;By your leave, the cup is with me. Here is to his
      buxom Grace of Bucks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As blithe a peer," said Smith, "as ever turned night to day. Nay, it
      shall be an overflowing bumper, an you will; and I will drink it <i>super
      naculum</i>.&mdash;And how stands the great Madam?"[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] The Duchess of Portsmouth, Charles II.'s favourite mistress; very
    unpopular at the time of the Popish Plot, as well from her
    religion as her country, being a Frenchwoman and a Catholic.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Stoutly against all change," answered the lord&mdash;"Little Anthony[*]
      can make nought of her."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, the politician and
    intriguer of the period.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Then he shall bring her influence to nought. Hark in thine ear. Thou
      knowest&mdash;&mdash;" (Here he whispered so low that Julian could not
      catch the sound.)
    </p>
    <p>
      "Know him?" answered the other&mdash;"Know Ned of the Island?&mdash;To be
      sure I do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is the man that shall knot the great fiddle-strings that have snapped.
      Say I told you so; and thereupon I give thee his health."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And thereupon I pledge thee," said the young nobleman, "which on any
      other argument I were loath to do&mdash;thinking of Ned as somewhat the
      cut of a villain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Granted, man&mdash;granted," said the other,&mdash;"a very thorough-paced
      rascal; but able, my lord, able and necessary; and, in this plan,
      indispensable.&mdash;Pshaw!&mdash;This champagne turns stronger as it gets
      older, I think."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hark, mine honest fellow," said the courtier; "I would thou wouldst give
      me some item of all this mystery. Thou hast it, I know; for whom do men
      entrust but trusty Chiffinch?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is your pleasure to say so, my lord," answered Smith (whom we shall
      hereafter call by his real name of Chiffinch) with such drunken gravity,
      for his speech had become a little altered by his copious libations in the
      course of the evening,&mdash;"few men know more, or say less, than I do;
      and it well becomes my station. <i>Conticuere omnes</i>, as the grammar
      hath it&mdash;all men should learn to hold their tongue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Except with a friend, Tom&mdash;except with a friend. Thou wilt never be
      such a dogbolt as to refuse a hint to a friend? Come, you get too wise and
      statesman-like for your office.&mdash;The ligatures of thy most peasantly
      jacket there are like to burst with thy secret. Come, undo a button, man;
      it is for the health of thy constitution&mdash;Let out a reef; and let thy
      chosen friend know what is meditating. Thou knowest I am as true as
      thyself to little Anthony, if he can but get uppermost."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>If</i>, thou lordly infidel!" said Chiffinch&mdash;"talk'st thou to me
      of <i>ifs?</i>&mdash;There is neither <i>if</i> nor <i>and</i> in the
      matter. The great Madam shall be pulled a peg down&mdash;the great Plot
      screwed a peg or two up. Thou knowest Ned?&mdash;Honest Ned had a
      brother's death to revenge."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have heard so," said the nobleman; "and that his persevering resentment
      of that injury was one of the few points which seemed to be a sort of
      heathenish virtue in him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," continued Chiffinch, "in manoeuvring to bring about this revenge,
      which he hath laboured at many a day, he hath discovered a treasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!&mdash;In the Isle of Man?" said his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Assure yourself of it.&mdash;She is a creature so lovely, that she needs
      but be seen to put down every one of the favourites, from Portsmouth and
      Cleveland down to that threepenny baggage, Mistress Nelly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my word, Chiffinch," said my lord, "that is a reinforcement after the
      fashion of thine own best tactics. But bethink thee, man! To make such a
      conquest, there wants more than a cherry-cheek and a bright eye&mdash;there
      must be wit&mdash;wit, man, and manners, and a little sense besides, to
      keep influence when it is gotten."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw! will you tell me what goes to this vocation?" said Chiffinch.
      "Here, pledge me her health in a brimmer.&mdash;Nay, you shall do it on
      knees, too.&mdash;Never such a triumphant beauty was seen&mdash;I went to
      church on purpose, for the first time these ten years&mdash;Yet I lie, it
      was not to church neither&mdash;it was to chapel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To chapel!&mdash;What the devil, is she a Puritan?" exclaimed the other
      courtier.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To be sure she is. Do you think I would be accessory to bringing a Papist
      into favour in these times, when, as my good Lord said in the House, there
      should not be a Popish manservant, nor a Popish maid-servant, not so much
      as dog or cat, left to bark or mew about the King!"[*]
    </p>
    <p>
      [*] Such was the extravagance of Shaftesbury's eloquence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But consider, Chiffie, the dislikelihood of her pleasing," said the noble
      courtier.&mdash;"What! old Rowley, with his wit, and love of wit&mdash;his
      wildness, and love of wildness&mdash;he form a league with a silly,
      scrupulous, unidea'd Puritan!&mdash;Not if she were Venus."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou knowest nought of the matter," answered Chiffinch. "I tell thee, the
      fine contrast between the seeming saint and falling sinner will give zest
      to the old gentleman's inclination. If I do not know him, who does?&mdash;Her
      health, my lord, on your bare knee, as you would live to be of the
      bedchamber."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I pledge you most devoutly," answered his friend. "But you have not told
      me how the acquaintance is to be made; for you cannot, I think, carry her
      to Whitehall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Aha, my dear lord, you would have the whole secret! but that I cannot
      afford&mdash;I can spare a friend a peep at my ends, but no one must look
      on the means by which they are achieved."&mdash;So saying, he shook his
      drunken head most wisely.
    </p>
    <p>
      The villainous design which this discourse implied, and which his heart
      told him was designed against Alice Bridgenorth, stirred Julian so
      extremely, that he involuntarily shifted his posture, and laid his hand on
      his sword hilt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chiffinch heard a rustling, and broke off, exclaiming, "Hark!&mdash;Zounds,
      something moved&mdash;I trust I have told the tale to no ears but thine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will cut off any which have drunk in but a syllable of thy words," said
      the nobleman; and raising a candle, he took a hasty survey of the
      apartment. Seeing nothing that could incur his menaced resentment, he
      replaced the light and continued:&mdash;"Well, suppose the Belle Louise de
      Querouaille[*] shoots from her high station in the firmament, how will you
      rear up the downfallen Plot again&mdash;for without that same Plot, think
      of it as thou wilt, we have no change of hands&mdash;and matters remain as
      they were, with a Protestant courtezan instead of a Papist&mdash;Little
      Anthony can but little speed without that Plot of his&mdash;I believe, in
      my conscience, he begot it himself."[+]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Charles's principal mistress <i>en titre</i>. She was created Duchess
    of Portsmouth.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[+] Shaftesbury himself is supposed to have said that he knew not who
    was the inventor of the Plot, but that he himself had all the
    advantage of the discovery.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Whoever begot it," said Chiffinch, "he hath adopted it; and a thriving
      babe it has been to him. Well, then, though it lies out of my way, I will
      play Saint Peter again&mdash;up with t'other key, and unlock t'other
      mystery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now thou speakest like a good fellow; and I will, with my own hands,
      unwire this fresh flask, to begin a brimmer to the success of thy
      achievement."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then," continued the communicative Chiffinch, "thou knowest that
      they have long had a nibbling at the old Countess of Derby.&mdash;So Ned
      was sent down&mdash;he owes her an old accompt, thou knowest&mdash;with
      private instructions to possess himself of the island, if he could, by
      help of some of his old friends. He hath ever kept up spies upon her; and
      happy man was he, to think his hour of vengeance was come so nigh. But he
      missed his blow; and the old girl being placed on her guard, was soon in a
      condition to make Ned smoke for it. Out of the island he came with little
      advantage for having entered it; when, by some means&mdash;for the devil,
      I think, stands ever his friend&mdash;he obtained information concerning a
      messenger, whom her old Majesty of Man had sent to London to make party in
      her behalf. Ned stuck himself to this fellow&mdash;a raw, half-bred lad,
      son of an old blundering Cavalier of the old stamp, down in Derbyshire&mdash;and
      so managed the swain, that he brought him to the place where I was
      waiting, in anxious expectation of the pretty one I told you of. By Saint
      Anthony, for I will swear by no meaner oath, I stared when I saw this
      great lout&mdash;not that the fellow is so ill-looked neither&mdash;I
      stared like&mdash;like&mdash;good now, help me to a simile."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Like Saint Anthony's pig, an it were sleek," said the young lord; "your
      eyes, Chiffie, have the very blink of one. But what hath all this to do
      with the Plot? Hold, I have had wine enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You shall not balk me," said Chiffinch; and a jingling was heard, as if
      he were filling his comrade's glass with a very unsteady hand. "Hey&mdash;What
      the devil is the matter?&mdash;I used to carry my glass steady&mdash;very
      steady."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, but this stranger?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, he swept at game and ragout as he would at spring beef or summer
      mutton. Never saw so unnurtured a cub&mdash;Knew no more what he ate than
      an infidel&mdash;I cursed him by my gods when I saw Chaubert's <i>chef-d'
      oeuvres</i> glutted down so indifferent a throat. We took the freedom to
      spice his goblet a little, and ease him of his packet of letters; and the
      fool went on his way the next morning with a budget artificially filled
      with grey paper. Ned would have kept him, in hopes to have made a witness
      of him, but the boy was not of that mettle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How will you prove your letters?" said the courtier.
    </p>
    <p>
      "La you there, my lord," said Chiffinch; "one may see with half an eye,
      for all your laced doublet, that you have been of the family of
      Furnival's, before your brother's death sent you to Court. How prove the
      letters?&mdash;Why, we have but let the sparrow fly with a string round
      his foot.&mdash;We have him again so soon as we list."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, thou art turned a very Machiavel, Chiffinch," said his friend. "But
      how if the youth proved restive?&mdash;I have heard these Peak men have
      hot heads and hard hands."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Trouble not yourself&mdash;that was cared for, my lord," said Chiffinch&mdash;"his
      pistols might bark, but they could not bite."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Most exquisite Chiffinch, thou art turned micher as well as padder&mdash;Canst
      both rob a man and kidnap him!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Micher and padder&mdash;what terms be these?" said Chiffinch. "Methinks
      these are sounds to lug out upon. You will have me angry to the degree of
      falling foul&mdash;robber and kidnapper!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You mistake verb for noun-substantive," replied his lordship; "I said <i>rob</i>
      and <i>kidnap</i>&mdash;a man may do either once and away without being
      professional."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But not without spilling a little foolish noble blood, or some such
      red-coloured gear," said Chiffinch, starting up.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh yes," said his lordship; "all this may be without these dire
      consequences, and as you will find to-morrow, when you return to England;
      for at present you are in the land of Champagne, Chiffie; and that you may
      continue so, I drink thee this parting cup to line thy nightcap."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not refuse your pledge," said Chiffinch; "but I drink to thee in
      dudgeon and in hostility&mdash;It is cup of wrath, and a gage of battle.
      To-morrow, by dawn, I will have thee at point of fox, wert thou the last
      of the Savilles.&mdash;What the devil! think you I fear you because you
      are a lord?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so, Chiffinch," answered his companion. "I know thou fearest nothing
      but beans and bacon, washed down with bumpkin-like beer.&mdash;Adieu,
      sweet Chiffinch&mdash;to bed&mdash;Chiffinch&mdash;to bed."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he lifted a candle, and left the apartment. And Chiffinch, whom
      the last draught had nearly overpowered, had just strength enough left to
      do the same, muttering, as he staggered out, "Yes, he shall answer it.&mdash;Dawn
      of day? D&mdash;n me&mdash;It is come already&mdash;Yonder's the dawn&mdash;No,
      d&mdash;n me, 'tis the fire glancing on the cursed red lattice&mdash;It is
      the smell of the brandy in this cursed room&mdash;It could not be the wine&mdash;Well,
      old Rowley shall send me no more errands to the country again&mdash;Steady,
      steady."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he reeled out of the apartment, leaving Peveril to think over
      the extraordinary conversation he had just heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The name of Chiffinch, the well-known minister of Charles's pleasures, was
      nearly allied to the part which he seemed about to play in the present
      intrigue; but that Christian, whom he had always supposed a Puritan as
      strict as his brother-in-law, Bridgenorth, should be associated with him
      in a plot so infamous, seemed alike unnatural and monstrous. The near
      relationship might blind Bridgenorth, and warrant him in confiding his
      daughter to such a man's charge; but what a wretch he must be, that could
      coolly meditate such an ignominious abuse of his trust! In doubt whether
      he could credit for a moment the tale which Chiffinch had revealed, he
      hastily examined his packet, and found that the sealskin case in which it
      had been wrapt up, now only contained an equal quantity of waste paper. If
      he had wanted farther confirmation, the failure of the shot which he fired
      at Bridgenorth, and of which the wadding only struck him, showed that his
      arms had been tampered with. He examined the pistol which still remained
      charged, and found that the ball had been drawn. "May I perish," said he
      to himself, "amid these villainous intrigues, but thou shalt be more
      surely loaded, and to better purpose! The contents of these papers may
      undo my benefactress&mdash;their having been found on me, may ruin my
      father&mdash;that I have been the bearer of them, may cost, in these fiery
      times, my own life&mdash;that I care least for&mdash;they form a branch of
      the scheme laid against the honour and happiness of a creature so
      innocent, that it is almost sin to think of her within the neighbourhood
      of such infamous knaves. I will recover the letters at all risks&mdash;But
      how?&mdash;that is to be thought on.&mdash;Lance is stout and trusty; and
      when a bold deed is once resolved upon, there never yet lacked the means
      of executing it."
    </p>
    <p>
      His host now entered, with an apology for his long absence; and after
      providing Peveril with some refreshments, invited him to accept, for his
      night-quarters, the accommodation of a remote hayloft, which he was to
      share with his comrade; professing, at the same time, he could hardly have
      afforded them this courtesy, but out of deference to the exquisite talents
      of Lance Outram, as assistant at the tap; where, indeed, it seems probable
      that he, as well as the admiring landlord, did that evening contrive to
      drink nearly as much liquor as they drew.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Lance was a seasoned vessel, on whom liquor made no lasting
      impression; so that when Peveril awaked that trusty follower at dawn, he
      found him cool enough to comprehend and enter into the design which he
      expressed, of recovering the letters which had been abstracted from his
      person.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having considered the whole matter with much attention, Lance shrugged,
      grinned, and scratched his head; and at length manfully expressed his
      resolution. "Well, my naunt speaks truth in her old saw&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'He that serves Peveril maunna be slack,
  Neither for weather, nor yet for wrack.'
</pre>
    <p>
      And then again, my good dame was wont to say, that whenever Peveril was in
      a broil, Outram was in a stew; so I will never bear a base mind, but even
      hold a part with you as my fathers have done with yours, for four
      generations, whatever more."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Spoken like a most gallant Outram," said Julian; "and were we but rid of
      that puppy lord and his retinue, we two could easily deal with the other
      three."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Two Londoners and a Frenchman?" said Lance,&mdash;"I would take them in
      mine own hand. And as for my Lord Saville, as they call him, I heard word
      last night that he and all his men of gilded gingerbread&mdash;that looked
      at an honest fellow like me, as if they were the ore and I the dross&mdash;are
      all to be off this morning to some races, or such-like junketings, about
      Tutbury. It was that brought him down here, where he met this other
      civet-cat by accident."
    </p>
    <p>
      In truth, even as Lance spoke, a trampling was heard of horses in the
      yard; and from the hatch of their hayloft they beheld Lord Saville's
      attendants mustered, and ready to set out as soon as he could make his
      appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So ho, Master Jeremy," said one of the fellows, to a sort of principal
      attendant, who just came out of the house, "methinks the wine has proved a
      sleeping cup to my lord this morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," answered Jeremy, "he hath been up before light writing letters for
      London; and to punish thy irreverence, thou, Jonathan, shalt be the man to
      ride back with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so to miss the race?" said Jonathan sulkily; "I thank you for this
      good turn, good Master Jeremy; and hang me if I forget it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Farther discussion was cut short by the appearance of the young nobleman,
      who, as he came out of the inn, said to Jeremy, "These be the letters. Let
      one of the knaves ride to London for life and death, and deliver them as
      directed; and the rest of them get to horse and follow me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeremy gave Jonathan the packet with a malicious smile; and the
      disappointed groom turned his horse's head sullenly towards London, while
      Lord Saville, and the rest of his retinue, rode briskly off in an opposite
      direction, pursued by the benedictions of the host and his family, who
      stood bowing and courtesying at the door, in gratitude, doubtless, for the
      receipt of an unconscionable reckoning.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was full three hours after their departure, that Chiffinch lounged into
      the room in which they had supped, in a brocade nightgown, and green
      velvet cap, turned up with the most costly Brussels lace. He seemed but
      half awake; and it was with drowsy voice that he called for a cup of cold
      small beer. His manner and appearance were those of a man who had wrestled
      hard with Bacchus on the preceding evening, and had scarce recovered the
      effects of his contest with the jolly god. Lance, instructed by his master
      to watch the motions of the courtier, officiously attended with the
      cooling beverage he called for, pleading, as an excuse to the landlord,
      his wish to see a Londoner in his morning-gown and cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner had Chiffinch taken his morning draught, than he inquired after
      Lord Saville.
    </p>
    <p>
      "His lordship was mounted and away by peep of dawn," was Lance's reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What the devil!" exclaimed Chiffinch; "why, this is scarce civil.&mdash;What!
      off for the races with his whole retinue?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "All but one," replied Lance, "whom his lordship sent back to London with
      letters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To London with letters!" said Chiffinch. "Why, I am for London, and could
      have saved his express a labour.&mdash;But stop&mdash;hold&mdash;I begin
      to recollect&mdash;d&mdash;&mdash;n, can I have blabbed?&mdash;I have&mdash;I
      have&mdash;I remember it all now&mdash;I have blabbed; and to the very
      weasel of the Court, who sucks the yelk out of every man's secret. Furies
      and fire&mdash;that my afternoons should ruin my mornings thus!&mdash;I
      must turn boon companion and good fellow in my cups&mdash;and have my
      confidences and my quarrels&mdash;my friends and my enemies, with a plague
      to me, as if any one could do a man much good or harm but his own self.
      His messenger must be stopped, though&mdash;I will put a spoke in his
      wheel.&mdash;Hark ye, drawer-fellow&mdash;call my groom hither&mdash;call
      Tom Beacon."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lance obeyed; but failed not, when he had introduced the domestic, to
      remain in the apartment, in order to hear what should pass betwixt him and
      his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hark ye, Tom," said Chiffinch, "here are five pieces for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What's to be done now, I trow?" said Tom, without even the ceremony of
      returning thanks, which he was probably well aware would not be received
      even in part payment of the debt he was incurring.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mount your fleet nag, Tom&mdash;ride like the devil&mdash;overtake the
      groom whom Lord Saville despatched to London this morning&mdash;lame his
      horse&mdash;break his bones&mdash;fill him as drunk as the Baltic sea; or
      do whatever may best and most effectively stop his journey.&mdash;Why does
      the lout stand there without answering me? Dost understand me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, ay, Master Chiffinch," said Tom; "and so I am thinking doth this
      honest man here, who need not have heard quite so much of your counsel, an
      it had been your will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am bewitched this morning," said Chiffinch to himself, "or else the
      champagne runs in my head still. My brain has become the very lowlands of
      Holland&mdash;a gill-cup would inundate it&mdash;Hark thee, fellow," he
      added, addressing Lance, "keep my counsel&mdash;there is a wager betwixt
      Lord Saville and me, which of us shall first have a letter in London. Here
      is to drink my health, and bring luck on my side. Say nothing of it; but
      help Tom to his nag.&mdash;Tom, ere thou startest come for thy credentials&mdash;I
      will give thee a letter to the Duke of Bucks, that may be evidence thou
      wert first in town."
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom Beacon ducked and exited; and Lance, after having made some show of
      helping him to horse, ran back to tell his master the joyful intelligence,
      that a lucky accident had abated Chiffinch's party to their own number.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril immediately ordered his horses to be got ready; and, so soon as
      Tom Beacon was despatched towards London, on a rapid trot, had the
      satisfaction to observe Chiffinch, with his favourite Chaubert, mount to
      pursue the same journey, though at a more moderate rate. He permitted them
      to attain such a distance, that they might be dogged without suspicion;
      then paid his reckoning, mounted his horse, and followed, keeping his men
      carefully in view, until he should come to a place proper for the
      enterprise which he meditated.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been Peveril's intention, that when they came to some solitary part
      of the road, they should gradually mend their pace, until they overtook
      Chaubert&mdash;that Lance Outram should then drop behind, in order to
      assail the man of spits and stoves, while he himself, spurring onwards,
      should grapple with Chiffinch. But this scheme presupposed that the master
      and servant should travel in the usual manner&mdash;the latter riding a
      few yards behind the former. Whereas, such and so interesting were the
      subjects of discussion betwixt Chiffinch and the French cook, that,
      without heeding the rules of etiquette, they rode on together, amicably
      abreast, carrying on a conversation on the mysteries of the table, which
      the ancient Comus, or a modern gastronome, might have listened to with
      pleasure. It was therefore necessary to venture on them both at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      For this purpose, when they saw a long tract of road before them, unvaried
      by the least appearance of man, beast, or human habitation, they began to
      mend their pace, that they might come up to Chiffinch, without giving him
      any alarm, by a sudden and suspicious increase of haste. In this manner
      they lessened the distance which separated them till they were within
      about twenty yards, when Peveril, afraid that Chiffinch might recognise
      him at a nearer approach, and so trust to his horse's heels, made Lance
      the signal to charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the sudden increase of their speed, and the noise with which it was
      necessarily attended, Chiffinch looked around, but had time to do no more,
      for Lance, who had pricked his pony (which was much more speedy than
      Julian's horse) into full gallop, pushed, without ceremony, betwixt the
      courtier and his attendant; and ere Chaubert had time for more than one
      exclamation, he upset both horse and Frenchman,&mdash;<i>morbleu!</i>
      thrilling from his tongue as he rolled on the ground amongst the various
      articles of his occupation, which, escaping from the budget in which he
      bore them, lay tumbled upon the highway in strange disorder; while Lance,
      springing from his palfrey, commanded his foeman to be still, under no
      less a penalty than that of death, if he attempted to rise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Chiffinch could avenge his trusty follower's downfall, his own
      bridle was seized by Julian, who presented a pistol with the other hand,
      and commanded him to stand or die.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chiffinch, though effeminate, was no coward. He stood still as commanded,
      and said, with firmness, "Rogue, you have taken me at surprise. If you are
      highwaymen, there is my purse. Do us no bodily harm, and spare the budget
      of spices and sauces."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look you, Master Chiffinch," said Peveril, "this is no time for dallying.
      I am no highwayman, but a man of honour. Give me back that packet which
      you stole from me the other night; or, by all that is good, I will send a
      brace of balls through you, and search for it at leisure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What night?&mdash;What packet?" answered Chiffinch, confused; yet willing
      to protract the time for the chance of assistance, or to put Peveril off
      his guard. "I know nothing of what you mean. If you are a man of honour,
      let me draw my sword, and I will do you right, as a gentleman should do to
      another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dishonourable rascal!" said Peveril, "you escape not in this manner. You
      plundered me when you had me at odds; and I am not the fool to let my
      advantage escape, now that my turn is come. Yield up the packet; and then,
      if you will, I will fight you on equal terms. But first," he reiterated,
      "yield up the packet, or I will instantly send you where the tenor of your
      life will be hard to answer for."
    </p>
    <p>
      The tone of Peveril's voice, the fierceness of his eye, and the manner in
      which he held the loaded weapon, within a hand's-breadth of Chiffinch's
      head, convinced the last there was neither room for compromise, nor time
      for trifling. He thrust his hand into a side pocket of his cloak, and with
      visible reluctance, produced those papers and despatches with which Julian
      had been entrusted by the Countess of Derby.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are five in number," said Julian; "and you have given me only four.
      Your life depends on full restitution."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It escaped from my hand," said Chiffinch, producing the missing document&mdash;"There
      it is. Now, sir, your pleasure is fulfilled, unless," he added sulkily,
      "you design either murder or farther robbery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Base wretch!" said Peveril, withdrawing his pistol, yet keeping a
      watchful eye on Chiffinch's motions, "thou art unworthy any honest man's
      sword; and yet, if you dare draw your own, as you proposed but now, I am
      willing to give you a chance upon fair equality of terms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Equality!" said Chiffinch sneeringly; "yes, a proper equality&mdash;sword
      and pistol against single rapier, and two men upon one, for Chaubert is no
      fighter. No sir; I shall seek amends upon some more fitting occasion, and
      with more equal weapons."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By backbiting, or by poison, base pander!" said Julian; "these are thy
      means of vengeance. But mark me&mdash;I know your vile purpose respecting
      a lady who is too worthy that her name should be uttered in such a
      worthless ear. Thou hast done me one injury, and thou see'st I have repaid
      it. But prosecute this farther villainy, and be assured I will put thee to
      death like a foul reptile, whose very slaver is fatal to humanity. Rely
      upon this, as if Machiavel had sworn it; for so surely as you keep your
      purpose, so surely will I prosecute my revenge.&mdash;Follow me, Lance,
      and leave him to think on what I have told him."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lance had, after the first shock, sustained a very easy part in this
      recontre; for all he had to do, was to point the butt of his whip, in the
      manner of a gun, at the intimidated Frenchman, who, lying on his back, and
      gazing at random on the skies, had as little the power or purpose of
      resistance, as any pig which had ever come under his own slaughter-knife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Summoned by his master from the easy duty of guarding such an unresisting
      prisoner, Lance remounted his horse, and they both rode off, leaving their
      discomfited antagonists to console themselves for their misadventure as
      they best could. But consolation was hard to come by in the circumstances.
      The French artist had to lament the dispersion of his spices, and the
      destruction of his magazine of sauces&mdash;an enchanter despoiled of his
      magic wand and talisman, could scarce have been in more desperate
      extremity. Chiffinch had to mourn the downfall of his intrigue, and its
      premature discovery. "To this fellow, at least," he thought, "I can have
      bragged none&mdash;here my evil genius alone has betrayed me. With this
      infernal discovery, which may cost me so dear on all hands, champagne had
      nought to do. If there be a flask left unbroken, I will drink it after
      dinner, and try if it may not even yet suggest some scheme of redemption
      and of revenge."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this manly resolution, he prosecuted his journey to London.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          A man so various, that he seem'd to be
          Not one, but all mankind's epitome;
          Stiff in opinions&mdash;always in the wrong&mdash;
          Was everything by starts, but nothing long;
          Who, in the course of one revolving moon,
          Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon;
          Then, all for women, painting, fiddling, drinking;
          Besides a thousand freaks that died in thinking.
                                                       &mdash;DRYDEN.
</pre>
    <p>
      We must now transport the reader to the magnificent hotel in &mdash;&mdash;Street,
      inhabited at this time by the celebrated George Villiers, Duke of
      Buckingham, whom Dryden has doomed to a painful immortality by the few
      lines which we have prefixed to this chapter. Amid the gay and licentious
      of the laughing Court of Charles, the Duke was the most licentious and
      most gay; yet, while expending a princely fortune, a strong constitution,
      and excellent talents, in pursuit of frivolous pleasures, he nevertheless
      nourished deeper and more extensive designs; in which he only failed from
      want of that fixed purpose and regulated perseverance essential to all
      important enterprises, but particularly in politics.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was long past noon; and the usual hour of the Duke's levee&mdash;if
      anything could be termed usual where all was irregular&mdash;had been long
      past. His hall was filled with lackeys and footmen, in the most splendid
      liveries; the interior apartments, with the gentlemen and pages of his
      household, arrayed as persons of the first quality, and, in that respect,
      rather exceeding than falling short of the Duke in personal splendour. But
      his antechamber, in particular, might be compared to a gathering of eagles
      to the slaughter, were not the simile too dignified to express that vile
      race, who, by a hundred devices all tending to one common end, live upon
      the wants of needy greatness, or administer to the pleasures of
      summer-teeming luxury, or stimulate the wild wishes of lavish and wasteful
      extravagance, by devising new modes and fresh motives of profusion. There
      stood the projector, with his mysterious brow, promising unbounded wealth
      to whomsoever might choose to furnish the small preliminary sum necessary
      to change egg-shells into the great <i>arcanum</i>. There was Captain
      Seagull, undertaker for a foreign settlement, with the map under his arm
      of Indian or American kingdoms, beautiful as the primitive Eden, waiting
      the bold occupants, for whom a generous patron should equip two
      brigantines and a fly-boat. Thither came, fast and frequent, the
      gamesters, in their different forms and calling. This, light, young, gay
      in appearance, the thoughtless youth of wit and pleasure&mdash;the pigeon
      rather than the rook&mdash;but at heart the same sly, shrewd, cold-blooded
      calculator, as yonder old hard-featured professor of the same science,
      whose eyes are grown dim with watching of the dice at midnight; and whose
      fingers are even now assisting his mental computation of chances and of
      odds. The fine arts, too&mdash;I would it were otherwise&mdash;have their
      professors amongst this sordid train. The poor poet, half ashamed, in
      spite of habit, of the part which he is about to perform, and abashed by
      consciousness at once of his base motive and his shabby black coat, lurks
      in yonder corner for the favourable moment to offer his dedication. Much
      better attired, the architect presents his splendid vision of front and
      wings, and designs a palace, the expense of which may transfer his
      employer to a jail. But uppermost of all, the favourite musician, or
      singer, who waits on my lord to receive, in solid gold, the value of the
      dulcet sounds which solaced the banquet of the preceding evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such, and many such like, were the morning attendants of the Duke of
      Buckingham&mdash;all genuine descendants of the daughter of the
      horse-leech, whose cry is "Give, give."
    </p>
    <p>
      But the levee of his Grace contained other and very different characters;
      and was indeed as various as his own opinions and pursuits. Besides many
      of the young nobility and wealthy gentry of England, who made his Grace
      the glass at which they dressed themselves for the day, and who learned
      from him how to travel, with the newest and best grace, the general Road
      to Ruin; there were others of a graver character&mdash;discarded
      statesmen, political spies, opposition orators, servile tools of
      administration, men who met not elsewhere, but who regarded the Duke's
      mansion as a sort of neutral ground; sure, that if he was not of their
      opinion to-day, this very circumstance rendered it most likely he should
      think with them to-morrow. The Puritans themselves did not shun
      intercourse with a man whose talents must have rendered him formidable,
      even if they had not been united with high rank and an immense fortune.
      Several grave personages, with black suits, short cloaks, and band-strings
      of a formal cut, were mingled, as we see their portraits in a gallery of
      paintings, among the gallants who ruffled in silk and embroidery. It is
      true, they escaped the scandal of being thought intimates of the Duke, by
      their business being supposed to refer to money matters. Whether these
      grave and professing citizens mixed politics with money lending, was not
      known; but it had been long observed, that the Jews, who in general
      confine themselves to the latter department, had become for some time
      faithful attendants at the Duke's levee.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was high-tide in the antechamber, and had been so for more than an
      hour, ere the Duke's gentleman-in-ordinary ventured into his bedchamber,
      carefully darkened, so as to make midnight at noonday, to know his Grace's
      pleasure. His soft and serene whisper, in which he asked whether it were
      his Grace's pleasure to rise, was briefly and sharply answered by the
      counter questions, "Who waits?&mdash;What's o'clock?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is Jerningham, your Grace," said the attendant. "It is one, afternoon;
      and your Grace appointed some of the people without at eleven."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who are they?&mdash;What do they want?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A message from Whitehall, your Grace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw! it will keep cold. Those who make all others wait, will be the
      better of waiting in their turn. Were I to be guilty of ill-breeding, it
      should rather be to a king than a beggar."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The gentlemen from the city."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am tired of them&mdash;tired of their all cant, and no religion&mdash;all
      Protestantism, and no charity. Tell them to go to Shaftesbury&mdash;to
      Aldersgate Street with them&mdash;that's the best market for their wares."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Jockey, my lord, from Newmarket."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him ride to the devil&mdash;he has horse of mine, and spurs of his
      own. Any more?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The whole antechamber is full, my lord&mdash;knights and squires, doctors
      and dicers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The dicers, with their doctors[*] in their pockets, I presume."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     [*] Doctor, a cant name for false dice.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Counts, captains, and clergymen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are alliterative, Jerningham," said the Duke; "and that is a proof
      you are poetical. Hand me my writing things."
    </p>
    <p>
      Getting half out of bed&mdash;thrusting one arm into a brocade nightgown,
      deeply furred with sables, and one foot into a velvet slipper, while the
      other pressed in primitive nudity the rich carpet&mdash;his Grace, without
      thinking farther on the assembly without, began to pen a few lines of a
      satirical poem; then suddenly stopped&mdash;threw the pen into the chimney&mdash;exclaimed
      that the humour was past&mdash;and asked his attendant if there were any
      letters. Jerningham produced a huge packet.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What the devil!" said his Grace, "do you think I will read all these? I
      am like Clarence, who asked a cup of wine, and was soused into a butt of
      sack. I mean, is there anything which presses?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "This letter, your Grace," said Jerningham, "concerning the Yorkshire
      mortgage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did I not bid thee carry it to old Gatheral, my steward?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did, my lord," answered the other; "but Gatheral says there are
      difficulties."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let the usurers foreclose, then&mdash;there is no difficulty in that; and
      out of a hundred manors I shall scarce miss one," answered the Duke. "And
      hark ye, bring me my chocolate."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, my lord, Gatheral does not say it is impossible&mdash;only
      difficult."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what is the use of him, if he cannot make it easy? But you are all
      born to make difficulties," replied the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, if your Grace approves the terms in this schedule, and pleases to
      sign it, Gatheral will undertake for the matter," answered Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And could you not have said so at first, you blockhead?" said the Duke,
      signing the paper without looking at the contents&mdash;"What other
      letters? And remember, I must be plagued with no more business."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Billets-doux, my lord&mdash;five or six of them. This left at the
      porter's lodge by a vizard mask."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw!" answered the Duke, tossing them over, while his attendant
      assisted in dressing him&mdash;"an acquaintance of a quarter's standing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This given to one of the pages by my Lady &mdash;&mdash;'s
      waiting-woman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Plague on it&mdash;a Jeremiade on the subject of perjury and treachery,
      and not a single new line to the old tune," said the Duke, glancing over
      the billet. "Here is the old cant&mdash;<i>cruel man&mdash;broken vows&mdash;Heaven's
      just revenge</i>. Why, the woman is thinking of murder&mdash;not of love.
      No one should pretend to write upon so threadbare a topic without having
      at least some novelty of expression. <i>The despairing Araminta</i>&mdash;Lie
      there, fair desperate. And this&mdash;how comes it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Flung into the window of the hall, by a fellow who ran off at full
      speed," answered Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is a better text," said the Duke; "and yet it is an old one too&mdash;three
      weeks old at least&mdash;The little Countess with the jealous lord&mdash;I
      should not care a farthing for her, save for that same jealous lord&mdash;Plague
      on't, and he's gone down to the country&mdash;<i>this evening&mdash;in
      silence and safety&mdash;written with a quill pulled from the wing of
      Cupid</i>&mdash;Your ladyship has left him pen-feathers enough to fly away
      with&mdash;better clipped his wings when you had caught him, my lady&mdash;And
      <i>so confident of her Buckingham's faith</i>,&mdash;I hate confidence in
      a young person. She must be taught better&mdash;I will not go."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You Grace will not be so cruel!" said Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art a compassionate fellow, Jerningham; but conceit must be
      punished."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But if your lordship should resume your fancy for her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, then, you must swear the billet-doux miscarried," answered the Duke.
      "And stay, a thought strikes me&mdash;it shall miscarry in great style.
      Hark ye&mdash;Is&mdash;what is the fellow's name&mdash;the poet&mdash;is
      he yonder?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There are six gentlemen, sir, who, from the reams of paper in their
      pocket, and the threadbare seams at their elbows, appear to wear the
      livery of the Muses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Poetical once more, Jerningham. He, I mean, who wrote the last lampoon,"
      said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To whom your Grace said you owed five pieces and a beating!" replied
      Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The money for his satire, and the cudgel for his praise&mdash;Good&mdash;find
      him&mdash;give him the five pieces, and thrust the Countess's billet-doux&mdash;Hold&mdash;take
      Araminta's and the rest of them&mdash;thrust them all into his portfolio&mdash;All
      will come out at the Wit's Coffee-house; and if the promulgator be not
      cudgelled into all the colours of the rainbow, there is no spite in woman,
      no faith in crabtree, or pith in heart of oak&mdash;Araminta's wrath alone
      would overburden one pair of mortal shoulders."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But, my Lord Duke," said his attendant, "this Settle[*] is so dull a
      rascal, that nothing he can write will take."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Elkana Settle, the unworthy scribbler whom the envy of Rochester
    and others tried to raise to public estimation, as a rival to
    Dryden; a circumstance which has been the means of elevating him
    to a very painful species of immortality.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Then as we have given him steel to head the arrow," said the Duke, "we
      will give him wings to waft it with&mdash;wood, he has enough of his own
      to make a shaft or bolt of. Hand me my own unfinished lampoon&mdash;give
      it to him with the letters&mdash;let him make what he can of them all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My Lord Duke&mdash;I crave pardon&mdash;but your Grace's style will be
      discovered; and though the ladies' names are not at the letters, yet they
      will be traced."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would have it so, you blockhead. Have you lived with me so long, and
      cannot discover that the éclat of an intrigue is, with me, worth all the
      rest of it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "But the danger, my Lord Duke?" replied Jerningham. "There are husbands,
      brothers, friends, whose revenge may be awakened."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And beaten to sleep again," said Buckingham haughtily. "I have Black Will
      and his cudgel for plebeian grumblers; and those of quality I can deal
      with myself. I lack breathing and exercise of late."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But yet your Grace&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold your peace, fool! I tell you that your poor dwarfish spirit cannot
      measure the scope of mine. I tell thee I would have the course of my life
      a torrent&mdash;I am weary of easy achievements, and wish for obstacles,
      that I can sweep before my irresistible course."
    </p>
    <p>
      Another gentleman now entered the apartment. "I humbly crave your Grace's
      pardon," he said; "but Master Christian is so importunate for admission
      instantly, that I am obliged to take your Grace's pleasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell him to call three hours hence. Damn his politic pate, that would
      make all men dance after his pipe!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank thee for the compliment, my Lord Duke," said Christian, entering
      the apartment in somewhat a more courtly garb, but with the same
      unpretending and undistinguished mien, and in the same placid and
      indifferent manner with which he had accosted Julian Peveril upon
      different occasions during his journey to London. "It is precisely my
      present object to pipe to you; and you may dance to your own profit, if
      you will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my word, Master Christian," said the Duke haughtily, "the affair
      should be weighty, that removes ceremony so entirely from betwixt us. If
      it relates to the subject of our last conversation, I must request our
      interview be postponed to some farther opportunity. I am engaged in an
      affair of some weight." Then turning his back on Christian, he went on
      with his conversation with Jerningham. "Find the person you wot of, and
      give him the papers; and hark ye, give him this gold to pay for the shaft
      of his arrow&mdash;the steel-head and peacock's wing we have already
      provided."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is all well, my lord," said Christian calmly, and taking his seat at
      the same time in an easy-chair at some distance; "but your Grace's levity
      is no match for my equanimity. It is necessary I should speak with you;
      and I will await your Grace's leisure in the apartment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Very well</i>, sir," said the Duke peevishly; "if an evil is to be
      undergone, the sooner it is over the better&mdash;I can take measures to
      prevent its being renewed. So let me hear your errand without farther
      delay."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will wait till your Grace's toilette is completed," said Christian,
      with the indifferent tone which was natural to him. "What I have to say
      must be between ourselves."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Begone, Jerningham; and remain without till I call. Leave my doublet on
      the couch.&mdash;How now, I have worn this cloth of silver a hundred
      times."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Only twice, if it please your Grace," replied Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As well twenty times&mdash;keep it for yourself, or give it to my valet,
      if you are too proud of your gentility."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace has made better men than me wear your cast clothes," said
      Jerningham submissively.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art sharp, Jerningham," said the Duke&mdash;"in one sense I have,
      and I may again. So now, that pearl-coloured will do with the ribbon and
      George. Get away with thee.&mdash;And now that he is gone, Master
      Christian, may I once more crave your pleasure?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My Lord Duke," said Christian, "you are a worshipper of difficulties in
      state affairs, as in love matters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I trust you have been no eavesdropper, Master Christian," replied the
      Duke; "it scarce argues the respect due to me, or to my roof."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not what you mean, my lord," replied Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, I care not if the whole world heard what I said but now to
      Jerningham. But to the matter," replied the Duke of Buckingham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace is so much occupied with conquests over the fair and over the
      witty, that you have perhaps forgotten what a stake you have in the little
      Island of Man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not a whit, Master Christian. I remember well enough that my roundheaded
      father-in-law, Fairfax, had the island from the Long Parliament; and was
      ass enough to quit hold of it at the Restoration, when, if he had closed
      his clutches, and held fast, like a true bird of prey, as he should have
      done, he might have kept it for him and his. It had been a rare thing to
      have had a little kingdom&mdash;made laws of my own&mdash;had my
      Chamberlain with his white staff&mdash;I would have taught Jerningham, in
      half a day, to look as wise, walk as stiffly, and speak as silly, as Harry
      Bennet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You might have done this, and more, if it had pleased your Grace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, and if it had pleased my Grace, thou, Ned Christian, shouldst have
      been the Jack Ketch of my dominions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>I</i> your Jack Ketch, my lord?" said Christian, more in a tone of
      surprise than of displeasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, ay; thou hast been perpetually intriguing against the life of yonder
      poor old woman. It were a kingdom to thee to gratify thy spleen with thy
      own hands."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I only seek justice against the Countess," said Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And the end of justice is always a gibbet," said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be it so," answered Christian. "Well, the Countess is in the Plot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil confound the Plot, as I believe he first invented it!" said the
      Duke of Buckingham; "I have heard of nothing else for months. If one must
      go to hell, I would it were by some new road, and in gentlemen's company.
      I should not like to travel with Oates, Bedloe, and the rest of that
      famous cloud of witnesses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace is then resolved to forego all the advantages which may arise?
      If the House of Derby fall under forfeiture, the grant to Fairfax, now
      worthily represented by your Duchess, revives, and you become the Lord and
      Sovereign of Man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In right of a woman," said the Duke; "but, in troth, my godly dame owes
      me some advantage for having lived the first year of our marriage with her
      and old Black Tom, her grim, fighting, puritanic father. A man might as
      well have married the Devil's daughter, and set up housekeeping with his
      father-in-law."[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Mary, daughter of Thomas, Lord Fairfax, was wedded to the Duke of
    Buckingham, whose versatility made him capable of rendering
    himself for a time as agreeable to his father-in-law, though a
    rigid Presbyterian, as to the gay Charles II.
</pre>
    <p>
      "I understand you are willing, then, to join your interest for a heave at
      the House of Derby, my Lord Duke?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "As they are unlawfully possessed of my wife's kingdom, they certainly can
      expect no favour at my hand. But thou knowest there is an interest at
      Whitehall predominant over mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is only by your Grace's sufferance," said Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, no; I tell thee a hundred times, no," said the Duke, rousing himself
      to anger at the recollection. "I tell thee that base courtezan, the
      Duchess of Portsmouth, hath impudently set herself to thwart and
      contradict me; and Charles has given me both cloudy looks and hard words
      before the Court. I would he could but guess what is the offence between
      her and me! I would he knew but that! But I will have her plumes picked,
      or my name is not Villiers. A worthless French fille-de-joie to brave me
      thus!&mdash;Christian, thou art right; there is no passion so
      spirit-stirring as revenge. I will patronise the Plot, if it be but to
      spite her, and make it impossible for the King to uphold her."
    </p>
    <p>
      As the Duke spoke, he gradually wrought himself into a passion, and
      traversed the apartment with as much vehemence as if the only object he
      had on earth was to deprive the Duchess of her power and favour with the
      King. Christian smiled internally to see him approach the state of mind in
      which he was most easily worked upon, and judiciously kept silence, until
      the Duke called out to him, in a pet, "Well, Sir Oracle, you that have
      laid so many schemes to supplant this she-wolf of Gaul, where are all your
      contrivances now?&mdash;Where is the exquisite beauty who was to catch the
      Sovereign's eye at the first glance?&mdash;Chiffinch, hath he seen her?&mdash;and
      what does he say, that exquisite critic in beauty and blank-mange, women
      and wine?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He has <i>seen</i> and approves, but has not yet heard her; and her
      speech answers to all the rest. We came here yesterday; and to-day I
      intend to introduce Chiffinch to her, the instant he arrives from the
      country; and I expect him every hour. I am but afraid of the damsel's
      peevish virtue, for she hath been brought up after the fashion of our
      grandmothers&mdash;our mothers had better sense."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! so fair, so young, so quick-witted, and so difficult?" said the
      Duke. "By your leave, you shall introduce me as well as Chiffinch."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That your Grace may cure her of her intractable modesty?" said Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why," replied the Duke, "it will but teach her to stand in her own light.
      Kings do not love to court and sue; they should have their game run down
      for them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Under your Grace's favour," said Christian, "this cannot be&mdash;<i>Non
      omnibus dormio</i>&mdash;Your Grace knows the classic allusion. If this
      maiden become a Prince's favourite, rank gilds the shame and the sin. But
      to any under Majesty, she must not vail topsail."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, thou suspicious fool, I was but in jest," said the Duke. "Do you
      think I would interfere to spoil a plan so much to my own advantage as
      that which you have laid before me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian smiled and shook his head. "My lord," he said, "I know your
      Grace as well, or better, perhaps, than you know yourself. To spoil a
      well-concerted intrigue by some cross stroke of your own, would give you
      more pleasure, than to bring it to a successful termination according to
      the plans of others. But Shaftesbury, and all concerned, have determined
      that our scheme shall at least have fair play. We reckon, therefore, on
      your help; and&mdash;forgive me when I say so&mdash;we will not permit
      ourselves to be impeded by your levity and fickleness of purpose."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who?&mdash;I light and fickle of purpose?" said the Duke. "You see me
      here as resolved as any of you, to dispossess the mistress, and to carry
      on the plot; these are the only two things I live for in this world. No
      one can play the man of business like me, when I please, to the very
      filing and labelling of my letters. I am regular as a scrivener."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have Chiffinch's letter from the country; he told me he had written
      to you about some passages betwixt him and the young Lord Saville."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He did so&mdash;he did so," said the Duke, looking among his letters;
      "but I see not his letter just now&mdash;I scarcely noted the contents&mdash;I
      was busy when it came&mdash;but I have it safely."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You should have acted on it," answered Christian. "The fool suffered
      himself to be choused out of his secret, and prayed you to see that my
      lord's messenger got not to the Duchess with some despatches which he sent
      up from Derbyshire, betraying our mystery."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke was now alarmed, and rang the bell hastily. Jerningham appeared.
      "Where is the letter I had from Master Chiffinch some hours since?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "If it be not amongst those your Grace has before you, I know nothing of
      it," said Jerningham. "I saw none such arrive."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You lie, you rascal," said Buckingham; "have you a right to remember
      better than I do?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "If your Grace will forgive me reminding you, you have scarce opened a
      letter this week," said his gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did you ever hear such a provoking rascal?" said the Duke. "He might be a
      witness in the Plot. He has knocked my character for regularity entirely
      on the head with his damned counter-evidence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace's talent and capacity will at least remain unimpeached," said
      Christian; "and it is those that must serve yourself and your friends. If
      I might advise, you will hasten to Court, and lay some foundation for the
      impression we wish to make. If your Grace can take the first word, and
      throw out a hint to crossbite Saville, it will be well. But above all,
      keep the King's ear employed, which no one can do so well as you. Leave
      Chiffinch to fill his heart with a proper object. Another thing is, there
      is a blockhead of an old Cavalier, who must needs be a bustler in the
      Countess of Derby's behalf&mdash;he is fast in hold, with the whole tribe
      of witnesses at his haunches."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, then, take him, Topham."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Topham has taken him already, my lord," said Christian; "and there is,
      besides, a young gallant, a son of the said Knight, who was bred in the
      household of the Countess of Derby, and who has brought letters from her
      to the Provincial of the Jesuits, and others in London."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are their names?" said the Duke dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Geoffrey Peveril of Martindale Castle, in Derbyshire, and his son
      Julian."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! Peveril of the Peak?" said the Duke,&mdash;"a stout old Cavalier as
      ever swore an oath.&mdash;A Worcester-man, too&mdash;and, in truth, a man
      of all work, when blows were going. I will not consent to his ruin,
      Christian. These fellows must be flogged of such false scents&mdash;flogged
      in every sense, they must, and will be, when the nation comes to its
      eyesight again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is of more than the last importance, in the meantime, to the
      furtherance of our plan," said Christian, "that your Grace should stand
      for a space between them and the King's favour. The youth hath influence
      with the maiden, which we should find scarce favourable to our views;
      besides, her father holds him as high as he can any one who is no such
      puritanic fool as himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, most Christian Christian," said the Duke, "I have heard your
      commands at length. I will endeavour to stop the earths under the throne,
      that neither the lord, knight, nor squire in question, shall find it
      possible to burrow there. For the fair one, I must leave Chiffinch and you
      to manage her introduction to her high destinies, since I am not to be
      trusted. Adieu, most Christian Christian."
    </p>
    <p>
      He fixed his eyes on him, and then exclaimed, as he shut the door of the
      apartment,&mdash;"Most profligate and damnable villain! And what provokes
      me most of all, is the knave's composed insolence. Your Grace will do this&mdash;and
      your Grace will condescend to do that&mdash;A pretty puppet I should be,
      to play the second part, or rather the third, in such a scheme! No, they
      shall all walk according to my purpose, or I will cross them. I will find
      this girl out in spite of them, and judge if their scheme is likely to be
      successful. If so, she shall be mine&mdash;mine entirely, before she
      becomes the King's; and I will command her who is to guide Charles.&mdash;Jerningham"
      (his gentleman entered), "cause Christian to be dogged where-ever he goes,
      for the next four-and-twenty hours, and find out where he visits a female
      newly come to town.&mdash;You smile, you knave?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did but suspect a fresh rival to Araminta and the little Countess,"
      said Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Away to your business, knave," said the Duke, "and let me think of mine.&mdash;To
      subdue a Puritan in Esse&mdash;a King's favourite in Posse&mdash;the very
      muster of western beauties&mdash;that is point first. The impudence of
      this Manx mongrel to be corrected&mdash;the pride of Madame la Duchesse to
      be pulled down&mdash;and important state intrigue to be farthered, or
      baffled, as circumstances render most to my own honour and glory&mdash;I
      wished for business but now, and I have got enough of it. But Buckingham
      will keep his own steerage-way through shoal and through weather."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            &mdash;&mdash;Mark you this, Bassanio&mdash;
            The devil can quote Scripture for his purpose.
                                       &mdash;MERCHANT OF VENICE.
</pre>
    <p>
      After leaving the proud mansion of the Duke of Buckingham, Christian, full
      of the deep and treacherous schemes which he meditated, hastened to the
      city, where, in a decent inn, kept by a person of his own persuasion, he
      had been unexpectedly summoned to meet with Ralph Bridgenorth of
      Moultrassie. He was not disappointed&mdash;the Major had arrived that
      morning, and anxiously expected him. The usual gloom of his countenance
      was darkened into a yet deeper shade of anxiety, which was scarcely
      relieved, even while, in answer to his inquiry after his daughter,
      Christian gave the most favourable account of her health and spirits,
      naturally and unaffectedly intermingled with such praises of her beauty
      and her disposition, as were likely to be most grateful to a father's ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Christian had too much cunning to expatiate on this theme, however
      soothing. He stopped short exactly at the point where, as an affectionate
      relative, he might be supposed to have said enough. "The lady," he said,
      "with whom he had placed Alice, was delighted with her aspect and manners,
      and undertook to be responsible for her health and happiness. He had not,
      he said, deserved so little confidence at the hand of his brother,
      Bridgenorth, as that the Major should, contrary to his purpose, and to the
      plan which they had adjusted together, have hurried up from the country,
      as if his own presence were necessary for Alice's protection."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Brother Christian," said Bridgenorth in reply, "I must see my child&mdash;I
      must see this person with whom she is entrusted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To what purpose?" answered Christian. "Have you not often confessed that
      the over excess of the carnal affection which you have entertained for
      your daughter, hath been a snare to you?&mdash;Have you not, more than
      once, been on the point of resigning those great designs which should
      place righteousness as a counsellor beside the throne, because you desired
      to gratify your daughter's girlish passion for this descendant of your old
      persecutor&mdash;this Julian Peveril?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I own it," said Bridgenorth; "and worlds would I have given, and would
      yet give, to clasp that youth to my bosom, and call him my son. The spirit
      of his mother looks from his eye, and his stately step is as that of his
      father, when he daily spoke comfort to me in my distress, and said, 'The
      child liveth.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "But the youth walks," said Christian, "after his own lights, and mistakes
      the meteor of the marsh for the Polar star. Ralph Bridgenorth, I will
      speak to thee in friendly sincerity. Thou must not think to serve both the
      good cause and Baal. Obey, if thou wilt, thine own carnal affections,
      summon this Julian Peveril to thy house, and let him wed thy daughter&mdash;But
      mark the reception she will meet with from the proud old knight, whose
      spirit is now, even now, as little broken with his chains, as after the
      sword of the Saints had prevailed at Worcester. Thou wilt see thy daughter
      spurned from his feet like an outcast."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Christian," said Bridgenorth, interrupting him, "thou dost urge me hard;
      but thou dost it in love, my brother, and I forgive thee&mdash;Alice shall
      never be spurned.&mdash;But this friend of thine&mdash;this lady&mdash;thou
      art my child's uncle; and after me, thou art next to her in love and
      affection&mdash;Still, thou art not her father&mdash;hast not her father's
      fears. Art thou sure of the character of this woman to whom my child is
      entrusted?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Am I sure of my own?&mdash;Am I sure that my name is Christian&mdash;yours
      Bridgenorth?&mdash;Is it a thing I am likely to be insecure in?&mdash;Have
      I not dwelt for many years in this city?&mdash;Do I not know this Court?&mdash;And
      am I likely to be imposed upon? For I will not think you can fear my
      imposing upon you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art my brother," said Bridgenorth&mdash;"the blood and bone of my
      departed Saint&mdash;and I am determined that I will trust thee in this
      matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou dost well," said Christian; "and who knows what reward may be in
      store for thee?&mdash;I cannot look upon Alice, but it is strongly borne
      in on my mind, that there will be work for a creature so excellent beyond
      ordinary women. Courageous Judith freed Bethulia by her valour, and the
      comely features of Esther made her a safeguard and a defence to her people
      in the land of captivity, when she found favour in the sight of King
      Ahasuerus."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be it with her as Heaven wills," said Bridgenorth; "and now tell me what
      progress there is in the great work."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The people are weary of the iniquity of this Court," said Christian; "and
      if this man will continue to reign, it must be by calling to his councils
      men of another stamp. The alarm excited by the damnable practices of the
      Papists has called up men's souls, and awakened their eyes to the dangers
      of their state.&mdash;He himself&mdash;for he will give up brother and
      wife to save himself&mdash;is not averse to a change of measures; and
      though we cannot at first see the Court purged as with a winnowing fan,
      yet there will be enough of the good to control the bad&mdash;enough of
      the sober party to compel the grant of that universal toleration, for
      which we have sighed so long, as a maiden for her beloved. Time and
      opportunity will lead the way to more thorough reformation; and that will
      be done without stroke of sword, which our friends failed to establish on
      a sure foundation, even when their victorious blades were in their hands."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May God grant it!" said Bridgenorth; "for I fear me I should scruple to
      do aught which should once more unsheath the civil sword; but welcome all
      that comes in a peaceful and parliamentary way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," said Christian, "and which will bring with it the bitter amends,
      which our enemies have so long merited at our hands. How long hath our
      brother's blood cried for vengeance from the altar!&mdash;Now shall that
      cruel Frenchwoman find that neither lapse of years, nor her powerful
      friends, nor the name of Stanley, nor the Sovereignty of Man, shall stop
      the stern course of the pursuer of blood. Her name shall be struck from
      the noble, and her heritage shall another take."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, but, brother Christian," said Bridgenorth, "art thou not over eager
      in pursuing this thing?&mdash;It is thy duty as a Christian to forgive
      thine enemies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, but not the enemies of Heaven&mdash;not those who shed the blood of
      the saints," said Christian, his eyes kindling that vehement and fiery
      expression which at times gave to his uninteresting countenance the only
      character of passion which it ever exhibited. "No, Bridgenorth," he
      continued, "I esteem this purpose of revenge holy&mdash;I account it a
      propitiatory sacrifice for what may have been evil in my life. I have
      submitted to be spurned by the haughty&mdash;I have humbled myself to be
      as a servant; but in my breast was the proud thought, I who do this&mdash;do
      it that I may avenge my brother's blood."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still, my brother," said Bridgenorth, "although I participate thy
      purpose, and have aided thee against this Moabitish woman, I cannot but
      think thy revenge is more after the law of Moses than after the law of
      love."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This comes well from thee, Ralph Bridgenorth," answered Christian; "from
      thee, who has just smiled over the downfall of thine own enemy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you mean Sir Geoffrey Peveril," said Bridgenorth, "I smile not on his
      ruin. It is well he is abased; but if it lies with me, I may humble his
      pride, but will never ruin his house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You know your purpose best," said Christian; "and I do justice, brother
      Bridgenorth, to the purity of your principles; but men who see with but
      worldly eyes, would discern little purpose of mercy in the strict
      magistrate and severe creditor&mdash;and such have you been to Peveril."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And, brother Christian," said Bridgenorth, his colour rising as he spoke,
      "neither do I doubt your purpose, nor deny the surprising address with
      which you have procured such perfect information concerning the purposes
      of yonder woman of Ammon. But it is free to me to think, that in your
      intercourse with the Court, and with courtiers, you may, in your carnal
      and worldly policy, sink the value of those spiritual gifts, for which you
      were once so much celebrated among the brethren."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not apprehend it," said Christian, recovering his temper, which had
      been a little ruffled by the previous discussion. "Let us but work
      together as heretofore; and I trust each of us shall be found doing the
      work of a faithful servant to that good old cause for which we have
      heretofore drawn the sword."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he took his hat, and bidding Bridgenorth farewell, declared his
      intention of returning in the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fare thee well!" said Bridgenorth; "to that cause wilt thou find me ever
      a true and devoted adherent. I will act by that counsel of thine, and will
      not even ask thee&mdash;though it may grieve my heart as a parent&mdash;with
      whom, or where, thou hast entrusted my child. I will try to cut off, and
      cast from me, even my right hand, and my right eye; but for thee,
      Christian, if thou dost deal otherwise than prudently and honestly in this
      matter, it is what God and man will require at thy hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear not me," said Christian hastily, and left the place, agitated by
      reflections of no pleasant kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I ought to have persuaded him to return," he said, as he stepped out into
      the street. "Even his hovering in this neighbourhood may spoil the plan on
      which depends the rise of my fortunes&mdash;ay, and of his child's. Will
      men say I have ruined her, when I shall have raised her to the dazzling
      height of the Duchess of Portsmouth, and perhaps made her a mother to a
      long line of princes? Chiffinch hath vouched for opportunity; and the
      voluptuary's fortune depends upon his gratifying the taste of his master
      for variety. If she makes an impression, it must be a deep one; and once
      seated in his affections, I fear not her being supplanted.&mdash;What will
      her father say? Will he, like a prudent man, put his shame in his pocket,
      because it is well gilded? or will he think it fitting to make a display
      of moral wrath and parental frenzy? I fear the latter&mdash;He has ever
      kept too strict a course to admit his conniving at such licence. But what
      will his anger avail?&mdash;I need not be seen in the matter&mdash;those
      who are will care little for the resentment of a country Puritan. And
      after all, what I am labouring to bring about is best for himself, the
      wench, and above all, for me, Edward Christian."
    </p>
    <p>
      With such base opiates did this unhappy wretch stifle his own conscience,
      while anticipating the disgrace of his friend's family, and the ruin of a
      near relative, committed in confidence to his charge. The character of
      this man was of no common description; nor was it by an ordinary road that
      he had arrived at the present climax of unfeeling and infamous
      selfishness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edward Christian, as the reader is aware, was the brother of that William
      Christian, who was the principal instrument in delivering up the Isle of
      Man to the Republic, and who became the victim of the Countess of Derby's
      revenge on that account. Both had been educated as Puritans, but William
      was a soldier, which somewhat modified the strictness of his religious
      opinions; Edward, a civilian, seemed to entertain these principles in the
      utmost rigour. But it was only seeming. The exactness of deportment, which
      procured him great honour and influence among the <i>sober party</i>, as
      they were wont to term themselves, covered a voluptuous disposition, the
      gratification of which was sweet to him as stolen waters, and pleasant as
      bread eaten in secret. While, therefore, his seeming godliness brought him
      worldly gain, his secret pleasures compensated for his outward austerity;
      until the Restoration, and the Countess's violent proceedings against his
      brother interrupted the course of both. He then fled from his native
      island, burning with the desire of revenging his brother's death&mdash;the
      only passion foreign to his own gratification which he was ever known to
      cherish, and which was also, at least, partly selfish, since it concerned
      the restoration of his own fortunes.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found easy access to Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who, in right of his
      Duchess, claimed such of the Derby estate as had been bestowed by the
      Parliament on his celebrated father-in-law, Lord Fairfax. His influence at
      the Court of Charles, where a jest was a better plea than a long claim of
      faithful service, was so successfully exerted, as to contribute greatly to
      the depression of that loyal and ill-rewarded family. But Buckingham was
      incapable, even for his own interest, of pursuing the steady course which
      Christian suggested to him; and his vacillation probably saved the remnant
      of the large estates of the Earl of Derby.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, Christian was too useful a follower to be dismissed. From
      Buckingham, and others of that stamp, he did not affect to conceal the
      laxity of his morals; but towards the numerous and powerful party to which
      he belonged, he was able to disguise them by a seeming gravity of
      exterior, which he never laid aside. Indeed, so wide and absolute was then
      the distinction betwixt the Court and the city, that a man might have for
      some time played two several parts, as in two different spheres, without
      its being discovered in the one that he exhibited himself in a different
      light in the other. Besides, when a man of talent shows himself an able
      and useful partisan, his party will continue to protect and accredit him,
      in spite of conduct the most contradictory to their own principles. Some
      facts are, in such cases, denied&mdash;some are glossed over&mdash;and
      party zeal is permitted to cover at least as many defects as ever doth
      charity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edward Christian had often need of the partial indulgence of his friends;
      but he experienced it, for he was eminently useful. Buckingham, and other
      courtiers of the same class, however dissolute in their lives, were
      desirous of keeping some connection with the Dissenting or Puritanic
      party, as it was termed; thereby to strengthen themselves against their
      opponents at Court. In such intrigues, Christian was a notable agent; and
      at one time had nearly procured an absolute union between a class which
      professed the most rigid principles of religion and morality, and the
      latitudinarian courtiers, who set all principle at defiance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amidst the vicissitudes of a life of intrigue, during which Buckingham's
      ambitious schemes, and his own, repeatedly sent him across the Atlantic,
      it was Edward Christian's boast that he never lost sight of his principal
      object,&mdash;revenge on the Countess of Derby. He maintained a close and
      intimate correspondence with his native island, so as to be perfectly
      informed of whatever took place there; and he stimulated, on every
      favourable opportunity, the cupidity of Buckingham to possess himself of
      this petty kingdom, by procuring the forfeiture of its present Lord. It
      was not difficult to keep his patron's wild wishes alive on this topic,
      for his own mercurial imagination attached particular charms to the idea
      of becoming a sort of sovereign even in this little island; and he was,
      like Catiline, as covetous of the property of others, as he was profuse of
      his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was not until the pretended discovery of the Papist Plot that the
      schemes of Christian could be brought to ripen; and then, so odious were
      the Catholics in the eyes of the credulous people of England, that, upon
      the accusation of the most infamous of mankind, common informers, the
      scourings of jails, and the refuse of the whipping-post, the most
      atrocious charges against persons of the highest rank and fairest
      character were readily received and credited.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a period which Christian did not fail to improve. He drew close
      his intimacy with Bridgenorth, which had indeed never been interrupted,
      and readily engaged him in his schemes, which, in the eyes of his
      brother-in-law, were alike honourable and patriotic. But, while he
      flattered Bridgenorth with the achieving a complete reformation in the
      state&mdash;checking the profligacy of the Court&mdash;relieving the
      consciences of the Dissenters from the pressures of the penal laws&mdash;amending,
      in fine, the crying grievances of the time&mdash;while he showed him also,
      in prospect, revenge upon the Countess of Derby, and a humbling
      dispensation on the house of Peveril, from whom Bridgenorth had suffered
      such indignity, Christian did not neglect, in the meanwhile, to consider
      how he could best benefit himself by the confidence reposed in him by his
      unsuspicious relation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The extreme beauty of Alice Bridgenorth&mdash;the great wealth which time
      and economy had accumulated on her father&mdash;pointed her out as a most
      desirable match to repair the wasted fortunes of some of the followers of
      the Court; and he flattered himself that he could conduct such a
      negotiation so as to be in a high degree conducive to his own advantage.
      He found there would be little difficulty in prevailing on Major
      Bridgenorth to entrust him with the guardianship of his daughter. That
      unfortunate gentleman had accustomed himself, from the very period of her
      birth, to regard the presence of his child as a worldly indulgence too
      great to be allowed to him; and Christian had little trouble in convincing
      him that the strong inclination which he felt to bestow her on Julian
      Peveril, provided he could be brought over to his own political opinions,
      was a blameable compromise with his more severe principles. Late
      circumstances had taught him the incapacity and unfitness of Dame Debbitch
      for the sole charge of so dear a pledge; and he readily and thankfully
      embraced the kind offer of her maternal uncle, Christian, to place Alice
      under the protection of a lady of rank in London, whilst he himself was to
      be engaged in the scenes of bustle and blood, which, in common with all
      good Protestants, he expected was speedily to take place on a general
      rising of the Papists, unless prevented by the active and energetic
      measures of the good people of England. He even confessed his fears, that
      his partial regard for Alice's happiness might enervate his efforts in
      behalf of his country; and Christian had little trouble in eliciting from
      him a promise, that he would forbear to inquire after her for some time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus certain of being the temporary guardian of his niece for a space long
      enough, he flattered himself, for the execution of his purpose, Christian
      endeavoured to pave the way by consulting Chiffinch, whose known skill in
      Court policy qualified him best as an adviser on this occasion. But this
      worthy person, being, in fact, a purveyor for his Majesty's pleasures, and
      on that account high in his good graces, thought it fell within the line
      of his duty to suggest another scheme than that on which Christian
      consulted him. A woman of such exquisite beauty as Alice was described, he
      deemed more worthy to be a partaker of the affections of the merry
      Monarch, whose taste in female beauty was so exquisite, than to be made
      the wife of some worn-out prodigal of quality. And then, doing perfect
      justice to his own character, he felt it would not be one whit impaired,
      while his fortune would be, in every respect, greatly amended, if, after
      sharing the short reign of the Gwyns, the Davises, the Robertses, and so
      forth, Alice Bridgenorth should retire from the state of a royal
      favourite, into the humble condition of Mrs. Chiffinch.
    </p>
    <p>
      After cautiously sounding Christian, and finding that the near prospect of
      interest to himself effectually prevented his starting at this iniquitous
      scheme, Chiffinch detailed it to him fully, carefully keeping the final
      termination out of sight, and talking of the favour to be acquired by the
      fair Alice as no passing caprice, but the commencement of a reign as long
      and absolute as that of the Duchess of Portsmouth, of whose avarice and
      domineering temper Charles was now understood to be much tired, though the
      force of habit rendered him unequal to free himself of her yoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus chalked out, the scene prepared was no longer the intrigue of a Court
      pander, and a villainous resolution for the ruin of an innocent girl, but
      became a state intrigue, for the removal of an obnoxious favourite, and
      the subsequent change of the King's sentiments upon various material
      points, in which he was at present influenced by the Duchess of
      Portsmouth. In this light it was exhibited to the Duke of Buckingham, who,
      either to sustain his character for daring gallantry, or in order to
      gratify some capricious fancy, had at one time made love to the reigning
      favourite, and experienced a repulse which he had never forgiven.
    </p>
    <p>
      But one scheme was too little to occupy the active and enterprising spirit
      of the Duke. An appendix of the Popish Plot was easily so contrived as to
      involve the Countess of Derby, who, from character and religion, was
      precisely the person whom the credulous part of the public were inclined
      to suppose the likely accomplice of such a conspiracy. Christian and
      Bridgenorth undertook the perilous commission of attacking her even in her
      own little kingdom of Man, and had commissions for this purpose, which
      were only to be produced in case of their scheme taking effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      It miscarried, as the reader is aware, from the Countess's alert
      preparations for defence; and neither Christian nor Bridgenorth held it
      sound policy to practise openly, even under parliamentary authority,
      against a lady so little liable to hesitate upon the measures most likely
      to secure her feudal sovereignty; wisely considering that even the
      omnipotence, as it has been somewhat too largely styled, of Parliament,
      might fail to relieve them from the personal consequences of a failure.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the continent of Britain, however, no opposition was to be feared; and
      so well was Christian acquainted with all the motions in the interior of
      the Countess's little court, or household, that Peveril would have been
      arrested the instant he set foot on shore, but for the gale of wind which
      obliged the vessel, in which he was a passenger, to run for Liverpool.
      Here Christian, under the name of Ganlesse, unexpectedly met with him, and
      preserved him from the fangs of the well-breathed witnesses of the Plot,
      with the purpose of securing his despatches, or, if necessary, his person
      also, in such a manner as to place him at his own discretion&mdash;a
      narrow and perilous game, which he thought it better, however, to
      undertake, than to permit these subordinate agents, who were always ready
      to mutiny against all in league with them, to obtain the credit which they
      must have done by the seizure of the Countess of Derby's despatches. It
      was, besides, essential to Buckingham's schemes that these should not pass
      into the hands of a public officer like Topham, who, however pompous and
      stupid, was upright and well-intentioned, until they had undergone the
      revisal of a private committee, where something might have probably been
      suppressed, even supposing that nothing had been added. In short,
      Christian, in carrying on his own separate and peculiar intrigue, by the
      agency of the Great Popish Plot, as it was called, acted just like an
      engineer, who derives the principle of motion which turns his machinery,
      by means of a steam-engine, or large water-wheel, constructed to drive a
      separate and larger engine. Accordingly, he was determined that, while he
      took all the advantage he could from their supposed discoveries, no one
      should be admitted to tamper or interfere with his own plans of profit and
      revenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chiffinch, who, desirous of satisfying himself with his own eyes of that
      excellent beauty which had been so highly extolled, had gone down to
      Derbyshire on purpose, was infinitely delighted, when, during the course
      of a two hours' sermon at the dissenting chapel in Liverpool, which
      afforded him ample leisure for a deliberate survey, he arrived at the
      conclusion that he had never seen a form or face more captivating. His
      eyes having confirmed what was told him, he hurried back to the little inn
      which formed their place of rendezvous, and there awaited Christian and
      his niece, with a degree of confidence in the success of their project
      which he had not before entertained; and with an apparatus of luxury,
      calculated, as he thought, to make a favourable impression on the mind of
      a rustic girl. He was somewhat surprised, when, instead of Alice
      Bridgenorth, to whom he expected that night to have been introduced, he
      found that Christian was accompanied by Julian Peveril. It was indeed a
      severe disappointment, for he had prevailed on his own indolence to
      venture this far from the Court, in order that he might judge, with his
      own paramount taste, whether Alice was really the prodigy which her
      uncle's praises had bespoken her, and, as such, a victim worthy of the
      fate to which she was destined.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few words betwixt the worthy confederates determined them on the plan of
      stripping Peveril of the Countess's despatches; Chiffinch absolutely
      refusing to take any share in arresting him, as a matter of which his
      Master's approbation might be very uncertain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian had also his own reasons for abstaining from so decisive a step.
      It was by no means likely to be agreeable to Bridgenorth, whom it was
      necessary to keep in good humour;&mdash;it was not necessary, for the
      Countess's despatches were of far more importance than the person of
      Julian. Lastly, it was superfluous in this respect also, that Julian was
      on the road to his father's castle, where it was likely he would be
      seized, as a matter of course, along with the other suspicious persons who
      fell under Topham's warrant, and the denunciations of his infamous
      companions. He, therefore, far from using any violence to Peveril, assumed
      towards him such a friendly tone, as might seem to warn him against
      receiving damage from others, and vindicate himself from having any share
      in depriving him of his charge. This last manoeuvre was achieved by an
      infusion of a strong narcotic into Julian's wine; under the influence of
      which he slumbered so soundly, that the confederates were easily able to
      accomplish their inhospitable purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      The events of the succeeding days are already known to the reader.
      Chiffinch set forward to return to London, with the packet, which it was
      desirable should be in Buckingham's hands as soon as possible; while
      Christian went to Moultrassie, to receive Alice from her father, and
      convey her safely to London&mdash;his accomplice agreeing to defer his
      curiosity to see more of her until they should have arrived in that city.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before parting with Bridgenorth, Christian had exerted his utmost address
      to prevail on him to remain at Moultrassie; he had even overstepped the
      bounds of prudence, and, by his urgency, awakened some suspicions of an
      indefinite nature, which he found it difficult to allay. Bridgenorth,
      therefore, followed his brother-in-law to London; and the reader has
      already been made acquainted with the arts which Christian used to prevent
      his farther interference with the destinies of his daughter, or the
      unhallowed schemes of her ill-chosen guardian. Still Christian, as he
      strode along the street in profound reflection, saw that his undertaking
      was attended with a thousand perils; and the drops stood like beads on his
      brow when he thought of the presumptuous levity and fickle temper of
      Buckingham&mdash;the frivolity and intemperance of Chiffinch&mdash;the
      suspicions of the melancholy and bigoted, yet sagacious and honest
      Bridgenorth. "Had I," he thought, "but tools fitted, each to their portion
      of the work, how easily could I heave asunder and disjoint the strength
      that opposes me! But with these frail and insufficient implements, I am in
      daily, hourly, momentary danger, that one lever or other gives way, and
      that the whole ruin recoils on my own head. And yet, were it not for those
      failings I complain of, how were it possible for me to have acquired that
      power over them all which constitutes them my passive tools, even when
      they seem most to exert their own free will? Yes, the bigots have some
      right when they affirm that all is for the best."
    </p>
    <p>
      It may seem strange, that, amidst the various subjects of Christian's
      apprehension, he was never visited by any long or permanent doubt that the
      virtue of his niece might prove the shoal on which his voyage should be
      wrecked. But he was an arrant rogue, as well as a hardened libertine; and,
      in both characters, a professed disbeliever in the virtue of the fair sex.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            As for John Dryden's Charles, I own that King
            Was never any very mighty thing;
            And yet he was a devilish honest fellow&mdash;
            Enjoy'd his friend and bottle, and got mellow.
                                               &mdash;DR. WOLOOT.
</pre>
    <p>
      London, the grand central point of intrigues of every description, had now
      attracted within its dark and shadowy region the greater number of the
      personages whom we have had occasion to mention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril, amongst others of the <i>dramatis personæ</i>, had
      arrived, and taken up his abode in a remote inn in the suburbs. His
      business, he conceived, was to remain incognito until he should have
      communicated in private with the friends who were most likely to lend
      assistance to his parents, as well as to his patroness, in their present
      situation of doubt and danger. Amongst these, the most powerful was the
      Duke of Ormond, whose faithful services, high rank, and acknowledged worth
      and virtue, still preserved an ascendancy in that very Court, where, in
      general, he was regarded as out of favour. Indeed, so much consciousness
      did Charles display in his demeanour towards that celebrated noble, and
      servant of his father, that Buckingham once took the freedom to ask the
      King whether the Duke of Ormond had lost his Majesty's favour, or his
      Majesty the Duke's? since, whenever they chanced to meet, the King
      appeared the more embarrassed of the two. But it was not Peveril's good
      fortune to obtain the advice or countenance of this distinguished person.
      His Grace of Ormond was not at that time in London.
    </p>
    <p>
      The letter, about the delivery of which the Countess had seemed most
      anxious after that to the Duke of Ormond, was addressed to Captain Barstow
      (a Jesuit, whose real name was Fenwicke), to be found, or at least to be
      heard of, in the house of one Martin Christal in the Savoy. To this place
      hastened Peveril, upon learning the absence of the Duke of Ormond. He was
      not ignorant of the danger which he personally incurred, by thus becoming
      a medium of communication betwixt a Popish priest and a suspected
      Catholic. But when he undertook the perilous commission of his patroness,
      he had done so frankly, and with the unreserved resolution of serving her
      in the manner in which she most desired her affairs to be conducted. Yet
      he could not forbear some secret apprehension, when he felt himself
      engaged in the labyrinth of passages and galleries, which led to different
      obscure sets of apartments in the ancient building termed the Savoy.
    </p>
    <p>
      This antiquated and almost ruinous pile occupied a part of the site of the
      public offices in the Strand, commonly called Somerset House. The Savoy
      had been formerly a palace, and took its name from an Earl of Savoy, by
      whom it was founded. It had been the habitation of John of Gaunt, and
      various persons of distinction&mdash;had become a convent, an hospital,
      and finally, in Charles II.'s time, a waste of dilapidated buildings and
      ruinous apartments, inhabited chiefly by those who had some connection
      with, or dependence upon, the neighbouring palace of Somerset House,
      which, more fortunate than the Savoy, had still retained its royal title,
      and was the abode of a part of the Court, and occasionally of the King
      himself, who had apartments there.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not without several inquiries, and more than one mistake, that, at
      the end of a long and dusky passage, composed of boards so wasted by time
      that they threatened to give way under his feet, Julian at length found
      the name of Martin Christal, broker and appraiser, upon a shattered door.
      He was about to knock, when some one pulled his cloak; and looking round,
      to his great astonishment, which indeed almost amounted to fear, he saw
      the little mute damsel, who had accompanied him for a part of the way on
      his voyage from the Isle of Man.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fenella!" he exclaimed, forgetting that she could neither hear nor reply,&mdash;"Fenella!
      Can this be you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Fenella, assuming the air of warning and authority, which she had
      heretofore endeavoured to adopt towards him, interposed betwixt Julian and
      the door at which he was about to knock&mdash;pointed with her finger
      towards it in a prohibiting manner, and at the same time bent her brows,
      and shook her head sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a moment's consideration, Julian could place but one interpretation
      upon Fenella's appearance and conduct, and that was, by supposing her lady
      had come up to London, and had despatched this mute attendant, as a
      confidential person, to apprise him of some change of her intended
      operations, which might render the delivery of her letters to Barstow, <i>alias</i>
      Fenwicke, superfluous, or perhaps dangerous. He made signs to Fenella,
      demanding to know whether she had any commission from the Countess. She
      nodded. "Had she any letter?" he continued, by the same mode of inquiry.
      She shook her head impatiently, and, walking hastily along the passage,
      made a signal to him to follow. He did so, having little doubt that he was
      about to be conducted into the Countess's presence; but his surprise, at
      first excited by Fenella's appearance, was increased by the rapidity and
      ease with which she seemed to track the dusky and decayed mazes of the
      dilapidated Savoy, equal to that with which he had seen her formerly lead
      the way through the gloomy vaults of Castle Rushin, in the Isle of Man.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he recollected, however, that Fenella had accompanied the Countess on
      a long visit to London, it appeared not improbable that she might then
      have acquired this local knowledge which seemed so accurate. Many
      foreigners, dependent on Queen or Queen Dowager, had apartments in the
      Savoy. Many Catholic priests also found refuge in its recesses, under
      various disguises, and in defiance of the severity of the laws against
      Popery. What was more likely than that the Countess of Derby, a Catholic
      and a Frenchwoman, should have had secret commissions amongst such people;
      and that the execution of such should be entrusted, at least occasionally,
      to Fenella?
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus reflecting, Julian continued to follow her light and active footsteps
      as she glided from the Strand to Spring-Garden, and thence into the Park.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was still early in the morning, and the Mall was untenanted, save by a
      few walkers, who frequented these shades for the wholesome purposes of air
      and exercise. Splendour, gaiety, and display, did not come forth, at that
      period, until noon was approaching. All readers have heard that the whole
      space where the Horse Guards are now built, made, in the time of Charles
      II., a part of St. James's Park; and that the old building, now called the
      Treasury, was a part of the ancient Palace of Whitehall, which was thus
      immediately connected with the Park. The canal had been constructed, by
      the celebrated Le Notre, for the purpose of draining the Park; and it
      communicated with the Thames by a decoy, stocked with a quantity of the
      rarer waterfowl. It was towards this decoy that Fenella bent her way with
      unabated speed; and they were approaching a group of two or three
      gentlemen, who sauntered by its banks, when, on looking closely at him who
      appeared to be the chief of the party, Julian felt his heart beat
      uncommonly thick, as if conscious of approaching some one of the highest
      consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The person whom he looked upon was past the middle age of life, of a dark
      complexion, corresponding with the long, black, full-bottomed periwig,
      which he wore instead of his own hair. His dress was plain black velvet,
      with a diamond star, however, on his cloak, which hung carelessly over one
      shoulder. His features, strongly lined, even to harshness, had yet an
      expression of dignified good-humour; he was well and strongly built,
      walked upright and yet easily, and had upon the whole the air of a person
      of the highest consideration. He kept rather in advance of his companions,
      but turned and spoke to them, from time to time, with much affability, and
      probably with some liveliness, judging by the smiles, and sometimes the
      scarce restrained laughter, by which some of his sallies were received by
      his attendants. They also wore only morning dresses; but their looks and
      manner were those of men of rank, in presence of one in station still more
      elevated. They shared the attention of their principal in common with
      seven or eight little black curly-haired spaniels, or rather, as they are
      now called, cockers, which attended their master as closely, and perhaps
      with as deep sentiments of attachment, as the bipeds of the group; and
      whose gambols, which seemed to afford him much amusement, he sometimes
      checked, and sometimes encouraged. In addition to this pastime, a lackey,
      or groom, was also in attendance, with one or two little baskets and bags,
      from which the gentleman we have described took, from time to time, a
      handful of seeds, and amused himself with throwing them to the waterfowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      This the King's favourite occupation, together with his remarkable
      countenance, and the deportment of the rest of the company towards him,
      satisfied Julian Peveril that he was approaching, perhaps indecorously,
      near the person of Charles Stewart, the second of that unhappy name.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he hesitated to follow his dumb guide any nearer, and felt the
      embarrassment of being unable to communicate to her his repugnance to
      further intrusion, a person in the royal retinue touched a light and
      lively air on the flageolet, at a signal from the King, who desired to
      have some tune repeated which had struck him in the theatre on the
      preceding evening. While the good-natured monarch marked time with his
      foot, and with the motion of his hand, Fenella continued to approach him,
      and threw into her manner the appearance of one who was attracted, as it
      were in spite of herself, by the sounds of the instrument.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anxious to know how this was to end, and astonished to see the dumb girl
      imitate so accurately the manner of one who actually heard the musical
      notes, Peveril also drew near, though at somewhat greater distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King looked good-humouredly at both, as if he admitted their musical
      enthusiasm as an excuse for their intrusion; but his eyes became riveted
      on Fenella, whose face and appearance, although rather singular than
      beautiful, had something in them wild, fantastic, and, as being so, even
      captivating, to an eye which had been gratified perhaps to satiety with
      the ordinary forms of female beauty. She did not appear to notice how
      closely she was observed; but, as if acting under an irresistible impulse,
      derived from the sounds to which she seemed to listen, she undid the
      bodkin round which her long tresses were winded, and flinging them
      suddenly over her slender person, as if using them as a natural veil, she
      began to dance, with infinite grace and agility, to the tune which the
      flageolet played.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril lost almost his sense of the King's presence, when he observed
      with what wonderful grace and agility Fenella kept time to notes, which
      could only be known to her by the motions of the musician's fingers. He
      had heard, indeed, among other prodigies, of a person in Fenella's unhappy
      situation acquiring, by some unaccountable and mysterious tact, the power
      of acting as an instrumental musician, nay, becoming so accurate a
      performer as to be capable of leading a musical band; and he also heard of
      deaf and dumb persons dancing with sufficient accuracy, by observing the
      motions of their partner. But Fenella's performance seemed more wonderful
      than either, since the musician was guided by his written notes, and the
      dancer by the motions of the others; whereas Fenella had no intimation,
      save what she seemed to gather, with infinite accuracy, by observing the
      motion of the artist's fingers on his small instrument.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for the King, who was ignorant of the particular circumstances which
      rendered Fenella's performance almost marvellous, he was contented, at her
      first commencement, to authorise what seemed to him the frolic of this
      singular-looking damsel, by a good-natured smile, but when he perceived
      the exquisite truth and justice, as well as the wonderful combination of
      grace and agility, with which she executed to this favourite air a dance
      which was perfectly new to him, Charles turned his mere acquiescence into
      something like enthusiastic applause. He bore time to her motions with the
      movement of his foot&mdash;applauded with head and with hand&mdash;and
      seemed, like herself, carried away by the enthusiasm of the gestic art.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a rapid yet graceful succession of <i>entrechats</i>, Fenella
      introduced a slow movement, which terminated the dance; then dropping a
      profound courtesy, she continued to stand motionless before the King, her
      arms folded on her bosom, her head stooped, and her eyes cast down, after
      the manner of an Oriental slave; while through the misty veil of her
      shadowy locks, it might be observed, that the colour which exercise had
      called to her cheeks was dying fast away, and resigning them to their
      native dusky hue.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my honour," exclaimed the King, "she is like a fairy who trips it in
      moonlight. There must be more of air and fire than of earth in her
      composition. It is well poor Nelly Gwyn saw her not, or she would have
      died of grief and envy. Come, gentlemen, which of you contrived this
      pretty piece of morning pastime?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The courtiers looked at each other, but none of them felt authorised to
      claim the merit of a service so agreeable.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We must ask the quick-eyed nymph herself then," said the King; and,
      looking at Fenella, he added, "Tell us, my pretty one, to whom we owe the
      pleasure of seeing you?&mdash;I suspect the Duke of Buckingham; for this
      is exactly a <i>tour de son métier</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      Fenella, on observing that the King addressed her, bowed low, and shook
      her head, in signal that she did not understand what he said. "Oddsfish,
      that is true," said the King; "she must perforce be a foreigner&mdash;her
      complexion and agility speak it. France or Italy has had the moulding of
      those elastic limbs, dark cheek, and eye of fire." He then put to her in
      French, and again in Italian, the question, "By whom she had been sent
      hither?"
    </p>
    <p>
      At the second repetition, Fenella threw back her veiling tresses, so as to
      show the melancholy which sat on her brow; while she sadly shook her head,
      and intimated by imperfect muttering, but of the softest and most
      plaintive kind, her organic deficiency.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it possible Nature can have made such a fault?" said Charles. "Can she
      have left so curious a piece as thou art without the melody of voice,
      whilst she has made thee so exquisitely sensible to the beauty of sound?&mdash;Stay:
      what means this? and what young fellow are you bringing up there? Oh, the
      master of the show, I suppose.&mdash;Friend," he added, addressing himself
      to Peveril, who, on the signal of Fenella, stepped forward almost
      instinctively, and kneeled down, "we thank thee for the pleasure of this
      morning.&mdash;My Lord Marquis, you rooked me at piquet last night; for
      which disloyal deed thou shalt now atone, by giving a couple of pieces to
      this honest youth, and five to the girl."
    </p>
    <p>
      As the nobleman drew out his purse and came forward to perform the King's
      generous commission, Julian felt some embarrassment ere he was able to
      explain, that he had not title to be benefited by the young person's
      performance, and that his Majesty had mistaken his character.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who art thou, then, my friend?" said Charles; "but, above all, and
      particularly, who is this dancing nymph, whom thou standest waiting on
      like an attendant fawn?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The young person is a retainer of the Countess-Dowager of Derby, so
      please your Majesty," said Peveril, in a low tone of voice; "and I am&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold, hold," said the King; "this is a dance to another tune, and not fit
      for a place so public. Hark thee, friend; do thou and the young woman
      follow Empson where he will conduct thee.&mdash;Empson, carry them&mdash;hark
      in thy ear."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May it please your Majesty, I ought to say," said Peveril, "that I am
      guiltless of any purpose of intrusion&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now a plague on him who can take no hint," said the King, cutting short
      his apology. "Oddsfish, man, there are times when civility is the greatest
      impertinence in the world. Do thou follow Empson, and amuse thyself for a
      half-hour's space with the fairy's company, till we shall send for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles spoke this not without casting an anxious eye around, and in a
      tone which intimated apprehension of being overheard. Julian could only
      bow obedience, and follow Empson, who was the same person that played so
      rarely on the flageolet.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they were out of sight of the King and his party, the musician wished
      to enter into conversation with his companions, and addressed himself
      first to Fenella with a broad compliment of, "By the mass, ye dance rarely&mdash;ne'er
      a slut on the boards shows such a shank! I would be content to play to you
      till my throat were as dry as my whistle. Come, be a little free&mdash;old
      Rowley will not quit the Park till nine. I will carry you to
      Spring-Garden, and bestow sweet-cakes and a quart of Rhenish on both of
      you; and we'll be cameradoes,&mdash;What the devil? no answer?&mdash;How's
      this, brother?&mdash;Is this neat wench of yours deaf or dumb or both? I
      should laugh at that, and she trip it so well to the flageolet."
    </p>
    <p>
      To rid himself of this fellow's discourse, Peveril answered him in French,
      that he was a foreigner, and spoke no English; glad to escape, though at
      the expense of a fiction, from the additional embarrassment of a fool, who
      was likely to ask more questions than his own wisdom might have enabled
      him to answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Étranger</i>&mdash;that means stranger," muttered their guide; "more
      French dogs and jades come to lick the good English butter of our bread,
      or perhaps an Italian puppet-show. Well if it were not that they have a
      mortal enmity to the whole <i>gamut</i>, this were enough to make any
      honest fellow turn Puritan. But if I am to play to her at the Duchess's,
      I'll be d&mdash;d but I put her out in the tune, just to teach her to have
      the impudence to come to England, and to speak no English."
    </p>
    <p>
      Having muttered to himself this truly British resolution, the musician
      walked briskly on towards a large house near the bottom of St. James's
      Street, and entered the court, by a grated door from the Park, of which
      the mansion commanded an extensive prospect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril finding himself in front of a handsome portico, under which opened
      a stately pair of folding-doors, was about to ascend the steps that led to
      the main entrance, when his guide seized him by the arm, exclaiming.
      "Hold, Mounseer! What! you'll lose nothing, I see, for want of courage;
      but you must keep the back way, for all your fine doublet. Here it is not,
      knock, and it shall be opened; but may be instead, knock and you shall be
      knocked."
    </p>
    <p>
      Suffering himself to be guided by Empson, Julian deviated from the
      principal door, to one which opened, with less ostentation, in an angle of
      the courtyard. On a modest tap from the flute-player, admittance was
      afforded him and his companions by a footman, who conducted them through a
      variety of stone passages, to a very handsome summer parlour, where a
      lady, or something resembling one, dressed in a style of extra elegance,
      was trifling with a play-book while she finished her chocolate. It would
      not be easy to describe her, but by weighing her natural good qualities
      against the affectations which counterbalanced them. She would have been
      handsome, but for rouge and <i>minauderie</i>&mdash;would have been civil,
      but for overstrained airs of patronage and condescension&mdash;would have
      had an agreeable voice, had she spoken in her natural tone&mdash;and fine
      eyes, had she not made such desperate hard use of them. She could only
      spoil a pretty ankle by too liberal display; but her shape, though she
      could not yet be thirty years old, had the embon-point which might have
      suited better with ten years more advanced. She pointed Empson to a seat
      with the air of a Duchess, and asked him, languidly, how he did this age,
      that she had not seen him? and what folks these were he had brought with
      him?
    </p>
    <p>
      "Foreigners, madam; d&mdash;d foreigners," answered Empson; "starving
      beggars, that our old friend has picked up in the Park this morning&mdash;the
      wench dances, and the fellow plays on the Jew's trump, I believe. On my
      life, madam, I begin to be ashamed of old Rowley; I must discard him,
      unless he keeps better company in future."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fie, Empson," said the lady; "consider it is our duty to countenance him,
      and keep him afloat; and indeed I always make a principle of it. Hark ye,
      he comes not hither this morning?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He will be here," answered Empson, "in the walking of a minuet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My God!" exclaimed the lady, with unaffected alarm; and starting up with
      utter neglect of her usual and graceful languor, she tripped as swiftly as
      a milk-maid into an adjoining apartment, where they heard presently a few
      words of eager and animated discussion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Something to be put out of the way, I suppose," said Empson. "Well for
      madam I gave her the hint. There he goes, the happy swain."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was so situated, that he could, from the same casement through
      which Empson was peeping, observe a man in a laced roquelaure, and
      carrying his rapier under his arm, glide from the door by which he had
      himself entered, and out of the court, keeping as much as possible under
      the shade of the buildings.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady re-entered at this moment, and observing how Empson's eyes were
      directed, said with a slight appearance of hurry, "A gentleman of the
      Duchess of Portsmouth's with a billet; and so tiresomely pressing for an
      answer, that I was obliged to write without my diamond pen. I have daubed
      my fingers, I dare say," she added, looking at a very pretty hand, and
      presently after dipping her fingers in a little silver vase of rose-water.
      "But that little exotic monster of yours, Empson, I hope she really
      understands no English?&mdash;On my life she coloured.&mdash;Is she such a
      rare dancer?&mdash;I must see her dance, and hear him play on the Jew's
      harp."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dance!" replied Empson; "she danced well enough when <i>I</i> played to
      her. I can make anything dance. Old Counsellor Clubfoot danced when he had
      a fit of the gout; you have seen no such <i>pas seul</i> in the theatre. I
      would engage to make the Archbishop of Canterbury dance the hays like a
      Frenchman. There is nothing in dancing; it all lies in the music. Rowley
      does not know that now. He saw this poor wench dance; and thought so much
      on't, when it was all along of me. I would have defied her to sit still.
      And Rowley gives her the credit of it, and five pieces to boot; and I have
      only two for my morning's work!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, Master Empson," said the lady; "but you are of the family, though
      in a lower station; and you ought to consider&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "By G&mdash;, madam," answered Empson, "all I consider is, that I play the
      best flageolet in England; and that they can no more supply my place, if
      they were to discard me, than they could fill Thames from Fleet-Ditch."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Master Empson, I do not dispute but you are a man of talents,"
      replied the lady; "still, I say, mind the main chance&mdash;you please the
      ear to-day&mdash;another has the advantage of you to-morrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never, mistress, while ears have the heavenly power of distinguishing one
      note from another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Heavenly power, say you, Master Empson?" said the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, madam, heavenly; for some very neat verses which we had at our
      festival say,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'What know we of the blest above,
  But that they sing and that they love?'
</pre>
    <p>
      It is Master Waller wrote them, as I think; who, upon my word, ought to be
      encouraged."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so should you, my dear Empson," said the dame, yawning, "were it only
      for the honour you do to your own profession. But in the meantime, will
      you ask these people to have some refreshment?&mdash;and will you take
      some yourself?&mdash;the chocolate is that which the Ambassador Portuguese
      fellow brought over to the Queen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If it be genuine," said the musician.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, sir?" said the fair one, half rising from her pile of cushions&mdash;"Not
      genuine, and in this house!&mdash;Let me understand you, Master Empson&mdash;I
      think, when I first saw you, you scarce knew chocolate from coffee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By G&mdash;, madam," answered the flageolet-player, "you are perfectly
      right. And how can I show better how much I have profited by your
      ladyship's excellent cheer, except by being critical?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You stand excused, Master Empson," said the <i>petite maitresse</i>,
      sinking gently back on the downy couch, from which a momentary irritation
      had startled her&mdash;"I think the chocolate will please you, though
      scarce equal to what we had from the Spanish resident Mendoza.&mdash;But
      we must offer these strange people something. Will you ask them if they
      would have coffee and chocolate, or cold wild-fowl, fruit, and wine? They
      must be treated, so as to show them where they are, since here they are."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Unquestionably, madam," said Empson; "but I have just at this instant
      forgot the French for chocolate, hot bread, coffee, game, and drinkables."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is odd," said the lady; "and I have forgot my French and Italian at
      the same moment. But it signifies little&mdash;I will order the things to
      be brought, and they will remember the names of them themselves."
    </p>
    <p>
      Empson laughed loudly at this jest, and pawned his soul that the cold
      sirloin which entered immediately after, was the best emblem of roast-beef
      all the world over. Plentiful refreshments were offered to all the party,
      of which both Fenella and Peveril partook.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, the flageolet-player drew closer to the side of the lady
      of the mansion&mdash;their intimacy was cemented, and their spirits set
      afloat, by a glass of liqueur, which gave them additional confidence in
      discussing the characters, as well of the superior attendants of the
      Court, as of the inferior rank, to which they themselves might be supposed
      to belong.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady, indeed, during this conversation, frequently exerted her
      complete and absolute superiority over Master Empson; in which that
      musical gentleman humbly acquiesced whenever the circumstance was recalled
      to his attention, whether in the way of blunt contradiction, sarcastic
      insinuation, downright assumption of higher importance, or in any of the
      other various modes by which such superiority is usually asserted and
      maintained. But the lady's obvious love of scandal was the lure which very
      soon brought her again down from the dignified part which for a moment she
      assumed, and placed her once more on a gossiping level with her companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their conversation was too trivial, and too much allied to petty Court
      intrigues, with which he was totally unacquainted, to be in the least
      interesting to Julian. As it continued for more than an hour, he soon
      ceased to pay the least attention to a discourse consisting of nicknames,
      patchwork, and innuendo; and employed himself in reflecting on his own
      complicated affairs, and the probable issue of his approaching audience
      with the King, which had been brought about by so singular an agent, and
      by means so unexpected. He often looked to his guide, Fenella; and
      observed that she was, for the greater part of the time, drowned in deep
      and abstracted meditation. But three or four times&mdash;and it was when
      the assumed airs and affected importance of the musician and their hostess
      rose to the most extravagant excess&mdash;he observed that Fenella dealt
      askance on them some of those bitter and almost blighting elfin looks,
      which in the Isle of Man were held to imply contemptuous execration. There
      was something in all her manner so extraordinary, joined to her sudden
      appearance, and her demeanour in the King's presence, so oddly, yet so
      well contrived to procure him a private audience&mdash;which he might, by
      graver means, have sought in vain&mdash;that it almost justified the idea,
      though he smiled at it internally, that the little mute agent was aided in
      her machinations by the kindred imps, to whom, according to Manx
      superstition, her genealogy was to be traced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another idea sometimes occurred to Julian, though he rejected the
      question, as being equally wild with those doubts which referred Fenella
      to a race different from that of mortals&mdash;"Was she really afflicted
      with those organical imperfections which had always seemed to sever her
      from humanity?&mdash;If not, what could be the motives of so young a
      creature practising so dreadful a penance for such an unremitted term of
      years? And how formidable must be the strength of mind which could condemn
      itself to so terrific a sacrifice&mdash;How deep and strong the purpose
      for which it was undertaken!"
    </p>
    <p>
      But a brief recollection of past events enabled him to dismiss this
      conjecture as altogether wild and visionary. He had but to call to memory
      the various stratagems practised by his light-hearted companion, the young
      Earl of Derby, upon this forlorn girl&mdash;the conversations held in her
      presence, in which the character of a creature so irritable and sensitive
      upon all occasions, was freely, and sometimes satirically discussed,
      without her expressing the least acquaintance with what was going forward,
      to convince him that so deep a deception could never have been practised
      for so many years, by a being of a turn of mind so peculiarly jealous and
      irascible.
    </p>
    <p>
      He renounced, therefore, the idea, and turned his thoughts to his own
      affairs, and his approaching interview with his Sovereign; in which
      meditation we propose to leave him, until we briefly review the changes
      which had taken place in the situation of Alice Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            I fear the devil worst when gown and cassock,
            Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin's cloak,
            Conceals his cloven hoof.
                                               &mdash;ANONYMOUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril had scarce set sail for Whitehaven, when Alice Bridgenorth
      and her governante, at the hasty command of her father, were embarked with
      equal speed and secrecy on board of a bark bound for Liverpool. Christian
      accompanied them on their voyage, as the friend to whose guardianship
      Alice was to be consigned during any future separation from her father,
      and whose amusing conversation, joined to his pleasing though cold
      manners, as well as his near relationship, induced Alice, in her forlorn
      situation, to consider her fate as fortunate in having such a guardian.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Liverpool, as the reader already knows, Christian took the first overt
      step in the villainy which he had contrived against the innocent girl, by
      exposing her at a meeting-house to the unhallowed gaze of Chiffinch, in
      order to convince him she was possessed of such uncommon beauty as might
      well deserve the infamous promotion to which they meditated to raise her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Highly satisfied with her personal appearance, Chiffinch was no less so
      with the sense and delicacy of her conversation, when he met her in
      company with her uncle afterwards in London. The simplicity, and at the
      same time the spirit of her remarks, made him regard her as his scientific
      attendant the cook might have done a newly invented sauce, sufficiently <i>piquante</i>
      in its qualities to awaken the jaded appetite of a cloyed and gorged
      epicure. She was, he said and swore, the very corner-stone on which, with
      proper management, and with his instruction, a few honest fellows might
      build a Court fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      That the necessary introduction might take place, the confederates judged
      fit she should be put under the charge of an experienced lady, whom some
      called Mistress Chiffinch, and others Chiffinch's mistress&mdash;one of
      those obliging creatures who are willing to discharge all the duties of a
      wife, without the inconvenient and indissoluble ceremony.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one, and not perhaps the least prejudicial consequence of the
      license of that ill-governed time, that the bounds betwixt virtue and vice
      were so far smoothed down and levelled, that the frail wife, or the tender
      friend who was no wife, did not necessarily lose their place in society;
      but, on the contrary, if they moved in the higher circles, were permitted
      and encouraged to mingle with women whose rank was certain, and whose
      reputation was untainted.
    </p>
    <p>
      A regular <i>liaison</i>, like that of Chiffinch and his fair one,
      inferred little scandal; and such was his influence, as prime minister of
      his master's pleasures, that, as Charles himself expressed it, the lady
      whom we introduced to our readers in the last chapter, had obtained a
      brevet commission to rank as a married woman. And to do the gentle dame
      justice, no wife could have been more attentive to forward his plans, or
      more liberal in disposing of his income.
    </p>
    <p>
      She inhabited a set of apartments called Chiffinch's&mdash;the scene of
      many an intrigue, both of love and politics; and where Charles often held
      his private parties for the evening, when, as frequently happened, the
      ill-humour of the Duchess of Portsmouth, his reigning Sultana, prevented
      his supping with her. The hold which such an arrangement gave a man like
      Chiffinch, used as he well knew how to use it, made him of too much
      consequence to be slighted even by the first persons in the state, unless
      they stood aloof from all manner of politics and Court intrigue.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the charge of Mistress Chiffinch, and of him whose name she bore,
      Edward Christian placed the daughter of his sister, and of his confiding
      friend, calmly contemplating her ruin as an event certain to follow; and
      hoping to ground upon it his own chance of a more assured fortune, than a
      life spent in intrigue had hitherto been able to procure for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The innocent Alice, without being able to discover what was wrong either
      in the scenes of unusual luxury with which she was surrounded, or in the
      manners of her hostess, which, both from nature and policy, were kind and
      caressing&mdash;felt nevertheless an instinctive apprehension that all was
      not right&mdash;a feeling in the human mind, allied, perhaps, to that
      sense of danger which animals exhibit when placed in the vicinity of the
      natural enemies of their race, and which makes birds cower when the hawk
      is in the air, and beasts tremble when the tiger is abroad in the desert.
      There was a heaviness at her heart which she could not dispel; and the few
      hours which she had already spent at Chiffinch's were like those passed in
      prison by one unconscious of the cause or event of his captivity. It was
      the third morning after her arrival in London, that the scene took place
      which we now recur to.
    </p>
    <p>
      The impertinence and vulgarity of Empson, which was permitted to him as an
      unrivalled performer upon his instrument, were exhausting themselves at
      the expense of all other musical professors, and Mrs. Chiffinch was
      listening with careless indifference, when some one was heard speaking
      loudly, and with animation, in the inner apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, gemini and gilliflower water!" exclaimed the damsel, startled out of
      her fine airs into her natural vulgarity of exclamation, and running to
      the door of communication&mdash;"if he has not come back again after all!&mdash;and
      if old Rowley&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      A tap at the farther and opposite door here arrested her attention&mdash;she
      quitted the handle of that which she was about to open as speedily as if
      it had burnt her fingers, and, moving back towards her couch, asked, "Who
      is there?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Old Rowley himself, madam," said the King, entering the apartment with
      his usual air of easy composure.
    </p>
    <p>
      "O crimini!&mdash;your Majesty!&mdash;I thought&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I was out of hearing, doubtless," said the King; "and spoke of me as
      folk speak of absent friends. Make no apology. I think I have heard ladies
      say of their lace, that a rent is better than a darn.&mdash;Nay, be
      seated.&mdash;Where is Chiffinch?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is down at York House, your Majesty," said the dame, recovering,
      though with no small difficulty, the calm affectation of her usual
      demeanour. "Shall I send your Majesty's commands?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will wait his return," said the King.&mdash;"Permit me to taste your
      chocolate."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is some fresh frothed in the office," said the lady; and using a
      little silver call, or whistle, a black boy, superbly dressed, like an
      Oriental page, with gold bracelets on his naked arms, and a gold collar
      around his equally bare neck, attended with the favourite beverage of the
      morning, in an apparatus of the richest china.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he sipped his cup of chocolate, the King looked round the apartment,
      and observing Fenella, Peveril, and the musician, who remained standing
      beside a large Indian screen, he continued, addressing Mistress Chiffinch,
      though with polite indifference, "I sent you the fiddles this morning&mdash;or
      rather the flute&mdash;Empson, and a fairy elf whom I met in the Park, who
      dances divinely. She has brought us the very newest saraband from the
      Court of Queen Mab, and I sent her here, that you may see it at leisure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Majesty does me by far too much honour," said Chiffinch, her eyes
      properly cast down, and her accents minced into becoming humility.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, little Chiffinch," answered the King, in a tone of as contemptuous
      familiarity as was consistent with his good-breeding, "it was not
      altogether for thine own private ear, though quite deserving of all sweet
      sounds; but I thought Nelly had been with thee this morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can send Bajazet for her, your Majesty," answered the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, I will not trouble your little heathen sultan to go so far. Still it
      strikes me that Chiffinch said you had company&mdash;some country cousin,
      or such a matter&mdash;Is there not such a person?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is a young person from the country," said Mistress Chiffinch,
      striving to conceal a considerable portion of embarrassment; "but she is
      unprepared for such an honour as to be admitted into your Majesty's
      presence, and&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And therefore the fitter to receive it, Chiffinch. There is nothing in
      nature so beautiful as the first blush of a little rustic between joy and
      fear, and wonder and curiosity. It is the down on the peach&mdash;pity it
      decays so soon!&mdash;the fruit remains, but the first high colouring and
      exquisite flavour are gone.&mdash;Never put up thy lip for the matter,
      Chiffinch, for it is as I tell you; so pray let us have <i>la belle
      cousine</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      Mistress Chiffinch, more embarrassed than ever, again advanced towards the
      door of communication, which she had been in the act of opening when his
      Majesty entered. But just as she coughed pretty loudly, perhaps as a
      signal to some one within, voices were again heard in a raised tone of
      altercation&mdash;&mdash;the door was flung open, and Alice rushed out of
      the inner apartment, followed to the door of it by the enterprising Duke
      of Buckingham, who stood fixed with astonishment on finding his pursuit of
      the flying fair one had hurried him into the presence of the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alice Bridgenorth appeared too much transported with anger to permit her
      to pay attention to the rank or character of the company into which she
      had thus suddenly entered. "I remain no longer here, madam," she said to
      Mrs. Chiffinch, in a tone of uncontrollable resolution; "I leave instantly
      a house where I am exposed to company which I detest, and to solicitations
      which I despise."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dismayed Mrs. Chiffinch could only implore her, in broken whispers, to
      be silent; adding, while she pointed to Charles, who stood with his eyes
      fixed rather on his audacious courtier than on the game which he pursued,
      "The King&mdash;the King!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I am in the King's presence," said Alice aloud, and in the same
      torrent of passionate feeling, while her eye sparkled through tears of
      resentment and insulted modesty, "it is the better&mdash;it is his
      Majesty's duty to protect me; and on his protection I throw myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      These words, which were spoken aloud, and boldly, at once recalled Julian
      to himself, who had hitherto stood, as it were, bewildered. He approached
      Alice, and, whispering in her ear that she had beside her one who would
      defend her with his life, implored her to trust to his guardianship in
      this emergency.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clinging to his arm in all the ecstasy of gratitude and joy, the spirit
      which had so lately invigorated Alice in her own defence, gave way in a
      flood of tears, when she saw herself supported by him whom perhaps she
      most wished to recognise as her protector. She permitted Peveril gently to
      draw her back towards the screen before which he had been standing; where,
      holding by his arm, but at the same time endeavouring to conceal herself
      behind him, they waited the conclusion of a scene so singular.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King seemed at first so much surprised at the unexpected apparition of
      the Duke of Buckingham, as to pay little or no attention to Alice, who had
      been the means of thus unceremoniously introducing his Grace into the
      presence at a most unsuitable moment. In that intriguing Court, it had not
      been the first time that the Duke had ventured to enter the lists of
      gallantry in rivalry of his Sovereign, which made the present insult the
      more intolerable. His purpose of lying concealed in those private
      apartments was explained by the exclamations of Alice; and Charles,
      notwithstanding the placidity of his disposition, and his habitual guard
      over his passions, resented the attempt to seduce his destined mistress,
      as an Eastern Sultan would have done the insolence of a vizier, who
      anticipated his intended purchases of captive beauty in the slave-market.
      The swarthy features of Charles reddened, and the strong lines on his dark
      visage seemed to become inflated, as he said, in a voice which faltered
      with passion, "Buckingham, you dared not have thus insulted your equal! To
      your master you may securely offer any affront, since his rank glues his
      sword to the scabbard."
    </p>
    <p>
      The haughty Duke did not brook this taunt unanswered. "My sword," he said,
      with emphasis, "was never in the scabbard, when your Majesty's service
      required it should be unsheathed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace means, when its service was required for its master's
      interest," said the King; "for you could only gain the coronet of a Duke
      by fighting for the royal crown. But it is over&mdash;I have treated you
      as a friend&mdash;a companion&mdash;almost an equal&mdash;you have repaid
      me with insolence and ingratitude."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sire," answered the Duke firmly, but respectfully, "I am unhappy in your
      displeasure; yet thus far fortunate, that while your words can confer
      honour, they cannot impair or take it away.&mdash;It is hard," he added,
      lowering his voice, so as only to be heard by the King,&mdash;"It is hard
      that the squall of a peevish wench should cancel the services of so many
      years!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is harder," said the King, in the same subdued tone, which both
      preserved through the rest of the conversation, "that a wench's bright
      eyes can make a nobleman forget the decencies due to his Sovereign's
      privacy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May I presume to ask your Majesty what decencies are those?" said the
      Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. "Buckingham," he said,
      "this is a foolish business; and we must not forget (as we have nearly
      done), that we have an audience to witness this scene, and should walk the
      stage with dignity. I will show you your fault in private."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is enough that your Majesty has been displeased, and that I have
      unhappily been the occasion," said the Duke, kneeling; "although quite
      ignorant of any purpose beyond a few words of gallantry; and I sue thus
      low for your Majesty's pardon."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he kneeled gracefully down. "Thou hast it, George," said the
      placable Prince. "I believe thou wilt be sooner tired of offending than I
      of forgiving."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Long may your Majesty live to give the offence, with which it is your
      royal pleasure at present to charge my innocence," said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What mean you by that, my lord?" said Charles, the angry shade returning
      to his brow for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My Liege," replied the Duke, "you are too honourable to deny your custom
      of shooting with Cupid's bird-bolts in other men's warrens. You have ta'en
      the royal right of free-forestry over every man's park. It is hard that
      you should be so much displeased at hearing a chance arrow whizz near your
      own pales."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No more on't," said the King; "but let us see where the dove has
      harboured."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Helen has found a Paris while we were quarrelling," replied the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rather an Orpheus," said the King; "and what is worse, one that is
      already provided with a Eurydice&mdash;She is clinging to the fiddler."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is mere fright," said Buckingham, "like Rochester's, when he crept
      into the bass-viol to hide himself from Sir Dermot O'Cleaver."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We must make the people show their talents," said the King, "and stop
      their mouths with money and civility, or we shall have this foolish
      encounter over half the town."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King then approached Julian, and desired him to take his instrument,
      and cause his female companion to perform a saraband.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had already the honour to inform your Majesty," said Julian, "that I
      cannot contribute to your pleasure in the way you command me; and that
      this young person is&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A retainer of the Lady Powis," said the King, upon whose mind things not
      connected with his pleasures made a very slight impression. "Poor lady,
      she is in trouble about the lords in the Tower."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, sir," said Julian, "she is a dependant of the Countess of
      Derby."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, true," answered Charles; "it is indeed of Lady Derby, who hath also
      her own distresses in these times. Do you know who taught the young person
      to dance? Some of her steps mightily resemble Le Jeune's of Paris."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I presume she was taught abroad, sir," said Julian; "for myself, I am
      charged with some weighty business by the Countess, which I would
      willingly communicate to your Majesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We will send you to our Secretary of State," said the King. "But this
      dancing envoy will oblige us once more, will she not?&mdash;Empson, now
      that I remember, it was to your pipe that she danced&mdash;Strike up, man,
      and put mettle into her feet."
    </p>
    <p>
      Empson began to play a well-known measure; and, as he had threatened, made
      more than one false note, until the King, whose ear was very accurate,
      rebuked him with, "Sirrah, art thou drunk at this early hour, or must thou
      too be playing thy slippery tricks with me? Thou thinkest thou art born to
      beat time, but I will have time beat into thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      The hint was sufficient, and Empson took good care so to perform his air
      as to merit his high and deserved reputation. But on Fenella it made not
      the slightest impression. She rather leant than stood against the wall of
      the apartment; her countenance as pale as death, her arms and hands
      hanging down as if stiffened, and her existence only testified by the sobs
      which agitated her bosom, and the tears which flowed from her half-closed
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A plague on it," said the King, "some evil spirit is abroad this morning;
      and the wenches are all bewitched, I think. Cheer up, my girl. What, in
      the devil's name, has changed thee at once from a Nymph to a Niobe? If
      thou standest there longer thou wilt grow to the very marble wall&mdash;Or&mdash;oddsfish,
      George, have you been bird-bolting in this quarter also?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Ere Buckingham could answer to this charge, Julian again kneeled down to
      the King, and prayed to be heard, were it only for five minutes. "The
      young woman," he said, "had been long in attendance of the Countess of
      Derby. She was bereaved of the faculties of speech and hearing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oddsfish, man, and dances so well?" said the King. "Nay, all Gresham
      College shall never make me believe that."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would have thought it equally impossible, but for what I to-day
      witnessed," said Julian; "but only permit me, sir, to deliver the petition
      of my lady the Countess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who art thou thyself, man?" said the Sovereign; "for though
      everything which wears bodice and breast-knot has a right to speak to a
      King, and be answered, I know not that they have a title to audience
      through an envoy extraordinary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am Julian Peveril of Derbyshire," answered the supplicant, "the son of
      Sir Geoffrey Peveril of Martindale Castle, who&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Body of me&mdash;the old Worcester man?" said the King. "Oddsfish, I
      remember him well&mdash;some harm has happened to him, I think&mdash;Is he
      not dead, or very sick at least?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ill at ease, and it please your Majesty, but not ill in health. He has
      been imprisoned on account of an alleged accession to this Plot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look you there," said the King; "I knew he was in trouble; and yet how to
      help the stout old Knight, I can hardly tell. I can scarce escape
      suspicion of the Plot myself, though the principal object of it is to take
      away my own life. Were I to stir to save a plotter, I should certainly be
      brought in as an accessory.&mdash;Buckingham, thou hast some interest with
      those who built this fine state engine, or at least who have driven it on&mdash;be
      good-natured for once, though it is scarcely thy wont, and interfere to
      shelter our old Worcester friend, Sir Godfrey. You have not forgot him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, sir," answered the Duke; "for I never heard the name."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is Sir Geoffrey his Majesty would say," said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And if his Majesty <i>did</i> say Sir Geoffrey, Master Peveril, I cannot
      see of what use I can be to your father," replied the Duke coldly. "He is
      accused of a heavy crime; and a British subject so accused, can have no
      shelter either from prince or peer, but must stand to the award and
      deliverance of God and his country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, Heaven forgive thee thy hypocrisy, George," said the King hastily.
      "I would rather hear the devil preach religion than thee teach patriotism.
      Thou knowest as well as I, that the nation is in a scarlet fever for fear
      of the poor Catholics, who are not two men to five hundred; and that the
      public mind is so harassed with new narrations of conspiracy, and fresh
      horrors every day, that people have as little real sense of what is just
      or unjust as men who talk in their sleep of what is sense or nonsense. I
      have borne, and borne with it&mdash;I have seen blood flow on the
      scaffold, fearing to thwart the nation in its fury&mdash;and I pray to God
      that I or mine be not called on to answer for it. I will no longer swim
      with the torrent, which honour and conscience call upon me to stem&mdash;I
      will act the part of a Sovereign, and save my people from doing injustice,
      even in their own despite."
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles walked hastily up and down the room as he expressed these unwonted
      sentiments, with energy equally unwonted. After a momentary pause, the
      Duke answered him gravely, "Spoken like a Royal King, sir, but&mdash;pardon
      me&mdash;not like a King of England."
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles paused, as the Duke spoke, beside a window which looked full on
      Whitehall, and his eye was involuntarily attracted by the fatal window of
      the Banqueting House out of which his unhappy father was conducted to
      execution. Charles was naturally, or, more purposely, constitutionally
      brave; but a life of pleasure, together with the habit of governing his
      course rather by what was expedient than by what was right, rendered him
      unapt to dare the same scene of danger or of martyrdom, which had closed
      his father's life and reign; and the thought came over his half-formed
      resolution, like the rain upon a kindling beacon. In another man, his
      perplexity would have seemed almost ludicrous; but Charles would not lose,
      even under these circumstances, the dignity and grace, which were as
      natural to him as his indifference and good humour. "Our Council must
      decide in this matter," he said, looking to the Duke; "and be assured,
      young man," he added, addressing Julian, "your father shall not want an
      intercessor in his King, so far as the laws will permit my interference in
      his behalf."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was about to retire, when Fenella, with a marked look, put into his
      hand a slip of paper, on which she had hastily written, "The packet&mdash;give
      him the packet."
    </p>
    <p>
      After a moment's hesitation, during which he reflected that Fenella was
      the organ of the Countess's pleasure, Julian resolved to obey. "Permit me,
      then, Sire," he said, "to place in your royal hands this packet, entrusted
      to me by the Countess of Derby. The letters have already been once taken
      from me; and I have little hope that I can now deliver them as they are
      addressed. I place them, therefore, in your royal hands, certain that they
      will evince the innocence of the writer."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King shook his head as he took the packet reluctantly. "It is no safe
      office you have undertaken, young man. A messenger has sometimes his
      throat cut for the sake of his despatches&mdash;But give them to me; and,
      Chiffinch, give me wax and a taper." He employed himself in folding the
      Countess's packet in another envelope. "Buckingham," he said, "you are
      evidence that I do not read them till the Council shall see them."
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham approached, and offered his services in folding the parcel, but
      Charles rejected his assistance; and having finished his task, he sealed
      the packet with his own signet-ring. The Duke bit his lip and retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now, young man," said the King, "your errand is sped, so far as it
      can at present be forwarded."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian bowed deeply, as to take leave at these words, which he rightly
      interpreted as a signal for his departure. Alice Bridgenorth still clung
      to his arm, and motioned to withdraw along with him. The King and
      Buckingham looked at each other in conscious astonishment, and yet not
      without a desire to smile, so strange did it seem to them that a prize,
      for which, an instant before, they had been mutually contending, should
      thus glide out of their grasp, or rather be borne off by a third and very
      inferior competitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mistress Chiffinch," said the King, with a hesitation which he could not
      disguise, "I hope your fair charge is not about to leave you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly not, your Majesty," answered Chiffinch. "Alice, my love&mdash;you
      mistake&mdash;that opposite door leads to your apartments."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, madam," answered Alice; "I have indeed mistaken my road, but
      it was when I came hither."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The errant damosel," said Buckingham, looking at Charles with as much
      intelligence as etiquette permitted him to throw into his eye, and then
      turning it towards Alice, as she still held by Julian's arm, "is resolved
      not to mistake her road a second time. She has chosen a sufficient guide."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet stories tell that such guides have led maidens astray," said the
      King.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alice blushed deeply, but instantly recovered her composure so soon as she
      saw that her liberty was likely to depend upon the immediate exercise of
      resolution. She quitted, from a sense of insulted delicacy, the arm of
      Julian, to which she had hitherto clung; but as she spoke, she continued
      to retain a slight grasp of his cloak. "I have indeed mistaken my way,"
      she repeated still addressing Mrs. Chiffinch, "but it was when I crossed
      this threshold. The usage to which I have been exposed in your house has
      determined me to quit it instantly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not permit that, my young mistress," answered Mrs. Chiffinch,
      "until your uncle, who placed you under my care, shall relieve me of the
      charge of you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will answer for my conduct, both to my uncle, and, what is of more
      importance, to my father," said Alice. "You must permit me to depart,
      madam; I am free-born, and you have no right to detain me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, my young madam," said Mistress Chiffinch, "I have a right, and
      I will maintain it too."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will know that before quitting this presence," said Alice firmly; and,
      advancing a step or two, she dropped on her knee before the King. "Your
      Majesty," said she, "if indeed I kneel before King Charles, is the father
      of your subjects."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of a good many of them," said the Duke of Buckingham apart.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I demand protection of you, in the name of God, and of the oath your
      Majesty swore when you placed on your head the crown of this kingdom!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have my protection," said the King, a little confused by an appeal so
      unexpected and so solemn. "Do but remain quiet with this lady, with whom
      your parents have placed you; neither Buckingham nor any one else shall
      intrude on you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "His Majesty," added Buckingham, in the same tone, and speaking from the
      restless and mischief-making spirit of contradiction, which he never could
      restrain, even when indulging it was most contrary, not only to propriety,
      but to his own interest,&mdash;"His Majesty will protect you, fair lady,
      from all intrusion save what must not be termed such."
    </p>
    <p>
      Alice darted a keen look on the Duke, as if to read his meaning; another
      on Charles, to know whether she had guessed it rightly. There was a guilty
      confession on the King's brow, which confirmed Alice's determination to
      depart. "Your Majesty will forgive me," she said; "it is not here that I
      can enjoy the advantage of your royal protection. I am resolved to leave
      this house. If I am detained, it must be by violence, which I trust no one
      dare offer to me in your Majesty's presence. This gentleman, whom I have
      long known, will conduct me to my friends."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We make but an indifferent figure in this scene, methinks," said the
      King, addressing the Duke of Buckingham, and speaking in a whisper; "but
      she must go&mdash;I neither will, nor dare, stop her from returning to her
      father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And if she does," swore the Duke internally, "I would, as Sir Andrew
      Smith saith, I might never touch fair lady's hand." And stepping back, he
      spoke a few words with Empson the musician, who left the apartment, for a
      few minutes, and presently returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King seemed irresolute concerning the part he should act under
      circumstances so peculiar. To be foiled in a gallant intrigue, was to
      subject himself to the ridicule of his gay court; to persist in it by any
      means which approached to constraint, would have been tyrannical; and,
      what perhaps he might judge as severe an imputation, it would have been
      unbecoming a gentleman. "Upon my honour, young lady," he said, with an
      emphasis, "you have nothing to fear in this house. But it is improper, for
      your own sake, that you should leave it in this abrupt manner. If you will
      have the goodness to wait but a quarter of an hour, Mistress Chiffinch's
      coach will be placed at your command, to transport you where you will.
      Spare yourself the ridicule, and me the pain of seeing you leave the house
      of one of my servants, as if you were escaping from a prison."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King spoke in good-natured sincerity, and Alice was inclined for an
      instant to listen to his advice; but recollecting that she had to search
      for her father and uncle, or, failing them, for some suitable place of
      secure residence, it rushed on her mind that the attendants of Mistress
      Chiffinch were not likely to prove trusty guides or assistants in such a
      purpose. Firmly and respectfully she announced her purpose of instant
      departure. She needed no other escort, she said, than what this gentleman,
      Master Julian Peveril, who was well known to her father, would willingly
      afford her; nor did she need that farther than until she had reached her
      father's residence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Farewell, then, lady, a God's name!" said the King; "I am sorry so much
      beauty should be wedded to so many shrewish suspicions.&mdash;For you,
      Master Peveril, I should have thought you had enough to do with your own
      affairs without interfering with the humours of the fair sex. The duty of
      conducting all strayed damsels into the right path is, as matters go in
      this good city, rather too weighty an undertaking for your youth and
      inexperience."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, eager to conduct Alice from a place of which he began fully to
      appreciate the perils, answered nothing to this taunt, but bowing
      reverently, led her from the apartment. Her sudden appearance, and the
      animated scene which followed, had entirely absorbed, for the moment, the
      recollection of his father and of the Countess of Derby; and while the
      dumb attendant of the latter remained in the room, a silent, and, as it
      were, stunned spectator of all that had happened, Peveril had become, in
      the predominating interest of Alice's critical situation, totally
      forgetful of her presence. But no sooner had he left the room, without
      noticing or attending to her, than Fenella, starting, as from a trance,
      drew herself up, and looked wildly around, like one waking from a dream,
      as if to assure herself that her companion was gone, and gone without
      paying the slightest attention to her. She folded her hands together, and
      cast her eyes upwards, with an expression of such agony as explained to
      Charles (as he thought) what painful ideas were passing in her mind. "This
      Peveril is a perfect pattern of successful perfidy, carrying off this
      Queen of the Amazons, but he has left us, I think, a disconsolate Ariadne
      in her place.&mdash;But weep not, my princess of pretty movements," he
      said, addressing himself to Fenella; "if we cannot call in Bacchus to
      console you, we will commit you to the care of Empson, who shall drink
      with <i>Liber Pater</i> for a thousand pounds, and I will say done first."
    </p>
    <p>
      As the King spoke these words, Fenella rushed past him with her wonted
      rapidity of step, and, with much less courtesy than was due to the royal
      presence, hurried downstairs, and out of the house, without attempting to
      open any communication with the Monarch. He saw her abrupt departure with
      more surprise than displeasure; and presently afterwards, bursting into a
      fit of laughter, he said to the Duke, "Oddsfish, George, this young spark
      might teach the best of us how to manage the wenches. I have had my own
      experience, but I could never yet contrive either to win or lose them with
      so little ceremony."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Experience, sir," replied the duke, "cannot be acquired without years."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, George; and you would, I suppose, insinuate," said Charles, "that
      the gallant who acquires it, loses as much in youth as he gains in art? I
      defy your insinuation, George. You cannot overreach your master, old as
      you think him, either in love or politics. You have not the secret <i>plumer
      la poule sans la faire crier</i>, witness this morning's work. I will give
      you odds at all games&mdash;ay, and at the Mall too, if thou darest accept
      my challenge.&mdash;Chiffinch, what for dost thou convulse thy pretty
      throat and face with sobbing and hatching tears, which seem rather
      unwilling to make their appearance!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is for fear," whined Chiffinch, "that your Majesty should think&mdash;that
      you should expect&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I should expect gratitude from a courtier, or faith from a woman?"
      answered the King, patting her at the same time under the chin, to make
      her raise her face&mdash;"Tush! chicken, I am not so superfluous."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There it is now," said Chiffinch, continuing to sob the more bitterly, as
      she felt herself unable to produce any tears; "I see your Majesty is
      determined to lay all the blame on me, when I am innocent as an unborn
      babe&mdash;I will be judged by his Grace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No doubt, no doubt, Chiffie," said the King. "His Grace and you will be
      excellent judges in each other's cause, and as good witnesses in each
      other's favour. But to investigate the matter impartially, we must examine
      our evidence apart.&mdash;My Lord Duke, we meet at the Mall at noon, if
      your Grace dare accept my challenge."
    </p>
    <p>
      His Grace of Buckingham bowed, and retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        But when the bully with assuming pace,
        Cocks his broad hat, edged round with tarnish'd lace,
        Yield not the way&mdash;defy his strutting pride,
        And thrust him to the muddy kennel's side,
        Yet rather bear the shower and toils of mud,
        Than in the doubtful quarrel risk thy blood.
                                           &mdash;GAY'S TRIVIA.
</pre>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril, half-leading, half-supporting, Alice Bridgenorth, had
      reached the middle of Saint Jame's Street ere the doubt occurred to him
      which way they should bend their course. He then asked Alice whither he
      should conduct her, and learned, to his surprise and embarrassment, that,
      far from knowing where her father was to be found, she had no certain
      knowledge that he was in London, and only hoped that he had arrived, from
      the expressions which he had used at parting. She mentioned her uncle
      Christian's address, but it was with doubt and hesitation, arising from
      the hands in which he had already placed her; and her reluctance to go
      again under his protection was strongly confirmed by her youthful guide,
      when a few words had established to his conviction the identity of
      Ganlesse and Christian.&mdash;What then was to be done?
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alice," said Julian, after a moment's reflection, "you must seek your
      earliest and best friend&mdash;I mean my mother. She has now no castle in
      which to receive you&mdash;she has but a miserable lodging, so near the
      jail in which my father is confined, that it seems almost a cell of the
      same prison. I have not seen her since my coming hither; but thus much
      have I learned by inquiry. We will now go to her apartment; such as it is,
      I know she will share it with one so innocent and so unprotected as you
      are."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gracious Heaven!" said the poor girl, "am I then so totally deserted,
      that I must throw myself on the mercy of her who, of all the world, has
      most reason to spurn me from her?&mdash;Julian, can you advise me to this?&mdash;Is
      there none else who will afford me a few hours' refuge, till I can hear
      from my father?&mdash;No other protectress but her whose ruin has, I fear,
      been accelerated by&mdash;&mdash;Julian, I dare not appear before your
      mother! she must hate me for my family, and despise me for my meanness. To
      be a second time cast on her protection, when the first has been so evil
      repaid&mdash;Julian, I dare not go with you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has never ceased to love you, Alice," said her conductor, whose steps
      she continued to attend, even while declaring her resolution not to go
      with him, "she never felt anything but kindness towards you, nay, towards
      your father; for though his dealings with us have been harsh, she can
      allow much for the provocation which he has received. Believe me, with her
      you will be safe as with a mother&mdash;perhaps it may be the means of
      reconciling the divisions by which we have suffered so much."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Might God grant it!" said Alice. "Yet how shall I face your mother? And
      will she be able to protect me against these powerful men&mdash;against my
      uncle Christian? Alas, that I must call him my worst enemy!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has the ascendancy which honour hath over infamy, and virtue over
      vice," said Julian; "and to no human power but your father's will she
      resign you, if you consent to choose her for your protectress. Come, then,
      with me, Alice; and&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was interrupted by some one, who, laying an unceremonious hold of
      his cloak, pulled it with so much force as compelled him to stop and lay
      his hand on his sword. He turned at the same time, and, when he turned,
      beheld Fenella. The cheek of the mute glowed like fire; her eyes sparkled,
      and her lips were forcibly drawn together, as if she had difficulty to
      repress those wild screams which usually attended her agonies of passion,
      and which, uttered in the open street, must instantly have collected a
      crowd. As it was, her appearance was so singular, and her emotion so
      evident, that men gazed as they came on, and looked back after they had
      passed, at the singular vivacity of her gestures; while, holding Peveril's
      cloak with one hand, she made with the other the most eager and imperious
      signs that he should leave Alice Bridgenorth and follow her. She touched
      the plume in her bonnet to remind him of the Earl&mdash;pointed to her
      heart, to imitate the Countess&mdash;raised her closed hand, as if to
      command him in their name&mdash;and next moment folded both, as if to
      supplicate him in her own; while pointing to Alice with an expression at
      once of angry and scornful derision, she waved her hand repeatedly and
      disdainfully, to intimate that Peveril ought to cast her off, as something
      undeserving his protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Frightened, she knew not why, at these wild gestures, Alice clung closer
      to Julian's arm than she had at first dared to do; and this mark of
      confidence in his protection seemed to increase the passion of Fenella.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was dreadfully embarrassed; his situation was sufficiently
      precarious, even before Fenella's ungovernable passions threatened to ruin
      the only plan which he had been able to suggest. What she wanted with him&mdash;how
      far the fate of the Earl and Countess might depend on his following her,
      he could not even conjecture; but be the call how peremptory soever, he
      resolved not to comply with it until he had seen Alice placed in safety.
      In the meantime, he determined not to lose sight of Fenella; and
      disregarding her repeated, disdainful, and impetuous rejection of the hand
      which he offered her, he at length seemed so far to have soothed her, that
      she seized upon his right arm, and, as if despairing of his following <i>her</i>
      path, appeared reconciled to attend him on that which he himself should
      choose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, with a youthful female clinging to each arm, and both remarkably
      calculated to attract the public eye, though from very different reasons,
      Julian resolved to make the shortest road to the water-side, and there to
      take boat for Blackfriars, as the nearest point of landing to Newgate,
      where he concluded that Lance had already announced his arrival in London
      to Sir Geoffrey, then inhabiting that dismal region, and to his lady, who,
      so far as the jailer's rigour permitted, shared and softened his
      imprisonment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian's embarrassment in passing Charing Cross and Northumberland House
      was so great as to excite the attention of the passengers; for he had to
      compose his steps so as to moderate the unequal and rapid pace of Fenella
      to the timid and faint progress of his left-hand companion; and while it
      would have been needless to address himself to the former, who could not
      comprehend him, he dared not speak himself to Alice, for fear of awakening
      into frenzy the jealousy, or at least the impatience of Fenella.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many passengers looked at them with wonder, and some with smiles; but
      Julian remarked that there were two who never lost sight of them, and to
      whom his situation, and the demeanour of his companions, seemed to afford
      matter of undisguised merriment. These were young men, such as may be seen
      in the same precincts in the present day, allowing for the difference in
      the fashion of their apparel. They abounded in periwig, and fluttered with
      many hundred yards of ribbon, disposed in bow-knots upon their sleeves,
      their breeches, and their waistcoats, in the very extremity of the
      existing mode. A quantity of lace and embroidery made their habits rather
      fine than tasteful. In a word, they were dressed in that caricature of the
      fashion, which sometimes denotes a harebrained man of quality who has a
      mind to be distinguished as a fop of the first order, but is much more
      frequently in the disguise of those who desire to be esteemed men of rank
      on account of their dress, having no other pretension to the distinction.
    </p>
    <p>
      These two gallants passed Peveril more than once, linked arm in arm, then
      sauntered, so as to oblige him to pass them in turn, laughing and
      whispering during these manoeuvres&mdash;staring broadly at Peveril and
      his female companions&mdash;and affording them, as they came into contact,
      none of those facilities of giving place which are required on such
      occasions by the ordinary rules of the pavé.
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril did not immediately observe their impertinence; but when it was
      too gross to escape his notice, his gall began to arise; and, in addition
      to all the other embarrassments of his situation, he had to combat the
      longing desire which he felt to cudgel handsomely the two coxcombs who
      seemed thus determined on insulting him. Patience and sufferance were
      indeed strongly imposed on him by circumstances; but at length it became
      scarcely possible to observe their dictates any longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, for the third time, Julian found himself obliged, with his
      companions, to pass this troublesome brace of fops, they kept walking
      close behind him, speaking so loud as to be heard, and in a tone of
      perfect indifference whether he listened to them or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is bumpkin's best luck," said the taller of the two (who was indeed
      a man of remarkable size, alluding to the plainness of Peveril's dress,
      which was scarce fit for the streets of London)&mdash;"Two such fine
      wenches, and under guard of a grey frock and an oaken riding-rod!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, Puritan's luck rather, and more than enough of it," said his
      companion. "You may read Puritan in his pace and in his patience."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Right as a pint bumper, Tom," said his friend&mdash;"Isschar is an ass
      that stoopeth between two burdens."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have a mind to ease long-eared Laurence of one of his encumbrances,"
      said the shorter fellow. "That black-eyed sparkler looks as if she had a
      mind to run away from him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," answered the taller, "and the blue-eyed trembler looks as if she
      would fall behind into my loving arms."
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words, Alice, holding still closer by Peveril's arm than
      formerly, mended her pace almost to running, in order to escape from men
      whose language was so alarming; and Fenella walked hastily forward in the
      same manner, having perhaps caught, from the men's gestures and demeanour,
      that apprehension which Alice had taken from their language.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fearful of the consequences of a fray in the streets, which must
      necessarily separate him from these unprotected females, Peveril
      endeavoured to compound betwixt the prudence necessary for their
      protection and his own rising resentment; and as this troublesome pair of
      attendants endeavoured again to pass them close to Hungerford Stairs, he
      said to them with constrained calmness, "Gentlemen, I owe you something
      for the attention you have bestowed on the affairs of a stranger. If you
      have any pretension to the name I have given you, you will tell me where
      you are to be found."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And with what purpose," said the taller of the two sneeringly, "does your
      most rustic gravity, or your most grave rusticity, require of us such
      information?"
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, they both faced about, in such a manner as to make it
      impossible for Julian to advance any farther.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Make for the stairs, Alice," he said; "I will be with you in an instant."
      Then freeing himself with difficulty from the grasp of his companions, he
      cast his cloak hastily round his left arm, and said, sternly, to his
      opponents, "Will you give me your names, sirs; or will you be pleased to
      make way?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not till we know for whom we are to give place," said one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For one who will else teach you what you want&mdash;good manners," said
      Peveril, and advanced as if to push between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      They separated, but one of them stretched forth his foot before Peveril,
      as if he meant to trip him. The blood of his ancestors was already boiling
      within him; he struck the man on the face with the oaken rod which he had
      just sneered at, and throwing it from him, instantly unsheathed his sword.
      Both the others drew, and pushed at once; but he caught the point of the
      one rapier in his cloak, and parried the other thrust with his own weapon.
      He must have been less lucky in the second close, but a cry arose among
      the watermen, of "Shame, shame! two upon one!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are men of the Duke of Buckingham's," said one fellow&mdash;"there's
      no safe meddling with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They may be the devil's men, if they will," said an ancient Triton,
      flourishing his stretcher; "but I say fair play, and old England for ever;
      and, I say, knock the gold-laced puppies down, unless they will fight turn
      about with grey jerkin, like honest fellows. One down&mdash;t'other come
      on."
    </p>
    <p>
      The lower orders of London have in all times been remarkable for the
      delight which they have taken in club-law, or fist-law; and for the equity
      and impartiality with which they see it administered. The noble science of
      defence was then so generally known, that a bout at single rapier excited
      at that time as much interest and as little wonder as a boxing-match in
      our own days. The bystanders experienced in such affrays, presently formed
      a ring, within which Peveril and the taller and more forward of his
      antagonists were soon engaged in close combat with their swords, whilst
      the other, overawed by the spectators, was prevented from interfering.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well done the tall fellow!"&mdash;"Well thrust, long-legs!'&mdash;"Huzza
      for two ells and a quarter!" were the sounds with which the fray was at
      first cheered; for Peveril's opponent not only showed great activity and
      skill in fence, but had also a decided advantage, from the anxiety with
      which Julian looked out for Alice Bridgenorth; the care for whose safety
      diverted him in the beginning of the onset from that which he ought to
      have exclusively bestowed on the defence of his own life. A slight
      flesh-wound in the side at once punished, and warned him of, his
      inadvertence; when, turning his whole thoughts on the business in which he
      was engaged, and animated with anger against his impertinent intruder, the
      rencontre speedily began to assume another face, amidst cries of "Well
      done, grey jerkin!"&mdash;"Try the metal of his gold doublet!"&mdash;"Finely
      thrust!"&mdash;"Curiously parried!"&mdash;"There went another eyelet-hole
      to his broidered jerkin!"&mdash;"Fairly pinked, by G&mdash;d!" In
      applause, accompanying a successful and conclusive lunge, by which Peveril
      ran his gigantic antagonist through the body. He looked at his prostrate
      foe for a moment; then, recovering himself, called loudly to know what had
      become of the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never mind the lady, if you be wise," said one of the watermen; "the
      constable will be here in an instant. I'll give your honour a cast across
      the water in a moment. It may be as much as your neck's worth. Shall only
      charge a Jacobus."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You be d&mdash;d!" said one of his rivals in profession, "as your father
      was before you; for a Jacobus, I'll set the gentleman into Alsatia, where
      neither bailiff nor constable dare trespass."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The lady, you scoundrels, the lady!" exclaimed Peveril&mdash;-"Where is
      the lady?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll carry your honour where you shall have enough of ladies, if that be
      your want," said the old Triton; and as he spoke, the clamour amongst the
      watermen was renewed, each hoping to cut his own profit out of the
      emergency of Julian's situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A sculler will be least suspected, your honour," said one fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A pair of oars will carry you through the water like a wild-duck," said
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But you have got never a tilt, brother," said a third. "Now I can put the
      gentleman as snug as if he were under hatches."
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of the oaths and clamour attending this aquatic controversy
      for his custom, Peveril at length made them understand that he would
      bestow a Jacobus, not on him whose boat was first oars, but on whomsoever
      should inform him of the fate of the lady.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of which lady?" said a sharp fellow: "for, to my thought, there was a
      pair of them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of both, of both," answered Peveril; "but first, of the fair-haired
      lady?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, ay, that was she that shrieked so when gold-jacket's companion handed
      her into No. 20."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who&mdash;what&mdash;who dared to hand her?" exclaimed Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, master, you have heard enough of my tale without a fee," said the
      waterman.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sordid rascal!" said Peveril, giving him a gold piece, "speak out, or
      I'll run my sword through you!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the matter of that, master," answered the fellow, "not while I can
      handle this trunnion&mdash;but a bargain's a bargain; and so I'll tell
      you, for your gold piece, that the comrade of the fellow forced one of
      your wenches, her with the fair hair, will she, nill she, into Tickling
      Tom's wherry; and they are far enough up Thames by this time, with wind
      and tide."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sacred Heaven, and I stand here!" exclaimed Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, that is because your honour will not take a boat."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are right, my friend&mdash;a boat&mdash;a boat instantly!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Follow me, then, squire.&mdash;Here, Tom, bear a hand&mdash;the gentleman
      is our fare."
    </p>
    <p>
      A volley of water language was exchanged betwixt the successful candidate
      for Peveril's custom and his disappointed brethren, which concluded by the
      ancient Triton's bellowing out, in a tone above them all, "that the
      gentleman was in a fair way to make a voyage to the isle of gulls, for
      that sly Jack was only bantering him&mdash;No. 20 had rowed for York
      Buildings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To the isle of gallows," cried another; "for here comes one who will mar
      his trip up Thames, and carry him down to Execution Dock."
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, as he spoke the word, a constable, with three or four of his
      assistants, armed with the old-fashioned brown bills, which were still
      used for arming those guardians of the peace, cut off our hero's farther
      progress to the water's edge, by arresting him in the King's name. To
      attempt resistance would have been madness, as he was surrounded on all
      sides; so Peveril was disarmed, and carried before the nearest Justice of
      the Peace, for examination and committal.
    </p>
    <p>
      The legal sage before whom Julian was taken was a man very honest in his
      intentions, very bounded in his talents, and rather timid in his
      disposition. Before the general alarm given to England, and to the city of
      London in particular, by the notable discovery of the Popish Plot, Master
      Maulstatute had taken serene and undisturbed pride and pleasure in the
      discharge of his duties as a Justice of the Peace, with the exercise of
      all its honorary privileges and awful authority. But the murder of Sir
      Edmondsbury Godfrey had made a strong, nay, an indelible impression on his
      mind; and he walked the Courts of Themis with fear and trembling after
      that memorable and melancholy event.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having a high idea of his official importance, and rather an exalted
      notion of his personal consequence, his honour saw nothing from that time
      but cords and daggers before his eyes, and never stepped out of his own
      house, which he fortified, and in some measure garrisoned, with
      half-a-dozen tall watchmen and constables, without seeing himself watched
      by a Papist in disguise, with a drawn sword under his cloak. It was even
      whispered, that, in the agonies of his fears, the worshipful Master
      Maulstatute mistook the kitchen-wench with a tinderbox, for a Jesuit with
      a pistol; but if any one dared to laugh at such an error, he would have
      done well to conceal his mirth, lest he fell under the heavy inculpation
      of being a banterer and stifler of the Plot&mdash;a crime almost as deep
      as that of being himself a plotter. In fact, the fears of the honest
      Justice, however ridiculously exorbitant, were kept so much in countenance
      by the outcry of the day, and the general nervous fever, which afflicted
      every good Protestant, that Master Maulstatute was accounted the bolder
      man and the better magistrate, while, under the terror of the air-drawn
      dagger which fancy placed continually before his eyes, he continued to
      dole forth Justice in the recesses of his private chamber, nay,
      occasionally to attend Quarter-Sessions, when the hall was guarded by a
      sufficient body of the militia. Such was the wight, at whose door, well
      chained and doubly bolted, the constable who had Julian in custody now
      gave his important and well-known knock.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding this official signal, the party was not admitted until the
      clerk, who acted the part of high-warder, had reconnoitred them through a
      grated wicket; for who could say whether the Papists might not have made
      themselves master of Master Constable's sign, and have prepared a pseudo
      watch to burst in and murder the Justice, under pretence of bringing in a
      criminal before him?&mdash;Less hopeful projects had figured in the
      Narrative of the Popish Plot.
    </p>
    <p>
      All being found right, the key was turned, the bolts were drawn, and the
      chain unhooked, so as to permit entrance to the constable, the prisoner,
      and the assistants; and the door was then a suddenly shut against the
      witnesses, who, as less trustworthy persons, were requested (through the
      wicket) to remain in the yard, until they should be called in their
      respective turns.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had Julian been inclined for mirth, as was far from being the case, he
      must have smiled at the incongruity of the clerk's apparel, who had belted
      over his black buckram suit a buff baldric, sustaining a broadsword, and a
      pair of huge horse-pistols; and, instead of the low flat hat, which,
      coming in place of the city cap, completed the dress of a scrivener, had
      placed on his greasy locks a rusted steel-cap, which had seen
      Marston-Moor; across which projected his well-used quill, in the guise of
      a plume&mdash;the shape of the morion not admitting of its being stuck, as
      usual, behind his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      This whimsical figure conducted the constable, his assistants, and the
      prisoner, into the low hall, where his principal dealt forth justice; who
      presented an appearance still more singular than that of his dependant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sundry good Protestants, who thought so highly of themselves as to suppose
      they were worthy to be distinguished as objects of Catholic cruelty, had
      taken to defensive arms on the occasion. But it was quickly found that a
      breast-plate and back-plate of proof, fastened together with iron clasps,
      was no convenient enclosure for a man who meant to eat venison and
      custard; and that a buff-coat or shirt of mail was scarcely more
      accommodating to the exertions necessary on such active occasions.
      Besides, there were other objections, as the alarming and menacing aspects
      which such warlike habiliments gave to the Exchange, and other places,
      where merchants most do congregate; and excoriations were bitterly
      complained of by many, who, not belonging to the artillery company, or
      trained bands, had no experience in bearing defensive armour.
    </p>
    <p>
      To obviate these objections, and, at the same time, to secure the persons
      of all true Protestant citizens against open force or privy assassinations
      on the part of the Papists, some ingenious artist, belonging, we may
      presume, to the worshipful Mercers' Company, had contrived a species of
      armour, of which neither the horse-armory in the Tower, nor Gwynnap's
      Gothic Hall, no, nor Dr. Meyrick's invaluable collection of ancient arms,
      has preserved any specimen. It was called silk-armour, being composed of a
      doublet and breeches of quilted silk, so closely stitched, and of such
      thickness, as to be proof against either bullet or steel; while a thick
      bonnet of the same materials, with ear-flaps attached to it, and on the
      whole, much resembling a nightcap, completed the equipment and ascertained
      the security of the wearer from the head to the knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Maulstatute, among other worthy citizens, had adopted this singular
      panoply, which had the advantage of being soft, and warm, and flexible, as
      well as safe. And he now sat in his judicial elbow-chair&mdash;a short,
      rotund figure, hung round, as it were, with cushions, for such was the
      appearance of the quilted garments; and with a nose protruded from under
      the silken casque, the size of which, together with the unwieldiness of
      the whole figure, gave his worship no indifferent resemblance to the sign
      of the Hog in Armour, which was considerably improved by the defensive
      garment being of dusty orange colour, not altogether unlike the hue of
      those half-wild swine which are to be found in the forest of Hampshire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Secure in these invulnerable envelopments, his worship had rested content,
      although severed from his own death-doing weapons, of rapier, poniard, and
      pistols, which were placed nevertheless, at no great distance from his
      chair. One offensive implement, indeed, he thought it prudent to keep on
      the table beside his huge Coke upon Lyttleton. This was a sort of pocket
      flail, consisting of a piece of strong ash, about eighteen inches long, to
      which was attached a swinging club of <i>lignum-vitæ</i>, nearly twice as
      long as the handle, but jointed so as to be easily folded up. This
      instrument, which bore at that time the singular name of the Protestant
      flail, might be concealed under the coat, until circumstances demanded its
      public appearance. A better precaution against surprise than his arms,
      whether offensive or defensive, was a strong iron grating, which, crossing
      the room in front of the justice's table, and communicating by a grated
      door, which was usually kept locked, effectually separated the accused
      party from his judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Justice Maulstatute, such as we have described him, chose to hear the
      accusation of the witnesses before calling on Peveril for his defence. The
      detail of the affray was briefly given by the bystanders, and seemed
      deeply to touch the spirit of the examinator. He shook his silken casque
      emphatically, when he understood that, after some language betwixt the
      parties, which the witnesses did not quite understand, the young man in
      custody struck the first blow, and drew his sword before the wounded party
      had unsheathed his weapon. Again he shook his crested head yet more
      solemnly, when the result of the conflict was known; and yet again, when
      one of the witnesses declared, that, to the best of his knowledge, the
      sufferer in the fray was a gentleman belonging to the household of his
      Grace the Duke of Buckingham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A worthy peer," quoth the armed magistrate&mdash;"a true Protestant, and
      a friend to his country. Mercy on us, to what a height of audacity hath
      this age arisen! We see well, and could, were we as blind as a mole, out
      of what quiver this shaft hath been drawn."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then put on his spectacles, and having desired Julian to be brought
      forward, he glared upon him awfully with those glazen eyes, from under the
      shade of his quilted turban.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So young," he said, "and so hardened&mdash;lack-a-day!&mdash;and a
      Papist, I'll warrant."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril had time enough to recollect the necessity of his being at large,
      if he could possibly obtain his freedom, and interposed here a civil
      contradiction of his worship's gracious supposition. "He was no Catholic,"
      he said, "but an unworthy member of the Church of England."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps but a lukewarm Protestant, notwithstanding," said the sage
      Justice; "there are those amongst us who ride tantivy to Rome, and have
      already made out half the journey&mdash;ahem!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril disowned his being any such.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who art thou, then?" said the Justice; "for, friend, to tell you
      plainly, I like not your visage&mdash;ahem!"
    </p>
    <p>
      These short and emphatic coughs were accompanied each by a succinct nod,
      intimating the perfect conviction of the speaker that he had made the
      best, the wisest, and the most acute observation, of which the premises
      admitted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, irritated by the whole circumstances of his detention, answered
      the Justice's interrogation in rather a lofty tone. "My name is Julian
      Peveril!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, Heaven be around us!" said the terrified Justice&mdash;"the son of
      that black-hearted Papist and traitor, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, now in hands,
      and on the verge of trial!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, sir!" exclaimed Julian, forgetting his situation, and, stepping
      forward to the grating, with a violence which made the bars clatter, he so
      startled the appalled Justice, that, snatching his Protestant flail,
      Master Maulstatute aimed a blow at his prisoner, to repel what he
      apprehended was a premeditated attack. But whether it was owing to the
      Justice's hurry of mind, or inexperience in managing the weapon, he not
      only missed his aim, but brought the swinging part of the machine round
      his own skull, with such a severe counter-buff, as completely to try the
      efficacy of his cushioned helmet, and, in spite of its defence, to convey
      a stunning sensation, which he rather hastily imputed to the consequence
      of a blow received from Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      His assistants did not directly confirm the opinion which the Justice had
      so unwarrantably adopted; but all with one voice agreed that, but for
      their own active and instantaneous interference, there was no knowing what
      mischief might have been done by a person so dangerous as the prisoner.
      The general opinion that he meant to proceed in the matter of his own
      rescue, <i>par voie du fait</i>, was indeed so deeply impressed on all
      present, that Julian saw it would be in vain to offer any defence,
      especially being but too conscious that the alarming and probably the
      fatal consequences of his rencontre with the bully, rendered his
      commitment inevitable. He contented himself with asking into what prison
      he was to be thrown; and when the formidable word Newgate was returned as
      full answer, he had at least the satisfaction to reflect, that, stern and
      dangerous as was the shelter of that roof, he should at least enjoy it in
      company with his father; and that, by some means or other, they might
      perhaps obtain the satisfaction of a melancholy meeting, under the
      circumstances of mutual calamity, which seemed impending over their house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Assuming the virtue of more patience than he actually possessed, Julian
      gave the magistrate (to whom all the mildness of his demeanour could not,
      however, reconcile him), the direction to the house where he lodged,
      together with a request that his servant, Lance Outram, might be permitted
      to send him his money and wearing apparel; adding, that all which might be
      in his possession, either of arms or writings,&mdash;the former amounting
      to a pair of travelling pistols, and the last to a few memoranda of little
      consequence, he willingly consented to place at the disposal of the
      magistrate. It was in that moment that he entertained, with sincere
      satisfaction, the comforting reflection, that the important papers of Lady
      Derby were already in the possession of the sovereign.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Justice promised attention to his requests; but reminded him, with
      great dignity, that his present complacent and submissive behaviour ought,
      for his own sake, to have been adopted from the beginning, instead of
      disturbing the presence of magistracy with such atrocious marks of the
      malignant, rebellious, and murderous spirit of Popery, as he had at first
      exhibited. "Yet," he said, "as he was a goodly young man, and of
      honourable quality, he would not suffer him to be dragged through the
      streets as a felon, but had ordered a coach for his accommodation."
    </p>
    <p>
      His honour, Master Maulstatute, uttered the word "coach" with the
      importance of one who, as Dr. Johnson saith of later date, is conscious of
      the dignity of putting horses to his chariot. The worshipful Master
      Maulstatute did not, however on this occasion, do Julian the honour of
      yoking to his huge family caroche the two "frampal jades" (to use the term
      of the period), which were wont to drag that ark to the meeting house of
      pure and precious Master Howlaglass, on a Thursday's evening for lecture,
      and on a Sunday for a four-hours' sermon. He had recourse to a leathern
      convenience, then more rare, but just introduced, with every prospect of
      the great facility which has since been afforded by hackney coaches, to
      all manner of communication, honest and dishonest, legal and illegal. Our
      friend Julian, hitherto much more accustomed to the saddle than to any
      other conveyance, soon found himself in a hackney carriage, with the
      constable and two assistants for his companions, armed up to the teeth&mdash;the
      port of destination being, as they had already intimated, the ancient
      fortress of Newgate.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        'Tis the black ban-dog of our jail&mdash;Pray look on him,
        But at a wary distance&mdash;rouse him not&mdash;
        He bays not till he worries.
                                       &mdash;THE BLACK DOG OF NEWGATE.
</pre>
    <p>
      The coach stopped before those tremendous gates, which resemble those of
      Tartarus, save only that they rather more frequently permit safe and
      honourable egress; although at the price of the same anxiety and labour
      with which Hercules, and one or two of the demi-gods, extricated
      themselves from the Hell of the ancient mythology, and sometimes, it is
      said, by the assistance of the golden boughs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian stepped out of the vehicle, carefully supported on either side by
      his companions, and also by one or two turnkeys, whom the first summons of
      the deep bell at the gate had called to their assistance. That attention,
      it may be guessed, was not bestowed lest he should make a false step, so
      much as for fear of his attempting an escape, of which he had no
      intentions. A few prentices and straggling boys of the neighbouring
      market, which derived considerable advantage from increase of custom, in
      consequence of the numerous committals on account of the Popish Plot, and
      who therefore were zealous of Protestants, saluted him on his descent with
      jubilee shouts of "Whoop, Papist! whoop, Papist! D&mdash;&mdash;n to the
      Pope, and all his adherents!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Under such auspices, Peveril was ushered in beneath that gloomy gateway,
      where so many bid adieu on their entrance at once to honour and to life.
      The dark and dismal arch under which he soon found himself opened upon a
      large courtyard, where a number of debtors were employed in playing at
      handball, pitch-and-toss, hustle-cap, and other games, for which
      relaxations the rigour of their creditors afforded them full leisure,
      while it debarred them the means of pursuing the honest labour by which
      they might have redeemed their affairs, and maintained their starving and
      beggared families.
    </p>
    <p>
      But with this careless and desperate group Julian was not to be numbered,
      being led, or rather forced, by his conductors, into a low arched door,
      which, carefully secured by bolts and bars, opened for his reception on
      one side of the archway, and closed, with all its fastenings, the moment
      after his hasty entrance. He was then conducted along two or three gloomy
      passages, which, where they intersected each other, were guarded by as
      many strong wickets, one of iron gates, and the others of stout oak,
      clinched with plates, and studded with nails of the same metal. He was not
      allowed to pause until he found himself hurried into a little round
      vaulted room, which several of these passages opened into, and which
      seemed, with respect to the labyrinth through part of which he had passed,
      to resemble the central point of a spider's web, in which the main lines
      of that reptile's curious maze are always found to terminate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The resemblance did not end here; for in this small vaulted apartment, the
      walls of which were hung round with musketoons, pistols, cutlasses, and
      other weapons, as well as with many sets of fetters and irons of different
      construction, all disposed in great order, and ready for employment, a
      person sat, who might not unaptly be compared to a huge bloated and
      bottled spider, placed there to secure the prey which had fallen into his
      toils.
    </p>
    <p>
      This official had originally been a very strong and square-built man, of
      large size, but was now so overgrown, from overfeeding, perhaps, and want
      of exercise, as to bear the same resemblance to his former self which a
      stall-fed ox still retains to a wild bull. The look of no man is so
      inauspicious as a fat man, upon whose features ill-nature has marked an
      habitual stamp. He seems to have reversed the old proverb of "laugh and be
      fat," and to have thriven under the influence of the worst affections of
      the mind. Passionate we can allow a jolly mortal to be; but it seems
      unnatural to his goodly case to be sulky and brutal. Now this man's
      features, surly and tallow-coloured; his limbs, swelled and
      disproportioned; his huge paunch and unwieldy carcass, suggested the idea,
      that, having once found his way into this central recess, he had there
      fattened, like the weasel in the fable, and fed largely and foully, until
      he had become incapable of retreating through any of the narrow paths that
      terminated at his cell; and was thus compelled to remain, like a toad
      under the cold stone, fattening amid the squalid airs of the dungeons by
      which he was surrounded, which would have proved pestiferous to any other
      than such a congenial inhabitant. Huge iron-clasped books lay before this
      ominous specimen of pinguitude&mdash;the records of the realm of misery,
      in which office he officiated as prime minister; and had Peveril come
      thither as an unconcerned visitor, his heart would have sunk within him at
      considering the mass of human wretchedness which must needs be registered
      in these fatal volumes. But his own distresses sat too heavy on his mind
      to permit any general reflections of this nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      The constable and this bulky official whispered together, after the former
      had delivered to the latter the warrant of Julian's commitment. The word
      <i>whispered</i> is not quite accurate, for their communication was
      carried on less by words than by looks and expressive signs; by which, in
      all such situations, men learn to supply the use of language, and to add
      mystery to what is in itself sufficiently terrible to the captive. The
      only words which could be heard were those of the Warden, or, as he was
      called then, the Captain of the Jail, "Another bird to the cage&mdash;&mdash;?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who will whistle 'Pretty Pope of Rome,' with any starling in your
      Knight's ward," answered the constable, with a facetious air, checked,
      however, by the due respect to the supreme presence in which he stood.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Grim Feature relaxed into something like a smile as he heard the
      officer's observation; but instantly composing himself into the stern
      solemnity which for an instant had been disturbed, he looked fiercely at
      his new guest, and pronounced with an awful and emphatic, yet rather an
      under-voice, the single and impressive word, "<i>Garnish!</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril replied with assumed composure; for he had heard of the
      customs of such places, and was resolved to comply with them, so as if
      possible to obtain the favour of seeing his father, which he shrewdly
      guessed must depend on his gratifying the avarice of the keeper. "I am
      quite ready," he said, "to accede to the customs of the place in which I
      unhappily find myself. You have but to name your demands, and I will
      satisfy them."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he drew out his purse, thinking himself at the same time
      fortunate that he had retained about him a considerable sum of gold. The
      Captain remarked its width, depth, its extension, and depression, with an
      involuntary smile, which had scarce contorted his hanging under-lip, and
      the wiry and greasy moustache which thatched the upper, when it was
      checked by the recollection that there were regulations which set bounds
      to his rapacity, and prevented him from pouncing on his prey like a kite,
      and swooping it all off at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      This chilling reflection produced the following sullen reply to Peveril:&mdash;"There
      were sundry rates. Gentlemen must choose for themselves. He asked nothing
      but his fees. But civility," he muttered, "must be paid for."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And shall, if I can have it for payment," said Peveril; "but the price,
      my good sir, the price?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke with some degree of scorn, which he was the less anxious to
      repress, that he saw, even in this jail, his purse gave him an indirect
      but powerful influence over his jailer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Captain seemed to feel the same; for, as he spoke, he plucked from his
      head, almost involuntarily, a sort of scalded fur-cap, which served it for
      covering. But his fingers revolting from so unusual an act of
      complaisance, began to indemnify themselves by scratching his grizzly
      shock-head, as he muttered, in a tone resembling the softened growling of
      a mastiff when he has ceased to bay the intruder who shows no fear of him,&mdash;"There
      are different rates. There is the Little Ease, for common fees of the
      crown&mdash;rather dark, and the common sewer runs below it; and some
      gentlemen object to the company, who are chiefly padders and michers. Then
      the Master's side&mdash;the garnish came to one piece&mdash;and none lay
      stowed there but who were in for murder at the least."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Name your highest price, sir, and take it," was Julian's concise reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Three pieces for the Knight's ward," answered the governor of this
      terrestrial Tartarus.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take five, and place me with Sir Geoffrey," was again Julian's answer,
      throwing down the money upon the desk before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Geoffrey?&mdash;Hum!&mdash;ay, Sir Geoffrey," said the jailer, as if
      meditating what he ought to do. "Well, many a man has paid money to see
      Sir Geoffrey&mdash;Scarce so much as you have, though. But then you are
      like to see the last of him.&mdash;Ha, ha ha!"
    </p>
    <p>
      These broken muttered exclamations, which terminated somewhat like the
      joyous growl of a tiger over his meal, Julian could not comprehend; and
      only replied to by repeating his request to be placed in the same cell
      with Sir Geoffrey.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, master," said the jailer, "never fear; I'll keep word with you, as
      you seem to know something of what belongs to your station and mine. And
      hark ye, Jem Clink will fetch you the darbies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Derby!" interrupted Julian,&mdash;"Has the Earl or Countess&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Earl or Countess!&mdash;Ha, ha, ha!" again laughed, or rather growled,
      the warden. "What is your head running on? You are a high fellow belike!
      but all is one here. The darbies are the fetlocks&mdash;the fast-keepers,
      my boy&mdash;the bail for good behaviour, my darling; and if you are not
      the more conforming, I can add you a steel nightcap, and a curious
      bosom-friend, to keep you warm of a winter night. But don't be
      disheartened; you have behaved genteel; and you shall not be put upon. And
      as for this here matter, ten to one it will turn out chance-medley, or
      manslaughter, at the worst on it; and then it is but a singed thumb
      instead of a twisted neck&mdash;always if there be no Papistry about it,
      for then I warrant nothing.&mdash;Take the gentleman's worship away,
      Clink."
    </p>
    <p>
      A turnkey, who was one of the party that had ushered Peveril into the
      presence of this Cerberus, now conveyed him out in silence; and, under his
      guidance, the prisoner was carried through a second labyrinth of passages
      with cells opening on each side, to that which was destined for his
      reception.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the road through this sad region, the turnkey more than once
      ejaculated, "Why, the gentleman must be stark-mad! Could have had the best
      crown cell to himself for less than half the garnish, and must pay double
      to pig in with Sir Geoffrey! Ha, ha!&mdash;Is Sir Geoffrey akin to you, if
      any one may make free to ask?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am his son," answered Peveril sternly, in hopes to impose some curb on
      the fellow's impertinence; but the man only laughed louder than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      "His son!&mdash;Why, that's best of all&mdash;Why, you are a strapping
      youth&mdash;five feet ten, if you be an inch&mdash;and Sir Geoffrey's son!&mdash;Ha,
      ha, ha!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Truce with your impertinence," said Julian. "My situation gives you no
      title to insult me!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No more I do," said the turnkey, smothering his mirth at the
      recollection, perhaps, that the prisoner's purse was not exhausted. "I
      only laughed because you said you were Sir Geoffrey's son. But no matter&mdash;'tis
      a wise child that knows his own father. And here is Sir Geoffrey's cell;
      so you and he may settle the fatherhood between you."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he ushered his prisoner into a cell, or rather a strong room of
      the better order, in which there were four chairs, a truckle-bed, and one
      or two other articles of furniture.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian looked eagerly around for his father; but to his surprise the room
      appeared totally empty. He turned with anger on the turnkey, and charged
      him with misleading him; but the fellow answered, "No, no, master; I have
      kept faith with you. Your father, if you call him so, is only tappiced in
      some corner. A small hole will hide him; but I'll rouse him out presently
      for you.&mdash;Here, hoicks!&mdash;Turn out, Sir Geoffrey!&mdash;Here is&mdash;Ha,
      ha, ha!&mdash;your son&mdash;or your wife's son&mdash;for I think you have
      but little share in him&mdash;come to wait on you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril knew not how to resent the man's insolence; and indeed his
      anxiety, and apprehension of some strange mistake, mingled with, and in
      some degree neutralised his anger. He looked again and again, around and
      around the room; until at length he became aware of something rolled up in
      a dark corner, which rather resembled a small bundle of crimson cloth than
      any living creature. At the vociferation of the turnkey, however, the
      object seemed to acquire life and motion, uncoiled itself in some degree,
      and, after an effort or two, gained an erect posture; still covered from
      top to toe with the crimson drapery in which it was at first wrapped.
      Julian, at the first glance, imagined from the size that he saw a child of
      five years old; but a shrill and peculiar tone of voice soon assured him
      of his mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Warder," said this unearthly sound, "what is the meaning of this
      disturbance? Have you more insults to heap on the head of one who hath
      ever been the butt of fortune's malice? But I have a soul that can wrestle
      with all my misfortunes; it is as large as any of your bodies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, Sir Geoffrey, if this be the way you welcome your own son!" said the
      turnkey; "but you quality folks know your own ways best."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My son!" exclaimed the little figure. "Audacious&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here is some strange mistake," said Peveril, in the same breath. "I
      sought Sir Geoffrey&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you have him before you, young man," said the pigmy tenant of the
      cell, with an air of dignity; at the same time casting on the floor his
      crimson cloak, and standing before them in his full dignity of three feet
      six inches of height. "I who was the favoured servant of three successive
      Sovereigns of the Crown of England, am now the tenant of this dungeon, and
      the sport of its brutal keepers. I am Sir Geoffrey Hudson."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, though he had never before seen this important personage, had no
      difficulty in recognising, from description, the celebrated dwarf of
      Henrietta Maria, who had survived the dangers of civil war and private
      quarrel&mdash;the murder of his royal master, Charles I., and the exile of
      his widow&mdash;to fall upon evil tongues and evil days, amidst the
      unsparing accusations connected with the Popish Plot. He bowed to the
      unhappy old man, and hastened to explain to him, and to the turnkey, that
      it was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, of Martindale Castle in Derbyshire whose
      prison he desired to share.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You should have said that before you parted with the gold-dust, my
      master," answered the turnkey; "for t'other Sir Geoffrey, that is the big,
      tall, grey-haired man, was sent to the Tower last night; and the Captain
      will think he has kept his word well enow with you, by lodging you with
      this here Sir Geoffrey Hudson, who is the better show of the two."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I pray you go to your master," said Peveril; "explain the mistake; and
      say to him I beg to be sent to the Tower."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Tower!&mdash;Ha, ha, ha!" exclaimed the fellow. "The Tower is for
      lords and knights, and not for squires of low degree&mdash;for high
      treason, and not for ruffing on the streets with rapier and dagger; and
      there must go a secretary's warrant to send you there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At least, let me not be a burden on this gentleman," said Julian. "There
      can be no use in quartering us together, since we are not even acquainted.
      Go tell your master of the mistake."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, so I should," said Clink, still grinning, "if I were not sure that
      he knew it already. You paid to be sent to Sir Geoffrey, and he sent you
      to Sir Geoffrey. You are so put down in the register, and he will blot it
      for no man. Come, come, be comfortable, and you shall have light and easy
      irons&mdash;that's all I can do for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Resistance and expostulation being out of the question, Peveril submitted
      to have a light pair of fetters secured on his ankles, which allowed him,
      nevertheless, the power of traversing the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      During this operation, he reflected that the jailer, who had taken the
      advantage of the equivoque betwixt the two Sir Geoffreys, must have acted
      as his assistant had hinted, and cheated him from malice prepense, since
      the warrant of committal described him as the son of Sir Geoffrey Peveril.
      It was therefore in vain, as well as degrading, to make farther
      application to such a man on the subject. Julian determined to submit to
      his fate, as what could not be averted by any effort of his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even the turnkey was moved in some degree by his youth, good mien, and the
      patience with which, after the first effervescence of disappointment, the
      new prisoner resigned himself to his situation. "You seem a brave young
      gentleman," he said; "and shall at least have a good dinner, and as good a
      pallet to sleep on, as is within the walls of Newgate.&mdash;&mdash;And,
      Master Sir Geoffrey, you ought to make much of him, since you do not like
      tall fellows; for I can tell you that Master Peveril is in for pinking
      long Jack Jenkins, that was the Master of Defence&mdash;as tall a man as
      in London, always excepting the King's Porter, Master Evans, that carried
      you about in his pocket, Sir Geoffrey, as all the world heard tell."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Begone, fellow!" answered the dwarf. "Fellow, I scorn you!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The turnkey sneered, withdrew, and locked the door behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              Degenerate youth, and not of Tydeus' kind,
              Whose little body lodged a mighty mind.
                                                    &mdash;ILIAD.
</pre>
    <p>
      Left quiet at least, if not alone, for the first time after the events of
      this troubled and varied day, Julian threw himself on an old oaken seat,
      beside the embers of a sea-coal fire, and began to muse on the miserable
      situation of anxiety and danger in which he was placed; where, whether he
      contemplated the interests of his love, his family affections, or his
      friendships, all seemed such a prospect as that of a sailor who looks upon
      breakers on every hand, from the deck of a vessel which no longer obeys
      the helm.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Peveril sat sunk in despondency, his companion in misfortune drew a
      chair to the opposite side of the chimney-corner, and began to gaze at him
      with a sort of solemn earnestness, which at length compelled him, though
      almost in spite of himself, to pay some attention to the singular figure
      who seemed so much engrossed with contemplating him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Geoffrey Hudson (we drop occasionally the title of knighthood, which the
      King had bestowed on him in a frolic, but which might introduce some
      confusion into our history), although a dwarf of the least possible size,
      had nothing positively ugly in his countenance, or actually distorted in
      his limbs. His head, hands, and feet were indeed large, and
      disproportioned to the height of his body, and his body itself much
      thicker than was consistent with symmetry, but in a degree which was
      rather ludicrous than disagreeable to look upon. His countenance, in
      particular, had he been a little taller, would have been accounted, in
      youth, handsome, and now, in age, striking and expressive; it was but the
      uncommon disproportion betwixt the head and the trunk which made the
      features seem whimsical and bizarre&mdash;an effect which was considerably
      increased by the dwarf's moustaches, which it was his pleasure to wear so
      large, that they almost twisted back amongst, and mingled with, his
      grizzled hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dress of this singular wight announced that he was not entirely free
      from the unhappy taste which frequently induces those whom nature has
      marked by personal deformity, to distinguish, and at the same time to
      render themselves ridiculous, by the use of showy colours, and garments
      fantastically and extraordinarily fashioned. But poor Geoffrey Hudson's
      laces, embroideries, and the rest of his finery, were sorely worn and
      tarnished by the time which he had spent in jail, under the vague and
      malicious accusation that he was somehow or other an accomplice in this
      all-involving, all-devouring whirlpool of a Popish conspiracy&mdash;an
      impeachment which, if pronounced by a mouth the foulest and most
      malicious, was at that time sufficiently predominant to sully the fairest
      reputation. It will presently appear, that in the poor man's manner of
      thinking, and tone of conversation, there was something analogous to his
      absurd fashion of apparel; for, as in the latter, good stuff and valuable
      decorations were rendered ludicrous by the fantastic fashion in which they
      were made up; so, such glimmerings of good sense and honourable feeling as
      the little man often evinced, were made ridiculous by a restless desire to
      assume certain airs of importance, and a great jealousy of being despised,
      on account of the peculiarity of his outward form.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the fellow-prisoners had looked at each other for some time in
      silence, the dwarf, conscious of his dignity as first owner of their joint
      apartment, thought it necessary to do the honours of it to the new-comer.
      "Sir," he said, modifying the alternate harsh and squeaking tones of his
      voice into accents as harmonious as they could attain, "I understand you
      to be the son of my worthy namesake, and ancient acquaintance, the stout
      Sir Geoffrey Peveril of the Peak. I promise you, I have seen your father
      where blows have been going more plenty than gold pieces; and for a tall
      heavy man, who lacked, as we martialists thought, some of the lightness
      and activity of our more slightly made Cavaliers, he performed his duty as
      a man might desire. I am happy to see you, his son; and, though by a
      mistake, I am glad we are to share this comfortless cabin together."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian bowed, and thanked his courtesy; and Geoffrey Hudson, having broken
      the ice, preceded to question him without further ceremony. "You are no
      courtier, I presume, young gentleman?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian replied in the negative.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thought so," continued the dwarf; "for although I have now no official
      duty at Court, the region in which my early years were spent, and where I
      once held a considerable office, yet I still, when I had my liberty,
      visited the Presence from time to time, as in duty bound for former
      service; and am wont, from old habit, to take some note of the courtly
      gallants, those choice spirits of the age, among whom I was once enrolled.
      You are, not to compliment you, a marked figure, Master Peveril&mdash;though
      something of the tallest, as was your father's case; I think, I could
      scarce have seen you anywhere without remembering you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril thought he might, with great justice, have returned the
      compliment, but contented himself with saying, "he had scarce seen the
      British Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tis pity," said Hudson; "a gallant can hardly be formed without
      frequenting it. But you have been perhaps in a rougher school; you have
      served, doubtless?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My Maker, I hope," said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fie on it, you mistake. I meant," said Hudson, "<i>á la François</i>,&mdash;you
      have served in the army?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No. I have not yet had that honour," said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! neither courtier nor soldier, Master Peveril?" said the important
      little man: "your father is to blame. By cock and pie he is, Master
      Peveril! How shall a man be known, or distinguished, unless by his bearing
      in peace and war? I tell you, sir, that at Newberry, where I charged with
      my troop abreast with Prince Rupert, and when, as you may have heard, we
      were both beaten off by those cuckoldly hinds the Trained Bands of London,&mdash;we
      did what men could; and I think it was a matter of three or four minutes
      after most of our gentlemen had been driven off, that his Highness and I
      continued to cut at their long pikes with our swords; and I think might
      have broken in, but that I had a tall, long-legged brute of a horse, and
      my sword was somewhat short,&mdash;in fine, at last we were obliged to
      make volte-face, and then, as I was going to say, the fellows were so glad
      to get rid of us, that they set up a great jubilee cry of 'There goes
      Prince Robin and Cock Robin!'&mdash;Ay, ay, every scoundrel among them
      knew me well. But those days are over.&mdash;And where were you educated,
      young gentleman?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Peveril named the household of the Countess of Derby.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A most honourable lady, upon my word as a gentleman," said Hudson.&mdash;"I
      knew the noble Countess well when I was about the person of my royal
      mistress, Henrietta Maria. She was then the very muster of all that was
      noble, loyal, and lovely. She was, indeed, one of the fifteen fair ones of
      the Court, whom I permitted to call me Piccoluomini&mdash;a foolish jest
      on my somewhat diminutive figure, which always distinguished me from
      ordinary beings, even when I was young&mdash;I have now lost much stature
      by stooping; but, always the ladies had their jest at me.&mdash;Perhaps,
      young man, I had my own amends of some of them somewhere, and somehow or
      other&mdash;I <i>say</i> nothing if I had or no; far less do I insinuate
      disrespect to the noble Countess. She was daughter of the Duc de la
      Tremouille, or, more correctly, des Thouars. But certainly to serve the
      ladies, and condescend to their humours, even when somewhat too free, or
      too fantastic, is the true decorum of gentle blood."
    </p>
    <p>
      Depressed as his spirits were, Peveril could scarce forbear smiling when
      he looked at the pigmy creature, who told these stories with infinite
      complacency, and appeared disposed to proclaim, as his own herald, that he
      had been a very model of valour and gallantry, though love and arms seemed
      to be pursuits totally irreconcilable to his shrivelled, weather-beaten
      countenance, and wasted limbs. Julian was, however, so careful to avoid
      giving his companion pain, that he endeavoured to humour him, by saying,
      that, "unquestionably, one bred up like Sir Geoffrey Hudson, in court and
      camps, knew exactly when to suffer personal freedoms, and when to control
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      The little Knight, with great vivacity, though with some difficulty, began
      to drag his seat from the side of the fire opposite to that where Julian
      was seated, and at length succeeded in bringing it near him, in token of
      increasing cordiality.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You say well, Master Peveril," said the dwarf; "and I have given proofs
      both of bearing and forbearing. Yes, sir, there was not that thing which
      my most royal mistress, Henrietta Maria, could have required of me, that I
      would not have complied with, sir; I was her sworn servant, both in war
      and in festival, in battle and pageant, sir. At her Majesty's particular
      request, I once condescended to become&mdash;ladies, you know, have
      strange fancies&mdash;to become the tenant, for a time, of the interior of
      a pie."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of a pie?" said Julian, somewhat amazed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, sir, of a pie. I hope you find nothing risible in my complaisance?"
      replied his companion, something jealously.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not I, sir," said Peveril; "I have other matters than laughter in my head
      at present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So had I," said the dwarfish champion, "when I found myself imprisoned in
      a huge platter, of no ordinary dimensions you may be assured, since I
      could lie at length in it, and when I was entombed, as it were, in walls
      of standing crust, and a huge cover of pastry, the whole constituting a
      sort of sarcophagus, of size enough to have recorded the epitaph of a
      general officer or an archbishop on the lid. Sir, notwithstanding the
      conveniences which were made to give me air, it was more like being buried
      alive than aught else which I could think of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I conceive it, sir," said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Moreover, sir," continued the dwarf, "there were few in the secret, which
      was contrived for the Queen's divertisement; for advancing of which I
      would have crept into a filbert nut, had it been possible; and few, as I
      said, being private in the scheme, there was a risk of accidents. I
      doubted, while in my darksome abode, whether some awkward attendant might
      not have let me fall, as I have seen happen to a venison pasty; or whether
      some hungry guest might not anticipate the moment of my resurrection, by
      sticking his knife into my upper crust. And though I had my weapons about
      me, young man, as has been my custom in every case of peril, yet, if such
      a rash person had plunged deep into the bowels of the supposed pasty, my
      sword and dagger could barely have served me to avenge, assuredly not to
      prevent, either of these catastrophes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly I do so understand it," said Julian, who began, however, to
      feel that the company of little Hudson, talkative as he showed himself,
      was likely rather to aggravate than to alleviate the inconveniences of a
      prison.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," continued the little man, enlarging on his former topic, "I had
      other subjects of apprehension; for it pleased my Lord of Buckingham, his
      Grace's father who now bears the title, in his plenitude of Court favour,
      to command the pasty to be carried down to the office, and committed anew
      to the oven, alleging preposterously that it was better to be eaten warm
      than cold."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And did this, sir, not disturb your equanimity?" said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My young friend," said Geoffrey Hudson, "I cannot deny it.&mdash;Nature
      will claim her rights from the best and boldest of us.&mdash;I thought of
      Nebuchadnezzar and his fiery furnace; and I waxed warm with apprehension.&mdash;But,
      I thank Heaven, I also thought of my sworn duty to my royal mistress; and
      was thereby obliged and enabled to resist all temptations to make myself
      prematurely known. Nevertheless, the Duke&mdash;if of malice, may Heaven
      forgive him&mdash;followed down into the office himself, and urged the
      master-cook very hard that the pasty should be heated, were it but for
      five minutes. But the master-cook, being privy to the very different
      intentions of my royal mistress, did most manfully resist the order; and I
      was again reconveyed in safety to the royal table."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And in due time liberated from your confinement, I doubt not?" said
      Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, sir; that happy, and I may say, glorious moment, at length arrived,"
      continued the dwarf. "The upper crust was removed&mdash;I started up to
      the sound of trumpet and clarion, like the soul of a warrior when the last
      summons shall sound&mdash;or rather (if that simile be over audacious),
      like a spell-bound champion relieved from his enchanted state. It was then
      that, with my buckler on my arm, and my trusty Bilboa in my hand, I
      executed a sort of warlike dance, in which my skill and agility then
      rendered me pre-eminent, displaying, at the same time my postures, both of
      defence and offence, in a manner so totally inimitable, that I was almost
      deafened with the applause of all around me, and half-drowned by the
      scented waters with which the ladies of the Court deluged me from their
      casting bottles. I had amends of his Grace of Buckingham also; for as I
      tripped a hasty morris hither and thither upon the dining-table, now
      offering my blade, now recovering it, I made a blow at his nose&mdash;a
      sort of estramaçon&mdash;the dexterity of which consists in coming mighty
      near to the object you seem to aim at, yet not attaining it. You may have
      seen a barber make such a flourish with his razor. I promise you his Grace
      sprung back a half-yard at least. He was pleased to threaten to brain me
      with a chicken-bone, as he disdainfully expressed it; but the King said,
      'George, you have but a Rowland for an Oliver.' And so I tripped on,
      showing a bold heedlessness of his displeasure, which few dared to have
      done at that time, albeit countenanced to the utmost like me by the smiles
      of the brave and the fair. But, well-a-day! sir, youth, its fashions, its
      follies, its frolics, and all its pomp and pride, are as idle and
      transitory as the crackling of thorns under a pot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The flower that is cast into the oven were a better simile," thought
      Peveril. "Good God, that a man should live to regret not being young
      enough to be still treated as baked meat, and served up in a pie!"
    </p>
    <p>
      His companion, whose tongue had for many days been as closely imprisoned
      as his person, seemed resolved to indemnify his loquacity, by continuing
      to indulge it on the present occasion at his companion's expense. He
      proceeded, therefore, in a solemn tone, to moralise on the adventure which
      he had narrated.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Young men will no doubt think one to be envied," he said, "who was thus
      enabled to be the darling and admiration of the Court"&mdash;(Julian
      internally stood self-exculpated from the suspicion)&mdash;"and yet it is
      better to possess fewer means of distinction, and remain free from the
      backbiting, the slander, and the odium, which are always the share of
      Court favour. Men who had no other cause, cast reflections upon me because
      my size varied somewhat from the common proportion; and jests were
      sometimes unthinkingly passed upon me by those I was bound to, who did not
      in that case, peradventure, sufficiently consider that the wren is made by
      the same hand which formed the bustard, and that the diamond, though small
      in size, out-values ten thousand-fold the rude granite. Nevertheless, they
      proceeded in the vein of humour; and as I could not in duty or gratitude
      retort upon nobles and princes, I was compelled to cast about in my mind
      how to vindicate my honour towards those, who, being in the same rank with
      myself, as servants and courtiers, nevertheless bore themselves towards me
      as if they were of a superior class in the rank of honour, as well as in
      the accidental circumstance of stature. And as a lesson to my own pride,
      and that of others, it so happened, that the pageant which I have but just
      narrated&mdash;which I justly reckon the most honourable moment of my
      life, excepting perhaps my distinguished share in the battle of
      Round-way-down&mdash;became the cause of a most tragic event, in which I
      acknowledge the greatest misfortune of my existence."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf here paused, fetched a sigh, big at once with regret, and with
      the importance becoming the subject of a tragic history; then proceeded as
      follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "You would have thought in your simplicity, young gentleman, that the
      pretty pageant I have mentioned could only have been quoted to my
      advantage, as a rare masking frolic, prettily devised, and not less deftly
      executed; and yet the malice of the courtiers, who maligned and envied me,
      made them strain their wit, and exhaust their ingenuity, in putting false
      and ridiculous constructions upon it. In short, my ears were so much
      offended with allusions to pies, puff-paste, ovens, and the like, that I
      was compelled to prohibit such subject of mirth, under penalty of my
      instant and severe displeasure. But it happ'd there was then a gallant
      about the Court, a man of good quality, son to a knight baronet, and in
      high esteem with the best in that sphere, also a familiar friend of mine
      own, from whom, therefore, I had no reason to expect any of that species
      of gibing which I had intimated my purpose to treat as offensive. Howbeit,
      it pleased the Honourable Mr. Crofts, so was this youth called and
      designed, one night, at the Groom Porter's being full of wine and waggery,
      to introduce this threadbare subject, and to say something concerning a
      goose-pie, which I could not but consider as levelled at me. Nevertheless,
      I did but calmly and solidly pray him to choose a different subject;
      failing which, I let him know I should be sudden in my resentment.
      Notwithstanding, he continued in the same tone, and even aggravated the
      offence, by speaking of a tomtit, and other unnecessary and obnoxious
      comparisons; whereupon I was compelled to send him a cartel, and we met
      accordingly. Now, as I really loved the youth, it was my intention only to
      correct him by a flesh wound or two; and I would willingly that he had
      named the sword for his weapon. Nevertheless, he made pistols his
      election; and being on horseback, he produced by way of his own weapon, a
      foolish engine, which children are wont, in their roguery, to use for
      spouting water; a&mdash;a&mdash;in short, I forget the name."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A squirt, doubtless," said Peveril, who began to recollect having heard
      something of this adventure.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are right," said the dwarf; "you have indeed the name of the little
      engine, of which I have had experience in passing the yards at
      Westminster.&mdash;Well, sir, this token of slight regard compelled me to
      give the gentleman such language, as soon rendered it necessary for him to
      make more serious arms. We fought on horseback&mdash;breaking ground, and
      advancing by signal; and, as I never miss aim, I had the misadventure to
      kill the Honourable Master Crofts at the first shot. I would not wish my
      worst foe the pain which I felt, when I saw him reel on his saddle, and so
      fall down to the earth!&mdash;and, when I perceived that the life-blood
      was pouring fast, I could not but wish to Heaven that it had been my own
      instead of his. Thus fell youth, hopes, and bravery, a sacrifice to a
      silly and thoughtless jest; yet, alas! wherein had I choice, seeing that
      honour is, as it were, the very breath in our nostrils; and that in no
      sense can we be said to live, if we permit ourselves to be deprived of
      it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The tone of feeling in which the dwarfish hero concluded his story, gave
      Julian a better opinion of his heart, and even of his understanding, than
      he had been able to form of one who gloried in having, upon a grand
      occasion, formed the contents of a pasty. He was indeed enabled to
      conjecture that the little champion was seduced into such exhibitions, by
      the necessity attached to his condition, by his own vanity, and by the
      flattery bestowed on him by those who sought pleasure in practical jokes.
      The fate of the unlucky Master Crofts, however, as well as various
      exploits of this diminutive person during the Civil Wars, in which he
      actually, and with great gallantry, commanded a troop of horse, rendered
      most men cautious of openly rallying him; which was indeed the less
      necessary, as, when left alone, he seldom failed voluntarily to show
      himself on the ludicrous side.
    </p>
    <p>
      At one hour after noon, the turnkey, true to his word, supplied the
      prisoners with a very tolerable dinner and a flask of well-flavoured
      though light claret; which the old man, who was something of a bon-vivant,
      regretted to observe, was nearly as diminutive as himself. The evening
      also passed away, but not without continued symptoms of garrulity on the
      part of Geoffrey Hudson.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is true these were of a graver character than he had hitherto
      exhibited, for when the flask was empty, he repeated a long Latin prayer.
      But the religious act in which he had been engaged, only gave his
      discourse a more serious turn than belonged to his former themes, of war,
      lady's love, and courtly splendour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little Knight harangued, at first on polemical points of divinity, and
      diverged from this thorny path, into the neighbouring and twilight walk of
      mysticism. He talked of secret warnings&mdash;of the predictions of
      sad-eyed prophets&mdash;of the visits of monitory spirits, and the
      Rosicrucian secrets of the Cabala; all which topics he treated of with
      such apparent conviction, nay, with so many appeals to personal
      experience, that one would have supposed him a member of the fraternity of
      gnomes, or fairies, whom he resembled so much in point of size.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, he persevered for a stricken hour in such a torrent of
      unnecessary tattle, as determined Peveril, at all events, to endeavour to
      procure a separate lodging. Having repeated his evening prayers in Latin,
      as formerly (for the old gentleman was a Catholic, which was the sole
      cause of his falling under suspicion), he set off on a new score, as they
      were undressing, and continued to prattle until he had fairly talked both
      himself and his companion to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              Of airy tongues that syllable men's names.
                                                   &mdash;COMUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      Julian had fallen asleep, with his brain rather filled with his own sad
      reflections, than with the mystical lore of the little Knight; and yet it
      seemed as if in his visions the latter had been more present to his mind
      than the former.
    </p>
    <p>
      He dreamed of gliding spirits, gibbering phantoms, bloody hands, which,
      dimly seen by twilight, seemed to beckon him forward like errant-knight on
      sad adventure bound. More than once he started from his sleep, so lively
      was the influence of these visions on his imagination; and he always
      awaked under the impression that some one stood by his bedside. The
      chillness of his ankles, the weight and clatter of the fetters, as he
      turned himself on his pallet, reminded him on these occasions where he
      was, and under what circumstances. The extremity to which he saw all that
      was dear to him at present reduced, struck a deeper cold on his heart than
      the iron upon his limbs; nor could he compose himself again to rest
      without a mental prayer to Heaven for protection. But when he had been for
      a third time awakened from repose by these thick-stirring fancies, his
      distress of mind vented itself in speech, and he was unable to suppress
      the almost despairing ejaculation, "God have mercy upon us!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Amen!" answered a voice as sweet and "soft as honey dew," which sounded
      as if the words were spoken close by his bedside.
    </p>
    <p>
      The natural inference was, that Geoffrey Hudson, his companion in
      calamity, had echoed the prayer which was so proper to the situation of
      both. But the tone of voice was so different from the harsh and dissonant
      sounds of the dwarf's enunciation, that Peveril was impressed with the
      certainty it could not proceed from Hudson. He was struck with involuntary
      terror, for which he could give no sufficient reason; and it was not
      without an effort that he was able to utter the question, "Sir Geoffrey,
      did you speak?"
    </p>
    <p>
      No answer was returned. He repeated the question louder; and the same
      silver-toned voice, which had formerly said "<i>Amen</i>" to his prayers,
      answered to his interrogatory, "Your companion will not awake while I am
      here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who are you?&mdash;What seek you?&mdash;How came you into this
      place?" said Peveril, huddling, eagerly, question upon question.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am a wretched being, but one who loves you well.&mdash;I come for your
      good.&mdash;Concern yourself no farther."
    </p>
    <p>
      It now rushed on Julian's mind that he had heard of persons possessed of
      the wonderful talent of counterfeiting sounds to such accuracy, that they
      could impose on their hearers the belief, that they proceeded from a point
      of the apartment entirely opposite to that which the real speaker
      occupied. Persuaded that he had now gained the depth of the mystery, he
      replied, "This trifling, Sir Geoffrey, is unseasonable. Say what you have
      to say in your own voice and manner. These apish pleasantries do not
      become midnight in a Newgate dungeon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But the being who speaks with you," answered the voice, "is fitted for
      the darkest hour, and the most melancholy haunts."
    </p>
    <p>
      Impatient of suspense, and determined to satisfy his curiosity, Julian
      jumped at once from his pallet, hoping to secure the speaker, whose voice
      indicated he was so near. But he altogether failed in his attempt, and
      grasped nothing save thin air.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a turn or two, Peveril shuffled at random about the room, with his
      arms extended; and then at last recollected, that with the impediment of
      his shackles, and the noise which necessarily accompanied his motions, and
      announced where he was, it would be impossible for him to lay hands on any
      one who might be disposed to keep out of his reach. He therefore
      endeavoured to return to his bed; but, in groping for his way, lighted
      first on that of his fellow-prisoner. The little captive slept deep and
      heavy, as was evinced from his breathing; and upon listening a moment,
      Julian became again certain, either that his companion was the most artful
      of ventriloquists and of dissemblers, or that there was actually within
      the precincts of that guarded chamber, some third being, whose very
      presence there seemed to intimate that it belonged not to the ordinary
      line of humanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was no ready believer in the supernatural; but that age was very
      far from being so incredulous concerning ghostly occurrences as our own;
      and it was no way derogatory to his good sense, that he shared the
      prejudices of his time. His hair began to bristle, and the moisture to
      stand on his brow, as he called on his companion to awake, for Heaven's
      sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf answered&mdash;but he spoke without awaking.&mdash;"The day may
      dawn and be d&mdash;d. Tell the master of the horse I will not go to the
      hunting, unless I have the little black jennet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell you," said Julian, "there is some one in the apartment. Have you
      not a tinder-box to strike a light?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I care not how slight my horse be," replied the slumberer, pursuing his
      own train of ideas, which, doubtless, carried him back to the green woods
      of Windsor, and the royal deer-hunts which he had witnessed there. "I am
      not overweight&mdash;I will not ride that great Holstein brute, that I
      must climb up to by a ladder, and then sit on his back like a pin-cushion
      on an elephant."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian at length put his hand to the sleeper's shoulder, and shook him, so
      as to awake him from his dream; when, after two or three snorts and
      groans, the dwarf asked peevishly, what the devil ailed him?
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil himself, for what I know," said Peveril, "is at this very
      moment in the room here beside us."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf on this information started up, crossed himself, and began to
      hammer a flint and steel with all despatch, until he had lighted a little
      piece of candle, which he said was consecrated to Saint Bridget, and as
      powerful as the herb called <i>fuga dæmonum</i>, or the liver of the fish
      burnt by Tobit in the house of Raguel, for chasing all goblins, and evil
      or dubious spirits, from the place of its radiance; "if, indeed," as the
      dwarf carefully guarded his proposition, "they existed anywhere, save in
      the imagination of his fellow-prisoner."
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, the apartment was no sooner enlightened by this holy candle's
      end, than Julian began to doubt the evidence of his own ears; for not only
      was there no one in the room save Sir Geoffrey Hudson and himself, but all
      the fastenings of the door were so secure, that it seemed impossible that
      they could have been opened and again fixed, without a great deal of
      noise, which, on the last occasion at least, could not possibly have
      escaped his ears, seeing that he must have been on his feet, and employed
      in searching the chamber, when the unknown, if an earthly being, was in
      the act of retreating from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian gazed for a moment with great earnestness, and no little
      perplexity, first on the bolted door, then on the grated window; and began
      to accuse his own imagination of having played him an unpleasant trick. He
      answered little to the questions of Hudson, and returning to his bed,
      heard, in silence, a long studied oration on the merits of Saint Bridget,
      which comprehended the greater part of her long-winded legend, and
      concluded with the assurance, that, from all accounts preserved of her,
      that holy saint was the least of all possible women, except those of the
      pigmy kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the time the dwarf had ceased to speak, Julian's desire of sleep had
      returned; and after a few glances around the apartment, which was still
      illuminated by the expiring beams of the holy taper, his eyes were again
      closed in forgetfulness, and his repose was not again disturbed in the
      course of that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Morning dawns on Newgate, as well as on the freest mountain-turf which
      Welshman or wild-goat ever trode; but in so different a fashion, that the
      very beams of heaven's precious sun, when they penetrate into the recesses
      of the prison-house, have the air of being committed to jail. Still, with
      the light of day around him, Peveril easily persuaded himself of the
      vanity of his preceding night's visions; and smiled when he reflected that
      fancies, similar to those to which his ear was often exposed in the Isle
      of Man, had been able to arrange themselves in a manner so impressive,
      when he heard them from the mouth of so singular a character as Hudson,
      and in the solitude of a prison.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before Julian had awaked, the dwarf had already quitted his bed, and was
      seated in the chimney-corner of the apartment, where, with his own hands,
      he had arranged a morsel of fire, partly attending to the simmering of a
      small pot, which he had placed on the flame, partly occupied with a huge
      folio volume which lay on the table before him, and seemed well-nigh as
      tall and bulky as himself. He was wrapped up in the dusky crimson cloak
      already mentioned, which served him for a morning-gown, as well as a
      mantle against the cold, and which corresponded with a large montero-cap,
      that enveloped his head. The singularity of his features, and of the eyes,
      armed with spectacles, which were now cast on the subject of his studies,
      now directed towards his little cauldron, would have tempted Rembrandt to
      exhibit him on canvas, either in the character of an alchymist, or of a
      necromancer, engaged in some strange experiment, under the direction of
      one of the huge manuals which treat of the theory of these mystic arts.
    </p>
    <p>
      The attention of the dwarf was bent, however, upon a more domestic object.
      He was only preparing soup, of no unsavoury quality, for breakfast, which
      he invited Peveril to partake with him. "I am an old soldier," he said,
      "and, I must add, an old prisoner; and understand how to shift for myself
      better than you can do, young man.&mdash;Confusion to the scoundrel Clink,
      he has put the spice-box out of my reach!&mdash;Will you hand it me from
      the mantelpiece?&mdash;I will teach you, as the French have it, <i>faire
      la cuisine;</i> and then, if you please, we will divide, like brethren,
      the labours of our prison house."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian readily assented to the little man's friendly proposal, without
      interposing any doubt as to his continuing an inmate of the same cell.
      Truth is, that although, upon the whole, he was inclined to regard the
      whispering voice of the preceding evening as the impression of his own
      excited fancy, he felt, nevertheless, curiosity to see how a second night
      was to pass over in the same cell; and the tone of the invisible intruder,
      which at midnight had been heard by him with terror, now excited, on
      recollection, a gentle and not unpleasing species of agitation&mdash;the
      combined effect of awe, and of awakened curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Days of captivity have little to mark them as they glide away. That which
      followed the night which we have described afforded no circumstance of
      note. The dwarf imparted to his youthful companion a volume similar to
      that which formed his own studies, and which proved to be a tome of one of
      Scuderi's now forgotten romances, of which Geoffrey Hudson was a great
      admirer, and which were then very fashionable both at the French and
      English Courts; although they contrive to unite in their immense folios
      all the improbabilities and absurdities of the old romances of chivalry,
      without that tone of imagination which pervades them, and all the
      metaphysical absurdities which Cowley and the poets of the age had heaped
      upon the passion of love, like so many load of small coal upon a slender
      fire, which it smothers instead of aiding.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Julian had no alternative, saving only to muse over the sorrows of
      Artamenes and Mandane, or on the complicated distresses of his own
      situation; and in these disagreeable divertisements, the morning crept
      through as it could.
    </p>
    <p>
      Noon first, and thereafter nightfall, were successively marked by a brief
      visit from their stern turnkey, who, with noiseless step and sullen
      demeanour, did in silence the necessary offices about the meals of the
      prisoners, exchanging with them as few words as an official in the Spanish
      Inquisition might have permitted himself upon a similar occasion. With the
      same taciturn gravity, very different from the laughing humour into which
      he had been surprised on a former occasion, he struck their fetters with a
      small hammer, to ascertain, by the sound thus produced, whether they had
      been tampered with by file or otherwise. He next mounted on a table, to
      make the same experiment on the window-grating.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian's heart throbbed; for might not one of those grates have been so
      tampered with as to give entrance to the nocturnal visitant? But they
      returned to the experienced ear of Master Clink, when he struck them in
      turn with the hammer, a clear and ringing sound, which assured him of
      their security.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would be difficult for any one to get in through these defences," said
      Julian, giving vent in words to his own feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Few wish that," answered the surly groom, misconstruing what was passing
      in Peveril's mind; "and let me tell you, master, folks will find it quite
      as difficult to get out." He retired, and night came on.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf, who took upon himself for the day the whole duties of the
      apartment, trundled about the room, making a most important clatter as he
      extinguished their fire, and put aside various matters which had been in
      use in the course of the day, talking to himself all the while in a tone
      of no little consequence, occasionally grounded on the dexterity with
      which an old soldier could turn his hand to anything. Then came the
      repetition of his accustomed prayers; but his disposition to converse did
      not, as on the former occasion, revive after his devotions. On the
      contrary, long before Julian had closed an eye, the heavy breathing from
      Sir Geoffrey Hudson's pallet declared that the dwarf was already in the
      arms of Morpheus.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amid the total darkness of the apartment, and with a longing desire, and
      at the same time no small fear, for the recurrence of the mysterious
      address of the preceding evening, Julian lay long awake without his
      thoughts receiving any interruption save when the clock told the passing
      hour from the neighbouring steeple of St. Sepulchre. At length he sunk
      into slumber; but had not slept to his judgment above an hour, when he was
      roused by the sound which his waking ear had so long expected in vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Can you sleep?&mdash;Will you sleep?&mdash;Dare you sleep?" were the
      questions impressed on his ear, in the same clear, soft, and melodious
      voice, which had addressed him on the preceding night.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who is it asks me the question?" answered Julian. "But be the questioner
      good or evil, I reply that I am a guiltless prisoner; and that innocence
      may wish and dare to sleep soundly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ask no questions of me," said the voice; "neither attempt to discover who
      speaks to you; and be assured that folly alone can sleep, with fraud
      around and danger before him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Can you, who tell me of dangers, counsel me how to combat or how to avoid
      them?" said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My power is limited," said the voice; "yet something I can do, as the
      glow-worm can show a precipice. But you must confide in me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Confidence must beget confidence," answered Julian. "I cannot repose
      trust in I know not what or whom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak not so loud," replied the voice, sinking almost into a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Last night you said my companion would not awake," said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To-night I warrant not that he shall sleep," said the voice. And as it
      spoke, the hoarse, snatching, discordant tones of the dwarf were heard,
      demanding of Julian why he talked in his sleep&mdash;wherefore he did not
      rest himself, and let other people rest&mdash;and, finally, whether his
      visions of last night were returned upon him again?
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say yes," said the voice in a whisper, so low, yet so distinct, that
      Julian almost doubted whether it was not an echo of his own thought.&mdash;"Say
      but yes&mdash;and I part to return no more!"
    </p>
    <p>
      In desperate circumstances men look to strange and unusual remedies; and
      although unable to calculate the chances of advantage which this singular
      communication opened to him, Julian did not feel inclined to let them at
      once escape from him. He answered the dwarf, that he had been troubled by
      an alarming dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could have sworn it, from the sound of your voice," said Hudson. "It is
      strange, now, that you overgrown men never possess the extreme firmness of
      nerves proper to us who are cast in a more compact mould. My own voice
      retains its masculine sounds on all occasions. Dr. Cockerel was of
      opinion, that there was the same allowance of nerve and sinew to men of
      every size, and that nature spun the stock out thinner or stronger,
      according to the extent of surface which they were to cover. Hence, the
      least creatures are oftentimes the strongest. Place a beetle under a tall
      candlestick, and the insect will move it by its efforts to get out; which
      is, in point of comparative strength, as if one of us should shake his
      Majesty's prison of Newgate by similar struggles. Cats also, and weasels,
      are creatures of greater exertion or endurance than dogs or sheep. And in
      general, you may remark, that little men dance better, and are more
      unwearied under exertion of every kind, than those to whom their own
      weight must necessarily be burdensome. I respect you, Master Peveril,
      because I am told you have killed one of those gigantic fellows, who go
      about swaggering as if their souls were taller than ours, because their
      noses are nearer to the clouds by a cubit or two. But do not value
      yourself on this as anything very unusual. I would have you to know it
      hath been always thus; and that, in the history of all ages, the clean,
      tight, dapper little fellow, hath proved an overmatch for his bulky
      antagonist. I need only instance out of Holy Writ, the celebrated downfall
      of Goliah, and of another lubbard, who had more fingers to his hand, and
      more inches to his stature, than ought to belong to an honest man, and who
      was slain by a nephew of good King David; and of many others whom I do not
      remember; nevertheless they were all Philistines of gigantic stature. In
      the classics, also, you have Tydeus, and other tight, compact heroes,
      whose diminutive bodies were the abode of large minds. And indeed you may
      observe, in sacred as well as profane history, that your giants are ever
      heretics and blasphemers, robbers and oppressors, outragers of the female
      sex, and scoffers at regular authority. Such were Gog and Magog, whom our
      authentic chronicles vouch to have been slain near to Plymouth, by the
      good little Knight Corineus, who gave name to Cornwall. Ascaparte also was
      subdued by Bevis, and Colbrand by Guy, as Southampton and Warwick can
      testify. Like unto these was the giant Hoel, slain in Bretagne by King
      Arthur. And if Ryence, King of North Wales, who was done to death by the
      same worthy champion of Christendom, be not actually termed a giant, it is
      plain he was little better, since he required twenty-four kings' beards,
      which were then worn full and long, to fur his gown; whereby computing
      each beard at eighteen inches (and you cannot allow less for a
      beard-royal), and supposing only the front of the gown trimmed therewith,
      as we use ermine; and that the back was mounted and lined, instead of
      cat-skins and squirrels' fur, with the beards of earls and dukes, and
      other inferior dignitaries&mdash;may amount to&mdash;But I will work the
      question to-morrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing is more soporific to any (save a philosopher or moneyed man) than
      the operation of figures; and when in bed, the effect is irresistible. Sir
      Geoffrey fell asleep in the act of calculating King Ryence's height, from
      the supposed length of his mantle. Indeed, had he not stumbled on this
      abstruse subject of calculation, there is no guessing how long he might
      have held forth upon the superiority of men of little stature, which was
      so great a favourite with him, that, numerous as such narratives are, the
      dwarf had collected almost all the instances of their victories over
      giants, which history or romance afforded.
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner had unequivocal signs of the dwarf's sound slumbers reached
      Julian's ears, than he began to listen eagerly for the renewal of that
      mysterious communication which was at once interesting and awful. Even
      whilst Hudson was speaking, he had, instead of bestowing his attention
      upon his eulogy on persons of low statue, kept his ears on watchful guard
      to mark if possible, the lightest sounds of any sort which might occur in
      the apartment; so that he thought it scarce possible that even a fly
      should have left it withouts its motion being overheard. If, therefore,
      his invisible monitor was indeed a creature of this world&mdash;an opinion
      which Julian's sound sense rendered him unwilling to renounce&mdash;that
      being could not have left the apartment; and he waited impatiently for a
      renewal of their communication. He was disappointed; not the slightest
      sound reached his ear; and the nocturnal visitor, if still in the room,
      appeared determined on silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in vain that Peveril coughed, hemmed, and gave other symptoms of
      being awake; at length, such became his impatience, that he resolved, at
      any risk, to speak first, in hopes of renewing the communication betwixt
      them. "Whoever thou art," he said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by a
      waking person, but not so high as to disturb his sleeping companion&mdash;"Whoever,
      or whatever thou art, thou hast shown some interest in the fate of such a
      castaway as Julian Peveril, speak once more, I conjure thee; and be your
      communication for good or evil, believe me, I am equally prepared to abide
      the issue."
    </p>
    <p>
      No answer of any kind was returned to this invocation; nor did the least
      sound intimate the presence of the being to whom it was so solemnly
      addressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I speak in vain," said Julian; "and perhaps I am but invoking that which
      is insensible of human feeling, or which takes a malign pleasure in human
      suffering."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a gentle and half-broken sigh from a corner of the apartment,
      which, answering to this exclamation, seemed to contradict the imputation
      which it conveyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, naturally courageous, and familiarised by this time to his
      situation, raised himself in bed, and stretched out his arm, to repeat his
      adjuration, when the voice, as if alarmed at his action and energy,
      whispered, in a tone more hurried than that which it had hitherto used,
      "Be still&mdash;move not&mdash;or I am mute for ever!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is then a mortal being who is present with me," was the natural
      inference of Julian, "and one who is probably afraid of being detected; I
      have then some power over my visitor, though I must be cautious how I use
      it.&mdash;If your intents are friendly," he proceeded, "there was never a
      time in which I lacked friends more, or would be more grateful for
      kindness. The fate of all who are dear to me is weighed in the balance,
      and with worlds would I buy the tidings of their safety."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have said my power is limited," replied the voice. "<i>You</i> I may be
      able to preserve&mdash;the fate of your friends is beyond my control."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let me at least know it," said Julian; "and, be it as it may, I will not
      shun to share it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For whom would you inquire?" said the soft, sweet voice, not without a
      tremulousness of accent, as if the question was put with diffident
      reluctance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My parents," said Julian, after a moment's hesitation; "how fare they?&mdash;What
      will be their fate?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They fare as the fort under which the enemy has dug a deadly mine. The
      work may have cost the labour of years, such were the impediments to the
      engineers; but Time brings opportunity upon its wings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what will be the event?" said Peveril.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Can I read the future," answered the voice, "save by comparison with
      past?&mdash;Who has been hunted on these stern and unmitigable
      accusations, but has been at last brought to bay? Did high and noble
      birth, honoured age, and approved benevolence, save the unfortunate Lord
      Stafford? Did learning, capacity of intrigue, or high Court favour, redeem
      Coleman, although the confidential servant of the heir presumptive of the
      Crown of England?&mdash;Did subtilty and genius, and exertions of a
      numerous sect, save Fenwicke, or Whitbread, or any other of the accused
      priests?&mdash;Were Groves, Pickering, or the other humble wretches who
      have suffered, safe in their obscurity? There is no condition in life, no
      degree of talent, no form of principle, which affords protection against
      an accusation, which levels conditions, confounds characters, renders
      men's virtues their sins, and rates them as dangerous in proportion as
      they have influence, though attained in the noblest manner, and used for
      the best purposes. Call such a one but an accessory to the Plot&mdash;let
      him be mouthed in the evidence of Oates or Dugdale&mdash;and the blindest
      shall foresee the issue of their trial."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Prophet of Evil!" said Julian, "my father has a shield invulnerable to
      protect him. He is innocent."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him plead his innocence at the bar of Heaven," said the voice; "it
      will serve him little where Scroggs presides."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still I fear not," said Julian, counterfeiting more confidence than he
      really possessed; "my father's cause will be pleaded before twelve
      Englishmen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Better before twelve wild beasts," answered the Invisible, "than before
      Englishmen, influenced with party prejudice, passion, and epidemic terror
      of an imaginary danger. They are bold in guilt in proportion to the number
      amongst whom the crime is divided."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ill-omened speaker," said Julian, "thine is indeed a voice fitted only to
      sound with the midnight bell, and the screeching owl. Yet speak again.
      Tell me, if thou canst"&mdash;(He would have said of Alice Bridgenorth,
      but the word would not leave his tongue)&mdash;"Tell me," he said, "if the
      noble house of Derby&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let them keep their rock like the sea-fowl in the tempest; and it may so
      fall out," answered the voice, "that their rock may be a safe refuge. But
      there is blood on their ermine; and revenge has dogged them for many a
      year, like a bloodhound that hath been distanced in the morning chase, but
      may yet grapple the quarry ere the sun shall set. At present, however,
      they are safe.&mdash;Am I now to speak farther on your own affairs, which
      involve little short of your life and honour?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is," said Julian, "one, from whom I was violently parted yesterday;
      if I knew but of her safety, I were little anxious for my own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "One!" returned the voice, "only <i>one</i> from whom you were parted
      yesterday?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "But in parting from whom," said Julian, "I felt separated from all
      happiness which the world can give me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You mean Alice Bridgenorth," said the Invisible, with some bitterness of
      accent; "but her you will never see more. Your own life and hers depend on
      your forgetting each other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot purchase my own life at that price," replied Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then DIE in your obstinacy," returned the Invisible; nor to all the
      entreaties which he used was he able obtain another word in the course of
      that remarkable night.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               A short hough'd man, but full of pride.
                                           &mdash;ALLAN RAMSAY.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>en Signor</i>, 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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "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,&mdash;renounce A.B.&mdash;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."
</pre>
    <p>
      The Tower!&mdash;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.&mdash;And thou, Alice
      Bridgenorth, the day that I renounce thee, may I be held alike a traitor
      and a dastard!&mdash;Go, false adviser, and share the fate of seducers and
      heretical teachers!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am to be removed, then?" said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, truly, master, the warrant is come from the Council."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To convey me to the Tower."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whew!" exclaimed the officer of the law&mdash;"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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is that usual?" said Peveril, stretching out his feet as the fellow
      directed, while his fetters were unlocked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, to no good purpose I know of," said the turnkey; "only it is the
      fashion to seem white and harmless&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     [*] The smart girls, who turn out to look at you.
</pre>
    <p>
      "It will show my settled sorrow," said Julian, "as well as my determined
      resolution."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0455m.jpg" alt="0455m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0455.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;"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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;to the Tower&mdash;ay, ay, all must to
      the Tower&mdash;that's the fashion of it&mdash;free Britons to a military
      prison, as if we had neither bolts nor chains here!&mdash;I hope
      Parliament will have it up, this Towering work, that's all.&mdash;Well,
      the youngster will take no good by the change, and that is one comfort."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps others may wear mourning for him, ere he can mourn for any one,"
      answered another of these functionaries.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;men who were from birth and circumstances usually
      entitled to expect, and able to reward, decent usage.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Unknown has kept his faith," said Julian to himself; "I too have kept
      mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;and it is the well-known
      circumstance which assigned its name,&mdash;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.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     [*] See note, "Fortunes of Nigel."
</pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;"Where the Lieutenant should
      direct."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The warder, an old man of respectable appearance, stared, as if at the
      extravagance of the demand, and said bluntly, "It is impossible."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At least," said Peveril, "show me where my father is confined, that I may
      look upon the walls which separate us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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!&mdash;My dear son!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Give it me," said Julian to the officer who lifted the handkerchief; "it
      is perhaps a mother's last gift."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There may be writing on it with invisible ink," said one of his comrades.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is wetted, but I think it is only with tears," answered the senior. "I
      cannot keep it from the poor young gentleman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           Henceforth 'tis done&mdash;Fortune and I are friends;
           And I must live, for Buckingham commends.
                                                       &mdash;POPE.
</pre>
    <p>
      The spacious mansion of the Duke of Buckingham, with the demesne belonging
      to it, originally bore the name of York House and occupied a large portion
      of the ground adjacent to the Savoy.
    </p>
    <p>
      This had been laid out by the munificence of his father, the favourite of
      Charles the First, in a most splendid manner, so as almost to rival
      Whitehall itself. But during the increasing rage for building new streets,
      and the creating of almost an additional town, in order to connect London
      and Westminster, this ground had become of very great value; and the
      second Duke of Buckingham, who was at once fond of scheming, and needy of
      money, had agreed to a plan laid before him by some adventurous architect,
      for converting the extensive grounds around his palace into those streets,
      lanes, and courts, which still perpetuate his name and titles; though
      those who live in Buckingham Street, Duke Street, Villiers Street, or in
      Of-alley (for even that connecting particle is locally commemorated),
      probably think seldom of the memory of the witty, eccentric, and
      licentious George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, whose titles are preserved
      in the names of their residence and its neighbourhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      This building-plan the Duke had entered upon with all the eagerness which
      he usually attached to novelty. His gardens were destroyed&mdash;his
      pavilions levelled&mdash;his splendid stables demolished&mdash;the whole
      pomp of his suburban demesne laid waste, cumbered with ruins, and
      intersected with the foundations of new buildings and cellars, and the
      process of levelling different lines for the intended streets. But the
      undertaking, although it proved afterwards both lucrative and successful,
      met with a check at the outset, partly from want of the necessary funds,
      partly from the impatient and mercurial temper of the Duke, which soon
      carried him off in pursuit of some more new object. So that, though much
      was demolished, very little, in comparison, was reared up in the stead,
      and nothing was completed. The principal part of the ducal mansion still
      remained uninjured; but the demesne in which it stood bore a strange
      analogy to the irregular mind of its noble owner. Here stood a beautiful
      group of exotic trees and shrubs, the remnant of the garden, amid yawning
      common-sewers, and heaps of rubbish. In one place an old tower threatened
      to fall upon the spectator; and in another he ran the risk of being
      swallowed up by a modern vault. Grandeur of conception could be discovered
      in the undertaking, but was almost everywhere marred by poverty or
      negligence of execution. In short, the whole place was the true emblem of
      an understanding and talents run to waste, and become more dangerous than
      advantageous to society, by the want of steady principle, and the
      improvidence of the possessor.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were men who took a different view of the Duke's purpose in
      permitting his mansion to be thus surrounded, and his demesne occupied by
      modern buildings which were incomplete, and ancient which were but half
      demolished. They alleged, that, engaged as he was in so many mysteries of
      love and of politics, and having the character of the most daring and
      dangerous intriguer of his time, his Grace found it convenient to surround
      himself with this ruinous arena, into which officers of justice could not
      penetrate without some difficulty and hazard; and which might afford, upon
      occasion, a safe and secret shelter for such tools as were fit for
      desperate enterprises, and a private and unobserved mode of access to
      those whom he might have any special reason for receiving in secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leaving Peveril in the Tower, we must once more convey our readers to the
      Levee of the Duke, who, on the morning of Julian's transference to that
      fortress, thus addressed his minister-in-chief, and principal attendant:
      "I have been so pleased with your conduct in this matter, Jerningham, that
      if Old Nick were to arise in our presence, and offer me his best imp as a
      familiar in thy room, I would hold it but a poor compliment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A legion of imps," said Jerningham, bowing, "could not have been more
      busy than I in your Grace's service; but if your Grace will permit me to
      say so, your whole plan was well-nigh marred by your not returning home
      till last night, or rather this morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why, I pray you, sage Master Jerningham," said his Grace, "should I
      have returned home an instant sooner than my pleasure and convenience
      served?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, my Lord Duke," replied the attendant, "I know not; only, when you
      sent us word by Empson, in Chiffinch's apartment, to command us to make
      sure of the girl at any rate, and at all risks, you said you would be here
      so soon as you could get freed of the King."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Freed of the King, you rascal! What sort of phrase is that?" demanded the
      Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was Empson who used it, my lord, as coming from your Grace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is much very fit for my Grace to say, that misbecomes such mouths
      as Empson's or yours to repeat," answered the Duke haughtily, but
      instantly resumed his tone of familiarity, for his humour was as
      capricious as his pursuits. "But I know what thou wouldst have; first,
      your wisdom would know what became of me since thou hadst my commands at
      Chiffinch's; and next, your valour would fain sound another flourish of
      trumpets on thine own most artificial retreat, leaving thy comrade in the
      hands of the Philistines."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May it please your Grace," said Jerningham, "I did but retreat for the
      preservation of the baggage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! do you play at crambo with me?" said the Duke. "I would have you to
      know that the common parish fool should be whipt, were he to attempt to
      pass pun or quodlibet as a genuine jest, even amongst ticket-porters and
      hackney chairmen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet I have heard your Grace indulge in the <i>jeu de mots</i>,"
      answered the attendant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sirrah Jerningham," answered the patron, "discard they memory, or keep it
      under correction, else it will hamper thy rise in the world. Thou mayst
      perchance have seen me also have a fancy to play at trap-ball, or to kiss
      a serving wench, or to guzzle ale and eat toasted cheese in a porterly
      whimsy; but is it fitting thou shouldst remember such follies? No more
      on't.&mdash;Hark you; how came the long lubberly fool, Jenkins, being a
      master of the noble science of defence, to suffer himself to be run
      through the body so simply by a rustic swain like this same Peveril?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Please your Grace, this same Corydon is no such novice. I saw the onset;
      and, except in one hand, I never saw a sword managed with such life,
      grace, and facility."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, indeed?" said the Duke, taking his own sheathed rapier in his hand,
      "I could not have thought that. I am somewhat rusted, and have need of
      breathing. Peveril is a name of note. As well go to the Barns-elms, or
      behind Montagu House, with him as with another. His father a rumoured
      plotter, too. The public would have noted it in me as becoming a zealous
      Protestant. Needful I do something to maintain my good name in the city,
      to atone for non-attendance on prayer and preaching. But your Laertes is
      fast in the Fleet; and I suppose his blundering blockhead of an antagonist
      is dead or dying."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Recovering, my lord, on the contrary," replied Jerningham; "the blade
      fortunately avoided his vitals."
    </p>
    <p>
      "D&mdash;n his vitals!" answered the Duke. "Tell him to postpone his
      recovery, or I will put him to death in earnest."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will caution his surgeon," said Jerningham, "which will answer equally
      well."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do so; and tell him he had better be on his own deathbed as cure his
      patient till I send him notice.&mdash;That young fellow must be let loose
      again at no rate."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is little danger," said the attendant. "I hear some of the
      witnesses have got their net flung over him on account of some matters
      down in the north; and that he is to be translated to the Tower for that,
      and for some letters of the Countess of Derby, as rumour goes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To the Tower let him go, and get out as he can," replied the Duke; "and
      when you hear he is fast there, let the fencing fellow recover as fast as
      the surgeon and he can mutually settle it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke, having said this, took two or three turns in the apartment, and
      appeared to be in deep thought. His attendant waited the issue of his
      meditations with patience, being well aware that such moods, during which
      his mind was strongly directed in one point, were never of so long
      duration with his patron as to prove a severe burden to his own patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, after the silence of seven or eight minutes, the Duke broke
      through it, taking from the toilette a large silk purse, which seemed full
      of gold. "Jerningham," he said, "thou art a faithful fellow, and it would
      be sin not to cherish thee. I beat the King at Mall on his bold defiance.
      The honour is enough for me; and thou, my boy, shalt have the winnings."
    </p>
    <p>
      Jerningham pocketed the purse with due acknowledgements.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Jerningham," his Grace continued, "I know you blame me for changing my
      plans too often; and on my soul I have heard you so learned on the
      subject, that I have become of your opinion, and have been vexed at myself
      for two or three hours together, for not sticking as constantly to one
      object, as doubtless I shall, when age (touching his forehead) shall make
      this same weathercock too rusty to turn with the changing breeze. But as
      yet, while I have spirit and action, let it whirl like the vane at the
      mast-head, which teaches the pilot how to steer his course; and when I
      shift mine, think I am bound to follow Fortune, and not to control her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can understand nothing from all this, please your Grace," replied
      Jerningham, "save that you have been pleased to change some purposed
      measures, and think that you have profited by doing so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You shall judge yourself," replied the Duke. "I have seen the Duchess of
      Portsmouth.&mdash;You start. It is true, by Heaven! I have seen her, and
      from sworn enemies we have become sworn friends. The treaty between such
      high and mighty powers had some weighty articles; besides, I had a French
      negotiator to deal with; so that you will allow a few hours' absence was
      but a necessary interval to make up our matters of diplomacy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace astonishes me," said Jerningham. "Christian's plan of
      supplanting the great lady is then entirely abandoned? I thought you had
      but desired to have the fair successor here, in order to carry it on under
      your own management."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I forgot what I meant at the time," said the Duke; "unless that I was
      resolved she should not jilt me as she did the good-natured man of
      royalty; and so I am still determined, since you put me in mind of the
      fair Dowsabelle. But I had a contrite note from the Duchess while we were
      at the Mall. I went to see her, and found her a perfect Niobe.&mdash;On my
      soul, in spite of red eyes and swelled features, and dishevelled hair,
      there are, after all, Jerningham, some women who do, as the poets say,
      look lovely in affliction. Out came the cause; and with such humility,
      such penitence, such throwing herself on my mercy (she the proudest devil,
      too, in the whole Court), that I must have had heart of steel to resist it
      all. In short, Chiffinch in a drunken fit had played the babbler, and let
      young Saville into our intrigue. Saville plays the rogue, and informs the
      Duchess by a messenger, who luckily came a little late into the market.
      She learned, too, being a very devil for intelligence, that there had been
      some jarring between the master and me about this new Phillis; and that I
      was most likely to catch the bird,&mdash;as any one may see who looks on
      us both. It must have been Empson who fluted all this into her Grace's
      ear; and thinking she saw how her ladyship and I could hunt in couples,
      she entreats me to break Christian's scheme, and keep the wench out of the
      King's sight, especially if she were such a rare piece of perfection as
      fame has reported her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And your Grace has promised her your hand to uphold the influence which
      you have so often threatened to ruin?" said Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, Jerningham; my turn was as much served when she seemed to own herself
      in my power, and cry me mercy.&mdash;And observe, it is all one to me by
      which ladder I climb into the King's cabinet. That of Portsmouth is ready
      fixed&mdash;better ascend by it than fling it down to put up another&mdash;I
      hate all unnecessary trouble."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And Christian?" said Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "May go to the devil for a self-conceited ass. One pleasure of this twist
      of intrigue is, to revenge me of that villain, who thought himself so
      essential, that, by Heaven! he forced himself on my privacy, and lectured
      me like a schoolboy. Hang the cold-blooded hypocritical vermin! If he
      mutters, I will have his nose slit as wide as Coventry's.[*]&mdash;Hark
      ye, is the Colonel come?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I expect him every moment, your Grace."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] The ill-usage of Sir John Coventry by some of the Life Guardsmen,
    in revenge of something said in Parliament concerning the King's
    theatrical amours, gave rise to what was called Coventry's Act,
    against cutting and maiming the person.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Send him up when he arrives," said the Duke.&mdash;&mdash;"Why do you
      stand looking at me? What would you have?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace's direction respecting the young lady," said Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Odd zooks," said the Duke, "I had totally forgotten her.&mdash;Is she
      very tearful?&mdash;Exceedingly afflicted?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She does not take on so violently as I have seen some do," said
      Jerningham; "but for a strong, firm, concentrated indignation, I have seen
      none to match her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, we will permit her to cool. I will not face the affliction of a
      second fair one immediately. I am tired of snivelling, and swelled eyes,
      and blubbered cheeks for some time; and, moreover, must husband my powers
      of consolation. Begone, and send the Colonel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will your Grace permit me one other question?" demanded his confidant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ask what thou wilt, Jerningham, and then begone."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace has determined to give up Christian," said the attendant. "May
      I ask what becomes of the kingdom of Man?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Forgotten, as I have a Christian soul!" said the Duke; "as much forgotten
      as if I had never nourished that scheme of royal ambition.&mdash;D&mdash;n
      it, we must knit up the ravelled skein of that intrigue.&mdash;Yet it is
      but a miserable rock, not worth the trouble I have been bestowing on it;
      and for a kingdom&mdash;it has a sound indeed; but, in reality, I might as
      well stick a cock-chicken's feather into my hat, and call it a plume.
      Besides, now I think upon it, it would scarce be honourable to sweep that
      petty royalty out of Derby's possession. I won a thousand pieces of the
      young Earl when he was last here, and suffered him to hang about me at
      Court. I question if the whole revenue of his kingdom is worth twice as
      much. Easily I could win it of him, were he here, with less trouble than
      it would cost me to carry on these troublesome intrigues of Christian's."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I may be permitted to say so, please your Grace," answered Jerningham,
      "although your Grace is perhaps somewhat liable to change your mind, no
      man in England can afford better reasons for doing so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think so myself, Jerningham," said the Duke; "and it may be it is one
      reason for my changing. One likes to vindicate his own conduct, and to
      find out fine reasons for doing what one has a mind to.&mdash;And now,
      once again, begone. Or, hark ye&mdash;hark ye&mdash;I shall need some
      loose gold. You may leave the purse I gave you; and I will give you an
      order for as much, and two years' interest, on old Jacob Doublefee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As your Grace pleases," said Jerningham, his whole stock of complaisance
      scarcely able to conceal his mortification at exchanging for a distant
      order, of a kind which of late had not been very regularly honoured, the
      sunny contents of the purse which had actually been in his pocket.
      Secretly, but solemnly did he make a vow, that two years' interest alone
      should not be the compensation for this involuntary exchange in the form
      of his remuneration.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the discontented dependant left the apartment, he met, at the head of
      the grand staircase, Christian himself, who, exercising the freedom of an
      ancient friend of the house, was making his way, unannounced, to the
      Duke's dressing apartment. Jerningham, conjecturing that his visit at this
      crisis would be anything but well timed, or well taken, endeavoured to
      avert his purpose by asserting that the Duke was indisposed, and in his
      bedchamber; and this he said so loud that his master might hear him, and,
      if he pleased, realise the apology which he offered in his name, by
      retreating into the bedroom as his last sanctuary, and drawing the bolt
      against intrusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, far from adopting a stratagem to which he had had recourse on former
      occasions, in order to avoid those who came upon him, though at an
      appointed hour, and upon business of importance, Buckingham called, in a
      loud voice, from his dressing apartment, commanding his chamberlain
      instantly to introduce his good friend Master Christian, and censuring him
      for hesitating for an instant to do so.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now," thought Jerningham within himself, "if Christian knew the Duke as
      well as I do, he would sooner stand the leap of a lion, like the London
      'prentice bold, than venture on my master at this moment, who is even now
      in a humour nearly as dangerous as the animal."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then ushered Christian into his master's presence, taking care to post
      himself within earshot of the door.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        "Speak not of niceness, when there's chance of wreck,"
        The captain said, as ladies writhed their neck
        To see the dying dolphin flap the deck:
        "If we go down, on us these gentry sup;
        We dine upon them, if we haul them up.
        Wise men applaud us when we eat the eaters,
        As the devil laughs when keen folks cheat the cheaters."
                                                   &mdash;THE SEA VOYAGE.
</pre>
    <p>
      There was nothing in Duke's manner towards Christian which could have
      conveyed to that latter personage, experienced as he was in the worst
      possible ways of the world, that Buckingham would, at that particular
      moment, rather have seen the devil than himself; unless it was that
      Buckingham's reception of him, being rather extraordinarily courteous
      towards so old an acquaintance, might have excited some degree of
      suspicion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having escaped with some difficulty from the vague region of general
      compliments, which bears the same relation to that of business that Milton
      informs us the <i>Limbo Patrum</i> has to the sensible and material earth,
      Christian asked his Grace of Buckingham, with the same blunt plainness
      with which he usually veiled a very deep and artificial character, whether
      he had lately seen Chiffinch or his helpmate?
    </p>
    <p>
      "Neither of them lately," answered Buckingham. "Have not you waited on
      them yourself?&mdash;I thought you would have been more anxious about the
      great scheme."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have called once and again," said Christian, "but I can gain no access
      to the sight of that important couple. I begin to be afraid they are
      paltering with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Which, by the welkin and its stars, you would not be slow in avenging,
      Master Christian. I know your puritanical principles on that point well,"
      said the Duke. "Revenge may be well said to be sweet, when so many grave
      and wise men are ready to exchange for it all the sugar-plums which
      pleasures offer to the poor sinful people of the world, besides the
      reversion of those which they talk of expecting in the way of <i>post obit</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You may jest, my lord," said Christian, "but still&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "But still you will be revenged on Chiffinch, and his little commodious
      companion. And yet the task may be difficult&mdash;Chiffinch has so many
      ways of obliging his master&mdash;his little woman is such a convenient
      pretty sort of a screen, and has such winning little ways of her own,
      that, in faith, in your case, I would not meddle with them. What is this
      refusing their door, man? We all do it to our best friends now and then,
      as well as to duns and dull company."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If your Grace is in a humour of rambling thus wildly in your talk," said
      Christian, "you know my old faculty of patience&mdash;I can wait till it
      be your pleasure to talk more seriously."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Seriously!" said his Grace&mdash;"Wherefore not?&mdash;I only wait to
      know what your serious business may be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In a word, my lord, from Chiffinch's refusal to see me, and some vain
      calls which I have made at your Grace's mansion, I am afraid either that
      our plan has miscarried, or that there is some intention to exclude me
      from the farther conduct of the matter." Christian pronounced these words
      with considerable emphasis.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That were folly as well as treachery," returned the Duke, "to exclude
      from the spoil the very engineer who conducted the attack. But hark ye,
      Christian&mdash;I am sorry to tell bad news without preparation; but as
      you insist on knowing the worst, and are not ashamed to suspect your best
      friends, out it must come&mdash;Your niece left Chiffinch's house the
      morning before yesterday."
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian staggered, as if he had received a severe blow; and the blood
      ran to his face in such a current of passion, that the Duke concluded he
      was struck with an apoplexy. But, exerting the extraordinary command which
      he could maintain under the most trying circumstances, he said, with a
      voice, the composure of which had an unnatural contrast with the
      alteration of his countenance, "Am I to conclude, that in leaving the
      protection of the roof in which I placed her, the girl has found shelter
      under that of your Grace?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir," replied Buckingham gravely, "the supposition does my gallantry more
      credit than it deserves."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, my Lord Duke," answered Christian, "I am not one whom you can impose
      on by this species of courtly jargon. I know of what your Grace is
      capable; and that to gratify the caprice of a moment you would not
      hesitate to disappoint even the schemes at which you yourself have
      laboured most busily.&mdash;Suppose this jest played off. Take your laugh
      at those simple precautions by which I intended to protect your Grace's
      interest, as well as that of others. Let us know the extent of your
      frolic, and consider how far its consequences can be repaired."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my word, Christian," said the Duke, laughing, "you are the most
      obliging of uncles and of guardians. Let your niece pass through as many
      adventures as Boccaccio's bride of the King of Garba, you care not. Pure
      or soiled, she will still make the footstool of your fortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      An Indian proverb says, that the dart of contempt will even pierce through
      the shell of the tortoise; but this is more peculiarly the case when
      conscience tells the subject of the sarcasm that it is justly merited.
      Christian, stung with Buckingham's reproach, at once assumed a haughty and
      threatening mien, totally inconsistent with that in which sufferance
      seemed to be as much his badge as that of Shylock. "You are a foul-mouthed
      and most unworthy lord," he said; "and as such I will proclaim you, unless
      you make reparation for the injury you have done me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what," said the Duke of Buckingham, "shall I proclaim <i>you</i>,
      that can give you the least title to notice from such as I am? What name
      shall I bestow on the little transaction which has given rise to such
      unexpected misunderstanding?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian was silent, either from rage or from mental conviction.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, come, Christian," said the Duke, smiling, "we know too much of each
      other to make a quarrel safe. Hate each other we may&mdash;circumvent each
      other&mdash;it is the way of Courts&mdash;but proclaim!&mdash;a fico for
      the phrase."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I used it not," said Christian, "till your Grace drove me to extremity.
      You know, my lord, I have fought both at home and abroad; and you should
      not rashly think that I will endure any indignity which blood can wipe
      away."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On the contrary," said the Duke, with the same civil and sneering manner,
      "I can confidently assert, that the life of half a score of your friends
      would seem very light to you, Christian, if their existence interfered, I
      do not say with your character, as being a thing of much less consequence,
      but with any advantage which their existence might intercept. Fie upon it,
      man, we have known each other long. I never thought you a coward; and am
      only glad to see I could strike a few sparkles of heat out of your cold
      and constant disposition. I will now, if you please, tell you at once the
      fate of the young lady, in which I pray you to believe that I am truly
      interested."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hear you, my Lord Duke," said Christian. "The curl of your upper lip,
      and your eyebrow, does not escape me. Your Grace knows the French proverb,
      'He laughs best who laughs last.' But I hear you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thank Heaven you do," said Buckingham; "for your case requires haste, I
      promise you, and involves no laughing matter. Well then, hear a simple
      truth, on which (if it became me to offer any pledge for what I assert to
      be such) I could pledge life, fortune, and honour. It was the morning
      before last, when meeting with the King at Chiffinch's unexpectedly&mdash;in
      fact I had looked in to fool an hour away, and to learn how your scheme
      advanced&mdash;I saw a singular scene. Your niece terrified little
      Chiffinch&mdash;(the hen Chiffinch, I mean)&mdash;bid the King defiance to
      his teeth, and walked out of the presence triumphantly, under the
      guardianship of a young fellow of little mark or likelihood, excepting a
      tolerable personal presence, and the advantage of a most unconquerable
      impudence. Egad, I can hardly help laughing to think how the King and I
      were both baffled; for I will not deny, that I had tried to trifle for a
      moment with the fair Indamora. But, egad, the young fellow swooped her off
      from under our noses, like my own Drawcansir clearing off the banquet from
      the two Kings of Brentford. There was a dignity in the gallant's
      swaggering retreat which I must try to teach Mohun;[*] it will suit his
      part admirably."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     [*] Then a noted actor.
</pre>
    <p>
      "This is incomprehensible, my Lord Duke," said Christian, who by this time
      had recovered all his usual coolness; "you cannot expect me to believe
      this. Who dared be so bold as to carry of my niece in such a manner, and
      from so august a presence? And with whom, a stranger as he must have been,
      would she, wise and cautious as I know her, have consented to depart in
      such a manner?&mdash;My lord, I cannot believe this."
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of your priests, my most devoted Christian," replied the Duke, "would
      only answer, Die, infidel, in thine unbelief; but I am only a poor
      worldling sinner, and I will add what mite of information I can. The young
      fellow's name, as I am given to understand, is Julian, son of Sir
      Geoffrey, whom men call Peveril of the Peak."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peveril of the Devil, who hath his cavern there!" said Christian warmly;
      "for I know that gallant, and believe him capable of anything bold and
      desperate. But how could he intrude himself into the royal presence?
      Either Hell aids him, or Heaven looks nearer into mortal dealings than I
      have yet believed. If so, may God forgive us, who deemed he thought not on
      us at all!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Amen, most Christian Christian," replied the Duke. "I am glad to see thou
      hast yet some touch of grace that leads thee to augur so. But Empson, the
      hen Chiffinch, and half-a-dozen more, saw the swain's entrance and
      departure. Please examine these witnesses with your own wisdom, if you
      think your time may not be better employed in tracing the fugitives. I
      believe he gained entrance as one of some dancing or masking party.
      Rowley, you know, is accessible to all who will come forth to make him
      sport. So in stole this termagant tearing gallant, like Samson among the
      Philistines, to pull down our fine scheme about our ears."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe you, my lord," said Christian; "I cannot but believe you; and I
      forgive you, since it is your nature, for making sport of what is ruin and
      destruction. But which way did they take?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To Derbyshire, I should presume, to seek her father," said the Duke. "She
      spoke of going into paternal protection, instead of yours, Master
      Christian. Something had chanced at Chiffinch's, to give her cause to
      suspect that you had not altogether provided for his daughter in the
      manner which her father was likely to approve of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, Heaven be praised," said Christian, "she knows not her father is
      come to London! and they must be gone down either to Martindale Castle, or
      to Moultrassie Hall; in either case they are in my power&mdash;I must
      follow them close. I will return instantly to Derbyshire&mdash;I am undone
      if she meet her father until these errors are amended. Adieu, my lord. I
      forgive the part which I fear your Grace must have had in baulking our
      enterprise&mdash;it is no time for mutual reproaches."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak truth, Master Christian," said the Duke, "and I wish you all
      success. Can I help you with men, or horses, or money?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank your Grace," said Christian, and hastily left the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke watched his descending footsteps on the staircase, until they
      could be heard no longer, and then exclaimed to Jerningham, who entered, "<i>Victoria!
      victoria! magna est veritas et prævalebit!</i>&mdash;Had I told the
      villain a word of a lie, he is so familiar with all the regions of
      falsehood&mdash;his whole life has been such an absolute imposture, that I
      had stood detected in an instant; but I told him truth, and that was the
      only means of deceiving him. Victoria! my dear Jerningham, I am prouder of
      cheating Christian, than I should have been of circumventing a minister of
      state."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace holds his wisdom very high," said the attendant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "His cunning, at least, I do, which, in Court affairs, often takes the
      weather-gage of wisdom,&mdash;as in Yarmouth Roads a herring-buss will
      baffle a frigate. He shall not return to London if I can help it, until
      all these intrigues are over."
    </p>
    <p>
      As his Grace spoke, the Colonel, after whom he had repeatedly made
      inquiry, was announced by a gentleman of his household. "He met not
      Christian, did he?" said the Duke hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, my lord," returned the domestic, "the Colonel came by the old garden
      staircase."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I judged as much," replied the Duke; "'tis an owl that will not take wing
      in daylight, when there is a thicket left to skulk under. Here he comes
      from threading lane, vault, and ruinous alley, very near ominous a
      creature as the fowl of ill augury which he resembles."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Colonel, to whom no other appellation seemed to be given, than that
      which belonged to his military station, now entered the apartment. He was
      tall, strongly built, and past the middle period of life, and his
      countenance, but for the heavy cloud which dwelt upon it, might have been
      pronounced a handsome one. While the Duke spoke to him, either from
      humility or some other cause, his large serious eye was cast down upon the
      ground; but he raised it when he answered, with a keen look of earnest
      observation. His dress was very plain, and more allied to that of the
      Puritans than of the Cavaliers of the time; a shadowy black hat, like the
      Spanish sombrero; a large black mantle or cloak, and a long rapier, gave
      him something the air of a Castilione, to which his gravity and stiffness
      of demeanour added considerable strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Colonel," said the Duke, "we have been long strangers&mdash;how
      have matters gone with you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "As with other men of action in quiet times," answered the colonel, "or as
      a good war-caper[*] that lies high and dry in a muddy creek, till seams
      and planks are rent and riven."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     [*] A privateer.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Well, Colonel," said the Duke, "I have used your valour before now, and I
      may again; so that I shall speedily see that the vessel is careened, and
      undergoes a thorough repair."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I conjecture, then," said the Colonel, "that your Grace has some voyage
      in hand?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, but there is one which I want to interrupt," replied the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tis but another stave of the same tune.&mdash;Well, my lord, I listen,"
      answered the stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," said the Duke, "it is but a trifling matter after all.&mdash;You
      know Ned Christian?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, surely, my lord," replied the Colonel, "we have been long known to
      each other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is about to go down to Derbyshire to seek a certain niece of his, whom
      he will scarcely find there. Now, I trust to your tried friendship to
      interrupt his return to London. Go with him, or meet him, cajole him, or
      assail him, or do what thou wilt with him&mdash;only keep him from London
      for a fortnight at least, and then I care little how soon he comes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For by that time, I suppose," replied the Colonel, "any one may find the
      wench that thinks her worth the looking for."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou mayst think her worth the looking for thyself, Colonel," rejoined
      the Duke; "I promise you she hath many a thousand stitched to her
      petticoat; such a wife would save thee from skeldering on the public."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My lord, I sell my blood and my sword, but not my honour," answered the
      man sullenly; "if I marry, my bed may be a poor, but it shall be an honest
      one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then thy wife will be the only honest matter in thy possession, Colonel&mdash;at
      least since I have known you," replied the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, truly, your Grace may speak your pleasure on that point. It is
      chiefly your business which I have done of late; and if it were less
      strictly honest than I could have wished, the employer was to blame as
      well as the agent. But for marrying a cast-off mistress, the man (saving
      your Grace, to whom I am bound) lives not who dares propose it to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke laughed loudly. "Why, this is mine Ancient Pistol's vein," he
      replied.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  &mdash;&mdash;"Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,
  And by my side wear steel?&mdash;then Lucifer take all!"
</pre>
    <p>
      "My breeding is too plain to understand ends of playhouse verse, my lord,"
      said the Colonel suddenly. "Has your Grace no other service to command
      me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "None&mdash;only I am told you have published a Narrative concerning the
      Plot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What should ail me, my lord?" said the Colonel; "I hope I am a witness as
      competent as any that has yet appeared?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Truly, I think so to the full," said the Duke; "and it would have been
      hard, when so much profitable mischief was going, if so excellent a
      Protestant as yourself had not come in for a share."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I came to take your Grace's commands, not to be the object of your wit,"
      said the Colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gallantly spoken, most resolute and most immaculate Colonel! As you are
      to be on full pay in my service for a month to come, I pray your
      acceptance of this purse, for contingents and equipments, and you shall
      have my instructions from time to time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They shall be punctually obeyed, my lord," said the Colonel; "I know the
      duty of a subaltern officer. I wish your Grace a good morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he pocketed the purse, without either affecting hesitation, or
      expressing gratitude, but merely as a part of a transaction in the regular
      way of business, and stalked from the apartment with the same sullen
      gravity which marked his entrance. "Now, there goes a scoundrel after my
      own heart," said the Duke; "a robber from his cradle, a murderer since he
      could hold a knife, a profound hypocrite in religion, and a worse and
      deeper hypocrite in honour,&mdash;would sell his soul to the devil to
      accomplish any villainy, and would cut the throat of his brother, did he
      dare to give the villainy he had so acted its right name.&mdash;Now, why
      stand you amazed, good Master Jerningham, and look on me as you would on
      some monster of Ind, when you had paid your shilling to see it, and were
      staring out your pennyworth with your eyes as round as a pair of
      spectacles? Wink, man, and save them, and then let thy tongue untie the
      mystery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my word, my Lord Duke," answered Jerningham, "since I am compelled to
      speak, I can only say, that the longer I live with your Grace, I am the
      more at a loss to fathom your motives of action. Others lay plans, either
      to attain profit or pleasure by their execution; but your Grace's delight
      is to counteract your own schemes, when in the very act of performance;
      like a child&mdash;forgive me&mdash;that breaks its favourite toy, or a
      man who should set fire to the house he has half built."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why not, if he wanted to warm his hands at the blaze?" said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, my lord," replied his dependent; "but what if, in doing so, he should
      burn his fingers?&mdash;My lord, it is one of your noblest qualities, that
      you will sometimes listen to the truth without taking offence; but were it
      otherwise, I could not, at this moment, help speaking out at every risk."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, say on, I can bear it," said the Duke, throwing himself into an
      easy-chair, and using his toothpick with graceful indifference and
      equanimity; "I love to hear what such potsherds as thou art, think of the
      proceeding of us who are of the pure porcelain clay of the earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the name of Heaven, my lord, let me then ask you," said Jerningham,
      "what merit you claim, or what advantage you expect, from having embroiled
      everything in which you are concerned to a degree which equals the chaos
      of the blind old Roundhead's poem which your Grace is so fond of? To begin
      with the King. In spite of good-humour, he will be incensed at your
      repeated rivalry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "His Majesty defied me to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have lost all hopes of the Isle, by quarrelling with Christian."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have ceased to care a farthing about it," replied the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In Christian himself, whom you have insulted, and to whose family you
      intend dishonour, you have lost a sagacious, artful, and cool-headed
      instrument and adherent," said the monitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Poor Jerningham!" answered the Duke; "Christian would say as much for
      thee, I doubt not, wert thou discarded tomorrow. It is the common error of
      such tools as you and he to think themselves indispensable. As to his
      family, what was never honourable cannot be dishonoured by any connection
      with my house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say nothing of Chiffinch," said Jerningham, "offended as he will be
      when he learns why, and by whom, his scheme has been ruined, and the lady
      spirited away&mdash;He and his wife, I say nothing of them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You need not," said the Duke; "for were they even fit persons to speak to
      me about, the Duchess of Portsmouth has bargained for their disgrace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then this bloodhound of a Colonel, as he calls himself, your Grace cannot
      even lay <i>him</i> on a quest which is to do you service, but you must do
      him such indignity at the same time, as he will not fail to remember, and
      be sure to fly at your throat should he ever have an opportunity of
      turning on you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will take care he has none," said the Duke; "and yours, Jerningham, is
      a low-lived apprehension. Beat your spaniel heartily if you would have him
      under command. Ever let your agents see you know what they are, and prize
      them accordingly. A rogue, who must needs be treated as a man of honour,
      is apt to get above his work. Enough, therefore, of your advice and
      censure, Jerningham; we differ in every particular. Were we both
      engineers, you would spend your life in watching some old woman's wheel,
      which spins flax by the ounce; I must be in the midst of the most varied
      and counteracting machinery, regulating checks and counter-checks,
      balancing weights, proving springs and wheels, directing and controlling a
      hundred combined powers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And your fortune, in the meanwhile?" said Jerningham; "pardon this last
      hint, my lord."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My fortune," said the Duke, "is too vast to be hurt by a petty wound; and
      I have, as thou knowest, a thousand salves in store for the scratches and
      scars which it sometimes receives in greasing my machinery."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace does not mean Dr. Wilderhead's powder of projection?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw! he is a quacksalver, and mountebank, and beggar."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Or Solicitor Drowndland's plan for draining the fens?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is a cheat,&mdash;<i>videlicet</i>, an attorney."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Or the Laird of Lackpelf's sale of Highland woods?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is a Scotsman," said the Duke,&mdash;"<i>videlicet</i>, both cheat and
      beggar."
    </p>
    <p>
      "These streets here, upon the site of your noble mansion-house?" said
      Jerningham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The architect's a bite, and the plan's a bubble. I am sick of the sight
      of this rubbish, and I will soon replace our old alcoves, alleys, and
      flower-pots by an Italian garden and a new palace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That, my lord, would be to waste, not to improve your fortune," said his
      domestic.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Clodpate, and muddy spirit that thou art, thou hast forgot the most
      hopeful scheme of all&mdash;the South Sea Fisheries&mdash;their stock is
      up 50 per cent. already. Post down to the Alley, and tell old Mansses to
      buy £20,000 for me.&mdash;Forgive me, Plutus, I forgot to lay my sacrifice
      on thy shrine, and yet expected thy favours!&mdash;Fly post-haste,
      Jerningham&mdash;for thy life, for thy life, for thy life!"[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Stock-jobbing, as it is called, that is, dealing in shares of
    monopolies, patent, and joint-stock companies of every
    description, was at least as common in Charles II.'s time as our
    own; and as the exercise of ingenuity in this way promised a road
    to wealth without the necessity of industry, it was then much
    pursued by dissolute courtiers.
</pre>
    <p>
      With hands and eyes uplifted, Jerningham left the apartment; and the Duke,
      without thinking a moment farther on old or new intrigues&mdash;on the
      friendship he had formed, or the enmity he had provoked&mdash;on the
      beauty whom he had carried off from her natural protectors, as well as
      from her lover&mdash;or on the monarch against whom he had placed himself
      in rivalship,&mdash;sat down to calculate chances with all the zeal of
      Demoivre, tired of the drudgery in half-an-hour, and refused to see the
      zealous agent whom he had employed in the city, because he was busily
      engaged in writing a new lampoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                Ah! changeful head, and fickle heart!
                                       &mdash;PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.
</pre>
    <p>
      No event is more ordinary in narratives of this nature, than the abduction
      of the female on whose fate the interest is supposed to turn; but that of
      Alice Bridgenorth was thus far particular, that she was spirited away by
      the Duke of Buckingham, more in contradiction than in the rivalry of
      passion; and that, as he made his first addresses to her at Chiffinch's,
      rather in the spirit of rivalry to this Sovereign, than from any strong
      impression which her beauty had made on his affections, so he had formed
      the sudden plan of spiriting her away by means of his dependents, rather
      to perplex Christian, the King, Chiffinch, and all concerned, than because
      he had any particular desire for her society at his own mansion. Indeed,
      so far was this from being the case, that his Grace was rather surprised
      than delighted with the success of the enterprise which had made her an
      inmate there, although it is probable he might have thrown himself into an
      uncontrollable passion, had he learned its miscarriage instead of its
      success.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twenty-four hours had passed over since he had returned to his own roof,
      before, notwithstanding sundry hints from Jerningham, he could even
      determine on the exertion necessary to pay his fair captive a visit; and
      then it was with the internal reluctance of one who can only be stirred
      from indolence by novelty.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wonder what made me plague myself about this wench," said he, "and doom
      myself to encounter all the hysterical rhapsodies of a country Phillis,
      with her head stuffed with her grandmother's lessons about virtue and the
      Bible-book, when the finest and best-bred women in town may be had upon
      more easy terms. It is a pity one cannot mount the victor's car of triumph
      without having a victory to boast of; yet, faith, it is what most of our
      modern gallants do, though it would not become Buckingham.&mdash;Well, I
      must see her," he concluded, "though it were but to rid the house of her.
      The Portsmouth will not hear of her being set at liberty near Charles, so
      much is she afraid of a new fair seducing the old sinner from his
      allegiance. So how the girl is to be disposed of&mdash;for I shall have
      little fancy to keep her here, and she is too wealthy to be sent down to
      Cliefden as a housekeeper&mdash;is a matter to be thought on."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then called for such a dress as might set off his natural good mien&mdash;a
      compliment which he considered as due to his own merit; for as to anything
      farther, he went to pay his respects to his fair prisoner with almost as
      little zeal in the cause, as a gallant to fight a duel in which he has no
      warmer interest than the maintenance of his reputation as man of honour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The set of apartments consecrated to the use of those favourites who
      occasionally made Buckingham's mansion their place of abode, and who were,
      so far as liberty was concerned, often required to observe the regulations
      of a convent, were separated from the rest of the Duke's extensive
      mansion. He lived in the age when what was called gallantry warranted the
      most atrocious actions of deceit and violence; as may be best illustrated
      by the catastrophe of an unfortunate actress, whose beauty attracted the
      attention of the last De Vere, Earl of Oxford. While her virtue defied his
      seductions, he ruined her under colour of a mock marriage, and was
      rewarded for a success which occasioned the death of his victim, by the
      general applause of the men of wit and gallantry who filled the
      drawing-room of Charles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham had made provision in the interior of his ducal mansion for
      exploits of a similar nature; and the set of apartments which he now
      visited were alternately used to confine the reluctant, and to accommodate
      the willing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Being now destined for the former purpose, the key was delivered to the
      Duke by a hooded and spectacled old lady, who sat reading a devout book in
      the outer hall which divided these apartments (usually called the Nunnery)
      from the rest of the house. This experienced dowager acted as mistress of
      the ceremonies on such occasions, and was the trusty depositary of more
      intrigues than were known to any dozen of her worshipful calling besides.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As sweet a linnet," she said, as she undid the outward door, "as ever
      sung in a cage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was afraid she might have been more for moping than for singing,
      Dowlas," said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Till yesterday she was so, please your Grace," answered Dowlas; "or, to
      speak sooth, till early this morning, we heard of nothing but Lachrymæ.
      But the air of your noble Grace's house is favourable to singing-birds;
      and to-day matters have been a-much mended."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tis sudden, dame," said the Duke; "and 'tis something strange,
      considering that I have never visited her, that the pretty trembler should
      have been so soon reconciled to her fate."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, your Grace has such magic, that it communicates itself to your very
      walls; as wholesome Scripture says, Exodus, first and seventh, 'It
      cleaveth to the walls and the doorposts.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are too partial, Dame Dowlas," said the Duke of Buckingham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not a word but truth," said the dame; "and I wish I may be an outcast
      from the fold of the lambs, but I think this damsel's very frame has
      changed since she was under your Grace's roof. Methinks she hath a lighter
      form, a finer step, a more displayed ankle&mdash;I cannot tell, but I
      think there is a change. But, lack-a-day, your Grace knows I am as old as
      I am trusty, and that my eyes wax something uncertain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Especially when you wash them with a cup of canary, Dame Dowlas,"
      answered the Duke, who was aware that temperance was not amongst the
      cardinal virtues which were most familiar to the old lady's practice.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Was it canary, your Grace said?&mdash;Was it indeed with canary, that
      your Grace should have supposed me to have washed my eyes?" said the
      offended matron. "I am sorry that your Grace should know me no better."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I crave your pardon, dame," said the Duke, shaking aside, fastidiously,
      the grasp which, in the earnestness of her exculpation, Madam Dowlas had
      clutched upon his sleeve. "I crave your pardon. Your nearer approach has
      convinced me of my erroneous imputation&mdash;I should have said nantz&mdash;not
      canary."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he walked forward into the inner apartments, which were fitted
      up with an air of voluptuous magnificence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The dame said true, however," said the proud deviser and proprietor of
      the splendid mansion&mdash;"A country Phillis might well reconcile herself
      to such a prison as this, even without a skilful bird-fancier to touch a
      bird-call. But I wonder where she can be, this rural Phidele. Is it
      possible she can have retreated, like a despairing commandant, into her
      bedchamber, the very citadel of the place, without even an attempt to
      defend the outworks?"
    </p>
    <p>
      As he made this reflection, he passed through an antechamber and little
      eating parlour, exquisitely furnished, and hung with excellent paintings
      of the Venetian school.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beyond these lay a withdrawing-room, fitted up in a style of still more
      studied elegance. The windows were darkened with painted glass, of such a
      deep and rich colour, as made the midday beams, which found their way into
      the apartment, imitate the rich colours of sunset; and, in the celebrated
      expression of the poet, "taught light to counterfeit a gloom."
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham's feelings and taste had been too much, and too often, and too
      readily gratified, to permit him, in the general case, to be easily
      accessible, even to those pleasures which it had been the business of his
      life to pursue. The hackneyed voluptuary is like the jaded epicure, the
      mere listlessness of whose appetite becomes at length a sufficient penalty
      for having made it the principal object of his enjoyment and cultivation.
      Yet novelty has always some charms, and uncertainty has more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doubt how he was to be received&mdash;the change of mood which his
      prisoner was said to have evinced&mdash;the curiosity to know how such a
      creature as Alice Bridgenorth had been described, was likely to bear
      herself under the circumstances in which she was so unexpectedly placed,
      had upon Buckingham the effect of exciting unusual interest. On his own
      part, he had none of those feelings of anxiety with which a man, even of
      the most vulgar mind, comes to the presence of the female whom he wishes
      to please, far less the more refined sentiments of love, respect, desire,
      and awe, with which the more refined lover approaches the beloved object.
      He had been, to use an expressive French phrase, too completely <i>blasé</i>
      even from his earliest youth, to permit him now to experience the animal
      eagerness of the one, far less the more sentimental pleasure of the other.
      It is no small aggravation of this jaded and uncomfortable state of mind,
      that the voluptuary cannot renounce the pursuits with which he is
      satiated, but must continue, for his character's sake, or from the mere
      force of habit, to take all the toil, fatigue, and danger of the chase,
      while he has so little real interest in the termination.
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham, therefore, felt it due to his reputation as a successful hero
      of intrigue, to pay his addresses to Alice Bridgenorth with dissembled
      eagerness; and, as he opened the door of the inner apartment, he paused to
      consider, whether the tone of gallantry, or that of passion, was fittest
      to use on the occasion. This delay enabled him to hear a few notes of a
      lute touched with exquisite skill, and accompanied by the still sweeter
      strains of a female voice, which, without executing any complete melody,
      seemed to sport itself in rivalship of the silver sound of the instrument.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A creature so well educated," said the Duke, "with the sense she is said
      to possess, would, rustic as she is, laugh at the assumed rants of
      Oroondates. It is the vein of Dorimont&mdash;once, Buckingham, thine own&mdash;that
      must here do the feat, besides that the part is easier."
    </p>
    <p>
      So thinking, he entered the room with that easy grace which characterised
      the gay courtiers among whom he flourished, and approached the fair
      tenant, whom he found seated near a table covered with books and music,
      and having on her left hand the large half-open casement, dim with stained
      glass, admitting only a doubtful light into this lordly retiring-room,
      which, hung with the richest tapestry of the Gobelines, and ornamented
      with piles if china and splendid mirrors, seemed like a bower built for a
      prince to receive his bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      The splendid dress of the inmate corresponded with the taste of the
      apartment which she occupied and partook of the Oriental costume which the
      much-admired Roxalana had the brought into fashion. A slender foot and
      ankle, which escaped from the wide trowser of richly ornamented and
      embroidered blue satin, was the only part of her person distinctly seen;
      the rest was enveloped, from head to foot, in a long veil of silver gauze,
      which, like a feathery and light mist on a beautiful landscape, suffered
      you to perceive that what it concealed was rarely lovely, yet induced the
      imagination even to enhance the charms it shaded. Such part of the dress
      as could be discovered was, like the veil and the trowsers, in the
      Oriental taste; a rich turban, and splendid caftan, were rather indicated
      than distinguished through the folds of the former. The whole attire
      argued at least coquetry on the part of the fair one, who must have
      expected, from her situation, a visitor of some pretension; and induced
      Buckingham to smile internally at Christian's account of the extreme
      simplicity and purity of his niece.
    </p>
    <p>
      He approached the lady <i>en cavalier</i>, and addressed her with the air
      of being conscious, while he acknowledged his offences, that his
      condescending to do so formed a sufficient apology for them. "Fair
      Mistress Alice," he said, "I am sensible how deeply I ought to sue for
      pardon for the mistaken zeal of my servants, who, seeing you deserted and
      exposed without protection during an unlucky affray, took it upon them to
      bring you under the roof of one who would expose his life rather than
      suffer you to sustain a moment's anxiety. Was it my fault that those
      around me should have judged it necessary to interfere for your
      preservation; or that, aware of the interest I must take in you, they have
      detained you till I could myself, in personal attendance, receive your
      commands?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That attendance has not been speedily rendered, my lord," answered the
      lady. "I have been a prisoner for two days&mdash;neglected, and left to
      the charge of menials."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How say you, lady?&mdash;Neglected!" exclaimed the Duke. "By Heaven, if
      the best in my household has failed in his duty, I will discard him on the
      instant!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I complain of no lack of courtesy from your servants, my lord," she
      replied; "but methinks it had been but complaisant in the Duke himself to
      explain to me earlier wherefore he has had the boldness to detain me as a
      state prisoner."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And can the divine Alice doubt," said Buckingham, "that, had time and
      space, those cruel enemies to the flight of passion, given permission, the
      instant in which you crossed your vassal's threshold had seen its devoted
      master at your feet, who hath thought, since he saw you, of nothing but
      the charms which that fatal morning placed before him at Chiffinch's?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand, then, my lord," said the lady, "that you have been absent,
      and have had no part in the restraint which has been exercised upon me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Absent on the King's command, lady, and employed in the discharge of his
      duty," answered Buckingham without hesitation. "What could I do?&mdash;The
      moment you left Chiffinch's, his Majesty commanded me to the saddle in
      such haste, that I had no time to change my satin buskins for
      riding-boots.[*] If my absence has occasioned you a moment of
      inconvenience, blame the inconsiderate zeal of those who, seeing me depart
      from London, half distracted at my separation from you, were willing to
      contribute their unmannered, though well-meant exertions, to preserve
      their master from despair, by retaining the fair Alice within his reach.
      To whom, indeed, could they have restored you? He whom you selected as
      your champion is in prison, or fled&mdash;your father absent from town&mdash;your
      uncle in the north. To Chiffinch's house you had expressed your
      well-founded aversion; and what fitter asylum remained than that of your
      devoted slave, where you must ever reign a queen?"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] This case is not without precedent. Among the jealousies and fears
    expressed by the Long Parliament, they insisted much upon an agent
    for the King departing for the continent so abruptly, that he had
    not time to change his court dress&mdash;white buskins, to wit, and
    black silk pantaloons&mdash;for an equipment more suitable to travel
    with.
</pre>
    <p>
      "An imprisoned one," said the lady. "I desire not royalty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas! how wilfully you misconstrue me!" said the Duke, kneeling on one
      knee; "and what right can you have to complain of a few hours' gentle
      restraint&mdash;you, who destine so many to hopeless captivity? Be
      merciful for once, and withdraw that envious veil; for the divinities are
      ever most cruel when they deliver their oracles from such clouded
      recesses. Suffer at least my rash hand&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will save your Grace that unworthy trouble," said the lady haughtily;
      and rising up, she flung back over her shoulders the veil which shrouded
      her, saying, at the same time, "Look on me, my Lord Duke, and see if these
      be indeed the charms which have made on your Grace an impression so
      powerful."
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham did look; and the effect produced on him by surprise was so
      strong, that he rose hastily from his knee, and remained for a few seconds
      as if he had been petrified. The figure that stood before him had neither
      the height nor the rich shape of Alice Bridgenorth; and, though perfectly
      well made, was so slightly formed, as to seem almost infantine. Her dress
      was three or four short vests of embroidered satin, disposed one over the
      other, of different colours, or rather different shades of similar
      colours; for strong contrast was carefully avoided. These opened in front,
      so as to show part of the throat and neck, partially obscured by an inner
      covering of the finest lace; over the uppermost vest was worn a sort of
      mantle, or coat of rich fur. A small but magnificent turban was carelessly
      placed on her head, from under which flowed a profusion of coal-black
      tresses, which Cleopatra might have envied. The taste and splendour of the
      Eastern dress corresponded with the complexion of the lady's face, which
      was brunette, of a shade so dark as might almost have served an Indian.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amidst a set of features, in which rapid and keen expression made amends
      for the want of regular beauty, the essential points of eyes as bright as
      diamonds, and teeth as white as pearls, did not escape the Duke of
      Buckingham, a professed connoisseur in female charms. In a word, the
      fanciful and singular female who thus unexpectedly produced herself before
      him, had one of those faces which are never seen without making an
      impression; which, when removed, are long after remembered; and for which,
      in our idleness, we are tempted to invent a hundred histories, that we may
      please our fancy by supposing the features under the influence of
      different kinds of emotion. Every one must have in recollection
      countenances of this kind, which, from a captivating and stimulating
      originality of expression, abide longer in the memory, and are more
      seductive to the imagination, than ever regular beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My Lord Duke," said the lady, "it seems the lifting of my veil has done
      the work of magic upon your Grace. Alas, for the captive princess, whose
      nod was to command a vassal so costly as your Grace! She runs, methinks,
      no slight chance of being turned out of doors, like a second Cinderella,
      to seek her fortune among lackeys and lightermen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am astonished!" said the Duke. "That villain, Jerningham&mdash;I will
      have the scoundrel's blood!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, never abuse Jerningham for the matter," said the Unknown; "but
      lament your own unhappy engagements. While you, my Lord Duke, were posting
      northward, in white satin buskins, to toil in the King's affairs, the
      right and lawful princess sat weeping in sables in the uncheered solitude
      to which your absence condemned her. Two days she was disconsolate in
      vain; on the third came an African enchantress to change the scene for
      her, and the person for your Grace. Methinks, my lord, this adventure will
      tell but ill, when some faithful squire shall recount or record the
      gallant adventures of the second Duke of Buckingham."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fairly bit and bantered to boot," said the Duke&mdash;"the monkey has a
      turn for satire, too, by all that is <i>piquante</i>.&mdash;Hark ye, fair
      Princess, how dared you adventure on such a trick as you have been
      accomplice to?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dare, my lord," answered the stranger; "put the question to others, not
      to one who fears nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my faith, I believe so; for thy front is bronzed by nature.&mdash;Hark
      ye, once more, mistress&mdash;What is your name and condition?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My condition I have told you&mdash;I am a Mauritanian sorceress by
      profession, and my name is Zarah," replied the Eastern maiden.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But methinks that face, shape, and eyes"&mdash;said the Duke&mdash;"when
      didst thou pass for a dancing fairy?&mdash;Some such imp thou wert not
      many days since."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My sister you may have seen&mdash;my twin sister; but not me, my lord,"
      answered Zarah.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed," said the Duke, "that duplicate of thine, if it was not thy very
      self, was possessed with a dumb spirit, as thou with a talking one. I am
      still in the mind that you are the same; and that Satan, always so
      powerful with your sex, had art enough on our former meeting, to make thee
      hold thy tongue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Believe what you will of it, my lord," replied Zarah, "it cannot change
      the truth.&mdash;And now, my lord, I bid you farewell. Have you any
      commands to Mauritania?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tarry a little, my Princess," said the Duke; "and remember, that you have
      voluntarily entered yourself as pledge for another; and are justly
      subjected to any penalty which it is my pleasure to exact. None must brave
      Buckingham with impunity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am in no hurry to depart, if your Grace hath any commands for me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! are you neither afraid of my resentment, nor of my love, fair
      Zarah?" said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of neither, by this glove," answered the lady. "Your resentment must be a
      pretty passion indeed, if it could stoop to such a helpless object as I
      am; and for your love&mdash;good lack! good lack!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why good lack with such a tone of contempt, lady?" said the Duke,
      piqued in spite of himself. "Think you Buckingham cannot love, or has
      never been beloved in return?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He may have thought himself beloved," said the maiden; "but by what
      slight creatures!&mdash;things whose heads could be rendered giddy by a
      playhouse rant&mdash;whose brains were only filled with red-heeled shoes
      and satin buskins&mdash;and who run altogether mad on the argument of a
      George and a star."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And are there no such frail fair ones in your climate, most scornful
      Princess?" said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There are," said the lady; "but men rate them as parrots and monkeys&mdash;things
      without either sense or soul, head or heart. The nearness we bear to the
      sun has purified, while it strengthens, our passions. The icicles of your
      frozen climate shall as soon hammer hot bars into ploughshares, as shall
      the foppery and folly of your pretended gallantry make an instant's
      impression on a breast like mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak like one who knows what passion is," said the Duke. "Sit down,
      fair lady, and grieve not that I detain you. Who can consent to part with
      a tongue of so much melody, or an eye of such expressive eloquence!&mdash;You
      have known then what it is to love?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know&mdash;no matter if by experience, or through the report of others&mdash;but
      I do know, that to love, as I would love, would be to yield not an iota to
      avarice, not one inch to vanity, not to sacrifice the slightest feeling to
      interest or to ambition; but to give up all to fidelity of heart and
      reciprocal affection."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And how many women, think you, are capable of feeling such disinterested
      passion?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "More, by thousands, than there are men who merit it," answered Zarah.
      "Alas! how often do you see the female, pale, and wretched, and degraded,
      still following with patient constancy the footsteps of some predominating
      tyrant, and submitting to all his injustice with the endurance of a
      faithful and misused spaniel, which prizes a look from his master, though
      the surliest groom that ever disgraced humanity, more than all the
      pleasure which the world besides can furnish him? Think what such would be
      to one who merited and repaid her devotion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps the very reverse," said the Duke; "and for your simile, I can see
      little resemblance. I cannot charge my spaniel with any perfidy; but for
      my mistresses&mdash;to confess truth, I must always be in a cursed hurry
      if I would have the credit of changing them before they leave me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And they serve you but rightly, my lord," answered the lady; "for what
      are you?&mdash;Nay, frown not; for you must hear the truth for once.
      Nature has done its part, and made a fair outside, and courtly education
      hath added its share. You are noble, it is the accident of birth&mdash;handsome,
      it is the caprice of Nature&mdash;generous, because to give is more easy
      than to refuse&mdash;well-apparelled, it is to the credit of your tailor&mdash;well-natured
      in the main, because you have youth and health&mdash;brave, because to be
      otherwise were to be degraded&mdash;and witty, because you cannot help
      it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke darted a glance on one of the large mirrors. "Noble, and
      handsome, and court-like, generous, well-attired, good-humoured, brave,
      and witty!&mdash;You allow me more, madam, than I have the slightest
      pretension to, and surely enough to make my way, at some point at least,
      to female favour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have neither allowed you a heart nor a head," said Zarah calmly.&mdash;"Nay,
      never redden as if you would fly at me. I say not but nature may have
      given you both; but folly has confounded the one, and selfishness
      perverted the other. The man whom I call deserving the name is one whose
      thoughts and exertions are for others, rather than himself,&mdash;whose
      high purpose is adopted on just principles, and never abandoned while
      heaven or earth affords means of accomplishing it. He is one who will
      neither seek an indirect advantage by a specious road, nor take an evil
      path to gain a real good purpose. Such a man were one for whom a woman's
      heart should beat constant while he breathes, and break when he dies."
    </p>
    <p>
      She spoke with so much energy that the water sparkled in her eyes, and her
      cheek coloured with the vehemence of her feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak," said the Duke, "as if you had yourself a heart which could
      pay the full tribute to the merit which you describe so warmly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And have I not?" said she, laying her hand on her bosom. "Here beats one
      that would bear me out in what I have said, whether in life or in death."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Were it in my power," said the Duke, who began to get farther interested
      in his visitor than he could at first have thought possible&mdash;"Were it
      in my power to deserve such faithful attachment, methinks it should be my
      care to requite it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your wealth, your titles, your reputation as a gallant&mdash;all you
      possess, were too little to merit such sincere affection."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, fair lady," said the Duke, a good deal piqued, "do not be quite so
      disdainful. Bethink you, that if your love be as pure as coined gold,
      still a poor fellow like myself may offer you an equivalent in silver&mdash;The
      quantity of my affection must make up for its quality."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I am not carrying my affection to market, my lord; and therefore I
      need none of the base coin you offer in change for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How do I know that, my fairest?" said the Duke. "This is the realm of
      Paphos&mdash;You have invaded it, with what purpose you best know; but I
      think with none consistent with your present assumption of cruelty. Come,
      come&mdash;eyes that are so intelligent can laugh with delight, as well as
      gleam with scorn and anger. You are here a waif on Cupid's manor, and I
      must seize on you in name of the deity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not think of touching me, my lord," said the lady. "Approach me not,
      if you would hope to learn the purpose of my being here. Your Grace may
      suppose yourself a Solomon if you please, but I am no travelling princess,
      come from distant climes, either to flatter your pride, or wonder at your
      glory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A defiance, by Jupiter!" said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You mistake the signal," said the 'dark ladye'; "I came not here without
      taking sufficient precautions for my retreat."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You mouth it bravely," said the Duke; "but never fortress so boasted its
      resources but the garrison had some thoughts of surrender. Thus I open the
      first parallel."
    </p>
    <p>
      They had been hitherto divided from each other by a long narrow table,
      which, placed in the recess of the large casement we have mentioned, had
      formed a sort of barrier on the lady's side, against the adventurous
      gallant. The Duke went hastily to remove it as he spoke; but, attentive to
      all his motions, his visitor instantly darted through the half-open
      window. Buckingham uttered a cry of horror and surprise, having no doubt,
      at first, that she had precipitated herself from a height of at least
      fourteen feet; for so far the window was distant from the ground. But when
      he sprung to the spot, he perceived, to his astonishment, that she had
      effected her descent with equal agility and safety.
    </p>
    <p>
      The outside of this stately mansion was decorated with a quantity of
      carving, in the mixed state, betwixt the Gothic and Grecian styles, which
      marks the age of Elizabeth and her successor; and though the feat seemed a
      surprising one, the projections of these ornaments were sufficient to
      afford footing to a creature so light and active, even in her hasty
      descent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Inflamed alike by mortification and curiosity, Buckingham at first
      entertained some thought of following her by the same dangerous route, and
      had actually got upon the sill of the window for that purpose; and was
      contemplating what might be his next safe movement, when, from a
      neighbouring thicket of shrubs, amongst which his visitor had disappeared,
      he heard her chant a verse of a comic song, then much in fashion,
      concerning a despairing lover who had recourse to a precipice&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "But when he came near,
    Beholding how steep
  The sides did appear,
    And the bottom how deep;
  Though his suit was rejected,
    He sadly reflected,
  That a lover forsaken
    A new love may get;
  But a neck that's once broken
    Can never be set."
</pre>
    <p>
      The Duke could not help laughing, though much against his will, at the
      resemblance which the verses bore to his own absurd situation, and,
      stepping back into the apartment, desisted from an attempt which might
      have proved dangerous as well as ridiculous. He called his attendants, and
      contented himself with watching the little thicket, unwilling to think
      that a female, who had thrown herself in a great measure into his way,
      meant absolutely to mortify him by a retreat.
    </p>
    <p>
      That question was determined in an instant. A form, wrapped in a mantle,
      with a slouched hat and shadowy plume, issued from the bushes, and was
      lost in a moment amongst the ruins of ancient and of modern buildings,
      with which, as we have already stated, the demesne formerly termed York
      House, was now encumbered in all directions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke's servants, who had obeyed his impatient summons, were hastily
      directed to search for this tantalising siren in every direction. Their
      master, in the meantime, eager and vehement in every new pursuit, but
      especially when his vanity was piqued, encouraged their diligence by
      bribes, and threats, and commands. All was in vain. They found nothing of
      the Mauritanian Princess, as she called herself, but the turban and the
      veil; both of which she had left in the thicket, together with her satin
      slippers; which articles, doubtless, she had thrown aside as she exchanged
      them for others less remarkable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finding all his search in vain, the Duke of Buckingham, after the example
      of spoiled children of all ages and stations, gave a loose to the frantic
      vehemence of passion; and fiercely he swore vengeance on his late visitor,
      whom he termed by a thousand opprobrious epithets, of which the elegant
      phrase "Jilt" was most frequently repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even Jerningham, who knew the depths and the shallows of his master's
      mood, and was bold to fathom them at almost every state of his passions,
      kept out of his way on the present occasion; and, cabineted with the pious
      old housekeeper, declared to her, over a bottle of ratafia, that, in his
      apprehension, if his Grace did not learn to put some control on his
      temper, chains, darkness, straw, and Bedlam, would be the final doom of
      the gifted and admired Duke of Buckingham.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XL
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            &mdash;&mdash;Contentious fierce,
            Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.
                                                    &mdash;ALBION.
</pre>
    <p>
      The quarrels between man and wife are proverbial; but let not these honest
      folks think that connections of a less permanent nature are free from
      similar jars. The frolic of the Duke of Buckingham, and the subsequent
      escape of Alice Bridgenorth, had kindled fierce dissension in Chiffinch's
      family, when, on his arrival in town, he learned these two stunning
      events: "I tell you," he said to his obliging helpmate, who seemed but
      little moved by all that he could say on the subject, "that your d&mdash;d
      carelessness has ruined the work of years."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think it is the twentieth time you have said so," replied the dame;
      "and without such frequent assurance, I was quite ready to believe that a
      very trifling matter would overset any scheme of yours, however long
      thought of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How on earth could you have the folly to let the Duke into the house when
      you expected the King?" said the irritated courtier.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lord, Chiffinch," answered the lady, "ought not you to ask the porter
      rather than me, that sort of question?&mdash;I was putting on my cap to
      receive his Majesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With the address of a madge-howlet," said Chiffinch, "and in the
      meanwhile you gave the cat the cream to keep."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed, Chiffinch," said the lady, "these jaunts to the country do render
      you excessively vulgar! there is a brutality about your very boots! nay,
      your muslin ruffles, being somewhat soiled, give to your knuckles a sort
      of rural rusticity, as I may call it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It were a good deed," muttered Chiffinch, "to make both boots and
      knuckles bang the folly and affectation out of thee." Then speaking aloud,
      he added, like a man who would fain break off an argument, by extorting
      from his adversary a confession that he has reason on his side, "I am
      sure, Kate, you must be sensible that our all depends on his Majesty's
      pleasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave that to me," said she; "I know how to pleasure his Majesty better
      than you can teach me. Do you think his Majesty is booby enough to cry
      like a schoolboy because his sparrow has flown away? His Majesty has
      better taste. I am surprised at you, Chiffinch," she added, drawing
      herself up, "who were once thought to know the points of a fine woman,
      that you should have made such a roaring about this country wench. Why,
      she has not even the country quality of being plump as a barn-door fowl,
      but is more like a Dunstable lark, that one must crack bones and all if
      you would make a mouthful of it. What signifies whence she came, or where
      she goes? There will be those behind that are much more worthy of his
      Majesty's condescending attention, even when the Duchess of Portsmouth
      takes the frumps."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You mean your neighbour, Mistress Nelly," said her worthy helpmate; "but
      Kate, her date is out. Wit she has, let her keep herself warm with it in
      worse company, for the cant of a gang of strollers is not language for a
      prince's chamber."[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] In Evelyn's Memoirs is the following curious passage respecting
    Nell Gwyn, who is hinted at in the text:&mdash;"I walked with him [King
    Charles II.] through Saint James Park to the garden, where I both
    saw and heard a very familiar discourse between... [<i>the King</i>]
    and Mrs. Nelly, as they called her, an intimate comedian, she
    looking out of her garden on a terrace at the top of the wall, and
    [<i>the King</i>] standing on the green walk under it. I was heartily
    sorry at this scene."&mdash;EVELYN'S <i>Memoirs</i>, vol. i. p.413.
</pre>
    <p>
      "It is no matter what I mean, or whom I mean," said Mrs. Chiffinch; "but I
      tell you, Tom Chiffinch, that you will find your master quite consoled for
      loss of the piece of prudish puritanism that you would need saddle him
      with; as if the good man were not plagued enough with them in Parliament,
      but you must, forsooth, bring them into his very bedchamber."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Kate," said Chiffinch, "if a man were to speak all the sense of the
      seven wise masters, a woman would find nonsense enough to overwhelm him
      with; so I shall say no more, but that I would to Heaven I may find the
      King in no worse humour than you describe him. I am commanded to attend
      him down the river to the Tower to-day, where he is to make some survey of
      arms and stores. They are clever fellows who contrive to keep Rowley from
      engaging in business, for, by my word, he has a turn for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I warrant you," said Chiffinch the female, nodding, but rather to her own
      figure, reflected from a mirror, than to her politic husband,&mdash;"I
      warrant you we will find means of occupying him that will sufficiently
      fill up his time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my honour, Kate," said the male Chiffinch, "I find you strangely
      altered, and, to speak truth, grown most extremely opinionative. I shall
      be happy if you have good reason for your confidence."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dame smiled superciliously, but deigned no other answer, unless this
      were one,&mdash;"I shall order a boat to go upon the Thames to-day with
      the royal party."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take care what you do, Kate; there are none dare presume so far but women
      of the first rank. Duchess of Bolton&mdash;of Buckingham&mdash;of&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who cares for a list of names? why may not I be as forward as the
      greatest B. amongst your string of them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, faith, thou mayest match the greatest B. in Court already," answered
      Chiffinch; "so e'en take thy own course of it. But do not let Chaubert
      forget to get some collation ready, and a <i>souper au petit couvert</i>,
      in case it should be commanded for the evening."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, there your boasted knowledge of Court matters begins and ends.&mdash;Chiffinch,
      Chaubert, and Company;&mdash;dissolve that partnership, and you break Tom
      Chiffinch for a courtier."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Amen, Kate," replied Chiffinch; "and let me tell you it is as safe to
      rely on another person's fingers as on our own wit. But I must give orders
      for the water.&mdash;If you will take the pinnace, there are the
      cloth-of-gold cushions in the chapel may serve to cover the benches for
      the day. They are never wanted where they lie, so you may make free with
      them too."
    </p>
    <p>
      Madam Chiffinch accordingly mingled with the flotilla which attended the
      King on his voyage down the Thames, amongst whom was the Queen, attended
      by some of the principal ladies of the Court. The little plump Cleopatra,
      dressed to as much advantage as her taste could devise, and seated upon
      her embroidered cushions like Venus in her shell, neglected nothing that
      effrontery and minauderie could perform to draw upon herself some portion
      of the King's observation; but Charles was not in the vein, and did not
      even pay her the slightest passing attention of any kind, until her
      boatmen having ventured to approach nearer to the Queen's barge than
      etiquette permitted, received a peremptory order to back their oars, and
      fall out of the royal procession. Madam Chiffinch cried for spite, and
      transgressed Solomon's warning, by cursing the King in her heart; but had
      no better course than to return to Westminster, and direct Chaubert's
      preparations for the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime the royal barge paused at the Tower; and, accompanied by a
      laughing train of ladies and of courtiers, the gay Monarch made the echoes
      of the old prison-towers ring with the unwonted sounds of mirth and
      revelry. As they ascended from the river-side to the centre of the
      building, where the fine old keep of William the Conqueror, called the
      White Tower, predominates over the exterior defences, Heaven only knows
      how many gallant jests, good or bad, were run on the comparison of his
      Majesty's state-prison to that of Cupid, and what killing similes were
      drawn between the ladies' eyes and the guns of the fortress, which, spoken
      with a fashionable congée, and listened to with a smile from a fair lady,
      formed the fine conversations of the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      This gay swarm of flutterers did not, however, attend close on the King's
      person, though they had accompanied him upon his party on the river.
      Charles, who often formed manly and sensible resolutions, though he was
      too easily diverted from them by indolence or pleasure, had some desire to
      make himself personally acquainted with the state of the military stores,
      arms, &amp;c. of which the Tower was then, as now, the magazine; and,
      although he had brought with him the usual number of his courtiers, only
      three or four attended him on the scrutiny which he intended. Whilst,
      therefore, the rest of the train amused themselves as they might in other
      parts of the Tower, the King, accompanied by the Dukes of Buckingham,
      Ormond, and one or two others, walked through the well-known hall, in
      which is preserved the most splendid magazine of arms in the world, and
      which, though far from exhibiting its present extraordinary state of
      perfection, was even then an arsenal worthy of the great nation to which
      it belonged.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke of Ormond, well known for his services during the Great Civil
      War, was, as we have elsewhere noticed, at present rather on cold terms
      with his Sovereign, who nevertheless asked his advice on many occasions,
      and who required it on the present amongst others, when it was not a
      little feared that the Parliament, in their zeal for the Protestant
      religion, might desire to take the magazines of arms and ammunition under
      their own exclusive orders. While Charles sadly hinted at such a
      termination of the popular jealousies of the period, and discussed with
      Ormond the means of resisting, or evading it, Buckingham, falling a little
      behind, amused himself with ridiculing the antiquated appearance and
      embarrassed demeanour of the old warder who attended on the occasion, and
      who chanced to be the very same who escorted Julian Peveril to his present
      place of confinement. The Duke prosecuted his raillery with the greater
      activity, that he found the old man, though restrained by the place and
      presence, was rather upon the whole testy, and disposed to afford what
      sportsmen call <i>play</i> to his persecutor. The various pieces of
      ancient armour, with which the wall was covered, afforded the principal
      source of the Duke's wit, as he insisted upon knowing from the old man,
      who, he said, could best remember matters from the days of King Arthur
      downwards at the least, the history of the different warlike weapons, and
      anecdotes of the battles in which they had been wielded. The old man
      obviously suffered, when he was obliged, by repeated questions, to tell
      the legends (often sufficiently absurd) which the tradition of the place
      had assigned to particular relics. Far from flourishing his partisan, and
      augmenting the emphasis of his voice, as was and is the prevailing fashion
      of these warlike Ciceroni, it was scarcely possible to extort from him a
      single word concerning those topics on which their information is usually
      overflowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you know, my friend," said the Duke to him at last, "I begin to change
      my mind respecting you. I supposed you must have served as a Yeoman of the
      Guard since bluff King Henry's time, and expected to hear something from
      you about the Field of the Cloth of Gold,&mdash;and I thought of asking
      you the colour of Anne Bullen's breastknot, which cost the Pope three
      kingdoms; but I am afraid you are but a novice in such recollections of
      love and chivalry. Art sure thou didst not creep into thy warlike office
      from some dark shop in Tower-Hamlets, and that thou hast not converted an
      unlawful measuring-yard into that glorious halberd?&mdash;I warrant thou
      canst not even tell you whom this piece of antique panoply pertained to?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke pointed at random to a cuirass which hung amongst others, but was
      rather remarkable from being better cleansed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should know that piece of iron," said the warder bluntly, yet with some
      change in his voice; "for I have known a man within side of it who would
      not have endured half the impertinence I have heard spoken to-day."
    </p>
    <p>
      The tone of the old man, as well as the words, attracted the attention of
      Charles and the Duke of Ormond, who were only two steps before the
      speaker. They both stopped, and turned round; the former saying at the
      same time,&mdash;"how now, sirrah!&mdash;what answers are these?&mdash;What
      man do you speak of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of one who is none now," said the warder, "whatever he may have been."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The old man surely speaks of himself," said the Duke of Ormond, closely
      examining the countenance of the warder, which he in vain endeavoured to
      turn away. "I am sure I remember these features&mdash;Are not you my old
      friend, Major Coleby?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish your Grace's memory had been less accurate," said the old man,
      colouring deeply, and fixing his eyes on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King was greatly shocked.&mdash;"Good God!" he said, "the gallant
      Major Coleby, who joined us with his four sons and a hundred and fifty men
      at Warrington!&mdash;And is this all we could do for an old Worcester
      friend?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The tears rushed thick into the old man's eyes as he said in broken
      accents, "Never mind me, sire; I am well enough here&mdash;a worn-out
      soldier rusting among old armour. Where one old Cavalier is better, there
      are twenty worse.&mdash;I am sorry your Majesty should know anything of
      it, since it grieves you."
    </p>
    <p>
      With that kindness, which was a redeeming point of his character, Charles,
      while the old man was speaking, took the partisan from him with his own
      hand, and put it into that of Buckingham, saying, "What Coleby's hand has
      borne, can disgrace neither yours nor mine,&mdash;and you owe him this
      atonement. Time has been with him, that, for less provocation, he would
      have laid it about your ears."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke bowed deeply, but coloured with resentment, and took an immediate
      opportunity to place the weapon carelessly against a pile of arms. The
      King did not observe a contemptuous motion, which, perhaps, would not have
      pleased him, being at the moment occupied with the veteran, whom he
      exhorted to lean upon him, as he conveyed him to a seat, permitting no
      other person to assist him. "Rest there," he said, "my brave old friend;
      and Charles Stewart must be poor indeed, if you wear that dress an hour
      longer.&mdash;You look very pale, my good Coleby, to have had so much
      colour a few minutes since. Be not vexed at what Buckingham says; no one
      minds his folly.&mdash;You look worse and worse. Come, come, you are too
      much hurried by this meeting. Sit still&mdash;do not rise&mdash;do not
      attempt to kneel. I command you to repose yourself till I have made the
      round of these apartments."
    </p>
    <p>
      The old Cavalier stooped his head in token of acquiescence in the command
      of his Sovereign, but he raised it not again. The tumultuous agitation of
      the moment had been too much for spirits which had been long in a state of
      depression, and health which was much decayed. When the King and his
      attendants, after half-an-hour's absence, returned to the spot where they
      had left the veteran, they found him dead, and already cold, in the
      attitude of one who has fallen easily asleep. The King was dreadfully
      shocked; and it was with a low and faltering voice that he directed the
      body, in due time, to be honourably buried in the chapel of the Tower.[*]
      He was then silent, until he attained the steps in front of the arsenal,
      where the party in attendance upon his person began to assemble at his
      approach, along with some other persons of respectable appearance, whom
      curiosity had attracted.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] A story of this nature is current in the legends of the Tower. The
    affecting circumstances are, I believe, recorded in one of the
    little manuals which are put into the hands of visitors, but are
    not to be found in the later editions.
</pre>
    <p>
      "This is dreadful," said the King. "We must find some means of relieving
      the distresses, and rewarding the fidelity of our suffering followers, or
      posterity will cry fie upon our memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Majesty has had often such plans agitated in your Council," said
      Buckingham.
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, George," said the King. "I can safely say it is not my fault. I
      have thought of it for years."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It cannot be too well considered," said Buckingham; "besides, every year
      makes the task of relief easier."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said the Duke of Ormond, "by diminishing the number of sufferers.
      Here is poor old Coleby will no longer be a burden to the Crown."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are too severe, my Lord of Ormond," said the King, "and should
      respect the feelings you trespass on. You cannot suppose that we would
      have permitted this poor man to hold such a situation, had we known of the
      circumstances?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For God's sake, then, sire," said the Duke of Ormond, "turn your eyes,
      which have just rested on the corpse of one old friend, upon the
      distresses of others. Here is the valiant old Sir Geoffrey Peveril of the
      Peak, who fought through the whole war, wherever blows were going, and was
      the last man, I believe, in England, who laid down his arms&mdash;Here is
      his son, of whom I have the highest accounts, as a gallant of spirit,
      accomplishments, and courage&mdash;Here is the unfortunate House of Derby&mdash;for
      pity's sake, interfere in behalf of these victims, whom the folds of this
      hydra-plot have entangled, in order to crush them to death&mdash;rebuke
      the fiends that are seeking to devour their lives, and disappoint the
      harpies that are gaping for their property. This very day seven-night the
      unfortunate family, father and son, are to be brought upon trial for
      crimes of which they are as guiltless, I boldly pronounce, as any who
      stand in this presence. For God's sake, sire, let us hope that, should the
      prejudices of the people condemn them, as it has done others, you will at
      last step in between the blood-hunters and their prey."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King looked, as he really was, exceedingly perplexed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham, between whom and Ormond there existed a constant and almost
      mortal quarrel, interfered to effect a diversion in Charles's favour.
      "Your Majesty's royal benevolence," he said, "needs never want exercise,
      while the Duke of Ormond is near your person. He has his sleeve cut in the
      old and ample fashion, that he may always have store of ruined cavaliers
      stowed in it to produce at demand, rare old raw-boned boys, with Malmsey
      noses, bald heads, spindle shanks, and merciless histories of Edgehill and
      Naseby."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My sleeve is, I dare say, of an antique cut," said Ormond, looking full
      at the Duke; "but I pin neither bravoes nor ruffians upon it, my Lord of
      Buckingham, as I see fastened to coats of the new mode."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is a little too sharp for our presence, my lord," said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not if I make my words good," said Ormond.&mdash;"My Lord of Buckingham,
      will you name the man you spoke to as you left the boat?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I spoke to no one," said the Duke hastily&mdash;"nay, I mistake, I
      remember a fellow whispered in my ear, that one, who I thought had left
      London was still lingering in town. A person whom I had business with."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Was yon the messenger?" said Ormond, singling out from the crowd who
      stood in the court-yard a tall dark-looking man, muffled in a large cloak,
      wearing a broad shadowy black beaver hat, with a long sword of the Spanish
      fashion&mdash;the very Colonel, in short, whom Buckingham had despatched
      in quest of Christian, with the intention of detaining him in the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Buckingham's eyes had followed the direction of Ormond's finger, he
      could not help blushing so deeply as to attract the King's attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What new frolic is this, George?" he said. "Gentlemen, bring that fellow
      forward. On my life, a truculent-looking caitiff&mdash;Hark ye, friend,
      who are you? If an honest man, Nature has forgot to label it upon your
      countenance.&mdash;Does none here know him?
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 'With every symptom of a knave complete,
  If he be honest, he's a devilish cheat.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      "He is well known to many, sire," replied Ormond; "and that he walks in
      this area with his neck safe, and his limbs unshackled, is an instance,
      amongst many, that we live under the sway of the most merciful Prince of
      Europe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oddsfish! who is the man, my Lord Duke?" said the King. "Your Grace talks
      mysteries&mdash;Buckingham blushes&mdash;and the rogue himself is dumb."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That honest gentleman, please your Majesty," replied the Duke of Ormond,
      "whose modesty makes him mute, though it cannot make him blush, is the
      notorious Colonel Blood, as he calls himself, whose attempt to possess
      himself of your Majesty's royal crown took place at no very distant date,
      in this very Tower of London."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That exploit is not easily forgotten," said the King; "but that the
      fellow lives, shows your Grace's clemency as well as mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot deny that I was in his hands, sire," said Ormond, "and had
      certainly been murdered by him, had he chosen to take my life on the spot,
      instead of destining me&mdash;I thank him for the honour&mdash;to be
      hanged at Tyburn. I had certainly been sped, if he had thought me worth
      knife or pistol, or anything short of the cord.&mdash;Look at him sire! If
      the rascal dared, he would say at this moment, like Caliban in the play,
      'Ho, ho, I would I had done it!'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, oddsfish!" answered the King, "he hath a villainous sneer, my lord,
      which seems to say as much; but, my Lord Duke, we have pardoned him, and
      so has your Grace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would ill have become me," said the Duke of Ormond, "to have been
      severe in prosecuting an attempt on my poor life, when your Majesty was
      pleased to remit his more outrageous and insolent attempt upon your royal
      crown. But I must conceive it as a piece of supreme insolence on the part
      of this bloodthirsty bully, by whomsoever he may be now backed, to appear
      in the Tower, which was the theatre of one of his villainies, or before
      me, who was well-nigh the victim of another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It shall be amended in future," said the King.&mdash;"Hark ye, sirrah
      Blood, if you again presume to thrust yourself in the way you have done
      but now, I will have the hangman's knife and your knavish ears made
      acquainted."
    </p>
    <p>
      Blood bowed, and with a coolness of impudence which did his nerves great
      honour, he said he had only come to the Tower accidentally, to communicate
      with a particular friend on business of importance. "My Lord Duke of
      Buckingham," he said, "knew he had no other intentions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Get you gone, you scoundrelly cut-throat," said the Duke, as much
      impatient of Colonel Blood's claim of acquaintance, as a town-rake of the
      low and blackguard companions of his midnight rambles, when they accost
      him in daylight amidst better company; "if you dare to quote my name
      again, I will have you thrown into the Thames."
    </p>
    <p>
      Blood, thus repulsed, turned round with the most insolent composure, and
      walked away down from the parade, all men looking at him, as at some
      strange and monstrous prodigy, so much was he renowned for daring and
      desperate villainy. Some even followed him, to have a better survey of the
      notorious Colonel Blood, like the smaller tribe of birds which keep
      fluttering round an owl when he appears in the light of the sun. But as,
      in the latter case, these thoughtless flutterers are careful to keep out
      of reach of the beak and claws of the bird of Minerva, so none of those
      who followed and gazed on Blood as something ominous, cared to bandy looks
      with him, or to endure and return the lowering and deadly glances, which
      he shot from time to time on those who pressed nearest to him. He stalked
      on in this manner, like a daunted, yet sullen wolf, afraid to stop, yet
      unwilling to fly, until he reached the Traitor's Gate, and getting on
      board a sculler which waited for him, he disappeared from their eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles would fain have obliterated all recollection of his appearance, by
      the observation, "It were a shame that such a reprobate scoundrel should
      be the subject of discord between two noblemen of distinction;" and he
      recommended to the Dukes of Buckingham and Ormond to join hands, and
      forget a misunderstanding which rose on so unworthy a subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham answered carelessly, "That the Duke of Ormond's honoured white
      hairs were a sufficient apology for his making the first overtures to a
      reconciliation," and he held out his hand accordingly. But Ormond only
      bowed in return, and said, "The King had no cause to expect that the Court
      would be disturbed by his personal resentments, since time would not yield
      him back twenty years, nor the grave restore his gallant son Ossory. As to
      the ruffian who had intruded himself there, he was obliged to him, since,
      by showing that his Majesty's clemency extended even to the very worst of
      criminals, he strengthened his hopes of obtaining the King's favour for
      such of his innocent friends as were now in prison, and in danger, from
      the odious charges brought against them on the score of the Popish Plot."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King made no other answer to this insinuation, than by directing that
      the company should embark for their return to Whitehall; and thus took
      leave of the officers of the Tower who were in attendance, with one of
      those well-turned compliments to their discharge of duty, which no man
      knew better how to express; and issued at the same time strict and anxious
      orders for protection and defence of the important fortress confided to
      them, and all which it contained.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before he parted with Ormond on their arrival at Whitehall, he turned
      round to him, as one who has made up his resolution, and said, "Be
      satisfied, my Lord Duke&mdash;our friends' case shall be looked to."
    </p>
    <p>
      In the same evening the Attorney-General, and North, Lord Chief Justice of
      the Common Pleas, had orders with all secrecy, to meet his Majesty that
      evening on especial matters of state, at the apartments of Chiffinch, the
      centre of all affairs, whether of gallantry or business.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            Yet, Corah, thou shalt from oblivion pass;
            Erect thyself, thou monumental brass,
            High as the serpent of thy metal made,
            While nations stand secure beneath thy shade.
                                       &mdash;ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.
</pre>
    <p>
      The morning which Charles had spent in visiting the Tower, had been very
      differently employed by those unhappy individuals, whom their bad fate,
      and the singular temper of the times, had made the innocent tenants of
      that state prison, and who had received official notice that they were to
      stand their trial in the Court of Queen's Bench at Westminster, on the
      seventh succeeding day. The stout old Cavalier at first only railed at the
      officer for spoiling his breakfast with the news, but evinced great
      feeling when he was told that Julian was to be put under the same
      indictment.
    </p>
    <p>
      We intend to dwell only very generally on the nature of their trial, which
      corresponded, in the outline, with almost all those which took place
      during the prevalence of the Popish Plot. That is, one or two infamous and
      perjured evidences, whose profession of common informers had become
      frightfully lucrative, made oath to the prisoners having expressed
      themselves interested in the great confederacy of the Catholics. A number
      of others brought forward facts or suspicions, affecting the character of
      the parties as honest Protestants and good subjects; and betwixt the
      direct and presumptive evidence, enough was usually extracted for
      justifying, to a corrupted court and perjured jury, the fatal verdict of
      Guilty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fury of the people had, however, now begun to pass away, exhausted
      even by its own violence. The English nation differ from all others,
      indeed even from those of the sister kingdoms, in being very easily sated
      with punishment, even when they suppose it most merited. Other nations are
      like the tamed tiger, which, when once its native appetite for slaughter
      is indulged in one instance, rushes on in promiscuous ravages. But the
      English public have always rather resembled what is told of the
      sleuth-dog, which, eager, fierce, and clamorous in pursuit of his prey,
      desists from it so soon as blood is sprinkled upon his path.
    </p>
    <p>
      Men's minds were now beginning to cool&mdash;the character of the
      witnesses was more closely sifted&mdash;their testimonies did not in all
      cases tally&mdash;and a wholesome suspicion began to be entertained of
      men, who would never say they had made a full discovery of all they knew,
      but avowedly reserved some points of evidence to bear on future trials.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King also, who had lain passive during the first burst of popular
      fury, was now beginning to bestir himself, which produced a marked effect
      on the conduct of the Crown Counsel, and even the Judges. Sir George
      Wakeman had been acquitted in spite of Oates's direct testimony; and
      public attention was strongly excited concerning the event of the next
      trial; which chanced to be that of the Peverils, father and son, with
      whom, I know not from what concatenation, little Hudson the dwarf was
      placed at the bar of the Court of King's Bench.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a piteous sight to behold a father and son, who had been so long
      separated, meet under circumstances so melancholy; and many tears were
      shed, when the majestic old man&mdash;for such he was, though now broken
      with years&mdash;folded his son to his bosom, with a mixture of joy,
      affection, and a bitter anticipation of the event of the impending trial.
      There was a feeling in the Court that for a moment overcame every
      prejudice and party feeling. Many spectators shed tears; and there was
      even a low moaning, as of those who weep aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such as felt themselves sufficiently at ease to remark the conduct of poor
      little Geoffrey Hudson, who was scarcely observed amid the preponderating
      interest created by his companions in misfortune, could not but notice a
      strong degree of mortification on the part of that diminutive gentleman.
      He had soothed his great mind by the thoughts of playing the character
      which he was called on to sustain, in a manner which should be long
      remembered in that place; and on his entrance, had saluted the numerous
      spectators, as well as the Court, with a cavalier air, which he meant
      should express grace, high-breeding, perfect coolness, with a noble
      disregard to the issue of their proceedings. But his little person was so
      obscured and jostled aside, on the meeting of the father and son, who had
      been brought in different boats from the Tower, and placed at the bar at
      the same moment, that his distress and his dignity were alike thrown into
      the background, and attracted neither sympathy nor admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf's wisest way to attract attention would have been to remain
      quiet, when so remarkable an exterior would certainly have received in its
      turn the share of public notice which he so eagerly coveted. But when did
      personal vanity listen to the suggestions of prudence?&mdash;Our impatient
      friend scrambled, with some difficulty, on the top of the bench intended
      for his seat; and there, "paining himself to stand a-tiptoe," like
      Chaucer's gallant Sir Chaunticlere, he challenged the notice of the
      audience as he stood bowing and claiming acquaintance of his namesake Sir
      Geoffrey the larger, with whose shoulders, notwithstanding his elevated
      situation, he was scarcely yet upon a level.
    </p>
    <p>
      The taller Knight, whose mind was occupied in a very different manner,
      took no notice of these advances upon the dwarf's part, but sat down with
      the determination rather to die on the spot than evince any symptoms of
      weakness before Roundheads and Presbyterians; under which obnoxious
      epithets, being too old-fashioned to find out party designations of newer
      date, he comprehended all persons concerned in his present trouble.
    </p>
    <p>
      By Sir Geoffrey the larger's change of position, his face was thus brought
      on a level with that of Sir Geoffrey the less, who had an opportunity of
      pulling him by the cloak. He of Martindale Castle, rather mechanically
      than consciously, turned his head towards the large wrinkled visage,
      which, struggling between an assumed air of easy importance, and an
      anxious desire to be noticed, was grimacing within a yard of him. But
      neither the singular physiognomy, the nods and smiles of greeting and
      recognition into which it was wreathed, nor the strange little form by
      which it was supported, had at that moment the power of exciting any
      recollections in the old Knight's mind; and having stared for a moment at
      the poor little man, his bulky namesake turned away his head without
      farther notice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian Peveril, the dwarf's more recent acquaintance, had, even amid his
      own anxious feelings, room for sympathy with those of his little
      fellow-sufferer. As soon as he discovered that he was at the same terrible
      bar with himself, although he could not conceive how their causes came to
      be conjoined, he acknowledged him by a hearty shake of the hand, which the
      old man returned with affected dignity and real gratitude. "Worthy youth,"
      he said, "thy presence is restorative, like the nepenthe of Homer even in
      this syncopé of our mutual fate. I am concerned to see that your father
      hath not the same alacrity of soul as that of ours, which are lodged
      within smaller compass; and that he hath forgotten an ancient comrade and
      fellow-soldier, who now stands beside him to perform, perhaps, their last
      campaign."
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian briefly replied, that his father had much to occupy him. But the
      little man&mdash;who, to do him justice, cared no more (in his own phrase)
      for imminent danger or death, than he did for the puncture of a flea's
      proboscis&mdash;did not so easily renounce the secret object of his
      ambition, which was to acquire the notice of the large and lofty Sir
      Geoffrey Peveril, who, being at least three inches taller than his son,
      was in so far possessed of that superior excellence, which the poor dwarf,
      in his secret soul, valued before all other distinctions, although in his
      conversation, he was constantly depreciating it. "Good comrade and
      namesake," he proceeded, stretching out his hand, so as to again to reach
      the elder Peveril's cloak, "I forgive your want of reminiscence, seeing it
      is long since I saw you at Naseby, fighting as if you had as many arms as
      the fabled Briareus."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of Martindale, who had again turned his head towards the little
      man, and had listened, as if endeavouring to make something out of his
      discourse, here interrupted him with a peevish, "Pshaw!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw!" repeated Sir Geoffrey the less; "<i>Pshaw</i> is an expression of
      slight esteem,&mdash;nay, of contempt,&mdash;in all languages; and were
      this a befitting place&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Judges had now taken their places, the criers called silence, and
      the stern voice of the Lord Chief Justice (the notorious Scroggs) demanded
      what the officers meant by permitting the accused to communicate together
      in open court.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may here be observed, that this celebrated personage was, upon the
      present occasion, at a great loss how to proceed. A calm, dignified,
      judicial demeanour, was at no time the characteristic of his official
      conduct. He always ranted and roared either on the one side or the other;
      and of late, he had been much unsettled which side to take, being totally
      incapable of anything resembling impartiality. At the first trials for the
      Plot, when the whole stream of popularity ran against the accused, no one
      had been so loud as Scroggs; to attempt to the character of Oates or
      Bedloe, or any other leading witnesses, he treated as a crime more heinous
      than it would have been to blaspheme the Gospel on which they had been
      sworn&mdash;it was a stifling of the Plot, or discrediting of the King's
      witnesses&mdash;a crime not greatly, if at all, short of high treason
      against the King himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, of late, a new light had begun to glimmer upon the understanding of
      this interpreter of the laws. Sagacious in the signs of the times, he
      began to see that the tide was turning; and that Court favour at least,
      and probably popular opinion also, were likely, in a short time, to
      declare against the witnesses, and in favour of the accused.
    </p>
    <p>
      The opinion which Scroggs had hitherto entertained of the high respect in
      which Shaftesbury, the patron of the Plot, was held by Charles, had been
      definitely shaken by a whisper from his brother North to the following
      effect: "His Lordship has no more interest at Court than your footman."
    </p>
    <p>
      This notice, from a sure hand, and received but that morning, had put the
      Judge to a sore dilemma; for, however indifferent to actual consistency,
      he was most anxious to save appearances. He could not but recollect how
      violent he had been on former occasions in favour of these prosecutions;
      and being sensible at the same time that the credit of the witnesses,
      though shaken in the opinion of the more judicious, was, amongst the bulk
      of the people out of doors, as strong as ever, he had a difficult part to
      play. His conduct, therefore, during the whole trial, resembled the
      appearance of a vessel about to go upon another tack, when her sails are
      shivering in the wind, ere they have yet caught the impulse which is to
      send her forth in a new direction. In a word, he was so uncertain which
      side it was his interest to favour, that he might be said on that occasion
      to have come nearer a state of total impartiality than he was ever capable
      of attaining, whether before or afterwards. This was shown by his bullying
      now the accused, and now the witnesses, like a mastiff too much irritated
      to lie still without baying, but uncertain whom he shall first bite.
    </p>
    <p>
      The indictment was then read; and Sir Geoffrey Peveril heard, with some
      composure, the first part of it, which stated him to have placed his son
      in the household of the Countess of Derby, a recusant Papist, for the
      purpose of aiding the horrible and bloodthirsty Popish Plot&mdash;with
      having had arms and ammunition concealed in his house&mdash;and with
      receiving a blank commission from the Lord Stafford, who had suffered
      death on account of the Plot. But when the charge went on to state that he
      had communicated for the same purpose with Geoffrey Hudson, sometimes
      called Sir Geoffrey Hudson, now, or formerly in the domestic service of
      the Queen Dowager, he looked at his companion as if he suddenly recalled
      him to remembrance, and broke out impatiently, "These lies are too gross
      to require a moment's consideration. I might have had enough of
      intercourse, though in nothing but what was loyal and innocent, with my
      noble kinsman, the late Lord Stafford&mdash;I will call him so in spite of
      his misfortunes&mdash;and with my wife's relation, the Honourable Countess
      of Derby. But what likelihood can there be that I should have colleagued
      with a decrepit buffoon, with whom I never had an instant's communication,
      save once at an Easter feast, when I whistled a hornpipe, as he danced on
      a trencher to amuse the company?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The rage of the poor dwarf brought tears in his eyes, while, with an
      affected laugh, he said, that instead of those juvenile and festive
      passages, Sir Geoffrey Peveril might have remembered his charging along
      with him at Wiggan Lane.
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my word," said Sir Geoffrey, after a moment's recollection, "I will do
      you justice, Master Hudson&mdash;I believe you were there&mdash;I think I
      heard you did good service. But you will allow you might have been near
      one without his seeing you."
    </p>
    <p>
      A sort of titter ran through the Court at the simplicity of the larger Sir
      Geoffrey's testimony, which the dwarf endeavoured to control, by standing
      on his tiptoes, and looking fiercely around, as if to admonish the
      laughers that they indulged their mirth at their own peril. But perceiving
      that this only excited farther scorn, he composed himself into a semblance
      of careless contempt, observing, with a smile, that no one feared the
      glance of a chained lion; a magnificent simile, which rather increased
      than diminished the mirth of those who heard it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Against Julian Peveril there failed not to be charged the aggravated fact,
      that he had been bearer of letters between the Countess of Derby and other
      Papists and priests, engaged in the universal treasonable conspiracy of
      the Catholics; and the attack of the house at Moultrassie Hall,&mdash;with
      his skirmish with Chiffinch, and his assault, as it was termed, on the
      person of John Jenkins, servant to the Duke of Buckingham, were all
      narrated at length, as so many open and overt acts of treasonable import.
      To this charge Peveril contented himself with pleading&mdash;Not Guilty.
    </p>
    <p>
      His little companion was not satisfied with so simple a plea; for when he
      heard it read, as a part of the charge applying to him, that he had
      received from an agent of the Plot a blank commission as Colonel of a
      regiment of grenadiers, he replied, in wrath and scorn, that if Goliath of
      Gath had come to him with such a proposal, and proffered him the command
      of the whole sons of Anak in a body, he should never have had occasion or
      opportunity to repeat the temptation to another. "I would have slain him,"
      said the little man of loyalty, "even where he stood."
    </p>
    <p>
      The charge was stated anew by the Counsel for the Crown; and forth came
      the notorious Doctor Oates, rustling in the full silken canonicals of
      priesthood, for it was a time when he affected no small dignity of
      exterior decoration and deportment.
    </p>
    <p>
      This singular man, who, aided by the obscure intrigues of the Catholics
      themselves, and the fortuitous circumstance of Godfrey's murder, had been
      able to cram down the public throat such a mass of absurdity as his
      evidence amounts to, had no other talent for imposture than an impudence
      which set conviction and shame alike at defiance. A man of sense or
      reflection, by trying to give his plot an appearance of more probability,
      would most likely have failed, as wise men often to do in addressing the
      multitude, from not daring to calculate upon the prodigious extent of
      their credulity, especially where the figments presented to them involve
      the fearful and the terrible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oates was by nature choleric; and the credit he had acquired made him
      insolent and conceited. Even his exterior was portentous. A fleece of
      white periwig showed a most uncouth visage, of great length, having the
      mouth, as the organ by use of which he was to rise to eminence, placed in
      the very centre of the countenance, and exhibiting to the astonished
      spectator as much chin below as there was nose and brow above the
      aperture. His pronunciation, too, was after a conceited fashion of his
      own, in which he accented the vowels in a manner altogether peculiar to
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      This notorious personage, such as we have described him, stood forth on
      the present trial, and delivered his astonishing testimony concerning the
      existence of a Catholic Plot for the subversion of the government and
      murder of the King, in the same general outline in which it may be found
      in every English history. But as the doctor always had in reserve some
      special piece of evidence affecting those immediately on trial, he was
      pleased, on the present occasion, deeply to inculpate the Countess of
      Derby. "He had seen," as he said, "that honourable lady when he was at the
      Jesuits' College at Saint Omer's. She had sent for him to an inn, or <i>auberge</i>,
      as it was there termed&mdash;the sign of the Golden Lamb; and had ordered
      him to breakfast in the same room with her ladyship; and afterwards told
      him, that, knowing he was trusted by the Fathers of the Society, she was
      determined that he should have a share of her secrets also; and
      therewithal, that she drew from her bosom a broad sharp-pointed knife,
      such as butchers kill sheep with, and demanded of him what he thought of
      it for <i>the purpose</i>; and when he, the witness, said for what purpose
      she rapt him on the fingers with her fan, called him a dull fellow, and
      said it was designed to kill the King with."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Sir Geoffrey Peveril could no longer refrain his indignation and
      surprise. "Mercy of Heaven!" he said, "did ever one hear of ladies of
      quality carrying butchering knives about them, and telling every scurvy
      companion she meant to kill the King with them?&mdash;Gentleman of the
      Jury, do but think if this is reasonable&mdash;though, if the villain
      could prove by any honest evidence, that my Lady of Derby ever let such a
      scum as himself come to speech of her, I would believe all he can say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Geoffrey," said the Judge, "rest you quiet&mdash;You must not fly out&mdash;passion
      helps you not here&mdash;the Doctor must be suffered to proceed."
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Oates went on to state how the lady complained of the wrongs the
      House of Derby had sustained from the King and the oppression of her
      religion, and boasted of the schemes of the Jesuits and seminary priests;
      and how they would be farthered by her noble kinsman of the House of
      Stanley. He finally averred that both the Countess and the Fathers of the
      seminary abroad, founded much upon the talents and courage of Sir Geoffrey
      Peveril and his son&mdash;the latter of whom was a member of her family.
      Of Hudson, he only recollected of having heard one of the Fathers say,
      that although but a dwarf in stature, he would prove a giant in the cause
      of the Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had ended his evidence, there was a pause, until the Judge, as if
      the thought had suddenly occurred to him, demanded of Dr. Oates, whether
      he had ever mentioned the names of the Countess of Derby in any of the
      previous informations which he had lodged before the Privy Council, and
      elsewhere, upon this affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oates seemed rather surprised at the question, and coloured with anger, as
      he answered, in his peculiar mode of pronunciation, "Whoy, no, maay
      laard."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And pray, Doctor," said the Judge, "how came so great a revealer of
      mysteries as you have lately proved, to have suffered so material a
      circumstance as the accession of this powerful family to the Plot to have
      remained undiscovered?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Maay laard," said Oates, with much effrontery, "aye do not come here to
      have my evidence questioned as touching the Plaat."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not question your evidence, Doctor," said Scroggs, for the time was
      not arrived that he dared treat him roughly; "nor do I doubt the existence
      of the <i>Plaat</i>, since it is your pleasure to swear to it. I would
      only have you, for your own sake, and the satisfaction of all good
      Protestants, to explain why you have kept back such a weighty point of
      information from the King and country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Maay laard," said Oates, "I will tell you a pretty fable."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hope," answered the Judge, "it may be the first and last which you
      shall tell in this place."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Maay laard," continued Oates, "there was once a faux, who having to carry
      a goose over a frazen river, and being afraid the aice would not bear him
      and his booty, did caarry aaver a staane, my laard, in the first instance,
      to prove the strength of the aice."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So your former evidence was but the stone, and now, for the first time,
      you have brought us the goose?" said Sir William Scroggs; "to tell us
      this, Doctor, is to make geese of the Court and Jury."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I desoire your laardship's honest construction," said Oates, who saw the
      current changing against him, but was determined to pay the score with
      effrontery. "All men knaw at what coast and praice I have given my
      evidence, which has been always, under Gaad, the means of awakening this
      poor naation to the dangerous state in which it staunds. Many here knaw
      that I have been obliged to faartify my ladging at Whitehall against the
      bloody Papists. It was not to be thought that I should have brought all
      the story out at aance. I think your wisdome would have advised me
      otherwise."[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] It was on such terms that Dr. Oates was pleased to claim the
    extraordinary privilege of dealing out the information which he
    chose to communicate to a court of justice. The only sense in
    which his story of the fox, stone, and goose could be applicable,
    is by supposing that he was determined to ascertain the extent of
    his countrymen's credulity before supplying it with a full meal.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Nay, Doctor," said the Judge, "it is not for me to direct you in this
      affair; and it is for the Jury to believe you or not; and as for myself, I
      sit here to do justice to both&mdash;the Jury have heard your answer to my
      question."
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Oates retired from the witness-box reddening like a turkey-cock, as
      one totally unused to have such accounts questioned as he chose to lay
      before the courts of justice; and there was, perhaps, for the first time,
      amongst the counsel and solicitors, as well as the templars and students
      of law there present, a murmur, distinct and audible, unfavourable to the
      character of the great father of the Popish Plot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everett and Dangerfield, with whom the reader is already acquainted, were
      then called in succession to sustain the accusation. They were subordinate
      informers&mdash;a sort of under-spur-leathers, as the cant term went&mdash;who
      followed the path of Oates, with all deference to his superior genius and
      invention, and made their own fictions chime in and harmonise with his, as
      well as their talents could devise. But as their evidence had at no time
      received the full credence into which the impudence of Oates had cajoled
      the public, so they now began to fall into discredit rather more hastily
      than their prototype, as the super-added turrets of an ill-constructed
      building are naturally the first to give way.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in vain that Everett, with the precision of a hypocrite, and
      Dangerfield, with the audacity of a bully, narrated, with added
      circumstances of suspicion and criminality, their meeting with Julian
      Peveril in Liverpool, and again at Martindale Castle. It was in vain they
      described the arms and accoutrements which they pretended to have
      discovered in old Sir Geoffrey's possession; and that they gave a most
      dreadful account of the escape of the younger Peveril from Moultrassie
      Hall, by means of an armed force.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Jury listened coldly, and it was visible that they were but little
      moved by the accusation; especially as the Judge, always professing his
      belief in the Plot, and his zeal for the Protestant religion, was ever and
      anon reminding them that presumptions were no proofs&mdash;that hearsay
      was no evidence&mdash;that those who made a trade of discovery were likely
      to aid their researches by invention&mdash;and that without doubting the
      guilt of the unfortunate persons at the bar, he would gladly hear some
      evidence brought against them of a different nature. "Here we are told of
      a riot, and an escape achieved by the younger Peveril, at the house of a
      grave and worthy magistrate, known, I think, to most of us. Why, Master
      Attorney, bring ye not Master Bridgenorth himself to prove the fact, or
      all his household, if it be necessary?&mdash;A rising in arms is an affair
      over public to be left on the hearsay tale of these two men&mdash;though
      Heaven forbid that I should suppose they speak one word more than they
      believe! They are the witnesses for the King&mdash;and, what is equally
      dear to us, the Protestant religion&mdash;and witnesses against a most
      foul and heathenish Plot. On the other hand, here is a worshipful old
      knight, for such I must suppose him to be, since he has bled often in
      battle for the King,&mdash;such, I must say, I suppose him to be, until he
      is proved otherwise. And here is his son, a hopeful young gentleman&mdash;we
      must see that they have right, Master Attorney."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Unquestionably, my lord," answered the Attorney. "God forbid else! But we
      will make out these matters against these unhappy gentlemen in a manner
      more close, if your lordship will permit us to bring in our evidence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go on, Master Attorney," said the Judge, throwing himself back in his
      seat. "Heaven forbid I hinder proving the King's accusation! I only say,
      what you know as well as I, that <i>de non apparentibus et non
      existentibus eadem est ratio</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We shall then call Master Bridgenorth, as your lordship advised, who I
      think is in waiting."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No!" answered a voice from the crowd, apparently that of a female; "he is
      too wise and too honest to be here."
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice was distinct as that of Lady Fairfax, when she expressed herself
      to a similar effect on the trial of Charles the First; but the researches
      which were made on the present occasion to discover the speaker were
      unsuccessful.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the slight confusion occasioned by this circumstance was abated, the
      Attorney, who had been talking aside with the conductors of the
      prosecution, said, "Whoever favoured us with that information, my lord,
      had good reason for what they said. Master Bridgenorth has become, I am
      told, suddenly invisible since this morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look you there now, Master Attorney," said the Judge&mdash;"This comes of
      not keeping the crown witnesses together and in readiness&mdash;I am sure
      I cannot help the consequences."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor I either, my lord," said the Attorney pettishly. "I could have proved
      by this worshipful gentleman, Master Justice Bridgenorth, the ancient
      friendship betwixt this party, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, and the Countess of
      Derby, of whose doings and intentions Dr. Oates has given such a
      deliberate evidence. I could have proved his having sheltered her in his
      Castle against a process of law, and rescued her, by force of arms, from
      this very Justice Bridgenorth, not without actual violence. Moreover, I
      could have proved against young Peveril the whole affray charged upon him
      by the same worshipful evidence."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the Judge stuck his thumbs into his girdle, which was a favourite
      attitude of his on such occasions, and exclaimed, "Pshaw, pshaw, Master
      Attorney!&mdash;Tell me not that you <i>could</i> have proved that, or
      that, or this&mdash;Prove what you will, but let it be through the mouths
      of your evidence. Men are not to be licked out of their lives by the rough
      side of a lawyer's tongue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor is a foul Plot to be smothered," said the Attorney, "for all the
      haste your lordship is in. I cannot call Master Chiffinch neither, as he
      is employed on the King's especial affairs, as I am this instant
      certiorated from the Court at Whitehall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Produce the papers, then, Master Attorney, of which this young man is
      said to be the bearer," said the Judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are before the Privy Council, my lord."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then why do you found on them here?" said the Judge&mdash;"This is
      something like trifling with the Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Since your lordship gives it that name," said the Attorney, sitting down
      in a huff, "you may manage the cause as you will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you do not bring more evidence, I pray you to charge the Jury," said
      the Judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I shall not take the trouble to do so," said the Crown Counsel. "I see
      plainly how the matter is to go."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, but be better advised," said Scroggs. "Consider, your case is but
      half proved respecting the two Peverils, and doth not pinch on the little
      man at all, saving that Doctor Oates said that he was in a certain case to
      prove a giant, which seems no very probable Popish miracle."
    </p>
    <p>
      This sally occasioned a laugh in the Court, which the Attorney-General
      seemed to take in great dudgeon.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Master Attorney," said Oates, who always interfered in the management of
      these law-suits, "this is a plain an absolute giving away of the cause&mdash;I
      must needs say it, a mere stoifling of the Plaat."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then the devil who bred it may blow wind into it again, if he lists,"
      answered the Attorney-General; and, flinging down his brief, he left the
      Court, as if in a huff with all who were concerned in the affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Judge having obtained silence,&mdash;for a murmur arose in the Court
      when the Counsel for the prosecution threw up his brief,&mdash;began to
      charge the Jury, balancing, as he had done throughout the whole day, the
      different opinions by which he seemed alternately swayed. He protested on
      his salvation that he had no more doubt of the existence of the horrid and
      damnable conspiracy called the Popish Plot, than he had of the treachery
      of Judas Iscariot; and that he considered Oates as the instrument under
      Providence of preserving the nation from all the miseries of his Majesty's
      assassination, and of a second Saint Bartholomew, acted in the streets of
      London. But then he stated it was the candid construction of the law of
      England, that the worse the crime, the more strong should be the evidence.
      Here was the case of accessories tried, whilst their principal&mdash;for
      such he should call the Countess of Derby&mdash;was unconvicted and at
      large; and for Doctor Oates, he had but spoke of matters which personally
      applied to that noble lady, whose words, if she used such in passion,
      touching aid which she expected in some treasonable matters from these
      Peverils, and from her kinsmen, or her son's kinsmen, of the House of
      Stanley, may have been but a burst of female resentment&mdash;<i>dulcis
      Amaryllidis ira</i>, as the poet hath it. Who knoweth but Doctor Oates did
      mistake&mdash;he being a gentleman of a comely countenance and easy
      demeanour&mdash;this same rap with the fan as a chastisement for lack of
      courage in the Catholic cause, when, peradventure, it was otherwise meant,
      as Popish ladies will put, it is said, such neophytes and youthful
      candidates for orders, to many severe trials. "I speak these things
      jocularly," said the Judge, "having no wish to stain the reputation either
      of the Honourable Countess or the Reverend Doctor; only I think the
      bearing between them may have related to something short of high treason.
      As for what the Attorney-General hath set forth of rescues and force, and
      I wot not what, sure I am, that in a civil country, when such things
      happen such things may be proved; and that you and I, gentlemen, are not
      to take them for granted gratuitously. Touching this other prisoner, this
      <i>Galfridus minimus</i>, he must needs say," he continued, "he could not
      discover even a shadow of suspicion against him. Was it to be thought so
      abortive a creature would thrust himself into depths of policy, far less
      into stratagems of war? They had but to look at him to conclude the
      contrary&mdash;the creature was, from his age, fitter for the grave than a
      conspiracy&mdash;and by his size and appearance, for the inside of a
      raree-show, than the mysteries of a plot."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf here broke in upon the Judge by force of screaming, to assure
      him that he had been, simple as he sat there, engaged in seven plots in
      Cromwell's time; and, as he proudly added, with some of the tallest men of
      England. The matchless look and air with which Sir Geoffrey made this
      vaunt, set all a-laughing, and increased the ridicule with which the whole
      trial began to be received; so that it was amidst shaking sides and watery
      eyes that a general verdict of Not Guilty was pronounced, and the
      prisoners dismissed from the bar.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a warmer sentiment awakened among those who saw the father and son
      throw themselves into each other's arms, and, after a hearty embrace,
      extend their hands to their poor little companion in peril, who, like a
      dog, when present at a similar scene, had at last succeeded, by stretching
      himself up to them and whimpering at the same time, to secure to himself a
      portion of their sympathy and gratulation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the singular termination of this trial. Charles himself was
      desirous to have taken considerable credit with the Duke of Ormond for the
      evasion of the law, which had been thus effected by his private
      connivance; and was both surprised and mortified at the coldness with
      which his Grace replied, that he was rejoiced at the poor gentleman's
      safety, but would rather have had the King redeem them like a prince, by
      his royal prerogative of mercy, than that his Judge should convey them out
      of the power of the law, like a juggler with his cups and balls.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                     &mdash;&mdash;On fair ground
                     I could beat forty of them!
                                           &mdash;CORIOLANUS.
</pre>
    <p>
      It doubtless occurred to many that were present at the trial we have
      described, that it was managed in a singular manner, and that the quarrel,
      which had the appearance of having taken place between the Court and the
      Crown Counsel, might proceed from some private understanding betwixt them,
      the object of which was the miscarriage of the accusation. Yet though such
      underhand dealing was much suspected, the greater part of the audience,
      being well educated and intelligent, had already suspected the bubble of
      the Popish Plot, and were glad to see that accusations, founded on what
      had already cost so much blood, could be evaded in any way. But the crowd,
      who waited in the Court of Requests, and in the hall, and without doors,
      viewed in a very different light the combination, as they interpreted it,
      between the Judge and the Attorney-General, for the escape of the
      prisoners.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oates, whom less provocation than he had that day received often induced
      to behave like one frantic with passion, threw himself amongst the crowd,
      and repeated till he was hoarse, "Theay are stoifling the Plaat!&mdash;theay
      are straangling the Plaat!&mdash;My Laard Justice and Maaster Attarney are
      in league to secure the escape of the plaaters and Paapists!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is the device of the Papist whore of Portsmouth," said one.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of old Rowley himself," said another.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If he could be murdered by himself, why hang those that would hinder it!"
      exclaimed a third.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He should be tried," said a fourth, "for conspiring his own death, and
      hanged <i>in terrorem</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meanwhile, Sir Geoffrey, his son, and their little companion, left
      the hall, intending to go to Lady Peveril's lodgings, which had been
      removed to Fleet Street. She had been relieved from considerable
      inconvenience, as Sir Geoffrey gave Julian hastily to understand, by an
      angel, in the shape of a young friend, and she now expected them doubtless
      with impatience. Humanity, and some indistinct idea of having
      unintentionally hurt the feelings of the poor dwarf, induced the honest
      Cavalier to ask this unprotected being to go with them. "He knew Lady
      Peveril's lodgings were but small," he said; "but it would be strange, if
      there was not some cupboard large enough to accommodate the little
      gentleman."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf registered this well-meant remark in his mind, to be the subject
      of a proper explanation, along with the unhappy reminiscence of the
      trencher-hornpipe, whenever time should permit an argument of such nicety.
    </p>
    <p>
      And thus they sallied from the hall, attracting general observation, both
      from the circumstances in which they had stood so lately, and from their
      resemblance, as a wag of the Inner Temple expressed it, to the three
      degrees of comparison, Large, Lesser, Least. But they had not passed far
      along the street, when Julian perceived that more malevolent passions than
      mere curiosity began to actuate the crowd which followed, and, as it were,
      dogged their motions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There go the Papist cut-throats, tantivy for Rome!" said one fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tantivy to Whitehall, you mean!" said another.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah! the bloodthirsty villains!" cried a woman: "Shame, one of them should
      be suffered to live, after poor Sir Edmondsbury's cruel murder."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Out upon the mealy-mouthed Jury, that turned out the bloodhounds on an
      innocent town!" cried a fourth.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, the tumult thickened, and the word began to pass among the more
      desperate, "Lambe them, lads; lambe them!"&mdash;a cant phrase of the
      time, derived from the fate of Dr. Lambe, an astrologer and quack, who was
      knocked on the head by the rabble in Charles the First's time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian began to be much alarmed at these symptoms of violence, and
      regretted that they had not gone down to the city by water. It was now too
      late to think of that mode of retreating, and he therefore requested his
      father in a whisper, to walk steadily forward towards Charing Cross,
      taking no notice of the insults which might be cast upon them, while the
      steadiness of their pace and appearance might prevent the rabble from
      resorting to actual violence. The execution of this prudent resolution was
      prevented after they had passed the palace, by the hasty disposition of
      the elder Sir Geoffrey, and the no less choleric temper of Galfridus
      Minimus, who had a soul which spurned all odds, as well of numbers as of
      size.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now a murrain take the knaves, with their hollowing and whooping," said
      the large knight; "by this day, if I could but light on a weapon, I would
      cudgel reason and loyalty into some of their carcasses!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I also," said the dwarf, who was toiling to keep up with the longer
      strides of his companions, and therefore spoke in a very phthisical tone.&mdash;"I
      also will cudgel the plebeian knaves beyond measure&mdash;he!&mdash;hem!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the crowd who thronged around them, impeded, and did all but assault
      them, was a mischievous shoemaker's apprentice, who, hearing this unlucky
      vaunt of the valorous dwarf, repaid it by flapping him on the head with a
      boot which he was carrying home to the owner, so as to knock the little
      gentleman's hat over his eyes. The dwarf, thus rendered unable to discover
      the urchin that had given him the offence, flew with instinctive ambition
      against the biggest fellow in the crowd, who received the onset with a
      kick on the stomach, which made the poor little champion reel back to his
      companions. They were now assaulted on all sides; but fortune complying
      with the wish of Sir Geoffrey the larger, ordained that the scuffle should
      happen near the booth of a cutler, from amongst whose wares, as they stood
      exposed to the public, Sir Geoffrey Peveril snatched a broadsword, which
      he brandished with the formidable address of one who had for many a day
      been in the familiar practice of using such a weapon. Julian, while at the
      same time he called loudly for a peace-officer, and reminded the
      assailants that they were attacking inoffensive passengers, saw nothing
      better for it than to imitate his father's example, and seized also one of
      the weapons thus opportunely offered.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they displayed these demonstrations of defence, the rush which the
      rabble at first made towards them was so great as to throw down the
      unfortunate dwarf, who would have been trampled to death in the scuffle,
      had not his stout old namesake cleared the rascal crowd from about him
      with a few flourishes of his weapon, and seizing on the fallen champion,
      put him out of danger (except from missiles), by suddenly placing him on
      the bulk-head, that is to say, the flat wooden roof of the cutler's
      projecting booth. From the rusty ironware, which was displayed there, the
      dwarf instantly snatched an old rapier and target, and covering himself
      with the one, stood making passes with the other, at the faces and eyes of
      the people in the street; so much delighted with his post of vantage, that
      he called loudly to his friends who were skirmishing with the riotous on
      more equal terms as to position, to lose no time in putting themselves
      under his protection. But far from being in a situation to need his
      assistance, the father and son might easily have extricated themselves
      from the rabble by their own exertions, could they have thought of leaving
      the mannikin in the forlorn situation, in which, to every eye but his own,
      he stood like a diminutive puppet, tricked out with sword and target as a
      fencing-master's sign.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stones and sticks began now to fly very thick, and the crowd,
      notwithstanding the exertions of the Peverils to disperse them with as
      little harm as possible, seemed determined on mischief, when some
      gentlemen who had been at the trial, understanding that the prisoners who
      had been just acquitted were in danger of being murdered by the populace,
      drew their swords, and made forward to effect their rescue, which was
      completed by a small party of the King's Life Guards, who had been
      despatched from their ordinary post of alarm, upon intelligence of what
      was passing. When this unexpected reinforcement arrived, the old jolly
      Knight at once recognised, amidst the cries of those who then entered upon
      action, some of the sounds which had animated his more active years.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where be these cuckoldly Roundheads," cried some.&mdash;"Down with the
      sneaking knaves!" cried others.&mdash;"The King and his friends, and the
      devil a one else!" exclaimed a third set, with more oaths and d&mdash;n
      me's, than, in the present more correct age, it is necessary to commit to
      paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old soldier, pricking up his ears like an ancient hunter at the cry of
      the hounds, would gladly have scoured the Strand, with the charitable
      purpose, now he saw himself so well supported, of knocking the London
      knaves, who had insulted him, into twiggen bottles; but he was withheld by
      the prudence of Julian, who, though himself extremely irritated by the
      unprovoked ill-usage which they had received, saw himself in a situation
      in which it was necessary to exercise more caution than vengeance. He
      prayed and pressed his father to seek some temporary place of retreat from
      the fury of the populace, while that prudent measure was yet in their
      power. The subaltern officer, who commanded the party of the Life Guards,
      exhorted the old Cavalier eagerly to the same sage counsel, using, as a
      spice of compulsion, the name of the King; while Julian strongly urged
      that of his mother. The old Knight looked at his blade, crimsoned with
      cross-cuts and slashes which he had given to the most forward of the
      assailants, with the eye of one not half sufficed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would I had pinked one of the knaves at least&mdash;but I know not how
      it was, when I looked on their broad round English faces, I shunned to use
      my point, and only sliced the rogues a little."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But the King's pleasure," said the officer, "is, that no tumult be
      prosecuted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My mother," said Julian, "will die with fright, if the rumour of this
      scuffle reaches her ere we see her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, ay," said the Knight, "the King's Majesty and my good dame&mdash;well,
      their pleasure be done, that's all I can say&mdash;Kings and ladies must
      be obeyed. But which way to retreat, since retreat we must?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian would have been at some loss to advise what course to take, for
      everybody in the vicinity had shut up their shops, and chained their
      doors, upon observing the confusion become so formidable. The poor cutler,
      however, with whose goods they made so free, offered them an asylum on the
      part of his landlord, whose house served as a rest for his shop, and only
      intimated gently, he hoped the gentleman would consider him for the use of
      his weapons.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was hastily revolving whether they ought, in prudence, to accept
      this man's invitation, aware, by experience, how many trepans, as they
      were then termed, were used betwixt two contending factions, each too
      inveterate to be very scrupulous of the character of fair play to an
      enemy, when the dwarf, exerting his cracked voice to the uttermost, and
      shrieking like an exhausted herald, from the exalted station which he
      still occupied on the bulk-head, exhorted them to accept the offer of the
      worthy man of the mansion. "He himself," he said, as he reposed himself
      after the glorious conquest in which he had some share, "had been favoured
      with a beatific vision, too splendid to be described to common and mere
      mortal ears, but which had commanded him, in a voice to which his heart
      had bounded as to a trumpet sound, to take refuge with the worthy person
      of the house, and cause his friends to do so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Vision!" said the Knight of the Peak,&mdash;"sound of a trumpet!&mdash;the
      little man is stark mad."
    </p>
    <p>
      But the cutler, in great haste, intimated to them that their little friend
      had received an intimation from a gentlewoman of his acquaintance, who
      spoke to him from the window, while he stood on the bulk-head, that they
      would find a safe retreat in his landlord's; and desiring them to attend
      to two or three deep though distant huzzas, made them aware that the
      rabble were up still, and would soon be upon them with renewed violence,
      and increased numbers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The father and son, therefore, hastily thanked the officer and his party,
      as well as the other gentlemen who had volunteered in their assistance,
      lifted little Sir Geoffrey Hudson from the conspicuous post which he had
      so creditably occupied during the skirmish, and followed the footsteps of
      the tenant of the booth, who conducted them down a blind alley and through
      one or two courts, in case, as he said, any one might have watched where
      they burrowed, and so into a back-door. This entrance admitted them to a
      staircase carefully hung with straw mats to exclude damp, from the upper
      step of which they entered upon a tolerably large withdrawing-room, hung
      with coarse green serge edged with gilded leather, which the poorer or
      more economical citizens at that time use instead of tapestry or
      wainscoting.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the poor cutler received from Julian such a gratuity for the loan of
      the swords, that he generously abandoned the property to the gentlemen who
      had used them so well; "the rather," he said, "that he saw, by the way
      they handed their weapons, that they were men of mettle, and tall
      fellows."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the dwarf smiled on him courteously, and bowed, thrusting at the same
      time, his hand into his pocket, which however, he withdrew carelessly
      probably because he found he had not the means of making the small
      donation which he had meditated.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cutler proceeded to say, as he bowed and was about to withdraw, that
      he saw there would be merry days yet in Old England, and that Bilboa
      blades would fetch as good a price as ever. "I remember," he said,
      "gentlemen, though I was then but a 'prentice, the demand for weapons in
      the years forty-one and forty-two; sword blades were more in request than
      toothpicks, and Old Ironsides, my master, took more for rascally Provant
      rapiers, than I dare ask nowadays for a Toledo. But, to be sure, a man's
      life then rested on the blade he carried; the Cavaliers and Roundheads
      fought every day at the gates of Whitehall, as it is like, gentlemen, by
      your good example, they may do again, when I shall be enabled to leave my
      pitiful booth, and open a shop of better quality. I hope you will
      recommend me, gentlemen, to your friends. I am always provided with ware
      which a gentleman may risk his life on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thank you, good friend," said Julian, "I prithee begone. I trust we shall
      need thy ware no more for some time at least."
    </p>
    <p>
      The cutler retired, while the dwarf hollowed after him downstairs, that he
      would call on him soon, and equip himself with a longer blade, and one
      more proper for action; although, he said, the little weapon he had did
      well enough for a walking-sword, or in a skirmish with such <i>canaille</i>
      as they had been engaged with.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cutler returned at this summons, and agreed to pleasure the little man
      with a weapon more suitable to his magnanimity; then, as if the thought
      had suddenly occurred to him, he said, "But, gentlemen, it will be wild
      work to walk with your naked swords through the Strand, and it can scarce
      fail to raise the rabble again. If you please, while you repose yourselves
      here, I can fit the blades with sheaths."
    </p>
    <p>
      The proposal seemed so reasonable, that Julian and his father gave up
      their weapons to the friendly cutler, an example which the dwarf followed,
      after a moment's hesitation, not caring, as he magnificently expressed it,
      to part so soon with the trusty friend which fortune had but the moment
      before restored to his hand. The man retired with the weapons under his
      arm; and, in shutting the door behind him, they heard him turn the key.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did you hear that?" said Sir Geoffrey to his son&mdash;"and we are
      disarmed!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, without reply, examined the door, which was fast secured; and then
      looked at the casements, which were at a storey's height from the ground,
      and grated besides with iron. "I cannot think," he said, after a moment's
      pause, "that the fellow means to trepan us; and, in any event, I trust we
      should have no difficulty in forcing the door, or otherwise making escape.
      But, before resorting to such violent measures, I think it is better to
      give the rabble leisure to disperse, by waiting this man's return with our
      weapons within a reasonable time, when, if he does not appear, I trust we
      shall find little difficulty in extricating ourselves." As he spoke thus,
      the hangings were pulled aside, and from a small door which was concealed
      behind them, Major Bridgenorth entered the room.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            He came amongst them like a new raised spirit
            To speak of dreadful judgments that impend,
            And of the wrath to come.
                                               &mdash;THE REFORMER.
</pre>
    <p>
      The astonishment of Julian at the unexpected apparition of Bridgenorth,
      was instantly succeeded by apprehension of his father's violence, which he
      had every reason to believe would break forth against one, whom he himself
      could not but reverence on account of his own merits, as well as because
      he was the father of Alice. The appearance of Bridgenorth was not however,
      such as to awaken resentment. His countenance was calm, his step slow and
      composed, his eye not without the indication of some deep-seated anxiety,
      but without any expression either of anger or of triumph. "You are
      welcome," he said, "Sir Geoffrey Peveril, to the shelter and hospitality
      of this house; as welcome as you would have been in other days, when we
      called each other neighbours and friends."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Odzooks," said the old Cavalier; "and had I known it was thy house, man,
      I would sooner had my heart's blood run down the kennel, than my foot
      should have crossed your threshold&mdash;in the way of seeking safety,
      that is."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I forgive your inveteracy," said Major Bridgenorth, "on account of your
      prejudices."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Keep your forgiveness," answered the Cavalier, "until you are pardoned
      yourself. By Saint George I have sworn, if ever I got my heels out of yon
      rascally prison, whither I was sent much through your means, Master
      Bridgenorth,&mdash;that you should pay the reckoning for my bad lodging.&mdash;I
      will strike no man in his own house; but if you will cause the fellow to
      bring back my weapon, and take a turn in that blind court there below,
      along with me, you shall soon see what chance a traitor hath with a true
      man, and a kennel-blooded Puritan with Peveril of the Peak."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth smiled with much composure. "When I was younger and more
      warm-blooded," he replied, "I refused your challenge, Sir Geoffrey; it is
      not likely I should now accept it, when each is within a stride of the
      grave. I have not spared, and will not spare, my blood, when my country
      wants it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is when there is any chance of treason against the King," said Sir
      Geoffrey.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, my father," said Julian, "let us hear Master Bridgenorth! We have
      been sheltered in his house; and although we now see him in London, we
      should remember that he did not appear against us this day, when perhaps
      his evidence might have given a fatal turn to our situation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are right, young man," said Bridgenorth; "and it should be some
      pledge of my sincere goodwill, that I was this day absent from
      Westminster, when a few words from my mouth had ended the long line of
      Peveril of the Peak: it needed but ten minutes to walk to Westminster
      Hall, to have ensured your condemnation. But could I have done this,
      knowing, as I now know, that to thee, Julian Peveril, I owe the
      extrication of my daughter&mdash;of my dearest Alice&mdash;the memory of
      her departed mother&mdash;from the snares which hell and profligacy had
      opened around her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She is, I trust safe," said Peveril eagerly, and almost forgetting his
      father's presence; "she is, I trust, safe, and in your own wardship?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not in mine," said the dejected father; "but in that of one in whose
      protection, next to that of Heaven, I can most fully confide."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are you sure&mdash;are you very sure of that?" repeated Julian eagerly.
      "I found her under the charge of one to whom she had been trusted, and who
      yet&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who yet was the basest of women," answered Bridgenorth; "but he who
      selected her for the charge was deceived in her character."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say rather you were deceived in his; remember that when we parted in
      Moultrassie, I warned you of that Ganlesse&mdash;that&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know your meaning," said Bridgenorth; "nor did you err in describing
      him as a worldly-wise man. But he has atoned for his error by recovering
      Alice from the dangers into which she has plunged when separated from you;
      and besides, I have not thought meet again to entrust him with the charge
      that is dearest to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank God your eyes are thus far opened!" said Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This day will open them wide, or close them for ever," answered
      Bridgenorth.
    </p>
    <p>
      During this dialogue, which the speakers hurried through without attending
      to the others who were present, Sir Geoffrey listened with surprise and
      eagerness, endeavouring to catch something which should render their
      conversation intelligible; but as he totally failed in gaining any such
      key to their meaning, he broke in with,&mdash;"'Sblood and thunder,
      Julian, what unprofitable gossip is this? What hast thou to do with this
      fellow, more than to bastinado him, if you should think it worth while to
      beat so old a rogue?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My dearest father," said Julian, "you know not this gentleman&mdash;I am
      certain you do him injustice. My own obligations to him are many; and I am
      sure when you come to know them&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hope I shall die ere that moment come," said Sir Geoffrey; and
      continued with increasing violence, "I hope in the mercy of Heaven, that I
      shall be in the grave of my ancestors, ere I learn that my son&mdash;my
      only son&mdash;the last hope of my ancient house&mdash;the last remnant of
      the name of Peveril&mdash;hath consented to receive obligations from the
      man on earth I am most bound to hate, were I not still more bound to
      contemn him!&mdash;Degenerate dog-whelp!" he repeated with great
      vehemence, "you colour without replying! Speak, and disown such disgrace;
      or, by the God of my fathers&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf suddenly stepped forward and called out, "Forbear!" with a voice
      at once so discordant and commanding, that it sounded supernatural. "Man
      of sin and pride," he said, "forbear; and call not the name of a holy God
      to witness thine unhallowed resentments."
    </p>
    <p>
      The rebuke so boldly and decidedly given, and the moral enthusiasm with
      which he spoke, gave the despised dwarf an ascendancy for the moment over
      the fiery spirit of his gigantic namesake. Sir Geoffrey Peveril eyed him
      for an instant askance and shyly, as he might have done a supernatural
      apparition, and then muttered, "What knowest thou of my cause of wrath?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing," said the dwarf;&mdash;"nothing but this&mdash;that no cause can
      warrant the oath thou wert about to swear. Ungrateful man! thou wert
      to-day rescued from the devouring wrath of the wicked, by a marvellous
      conjunction of circumstances&mdash;Is this a day, thinkest thou, on which
      to indulge thine own hasty resentments?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I stand rebuked," said Sir Geoffrey, "and by a singular monitor&mdash;the
      grasshopper, as the prayer-book saith, hath become a burden to me.&mdash;Julian,
      I will speak to thee of these matters hereafter;&mdash;and for you, Master
      Bridgenorth, I desire to have no farther communication with you, either in
      peace or in anger. Our time passes fast, and I would fain return to my
      family. Cause our weapons to be restored; unbar the doors, and let us part
      without farther altercation, which can but disturb and aggravate our
      spirits."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Geoffrey Peveril," said Bridgenorth, "I have no desire to vex your
      spirit or my own; but, for thus soon dismissing you, that may hardly be,
      it being a course inconsistent with the work which I have on hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, sir! Do you mean that we should abide here, whether with or against
      our inclinations?" said the dwarf. "Were it not that I am laid under
      charge to remain here, by one who hath the best right to command this poor
      microcosm, I would show thee that bolts and bars are unavailing restraints
      on such as I am."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Truly," said Sir Geoffrey, "I think, upon an emergency, the little man
      might make his escape through the keyhole."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth's face was moved into something like a smile at the swaggering
      speech of the pigmy hero, and the contemptuous commentary of Sir Geoffrey
      Peveril; but such an expression never dwelt on his features for two
      seconds together, and he replied in these words:&mdash;"Gentlemen, each
      and all of you must be fain to content yourselves. Believe me, no hurt is
      intended towards you; on the contrary, your remaining here will be a means
      of securing your safety, which would be otherwise deeply endangered. It
      will be your own fault if a hair of your head is hurt. But the stronger
      force is on my side; and, whatever harm you may meet with should you
      attempt to break forth by violence, the blame must rest with yourselves.
      It you will not believe me, I will permit Master Julian Peveril to
      accompany me, where he shall see that I am provided fully with the means
      of repressing violence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Treason!&mdash;treason!" exclaimed the old Knight&mdash;"Treason against
      God and King Charles!&mdash;Oh, for one half-hour of the broadsword which
      I parted with like an ass!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold, my father, I conjure you!" said Julian. "I will go with Master
      Bridgenorth, since he requests it. I will satisfy myself whether there be
      danger, and of what nature. It is possible I may prevail on him to desist
      from some desperate measure, if such be indeed in agitation. Should it be
      necessary, fear not that your son will behave as he ought to do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do your pleasure, Julian," said his father; "I will confide in thee. But
      if you betray my confidence, a father's curse shall cleave to you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bridgenorth now motioned to Peveril to follow him, and they passed through
      the small door by which he entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The passage led to a vestibule or anteroom, in which several other doors
      and passages seemed to centre. Through one of these Julian was conducted
      by Bridgenorth, walking with silence and precaution, in obedience to a
      signal made by his guide to that effect. As they advanced, he heard
      sounds, like those of the human voice, engaged in urgent and emphatic
      declamation. With slow and light steps Bridgenorth conducted him through a
      door which terminated this passage; and as he entered a little gallery,
      having a curtain in front, the sound of the preacher's voice&mdash;for
      such it now seemed&mdash;became distinct and audible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian now doubted not that he was in one of those conventicles, which,
      though contrary to the existing laws, still continued to be regularly held
      in different parts of London and the suburbs. Many of these, as frequented
      by persons of moderate political principles, though dissenters from the
      Church for conscience' sake, were connived at by the prudence or timidity
      of the government. But some of them, in which assembled the fiercer and
      more exalted sects of Independents, Anabaptists, Fifth-Monarchy men, and
      other sectaries, whose stern enthusiasm had contributed so greatly to
      effect the overthrow of the late King's throne, were sought after,
      suppressed, and dispersed, whenever they could be discovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian was soon satisfied that the meeting into which he was thus secretly
      introduced was one of the latter class; and, to judge by the violence of
      the preacher, of the most desperate character. He was still more
      effectually convinced of this, when, at a sign from Bridgenorth, he
      cautiously unclosed a part of the curtain which hung before the gallery,
      and thus, unseen himself, looked down on the audience, and obtained a view
      of the preacher.
    </p>
    <p>
      About two hundred persons were assembled beneath, in an area filled up
      with benches, as if for the exercise of worship; and they were all of the
      male sex, and well armed with pikes and muskets, as well as swords and
      pistols. Most of them had the appearance of veteran soldiers, now past the
      middle of life, yet retaining such an appearance of strength as might well
      supply the loss of youthful agility. They stood, or sat, in various
      attitudes of stern attention; and, resting on their spears and muskets,
      kept their eyes firmly fixed on the preacher, who ended the violence of
      his declamation by displaying from the pulpit a banner, on which was
      represented a lion, with the motto, "<i>Vicit Leo ex tribu Judæ.</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      The torrent of mystical yet animating eloquence of the preacher&mdash;an
      old grey-haired man, whom zeal seemed to supply with the powers of voice
      and action, of which years had deprived him&mdash;was suited to the taste
      of his audience, but could not be transferred to these pages without
      scandal and impropriety. He menaced the rulers of England with all the
      judgments denounced on those of Moab and Assyria&mdash;he called upon the
      saints to be strong, to be up and doing; and promised those miracles
      which, in the campaigns of Joshua, and his successors, the valiant Judges
      of Israel, supplied all odds against the Amorites, Midianites, and
      Philistines. He sounded trumpets, opened vials, broke seals, and denounced
      approaching judgments under all the mystical signs of the Apocalypse. The
      end of the world was announced, accompanied with all its preliminary
      terrors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian, with deep anxiety, soon heard enough to make him aware that the
      meeting was likely to terminate in open insurrection, like that of the
      Fifth-Monarchy men, under Venner, at an earlier period of Charles's reign;
      and he was not a little concerned at the probability of Bridgenorth being
      implicated in so criminal and desperate an undertaking. If he had retained
      any doubts of the issue of the meeting, they must have been removed when
      the preacher called on his hearers to renounce all expectation which had
      hitherto been entertained of safety to the nation, from the execution of
      the ordinary laws of the land. This, he said, was at best but a carnal
      seeking after earthly aid&mdash;a going down to Egypt for help, which the
      jealousy of their Divine Leader would resent as a fleeing to another rock,
      and a different banner, from that which was this day displayed over them.&mdash;And
      here he solemnly swung the bannered lion over their heads, as the only
      sign under which they ought to seek for life and safety. He then proceeded
      to insist, that recourse to ordinary justice was vain as well as sinful.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The event of that day at Westminster," he said, "might teach them that
      the man at Whitehall was even as the man his father;" and closed a long
      tirade against the vices of the Court, with assurance "that Tophet was
      ordained of old&mdash;for the King it was made hot."
    </p>
    <p>
      As the preacher entered on a description of the approaching theocracy,
      which he dared to prophesy, Bridgenorth, who appeared for a time to have
      forgotten the presence of Julian, whilst with stern and fixed attention he
      drunk in the words of the preacher, seemed suddenly to collect himself,
      and, taking Julian by the hand, led him out of the gallery, of which he
      carefully closed the door, into an apartment at no great distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they arrived there, he anticipated the expostulations of Julian, by
      asking him, in a tone of severe triumph, whether these men he had seen
      were likely to do their work negligently, or whether it would not be
      perilous to attempt to force their way from a house, when all the avenues
      were guarded by such as he had now seen&mdash;men of war from their
      childhood upwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the name of Heaven," said Julian, without replying to Bridgenorth's
      question, "for what desperate purpose have you assembled so many desperate
      men? I am well aware that your sentiments of religion are peculiar; but
      beware how you deceive yourself&mdash;No views of religion can sanction
      rebellion and murder; and such are the natural and necessary consequences
      of the doctrine we have just heard poured into the ears of fanatical and
      violent enthusiasts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My son," said Bridgenorth calmly, "in the days of my non-age, I thought
      as you do. I deemed it sufficient to pay my tithes of cummin and aniseed&mdash;my
      poor petty moral observances of the old law; and I thought I was heaping
      up precious things, when they were in value no more than the husks of the
      swine-trough. Praised be Heaven, the scales are fallen from mine eyes; and
      after forty years' wandering in the desert of Sinai, I am at length
      arrived in the Land of Promise&mdash;My corrupt human nature has left me&mdash;I
      have cast my slough, and can now with some conscience put my hand to the
      plough, certain that there is no weakness left in me where-through I may
      look back. The furrows," he added, bending his brows, while a gloomy fire
      filled his large eyes, "must be drawn long and deep, and watered by the
      blood of the mighty."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a change in Bridgenorth's tone and manner, when he used these
      singular expressions, which convinced Julian that his mind, which had
      wavered for so many years between his natural good sense and the insane
      enthusiasm of the time, had finally given way to the latter; and, sensible
      of the danger in which the unhappy man himself, the innocent and beautiful
      Alice, and his own father, were likely to be placed&mdash;to say nothing
      of the general risk of the community by a sudden insurrection, he at the
      same time felt that there was no chance of reasoning effectually with one,
      who would oppose spiritual conviction to all arguments which reason could
      urge against his wild schemes. To touch his feeling seemed a more probable
      resource; and Julian therefore conjured Bridgenorth to think how much his
      daughter's honour and safety were concerned in his abstaining from the
      dangerous course which he meditated. "If you fall," he said, "must she not
      pass under the power and guardianship of her uncle, whom you allow to have
      shown himself capable of the grossest mistake in the choice of her female
      protectress; and whom I believe, upon good grounds, to have made that
      infamous choice with his eyes open?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Young man," answered Bridgenorth, "you make me feel like the poor bird,
      around whose wing some wanton boy has fixed a line, to pull the struggling
      wretch to earth at his pleasure. Know, since thou wilt play this cruel
      part, and drag me down from higher contemplations, that she with whom
      Alice is placed, and who hath in future full power to guide her motions,
      and decide her fate, despite of Christian and every one else, is&mdash;I
      will not tell thee who she is&mdash;Enough&mdash;no one&mdash;thou least
      of all, needs to fear for her safety."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a side-door opened, and Christian himself came into the
      apartment. He started and coloured when he saw Julian Peveril; then
      turning to Bridgenorth with an assumed air of indifference, asked, "Is
      Saul among the prophets?&mdash;Is a Peveril among the saints?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, brother," replied Bridgenorth, "his time is not come more than thine
      own&mdash;thou art too deep in the ambitious intrigues of manhood, and he
      in the giddy passions of youth, to hear the still calm voice&mdash;You
      will both hear it, as I trust and pray."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Master Ganlesse, or Christian, or by whatever name you are called," said
      Julian, "by whatever reasons you guide yourself in this most perilous
      matter, <i>you</i> at least are not influenced by any idea of an immediate
      divine command for commencing hostilities against the state. Leaving,
      therefore, for the present, whatever subjects of discussion may be between
      us, I implore you, as a man of shrewdness and sense, to join with me in
      dissuading Master Bridgenorth from the fatal enterprise which he now
      meditates."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Young gentleman," said Christian, with great composure, "when we met in
      the west, I was willing to have made a friend of you, but you rejected the
      overture. You might, however, even then have seen enough of me to be
      assured, that I am not likely to rush too rashly on any desperate
      undertaking. As to this which lies before us, my brother Bridgenorth
      brings to it the simplicity, though not the harmlessness of the dove, and
      I the subtilty of the serpent. He hath the leading of saints who are moved
      by the spirit; and I can add to their efforts a powerful body, who have
      for their instigators the world, the devil, and the flesh."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And can you," said Julian, looking at Bridgenorth, "accede to such an
      unworthy union?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I unite not with them," said Bridgenorth; "but I may not, without guilt,
      reject the aid which Providence sends to assist His servants. We are
      ourselves few, though determined&mdash;Those whose swords come to help the
      cutting down of the harvest, must be welcome&mdash;When their work is
      wrought, they will be converted or scattered.&mdash;Have you been at York
      Place, brother, with that unstable epicure? We must have his last
      resolution, and that within an hour."
    </p>
    <p>
      Christian looked at Julian, as if his presence prevented him from
      returning an answer; upon which Bridgenorth arose, and taking the young
      man by the arm, led him out of the apartment, into that in which they had
      left his father; assuring him by the way, that determined and vigilant
      guards were placed in every different quarter by which escape could be
      effected, and that he would do well to persuade his father to remain a
      quiet prisoner for a few hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian returned him no answer, and Bridgenorth presently retired, leaving
      him alone with his father and Hudson. To their questions he could only
      briefly reply, that he feared they were trepanned, since they were in the
      house with at least two hundred fanatics, completely armed, and apparently
      prepared for desperate enterprise. Their own want of arms precluded the
      possibility of open violence; and however unpleasant it might be to remain
      in such a condition, it seemed difficult, from the strength of the
      fastenings at doors and windows, to attempt any secret escape without
      instantaneous detection.
    </p>
    <p>
      The valiant dwarf alone nursed hopes, with which he in vain endeavoured to
      inspire his companions in affliction. "The fair one, whose eyes," he said,
      "were like the twin stars of Leda"&mdash;for the little man was a great
      admirer of lofty language&mdash;"had not invited him, the most devoted,
      and, it might be, not the least favoured of her servants, into this place
      as a harbour, in order that he might therein suffer shipwreck; and he
      generously assured his friends, that in his safety they also should be
      safe."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Geoffrey, little cheered by this intimation, expressed his despair at
      not being able to get the length of Whitehall, where he trusted to find as
      many jolly Cavaliers as would help him to stifle the whole nest of wasps
      in their hive; while Julian was of opinion that the best service he could
      now render Bridgenorth, would be timeously to disclose his plot, and, if
      possible, to send him at the same time warning to save his person.
    </p>
    <p>
      But we must leave them to meditate over their plans at leisure; no one of
      which, as they all depended on their previous escape from confinement,
      seemed in any great chance of being executed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLIV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         And some for safety took the dreadful leap;
         Some for the voice of Heaven seem'd calling on them;
         Some for advancement, or for lucre's sake&mdash;
         I leap'd in frolic.
                                                  &mdash;THE DREAM.
</pre>
    <p>
      After a private conversation with Bridgenorth, Christian hastened to the
      Duke of Buckingham's hotel, taking at the same time such a route as to
      avoid meeting with any acquaintance. He was ushered into the apartment of
      the Duke, whom he found cracking and eating filberts, with a flask of
      excellent white wine at his elbow. "Christian," said his Grace, "come help
      me to laugh&mdash;I have bit Sir Charles Sedley&mdash;flung him for a
      thousand, by the gods!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am glad at your luck, my Lord Duke," replied Christian; "but I am come
      here on serious business."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Serious?&mdash;why, I shall hardly be serious in my life again&mdash;ha,
      ha, ha!&mdash;and for luck, it was no such thing&mdash;sheer wit, and
      excellent contrivance; and but that I don't care to affront Fortune, like
      the old Greek general, I might tell her to her face&mdash;In this thou
      hadst no share. You have heard, Ned Christian, that Mother Cresswell is
      dead?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I did hear that the devil hath got his due," answered Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said the Duke, "you are ungrateful; for I know you have been
      obliged to her, as well as others. Before George, a most benevolent and
      helpful old lady; and that she might not sleep in an unblest grave, I
      betted&mdash;do you mark me&mdash;with Sedley, that I would write her
      funeral sermon; that it should be every word in praise of her life and
      conversation, that it should be all true, and yet that the diocesan should
      be unable to lay his thumb on Quodling, my little chaplain, who should
      preach it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I perfectly see the difficulty, my lord," said Christian, who well knew
      that if he wished to secure attention from this volatile nobleman, he must
      first suffer, nay, encourage him, to exhaust the topic, whatever it might
      be, that had got temporary possession of his pineal gland.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why," said the Duke, "I had caused my little Quodling to go through his
      oration thus&mdash;'That whatever evil reports had passed current during
      the lifetime of the worthy matron whom they had restored to dust that day,
      malice herself could not deny that she was born well, married well, lived
      well, and died well; since she was born in Shadwell, married to Cresswell,
      lived in Camberwell, and died in Bridewell.' Here ended the oration, and
      with it Sedley's ambitious hopes of overreaching Buckingham&mdash;ha, ha,
      ha!&mdash;And now, Master Christian, what are your commands for me
      to-day?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "First, to thank your Grace for being so attentive as to send so
      formidable a person as Colonel Blood, to wait upon your poor friend and
      servant. Faith, he took such an interest in my leaving town, that he
      wanted to compel me to do it at point of fox, so I was obliged to spill a
      little of his malapert blood. Your Grace's swordsmen have had ill luck of
      late; and it is hard, since you always choose the best hands, and such
      scrupleless knaves too."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come now, Christian," said the Duke, "do not thus exult over me; a great
      man, if I may so call myself, is never greater than amid miscarriage. I
      only played this little trick on you, Christian, to impress on you a
      wholesome idea of the interest I take in your motions. The scoundrel's
      having dared to draw upon you, is a thing not to be forgiven.&mdash;What!
      injure my old friend Christian?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why not," said Christian coolly, "if your old friend was so stubborn
      as not to go out of town, like a good boy, when your Grace required him to
      do so, for the civil purpose of entertaining his niece in his absence?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How&mdash;what!&mdash;how do you mean by <i>my</i> entertaining your
      niece, Master Christian?" said the Duke. "She was a personage far beyond
      my poor attentions, being destined, if I recollect aright, to something
      like royal favour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was her fate, however, to be the guest of your Grace's convent for a
      brace of days, or so. Marry, my lord, the father confessor was not at
      home, and&mdash;for convents have been scaled of late&mdash;returned not
      till the bird was flown."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Christian, thou art an old reynard&mdash;I see there is no doubling with
      thee. It was thou, then, that stole away my pretty prize, but left me
      something so much prettier in my mind, that, had it not made itself wings
      to fly away with, I would have placed it in a cage of gold. Never be
      downcast, man; I forgive thee&mdash;I forgive thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace is of a most merciful disposition, especially considering it
      is I who have had the wrong; and sages have said, that he who doth the
      injury is less apt to forgive than he who only sustains it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, true, Christian," said the Duke, "which, as you say, is something
      quite new, and places my clemency in a striking point of view. Well, then,
      thou forgiven man, when shall I see my Mauritanian Princess again?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wherever I am certain that a quibble, and a carwhichit, for a play or a
      sermon, will not banish her from your Grace's memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not all the wit of South, or of Etherege," said Buckingham hastily, "to
      say nothing of my own, shall in future make me oblivious of what I owe the
      Morisco Princess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yet, to leave the fair lady out of thought for a little while&mdash;a
      very little while," said Christian, "since I swear that in due time your
      Grace shall see her, and know in her the most extraordinary woman that the
      age has produced&mdash;to leave her, I say out of sight for a little
      while, has your Grace had late notice of your Duchess's health?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Health," said the Duke. "Umph&mdash;no&mdash;nothing particular. She has
      been ill&mdash;but&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She is no longer so," subjoined Christian; "she died in Yorkshire
      forty-eight hours since."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou must deal with the devil," said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would ill become one of my name to do so," replied Christian. "But in
      the brief interval, since your Grace hath known of an event which hath not
      yet reached the public ear, you have, I believe, made proposals to the
      King for the hand of the Lady Anne, second daughter of the Duke of York,
      and your Grace's proposals have been rejected."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fiends and firebrands, villain!" said the Duke, starting up and seizing
      Christian by the collar; "who hath told thee that?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take your hand from my cloak, my Lord Duke, and I may answer you," said
      Christian. "I have a scurvy touch of old puritanical humour about me. I
      abide not the imposition of hands&mdash;take off your grasp from my cloak,
      or I will find means to make you unloose it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke, who had kept his right hand on his dagger-hilt while he held
      Christian's collar with his left, unloosed it as he spoke, but slowly, and
      as one who rather suspends than abandons the execution of some hasty
      impulse; while Christian, adjusting his cloak with perfect composure,
      said, "Soh&mdash;my cloak being at liberty, we speak on equal terms. I
      come not to insult your Grace, but to offer you vengeance for the insult
      you have received."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Vengeance!" said the Duke&mdash;"It is the dearest proffer man can
      present to me in my present mood. I hunger for vengeance&mdash;thirst for
      vengeance&mdash;could die to ensure vengeance!&mdash;-'Sdeath!" he
      continued, walking up and down the large apartment with the most
      unrestrained and violent agitation; "I have chased this repulse out of my
      brain with ten thousand trifles, because I thought no one knew it. But it
      is known, and to thee, the very common-sewer of Court-secrets&mdash;the
      honour of Villiers is in thy keeping, Ned Christian! Speak, thou man of
      wiles and of intrigue&mdash;on whom dost thou promise the vengeance?
      Speak! and if thy answers meet my desires, I will make a bargain with thee
      as willingly as with thy master, Satan himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not be," said Christian, "so unreasonable in my terms as stories
      tell of the old apostate; I will offer your Grace, as he might do,
      temporal prosperity and revenge, which is his frequent recruiting money,
      but I leave it to yourself to provide, as you may be pleased, for your
      future salvation."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke, gazing upon him fixedly and sadly, replied, "I would to God,
      Christian, that I could read what purpose of damnable villainy thou hast
      to propose to me in thy countenance, without the necessity of thy using
      words!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace can but try a guess," said Christian, calmly smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," replied the Duke, after gazing at him again for the space of a
      minute; "thou art so deeply dyed a hypocrite, that thy mean features, and
      clear grey eye, are as likely to conceal treason, as any petty scheme of
      theft or larceny more corresponding to your degree."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Treason, my lord!" echoed Christian; "you may have guessed more nearly
      than you were aware of. I honour your Grace's penetration."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Treason?" echoed the Duke. "Who dare name such a crime to me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "If a name startles your Grace, you may call it vengeance&mdash;vengeance
      on the cabal of councillors, who have ever countermined you, in spite of
      your wit and your interest with the King.&mdash;Vengeance on Arlington,
      Ormond&mdash;on Charles himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, by Heaven," said the Duke, resuming his disordered walk through the
      apartment&mdash;"Vengeance on these rats of the Privy Council,&mdash;come
      at it as you will. But the King!&mdash;never&mdash;never. I have provoked
      him a hundred times, where he has stirred me once. I have crossed his path
      in state intrigue&mdash;rivalled him in love&mdash;had the advantage in
      both,&mdash;and, d&mdash;n it, he has forgiven me! If treason would put me
      in his throne, I have no apology for it&mdash;it were worse than bestial
      ingratitude."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nobly spoken, my lord," said Christian; "and consistent alike with the
      obligations under which your Grace lies to Charles Stewart, and the sense
      you have ever shown of them.&mdash;But it signifies not. If your Grace
      patronise not our enterprise, there is Shaftesbury&mdash;there is Monmouth&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Scoundrel!" exclaimed the Duke, even more vehemently agitated than
      before, "think you that you shall carry on with others an enterprise which
      I have refused?&mdash;No, by every heathen and every Christian god!&mdash;Hark
      ye, Christian, I will arrest you on the spot&mdash;I will, by gods and
      devils, and carry you to unravel your plot at Whitehall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where the first words I speak," answered the imperturbable Christian,
      "will be to inform the Privy Council in what place they may find certain
      letters, wherewith your Grace has honoured your poor vassal, containing,
      as I think, particulars which his Majesty will read with more surprise
      than pleasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Sdeath, villain!" said the Duke, once more laying his hand on his
      poniard-hilt, "thou hast me again at advantage. I know not why I forbear
      to poniard you where you stand!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I might fall, my Lord Duke," said Christian, slightly colouring, and
      putting his right hand into his bosom, "though not, I think, unavenged&mdash;for
      I have not put my person into this peril altogether without means of
      defence. I might fall, but, alas! your Grace's correspondence is in hands,
      which, by that very act, would be rendered sufficiently active in handing
      them to the King and the Privy Council. What say you to the Moorish
      Princess, my Lord Duke? What if I have left her executrix of my will, with
      certain instructions how to proceed if I return not unharmed from York
      Place? Oh, my lord, though my head is in the wolf's mouth, I was not goose
      enough to place it there without settling how many carabines should be
      fired on the wolf, so soon as my dying cackle was heard.&mdash;Pshaw, my
      Lord Duke! you deal with a man of sense and courage, yet you speak to him
      as a child and a coward."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke threw himself into a chair, fixed his eyes on the ground, and
      spoke without raising them. "I am about to call Jerningham," he said; "but
      fear nothing&mdash;it is only for a draught of wine&mdash;That stuff on
      the table may be a vehicle of filberts, and walnuts, but not for such
      communications as yours.&mdash;Bring me champagne," he said to the
      attendant who answered to his summons.
    </p>
    <p>
      The domestic returned, and brought a flask of champagne, with two large
      silver cups. One of them he filled for Buckingham, who, contrary to the
      usual etiquette, was always served first at home, and then offered the
      other to Christian, who declined to receive it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke drank off the large goblet which was presented to him, and for a
      moment covered his forehead with the palm of his hand; then instantly
      withdrew it, and said, "Christian, speak your errand plainly. We know each
      other. If my reputation be in some degree in your hands, you are well
      aware that your life is in mine. Sit down," he said, taking a pistol from
      his bosom and laying it on the table&mdash;"Sit down, and let me hear your
      proposal."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My lord," said Christian, smiling, "I shall produce no such ultimate
      argument on my part, though possibly, in time of need, I may not be found
      destitute of them. But my defence is in the situation of things, and in
      the composed view which, doubtless, your Majesty will take of them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Majesty!" repeated the Duke&mdash;"My good friend Christian, you have
      kept company with the Puritans so long, that you confuse the ordinary
      titles of the Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not how to apologise," said Christian, "unless your Grace will
      suppose that I spoke by prophecy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such as the devil delivered to Macbeth," said the Duke&mdash;again paced
      the chamber, and again seated himself, and said, "Be plain, Christian&mdash;speak
      out at once, and manfully, what is it you intend?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>I</i>," said Christian&mdash;"What should I do?&mdash;I can do nothing
      in such a matter; but I thought it right that your Grace should know that
      the godly of this city"&mdash;(he spoke the word with a kind of ironical
      grin)&mdash;"are impatient of inactivity, and must needs be up and doing.
      My brother Bridgenorth is at the head of all old Weiver's congregation;
      for you must know, that, after floundering from one faith to another, he
      hath now got beyond ordinances, and is become a Fifth-Monarchy man. He has
      nigh two hundred of Weiver's people, fully equipped, and ready to fall on;
      and, with slight aid from your Grace's people, they must carry Whitehall,
      and make prisoners of all within it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rascal!" said the Duke, "and is it to a Peer of England you make this
      communication?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," answered Christian, "I admit it would be extreme folly in your
      Grace to appear until all is over. But let me give Blood and the others a
      hint on your part. There are the four Germans also&mdash;right
      Knipperdolings and Anabaptists&mdash;will be specially useful. You are
      wise, my lord, and know the value of a corps of domestic gladiators, as
      well as did Octavius, Lepidus, and Anthony, when, by such family forces,
      they divided the world by indenture tripartite."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stay, stay," said the Duke. "Even if these bloodhounds were to join with
      you&mdash;not that I would permit it without the most positive assurances
      for the King's personal safety&mdash;but say the villains were to join,
      what hope have you of carrying the Court?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bully Tom Armstrong,[*] my lord, hath promised his interest with the Life
      Guards. Then there are my Lord Shaftesbury's brisk boys in the city&mdash;thirty
      thousand on the holding up a finger."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Thomas, or Sir Thomas Armstrong, a person who had distinguished
    himself in youth by duels and drunken exploits. He was
    particularly connected with the Duke of Monmouth, and was said to
    be concerned in the Rye-House Plot, for which he suffered capital
    punishment, 20th June 1684.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Let him hold up both hands, and if he count a hundred for each finger,"
      said the Duke, "it will be more than I expect. You have not spoken to
      him?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Surely not till your Grace's pleasure was known. But, if he is not
      applied to, there is the Dutch train, Hans Snorehout's congregation, in
      the Strand&mdash;there are the French Protestants in Piccadilly&mdash;there
      are the family of Levi in Lewkenor's Lane&mdash;the Muggletonians in
      Thames Street&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, faugh!&mdash;Out upon them&mdash;out upon them!&mdash;How the knaves
      will stink of cheese and tobacco when they come upon action!&mdash;they
      will drown all the perfumes in Whitehall. Spare me the detail; and let me
      know, my dearest Ned, the sum total of thy most odoriferous forces."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fifteen hundred men, well armed," said Christian, "besides the rabble
      that will rise to a certainty&mdash;they have already nearly torn to
      pieces the prisoners who were this day acquitted on account of the Plot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All, then, I understand.&mdash;And now, hark ye, most Christian
      Christian," said he, wheeling his chair full in front of that on which his
      agent was seated, "you have told me many things to-day&mdash;Shall I be
      equally communicative? Shall I show you that my accuracy of information
      matches yours? Shall I tell you, in a word, why you have at once resolved
      to push every one, from the Puritan to the free-thinker, upon a general
      attack of the Palace of Whitehall, without allowing me, a peer of the
      realm, time either to pause upon or to prepare for a step so desperate?
      Shall I tell you why you would lead or drive, seduce or compel me, into
      countenancing your measures?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My lord, if you please to form a guess," said Christian, "I will answer
      with all sincerity, if you have assigned the right cause."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Countess of Derby is this day arrived, and attends the Court this
      evening, with hopes of the kindest reception. She may be surprised amid
      the mêlée?&mdash;Ha! said I not right, Master Christian? You, who pretend
      to offer me revenge, know yourself its exquisite sweetness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would not presume," said Christian, half smiling, "to offer your Grace
      a dish without acting as your taster as well as purveyor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's honestly said," said the Duke. "Away then, my friend. Give Blood
      this ring&mdash;he knows it, and knows how to obey him who bears it. Let
      him assemble my gladiators, as thou dost most wittily term my <i>coup
      jarrets</i>. The old scheme of the German music may be resorted to, for I
      think thou hast the instruments ready. But take notice, I know nothing
      on't; and Rowley's person must be safe&mdash;I will hang and burn on all
      hands if a hair of his black periwig[*] be but singed.&mdash;Then what is
      to follow&mdash;a Lord Protector of the realm&mdash;or stay&mdash;Cromwell
      has made the word somewhat slovenly and unpopular&mdash;a Lord Lieutenant
      of the Kingdom?&mdash;The patriots who take it on themselves to avenge the
      injustice done to the country, and to remove evil counsellors from before
      the King's throne, that it may be henceforward established in
      righteousness&mdash;so I think the rubric runs&mdash;cannot fail to make a
      fitting choice."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] Charles, to suit his dark complexion, always wore a black peruke.
    He used to say of the players, that if they wished to represent a
    villain on the stage, "Oddsfish, they always clapp'd on him a
    black periwig, whereas the greatest rogue in England [meaning,
    probably, Dr. Oates] wears a white one."&mdash;<i>See CIBBER's Apology</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      "They cannot, my Lord Duke," said Christian, "since there is but one man
      in the three kingdoms on whom that choice can possibly fall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank you Christian," said his Grace; "and I trust you. Away, and make
      all ready. Be assured your services shall not be forgot. We will have you
      near to us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My Lord Duke," said Christian, "you bind me doubly to you. But remember
      that as your Grace is spared any obnoxious proceedings which may befall in
      the way of military execution, or otherwise, so it will be advisable that
      you hold yourself in preparation, upon a moment's notice, to put yourself
      at the head of a band of honourable friends and allies, and come presently
      to the palace, where you will be received by the victors as a commander,
      and by the vanquished as a preserver."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I conceive you&mdash;I conceive you. I will be in prompt readiness," said
      the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, my lord," continued Christian; "and for Heaven's sake, let none of
      those toys, which are the very Delilahs of your imagination, come across
      your Grace this evening, and interfere with the execution of this sublime
      scheme."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, Christian, dost think me mad?" was his Grace's emphatic reply. "It
      is you who linger, when all should be ordered for a deed so daring. Go
      then.&mdash;But hark ye, Ned; ere you go, tell me when I shall again see
      yonder thing of fire and air&mdash;yon Eastern Peri, that glides into
      apartments by the keyhole, and leaves them through the casement&mdash;yon
      black-eyed houri of the Mahometan paradise&mdash;when, I say, shall I see
      her once more?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "When your Grace has the truncheon of Lord Lieutenant of the Kingdom,"
      said Christian, and left the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham stood fixed in contemplation for a moment after he was gone.
      "Should I have done this?" he said, arguing the matter with himself; "or
      had I the choice rather of doing aught else? Should I not hasten to the
      Court, and make Charles aware of the treason which besets him? I will, by
      Heaven?&mdash;Here, Jerningham, my coach, with the despatch of light!&mdash;I
      will throw myself at his feet, and tell him of all the follies which I
      have dreamed of with this Christian.&mdash;And then he will laugh at me,
      and spurn me.&mdash;No, I have kneeled to him to-day already, and my
      repulse was nothing gentle. To be spurned once in the sun's daily round is
      enough for Buckingham."
    </p>
    <p>
      Having made this reflection, he seated himself, and began hastily to mark
      down the young nobles and gentlemen of quality, and others, their very
      ignoble companions, who he supposed might be likely to assume him for
      their leader in any popular disturbance. He had nearly completed it, when
      Jerningham entered, to say the coach would be ready in an instant, and to
      bring his master's sword, hat, and cloak.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let the coachman draw off," said the Duke, "but be in readiness. And send
      to the gentlemen thou wilt find named in this list; say I am but ill at
      ease, and wish their company to a light collation. Let instant expedition
      be made, and care not for expense; you will find most of them at the Club
      House in Fuller's Rents."[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] The place of meeting of the Green Ribbon Club. "Their place of
    meeting," says Roger North, "was in a sort of Carrefour at
    Chancery Lance, in a centre of business and company most proper
    for such anglers of fools. The house was double balconied in
    front, as may yet be seen, for the clubbers to issue forth <i>in
    fresco</i>, with hats and no perukes, pipes in their mouths, merry
    faces, and dilated throats for vocal encouragement of the
    canaglia below on usual and unusual occasions."
</pre>
    <p>
      The preparations for festivity were speedily made, and the intended
      guests, most of them persons who were at leisure for any call that
      promised pleasure, though sometimes more deaf to those of duty, began
      speedily to assemble. There were many youths of the highest rank, and with
      them, as is usual in those circles, many of a different class, whom
      talents, or impudence, or wit, or a turn for gambling, had reared up into
      companions for the great and the gay. The Duke of Buckingham was a general
      patron of persons of this description; and a numerous attendance took
      place on the present occasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The festivity was pursued with the usual appliances of wine, music, and
      games of hazard; with which, however, there mingled in that period much
      more wit, and a good deal more gross profligacy of conversation, than the
      talents of the present generation can supply, or their taste would permit.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke himself proved the complete command which he possessed over his
      versatile character, by maintaining the frolic, the laugh, and the jest,
      while his ear caught up, and with eagerness, the most distant sounds, as
      intimating the commencement of Christian's revolutionary project. Such
      sounds were heard from time to time, and from time to time they died away,
      without any of those consequences which Buckingham expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, and when it was late in the evening, Jerningham announced
      Master Chiffinch from the Court; and that worthy personage followed the
      annunciation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Strange things have happened, my Lord Duke," he said; "your presence at
      Court is instantly required by his Majesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You alarm me," said Buckingham, standing up. "I hope nothing has happened&mdash;I
      hope there is nothing wrong&mdash;I hope his Majesty is well?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perfectly well," said Chiffinch; "and desirous to see your Grace without
      a moment's delay."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is sudden," said the Duke. "You see I have had merry fellows about
      me, and am scarce in case to appear, Chiffinch."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace seems to be in very handsome plight," said Chiffinch; "and you
      know his Majesty is gracious enough to make allowances."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said the Duke, not a little anxious in his mind, touching the
      cause of this unexpected summons&mdash;"True&mdash;his Majesty is most
      gracious&mdash;I will order my coach."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mine is below," replied the royal messenger; "it will save time, if your
      Grace will condescend to use it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Forced from every evasion, Buckingham took a goblet from the table, and
      requested his friends to remain at his palace so long as they could find
      the means of amusement there. He expected, he said, to return almost
      immediately; if not, he would take farewell of them with his usual toast,
      "May all of us that are not hanged in the interval, meet together again
      here on the first Monday of next month."
    </p>
    <p>
      This standing toast of the Duke bore reference to the character of several
      of his guests; but he did not drink it on the present occasion without
      some anticipation concerning his own fate, in case Christian had betrayed
      him. He hastily made some addition to his dress, and attended Chiffinch in
      the chariot to Whitehall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLV
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           High feasting was there there&mdash;the gilded roofs
           Rung to the wassail-health&mdash;the dancer's step
           Sprung to the chord responsive&mdash;the gay gamester
           To fate's disposal flung his heap of gold,
           And laugh'd alike when it increased or lessen'd:
           Such virtue hath court-air to teach us patience
           Which schoolmen preach in vain.
                                       &mdash;WHY COME YE NOT TO COURT?
</pre>
    <p>
      Upon the afternoon of this eventful day, Charles held his Court in the
      Queen's apartments, which were opened at a particular hour to invited
      guests of a certain lower degree, but accessible without restriction to
      the higher classes of nobility who had from birth, and to the courtiers
      who held by office the privilege of the <i>entrée</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was one part of Charles's character, which unquestionably rendered him
      personally popular, and postponed to a subsequent reign the precipitation
      of his family from the throne, that he banished from his Court many of the
      formal restrictions with which it was in other reigns surrounded. He was
      conscious of the good-natured grace of his manners, and trusted to it,
      often not in vain, to remove evil impressions arising from actions, which
      he was sensible could not be justified on the grounds of liberal or
      national policy.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the daytime the King was commonly seen in the public walks alone, or
      only attended by one or two persons; and his answer to the remonstrance of
      his brother, on the risk of thus exposing his person, is well known:&mdash;"Believe
      me, James," he said, "no one will murder <i>me</i>, to make <i>you</i>
      King."
    </p>
    <p>
      In the same manner, Charles's evenings, unless such as were destined to
      more secret pleasures, were frequently spent amongst all who had any
      pretence to approach a courtly circle; and thus it was upon the night
      which we are treating of. Queen Catherine, reconciled or humbled to her
      fate, had long ceased to express any feelings of jealousy, nay, seemed so
      absolutely dead to such a passion, that she received at her drawing-room,
      without scruple, and even with encouragement, the Duchesses of Portsmouth
      and Cleveland, and others, who enjoyed, though in a less avowed character,
      the credit of having been royal favourites. Constraint of every kind was
      banished from a circle so composed, and which was frequented at the same
      time, if not by the wisest, at least by the wittiest courtiers, who ever
      assembled round a monarch, and who, as many of them had shared the wants,
      and shifts, and frolics of his exile, had then acquired a sort of
      prescriptive licence, which the good-natured prince, when he attained his
      period of prosperity, could hardly have restrained had it suited his
      temper to do so. This, however, was the least of Charles's thoughts. His
      manners were such as secured him from indelicate obtrusion; and he sought
      no other protection from over-familiarity, than what these and his ready
      wit afforded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the present occasion, he was peculiarly disposed to enjoy the scene of
      pleasure which had been prepared. The singular death of Major Coleby,
      which, taking place in his own presence, had proclaimed, with the voice of
      a passing bell, the ungrateful neglect of the Prince for whom he had
      sacrificed everything, had given Charles much pain. But, in his own
      opinion at least, he had completely atoned for this negligence by the
      trouble which he had taken for Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son, whose
      liberation he looked upon not only as an excellent good deed in itself,
      but, in spite of the grave rebuke of Ormond, as achieved in a very
      pardonable manner, considering the difficulties with which he was
      surrounded. He even felt a degree of satisfaction on receiving
      intelligence from the city that there had been disturbances in the
      streets, and that some of the more violent fanatics had betaken themselves
      to their meeting-houses, upon sudden summons, to inquire, as their
      preachers phrased it, into the causes of Heaven's wrath, and into the
      backsliding of the Court, lawyers, and jury, by whom the false and bloody
      favourers of the Popish Plot were screened and cloaked from deserved
      punishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, we repeat, seemed to hear these accounts with pleasure, even
      when he was reminded of the dangerous and susceptible character of those
      with whom such suspicions originated. "Will any one now assert," he said,
      with self-complacence, "that I am so utterly negligent of the interest of
      friends?&mdash;You see the peril in which I place myself, and even the
      risk to which I have exposed the public peace, to rescue a man whom I have
      scarce seen for twenty years, and then only in his buff-coat and
      bandoleers, with other Train-Band officers who kissed hands upon the
      Restoration. They say Kings have long hands&mdash;I think they have as
      much occasion for long memories, since they are expected to watch over and
      reward every man in England, who hath but shown his goodwill by crying
      'God save the King!'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, the rogues are even more unreasonable still," said Sedley; "for
      every knave of them thinks himself entitled to your Majesty's protection
      in a good cause, whether he has cried God save the King or no."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King smiled, and turned to another part of the stately hall, where
      everything was assembled which could, according to the taste of the age,
      make the time glide pleasantly away.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one place, a group of the young nobility, and of the ladies of the
      Court, listened to the reader's acquaintance Empson, who was accompanying
      with his unrivalled breathings on the flute, a young siren, who, while her
      bosom palpitated with pride and with fear, warbled to the courtly and
      august presence the beautiful air beginning&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "Young I am, and yet unskill'd,
  How to make a lover yield," &amp;c.
</pre>
    <p>
      She performed her task in a manner so corresponding with the strains of
      the amatory poet, and the voluptuous air with which the words had been
      invested by the celebrated Purcel, that the men crowded around in
      ecstasies, while most of the ladies thought it proper either to look
      extremely indifferent to the words she sung, or to withdraw from the
      circle as quietly as possible. To the song succeeded a concerto, performed
      by a select band of most admirable musicians, which the King, whose taste
      was indisputable, had himself selected.
    </p>
    <p>
      At other tables in the apartment, the elder courtiers worshipped Fortune,
      at the various fashionable games of ombre, quadrille, hazard, and the
      like; while heaps of gold which lay before the players, augmented or
      dwindled with every turn of a card or cast of a die. Many a year's rent of
      fair estates was ventured upon the main or the odds; which, spent in the
      old deserted manor-house, had repaired the ravages of Cromwell upon its
      walls, and replaced the sources of good housekeeping and hospitality,
      that, exhausted in the last age by fine and sequestration, were now in a
      fair way of being annihilated by careless prodigality. Elsewhere, under
      cover of observing the gamester, or listening to the music, the
      gallantries of that all-licensed age were practised among the gay and
      fair, closely watched the whilst by the ugly or the old, who promised
      themselves at least the pleasure of observing, and it may be that of
      proclaiming, intrigues in which they could not be sharers.
    </p>
    <p>
      From one table to another glided the merry Monarch, exchanging now a
      glance with a Court beauty, now a jest with a Court wit, now beating time
      to the music, and anon losing or winning a few pieces of gold on the
      chance of the game to which he stood nearest;&mdash;the most amiable of
      voluptuaries&mdash;the gayest and best-natured of companions&mdash;the man
      that would, of all others, have best sustained his character, had life
      been a continued banquet, and its only end to enjoy the passing hour, and
      send it away as pleasantly as might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Kings are least of all exempted from the ordinary lot of humanity; and
      Seged of Ethiopia is, amongst monarchs, no solitary example of the vanity
      of reckoning on a day or an hour of undisturbed serenity. An attendant on
      the Court announced suddenly to their Majesties that a lady, who would
      only announce herself as a Peeress of England, desired to be admitted into
      the presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen said, hastily, it was <i>impossible</i>. No peeress, without
      announcing her title, was entitled to the privilege of her rank.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could be sworn," said a nobleman in attendance, "that it is some whim
      of the Duchess of Newcastle."
    </p>
    <p>
      The attendant who brought the message, said that he did indeed believe it
      to be the Duchess, both from the singularity of the message, and that the
      lady spoke with somewhat a foreign accent.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the name of madness, then," said the King, "let us admit her. Her
      Grace is an entire raree-show in her own person&mdash;a universal
      masquerade&mdash;indeed a sort of private Bedlam-hospital, her whole ideas
      being like so many patients crazed upon the subjects of love and
      literature, who act nothing in their vagaries, save Minerva, Venus, and
      the nine Muses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Majesty's pleasure must always supersede mine," said the Queen. "I
      only hope I shall not be expected to entertain so fantastic a personage.
      The last time she came to Court, Isabella"&mdash;(she spoke to one of her
      Portuguese ladies of honour)&mdash;"you had not returned from our lovely
      Lisbon!&mdash;her Grace had the assurance to assume a right to bring a
      train-bearer into my apartment; and when this was not allowed, what then,
      think you, she did?&mdash;even caused her train to be made so long, that
      three mortal yards of satin and silver remained in the antechamber,
      supported by four wenches, while the other end was attached to her Grace's
      person, as she paid her duty at the upper end of the presence-room. Full
      thirty yards of the most beautiful silk did her Grace's madness employ in
      this manner."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And most beautiful damsels they were who bore this portentous train,"
      said the King&mdash;"a train never equalled save by that of the great
      comet in sixty-six. Sedley and Etherege told us wonders of them; for it is
      one advantage of this new fashion brought up by the Duchess, that a matron
      may be totally unconscious of the coquetry of her train and its
      attendants."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Am I to understand, then, your Majesty's pleasure is, that the lady is to
      be admitted?" said the usher.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly," said the King; "that is, if the incognita be really entitled
      to the honour.&mdash;It may be as well to inquire her title&mdash;there
      are more madwomen abroad than the Duchess of Newcastle. I will walk into
      the anteroom myself, and receive your answer."
    </p>
    <p>
      But ere Charles had reached the lower end of the apartment in his progress
      to the anteroom, the usher surprised the assembly by announcing a name
      which had not for many a year been heard in these courtly halls&mdash;"the
      Countess of Derby!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Stately and tall, and still, at an advanced period of life, having a
      person unbroken by years, the noble lady advanced towards her Sovereign,
      with a step resembling that with which she might have met an equal. There
      was indeed nothing in her manner that indicated either haughtiness or
      assumption unbecoming that presence; but her consciousness of wrongs,
      sustained from the administration of Charles, and of the superiority of
      the injured party over those from whom, or in whose name, the injury had
      been offered, gave her look dignity, and her step firmness. She was
      dressed in widow's weeds, of the same fashion which were worn at the time
      her husband was brought to the scaffold; and which, in the thirty years
      subsequent to that event, she had never permitted her tirewoman to alter.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surprise was no pleasing one to the King; and cursing in his heart the
      rashness which had allowed the lady entrance on the gay scene in which
      they were engaged, he saw at the same time the necessity of receiving her
      in a manner suitable to his own character, and her rank in the British
      Court. He approached her with an air of welcome, into which he threw all
      his natural grace, while he began, "<i>Chère Comtesse de Derby, puissante
      Reine de Man, notre très auguste soeur&mdash;&mdash;</i>"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak English, sire, if I may presume to ask such a favour," said the
      Countess. "I am a Peeress of this nation&mdash;mother to one English Earl,
      and widow, alas, to another! In England I have spent my brief days of
      happiness, my long years of widowhood and sorrow. France and its language
      are but to me the dreams of an uninteresting childhood. I know no tongue
      save that of my husband and my son. Permit me, as the widow and mother of
      Derby, thus to render my homage."
    </p>
    <p>
      She would have kneeled, but the King gracefully prevented her, and,
      saluting her cheek, according to the form, led her towards the Queen, and
      himself performed the ceremony of introduction. "Your Majesty," he said,
      "must be informed that the Countess has imposed a restriction on French&mdash;the
      language of gallantry and compliment. I trust your Majesty will, though a
      foreigner, like herself, find enough of honest English to assure the
      Countess of Derby with what pleasure we see her at Court, after the
      absence of so many years."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will endeavour to do so, at least," said the Queen, on whom the
      appearance of the Countess of Derby made a more favourable impression than
      that of many strangers, whom, at the King's request, she was in the habit
      of receiving with courtesy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles himself again spoke. "To any other lady of the same rank I might
      put the question, why she was so long absent from the circle? I fear I can
      only ask the Countess of Derby, what fortunate cause produces the pleasure
      of seeing her here?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No fortunate cause, my liege, though one most strong and urgent."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King augured nothing agreeable from this commencement; and in truth,
      from the Countess's first entrance, he had anticipated some unpleasant
      explanation, which he therefore hastened to parry, having first composed
      his features into an expression of sympathy and interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If," said he, "the cause is of a nature in which we can render
      assistance, we cannot expect your ladyship should enter upon it at the
      present time; but a memorial addressed to our secretary, or, if it is more
      satisfactory, to ourselves directly, will receive our immediate, and I
      trust I need not add, our favourable construction."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess bowed with some state, and answered, "My business, sire, is
      indeed important; but so brief, that it need not for more than a few
      minutes withdraw your ear from what is more pleasing;&mdash;yet it is so
      urgent, that I am afraid to postpone it even for a moment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is unusual," said Charles. "But you, Countess of Derby, are an
      unwonted guest, and must command my time. Does the matter require my
      private ear?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For my part," said the Countess, "the whole Court might listen; but you
      Majesty may prefer hearing me in the presence of one or two of your
      counsellors."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ormond," said the King, looking around, "attend us for an instant&mdash;and
      do you, Arlington, do the same."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King led the way into an adjoining cabinet, and, seating himself,
      requested the Countess would also take a chair. "It needs not, sire," she
      replied; then pausing for a moment, as if to collect her spirits, she
      proceeded with firmness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Majesty well said that no light cause had drawn me from my lonely
      habitation. I came not hither when the property of my son&mdash;that
      property which descended to him from a father who died for your Majesty's
      rights&mdash;was conjured away from him under pretext of justice, that it
      might first feed the avarice of the rebel Fairfax, and then supply the
      prodigality of his son-in-law, Buckingham."
    </p>
    <p>
      "These are over harsh terms, lady," said the King. "A legal penalty was,
      as we remember, incurred by an act of irregular violence&mdash;so our
      courts and our laws term it, though personally I have no objection to call
      it, with you, an honourable revenge. But admit it were such, in
      prosecution of the laws of honour, bitter legal consequences are often
      necessarily incurred."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I come not to argue for my son's wasted and forfeited inheritance, sire,"
      said the Countess; "I only take credit for my patience, under that
      afflicting dispensation. I now come to redeem the honour of the House of
      Derby, more dear to me than all the treasures and lands which ever
      belonged to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And by whom is the honour of the House of Derby impeached?" said the
      King; "for on my word you bring me the first news of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Has there one Narrative, as these wild fictions are termed, been printed
      with regard to the Popish Plot&mdash;this pretended Plot as I will call it&mdash;in
      which the honour of our house has not been touched and tainted? And are
      there not two noble gentlemen, father and son, allies of the House of
      Stanley, about to be placed in jeopardy of their lives, on account of
      matters in which we are the parties first impeached?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The King looked around, and smiled to Arlington and Ormond. "The
      Countess's courage, methinks, shames ours. What lips dared have called the
      immaculate Plot <i>pretended</i>, or the Narrative of the witnesses, our
      preservers from Popish knives, a wild fiction?&mdash;But, madam," he said,
      "though I admire the generosity of your interference in behalf of the two
      Peverils, I must acquaint you, that your interference is unnecessary&mdash;they
      are this morning acquitted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now may God be praised!" said the Countess, folding her hands. "I have
      scarce slept since I heard the news of their impeachment; and have arrived
      here to surrender myself to your Majesty's justice, or to the prejudices
      of the nation, in hopes, by so doing, I might at least save the lives of
      my noble and generous friends, enveloped in suspicion only, or chiefly, by
      their connection with us.&mdash;Are they indeed acquitted?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are, by my honour," said the King. "I marvel you heard it not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I arrived but last night, and remained in the strictest seclusion," said
      the Countess, "afraid to make any inquiries that might occasion discovery
      ere I saw your Majesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now that we <i>have</i> met," said the King, taking her hand kindly&mdash;"a
      meeting which gives me the greatest pleasure&mdash;may I recommend to you
      speedily to return to your royal island with as little <i>éclat</i> as you
      came thither? The world, my dear Countess, has changed since we were
      young. Men fought in the Civil War with good swords and muskets; but now
      we fight with indictments and oaths, and such like legal weapons. You are
      no adept in such warfare; and though I am well aware you know how to hold
      out a castle, I doubt much if you have the art to parry off an
      impeachment. This Plot has come upon us like a land storm&mdash;there is
      no steering the vessel in the teeth of the tempest&mdash;we must run for
      the nearest haven, and happy if we can reach one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is cowardice, my liege," said the Countess&mdash;"Forgive the word!&mdash;it
      is but a woman who speaks it. Call your noble friends around you, and make
      a stand like your royal father. There is but one right and one wrong&mdash;one
      honourable and forward course; and all others which deviate are oblique
      and unworthy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your language, my venerated friend," said Ormond, who saw the necessity
      of interfering betwixt the dignity of the actual Sovereign and the freedom
      of the Countess, who was generally accustomed to receive, not to pay
      observance,&mdash;"your language is strong and decided, but it applies not
      to the times. It might occasion a renewal of the Civil War, and of all its
      miseries, but could hardly be attended with the effects you sanguinely
      anticipate."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are too rash, my Lady Countess," said Arlington, "not only to rush
      upon this danger yourself, but to desire to involve his Majesty. Let me
      say plainly, that, in this jealous time, you have done but ill to exchange
      the security of Castle Rushin for the chance of a lodging in the Tower of
      London."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And were I to kiss the block there," said the Countess, "as did my
      husband at Bolton-on-the-Moors, I would do so willingly, rather than
      forsake a friend!&mdash;and one, too, whom, as in the case of the younger
      Peveril, I have thrust upon danger."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But have I not assured you that both of the Peverils, elder and younger,
      are freed from peril?" said the King; "and, my dear Countess, what can
      else tempt you to thrust <i>yourself</i> on danger, from which, doubtless,
      you expect to be relieved by my intervention? Methinks a lady of your
      judgment should not voluntarily throw herself into a river, merely that
      her friends might have the risk and merit of dragging her out."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess reiterated her intention to claim a fair trial.&mdash;The two
      counsellors again pressed their advice that she should withdraw, though
      under the charge of absconding from justice, and remain in her own feudal
      kingdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, seeing no termination to the debate, gently reminded the
      Countess that her Majesty would be jealous if he detained her ladyship
      longer, and offered her his hand to conduct her back to the company. This
      she was under the necessity of accepting, and returned accordingly to the
      apartments of state, where an event occurred immediately afterwards, which
      must be transferred to the next chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLVI
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              Here stand I tight and trim,
              Quick of eye, though little of limb;
              He who denieth the word I have spoken,
              Betwixt him and me shall lances be broken.
                            &mdash;LAY OF THE LITTLE JOHN DE SAINTRE.
</pre>
    <p>
      When Charles had reconducted the Countess of Derby into the
      presence-chamber, before he parted with her, he entreated her, in a
      whisper, to be governed by good counsel, and to regard her own safety; and
      then turned easily from her, as if to distribute his attentions equally
      among the other guests.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were a good deal circumscribed at the instant, by the arrival of a
      party of five or six musicians; one of whom, a German, under the patronage
      of the Duke of Buckingham, was particularly renowned for his performance
      on the violoncello, but had been detained in inactivity in the antechamber
      by the non-arrival of his instrument, which had now at length made its
      appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The domestic who placed it before the owner, shrouded as it was within its
      wooden case, seemed heartily glad to be rid of his load, and lingered for
      a moment, as if interested in discovering what sort of instrument was to
      be produced that could weigh so heavily. His curiosity was satisfied, and
      in a most extraordinary manner; for, while the musician was fumbling with
      the key, the case being for his greater convenience placed upright against
      the wall, the case and instrument itself at once flew open, and out
      started the dwarf, Geoffrey Hudson,&mdash;at sight of whose unearthly
      appearance, thus suddenly introduced, the ladies shrieked, and ran
      backwards; the gentlemen started, and the poor German, on seeing the
      portentous delivery of his fiddle-case, tumbled on the floor in an agony,
      supposing, it might be, that his instrument was metamorphosed into the
      strange figure which supplied its place. So soon, however, as he
      recovered, he glided out of the apartment, and was followed by most of his
      companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hudson!" said the King&mdash;"My little old friend, I am not sorry to see
      you; though Buckingham, who I suppose is the purveyor of this jest, hath
      served us up but a stale one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will your Majesty honour me with one moment's attention?" said Hudson.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Assuredly, my good friend," said the King. "Old acquaintances are
      springing up in every quarter to-night; and our leisure can hardly be
      better employed than in listening to them.&mdash;It was an idle trick of
      Buckingham," he added, in a whisper to Ormond, "to send the poor thing
      hither, especially as he was to-day tried for the affair of the plot. At
      any rate he comes not to ask protection from us, having had the rare
      fortune to come off <i>Plot-free</i>. He is but fishing, I suppose, for
      some little present or pension."
    </p>
    <p>
      The little man, precise in Court etiquette, yet impatient of the King's
      delaying to attend to him, stood in the midst of the floor, most
      valorously pawing and prancing, like a Scots pony assuming the airs of a
      war-horse, waving meanwhile his little hat with the tarnished feather, and
      bowing from time to time, as if impatient to be heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak on, then, my friend," said Charles; "if thou hast some poetical
      address penned for thee, out with it, that thou mayst have time to repose
      these flourishing little limbs of thine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No poetical speech have I, most mighty Sovereign," answered the dwarf;
      "but, in plain and most loyal prose, I do accuse, before this company, the
      once noble Duke of Buckingham of high treason!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well spoken, and manfully&mdash;Get on, man," said the King, who never
      doubted that this was the introduction to something burlesque or witty,
      not conceiving that the charge was made in solemn earnest.
    </p>
    <p>
      A great laugh took place among such courtiers as heard, and among many who
      did not hear, what was uttered by the dwarf; the former entertained by the
      extravagant emphasis and gesticulation of the little champion, and the
      others laughing not the less loud that they laughed for example's sake,
      and upon trust.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What matter is there for all this mirth?" said he, very indignantly&mdash;"Is
      it fit subject for laughing, that I, Geoffrey Hudson, Knight, do, before
      King and nobles, impeach George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, of high
      treason?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No subject of mirth, certainly," said Charles, composing his features;
      "but great matter of wonder.&mdash;Come, cease this mouthing, and
      prancing, and mummery.&mdash;If there be a jest, come out with it, man;
      and if not, even get thee to the beaffet, and drink a cup of wine to
      refresh thee after thy close lodging."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell you, my liege," said Hudson impatiently, yet in a whisper,
      intended only to be audible by the King, "that if you spend overmuch time
      in trifling, you will be convinced by dire experience of Buckingham's
      treason. I tell you,&mdash;I asseverate to your Majesty,&mdash;two hundred
      armed fanatics will be here within the hour, to surprise the guards."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stand back, ladies," said the King, "or you may hear more than you will
      care to listen to. My Lord of Buckingham's jests are not always, you know,
      quite fitted for female ears; besides, we want a few words in private with
      our little friend. You, my Lord of Ormond&mdash;you, Arlington" (and he
      named one or two others), "may remain with us."
    </p>
    <p>
      The gay crowd bore back, and dispersed through the apartment&mdash;the men
      to conjecture what the end of this mummery, as they supposed it, was
      likely to prove; and what jest, as Sedley said, the bass-fiddle had been
      brought to bed of&mdash;and the ladies to admire and criticise the antique
      dress, and richly embroidered ruff and hood of the Countess of Derby, to
      whom the Queen was showing particular attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now, in the name of Heaven, and amongst friends," said the King to
      the dwarf, "what means all this?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Treason, my lord the King!&mdash;Treason to his Majesty of England!&mdash;When
      I was chambered in yonder instrument, my lord, the High-Dutch fellows who
      bore me, carried me into a certain chapel, to see, as they said to each
      other, that all was ready. Sire, I went where bass-fiddle never went
      before, even into a conventicle of Fifth-Monarchists; and when they
      brought me away, the preacher was concluding his sermon, and was within a
      'Now to apply' of setting off like the bell-wether at the head of his
      flock, to surprise your Majesty in your royal Court! I heard him through
      the sound-holes of my instrument, when the fellow set me down for a moment
      to profit by this precious doctrine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would be singular," said Lord Arlington, "were there some reality at
      the bottom of this buffoonery; for we know these wild men have been
      consulting together to-day, and five conventicles have held a solemn
      fast."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," said the King, "if that be the case, they are certainly determined
      on some villainy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Might I advise," said the Duke of Ormond, "I would summon the Duke of
      Buckingham to this presence. His connections with the fanatics are well
      known, though he affects to conceal them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You would not, my lord, do his Grace the injustice to treat him as a
      criminal on such a charge as this?" said the King. "However," he added,
      after a moment's consideration, "Buckingham is accessible to every sort of
      temptation, from the flightiness of his genius. I should not be surprised
      if he nourished hopes of an aspiring kind&mdash;I think we had some proof
      of it lately.&mdash;Hark ye, Chiffinch; go to him instantly, and bring him
      here on any fair pretext thou canst devise. I would fain save him from
      what lawyers call an overt act. The Court would be dull as a dead horse
      were Buckingham to miscarry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will not your Majesty order the Horse Guards to turn out?" said young
      Selby, who was present, and an officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, Selby," said the King, "I like not horse-play. But let them be
      prepared; and let the High Bailiff collect his civil officers, and command
      the Sheriffs to summon their worshipful attendants from javelin-men to
      hangmen, and have them in readiness, in case of any sudden tumult&mdash;double
      the sentinels on the doors of the palace&mdash;and see no strangers get
      in."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Or <i>out</i>," said the Duke of Ormond. "Where are the foreign fellows
      who brought in the dwarf?"
    </p>
    <p>
      They were sought for, but they were not to be found. They had retreated,
      leaving their instruments&mdash;a circumstance which seemed to bear hard
      on the Duke of Buckingham, their patron.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hasty preparations were made to provide resistance to any effort of
      despair which the supposed conspirators might be driven to; and in the
      meanwhile, the King, withdrawing with Arlington, Ormond, and a few other
      counsellors, into the cabinet where the Countess of Derby had had her
      audience, resumed the examination of the little discoverer. His
      declaration, though singular, was quite coherent; the strain of romance
      intermingled with it, being in fact a part of his character, which often
      gained him the fate of being laughed at, when he would otherwise have been
      pitied, or even esteemed.
    </p>
    <p>
      He commenced with a flourish about his sufferings for the Plot, which the
      impatience of Ormond would have cut short, had not the King reminded his
      Grace, that a top, when it is not flogged, must needs go down of itself at
      the end of a definite time, while the application of the whip may keep it
      up for hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Geoffrey Hudson was, therefore, allowed to exhaust himself on the subject
      of his prison-house, which he informed the King was not without a beam of
      light&mdash;an emanation of loveliness&mdash;a mortal angel&mdash;quick of
      step and beautiful of eye, who had more than once visited his confinement
      with words of cheering and comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my faith," said the King, "they fare better in Newgate than I was
      aware of. Who would have thought of the little gentleman being solaced
      with female society in such a place?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I pray your Majesty," said the dwarf, after the manner of a solemn
      protest, "to understand nothing amiss. My devotion to this fair creature
      is rather like what we poor Catholics pay to the blessed saints, than
      mixed with any grosser quality. Indeed, she seems rather a sylphid of the
      Rosicrucian system, than aught more carnal; being slighter, lighter, and
      less than the females of common life, who have something of that
      coarseness of make which is doubtless derived from the sinful and gigantic
      race of the antediluvians."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, say on, man," quoth Charles. "Didst thou not discover this sylph to
      be a mere mortal wench after all?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who?&mdash;I, my liege?&mdash;Oh, fie!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, little gentleman, do not be so particularly scandalised," said the
      King; "I promise you I suspect you of no audacity of gallantry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Time wears fast," said the Duke of Ormond impatiently, and looking at his
      watch. "Chiffinch hath been gone ten minutes, and ten minutes will bring
      him back."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said Charles gravely. "Come to the point, Hudson; and tell us what
      this female has to do with your coming hither in this extraordinary
      manner."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Everything, my lord," said little Hudson. "I saw her twice during my
      confinement in Newgate, and, in my thought, she is the very angel who
      guards my life and welfare; for, after my acquittal, as I walked towards
      the city with two tall gentlemen, who had been in trouble along with me,
      and just while we stood to our defence against a rascally mob, and just as
      I had taken possession of an elevated situation, to have some vantage
      against the great odds of numbers, I heard a heavenly voice sound, as it
      were, from a window behind me, counselling me to take refuge in a certain
      house; to which measure I readily persuaded my gallant friends the
      Peverils, who have always shown themselves willing to be counselled by
      me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Showing therein their wisdom at once and modesty," said the King. "But
      what chanced next? Be brief&mdash;be like thyself, man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For a time, sire," said the dwarf, "it seemed as if I were not the
      principal object of attention. First, the younger Peveril was withdrawn
      from us by a gentleman of venerable appearance, though something smacking
      of a Puritan, having boots of neat's leather, and wearing his weapon
      without a sword-knot. When Master Julian returned, he informed us, for the
      first time, that we were in the power of a body of armed fanatics who
      were, as the poet says, prompt for direful act. And your Majesty will
      remark, that both father and son were in some measure desperate, and
      disregardful from that moment of the assurances which I gave them, that
      the star which I was bound to worship, would, in her own time, shine forth
      in signal of our safety. May it please your Majesty, in answer to my
      hilarious exhortations to confidence, the father did but say <i>tush</i>,
      and the son <i>pshaw</i>, which showed how men's prudence and manners are
      disturbed by affliction. Nevertheless, these two gentlemen, the Peverils,
      forming a strong opinion of the necessity there was to break forth, were
      it only to convey a knowledge of these dangerous passages to your Majesty,
      commenced an assault on the door of the apartment, I also assisting with
      the strength which Heaven hath given, and some threescore years have left
      me. We could not, as it unhappily proved, manage our attempt so silently,
      but that our guards overheard us, and, entering in numbers, separated us
      from each other, and compelled my companions, at point of pike and
      poniard, to go to some other and more distant apartment, thus separating
      our fair society. I was again enclosed in the now solitary chamber, and I
      will own that I felt a certain depression of soul. But when bale is at
      highest, as the poet singeth, boot is at nighest, for a door of hope was
      suddenly opened&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the name of God, my liege," said the Duke of Ormond, "let this poor
      creature's story be translated into the language of common sense by some
      of the scribblers of romances about Court, and we may be able to make
      meaning of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Geoffrey Hudson looked with a frowning countenance of reproof upon the
      impatient old Irish nobleman, and said, with a very dignified air, "That
      one Duke upon a poor gentleman's hand was enough at a time, and that, but
      for his present engagement and dependency with the Duke of Buckingham, he
      would have endured no such terms from the Duke of Ormond."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Abate your valour, and diminish your choler, at our request, most
      puissant Sir Geoffrey Hudson," said the King; "and forgive the Duke of
      Ormond for my sake; but at all events go on with your story."
    </p>
    <p>
      Geoffrey Hudson laid his hand on his bosom, and bowed in proud and
      dignified submission to his Sovereign; then waved his forgiveness
      gracefully to Ormond, accompanied with a horrible grin, which he designed
      for a smile of gracious forgiveness and conciliation. "Under the Duke's
      favour, then," he proceeded, "when I said a door of hope was opened to me,
      I meant a door behind the tapestry, from whence issued that fair vision&mdash;yet
      not so fair as lustrously dark, like the beauty of a continental night,
      where the cloudless azure sky shrouds us in a veil more lovely than that
      of day!&mdash;but I note your Majesty's impatience;&mdash;enough. I
      followed my beautiful guide into an apartment, where there lay, strangely
      intermingled, warlike arms and musical instruments. Amongst these I saw my
      own late place of temporary obscurity&mdash;a violoncello. To my
      astonishment, she turned around the instrument, and opening it behind the
      pressure of a spring, showed that it was filled with pistols, daggers, and
      ammunition made up in bandoleers. 'These,' she said, 'are this night
      destined to surprise the Court of the unwary Charles'&mdash;your Majesty
      must pardon my using her own words; 'but if thou darest go in their stead,
      thou mayst be the saviour of king and kingdoms; if thou art afraid, keep
      secret, I will myself try the adventure.' Now may Heaven forbid, that
      Geoffrey Hudson were craven enough, said I, to let thee run such a risk!
      You know not&mdash;you cannot know, what belongs to such ambuscades and
      concealments&mdash;I am accustomed to them&mdash;have lurked in the pocket
      of a giant, and have formed the contents of a pasty. 'Get in then,' she
      said, 'and lose no time.' Nevertheless, while I prepared to obey, I will
      not deny that some cold apprehensions came over my hot valour, and I
      confessed to her, if it might be so, I would rather find my way to the
      palace on my own feet. But she would not listen to me, saying hastily, 'I
      would be intercepted, or refused admittance, and that I must embrace the
      means she offered me of introduction into the presence, and when there,
      tell the King to be on his guard&mdash;little more is necessary; for once
      the scheme is known, it becomes desperate.' Rashly and boldly, I bid adieu
      to the daylight which was then fading away. She withdrew the contents of
      the instrument destined for my concealment, and having put them behind the
      chimney-board, introduced me in their room. As she clasped me in, I
      implored her to warn the men who were to be entrusted with me, to take
      heed and keep the neck of the violoncello uppermost; but ere I had
      completed my request, I found I was left alone, and in darkness,
      Presently, two or three fellows entered, whom, by their language, which I
      in some sort understood, I perceived to be Germans, and under the
      influence of the Duke of Buckingham. I heard them receive from the leader
      a charge how they were to deport themselves, when they should assume the
      concealed arms&mdash;and&mdash;for I will do the Duke no wrong&mdash;I
      understood their orders were precise, not only to spare the person of the
      King, but also those of the courtiers, and to protect all who might be in
      the presence against an irruption of the fanatics. In other respects, they
      had charge to disarm the Gentlemen-pensioners in the guard-room, and, in
      fine, to obtain the command of the Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      The King looked disconcerted and thoughtful at this communication, and
      bade Lord Arlington see that Selby quietly made search into the contents
      of the other cases which had been brought as containing musical
      instruments. He then signed to the dwarf to proceed in his story, asking
      him again and again, and very solemnly, whether he was sure that he heard
      the Duke's name mentioned, as commanding or approving this action.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf answered in the affirmative.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This," said the King, "is carrying the frolic somewhat far."
    </p>
    <p>
      The dwarf proceeded to state, that he was carried after his metamorphosis
      into the chapel, where he heard the preacher seemingly about the close of
      his harangue, the tenor of which he also mentioned. Words, he said, could
      not express the agony which he felt when he found that his bearer, in
      placing the instrument in a corner, was about to invert its position, in
      which case, he said, human frailty might have proved too great for love,
      for loyalty, for true obedience, nay, for the fear of death, which was
      like to ensue on discovery; and he concluded, that he greatly doubted he
      could not have stood on his head for many minutes without screaming aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could not have blamed you," said the King; "placed in such a posture in
      the royal oak, I must needs have roared myself.&mdash;Is this all you have
      to tell us of this strange conspiracy?" Sir Geoffrey Hudson replied in the
      affirmative, and the King presently subjoined&mdash;"Go, my little friend,
      your services shall not be forgotten. Since thou hast crept into the
      bowels of a fiddle for our service, we are bound, in duty and conscience,
      to find you a more roomy dwelling in future."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was a violoncello, if your Majesty is pleased to remember," said the
      little jealous man, "not a common fiddle; though, for your Majesty's
      service, I would have crept even into a kit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whatever of that nature could have been performed by any subject of ours,
      thou wouldst have enacted in our behalf&mdash;of that we hold ourselves
      certain. Withdraw for a little; and hark ye, for the present, beware what
      you say about this matter. Let your appearance be considered&mdash;do you
      mark me&mdash;as a frolic of the Duke of Buckingham; and not a word of
      conspiracy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Were it not better to put him under some restraint, sire?" said the Duke
      of Ormond, when Hudson had left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is unnecessary," said the King. "I remember the little wretch of old.
      Fortune, to make him the model of absurdity, has closed a most lofty soul
      within that little miserable carcass. For wielding his sword and keeping
      his word, he is a perfect Don Quixote in decimo-octavo. He shall be taken
      care of.&mdash;But, oddsfish, my lords, is not this freak of Buckingham
      too villainous and ungrateful?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He had not had the means of being so, had your Majesty," said the Duke of
      Ormond, "been less lenient on other occasions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My lord, my lord," said Charles hastily&mdash;"your lordship is
      Buckingham's known enemy&mdash;we will take other and more impartial
      counsel&mdash;Arlington, what think you of all this?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "May it please your Majesty," said Arlington, "I think the thing is
      absolutely impossible, unless the Duke has had some quarrel with your
      Majesty, of which we know nothing. His Grace is very flighty, doubtless,
      but this seems actual insanity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, faith," said the King, "some words passed betwixt us this morning&mdash;his
      Duchess it seems is dead&mdash;and to lose no time, his Grace had cast his
      eyes about for means of repairing the loss, and had the assurance to ask
      our consent to woo my niece Lady Anne."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Which your Majesty of course rejected?" said the statesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And not without rebuking his assurance," added the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In private, sire, or before any witnesses?" said the Duke of Ormond.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Before no one," said the King,&mdash;"excepting, indeed, little
      Chiffinch; and he, you know, is no one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "<i>Hinc illæ lachrymæ</i>," said Ormond. "I know his Grace well. While
      the rebuke of his aspiring petulance was a matter betwixt your Majesty and
      him, he might have let it pass by; but a check before a fellow from whom
      it was likely enough to travel through the Court, was a matter to be
      revenged."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Selby came hastily from the other room, to say, that his Grace of
      Buckingham had just entered the presence-chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King rose. "Let a boat be in readiness, with a party of the yeomen,"
      said he. "It may be necessary to attach him of treason, and send him to
      the Tower."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Should not a Secretary of State's warrant be prepared?" said Ormond.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, my Lord Duke," said the King sharply. "I still hope that the
      necessity may be avoided."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLVII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
             High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
                                           &mdash;RICHARD III.
</pre>
    <p>
      Before giving the reader an account of the meeting betwixt Buckingham and
      his injured Sovereign, we may mention a trifling circumstance or two which
      took place betwixt his Grace and Chiffinch, in the short drive betwixt
      York Place and Whitehall.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the outset, the Duke endeavoured to learn from the courtier the special
      cause of his being summoned so hastily to the Court. Chiffinch answered,
      cautiously, that he believed there were some gambols going forward, at
      which the King desired the Duke's presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      This did not quite satisfy Buckingham, for, conscious of his own rash
      purpose, he could not but apprehend discovery. After a moment's silence,
      "Chiffinch," he said abruptly, "did you mention to any one what the King
      said to me this morning touching the Lady Anne?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My Lord Duke," said Chiffinch, hesitantly, "surely my duty to the King&mdash;my
      respect to your Grace&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "You mentioned it to no one, then?" said the Duke sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To no one," replied Chiffinch faintly, for he was intimidated by the
      Duke's increasing severity of manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ye lie, like a scoundrel!" said the Duke&mdash;"You told Christian!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Grace," said Chiffinch&mdash;"your Grace&mdash;your Grace ought to
      remember that I told you Christian's secret; that the Countess of Derby
      was come up."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you think the one point of treachery may balance for the other? But
      no. I must have a better atonement. Be assured I will blow your brains
      out, ere you leave this carriage, unless you tell me the truth of this
      message from Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      As Chiffinch hesitated what reply to make, a man, who, by the blaze of the
      torches, then always borne, as well by the lackeys who hung behind the
      carriage, as by the footmen who ran by the side, might easily see who sat
      in the coach, approached, and sung in a deep manly voice, the burden of an
      old French song on the battle of Marignan, in which is imitated the German
      French of the defeated Swiss.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 "<i>Tout est verlore
  La tintelore,
  Tout est verlore</i>
            Bei Got."
</pre>
    <p>
      "I am betrayed," said the Duke, who instantly conceived that this chorus,
      expressing "all is lost," was sung by one of his faithful agents, as a
      hint to him that their machinations were discovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He attempted to throw himself from the carriage, but Chiffinch held him
      with a firm, though respectful grasp. "Do not destroy yourself, my lord,"
      he said, in a tone of deep humility&mdash;"there are soldiers and officers
      of the peace around the carriage, to enforce your Grace's coming to
      Whitehall, and to prevent your escape. To attempt it would be to confess
      guilt; and I advise you strongly against that&mdash;the King is your
      friend&mdash;be your own."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke, after a moment's consideration, said sullenly, "I believe you
      are right. Why should I fly, when I am guilty of nothing but sending some
      fireworks to entertain the Court, instead of a concert of music?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And the dwarf, who came so unexpectedly out of the bass-viol&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Was a masking device of my own, Chiffinch," said the Duke, though the
      circumstance was then first known to him. "Chiffinch, you will bind me for
      ever, if you will permit me to have a minute's conversation with
      Christian."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With Christian, my lord?&mdash;Where could you find him?&mdash;You are
      aware we must go straight to the Court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said the Duke, "but I think I cannot miss finding him; and you,
      Master Chiffinch, are no officer, and have no warrant either to detain me
      prisoner, or prevent my speaking to whom I please."
    </p>
    <p>
      Chiffinch replied, "My Lord Duke, your genius is so great, and your
      escapes so numerous, that it will be from no wish of my own if I am forced
      to hurt a man so skilful and so popular."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, then, there is life in it yet," said the Duke, and whistled; when,
      from beside the little cutler's booth, with which the reader is
      acquainted, appeared, suddenly, Master Christian, and was in a moment at
      the side of the coach. "<i>Ganz ist verloren</i>," said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know it," said Christian; "and all our godly friends are dispersed upon
      the news. Luckily the Colonel and these German rascals gave a hint. All is
      safe&mdash;You go to Court&mdash;Hark ye, I will follow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You, Christian? that would be more friendly than wise."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, what is there against me?" said Christian. "I am innocent as the
      child unborn&mdash;so is your Grace. There is but one creature who can
      bear witness to our guilt; but I trust to bring her on the stage in our
      favour&mdash;besides, if I were not, I should presently be sent for."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The familiar of whom I have heard you speak, I warrant?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hark in your ear again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand," said the Duke, "and will delay Master Chiffinch,&mdash;for
      he, you must know, is my conductor,&mdash;no longer.&mdash;Well,
      Chiffinch, let them drive on.&mdash;<i>Vogue la Galère!</i>" he exclaimed,
      as the carriage went onward; "I have sailed through worse perils than this
      yet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not for me to judge," said Chiffinch; "your Grace is a bold
      commander; and Christian hath the cunning of the devil for a pilot; but&mdash;&mdash;However,
      I remain your Grace's poor friend, and will heartily rejoice in your
      extrication."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Give me a proof of your friendship," said the Duke. "Tell me what you
      know of Christian's familiar, as he calls her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe it to be the same dancing wench who came with Empson to my
      house on the morning that Mistress Alice made her escape from us. But you
      have seen her, my lord?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I?" said the Duke; "when did I see her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She was employed by Christian, I believe, to set his niece at liberty,
      when he found himself obliged to gratify his fanatical brother-in-law, by
      restoring his child; besides being prompted by a private desire, as I
      think, of bantering your Grace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Umph! I suspected so much. I will repay it," said the Duke. "But first to
      get out of this dilemma.&mdash;That little Numidian witch, then, was his
      familiar; and she joined in the plot to tantalise me?&mdash;But here we
      reach Whitehall.&mdash;Now, Chiffinch, be no worse than thy word, and&mdash;now,
      Buckingham, be thyself!"
    </p>
    <p>
      But ere we follow Buckingham into the presence, where he had so difficult
      a part to sustain, it may not be amiss to follow Christian after his brief
      conversation with him. On re-entering the house, which he did by a
      circuitous passage, leading from a distant alley, and through several
      courts, Christian hastened to a low matted apartment, in which Bridgenorth
      sat alone, reading the Bible by the light of a small brazen lamp, with the
      utmost serenity of countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have you dismissed the Peverils?" said Christian hastily.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have," said the Major.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And upon what pledge&mdash;that they will not carry information against
      you to Whitehall?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They gave me their promise voluntarily, when I showed them our armed
      friends were dismissed. To-morrow, I believe, it is their purpose to lodge
      informations."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why not to-night, I pray you?" said Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because they allow us that time for escape."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, then, do you not avail yourself of it? Wherefore are you here?" said
      Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, rather, why do <i>you</i> not fly?" said Bridgenorth. "Of a surety,
      you are as deeply engaged as I."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Brother Bridgenorth, I am the fox, who knows a hundred modes of deceiving
      the hounds; you are the deer, whose sole resource is in hasty flight.
      Therefore lose no time&mdash;begone to the country&mdash;or rather,
      Zedekiah Fish's vessel, the <i>Good Hope</i>, lies in the river, bound for
      Massachusetts&mdash;take the wings of the morning, and begone&mdash;she
      can fall down to Gravesend with the tide."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And leave to thee, brother Christian," said Bridgenorth, "the charge of
      my fortune and my daughter? No, brother; my opinion of your good faith
      must be re-established ere I again trust thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go thy ways, then, for a suspicious fool," said Christian, suppressing
      his strong desire to use language more offensive; "or rather stay where
      thou art, and take thy chance of the gallows!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is appointed to all men to die once," said Bridgenorth; "my life hath
      been a living death. My fairest boughs have been stripped by the axe of
      the forester&mdash;that which survives must, if it shall blossom, be
      grafted elsewhere, and at a distance from my aged trunk. The sooner, then,
      the root feels the axe, the stroke is more welcome. I had been pleased,
      indeed, had I been called to bringing yonder licentious Court to a purer
      character, and relieving the yoke of the suffering people of God. That
      youth too&mdash;son to that precious woman, to whom I owe the last tie
      that feebly links my wearied spirit to humanity&mdash;could I have
      travailed with <i>him</i> in the good cause!&mdash;But that, with all my
      other hopes is broken for ever; and since I am not worthy to be an
      instrument in so great a work, I have little desire to abide longer in
      this vale of sorrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Farewell, then, desponding fool!" said Christian, unable, with all his
      calmness, any longer to suppress his contempt for the resigned and
      hopeless predestinarian. "That fate should have clogged me with such
      confederates!" he muttered, as he left the apartment&mdash;"this bigoted
      fool is now nearly irreclaimable&mdash;I must to Zarah; for she, or no
      one, must carry us through these straits. If I can but soothe her sullen
      temper, and excite her vanity to action,&mdash;betwixt her address, the
      King's partiality for the Duke, Buckingham's matchless effrontery, and my
      own hand upon the helm, we may yet weather the tempest that darkens around
      us. But what we do must be hastily done."
    </p>
    <p>
      In another apartment he found the person he sought&mdash;the same who
      visited the Duke of Buckingham's harem, and, having relieved Alice
      Bridgenorth from her confinement there, had occupied her place as has been
      already narrated, or rather intimated. She was now much more plainly
      attired than when she had tantalised the Duke with her presence; but her
      dress had still something of the Oriental character, which corresponded
      with the dark complexion and quick eye of the wearer. She had the kerchief
      at her eyes as Christian entered the apartment, but suddenly withdrew it,
      and, flashing on him a glance of scorn and indignation, asked him what he
      meant by intruding where his company was alike unsought for and undesired.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A proper question," said Christian, "from a slave to her master!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rather, say, a proper question, and of all questions the most proper,
      from a mistress to her slave! Know you not, that from the hour in which
      you discovered your ineffable baseness, you have made me mistress of your
      lot? While you seemed but a demon of vengeance, you commanded terror, and
      to good purpose; but such a foul fiend as thou hast of late shown thyself&mdash;such
      a very worthless, base trickster of the devil&mdash;such a sordid
      grovelling imp of perdition, can gain nothing but scorn from a soul like
      mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gallantly mouthed," said Christian, "and with good emphasis."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," answered Zarah, "I can speak&mdash;sometimes&mdash;I can also be
      mute; and that no one knows better than thou."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art a spoiled child, Zarah, and dost but abuse the indulgence I
      entertain for your freakish humour," replied Christian; "thy wits have
      been disturbed since ever you landed in England, and all for the sake of
      one who cares for thee no more than for the most worthless object who
      walks the streets, amongst whom he left you to engage in a brawl for one
      he loved better."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is no matter," said Zarah, obviously repressing very bitter emotion;
      "it signifies not that he loves another better; there is none&mdash;no,
      none&mdash;that ever did, or can, love him so well."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I pity you, Zarah!" said Christian, with some scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I deserve your pity," she replied, "were your pity worth my accepting.
      Whom have I to thank for my wretchedness but you?&mdash;You bred me up in
      thirst of vengeance, ere I knew that good and evil were anything better
      than names;&mdash;to gain your applause, and to gratify the vanity you had
      excited, I have for years undergone a penance, from which a thousand would
      have shrunk."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A thousand, Zarah!" answered Christian; "ay, a hundred thousand, and a
      million to boot; the creature is not on earth, being mere mortal woman,
      that would have undergone the thirtieth part of thy self-denial."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe it," said Zarah, drawing up her slight but elegant figure; "I
      believe it&mdash;I have gone through a trial that few indeed could have
      sustained. I have renounced the dear intercourse of my kind; compelled my
      tongue only to utter, like that of a spy, the knowledge which my ear had
      only collected as a base eavesdropper. This I have done for years&mdash;for
      years&mdash;and all for the sake of your private applause&mdash;and the
      hope of vengeance on a woman, who, if she did ill in murdering my father,
      has been bitterly repaid by nourishing a serpent in her bosom, that had
      the tooth, but not the deafened ear, of the adder."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well&mdash;well&mdash;well," reiterated Christian; "and had you not your
      reward in my approbation&mdash;in the consequences of your own unequalled
      dexterity&mdash;by which, superior to anything of thy sex that history has
      ever known, you endured what woman never before endured, insolence without
      notice, admiration without answer, and sarcasm without reply?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not without reply!" said Zarah fiercely. "Gave not Nature to my feelings
      a course of expression more impressive than words? and did not those
      tremble at my shrieks, who would have little minded my entreaties or my
      complaints? And my proud lady, who sauced her charities with the taunts
      she thought I heard not&mdash;she was justly paid by the passing her
      dearest and most secret concerns into the hands of her mortal enemy; and
      the vain Earl&mdash;yet he was a thing as insignificant as the plume that
      nodded in his cap;&mdash;and the maidens and ladies who taunted me&mdash;I
      had, or can easily have, my revenge upon them. But there is <i>one</i>,"
      she added, looking upward, "who never taunted me; one whose generous
      feelings could treat the poor dumb girl even as his sister; who never
      spoke word of her but was to excuse or defend&mdash;and you tell me I must
      not love him, and that it is madness to love him!&mdash;I <i>will</i> be
      mad then, for I will love till the latest breath of my life!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Think but an instant, silly girl&mdash;silly but in one respect, since in
      all others thou mayest brave the world of women. Think what I have
      proposed to thee, for the loss of this hopeless affection, a career so
      brilliant!&mdash;Think only that it rests with thyself to be the wife&mdash;the
      wedded wife&mdash;of the princely Buckingham! With my talents&mdash;with
      thy wit and beauty&mdash;with his passionate love of these attributes&mdash;a
      short space might rank you among England's princesses.&mdash;Be but guided
      by me&mdash;he is now at deadly pass&mdash;needs every assistance to
      retrieve his fortunes&mdash;above all, that which we alone can render him.
      Put yourself under my conduct, and not fate itself shall prevent your
      wearing a Duchess's coronet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A coronet of thistle-down, entwined with thistle-leaves," said Zarah.&mdash;"I
      know not a slighter thing than your Buckingham! I saw him at your request&mdash;saw
      him when, as a man, he should have shown himself generous and noble&mdash;I
      stood the proof at your desire, for I laugh at those dangers from which
      the poor blushing wailers of my sex shrink and withdraw themselves. What
      did I find him?&mdash;a poor wavering voluptuary&mdash;his nearest attempt
      to passion like the fire on a wretched stubble-field, that may singe,
      indeed, or smoke, but can neither warm nor devour. Christian! were his
      coronet at my feet this moment, I would sooner take up a crown of gilded
      gingerbread, than extend my hand to raise it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are mad, Zarah&mdash;with all your taste and talent, you are utterly
      mad! But let Buckingham pass&mdash;Do you owe <i>me</i> nothing on this
      emergency?&mdash;Nothing to one who rescued you from the cruelty of your
      owner, the posture-master, to place you in ease and affluence?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Christian," she replied, "I owe you much. Had I not felt I did so, I
      would, as I have been often tempted to do, have denounced thee to the
      fierce Countess, who would have gibbeted you on her feudal walls of Castle
      Rushin, and bid your family seek redress from the eagles, that would long
      since have thatched their nest with your hair, and fed their young ospreys
      with your flesh."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am truly glad you have had so much forbearance for me," answered
      Christian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have it, in truth and in sincerity," replied Zarah&mdash;"Not for your
      benefits to me&mdash;such as they were, they were every one interested,
      and conferred from the most selfish considerations. I have overpaid them a
      thousand times by the devotion to your will, which I have displayed at the
      greatest personal risk. But till of late I respected your powers of mind&mdash;your
      inimitable command of passion&mdash;the force of intellect which I have
      ever seen you exercise over all others, from the bigot Bridgenorth to the
      debauched Buckingham&mdash;in that, indeed, I have recognised my master."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And those powers," said Christian, "are unlimited as ever; and with thy
      assistance, thou shalt see the strongest meshes that the laws of civil
      society ever wove to limit the natural dignity of man, broke asunder like
      a spider's web."
    </p>
    <p>
      She paused and answered, "While a noble motive fired thee&mdash;ay, a
      noble motive, though irregular&mdash;for I was born to gaze on the sun
      which the pale daughters of Europe shrink from&mdash;I could serve thee&mdash;I
      could have followed, while revenge or ambition had guided thee&mdash;but
      love of <i>wealth</i>, and by what means acquired!&mdash;What sympathy can
      I hold with that?&mdash;Wouldst thou not have pandered to the lust of the
      King, though the object was thine own orphan niece?&mdash;You smile?&mdash;Smile
      again when I ask you whether you meant not my own prostitution, when you
      charged me to remain in the house of that wretched Buckingham?&mdash;Smile
      at that question, and by Heaven, I stab you to the heart!" And she thrust
      her hand into her bosom, and partly showed the hilt of a small poniard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And if I smile," said Christian, "it is but in scorn of so odious an
      accusation. Girl, I will not tell thee the reason, but there exists not on
      earth the living thing over whose safety and honour I would keep watch as
      over thine. Buckingham's wife, indeed, I wished thee; and through thy own
      beauty and thy wit, I doubted not to bring the match to pass."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Vain flatterer," said Zarah, yet seeming soothed even by the flattery
      which she scoffed at, "you would persuade me that it was honourable love
      which you expected the Duke was to have offered me. How durst you urge a
      gross a deception, to which time, place, and circumstance gave the lie?&mdash;How
      dare you now again mention it, when you well know, that at the time you
      mention, the Duchess was still in life?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "In life, but on her deathbed," said Christian; "and for time, place, and
      circumstance, had your virtue, my Zarah, depended on these, how couldst
      thou have been the creature thou art? I knew thee all-sufficient to bid
      him defiance&mdash;else&mdash;for thou art dearer to me than thou thinkest&mdash;I
      had not risked thee to win the Duke of Buckingham; ay, and the kingdom of
      England to boot. So now, wilt thou be ruled and go on with me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Zarah, or Fenella, for our readers must have been long aware of the
      identity of these two personages, cast down her eyes, and was silent for a
      long time. "Christian," she said at last, in a solemn voice, "if my ideas
      of right and of wrong be wild and incoherent, I owe it, first, to the wild
      fever which my native sun communicated to my veins; next, to my childhood,
      trained amidst the shifts, tricks, and feats of jugglers and mountebanks;
      and then, to a youth of fraud and deception, through the course thou didst
      prescribe me, in which I might, indeed, hear everything, but communicate
      with no one. The last cause of my wild errors, if such they are,
      originates, O Christian, with you alone; by whose intrigues I was placed
      with yonder lady, and who taught me, that to revenge my father's death,
      was my first great duty on earth, and that I was bound by nature to hate
      and injure her by whom I was fed and fostered, though as she would have
      fed and caressed a dog, or any other mute animal. I also think&mdash;for I
      will deal fairly with you&mdash;that you had not so easily detected your
      niece, in the child whose surprising agility was making yonder brutal
      mountebank's fortune; nor so readily induced him to part with his
      bond-slave, had you not, for your own purposes, placed me under his
      charge, and reserved the privilege of claiming me when you pleased. I
      could not, under any other tuition, have identified myself with the
      personage of a mute, which it has been your desire that I should perform
      through life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You do me injustice, Zarah," said Christian&mdash;"I found you capable of
      the avenging of your father's death&mdash;I consecrated you to it, as I
      consecrated my own life and hopes; and you held the duty sacred, till
      these mad feeling towards a youth who loves your cousin&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who&mdash;loves&mdash;my&mdash;cousin," repeated Zarah (for we will
      continue to call her by her real name) slowly, and as if the words dropped
      unconsciously from her lips. "Well&mdash;be it so!&mdash;Man of many
      wiles, I will follow thy course for a little, a very little farther; but
      take heed&mdash;tease me not with remonstrances against the treasure of my
      secret thoughts&mdash;I mean my most hopeless affection to Julian Peveril&mdash;and
      bring me not as an assistant to any snare which you may design to cast
      around him. You and your Duke shall rue the hour most bitterly, in which
      you provoke me. You may suppose you have me in your power; but remember,
      the snakes of my burning climate are never so fatal as when you grasp
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I care not for these Peverils," said Christian&mdash;"I care not for
      their fate a poor straw, unless where it bears on that of the destined
      woman, whose hands are red in your father's blood. Believe me, I can
      divide her fate and theirs. I will explain to you how. And for the Duke,
      he may pass among men of the town for wit, and among soldiers for valour,
      among courtiers for manners and for form; and why, with his high rank and
      immense fortune, you should throw away an opportunity, which, as I could
      now improve it&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak not of it," said Zarah, "if thou wouldst have our truce&mdash;remember
      it is no peace&mdash;if, I say, thou wouldst have our truce grow to be an
      hour old!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "This, then," said Christian, with a last effort to work upon the vanity
      of this singular being, "is she who pretended such superiority to human
      passion, that she could walk indifferently and unmoved through the halls
      of the prosperous, and the prison cells of the captive, unknowing and
      unknown, sympathising neither with the pleasures of the one, nor the woes
      of the other, but advancing with sure, though silent steps, her own plans,
      in despite and regardless of either!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My own plans!" said Zarah&mdash;"<i>Thy</i> plans, Christian&mdash;thy
      plans of extorting from the surprised prisoners, means whereby to convict
      them&mdash;thine own plans, formed with those more powerful than thyself,
      to sound men's secrets, and, by using them as a matter of accusation, to
      keep up the great delusion of the nation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such access was indeed given you as my agent," said Christian, "and for
      advancing a great national change. But how did you use it?&mdash;to
      advance your insane passion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Insane!" said Zarah&mdash;"Had he been less than insane whom I addressed,
      he and I had ere now been far from the toils which you have pitched for us
      both. I had means prepared for everything; and ere this, the shores of
      Britain had been lost to our sight for ever."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The dwarf, too," said Christian&mdash;"Was it worthy of you to delude
      that poor creature with flattering visions&mdash;lull him asleep with
      drugs! Was <i>that</i> my doing?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He was my destined tool," said Zarah haughtily. "I remembered your
      lessons too well not to use him as such. Yet scorn him not too much. I
      tell you, that yon very miserable dwarf, whom I made my sport in the
      prison&mdash;yon wretched abortion of nature, I would select for a
      husband, ere I would marry your Buckingham;&mdash;the vain and imbecile
      pigmy has yet the warm heart and noble feelings, that a man should hold
      his highest honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In God's name, then, take your own way," said Christian; "and, for my
      sake, let never man hereafter limit a woman in the use of her tongue,
      since he must make it amply up to her, in allowing her the privilege of
      her own will. Who would have thought it? But the colt has slipped the
      bridle, and I must needs follow, since I cannot guide her."
    </p>
    <p>
      Our narrative returns to the Court of King Charles at Whitehall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLVIII
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                   &mdash;&mdash;But oh!
          What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop; thou cruel,
          Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature!
          Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels,
          That knew'st the very bottom of my soul,
          That almost mightst have coined me into gold,
          Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use?
                                                   &mdash;HENRY V.
</pre>
    <p>
      At no period of his life, not even when that life was in imminent danger,
      did the constitutional gaiety of Charles seem more overclouded, than when
      waiting for the return of Chiffinch with the Duke of Buckingham. His mind
      revolted at the idea, that the person to whom he had been so particularly
      indulgent, and whom he had selected as the friend of his lighter hours and
      amusements, should prove capable of having tampered with a plot apparently
      directed against his liberty and life. He more than once examined the
      dwarf anew, but could extract nothing more than his first narrative
      contained. The apparition of the female to him in the cell of Newgate, he
      described in such fanciful and romantic colours, that the King could not
      help thinking the poor man's head a little turned; and, as nothing was
      found in the kettledrum, and other musical instruments brought for the use
      of the Duke's band of foreigners, he nourished some slight hope that the
      whole plan might be either a mere jest, or that the idea of an actual
      conspiracy was founded in mistake.
    </p>
    <p>
      The persons who had been despatched to watch the motions of Mr. Weiver's
      congregation, brought back word that they had quietly dispersed. It was
      known, at the same time, that they had met in arms, but this augured no
      particular design of aggression, at a time when all true Protestants
      conceived themselves in danger of immediate massacre; when the fathers of
      the city had repeatedly called out the Train-Bands, and alarmed the
      citizens of London, under the idea of an instant insurrection of the
      Catholics; and when, to sum the whole up, in the emphatic words of an
      alderman of the day, there was a general belief that they would all waken
      some unhappy morning with their throats cut. Who was to do these dire
      deeds, it was more difficult to suppose; but all admitted the possibility
      that they might be achieved, since one Justice of the Peace was already
      murdered. There was, therefore, no inference of hostile intentions against
      the State, to be decidedly derived from a congregation of Protestants <i>par
      excellence</i>, military from old associations, bringing their arms with
      them to a place of worship, in the midst of a panic so universal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither did the violent language of the minister, supposing that to be
      proved, absolutely infer meditated violence. The favourite parables of the
      preachers, and the metaphors and ornaments which they selected, were at
      all times of a military cast; and the taking the kingdom of heaven by
      storm, a strong and beautiful metaphor, when used generally as in
      Scripture, was detailed in their sermons in all the technical language of
      the attack and defence of a fortified place. The danger, in short,
      whatever might have been its actual degree, had disappeared as suddenly as
      a bubble upon the water, when broken by a casual touch, and had left as
      little trace behind it. It became, therefore, matter of much doubt,
      whether it had ever actually existed.
    </p>
    <p>
      While various reports were making from without, and while their tenor was
      discussed by the King, and such nobles and statesmen as he thought proper
      to consult on the occasion, a gradual sadness and anxiety mingled with,
      and finally silenced, the mirth of the evening. All became sensible that
      something unusual was going forward; and the unwonted distance which
      Charles maintained from his guests, while it added greatly to the dulness
      that began to predominate in the presence-chamber, gave intimation that
      something unusual was labouring in the King's mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus play was neglected&mdash;the music was silent, or played without
      being heard&mdash;gallants ceased to make compliments, and ladies to
      expect them; and a sort of apprehensive curiosity pervaded the circle.
      Each asked the others why they were grave; and no answer was returned, any
      more than could have been rendered by a herd of cattle instinctively
      disturbed by the approach of a thunderstorm.
    </p>
    <p>
      To add to the general apprehension, it began to be whispered, that one or
      two of the guests, who were desirous of leaving the palace, had been
      informed no one could be permitted to retire until the general hour of
      dismissal. And these, gliding back into the hall, communicated in whispers
      that the sentinels at the gates were doubled, and that there was a troop
      of the Horse Guards drawn up in the court&mdash;circumstances so unusual,
      as to excite the most anxious curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the state of the Court, when wheels were heard without, and the
      bustle which took place denoted the arrival of some person of consequence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here comes Chiffinch," said the King, "with his prey in his clutch."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was indeed the Duke of Buckingham; nor did he approach the royal
      presence without emotion. On entering the court, the flambeaux which were
      borne around the carriage gleamed on the scarlet coats, laced hats, and
      drawn broadswords of the Horse Guards&mdash;a sight unusual, and
      calculated to strike terror into a conscience which was none of the
      clearest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke alighted from the carriage, and only said to the officer, whom he
      saw upon duty, "You are late under arms to-night, Captain Carleton."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such are our orders, sir," answered Carleton, with military brevity; and
      then commanded the four dismounted sentinels at the under gate to make way
      for the Duke of Buckingham. His Grace had no sooner entered, than he heard
      behind him the command, "Move close up, sentinels&mdash;closer yet to the
      gate." And he felt as if all chance of rescue were excluded by the sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he advanced up the grand staircase, there were other symptoms of alarm
      and precaution. The Yeomen of the Guard were mustered in unusual numbers,
      and carried carabines instead of their halberds; and the
      Gentlemen-pensioners, with their partisans, appeared also in proportional
      force. In short, all that sort of defence which the royal household
      possesses within itself, seemed, for some hasty and urgent reason, to have
      been placed under arms, and upon duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham ascended the royal staircase with an eye attentive to these
      preparations, and a step steady and slow, as if he counted each step on
      which he trode. "Who," he asked himself, "shall ensure Christian's
      fidelity? Let him but stand fast, and we are secure. Otherwise&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      As he shaped the alternative, he entered the presence-chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King stood in the midst of the apartment, surrounded by the personages
      with whom he had been consulting. The rest of the brilliant assembly,
      scattered into groups, looked on at some distance. All were silent when
      Buckingham entered, in hopes of receiving some explanation of the
      mysteries of the evening. All bent forward, though etiquette forbade them
      to advance, to catch, if possible, something of what was about to pass
      betwixt the King and his intriguing statesman. At the same time, those
      counsellors who stood around Charles, drew back on either side, so as to
      permit the Duke to pay his respects to his Majesty in the usual form. He
      went through the ceremonial with his accustomed grace, but was received by
      Charles with much unwonted gravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We have waited for you some time, my Lord Duke. It is long since
      Chiffinch left us, to request your attendance here. I see you are
      elaborately dressed. Your toilette was needless on the present occasion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Needless to the splendour of your Majesty's Court," said the Duke, "but
      not needless on my part. This chanced to be Black Monday at York Place,
      and my club of <i>Pendables</i> were in full glee when your Majesty's
      summons arrived. I could not be in the company of Ogle, Maniduc, Dawson,
      and so forth, but what I must needs make some preparation, and some
      ablution, ere entering the circle here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I trust the purification will be complete," said the King, without any
      tendency to the smile which always softened features, that, ungilded by
      its influence, were dark, harsh, and even severe. "We wished to ask your
      Grace concerning the import of a sort of musical mask which you designed
      us here, but which miscarried, as we are given to understand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It must have been a great miscarriage indeed," said the Duke, "since your
      Majesty looks so serious on it. I thought to have done your Majesty
      pleasure (as I have seen you condescend to be pleased with such passages),
      by sending the contents of that bass-viol; but I fear the jest has been
      unacceptable&mdash;I fear the fireworks may have done mischief."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not the mischief they were designed for, perhaps," said the King gravely;
      "you see, my lord, we are all alive, and unsinged."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Long may your Majesty remain so," said the Duke; "yet I see there is
      something misconstrued on my part&mdash;it must be a matter unpardonable,
      however little intended, since it hath displeased so indulgent a master."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Too indulgent a master, indeed, Buckingham," replied the King; "and the
      fruit of my indulgence has been to change loyal men into traitors."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May it please your Majesty, I cannot understand this," said the Duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Follow us, my lord," answered Charles, "and we will endeavour to explain
      our meaning."
    </p>
    <p>
      Attended by the same lords who stood around him, and followed by the Duke
      of Buckingham, on whom all eyes were fixed, Charles retired into the same
      cabinet which had been the scene of repeated consultations in the course
      of the evening. There, leaning with his arms crossed on the back of an
      easy-chair, Charles proceeded to interrogate the suspected nobleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us be plain with each other. Speak out, Buckingham. What, in one
      word, was to have been the regale intended for us this evening?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A petty mask, my lord. I had destined a little dancing-girl to come out
      of that instrument, who, I thought, would have performed to your Majesty's
      liking&mdash;a few Chinese fireworks there were, thinking the
      entertainment was to have taken place in the marble hall, might, I hoped,
      have been discharged with good effect, and without the slightest alarm, at
      the first appearance of my little sorceress, and were designed to have
      masked, as it were, her entrance upon the stage. I hope there have been no
      perukes singed&mdash;no ladies frightened&mdash;no hopes of noble descent
      interrupted by my ill-fancied jest."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We have seen no such fireworks, my lord; and your female dancer, of whom
      we now hear for the first time, came forth in the form of our old
      acquaintance Geoffrey Hudson, whose dancing days are surely ended."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your Majesty surprises me! I beseech you, let Christian be sent for&mdash;Edward
      Christian&mdash;he will be found lodging in a large old house near Sharper
      the cutler's, in the Strand. As I live by bread, sire, I trusted him with
      the arrangement of this matter, as indeed the dancing-girl was his
      property. If he has done aught to dishonour my concert, or disparage my
      character, he shall die under the baton."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is singular," said the King, "and I have often observed it, that this
      fellow Christian bears the blame of all men's enormities&mdash;he performs
      the part which, in a great family, is usually assigned to that
      mischief-doing personage, Nobody. When Chiffinch blunders, he always
      quotes Christian. When Sheffield writes a lampoon, I am sure to hear of
      Christian having corrected, or copied, or dispersed it&mdash;he is the <i>ame
      damnée</i> of every one about my Court&mdash;the scapegoat, who is to
      carry away all their iniquities; and he will have a cruel load to bear
      into the wilderness. But for Buckingham's sins, in particular, he is the
      regular and uniform sponsor; and I am convinced his Grace expects
      Christian should suffer every penalty he has incurred, in this world or
      the next."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so," with the deepest reverence replied the Duke. "I have no hope of
      being either hanged or damned by proxy; but it is clear some one hath
      tampered with and altered my device. If I am accused of aught, let me at
      least hear the charge, and see my accuser."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is but fair," said the King. "Bring our little friend from behind
      the chimney-board. [Hudson being accordingly produced, he continued.]
      There stands the Duke of Buckingham. Repeat before him the tale you told
      us. Let him hear what were those contents of the bass-viol which were
      removed that you might enter it. Be not afraid of any one, but speak the
      truth boldly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May it please your Majesty," said Hudson, "fear is a thing unknown to
      me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "His body has no room to hold such a passion; or there is too little of it
      to be worth fearing for," said Buckingham.&mdash;"But let him speak."
    </p>
    <p>
      Ere Hudson had completed his tale, Buckingham interrupted him by
      exclaiming, "Is it possible that I can be suspected by your Majesty on the
      word of this pitiful variety of the baboon tribe?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Villain-Lord, I appeal thee to the combat!" said the little man, highly
      offended at the appellation thus bestowed on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "La you there now!" said the Duke&mdash;"The little animal is quite
      crazed, and defies a man who need ask no other weapon than a corking-pin
      to run him through the lungs, and whose single kick could hoist him from
      Dover to Calais without yacht or wherry. And what can you expect from an
      idiot, who is <i>engoué</i> of a common rope-dancing girl, that capered on
      a pack-thread at Ghent in Flanders, unless they were to club their talents
      to set up a booth at Bartholomew Fair?&mdash;Is it not plain, that
      supposing the little animal is not malicious, as indeed his whole kind
      bear a general and most cankered malice against those who have the
      ordinary proportions of humanity&mdash;Grant, I say, that this were not a
      malicious falsehood of his, why, what does it amount to?&mdash;That he has
      mistaken squibs and Chinese crackers for arms! He says not he himself
      touched or handled them; and judging by the sight alone, I question if the
      infirm old creature, when any whim or preconception hath possession of his
      noddle, can distinguish betwixt a blunderbuss and a black-pudding."
    </p>
    <p>
      The horrible clamour which the dwarf made so soon as he heard this
      disparagement of his military skill&mdash;the haste with which he
      blundered out a detail of this warlike experiences&mdash;and the absurd
      grimaces which he made in order to enforce his story, provoked not only
      the risibility of Charles, but even of the statesmen around him, and added
      absurdity to the motley complexion of the scene. The King terminated this
      dispute, by commanding the dwarf to withdraw.
    </p>
    <p>
      A more regular discussion of his evidence was then resumed, and Ormond was
      the first who pointed out, that it went farther than had been noticed,
      since the little man had mentioned a certain extraordinary and treasonable
      conversation held by the Duke's dependents, by whom he had been conveyed
      to the palace.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am sure not to lack my lord of Ormond's good word," said the Duke
      scornfully; "but I defy him alike, and all my other enemies, and shall
      find it easy to show that this alleged conspiracy, if any grounds for it
      at all exist, in a mere sham-plot, got up to turn the odium justly
      attached to the Papists upon the Protestants. Here is a half-hanged
      creature, who, on the very day he escapes from the gallows, which many
      believe was his most deserved destiny, comes to take away the reputation
      of a Protestant Peer&mdash;and on what?&mdash;on the treasonable
      conversation of three or four German fiddlers, heard through the
      sound-holes of a violoncello, and that, too, when the creature was incased
      in it, and mounted on a man's shoulders! The urchin, too, in repeating
      their language, shows he understands German as little as my horse does;
      and if he did rightly hear, truly comprehend, and accurately report what
      they said, still, is my honour to be touched by the language held by such
      persons as these are, with whom I have never communicated, otherwise than
      men of my rank do with those of their calling and capacity?&mdash;Pardon
      me, sire, if I presume to say, that the profound statesmen who endeavoured
      to stifle the Popish conspiracy by the pretended Meal-tub Plot, will take
      little more credit by their figments about fiddles and concertos."
    </p>
    <p>
      The assistant counsellors looked at each other; and Charles turned on his
      heel, and walked through the room with long steps.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this period the Peverils, father and son, were announced to have
      reached the palace, and were ordered into the royal presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      These gentlemen had received the royal mandate at a moment of great
      interest. After being dismissed from their confinement by the elder
      Bridgenorth, in the manner and upon the terms which the reader must have
      gathered from the conversation of the latter with Christian, they reached
      the lodgings of Lady Peveril, who awaited them with joy, mingled with
      terror and uncertainty. The news of the acquittal had reached her by the
      exertions of the faithful Lance Outram, but her mind had been since
      harassed by the long delay of their appearance, and rumours of
      disturbances which had taken place in Fleet Street and in the Strand.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the first rapturous meeting was over, Lady Peveril, with an anxious
      look towards her son, as if recommending caution, said she was now about
      to present to him the daughter of an old friend, whom he had <i>never</i>
      (there was an emphasis on the word) seen before. "This young lady," she
      continued, "was the only child of Colonel Mitford, in North Wales, who had
      sent her to remain under her guardianship for an interval, finding himself
      unequal to attempt the task of her education."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, ay," said Sir Geoffrey, "Dick Mitford must be old now&mdash;beyond
      the threescore and ten, I think. He was no chicken, though a cock of the
      game, when he joined the Marquis of Hertford at Namptwich with two hundred
      wild Welshmen.&mdash;Before George, Julian, I love that girl as if she was
      my own flesh and blood! Lady Peveril would never have got through this
      work without her; and Dick Mitford sent me a thousand pieces, too, in
      excellent time, when there was scarce a cross to keep the devil from
      dancing in our pockets, much more for these law-doings. I used it without
      scruple, for there is wood ready to be cut at Martindale when we get down
      there, and Dick Mitford knows I would have done the like for him. Strange
      that he should have been the only one of my friends to reflect I might
      want a few pieces."
    </p>
    <p>
      Whilst Sir Geoffrey thus run on, the meeting betwixt Alice and Julian
      Peveril was accomplished, without any particular notice on his side,
      except to say, "Kiss her, Julian&mdash;kiss her. What the devil! is that
      the way you learned to accost a lady at the Isle of Man, as if her lips
      were a red-hot horseshoe?&mdash;And do not you be offended, my pretty one;
      Julian is naturally bashful, and has been bred by an old lady, but you
      will find him, by-and-by, as gallant as thou hast found me, my princess.&mdash;And
      now, Dame Peveril, to dinner, to dinner! the old fox must have his
      belly-timber, though the hounds have been after him the whole day."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lance, whose joyous congratulations were next to be undergone, had the
      consideration to cut them short, in order to provide a plain but hearty
      meal from the next cook's shop, at which Julian sat, like one enchanted,
      betwixt his mistress and his mother. He easily conceived that the last was
      the confidential friend to whom Bridgenorth had finally committed the
      charge of his daughter, and his only anxiety now was, to anticipate the
      confusion that was likely to arise when her real parentage was made known
      to his father. Wisely, however, he suffered not these anticipations to
      interfere with the delight of his present situation, in the course of
      which many slight but delightful tokens of recognition were exchanged,
      without censure, under the eye of Lady Peveril, under cover of the
      boisterous mirth of the old Baronet, who spoke for two, ate for four, and
      drank wine for half-a-dozen. His progress in the latter exercise might
      have proceeded rather too far, had he not been interrupted by a gentleman
      bearing the King's orders, that he should instantly attend upon the
      presence at Whitehall, and bring his son along with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lady Peveril was alarmed, and Alice grew pale with sympathetic anxiety;
      but the old Knight, who never saw more than what lay straight before him,
      set it down to the King's hasty anxiety to congratulate him on his escape;
      an interest on his Majesty's part which he considered by no means
      extravagant, conscious that it was reciprocal on his own side. It came
      upon him, indeed, with the more joyful surprise that he had received a
      previous hint, ere he left the court of justice, that it would be prudent
      in him to go down to Martindale before presenting himself at Court&mdash;a
      restriction which he supposed as repugnant to his Majesty's feelings as it
      was to his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he consulted with Lance Outram about cleaning his buff-belt and
      sword-hilt, as well as time admitted, Lady Peveril had the means to give
      Julian more distinct information, that Alice was under her protection by
      her father's authority, and with his consent to their union, if it could
      be accomplished. She added that it was her determination to employ the
      mediation of the Countess of Derby, to overcome the obstacles which might
      be foreseen on the part of Sir Geoffrey.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XLIX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  In the King's name,
                  Let fall your swords and daggers!
                                                 &mdash;CRITIC.
</pre>
    <p>
      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.&mdash;"My good Sir Geoffrey," he said, "you
      have had some hard measure; we owe you amends, and will find time to pay
      our debt."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No suffering&mdash;no debt," said the old man; "I cared not what the
      rogues said of me&mdash;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&mdash;that I confess&mdash;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&mdash;aha!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.&mdash;"My
      old friend," he whispered, "you forget that your son is to be presented&mdash;permit
      me to have that honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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.&mdash;Julian, come forward, and kneel.&mdash;Here he
      is, please your Majesty&mdash;Julian Peveril&mdash;a chip of the old block&mdash;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, <i>à pendre</i>,
      as the French say; if he fears fire or steel, axe or gallows, in your
      Majesty's service, I renounce him&mdash;he is no son of mine&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;a mad witness like the
      dwarf, a drunken witness like the father, and now a dumb witness.&mdash;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&mdash;you know him, I presume?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;if you are afraid of Buckingham, the Duke shall
      withdraw."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oddsfish!" said the King, "the light begins to break in on me&mdash;I
      thought I remembered thy physiognomy. Wert thou not the very fellow whom I
      met at Chiffinch's yonder morning?&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No more of that, young man&mdash;no more of that&mdash;But I recollect
      you had with you that beautiful dancing siren.&mdash;Buckingham, I will
      hold you gold to silver, that she was the intended tenant of that
      bass-fiddle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Damn Christian!" said the King hastily&mdash;"I wish they would bring him
      hither, that universal referee."&mdash;And as the wish was uttered,
      Christian's arrival was announced. "Let him attend," said the King: "But
      hark&mdash;a thought strikes me.&mdash;Here, Master Peveril&mdash;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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have known her such for years," answered Julian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is there any one in this presence whom your ladyship recognises," said
      the King graciously, "besides your old friends of Ormond and Arlington?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see, my liege, two worthy friends of my husband's house," replied the
      Countess; "Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son&mdash;the latter a
      distinguished member of my son's household."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Any one else?" continued the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Had your ladyship any reason to suspect&mdash;pardon me," said the King,
      "for putting such a question&mdash;any improper intimacy between Master
      Peveril and this same female attendant?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "My liege," said the Countess, colouring indignantly, "my household is of
      reputation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, my lady, be not angry," said the King; "I did but ask&mdash;such
      things will befall in the best regulated families."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      Zarah looked at her, and compressed her lips, as if to keep in the words
      that would fain break from them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know how it is," said the King&mdash;"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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Impossible!" said the Countess; "she cannot dance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe," said the King, "she can do more feats than your ladyship
      either suspects or would approve of."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess drew up, and was indignantly silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King proceeded&mdash;"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.&mdash;Ah ha! I think Master Julian is touched in conscience!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Julian did indeed start as the King spoke, for it reminded him of the
      midnight visit in his cell.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King looked fixedly at him, and then proceeded&mdash;"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.&mdash;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.&mdash;Think you not so, Sir Christian, you, the universal
      referee? Is there any truth in this conjecture?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;excepting that she was wilful and capricious,
      like all great geniuses&mdash;she had certainly spoiled the concert by
      cramming in that more bulky dwarf."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should think," said Charles, "that this same Master Peveril has the
      more direct key to her language, after all we have heard."
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      Arlington bowed in acquiescence, but Ormond spoke plainly.&mdash;"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&mdash;Had
      he been a Catholic, under such circumstances of suspicion, the Tower had
      been too good a prison for him."
    </p>
    <p>
      Buckingham bowed to the Duke of Ormond, with a meaning which even his
      triumph could not disguise.&mdash;"<i>Tu me la pagherai!</i>" 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?&mdash;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.&mdash;Seek for no apology&mdash;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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Believe that I have been guilty&mdash;most guilty, my liege and King,"
      said the Duke, conscience-stricken, and kneeling down;&mdash;"believe that
      I was misguided&mdash;that I was mad&mdash;Believe anything but that I was
      capable of harming, or being accessory to harm, your person."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, if you bring Christian on the stage again," said the King, smiling,
      "it is time for me to withdraw. Come, Villiers, rise&mdash;I forgive thee,
      and only recommend one act of penance&mdash;the curse you yourself
      bestowed on the dog who bit you&mdash;marriage, and retirement to your
      country-seat."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will your ladyship forgive me?" said Charles. "I have studied your sex
      long&mdash;I am mistaken if your little maiden is not as capable of caring
      for herself as any of us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Impossible!" said the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;I will show you in a moment that it can stir at
      sounds spoken."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the King, passing near them, said, "This is a horrid deed&mdash;the
      villain Christian has stabbed young Peveril!"
    </p>
    <p>
      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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am betrayed!" she said, with her eyes fixed on the ground&mdash;"I am
      betrayed!&mdash;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?&mdash;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?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "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.&mdash;Wretched man," he
      continued, addressing Christian, "what wiles are these you have practised,
      and by what extraordinary means?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She has betrayed me, then!" said Christian&mdash;"Betrayed me to bonds
      and death, merely for an idle passion, which can never be successful!&mdash;But
      know, Zarah," he added, addressing her sternly, "when my life is forfeited
      through thy evidence, the daughter has murdered the father!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The unfortunate girl stared on him in astonishment. "You said," at length
      she stammered forth, "that I was the daughter of your slaughtered
      brother?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That was partly to reconcile thee to the part thou wert to play in my
      destined drama of vengeance&mdash;partly to hide what men call the infamy
      of thy birth. But <i>my</i> 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.&mdash;My
      destiny is the Tower, I suppose?"
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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&mdash;Go, carry your dark
      intrigues to other lands."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I might dispute the sentence," said Christian boldly; "and if I submit to
      it, it is a matter of my own choice.&mdash;One half-hour had made me even
      with that proud woman, but fortune hath cast the balance against me.&mdash;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&mdash;miserably, miserably
      frustrated!&mdash;Thou seest thy folly now&mdash;thou wouldst follow
      yonder ungrateful stripling&mdash;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!&mdash;But come, thou art still my
      daughter&mdash;there are other skies than that which canopies Britain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stop him," said the King; "we must know by what means this maiden found
      access to those confined in our prisons."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."[*]
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
[*] 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.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Christian," said the Duke, "thou art the most barefaced villain who ever
      breathed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of a commoner, I may," answered Christian, and led his daughter out of
      the presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They love each other like lovers of the last age," said the Countess;
      "but the stout old Knight likes not the round-headed alliance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "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."
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>

<h3>THE END</h3>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0097m.jpg" alt="0097m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0097.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0129m.jpg" alt="0129m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0129.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0165m.jpg" alt="0165m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0165.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0208m.jpg" alt="0208m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0208.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:65%;">
      <img src="images/0402m.jpg" alt="0402m " width="100%" /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0402.jpg"><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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