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Peveril of the Peak
Some strange revolution, Julian was aware, must have taken place, both in the village and in the Castle, ere these sounds of unseemly insult could have been poured forth in the very inn which was decorated with the armorial bearings of his family; and not knowing how far it might be advisable to intrude on these unfriendly revellers, without the power of repelling or chastising their insolence, he led his horse to a back-door, which as he recollected, communicated with the landlord’s apartment, having determined to make private inquiry of him concerning the state of matters at the Castle. He knocked repeatedly, and as often called on Roger Raine with an earnest but stifled voice. At length a female voice replied by the usual inquiry, “Who is there?”
“It is I, Dame Raine – I, Julian Peveril – tell your husband to come to me presently.”
“Alack, and a well-a-day, Master Julian, if it be really you – you are to know my poor goodman has gone where he can come to no one; but, doubtless, we shall all go to him, as Matthew Chamberlain says.”
“He is dead, then?” said Julian. “I am extremely sorry – ”
“Dead six months and more, Master Julian; and let me tell you, it is a long time for a lone woman, as Matt Chamberlain says.”
“Well, do you or your chamberlain undo the door. I want a fresh horse; and I want to know how things are at the Castle.”
“The Castle – lack-a-day! – Chamberlain – Matthew Chamberlain – I say, Matt!”
Matt Chamberlain apparently was at no great distance, for he presently answered her call; and Peveril, as he stood close to the door, could hear them whispering to each other, and distinguish in a great measure what they said. And here it may be noticed, that Dame Raine, accustomed to submit to the authority of old Roger, who vindicated as well the husband’s domestic prerogative, as that of the monarch in the state, had, when left a buxom widow, been so far incommoded by the exercise of her newly acquired independence, that she had recourse, upon all occasions, to the advice of Matt Chamberlain; and as Matt began no longer to go slipshod, and in a red nightcap, but wore Spanish shoes, and a high-crowned beaver (at least of a Sunday), and moreover was called Master Matthew by his fellow-servants, the neighbours in the village argued a speedy change of the name of the sign-post; nay, perhaps, of the very sign itself, for Matthew was a bit of a Puritan, and no friend to Peveril of the Peak.
“Now counsel me, an you be a man, Matt Chamberlain,” said Widow Raine; “for never stir, if here be not Master Julian’s own self, and he wants a horse, and what not, and all as if things were as they wont to be.”
“Why, dame, an ye will walk by my counsel,” said the Chamberlain, “e’en shake him off – let him be jogging while his boots are green. This is no world for folks to scald their fingers in other folks’ broth.”
“And that is well spoken, truly,” answered Dame Raine; “but then look you, Matt, we have eaten their bread, and, as my poor goodman used to say – ”
“Nay, nay, dame, they that walk by the counsel of the dead, shall have none of the living; and so you may do as you list; but if you will walk by mine, drop latch, and draw bolt, and bid him seek quarters farther – that is my counsel.”
“I desire nothing of you, sirrah,” said Peveril, “save but to know how Sir Geoffrey and his lady do?”
“Lack-a-day! – lack-a-day!” in a tone of sympathy, was the only answer he received from the landlady; and the conversation betwixt her and her chamberlain was resumed, but in a tone too low to be overheard.
At length Matt Chamberlain spoke aloud, and with a tone of authority: “We undo no doors at this time of night, for it is against the Justices’ orders, and might cost us our licence; and for the Castle, the road up to it lies before you, and I think you know it as well as we do.”
“And I know you,” said Peveril, remounting his wearied horse, “for an ungrateful churl, whom, on the first opportunity, I will assuredly cudgel to a mummy.”
To this menace Matthew made no reply, and Peveril presently heard him leave the apartment, after a few earnest words betwixt him and his mistress.
Impatient at this delay, and at the evil omen implied in these people’s conversation and deportment, Peveril, after some vain spurring of his horse, which positively refused to move a step farther, dismounted once more, and was about to pursue his journey on foot, notwithstanding the extreme disadvantage under which the high riding-boots of the period laid those who attempted to walk with such encumbrances, when he was stopped by a gentle call from the window.
Her counsellor was no sooner gone, than the good-nature and habitual veneration of the dame for the house of Peveril, and perhaps some fear for her counsellor’s bones, induced her to open the casement, and cry, but in a low and timid tone, “Hist! hist! Master Julian – be you gone?”
“Not yet, dame,” said Julian; “though it seems my stay is unwelcome.”
“Nay, but good young master, it is because men counsel so differently; for here was my poor old Roger Raine would have thought the chimney corner too cold for you; and here is Matt Chamberlain thinks the cold courtyard is warm enough.”
“Never mind that, dame,” said Julian; “do but only tell me what has happened at Martindale Castle? I see the beacon is extinguished.”
“Is it in troth? – ay, like enough – then good Sir Geoffrey has gone to heaven with my old Roger Raine!”
“Sacred Heaven!” exclaimed Peveril; “when was my father taken ill?”
“Never as I knows of,” said the dame; “but, about three hours since, arrived a party at the Castle, with buff-coats and bandoleers, and one of the Parliament’s folks, like in Oliver’s time. My old Roger Raine would have shut the gates of the inn against them, but he is in the churchyard, and Matt says it is against law; and so they came in and refreshed men and horses, and sent for Master Bridgenorth, that is at Moultrassie Hall even now; and so they went up to the Castle, and there was a fray, it is like, as the old Knight was no man to take napping, as poor Roger Raine used to say. Always the officers had the best on’t; and reason there is, since they had the law of their side, as our Matthew says. But since the pole-star of the Castle is out, as your honour says, why, doubtless, the old gentleman is dead.”
“Gracious Heaven! – Dear dame, for love or gold, let me have a horse to make for the Castle!”
“The Castle?” said the dame; “the Roundheads, as my poor Roger called them, will kill you as they have killed your father! Better creep into the woodhouse, and I will send Bett with a blanket and some supper – Or stay – my old Dobbin stands in the little stable beside the hencoop – e’en take him, and make the best of your way out of the country, for there is no safety here for you. Hear what songs some of them are singing at the tap! – so take Dobbin, and do not forget to leave your own horse instead.”
Peveril waited to hear no farther, only, that just as he turned to go off to the stable, the compassionate female was heard to exclaim – “O Lord! what will Matthew Chamberlain say!” but instantly added, “Let him say what he will, I may dispose of what’s my own.”
With the haste of a double-fee’d hostler did Julian exchange the equipments of his jaded brute with poor Dobbin, who stood quietly tugging at his rackful of hay, without dreaming of the business which was that night destined for him. Notwithstanding the darkness of the place, Julian succeeded marvellous quickly in preparing for his journey; and leaving his own horse to find its way to Dobbin’s rack by instinct, he leaped upon his new acquisition, and spurred him sharply against the hill, which rises steeply from the village to the Castle. Dobbin, little accustomed to such exertions, snorted, panted, and trotted as briskly as he could, until at length he brought his rider before the entrance-gate of his father’s ancient seat.
The moon was now rising, but the portal was hidden from its beams, being situated, as we have mentioned elsewhere, in a deep recess betwixt two large flanking towers. Peveril dismounted, turned his horse loose, and advanced to the gate, which, contrary to his expectation, he found open. He entered the large courtyard; and could then perceive that lights yet twinkled in the lower part of the building, although he had not before observed them, owing to the height of the outward walls. The main door, or great hall-gate, as it was called, was, since the partially decayed state of the family, seldom opened, save on occasions of particular ceremony. A smaller postern door served the purpose of ordinary entrance; and to that Julian now repaired. This also was open – a circumstance which would of itself have alarmed him, had he not already had so many causes for apprehension. His heart sunk within him as he turned to the left, through a small outward hall, towards the great parlour, which the family usually occupied as a sitting apartment; and his alarm became still greater, when, on a nearer approach, he heard proceeding from thence the murmur of several voices. He threw the door of the apartment wide; and the sight which was thus displayed, warranted all the evil bodings which he had entertained.
In front of him stood the old Knight, whose arms were strongly secured, over the elbows, by a leathern belt drawn tight round them, and made fast behind; two ruffianly-looking men, apparently his guards, had hold of his doublet. The scabbard-less sword which lay on the floor, and the empty sheath which hung by Sir Geoffrey’s side, showed the stout old Cavalier had not been reduced to this state of bondage without an attempt at resistance. Two or three persons, having their backs turned towards Julian, sat round a table, and appeared engaged in writing – the voices which he had heard were theirs, as they murmured to each other. Lady Peveril – the emblem of death, so pallid was her countenance – stood at the distance of a yard or two from her husband, upon whom her eyes were fixed with an intenseness of gaze, like that of one who looks her last on the object which she loves the best. She was the first to perceive Julian; and she exclaimed, “Merciful Heaven! – my son! – the misery of our house is complete!”
“My son!” echoed Sir Geoffrey, starting from the sullen state of dejection, and swearing a deep oath – “thou art come in the right time, Julian. Strike me one good blow – cleave me that traitorous thief from the crown to the brisket! and that done, I care not what comes next.”
The sight of his father’s situation made the son forget the inequality of the contest which he was about to provoke.
“Villains,” he said, “unhand him!” and rushing on the guards with his drawn sword, compelled them to let go Sir Geoffrey, and stand on their own defence.
Sir Geoffrey, thus far liberated, shouted to his lady. “Undo the belt, dame, and we will have three good blows for it yet – they must fight well that beat both father and son.”
But one of those men who had started up from the writing-table when the fray commenced, prevented Lady Peveril from rendering her husband this assistance; while another easily mastered the hampered Knight, though not without receiving several severe kicks from his heavy boots – his condition permitting him no other mode of defence. A third, who saw that Julian, young, active, and animated with the fury of a son who fights for his parents, was compelling the two guards to give ground, seized on his collar, and attempted to master his sword. Suddenly dropping that weapon, and snatching one of his pistols, Julian fired it at the head of the person by whom he was thus assailed. He did not drop, but, staggering back as if he had received a severe blow, showed Peveril, as he sunk into a chair, the features of old Bridgenorth, blackened with the explosion, which had even set fire to a part of his grey hair. A cry of astonishment escaped from Julian; and in the alarm and horror of the moment, he was easily secured and disarmed by those with whom he had been at first engaged.
“Heed it not, Julian,” said Sir Geoffrey; “heed it not, my brave boy – that shot has balanced all accounts! – but how – what the devil – he lives! – Was your pistol loaded with chaff? or has the foul fiend given him proof against lead?”
There was some reason for Sir Geoffrey’s surprise, since, as he spoke, Major Bridgenorth collected himself – sat up in the chair as one who recovers from a stunning blow – then rose, and wiping with his handkerchief the marks of the explosion from his face, he approached Julian, and said, in the same cold unaltered tone in which he usually expressed himself, “Young man, you have reason to bless God, who has this day saved you from the commission of a great crime.”
“Bless the devil, ye crop-eared knave!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey; “for nothing less than the father of all fanatics saved your brains from being blown about like the rinsings of Beelzebub’s porridge pot!”
“Sir Geoffrey,” said Major Bridgenorth, “I have already told you, that with you I will hold no argument; for to you I am not accountable for any of my actions.”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said the lady, making a strong effort to speak, and to speak with calmness, “whatever revenge your Christian state of conscience may permit you to take on my husband – I – I, who have some right to experience compassion at your hand, for most sincerely did I compassionate you when the hand of Heaven was heavy on you – I implore you not to involve my son in our common ruin! – Let the destruction of the father and mother, with the ruin of our ancient house, satisfy your resentment for any wrong which you have ever received at my husband’s hand.”
“Hold your peace, housewife,” said the Knight, “you speak like a fool, and meddle with what concerns you not. – Wrong at my hand? The cowardly knave has ever had but even too much right. Had I cudgelled the cur soundly when he first bayed at me, the cowardly mongrel had been now crouching at my feet, instead of flying at my throat. But if I get through this action, as I have got through worse weather, I will pay off old scores, as far as tough crab-tree and cold iron will bear me out.”
“Sir Geoffrey,” replied Bridgenorth, “if the birth you boast of has made you blind to better principles, it might have at least taught you civility. What do you complain of? I am a magistrate; and I execute a warrant, addressed to me by the first authority in that state. I am a creditor also of yours; and law arms me with powers to recover my own property from the hands of an improvident debtor.”
“You a magistrate!” said the Knight; “much such a magistrate as Noll was a monarch. Your heart is up, I warrant, because you have the King’s pardon; and are replaced on the bench, forsooth, to persecute the poor Papist. There was never turmoil in the state, but knaves had their vantage by it – never pot boiled, but the scum was cast uppermost.”
“For God’s sake, my dearest husband,” said Lady Peveril, “cease this wild talk! It can but incense Master Bridgenorth, who might otherwise consider, that in common charity – ”
“Incense him!” said Sir Geoffrey, impatiently interrupting her; “God’s-death, madam, you will drive me mad! Have you lived so long in this world, and yet expect consideration and charity from an old starved wolf like that? And if he had it, do you think that I, or you, madam, as my wife, are subjects for his charity? – Julian, my poor fellow, I am sorry thou hast come so unluckily, since thy petronel was not better loaded – but thy credit is lost for ever as a marksman.”
This angry colloquy passed so rapidly on all sides, that Julian, scarce recovered from the extremity of astonishment with which he was overwhelmed at finding himself suddenly plunged into a situation of such extremity, had no time to consider in what way he could most effectually act for the succour of his parents. To speak to Bridgenorth fair seemed the more prudent course; but to this his pride could hardly stoop; yet he forced himself to say, with as much calmness as he could assume,
“Master Bridgenorth, since you act as a magistrate, I desire to be treated according to the laws of England; and demand to know of what we are accused, and by whose authority we are arrested?”
“Here is another howlet for ye!” exclaimed the impetuous old Knight; “his mother speaks to a Puritan of charity; and thou must talk of law to a round-headed rebel, with a wannion to you! What warrant hath he, think ye, beyond the Parliament’s or the devil’s?”
“Who speaks of the Parliament?” said a person entering, whom Peveril recognised as the official person whom he had before seen at the horse-dealer’s, and who now bustled in with all the conscious dignity of plenary authority, – “Who talks of the Parliament?” he exclaimed. “I promise you, enough has been found in this house to convict twenty plotters – Here be arms, and that good store. Bring them in, Captain.”
“The very same,” exclaimed the Captain, approaching, “which I mention in my printed Narrative of Information, lodged before the Honourable House of Commons; they were commissioned from old Vander Huys of Rotterdam, by orders of Don John of Austria, for the service of the Jesuits.”
“Now, by this light,” said Sir Geoffrey, “they are the pikes, musketoons, and pistols, that have been hidden in the garret ever since Naseby fight!”
“And here,” said the Captain’s yoke-fellow, Everett, “are proper priest’s trappings – antiphoners, and missals, and copes, I warrant you – ay, and proper pictures, too, for Papists to mutter and bow over.”
“Now plague on thy snuffling whine,” said Sir Geoffrey; “here is a rascal will swear my grandmother’s old farthingale to be priest’s vestments, and the story book of Owlenspiegel a Popish missal!”
“But how’s this, Master Bridgenorth?” said Topham, addressing the magistrate; “your honour has been as busy as we have; and you have caught another knave while we recovered these toys.”
“I think, sir,” said Julian, “if you look into your warrant, which, if I mistake not, names the persons whom you are directed to arrest, you will find you have not title to apprehend me.”
“Sir,” said the officer, puffing with importance, “I do not know who you are; but I would you were the best man in England, that I might teach you the respect due to the warrant of the House. Sir, there steps not the man within the British seas, but I will arrest him on authority of this bit of parchment; and I do arrest you accordingly. – What do you accuse him of, gentlemen?”
Dangerfield swaggered forward, and peeping under Julian’s hat, “Stop my vital breath,” he exclaimed, “but I have seen you before, my friend, an I could but think where; but my memory is not worth a bean, since I have been obliged to use it so much of late, in the behalf of the poor state. But I do know the fellow; and I have seen him amongst the Papists – , I’ll take that on my assured damnation.”
“Why, Captain Dangerfield,” said the Captain’s smoother, but more dangerous associate, – “verily, it is the same youth whom we saw at the horse-merchant’s yesterday; and we had matter against him then, only Master Topham did not desire us to bring it out.”
“Ye may bring out what ye will against him now,” said Topham, “for he hath blasphemed the warrant of the House. I think ye said ye saw him somewhere.”
“Ay, verily,” said Everett, “I have seen him amongst the seminary pupils at Saint Omer’s – he was who but he with the regents there.”
“Nay, Master Everett, collect yourself,” said Topham; “for as I think, you said you saw him at a consult of the Jesuits in London.”
“It was I said so, Master Topham,” said the undaunted Dangerfield; “and mine is the tongue that will swear it.”
“Good Master Topham,” said Bridgenorth, “you may suspend farther inquiry at present, as it doth but fatigue and perplex the memory of the King’s witnesses.”
“You are wrong, Master Bridgenorth – clearly wrong. It doth but keep them in wind – only breathes them like greyhounds before a coursing match.”
“Be it so,” said Bridgenorth, with his usual indifference of manner; “but at present this youth must stand committed upon a warrant, which I will presently sign, of having assaulted me while in discharge of my duty as a magistrate, for the rescue of a person legally attached. Did you not hear the report of a pistol?”
“I will swear to it,” said Everett.
“And I,” said Dangerfield. “While we were making search in the cellar, I heard something very like a pistol-shot; but I conceived it to be the drawing of a long-corked bottle of sack, to see whether there were any Popish relics in the inside on’t.”
“A pistol-shot!” exclaimed Topham; “here might have been a second Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey’s matter. – Oh, thou real spawn of the red old dragon! for he too would have resisted the House’s warrant, had we not taken him something at unawares. – Master Bridgenorth, you are a judicious magistrate, and a worthy servant of the state – I would we had many such sound Protestant justices. Shall I have this young fellow away with his parents – what think you? – or will you keep him for re-examination?”
“Master Bridgenorth,” said Lady Peveril, in spite of her husband’s efforts to interrupt her, “for God’s sake, if ever you knew what it was to love one of the many children you have lost, or her who is now left to you, do not pursue your vengeance to the blood of my poor boy! I will forgive you all the rest – all the distress you have wrought – all the yet greater misery with which you threaten us; but do not be extreme with one who never can have offended you! Believe, that if your ears are shut against the cry of a despairing mother, those which are open to the complaint of all who sorrow, will hear my petition and your answer!”
The agony of mind and of voice with which Lady Peveril uttered these words, seemed to thrill through all present, though most of them were but too much inured to such scenes. Every one was silent, when, ceasing to speak, she fixed on Bridgenorth her eyes, glistening with tears, with the eager anxiety of one whose life or death seemed to depend upon the answer to be returned. Even Bridgenorth’s inflexibility seemed to be shaken; and his voice was tremulous, as he answered, “Madam, I would to God I had the present means of relieving your great distress, otherwise than by recommending to you a reliance upon Providence; and that you take heed to your spirit, that it murmur not under this crook in your lot. For me, I am but as a rod in the hand of the strong man, which smites not of itself, but because it is wielded by the arm of him who holds the same.”
“Even as I and my black rod are guided by the Commons of England,” said Master Topham, who seemed marvellously pleased with the illustration.
Julian now thought it time to say something in his own behalf; and he endeavoured to temper it with as much composure as it was possible for him to assume. “Master Bridgenorth,” he said, “I neither dispute your authority, nor this gentleman’s warrant – ”
“You do not?” said Topham. “Oh, ho, master youngster, I thought we should bring you to your senses presently!”
“Then, if you so will it, Master Topham,” said Bridgenorth, “thus it shall be. You shall set out with early day, taking you, towards London, the persons of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Peveril; and that they may travel according to their quality, you will allow them their coach, sufficiently guarded.”
“I will travel with them myself,” said Topham; “for these rough Derbyshire roads are no easy riding; and my very eyes are weary with looking on these bleak hills. In the coach I can sleep as sound as if I were in the House, and Master Bodderbrains on his legs.”
“It will become you so to take your ease, Master Topham,” answered Bridgenorth. “For this youth, I will take him under my charge, and bring him up myself.”
“I may not be answerable for that, worthy Master Bridgenorth,” said Topham, “since he comes within the warrant of the House.”
“Nay, but,” said Bridgenorth, “he is only under custody for an assault, with the purpose of a rescue; and I counsel you against meddling with him, unless you have stronger guard. Sir Geoffrey is now old and broken, but this young fellow is in the flower of his youth, and hath at his beck all the debauched young Cavaliers of the neighbourhood – You will scarce cross the country without a rescue.”
