Peveril of the Peak

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.

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.”

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.”

“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?”

Bridgenorth, for answer, indicated with his finger the mark which his countenance still showed from the explosion of Julian’s pistol.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“It may be enough for me to tell you,” replied Bridgenorth, “and perhaps it is a word too much – that you are a discovered intriguer – a spied spy – 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.”

“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.”

“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 – the shaft is whetted – the bow is bended – and it will be soon seen whether Amalek or Israel shall prevail. But for thee, Julian Peveril – why should I conceal it from thee? – 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 – perhaps at the risk of personal suspicion – for who, in these days of doubt, shall be exempted from it – 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 – the postern-gate is unlatched – on the right hand lie the stables, where you will find your own horse – take it, and make for Liverpool – 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.”

“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 – my mother in sorrow – the voices of religion and nature call me to their side. I am their only child – their only hope – I will aid them, or perish with them!”

“Thou art mad,” said Bridgenorth – “aid them thou canst not – 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.”

“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 – “What reason have you for such an allegation?”

“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.’”

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.”

“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.

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.

CHAPTER XXV

        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!– ANONYMOUS.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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! – Is the woman mad?”

“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.”

“Lance Outram,” said the old woman, “make out, if thou be’st a man, and listen about if aught stirs up at the Castle.”

“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.

“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 – for I have heard that he has powerful debts over the estate – 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.”

“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?”

“Nay, dame,” said Deborah, over whom the violence of the old woman had obtained a certain predominance; “it is not I that say it – only the warrant of the Parliament folks.”

“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.”

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?”

“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.”

“Nay, naunt, I shall not be slack,” answered Outram. “But here come folks that I warrant can tell us more on’t.”

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 – a shameful sight to be seen – and he so well born and so handsome.

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! – Here you, Nell” – (speaking to one of the fugitive maidens from the Castle) – “but, no – you have not the heart of a cat, and are afraid of your own shadow by moonlight – 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 – thou best knowest where – for thou hast oft gotten out of postern to a dance or junketing, to my knowledge – Get thee back to the Castle, as ye hope to be married – See my lady – they cannot hinder thee of that – my lady has a head worth twenty of ours – 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. – 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.”

“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.”

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.

“There goes a mettled wench,” said Lance; “and now, naunt, give me the old broadsword – it is above the bed-head – and my wood-knife; and I shall do well enough.”

“And what is to become of me?” bleated the unfortunate Mistress Deborah Debbitch.

“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.”

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! – she trips it like a doe in summer over dew. Well, but here are the huts – Let us to this gear. – 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?”

“Why,” answered one of the miners, who now began to come out of their huts —

“An he be dead,  He will eat no more bread.”

“And you are like to eat none neither,” said Lance; “for the works will be presently stopped, and all of you turned off.”

“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 – 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.”

“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 – “Has Sir Geoffrey, think you, ever put a penny in his pouch out of this same Bonadventure mine?”

“I cannot say as I think he has,” answered old Ditchley, the party who maintained the controversy.

“Answer on your conscience, though it be but a leaden one. Do not you know that he hath lost a good penny?”

“Why, I believe he may,” said Gaffer Ditchley. “What then! – lose to-day, win to-morrow – the miner must eat in the meantime.”

“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.

“Bridgenorth? – 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.”

“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.”

“But if Sir Geoffrey be dead,” said Ditchley cautiously, “what good will our standing by do to him?”

“I did not say he was dead, but only as bad as dead; in the hands of the Roundheads – 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.”

“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 – hold” – (and the waving of his hand stopped the commencing cheer) – “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.”

“It will kindle again in an instant,” said Lance; internally adding, “I pray to God it may! – It will kindle in an instant – lack of fuel, and the confusion of the family.”

“Ay, like enow, like enow,” said Ditchley; “but I winna budge till I see it blazing.”

“Why then, there a-goes!” said Lance. “Thank thee, Cis – thank thee, my good wench. – Believe your own eyes, my lads, if you will not believe me; and now hurra for Peveril of the Peak – the King and his friends – and down with Rumps and Roundheads!”

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.

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”