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.
ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL.
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.
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.
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.
Men’s minds were now beginning to cool — the character of the witnesses was more closely sifted — their testimonies did not in all cases tally — 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.
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.
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 — for such he was, though now broken with years — 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.
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.
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? — 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.
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.
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.
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.”
Julian briefly replied, that his father had much to occupy him. But the little man — 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 — 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.”
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!”
“Pshaw!” repeated Sir Geoffrey the less; “Pshaw is an expression of slight esteem — nay, of contempt — in all languages; and were this a befitting place ——”
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.
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 — it was a stifling of the Plot, or discrediting of the King’s witnesses — a crime not greatly, if at all, short of high treason against the King himself.
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.
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.”
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.
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 — with having had arms and ammunition concealed in his house — 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 — I will call him so in spite of his misfortunes — 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?”
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.
“On my word,” said Sir Geoffrey, after a moment’s recollection, “I will do you justice, Master Hudson — I believe you were there — I think I heard you did good service. But you will allow you might have been near one without his seeing you.”
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.
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 — 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 — Not Guilty.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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 auberge, as it was there termed — 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 the purpose; 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.”
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? — Gentleman of the Jury, do but think if this is reasonable — 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.”
“Sir Geoffrey,” said the Judge, “rest you quiet — You must not fly out — passion helps you not here — the Doctor must be suffered to proceed.”
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 — 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.
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.
Oates seemed rather surprised at the question, and coloured with anger, as he answered, in his peculiar mode of pronunciation, “Whoy, no, maay laard.”
“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?”
“Maay laard,” said Oates, with much effrontery, “aye do not come here to have my evidence questioned as touching the Plaat.”
“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 Plaat, 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.”
“Maay laard,” said Oates, “I will tell you a pretty fable.”
“I hope,” answered the Judge, “it may be the first and last which you shall tell in this place.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”*
* 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.
“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 — the Jury have heard your answer to my question.”
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.
Everett and Dangerfield, with whom the reader is already acquainted, were then called in succession to sustain the accusation. They were subordinate informers — a sort of under-spur-leathers, as the cant term went — 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.
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.
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 — that hearsay was no evidence — that those who made a trade of discovery were likely to aid their researches by invention — 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? — A rising in arms is an affair over public to be left on the hearsay tale of these two men — though Heaven forbid that I should suppose they speak one word more than they believe! They are the witnesses for the King — and, what is equally dear to us, the Protestant religion — 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 — such, I must say, I suppose him to be, until he is proved otherwise. And here is his son, a hopeful young gentleman — we must see that they have right, Master Attorney.”
“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.”
“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 de non apparentibus et non existentibus eadem est ratio.”
“We shall then call Master Bridgenorth, as your lordship advised, who I think is in waiting.”
“No!” answered a voice from the crowd, apparently that of a female; “he is too wise and too honest to be here.”
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.
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.”
“Look you there now, Master Attorney,” said the Judge —“This comes of not keeping the crown witnesses together and in readiness — I am sure I cannot help the consequences.”
“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.”
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! — Tell me not that you could have proved that, or that, or this — 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.”
“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.”
“Produce the papers, then, Master Attorney, of which this young man is said to be the bearer,” said the Judge.
“They are before the Privy Council, my lord.”
“Then why do you found on them here?” said the Judge —“This is something like trifling with the Court.”
“Since your lordship gives it that name,” said the Attorney, sitting down in a huff, “you may manage the cause as you will.”
“If you do not bring more evidence, I pray you to charge the Jury,” said the Judge.
“I shall not take the trouble to do so,” said the Crown Counsel. “I see plainly how the matter is to go.”
“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.”
This sally occasioned a laugh in the Court, which the Attorney-General seemed to take in great dudgeon.
“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 — I must needs say it, a mere stoifling of the Plaat.”
“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.
The Judge having obtained silence — for a murmur arose in the Court when the Counsel for the prosecution threw up his brief — 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 — for such he should call the Countess of Derby — 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 — dulcis Amaryllidis ira, as the poet hath it. Who knoweth but Doctor Oates did mistake — he being a gentleman of a comely countenance and easy demeanour — 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 Galfridus minimus, 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 — the creature was, from his age, fitter for the grave than a conspiracy — and by his size and appearance, for the inside of a raree-show, than the mysteries of a plot.”
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.
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.
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.
—— On fair ground
I could beat forty of them!
CORIOLANUS.
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.
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! — theay are straangling the Plaat! — My Laard Justice and Maaster Attarney are in league to secure the escape of the plaaters and Paapists!”
“It is the device of the Papist whore of Portsmouth,” said one.
“Of old Rowley himself,” said another.
“If he could be murdered by himself, why hang those that would hinder it!” exclaimed a third.
“He should be tried,” said a fourth, “for conspiring his own death, and hanged in terrorem.”
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.”
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.
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.
“There go the Papist cut-throats, tantivy for Rome!” said one fellow.
“Tantivy to Whitehall, you mean!” said another.
“Ah! the bloodthirsty villains!” cried a woman: “Shame, one of them should be suffered to live, after poor Sir Edmondsbury’s cruel murder.”
“Out upon the mealy-mouthed Jury, that turned out the bloodhounds on an innocent town!” cried a fourth.
In short, the tumult thickened, and the word began to pass among the more desperate, “Lambe them, lads; lambe them!”— 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.
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.
“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!”
“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. —“I also will cudgel the plebeian knaves beyond measure — he! — hem!”
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.
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.
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.
“Where be these cuckoldly Roundheads,” cried some. —“Down with the sneaking knaves!” cried others. —“The King and his friends, and the devil a one else!” exclaimed a third set, with more oaths and d — n me’s, than, in the present more correct age, it is necessary to commit to paper.
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.
“I would I had pinked one of the knaves at least — 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.”
“But the King’s pleasure,” said the officer, “is, that no tumult be prosecuted.”
“My mother,” said Julian, “will die with fright, if the rumour of this scuffle reaches her ere we see her.”
“Ay, ay,” said the Knight, “the King’s Majesty and my good dame — well, their pleasure be done, that’s all I can say — Kings and ladies must be obeyed. But which way to retreat, since retreat we must?”
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.
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.”
“Vision!” said the Knight of the Peak — “sound of a trumpet! — the little man is stark mad.”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.”
“Thank you, good friend,” said Julian, “I prithee begone. I trust we shall need thy ware no more for some time at least.”
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 canaille as they had been engaged with.
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.”
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.
“Did you hear that?” said Sir Geoffrey to his son —“and we are disarmed!”
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.
He came amongst them like a new raised spirit
To speak of dreadful judgments that impend,
And of the wrath to come.
THE REFORMER.
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.”
“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 — in the way of seeking safety, that is.”
“I forgive your inveteracy,” said Major Bridgenorth, “on account of your prejudices.”
“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 — that you should pay the reckoning for my bad lodging. — 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.”
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.”
“That is when there is any chance of treason against the King,” said Sir Geoffrey.
“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.”
“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 — of my dearest Alice — the memory of her departed mother — from the snares which hell and profligacy had opened around her?”
“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?”
“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.”
“Are you sure — 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 ——”
“And who yet was the basest of women,” answered Bridgenorth; “but he who selected her for the charge was deceived in her character.”
“Say rather you were deceived in his; remember that when we parted in Moultrassie, I warned you of that Ganlesse — that ——”
“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.”
“I thank God your eyes are thus far opened!” said Julian.
“This day will open them wide, or close them for ever,” answered Bridgenorth.
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 — ”‘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?”
“My dearest father,” said Julian, “you know not this gentleman — I am certain you do him injustice. My own obligations to him are many; and I am sure when you come to know them ——”
“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 — my only son — the last hope of my ancient house — the last remnant of the name of Peveril — 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! — Degenerate dog-whelp!” he repeated with great vehemence, “you colour without replying! Speak, and disown such disgrace; or, by the God of my fathers ——”
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.”
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?”
“Nothing,” said the dwarf; —“nothing but this — that no cause can warrant the oath thou wert about to swear. Ungrateful man! thou wert today rescued from the devouring wrath of the wicked, by a marvellous conjunction of circumstances — Is this a day, thinkest thou, on which to indulge thine own hasty resentments?”
“I stand rebuked,” said Sir Geoffrey, “and by a singular monitor — the grasshopper, as the prayer-book saith, hath become a burden to me. — Julian, I will speak to thee of these matters hereafter; — 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Truly,” said Sir Geoffrey, “I think, upon an emergency, the little man might make his escape through the keyhole.”
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:— “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.”
“Treason! — treason!” exclaimed the old Knight —“Treason against God and King Charles! — Oh, for one half-hour of the broadsword which I parted with like an ass!”
“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.”
“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.”
Bridgenorth now motioned to Peveril to follow him, and they passed through the small door by which he entered.
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 — for such it now seemed — became distinct and audible.
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.
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.
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, “Vicit Leo ex tribu Jud?.”
The torrent of mystical yet animating eloquence of the preacher — an old grey-haired man, whom zeal seemed to supply with the powers of voice and action, of which years had deprived him — 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 — 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.
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 — 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. — 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.
“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 — for the King it was made hot.”
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.
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 — men of war from their childhood upwards.
“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 — 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.”
“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 — 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 — My corrupt human nature has left me — 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.”
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 — 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?”
“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 — I will not tell thee who she is — Enough — no one — thou least of all, needs to fear for her safety.”
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? — Is a Peveril among the saints?”
“No, brother,” replied Bridgenorth, “his time is not come more than thine own — thou art too deep in the ambitious intrigues of manhood, and he in the giddy passions of youth, to hear the still calm voice — You will both hear it, as I trust and pray.”
“Master Ganlesse, or Christian, or by whatever name you are called,” said Julian, “by whatever reasons you guide yourself in this most perilous matter, you 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.”
“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.”
“And can you,” said Julian, looking at Bridgenorth, “accede to such an unworthy union?”
“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 — Those whose swords come to help the cutting down of the harvest, must be welcome — When their work is wrought, they will be converted or scattered. — Have you been at York Place, brother, with that unstable epicure? We must have his last resolution, and that within an hour.”
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.
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.
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”— for the little man was a great admirer of lofty language —“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.”
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.
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.
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 —
I leap’d in frolic.
THE DREAM.
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 — I have bit Sir Charles Sedley — flung him for a thousand, by the gods!”
“I am glad at your luck, my Lord Duke,” replied Christian; “but I am come here on serious business.”
“Serious? — why, I shall hardly be serious in my life again — ha, ha, ha! — and for luck, it was no such thing — 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 — In this thou hadst no share. You have heard, Ned Christian, that Mother Cresswell is dead?”
“Yes, I did hear that the devil hath got his due,” answered Christian.
“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 — do you mark me — 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.”
“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.
“Why,” said the Duke, “I had caused my little Quodling to go through his oration thus —‘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 — ha, ha, ha! — And now, Master Christian, what are your commands for me today?”
“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.”
“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. — What! injure my old friend Christian?”
“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?”
“How — what! — how do you mean by my 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.”
“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 — for convents have been scaled of late — returned not till the bird was flown.”
“Christian, thou art an old reynard — 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 — I forgive thee.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“Yet, to leave the fair lady out of thought for a little while — 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 — to leave her, I say out of sight for a little while, has your Grace had late notice of your Duchess’s health?”
“Health,” said the Duke. “Umph — no — nothing particular. She has been ill — but ——”
“She is no longer so,” subjoined Christian; “she died in Yorkshire forty-eight hours since.”
“Thou must deal with the devil,” said the Duke.
“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.”
“Fiends and firebrands, villain!” said the Duke, starting up and seizing Christian by the collar; “who hath told thee that?”
“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 — take off your grasp from my cloak, or I will find means to make you unloose it.”
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 — 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.”
“Vengeance!” said the Duke —“It is the dearest proffer man can present to me in my present mood. I hunger for vengeance — thirst for vengeance — could die to ensure vengeance! ——‘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 — the honour of Villiers is in thy keeping, Ned Christian! Speak, thou man of wiles and of intrigue — 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.”
“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.”
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!”
“Your Grace can but try a guess,” said Christian, calmly smiling.
“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.”
“Treason, my lord!” echoed Christian; “you may have guessed more nearly than you were aware of. I honour your Grace’s penetration.”
“Treason?” echoed the Duke. “Who dare name such a crime to me?”
“If a name startles your Grace, you may call it vengeance — vengeance on the cabal of councillors, who have ever countermined you, in spite of your wit and your interest with the King. — Vengeance on Arlington, Ormond — on Charles himself.”
“No, by Heaven,” said the Duke, resuming his disordered walk through the apartment —“Vengeance on these rats of the Privy Council — come at it as you will. But the King! — never — never. I have provoked him a hundred times, where he has stirred me once. I have crossed his path in state intrigue — rivalled him in love — had the advantage in both — and, d — n it, he has forgiven me! If treason would put me in his throne, I have no apology for it — it were worse than bestial ingratitude.”
“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. — But it signifies not. If your Grace patronise not our enterprise, there is Shaftesbury — there is Monmouth ——”
“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? — No, by every heathen and every Christian god! — Hark ye, Christian, I will arrest you on the spot — I will, by gods and devils, and carry you to unravel your plot at Whitehall.”
“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.”
“‘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!”
“I might fall, my Lord Duke,” said Christian, slightly colouring, and putting his right hand into his bosom, “though not, I think, unavenged — 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. — Pshaw, my Lord Duke! you deal with a man of sense and courage, yet you speak to him as a child and a coward.”
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 — it is only for a draught of wine — That stuff on the table may be a vehicle of filberts, and walnuts, but not for such communications as yours. — Bring me champagne,” he said to the attendant who answered to his summons.
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.
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 — “Sit down, and let me hear your proposal.”
“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.”
“Majesty!” repeated the Duke —“My good friend Christian, you have kept company with the Puritans so long, that you confuse the ordinary titles of the Court.”
“I know not how to apologise,” said Christian, “unless your Grace will suppose that I spoke by prophecy.”
“Such as the devil delivered to Macbeth,” said the Duke — again paced the chamber, and again seated himself, and said, “Be plain, Christian — speak out at once, and manfully, what is it you intend?”
“I,” said Christian —“What should I do? — I can do nothing in such a matter; but I thought it right that your Grace should know that the godly of this city”—(he spoke the word with a kind of ironical grin) —“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.”
“Rascal!” said the Duke, “and is it to a Peer of England you make this communication?”
“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 — right Knipperdolings and Anabaptists — 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.”
“Stay, stay,” said the Duke. “Even if these bloodhounds were to join with you — not that I would permit it without the most positive assurances for the King’s personal safety — but say the villains were to join, what hope have you of carrying the Court?”
“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 — thirty thousand on the holding up a finger.”
* 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.
“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?”
“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 — there are the French Protestants in Piccadilly — there are the family of Levi in Lewkenor’s Lane — the Muggletonians in Thames Street ——”
“Ah, faugh! — Out upon them — out upon them! — How the knaves will stink of cheese and tobacco when they come upon action! — 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.”
“Fifteen hundred men, well armed,” said Christian, “besides the rabble that will rise to a certainty — they have already nearly torn to pieces the prisoners who were this day acquitted on account of the Plot.”
“All, then, I understand. — 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 today — 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?”
“My lord, if you please to form a guess,” said Christian, “I will answer with all sincerity, if you have assigned the right cause.”
“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? — Ha! said I not right, Master Christian? You, who pretend to offer me revenge, know yourself its exquisite sweetness.”
“I would not presume,” said Christian, half smiling, “to offer your Grace a dish without acting as your taster as well as purveyor.”
“That’s honestly said,” said the Duke. “Away then, my friend. Give Blood this ring — he knows it, and knows how to obey him who bears it. Let him assemble my gladiators, as thou dost most wittily term my coup jarrets. 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 — I will hang and burn on all hands if a hair of his black periwig* be but singed. — Then what is to follow — a Lord Protector of the realm — or stay — Cromwell has made the word somewhat slovenly and unpopular — a Lord Lieutenant of the Kingdom? — 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 — so I think the rubric runs — cannot fail to make a fitting choice.”
* 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.”— See CIBBER’s Apology.
“They cannot, my Lord Duke,” said Christian, “since there is but one man in the three kingdoms on whom that choice can possibly fall.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I conceive you — I conceive you. I will be in prompt readiness,” said the Duke.
“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.”
“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. — But hark ye, Ned; ere you go, tell me when I shall again see yonder thing of fire and air — yon Eastern Peri, that glides into apartments by the keyhole, and leaves them through the casement — yon black-eyed houri of the Mahometan paradise — when, I say, shall I see her once more?”
“When your Grace has the truncheon of Lord Lieutenant of the Kingdom,” said Christian, and left the apartment.
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? — Here, Jerningham, my coach, with the despatch of light! — I will throw myself at his feet, and tell him of all the follies which I have dreamed of with this Christian. — And then he will laugh at me, and spurn me. — No, I have kneeled to him today already, and my repulse was nothing gentle. To be spurned once in the sun’s daily round is enough for Buckingham.”
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.
“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.”*
* 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 in fresco, 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.”
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.
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.
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.
At length, and when it was late in the evening, Jerningham announced Master Chiffinch from the Court; and that worthy personage followed the annunciation.
“Strange things have happened, my Lord Duke,” he said; “your presence at Court is instantly required by his Majesty.”
“You alarm me,” said Buckingham, standing up. “I hope nothing has happened — I hope there is nothing wrong — I hope his Majesty is well?”
“Perfectly well,” said Chiffinch; “and desirous to see your Grace without a moment’s delay.”
“This is sudden,” said the Duke. “You see I have had merry fellows about me, and am scarce in case to appear, Chiffinch.”
“Your Grace seems to be in very handsome plight,” said Chiffinch; “and you know his Majesty is gracious enough to make allowances.”
“True,” said the Duke, not a little anxious in his mind, touching the cause of this unexpected summons —“True — his Majesty is most gracious — I will order my coach.”
“Mine is below,” replied the royal messenger; “it will save time, if your Grace will condescend to use it.”
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.”
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.
High feasting was there there — the gilded roofs
Rung to the wassail-health — the dancer’s step
Sprung to the chord responsive — 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.
WHY COME YE NOT TO COURT?
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 entrée.
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.
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:—“Believe me, James,” he said, “no one will murder me, to make you King.”
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.
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.
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? — 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 — 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!’”
“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.”
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.
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 —
“Young I am, and yet unskill’d,
How to make a lover yield,” &c.
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.
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.
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; — the most amiable of voluptuaries — the gayest and best-natured of companions — 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.
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.
The Queen said, hastily, it was impossible. No peeress, without announcing her title, was entitled to the privilege of her rank.
“I could be sworn,” said a nobleman in attendance, “that it is some whim of the Duchess of Newcastle.”
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.
“In the name of madness, then,” said the King, “let us admit her. Her Grace is an entire raree-show in her own person — a universal masquerade — 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.”
“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”—(she spoke to one of her Portuguese ladies of honour)—“you had not returned from our lovely Lisbon! — 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? — 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.”
“And most beautiful damsels they were who bore this portentous train,” said the King —“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.”
“Am I to understand, then, your Majesty’s pleasure is, that the lady is to be admitted?” said the usher.
“Certainly,” said the King; “that is, if the incognita be really entitled to the honour. — It may be as well to inquire her title — there are more madwomen abroad than the Duchess of Newcastle. I will walk into the anteroom myself, and receive your answer.”
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 —“the Countess of Derby!”
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.
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, “Chère Comtesse de Derby, puissante Reine de Man, notre très auguste s?ur —— ”
“Speak English, sire, if I may presume to ask such a favour,” said the Countess. “I am a Peeress of this nation — 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.”
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 — 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.”
“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.
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?”
“No fortunate cause, my liege, though one most strong and urgent.”
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.
“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.”
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; — yet it is so urgent, that I am afraid to postpone it even for a moment.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Ormond,” said the King, looking around, “attend us for an instant — and do you, Arlington, do the same.”
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.
“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 — that property which descended to him from a father who died for your Majesty’s rights — 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-inlaw, Buckingham.”
“These are over harsh terms, lady,” said the King. “A legal penalty was, as we remember, incurred by an act of irregular violence — 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Has there one Narrative, as these wild fictions are termed, been printed with regard to the Popish Plot — this pretended Plot as I will call it — 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?”
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 pretended, or the Narrative of the witnesses, our preservers from Popish knives, a wild fiction? — 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 — they are this morning acquitted.”
“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. — Are they indeed acquitted?”
“They are, by my honour,” said the King. “I marvel you heard it not.”
“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.”
“And now that we have met,” said the King, taking her hand kindly — “a meeting which gives me the greatest pleasure — may I recommend to you speedily to return to your royal island with as little éclat 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 — there is no steering the vessel in the teeth of the tempest — we must run for the nearest haven, and happy if we can reach one.”
“This is cowardice, my liege,” said the Countess —“Forgive the word! — 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 — one honourable and forward course; and all others which deviate are oblique and unworthy.”
“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 — “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.”
“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.”
“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! — and one, too, whom, as in the case of the younger Peveril, I have thrust upon danger.”
“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 yourself 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.”
The Countess reiterated her intention to claim a fair trial. — 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.
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.
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.
LAY OF THE LITTLE JOHN DE SAINTRE.
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.
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.
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 — 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.
“Hudson!” said the King —“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.”
“Will your Majesty honour me with one moment’s attention?” said Hudson.
“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. — It was an idle trick of Buckingham,” he added, in a whisper to Ormond, “to send the poor thing hither, especially as he was today 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 Plot-free. He is but fishing, I suppose, for some little present or pension.”
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.
“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.”
“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!”
“Well spoken, and manfully — 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.
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.
“What matter is there for all this mirth?” said he, very indignantly — “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?”
“No subject of mirth, certainly,” said Charles, composing his features; “but great matter of wonder. — Come, cease this mouthing, and prancing, and mummery. — 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.”
“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 — I asseverate to your Majesty — two hundred armed fanatics will be here within the hour, to surprise the guards.”
“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 — you, Arlington” (and he named one or two others), “may remain with us.”
The gay crowd bore back, and dispersed through the apartment — 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 — 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.
“And now, in the name of Heaven, and amongst friends,” said the King to the dwarf, “what means all this?”
“Treason, my lord the King! — Treason to his Majesty of England! — 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.”
“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 today, and five conventicles have held a solemn fast.”
“Nay,” said the King, “if that be the case, they are certainly determined on some villainy.”
“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.”
“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 — I think we had some proof of it lately. — 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.”
“Will not your Majesty order the Horse Guards to turn out?” said young Selby, who was present, and an officer.
“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 — double the sentinels on the doors of the palace — and see no strangers get in.”
“Or out,” said the Duke of Ormond. “Where are the foreign fellows who brought in the dwarf?”
They were sought for, but they were not to be found. They had retreated, leaving their instruments — a circumstance which seemed to bear hard on the Duke of Buckingham, their patron.
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.
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.
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 — an emanation of loveliness — a mortal angel — quick of step and beautiful of eye, who had more than once visited his confinement with words of cheering and comfort.
“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?”
“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.”
“Well, say on, man,” quoth Charles. “Didst thou not discover this sylph to be a mere mortal wench after all?”
“Who? — I, my liege? — Oh, fie!”
“Nay, little gentleman, do not be so particularly scandalised,” said the King; “I promise you I suspect you of no audacity of gallantry.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Showing therein their wisdom at once and modesty,” said the King. “But what chanced next? Be brief — be like thyself, man.”
“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 tush, and the son pshaw, 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 ——”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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 — 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! — but I note your Majesty’s impatience; — 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 — 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’— 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 — you cannot know, what belongs to such ambuscades and concealments — I am accustomed to them — 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 — 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 — and — for I will do the Duke no wrong — 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.”
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.
The dwarf answered in the affirmative.
“This,” said the King, “is carrying the frolic somewhat far.”
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.
“I could not have blamed you,” said the King; “placed in such a posture in the royal oak, I must needs have roared myself. — Is this all you have to tell us of this strange conspiracy?” Sir Geoffrey Hudson replied in the affirmative, and the King presently subjoined — “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.”
“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.”
“Whatever of that nature could have been performed by any subject of ours, thou wouldst have enacted in our behalf — 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 — do you mark me — as a frolic of the Duke of Buckingham; and not a word of conspiracy.”
“Were it not better to put him under some restraint, sire?” said the Duke of Ormond, when Hudson had left the room.
“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. — But, oddsfish, my lords, is not this freak of Buckingham too villainous and ungrateful?”
“He had not had the means of being so, had your Majesty,” said the Duke of Ormond, “been less lenient on other occasions.”
“My lord, my lord,” said Charles hastily —“your lordship is Buckingham’s known enemy — we will take other and more impartial counsel — Arlington, what think you of all this?”
“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.”
“Why, faith,” said the King, “some words passed betwixt us this morning — his Duchess it seems is dead — 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.”
“Which your Majesty of course rejected?” said the statesman.
“And not without rebuking his assurance,” added the King.
“In private, sire, or before any witnesses?” said the Duke of Ormond.
“Before no one,” said the King — “excepting, indeed, little Chiffinch; and he, you know, is no one.”
“Hinc ill? lachrym?,” 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.”
Here Selby came hastily from the other room, to say, that his Grace of Buckingham had just entered the presence-chamber.
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.”
“Should not a Secretary of State’s warrant be prepared?” said Ormond.
“No, my Lord Duke,” said the King sharply. “I still hope that the necessity may be avoided.”
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
RICHARD III.
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.
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.
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?”
“My Lord Duke,” said Chiffinch, hesitantly, “surely my duty to the King — my respect to your Grace ——”
“You mentioned it to no one, then?” said the Duke sternly.
“To no one,” replied Chiffinch faintly, for he was intimidated by the Duke’s increasing severity of manner.
“Ye lie, like a scoundrel!” said the Duke —“You told Christian!”
“Your Grace,” said Chiffinch —“your Grace — your Grace ought to remember that I told you Christian’s secret; that the Countess of Derby was come up.”
“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.”
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.
“Tout est verlore
La tintelore,
Tout est verlore
Bei Got.”
“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.
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 —“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 — the King is your friend — be your own.”
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?”
“And the dwarf, who came so unexpectedly out of the bass-viol ——”
“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.”
“With Christian, my lord? — Where could you find him? — You are aware we must go straight to the Court.”
“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.”
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.”
“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. “Ganz ist verloren,” said the Duke.
“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 — You go to Court — Hark ye, I will follow.”
“You, Christian? that would be more friendly than wise.”
“Why, what is there against me?” said Christian. “I am innocent as the child unborn — 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 — besides, if I were not, I should presently be sent for.”
“The familiar of whom I have heard you speak, I warrant?”
“Hark in your ear again.”
“I understand,” said the Duke, “and will delay Master Chiffinch — for he, you must know, is my conductor — no longer. — Well, Chiffinch, let them drive on. — Vogue la Galère!” he exclaimed, as the carriage went onward; “I have sailed through worse perils than this yet.”
“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 —— However, I remain your Grace’s poor friend, and will heartily rejoice in your extrication.”
“Give me a proof of your friendship,” said the Duke. “Tell me what you know of Christian’s familiar, as he calls her.”
“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?”
“I?” said the Duke; “when did I see her?”
“She was employed by Christian, I believe, to set his niece at liberty, when he found himself obliged to gratify his fanatical brother-inlaw, by restoring his child; besides being prompted by a private desire, as I think, of bantering your Grace.”
“Umph! I suspected so much. I will repay it,” said the Duke. “But first to get out of this dilemma. — That little Numidian witch, then, was his familiar; and she joined in the plot to tantalise me? — But here we reach Whitehall. — Now, Chiffinch, be no worse than thy word, and — now, Buckingham, be thyself!”
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.
“Have you dismissed the Peverils?” said Christian hastily.
“I have,” said the Major.
“And upon what pledge — that they will not carry information against you to Whitehall?”
“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.”
“And why not to-night, I pray you?” said Christian.
“Because they allow us that time for escape.”
“Why, then, do you not avail yourself of it? Wherefore are you here?” said Christian.
“Nay, rather, why do you not fly?” said Bridgenorth. “Of a surety, you are as deeply engaged as I.”
“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 — begone to the country — or rather, Zedekiah Fish’s vessel, the Good Hope, lies in the river, bound for Massachusetts — take the wings of the morning, and begone — she can fall down to Gravesend with the tide.”
“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.”
“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!”
“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 — 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 — son to that precious woman, to whom I owe the last tie that feebly links my wearied spirit to humanity — could I have travailed with him in the good cause! — 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.”
“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 —“this bigoted fool is now nearly irreclaimable — 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 — 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.”
In another apartment he found the person he sought — 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.
“A proper question,” said Christian, “from a slave to her master!”
“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 — such a very worthless, base trickster of the devil — such a sordid grovelling imp of perdition, can gain nothing but scorn from a soul like mine.”
“Gallantly mouthed,” said Christian, “and with good emphasis.”
“Yes,” answered Zarah, “I can speak — sometimes — I can also be mute; and that no one knows better than thou.”
“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.”
“It is no matter,” said Zarah, obviously repressing very bitter emotion; “it signifies not that he loves another better; there is none — no, none — that ever did, or can, love him so well.”
“I pity you, Zarah!” said Christian, with some scorn.
“I deserve your pity,” she replied, “were your pity worth my accepting. Whom have I to thank for my wretchedness but you? — You bred me up in thirst of vengeance, ere I knew that good and evil were anything better than names; — 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.”
“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.”
“I believe it,” said Zarah, drawing up her slight but elegant figure; “I believe it — 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 — for years — and all for the sake of your private applause — 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.”
“Well — well — well,” reiterated Christian; “and had you not your reward in my approbation — in the consequences of your own unequalled dexterity — 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?”
“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 — she was justly paid by the passing her dearest and most secret concerns into the hands of her mortal enemy; and the vain Earl — yet he was a thing as insignificant as the plume that nodded in his cap; — and the maidens and ladies who taunted me — I had, or can easily have, my revenge upon them. But there is one,” 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 — and you tell me I must not love him, and that it is madness to love him! — I will be mad then, for I will love till the latest breath of my life!”
“Think but an instant, silly girl — 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! — Think only that it rests with thyself to be the wife — the wedded wife — of the princely Buckingham! With my talents — with thy wit and beauty — with his passionate love of these attributes — a short space might rank you among England’s princesses. — Be but guided by me — he is now at deadly pass — needs every assistance to retrieve his fortunes — 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.”
“A coronet of thistle-down, entwined with thistle-leaves,” said Zarah. —“I know not a slighter thing than your Buckingham! I saw him at your request — saw him when, as a man, he should have shown himself generous and noble — 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? — a poor wavering voluptuary — 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.”
“You are mad, Zarah — with all your taste and talent, you are utterly mad! But let Buckingham pass — Do you owe me nothing on this emergency? — Nothing to one who rescued you from the cruelty of your owner, the posture-master, to place you in ease and affluence?”
“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.”
“I am truly glad you have had so much forbearance for me,” answered Christian.
“I have it, in truth and in sincerity,” replied Zarah —“Not for your benefits to me — 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 — your inimitable command of passion — the force of intellect which I have ever seen you exercise over all others, from the bigot Bridgenorth to the debauched Buckingham — in that, indeed, I have recognised my master.”
“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.”
She paused and answered, “While a noble motive fired thee — ay, a noble motive, though irregular — for I was born to gaze on the sun which the pale daughters of Europe shrink from — I could serve thee — I could have followed, while revenge or ambition had guided thee — but love of wealth, and by what means acquired! — What sympathy can I hold with that? — Wouldst thou not have pandered to the lust of the King, though the object was thine own orphan niece? — You smile? — 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? — 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.
“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.”
“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? — How dare you now again mention it, when you well know, that at the time you mention, the Duchess was still in life?”
“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 — else — for thou art dearer to me than thou thinkest — 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?”
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 — for I will deal fairly with you — 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.”
“You do me injustice, Zarah,” said Christian —“I found you capable of the avenging of your father’s death — 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 ——”
“Who — loves — my — 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 — be it so! — Man of many wiles, I will follow thy course for a little, a very little farther; but take heed — tease me not with remonstrances against the treasure of my secret thoughts — I mean my most hopeless affection to Julian Peveril — 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.”
“I care not for these Peverils,” said Christian —“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 ——”
“Speak not of it,” said Zarah, “if thou wouldst have our truce — remember it is no peace — if, I say, thou wouldst have our truce grow to be an hour old!”
“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!”
“My own plans!” said Zarah —"Thy plans, Christian — thy plans of extorting from the surprised prisoners, means whereby to convict them — 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.”
“Such access was indeed given you as my agent,” said Christian, “and for advancing a great national change. But how did you use it? — to advance your insane passion.”
“Insane!” said Zarah —“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.”
“The dwarf, too,” said Christian —“Was it worthy of you to delude that poor creature with flattering visions — lull him asleep with drugs! Was that my doing?”
“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 — yon wretched abortion of nature, I would select for a husband, ere I would marry your Buckingham; — the vain and imbecile pigmy has yet the warm heart and noble feelings, that a man should hold his highest honour.”
“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.”
Our narrative returns to the Court of King Charles at Whitehall.
—— 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?
HENRY V.
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.
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 par excellence, military from old associations, bringing their arms with them to a place of worship, in the midst of a panic so universal.
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.
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.
Thus play was neglected — the music was silent, or played without being heard — 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.
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 — circumstances so unusual, as to excite the most anxious curiosity.
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.
“Here comes Chiffinch,” said the King, “with his prey in his clutch.”
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 — a sight unusual, and calculated to strike terror into a conscience which was none of the clearest.
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.”
“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 — closer yet to the gate.” And he felt as if all chance of rescue were excluded by the sound.
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.
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 ——”
As he shaped the alternative, he entered the presence-chamber.
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.
“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.”
“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 Pendables 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.”
“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.”
“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 — I fear the fireworks may have done mischief.”
“Not the mischief they were designed for, perhaps,” said the King gravely; “you see, my lord, we are all alive, and unsinged.”
“Long may your Majesty remain so,” said the Duke; “yet I see there is something misconstrued on my part — it must be a matter unpardonable, however little intended, since it hath displeased so indulgent a master.”
“Too indulgent a master, indeed, Buckingham,” replied the King; “and the fruit of my indulgence has been to change loyal men into traitors.”
“May it please your Majesty, I cannot understand this,” said the Duke.
“Follow us, my lord,” answered Charles, “and we will endeavour to explain our meaning.”
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.
“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?”
“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 — 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 — no ladies frightened — no hopes of noble descent interrupted by my ill-fancied jest.”
“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.”
“Your Majesty surprises me! I beseech you, let Christian be sent for — Edward Christian — 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.”
“It is singular,” said the King, “and I have often observed it, that this fellow Christian bears the blame of all men’s enormities — 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 — he is the ame damnée of every one about my Court — 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“May it please your Majesty,” said Hudson, “fear is a thing unknown to me.”
“His body has no room to hold such a passion; or there is too little of it to be worth fearing for,” said Buckingham. —“But let him speak.”
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?”
“Villain-Lord, I appeal thee to the combat!” said the little man, highly offended at the appellation thus bestowed on him.
“La you there now!” said the Duke —“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 engoué 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? — 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 — Grant, I say, that this were not a malicious falsehood of his, why, what does it amount to? — 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.”
The horrible clamour which the dwarf made so soon as he heard this disparagement of his military skill — the haste with which he blundered out a detail of this warlike experiences — 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.
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.
“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 — and on what? — 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? — 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.”
The assistant counsellors looked at each other; and Charles turned on his heel, and walked through the room with long steps.
At this period the Peverils, father and son, were announced to have reached the palace, and were ordered into the royal presence.
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.
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 never (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.”
“Ay, ay,” said Sir Geoffrey, “Dick Mitford must be old now — 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. — 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.”
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 — 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? — 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. — 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.”
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.
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 — a restriction which he supposed as repugnant to his Majesty’s feelings as it was to his own.
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.
In the King’s name,
Let fall your swords and daggers!
CRITIC.
When the father and son entered the cabinet of audience, it was easily visible that Sir Geoffrey had obeyed the summons as he would have done the trumpet’s call to horse; and his dishevelled grey locks and half-arranged dress, though they showed zeal and haste, such as he would have used when Charles I. called him to attend a council of war, seemed rather indecorous in a pacific drawing-room. He paused at the door of the cabinet, but when the King called on him to advance, came hastily forward, with every feeling of his earlier and later life afloat, and contending in his memory, threw himself on his knees before the King, seized his hand, and, without even an effort to speak, wept aloud. Charles, who generally felt deeply so long as an impressive object was before his eyes, indulged for a moment the old man’s rapture. —“My good Sir Geoffrey,” he said, “you have had some hard measure; we owe you amends, and will find time to pay our debt.”
“No suffering — no debt,” said the old man; “I cared not what the rogues said of me — I knew they could never get twelve honest fellows to believe a word of their most damnable lies. I did long to beat them when they called me traitor to your Majesty — that I confess — But to have such an early opportunity of paying my duty to your Majesty, overpays it all. The villains would have persuaded me I ought not to come to Court — aha!”
The Duke of Ormond perceived that the King coloured much; for in truth it was from the Court that the private intimation had been given to Sir Geoffrey to go down to the country, without appearing at Whitehall; and he, moreover, suspected that the jolly old Knight had not risen from his dinner altogether dry-lipped, after the fatigues of a day so agitating. —“My old friend,” he whispered, “you forget that your son is to be presented — permit me to have that honour.”
“I crave your Grace’s pardon humbly,” said Sir Geoffrey, “but it is an honour I design for myself, as I apprehend no one can so utterly surrender and deliver him up to his Majesty’s service as the father that begot him is entitled to do. — Julian, come forward, and kneel. — Here he is, please your Majesty — Julian Peveril — a chip of the old block — as stout, though scarce so tall a tree, as the old trunk, when at the freshest. Take him to you, sir, for a faithful servant, à pendre, as the French say; if he fears fire or steel, axe or gallows, in your Majesty’s service, I renounce him — he is no son of mine — I disown him, and he may go to the Isle of Man, the Isle of Dogs, or the Isle of Devils, for what I care.”
Charles winked to Ormond, and having, with his wonted courtesy, expressed his thorough conviction that Julian would imitate the loyalty of his ancestors, and especially of his father, added, that he believed his Grace of Ormond had something to communicate which was of consequence to his service. Sir Geoffrey made his military reverence at this hint, and marched off in the rear of the Duke, who proceeded to inquire of him concerning the events of the day. Charles, in the meanwhile, having in the first place, ascertained that the son was not in the same genial condition with the father, demanded and received from him a precise account of all the proceedings subsequent to the trial.
Julian, with the plainness and precision which such a subject demanded, when treated in such a presence, narrated all that happened down to the entrance of Bridgenorth; and his Majesty was so much pleased with his manner, that he congratulated Arlington on their having gained the evidence of at least one man of sense to these dark and mysterious events. But when Bridgenorth was brought upon the scene, Julian hesitated to bestow a name upon him; and although he mentioned the chapel which he had seen filled with men in arms, and the violent language of the preacher, he added, with earnestness, that notwithstanding all this, the men departed without coming to any extremity, and had all left the place before his father and he were set at liberty.
“And you retired quietly to your dinner in Fleet Street, young man,” said the King severely, “without giving a magistrate notice of the dangerous meeting which was held in the vicinity of our palace, and who did not conceal their intention of proceeding to extremities?”
Peveril blushed, and was silent. The King frowned, and stepped aside to communicate with Ormond, who reported that the father seemed to have known nothing of the matter.
“And the son, I am sorry to say,” said the King, “seems more unwilling to speak the truth than I should have expected. We have all variety of evidence in this singular investigation — a mad witness like the dwarf, a drunken witness like the father, and now a dumb witness. — Young man,” he continued, addressing Julian, “your behaviour is less frank than I expected from your father’s son. I must know who this person is with whom you held such familiar intercourse — you know him, I presume?”
Julian acknowledged that he did, but, kneeling on one knee, entreated his Majesty’s forgiveness for concealing his name; “he had been freed,” he said, “from his confinement, on promising to that effect.”
“That was a promise made, by your own account, under compulsion,” answered the King, “and I cannot authorise your keeping it; it is your duty to speak the truth — if you are afraid of Buckingham, the Duke shall withdraw.”
“I have no reason to fear the Duke of Buckingham,” said Peveril; “that I had an affair with one of his household, was the man’s own fault and not mine.”
“Oddsfish!” said the King, “the light begins to break in on me — I thought I remembered thy physiognomy. Wert thou not the very fellow whom I met at Chiffinch’s yonder morning? — The matter escaped me since; but now I recollect thou saidst then, that thou wert the son of that jolly old three-bottle Baronet yonder.”
“It is true,” said Julian, “that I met your Majesty at Master Chiffinch’s, and I am afraid had the misfortune to displease you; but ——”
“No more of that, young man — no more of that — But I recollect you had with you that beautiful dancing siren. — Buckingham, I will hold you gold to silver, that she was the intended tenant of that bass-fiddle?”
“Your Majesty has rightly guessed it,” said the Duke; “and I suspect she has put a trick upon me, by substituting the dwarf in her place; for Christian thinks ——”
“Damn Christian!” said the King hastily —“I wish they would bring him hither, that universal referee.”— And as the wish was uttered, Christian’s arrival was announced. “Let him attend,” said the King: “But hark — a thought strikes me. — Here, Master Peveril — yonder dancing maiden that introduced you to us by the singular agility of her performance, is she not, by your account, a dependent of the Countess of Derby?”
“I have known her such for years,” answered Julian.
“Then will we call the Countess hither,” said the King: “It is fit we should learn who this little fairy really is; and if she be now so absolutely at the beck of Buckingham, and this Master Christian of his — why I think it would be but charity to let her ladyship know so much, since I question if she will wish, in that case, to retain her in her service. Besides,” he continued, speaking apart, “this Julian, to whom suspicion attaches in these matters from his obstinate silence, is also of the Countess’s household. We will sift this matter to the bottom, and do justice to all.”
The Countess of Derby, hastily summoned, entered the royal closet at one door, just as Christian and Zarah, or Fenella, were ushered in by the other. The old Knight of Martindale, who had ere this returned to the presence, was scarce controlled, even by the signs which she made, so much was he desirous of greeting his old friend; but as Ormond laid a kind restraining hand upon his arm, he was prevailed on to sit still.
The Countess, after a deep reverence to the King, acknowledged the rest of the nobility present by a slighter reverence, smiled to Julian Peveril, and looked with surprise at the unexpected apparition of Fenella. Buckingham bit his lip, for he saw the introduction of Lady Derby was likely to confuse and embroil every preparation which he had arranged for his defence; and he stole a glance at Christian, whose eye, when fixed on the Countess, assumed the deadly sharpness which sparkles in the adder’s, while his cheek grew almost black under the influence of strong emotion.
“Is there any one in this presence whom your ladyship recognises,” said the King graciously, “besides your old friends of Ormond and Arlington?”
“I see, my liege, two worthy friends of my husband’s house,” replied the Countess; “Sir Geoffrey Peveril and his son — the latter a distinguished member of my son’s household.”
“Any one else?” continued the King.
“An unfortunate female of my family, who disappeared from the Island of Man at the same time when Julian Peveril left it upon business of importance. She was thought to have fallen from the cliff into the sea.”
“Had your ladyship any reason to suspect — pardon me,” said the King, “for putting such a question — any improper intimacy between Master Peveril and this same female attendant?”
“My liege,” said the Countess, colouring indignantly, “my household is of reputation.”
“Nay, my lady, be not angry,” said the King; “I did but ask — such things will befall in the best regulated families.”
“Not in mine, sire,” said the Countess. “Besides that, in common pride and in common honesty, Julian Peveril is incapable of intriguing with an unhappy creature, removed by her misfortune almost beyond the limits of humanity.”
Zarah looked at her, and compressed her lips, as if to keep in the words that would fain break from them.
“I know how it is,” said the King —“What your ladyship says may be true in the main, yet men’s tastes have strange vagaries. This girl is lost in Man as soon as the youth leaves it, and is found in Saint Jame’s Park, bouncing and dancing like a fairy, so soon as he appears in London.”
“Impossible!” said the Countess; “she cannot dance.”
“I believe,” said the King, “she can do more feats than your ladyship either suspects or would approve of.”
The Countess drew up, and was indignantly silent.
The King proceeded —“No sooner is Peveril in Newgate, than, by the account of the venerable little gentleman, this merry maiden is even there also for company. Now, without inquiring how she got in, I think charitably that she had better taste than to come there on the dwarf’s account. — Ah ha! I think Master Julian is touched in conscience!”
Julian did indeed start as the King spoke, for it reminded him of the midnight visit in his cell.
The King looked fixedly at him, and then proceeded —“Well, gentlemen, Peveril is carried to his trial, and is no sooner at liberty, than we find him in the house where the Duke of Buckingham was arranging what he calls a musical mask. — Egad, I hold it next to certain, that this wench put the change on his Grace, and popt the poor dwarf into the bass-viol, reserving her own more precious hours to be spent with Master Julian Peveril. — Think you not so, Sir Christian, you, the universal referee? Is there any truth in this conjecture?”
Christian stole a glance at Zarah, and read that in her eye which embarrassed him. “He did not know,” he said; “he had indeed engaged this unrivalled performer to take the proposed part in the mask; and she was to have come forth in the midst of a shower of lambent fire, very artificially prepared with perfumes, to overcome the smell of the powder; but he knew not why — excepting that she was wilful and capricious, like all great geniuses — she had certainly spoiled the concert by cramming in that more bulky dwarf.”
“I should like,” said the King, “to see this little maiden stand forth, and bear witness, in such manner as she can express herself, on this mysterious matter. Can any one here understand her mode of communication?”
Christian said, he knew something of it since he had become acquainted with her in London. The Countess spoke not till the King asked her, and then owned dryly, that she had necessarily some habitual means of intercourse with one who had been immediately about her person for so many years.
“I should think,” said Charles, “that this same Master Peveril has the more direct key to her language, after all we have heard.”
The King looked first at Peveril, who blushed like a maiden at the inference which the King’s remark implied, and then suddenly turned his eyes on the supposed mute, on whose cheek a faint colour was dying away. A moment afterwards, at a signal from the Countess, Fenella, or Zarah, stepped forward, and having kissed her lady’s hand, stood with her arms folded on her breast, with a humble air, as different from that which she wore in the harem of the Duke of Buckingham, as that of a Magdalene from a Judith. Yet this was the least show of her talent of versatility, for so well did she play the part of the dumb girl, that Buckingham, sharp as his discernment was, remained undecided whether the creature which stood before him could possibly be the same with her, who had, in a different dress, made such an impression on his imagination, or indeed was the imperfect creature she now represented. She had at once all that could mark the imperfection of hearing, and all that could show the wonderful address by which nature so often makes up of the deficiency. There was the lip that trembles not at any sound — the seeming insensibility to the conversation that passed around; while, on the other hand, was the quick and vivid glance; that seemed anxious to devour the meaning of those sounds, which she could gather no otherwise than by the motion of the lips.
Examined after her own fashion, Zarah confirmed the tale of Christian in all its points, and admitted that she had deranged the project laid for a mask, by placing the dwarf in her own stead; the cause of her doing so she declined to assign, and the Countess pressed her no farther.
“Everything tells to exculpate my Lord of Buckingham,” said Charles, “from so absurd an accusation: the dwarf’s testimony is too fantastic, that of the two Peverils does not in the least affect the Duke; that of the dumb damsel completely contradicts the possibility of his guilt. Methinks, my lords, we should acquaint him that he stands acquitted of a complaint, too ridiculous to have been subjected to a more serious scrutiny than we have hastily made upon this occasion.”
Arlington bowed in acquiescence, but Ormond spoke plainly. —“I should suffer, sire, in the opinion of the Duke of Buckingham, brilliant as his talents are known to be, should I say that I am satisfied in my own mind on this occasion. But I subscribe to the spirit of the times; and I agree it would be highly dangerous, on such accusations as we have been able to collect, to impeach the character of a zealous Protestant like his Grace — Had he been a Catholic, under such circumstances of suspicion, the Tower had been too good a prison for him.”
Buckingham bowed to the Duke of Ormond, with a meaning which even his triumph could not disguise. —"Tu me la pagherai!” he muttered, in a tone of deep and abiding resentment; but the stout old Irishman, who had long since braved his utmost wrath, cared little for this expression of his displeasure.
The King then, signing to the other nobles to pass into the public apartments, stopped Buckingham as he was about to follow them; and when they were alone, asked, with a significant tone, which brought all the blood in the Duke’s veins into his countenance, “When was it, George, that your useful friend Colonel Blood became a musician? — You are silent,” he said; “do not deny the charge, for yonder villain, once seen, is remembered for ever. Down, down on your knees, George, and acknowledge that you have abused my easy temper. — Seek for no apology — none will serve your turn. I saw the man myself, among your Germans as you call them; and you know what I must needs believe from such a circumstance.”
“Believe that I have been guilty — most guilty, my liege and King,” said the Duke, conscience-stricken, and kneeling down; —“believe that I was misguided — that I was mad — Believe anything but that I was capable of harming, or being accessory to harm, your person.”
“I do not believe it,” said the King; “I think of you, Villiers, as the companion of my dangers and my exile, and am so far from supposing you mean worse than you say, that I am convinced you acknowledge more than ever you meant to attempt.”
“By all that is sacred,” said the Duke, still kneeling, “had I not been involved to the extent of life and fortune with the villain Christian ——”
“Nay, if you bring Christian on the stage again,” said the King, smiling, “it is time for me to withdraw. Come, Villiers, rise — I forgive thee, and only recommend one act of penance — the curse you yourself bestowed on the dog who bit you — marriage, and retirement to your country-seat.”
The Duke rose abashed, and followed the King into the circle, which Charles entered, leaning on the shoulder of his repentant peer; to whom he showed so much countenance, as led the most acute observers present, to doubt the possibility of there existing any real cause for the surmises to the Duke’s prejudice.
The Countess of Derby had in the meanwhile consulted with the Duke of Ormond, with the Peverils, and with her other friends; and, by their unanimous advice, though with considerable difficulty, became satisfied, that to have thus shown herself at Court, was sufficient to vindicate the honour of her house; and that it was her wisest course, after having done so, to retire to her insular dominions, without farther provoking the resentment of a powerful faction. She took farewell of the King in form, and demanded his permission to carry back with her the helpless creature who had so strangely escaped from her protection, into a world where her condition rendered her so subject to every species of misfortune.
“Will your ladyship forgive me?” said Charles. “I have studied your sex long — I am mistaken if your little maiden is not as capable of caring for herself as any of us.”
“Impossible!” said the Countess.
“Possible, and most true,” whispered the King. “I will instantly convince you of the fact, though the experiment is too delicate to be made by any but your ladyship. Yonder she stands, looking as if she heard no more than the marble pillar against which she leans. Now, if Lady Derby will contrive either to place her hand near the region of the damsel’s heart, or at least on her arm, so that she can feel the sensation of the blood when the pulse increases, then do you, my Lord of Ormond, beckon Julian Peveril out of sight — I will show you in a moment that it can stir at sounds spoken.”
The Countess, much surprised, afraid of some embarrassing pleasantry on the part of Charles, yet unable to repress her curiosity, placed herself near Fenella, as she called her little mute; and, while making signs to her, contrived to place her hand on her wrist.
At this moment the King, passing near them, said, “This is a horrid deed — the villain Christian has stabbed young Peveril!”
The mute evidence of the pulse, which bounded as if a cannon had been discharged close by the poor girl’s ear, was accompanied by such a loud scream of agony, as distressed, while it startled, the good-natured monarch himself. “I did but jest,” he said; “Julian is well, my pretty maiden. I only used the wand of a certain blind deity, called Cupid, to bring a deaf and dumb vassal of his to the exercise of her faculties.”
“I am betrayed!” she said, with her eyes fixed on the ground —“I am betrayed! — and it is fit that she, whose life has been spent in practising treason on others, should be caught in her own snare. But where is my tutor in iniquity? — where is Christian, who taught me to play the part of spy on this unsuspicious lady, until I had well-nigh delivered her into his bloody hands?”
“This,” said the King, “craves more secret examination. Let all leave the apartment who are not immediately connected with these proceedings, and let this Christian be again brought before us. — Wretched man,” he continued, addressing Christian, “what wiles are these you have practised, and by what extraordinary means?”
“She has betrayed me, then!” said Christian —“Betrayed me to bonds and death, merely for an idle passion, which can never be successful! — But know, Zarah,” he added, addressing her sternly, “when my life is forfeited through thy evidence, the daughter has murdered the father!”
The unfortunate girl stared on him in astonishment. “You said,” at length she stammered forth, “that I was the daughter of your slaughtered brother?”
“That was partly to reconcile thee to the part thou wert to play in my destined drama of vengeance — partly to hide what men call the infamy of thy birth. But my daughter thou art! and from the eastern clime, in which thy mother was born, you derive that fierce torrent of passion which I laboured to train to my purposes, but which, turned into another channel, has become the cause of your father’s destruction. — My destiny is the Tower, I suppose?”
He spoke these words with great composure, and scarce seemed to regard the agonies of his daughter, who, throwing herself at his feet, sobbed and wept most bitterly.
“This must not be,” said the King, moved with compassion at this scene of misery. “If you consent, Christian, to leave this country, there is a vessel in the river bound for New England — Go, carry your dark intrigues to other lands.”
“I might dispute the sentence,” said Christian boldly; “and if I submit to it, it is a matter of my own choice. — One half-hour had made me even with that proud woman, but fortune hath cast the balance against me. — Rise, Zarah, Fenella no more! Tell the Lady of Derby, that, if the daughter of Edward Christian, the niece of her murdered victim, served her as a menial, it was but for the purpose of vengeance — miserably, miserably frustrated! — Thou seest thy folly now — thou wouldst follow yonder ungrateful stripling — thou wouldst forsake all other thoughts to gain his slightest notice; and now thou art a forlorn outcast, ridiculed and insulted by those on whose necks you might have trod, had you governed yourself with more wisdom! — But come, thou art still my daughter — there are other skies than that which canopies Britain.”
“Stop him,” said the King; “we must know by what means this maiden found access to those confined in our prisons.”
“I refer your Majesty to your most Protestant jailer, and to the most Protestant Peers, who, in order to obtain perfect knowledge of the depth of the Popish Plot, have contrived these ingenious apertures for visiting them in their cells by night or day. His Grace of Buckingham can assist your Majesty, if you are inclined to make the inquiry.”*
* It was said that very unfair means were used to compel the prisoners, committed on account of the Popish Plot, to make disclosures, and that several of them were privately put to the torture.
“Christian,” said the Duke, “thou art the most barefaced villain who ever breathed.”
“Of a commoner, I may,” answered Christian, and led his daughter out of the presence.
“See after him, Selby,” said the King; “lose not sight of him till the ship sail; if he dare return to Britain, it shall be at his peril. Would to God we had as good riddance of others as dangerous! And I would also,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “that all our political intrigues and feverish alarms could terminate as harmlessly as now. Here is a plot without a drop of blood; and all the elements of a romance, without its conclusion. Here we have a wandering island princess (I pray my Lady of Derby’s pardon), a dwarf, a Moorish sorceress, an impenitent rogue, and a repentant man of rank, and yet all ends without either hanging or marriage.”
“Not altogether without the latter,” said the Countess, who had an opportunity, during the evening, of much private conversation with Julian Peveril. “There is a certain Major Bridgenorth, who, since your Majesty relinquishes farther inquiry into these proceedings, which he had otherwise intended to abide, designs, as we are informed, to leave England for ever. Now, this Bridgenorth, by dint of law, hath acquired strong possession over the domains of Peveril, which he is desirous to restore to the ancient owners, with much fair land besides, conditionally, that our young Julian will receive them as the dowry of his only child and heir.”
“By my faith,” said the King, “she must be a foul-favoured wench, indeed, if Julian requires to be pressed to accept her on such fair conditions.”
“They love each other like lovers of the last age,” said the Countess; “but the stout old Knight likes not the round-headed alliance.”
“Our royal recommendation shall put that to rights,” said the King; “Sir Geoffrey Peveril has not suffered hardship so often at our command, that he will refuse our recommendation when it comes to make him amends for all his losses.”
It may be supposed the King did not speak without being fully aware of the unlimited ascendancy which he possessed over the old Tory; for within four weeks afterwards, the bells of Martindale-Moultrassie were ringing for the union of the families, from whose estates it takes its compound name, and the beacon-light of the Castle blazed high over hill and dale, and summoned all to rejoice who were within twenty miles of its gleam.
The End