Вальтер Скотт
Peveril of the Peak
“He may have thought himself beloved,” said the maiden; “but by what slight creatures! – things whose heads could be rendered giddy by a playhouse rant – whose brains were only filled with red-heeled shoes and satin buskins – and who run altogether mad on the argument of a George and a star.”
“And are there no such frail fair ones in your climate, most scornful Princess?” said the Duke.
“There are,” said the lady; “but men rate them as parrots and monkeys – things without either sense or soul, head or heart. The nearness we bear to the sun has purified, while it strengthens, our passions. The icicles of your frozen climate shall as soon hammer hot bars into ploughshares, as shall the foppery and folly of your pretended gallantry make an instant’s impression on a breast like mine.”
“You speak like one who knows what passion is,” said the Duke. “Sit down, fair lady, and grieve not that I detain you. Who can consent to part with a tongue of so much melody, or an eye of such expressive eloquence! – You have known then what it is to love?”
“I know – no matter if by experience, or through the report of others – but I do know, that to love, as I would love, would be to yield not an iota to avarice, not one inch to vanity, not to sacrifice the slightest feeling to interest or to ambition; but to give up all to fidelity of heart and reciprocal affection.”
“And how many women, think you, are capable of feeling such disinterested passion?”
“More, by thousands, than there are men who merit it,” answered Zarah. “Alas! how often do you see the female, pale, and wretched, and degraded, still following with patient constancy the footsteps of some predominating tyrant, and submitting to all his injustice with the endurance of a faithful and misused spaniel, which prizes a look from his master, though the surliest groom that ever disgraced humanity, more than all the pleasure which the world besides can furnish him? Think what such would be to one who merited and repaid her devotion.”
“Perhaps the very reverse,” said the Duke; “and for your simile, I can see little resemblance. I cannot charge my spaniel with any perfidy; but for my mistresses – to confess truth, I must always be in a cursed hurry if I would have the credit of changing them before they leave me.”
“And they serve you but rightly, my lord,” answered the lady; “for what are you? – Nay, frown not; for you must hear the truth for once. Nature has done its part, and made a fair outside, and courtly education hath added its share. You are noble, it is the accident of birth – handsome, it is the caprice of Nature – generous, because to give is more easy than to refuse – well-apparelled, it is to the credit of your tailor – well-natured in the main, because you have youth and health – brave, because to be otherwise were to be degraded – and witty, because you cannot help it.”
The Duke darted a glance on one of the large mirrors. “Noble, and handsome, and court-like, generous, well-attired, good-humoured, brave, and witty! – You allow me more, madam, than I have the slightest pretension to, and surely enough to make my way, at some point at least, to female favour.”
“I have neither allowed you a heart nor a head,” said Zarah calmly. – “Nay, never redden as if you would fly at me. I say not but nature may have given you both; but folly has confounded the one, and selfishness perverted the other. The man whom I call deserving the name is one whose thoughts and exertions are for others, rather than himself, – whose high purpose is adopted on just principles, and never abandoned while heaven or earth affords means of accomplishing it. He is one who will neither seek an indirect advantage by a specious road, nor take an evil path to gain a real good purpose. Such a man were one for whom a woman’s heart should beat constant while he breathes, and break when he dies.”
She spoke with so much energy that the water sparkled in her eyes, and her cheek coloured with the vehemence of her feelings.
“You speak,” said the Duke, “as if you had yourself a heart which could pay the full tribute to the merit which you describe so warmly.”
“And have I not?” said she, laying her hand on her bosom. “Here beats one that would bear me out in what I have said, whether in life or in death.”
“Were it in my power,” said the Duke, who began to get farther interested in his visitor than he could at first have thought possible – “Were it in my power to deserve such faithful attachment, methinks it should be my care to requite it.”
“Your wealth, your titles, your reputation as a gallant – all you possess, were too little to merit such sincere affection.”
“Come, fair lady,” said the Duke, a good deal piqued, “do not be quite so disdainful. Bethink you, that if your love be as pure as coined gold, still a poor fellow like myself may offer you an equivalent in silver – The quantity of my affection must make up for its quality.”
“But I am not carrying my affection to market, my lord; and therefore I need none of the base coin you offer in change for it.”
“How do I know that, my fairest?” said the Duke. “This is the realm of Paphos – You have invaded it, with what purpose you best know; but I think with none consistent with your present assumption of cruelty. Come, come – eyes that are so intelligent can laugh with delight, as well as gleam with scorn and anger. You are here a waif on Cupid’s manor, and I must seize on you in name of the deity.”
“Do not think of touching me, my lord,” said the lady. “Approach me not, if you would hope to learn the purpose of my being here. Your Grace may suppose yourself a Solomon if you please, but I am no travelling princess, come from distant climes, either to flatter your pride, or wonder at your glory.”
“A defiance, by Jupiter!” said the Duke.
“You mistake the signal,” said the ‘dark ladye’; “I came not here without taking sufficient precautions for my retreat.”
“You mouth it bravely,” said the Duke; “but never fortress so boasted its resources but the garrison had some thoughts of surrender. Thus I open the first parallel.”
They had been hitherto divided from each other by a long narrow table, which, placed in the recess of the large casement we have mentioned, had formed a sort of barrier on the lady’s side, against the adventurous gallant. The Duke went hastily to remove it as he spoke; but, attentive to all his motions, his visitor instantly darted through the half-open window. Buckingham uttered a cry of horror and surprise, having no doubt, at first, that she had precipitated herself from a height of at least fourteen feet; for so far the window was distant from the ground. But when he sprung to the spot, he perceived, to his astonishment, that she had effected her descent with equal agility and safety.
The outside of this stately mansion was decorated with a quantity of carving, in the mixed state, betwixt the Gothic and Grecian styles, which marks the age of Elizabeth and her successor; and though the feat seemed a surprising one, the projections of these ornaments were sufficient to afford footing to a creature so light and active, even in her hasty descent.
Inflamed alike by mortification and curiosity, Buckingham at first entertained some thought of following her by the same dangerous route, and had actually got upon the sill of the window for that purpose; and was contemplating what might be his next safe movement, when, from a neighbouring thicket of shrubs, amongst which his visitor had disappeared, he heard her chant a verse of a comic song, then much in fashion, concerning a despairing lover who had recourse to a precipice —
“But when he came near,
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;
Though his suit was rejected,
He sadly reflected,
That a lover forsaken
A new love may get;
But a neck that’s once broken
Can never be set.”
The Duke could not help laughing, though much against his will, at the resemblance which the verses bore to his own absurd situation, and, stepping back into the apartment, desisted from an attempt which might have proved dangerous as well as ridiculous. He called his attendants, and contented himself with watching the little thicket, unwilling to think that a female, who had thrown herself in a great measure into his way, meant absolutely to mortify him by a retreat.
That question was determined in an instant. A form, wrapped in a mantle, with a slouched hat and shadowy plume, issued from the bushes, and was lost in a moment amongst the ruins of ancient and of modern buildings, with which, as we have already stated, the demesne formerly termed York House, was now encumbered in all directions.
The Duke’s servants, who had obeyed his impatient summons, were hastily directed to search for this tantalising siren in every direction. Their master, in the meantime, eager and vehement in every new pursuit, but especially when his vanity was piqued, encouraged their diligence by bribes, and threats, and commands. All was in vain. They found nothing of the Mauritanian Princess, as she called herself, but the turban and the veil; both of which she had left in the thicket, together with her satin slippers; which articles, doubtless, she had thrown aside as she exchanged them for others less remarkable.
Finding all his search in vain, the Duke of Buckingham, after the example of spoiled children of all ages and stations, gave a loose to the frantic vehemence of passion; and fiercely he swore vengeance on his late visitor, whom he termed by a thousand opprobrious epithets, of which the elegant phrase “Jilt” was most frequently repeated.
Even Jerningham, who knew the depths and the shallows of his master’s mood, and was bold to fathom them at almost every state of his passions, kept out of his way on the present occasion; and, cabineted with the pious old housekeeper, declared to her, over a bottle of ratafia, that, in his apprehension, if his Grace did not learn to put some control on his temper, chains, darkness, straw, and Bedlam, would be the final doom of the gifted and admired Duke of Buckingham.
CHAPTER XL
– Contentious fierce,
Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.
– ALBION.
The quarrels between man and wife are proverbial; but let not these honest folks think that connections of a less permanent nature are free from similar jars. The frolic of the Duke of Buckingham, and the subsequent escape of Alice Bridgenorth, had kindled fierce dissension in Chiffinch’s family, when, on his arrival in town, he learned these two stunning events: “I tell you,” he said to his obliging helpmate, who seemed but little moved by all that he could say on the subject, “that your d – d carelessness has ruined the work of years.”
“I think it is the twentieth time you have said so,” replied the dame; “and without such frequent assurance, I was quite ready to believe that a very trifling matter would overset any scheme of yours, however long thought of.”
“How on earth could you have the folly to let the Duke into the house when you expected the King?” said the irritated courtier.
“Lord, Chiffinch,” answered the lady, “ought not you to ask the porter rather than me, that sort of question? – I was putting on my cap to receive his Majesty.”
“With the address of a madge-howlet,” said Chiffinch, “and in the meanwhile you gave the cat the cream to keep.”
“Indeed, Chiffinch,” said the lady, “these jaunts to the country do render you excessively vulgar! there is a brutality about your very boots! nay, your muslin ruffles, being somewhat soiled, give to your knuckles a sort of rural rusticity, as I may call it.”
“It were a good deed,” muttered Chiffinch, “to make both boots and knuckles bang the folly and affectation out of thee.” Then speaking aloud, he added, like a man who would fain break off an argument, by extorting from his adversary a confession that he has reason on his side, “I am sure, Kate, you must be sensible that our all depends on his Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Leave that to me,” said she; “I know how to pleasure his Majesty better than you can teach me. Do you think his Majesty is booby enough to cry like a schoolboy because his sparrow has flown away? His Majesty has better taste. I am surprised at you, Chiffinch,” she added, drawing herself up, “who were once thought to know the points of a fine woman, that you should have made such a roaring about this country wench. Why, she has not even the country quality of being plump as a barn-door fowl, but is more like a Dunstable lark, that one must crack bones and all if you would make a mouthful of it. What signifies whence she came, or where she goes? There will be those behind that are much more worthy of his Majesty’s condescending attention, even when the Duchess of Portsmouth takes the frumps.”
“You mean your neighbour, Mistress Nelly,” said her worthy helpmate; “but Kate, her date is out. Wit she has, let her keep herself warm with it in worse company, for the cant of a gang of strollers is not language for a prince’s chamber.”28
“It is no matter what I mean, or whom I mean,” said Mrs. Chiffinch; “but I tell you, Tom Chiffinch, that you will find your master quite consoled for loss of the piece of prudish puritanism that you would need saddle him with; as if the good man were not plagued enough with them in Parliament, but you must, forsooth, bring them into his very bedchamber.”
“Well, Kate,” said Chiffinch, “if a man were to speak all the sense of the seven wise masters, a woman would find nonsense enough to overwhelm him with; so I shall say no more, but that I would to Heaven I may find the King in no worse humour than you describe him. I am commanded to attend him down the river to the Tower to-day, where he is to make some survey of arms and stores. They are clever fellows who contrive to keep Rowley from engaging in business, for, by my word, he has a turn for it.”
“I warrant you,” said Chiffinch the female, nodding, but rather to her own figure, reflected from a mirror, than to her politic husband, – “I warrant you we will find means of occupying him that will sufficiently fill up his time.”
“On my honour, Kate,” said the male Chiffinch, “I find you strangely altered, and, to speak truth, grown most extremely opinionative. I shall be happy if you have good reason for your confidence.”
The dame smiled superciliously, but deigned no other answer, unless this were one, – “I shall order a boat to go upon the Thames to-day with the royal party.”
“Take care what you do, Kate; there are none dare presume so far but women of the first rank. Duchess of Bolton – of Buckingham – of – ”
“Who cares for a list of names? why may not I be as forward as the greatest B. amongst your string of them?”
“Nay, faith, thou mayest match the greatest B. in Court already,” answered Chiffinch; “so e’en take thy own course of it. But do not let Chaubert forget to get some collation ready, and a souper au petit couvert, in case it should be commanded for the evening.”
“Ay, there your boasted knowledge of Court matters begins and ends. – Chiffinch, Chaubert, and Company; – dissolve that partnership, and you break Tom Chiffinch for a courtier.”
“Amen, Kate,” replied Chiffinch; “and let me tell you it is as safe to rely on another person’s fingers as on our own wit. But I must give orders for the water. – If you will take the pinnace, there are the cloth-of-gold cushions in the chapel may serve to cover the benches for the day. They are never wanted where they lie, so you may make free with them too.”
Madam Chiffinch accordingly mingled with the flotilla which attended the King on his voyage down the Thames, amongst whom was the Queen, attended by some of the principal ladies of the Court. The little plump Cleopatra, dressed to as much advantage as her taste could devise, and seated upon her embroidered cushions like Venus in her shell, neglected nothing that effrontery and minauderie could perform to draw upon herself some portion of the King’s observation; but Charles was not in the vein, and did not even pay her the slightest passing attention of any kind, until her boatmen having ventured to approach nearer to the Queen’s barge than etiquette permitted, received a peremptory order to back their oars, and fall out of the royal procession. Madam Chiffinch cried for spite, and transgressed Solomon’s warning, by cursing the King in her heart; but had no better course than to return to Westminster, and direct Chaubert’s preparations for the evening.
In the meantime the royal barge paused at the Tower; and, accompanied by a laughing train of ladies and of courtiers, the gay Monarch made the echoes of the old prison-towers ring with the unwonted sounds of mirth and revelry. As they ascended from the river-side to the centre of the building, where the fine old keep of William the Conqueror, called the White Tower, predominates over the exterior defences, Heaven only knows how many gallant jests, good or bad, were run on the comparison of his Majesty’s state-prison to that of Cupid, and what killing similes were drawn between the ladies’ eyes and the guns of the fortress, which, spoken with a fashionable congée, and listened to with a smile from a fair lady, formed the fine conversations of the day.
This gay swarm of flutterers did not, however, attend close on the King’s person, though they had accompanied him upon his party on the river. Charles, who often formed manly and sensible resolutions, though he was too easily diverted from them by indolence or pleasure, had some desire to make himself personally acquainted with the state of the military stores, arms, &c. of which the Tower was then, as now, the magazine; and, although he had brought with him the usual number of his courtiers, only three or four attended him on the scrutiny which he intended. Whilst, therefore, the rest of the train amused themselves as they might in other parts of the Tower, the King, accompanied by the Dukes of Buckingham, Ormond, and one or two others, walked through the well-known hall, in which is preserved the most splendid magazine of arms in the world, and which, though far from exhibiting its present extraordinary state of perfection, was even then an arsenal worthy of the great nation to which it belonged.
The Duke of Ormond, well known for his services during the Great Civil War, was, as we have elsewhere noticed, at present rather on cold terms with his Sovereign, who nevertheless asked his advice on many occasions, and who required it on the present amongst others, when it was not a little feared that the Parliament, in their zeal for the Protestant religion, might desire to take the magazines of arms and ammunition under their own exclusive orders. While Charles sadly hinted at such a termination of the popular jealousies of the period, and discussed with Ormond the means of resisting, or evading it, Buckingham, falling a little behind, amused himself with ridiculing the antiquated appearance and embarrassed demeanour of the old warder who attended on the occasion, and who chanced to be the very same who escorted Julian Peveril to his present place of confinement. The Duke prosecuted his raillery with the greater activity, that he found the old man, though restrained by the place and presence, was rather upon the whole testy, and disposed to afford what sportsmen call play to his persecutor. The various pieces of ancient armour, with which the wall was covered, afforded the principal source of the Duke’s wit, as he insisted upon knowing from the old man, who, he said, could best remember matters from the days of King Arthur downwards at the least, the history of the different warlike weapons, and anecdotes of the battles in which they had been wielded. The old man obviously suffered, when he was obliged, by repeated questions, to tell the legends (often sufficiently absurd) which the tradition of the place had assigned to particular relics. Far from flourishing his partisan, and augmenting the emphasis of his voice, as was and is the prevailing fashion of these warlike Ciceroni, it was scarcely possible to extort from him a single word concerning those topics on which their information is usually overflowing.
“Do you know, my friend,” said the Duke to him at last, “I begin to change my mind respecting you. I supposed you must have served as a Yeoman of the Guard since bluff King Henry’s time, and expected to hear something from you about the Field of the Cloth of Gold, – and I thought of asking you the colour of Anne Bullen’s breastknot, which cost the Pope three kingdoms; but I am afraid you are but a novice in such recollections of love and chivalry. Art sure thou didst not creep into thy warlike office from some dark shop in Tower-Hamlets, and that thou hast not converted an unlawful measuring-yard into that glorious halberd? – I warrant thou canst not even tell you whom this piece of antique panoply pertained to?”
The Duke pointed at random to a cuirass which hung amongst others, but was rather remarkable from being better cleansed.
“I should know that piece of iron,” said the warder bluntly, yet with some change in his voice; “for I have known a man within side of it who would not have endured half the impertinence I have heard spoken to-day.”
The tone of the old man, as well as the words, attracted the attention of Charles and the Duke of Ormond, who were only two steps before the speaker. They both stopped, and turned round; the former saying at the same time, – “how now, sirrah! – what answers are these? – What man do you speak of?”
“Of one who is none now,” said the warder, “whatever he may have been.”
“The old man surely speaks of himself,” said the Duke of Ormond, closely examining the countenance of the warder, which he in vain endeavoured to turn away. “I am sure I remember these features – Are not you my old friend, Major Coleby?”
“I wish your Grace’s memory had been less accurate,” said the old man, colouring deeply, and fixing his eyes on the ground.
The King was greatly shocked. – “Good God!” he said, “the gallant Major Coleby, who joined us with his four sons and a hundred and fifty men at Warrington! – And is this all we could do for an old Worcester friend?”
The tears rushed thick into the old man’s eyes as he said in broken accents, “Never mind me, sire; I am well enough here – a worn-out soldier rusting among old armour. Where one old Cavalier is better, there are twenty worse. – I am sorry your Majesty should know anything of it, since it grieves you.”
With that kindness, which was a redeeming point of his character, Charles, while the old man was speaking, took the partisan from him with his own hand, and put it into that of Buckingham, saying, “What Coleby’s hand has borne, can disgrace neither yours nor mine, – and you owe him this atonement. Time has been with him, that, for less provocation, he would have laid it about your ears.”
The Duke bowed deeply, but coloured with resentment, and took an immediate opportunity to place the weapon carelessly against a pile of arms. The King did not observe a contemptuous motion, which, perhaps, would not have pleased him, being at the moment occupied with the veteran, whom he exhorted to lean upon him, as he conveyed him to a seat, permitting no other person to assist him. “Rest there,” he said, “my brave old friend; and Charles Stewart must be poor indeed, if you wear that dress an hour longer. – You look very pale, my good Coleby, to have had so much colour a few minutes since. Be not vexed at what Buckingham says; no one minds his folly. – You look worse and worse. Come, come, you are too much hurried by this meeting. Sit still – do not rise – do not attempt to kneel. I command you to repose yourself till I have made the round of these apartments.”
The old Cavalier stooped his head in token of acquiescence in the command of his Sovereign, but he raised it not again. The tumultuous agitation of the moment had been too much for spirits which had been long in a state of depression, and health which was much decayed. When the King and his attendants, after half-an-hour’s absence, returned to the spot where they had left the veteran, they found him dead, and already cold, in the attitude of one who has fallen easily asleep. The King was dreadfully shocked; and it was with a low and faltering voice that he directed the body, in due time, to be honourably buried in the chapel of the Tower.29 He was then silent, until he attained the steps in front of the arsenal, where the party in attendance upon his person began to assemble at his approach, along with some other persons of respectable appearance, whom curiosity had attracted.
“This is dreadful,” said the King. “We must find some means of relieving the distresses, and rewarding the fidelity of our suffering followers, or posterity will cry fie upon our memory.”
“Your Majesty has had often such plans agitated in your Council,” said Buckingham.
“True, George,” said the King. “I can safely say it is not my fault. I have thought of it for years.”
“It cannot be too well considered,” said Buckingham; “besides, every year makes the task of relief easier.”
“True,” said the Duke of Ormond, “by diminishing the number of sufferers. Here is poor old Coleby will no longer be a burden to the Crown.”
“You are too severe, my Lord of Ormond,” said the King, “and should respect the feelings you trespass on. You cannot suppose that we would have permitted this poor man to hold such a situation, had we known of the circumstances?”
“For God’s sake, then, sire,” said the Duke of Ormond, “turn your eyes, which have just rested on the corpse of one old friend, upon the distresses of others. Here is the valiant old Sir Geoffrey Peveril of the Peak, who fought through the whole war, wherever blows were going, and was the last man, I believe, in England, who laid down his arms – Here is his son, of whom I have the highest accounts, as a gallant of spirit, accomplishments, and courage – Here is the unfortunate House of Derby – for pity’s sake, interfere in behalf of these victims, whom the folds of this hydra-plot have entangled, in order to crush them to death – rebuke the fiends that are seeking to devour their lives, and disappoint the harpies that are gaping for their property. This very day seven-night the unfortunate family, father and son, are to be brought upon trial for crimes of which they are as guiltless, I boldly pronounce, as any who stand in this presence. For God’s sake, sire, let us hope that, should the prejudices of the people condemn them, as it has done others, you will at last step in between the blood-hunters and their prey.”
The King looked, as he really was, exceedingly perplexed.
Buckingham, between whom and Ormond there existed a constant and almost mortal quarrel, interfered to effect a diversion in Charles’s favour. “Your Majesty’s royal benevolence,” he said, “needs never want exercise, while the Duke of Ormond is near your person. He has his sleeve cut in the old and ample fashion, that he may always have store of ruined cavaliers stowed in it to produce at demand, rare old raw-boned boys, with Malmsey noses, bald heads, spindle shanks, and merciless histories of Edgehill and Naseby.”
“My sleeve is, I dare say, of an antique cut,” said Ormond, looking full at the Duke; “but I pin neither bravoes nor ruffians upon it, my Lord of Buckingham, as I see fastened to coats of the new mode.”
“That is a little too sharp for our presence, my lord,” said the King.
“Not if I make my words good,” said Ormond. – “My Lord of Buckingham, will you name the man you spoke to as you left the boat?”
“I spoke to no one,” said the Duke hastily – “nay, I mistake, I remember a fellow whispered in my ear, that one, who I thought had left London was still lingering in town. A person whom I had business with.”
“Was yon the messenger?” said Ormond, singling out from the crowd who stood in the court-yard a tall dark-looking man, muffled in a large cloak, wearing a broad shadowy black beaver hat, with a long sword of the Spanish fashion – the very Colonel, in short, whom Buckingham had despatched in quest of Christian, with the intention of detaining him in the country.
When Buckingham’s eyes had followed the direction of Ormond’s finger, he could not help blushing so deeply as to attract the King’s attention.
“What new frolic is this, George?” he said. “Gentlemen, bring that fellow forward. On my life, a truculent-looking caitiff – Hark ye, friend, who are you? If an honest man, Nature has forgot to label it upon your countenance. – Does none here know him?
‘With every symptom of a knave complete,
If he be honest, he’s a devilish cheat.’”
“He is well known to many, sire,” replied Ormond; “and that he walks in this area with his neck safe, and his limbs unshackled, is an instance, amongst many, that we live under the sway of the most merciful Prince of Europe.”
“Oddsfish! who is the man, my Lord Duke?” said the King. “Your Grace talks mysteries – Buckingham blushes – and the rogue himself is dumb.”
“That honest gentleman, please your Majesty,” replied the Duke of Ormond, “whose modesty makes him mute, though it cannot make him blush, is the notorious Colonel Blood, as he calls himself, whose attempt to possess himself of your Majesty’s royal crown took place at no very distant date, in this very Tower of London.”
“That exploit is not easily forgotten,” said the King; “but that the fellow lives, shows your Grace’s clemency as well as mine.”
“I cannot deny that I was in his hands, sire,” said Ormond, “and had certainly been murdered by him, had he chosen to take my life on the spot, instead of destining me – I thank him for the honour – to be hanged at Tyburn. I had certainly been sped, if he had thought me worth knife or pistol, or anything short of the cord. – Look at him sire! If the rascal dared, he would say at this moment, like Caliban in the play, ‘Ho, ho, I would I had done it!’”
“Why, oddsfish!” answered the King, “he hath a villainous sneer, my lord, which seems to say as much; but, my Lord Duke, we have pardoned him, and so has your Grace.”
