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 co............