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, a............