Peveril of the Peak by Walter Scott (best fiction novels of all time TXT) 📕

“I’ll carry your honour where you shall have enough of ladies, if that be your want,” said the old Triton; and as he spoke, the clamour amongst the watermen was renewed, each hoping to cut his own profit out of the emergency of Julian’s situation.

“A sculler will be least suspected, your honour,” said one fellow.

“A pair of oars will carry you through the water like a wild-duck,” said another.

“But you have got never a tilt, brother,” said a third. “Now I can put the gentleman as snug as if he were under hatches.”

In the midst of the oaths and clamour attending this aquatic controversy for his custom, Peveril at length made them understand that he would bestow a Jacobus, not on him whose boat was first oars, but on whomsoever should inform him of the fate of the lady.

“Of which lady?” said a sharp fellow: “for, to my thought, there was a pair of them.”

“Of both, of both,” answered Peveril; “but first, of the fair-haired lady?”

“Ay, ay, that was she that shrieked so when gold-jacket’s companion handed her into No. 20.”

“Who—what—who dared to hand her?” exclaimed Peveril.

“Nay, master, you have heard enough of my tale without a fee,” said the waterman.

“Sordid rascal!” said Peveril, giving him a gold piece, “speak out, or I’ll run my sword through you!”

“For the matter of that, master,” answered the fellow, “not while I can handle this trunnion—but a bargain’s a bargain; and so I’ll tell you, for your gold piece, that the comrade of the fellow forced one of your wenches, her with the fair hair, will she, nill she, into Tickling Tom’s wherry; and they are far enough up Thames by this time, with wind and tide.”

“Sacred Heaven, and I stand here!” exclaimed Julian.

“Why, that is because your honour will not take a boat.”

“You are right, my friend—a boat—a boat instantly!”

“Follow me, then, squire.—Here, Tom, bear a hand—the gentleman is our fare.”

A volley of water language was exchanged betwixt the successful candidate for Peveril’s custom and his disappointed brethren, which concluded by the ancient Triton’s bellowing out, in a tone above them all, “that the gentleman was in a fair way to make a voyage to the isle of gulls, for that sly Jack was only bantering him—No. 20 had rowed for York Buildings.”

“To the isle of gallows,” cried another; “for here comes one who will mar his trip up Thames, and carry him down to Execution Dock.”

In fact, as he spoke the word, a constable, with three or four of his assistants, armed with the old-fashioned brown bills, which were still used for arming those guardians of the peace, cut off our hero’s farther progress to the water’s edge, by arresting him in the King’s name. To attempt resistance would have been madness, as he was surrounded on all sides; so Peveril was disarmed, and carried before the nearest Justice of the Peace, for examination and committal.

The legal sage before whom Julian was taken was a man very honest in his intentions, very bounded in his talents, and rather timid in his disposition. Before the general alarm given to England, and to the city of London in particular, by the notable discovery of the Popish Plot, Master Maulstatute had taken serene and undisturbed pride and pleasure in the discharge of his duties as a Justice of the Peace, with the exercise of all its honorary privileges and awful authority. But the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey had made a strong, nay, an indelible impression on his mind; and he walked the Courts of Themis with fear and trembling after that memorable and melancholy event.

Having a high idea of his official importance, and rather an exalted notion of his personal consequence, his honour saw nothing from that time but cords and daggers before his eyes, and never stepped out of his own house, which he fortified, and in some measure garrisoned, with half-a-dozen tall watchmen and constables, without seeing himself watched by a Papist in disguise, with a drawn sword under his cloak. It was even whispered, that, in the agonies of his fears, the worshipful Master Maulstatute mistook the kitchen-wench with a tinderbox, for a Jesuit with a pistol; but if any one dared to laugh at such an error, he would have done well to conceal his mirth, lest he fell under the heavy inculpation of being a banterer and stifler of the Plot—a crime almost as deep as that of being himself a plotter. In fact, the fears of the honest Justice, however ridiculously exorbitant, were kept so much in countenance by the outcry of the day, and the general nervous fever, which afflicted every good Protestant, that Master Maulstatute was accounted the bolder man and the better magistrate, while, under the terror of the air-drawn dagger which fancy placed continually before his eyes, he continued to dole forth Justice in the recesses of his private chamber, nay, occasionally to attend Quarter-Sessions, when the hall was guarded by a sufficient body of the militia. Such was the wight, at whose door, well chained and doubly bolted, the constable who had Julian in custody now gave his important and well-known knock.

Notwithstanding this official signal, the party was not admitted until the clerk, who acted the part of high-warder, had reconnoitred them through a grated wicket; for who could say whether the Papists might not have made themselves master of Master Constable’s sign, and have prepared a pseudo watch to burst in and murder the Justice, under pretence of bringing in a criminal before him?—Less hopeful projects had figured in the Narrative of the Popish Plot.

All being found right, the key was turned, the bolts were drawn, and the chain unhooked, so as to permit entrance to the constable, the prisoner, and the assistants; and the door was then a suddenly shut against the witnesses, who, as less trustworthy persons, were requested (through the wicket) to remain in the yard, until they should be called in their respective turns.

Had Julian been inclined for mirth, as was far from being the case, he must have smiled at the incongruity of the clerk’s apparel, who had belted over his black buckram suit a buff baldric, sustaining a broadsword, and a pair of huge horse-pistols; and, instead of the low flat hat, which, coming in place of the city cap, completed the dress of a scrivener, had placed on his greasy locks a rusted steel-cap, which had seen Marston-Moor; across which projected his well-used quill, in the guise of a plume—the shape of the morion not admitting of its being stuck, as usual, behind his ear.

This whimsical figure conducted the constable, his assistants, and the prisoner, into the low hall, where his principal dealt forth justice; who presented an appearance still more singular than that of his dependant.

Sundry good Protestants, who thought so highly of themselves as to suppose they were worthy to be distinguished as objects of Catholic cruelty, had taken to defensive arms on the occasion. But it was quickly found that a breast-plate and back-plate of proof, fastened together with iron clasps, was no convenient enclosure for a man who meant to eat venison and