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

where I thought I heard you moving. Our Ellesmere has become silly—your good-nature has spoiled her—she has forgotten the discipline she learned under me.”

“I saw her run through the wood,” said the Lady Peveril, after a moment’s recollection, “undoubtedly to seek the person who has charge of the children, in order to remove them.”

“Your own darlings, I doubt not,” said the Countess, looking at the children. “Margaret, Providence has blessed you.”

“That is my son,” said the Lady Peveril, pointing to Julian, who stood devouring their discourse with greedy ear; “the little girl—I may call mine too.” Major Bridgenorth, who had in the meantime again taken up his infant, and was engaged in caressing it, set it down as the Countess of Derby spoke, sighed deeply, and walked towards the oriel window. He was well aware that the ordinary rules of courtesy would have rendered it proper that he should withdraw entirely, or at least offer to do so; but he was not a man of ceremonious politeness, and he had a particular interest in the subjects on which the Countess’s discourse was likely to turn, which induced him to dispense with ceremony. The ladies seemed indeed scarce to notice his presence. The Countess had now assumed a chair, and motioned to the Lady Peveril to sit upon a stool which was placed by her side. “We will have old times once more, though there are here no roaring of rebel guns to drive you to take refuge at my side, and almost in my pocket.”

“I have a gun, madam,” said little Julian, “and the park-keeper is to teach me how to fire it next year.”

“I will list you for my soldier, then,” said the Countess.

“Ladies have no soldiers,” said the boy, looking wistfully at her.

“He has the true masculine contempt of our frail sex, I see,” said the Countess; “it is born with the insolent varlets of mankind, and shows itself so soon as they are out of their long clothes.—Did Ellesmere never tell you of Latham House and Charlotte of Derby, my little master?”

“A thousand thousand times,” said the boy, colouring; “and how the Queen of Man defended it six weeks against three thousand Roundheads, under Rogue Harrison the butcher.”

“It was your mother defended Latham House,” said the Countess, “not I, my little soldier—Hadst thou been there, thou hadst been the best captain of the three.”

“Do not say so, madam,” said the boy, “for mamma would not touch a gun for all the universe.”

“Not I, indeed, Julian,” said his mother; “there I was for certain, but as useless a part of the garrison——”

“You forget,” said the Countess, “you nursed our hospital, and made lint for the soldiers’ wounds.”

“But did not papa come to help you?” said Julian.

“Papa came at last,” said the Countess, “and so did Prince Rupert—but not, I think, till they were both heartily wished for.—Do you remember that morning, Margaret, when the round-headed knaves, that kept us pent up so long, retreated without bag or baggage, at the first glance of the Prince’s standards appearing on the hill—and how you took every high-crested captain you saw for Peveril of the Peak, that had been your partner three months before at the Queen’s mask? Nay, never blush for the thought of it—it was an honest affection—and though it was the music of trumpets that accompanied you both to the old chapel, which was almost entirely ruined by the enemy’s bullets; and though Prince Rupert, when he gave you away at the altar, was clad in buff and bandoleer, with pistols in his belt, yet I trust these warlike signs were no type of future discord?”

“Heaven has been kind to me,” said the Lady Peveril, “in blessing me with an affectionate husband.”

“And in preserving him to you,” said the Countess, with a deep sigh; “while mine, alas! sealed with his blood his devotion to his king[*]—Oh, had he lived to see this day!”

[*] The Earl of Derby and King in Man was beheaded at Bolton-on-the- Moors, after having been made prisoner in a previous skirmish in Wiggan Lane.

“Alas! alas! that he was not permitted!” answered Lady Peveril; “how had that brave and noble Earl rejoiced in the unhoped-for redemption of our captivity!”

The Countess looked on Lady Peveril with an air of surprise.

“Thou hast not then heard, cousin, how it stands with our house?—How indeed had my noble lord wondered, had he been told that the very monarch for whom he had laid down his noble life on the scaffold at Bolton-le-Moor, should make it his first act of restored monarchy to complete the destruction of our property, already well-nigh ruined in the royal cause, and to persecute me his widow!”

“You astonish me, madam!” said the Lady Peveril. “It cannot be, that you—that you, the wife of the gallant, the faithful, the murdered Earl—you, Countess of Derby, and Queen in Man—you, who took on you even the character of a soldier, and seemed a man when so many men proved women—that you should sustain evil from the event which has fulfilled—exceeded—the hopes of every faithful subject—it cannot be!”

“Thou art as simple, I see, in this world’s knowledge as ever, my fair cousin,” answered the Countess. “This restoration, which has given others security, has placed me in danger—this change which relieved other Royalists, scarce less zealous, I presume to think, than I—has sent me here a fugitive, and in concealment, to beg shelter and assistance from you, fair cousin.”

“From me,” answered the Lady Peveril—“from me, whose youth your kindness sheltered—from the wife of Peveril, your gallant Lord’s companion in arms—you have a right to command everything; but, alas! that you should need such assistance as I can render—forgive me, but it seems like some ill-omened vision of the night—I listen to your words as if I hoped to be relieved from their painful import by awaking.”

“It is indeed a dream—a vision,” said the Countess of Derby; “but it needs no seer to read it—the explanation hath been long since given—Put not your faith in princes. I can soon remove your surprise.—This gentleman, your friend, is doubtless honest?”

The Lady Peveril well knew that the Cavaliers, like other factions, usurped to themselves the exclusive denomination of the honest party, and she felt some difficulty in explaining that her visitor was not honest in that sense of the word.

“Had we not better retire, madam?” she said to the Countess, rising, as if in order to attend her. But the Countess retained her seat.

“It was but a question of habit,” she said; “the gentleman’s principles are nothing to me, for what I have to tell you is widely blazed, and I care not who hears my share of it. You remember—you must have heard, for I think Margaret Stanley would not be indifferent to my fate—that after my husband’s murder at Bolton, I took up the standard which he never dropped until his death, and displayed it with my own hand in our Sovereignty of Man.”

“I did indeed hear so, madam,” said the Lady Peveril; “and that you had bidden a bold defiance to the rebel government, even after all other parts