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

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