Peveril of the Peak by Walter Scott (android based ebook reader txt) 📗

better employed than in listening to them.—It was an idle trick of Buckingham,” he added, in a whisper to Ormond, “to send the poor thing hither, especially as he was to-day tried for the affair of the plot. At any rate he comes not to ask protection from us, having had the rare fortune to come off Plot-free. He is but fishing, I suppose, for some little present or pension.”

The little man, precise in Court etiquette, yet impatient of the King’s delaying to attend to him, stood in the midst of the floor, most valorously pawing and prancing, like a Scots pony assuming the airs of a war-horse, waving meanwhile his little hat with the tarnished feather, and bowing from time to time, as if impatient to be heard.

“Speak on, then, my friend,” said Charles; “if thou hast some poetical address penned for thee, out with it, that thou mayst have time to repose these flourishing little limbs of thine.”

“No poetical speech have I, most mighty Sovereign,” answered the dwarf; “but, in plain and most loyal prose, I do accuse, before this company, the once noble Duke of Buckingham of high treason!”

“Well spoken, and manfully—Get on, man,” said the King, who never doubted that this was the introduction to something burlesque or witty, not conceiving that the charge was made in solemn earnest.

A great laugh took place among such courtiers as heard, and among many who did not hear, what was uttered by the dwarf; the former entertained by the extravagant emphasis and gesticulation of the little champion, and the others laughing not the less loud that they laughed for example’s sake, and upon trust.

“What matter is there for all this mirth?” said he, very indignantly—“Is it fit subject for laughing, that I, Geoffrey Hudson, Knight, do, before King and nobles, impeach George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, of high treason?”

“No subject of mirth, certainly,” said Charles, composing his features; “but great matter of wonder.—Come, cease this mouthing, and prancing, and mummery.—If there be a jest, come out with it, man; and if not, even get thee to the beaffet, and drink a cup of wine to refresh thee after thy close lodging.”

“I tell you, my liege,” said Hudson impatiently, yet in a whisper, intended only to be audible by the King, “that if you spend overmuch time in trifling, you will be convinced by dire experience of Buckingham’s treason. I tell you,—I asseverate to your Majesty,—two hundred armed fanatics will be here within the hour, to surprise the guards.”

“Stand back, ladies,” said the King, “or you may hear more than you will care to listen to. My Lord of Buckingham’s jests are not always, you know, quite fitted for female ears; besides, we want a few words in private with our little friend. You, my Lord of Ormond—you, Arlington” (and he named one or two others), “may remain with us.”

The gay crowd bore back, and dispersed through the apartment—the men to conjecture what the end of this mummery, as they supposed it, was likely to prove; and what jest, as Sedley said, the bass-fiddle had been brought to bed of—and the ladies to admire and criticise the antique dress, and richly embroidered ruff and hood of the Countess of Derby, to whom the Queen was showing particular attention.

“And now, in the name of Heaven, and amongst friends,” said the King to the dwarf, “what means all this?”

“Treason, my lord the King!—Treason to his Majesty of England!—When I was chambered in yonder instrument, my lord, the High-Dutch fellows who bore me, carried me into a certain chapel, to see, as they said to each other, that all was ready. Sire, I went where bass-fiddle never went before, even into a conventicle of Fifth-Monarchists; and when they brought me away, the preacher was concluding his sermon, and was within a ‘Now to apply’ of setting off like the bell-wether at the head of his flock, to surprise your Majesty in your royal Court! I heard him through the sound-holes of my instrument, when the fellow set me down for a moment to profit by this precious doctrine.”

“It would be singular,” said Lord Arlington, “were there some reality at the bottom of this buffoonery; for we know these wild men have been consulting together to-day, and five conventicles have held a solemn fast.”

“Nay,” said the King, “if that be the case, they are certainly determined on some villainy.”

“Might I advise,” said the Duke of Ormond, “I would summon the Duke of Buckingham to this presence. His connections with the fanatics are well known, though he affects to conceal them.”

“You would not, my lord, do his Grace the injustice to treat him as a criminal on such a charge as this?” said the King. “However,” he added, after a moment’s consideration, “Buckingham is accessible to every sort of temptation, from the flightiness of his genius. I should not be surprised if he nourished hopes of an aspiring kind—I think we had some proof of it lately.—Hark ye, Chiffinch; go to him instantly, and bring him here on any fair pretext thou canst devise. I would fain save him from what lawyers call an overt act. The Court would be dull as a dead horse were Buckingham to miscarry.”

“Will not your Majesty order the Horse Guards to turn out?” said young Selby, who was present, and an officer.

“No, Selby,” said the King, “I like not horse-play. But let them be prepared; and let the High Bailiff collect his civil officers, and command the Sheriffs to summon their worshipful attendants from javelin-men to hangmen, and have them in readiness, in case of any sudden tumult—double the sentinels on the doors of the palace—and see no strangers get in.”

“Or out,” said the Duke of Ormond. “Where are the foreign fellows who brought in the dwarf?”

They were sought for, but they were not to be found. They had retreated, leaving their instruments—a circumstance which seemed to bear hard on the Duke of Buckingham, their patron.

Hasty preparations were made to provide resistance to any effort of despair which the supposed conspirators might be driven to; and in the meanwhile, the King, withdrawing with Arlington, Ormond, and a few other counsellors, into the cabinet where the Countess of Derby had had her audience, resumed the examination of the little discoverer. His declaration, though singular, was quite coherent; the strain of romance intermingled with it, being in fact a part of his character, which often gained him the fate of being laughed at, when he would otherwise have been pitied, or even esteemed.

He commenced with a flourish about his sufferings for the Plot, which the impatience of Ormond would have cut short, had not the King reminded his Grace, that a top, when it is not flogged, must needs go down of itself at the end of a definite time, while the application of the whip may keep it up for hours.

Geoffrey Hudson was, therefore, allowed to exhaust himself on the subject of his prison-house, which he informed the King was not without a beam of light—an emanation of loveliness—a mortal angel—quick of step and beautiful of eye, who had more than once visited his confinement with words of cheering and comfort.

“By my faith,” said