The bloody3 stratagems4 of busy hands.
OTWAY.
At the door of the Cat and Fiddle5, Julian received the usual attention paid to the customers of an inferior house of entertainment. His horse was carried by a ragged6 lad, who acted as hostler, into a paltry7 stable; where, however, the nag8 was tolerably supplied with food and litter.
Having seen the animal on which his comfort, perhaps his safety, depended, properly provided for, Peveril entered the kitchen, which indeed was also the parlour and hall of the little hostelry, to try what refreshment9 he could obtain for himself. Much to his satisfaction, he found there was only one guest in the house besides himself; but he was less pleased when he found that he must either go without dinner, or share with that single guest the only provisions which chanced to be in the house, namely, a dish of trouts and eels10, which their host, the miller11, had brought in from his mill-stream.
At the particular request of Julian, the landlady12 undertook to add a substantial dish of eggs and bacon, which perhaps she would not have undertaken for, had not the sharp eye of Peveril discovered the flitch hanging in its smoky retreat, when, as its presence could not be denied, the hostess was compelled to bring it forward as a part of her supplies.
She was a buxom13 dame14 about thirty, whose comely15 and cheerful countenance16 did honour to the choice of the jolly miller, her loving mate; and was now stationed under the shade of an old-fashioned huge projecting chimney, within which it was her province to “work i’ the fire,” and provide for the wearied wayfaring17 man, the good things which were to send him rejoicing on his course. Although, at first, the honest woman seemed little disposed to give herself much additional trouble on Julian’s account, yet the good looks, handsome figure, and easy civility of her new guest, soon bespoke18 the principal part of her attention; and while busy in his service, she regarded him, from time to time, with looks, where something like pity mingled20 with complacency. The rich smoke of the rasher, and the eggs with which it was flanked, already spread itself through the apartment; and the hissing21 of these savoury viands22 bore chorus to the simmering of the pan, in which the fish were undergoing a slower decoction. The table was covered with a clean huck-aback napkin, and all was in preparation for the meal, which Julian began to expect with a good deal of impatience23, when the companion, who was destined24 to share it with him, entered the apartment.
At the first glance Julian recognised, to his surprise, the same indifferently dressed, thin-looking person, who, during the first bargain which he had made with Bridlesley, had officiously interfered26 with his advice and opinion. Displeased27 at having the company of any stranger forced upon him, Peveril was still less satisfied to find one who might make some claim of acquaintance with him, however slender, since the circumstances in which he stood compelled him to be as reserved as possible. He therefore turned his back upon his destined messmate, and pretended to amuse himself by looking out of the window, determined28 to avoid all intercourse29 until it should be inevitably30 forced upon him.
In the meanwhile, the other stranger went straight up to the landlady, where she toiled31 on household cares intent, and demanded of her, what she meant by preparing bacon and eggs, when he had positively32 charged her to get nothing ready but the fish.
The good woman, important as every cook in the discharge of her duty, deigned33 not for some time so much as to acknowledge that she heard the reproof34 of her guest; and when she did so, it was only to repel35 it in a magisterial36 and authoritative37 tone. —“If he did not like bacon — (bacon from their own hutch, well fed on pease and bran)— if he did not like bacon and eggs —(new-laid eggs, which she had brought in from the hen-roost with her own hands)— why so put case — it was the worse for his honour, and the better for those who did.”
“The better for those who like them?” answered the guest; “that is as much as to say I am to have a companion, good woman.”
“Do not good woman me, sir,” replied the miller’s wife, “till I call you good man; and, I promise you, many would scruple38 to do that to one who does not love eggs and bacon of a Friday.”
“Nay39, my good lady,” said her guest, “do not fix any misconstruction upon me — I dare say the eggs and the bacon are excellent; only they are rather a dish too heavy for my stomach.”
“Ay, or your conscience perhaps, sir,” answered the hostess. “And now, I bethink me, you must needs have your fish fried with oil, instead of the good drippings I was going to put to them. I would I could spell the meaning of all this now; but I warrant John Bigstaff, the constable40, could conjure41 something out of it.”
There was a pause here; but Julian, somewhat alarmed at the tone which the conversation assumed, became interested in watching the dumb show which succeeded. By bringing his head a little towards the left, but without turning round, or quitting the projecting latticed window where he had taken his station, he could observe that the stranger, secured, as he seemed to think himself, from observation, had sidled close up to the landlady, and, as he conceived, had put a piece of money into her hand. The altered tone of the miller’s moiety42 corresponded very much with this supposition.
“Nay, indeed, and forsooth,” she said, “her house was Liberty Hall; and so should every publican’s be. What was it to her what gentlefolks ate or drank, providing they paid for it honestly? There were many honest gentlemen, whose stomachs could not abide43 bacon, grease, or dripping, especially on a Friday; and what was that to her, or any one in her line, so gentlefolks paid honestly for the trouble? Only, she would say, that her bacon and eggs could not be mended betwixt this and Liverpool, and that she would live and die upon.”
“I shall hardly dispute it,” said the stranger; and turning towards Julian, he added, “I wish this gentleman, who I suppose is my trencher-companion, much joy of the dainties which I cannot assist him in consuming.”
“I assure you, sir,” answered Peveril, who now felt himself compelled to turn about, and reply with civility, “that it was with difficulty I could prevail on my landlady to add my cover to yours, though she seems now such a zealot for the consumption of eggs and bacon.”
“I am zealous44 for nothing,” said the landlady, “save that men would eat their victuals45, and pay their score; and if there be enough in one dish to serve two guests, I see little purpose in dressing46 them two; however, they are ready now, and done to a nicety. — Here, Alice! Alice!”
The sound of that well-known name made Julian start; but the Alice who replied to the call ill resembled the vision which his imagination connected with the accents, being a dowdy47 slipshod wench, the drudge48 of the low inn which afforded him shelter. She assisted her mistress in putting on the table the dishes which the latter had prepared; and a foaming49 jug50 of home-brewed51 ale being placed betwixt them, was warranted by Dame Whitecraft as excellent; “for,” said she, “we know by practice that too much water drowns the miller, and we spare it on our malt as we would in our mill-dam.”
“I drink to your health in it, dame,” said the elder stranger; “and a cup of thanks for these excellent fish; and to the drowning of all unkindness between us.”
“I thank you, sir,” said the dame, “and wish you the like; but I dare not pledge you, for our Gaffer says that ale is brewed too strong for women; so I only drink a glass of canary at a time with a gossip, or any gentleman guest that is so minded.”
“You shall drink one with me, then, dame,” said Peveril, “so you will let me have a flagon.”
“That you shall, sir, and as good as ever was broached52; but I must to the mill, to get the key from the goodman.”
So saying, and tucking her clean gown through the pocket-holes, that her steps might be the more alert, and her dress escape dust, off she tripped to the mill, which lay close adjoining.
“A dainty dame, and dangerous, is the miller’s wife,” said the stranger, looking at Peveril. “Is not that old Chaucer’s phrase?”
“I— I believe so,” said Peveril, not much read in Chaucer, who was then even more neglected than at present; and much surprised at a literary quotation53 from one of the mean appearance exhibited by the person before him.
“Yes,” answered the stranger, “I see that you, like other young gentlemen of the time, are better acquainted with Cowley and Waller, than with the ‘well of English undefiled.’ I cannot help differing. There are touches of nature about the old bard54 of Woodstock, that, to me, are worth all the turns of laborious55 wit in Cowley, and all the ornate and artificial simplicity56 of his courtly competitor. The description, for instance, of his country coquette —
‘Wincing she was, as is a wanton colt,
Sweet as a flower, and upright as a bolt.’
Then, again, for pathos58, where will you mend the dying scene of Arcite?
‘Alas59, my heart’s queen! alas, my wife!
Giver at once, and ender of my life.
What is this world? — What axen men to have?
Now with his love — now in his cold grave
Alone, withouten other company.’
But I tire you, sir; and do injustice60 to the poet, whom I remember but by halves.”
“On the contrary, sir,” replied Peveril, “you make him more intelligible61 to me in your recitation, than I have found him when I have tried to peruse62 him myself.”
“You were only frightened by the antiquated63 spelling, and ‘the letters black,’” said his companion. “It is many a scholar’s case, who mistakes a nut, which he could crack with a little exertion64, for a bullet, which he must needs break his teeth on; but yours are better employed. — Shall I offer you some of this fish?”
“Not so, sir,” replied Julian, willing to show himself a man of reading in his turn; “I hold with old Caius, and profess65 to fear judgment66, to fight where I cannot choose, and to eat no fish.”
The stranger cast a startled look around him at this observation, which Julian had thrown out, on purpose to ascertain67, if possible, the quality of his companion, whose present language was so different from the character he had assumed at Bridlesley’s. His countenance, too, although the features were of an ordinary, not to say mean cast, had that character of intelligence which education gives to the most homely68 face; and his manners were so easy and disembarrassed, as plainly showed a complete acquaintance with society, as well as the habit of mingling69 with it in the higher stages. The alarm which he had evidently shown at Peveril’s answer, was but momentary70; for he almost instantly replied, with a smile, “I promise you, sir, that you are in no dangerous company; for notwithstanding my fish dinner, I am much disposed to trifle with some of your savoury mess, if you will indulge me so far.”
Peveril accordingly reinforced the stranger’s trencher with what remained of the bacon and eggs, and saw him swallow a mouthful or two with apparent relish72; but presently after began to dally73 with his knife and fork, like one whose appetite was satiated; and then took a long draught74 of the black jack75, and handed his platter to the large mastiff dog, who, attracted by the smell of the dinner, had sat down before him for some time, licking his chops, and following with his eye every morsel76 which the guest raised to his head.
“Here, my poor fellow,” said he, “thou hast had no fish, and needest this supernumerary trencher-load more than I do. I cannot withstand thy mute supplication77 any longer.”
The dog answered these courtesies by a civil shake of the tail, while he gobbled up what was assigned him by the stranger’s benevolence78, in the greater haste, that he heard his mistress’s voice at the door.
“Here is the canary, gentlemen,” said the landlady; “and the goodman has set off the mill, to come to wait on you himself. He always does so, when company drink wine.”
“That he may come in for the host’s, that is, for the lion’s share,” said the stranger, looking at Peveril.
“The shot is mine,” said Julian; “and if mine host will share it, I will willingly bestow79 another quart on him, and on you, sir. I never break old customs.”
These sounds caught the ear of Gaffer Whitecraft, who had entered the room, a strapping80 specimen81 of his robust82 trade, prepared to play the civil, or the surly host, as his company should be acceptable or otherwise. At Julian’s invitation, he doffed83 his dusty bonnet84 — brushed from his sleeve the looser particles of his professional dust — and sitting down on the end of a bench, about a yard from the table, filled a glass of canary, and drank to his guests, and “especially to this noble gentleman,” indicating Peveril, who had ordered the canary.
Julian returned the courtesy by drinking his health, and asking what news were about in the country?
“Nought85, sir, I hears on nought, except this Plot, as they call it, that they are pursuing the Papishers about; but it brings water to my mill, as the saying is. Between expresses hurrying hither and thither86, and guards and prisoners riding to and again, and the custom of the neighbours, that come to speak over the news of an evening, nightly, I may say, instead of once a week, why, the spigot is in use, gentlemen, and your land thrives; and then I, serving as constable, and being a known Protestant, I have tapped, I may venture to say, it may be ten stands of ale extraordinary, besides a reasonable sale of wine for a country corner. Heaven make us thankful, and keep all good Protestants from Plot and Popery.”
“I can easily conceive, my friend,” said Julian, “that curiosity is a passion which runs naturally to the alehouse; and that anger, and jealousy87, and fear, are all of them thirsty passions, and great consumers of home-brewed. But I am a perfect stranger in these parts; and I would willingly learn, from a sensible man like you, a little of this same Plot, of which men speak so much, and appear to know so little.”
“Learn a little of it? — Why, it is the most horrible — the most damnable, bloodthirsty beast of a Plot — But hold, hold, my good master; I hope, in the first place, you believe there is a Plot; for, otherwise, the Justice must have a word with you, as sure as my name is John Whitecraft.”
“It shall not need,” said Peveril; “for I assure you, mine host, I believe in the Plot as freely and fully88 as a man can believe in anything he cannot understand.”
“God forbid that anybody should pretend to understand it,” said the implicit57 constable; “for his worship the Justice says it is a mile beyond him; and he be as deep as most of them. But men may believe, though they do not understand; and that is what the Romanists say themselves. But this I am sure of, it makes a rare stirring time for justices, and witnesses, and constables89. — So here’s to your health again, gentlemen, in a cup of neat canary.”
“Come, come, John Whitecraft,” said the wife, “do not you demean yourself by naming witnesses along with justices and constables. All the world knows how they come by their money.”
“Ay, but all the world knows that they do come by it, dame; and that is a great comfort. They rustle90 in their canonical91 silks, and swagger in their buff and scarlet92, who but they? — Ay, ay, the cursed fox thrives — and not so cursed neither. Is there not Doctor Titus Oates, the saviour93 of the nation — does he not live at Whitehall, and eat off plate, and have a pension of thousands a year, for what I know? and is he not to be Bishop94 of Litchfield, so soon as Dr. Doddrum dies?”
“Then I hope Dr. Doddrum’s reverence95 will live these twenty years; and I dare say I am the first that ever wished such a wish,” said the hostess. “I do not understand these doings, not I; and if a hundred Jesuits came to hold a consult at my house, as they did at the White Horse Tavern96, I should think it quite out of the line of business to bear witness against them, provided they drank well, and paid their score.”
“Very true, dame,” said her elder guest; “that is what I call keeping a good publican conscience; and so I will pay my score presently, and be jogging on my way.”
Peveril, on his part, also demanded a reckoning, and discharged it so liberally, that the miller flourished his hat as he bowed, and the hostess courtesied down to the ground.
The horses of both guests were brought forth97; and they mounted, in order to depart in company. The host and hostess stood in the doorway98, to see them depart. The landlord proffered99 a stirrup-cup to the elder guest, while the landlady offered Peveril a glass from her own peculiar100 bottle. For this purpose, she mounted on the horse-block, with flask101 and glass in hand; so that it was easy for the departing guest, although on horse-back, to return the courtesy in the most approved manner, namely, by throwing his arm over his landlady’s shoulder, and saluting102 her at parting.
Dame Whitecraft did not decline this familiarity; for there is no room for traversing upon a horse-block, and the hands which might have served her for resistance, were occupied with glass and bottle — matters too precious to be thrown away in such a struggle. Apparently103, however, she had something else in her head; for as, after a brief affectation of reluctance104, she permitted Peveril’s face to approach hers, she whispered in his ear, “Beware of trepans!”— an awful intimation, which, in those days of distrust, suspicion, and treachery, was as effectual in interdicting105 free and social intercourse, as the advertisement of “man-traps and spring-guns,” to protect an orchard106. Pressing her hand, in intimation that he comprehended her hint, she shook his warmly in return, and bade God speed him. There was a cloud on John Whitecraft’s brow; nor did his final farewell sound half so cordial as that which had been spoken within doors. But then Peveril reflected, that the same guest is not always equally acceptable to landlord and landlady; and unconscious of having done anything to excite the miller’s displeasure, he pursued his journey without thinking farther of the matter.
Julian was a little surprised, and not altogether pleased, to find that his new acquaintance held the same road with him. He had many reasons for wishing to travel alone; and the hostess’s caution still rung in his ears. If this man, possessed107 of so much shrewdness as his countenance and conversation intimated, versatile108, as he had occasion to remark, and disguised beneath his condition, should prove, as was likely, to be a concealed109 Jesuit or seminary-priest, travelling upon their great task of the conversion110 of England, and rooting out of the Northern heresy111 — a more dangerous companion, for a person in his own circumstances, could hardly be imagined; since keeping society with him might seem to authorise whatever reports had been spread concerning the attachment112 of his family to the Catholic cause. At the same time, it was very difficult, without actual rudeness, to shake off the company of one who seemed so determined, whether spoken to or not, to remain alongside of him.
Peveril tried the experiment of riding slow; but his companion, determined not to drop him, slackened his pace, so as to keep close by him. Julian then spurred his horse to a full trot113; and was soon satisfied, that the stranger, notwithstanding the meanness of his appearance, was so much better mounted than himself, as to render vain any thought of outriding him. He pulled up his horse to a more reasonable pace, therefore, in a sort of despair. Upon his doing so, his companion, who had been hitherto silent, observed, that Peveril was not so well qualified114 to try speed upon the road, as he would have been had he abode115 by his first bargain of horse-flesh that morning.
Peveril assented116 dryly, but observed, that the animal would serve his immediate117 purpose, though he feared it would render him indifferent company for a person better mounted.
“By no means,” answered his civil companion; “I am one of those who have travelled so much, as to be accustomed to make my journey at any rate of motion which may be most agreeable to my company.”
Peveril made no reply to this polite intimation, being too sincere to tender the thanks which, in courtesy, were the proper answer. — A second pause ensued, which was broken by Julian asking the stranger whether their roads were likely to lie long together in the same direction.
“I cannot tell,” said the stranger, smiling, “unless I knew which way you were travelling.”
“I am uncertain how far I shall go to-night,” said Julian, willingly misunderstanding the purport118 of the reply.
“And so am I,” replied the stranger; “but though my horse goes better than yours, I think it will be wise to spare him; and in case our road continues to lie the same way, we are likely to sup, as we have dined together.”
Julian made no answer whatever to this round intimation, but continued to ride on, turning, in his own mind, whether it would not be wisest to come to a distinct understanding with his pertinacious119 attendant, and to explain, in so many words, that it was his pleasure to travel alone. But, besides that the sort of acquaintance which they had formed during dinner, rendered him unwilling120 to be directly uncivil towards a person of gentleman-like manners, he had also to consider that he might very possibly be mistaken in this man’s character and purpose; in which case, the cynically121 refusing the society of a sound Protestant, would afford as pregnant matter of suspicion, as travelling in company with a disguised Jesuit.
After brief reflection, therefore, he resolved to endure the encumbrance122 of the stranger’s society, until a fair opportunity should occur to rid himself of it; and, in the meantime, to act with as much caution as he possibly could, in any communication that might take place between them; for Dame Whitecraft’s parting caution still rang anxiously in his ears, and the consequences of his own arrest upon suspicion, must deprive him of every opportunity of serving his father, or the countess, or Major Bridgenorth, upon whose interest, also, he had promised himself to keep an eye.
While he revolved123 these things in his mind, they had journeyed several miles without speaking; and now entered upon a more waste country, and worse roads, than they had hitherto found, being, in fact, approaching the more hilly district of Derbyshire. In travelling on a very stony124 and uneven125 lane, Julian’s horse repeatedly stumbled; and, had he not been supported by the rider’s judicious126 use of the bridle25, must at length certainly have fallen under him.
“These are times which crave127 wary128 riding, sir,” said his companion; “and by your seat in the saddle, and your hand on the rein71, you seem to understand it to be so.”
“I have been long a horseman, sir,” answered Peveril.
“And long a traveller, too, sir, I should suppose; since by the great caution you observe, you seem to think the human tongue requires a curb129, as well as the horse’s jaws130.”
“Wiser men than I have been of opinion,” answered Peveril, “that it were a part of prudence131 to be silent, when men have little or nothing to say.”
“I cannot approve of their opinion,” answered the stranger. “All knowledge is gained by communication, either with the dead, through books, or, more pleasingly, through the conversation of the living. The deaf and dumb, alone, are excluded from improvement; and surely their situation is not so enviable that we should imitate them.”
At this illustration, which awakened132 a startling echo in Peveril’s bosom133, the young man looked hard at his companion; but in the composed countenance, and calm blue eye, he read no consciousness of a farther meaning than the words immediately and directly implied. He paused a moment, and then answered, “You seem to be a person, sir, of shrewd apprehension134; and I should have thought it might have occurred to you, that in the present suspicious times, men may, without censure135, avoid communication with strangers. You know not me; and to me you are totally unknown. There is not room for much discourse136 between us, without trespassing137 on the general topics of the day, which carry in them seeds of quarrel between friends, much more betwixt strangers. At any other time, the society of an intelligent companion would have been most acceptable upon my solitary138 ride; but at present ——”
“At present!” said the other, interrupting him. “You are like the old Romans, who held that hostis meant both a stranger and an enemy. I will therefore be no longer a stranger. My name is Ganlesse — by profession I am a Roman Catholic priest — I am travelling here in dread2 of my life — and I am very glad to have you for a companion.”
“I thank you for the information with all my heart,” said Peveril; “and to avail myself of it to the uttermost, I must beg you to ride forward, or lag behind, or take a side-path, at your own pleasure; for as I am no Catholic, and travel upon business of high concernment, I am exposed both to risk and delay, and even to danger, by keeping such suspicious company. And so, Master Ganlesse, keep your own pace, and I will keep the contrary; for I beg leave to forbear your company.”
As Peveril spoke19 thus, he pulled up his horse, and made a full stop.
The stranger burst out a-laughing. “What!” he said, “you forbear my company for a trifle of danger? Saint Anthony! How the warm blood of the Cavaliers is chilled in the young men of the present day! This young gallant139, now, has a father, I warrant, who has endured as many adventures for hunting priests, as a knight140-errant for distressed141 damsels.”
“This raillery avails nothing, sir,” said Peveril. “I must request you will keep your own way.”
“My way is yours,” said the pertinacious Master Ganlesse, as he called himself; “and we will both travel the safer, that we journey in company. I have the receipt of fern-seed, man, and walk invisible. Besides, you would not have me quit you in this lane, where there is no turn to right or left?”
Peveril moved on, desirous to avoid open violence — for which the indifferent tone of the traveller, indeed, afforded no apt pretext142 — yet highly disliking his company, and determined to take the first opportunity to rid himself of it.
The stranger proceeded at the same pace with him, keeping cautiously on his bridle hand, as if to secure that advantage in case of a struggle. But his language did not intimate the least apprehension. “You do me wrong,” he said to Peveril, “and you equally wrong yourself. You are uncertain where to lodge143 to-night — trust to my guidance. Here is an ancient hall, within four miles, with an old knightly144 Pantaloon for its lord — an all-be-ruffed Dame Barbara for the lady gay — a Jesuit, in a butler’s habit, to say grace — an old tale of Edgehill and Worster fights to relish a cold venison pasty, and a flask of claret mantled145 with cobwebs — a bed for you in the priest’s hiding-hole — and, for aught I know, pretty Mistress Betty, the dairy-maid, to make it ready.”
“This has no charms for me, sir,” said Peveril, who, in spite of himself, could not but be amused with the ready sketch146 which the stranger gave of many an old mansion147 in Cheshire and Derbyshire, where the owners retained the ancient faith of Rome.
“Well, I see I cannot charm you in this way,” continued his companion; “I must strike another key. I am no longer Ganlesse, the seminary priest, but (changing his tone, and snuffling in the nose) Simon Canter, a poor preacher of the Word, who travels this way to call sinners to repentance148; and to strengthen, and to edify149, and to fructify150 among the scattered151 remnant who hold fast the truth. — What say you to this, sir?”
“I admire your versatility152, sir, and could be entertained with it at another time. At present sincerity153 is more in request.”
“Sincerity!” said the stranger; —“a child’s whistle, with but two notes in it — yea, yea, and nay, nay. Why, man, the very Quakers have renounced154 it, and have got in its stead a gallant recorder, called Hypocrisy155, that is somewhat like Sincerity in form, but of much greater compass, and combines the whole gamut156. Come, be ruled — be a disciple157 of Simon Canter for the evening, and we will leave the old tumble-down castle of the knight aforesaid, on the left hand, for a new brick-built mansion, erected158 by an eminent159 salt-boiler from Namptwich, who expects the said Simon to make a strong spiritual pickle160 for the preservation161 of a soul somewhat corrupted162 by the evil communications of this wicked world. What say you? He has two daughters — brighter eyes never beamed under a pinched hood163; and for myself, I think there is more fire in those who live only to love and to devotion, than in your court beauties, whose hearts are running on twenty follies164 besides. You know not the pleasure of being conscience-keeper to a pretty precisian, who in one breath repeats her foibles, and in the next confesses her passion. Perhaps, though, you may have known such in your day? Come, sir, it grows too dark to see your blushes; but I am sure they are burning on your cheek.”
“You take great freedom, sir,” said Peveril, as they now approached the end of the lane, where it opened on a broad common; “and you seem rather to count more on my forbearance, than you have room to do with safety. We are now nearly free of the lane which has made us companions for this late half hour. To avoid your farther company, I will take the turn to the left, upon that common; and if you follow me, it shall be at your peril165. Observe, I am well armed; and you will fight at odds166.”
“Not at odds,” returned the provoking stranger, “while I have my brown jennet, with which I can ride round and round you at pleasure; and this text, of a handful in length (showing a pistol which he drew from his bosom), which discharges very convincing doctrine167 on the pressure of a forefinger168, and is apt to equalise all odds, as you call them, of youth and strength. Let there be no strife169 between us, however — the moor170 lies before us — choose your path on it — I take the other.”
“I wish you good night, sir,” said Peveril to the stranger. “I ask your forgiveness, if I have misconstrued you in anything; but the times are perilous171, and a man’s life may depend on the society in which he travels.”
“True,” said the stranger; “but in your case, the danger is already undergone, and you should seek to counteract172 it. You have travelled in my company long enough to devise a handsome branch of the Popish Plot. How will you look, when you see come forth, in comely folio form, The Narrative173 of Simon Canter, otherwise called Richard Ganlesse, concerning the horrid174 Popish Conspiracy175 for the Murder of the King, and Massacre176 of all Protestants, as given on oath to the Honourable177 House of Commons; setting forth, how far Julian Peveril, younger of Martindale Castle, is concerned in carrying on the same ——”
“How, sir? What mean you?” said Peveril, much startled.
“Nay, sir,” replied his companion, “do not interrupt my title-page. Now that Oates and Bedloe have drawn178 the great prizes, the subordinate discoverers get little but by the sale of their Narrative; and Janeway, Newman, Simmons, and every bookseller of them, will tell you that the title is half the narrative. Mine shall therefore set forth the various schemes you have communicated to me, of landing ten thousand soldiers from the Isle179 of Man upon the coast of Lancashire; and marching into Wales, to join the ten thousand pilgrims who are to be shipped from Spain; and so completing the destruction of the Protestant religion, and of the devoted180 city of London. Truly, I think such a Narrative, well spiced with a few horrors, and published cum privilegio parliamenti, might, though the market be somewhat overstocked, be still worth some twenty or thirty pieces.”
“You seem to know me, sir,” said Peveril; “and if so, I think I may fairly ask you your purpose in thus bearing me company, and the meaning of all this rhapsody. If it be mere181 banter182, I can endure it within proper limit; although it is uncivil on the part of a stranger. If you have any farther purpose, speak it out; I am not to be trifled with.”
“Good, now,” said the stranger, laughing, “into what an unprofitable chafe183 you have put yourself! An Italian fuoruscito, when he desires a parley184 with you, takes aim from behind a wall, with his long gun, and prefaces his conference with Posso tirare. So does your man-of-war fire a gun across the bows of a Hansmogan Indiaman, just to bring her to; and so do I show Master Julian Peveril, that, if I were one of the honourable society of witnesses and informers, with whom his imagination has associated me for these two hours past, he is as much within my danger now, as what he is ever likely to be.” Then, suddenly changing his tone to serious, which was in general ironical185, he added, “Young man, when the pestilence186 is diffused187 through the air of a city, it is in vain men would avoid the disease, by seeking solitude188, and shunning189 the company of their fellow-sufferers.”
“In what, then, consists their safety?” said Peveril, willing to ascertain, if possible, the drift of his companion’s purpose.
“In following the counsels of wise physicians;” such was the stranger’s answer.
“And as such,” said Peveril, “you offer me your advice?”
“Pardon me, young man,” said the stranger haughtily190, “I see no reason I should do so. — I am not,” he added, in his former tone, “your fee’d physician — I offer no advice — I only say it would be wise that you sought it.”
“And from whom, or where, can I obtain it?” said Peveril. “I wander in this country like one in a dream; so much a few months have changed it. Men who formerly191 occupied themselves with their own affairs, are now swallowed up in matters of state policy; and those tremble under the apprehension of some strange and sudden convulsion of empire, who were formerly only occupied by the fear of going to bed supperless. And to sum up the matter, I meet a stranger apparently well acquainted with my name and concerns, who first attaches himself to me, whether I will or no; and then refuses me an explanation of his business, while he menaces me with the strangest accusations192.”
“Had I meant such infamy,” said the stranger, “believe me, I had not given you the thread of my intrigue193. But be wise, and come one with me. There is, hard by, a small inn, where, if you can take a stranger’s warrant for it, we shall sleep in perfect security.”
“Yet, you yourself,” said Peveril, “but now were anxious to avoid observation; and in that case, how can you protect me?”
“Pshaw! I did but silence that tattling landlady, in the way in which such people are most readily hushed; and for Topham, and his brace194 of night owls195, they must hawk196 at other and lesser197 game than I should prove.”
Peveril could not help admiring the easy and confident indifference198 with which the stranger seemed to assume a superiority to all the circumstances of danger around him; and after hastily considering the matter with himself, came to the resolution to keep company with him for this night at least; and to learn, if possible, who he really was, and to what party in the estate he was attached. The boldness and freedom of his talk seemed almost inconsistent with his following the perilous, though at that time the gainful trade of an informer. No doubt, such persons assumed every appearance which could insinuate199 them into the confidence of their destined victims; but Julian thought he discovered in this man’s manner, a wild and reckless frankness, which he could not but connect with the idea of sincerity in the present case. He therefore answered, after a moment’s recollection, “I embrace your proposal, sir; although, by doing so, I am reposing200 a sudden, and perhaps an unwary, confidence.”
“And what am I, then, reposing in you?” said the stranger. “Is not our confidence mutual201?”
“No; much the contrary. I know nothing of you whatever — you have named me; and, knowing me to be Julian Peveril, know you may travel with me in perfect security.”
“The devil I do!” answered his companion. “I travel in the same security as with a lighted petard, which I may expect to explode every moment. Are you not the son of Peveril of the Peak, with whose name Prelacy and Popery are so closely allied202, that no old woman of either sex in Derbyshire concludes her prayer without a petition to be freed from all three? And do you not come from the Popish Countess of Derby, bringing, for aught I know, a whole army of Manxmen in your pocket, with full complement203 of arms, ammunition204, baggage, and a train of field artillery205?”
“It is not very likely I should be so poorly mounted,” said Julian, laughing, “if I had such a weight to carry. But lead on, sir. I see I must wait for your confidence, till you think proper to confer it; for you are already so well acquainted with my affairs, that I have nothing to offer you in exchange for it.”
“Allons, then,” said his companion; “give your horse the spur, and raise the curb rein, lest he measure the ground with his nose instead of his paces. We are not now more than a furlong or two from the place of entertainment.”
They mended their pace accordingly, and soon arrived at the small solitary inn which the traveller had mentioned. When its light began to twinkle before them, the stranger, as if recollecting206 something he had forgotten, “By the way, you must have a name to pass by; for it may be ill travelling under your own, as the fellow who keeps this house is an old Cromwellian. What will you call yourself? — My name is — for the present — Ganlesse.”
“There is no occasion to assume a name at all,” answered Julian. “I do not incline to use a borrowed one, especially as I may meet with some one who knows my own.”
“I will call you Julian, then,” said Master Ganlesse; “for Peveril will smell, in the nostrils207 of mine host, of idolatry, conspiracy, Smithfield faggots, fish on Fridays, the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the fire of purgatory208.”
As he spoke thus, they alighted under the great broad-branched oak tree, that served to canopy209 the ale-bench, which, at an earlier hour, had groaned210 under the weight of a frequent conclave211 of rustic212 politicians. Ganlesse, as he dismounted, whistled in a particularly shrill213 note, and was answered from within the house.
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1
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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3
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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9
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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10
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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13
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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14
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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17
wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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18
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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19
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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20
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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21
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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22
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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26
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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31
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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32
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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38
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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39
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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40
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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41
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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42
moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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43
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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44
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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45
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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46
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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47
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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48
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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49
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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50
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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51
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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52
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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53
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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54
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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55
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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56
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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57
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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58
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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59
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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60
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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61
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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62
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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63
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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65
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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66
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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67
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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68
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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69
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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70
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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71
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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72
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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73
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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74
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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75
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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76
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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77
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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78
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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79
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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80
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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81
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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82
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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83
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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85
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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86
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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87
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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88
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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89
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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90
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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91
canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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92
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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93
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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94
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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95
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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96
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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97
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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98
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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99
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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101
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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102
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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103
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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104
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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105
interdicting
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的现在分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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106
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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107
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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108
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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109
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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110
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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111
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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112
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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113
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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114
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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115
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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116
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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118
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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119
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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120
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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121
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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122
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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123
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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124
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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125
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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126
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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127
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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128
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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129
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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130
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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131
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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132
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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133
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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134
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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135
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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136
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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137
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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138
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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139
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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140
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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141
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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142
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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143
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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144
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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145
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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146
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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147
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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148
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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149
edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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150
fructify
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| v.结果实；使土地肥沃 | |
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151
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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152
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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153
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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154
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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155
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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156
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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157
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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158
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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159
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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160
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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161
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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162
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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163
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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164
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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165
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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166
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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167
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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168
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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169
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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170
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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171
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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172
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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173
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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174
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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175
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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176
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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177
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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178
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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179
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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180
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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181
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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182
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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183
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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184
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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185
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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186
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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187
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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188
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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189
shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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190
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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191
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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192
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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193
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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194
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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195
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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196
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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197
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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198
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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199
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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200
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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201
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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202
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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203
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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204
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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205
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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206
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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207
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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208
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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209
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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210
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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211
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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212
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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213
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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