Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old
by G. P. R. James · English · Gutenberg #49650 · 903,594 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old
Author: G. P. R. James
Author of introduction, etc.: Laurie Magnus
Release date: August 7, 2015 [eBook #49650]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARRAH NEIL; OR, TIMES OF OLD ***
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source https://books.google.com/books?id=4qdEAAAAYAAJ
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2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. Missing pages were provided by the 1844 edition.
ARRAH NEIL
BY
G. P. R. JAMES
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS LIMITED
MDCCCCIII
[Illustration: Logo]
_The Introduction is written by_ LAURIE MAGNUS, M.A.; _the Title-page
is designed by_ IVOR I. J. SYMES.
INTRODUCTION.
George Payne Rainsford James, Historiographer Royal to King William
IV., was born in London in the first year of the nineteenth century,
and died at Venice in 1860. His comparatively short life was
exceptionally full and active. He was historian, politician and
traveller, the reputed author of upwards of a hundred novels, the
compiler and editor of nearly half as many volumes of letters,
memoirs, and biographies, a poet and a pamphleteer, and, during the
last ten years of his life, British Consul successively in
Massachusetts, Norfolk (Virginia), and Venice. He was on terms of
friendship with most of the eminent men of his day. Scott, on whose
style he founded his own, encouraged him to persevere in his career as
a novelist; Washington Irving admired him, and Walter Savage Landor
composed an epitaph to his memory. He achieved the distinction of
being twice burlesqued by Thackeray, and two columns are devoted to an
account of him in the new "Dictionary of National Biography." Each
generation follows its own gods, and G. P. R. James was, perhaps, too
prolific an author to maintain the popularity which made him "in some
ways the most successful novelist of his time." But his work bears
selection and revival. It possesses the qualities of seriousness and
interest; his best historical novels are faithful in setting and free
in movement. His narrative is clear, his history conscientious, and
his plots are well-conceived. English learning and literature are
enriched by the work of this writer, who made vivid every epoch in the
world's history by the charm of his romance.
"Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old" is a characteristic mixture of history
and sentimental romance. The historical matters are concerned with an
early episode in the Great Civil War, which centred in the destinies
of the important town of Hull, the "magazine of the North." Sir John
Hotham was governor at the time that the King hoisted the Royal
Standard at Nottingham, and though he closed the gates against his
Majesty, it was felt by both sides that his defection from the
Parliament was not at all unlikely, especially if they persisted in
extreme measures. This doubtful attitude of Sir John, the strained
relations between him and his son, Colonel Hotham, and the hopes and
fears of the Royalist party as to the possession of Hull, are the
historical elements in the plot, and give rise to an intricate series
of extremely entertaining as well as exciting events. The plot is
hardly well put together; James does not trouble himself much about
his "loose ends," and it looks as though the French mission, on which
the King sends the Earl of Beverly and Captain Barecolt, were merely a
pretext for their subsequent adventures. On the other hand, the novel
contains one singular and striking success. James often attempts low
comedy and frequently fails, but in the boasting, swaggering, and
resourceful Barecolt, the indomitable Royalist soldier, who "might
have become almost as great a man as he fancied himself if it had not
been for his swaggering, drinking, drabbing, and lying propensities,"
he has given us what, according to the limits of his genius,
corresponds to Scott's Captain Dalgetty. Barecolt is a character in
every sense of the word, and his sayings and doings are as amusing as
the strange events that befall him are exciting. The story of Arrah
Neil is--a rare thing for James--a tragic one; the mystery of the plot
is happily solved, yet the end is pathetic. But the pathos is by no
means bitter or unmitigated, since the parallel half of the story ends
satisfactorily, and due retribution falls on the offenders. James
takes up the story of the Civil War again in "The Cavalier" and "Henry
Masterton," both of which deal with a more disastrous period in the
career of the Royalists. Sir John Hotham and his son ultimately paid
the penalty of their indecision, with their heads.
ARRAH NEIL.
CHAPTER I.
About two centuries ago, in times with which we are all familiar, as
they comprised a period of English history, the events of which have
affected the social condition of the British people more than almost
any which have preceded or followed that period--about two centuries
ago, there stood upon the slope of a gentle hill, in a picturesque
part of England, an old brick mansion of considerable extent, and of a
venerable though flourishing exterior. On the right hand and on the
left there was a wood of various trees, amidst which Evelyn might have
delighted to roam, choice children of the British forest, mingled with
many a stranger grown familiar with the land, though not long
denizened in it. In front was a terrace flanked with quaintly-carved
flower-pots of stone; and beyond that stretched a lawn several roods
in extent, leaving the mansion fully exposed to the eye of every one
who wandered through the valley below. Beyond the lawn again a wide
view was obtained over a pleasant scene of hill and dale, with the top
of a village church and its high tower peeping over the edge of the
first earth-wave; and far off, faint and grey, were seen the lines of
a distant city, apparently of considerable extent. The house itself
had nothing very remarkable in its appearance, and yet circumstances
compel us to give some account of it, although it is but building up
to pull down, as the reader will soon perceive. The middle part
consisted of a large square mass of brickwork, rising somewhat higher,
and projecting somewhat farther, than the rest of the building. It had
in the centre a large hall-door, with a flight of stone steps, and on
each side of the entrance were three windows in chiselled frames of
stone. On either side of this centre was a wing flanked with a small
square tower, and in each wing and each tower was a small door opening
upon the terrace. Manifold lattices, too, with narrow panes set in
lead, ornamented these inferior parts of the building in long straight
rows, and chimneys nearly as numerous towered up from the tall peaked
roofs, not quite in keeping with the trim regularity of the other
parts of the edifice. The whole, however, had a pleasant and yet
imposing effect when seen from a distance; and to any one who looked
near, there was an air of comfort and cheerfulness about the mansion
which well compensated for the want of grace. The view, too, from the
terrace and the windows was in itself a continual source of calm and
high-toned pleasure to the minds that dwelt within, for they were
those that could appreciate all that is lovely, more especially in the
works of God; and over the wide scene came a thousand varying aspects,
as the clouds and sunshine chased each other along, like the poetical
dreams of a bright and varying imagination. Morning and sunset, too,
and moonlight and mid-day, each wrought a change in the prospect, and
brought out something new and fair on which the eye rested with
delight.
It was evening: the lower limb of the large round sun rested on a dark
line of trees which filled up one of the slopes of the ground about
six miles off; and above the bright and glowing disc, which seemed to
float in a sea of its own glory, were stretched a few small dark
clouds, edged with gold, which hung over the descending star like a
veil thrown back to afford one last look of the bright orb of day
before the reign of night began. Higher still, the sky was blushing
like a bride; and woods and fields, and distant spires and hills, all
seemed penetrated with the purple splendour of the hour. Nothing could
be fairer or more peaceful than the whole scene, and it was scarcely
possible to suppose that the violent passions of man could remain
untamed and unchastened by the aspect of so much bright tranquillity.
Winding along at the foot of the hill, and marking the commencement of
what might be called the plain--though, to say the truth, the wide
space to which we must give that name was broken by innumerable
undulations--appeared a hard but sandy road, from which a carriage-way
led by a circuit up to the mansion. In some places high banks, covered
with shrubs and bushes, overhung the course of the road, though in
others it passed unsheltered over the soft, short grass of the hill;
but just at the angle where the two paths separated, the ground rose
almost to a cliff, and at the bottom was a spring of very clear water
gathered into a little stone basin.
By the side of the fountain, at the time we speak of, sat a figure
which harmonised well with the landscape. It was that of a young girl,
not yet apparently sixteen years of age. Her garb appeared to be that
of poverty, her head uncovered by anything but rich and waving locks
of warm brown hair, her face and neck tanned with the sun, her feet
bare, as well as her hands and her arms above the elbows, and her
apparel scanty, and in some places torn, though scrupulously clean.
She seemed, in short, a beggar, and many a one would have passed her
by as such without notice; but those who looked nearer saw that her
features were very beautiful, her teeth of a dazzling whiteness, her
limbs rounded and well formed, and her blue eyes under their long
jetty eyelashes as bright, yet soft, as ever beamed on mortal man. Yet
there was something wanting in her face, an indefinable something, not
exactly intellect, for there was often a keen and flashing light
spread over the whole countenance. Neither was it expression, for of
that there was a great deal. Neither was it steadiness, for there
frequently came a look of deep thought, painfully deep, intense,
abstracted, unsatisfied, as if the mind sought something within itself
that it could not discover. What it was it is difficult, nay,
impossible to say; yet there was something wanting, and all those who
looked upon her felt that it was so.
She sat by that little fountain for a long time, sometimes gazing into
the water as if her heart were at the bottom of the brook; sometimes,
suddenly looking up, with her head bent on one side, and her ear
inclined, listening to the notes of a lark that rose high in air from
the neighbouring fields, and trilled the joy-inspired hymn under the
glowing sky; and as she did so, a smile, sweet, and bland, and happy,
came upon her lip, as if to her the song of the lark spoke hope and
comfort from a higher source than any of the earth.
While she was thus sitting, more than one horseman passed along the
road; but the poor girl gave them only a casual glance, and then
resumed her meditations. One or two villagers, too, on foot, walked on
their way, some of them giving her a nod, to which she answered
nothing. A thin and gloomy-looking personage, too, with a tall hat and
black coat and doublet, rode down from the mansion, followed by two
men of somewhat less staid and abstinent appearance; and as he passed
by he first gazed on her with not the most holy smile, but the moment
after gave her a sour look, and muttered something about the stocks.
The girl paid him no attention, however.
At length a horse trotting briskly was heard coming along the
high-road; and a moment after, a gay cavalier, well mounted and armed,
with feather in his hat and gold upon his doublet, long curling locks
hanging on his shoulders, and heavy gilt spurs buckled over his
boots, appeared at the angle of the bank. There he pulled up, however,
as if doubtful which path to take; and seeing the girl, he exclaimed
in a loud but not unkindly tone, "Which is the way to Bishop's Merton,
sweetheart?"
The girl rose and dropped him a graceful curtsey, but for her only
reply she smiled.
"Which is the way to Bishop's Merton, pretty maid?" the stranger
repeated, bringing his horse closer to her.
"The village is out there," replied the girl, pointing, with her hand
along the road; "the house is up there," she added, turning towards
the mansion on the hill; and then she immediately seated herself again
with a deep sigh, and began once more to gaze into the fountain.
The stranger wheeled his horse as if to ride up to the house, but then
paused, and springing to the ground, he turned to the girl once more,
asking, "What is the matter with you, my poor girl? Has any one
injured you? Is there anything ails you? What makes you so sad?"
She looked in his face for a moment with a countenance totally void of
expression, and then, gazing down into the water again, she resumed
her meditations without making any reply.
"She must be a fool," the stranger said, speaking to himself. "All the
better for her, poor girl; I wish I were a fool too. One would escape
half the sorrows of this life if he did not understand them, and half
the sins, too, if he did not know what he were about. What a happy
thing it must be to be a rich fool! but she is a poor one, that is
clear, and the case is not so fortunate. Here, sweetheart; there's a
crown for thee. Good faith! I am likely, ere long, to thank any man
for one myself, so it matters not how soon the few I have are gone."
The girl took the money readily, and dropped the giver a low curtsey,
saying, "Thank your worship; God bless you, sir!"
"He had need, my pretty maid," replied the stranger, "for never man
wanted a blessing more than I do, or has been longer without one." And
thus speaking, he sprang upon his horse's back again, and rode up
towards the house.
When he was gone, she to whom he had spoken continued standing where
he had left her, meditating sadly, as it seemed, for several minutes;
and at length she said in a low tone, "Alas! he does not come--he does
not come. Perhaps he will never come again--oh, how I wish he would
stay away!"
The whole speech was as contradictory as a speech could be, especially
when the look and manner were taken as part and parcel thereof. But
there was nothing extraordinary in the fact; for man is a mass of
contradictions, and there is scarce one enjoyment that does not
partake of pain, one apprehension that is not mingled with a hope, one
hope that is not chequered by a fear. Antagonistic principles are ever
warring within us, and many of the greatest contests result in a drawn
battle. If, however, the girl's first words and the last had been
evidently in opposition to each other, the wish with which she
concluded was instantly belied by the glow upon her cheek, and the
light in her eye, when she once more heard the sound of a horse's feet
coming from the direction of the little town of Bishop's Merton.
"It is he!" she cried, with a smile, "it is he! I know the pace, I know
the pace!" and running into the middle of the road, she gazed down it,
while a horseman, followed by three servants, came on at a rapid rate,
with a loose rein and an easy seat. He was a young man of seven or
eight-and-twenty, with long fair hair, and pointed beard, tall and
well made, though somewhat slight in form, with a grave and even stern
cast of features, but a broad high forehead, clear but well-marked
brows, and lips full but not large. His face, as I have said, was
grave, and seemed as he rode forward, unsusceptible of any but a cold
thoughtful expression, till suddenly his eyes lighted on the poor girl
who was watching him, when a bright and beaming smile broke over his
whole countenance, and a complete change took place, like that which
spreads over a fine country when the storm gives place to sunshine.
"Ah, Arrah Neil!" he cried, "my poor Arrah Neil, is that you come
back? Where is your grandfather, poor child? have they set him free?"
And he, too sprang from his horse, taking the girl's hand with a look
of tender compassion.
"No, he is not free," replied Arrah Neil; "he never will be free."
"Oh, yes," answered the gentleman; "these things cannot last for ever,
Arrah. Time will bring about changes, I doubt not, which will deliver
him from whatever prison they have taken him to."
"Not from that prison," answered the girl, with tears rising in her
eyes; "it is a low and narrow prison, Lord Walton. I told them he
would die when they took him, and he only reached Devizes. But they
are happy who sleep--they are happy who sleep;" and sitting down by
the side of the well, she fell into thought again.
The stranger stood and gazed at her for a moment without uttering a
word. There are times when silence is more eloquent of sympathy than
the choicest words of condolence. One of the servants, however, who
had ridden up, and was holding his lord's horse, burst forth with an
oath, "The Roundhead rascals! I wish I had my sword in their stomachs!
The good old man was worth a score of them."
"Hush!" said his master, sternly; "hush! no such words in my hearing,
Langan!"
"Then, faith, my lord, I must speak them behind your back," murmured
the man; but his master had taken a step forward, and was bending down
his head to speak to the poor girl. "Come up to the house Arrah," he
said; "you must not stay here alone, nor go back to the cottage
either. Come up to the house, and my sister will comfort and be kind
to you."
The girl gazed in his face for a moment, and then, suddenly starting
up, as if some remembrance flashed across her mind, she exclaimed,
"No, no! do not go home, sir! Do not go there. Misfortune will happen
to you if you go there--I am sure it will--I am quite sure it will."
"But why, Arrah?" asked her companion, with an incredulous smile;
"what makes you think that there is any danger? Have you seen any of
the parliament people there?"
"There was Dry, of Longsoaken," replied Arrah Neil; "but he came down
again, and it is not that. But I must not say what it is. Yet do not
go up--do not go up! kind, good Charles Walton, do not go up!"
The young nobleman looked at her with an expression of much
commiseration for her sorrows, but no reliance on her words. "I must
go, Arrah," he said; "you know my sister is there; and even if there
be danger I most go. Come up, Arrah, there's a good girl, and we will
do the best we can for you in these sad times."
The poor girl shook her head sadly, and, after a moment's pause,
replied, "Ah! you think me a fool; and so I am, perhaps, for
things trouble me much here," and she laid her finger on her brow;
"memories--memories that haunt me, but are like dreams that we try to
recall distinctly after sleep is gone, and yet have but faint images
of them, as of trees in a mist. But I am not a fool in this, sir; and
I beseech you not to go."
"Stay with her, Langan," said Lord Walton, "and bring her up to the
house. The fit is upon the poor girl, and her grandfather's death may
make it worse. You loved him well, and will be kind to her. Stay with
her, good fellow, and persuade her to come up. I must go now, Arrah,"
he continued; "but come up with Langan, for Annie will be glad to see
you again, and will try to comfort you."
Thus saying, he remounted his horse, and rode onward up the hill.
CHAPTER II.
In the well-sanded parlour of a small but neat inn, called the "Rose
of Sharon," on the evening of the same day whereof we have just been
speaking, and in the village, or town, as perhaps we should call it,
of Bishop's Merton--for it was beginning to give itself the airs of a
great place--sat two personages finishing their supper, about
half-past nine o'clock. Their food was a cold sirloin of roast
beef--for the English nation were always fond of that plain and
substantial commodity--and their drink was good English ale, the most
harmonious accompaniment to the meat. The elder of the two was a
hard-featured, somewhat morose-looking personage, but of a hale, fresh
complexion, with a quick grey eye. There was a great deal of thought
upon the brow; and round the mouth were some strongly defined lines,
we might almost call them furrows. He was as thin and spare, too, as a
pair of tongs, but apparently strong and active for his age, and his
long limbs and breadth of chest spoke considerable original powers. He
was dressed altogether in black; and though a tall steeple-crowned hat
lay on a chair by his side, he wore while sitting at meat, a small
round cap of dark cloth, in the shape of a half pumpkin, on the top of
his head. He had also a good strong sword leaning on the chair beside
him, habited like himself in black, with steel points and hilt.
The other was a younger man, very different in appearance; a good deal
taller than his companion, and apparently more vigorous; his face
decorated with an immense pair of moustaches, and a somewhat pointed
beard, both of that indistinct hue which may be called whey-colour.
His hair floated upon his shoulders in the style of the Cavaliers;
but, to say the truth, it seemed somewhat unconscious of the comb; and
his dress, too, displayed that sort of dirty finery which by no means
prepossesses the wary usurer or experienced tradesman with the idea of
great funds at command on the part of the wearer. His doublet of
soiled leather displayed a great number of ornamented buttons, and
shreds of gold lace; his collar and hand-ruffles were of lace which
had once been of high price, but had seen service probably with more
masters than one, and had borne away in the conflict with the world
many a hole and tear, more honourable in flag or standard than in
human apparel. Ranging by his side, and ready for action, was an
egregious rapier, with a small dagger placed beside it, as if to set
off its length to greater advantage. On his legs were a large pair of
jack-boots, which he seldom laid aside, and there is even reason to
suppose that they covered several deficiencies; and hanging on a peg
behind was a broad beaver, very unlike the hats usually worn in
England at the time, ornamented with a long red feather.
As to his countenance and its expression, both were very peculiar. The
features in themselves were not bad--the eyes large, and somewhat
prominent. The nose, which was so pre-eminent as to form the chief
object in the expanse of his countenance, whichever way his face was
turned, was not altogether ill-shaped, and might have passed muster
amongst the ordinary noses of the world, had it not been that it was
set in the midst of a patch of red, which seemed to have transferred
itself from the cheeks to unite in the centre of the face. The
expression was bold, swaggering, and impudent; but a touch of shrewd
cunning was there, diversified every now and then by a quick, furtive
look around, which seemed to show that the worthy gentleman himself,
like a careful sentinel, was always upon the watch.
Certainly, seldom were there ever seen companions more opposite than
were there seated at supper on the present occasion; and yet it not
unfrequently happens, in this strange life of ours, that
circumstances, inclination, or wayward fortune, makes our comrade of
the way the man, of all others, least like one's self; and of all the
great general principles which are subject to exceptions, that which
has the most is the fact of birds of a feather flocking together.
"I have done," said the elder of the two, laying down his knife.
"Pooh, nonsense!" cried the other; "you haven't eaten half-a-pound. I
shan't have done this half-hour. I am like a camel, Master Randal.
Whenever I have an opportunity, I lay in a store in my own stomach for
the journey."
"Or like an ass," replied the other gentleman, "who takes more upon
his back than he can carry."
"No, not like an ass either," replied the man with the great
moustaches, "for an ass bears the food for other people--I for myself.
How can you or I tell whether we shall get another meal for the next
three days? 'Tis always right to prepare for the worst; and therefore,
so long as my stomach will hold and the beef endure, I will go on."
"The man who never knows when he has enough," answered his companion,
"is sure, sooner or later, either to want or have too much, and one is
as bad as the other."
"Oh, your pardon, your pardon!" cried the tall man; "give me the too
much. I will always find means to dispose of it--I am of the _too much
faction_. It's my battle-cry, my rallying word. Give me the too much
by all means. Did you ever see a carpenter cut out a door? Did you
ever see a tailor cut out a coat? Did you ever see a blacksmith forge
a horse-shoe? They always take too much to begin with. There are
plenty of bags in the world always wide open for superfluities; but,
to say truth, I never found I had too much yet: that's an epoch in my
history which is to come."
"Because, like other fools, you never know when you have enough,"
replied the man called Randal; "and as for your future history, it
will form but a short tale, easily told."
"I know what you would say--I know what you would say," replied the
other: "that the last act will find me in the most elevated situation
I have ever filled, though I may still be a dependant. But I can tell
you, my good friend, that in my many dangerous expeditions and
important occupations, I have escaped the cross piece of timber and
the line perpendicular so often, that I fear I am reserved for another
fate, and am in great dread every time I go upon the water."
"You are quite safe," replied the other, with a grim smile: "I'll
wager a thousand pounds upon your life, in a worm-eaten boat, with a
hole in the bottom. But hemp, hemp, I would have you beware of hemp!
'Oddslife! to hear you talk of your dangerous expeditions and
important occupations---- Cease, cease! I would sleep in peace,
to-night and you will give me an indigestion."
"Pshaw!" cried the other; "you have no more stomach than a pipped hen;
and as to my exploits, what land have I not visited? what scenes have
I not seen? To whom, if not to me, was owing the defence of Rochelle?
To whom----"
"Hush, hush!" said his companion; "tell the tale to others. I would as
soon drink vinegar, or eat stale cabbage, as hear lies four times
repeated, even with a variation."
"Lies!" cried the other; "thunder and lightning, sir----"
"There, there," cried his companion, quietly waving his hand: "that
will do; no more of it. Thunder and lightning will do nothing at your
bidding; so the less you have to do with them the better, lest you
burn your fingers. Try to be an honest man, leave off lying; don't
swagger but when you are drunk; and perchance you may be permitted to
hold the horses while other men fight."
"Well, there is no use in quarrelling with a maggot," replied his tall
comrade; and, taking to his knife again, he commenced a new inroad on
the beef, in assailing which, at least, he kept his word with a
laudible degree of fidelity.
In the mean while, the gentleman in black turned his shoulder to the
table, and fell into deep thought. But after a moment or two he opened
his lips, with an oracular shake of the head, not exactly addressing
his speech to his companion, but more apparently to the hilt of his
own sword, the point of which he had brought round between his feet,
and the blade of which he twirled round and round with his hands while
he was speaking.
"Nine out of ten of them," he said, "are either rank fools or
cold-hearted knaves, presumptuous blockheads, who think they have a
right to command, because they have not wit enough to obey; or cunning
scoundrels, who aim alone at their own interests, when they are
affecting to serve only their country, and yet are fools enough not to
see that the good of the whole is the good of every part."
"Who, who, who? Whom do you mean?" answered the other.
"English gentlemen," replied the man in black; "English gentlemen, I
say."
"Complimentary, certainly," remarked his comrade; "and by no means too
general or comprehensive. I dare say it's very, true, though. So
here's to your health, Master Randal."
"Let my health alone," said Randal, "and take care of your own; for if
you drink much more of that old ale, your head to-morrow morning will
be as heavy as the barrel from which it comes, and I shall have to
pump upon you to make you fit for any business whatsoever. Come,
finish your supper, and take a walk with me upon the hill. But whom
have we here? One of the rebels, I take it. Now, mind your part, but
do not lie more than your nature absolutely requires."
The last words of this speech were, as may be supposed, spoken in a
low voice, an addition having been suddenly made to the party in the
room where they were sitting.
The personage who entered was the same thin, self-denying-looking
gentleman who had passed poor Arrah Neil, as she sat by the fountain
in the morning, and had in his own mind, charitably furnished her with
a lodging in the stocks. That we may not have to return in order to
relate this gentleman's previous history hereafter, we may as well
pause here for a moment to say the few words that are needed on the
subject, especially as some reference may be made to his former life
in another place.
Master Dry, of Longsoaken, as he was now called, had risen from an
humble origin, and, though now a wealthy man, had commenced his career
as the errand-boy of a grocer, or rather general dealer, in the
village of Bishop's Merton. His master was a rigid man, a Puritan of
the most severe cast, and his master's wife a buxom dame, given
somewhat to the good things of life, especially of a fluid kind, which
she employed the ingenuity of young Ezekiel Dry in obtaining for her,
unknown to her more abstemious better-half. He thus acquired some
small skill in deceiving sharp eyes; and it was whispered that his
worthy patron did not fail to give him further improvement in this
peculiar branch of science, by initiating him into the mystery of the
difference between a yard measure and a yard of tape or ribbon,
between a pound weight and a pound of sugar or butter; between which,
as the learned reader is aware, there is a great and important
distinction.
As worthy Ezekiel Dry grew up into a young man, his master settled
down into an old one; and at length Death, who, like his neighbours in
a country town, is compelled occasionally to go to the chandler's
shop, called one morning at the door of Ezekiel's master, and would
not be satisfied without his full measure.
The usual course of events then took place. There was a widow, and a
shopman; the widow was middle-aged and wealthy, the shopman young and
poor; and Mr. Dry became a married man, and master of the shop. During
a probation of twenty years, which his state of matrimony lasted, he
did not altogether escape scandal; but in those times, as in others,
very rigid piety (at least in appearance) was not always accompanied
by very rigid morality; and those people who conceived that they might
exist separately, looked upon the latter as of very little consequence
where the former was pre-eminent.
At length, after having resisted time and strong waters (which her
second husband never denied her in any quantity) to the age of nearly
seventy, Mrs. Dry slept with her ancestors; and Mr. Dry went on
flourishing, till at length he sold his house and shop to another
pillar of the conventicle, and bought a good estate in the near
neighbourhood, called Longsoaken. He still kept up his connection with
his native town, however, became a person of the highest consideration
therein, took part in all its councils, managed many of its affairs,
was acquainted with all its news, and was the stay of the Puritans,
the terror of the parson, and the scorn of the Cavaliers.
It was his usual custom, as he still remained a widower, to look into
the "Rose of Sharon" every fine afternoon--less, as he said, to take
even the needful refreshment of the body, than to pause and meditate
for half-an-hour, before he retired to his own house; but it was
remarked that, on these occasions, he invariably had a small measure
of some kind of liquid put down beside him, and consulted the host
upon the affairs of everybody in the place.
In the present instance, Mr. Dry had received immediate information
that two strangers had appeared at the "Rose of Sharon" between eight
and nine, and he had hastened up from Longsoaken without loss of time;
but he had spent nearly half-an-hour with the landlord in an inner
chamber, inquiring into all the particulars of their appearance and
demeanour. Now, the landlord had lost more than one good customer in
consequence of the unpleasant interference of his respected neighbour,
who had occasionally caused some of the most expensive visiters at his
house to be committed as "malignants;" but as he dared not show any
resistance or make any remonstrance to a person so high in authority
as Master Dry, of Longsoaken, his only course was to defend the
characters of his guests as far as was safe. But the worthy host was a
timid man, and never ventured to pronounce a decided opinion in the
presence of his betters.
In answer, therefore, to the questions now addressed to him, he
replied, "Oh dear, no, worshipful sir! That is to say--for one cannot
be certain of anything in this ungodly world--they do not look like it
at all. Malignants are always gay in their apparel, and the gentleman
is dressed just like yourself, all in black. He has got a Geneva
skullcap, too, I should not wonder if he were a gifted man like
yourself."
"That may be a mere disguise," said Mr. Dry.
"Then, malignants are always roystering blades," continued the
landlord; "calling for all manner of things, beginning with wine, and
ending with strong waters. Now, these good people have nought but beef
and ale; though, doubtless, as all godly men may do for the comfort of
the inner man, they will take something more warming before they go;
but, as yet, one tankard of ale is all they have had."
"That looks well," said Mr. Dry, oracularly; "not that I would condemn
any man for using creature comforts in moderation, according to his
necessity. Some men's complexion, if of a cold and melancholy nature,
does require such helps. I myself am driven to it--but what more, my
friend? Are they grave in their discourse?"
"As heart could wish," replied the landlord. "I should take them
rather for the most pious and humble----"
"I will see them myself," interrupted Dry, who began to suspect the
landlord. "It is not easy to deceive my eyes."
But the worthy host contrived to detain his worshipful fellow-townsman
for some five minutes longer, in order that the guests might finish
their meal in peace, by opening a conversation relative to the return
of "the poor silly girl, Arrah Neil," as he called her, in regard to
whom he had shrewd suspicions that Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, entertained
sentiments not quite so rigid as those which his words in the morning
might seem to imply.
On this part of their conversation, however, I shall not dwell, as it
would be neither very instructive nor very amusing, but will return
once more to the parlour of the inn which Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken,
entered with a staid and stately step, his two eyes bent upon the
ground, as if he were in deep meditation. The younger of the two
guests in the parlour lolled in his chair and bit his lip. The elder
considered Mr. Dry attentively, but suffered him to enter the room and
approach the table without saying a word. Neither did he make any
movement of limb or feature, but remained cold, stiff, and dry, as if
his limbs and his countenance were made of wood. Mr. Dry, however,
always recollected that he was a man in authority; and great success
in life, where there is any weakness of character, is sure to produce
a confident self-importance, very comfortable to the possessor
thereof, though not particularly agreeable to his friends and
companions.
As neither of the others uttered a word, then, he began the
conversation himself without farther ado.
"I trust we are brethren, sir," he said, addressing the gentleman whom
we have called Randal.
"I trust we are so," replied the other.
"Ahem!" said Mr. Dry, "my name is Dry, sir; Dry, of Longsoaken."
"You may be soaked long enough," murmured the man at the table to
himself; not loud enough to be heard; "you may be soaked long enough
before you are moistened, Mr. Dry."
But his companion, who saw his lips move, gave him a grave look and
replied to the intruder, "I am happy to hear it, sir. It is a godly
name, which I have heard of before. Will you never have done with that
beef, Master Barecolt?"
"But this mouthful, but this mouthful," replied the gentleman at the
table, "and then I am with you."
"One word before you go," said Mr. Dry: "you seem, sir, a godly and
well-disposed man, and I doubt not have been led into the right way;
but there is an air of prelatic malignancy about this person at the
table."
"You are altogether mistaken, worthy Dry," said the good gentleman who
had been paying such devoted attention to the beef; "there is nothing
malignant about my nature, and the air you talk of is but a remnant of
French manners caught while I was serving our Calvinistic brethren in
that poor, benighted land. In me, sir, you behold him whom you may
have heard of--who in the morning preached to the people in the
beleaguered city of Rochelle, from the 2nd verse of the 24th chapter
of the book of Joshua, 'Your fathers dwelt on the other side of the
flood in old time;' and who in the evening led them out to battle, and
smote the Philistines hip and thigh. That is to say, broke through the
stockade, and defeated two regiments of the guards."
"I have heard of the deed," replied Mr. Dry.
"Then you must have heard likewise," said the gentleman at the table,
rising up at full length, and making the intruder a low bow, "of
Master Deciduous Barecolt."
"I think I have, I think I have," said Mr. Dry.
"Then, again," cried Barecolt, "when I defended the pass in the
Cevennes, with only two godly companions, against the Count de Suza
and a hundred and fifty bloodthirsty Papists--you must surely have
heard of that exploit."
"I cannot say I have," replied Mr. Dry.
"Then, sir, you are ignorant of the history of Europe," answered the
other with a look of high indignation; "for trust the name of
Deciduous Barecolt is known from the mouth of the Elbe to the mouth of
the Danube, and will descend to posterity upon the stream of time,
only rendered imperishable by that which destroys other things.
Goodnight, Mr. Dry. Now, Master Randal, I am ready to accompany you.
Shall we sing a psalm before we go?"
"No," replied Randal abruptly, and picking up his hat, he led the way
out of the room.
The inn was situated near the extremity of the town; and at the
distance of about two hundred paces from the door, the two strangers
emerged from between the lines of houses, and found themselves among
the hedgerows. Without any hesitation as to the track which he was to
pursue, the younger gentleman mounted a stile to the right, and took a
path which, crossing the fields, wound gradually up over one slope
after another till it reached the brow of the hill on which Bishop's
Merton House was placed.
It was a fine clear moonlight night; and at the distance of about a
mile from the mansion, they caught a sight of its wide front,
extending along the hill till the wings were concealed by a little
wood, behind which, as they walked on, the whole building was speedily
lost.
"It is a fine old place," said Barecolt to his companion; "it always
puts me in mind of the Escurial."
"More likely puts you in mind of the stocks," said Randal; "for you
have both seen and felt the one, and never set eyes upon the other."
"How can you tell that I never saw it?" exclaimed his companion; "you
have not had the dandling of me ever since I was a baby in arms."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Randal; "but I am sure you never have seen it,
because you say you have. However, you must either speak truth
to-night or hold your tongue. I did not stop you in your course of
gasconade with that roundheaded knave at the inn, because I knew that
you must void a certain quantity of falsehood in the day, and it was
necessary to get rid of it before you came up here; for this young
lord is not one to take counterfeit coin."
"The monster!" exclaimed Barecolt; "there is not a more cruel or
barbarous creature in the earth than the man who drives from his door
all the sweet little children of the imagination which you call lies.
He is wanting in all human charity. Give me the generous and confiding
soul who believes everything that is said to him, and enjoys the story
of a traveller who relates to him wild scenes in lands he never has
visited, just as much as if it were all as true as history----"
"Which is itself a lie," rejoined the other. "Had this young man's
father been alive, you would have found a person after your own heart.
He was a man of vast capabilities of belief. His mind was but a
looking-glass, always representing what was before it; his religion
was in the last sermon he had heard, his politics in the last
broadsheet, his opinions those of his companions for the hour, his
taste the newest mode that he had seen. He was the quintessence of an
ordinary-minded man; but his son is a very different being."
Barecolt made no rash promise of abstaining from his favourite
amusement, but walked on for about a hundred yards in silence, till
suddenly his companion exclaimed, "Do you not see a strange light
shining through the wood before us? Hark, there is an alarum-bell!"
And hurrying his pace, he issued forth from the wood some three
hundred yards farther on, where the cause of the light they had
remarked became too visible.
Rising up from one of the flanking towers of the old house, in large
white volumes, to the very sky, was a tall column of smoke, spreading
out towards the top, while from the building itself poured forth the
rushing flame like a huge beacon, illuminating all the country round.
Each window in that tower and the neighbouring wing emitted the same
blaze; and it was very evident--although a number of persons were seen
moving about upon the terrace, engaged apparently in the endeavour to
extinguish the fire--that it was making its way rapidly towards the
rest of the house.
The two strangers ran as fast as possible to give assistance. But
before I pursue their adventures on that night, I must turn to speak
of all that had taken place within the mansion of Bishop's Merton
during the evening preceding the disaster which I have described.
CHAPTER III.
There was in the mansion of Bishop's Merton one of those delightful
old chambers which, like a warm and benevolent heart, have a nook for
every one. It was a large wide room, with a recess on one side big
enough to have formed another room, and a lesser recess at each
corner, on the same side, made by two small square turrets, each
lighted by its own windows, and containing tables and chairs of its
own, so that the studious or the meditative, but not the unsociable,
could sit and read, or muse apart, without being actually cut off from
the society assembled. The walls were all covered with tapestry,
descended through many generations in the same family, and which had
covered the walls of a similar chamber in an old castle, partly
destroyed luring the civil wars of the Roses, and pulled down at the
commencement of the reign of Henry the Eighth.
Out from the tapestry, however, after an old fashion, which certainly
showed pictures to much greater advantage than when plastered upon the
face of the wall, stood a great many portraits of different degrees of
art, supported at the lower part by a gilt iron bracket, and upheld in
a slightly sloping position by an iron bar at the top. From the cold,
severe Holbein to the rich and juicy Rubens and the poetical Vandyke,
all the famous artists of the last two centuries had exercised their
pencils in pourtraying the features of a race which had always been
fruitful in beauty; and the history of the changeful mind of those two
ages was shadowed forth in the varying costume in which the characters
appeared. Nor is it, let me say, dear reader, in passing, a alight
indication of the state of the popular mind that is afforded by the
dress of the day. Look at the Chevalier in his long floating locks,
his silks and velvets, and at the Roundhead, in his steeple hat, his
straight-cut suit and prim cloak, each with his heavy-hilted sword and
large flapping gloves, and say whether Naseby Field and Marsden Moor,
and all the deeds on either part, do not naturally, and not purely
historically, connect themselves with such apparel; and then turn to
ourselves, with our straight-cut frock-coats, neat, close-fitting
boots, and other mathematical habiliments, which seem to have been
fashioned by the rules and compasses of a Laputan sage, and tell
me whether they do not plainly speak of an age of railroads and
steam-boats.
There, however, stood the pictures of the brave and beautiful of other
times, bending down over their once-familiar halls and the doings of
their descendants, as the spirits of the dead may be supposed to gaze
upon the actions of the children they have left behind; and there in
the oriel window, just about the time of day at which we commenced
this tale, sat a creature whom those long-gone bold warriors and
lovely dames might look upon with pride, and own her of their blood.
It was a lady of some twenty years of age, not very tall, but yet, if
anything, above the middle height of women. She was very beautiful too
in feature, with a skin as white as alabaster, and as smooth, yet with
the rose glowing in her cheek, and her arched lips red and full of
health.
I have long discovered that it is impossible to paint beauty with the
pen; and, therefore, I will say no more than may be sufficient merely
to give the reader some idea of what kind and sort hers was of, more
that the harmony which ought always, and generally does, in some
degree exist between the form and mind may be understood, than to draw
a picture of which imagination would still have to fill up half the
details. Though her skin, as I have said, was so fair, her hair, her
eyebrows, and her eyes were dark--not exactly black, for in them all
there was a gleam of sunny warmth which like the dawn brightened the
deep hue of night. The expression of her countenance was generally gay
and cheerful, but varying often, as a heart quickly susceptible of
strong feelings, and a mind full of imagination, were affected by the
events in which she took part, and the circumstances around her. Youth
and health, and bountiful nature, had endued her form with manifold
graces; and though her limbs were full and rounded in contour, yet
they displayed in every movement lines of exquisite symmetry, and,
like the brother of Joab, she was swift of foot as the wild roe. As is
often the case with persons of quick fancy, her mind, though naturally
of a cheerful and hopeful bent, was nevertheless not unfrequently
overshadowed by a cloud of passing melancholy; and a look of sadness
would occasionally come into her fair face, as if the consciousness
which is in most hearts that this world of glittering delusions has
its darker scenes, even for those of the brightest fate, made itself
painfully felt at times when no apparent cause for grief or
apprehension was near. But such shadows passed quickly away, and the
general tone of her heart and her expression was, as we have said,
bright and sunshiny.
Her father had been a man who took his ideas greatly from those
amongst whom he lived. In short, he attributed too much importance to
the opinions of his fellow-men. We may attribute too little to them,
it is true, and even great men are bound to pay some deference to the
deliberate judgment of many; but it is usually--nay, invariably--a
sign of weak understanding, to depend for the tone of our own thoughts
upon those around. However, as he was thrown into the society of men
who set great value upon accomplishments, such as they were in those
days, he had made a point of having his daughter instructed in all the
lighter arts of the times. To sing, to dance, to play on various
instruments, to speak the two languages most in fashion at the court,
French and Italian, with the ease and accent of a native, had seemed
to him matters of vast importance; and as she showed every facility in
acquiring whatever he desired, he had no cause to be discontented with
her progress. She might, perhaps, have been taught to consider such
things of much importance too; but she had a mother--the safeguard of
God to our early years. That mother was a woman of a high and noble
mind, somewhat stern, perhaps, and rigid, yet not unkind or unfeeling;
and between a parent weak, though possessed of talent, and one keen
and powerful in intellect, though not quick or brilliant, it may
easily be guessed which gave the stronger impress to the mind of the
child. Thus Annie Walton learned somewhat to undervalue the
accomplishments which, to please her father, she acquired; and though
she possessed less of the stern, calm, determined character of her
mother than her brother Charles, and more of the pliant and easy
disposition of her father, yet she inherited a share of high
resolution and firm decision, which was requisite, even in a woman, to
enable her to encounter the dangers and difficulties of the times in
which she lived.
She sat then in the oriel window of the hall at Bishop's Merton,
reading a page printed roughly on coarse paper, while now a smile,
somewhat saddened, and now a look of anger, somewhat brightened by the
half-faded smile, passed over her sweet face, as, in one of the
broadsheets of the day which had been left with her a few minutes
before by Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, she saw the doings of a parliament
which began by asserting the rights of the people, and ended by
attacking the just prerogatives of the crown; which commenced by
opposing tyranny and deceit in the rulers of the land, and ended by
far exceeding all the tyranny and deceit it had opposed, and adding
the most beastly hypocrisy and violence, fraud, rapine, and cruelty,
to the crimes and follies which it had found existing. She read and
smiled--she read and sighed; for, though her family had taken no part
in the deeds of the last twelve months, and though her mother had been
through life rather attached to the doctrines of the Presbyterians
than their opponents, yet there was something in the cause of the
Cavaliers, with all their faults, in their very rashness and want of
all pretence--something in the cold-blooded hypocrisy and false
pretexts of the Parliamentarians--which had engaged her sympathies on
the losing side, and roused her indignation against the successful.
While she was thus occupied, a horseman passed rapidly before the
window towards the principal door of the house, crossing like a quick
bird in its flight; and, casting down the paper, Miss Walton ran out,
murmuring, "It is Charles!"
There was a large old-fashioned vestibule hung with pikes and arms,
corslets and head-pieces, and stags' antlers, and hunting horns, and
all the implements of real battle, and of the mimic warfare of the
chase. The door leading to the terrace stood wide open, with an old
servant on either side; and as she bounded forward with the
expectation of meeting her brother, her countenance beaming with
pleasure to greet him on his return, a stranger entered, and advanced
at once towards her.
Annie Walton's face suddenly became graver, and a blush rose into her
cheek; but the cavalier came forward with a frank and unembarrassed
air, walked straight up to her, and took her hand as if he had been an
old friend.
"You thought it was your brother," he said, with easy grace, saving
her all trouble of explanation, "and you are disappointed, Miss
Walton. Would that I had a sister to look so joyful on my return to my
old halls! but your disappointment will have no long life. Charles
Walton will be here ere the world be an hour older; and in the mean
time you must show me and my poor beast fair hospitality till the
master of the mansion comes himself to tell you more about his friend,
Sir Francis Clare."
He bowed as he thus introduced himself, and Annie Walton, with all
courtesy, but with a grave air, invited him to the hall where she had
been sitting, trying to call to mind the name he had mentioned amongst
those of all her brother's acquaintances. She could recollect no such
person, however, as Sir Francis Clare; and although there was in the
frankness of the stranger's manner something that pleased her, yet she
almost thought it too free in one whom she could not believe to be
very intimate with Lord Walton. Yet there was a grace as well as an
ease in his demeanour, a tone not easily described, but which can only
be acquired by long, intimate habits of familiarity with persons of
high mind and education, a self-possession, distinct from impudence,
which showed her at once that the visiter was not one of the wild and
reckless roysterers of the court and army of King Charles, who
presumed without merit, and endeavoured to cover vulgarity of spirit
with self-confidence.
Leading the way then to the hall, she begged the stranger to be
seated. He bowed, and let her take her place, while he remained
standing before her, calculating rapidly what was passing in her
thoughts, and, to say truth, somewhat struck with the beauty of this
cynosure of neighbouring eyes, who, whatever he might have expected to
find, went far in loveliness beyond his imagination.
There was a momentary pause while she thought of what was next to
come, but the stranger spoke first. "I must seem very bold, I fear,
and somewhat too free, Miss Walton," he said at length, "in thus
treating you as an old acquaintance; but the circumstances of these
days engender strange habits of rapidity in all our doings. Rough
times abridge ceremonies, and besides, when our thoughts are familiar
even with these whom we have never met, a sort of one-sided friendship
grows up in our breast towards them which makes us forget that it is
not reciprocal. I have so often heard your brother talk of you, so
often conversed, with him of you, that I may think myself lucky that
at our first meeting I did not offend you by calling you Annie."
"It would have surprised more than offended," replied his fair
companion, with a smile; "but Charles will, I trust, soon make us
better acquainted. Have you seen him lately?"
"Not for five years," answered Sir Francis Clare; "and yet, sweet
lady, know more of his proceedings than you do who parted with him but
a week ago; not that he is deep-dyed in plots and conspiracies kept
from his sister's ear; but simply, because he wrote to me yesterday
one of his brief but comprehensive notes, telling me what he purposed,
and giving me a rendezvous here today, which I, with my usual
impatience, have run before by near an hour. I heard of him too, as I
came along, and though I found that I should be before him, yet I
hurried on--not to surprise his sister all alone, and make her wonder
what strange rash man had come to visit her, believe me."
"Such an object were little worth the spur, Sir," replied the lady,
laughing: "but if I understand you right, your friendship with my
brother must have begun when he was in France."
"Long before that," replied the cavalier; "but when last I parted with
him he was in Italy, where he left me to return to his own house. We
bade each other farewell under the Logga de Lanzi, in the fair town of
Florence."
"Oh! how I long to see that place," cried Annie Walton--"it is one of
the dreams of my imagination which, perhaps, may never be realized."
"Few dreams of the imagination ever are," answered her companion. "He
who gives himself up to fancy is like a man led by a child, who tells
him of all the wonderful things that he will show him in the garden of
the world, and when he comes to see the marvels, finds them but May
blossoms and brier roses, that fade as soon as gathered, and leave a
bunch of thorns in his hand."
Annie Walton raised her eyes to the stranger's brow, and gazed at the
rich floating hair that covered it, to see if she could trace any of
the marks of that age which has proved the world and discovered its
delusions. But all was youthful and open; there was nothing grey or
grave, and she replied--
"You speak sadly of this earth and its enjoyments, sir; and yet I
would not part with Fancy and all her pleasant deceits if I could."
"Never! Never!" cried Sir Francis Clare, eagerly. "If I may use a
paradox, sweet lady, the deceits of reality are ten times more
dangerous than those of imagination. If all things are delusions
except the hopes of a higher and a holier world, let us keep the
pleasant delusions at least, and they are those of fancy--but what
have we here?--The last news from London?"
"The reply of the parliament to the king's message," answered the
lady; "and thirty-one good reasons for rejecting his majesty's offers,
with the godly and soul-saving declaration of several pious men
concerning Popery and Prelacy."
The stranger laughed.
"How easy is it," he cried, "to cover gross treason, not only to king,
but to country, with fair pretexts of freedom, or to hide what they
themselves call the most carnal self-seeking with a garb of religious
zeal, and to give the fairest names to the blackest passions of our
nature! 'Tis a trite remark, but one that forces itself upon us every
day; and yet this is the trade that succeeds in the world, so that
gross deceit raises itself to high places, and sits in purple and fine
linen, while Honesty is left to beg her bread, and plain Truth stands
shivering in a ragged blanket."
"But I should think such barefaced hypocrisy as this," answered the
lady, "would deceive no one. People may pretend to believe it, but it
must be mere affectation, as bad as the hypocrisy itself."
"Your pardon, madam," replied the cavalier: "there never yet was
falsehood, however impudent, which, often repeated and told with a
smooth face, would not find many to give it ready credence. Not a day
passes but we see some monstrous lie, decked out with strong
assurances of sincerity and zeal, pass current with the multitude. Oh,
lady! there is an appetite for falsehood in the world that makes the
many-headed monster gorge the food, however dirty, and, like a hungry
dog, pluck morsels from the very kennel. Yet there is some truth, too,
in what these people say. I am not one to cover them with bad names;
for, alas! however wrong they may be now, the king put himself in
fault at first. The man who suffers himself to be compelled to do
justice to others, will, some time or another, have to compel others
to do justice to him; and he who has abandoned his friends in time of
need, will surely have to lament their loss when he has to struggle
with enemies."
"And has the king done this?" asked Annie Walton.
"Strafford, Strafford," said the cavalier, with a melancholy shake of
the head; "bold, firm-hearted, gallant Strafford. That fatal error was
the downfall of King Charles. Where is the hand that now shall raise
him up? Lady, when a general finds himself in a town about to be
besieged by the enemy, he strengthens his fortifications, and throws
down all the scattered houses and indefensible suburbs that might give
the foes advantage in their approach; but the king pursued a different
course: he threw down his defences, and maintained all the suburbs and
weak points. But this is sorry conversation for a lady's ears," he
continued. "What a fair scene does this window show! In riding through
the low ground I did not mark all the beauty around me."
"It is indeed as fine a view as any in the country round," replied
Annie Walton; "and often, when I feel sad at heart, I come and gaze
out here, and seem to find comfort and confidence from the sight."
"And are you ever sad at heart?" asked Sir Francis Clare, with a
smile.
"Not very often, it is true," she answered; "but still, in the present
disturbed state of the country, which is like one of those dark storms
through which one can see no glimpse of coming sunshine, I cannot but
sometimes feel fears and apprehensions--not for myself, indeed, for no
one would hurt a woman, I suppose, but for my brother; and when I am
thus depressed I need the sight of things which speak, with a voice
not to be misunderstood, of God's power, and his goodness too, to show
me that though the tempest may rage for a time, it will give place to
brighter hours at last, and perhaps in itself work benefit even while
it seems destined to destroy."
"Oh, may you ever feel thus!" cried the cavalier, eagerly; "for it was
such faith brought back the dove to the ark at length. Yet often, when
we see a world of roaring waters around us, and destruction on every
side, the heart will sink, and trust and confidence give way for a
time. But still," he added, laughing, "I am not one to entertain many
sombre thoughts; and if the gay companions of thoughtless hours could
know with what sad ideas I have entertained a fair lady, they would
recommend me a Geneva skull-cap and a straight black cloak. I can
assure you, our talk in the court is much less solemn. Except for an
hour in the morning, when we speak soberly of war and policy, as men
take a walk after breakfast for a good digestion, our days pass much
in the consideration of lace collars, the fashion of sword-knots, and
of how to get them. The world, I believe, and most of the things in
it, are not worth the waste of five minutes' heavy thought; and,
weighed in a just balance, perhaps, a madrigal and a charge of horse,
a sonnet of tiffany poetry, and the plan of a campaign, are matters
much more nearly of the same importance than we think.--But there
comes your brother, or I am mistaken."
"Yes, yes!" cried the lady, gladly, gazing out of the open window into
the valley, along which a small party of horsemen were riding: "he
will be here directly." And she and her companion, whose conversation
had greatly won upon her, continued watching the progress of the young
Lord Walton, as he rode rapidly along the valley, till he was hid
behind the high-wooded banks, near which, as we have already related,
he paused to hold a short conversation with poor Arrah Neil. They
wondered what detained him so long under the trees; but after a brief
pause he appeared again, and in a few minutes he sprang from his horse
at the hall-door.
CHAPTER IV.
"Ha, Francis!" exclaimed Lord Walton, grasping the cavalier's hand
with warm eagerness, as soon as he had received the embrace of his
sister, "are you here before me? You must have used the spur from
Worcester, if your letter left the good town before you."
"I have used the spur, Charles," replied his friend, "on purpose to
outrun you, and introduce myself to this fair lady without your
assistance. You know I was always the most impatient of mortals, and
strange, I fear, she thought me; for I could plainly see that she had
never heard the name of Francis Clare before." He spoke the last words
with a gay laugh and some emphasis.
"Perhaps not," answered Lord Walton, with a grave smile; "but she must
know you now, Francis, as one of her brother's dearest and oldest
friends. However, I must send her away from us for a minute, for I
have a task for her, sad, but pleasing to perform. I just now found
poor Arrah Neil, dear Annie," he continued; "she was sitting by the
Bishop's Well, dark and sorrowful, as well she may be. The poor old
man Neil is dead. They dragged him as far as Devizes, where the lamp
that has burned so faintly for the last two years went out, and the
poor girl has found her way back hither. Something must be done for
her, Annie; and till we can settle what, she must stay here. I left
Langan with her to bring her up; so see to her comfort, sister, for by
her dress I think they must have robbed her by the way."
"Poor child!" cried Annie Walton. "I was sure the old man would die.
Can these really be Christians, Charles--for a few rash words, spoken
in haste, to take a man of seventy from his sick bed?"
"His words meant more than they seemed, Annie," answered her brother;
"at least, so I gather from their answer to my application for his
release; but see to her comfort, dear girl, and then come back to us,
for the poor thing spoke of some evil hanging over me here, and,
though at times so strange, I have often remarked she speaks not
lightly."
"No indeed, Charles," replied his sister, with an anxious look. "Evil
hanging over you? What can she mean?"
"I know not, Annie," replied Lord Walton. "Nothing has happened to
cause you alarm, has there?"
"Nothing," she answered. "Dry, of Longsoaken, was here this morning,
but he was all smoothness and civility."
"That looks ill," said Sir Francis Clare. "He must be a Roundhead by
his name; and whenever they speak smoothly, beware of the serpent in
the grass."
"And he is a serpent, if ever the earth produced one," answered Lord
Walton, thoughtfully. "Did he speak smoothly and civilly? So, so! What
was the object of his visit, Annie? or had he any apparent object?"
"Purely, it seemed," replied Miss Walton, "to ask after my health
during what he called your long absence. I told him your absence had
not been long--only a week; and that you had already concluded your
business with the committee, and would return to-day. So then he left
that paper with me, which he said must be marrow and fatness to all
well-disposed noblemen like yourself. But, indeed, he seemed well
affected towards you, and said, I now recollect, something about the
people of Bishop's Merton having encroached upon your land at Sarham,
which he should be happy to set right for you, and which he could do,
if you pleased, without your name appearing in the matter, so as not
to affect your popularity with the God-fearing people of the place."
"Where did he learn I ever feared to have my name appear in any act I
did?" asked Charles Walton, proudly. "'Tis but such low and creeping
things as he is who do things they dare not own. He had some other
object; this is all a pretence. But go, dear Annie; there is Langan
with the poor girl: perhaps she will tell you more than she would say
to me; but do not press her, Annie, if she be unwilling.--And now,
Francis," he continued, as his sister left the room, "first, welcome
after so long an absence; next, what is this serious business that you
would speak with me upon?"
"Faith, but a little matter as this world goes," replied his friend;
"and yet one which would have been considered mighty some ten years
ago. Now men draw two straws for the longest, or toss up a crown-piece
to know, which party they will choose; whether they will fight for
their rightful king or his rebel parliament----"
"Not quite so, Francis," replied Charles Walton, seriously; "With me,
at least, the question would ever be a serious one, whether I should
draw my sword for the representatives of the people of England, when
fighting for the just liberties of the land, or for a sovereign who
has somewhat infringed them--even if the case stood exactly as the
parliament puts it; but----"
"I am glad you have added those words, Charles," interrupted the
cavalier; "for on them hangs all the rest. The king is willing to do
ample justice to all men. Granted that he has committed faults--and
who has greater cause to complain than I have?--granted that he has
had bad advisers--granted that he sacrificed Strafford----"
"A terrible fault indeed," replied Lord Walton.
"Granted that his exactions were unjust--ship-money a breach of the
best and soundest laws--the star-chamber an iniquitous tyranny; still
these errors were a part of his inheritance; and perhaps, if we looked
closely, we should find that our fathers who suffered, and by
suffering encouraged such things--who fawned upon the hand that
pressed them to the ground--who bowed readily to tyranny whenever it
stretched forth its rod--have as great a share of the responsibility
as he has who only used the powers transmitted to him by his
predecessors. But I came not to discuss such questions, Charles
Walton. The king has committed errors; he grieves for them; he is
ready to repair them; he has done all that man can do to remedy evils
past, and provide security against their recurrence. He calls upon
every loyal subject to aid him, not only in defending the throne
itself, but the country, from those who would evidently shake its
constitution to the ground, overthrow its best institutions, and
establish, if not the reign of anarchy, the rule of a many-headed
monster, which will, if tolerated, end in a despotism more terrible
than any we have yet seen within the land. And will Charles Walton,
gallant and chivalrous as he is known to be--will he refuse to obey
that call? Or is he, who was wont to be so clear-sighted and so keen,
one of those who believe that the pretences of the parliament are
true; that they seek but to reduce the power of the crown within due
limits, to lop the prerogative of those branches that bore oppression,
and secure the freedom of the people, yet leave the stability of the
throne? Or does he approve of hypocritical pretexts even to gain such
ends? No, no! I know him better."
"Certainly," replied the young nobleman; "I neither approve the
practices nor believe the pretences of the parliament. But I have
hitherto trusted, my dear friend, though they may be now intoxicated
with authority, the exercise of which is new to them, and in their
pride may encroach upon both the prerogative of the crown and the
liberty of the subject--for I can conceive a parliament to become a
more terrible tyrant than even a monarch--yet I say, I have trusted
that the wiser and the better members of that body will recover from
the drunkenness that some have felt, and the fears that have affected
others; and that, at all events, if any dangerous and outrageous
exercise of power should take place, those who have never favoured the
arbitrary use of the royal prerogative, or the licentious exactions of
the commons, may have sufficient weight to counterbalance that
authority which is but delegated by the people, and which the people
can again resume."
"Fatal confidence," exclaimed the cavalier, with a dark and melancholy
look, "which never has been, never will be justified! Yet it is one
that in all civil strifes many wise and many good men have
entertained, till they discovered, when too late, how cruelly they had
deceived themselves; till, hanging between two parties and supporting
neither, they saw the one sink lower and lower, and the other, which
perhaps they most condemned, rise into power, and go on in evil; and
then, when they strove to arrest the course of wrong, found themselves
either carried away by the current and involved in wickedness they
would fain have opposed, or sunk beneath the torrent with those who
endeavoured to divert it while it was yet feeble, and whose efforts
they might have rendered successful, had they joined therein in time.
Let me tell you, Charles, that in the history of all contentions such
as those that now shake the land, there is a time when the balance of
sincerity and right is clearly on one side, and that it is then true
lovers of their country should step in with their whole strength to
turn the balance of power upon that side also. There is such a time,
believe me; and now is the moment!"
"Perhaps it is," answered Lord Walton, thoughtfully. "I said, my
friend, that I had hitherto felt the impressions I described. I did
not deny that they are somewhat shaken, perhaps more than I believe."
"When that time has come," continued the cavalier, without appearing
to mark his reply, "it is the duty of every man to ask himself, On
which side is now the right? on which side is now the danger? and,
casting away the memory of old faults and old grievances, to choose
boldly and conscientiously between the two. If he chooses well, it
will be easy for him at any after-time to guard against a renewal of
errors on the part of those whom he supports; but if from any fear of
such a renewal he turns to the side which he knows to be acting amiss,
he commits himself for ever to the errors he supports, and can never
hope to stop their course, or avert their consequences. What I ask you
then to do is, to choose! I say not, join the king: I say not, oppose
the parliament: I merely say, lay your hand upon your heart,
forgetting mistakes that are past, ask yourself, which is now right,
and which is now wrong? and choose as your conscience shall direct."
Lord Walton paused for a few moments in deep thought; then giving his
hand to his friend, he said, "I will! Ask me no more at present,
Francis; nor inquire whether, when I say, _I will_, I might not say,
_I have_. Resolutions such as these had better be spoken of as little
as possible till they can be executed. Stay till to-morrow morning:
then back to the king; your further presence here might be dangerous
to yourself and hurtful to your cause. And now to other things: how
long had you been here before I came?"
"Long enough to find it a dangerous abode, good friend," replied the
cavalier. "In truth, Walton, if you have not got an angel here, you
have what is more like one than any thing my eyes have yet seen."
"Oh! I know your gallant speeches," answered Charles Walton, with a
laugh, his face losing the grave cast which was habitual to it, and
brightening with cheerful light; "but Annie is well accustomed to hear
sweet things, and I fear not the effect of any high-flown southern
compliments on her little heart, which, however gentle, is firm enough
to stand a longer siege than any you will have time to give it. But,"
he added, while his brow grew sad again, "I will own to you, Francis,
it is her future fate that in these troublous times half makes a
coward of me; and, though knowing what is right, that will I do; yet
there is a hesitating fear within me, that in the course I am destined
to pursue, I may bring down sorrow and misfortune upon that bright,
kind being, who has been ever my sunshine and my hope."
"I can feel that it must be so, Charles," replied his friend, gravely.
"Had I a sister such as that, it would be so with me. Therein I can do
little to console, and perhaps less to counsel or to help you. But
yet, Charles Walton, you know I am something of the ancient knight: my
sword and heart for my king and my fair lady; and without any rash
promising of love for one whom I have only known an hour, such as
one-half of our gay courtiers would make, I promise you, that whatever
befalls you, so long as life and strength last, my next thought, after
my duty to God and my sovereign, shall be to care for the protection
and safety of my friend's sister."
Lord Walton smiled, with a look in which pleasure and grief were
strangely blended, but he replied nothing, merely once more pressing
Clare's hand.
"Why do you smile, Charles?" asked the cavalier. "Is it that you think
me too young, too light, too gay, to take such a task upon myself. My
honour, my regard, you do not doubt, I know, and as for the rest,
these are days when the old times of chivalry must revive, or the sun
will set in darkness indeed; and in these ancient periods men young as
I am have, with a holy devotion, been the safeguards and protectors of
dames well nigh as fair and bright as this, if we may believe the
tales we read."
"But those tales still ended in a marriage, Francis," said Lord
Walton.
"Well there let it!" cried the cavalier, gaily. "Here I dedicate my
heart and sword to her. Those bright eyes shall be my loadstars on the
road to glory, her smile give double vigour to my arm, and fresh
sharpness to my lance. There, Walton, is not that the true Orlando?
But seriously, what meant your somewhat rueful smile just now? Was it
that you thought the gay youth of former days but little fit to supply
a brother's place in time of need; or, perhaps, still less, to take a
husband's duties on him, if fate and circumstances should draw your
sister's heart towards him? But let me tell you, Charles, these are
times that make even the thoughtless think; and when I buckled me to
the cause I serve, I cast away and left in foreign lands all but the
higher purposes of the heart."
"No, no, Francis," replied Lord Walton, interrupting him; "it was
neither doubt, nor fear, nor mockery, that made me smile. You do not
suppose that, did I not know and see all that is noble and generous in
your nature, and bright and keen in your mind, I would have taken you
to my heart as I have done. That there might be some weeds in the
garden I will not deny; but they were only such as an hour's labour
would pluck out with ease, or such as would wither away under the
first hot sun, and leave the flowers and fruit behind uninjured. I
smiled but to think that some five years ago, when we were both in
happier days than these, I often thought that I would gladly give my
Annie to my early friend, but little dreamed that times might come
when he himself would offer, ere he had seen her twice, to be her
defender and protector in case of her brother's death: and who shall
say, Francis, how soon such loss may call for such support. But here
she comes again; let us say no more of this; but, thank you, thank you
from my heart for all you promise. I know right well that promise will
be kept, if it cost your last drop of blood."
The faces of both gentlemen were grave when Annie Walton joined them,
and on hers too there were traces of some tears. "Poor Arrah Neil!"
she said; "hers indeed has been a hard fate. She has made me weep with
the tale of the old man's sufferings, so mildly and so sweetly did she
tell it. But I could obtain no further information in regard to the
danger she apprehended might befall you, Charles; and I cannot but
think that her words were spoken in one of those strange dreamy moods
that sometimes fall upon her."
"I think so too," answered Lord Walton; "at least it may be so. Where
have you lodged her, Annie?"
"She is with good dame Rachel now," answered his sister; "but to-night
she is to have the little room near the west tower, and to-morrow you
must tell me more of your plans for her, Charles."
"I will, I will," replied Lord Walton, "to-morrow; ay, to-morrow," and
he fell into thought, without concluding the sentence.
The evening passed more cheerfully than the conversation which has
been detailed seemed to promise. All were anxious to snatch a few
hours from the gloomy thoughts that hung over the times, and few
allusions were made to the circumstances of the day; but any other
subject which minds full of rich stores could produce was chosen, as
if to exclude more sombre topics. From time to time, indeed, both
Annie Walton and their new companion would for a moment or two look
grave and sad, as some passing cloud of thought swept over them; but
the young lord, whose power over himself was great, kept the same even
tenor, not gay, for such was not his disposition; not gloomy or
meditative, for he did not choose to be so, but calm and easy,
conversing without apparent effort on a thousand varied things, and
never for an instant showing the least absence or forgetfulness. Yet,
perhaps, all felt that there were dangers and disasters abroad on
every side, though they sat there as a cheerful party, with the
windows of the heart closed against the storm that raged without.
There was but one moment when a shadow seemed to fall upon all, and
that too was produced by a song. Charles Walton had asked his sister
to sing before they parted for the night; and after some thought,
seeking in vain for a livelier strain, she chose--perhaps from the
irrepressible anxieties of her own heart--a little ballad, which had
been a favourite of her mother's, to the following effect:--
THE SONG.
Hope sung a song of future years,
Replete with sunny hours,
When present sorrow's dew-like tears
Should all be hid in flowers.
But Memory backward turned her eyes,
And taught the heart to fear
More stormy clouds, more angry skies,
With each succeeding year.
But still Hope sung, as by that voice
Such warnings sad were given,
In louder strains bade Youth rejoice,
And Age look on to heaven.
Each kept silence for a minute or two after the song was done, and
each gave a sigh; but then the cavalier would fain have persuaded Miss
Walton to sing again, for her voice was one of those full of native
music, which the ear longs for when once heard, as the weary heart of
manhood thirsts to taste again the fearless joys of infancy. But she
declined, saying she was somewhat weary; and shortly after the little
party separated for the night.
Charles Walton shook his friend's hand warmly as they parted, at a yet
early hour, and adding to the good-night, "We will speak more before
you go to-morrow," he himself retired to his chamber, to pass several
hours in meditation ere he lay down to rest.
As soon as he was alone, the young lord sent away a servant who was
waiting for him, and then leaned his head upon his hand for some ten
minutes without moving. At length he raised his eyes to a heavy sword
that hung above the old carved mantel-piece, rose, took it down, drew
it from the sheath, and gazed upon the blade. There were some dents
and notches in the edge; and saying in a low tone, "It has done good
service--it may do more," he thrust it back again, and hung it up as
before.
"I will go to my cabinet and write two lines to the king," he added,
after a short pause; but then again he stopped and meditated,
murmuring, "No, it were better not to write: such documents are
dangerous. I will send a message. I see they suspect me already. It
were as well to destroy the commission and those other papers, and, if
at all, at once. I will do it now. What is the matter?" he continued,
as some one knocked at the door.
"Charles, Charles!" cried his sister, coming into the room; and as he
sprang to meet her, he saw that her face was very pale.
"There is a terrible smoke," she exclaimed, "and a rushing sound like
fire."
"Where? where?" asked her brother, eagerly hurrying towards the door.
"In the corridor, beyond my room," answered Annie, "towards the west
wing. Oh, bid them ring the alarum-bell!"
"On no account! on no account!" cried her brother, darting out. "Call
all the servants, Annie! Run, Alice!" he continued, to one of his
sister's maids, who had followed her, pale and trembling; "send Hugh
and Roger here, and then call the rest. Smoke, indeed! There is fire
somewhere! Quick, girl! quick! Go back, my Annie, and dress yourself
again. I will soon tell you more." And thus saying, he hurried on
through the wide gallery, upon which the door of his bed-room opened,
and then along the corridor beyond.
The smoke grew thicker at each step he took; the crackling and rushing
sound of fire soon became audible, and then a fitful flash broke
across the obscurity, like that of a signal-gun seen through a heavy
mist.
In a minute he was at a large door which closed the end of the
corridor, and, through the neighbouring window he could see the
projection of one of the flanking towers, with a small loophole
showing a red glare within.
"Here is the fire," he cried, "in my own cabinet! How can this have
happened?" and he laid his hand upon the latch. The door was locked.
He tried to turn the key, but it was embarrassed. "Bring me an axe!"
he exclaimed, hearing several of the servants following him rapidly.
"Bring me an axe directly--quick--quick!--all the papers will be
burned," and again he tried to turn the key.
"The charter chests were removed, my lord, to the next room," said the
good servant Langan. "I moved them myself by your own order, just
before we went, that the floor might be repaired."
The young lord laid his hand upon his brow for an instant, and then
said, "Let the rest perish then! It is no matter; and just as he
spoke, the alarum-bell rang loud and long.
"What fool has done that?" exclaimed Charles Walton. "Ah, Francis! is
that you?" he continued, speaking to Sir Francis Clare, who was up and
following him fully dressed. "A word in your ear: mount your horse
quickly and begone," he whispered. "We shall have all the country on
us in half-an-hour. See, there are some twenty on the terrace already.
Langan, here--go the round with this gentleman to the stables by the
back way, then through the wood with him till he is beyond the
grounds. Francis, say I am determined!" he added again, lowering his
voice. "You shall see me soon. Away, away, good friend! You know not
the people here."
By this time servants were hurrying up with buckets of water, and with
axes to break down the door; but before he suffered that to be done,
Lord Walton turned to one of those behind, saying, "See to poor Arrah
Neil; she is in the chamber just beneath us. Take her to your lady's
room. Now, Roger, you and Dick move out the chests from the place
where Langan says he put them. Take them down to the terrace; but set
some one to watch them. Hark! there is something fallen within."
"The great case of books, my lord, by the sound," said one of the men.
"Now give me an axe," cried the young nobleman, and with a few blows
he dashed the lock off the door, and pushed it open, bidding the men
throw in the water as he did so.
Out burst the flames and smoke, however, as soon as the obstruction
was removed, with such fury, that all were forced to run back; and as
it somewhat cleared away, the frightful scene of destruction that the
interior of the tower displayed, too plainly showed that there was no
possibility left of saving that part of the building.
"Now, my good men," cried the young lord, "let as many as can find
buckets keep pouring on the water. The others help me to cut away the
woodwork between the tower and the rest. Some of you run up to the
corridor above, break down the panelling, and throw it back away from
the flames. Fear not, but at all risks cut off the tower from the rest
of the house. Call some of those men up from below. Why do they stand
idle there?"
The scene of hurry and confusion that succeeded can be imagined by
those who have witnessed the consternation produced by a fire in a
rural district, where few of those means and appliances which in great
towns exist in plenty, but often are found ineffectual even there, are
to be met with at all. To prevent the flames from extending to the
rest of that wing was found impossible, notwithstanding all the
efforts of the noble master of the mansion, and the strenuous
exertions of his servants, who speedily recovered from the first
confusion of surprise, and recollected the old military habits which
they had acquired in former days. The tenantry, too, who flocked up at
the sound of the alarum-bell, gave eager but not very efficient help,
as well as a number of the townsfolk; but still the fire gained
ground, extended from the tower to the rooms in the wing, ran along
the cornices, caught the beams, and threatened the whole building with
destruction, when a tall, grave stranger in a black cloak and hat
walked calmly up to Lord Walton, who had come down to the terrace to
give directions to the people below, and said in a low tone--
"A few pounds of gunpowder, my lord, and a linen bag laid above that
doorway, and under the coping-stone, will separate the fire from the
building. The stone passage cuts it off below; there is but a narrow
gallery above, and if you can but break up the corridor----"
"I see! I see!" cried Lord Walton. "Thanks, sir, thanks. Run, Hugh, to
the armoury; you will find some powder there."
"I beg, sir, that I may be permitted to make the _saucisson_," cried a
tall man in flaunting apparel. "At the celebrated siege of Rochelle I
constructed the famous petard wherewith we blew in the----"
"I thank you, sir," replied the master of the mansion, looking at the
person who addressed him from head to foot with a quick but marking
gaze; "I will make it myself;" and without further notice he proceeded
to give the necessary orders, and to take precautions both to ensure
the safety of all persons near, and to guard the building as much as
possible from damage by the explosion.
When all was ready, he went into the house to bring his sister forth,
lest by any chance the rooms in which she had hitherto remained should
be shaken more than he expected; and then, after having placed her at
a distance, he himself fired the train, which, being unconfined,
except at one part, carried the flame in an instant to the bag of
powder, causing it to explode with a tremendous roar. A quantity of
brickwork was thrown into the air; the gallery above fell in the
moment after; and then, after a short pause, a tall neighbouring tower
between the place where the powder had taken effect, and that where
the fire was raging, bulged out about half-way up, and then crashed
down, strewing the terrace with a mass of broken ruins.
In the anxiety and excitement of the moment, Lord Walton had observed
little but what was passing immediately before him; but as he marked
the effect and was turning round to look for his sister, in order to
tell her that the rest of the mansion was saved, the stranger in black
who had spoken to him before, once more addressed him in a low voice,
saying--
"You had better look to those chests, my lord; Colonel Thistleton is
eyeing them somewhat curiously. As for me, I will wish you good-night;
I love not the neighbourhood of parliamentary commissioners; but if
you want good help at need, which perhaps may be the case soon, you
have only to send a trusty servant to inquire for Martin Randal at
Waterbourne, ten miles hence, and you will have fifty troopers with
you in two hours."
"I understand, I understand, major!" replied Lord Walton. "God speed
you with my best thanks Colonel Thistleton! What came he here for?"
"No good," replied Randal, walking away and beckoning to his tall
companion, who followed him with a pompous stride, while Lord Walton
turned towards the spot to which he had directed his attention. He
there perceived for the first time, three men on horseback, and one
who had dismounted and was speaking with a servant who had been placed
to watch the two large chests of papers which had been removed from
the wing of the building.
As Lord Walton gazed at him, he stooped down once more to look at the
chests with a curious and inquiring eye; and striding up to him at
once, the young nobleman demanded, in a stern tone--
"Who are you, sir? and what do you want with those cases?"
"My name, my lord, is Thistleton," replied the other; "a poor colonel,
by the permission of Providence, in the service of the parliament of
England; and when matters are a little more composed I will inform
your lordship, as my errand is with you, what excited my curiosity in
regard to these cumbrous packages."
"Oh, Colonel Thistleton! That is a different affair," answered Lord
Walton. "As soon as I have ascertained that all further danger of the
fire spreading is past, I will have the honour of entertaining you as
far as my poor house, half destroyed as it is, will admit."
The parliamentary colonel bowed gravely, and the young nobleman then
proceeded to give further directions to his people, mingling with
commands respecting the fire and the security of the rest of the
mansion, sundry orders spoken in a low tone to those servants on whom
he could most rely, and to some of his principal tenants.
When he had assured himself that all was safe, and had set a watch, he
returned to his sister's side, and led her back to the house,
whispering as he went--
"Keep two of your maids with you in your chamber tonight, Annie. See
to poor Arrah Neil; and at dawn tomorrow, dear girl, make preparations
for a journey. Ask no questions, sweet sister, but pack up all that
you most value--all trinkets, jewels, gold and silver, for we may,
perhaps, have to go far."
Annie Walton gazed at him with a look of sorrowful, half-bewildered
inquiry; but he added, "I cannot explain now, dear one; I will tell
you more to-morrow;" and she followed him silently into the house,
where he left her, and at once went back to show as much courtesy to
Colonel Thistleton and his companions as the feelings of his heart
would permit.
CHAPTER V.
"This is a lamentable and very sad visitation, my lord," said Colonel
Thistleton, as soon as he was seated with two companions in the large
room we have before described.
"It is indeed, colonel," replied Lord Walton, "and will cost me at
least ten thousand pounds to repair; so that I hope you have not come
for anything like a benevolence, such as our kings of old used
sometimes to levy upon their subjects, for I could ill spare one to
the honourable house just now.----Langan," he continued to the servant
who appeared at the door, "have wine and meat set out in the hall. We
shall all want refreshment."
"No, my lord," replied Colonel Thistleton, with some degree of
hesitation; "the houses of parliament resort to no illegal and
unjustifiable acts of taxation. Labouring but for the defence of
themselves, of the king's person, and the liberty and laws of the
kingdom, they take care to abide by the true rights and customs of the
country; but at the same time, my lord, they think it but proper and
necessary, as well for the safety of the state as for the exculpation
of persons unjustly accused, to inquire into and examine, either by
the judges appointed by law, or by a committee of their own body,
where any highly honourable and devout person is subjected to calumny,
into all charges of resistance to the authority of the two houses, or
of conspiracy for the purpose of levying war and further endangering
the condition of the poor distracted realm."
The colour somewhat increased in Lord Walton's cheek, but without
pause he replied, gravely--
"They are quite right, sir; and if, as I gather from what you say, you
are come into this part of the country upon such an errand, you will
find me very ready and willing to give you every assistance in my
power."
Now, the commission Colonel Thistleton had to perform was of a nature
somewhat delicate; for the demeanour of the Walton family, at the
first resistance shown to the arbitrary proceedings of the court, had
been favourable to the views of general freedom, which were then alone
apparent on the side of the parliament; and though it had become
evident that the young lord had grown cold as they stretched their
pretensions, and had even remonstrated against several of their
proceedings, yet his course had not been so decided as to cut off all
hope of attaching him to the party favourable to resistance of the
royal authority by arms, while the task that the worthy committee-man
was charged to execute was one likely to alienate him for ever, if the
grounds for suspicion were found unreasonable. However, he was a
skilful man, ever ready to take advantage of opportunity, and he
therefore replied--
"I was quite sure, my lord, that we should find every readiness in
your lordship. We have, indeed, the unpleasant duty to perform (which
I trust we shall do discreetly) of investigating charges against a
number of persons in this country; but as it is advisable that those
in whose affection and loyalty we have the utmost confidence should
set an example to others against whom there is just cause of
suspicion, it is as well that I should inform your lordship that not
long since, at Chippenham, a false and calumnious accusation was made
against you to our worthy brother, Dr. Bastwick, here present----"
"Of which I do not credit a word," added the doctor.
"Charging you with countenancing the cruel preparations for war made
by the king against his loyal subjects, and with having entered into
correspondence with his majesty, and received a commission under his
hand to levy horse against the honourable houses."
He paused, as if for a reply, and Lord Walton, with a frowning brow
and flushed cheek, answered--
"So, sir, I am to suppose, in short, that you have come hither to
examine my house, and search for the correspondence you speak of?"
"Exactly, sir," replied a less prudent member of the committee, named
Batten; but Thistleton cut him short by adding, "We are perfectly sure
that your lordship, whose family have always been godly and
well-disposed, would rejoice at an opportunity of showing the world
how readily you would submit to the authority of parliament, and clear
yourself of all false and unjust reproaches."
"Should such reproaches against a person of such a character be
listened to for a moment?" asked the young nobleman; "and on my word,
gentlemen," he added, "you are somewhat bold men to venture on the
task."
"Not so bold as you give us credit for, my lord," replied Batten,
taking once more the reply out of Thistleton's mouth: "there is a
troop of horse under your park wall."
"Then it seems," rejoined Lord Walton, "that you did not really
calculate upon such unresisting submission as you affected to expect
at first. I must, of course, yield to force. However," he continued
with a smile, "I am certainly not prepared to resist, even if I were
willing."
"That want of preparation shows your lordship to be innocent,"
answered the cautious Thistleton--"a point upon which I have no doubt.
It was judged necessary to institute inquiries into all cases of
malignant resistance to the authority of parliament in this country;
and it was to meet any opposition in such instances that the troop of
horse was sent, not against your lordship, of whose conduct we are
quite sure, though we thought it would show unrighteous partiality if
we did not in some way notice the charges made against you----"
"Charges made upon oath, be it remarked," said Dr. Bastwick.
"Well, gentlemen," rejoined Lord Walton, "it is useless to discuss
this question further. I will even take it for granted that you have
due warrant for your proceeding, and merely ask what you intend to do
next."
"Why, the fact is this, my very good lord," replied Thistleton: "the
information stated that we should find the papers in question in the
west tower, in a chamber used by your lordship as a cabinet or
writing-room, on the first floor from the ground. Now, I was informed
but now, that two large chests which I saw on the terrace without
contained writings of value, which had just been removed from the
fire. It would be satisfactory to us to look into those cases."
"Surely not to-night," said the young nobleman.
"I think it would be expedient," said Thistleton.
"It would prevent evil surmises," added Bastwick.
"No time like the present," cried Batten. "The king's commission might
be gone before to-morrow."
"The keys, I fear, have been lost in the fire," answered Lord Walton,
giving him a look of contempt.
"They will easily be broken open," replied Batten.
"I may not exactly like to have all my papers left open to the world,"
said the young nobleman, gravely; "but having now clearly ascertained
how far the suspicions of the parliament really go, I will make
no further objection. But I give you all notice, that I protest
against this act; and that when next I take my place amongst
the peers of England, I will move for an inquiry into the whole
proceeding.----Without there! bring in those cases of papers, and some
instrument for forcing open the locks." Thus saying, he rose, and,
turning to the window, looked out upon the terrace, which was still
partially illuminated by the fitful glare of the decaying fire in the
tower.
In a few minutes four stout servants appeared, carrying in the chests,
and having received orders to break them open, soon laid the contents
bare before the eager eyes of the parliamentary commissioners. Great,
however, was their disappointment to perceive nothing on the top but
old deeds and parchments, with many a waxen seal pendent from its
broad ribbon. They were not so easily satisfied, however, and
proceeded to turn out the whole contents, strewing the floor of the
saloon with yellow papers, while Lord Walton spoke a few words to
Langan, who left the room.
"Well, gentlemen, are you satisfied?" asked the young nobleman at
length, when the bottom of each case was laid bare. "If so, the
servants shall replace the papers, and we will to supper."
The committee whispered together for a moment ere they replied, but
Lord Walton could catch the words "No, no! not now. To-morrow at
daybreak. There has evidently been no preparation. Have up the troop
by that time," and other broken sentences, which evidently showed him
that further proceedings were in contemplation.
"We will, my lord, put off any further perquisitions till to-morrow,"
Colonel Thistleton replied at length, "upon your lordship pledging us
your word of honour that you will not leave the house, nor send out of
it any paper of any kind or sort whatever."
"I shall most assuredly leave the house," replied Lord Walton, "for I
am going in five minutes to assure myself that the fire will spread no
farther. But if you mean that I am not to absent myself, I have no
intention of so doing, and will promise to stay and entertain my
unexpected guests as befits their quality and commission: nor will I
send hence or make away with any paper, from the warrant of array
directed by Henry II. to my ancestor, down to the cellar-book of the
old butler. So now, sirs, to supper; and let us forget for the time
all that is unpleasant in our meeting. The day will come, and that
before the world is a week older, when I will deal with this matter in
the proper place and in the proper manner."
"Be that as you please, my lord," replied Thistleton; "we doubt not we
shall be justified. Myself and Dr. Bastwick will in the mean time
gladly accept your hospitality. Captain Batten, however, may be wanted
with his troop."
"Nay," cried the young lord, "it were a pity to deprive yourselves of
one of your most able and active members. If Captain Batten have any
orders to give, he can send them in writing. There lie paper and pens,
and I remarked that he had a trooper without. My wine is good,
gentlemen, and venison is yet in season."
"It will do as well to write," said Batten, who, always ready to take
his part in all that was unpleasant, was not without inclination to
share in things more agreeable; and proceeding to the writing-table in
the window, he had soon concocted a hasty note, which he carried out
himself; while the rest, with the owner of the mansion, proceeded to
the eating-hall.
When the meal was over--and the commissioners did not spare it--Lord
Walton ordered them to be conducted to the rooms prepared for them,
and took leave, saying, "Tomorrow, gentlemen, at five, if you please,
we will proceed to further business. In the mean while, good night."
The beds were soft and downy, the guests of Lord Walton tired with the
fatigues of the preceding day, and it was somewhat later than the hour
appointed when the members of the committee rose; and then, on looking
forth from his window, Captain Batten was surprised and disappointed
not to see his troop of horse drawn up in the park, as he had ordered
them to muster there by half-past four. His two companions were down
before him, and he found them, with the noble owner of the mansion, in
the hall. Lord Walton immediately signified in a grave tone that it
would be better to proceed on their search; but the task was sooner
begun than ended, for Bishop's Merton House, even in its dismembered
state, was not easily examined from one end to the other. Room after
room was ransacked, every article of furniture which could be supposed
to conceal papers was subjected to the perquisitions of the three
commissioners; and it must be recollected that, in those days, people
had not multiplied the luxuries and conveniences of life to such a
degree as scarcely to be able to turn amidst the crowd of
superfluities. Still nothing was discovered; for Lord Walton, though
young, was a man of regular habits, and his papers were not all
scattered over his dwelling, but gathered regularly into one
repository.
At length Colonel Thistleton, after having twice passed through the
corridor and gallery, pointed to a door in the former, saying, "We
have omitted that room several times, my lord. It may be necessary
that we examine there, merely for the sake of making our task
complete. You will understand me clearly, my most honourable friend,
that I am perfectly satisfied, and indeed was so from the first; but
we must be enabled to say that we have not left any part of the
mansion unseen."
The young nobleman heard him to the end, and then replied gravely--
"Those are my sister's apartments, sir."
"Nevertheless, my lord," answered Dr. Bastwick.
But Lord Walton cut him short, with a frowning brow and a flushed
cheek.
"There is no 'nevertheless,' sir," he said. "Those are my sister's
apartments--that is enough. Let me see the man that dares wag a foot
towards them."
"Nay, my good lord," cried Thistleton, in a mild and deprecating tone,
"we mean no offence. If the lady sleep, we can wait her awaking. We
need not go in now."
"Neither now nor ever, sir," answered the young nobleman, sternly.
"There are no papers of mine there; of that I pledge my honour. If
that satisfies you, well."
"But it does not, sir," cried Batten.
"Then that is well also," answered Lord Walton, turning away with a
look of scorn.
Thistleton spoke a word to his two companions, and then followed the
young nobleman, exclaiming--
"My lord, my lord!"
"You speak loud, sir," rejoined Charles Walton, walking on. "I will
hear you in the hall. Remember there are people who can sleep despite
of parliamentary committees."
"This is too insolent," whispered Batten. "If you arrest him not,
Master Thistleton, I will."
"Leave him to me," answered the colonel, gravely. "A committee of the
house must not be bearded by the best man in the realm. Leave him to
me;" and thus saying, he followed the young lord down the stairs.
When they were in the hall, in which were several servants, Lord
Walton paused in the midst.
"Now, gentlemen," he said, "what are your further commands?"
"I have but to ask, my lord," demanded Thistleton, "whether you are
disposed to resist the lawful authority of parliament?"
"The unlawful exercise of authority it does not possess, you mean,"
replied the peer. "But, not to cavil at words, sir--if I say I am,
what then?"
"Why, then I should be obliged to do that which would be most
unpleasant to me," replied Colonel Thistleton.
"I rather think, however, that such must be the result, sir," rejoined
Charles Walton, with a cold and indifferent air.
"I mean, sir, that I shall be compelled to put you under some
restraint," said Thistleton, with an angry brow, "which must certainly
be done if----"
"If I permit you," added Lord Walton, seeing that he paused. "Colonel
Thistleton, you are mistaken," he continued, advancing towards him. "I
arrest you, sir, for high treason, in the king's name! Give up your
sword!" and he laid his hand firmly on his shoulder.
Dr. Bastwick shrank back, and looked towards the door; and while the
colour died away in Batten's cheek, Thistleton shook off the young
lord's grasp, exclaiming--
"Call up the horse from the window, Batten!" and as he spoke he drew
his blade.
"They are not there," answered Batten, with shaking knees.
"No, sir, they are not there," rejoined the master of the mansion;
"those that are left of them are now galloping hard to escape Major
Randal's keen riders. You may have heard of his name, sir; and it
would be well to put up your weapon and submit to what cannot be
avoided. Call in a party, Langan!"
"Well, my lord," cried Thistleton, thrusting back his sword into the
scabbard, "this is a most shameless breach of----"
"Of what, sir?" demanded Lord Walton. "You came hither upon an
unsavoury errand. You have attempted to cozen me from the beginning.
Without lawful power or authority you have infringed upon the rights
of an Englishman; and I told you that I would stay here to deal with
my unexpected guests as befitted their quality and commission. But
mark me, Colonel Thistleton: had you been moderate and wise--had you
carried on your search with decency--you should have gone from this
house without hindrance or molestation. I would have remembered that I
had given the parliament no greater intimation of my intentions than
they have given me, and treated you with civility and respect; but you
have exceeded all propriety: you have pried where no likelihood
existed of finding what you sought; you have even expressed the
purpose of intruding on the privicy of my sister's chamber. The
measure is full, gentlemen, and it is now too late. You are all three
prisoners under arrest; and it will be for his majesty to determine
the full extent of your deserts. You see it is in vain to resist," he
added, pointing to the door, where stood a party of soldiers fully
armed. "Take them back to their chambers, Langan; suffer no
communication between them; place a sentry at each door, and then
return to me."
The members of the committee looked dolefully in each other's faces;
but they well saw that what the young nobleman said was but too true,
regarding the uselessness of remonstrance or opposition, and with bent
heads and dejected countenances they were led away.
CHAPTER VI.
"Now, Roger Hartup," said the young lord, as soon as the deputies were
gone, "tell me more of this news. You were with the party, it seems."
"Why, yes, my lord," replied a tall, long-boned Wiltshire man, dressed
in the full colours of the house of Walton, with broadsword by his
side and pistols in his belt; "Langan took me with him without saying
a word of where he was going. He told me afterwards that he was
obliged to come back for fear your lordship should need him, and that
I was to stay with the major and his troop, because I knew all the
lanes and byways, and, moreover, loved playing with hand and arm."
"It was well bethought," said his master; "they might need a guide."
"I don't know, my lord," replied the servant; "but the captain of the
troop seemed to know all the hedgerows as if he had been born among
them. But as soon as Major Randal had heard Langan's message, he gave
the order to muster and be ready in an hour. That was about half-past
one, my lord, for we had scattered the pebbles about as we went, I
warrant, and before half-past two the troop were in their saddles, and
moving down at a brisk trot by Lumley Lane, and then at a canter over
the common. That brought us to Hill Down, where all the folks were
asleep, and then we had three miles of high-road to Rushford. As we
were crossing the brook, or rather letting the horses drink, for the
major had a care to the beasts' mouths, it being a hot night, we heard
a trumpet sound Bishop's Merton way; so then he gave the order to
trot, and taking the cart-road we came upon the edge of the meadows,
where we could see the road up to the house and yet have shelter of
the alders; and there we sat quite still till we saw the Roundhead
rascals coming up at a walk, with a sort of animal at their head more
like a chandler than a soldier, and beside him, Dry, of Longsoaken, on
his grey mare When they got out clear upon the meadow, old Dry pointed
along towards the bottom and said something--we could not hear what he
said, but it was like as if he told them, 'If you keep down that way,
you'll get up to the house without being seen from the windows.' The
major spoke never a word. Indeed, he spoke very little all the time,
but let them go on till----"
"Was Dry still with them?" asked his master, interrupting his
discourse.
"Lord bless your lordship! no," answered the servant; "he left them as
soon as he had pointed out the way, and trotted back. But when they
were half-across the meadows, about half a gun-shot from the alders, a
trumpeter's horse of ours smelt them out, and like an undrilled beast,
thinking his master was somewhat long in sounding the charge, he began
and neighed as loud as he could. Thereupon they halted, and began to
look about, as if a horse neighing was somewhat wonderful; then the
major gave the word, and we were out from the alders in a minute, and
down upon them. Your lordship has seen a plump of teal rise up from a
pond and whirl away all in a sweep. Well, four-fifths of them were
round in a minute, and longest legs won the day. About twenty old
fellows, with copper noses and steel caps, stood their ground,
however, and fired their pistols at us, keeping all together, and
showing broadsword. But we took to steel too, and they could not bide
it, but broke; and though they fought better than I ever thought to
see such crop-eared hounds fight, they were forced to follow their
fellows, though not before some seven had tasted green turf, and had
as much of it as will serve them till the world's end. Then we wheeled
and followed the rest, cutting them off from the town; and, though
they rode hard, yet more than nine or ten had cause to wish their
spurs were better, till at length, after having chased them back to
Rushford, the major sent our captain, Barecolt, with thirty men, to
keep them going while he halted, and gave me ten to bring here, saying
your lordship might need them."
"Then, did Dry, of Longsoaken, fly with them?" demanded his lord; "or
did he run back to the town?"
"I doubt that he knew of the affair at all, my lord," replied the man;
"he was far down the lane before we charged. No trumpet was blown for
fear of bringing the militia men from Bishop's Merton upon us, and the
banks would prevent him from seeing or hearing either."
"Then we will strike a blow at him," said Lord Walton.
The servant rubbed his hands and laughed. "That will rejoice the
cockles of many a poor man's heart in Bishop's Merton," he cried. "The
old sanctified sinner is hated as much as he is feared. Why he was the
cause of poor old Sergeant Neil being dragged away, and killed with
bad usage; and I do believe the boys would stone him on the green if
they knew it, for he--the old man--used to gather the lads about him
on the green and tell them stories of the old wars, when Tyrone was
a rebel in Ireland and he fought under Blount, Earl of Devon, till
their little eyes almost came out of their heads."
"Dry was the cause, did you say?" asked the young nobleman. "I thought
the only cause was found in the words he spoke--that the king, if he
were well counselled, would call William of Orange to his aid, would
raise his standard at once, march to London, proclaim martial law, and
hang the two ringleaders of the parliament before the door of the
house."
"Ay, my lord, that was the pretence," replied the servant, "though he
never said all that; and they pretended, too, he knew more of what was
going on in the north, if he chose to speak. But the real reason was,
that the old man, one day last year, when he was stronger than he was
afterwards, heard the sneaking villain saying things to poor little
Arrah that were not comely, and broke his head with his staff. Dry
stomached the affront till the time came for his revenge, and then
brought the men over from Devizes to take old Neil away; so I am right
glad your lordship is going to punish him on that account."
"'Tis not on that account, Roger Hartup," replied his master, gravely,
"for of that I know nothing; but first, the man is a rank traitor, as
there is proof enough; and secondly, I am convinced that this fire
last night was not kindled without help. There were men seen about the
place just after dark. Dry was up here upon a false pretence in the
morning; and no one was near the west tower with a light. Bring me the
paper and ink, and call the lance prisade of the troop who came with
the men."
He wrote a few hasty lines while the servant was gone; and on his
return with a stout, broad-set soldier, the young nobleman said: "Now,
sir, do you think that Major Randal will object to your executing a
warrant, under my hand, for the arrest of a rank traitor in the
neighbourhood?"
"I was ordered to receive your commands, my lord, and obey them,"
replied the soldier. "But the major told me to beg your lordship to
let him know early what you intended to do, for that he did not hold
it safe to remain here much after noon, for fear of being cut off."
"I will send to him directly," replied Lord Walton; "but you, in the
mean time, take this warrant, and go round by the back of the town to
a place called Longsoaken, where you will apprehend one Ezekiel Dry.
Bring him hither without giving him time to speak with any one in
private."
"But if he resists?" asked the man.
"Use force," answered Lord Walton, and then added, "but there will be
no resistance. Take all your men with you but those who are guarding
the committee-men, and five of my people besides. You, Roger, go with
him, with Hugh, and three others. Leave Langan, for I shall want him;
and now," he continued, as soon as they had retired, "to examine into
the business of this fire."
Thus saying, he rose, took his hat, which lay beside him, and passing
through the neighbouring hall, went out upon the terrace. Then
circling round the ruins of the tower which had fallen he made his way
to the end, where, black and still reeking, stood the part of the
building in which the fire had commenced.
No one was near, and Lord Walton stood and gazed at the ruin for
several minutes with sad and solemn feelings. It looked to him like
the corpse of one untimely slain; all was grey and desolate where
lately had been life and cheerfulness. The room in which he used to
sit was gone, and all that marked the spot where he had passed many an
hour of calm and pleasant contemplation were the charred ends of the
rafters, and one stout beam, which, not quite destroyed, hung black
and crumbling from side to side, bending down half broken in the
midst. Part of the wall had fallen in, and part still stood, rugged
and ruined, while in the chamber below some tattered fragments of rich
damask furniture and old tapestry hung fluttering in the wind. The
smoke still rose up from the pile of rubbish beneath; but on one of
the chimneys a bird had already ventured to perch, as if claiming it
thenceforth for the inheritance of the wild things of the earth.
After a few minutes' sad contemplation the young lord turned and
looked around over the fair scene he was about to leave perhaps for
ever, as it lay calm and smiling in the sunshine of the early morning,
notwithstanding all the destruction of the preceding night, and the
gloomy prospects of the future, with the same peaceful indifference
wherewith some have supposed the disembodied spirit to look upon the
wild passions and contentions of the world.
As he gazed, however, he saw the figure of a girl seated upon the
trunk of a felled beech-tree, which lay close beneath the terrace, and
instantly perceiving that it was that of Arrah Neil, he beckoned to
her to come up to him. The girl did so without hesitation: and as she
climbed the stone steps which led from the park he watched her
countenance, to see if the moody and abstracted fit to which she was
frequently subject was still upon her, or had passed away.
There was no trace of it left. Her beautiful eyes were clear and
bright, and full of intelligence, though her brow was grave and even
sad, and her look was raised towards him with a gentle, imploring,
deprecating expression, as it she had in some way offended and sought
forgiveness.
"Well, my poor Arrah," said the young nobleman, in a kind tone, "I
fear you were much frightened last night."
"I was frightened, my lord," she answered, bending down her eyes, "but
not much; I knew it was for the best, and hoped that it would soon be
extinguished."
"All things are for the best," replied Lord Walton. "God forbid that I
should doubt it, Arrah. Yet this has been a severe loss and a great
grief to me; for I cannot see the house of my fathers so injured
without regret. It is not that many invaluable and rare things have
been destroyed, but that mementos of the past are gone with
them--things the sight of which recalled the days of boyhood--places
stored with a thousand memories, ay, and a thousand associations with
times before my own. I can no longer sit in that room, Arrah, and
think of those who tenanted it in former years, or of all the many
scenes that have there taken place."
"I am very sorry for it indeed," replied Arrah Neil; "but yet----" and
she paused, leaving her sentence unconcluded.
"Tell me, Arrah," continued Lord Walton, not heeding her broken reply,
"when you had retired to rest last night, which they tell me was about
nine, did you hear any noise in the tower, or any one going up the
stairs which pass close behind the room where you slept?"
She gazed at him for a moment in silence, with her large bright eyes
fixed somewhat sadly upon his countenance, then shook her head and
answered, "No one."
The young lord remarked the peculiarity of her look, and added, "I am
sure you would answer truly, Arrah, for your poor grandfather, who
gave you an education so much above that which persons far higher in
rank bestow upon their children, taught you I know always to adhere to
truth. Yet hear me, Arrah; I have always tried to be kind to you and
yours; I have been fond of you from your childhood. Now I suspect that
this fire was not the work of accident, I cannot find that the door at
the foot of the tower was closed last night. That enemies were abroad
I have too good reason to know; and you, too, warned me yourself that
danger was at hand----"
"Oh, but it was not that!--it was not that!" cried Arrah Neil; "the
danger I feared for you was not of fire, Charles Walton. Ask me not to
tell you, for they made me swear I would not before they would let me
go."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the young nobleman, gazing at her thoughtfully.
"Well, I will not ask you then."
"Do not! do not!" she cried, "for I could not refuse you anything; and
that would be wrong after I have sworn: I would lay down my life for
you, indeed I would; but you would not wish me to break my word."
"No, no!" replied Lord Walton; "but to return. I suspect, as I have
said, that this destruction has not been committed by accident."
"Not entirely," said Arrah Neil, looking down.
"Not entirely!" exclaimed the peer. "Then you know how it
happened--you know who did it--Arrah, speak, who was it? That, at
least, I may ask."
The poor girl trembled terribly, but then, in a low sad voice she
answered, "It was I."
"You?--you?" cried Lord Walton, gazing at her sternly, while his lip
quivered in the attempt to suppress the emotions within him. The girl
answered nothing, and after a struggle with himself he waved his hand,
saying, "I forgive you, my poor girl, you did it when you were not
yourself. Tell no one else, Arrah--the secret is safe with me;" and he
turned away, lest one harsh word should mingle with the kinder ones he
had spoken.
When he had gone some ten or twelve paces, however, Arrah Neil darted
after him, caught his hand, and pressed her beautiful lips upon it.
"Do not abandon me, Charles Walton," she said. "Do not cast me off and
hate me. Tell me, would you rather see all those ruins, and lose all
you have lost, or be tomorrow a prisoner in the dark Tower of London,
perhaps never to ride the green fields again while you live?"
Lord Walton paused with a look of bewildered inquiry; but then
suddenly a light rose up in his eyes, and laying his hand upon Arrah
Neil's shoulder, he said, "Thank you, Arrah! thank you. 'Tis a wild
way of deliverance. Yet thank you, dear child. You meant it well, and
it has succeeded. But here are people coming. Go back to Annie; we
must not leave you behind us."
CHAPTER VII.
The seasons of the year seemed to take their tone from the spirit of
the times and the discord that was raging throughout the land. The
summer was gloomy and full of storms. Instead of bright sunshine and
smiling skies, heavy clouds had been gathering over the heavens from
the beginning of the year; and although every now and then a warm and
splendid day, such as that which we have described in the beginning of
this tale, broke in upon the heavy aspect of the summer, as if to
remind man of fairer and happier times, yet week after week passed in
tempests, rain, and gloom; and signs and portents, such as might have
alarmed nations in more superstitious days, were seen in the sky, and
filled the hearts of the more timid with apprehension.
It was upon the morning of one of these sad and frowning days that a
troop of horse, consisting of about a hundred and fifty men, well
armed and mounted, took its way across a wide and somewhat barren
plain about forty miles to the north-east of Bishop's Merton,
encumbered with a good deal of baggage, and escorting two or three of
the heavy carriages of the times, in which were some six or seven
women. The prospect was wide and dreary, extending in a number of grey
lines which afforded the eye no pleasing object to rest upon, except
here and there a little mound or tumulus bearing on its top a clump of
black-looking trees. In the distance was a range of low wood,
apparently stunted and withered by the chilling blasts which swept
over the plain; and a piece of water of some extent was seen
glistening on the right, with the sandy road, along which the
cavalcade took its way, winding between the mere and the wood. No
hedgerows broke the wide extent, and the ground appeared to be
somewhat marshy, for numerous ditches intersected it in every
direction, and a large trench ran along on either side of the path,
with here and there a small wooden bridge to cross from the sandy
highway to the green turf of the plain.
The progress of the party was not very quick, for, as we have said,
the carriages were heavy, and their wheels, as well as those of the
two or three carts and waggons, sank deep in the loose and shifting
soil of the road. By the side of the foremost of the carriages
generally rode a cavalier, with whom the reader is already acquainted
under the name of Lord Walton, and ever and anon he laid his hand upon
the heavy door, and spoke in at the window to his sister or to Arrah
Neil, the latter seldom replying except by a monosyllable or a look.
Annie Walton, however, conversed with him gaily and lightly; not that
her heart was by any means at ease, or her bosom without its
apprehensions; but she was well aware that her brother was grieved for
all the inconvenience that she suffered, and for the danger to which
she was exposed; and, with kindly and generous feeling towards him,
she made as little as possible of every annoyance on the march,
concealed all the fears that she might experience, and seemed
unconscious of the perils of the way. She might not, it is true,
deceive her brother as to her own sensations, for he knew her well,
and understood her kindness and devotion; but still it made the burden
lighter to him to hear no murmur, and to witness no terror.
From time to time, during the march of the two preceding days, some of
the rumours which, true and false alike, always run through a country
in a state of agitation, had reached Lord Walton's party, speaking of
troops marching hither and thither in the neighbourhood. Now it was a
detachment from Lord Essex's army; now it was a body of men crossing
the country, to reinforce Waller; now it was a body of militia called
out by parliamentary commissioners from the district or the county
through which they were passing. But Lord Walton paid little attention
to these reports, having taken every necessary precaution, by throwing
out several small parties in front, at the distance of about two or
three miles, to guard against surprise, and secure his onward course
towards Coventry.
When any rumour reached him, indeed, which bore more strongly the
semblance of truth than the rest, and was corroborated by his own
knowledge of the position and designs of the various persons to whom
it referred, he would ride forward to the head of the line, and
converse for a few minutes with a thin, bony, grave-looking personage
in black, who bore few signs of being a military man, except his large
boots of untanned leather, his heavy steel-mounted sword, and the
pistols at his saddle-bow. Thus, when they had got about half way
across the plain, and a horseman galloped up from the right, leaping
one or two narrow ditches by which it was intersected, and then, not
able to cross the wider trench which separated the road from the turf,
riding along by the side of the troop, and making signs to Charles
Walton that he had something to communicate, the young nobleman
accordingly reined in his horse, and suffering his party to pass on,
lingered behind till they were out of ear-shot.
"Well, Master Hurst," he then asked, "what is your news? I was sorry
you would not join us; but I am glad to see you here."
"I told Langan I would follow you, my lord," replied the new-comer;
"but I had to put my house in order, and sell some hay, for it does not
do to go soldiering in these times without money in one's pocket, and
I had but short notice. However, my lord, you had better be on your
guard; for, as I came over the moor, I found a boy keeping sheep out
there between the wood and the water, and, wishing to know whereabouts
you were, for I could not see you at that time----"
"You did not mention my name, I hope," said Lord Walton.
"Oh, no, my lord," answered the horseman; "I took care not to do that:
I only asked if he had seen a body of soldiers, without saying horse
or foot. So the boy said, 'Oh, yes; that there were five hundred and
fifty lying behind the wood,' for he had counted them, seemingly--like
a flock of sheep. Then I asked him how many horse there were; to which
he replied by saying, 'Two,' and that all the rest had guns and
bandoliers and steel caps, except a few, who had long pikes in their
hands."
"This seems serious," replied Lord Walton; "we must look to this
intelligence."
"There is more serious work behind, my lord," replied Hurst; "for this
news gave me the key to what I saw myself in the morning. These
musketeers are not alone. They have got cavalry for their support, my
lord, or I am much mistaken: not two hours ago I saw the tail of a
troop going into the little village, the spire of which you can just
see rising up there. I should have taken them for your men but that
they were coming the contrary road; so I avoided the village for fear
of worse."
"Well, Hurst, ride on to the next bridge," said Lord Walton, "and then
join me on the road with Major Randal, whom I must consult on our
proceedings."
Thus saying, he spurred on his horse, and galloped forward to the head
of the line, where, pulling up by the side of our spare friend in
black, he communicated to him all that he had just heard.
"Ah!" said Randal, in his usual dry and deliberate tone, "ah! Five
hundred and fifty musketeers--rather better, than three to one. That
would not matter if the ground were fair; but these ditches, these
ditches! they are awkward things in the way of cavalry; if our horses
could leap them as easily as their shot, the matter would soon be
settled. Does any one know what the ground is like there? They will
gall us sadly if we have to expose our flank to the wood."
"I fear so, indeed," replied Lord Walton; "but perhaps, if I were to
pass the next bridge, take a circuit round and dislodge them, while
you pursue your way along the road, we might contrive to get into
better fighting ground."
"Let us see what it is like first," said Randal: "here comes your
newsmonger, my lord; we shall learn more from him. Now, master yeoman,
how does the land lie about the wood? is there good room for a charge,
or is it cut up like this?"
"Between the wood and the road," answered Hurst, "it is just like a
gridiron, with ditches enough to drain the sea."
"And behind the wood, do you know anything of that?" continued Randal.
"It is good enough there," said the horseman, divining the object of
his question, "but you cannot get at it for the river.
"They have some good soldiers amongst them," said Randal. "Such ground
was not chosen by one of the old bottle-nosed serving-men of London."
"They must have good intelligence, too," said Lord Walton, "to fix so
exactly on a point where they can best attack us. If it were not for
my sister and the women, we might take their fire in passing, and get
into the good ground beyond; but the carriages and baggage would prove
a sad encumbrance."
"Ah, women, women!" cried Randal, "they are the causes of all the
mischief in the world. However, we must dispose of them, and must take
our resolution quickly; there is no going back now, my lord, and we
must make our way forward at whatever risk. Luckily, you have brought
all the spare horses and the women's saddles; they must quit the
carriages and mount. As for the baggage, it must take its chance and
belong to the winners."
"But I cannot expose my sister," exclaimed Lord Walton, "to such an
affair as this--she can go back to the village."
"No, no," said Randal, quickly; "there is no need of that; this good
yeoman can guide her round with the rest of the women, while we make
our way forward, and do the best that we can with these gentry in
front. They will not chase her if we keep on our way; but if we quit
the road, they will of course draw to their left and cut us off
between the causeway and the water. Now, my lord, be quick; get them
out and away: I will send a dozen of my men to escort them, with
Barecolt at their head. 'Tis the best task for him; for, though he
does not want courage, with women he will have room to talk, and that
is his chief occupation. He may lie, too, there, as much as he likes,
and nobody will find him out. Now, master yeoman, you be guide--lead
these ladies over the moor, round by the back of that great pond, and
into the open ground above it. When you get to that mound with the
trees on it, you may halt a bit, and watch what we are about on the
road. If you see that we get the worst, put to the spur, and gallop on
till you rejoin the Coventry road, then on as fast as may be to the
king, who will be in Coventry by noon to-morrow. If you see we make
good our ground, come back and join us."
"But there are horse in that village, sir," answered Hurst.
"That can't be helped," replied Randal; "we have no other chance.
Besides, they may be our people as well as the enemy's.--Stay; it may
be as well to see: I will send on Barecolt, while you halt on the
hill. He can play either part--swear and swagger like the most
licentious Cavalier, or cant and pule like the most starched Puritan."
While this conversation had been taking place, the party had not
ceased to advance slowly along the road; but the order to halt was now
given, and preparations were made for carrying into execution the plan
decided upon. The carriages were stopped, Miss Walton and her
attendants were placed hastily upon the spare horses which had been
brought from Bishop's Merton, and the small body under Captain
Barecolt were drawn out, and commanded to fall into the rear. Annie
Walton did all that she was told to do without a word; but she looked
in her brother's face, as he placed her on horseback, and, bending
down her beautiful head, kissed his cheek, while a silent,
irrepressible tear rose in her eye.
"Do not fear, Annie--do not, fear," said Charles Walton; "we will soon
put these fellows to the rout."
But it is vain, in moments of danger and difficulty, to commend
courage to those who, by fate or situation, are doomed to inactivity;
for they must still feel for those that they love, if not for
themselves; and though Miss Walton considered not for one moment the
personal peril which she encountered, her heart beat with
apprehensions for her brother, which no words could quiet or remove.
Lord Walton then turned to Arrah Neil, who was already mounted, and
leaning his hand on the horse's neck, he asked--"Can you manage the
horse, my poor Arrah? had you not better ride behind a trooper?"
"Oh, no," she said; "no, I can ride quite well--I remember now;" and,
indeed, the manner in which she held her rein, the ease and grace with
which she sat the horse, and the command which she had over it, though
a powerful and spirited animal, clearly showed that at some time she
must have been well accustomed to such exercise.
Lord Walton looked down with a thoughtful expression of countenance,
as if there were something that puzzled him. But just at that moment
Major Randal rode up, exclaiming.--"We must lose no more time, my
lord; if we halt any longer here, they may see what we are about, and
act accordingly. I shall order the troop to advance, for women are
always slow, and they must come after us as they can, till they reach
the little bridge up yonder. Let the carts and carriages come first,
and the women can bring up the rear. Now, mark ye, Barecolt, follow
this good yeoman, with the ladies under your charge, till you reach
that little mound with the trees on the right. You can deliver your
stomach by the way of any of the wild imaginations that may fret you;
but when you get to the mound you must give up talking, and, riding on
to the village alone, make use of your wits, if you have any left, to
ascertain whether there be a troop of horse in it, and of what side."
"Alone?" said Barecolt.
"To be sure," answered Randal, with a laugh; "the man who preached in
the morning at Rochelle, and defeated the Papists in the evening, who
defended the pass in the Cevennes single-handed against a whole army,
may well go on alone to reconnoitre a handful of cavalry. Besides, it
will make you careful, Master Barecolt, when you know that your own
life depends on your own tongue."
"It has often done that," answered Barecolt. "I remember, when I was
in Spain, being attacked by some twenty banditti, and putting my back
against a rock----"
"March!" cried Randal, interrupting him; "tell that to the girls. It
will do to pass the time as well as any other lie;" and riding on, he
led the way, while Lord Walton continued by his sister's side, till,
reaching the little bridge, the good farmer, Hurst, turned off from
the road into the meadows, followed by the young lady, her servants,
and the escort.
With anxious eyes Annie Walton and Arrah Neil watched the advance of
the larger party of horse towards the wood before them, although
neither of them had heard the exact cause of alarm, or was aware of
where the danger was to be apprehended, or what was its nature. All
they knew was, that peril lay upon the onward road; and,
notwithstanding all the assiduities of Captain Barecolt, who, riding
by their side wherever the space admitted it, endeavoured to entertain
them with some of the monstrous fictions in which his imagination was
accustomed to indulge, they listened not to his tales, they scarcely
even heard his words, but, their eyes turned constantly to the road
they had just quitted, pursued a path, forming with it an acute angle,
which led round the back of a large piece of water that lay gleaming
before them.
Once or twice they had to dismount, and lead their horses over the
little wooden bridges which crossed the ditches intersecting the
plain; and more than once, where these were so insecure as to give way
under the horses' feet, they were forced to quit their direct line,
and take a circuit. Nevertheless, as they cantered quickly over the
turf between, they had reached the little tree-covered knoll which had
been pointed out as their halting-place, before the troop which was
pursuing the high-road had arrived at the spot where the low wood we
have mentioned skirted the way.
That wood did not, indeed, approach close to the road, but lay at the
distance of from a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards on the left,
extending parallel with it for nearly a quarter of a mile, and having
a green meadow, and the continuation of the broad trench we have
mentioned between. A river of some width, flowing from the right,
crossed the highway under a bridge of two arches, at a short distance
from the wood; and at the moment that Miss Walton and her companions
reached the mound, the head of her brother's troop was about three
hundred yards from this bridge.
Knowing well that Major Randal was not a man to be trifled with,
Captain Barecolt, as soon as they had arrived at the appointed place,
took a flowery and ceremonious leave of Miss Walton, and rode on
towards the village of which they had now a better view than before.
The young lady's eyes, however, were still fixed upon her brother's
troop, as she remained half-way up the little mound, with her horse
turned towards the road and her maids behind, Arrah Neil upon her left
hand, and the small party of troopers a little in advance.
They had continued this for some four or five minutes in breathless
expectation of what was to come next, when they perceived the troop
brought to a sudden halt, and an apparent consultation take place at
the head of the little column. At that moment Annie Walton heard one
of the troopers just before her say aloud--"They have barricaded the
bridge, that's clear enough."
"Good God!" she exclaimed; "what will they do?"
But the man, although he heard her words, only turned his head over
his shoulder to give her a look, without making any reply.
"There is a little path, lady," said one of the maids, who, placed
higher up the hill, saw more distinctly the ground beneath--"there is
a little path down from the side of the bridge into the meadows below:
if they were to take that they could get out of the way of the wood,
and I should think could cross the river, for it spreads out there so
wide it must be shallow."
"They do not see it," said Annie Walton; "they do not see it for the
bank."
Almost as she spoke a considerable body of foot drew out from the
wood, and a party of about a hundred men running forward, drew up in
line close to the bridge, and opened a fire of musketry upon the small
troop of cavalry which occupied the road. Several horses at the head
of the line were seen to plunge violently, and one fell with its
rider. The next instant the whole were in motion, a charge was made
upon the bridge, and for a few moments all was confusion and disarray,
in which they could only see that the Cavaliers had recourse to their
pistols, and were endeavouring apparently to force the barricade.
"Oh! the path, the path!" cried Annie Walton. "If any man will ride
and tell them of the path, and that they can ford the river below, I
will give him a hundred crowns."
One of the troopers was instantly dashing forward, but the man who had
been left in command called him back, saying that they had been
ordered to remain there, and must obey. By this time the charge had
been repulsed, and the Cavaliers were retreating under a heavy fire in
some disarray. They formed again with great rapidity, however, behind
the waggons and carriages.
Miss Walton remonstrated against the recal of her messenger; but
without waiting to hear the reply, Arrah Neil exclaimed--"I will go,
dear lady; I will go! and shaking her rein, she put the horse to its
speed, and darted forward before any one could stop her.
"I will go, too!" cried Annie Walton. "Why should she risk her life,
and a sister fear?" and thus saying, she struck her horse with a whip
and followed. In a moment, without uttering a word, the stout yeoman,
Hurst, was by the lady's side; but Arrah Neil outsped them both, and
and rode direct for the path she had observed. Without fear, without
pause, the devoted girl rode on, although as soon as ever she was
perceived from the bridge the shots began to drop around her, for her
object was instantly divined, and no consideration for her sex
restrained the soldiery.
"This way, lady, this way!" cried Hurst, turning to the left; "we can
speak to them over the dike, and we shall be farther from the fire."
They were now within a few hundred yards of Lord Walton's party, and
he was seen at the head of the troop gesticulating vehemently to his
sister to keep back.
"Ride away, my dear! ride away!" cried Hurst, "I will go on!" but at
that moment a shot struck his charger, and horse and rider went down
together. Miss Walton, however, rode forward, seeing the good yeoman
struggling up; and Arrah Neil, too, pursued her way, reached the
bridge, dashed up the path, entered the road, and, in the midst of all
the fire, galloped on till, within ten yards of the carriages, a ball
struck the animal in the haunches, and he reared violently with the
pain. She still kept her seat, however, till Lord Walton, spurring
forward, seized the bridle and caught her in his arms, just as the
horse fell, and, struggling in the agonies of death, rolled over into
the dike.
"Good God! what is it?" exclaimed Charles Walton, bearing her back
behind the waggons. "Annie, Annie, ride away!" he shouted to his
sister; "if you love me, ride away!"
"There is a path down by the bridge; the river is fordable below!"
exclaimed Arrah Neil; "there are no dykes beyond the stream. All is
clear on that side."
"Look, look, Charles!" cried Miss Walton, pointing with her hand,
"there is a body of cavalry drawing out from the village, and some one
riding at full speed towards our people on the hill."
"Friends, on my life!" cried Major Randal. "Now, fair aid-de-camp,
gallop round there to the right, and keep out of fire. Tell your
people to charge the Roundheads in the front, while those from the
village take them on the flank, and we do the best we can on the
right. What was that you said, pretty maid?" he continued, addressing
Arrah Neil; "a path down by the bridge--the stream fordable?"
"Ride-away, Annie! ride away!" cried Lord Walton; "more to the right!
more to the right!"
"We must push forward the carriages and carts," said Major Randal;
"they will give us some shelter. Where this girl came up, there can we
go down."
"I saw the path quite clear," said one of the men.
But without more words the new plan proposed was immediately followed;
the carts, drawn up two abreast, were pushed forward towards the
bridge by the main strength of the dismounted troopers, for the horses
had become unmanageable, and the traces had been cut; and under
shelter of these and of the carriages, which formed a line on the
left, the troop advanced in good order to the bridge, notwithstanding
all the efforts of the musketeers.
In the mean while, Annie Walton took her way back towards the hill,
beckoning to the yeoman, Hurst, who had by this time freed himself
from his horse; but he, with that sort of passive bravery which is so
characteristic of the English peasant, continued deliberately to
unbuckle the girths of his saddle (about which, it appeared
afterwards, all his stock was stowed away in various bags and
contrivances), and made not the slightest effort to get out of
musket-shot till he got the whole upon his back, after which he
trudged away towards the hill, only injured by one ball which grazed
his arm.
Losing no time by the way, Miss Walton soon rejoined the party of
troopers at the knoll, and was giving them the order of Major Randal,
when Barecolt himself came up at full speed, exclaiming--
"Great news! great news! There is the Earl of Beverley with two
hundred horse, ready to charge the Roundheads in the flank."
"We have Major Randal's orders to charge them in front," said the
sergeant.
"Stay, stay!" cried Barecolt; "wait a minute, wait a minute and then
the man who does not kill his five of the enemy should never sit down
with a gentleman to dinner again. Steady, my men, steady; look to your
pistols; have ready your spurs. As soon as the earl has crossed the
road I give the word."
"See, see!" cried Annie Walton, "they have got down into the
meadow--they are fording the stream--see what a fire the enemy are
keeping up upon them. Oh! charge, charge, for God's sake, and help
them!"
"Madam, I always obey a lady," said Barecolt with a low bow, at the
same time raising the blade of his sword to his lips and kissing it.
"She is the best commanding officer in the world. Now!--upon them!
charge and at them!" and with these words he led his little troop
forward with an air of gallantry and determination which went far to
justify the gasconades in which he indulged.
The ford, though somewhat deep, was smooth and easy, but still it
exposed the troop of Cavaliers to a terrible fire of musketry from the
bridge; and Annie Walton, left alone with her women on the hill, saw
with a sinking heart flash after flash run along the road, whilst the
thick white smoke was wafted by the wind over her brother's party,
rendering the figures indistinct, and concealing their movements in
some degree from her eyes. A moment after, however, she saw two or
three horsemen break out of the clouds and gallop on for several
hundred yards into the meadows, then followed a greater number, and
she could hear shouts and calls, in the midst of which she thought she
distinguished her brother's voice; and then she saw the troopers halt
and form again in line, while Barecolt, with his little party, bore
steadily on at a quick pace somewhat to the right; and a much larger
body of cavalry, which seemed to have taken a circuit from the village
behind some hedgerows that skirted the edge of the plain appeared
advancing rapidly on the left of the musketeers, and occupying the
whole space between the wood and the high-road.
There was now a momentary pause, the firing ceased, the troop of Lord
Walton and Major Randal remained still, the smoke cleared in some
degree away, and Annie asked herself, "What next?"
The moment, however, that Barecolt came on a line with the rest, the
shrill blast of a trumpet was heard from the two larger bodies of
horse; all were again in movement; and, galloping forward towards the
point occupied by the musketeers, the three parties of royalists
charged headlong down upon them, while once more the bright flash of
the fire-arms ran along the line of the road, and the cloud of smoke
again rolled over the combatants.
It was no longer to be repulsed that the Cavaliers now charged. For
full ten minutes, the eyes of the watchers on the hill could perceive
nothing but one struggling and confused mass in the midst of the dim
white cloud, with the frequent flashes of the guns, and every now and
then a party of two or three becoming more apparent, and then plunging
again into the midst of the _mêlée_. At the same time the frequent
reports of the musketry and the long-continued blasts of the trumpet,
mingled with shouts and cries, were borne by the wind to the ear,
showing that the fight was continued with desperate determination on
each side; and Annie Walton could restrain her anxiety no longer, but
moved slowly forward towards the scene of combat.
Before she had advanced many yards, a horse without a rider rushed
across the road and galloped over the meadows towards her--paused,
turned round, and with elevated head and expanded nostrils gazed
towards the place from which he came--then with a wild neigh broke
away again, and rushed across the plain. In another instant, three or
four men on foot, with muskets in their hands, were seen running at
full speed, and Miss Walton checked her horse, fearing that they might
come near her; but they made direct for one of the ditches we have
mentioned, and jumping in, seemed to couch down for concealment.
"They have won the day," cried Annie Walton, and turning to her women,
who had followed somewhat slowly, she repeated, "The Cavaliers have
won the day. God grant it may be without great loss!" and at the
thought of what might be her brother's fate in that fierce fight, her
heart sank with that dread which we all feel when the veil which
always hangs more or less over the future, is brought nearer to our
eyes, so as to render our contemplation even of the present dim and
indistinct.
A larger party of foot, consisting of perhaps twenty or thirty men,
was then seen hurrying along the road; but close upon them came a body
of cavalry, and in a moment they were dispersed and flying over the
plain. Almost at the same time, the heavy mass of horse and infantry
which had so long remained mingled together near the bridge, seemed to
explode like a shell, parties of foot and horsemen scattering here and
there in every direction; and the terrible scene of a rout and pursuit
now took place--the musketeers in general casting down their arms and
dying, while the Cavaliers followed them here and there over the
plain, and put them to the sword on the least show of resistance.
In the midst of all this disarray and confusion, a group of some
twenty or thirty horsemen were seen gathered round a small flag upon
the highest part of the road near the bridge; and after a brief pause,
during which they remained perfectly still and motionless, the loud
and peculiar trumpet-call--known in those days as the recal to the
standard--came shrill but musical upon the air; and the next instant
four or five horsemen separated themselves from the party, and rode up
at an easy canter towards the wooded knoll.
Annie Walton gazed eagerly, and recognising her brother's form, after
one moment of brief anxiety rode on to meet him with her heart at
ease. Lord Walton pushed forward his horse before the rest, and
wheeling it by her side, pressed her hand in his, murmuring, "My
dearest Annie! my sweet sister! you have been sadly terrified, I fear,
but yet you have shown yourself a soldier's child."
"Oh, Charles, Charles! you are wounded!" cried Annie, looking in his
face, which was bleeding, and at a gory scarf which was round his left
arm.
"Nothing, nothing!" replied her brother. "Men will have scratches when
they fight with wild beasts, Annie; and these Roundheads have shown
themselves as fierce and intractable as wolves or lions. They fought
gallantly, however, it must be owned, and have made us pay dearly for
our success."
"I fear so, indeed, Charles," cried Miss Walton. "I am sure it must be
so. But poor Arrah Neil--is she safe?"
"Oh yes, thank God!" replied Lord Walton. "I sent just now to the
coach in which I had placed her, to make sure she was uninjured. I
must not blame her rashness, my Annie, nor yours either, for it has
been the means of saving us; but it was a terrible risk, my dear girl,
and your escape is a miracle."
"And good Major Randal?" asked Annie, willing to change the subject.
"He is safe too," replied Lord Walton, "and without a scratch, though
never man exposed himself more. But here comes another friend whom you
will be glad to see, and to whom we owe all our success."
"Oh, Sir Francis Clare!" exclaimed Miss Walton, a glow of pleasure
rising in her cheek; "I am most happy to see you."
"Nay, not Sir Francis Clare either," cried her brother, "but my oldest
and truest friend, the Earl of Beverley."
"Nay," said Annie, with a smile, "it was not fair of you, my lord, to
give me a false name the other day. I half intend to punish you by
treating you as a stranger still. Had you told me it was Lord
Beverley, I should not have said that I never heard my brother mention
you, for I can assure you, in former days, his letters were full of no
one else. However, there is my hand--I forgive you, trusting with all
a woman's foolish confidence that you had some good reason for
cheating me."
"I will never cheat you more, dear lady," replied Lord Beverley,
taking her hand and raising it to his lips; "but in such times as
these it is sometimes needful to seem not what we are, and these
_noms-de-guerre_ when once assumed should be kept up to every one. I
had to ride near two hundred miles across a disturbed country where
the name of Francis Clare might pass unquestioned, when that of
Beverley might have soon found me a lodging in the Tower. Walton said
it was a rash act of mine to risk such an expedition at all; but I
have just heard from him that I am not the only rash person where
there is a good cause and a great object to be gained."
"Nay, will you scold me too?" rejoined Miss Walton, laughing; "if so,
I will hold no further conversation with you. Yet, my good lord, to
say truth, I take less blame to myself for what I did than for not
doing it at once. To see the poor girl, Arrah Neil, willing to risk
her life to serve my brother, shamed me, to think that she should
encounter danger alone."
"But you might have sent one of the men, dear Annie," said Lord
Walton: "it was a soldier's, not a lady's task to carry such
intelligence."
"But they would not go," replied Annie Walton; and as they rode back
towards the high-road, she explained to her brother and his friend the
circumstances under which she had acted.
For a minute or two the conversation was as gay and cheerful as a
great success just obtained, a great deliverance just achieved, could
render it. Lord Beverley explained to his fair companion, that having
learned that morning on entering the neighbouring village with a body
of two hundred horse, which he had raised for the service of the king,
that a regiment of parliamentary musketeers were lying concealed at
the back of the wood, and supposing that their ambush was directed
against himself, he had determined to remain in the place, and defend
it, should need be, against them; but that when he found the passage
of Lord Walton's troop was opposed, and his friend in danger, he had
instantly called his men to the saddle, and advanced to support him.
Lord Walton, too, related many of those actions which in such scenes
of strife are always crowded into the space of a few minutes; and much
praise did he bestow upon the gallant determination of Major Randal
and his troop, and also upon the steadiness and courage displayed by
his own tenantry and adherents. Captain Barecolt himself had his full
share of commendation.
"I had thought," said Charles Walton, "from his ridiculous bravadoes
during the last two days, that the man must be at least a coward,
although Randal is not one to suffer such an animal near him; but it
proved quite the contrary; for I saw his long body constantly in the
thick of the _mêlée_, and his heavy sword cutting right and left at
the steel caps of the musketeers, over the very muzzles of their
guns."
As they approached nearer to the scene of conflict, however, the
sights which Miss Walton witnessed--the dead, the dying, the wounded,
the road stained with deep pools of blood, and the sounds that met her
ear--the groan of anguish, the sad complaint, the cry for water and
for help--blotted out all memory of their success; and with a
shuddering frame and a sad heart she followed her brother to the spot
where Major Randal was sitting by his cornet, on the parapet of the
bridge, receiving accounts from the different troopers as they came
in, of the prisoners taken from the enemy, and the killed and wounded
on their own part, while ever and anon a mounted trumpeter by his side
blew a loud, long blast, to call the parties from the pursuit.
"Ah, Miss Walton!" cried the old officer, starting up and addressing
her in his usual bluff tone; "I am glad to see you safe and well. I
will never say that women are of no use any more; for, by my faith,
you and that little girl got us out of a pretty predicament. I was
blind enough or stupid enough, and so were all the rest, not to mark
the little path, for we passed it in charging up to the bridge; but
even if we had seen it, we should not have known that the stream was
fordable below. However, get you into the carriage again, and shut
your eyes or draw the curtains, for I see you look white and sickish,
and these sights are not fit for women. The men will soon have pulled
down that barricade, and then you can go on, while we get up the
wounded and follow. We must do ten miles more to-night."
"I should prefer to ride," replied Miss Walton; "you had better put
the wounded people in the carriages."
"True, true; well bethought," answered the old soldier. "You are a
good girl after all."
Lord Walton smiled at this somewhat ambiguous compliment to his
sister; but, as no time was to be lost, he left her under the care of
Lord Beverly, and proceeded to give orders, and make those
arrangements which the circumstances required. The barricade,
which had been constructed hastily of felled trees, stone, and turf,
was speedily removed, and the foremost of the carriages was being
brought forward to receive some of the men severely wounded, who
were lying about within the very narrow circle to which the strife
had been confined, when Lord Walton's servant, Langan, rode up,
exclaiming--"My lord! my lord! the prisoners have made their escape."
"What prisoners?" demanded Lord Walton, forgetting those he had
brought from Bishop's Merton.
"Why, that Roundhead rascal and canting hypocrite, Dry, of Longsoaken,
with Thistleton, and the rest."
"No," rejoined Roger Hartup, who was standing near, with a severe
wound in his shoulder; "I shot Thistleton through the head after the
first charge. He had picked up a sword, I don't know how, and got out
of the carriage, and was just making a plunge at Jackson the forester
when I blew his brains out with my pistol; you will find him lying
behind the waggons. Of the rest I know nothing."
"They are all gone," answered Langan.
"And Arrah Neil?" exclaimed Lord Walton, advancing towards the
carriages. But Arrah Neil was not there.
CHAPTER VIII.
Inquiries were made on every side, but in vain. No one had seen poor
Arrah Neil since she had been placed in the coach by Lord Walton; and,
indeed, in the haste and confusion of the strife that had ensued after
the troop had forded the river and attacked the enemy in front, no one
had had an opportunity of witnessing what had taken place amongst the
carriages, except two wounded men who had been left behind upon the
road, one of whom had died before the struggle was over, while the
other had crept for security under one of the waggons, which hid
everything that was passing from his sight.
The agitation and alarm of Miss Walton and her brother seemed somewhat
beyond measure in the eyes of good Major Randal, who was anxious to
hasten forward with all speed. He waited somewhat impatiently while
parties were sent over the plain, to seek for the poor girl who had
disappeared; but at length he broke forth in a sharp tone, exclaiming,
"We cannot remain here till night, my lord, waiting for this lost
sheep; we have got all the wounded men into the coaches and on the
waggons, and on my life we must be marching; we have prisoners enough
to embarrass us sadly if we be attacked, and who can tell that we may
not meet with another party of these worthies?"
"I think not," said the Earl of Beverly, who had shown a good deal of
interest in the event which seemed to move his friend so much. "I have
heard of no other Roundheads than these in this neighbourhood; but if
you will march on, Walton, and take one half of my troop with you, I
will remain behind with the rest, for they are fresher than your men,
and we can overtake you after we have done all that is possible to
discover this poor girl."
"No," answered Lord Walton, "I will not leave her behind, Francis, as
long as there is a chance. You had better march on, major; I will stay
with my own people, and follow you to Henley. Annie, you had better go
on; your staying, dear sister, would but embarrass me. Lord Beverley
will give you the advantage of his escort, and I will overtake you
before night."
It was accordingly arranged as he proposed; and, to say the truth,
Lord Beverly was by no means displeased with the task of protecting
his friend's sister on the way. In the course of a quarter of an hour
the whole troop was put in motion; and Annie Walton, though somewhat
unwilling to leave her brother behind, followed on horseback, with the
earl by her side, and some fourteen or fifteen horse bringing up the
rear, at a short distance behind. She had been rendered sad and
desponding by all the events that had taken place; for the first joy
of success and deliverance had by this time passed away, and the
impression that remained was of that dark and gloomy character which
her first entrance upon scenes of strife, bloodshed, and danger, might
naturally produce upon a gentle and kindly heart, however firm might
be the mind, however strong the resolution.
Her companion well understood the feelings of a girl nurtured with
tenderness and luxury, accustomed to deal only with the peaceful and
the graceful things of life, when suddenly forced to witness and take
part in the fierce and turbulent acts of civil war, to follow marching
men, and be a spectator of battle and slaughter. He knew right well
that no gay and lively subject would be pleasant to her ear at such a
moment, though the soldier himself might cast off all memory of the
strife the instant it was over, and give way to joy and triumph in the
hour of success. The cavalier shaped his conversation accordingly,
and, in a grave, though not sad tone, spoke of deeper and more solemn
things than had formed the matter of their discourse when last they
met. Nevertheless, seeking to win her from her gloom, there came from
time, across the course of all he said, flashes of bright and
brilliant eloquence, rich and imaginative illustrations, sparkling and
almost gay allusions to other things and times and scenes, which,
without producing the discord that anything like merriment would have
occasioned to her ear, stole her thoughts away from gloomier subjects
of contemplation, and, calling the blessed power of fancy to her aid,
enabled her to bear up against the first weight of the dark present.
To Annie Walton there was an extraordinary charm in the conversation
of the cavalier; it was like the current of a stream flowing on
between deep and shady banks, profound, yet rapid and various, while
ever and anon the sunshine breaks upon it through the trees, and
lights it up for a space in all the sparkling lustre of the day. At
first her replies were brief and few, but gradually she took a greater
part in the discourse, answered at large, gave him her own thoughts in
return for his, inquired as well as listened, and was often won to a
smile. Thus they rode on for about two hours, the cavalier gaining
more and more upon her and, to speak the truth, the high qualities of
her heart and mind, winning from him as much admiration as her beauty
and her grace commanded at the first sight.
Their progress, as before, was very slow, and once they had to pause
for a quarter of an hour, while the baggage of Lord Beverley's troop
was brought forth from the village where he had left it and added to
that of the other party. At length, however, they came in sight of a
small town, lying on the slope of a hill, with higher up towards the
right a detached house and some tall trees about it, standing in the
midst of a park or very large meadow, surrounded by ancient brick
walls.
At this point of their march Major Randal rode back and spoke a few
words to the earl, who replied, "Exactly as you like, major; I am
under your command."
"Nay, my lord," replied the old officer, "I am under yours, you hold a
higher commission."
"But with less experience, my good friend," answered the cavalier; "at
all events, Major Randal, I will act by your advice; if you think we
can reach Henley, well, if not we will halt here."
"We might, if it were not for this lumbering baggage," answered the
old soldier. "I cannot think what has made Lord Walton, who knows well
what service is, cumber us with such stuff as this. A trooper should
never have any baggage but his arms, a dozen crowns, and a clean
shirt."
"You must not grumble, my good friend," replied the earl, dropping his
voice. "If I understand Charles Walton rightly, there is that in those
waggons which will be more serviceable to the king than all our
broadswords."
"Ah, Ah! I understand," said Major Randal. "If that be so, we must
take care of it, otherwise I think I should be inclined to pitch the
whole into the first river. Well, then, my lord, we will stop here,
and, as that is your house, I believe, you may sleep in your own
sheets for one night. We will quarter the men in the village, and I
will send out to see that the road is clear for our march to-morrow."
"I shall expect you to supper, however, major," said the earl,
"although I cannot tell whether there is any meat in the house, yet I
know there is good old wine in the cellar, unless the Roundheads may
have got into it since I was there."
"If they have, you will not find a bottle." replied Randal; "for,
notwithstanding all their hypocrisy, they drink as deep as Cavaliers;
the only difference is, that they cant where the others swagger. But
as for your wine, my lord, you must drink it yourself for me. I am an
old campaigner, and my saloon is the parlour of the ale-house; I am
more at home there, than amongst gilt chairs and sideboards of plate."
"Good faith you will find little of those in my house," replied the
earl; "so come if you will; but in the meantime I will guide this fair
lady up, and take some of the men with me to guard the house; for
there is but a young girl and an old butler of seventy, who recollects
Queen Elizabeth, left to take care of it. All the rest of my people
are in the saddle."
"That's where they should be, my lord," replied Randal, "I will make
your cornet quarter the men, as the place is yours, and will see you
before I sleep to plan our arrangements for to-morrow."
Thus saying, he rode on again; and the Earl of Beverley after having
given a few orders to his officers for the disposal of the force in
the village, the guarding of the house, and the sending back of a
small detachment to meet Lord Walton, rode up with his fair companion
and her women by a narrow, wood-covered lane, to the house upon the
hill.
The building was not very large, being one of the old fortified houses
which were common in England at that time, and many of which during
the civil wars stood regular siege by the parliamentary forces. Strong
towers and buttresses, heavy walls, narrow windows, and one or two
irregular outworks, gave it a peculiar character, which is only to be
met with now in some of the old mansions which have come down from
those times to the present, falling rapidly into decay, and generally
applied to viler uses. As was then customary, and as was the case at
Bishop's Merton, a wide terrace spread before the house, upon which
the earl and his companions drew in their horses; and before she
dismounted, Miss Walton turned to gaze over the view, while the
cavalier sprang to the ground, and, casting his rein to one of the
troopers who had followed him, approached to aid her.
"The prospect is not so wide as at Bishop's Merton, fair lady," said
he; "but there is one object in it which will be as pleasant to your
eye as any you could see at home. There comes your brother."
"I see a party of horse," said Annie Walton, "by the wood under the
hill, but I cannot distinguish any of the figures."
"Oh, it is he, it is he!" cried her companion; "but I see no woman
amongst them."
"Alas!" said Annie Walton, "what can have become of that poor girl?"
"It is strange indeed," said the cavalier; "but yet, Miss Walton, she
may have been alarmed, and fled while the fight was going on. If any
injury had happened to her, had she been wounded or killed by a chance
shot, she must have been found by this time."
"Oh, no; fear had nothing to do with it," replied Miss Walton; "she
went through the midst of the fire to tell my brother of the path."
"Why, he said it was yourself," rejoined Lord Beverley.
"We both went," replied Annie Walton; "but she seemed to have no fear,
and I confess my heart beat like a very coward's."
"It is indeed strange," said the earl; "but yet, perhaps your brother
may have tidings. Let me assist you to alight;" and lifting her gently
from the horse, he led her into the wide, ancient hall, at the door of
which stood the old butler, his head shaking with age, but a glad look
upon his countenance to see his lord once more returned.
From the hall, which felt chilly and damp, as if the door of the house
had seldom been opened to the sunshine and free air, the earl
conducted his companion up a flight of stone steps, and through some
wide, unfurnished corridors, to a part of the house which presented a
more cheerful and habitable appearance, giving a glance from time to
time at the countenance of Miss Walton, as if to see what effect the
desolate aspect of the place would have upon her. Absorbed in other
contemplations, however, she took no notice, and at length the
cavalier called her attention to it himself, saying with a faint and
somewhat sad smile--
"You see, Miss Walton, what effect neglect can have. During my long
absence from England everything has fallen into decay--more indeed in
this house than in my dwelling in the north; but yet I reproach myself
for having given way to the very mingled feelings that kept me from
residing on my own land and amongst my own people. It is not indeed
the ruin and desolation that falls upon one's property which a man
ought to mind under such circumstances; but when a wealthy family
dwell in the midst of their own tenantry, they build up a better
mansion than any that is raised with hands, a nobler home than the
lordly castle or the splendid palace--I mean that which is founded in
the love and affection of friends and dependants, ornamented with
kindly feelings and mutual benefits, obligations, gratitude, and
esteem. And this is the house which falls into more horrible decay
during a long absence than any of these things of brick or stone."
"I fear indeed it is so," said Miss Walton, walking on beside him into
a large and handsome room, not only well furnished, but presenting
some most beautiful pictures of the Italian school hanging upon the
walls, while objects of _vertù_ and instruments of music lay scattered
over numerous tables, many of which were in themselves excessively
costly.
"But it seems to me, my lord," she continued, "that in some respects
your house and yourself are very much alike, though perhaps it is bold
of me to say so; but now that I know whom you really are, I feel as
much inclined to look upon you as an old friend as you did in regard
to me when first we met."
"Thanks, thanks, sweet lady," answered the earl. "Oh, regard me ever
so! But if you mean that in my house and in myself there are desolate
and ruined corners, you are mistaken. I am not one of those who have
either some real and deep grief overshadowing the heart for ever, or
one of those who nourish a sentimental sorrow for nothing at all.
There may be things in my own life that I regret; I may have lost dear
friends and relations whom I mourn; but as the common course of events
runs in this world, my life has been a very happy one, chequered
indeed only by one terrible catastrophe, and by a great injury
inflicted on my family by the king whom now I serve, which made me
resolve, like a foolish boy as I then was, never to set foot in my
native land while he remained in power. When I found that he was
fallen, dispossessed, and in need, I came back in haste to serve him,
with that loyalty which I trust will long be the distinction of a
British gentleman."
"I did not exactly mean what you think," replied Miss Walton; "I
merely wished to remark that you seem sometimes as gay and cheerful as
this room in which we now are, sometimes as sad and gloomy as the hall
through which we lately passed." She coloured a little as she spoke,
from an indefinite consciousness that the woman who remarks so closely
the demeanour of a young and handsome man, may well be suspected of
taking a deeper interest in him than she wished to believe she did in
her companion.
The cavalier replied at once, however, without remarking the blush,
"It must ever be so, Miss Walton, with those who feel and think. Is it
not so with yourself? The spirit that God gives us is made for
happiness, full of high aspirations and bright capabilities of
enjoyment; but it is placed in a world of trial and of difficulty,
prisoned in a corporeal frame that checks and limits its exertions,
chained down by cares and circumstances that burden its free energies.
Whenever the load is not felt, whenever the walls of the dungeon are
not seen, the captive gladly casts off the remembrance that such
things exist, and rejoices in their absence. But ever and anon they
present themselves to his eyes, or press upon his limbs, and he mourns
under the weight that he cannot wholly cast off. But here comes your
brother; and I will only add, that you shall see me sad no more, if
you will bargain with me that you will be cheerful."
In a few minutes Lord Walton himself entered the room; but his
countenance bespoke no good tidings of her he had been in search of.
He had been unable to gain any information whatever, though he left no
effort unmade; and he was evidently deeply mortified and grieved, so
that the next two hours passed in sadness upon all parts.
While the necessary arrangements were made for lodging the party in
the house for the night, some occupation of a less sad character than
the loss of poor Arrah Neil was given to the thoughts of Miss Walton,
by all the little inconveniences and difficulties attendant upon the
sudden arrival of a large party in a mansion unprepared for their
reception. Though accustomed through life to every sort of comfort,
Annie Walton was not one to make much of trifles; and she was amused
rather than otherwise at all the small annoyances, and at the dismay
and embarrassment of her maids. When she returned from the rooms which
had been assigned to her and her female companions, to that which was
called in the house the picture-room, she found her brother conversing
in the window with his friend, with a bright and cheerful countenance,
which surprised her. The change was explained in a moment, however, by
Charles Walton holding out a dirty strip of paper to her, and saying,
"Here is news of our poor Arrah, Annie. She is safe, although I cannot
tell where."
Annie took the scrap of paper, and read, merely observing as she did
so, "This is not Arrah's hand: she writes beautifully."
The note ran as follows:--
MY LORDE,--This is to tell you, as I heer that you have been
a-running after pretty Arrah Neil all the evening, that she is saif in
this place, and as well as may be. I can't come just at present, for
reasons; but I will be over with you by cock-crow to-morrow morning,
and either bring her, if I can, or take you to her.--I subscribe
myself; my lorde, your obedient servant to command,
JOHN HURST.
"Francis here," said Lord Walton, when his sister had done reading,
"has been laughing at me for the reputation which I have acquired of
running after _pretty_ Arrah Neil during the whole evening; but I
think I may set laughs at defiance regarding her, Annie."
"I think so too," answered Miss Walton, with a smile; "but I wish we
knew where she is."
As often happens, however, when, in the midst of many cares and
anxieties, one subject of alarm and grief is removed, all the rest are
forgotten for the time, the news of poor Arrah's safety restored the
cheerfulness of all the party. We draw an augury of future happiness
from each blessing that befals us, from each relief that is afforded;
and it is not till new difficulties press upon us that apprehension
resumes its sway.
Cheerfulness then returned to the party assembled in Lord Beverley's
house; they sat down to the pleasant evening meal, which closed a day
of strife and danger, with hearts lightened and expectations raised;
the merry voices of the troopers who were supping in the hall below
gave them warning how best to treat the cares of the time; and if an
anxiety or thought of the future did break in for a moment upon them,
it was but to teach them to enjoy the present hour, inasmuch as no
forethought or grave contemplation could affect the coming events.
Lord Beverley exerted himself, without any apparent effort, to keep
the conversation in its cheerful tone; and when Miss Walton made some
inquiries as to any danger or difficulty which might lie upon the
march of the following day, he exclaimed gaily, "Away with such
thoughts, fair lady! we have taken every precaution; we have done all
that we can to guard against evil; we have true hearts and a good
cause; and in trust of God's protection let us enjoy these hours of
tranquillity. They are treasures, believe me, that are not often met
with; let us gather them whilst we can. The best of husbandry, depend
upon it, is to sift the corn from the chaff, to separate the gold from
the dross, in the portion of time that is allotted to us, and not to
mingle the sorrow of tomorrow with the enjoyment of to-day. Come, Miss
Walton," he added, "you must add to our present happiness by letting
us hear once more that sweet voice in song, such as delighted me at
Bishop's Merton."
"Nay, not to-night," said Annie Walton. "It is your turn now, my lord.
By all these instruments of music, I am sure you sing yourself. Is it
not so, Charles?"
"Beautifully!" replied Lord Walton; "and what is better than all,
Annie, he requires no pressing."
"I will, with all my heart," replied the cavalier, "but upon one
condition--that I am called no more 'my lord.' Charles Walton and
Francis Beverley have been too long brothers for the sister of either
to use so cold a term. What shall I sing? It must be of love in a
lady's presence, otherwise were I no true knight;" and taking a large
Venetian mandolin from the table behind him, he put it in tune, and
sang--
Light of my heart! my heart's intense desire!
Soul of my soul thou blossom and thou beam?
Thou kindlest day with more than summer's fire,
Thou bright'nest night like some celestial dream.
The sight of thee gives sunshine to my way,
Thy music breath brings rapture to my ear;
My thoughts thy thoughts, like willing slaves, obey,
Oh thou most beautiful! oh thou most dear!
One look of thine is worth a monarch's throne,
One smile from thee would raise the dying head;
One tear of thine would melt the heart of stone;
One kiss, one kiss, would vivify the dead.
Near thee the hours like moments fleet away;
Absent, they linger heavy on the view:
In life, in death, oh, let me with thee stay!
Oh thou most beautiful, most good, most true!
The voice was rich and mellow, with all the cultivation which the art
of Italy could at that time bestow. There was no effort, there was
nothing forced; every note seemed as much a part of the expression of
the thought as the words in which it was clothed. But there was a
fire, a warmth, an enthusiasm in the singer, which gave full depth and
power to the whole. It was impossible to see him and to hear him
without forgetting that he was singing a song composed probably long
before, and without believing that he was giving voice, in the only
way his feelings would permit, to the sensations of the moment.
Annie Walton knew not why, but her heart beat quickly as she sat and
listened; the long black eyelashes of her beautiful eyes remained sunk
towards the ground, and her fair cheek became pale as marble. She
would fain have looked up when the song was done--she would fain have
thanked the cavalier, and expressed her admiration of his music, but
she could do neither, and remained perfectly silent, while her brother
remarked the emotion which she felt, and turned his eyes with a smile
from her countenance to that of his friend.
But the earl, too, had fallen into thought, and with his hand leaning
upon the mandolin, which he had suffered to drop by his knee till it
reached the floor, seemed gazing upon the frets, as if the straight
lines of ivory contained some matter of serious contemplation. Miss
Walton coloured as she marked the silence, and looking suddenly up
said one or two commonplace words, which at once betrayed an effort.
They served, however, to renew the conversation again.
Another and another song succeeded, and, after about an hour spent in
this manner, the party separated and retired to rest, while Annie
Walton asked herself, with an agitated breast, "What is the meaning of
this?" The sensations were new to her, and for more than an hour they
banished sleep from her pillow.
CHAPTER IX.
We must now change the scene, and without much consideration of the
"pathos and bathos delightful to see," must remove the reader from the
higher and more refined society of Lord Walton, his sister, and the
Earl of Beverley, to the small sanded parlour of the little alehouse
in the village. We must also advance in point of time for about three
hours, and put the hour-hand of the clock midway between the figures
one and two, while the minute-hand is quietly passing over the six.
All was still in the place; the soldiery were taking their brief
repose, except a sentinel who walked up and down, pistol in hand, at
each entrance of the village; and the villagers themselves, having
recovered from the excitement caused by the arrival of the party, and
the drinking and merriment which followed it, had taken possession of
such beds as the troopers left them, and were enjoying the sweet but
hard-earned slumber of daily labour.
Two living creatures occupied the parlour of the alehouse: a large
tabby cat, which--as if afraid that the mice upon which she waged such
interminable and strategetic war might take advantage of her own
slumbers to surprise her--had mounted upon a three-legged stool, and
was enjoying her dreams in peace, curled up in a comfortable ball; and
Captain Barecolt, who, seated in a wooden arm-chair, with his long
leg-bones, still in their immemorial boots, stretched upon another,
kept watch, if such it could be called, with a large jug of ale beside
him, from which he took every now and then deep draughts, for the
purpose, as he mentally declared, of "keeping himself awake."
The effect was not exactly such as he expected, for from time to time
he fell into a doze, from which a sort of drowsy consciousness of the
proximity of the ale roused him up every quarter of an hour, to make a
new application to the tankard. At length, feeling that these naps
were becoming longer, he drew his legs off the chair, muttering--
"This won't do! I shall have that dried herring, Randal, upon me; I
must take a pipe and smoke it out."
And thereupon he moved hither and thither in the parlour, looking for
the implements necessary in the operation to which he was about to
apply himself. These were speedily found, and a few whiffs soon
enveloped him in a cloud as thick as that in which Homer's Jove was
accustomed to enshrine himself on solemn occasions; and in the midst
of this, the worthy captain continued ruminating upon the mighty deeds
he had done and was to do.
He thought over the past, and congratulated himself upon his vast
renown; for Captain Barecolt was one of those happy men who have a
facility of believing their own fictions. He was convinced that, if he
could but count them up, he had performed more feats of valour and
slaughtered more bloody enemies than Amadis de Gaul, Launcelot of the
Lake, the Admiral de Coligni, or the Duke of Alva. It was true he
thought such events soon passed from the minds of great men, being
common occurrences with them, so that he could not remember one-half
of what he had done, which he only regretted for the sake of society;
but he was quite sure that whenever opportunities served he should be
found superior to any of the great captains of the age, and that merit
and time must lead him to the highest distinction. This led him on to
futurity, and he made up his mind that the first thing he would do
should be to save the king's life when attacked on every side by
fifteen or sixteen horsemen. For this, of course, he would be knighted
on the spot, and receive the command of a regiment of horse, with
which he proposed to march at once to London, depose the lord mayor,
and, proceeding to the Parliament-house, dissolve the Parliament,
seize the speaker and twelve of the principal members, and hang Sir
Harry Vane. This, he thought, would be work enough for one day; but
the next morning he would march out with all the cavaliers he could
collect, defeat the Earl of Essex on one side, rout Waller on the
other, and then, with his prisoners, proceed to head-quarters, where,
of course, he would be appointed general-in-chief, and in that
capacity would bring the king to London.
What he would do next was a matter of serious consideration, for, the
war being at an end, Othello's occupation was gone; and as, during all
this time he had made sundry applications to his friend the tankard,
his imagination was becoming somewhat heavy on the wing, so that, in a
minute or two after he fell sound asleep, while the pipe dropped
unnoticed from his hand, and fractured its collar-bone upon the floor.
He had scarcely been asleep ten minutes when the door of the room
slowly opened, and a round head covered with short curls was thrust
in, with part of a burly pair of shoulders. The door was then pushed
partly open, and in walked a stout man in a good brown coat, who,
advancing quietly to the side of Captain Deciduous Barecolt, laid his
hand upon his arm. Now, what Captain Barecolt was dreaming of at that
moment it is impossible for the author of these pages to tell; but his
vision would appear to have been pugnacious, for the instant the
intruder's grasp touched his left arm he started up, and, stretching
out his right hand to a pistol which lay between the tankard and
himself on the table, snatched it up, levelled it at the head of his
visiter, and pulled the trigger.
Luckily for the brains, such as they were, of poor John Hurst (for he
was the person who had entered), in the last unsteady potations of the
bellicose captain, a few drops of ale had been spilt upon the pan of
the deadly weapon; and though the flint struck fire, no flash
succeeded, much to the astonishment of Barecolt, and the relief of his
companion.
"D--n the man!" cried Hurst, reeling back in terror; "what art thou
about? Dost thou go to shoot a man without asking, 'with your leave,
or by your leave?'"
"Never wake a sleeping tiger!" exclaimed Barecolt, with a graceful
wave of his hand. "You may think yourself profoundly lucky, master
yeoman, that you have got as much brains left in that round box of
yours as will serve to till your farm, for this hand never yet missed
anything within shot of a pistol or reach of a sword. I remember very
well once, in the island of Sardinia, a Corsican thought fit to
compare his nose to mine, upon which I told him that the first time we
met I would leave him no nose to boast of. He, being a wise man, kept
ever after out of reach of my hands; but one day, when he thought
himself in security upon a high bank, he called out to me, 'Ha! ha!
capitaine, I have got my nose still!' upon which, drawing out my
pistol, I aimed at his face, and, though the distance was full a
hundred yards, with the first shot I cut off his proboscis at the
root, so that it dropped down upon the road, and I picked it up and
put it in my pocket."
"It must have been somewhat thin in the stalk," said Hurst; "no good
stout English nose, I warrant you. But come, captain, you must take me
up to my lord. The sentry passed me on to you, and I want help
directly, for there is a nest of Roundheads not five miles from here,
who have got that poor little girl in their hands, and are brewing
mischief against us to-morrow. Half-a-dozen men may take them
to-night, but we may have hard work of it if we wait till daylight."
Captain Barecolt paused and meditated; a glorious opportunity of
buying distinction cheaply seemed now before him, and the only
difficulty was how to keep it all in his own hands.
"I cannot disturb the commander," he said, in a solemn tone, after a
few minutes' consideration; "that's quite impossible, my friend.
Faith, if you want help, you must be content with mine and
half-a-dozen soldiers of my troop. I am a poor creature, it is true,"
he continued, in a tone of affected modesty, "and not able to do so
much service as some men. I never killed above seventeen enemies in a
day; and the best thing I have to boast of is, having blown up a fort
containing three hundred men with my own unassisted hand. However,
what poor aid I can give you may command. We will take six picked men
with us, if that be enough; you and I will make eight; and if there be
not more than a hundred and fifty of the enemy, I think we could
manage."
"A hundred and fifty!" cried Hurst. "Why, there are but seven, and one
of them is not a fighting man."
"Who may they be?" asked Barecolt, in a solemn tone; "If there be but
seven we shall have no need of any men; I will go alone. Who may they
be?"
"Why, there's that Captain Batten, whom my lord took away prisoner, I
hear," replied Hurst; "then there's a Dr. Bostwick, a parliamentary
committee man; then there's old Dry, of Longsoaken, who dragged away
the girl while you were all fighting at the bridge; the other four
are, I hear, common councilmen of Coventry, though they are all decked
out in buff and bandolier, as if they were fire-eating soldiers just
come from the wars. They were laying a plan before they went to bed
for bringing troops from Coventry round about my lord and his men,
while two regiments of Essex's, that are marching into the north, were
to have warning, and cut off the retreat."
"Ha! ha! ha!" cried Captain Barecolt, "we will cut off theirs. Have
you got a horse, master yeoman? I think yours was killed in the
field."
"Ay, that it was," answered Hurst, "to my loss and sorrow; as good a
beast as ever was crossed, and cost me twenty pound."
"We will mount you, we will mount you," said the captain; "there are a
dozen and more good horses which forgot their riders yesterday, and
left them lying by the bridge. We may as well have half-a-dozen men
with us, however, just to tie the prisoners, for that is not work for
gentlemen; so you sit down and take a glass of ale, and I will get all
things ready."
In the course of about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, Captain
Barecolt had called to his aid eight men of the troop whom he could
most depend upon; and after having brought down Major Randal's cornet
to take his post during his absence, and mounted good John Hurst on
the horse of a trooper who had been killed the day before, he led the
way out of the little town, and, guided by the yeoman across the
country, advanced slowly towards another village situated in the
plain, about five or six miles from that in which they had taken up
their quarters. The country was open, without woods or hedges, but the
night was profoundly dark, and the wind sighing in long gusts over the
open fields. Nothing was to be seen except the glimmer of a piece of
water here and there, till they approached the village to which their
steps were bent, when one or two lights became visible amongst the
houses, as if, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, all the
inhabitants had not yet retired to rest. One of these lights, too, as
if proceeding from a lantern, appeared moving about in the gardens;
and Captain Barecolt, turning to Hurst, asked him, in a low voice--
"What is the meaning of those lights?"
"I don't know," answered the yeoman. "It was all dark when I crept
away."
"We shall soon see," rejoined Barecolt. "You are sure there are no
troops in the place?"
"There were none when I left it," replied Hurst; but, almost as he
spoke, a loud voice exclaimed--
"Stand! Who goes there?"
"A friend," answered Barecolt.
"Stand, and give the word!" repeated the voice, and at the same
moment, a small red spot of fire, as if produced by a man blowing a
match, appeared immediately before them; and Barecolt, spurring on his
horse, found himself in the presence of a matchlock-man, at whose head
he aimed a cut with his heavy sword, which rang sharply upon a steel
cap, and brought the man upon his knee.
He fired his piece, however, but he missed his mark, and threw down
the gun, while Barecolt, catching him by the shoulder, put his sword
to his throat, exclaiming--
"Yield, or you are a dead man!"
The sentinel had no hesitation on the subject, having already received
a sharp wound on the head, which left him little inclination to court
more.
"Now tell me who is in the village," exclaimed Barecolt; "and see that
you tell truth, for your life depends upon it."
"Three companies of Colonel Harris's regiment," answered the soldier,
"and a troop of Lord Essex's own horse."
"The number?" demanded Barecolt.
"Four hundred foot and a hundred troopers," replied the man;
and having a little recovered from his first apprehension, he
demanded--"Who may you be?"
"My name is Johnson," answered Barecolt, readily, "first captain of
Sir Nicholas Jarvis's regiment of horse, marching up to join the Earl
of Beverley and Lord Walton at Hendon, near Coventry. We thought they
were quartered in this village: whereabout do they lie?"
"Oh, no," answered the man, "they are five miles to the east, we hear,
and we were to attack them on the march tomorrow."
"Are you telling me the truth?" said Barecolt, in a stern tone; "but I
will make sure of that, for I will take you with me to Sir Nicholas
Jarvis, and if we find you have cheated us as to where they lie,
you shall be shot to-morrow at daybreak. Tie his hands, some of
you---- Hark! there is a drum! There, curse him, let him go; we have
no time to spare; I must get back to Sir Nicholas, and let him know we
are on the wrong road."
Thus saying, he turned his horse and rode away, followed by the rest
of his party; while the tramp of men coming down fast from the village
was heard behind them.
The reader need not be told that Ca
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