"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.
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 ofvertùand 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 afterprettyArrah 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!
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.
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 Captain Barecolt never had the slightest intention of carrying off the wounded sentinel with him; for, having filled him with false intelligence regarding the march of his imaginary regiment, he was very glad to leave him behind to communicate it to his fellows in the place. In the meanwhile, he himself gave orders for putting the horses into a quick trot, and returning with all speed to the village, where, without communicating any tidings he had gained to any one, he left his men, and hurried up with Hurst to the mansion on the hill.
The earl and Lord Walton were immediately called up, and Barecolt, being admitted to their presence, made his statement. We are by no means so rash as to assert that the account he gave was altogether true; for Captain Deciduous Barecolt, much more skilful than the writer of this tale, never lost sight of his hero, and his hero was always himself; but, at all events, the intelligence he brought of the enemy was accurate enough, and the stratagem he had used to deceive the foe was also told correctly, and received great commendation. He was sent down immediately, however, to call Major Randal to the council, and, in the mean time, the two young noblemen eagerly questioned Hurst as to what he had seen and heard amongst the adverse party.
The good yeoman's tale was told briefly and simply, and showed the following facts:--After his horse had been killed, he had carried off his saddle and the other worldly goods which he possessed; and finding that, without being of any service to his party, he was in imminent danger of losing his own life from the stray shots that were flying about in different directions, he made the best of his way to the back of the little mound we have mentioned, and thence peeped out to see the progress of the fight. Perceiving at one time, as he imagined, the small force of Royalists wavering in their attack upon the musketeers, he judged it expedient, lest his friends should be defeated, to put a greater distance between himself and the enemy; and taking all the articles that were most valuable to him out of the saddle, he left it behind him, and hurried on for about a mile farther, where he took up his position in a ditch. While thus ensconced, he saw the well-known form of Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, together with that of another gentleman, whom he afterwards found to be Captain Batten. Between these two appeared poor Arrah Neil, of whose arm Dry retained a firm grasp, while he held a pistol in his right hand, under the authority of which he seemed to be hurrying her on unresistingly.
In about a quarter of an hour more, some fugitive musketeers ran by as fast as they could go, and shortly after, several of Major Randal's troopers appeared in pursuit; but as Hurst was unacquainted with the soldiers, he prudently resolved to lie concealed where he was till some of his lord's followers should come up, which he calculated would be shortly the case, fearing he might be taken for one of the enemy, or at all events that he might be plundered by a friend--an operation as common in those days as in the present, though then it was done with pistol and broadsword, and now, in general, with pen and ink.
Towards the end of the day some of Lord Walton's men did appear, and spoke a word to him in passing, from which he gathered that they were searching for Arrah Neil; but, with the usual acuteness of persons sent upon a search, they rode on without waiting for any information he could give. Having marked the road which Dry and his companions had taken, Hurst then determined to follow them, and made his way to the village, in which they halted for the night. His plan had proved successful, he said; he had found the two parliamentary committee men, together with Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, lodged in a house in the village, and, boldly seeking out Dry, he gave him to understand that he had been taken by Lord Walton to join the king against his will, and was now making the best of his way home. He affected some fear of being overtaken; and in order to reassure him, Dry and Dr. Bastwick communicated to him the intelligence they received in the course of the evening from the men of Coventry, in regard to the movement of parliamentary forces. This took place some hours subsequently, however, to the despatch of his note to Lord Walton, and he could not make his escape from the village, in order to carry more accurate tidings to his young landlord, till Dry and the rest had retired to bed.
As soon as Major Randal arrived, a hasty consultation was held, to ascertain the course of proceedings which it would be expedient to follow. It was determined, notwithstanding great reluctance on the part of Lord Walton, to leave poor Arrah Neil in the hands of Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, that the march should be immediately commenced; and orders were given to that effect, which at once produced all the bustle and confusion of hasty departure. Miss Walton was called up, and, dressing herself hastily, was soon placed upon horseback once more, for it was determined to leave the carriages behind; and in about an hour the two noblemen and their followers, with Major Randal's troop, were marching on, in the grey of the dawn, directing their steps towards Coventry. A small guard was left over the prisoners, with orders to remain behind about an hour, and then to leave them and follow with all speed, in order that the departure of the troops might be accomplished as secretly as possible. No trumpet was sounded; and if it had been possible to carry out King Lear's plan, and shoe a troop of horse with felt, it would have been upon the present occasion.
Though that could not be accomplished, all their proceedings were conducted with as much silence as possible; and Miss Walton, riding between her brother and the Earl of Beverley, had plenty of time for thought. The sky had changed from grey to purple and gold; the expanse of the heavens had lost its glorious hues, as the sun rose up above the horizon; and the morning of a somewhat dull and heavy day had fully dawned ere any one spoke, except, indeed, when the few short words of command and direction were necessary. The countenance of Lord Walton was grave, and even sad; and his sister, who watched it with some anxiety, at length inquired--
"Do you anticipate any great danger, Charles? You look very gloomy."
"Oh, no, dearest Annie," he answered; "I think we are so far before our enemies that we shall without doubt be able to join the king before they are aware of our departure. But I cannot think of being obliged to leave that poor girl in the hands of that old hypocrite Dry, without feeling very sad. If he treat her ill, woe be to him should he and I ever meet again! but I trust he will be afraid to endanger his sanctified reputation. That is my only hope."
The earl now joined in, with that tone of calm cheerfulness which is the most persuasive of hope; and with the peculiar charms of his conversation, and the continued and brilliant variety which it displayed, led the thoughts of his companions to happier themes, and almost made them believe that brighter days were before them. Since the preceding night his manner had much changed towards Miss Walton: there was a tenderness in it, a tone which can only be called the tone of love; and though both were more silent than they previously had been, yet each, in that silence, was thinking of the other, and it is very dangerous so to do, unless we are disposed to yield to feelings which in the end may master us altogether. Coquetry may talk, may carry on uninterrupted observation and reply; indifference may pursue the calm and easy current of conversation; and avowed and satisfied love may hold unbroken communion upon all the many subjects of thought and imagination; but in its early day true passion is fitful in its eloquence, full of silence and interruptions, for it is full of thought; and the voice of feeling is often the strongest when the lips are motionless and the tongue is mute.
But we will dwell no more upon such matters, for we have action before us instead of thought, deeds rather than sensations. After a march of about four hours, and a short pause for refreshment, the advanced party of the troop was seen to halt upon a small eminence, while one of the troopers rode back at full speed, bringing the intelligence that they descried a considerable body of men drawn up at a short distance from Coventry.
"Are we so near?" said Miss Walton.
"Within three miles," replied the earl. "That is the spire of St. Michael's Church rising over the slope. You will see the city as soon as we pass the rise. Think you these are the king's troops, Major Randal?"
"Ay, such troops as they are," answered the old officer; "we must have more and better before we do much service."
"It will be as well to despatch some one to see," said Lord Walton. "I will send two of my servants, major. Here, Langan and Hartup, ride on with all speed, and bring me back news of the people who are before Coventry. I cannot divine why the king should halt before the gates."
"There may be rogues within," said Major Randal. And so it proved; for, on their arrival at the top of the slope, where Coventry, with its wide walls and beautiful spires, rose fair before them, they saw a fire of musketry opened from the city upon a small party of royalist troops, which approached too near the gates.
Marching rapidly on, as soon as it was ascertained that the force they saw was that of Charles himself, they soon reached the monarch's army, if so it could be called, and Annie Walton found herself in the midst of a new and animated scene.
The king's face expressed much grief and vexation, as, sitting upon a powerful horse, he consulted with some of his principal officers as to what was to be done on the rebellious refusal of Coventry, to give him admission. But when he turned to receive the little reinforcement which now joined him, his countenance assumed a glad and cheerful look; and as Lord Walton, dismounting, approached his stirrup, he held out his hand to him graciously, saying--
"Those are kind friends and loyal subjects, indeed, my lord, who rally round their sovereign when more favoured men forsake him. Your own presence, my good sir, is the best answer you could give to my letters. We must retreat, I fear, however, from before these inhospitable walls; for we have no cannon to blow open their gates, and even if I had, I could wish to spare my subjects."
"Ah, sire!" said Major Randal, who had also advanced to the king's side, "when subjects draw the sword against their king, both parties should throw away the scabbard, for it is the blade must decide all."
"Too rough, and yet too true," said his majesty; and after a few more words addressed to Lord Beverley and Miss Walton, the king turned his horse, and rode off with his attendants towards Stonely, leaving the small force by which he was accompanied to follow.