Three or four days had elapsed, and the party in whose fate we have interested ourselves had reached the town of Nottingham in safety; but gloom and despondency hung over the court of the king, over the small force at his command, and over the whole city. Proclamation had been made for all loyal subjects to join the monarch in Nottingham; and it had been announced on that day, the 25th of August, 1642, that Charles would set up his royal standard against his rebellious parliament. Few persons, however, joined him; not a single regiment of foot had been raised; the body of horse which he had led to Coventry had been little increased since he had retreated from that city; the artillery and ammunition from York had not yet arrived; and sadness was upon every brow, and apprehension in every heart.
The evening was dark and gloomy, the wind rising in sharp and howling gusts; large drops of rain were borne upon the blast, and everything promised a night of tempest, when the king, accompanied by all the noblemen and gentlemen who had joined him, set out on horseback for the hill on which stands the old castle of Nottingham, with the knight-marshal before him bearing the royal standard, and a small body of the train-bands accompanying it as a guard. On reaching the spot destined for the ceremony, the standard-pole was fixed with great difficulty, amidst the roll of the drum and the loud blasts of the trumpet. But neither the war-stirring sound of the drum nor the inspiring voice of the trumpet could cheer the hearts of those around, or give them confidence even in the success of a good cause; and, with the same sadness with which they had gone thither, the royal party returned from the castle hill just as the evening was growing grey with night.
Some four or five hours after, Lord Walton, who had participated fully in the gloomy feelings which pervaded the whole court, rose from the supper-table at which he had been seated with his sister, the Earl of Beverley, and one or two friends who had joined them in Nottingham; and said--
"My head aches, dearest Annie; I will walk up to the castle hill and take a look at the standard. The air will do me good."
"I will go with you, Charles," said Miss Walton, rising. "I will not keep you a minute."
"Nay, not in such a night as this, Annie," answered her brother. "Do you not hear how the wind blows, as if it would force in those rattling casements?"
"Oh, I mind not the wind," replied Annie Walton: "you shall lend me your arm, Charles; it will always be strong enough to steady your sister's steps."
"God grant it, dear one!" replied Lord Walton. "Well, come! I do wish to talk with you, Annie, upon many things;" and in a few minutes they were in the streets of Nottingham.
The wind was even more violent than they had expected; but the tall houses of the good old town, though exposed by its position to the blasts, gave them some shelter; and as they walked along, Lord Walton, after a few minutes' silence, put his right hand upon his sister's, which grasped his arm, and said, "I wish to speak to you of the future, dear one. Danger and strife are before me. It is impossible for you to follow the movements of an army, and therefore I wish, before I march hence, to take you to the house of our good old cousin, Lady Margaret Langley, where you may rest in safety."
"I will go, Charles, if you wish it," replied Miss Walton; "but it must be only upon the condition that no restraint be put upon my movements, and that whenever there is a pause in the war, I may be allowed to follow and be near you."
"Of course, dear sister," replied her brother; "I don't pretend to restrain you in anything, Annie. You are old enough, and wise enough, and good enough, to decide entirely upon your own actions. You must keep several of the servants with you to guard you and protect you wherever you go. You must also have a sufficient sum to put you above any circumstances of difficulty, whatever you may think fit to do."
"Oh! I have the jewels, you know, Charles," said Miss Walton, "and more money of my own with me than will be needful."
"Well, we will see to that hereafter." said Lord Walton; "but there is another subject on which I would speak to you. No one can tell what may be the chance of war. I may go safely through the whole of this sad strife, and see the end of it. I may fall the first shot that is fired. But if I do, Annie, you will need some strong arm and powerful mind to protect and support you. In that case, I would leave you, as a legacy, as a trust, as a charge, to the best friend I have on earth--the oldest, the dearest. Francis Beverley loves you, Annie."
"Hush! oh, hush, Charles!" cried Miss Walton, and he felt her hand tremble upon his arm.
"Nay, sweet sister!" continued her brother; "I asked you for no confessions. Your tale is told already, dear girl. All I ask is, will you, when I am gone, without reserve or woman's vain reluctance, trust in him, rely on him, as you do on me?"
His sister was silent for a moment, and he repeated--"Will you, Annie, forget all coyness, all unkind and ungenerous diffidence, and, recollecting he has been a brother to your brother, confide in him as such?"
Annie Walton paused again for a single instant, and then, with her face bent down, though no one could see her glowing cheek in the darkness, she murmured, "I will."
Lord Walton pressed her hand in his, and then in silence led the way up to the hill.
It was with difficulty that they ascended, so fierce were the gusts of wind; but the very violence of the blast scattered from time to time the drifting clouds, and the moon occasionally looked forth and cast a wavering light upon their path. Not a soul, however, did they meet in their way; all was still and silent but the howling of the tempest, till at length, when they reached the top, the voice of a sentinel exclaimed as usual--"Stand! Who goes there?"
"A friend," replied Lord Walton; and before the man could demand it, he gave the word for the night, saying, "The crown."
"Pass!" replied the sentinel; and he walked on with his sister clinging to his arm.
The moon shone out again; and Miss Walton and her brother both gazed forward towards the spot where the standard had stood. They could not see it; and hurrying on their steps, they found four or five of the train-band standing round the place. The standard itself was lying fiat upon the ground.
In answer to Lord Walton's questions, the men informed him that the wind had blown it down, and that they found it was impossible to raise it again; and turning sadly away, the young nobleman murmured in a low voice to his sister, "God send this be not an omen of our royal master's fate!"
In a small tavern at Nottingham was a large but low-roofed room, with the heavy beams, blackened by smoke, almost touching the heads of some of the taller guests; in which, on the night after that of which we have just spoken, were assembled as many persons as it could well contain; and a strange scene of confusion it presented. Hats and feathers, swords and daggers, pipes and glasses, bottles and plates, big men and little, men of war and men of peace; an atmosphere composed of smoke, of the fumes of wine, the smell of strong waters and of beer, and the odour of several large pieces of roast meat, together with sounds of innumerable kinds, oaths, cries for the tapster and the boy, loud laughter, low murmurs, the hoarse accusation, the fierce rejoinder, the sustained discussion, the prosy tale, and the dull snore, as well as the half-drunken song, had all their place in the apartment, which might well have been supposed the tap-room of the tower of Babel. The house was, in short, a place of resort for the lower order of Cavaliers, and the hour that at which the greater part having supped, were betaking themselves to their drink with the laudable determination, then but too common, of leaving themselves as little wit as possible till the next morning.
"Basta, basta!It sufficeth!" cried a tall man with a peculiarly constructed nose. "I would find the good youth if he were in a hundred Hulls. What's Hull to me? or I to Hull? as the poet says. I know, if I can bring the girl back out of his clutches, where a hundred crowns are to be got. We have open hands amongst us; but mark me, master, if you are deceiving me, I will cut your ears off."
The man whom he addressed was a small, sharp-eyed man, reddish in the hair and pale about the gills; but he answered stoutly, "That's what you dare not, Master Barecolt."
"Dare not!" cried Barecolt, seizing a knife that lay upon the table, and starting up with an ominous look--"Dare not! What is it that I dare not? Now, look you, repeat that word again, and you shall go forth from this room with no more ears than a grinder's cur. Dare not! thou small chandler, I could break you across my knee like a piece of rotten wood."
There was some truth in what he said, and the small man felt the force of that truth, so that he thought it expedient to lower his tone.
"I meant I would take the law of you if you did," he said; "so no more of cutting off ears, Master Barecolt, for we have sharp justices in Nottingham. But what I said is very true. I know old Dry very well; have known him, indeed, these twelve years. When first he used to come to Hull to buy goods of the Hamburghers, I had a shop there, where he used to stop and take a glass of cinnamon now and then. But he has grown a great man now, and would hardly notice an old acquaintance, especially as he was riding with men of war."
"And you are sure he had a woman with him?" asked Barecolt, resuming his seat and filling his glass.
"A sort of girl, mayhap some sixteen years of age," answered his companion. "She looked somewhat rueful too, with her eyes cast down upon the ground as she rode along."
"That's she," replied Barecolt; "'tis beyond all doubt. What does the dried herring at Hull, I wonder? Let me see. It would take some threescore men to capture Hull, I doubt?"
"Threescore!" exclaimed the other; "some thirty thousand, you mean."
Barecolt gave him a look of unutterable contempt. "Four petards," he said, continuing his own calculations in an under tone, "for the outer gate, the bridge, the inner gate, and one to spare, ha! threescore men--half must be musketeers. Well, there is Hughes's company. I will do it."
"You had better not try," answered his companion. "I could tell you a much better plan, if you would strike a bargain in an honest way, and give me half the reward for finding this young woman, as you say there are great folks looking after her."
"Half the reward, thou little Carthagenian!" exclaimed Barecolt. "By my faith! if you have half the reward, you shall have the danger too; and a quarter of it would turn your liver as white as a hen pigeon's."
"Why, I will save you all danger, if you will listen to me," answered the small gentleman. "I will tell you my plan, and you shall judge, and whatever risk there is, I will share readily enough. I know all the houses that Dry frequents in Hull; all his haunts, from the store where he used to buy dried beef and neats' tongues salted, to the shop where he used to take the fourth glass of strong waters. If you will put off your swagger and your feathers, clothe yourself like a Puritan, and walk demurely, we will take two companions, slip into Hull with a couple of horse-loads of drapery, find out where Master Dry lodges, and while I busy him with a little speculation in his own way, by which I can easily make him believe that he will fill his pockets, you can deal with the girl, and get her out of the city."
"Clothe myself like a puritan!" said Barecolt, thoughtfully, "that is the only difficult part of the affair; for unless I steal old Major Randal's suit of black, where I am to get a pious doublet I know not. The fifty crowns Lord Walton gave me have been spent on this new bravery, and sundry pottle pots, together with things that shall be nameless, friend Tibbets; but, by my faith! I will go and ask the good lord for more. He will not grudge the pistoles if we can get Mistress Arrah back again to him. He's as fond of her as a hen of her chickens, yet all in honour, Master Tibbets, all in honour, upon my life. I will go this minute, as soon as I have finished this pint;" and again he filled his glass, and drained it at a draught.
He then rose from his seat, and was in the act of saying, "Wait here for me, and I will be back in a minute," when an officer was seen dimly through the smoke, entering by the door on the other side of the room. After gazing round for a moment, from table to table, he exclaimed aloud, "Is one Captain Barecolt here? He is wanted by the king."
"I knew it?" cried Barecolt, giving a towering look at Master Tibbets. "I was sure of it--my great services, sir, my name is Barecolt, and your very humble servant."
The officer gazed at him with a look of some consideration and surprise. "My good friend," he said, "you seem scarcely fit to obey the king's summons. You have been drinking."
"So does his majesty, I wot, when he thirsty," replied Barecolt, nothing abashed; "but if it be of proportions you speak, if it be quantity which makes the difference, I will soon remedy the amount of wine within, by the application of water without. I am not drunk, sir; I never was drunk in my life. No, sir, nor was I ever the worse for liquor, as it is termed, though often much the better for it. But whenever I find my eyes a little misty, and see a fringe round the candles, or feel the floor move in an unusual manner, or the cups dance without any one touching them, I have a secret for remedying such irregularities, which secret lies, like truth, in the bottom of a well. Hold, Tapster! I have drunk wine enough to-night to justify me in calling for water, even in a tavern. Tapster, I say, get me a bucket of cold water from the pump, and put it down before the door, then bring a napkin to take off the superfluous. I remember when I was in the Palatinate going to see the great tun----"
"Sir, we have no time for tales," said the officer drily; "the king waits. Make yourself as sober as you can, and as speedily as possible."
"Sir, I am with you in an instant," rejoined Barecolt. "Master Tibbets, wait here till I come back. You can finish the tankard for me; it is paid for."
Thus saying, he went forth, and returned in a few minutes, buttoning up his collar, with his scattered hair somewhat dishevelled and dripping; and, saying he was ready, he followed the officer, making another sign to Tibbets to wait for his return.
"Who is that fellow?"
"What the devil can the king want with him?"
"Why, it's Captain Barecolt, of Randal's."
"I think the king might have chosen a better man."
"That's a lie. There is not a better man in the service."
"He's a bragging fool."
"I dare say a coward too."
"No, no, no coward, for all his brags."
Such were some of the observations which followed Barecolt's departure with the officer, while they wended on their way through the streets of Nottingham to the king's lodging, whither we shall take leave to follow them. The style and semblance of a court was kept up long after the royal authority was gone; and in the first room which Barecolt entered were a number of servants and attendants. Beyond that was a vacant chamber, and then a small anteroom, in which a pale boy, in a page's dress, sat reading by a lamp. He looked up, as the captain and his conductor appeared, but did not offer to move till the officer told him to go in, and say to his majesty, that Captain Barecolt was in attendance; on which he rose, opened a door opposite, and knocked at a second, which appeared within. Voices were heard speaking; and, after a moment's pause, the boy repeated the signal, when the door was opened, and he made the announcement.
"Let him wait," was the reply; and for about twenty minutes the worthy captain remained, his head getting each moment cooler, and freer from the fumes of the wine; but his fancy only became the more active and rampant, and running away with him over the open plain of possibility, without the slightest heed of whither she was carrying her rider. Having already given the reader a sample of her doings with Captain Barecolt in a preceding chapter, we will spare him on the present occasion, especially as it would take much more time to recount her vagaries in the good gentleman's brain that it did for her to enact them.
At length the door opened, and a voice pronounced the words, "Captain Barecolt!" at which sound the captain advanced and entered, not without some trepidation, for there is something in majesty, even when shorn of its beams, that is not to be lightlied by common men.
The king was seated at a table in a small room, with lights and papers before him, and three or four gentlemen were standing round, of whom Barecolt knew but one, even by sight. That one was the Earl of Beverley, who, with a packet of letters in his hand, stood a little behind and on the right of the king. The monarch wore his hat and plume, and the full light was shining on his fine melancholy features, which looked more sad rather than more cheerful for a faint smile that was passing over his lip. His fair right hand lay upon the table, with the fingers clasped round a roll of papers, upon which they closed and opened more than once, while Barecolt advanced to the end of the table with a low bow; and the monarch gazed at him attentively for a few moments.
"Your name is Barecolt?" asked the king at length.
"It is, may it please your majesty," replied the captain. "You have been much in France, I think?" continued Charles.
"Many years, sire," answered the soldier, "and speak the language as my own."
"Good!" said the king. "With what parts of the country are you most acquainted?"
"With all parts, your majesty," rejoined the captain, who was beginning to recover his loquacity, which had been somewhat checked by the first effect of the king's presence. "I have been in the north, sire, where I fought against Fuentez; and I have travelled all over the ground round Paris. I know every part of Picardy and the Isle of France. Normandy, too, I have run through in every direction, and could find my way from Caudabec to Alençon with my eyes blindfolded. Poitou and Maine I am thoroughly conversant with; and know all the towns on the Loire and in the Orleannois, the passes of the Cevennes, the Forez, and the Vivarais."
But Charles waved his hand, saying, "Enough! enough! Now, tell me, if you were landed on the coast of Normandy, say at Pont au-de-Mer, and had to make your way secretly to Paris, what course would you take?"
"Please your majesty, Pont au-de-Mer is not a seaport," replied Barecolt. The king smiled, and Barecolt continued, "I know it well, and a pretty little town it is, upon the Rille."
"Well, well," said the king; "suppose you were landed at Harfleur, then, I did but wish to try you, sir, how would you direct your course for Paris from Harfleur?"
"If I were to go secretly, may it please your majesty," was the reply, "I do not think I should go near Pont au-de-Mer at all, for then I must pass through Rouen, where they are cute and cunning, ask all sorts of questions, and look to passes sharply. No; I would rather take a little round by Lisieux, Evreux, and Pacy, or perhaps, keep still farther out from the Seine, and come upon Paris by Dreux, Pontchartrain, and Versailles. Then they would never suspect one came from the sea-side."
The king slowly nodded his head with a satisfied air, saying, "I see you know what you speak of, my friend. My Lord of Beverley, this will do. If you wish to ask him any more questions before you trust yourself to his guidance, pray do so."
"Oh no, sire," replied the earl; "I satisfied myself by my conversation with Major Randal, before I spoke with your majesty on the subject. He assures me that Captain Barecolt knows France well, and I have had cause to be aware that he is a serviceable companion in moments of danger. There is but one bad habit, which I trust Captain Barecolt will lay aside for the time: that is, too much talking. I am going, sir, to Paris, on business of importance. The road that I know is not now open to me, and I have need of one to accompany me who is well acquainted with the country through which I have to pass. By his majesty's permission, and on Major Randal's recommendation, I have chosen you, sir, for a service which will be rewarded as according as it is well performed. But you must recollect that the least whisper that I am not what I seem may prove my ruin, though it can benefit no other party, as it is to avoid sending despatches that I go myself."
"You need not be afraid, my lord," replied Barecolt; "for, though I am a soldier of fortune, yet it has ways been my rule to stick to the cause I first espouse till my engagement be up. If I do sell myself to the best bidder, as soon as I have touched a crown the market is over. I am no more for sale. The goods are disposed of; and if I were to go over to the enemy even for an hour, I should look upon it that I was stealing myself a sort offelo de sein the code of honour, which I never did, and never will be guilty of. Then, as for discretion, my lord, I declare upon my word, that all the time I am with you I will not utter one syllable of truth. I will be all one tall lie, saving his majesty's presence. You shan't have to accuse me of speaking truth indiscreetly, depend upon it."
"But speaking too much at all, Master Barecolt, may do as much harm," replied Lord Beverley: "a lie is a difficult thing to manage."
"For those who are not accustomed to it, my lord," replied Barecolt, with a low bow; "but I am experienced, sir and owe my life some twenty times over to a well-managed fiction. Oh a clumsy lie is a hateful thing, not to be tolerated amongst gentlemen; and a timid lie is still worse, for it shows cowardice; but a good bold falsehood, well supported and dexterously planted, is as good as a battery at any time."
"Not a very creditable sort of weapon," said the king, with a grave brow. "But enough of this, sir. Where to deceive an enemy in open strife, to gain a mighty object, such as security, or conceal one's needful proceedings from the eyes of those who have no right to pry, is the end proposed, some palliation may be found, perhaps, for a deviation from the strict truth. Would it were not sometimes necessary!" he added, looking round, as if doubtful of the approval of all present; "but, at all events, to speak unnecessary untruths is as dangerous as it is foolish, and as foolish as it is wicked."
"May it please your majesty," answered Barecolt, whose self-confidence had now fully returned, "what your majesty says is quite just; but some of these necessary lies I suppose we must tell from the beginning. Neither I nor my lord the earl, I take it, must pass for an Englishman, or there will be no more secrecy. We must both say we are Frenchmen, or Dutchmen, or Italians--a good big falsehood to commence with."
Lord Beverley laughed. "I am afraid, sire," he observed, "we must say no more upon the subject, or we shall have a strange treatise upon ethics; but, however, as we go across the country to embark, I will endeavour to drill my friend here to use his tongue as little as may be, so that we shall be spared more fraud than is needful. I will now take my leave of your majesty, having received my instructions, and by daybreak to-morrow I will be on my way. May God graciously speed your majesty's cause during my absence!" Thus saying, he bent one knee, and kissed Charles's hand, and then, making a sign to Barecolt to follow, he quitted the presence.
"Now, Master Barecolt," said the earl, as soon as they were in the street, "I know you are a man of action. Be with me by four to-morrow. There is something for your preparations;" and he put a small but heavy leathern bag in his hand, adding, "That is all that is needed for a soldier, I know."
"Good faith! I must speak with Lord Walton before I go," answered Barecolt, "though it be somewhat late."
"Well, then, come quick," replied the earl; and he led the way to the lodging of his friend, where, while Barecolt entertained the young nobleman for near an hour in the room below, Lord Beverley passed some sweet, though parting moments with bright Annie Walton; and when he left her, her cheek was glowing and her eyelids moist with tears.
In a remote part of the country--for England had then remote parts and lonely, which are now broad and open to the busy world--rode along, a little before nightfall, a small party of about ten persons. The weather was clear and mild; but there was in the evening light and in the autumnal hues that touch of melancholy which always accompanies the passing away of anything that is bright, whether it be a summer's day or a fair season, a joy or a hope.
The country was flat and unbroken; but, nevertheless, the eye had no scope to roam, for tall, gloomy-looking rows of trees flanked the narrow road on either side, and many similar lines divided the plain into small fields, which they shaded from the sun, except when he towered at his highest noon. A river some five or six yards across, slow almost to stagnation, crept along at the side of the lane, with the current just perceptible in the middle, where the water seemed bright and limpid enough; but farther towards the side, the thick weeds were seen rising from the bottom and spreading over the surface, till at the very edge they became tangled into an impenetrable green mass, fringed with flags and rushes. Over the clearer part of the stream darted the busy water-spider, and whirling in the air above were myriads of gnats, rising with their irritating hum in tall columns, like the sands of the desert when lifted up by the whirlwind. The light was grey and solemn, and one needed to look to the sky to see that the sun had not actually set.
After riding along this road for the distance of about a mile, a large stone, somewhat like a gravestone, appeared on the side opposite to the water; and one of the horsemen, having dismounted to examine what inscription it bore deciphered, amongst the moss and lichens that covered it, the following agreeable intelligence:--"Here, in the year of grace 1613, and on the 19th day of the month of November, Matthew Peters was murdered by his eldest son, Thomas, who was executed for the same on the 10th of the month of December next ensuing, in the town of Hull, the worshipful John Slackman, mayor. Reader, take warning by his fate. Go and do not likewise."
If the party was sad before, this mememto of crime and suffering did not tend to make it merrier: the horseman mounted his horse again, and they rode on in silence for another mile and a half, when, at the distance of about a hundred yards from the road, which, though it was still seen proceeding in a straight line till it lost itself in the shadows, seemed to lead nowhere, so dull and desolate did it look, there appeared a large shady building, to the stone-paved fore-court, of which the river formed a sort of moat.
First came a square tower of red brick, edged with stone which had once been white, but now was green; then followed a dull, low wall, probably that of some long corridor, for a slated roof hung over it, and two narrow windows gave the interior a certain portion of light. This was succeeded by a large centre, orcorps de logis, flat and formal, solemn and unresponding, with similar small windows, and a vast deep doorway. Another long low line of brickwork came after, and then another square tower, and then another mass of brickwork, differing from the former in size and shape, but retaining the same style, and displaying the same melancholy aspect. No ivy grew up around it to break the lines and angles. Not a tree was before it to take off its dull formality. All was heavy, and vast, and grave; and to look upon it one could hardly convince one's self, not that it was inhabited, but that it had been cheered by the warm presence of human life for years. No sound was heard, no moving thing was seen, except when one raised one's eyes in search of chimneys, and there one or two tall columns of smoke rose slowly and seriously towards the sky, as if they had made a covenant with the wind not to disturb their quiet and upright course.
Over the water from the stone court that we have mentioned swung a drawbridge, which was half elevated, being hooked up by one of the links of the thick chain that suspended it to the posts on the other side; and here one of the men of the party, for it consisted of both men and women, pulled in his horse, saying--
"This is Langley Hall, my lord."
"I know," answered Lord Walton, with a sigh. "It is long since I have been here, but I remember it. We see it at an unfavourable hour, dear Annie, It looks more cheerful the full light."
"Oh! that matters not, Charles," answered Miss Walton, in a gentle tone; "sunshine and shade are within the heart more than without; and I shall find it gay or sad as those I love fare well or ill."
"How shall we get in?" asked Lord Walton; "the drawbridge is half up."
"Oh! there is the bell behind the posts," replied the man who had first spoken; and, dismounting, he pulled a rope, which produced a loud but heavy sound, more like the great bell of a church than that of an ordinary mansion.
Some three or four minutes elapsed without any one appearing to answer this noisy summons; but at length an old white-headed man came out, and asked cautiously, before he let down the bridge, Who was there?
"It is Lord Walton and his sister," answered the young nobleman; "let down the bridge, good man. Lady Margaret expects us."
"Oh! I know that, I know that," rejoined the old servant; but still, instead of obeying the directions he received, he retrod his steps slowly towards the house. His conduct was soon explained by his calling aloud--"William! William! come and help here! The bridge is too much for one, and here is the young lord and a whole host of people, men, women, and children. Perhaps it is not the young lord after all. He was a curly-pated boy when last I saw him, and this looks like a colonel of horse."
"Time! time! Master Dixon; time may make us all Colonels of horse," answered a brisk-looking youth in a tight doublet, which set off his sturdy limbs to good advantage, as he strode forward to the old man's assistance.
"Time is a strange changer of curly hair. Doubtless your good dame patted your head some years agone, and tailed you her pretty boy; and now, if she were to see you, the mother would not know her son, but would call you uncle or grandpapa."
"And so I was a pretty boy--that is very true," answered the old man, coming forward again towards the bridge, well pleased with ancient memories; "and my mother did often pat my head--Lord! I remember it as if it were but yesterday."
"Ah! but you have seen a good many yesterdays since then, Master Dixon," rejoined the young man, following to the edge of the river, with the wise air of self-satisfied youth. "Now, Master Dixon, you unhook while I pull;" and, as the bridge was slowly let down, he added, "Give you good even, my lord. You are welcome to Langley. Good even, lady. You are welcome, too, and so are all these pretty dames. My lady will be right glad to see you all."
His words were cheerful, and there is something very reassuring in the gay tones of the human voice. They seem, in the hour of despondency and gloom, to assure us that all is not sadness in the world; that there is truly such a thing as hope; that there are moments of enjoyment, and that the heart is not altogether forbidden to be happy--all matters of which we entertain many doubts when the cloud of sorrow first falls upon us, and hides the brighter things of life from our eyes.
How often is it that the reality belies the outside appearance--if not always, at least generally. In dealing with all things, moral and physical, man deceives himself and is deceived, and never can tell the core by the rind. These are truisms, reader; very trite, very often repeated. I know it; I write them as such: but do you act upon them? or you? or you? Where is the man that does? And if there be a man, where is the woman? The demagogue is judged by his words, the preacher by his sermon, the statesman by his eloquence, the lover by his looks. All seeming--nothing but seeming; and it is not till we come to taste the fruit that we learn the real flavour.
All had seemed dark and gloomy in Langley Hall; and the sadness which Annie Walton had felt in parting with her brother, when strife and danger were before him, had, it is true, though she would not own it, been deepened by the cold aspect of her future habitation. But the man's cheerful tone first raised the corner of the curtain; and when on entering the wide old hall, she saw the mellow light of the setting sun pouring over a wide Champaign country, through a tall window on the other side, and covering the marble floor as if with a network of light and shade, while here a bright suit of armour, and there a cluster of well-arranged arms, and there a large picture of some ancient lord of the place, caught the rays and glowed with a look of peaceful comfort, she felt revived and relieved.
The next moment, from a door at the far end on the right, came forth an old lady, somewhat tall and upright, in her long stays, with a coif upon her head in token of widowhood, and her silver-white hair glistening beneath it, but withal a bland and pleasant smile upon her wrinkled face, and fire, almost as bright as that of youth, in her undimmed eye.
She embraced her nephew and niece with all the affection and tenderness of a parent, and taking Annie by the hand, gazed on and kissed her again, saying--
"Not like thy mother, Annie; not like thy mother; and yet the eyes--ay, too, and the lips; now you look grave. But, come; Charles, come. See where I sit, with my sole companion for the last five years, except when good Dr. Blunt comes over from Hull to tell me news, or the vicar sits with me for an hour on Friday."
As she spoke she led them into a large room, wainscotted with dark chesnut-wood; and from out of the recess of the window, where the sunshine fell, rose a tall shaggy deerhound, and, with steps majestical and slow, walked up to the young lord and lady, examined first the one and then the other with close attention, stretched himself out with a weary yawn, and taking it for granted all was right, laid himself down again to doze where he had been before.
"See, Charles, see what a shrewd dog he is," cried the old lady: "he knows whom he may trust and whom he may not, in a moment. I had old Colonel Northcote here the other day. What he came for I know not, though I do know him to be a rogue; for Basto there did nought but growl and show his white teeth close to the good man's legs, till he was glad to get away unbitten."
"I sometimes wish we had their instinct, dear Aunt Margaret, rather than our sense," replied her nephew; "for one is often much more serviceable than the other."
"Much keener, Charles, at all events," answered the old lady. "And so you are here at length. Well, I got all the letters, and Annie shall be another in the hall when you are gone; and, when she is tired of the old woman, she has a sunny chamber where the robins sing, for her own thoughts; and she shall be free to come and go according to all stipulations, and no question asked, were it to meet a gallant in the wood."
"Nay, Charles, nay," cried Miss Walton, "why did you write my aunt such tales of me? My only stipulation was, indeed, that I might join him whenever a pause came in these sad doings, my dear aunt."
"Oh, you shall be as free as air, sweet nun," replied Lady Margaret. "I never could abide to see a poor bird in a cage, or a dog tied by a chain; and when I was young I was as wild and wilful as my poor sister Ann was staid and good. I have now lived to well-nigh seventy years, still loving all freedom but that which God forbids--still hating all thraldom but that which love imposes. I was long happy, too, in shaping my own course, and I would see others happy in the self-same way. Come, dear child: while Charles disposes of his men, I will show you your bower, where you may reign, queen of yourself and all within it."
Annie followed her aunt from the room, passed through another behind it, and entered a little sort of stone hall or vestibule, lighted from the top. Four doors were in the walls, and a small staircase at the further end, up which Lady Margaret led the way to the first floor above, where two doors appeared on either hand, with a gallery, fenced with an oaken balustrade running round the hall, at about twelve feet from the ground. Along this gallery the old lady led her young niece, and then through a long and somewhat tortuous passage, which was crossed by another some twenty yards down, that branched off to more rooms and corridors beyond. Then came a turn, and then another passage, and at the end three broad low steps led up to a large door.
"Dear aunt," said Miss Walton, who had thought their journey would never end, "your house is a perfect labyrinth. I shall never find my way back."
"It is somewhat crooked in its ways, child," answered Lady Margaret; "but you will make it out in time, never fear; that is to say, as far as you need to know it. Now, here is your bower;" and, opening the door, she led Miss Walton into a large roam looking to the south-west. The sun had just gone down, and the whole western sky was on fire with his parting look, so that a rosy light filled the wide chamber, from a large bay window, where, raised a step above the rest of the room, was a little platform with two seats, and a small table of inlaid wood.
"There I have sat and worked many a day," said the old lady, pointing to the window, "when my poor knight was at the siege of Ostend. We lived together happily for many years, Annie, and it was very wrong of him to go away at last without taking me with him. However, we shall soon meet again, that is some comfort; but I have never dwelt in this room since."
As she spoke, a slow pattering sound was heard along the passage, and then a scratch at the door. "It is Basto," said Lady Margaret; "he has come to see that I am not moping myself in my old rooms. Come in, Basto;" and, opening the door, the dog stalked in, first looking up in his mistress's face and wagging his tail deliberately, and then in that of her fair niece with a similar gratulation.
"Ah, thou art a wise man," said Lady Margaret, patting him on the head. "We are growing old, Basto; we are growing old. My husband brought him from Ireland ten years ago, Annie, and he was then some two years old; so according to dogs' lives he is about fifty, and yet see what teeth he has!" and she opened with her thin, fair, shrivelled hands the beast's powerful jaws.
Miss Walton had in the mean time been taking a review of her chamber, which her kind aunt had certainly made as comfortable and gay as might be. The colours of all that it contained were light and sparkling, contrasting pleasantly with the dark panelling which lined the whole house. There were chairs and low seats covered with yellow silk, and curtains of the same stuff to draw across the bay window. There were sundry pieces of tapestry for the feet, covered with roses and lilies, and on either side of the vast oaken mantel-piece hung brushes of many-coloured feathers. But there was no bed; and the next minute, after some further admiration of the dog's teeth, Lady Margaret opened a door on the right of the fireplace, which led into another room beyond, fitted up as a sleeping-chamber, with the same air of comfort as the other. Everything was pointed out to Annie as long as any light lasted, and then the old lady, showing her a third door, observed, "There is a closet for your maids to sleep in; but we must get back, sweet niece, for it is growing dark, and you will fancy goblins in the passage."
Miss Walton laughed, assuring her that she feared nothing but losing her way, and the old lady answered, "Oh! you must learn, you must learn, Annie. 'Tis often good to have a place like this, where one may set search at defiance. In the last reign we had conspiracies enow, God wot! and one poor man, whose head they wanted, was here three days while his enemies were in the house; but they never found him, and yet he walked about at ease."'
"Indeed!" said Miss Walton, as they made their way back; "how might that be, my dear aunt? If they searched well in the daylight, I should think there would be little chance of escape."
"More than you know, Annie," answered her aunt drily; "but I will tell you all about it some day; and now I will send up William, who is a clever lad, with your maids, to show them the way, and bring your goods and chattels up. But what is all this loud speaking, I wonder?"
"I know the voice, I think," answered Miss Walton; "but if I am right as to the person, he should have been over the seas long ago."
For England's war revered the claimOf every unprotected name;And spared, amidst its fiercest rage,Childhood, and womanhood, and age.
For England's war revered the claimOf every unprotected name;And spared, amidst its fiercest rage,Childhood, and womanhood, and age.
So sung a great poet and excellent man, but begging the master's pardon, if War herself spared them, the consequences of war reached them sadly. It never has been, and never will be, that in times of civil contention, when anarchy has dissolved the bonds of law, the fierce passions, which in the breasts of too many are only fettered by fear, will not break forth to ravage and destroy. There never was yet strife without crime, and never will be. Certainly, such was not the case in the civil wars of the great rebellion, and many an act was committed with impunity under cover of the disorders of the time, of the most black and horrible character. True, the justice still held his seat upon the bench, to take cognizance of all crimes but rebellion; true, mayors and corporations existed in cities, and exercised municipal authority; but the power thus possessed was not unfrequently used for the gratification of the person who held it on the side of the parliament, and if not held by one of that party, was utterly disregarded by those who were.
Of this fact, Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, was very well aware; and after making his escape from the carriages during the skirmish at the bridge, he had, with the assistance of his companion, dragged poor Arrah Neil along with him, assuring the parliamentary committee-man who accompanied him, that he did it solely to deliver the poor girl from the men of Belial with whom she was consorting, and to place her in the hands of a chosen vessel, a devout woman of his neighbourhood, whom he likened, in an irreverent strain, to Anna the prophetess.
Whether his companion put full faith in his sincerity and singleness of purpose or not, does not much matter. Captain Batten was not one to quarrel with any one's hypocrisy; and indeed it seemed that a sort of agreement had been made amongst the Roundheads--like that by which men take paper money instead of gold and silver--to let each man's religious pretences pass current as genuine coin, however flimsy might be the materials of which they were made. The real purpose of Mr. Dry was, to take poor Arrah Neil back to Bishop's Merton for his own views; and his motives were, as the reader will learn hereafter, of a very mixed character. But, after having wandered about with Batten and Dr. Bastwick for two days, during the course of which he was more than once seen studying a packet of old letters, he expressed a strong desire to go under the escort of some body of parliamentary troops into Yorkshire, where he declared he had just recollected having some business of importance to transact.
No opportunity occurred for several days, during which time the whole party who had escaped from the Cavaliers, at the invitation of the worthy common councilmen of Coventry, took up their abode for a time in that ancient city, Mr. Dry watching poor Arrah Neil with the closest care, and giving out to the landlady of the inn at which he lodged that she was a poor ward of his, of weak understanding, over whom it was necessary to keep a strict guard.
The pious landlady of Coventry believed every word that Mr. Dry thought fit to tell her. How could she do otherwise, indeed, with so very devout a person? and to say the truth, the demeanour and appearance of Arrah Neil did not serve to belie the assertions of the old hypocrite who had her in his power. She remained the greater part of each day plunged in deep and melancholy musings; and though she more than once attempted to escape, and said she was wrongfully detained, yet she entered into no long explanations, notwithstanding sundry opportunities afforded her by the hostess, who was not without her share of curiosity. The fit, or, as she called it, the cloud of gloom, had come upon her again. It had passed away, indeed, during the active and bustling time of the march from Bishop's Merton, and so indeed it always did, either in moments when all went clear and smoothly, or in times of great difficulty and danger; but still it returned when any of the bitter sorrows and pangs of which every life has some, and hers had too many, crossed her way, and darkened the prospect of the future.
It was not sullenness, reader; it was no gloomy bitterness of spirit; it was no impatience of the ills that are the lot of all; it was no rebellions murmuring against the will of God: neither was it madness, nor anything like it, though she acted sometimes strangely, and sometimes wildly, as it seemed to the common eyes of the world, from a strong and energetic determination of accomplishing her object at the time, joined with the utter want of that experience of the world which would have taught her how to accomplish it by ordinary means. What was it then? you will ask, and may think it strange when I say--memory. But so it was: memory, confused and vague, of things long gone before, which formed so strong a contrast with the present, that whenever sorrow or disappointment fell upon her, some former time, some distant scenes of which she knew not the when nor the where, rose up before her eyes, and made even herself believe that she was mad. She recollected bright looks and kind words, and days of happiness and nights of peace and repose, to which she could not give "a local habitation and a name." Were they visions? she asked herself; were they dreams? where could they have occurred? what could they have been? Was it from some book which she had read, she often inquired, that such fanciful pictures had been gleaned, and had then fixed themselves as realities in her mind?
She could not tell; but when such memories rose up, they took possession of her wholly--bewildered, confused, overpowered her. For a time she was a creature of the past; she scarcely believed in the present; she knew not which was the reality--the things gone by, or the things that surrounded her.
During the whole time that she remained at Coventry, this cloud was upon her, and she paid little attention to anything but the continual questioning of her own heart and mind. She attempted, as we have said, to escape--indeed, more than once; but it was by impulse rather than by thought; and when frustrated, she fell at once back again into meditation. She did not remark that Dry treated her in a very different manner from that which he had ever displayed towards her before; that he called her "Mistress Arrah;" that he tried to soothe and to amuse her. She noticed, but without much attention, that different clothing had been provided for her from that which she had been accustomed to wear; but whenever her mind turned from the past towards the present again, her thoughts busied themselves with Charles Walton and his sister, and she would have given worlds to know how it fared with those she loved.
That the victory had been won by the Cavaliers she was aware, but at what price it had been bought she could not tell, and she trembled to think of it. No one, indeed, spoke to her upon the subject; for Dry was silent, and for reasons of his own, he took care that she should be visited by none but the landlady of the inn.
At length two pieces of intelligence reached him on the third day after their arrival in Coventry, which made him resolute to pursue his journey into Yorkshire immediately.
The first of these was communicated to him by one of his own servants, to whom he had sent shortly after the skirmish, and was to the effect that the great majority of the people of Bishop's Merton had espoused the royalist cause, and that messengers had arrived from Lord Walton, ordering him to be apprehended immediately, if he made his appearance in the place. With this news, however, came the money he had sent for; and on the evening of the same day, Dr. Bastwick brought him the second piece of information, which was merely that a troop of the parliamentary horse would pass through Coventry the following day, on their road to Hull, where Sir John Hotham was in command for the parliament. It was added that Master Dry might march safely under their escort, and he accordingly spent the rest of the evening in buying horses and equipage for himself and Arrah Neil, and set out the following day on his journey.
The tedious march towards Hull need not be related; during the whole of the way the old man rode beside his charge, plying her with soft and somewhat amorous words, mingled strangely and horribly with texts from Scripture, perverted and misapplied, and graced with airs of piety and devotion, which those who knew him well were quite aware had no share in his dealings or in his heart.
Arrah Neil paid little attention to him, answered seldom, and then but by monosyllables. To escape was impossible, for he had now too many abettors with him, and she was never left alone for a moment, except when locked into a room during a halt. Yet she looked anxiously for the opportunity; and whenever any objects were seen moving through the country as they passed, her heart beat with the hope of some party of Cavaliers being nigh, and giving her relief. Such, however, did not prove the case, and about noon of an autumnal day, they entered the town of Hull.
Here Mr. Ezekiel Dry separated himself from the troop, with thanks for their escort, and made his way towards the centre of the town, where stood the house of a friend with whom he had often transacted business of different kinds. The friend, however, had since he saw him married a wife, and was absent from the town; and though Mr. Dry assured a demure-looking maid-servant, who opened the door, that his friend Jeremiah had always told him he might use his house as his own, the maid knew Jeremiah better than Mr. Dry, and demurred to receiving any guest during her master's absence.
When the worthy gentleman had finished his conversation, and made up his mind that he must seek an inn, he turned round to remount his horse, and was somewhat surprised to see Arrah Neil gazing round her with a degree of light and even wonder in her look, for which he perceived no apparent cause. The street was a dull and dingy one; most of the houses were of wood, with the gables turned towards the road; and from the opposite side projected a long pole, from which swung a square piece of wood representing, in very rough and rude style, the figure of a swan the size of life. Yet over the dark and time-stained face of the buildings, up the line of narrow street, round the windows and doors carved with quaint figures, ran the beautiful eyes of Arrah Neil, with a look of eager satisfaction which Ezekiel Dry could in no degree account for. They rested principally upon the figure of the swan, however, and as that emblem showed that it was a house of public entertainment, thither Mr. Dry turned the horses' heads, and bade her alight at the door.
Arrah sprang to the ground in a moment, and entered the house with an alacrity which Mr. Dry had never seen her before display. Something appeared to have enchanted her, for she almost outran the hostess, who led the way, saying, "This way, pretty lady--this way, sir." But when she stopped at a door in a long open corridor, Arrah Neil actually passed her, exclaiming--
"No, not that room; I should prefer this;" and, without waiting for an answer, she opened the door and went in.
"Dear lady, you seem to know the house quite well," said the hostess; "but yet I do not recollect having seen your pretty face before."
"Talk not of such vanities," said Mr. Dry, with a solemn tone; "what is beauty but the dust, and fair flesh but as a clod of clay?"
"Well, I am sure!" said the landlady, who was what Mr. Dry would have called a carnal and self-seeking person, but a very good woman notwithstanding. "Ah, sir! what you say is very true; we are all nothing but clods of earth; there can be no doubt of it: it's very true indeed."
Finding her so far docile, Mr. Dry determined to make a still greater impression, in order to ensure that his object of keeping Arrah Neil within his grasp should not be frustrated by the collusion of the landlady. He therefore set to work, and held forth to her upon godliness, and grace, and self-denyingness, and other Christian virtues; touching a little upon original sin, predestination, election, and other simple and easy subjects, with a degree of clearness and perspicuity such as might be expected from his original station and means of information. The landlady was confounded and puzzled; but it was utterly impossible to tell what he really meant by the unconnected images, quotations, and dogmas which he pronounced; she was unconvinced of anything but of his being a vehement Puritan, which she herself was not.
However, as it did not do to offend a customer, she shook her head and looked sad, and cried from time to time, "Ah, very true! God help us, poor sinners that we are!" with sundry other exclamations, which, though they did not convince Mr. Dry that she had not a strong hankering for the fleshpots of Egypt and the abominations of the Amorites, yet showed him that she was very well inclined to please him, and made him believe that she would fulfil his bidding to the letter.
He accordingly called her out of the room as soon as he thought he had produced his effect, and explaining to her what he pleased to call the situation of his poor ward, he warned her particularly to keep the door locked upon her, to suffer no one to hold communication with her, and especially to prevent her from getting out, for fear she should throw herself into the water or make away with herself, which he represented to be not at all unlikely.
The hostess assured him that she was deeply grieved to hear the young lady's case. She could not have believed it, she said, she looked so sensible and cheerful.
"Ah!" replied Mr. Dry, "you will see her dull enough soon. It comes upon her by fits: but you must attend very punctually to my orders, or something may take place for which you will weep in sackcloth and ashes."
"Oh, sir, I will attend to them most particularly," said the landlady. "What will you please to order for dinner, sir? Had not I better put the lady down a round-pointed knife? Is she dangerous with her hands?"
"Oh, no," answered Mr. Dry. "It is to herself, not to others, she is dangerous. And as for dinner, send up anything you have got, especially if it be high-flavoured and relishing, for I have but a poor appetite. I will be back in about an hour; and, in the mean time, can you tell me where in this town lives one Hugh O'Donnell, an Irishman, I believe?"
The landlady paused and considered, and then replied that she really could not tell; she knew of such a person being in the place, and believed he lived somewhere at the west of the town, but she was not by any means sure.
The moment Mr. Dry was gone, the good woman called to the cook, and ordered a very substantial dinner for the party which had just arrived; but then, putting her hand before her eyes, she stood for the space of a minute and a half in the centre of the tap-room, as if in consideration; then said, "I won't tell him anything about it: there is something strange in this affair; I am not a woman if I don't find it out." She then hurried up to the room where she had left Arrah Neil, unlocked the door, and went in.
The poor girl was leaning on the sill of the open window, gazing up and down the street. Her face was clear and bright; her beautiful blue eyes were full of intellect and fire; the look of doubt and inward thought was gone; a change had come over her, complete and extraordinary. It seemed as if she had awakened from a dream.
When the landlady entered, Arrah immediately turned from the window and advanced towards her. Then, laying her hand upon her arm, she gazed in her face for a moment so intently that the poor woman began to be alarmed.
"I am sure I recollect you," said Arrah Neil. "Have you not been here long?"
"For twenty years," replied the hostess; "and for five-and-twenty before that in the house next door, from which I married into this."
"And don't you recollect me?" asked Arrah Neil.
"No," replied the landlady, "I do not; though I think I have seen some one very like you before, but then it was a taller lady--much taller."
"So she was," cried Arrah Neil. "What was her name?"
"Nay, I can't tell, if you can't," replied the landlady.
"I know what I called her, but I know nothing more," answered Arrah Neil. "I called her mother--and perhaps she was my mother. I called her mother as I lay in that bed, with my head aching, my eyes burning, and my lips parched; and then I fell into a long deep sleep, from which I awoke forgetting all that went before, and she was gone."
"Ay!" cried the landlady; "and are you that poor little thing?" and she gazed upon her for a moment with a look of sad, deep interest. The next instant she cast her arms round her and kissed her tenderly. "Ah, poor child!" she said at length, with tears in her eyes, "those were sad times--sad times, indeed! 'Twas when the fever was raging the country. Sad work in such days for those who lodged strangers! It cost me my only one. A man came and slept in that bed; he looked ill when he came, and worse when he went. Then came a lady and a child, and an old man, their servant, and the house was full, all but this room and another; and ere they had been here long, my own dear child was taken with the fever. She was near your own age, perhaps a year older; and I told the lady overnight, so she said she would go on the morrow, for she was afraid for her darling. But before the morning came, you too were shaking like a willow in the wind, and then came on the burning fit, and the third day you began to rave, and knew no one. The fifth day my poor girl died, and for a whole day I did not see you; I saw nothing but my dead child. On the next, however, they came to tell me the lady had fallen ill, and I came to watch you, for it seemed to me as if there was something between you and my poor Lucy--I knew not what; you had been sisters in sickness, and I thought you might be sisters in the grave. I cannot help crying when I think of it. Oh, those were terrible days!" And the poor woman wiped her eyes.
"But my mother?" cried Arrah Neil--"my mother?"
"Some day I will show you where she lies," answered the hostess; and Arrah wept bitterly, for a hope was crushed out to its last spark.
"She got worse and worse," continued the landlady; "and she too lost her senses; but just as you were slowly getting a little better she suddenly regained her mind; and I was so glad, for I thought she would recover too; but the first words she spoke were to ask after you. So I told her you were much better, and all she said was, 'I should wish to see her once more before I die, if it may be done without harming her;' and then I knew that she was going. I and the old servant carried you, just as you were, and laid you on her bed, and she kissed you, and prayed God to bless and keep you; but you were weak and dozy, and she would not have you wakened, but made us take you back; and then she spoke long with the old man in a whisper; but all I heard was, 'You promise, Neil?--you promise on your salvation?' He did promise--though I did not know what it was. Then she said, 'Recollect, you must never tell her unless it be recovered.' Recovered she said, or reversed, I remember not well which; but from that moment she said nothing more but to ask for some water, and so she went on till the next morning, just as the day was dawning, and then she departed."
A short space passed in silent tears on the part of Arrah Neil, while the good woman who told the tale remained gazing forth from the window; but at length she continued: "Before you could run across the floor again, nay husband died, but with him it was very quick. He was but three days between health and death; and when I had a little recovered I used foolishly to wish that you could stay with me, and be like my poor Lucy; but you were a lady and I was a poor woman, so that could not be; and in about six weeks the old man paid all that was owing, and took you away. It is strange to think that you should be the same pretty child that lay there sick near ten years ago."
"It is as strange to me as to you," said Arrah Neil; "for, as I tell you, I seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and for a time I forgot all; but since then all the things which occurred before that time have troubled me sadly. It seemed as if I had had a dream, and I recollect a castle on a hill, and riding with a tall gentleman, who was on a great black horse, while I had a tiny thing, milk-white; and I remember many servants and maids--oh! and many things I have never seen since; but I could not tell whether it was real or a mere fancy, till I came into this town and saw the street which I used to look at from the window, and the sign of the house that I used to watch as it swung to and fro in the wind. Then I was sure it was real; and your face, too, brought a thousand things back to me; and when I saw the room where I had been, I felt inclined to weep, I knew not why. Well, well may I weep!"
"But who is this old man who is with you?" asked the landlady, suddenly. "He is not the old servant, who was as aged then as he is now; and what is this tale he tells of your being his ward, and mad?"
"Mad!" cried Arrah Neil--"mad! Oh, no! 'Tis he that is wicked, not I that am mad. He and another dragged me away from those who protected me and were good to me--kind Annie Walton, and that noble lord her brother--while they were fighting on the moors beyond Coventry. I his ward! He has no more right to keep me from my friends than the merest stranger. He is a base, bad man--a hypocrite--a cheat. What he wants, what he wishes, I know not; but he had my poor old grandfather dragged away to prison, and he died by the road."
"Your grandfather!" said the widow; "What was his name?"
"Neil," answered the poor girl; "that was the name he always went by."
"Why, that was the old servant," said the hostess. "He had been a soldier, and fought in many battles. I have heard him tell it often. But this man--this man has some object, young lady. He knows more of you than perhaps you think. He told me that you were mad, and his ward; but he knew not that you had a friend so near at hand, who, though she be a poor, humble woman--Hark! there are people speaking at the door. 'Tis he, I dare say. Say not a word to him, and we will talk more by-and-by. Do not be afraid--he shall not take you away again so easily, if there be yet law in the land. But he must not find me with you;" and, thus saying, she opened the door, and lei the room.