The attempt upon Hull had been abandoned; and, mortified and desponding, Charles I. had quitted Beverley and pursued his march through the land. The Earl of Essex lay in force at Northampton; but no show of energy announced at this time the successes which the parliamentary armies were ultimately to obtain. The mightier spirits had not yet risen from the depth; and the ostensible engines with which faction worked were, as usual, the cunning artifice, the well-told lie, the exaggerated grievance, the suppressed truth, the dark insinuation, by which large classes, if not whole nations, may be stirred up either for good or evil. There was activity in all the small and petty arts of agitation; there was activity in those courses which prepare the way for greater things; but in that which was to decide all--arms--tardiness, if not sloth, was alone apparent.
It is strange, in reviewing all great political convulsions, to remark how petty are the events and how small are really the men by which great success is obtained, though insignificant incidents swell into importance by their mass, and mean characters gain a reflected sublimity from the vastness of the results by which their deeds are followed. Even individual vices and weaknesses acquire a certain grandeur under the magnifying power of important epochs, and from the uses to which they are turned; and the hypocrisy of Cromwell, and the bombast of Napoleon, which would have excited little but contempt in less prominent persons, appear in a degree sublime by being displayed on a wider stage, and employed as means to a mightier end. We are too apt to judge of efforts by results, as of people by their success, noticing but little, in the appreciation of men's characters, one of the chief elements which distinguish the great from the little--the objects which they propose to themselves--and, in our judgment of their skill, taking into small account the difficulties that opposed and the facilities that favoured the accomplishment of their designs; and it is curious to remark, that the revolutions which have carried great usurpers into power have always raised the ambitious, and left the patriotic behind, as if human selfishness were the only motive which can ensure that continuity of effort and unity of purpose which alone can command success amongst the struggles of diverse factions, and the development of infinitely varied opinions.
The Earl of Essex was a higher-minded man than Cromwell, but he had doubts and hesitations which Cromwell's ambition would not entertain; and there can be but little doubt that he was unwilling to strike the first irrevocable blow against an army commanded by his sovereign in person. Doubtless he fancied, as many did, that the small force collected tardily by a monarch without supplies would speedily melt away, and leave Charles, from sheer necessity, to accept any terms that the parliament chose to dictate; but whatever was the cause, the king was permitted to march to Shrewsbury unopposed, while the parliamentary forces lay inactive at Northampton. The reception given to the monarch in the town was such as to encourage high hopes in all; and as Wales was rising in his favour, it was judged expedient that Charles should visit the principality in person, while the army recruited itself on the banks of the Severn, and every effort was made to obtain a supply of arms and money. Provisions, indeed, were abundant; the royalist troops were regularly paid; greater order and more perfect discipline were maintained than had ever before been observed in the army; and a state of calm and cheerful enjoyment reigned in the good old town, which is but too seldom known in civil wars.
Such was the state of things when, one evening, a little before sunset, just after the king had left Shrewsbury for Wales, two persons, a gentleman and a lady, wandered along through the fields on the banks of the river, once more full of happy dreams and hopes of bright hours to come. Lord Beverley gazed down into his fair companion's eyes as she lifted her sunny look towards his fine expressive face, and he saw in those two wells of light the deep, pure love of which he had so often dreamed; while Annie Walton, in the countenance of him who regarded her with such fond thoughtfulness, read the intense and passionate tenderness which alone can satisfy the heart, and teach the spirit of woman to repose with calm security on the love of her future husband. It is too late in the tale either to paint the feelings which were in the bosom of each at that moment or to tell the words of dear affection that they spoke: the thrill of mutual attachment; the trembling flutter of the heart as she thought of the near-approaching hour; the glad eagerness of his to make her his own beyond the power of fate; the visions of future joy, and the long vistas of happy years which the warm imagination of each presented--not the less bright and sparkling because, on her side as on his, though from different causes, vague clouds and indistinct shadows hung over parts of the scene which fancy painted. Come what might, in a few days they were to be united; and that was enough for the hour.
They had been long talking over their plans and prospects; the old house of Longnar Hall was to be their abode for the next three weeks; their marriage was to be as private and quiet as even Annie Walton's heart could desire; and the circumstances of the times gave fair excuse for cutting off all ceremonies and casting away all formal delays. Of three weeks they thought themselves secure, and within that little space was bounded all the real lifetime of their hopes. Beyond!--what was beyond? Who could say? And yet they dreamed of days long after, and Fancy looked over the prison-walls of the present, and told them of fair scenes and glowing landscapes, which only her eye could descry.
"I could have wished," said Annie Walton, after a pause, "that Charles could have been married on the same day."
The earl smiled. "Then you see it now, beloved?" he replied.
"Nay, Francis, who could help seeing it?" asked Miss Walton. "Arrah herself must see and know it; and yet she seems not so happy, not so cheerful, as I should have thought such knowledge would make her, for I am very sure that she has loved him long, and at one time I feared for and pitied her."
"And he has loved her long too, Annie," replied the earl; "longer than you believe, or he himself knew. This passion has been growing like a flower in the spring; first in the bud, as pity; then showing its first hues as deep interest and tenderness; then partly expanding, like the timid blushing blossom, which seems to fear that even the green leaves around should look into its glowing breast, and at last, on a bright warm day, opening wide to the bright sun. Charles Walton, when first I saw your own dear eyes at Bishop's Merton, felt love, or something very like it, for Arrah Neil; and yet he would have been strangely hurt if any had told him that he ever thought of the poor, wild cottage girl with aught but mere compassion."
"You men are strange beings!" replied Annie Walton, with a sigh and a smile at the same time; "and yet I am not without my fears for that dear child. Unless the proofs of who she is can be found and clearly made out, what will be Charles's conduct?"
"I will tell you, love," answered Lord Beverley. "Pride will yield, Annie, to the noblest and strongest quality of your brother's heart--the sense of honour. He has displayed his love for her too openly to herself for Charles Walton to hesitate. Other men might do so, and think themselves justified in sacrificing both her peace and their own affection to the cold judgment of the world; but if a time should come when he has to ask himself what he is to Arrah Neil, still poor, still unknown in position, and even in name, he will feel himself plighted to her by the words and looks of these days, and as I have said, he will not hesitate."
"I trust it may be so," replied the lady; "and indeed I think it will, for he is generous and kind; but yet I wish this man would return with the papers that he undertook to bring. Here several weeks have passed, and no tidings have been heard of him. Surely that sad hypocrite, Dry, cannot have bribed him."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed the earl with a laugh: "all men have their own notions of honour, dearest; and though he is loose and dissolute, a babbler and a braggadocio, yet his courage and his fidelity are beyond doubt. If he is not dead he will come back.--But what is that lying in the grass?"
"Good heaven! it is a dead man!" cried Annie Walton, turning pale.
"Nay, some one asleep, rather," said her lover; "he is not like the dead. See! his arm is folded to pillow his head. Wait here a moment, Annie, and I will go and see."
Lord Beverley advanced to the spot where the person they had been speaking of was stretched in the long grass, and gazed upon him for an instant without speaking. Then, taking him by the arm, he shook him gently to rouse him, and with a start the sleeper sat up and gazed around.
"Good gracious me!" he cried, as he awoke, "where am I? Ah, my lord the earl! is that you? Well, this is a lucky chance indeed!"
"Why, how came you sleeping here, Master Falgate," inquired the earl; "and how did you get out of Hull?"
"I came here on the carriage provided by nature, my good lord," answered the painter; "and I was sleeping because I could not keep my eyes open. To get out of Hull was no difficulty, but to get out of Worcester was hard work indeed;" and he went on to relate how he had travelled on foot from Hull to Worcester, and there, having ventured upon some loyal speeches over a cup of ale, had found himself speedily under charge of a guard, from whom he escaped after innumerable obstacles (which need not be detailed to the reader), and had walked from that city to the neighbourhood of Shrewsbury, a distance of more than forty-seven miles, between the preceding midnight and one o'clock of that day, when, utterly exhausted, he had lain down to rest and fallen asleep.
"This is an old friend of mine, dear Annie," said the earl, turning to Miss Walton, who had come slowly up when she saw that the poor painter was not dead; "and as he showed good discretion in my case, at a very critical moment, we must do what we can for him. So, Master Falgate," he continued, "the good folks of Worcester seem very rebelliously inclined, to treat you so harshly for a few loyal words?"
"Good faith! my noble lord, the men of Worcester had little to do with it," replied Falgate. "It was Lord Essex's soldiers that were so barbarous to poor me. Have you not heard that he took up his quarters at Worcester yesterday?"
"No, indeed!" said the earl, a cloud coming over his countenance at the thought of fresh dangers and delays. "No, indeed; but come with us into the city, Falgate. Your intelligence must be valuable; and as for yourself; I must do what I can to place you in some good regiment of foot."
"No, no, my lord," answered the painter, "I have done with soldiering; I was never made for it. I do not like to paint men's faces with blood, or to see it done. All that you can do for me is to bring me to speak to a noble gentleman named Lord Walton, if such a thing is ever to take place; for I have hunted him to Beverley, to York, to Nottingham, and then, finding the Roundheads in the way, in an unlucky day took Worcester on my road hither. So I do think I shall never see him."
"Nothing can be more easy, my good friend," answered the earl: "Lord Walton is here, and this lady is his sister. Come with us, and you will see him in a few minutes."
The poor painter, who was not without his share of taste, was delighted at his meeting with Miss Walton, whose beautiful face and form were ready passports to his respect and admiration: nor did her words and manner produce less effect; for, to the heart of Annie, the least service rendered to him she loved made the doer interesting in her eyes; and with gentle tones and kindly looks she told poor Diggory Falgate that she had heard of him and of his discretion from Lord Beverley, and thanked him deeply for the caution he had shown. Had Diggory Falgate been Captain Barecolt, she would instantly have had a full account of all that had been done to save the earl, by informing Sir John Hotham of his situation, together with various additions and improvements, which would have left all the honour of his deliverance with the worthy narrator. But Falgate, to whom the presence of beauty had something almost awful in it, did not even take to himself the credit that was rightly his due, but walked on nearly in silence beside the earl and his fair companion, till, entering the town of Shrewsbury, they reached the house where Lady Margaret Langley and her young relations had taken up their abode, near the Wellington gate of the city.
"Is Lord Walton within?" the earl demanded, addressing one of the servants in the old porch, and the answer was, "Yes, my lord. He is in the small room on the left with my lady," and leading Annie on, Falgate following close behind, Lord Beverley entered the chamber, saying, "Here is a good friend of mine, Charles, who brings you tidings from Hull."
Lord Walton rose from a seat between that of Lady Margaret and fair Arrah Neil, gazing upon the painter through the dim evening light, which found its way in at the tall lattice window, without the slightest recollection of his face, as indeed he had never before seen him. But the moment that Falgate beheld Arrah Neil he advanced a step or two towards her, then stopped and hesitated, for her dress was much altered, and then went on again, but with a timid and doubtful air.
Arrah, however, welcomed him with a kindly smile, holding out her hand to him and saying, "Ah, Master Falgate! I am glad to see you safe. This is the person whom I mentioned, Charles, who aided my escape from Hull."
"He deserves all our thanks, dear Arrah," replied Charles Walton, "and every recompense that we can give him; but did I understand right, sir, that you have business with me?"
"Why, I had, my noble lord," answered Falgate, In a somewhat faltering tone; "but--but, as I have found this young lady, I think it is to her I should speak, for the business is her own. I only asked for your lordship because--because I had heard that you were her best friend."
"Oh, yes! indeed he is," exclaimed Arrah Neil, warmly; "and whatever is to be said had better be said to him: he can judge rightly of things that I do not understand."
"Well, then, speak to me here, sir," said Lord Walton, retiring towards the window. "You had better come, too, Arrah, for we may want you in our council."
Falgate followed to the other side of the room, and Arrah Neil rose and joined them, while Annie Walton seated herself beside her aunt, and Lord Beverley took a seat placed on the other side of Lady Margaret's chair, engaging her attention by an account of their walk. Nor was it accidentally that he did so; for he knew that at that moment, though the fine countenance of the old dame was calm, there were many thoughts and memories, many doubts and hopes, busy in her bosom--far too busy for her peace. In the mean time he turned his eyes every now and then towards the window, against which appeared the fine and dignified form of Lord Walton, the light of evening shining full upon his lordly brow and chiselled features, and the sweet profile of Arrah Neil, with the graceful outline of her figure, all in deep shade. The painter seemed speaking eagerly as they listened, and from time to time Charles Walton bent his head or asked a question; while Arrah Neil, her face inclined towards the ground, once or twice raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and seemed to wipe away a tear. At length the painter drew forth from his pocket a small packet (which he placed in Lord Walton's hands), and a slip of paper, which he held while the young nobleman eagerly examined the contents of the packet. They seemed various, some of them being letters and scraps of parchment, some small trinkets. While he gazed upon them all, one after the other, Charles Walton gave them to Arrah Neil--first, however, drawing her arm through his own, as if to support her. Then, taking the paper from Falgate's hand, he attentively read what was written on it; and, turning once more to his fair companion, he kissed her tenderly, adding a few words, the last of which sounded like "my dear cousin."
Lady Margaret Langley caught them and started up, but instantly resumed her seat; and Lord Walton, taking Arrah's hand in his, while he supported her trembling steps with his arm, led her forward to the old lady's chair. The fair girl sank upon her knees, and bent her head before Lady Margaret, while in a low and solemn voice the young nobleman said--
"My dear aunt, it is as you have dreamed. This sweet girl is your child's child."
Lady Margaret said not a word, but cast her arms round Arrah Neil, bent her brow upon her fair neck, and wept in silence; then raised her tearful eyes towards heaven, and sobbed aloud. The old stag-hound, too, as if he comprehended all and shared in all, approached, and with a low whine licked his mistress's withered hand. She speedily grew calm, however, and looking up to her nephew, without taking her arm from Arrah's neck, she asked--
"But is it all true, Charles? Is it all proved? Is she the heiress of my house?"
"Nothing but a few minute links in the chain of evidence are wanting," replied Lord Walton; "and quite enough is proved, my dear aunt, to leave no doubt whatever on our minds, as I will show you, though other papers indeed are wanting at present, which might be needful to establish her rights and legitimacy in a court of law. Whatever may be its decision, however, to us she must be ever our own dear cousin, Arabella Tyrone."
"Ah, no, no!" cried the poor girl, starting up and clasping her hands; "still Arrah Neil to you, Charles--to all of you, still Arrah Neil!"
Lord Walton gazed on her with a look of earnest tenderness, and a faint smile crossed his fine lip. Perhaps he thought that, whatever was her name for the time, she would soon be Arabella Walton; but he would not agitate her more at that moment, and was about to proceed with the account he was rendering to Lady Margaret, when Lord Beverley advanced and extended his arms to Arrah Neil. She gazed upon him in surprise; but he pressed her to his bosom warmly, eagerly, and kissed her brow, exclaiming--
"Fear not, dear child! fear not! The same blood flows in your veins as in mine. I am not deceived, Lady Margaret--her father was my mother's brother. Is it not so?"
"It is," said Lady Margaret. "Ask me no questions yet, my child. He is your cousin, and he and his have forgiven me and mine. I trust that God has forgiven us, and you may have to do so, too, when you hear all. Say, will you do it, Arrah?"
The fair girl fell upon her neck and kissed her; and Annie Walton then claimed her share of tenderness, though to her the tale had been developed more gradually, and was not heightened by surprise.
It was a strange and touching scene, however, even to one who witnessed it, like the poor painter, without any personal interest in the recovery of the lost lamb; and Falgate's eyes were as full of tears as those of the rest, when he was called forward by Lord Walton to give an account of how he had found the packet which he had brought that day. His tale was somewhat confused, and the particulars need not be related here, as the reader is already acquainted with them; but when he spoke of the account given by the good hostess of the inn, and pointed out the facts she had written down--when he detailed his visit to the vault and the opening of the coffin--Lady Margaret Langley sobbed aloud, exclaiming--
"My child! oh, my child! Ah! didst thou die so near me, and no mother's hand to close thine eyes?"
When she had somewhat recovered, however, she took the tokens and the papers which had been found in the coffin, and gazed upon them, one after the other, with many a sad comment. There were two rings she recollected well. One she had given herself, and a small gold circlet for the brow. It was on her child's sixteenth birthday, she said, the last she ever spent within her father's halls. Then she read the certificate of marriage, and a short statement of events, in a hand that she knew too well, wiping the bitter drops from her eyes that she might see the words; and then she kissed the name written below, and, drawing Arrah to her heart, embraced her long. At length she looked round and asked--
"What is there wanting, Charles? All doubt is done away."
"To us it is, my dear aunt," answered Lord Walton; "but the law will require proof that this dear girl, so long called Arrah Neil, is the same as the child whom old Sergeant Neil brought from Hull to Bishop's Merton many years ago. Those proofs, I hope, will soon be found. Indeed, I expected that they would have been brought hither ere now. Some strange delay has taken place, but doubtless some mere accident has caused it; and at all events we are satisfied."
Miss Walton whispered something to her brother as he ended, to which he replied quickly--
"You are right, Annie; I will do it. Stay with my aunt, and cheer her till we return. There is a tale to be told to this dear girl," he said, speaking to Lady Margaret, "which is too sad for you to tell. Let me do it, my dear aunt--I know all the facts."
"Ay, but not the feelings, Charles," replied the old lady; "yet do so if you will. I can tell the rest hereafter, when I am calmer, for this will pass away. I never thought to have shed tears again. I fancied the fountains were dried up. Tell her, Charles, tell her; but not here."
"No; I will speak with her in the dining-hall," replied Lord Walton. "Come, dear Arrah. It is better to perform a painful task at once; and taking her hand he led her from the room."
It was a large old hall, lined with black oak. The sun was setting, but setting in splendour; and the rich rosy light poured in through the windows, casting a faint glow upon the old carved wreaths and glistening panels.
"Perhaps," said Lord Walton, as they entered and he closed the door, "I had better order them to bring lights, dear Arrah, for the sun will be down ere my tale is told."
"Oh, no," answered Arrah Neil; "there will be light enough for so sad a story as this must be; and we can sit in this window, where we can see the last look of day."
Her cousin led her to one of those old-fashioned window-seats where many of us have sat in our own youth, and took his place beside his fair companion, gazing with her for a moment upon the evening sky. At length, with a start, as if he had forgotten for a time the cause of their coming, he said--
"But to my tale, Arrah. Many years ago, my poor aunt fancied herself the happiest of women--far from courts and crowds, in the midst of wild scenes that suited her turn of mind, with a husband who loved her deeply, and a daughter whom they both adored. Sir Richard was, however, a soldier of much renown, and in the wars of Ireland he carried Lady Margaret and their child to Dublin. They there became first acquainted with a young Irish nobleman, nearly related to that great man--for I must call him so, though he was a rebel--the celebrated Earl of Tyrone. Your mother was then but a child, dear Arrah, and this nobleman a youth; but after the return of Sir Richard and his wife to Langley Hall he came to visit his eldest sister, who was then married to the Earl of Beverley. Near neighbourhood produced intimacy; but the Irish noble and the English knight differed on many a point--in mere opinion, it is true; but the effect was such, that when the young man asked the hand of the old man's daughter, it was refused with some discourtesy. Lady Margaret herself would not hear of such a marriage, though rank, station, and fortune, all were his; but she loved not to part with her daughter, and still less to part with her for a land which she looked upon as barbarous and full of strife. Your father, Arrah, was rash and vehement, impatient of opposition and easily moved to every daring deed, though generous, kind, and full of honour. He had gained your mother's love, too, and he knew it; and when he left Langley Hall, rejected in his suit, he vowed that six months should not pass ere she should be his bride. Not six weeks went by when, after going out to walk, sad and lonely, as had become her custom, she did not return. Search was made, but she could not be found, and no certain information was to be obtained. One man had heard a distant cry; one had seen a ship hovering on the coast hard by, and several had met a troop of men--strangers, evidently, both from their dress and language--wandering near Langley Hall. A few weeks of terrible suspense passed, and then Lady Margaret received a letter in her daughter's hand, signed 'Arabella Tyrone.' It told of her marriage with him she loved, and that love was openly acknowledged. There was, indeed, a vague hint given that she had not gone willingly, nor intentionally disobeyed her parents; but no details were afforded.
"The answer was written in anger, bidding her neither see them nor write to them more; and Sir Richard, remembering the vow of him who was now his son-in-law, swore that he would find a time to make him beg for pardon on his knees. Years passed ere that bitter vow could be exercised. Your father, for the sake of an adored wife, bent his spirit to sue by letter for forgiveness and oblivion of the past; but that did not satisfy the stern old man, and at length his time came. Fresh troubles broke out in Ireland. Sir Richard Langley received a fresh command; and against your father--then alas! preparing to take arms against the government--he chiefly urged an expedition. That country has always had divisions and feuds in its own bosom; and a party of the enemies of Tyrone were easily found to join their efforts to a small body of regular troops, and guide them through the passes to your father's castle."
"I remember it well," said Arrah Neil, "and the terrace looking to the mountains."
"When Sir Richard found that he whom he sought was absent with his wife and child," continued Lord Walton, "and that there was likely to be the most desperate resistance without fruit, he was inclined to pause, and perhaps might have retreated; but those with whom he was now acting overruled his will. They would not hear of delay or hesitation, with their enemy's hold before them. He remonstrated in vain; the attack commenced; and though he took no part therein, and likewise restrained his men, he had the grief of seeing his daughter's dwelling taken, pillaged, and burned to the ground before his eyes. There, alas! perished, dear Arrah, the poor sister of my friend your cousin; and the sight of her blackened remains, which at first he would hardly believe were not yours, though he had before been told were not there, turned the heart of Sir Richard Langley to more charitable thoughts. He repented bitterly, but the cup of his chastisement was not yet full. Your father, after having seen your mother and yourself embark to seek refuge in Holland, was taken by a party of the old knight's troops, demanded by the government as a state prisoner, and in spite of every effort, remonstrance, prayer, and petition, was tried and executed as a traitor. Pardon me, dear Arrah, that I speak such harsh words, and do so without trying to soften them, for I wish to be as brief as may be."
Arrah Neil wept, but made no answer, and Lord Walton went on:--
"Amongst those who most earnestly entreated for your father's life were Sir Richard Langley and my aunt, Lady Margaret; but those were times, Arrah, when pampered sovereignty had never known the softening touch of adversity, and flatterers and knaves were heard when the honest and true were scorned. Nought availed and the old knight gave himself up to bitter remorse. Your poor mother was sought for, and every post took a letter to some one of those lands which it was supposed she might have visited; but no such person was found, and at length a vague rumour reached Langley Hall that she and her child were dead. Whence it came, what was its foundation, no one could discover; but, as year rolled on after year and no tidings arrived, the report was credited. The old man accused himself of murdering his daughter and her husband; inflicted on himself strange and superstitious punishments; and, though poor Lady Margaret, knowing that her heart was not burdened with the deeds that had taken place, bore her sad bereavement more tranquilly, yet she could not altogether exculpate herself from the charge of harshness, and she shared in all his penitence and took part in all his grief. Though remorse often goes with long life, yet such was not the case here. Sir Richard Langley died after four or five years of unavailing regret, and Lady Margaret remained as you have seen her--changed, very much changed, from what she once was, but yet with fine and noble principles at heart. She was always of a somewhat wild and enthusiastic temper of mind, and that disposition has deviated of late into great eccentricity of character. The thing that she has most loved and cherished, if not the only thing, has been that faithful dog, which was saved when young from the burning castle of your poor father, and which on the night of your arrival displayed such strange signs of recognition."
"Oh, I remember him well now!" replied Arrah Neil: "there was a sunny bank below the terrace, near a small lake, and I used to lie with my little arms round his shaggy neck, and laugh when in play he bit at the curls of my hair. It seems but as yesterday, now that the dark mist has been removed from my memory. But go on, Charles; I do but stop you."
Lord Walton had fallen into a reverie; a sweet one it was, to which he had been led by the picture that she drew of her fair self in infancy. He thought he saw her on the flowery bank, at sport with her rough companion, and he might have paused to gaze long at the pleasant sight, had not her words roused him.
"I have no more to tell, dear Arrah," he replied: "the rest of your fate and history you know better than I do; but yet there is one point----"
He stopped and gazed upon her, as far as the fading light would let him do so, and his heart beat more than he had thought anything on earth could have made it do. Arrah Neil raised her eyes with a look of inquiry to his face; but the inquiry was instantly answered by what she saw there, and with a cheek of crimson she withdrew her glance as soon as it was given.
"Arrah," said Lord Walton, in a low and agitated tone, "I have loved you long--longer, I now find, than I myself have known. Ay, Arrah, I have loved you from childhood; and lately I have thought, have hoped, have dreamed, perhaps, that you loved me."
Arrah Neil was silent for a moment--only a moment; but she did nothing like any one else; and once more raising her eyes to his face, she laid her soft hand on his and asked, "Whom have I ever loved but you?" and then the tears rolled over the long lashes and diamonded her cheek.
Charles Walton had felt in those few brief moments as he had never felt before--as he had never imagined that he could feel. He, the calm, the firm, the strong-minded, had felt timid as a child before the cottage-girl, the object of his long bounty, the partaker of his house's charity; and he knew from that strange sensation how powerful was the love within him; while she, though agitated, though moved, gained from the very pure singleness of the one strong passion which had dwelt in her breast for years, that strength to avow it which he seemed scarcely able to command.
But that avowal, once made on her part--though he knew it, though he could not doubt it before--at once restored him to himself again; and casting his arms round her, he called her his own dear bride.
A few minutes passed in sweet emotions--in words so broken and confused that they would seem nonsense if here written--in signs and tokens of the heart which form a sacred language that ought not to be transcribed. But then Charles Walton spoke of his sister's approaching marriage, and urged that she whom he loved would that day put the seal upon their fate also.
Arrah turned pale and shook her head; and when her lover, with soothing words and kind assurances, sought to remove what he believed to be the mere timid scruples of a young heart to so hasty a marriage, she answered--
"No, Charles, no! It is not that. I would not so ill repay your generous kindness; I would not so badly return my benefactor's love. But I cannot--no, I cannot--I ought not--nay, I dare not unite my fate with yours till all doubt is removed of who and what I am. Oh, Charles! I love you deeply. You know it--you must have seen it; but yet, in truth and deep sincerity, I tell you that, even if you had condescended to wed the poor, wild peasant girl, as you knew her long ago, Arrah Neil had too much love for Charles Walton to let him so degrade himself. No; as your equal by birth, however much inferior in mind and every other quality, I am yours when you will. I will not say a word: I will not plead even for a day's delay; but there must be no doubt--it must be all proved."
"My dearest Arrah," replied her lover, tenderly, "I have no doubt. All is clear--all is proved to me."
"But not to the world, Charles--not to the world," she answered. "You have yourself admitted it; and you must not, indeed you must not urge me, if you would not make me unhappy--unhappy either to refuse aught that you ask or to do that which I think wrong."
Still he would have persuaded, but she gazed at him reproachfully, saying, "Oh, Charles, forbear!" and he felt her heart beat violently beneath his arm.
"Well, then, Arrah," he said in a somewhat mournful tone, "remember, my beloved, you have promised that whenever these papers can be found--and I trust that will be soon--or that your birth be by any other means clearly established, you will be mine without delay."
"The instant that you ask me," replied Arrah Neil; and shortly after Charles Walton led her back to the arms of Lady Margaret Langley. He left her there, hurried out to the houses where his men were lodged, and seeking out old Major Randal, bade him to send a small party in the direction of Bishop's Merton, with orders to inquire for Captain Barecolt at every village on the way.
"In that part of the country," he said, anticipating the old soldier's objections, "I find that the parliamentary party dare not show their faces, and there can be no danger of a surprise. Lord Hertford's people keep the Roundheads down."
"Oh! I have no objection, my good lord," answered Major Randal, drily. "I could as ill spare Barecolt as your lordship, though he has been too much absent from his troop of late; but if it be for his majesty's service, I have nought to say. However, in time of need he always proves himself a good soldier, and in time of idleness he amuses me, which few things do now-a-days. I can hardly make him out yet, after having known him ten years or more; for I never knew any one but himself who was a braggart and a brave man, a liar and an honest one. However, I will send out a party to-night, as your lordship seems anxious."
The old officer went forth to do as he proposed; but Lord Walton did not return at once to his dwelling, as might be supposed. On the contrary, he remained in Major Randal's quarters, buried in deep thought, so intense, so absorbing, that several persons came and went without his perceiving them. For months he had struggled against the passion in his bosom. He had struggled successfully, not to crush, but to restrain it; and like a dammed-up torrent it had gone on increasing in power behind the barrier that confined it, till, now that the obstacle was removed, it rushed forth with overwhelming power. There was an eager, a vehement, an almost apprehensive longing to call her he loved his own, which can only be felt by a strong spirit that has resisted its own impulses. There was a fear that it never would be--a vague impression that some unforeseen impediment, some change, some danger--nay, perhaps, death itself--would interpose and forbid it; and when he roused himself with a start, he resolved to urge Arrah with every argument to cast aside all her scruples and be his at once.
He found her seated by Lady Margaret, the old woman's hand in hers and the stag-hound's head upon her knee, and there evidently had been agitating but tender words passing; for Arrah's eyes were full of tears, though there was a sweet smile upon her lip. Charles Walton was too full of his errand for any concealment: he told Lady Margaret all, and besought her to join her persuasions to his, which she did joyfully. But the fair girl resisted, gently, sweetly, yet firmly, even though he spoke of the chances of his own death. The thought brought bright drops into her eyes again; but still she besought him not to ask her, and looked so mournfully in his face when he seemed to doubt her love, that he was once more forced to yield.
What was it that made her resolute against his wishes--ay, against the dearest feelings of her own heart? There was a dread, a fancy, that if she became Charles Walton's wife, and the proofs of her birth should never be discovered, he might regret what he had done; that he might wish the words unspoken, the bond of their union broken. She did not do him full justice, but the very idea was agony; and though she knew that, whatever he might feel in such a case, he was too generous to let her perceive his regret, yet she saw sufficiently into her own heart to be sure that she should doubt and fear, and that no peace, no joy, would ever be hers, if in her marriage to him there was one cause which could produce reasonable regret.
It was a bright sunny morning, when walking forth, as if for some mere morning's excursion, the Earl of Beverley, with Lady Margaret Langley leaning on his arm, and Lord Walton with his sister, took their way to the old church in Shrewsbury. Arrah Neil, with old Major Randal, and one or two of the servants, had gone a different way; for Annie Walton, though the customs of those days were different, did not wish in the midst of civil war, confusion, and bloodshed, to chequer sadder scenes with the spectacle of a gay wedding. One by one they entered the church. There was no gazing crowd to witness. All was quiet, and even solemn; but the bright smile of the morning cheered the fair bride's heart, and lent to imagination an augury of happy hours. The ceremony was soon over; and Lord Walton gave his sister to his friend, undoubtedly with joy and satisfaction; yet he could not refrain one bitter sigh, or forbear from turning his eyes sadly and reproachfully to Arrah Neil; but that glance was met by so tender, so imploring a look from that fair and speaking face, that he easily read in it, that to hold her resolution cost her as much as it cost him.
Four or five days passed after sweet Annie Walton had become the wife of Lord Beverley, and still no news had been received from Bishop's Merton. The king had returned some time before to Shrewsbury; many bodies of men had flocked to his standard; reports favourable to his cause had been rife; risings in his favour on the road to London had been rumoured; and news had been received, that under the very walls of Worcester Prince Rupert's fiery horse had defeated a superior party of the enemy. Every one began to speak of a speedy advance towards the capital, and all seemed glad of the prospect except Charles Walton. At length the order for preparation was given, and all was bustle and activity. Lord Walton proposed to his aunt to remain with her he loved at Shrewsbury, but Lady Margaret answered--
"No, Charles; I will follow you as near as I can; and if I know Arrah aright, she would not stay behind. As soon as you know the direction of your march we will set out, and perhaps may be your harbingers to prepare your quarters for you. I fear not, my dear boy. These Roundheads are not anthropophagi, and will not eat up women and children."
The royal army marched on the following morning, the 12th October; but for ten days Arrah Neil only saw her lover once, at Bridgenorth, and Annie Walton only once saw her husband; for, though the king's leave was given that he should remain for a fortnight more with his bride at Longnar, even love could not keep him from his duty, and love and duty both taught her to follow where he went.
No news was heard of an enemy; the march of the king's force was unopposed, and the only inconvenience that was experienced was the frequent want of good provisions: for the false reports industriously spread by the agents of the parliament induced the people of the country to believe that the Cavaliers plundered wherever they went. Day by day, however, Arrah Neil or her fair cousin received letters or messengers from the army, and this was consolation under any privation; till at length, towards the end of October, the small party of ladies, with the servants that attended them, reached the village of South Newington, a few miles from Banbury, and obtained lodging at a large old farmhouse in the neighbourhood, close on the banks of the little Sarbrook. They were indeed glad to find shelter, for the weather was cold and stormy; and the good farmer received them willingly enough, and prayed the king might prosper; for the vicinity of a parliamentary garrison in Banbury had taught the peasantry, though somewhat late in the day, that gross tyranny can be exercised in the name of liberty, and bitter injustice practised by those who have ever equity on their lips. It was about three in the afternoon when they reached the farm-house, and while hasty preparations were being made for their accommodation, which the extent of the building rendered not very difficult, Arrah Neil stood at the window gazing out upon the fields, the sky, and the stream. Heavy leaden clouds hung overhead, and shut out the blue of heaven and the beams of the sun; a dull grey shower was pouring down upon the earth, dimming the bright colouring of the autumnal foliage; the stream ran turbid, with a sad and solemn murmur, and the hoarse wind howled as it passed the casement. Her thoughts were as gloomy as the scene, and something like the dark shadow which used formerly to come over her seemed to rest upon her spirit. The old stag-hound stalked up and put his muzzle in her hand, but she noticed him not; the servants came and went, but she saw them not; Lady Margaret spoke, but her ears did not catch the sounds. At length Lady Beverley pronounced her name, and Arrah Neil started, for the tones were like those of Lord Walton; and she was turning round to reply when her eye caught sight of two Cavaliers riding into the court. A look of joy instantly spread over her face, and she exclaimed--
"Oh Annie! dear Annie! there is Captain Barecolt, and Charles will be happy now!"
As soon as he could spring from his horse and find his way up the stairs, Captain Barecolt was in the room. He was very pale and very thin, and Annie Walton thought for a moment that he must be the bearer of evil tidings, but his well-satisfied smile soon set her fears at rest.
"What news? what news, sir?" exclaimed Lady Margaret, who had shared the apprehensions of her niece.
"None but what is good, madam," replied the captain. "Lord Walton has honoured me by making me his messenger from Edgecot, where he is now with his majesty. No enemy is near; Banbury is about to be besieged, and consequently cavalry is out of fashion; so we shall have three or four days' repose, for they will doubtless hold out that time for their honour; and, to say truth, I myself shall not be sorry for a little rest, having been let blood pretty sharply since I stood last in this fair presence. I can bear bleeding, methinks, as well as most men, being somewhat accustomed to the process; but this Master Dry, of Longsoaken, was an unskilful leech, and took so much that there was very little left, and I was obliged to lie in bed at Chippenham for ten days."
"But you are wet, Captain Barecolt, and fatigued," said Lady Beverley: "will you take some refreshment?"
"Not before I have done my errand, bright lady," replied the officer; "which is simply to tell you that my Lord Walton and your noble lord will be here with all speed, and to give this packet to another fair lady, in whose cause I have laboured and suffered successfully;" and approaching Arrah Neil, who had been listening with eager attention to every word that fell from his lips, he kissed her hand and gave her her lover's letter.
She took and read it eagerly, while her heart beat fast and her brain almost turned giddy with joy.