CHAPTER I.
About two centuries ago, in times with which we are all familiar, asthey comprised a period of English history, the events of which haveaffected the social condition of the British people more than almostany which have preceded or followed that period--about two centuriesago, there stood upon the slope of a gentle hill, in a picturesquepart of England, an old brick mansion of considerable extent, and of avenerable though flourishing exterior. On the right hand and on theleft there was a wood of various trees, amidst which Evelyn might havedelighted to roam, choice children of the British forest, mingled withmany a stranger grown familiar with the land, though not longdenizened in it. In front was a terrace flanked with quaintly-carvedflower-pots of stone; and beyond that stretched a lawn several roodsin extent, leaving the mansion fully exposed to the eye of every onewho wandered through the valley below. Beyond the lawn again a wideview was obtained over a pleasant scene of hill and dale, with the topof a village church and its high tower peeping over the edge of thefirst earth-wave; and far off, faint and grey, were seen the lines ofa distant city, apparently of considerable extent. The house itselfhad nothing very remarkable in its appearance, and yet circumstancescompel us to give some account of it, although it is but building upto pull down, as the reader will soon perceive. The middle partconsisted of a large square mass of brickwork, rising somewhat higher,and projecting somewhat farther, than the rest of the building. It hadin the centre a large hall-door, with a flight of stone steps, and oneach side of the entrance were three windows in chiselled frames ofstone. On either side of this centre was a wing flanked with a smallsquare tower, and in each wing and each tower was a small door openingupon the terrace. Manifold lattices, too, with narrow panes set inlead, ornamented these inferior parts of the building in long straightrows, and chimneys nearly as numerous towered up from the tall peakedroofs, not quite in keeping with the trim regularity of the otherparts of the edifice. The whole, however, had a pleasant and yetimposing effect when seen from a distance; and to any one who lookednear, there was an air of comfort and cheerfulness about the mansionwhich well compensated for the want of grace. The view, too, from theterrace and the windows was in itself a continual source of calm andhigh-toned pleasure to the minds that dwelt within, for they werethose that could appreciate all that is lovely, more especially in theworks of God; and over the wide scene came a thousand varying aspects,as the clouds and sunshine chased each other along, like the poeticaldreams of a bright and varying imagination. Morning and sunset, too,and moonlight and mid-day, each wrought a change in the prospect, andbrought out something new and fair on which the eye rested withdelight.
It was evening: the lower limb of the large round sun rested on a darkline of trees which filled up one of the slopes of the ground aboutsix miles off; and above the bright and glowing disc, which seemed tofloat in a sea of its own glory, were stretched a few small darkclouds, edged with gold, which hung over the descending star like aveil thrown back to afford one last look of the bright orb of daybefore the reign of night began. Higher still, the sky was blushinglike a bride; and woods and fields, and distant spires and hills, allseemed penetrated with the purple splendour of the hour. Nothing couldbe fairer or more peaceful than the whole scene, and it was scarcelypossible to suppose that the violent passions of man could remainuntamed and unchastened by the aspect of so much bright tranquillity.
Winding along at the foot of the hill, and marking the commencement ofwhat might be called the plain--though, to say the truth, the widespace to which we must give that name was broken by innumerableundulations--appeared a hard but sandy road, from which a carriage-wayled by a circuit up to the mansion. In some places high banks, coveredwith shrubs and bushes, overhung the course of the road, though inothers it passed unsheltered over the soft, short grass of the hill;but just at the angle where the two paths separated, the ground rosealmost to a cliff, and at the bottom was a spring of very clear watergathered into a little stone basin.
By the side of the fountain, at the time we speak of, sat a figurewhich harmonised well with the landscape. It was that of a young girl,not yet apparently sixteen years of age. Her garb appeared to be thatof poverty, her head uncovered by anything but rich and waving locksof warm brown hair, her face and neck tanned with the sun, her feetbare, as well as her hands and her arms above the elbows, and herapparel scanty, and in some places torn, though scrupulously clean.She seemed, in short, a beggar, and many a one would have passed herby as such without notice; but those who looked nearer saw that herfeatures were very beautiful, her teeth of a dazzling whiteness, herlimbs rounded and well formed, and her blue eyes under their longjetty eyelashes as bright, yet soft, as ever beamed on mortal man. Yetthere was something wanting in her face, an indefinable something, notexactly intellect, for there was often a keen and flashing lightspread over the whole countenance. Neither was it expression, for ofthat there was a great deal. Neither was it steadiness, for therefrequently came a look of deep thought, painfully deep, intense,abstracted, unsatisfied, as if the mind sought something within itselfthat it could not discover. What it was it is difficult, nay,impossible to say; yet there was something wanting, and all those wholooked upon her felt that it was so.
She sat by that little fountain for a long time, sometimes gazing intothe water as if her heart were at the bottom of the brook; sometimes,suddenly looking up, with her head bent on one side, and her earinclined, listening to the notes of a lark that rose high in air fromthe neighbouring fields, and trilled the joy-inspired hymn under theglowing sky; and as she did so, a smile, sweet, and bland, and happy,came upon her lip, as if to her the song of the lark spoke hope andcomfort from a higher source than any of the earth.
While she was thus sitting, more than one horseman passed along theroad; but the poor girl gave them only a casual glance, and thenresumed her meditations. One or two villagers, too, on foot, walked ontheir way, some of them giving her a nod, to which she answerednothing. A thin and gloomy-looking personage, too, with a tall hat andblack coat and doublet, rode down from the mansion, followed by twomen of somewhat less staid and abstinent appearance; and as he passedby he first gazed on her with not the most holy smile, but the momentafter gave her a sour look, and muttered something about the stocks.The girl paid him no attention, however.
At length a horse trotting briskly was heard coming along thehigh-road; and a moment after, a gay cavalier, well mounted and armed,with feather in his hat and gold upon his doublet, long curling lockshanging on his shoulders, and heavy gilt spurs buckled over hisboots, appeared at the angle of the bank. There he pulled up, however,as if doubtful which path to take; and seeing the girl, he exclaimedin a loud but not unkindly tone, "Which is the way to Bishop's Merton,sweetheart?"
The girl rose and dropped him a graceful curtsey, but for her onlyreply she smiled.
"Which is the way to Bishop's Merton, pretty maid?" the strangerrepeated, bringing his horse closer to her.
"The village is out there," replied the girl, pointing, with her handalong the road; "the house is up there," she added, turning towardsthe mansion on the hill; and then she immediately seated herself againwith a deep sigh, and began once more to gaze into the fountain.
The stranger wheeled his horse as if to ride up to the house, but thenpaused, and springing to the ground, he turned to the girl once more,asking, "What is the matter with you, my poor girl? Has any oneinjured you? Is there anything ails you? What makes you so sad?"
She looked in his face for a moment with a countenance totally void ofexpression, and then, gazing down into the water again, she resumedher meditations without making any reply.
"She must be a fool," the stranger said, speaking to himself. "All thebetter for her, poor girl; I wish I were a fool too. One would escapehalf the sorrows of this life if he did not understand them, and halfthe sins, too, if he did not know what he were about. What a happything it must be to be a rich fool! but she is a poor one, that isclear, and the case is n
ot so fortunate. Here, sweetheart; there's acrown for thee. Good faith! I am likely, ere long, to thank any manfor one myself, so it matters not how soon the few I have are gone."
The girl took the money readily, and dropped the giver a low curtsey,saying, "Thank your worship; God bless you, sir!"
"He had need, my pretty maid," replied the stranger, "for never manwanted a blessing more than I do, or has been longer without one." Andthus speaking, he sprang upon his horse's back again, and rode uptowards the house.
When he was gone, she to whom he had spoken continued standing wherehe had left her, meditating sadly, as it seemed, for several minutes;and at length she said in a low tone, "Alas! he does not come--he doesnot come. Perhaps he will never come again--oh, how I wish he wouldstay away!"
The whole speech was as contradictory as a speech could be, especiallywhen the look and manner were taken as part and parcel thereof. Butthere was nothing extraordinary in the fact; for man is a mass ofcontradictions, and there is scarce one enjoyment that does notpartake of pain, one apprehension that is not mingled with a hope, onehope that is not chequered by a fear. Antagonistic principles are everwarring within us, and many of the greatest contests result in a drawnbattle. If, however, the girl's first words and the last had beenevidently in opposition to each other, the wish with which sheconcluded was instantly belied by the glow upon her cheek, and thelight in her eye, when she once more heard the sound of a horse's feetcoming from the direction of the little town of Bishop's Merton.
"It is he!" she cried, with a smile, "it is he! I know the pace, I knowthe pace!" and running into the middle of the road, she gazed down it,while a horseman, followed by three servants, came on at a rapid rate,with a loose rein and an easy seat. He was a young man of seven oreight-and-twenty, with long fair hair, and pointed beard, tall andwell made, though somewhat slight in form, with a grave and even sterncast of features, but a broad high forehead, clear but well-markedbrows, and lips full but not large. His face, as I have said, wasgrave, and seemed as he rode forward, unsusceptible of any but a coldthoughtful expression, till suddenly his eyes lighted on the poor girlwho was watching him, when a bright and beaming smile broke over hiswhole countenance, and a complete change took place, like that whichspreads over a fine country when the storm gives place to sunshine.
"Ah, Arrah Neil!" he cried, "my poor Arrah Neil, is that you comeback? Where is your grandfather, poor child? have they set him free?"And he, too sprang from his horse, taking the girl's hand with a lookof tender compassion.
"No, he is not free," replied Arrah Neil; "he never will be free."
"Oh, yes," answered the gentleman; "these things cannot last for ever,Arrah. Time will bring about changes, I doubt not, which will deliverhim from whatever prison they have taken him to."
"Not from that prison," answered the girl, with tears rising in hereyes; "it is a low and narrow prison, Lord Walton. I told them hewould die when they took him, and he only reached Devizes. But theyare happy who sleep--they are happy who sleep;" and sitting down bythe side of the well, she fell into thought again.
The stranger stood and gazed at her for a moment without uttering aword. There are times when silence is more eloquent of sympathy thanthe choicest words of condolence. One of the servants, however, whohad ridden up, and was holding his lord's horse, burst forth with anoath, "The Roundhead rascals! I wish I had my sword in their stomachs!The good old man was worth a score of them."
"Hush!" said his master, sternly; "hush! no such words in my hearing,Langan!"
"Then, faith, my lord, I must speak them behind your back," murmuredthe man; but his master had taken a step forward, and was bending downhis head to speak to the poor girl. "Come up to the house Arrah," hesaid; "you must not stay here alone, nor go back to the cottageeither. Come up to the house, and my sister will comfort and be kindto you."
The girl gazed in his face for a moment, and then, suddenly startingup, as if some remembrance flashed across her mind, she exclaimed,"No, no! do not go home, sir! Do not go there. Misfortune will happento you if you go there--I am sure it will--I am quite sure it will."
"But why, Arrah?" asked her companion, with an incredulous smile;"what makes you think that there is any danger? Have you seen any ofthe parliament people there?"
"There was Dry, of Longsoaken," replied Arrah Neil; "but he came downagain, and it is not that. But I must not say what it is. Yet do notgo up--do not go up! kind, good Charles Walton, do not go up!"
The young nobleman looked at her with an expression of muchcommiseration for her sorrows, but no reliance on her words. "I mustgo, Arrah," he said; "you know my sister is there; and even if therebe danger I most go. Come up, Arrah, there's a good girl, and we willdo the best we can for you in these sad times."
The poor girl shook her head sadly, and, after a moment's pause,replied, "Ah! you think me a fool; and so I am, perhaps, forthings trouble me much here," and she laid her finger on her brow;"memories--memories that haunt me, but are like dreams that we try torecall distinctly after sleep is gone, and yet have but faint imagesof them, as of trees in a mist. But I am not a fool in this, sir; andI beseech you not to go."
"Stay with her, Langan," said Lord Walton, "and bring her up to thehouse. The fit is upon the poor girl, and her grandfather's death maymake it worse. You loved him well, and will be kind to her. Stay withher, good fellow, and persuade her to come up. I must go now, Arrah,"he continued; "but come up with Langan, for Annie will be glad to seeyou again, and will try to comfort you."
Thus saying, he remounted his horse, and rode onward up the hill.
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