Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=4qdEAAAAYAAJ
(University of Virginia)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. Missing pages were provided by the 1844 edition.
4. Table of contents is provided by the transcriber.

ARRAH NEIL

BY

G. P. R. JAMES

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS LIMITED

MDCCCCIII

The Introduction is written by Laurie Magnus, M.A.; the Title-page is designed by Ivor I. J. Symes.

CONTENTS

[INTRODUCTION.]

George Payne Rainsford James, Historiographer Royal to King William IV., was born in London in the first year of the nineteenth century, and died at Venice in 1860. His comparatively short life was exceptionally full and active. He was historian, politician and traveller, the reputed author of upwards of a hundred novels, the compiler and editor of nearly half as many volumes of letters, memoirs, and biographies, a poet and a pamphleteer, and, during the last ten years of his life, British Consul successively in Massachusetts, Norfolk (Virginia), and Venice. He was on terms of friendship with most of the eminent men of his day. Scott, on whose style he founded his own, encouraged him to persevere in his career as a novelist; Washington Irving admired him, and Walter Savage Landor composed an epitaph to his memory. He achieved the distinction of being twice burlesqued by Thackeray, and two columns are devoted to an account of him in the new "Dictionary of National Biography." Each generation follows its own gods, and G. P. R. James was, perhaps, too prolific an author to maintain the popularity which made him "in some ways the most successful novelist of his time." But his work bears selection and revival. It possesses the qualities of seriousness and interest; his best historical novels are faithful in setting and free in movement. His narrative is clear, his history conscientious, and his plots are well-conceived. English learning and literature are enriched by the work of this writer, who made vivid every epoch in the world's history by the charm of his romance.

"Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old" is a characteristic mixture of history and sentimental romance. The historical matters are concerned with an early episode in the Great Civil War, which centred in the destinies of the important town of Hull, the "magazine of the North." Sir John Hotham was governor at the time that the King hoisted the Royal Standard at Nottingham, and though he closed the gates against his Majesty, it was felt by both sides that his defection from the Parliament was not at all unlikely, especially if they persisted in extreme measures. This doubtful attitude of Sir John, the strained relations between him and his son, Colonel Hotham, and the hopes and fears of the Royalist party as to the possession of Hull, are the historical elements in the plot, and give rise to an intricate series of extremely entertaining as well as exciting events. The plot is hardly well put together; James does not trouble himself much about his "loose ends," and it looks as though the French mission, on which the King sends the Earl of Beverly and Captain Barecolt, were merely a pretext for their subsequent adventures. On the other hand, the novel contains one singular and striking success. James often attempts low comedy and frequently fails, but in the boasting, swaggering, and resourceful Barecolt, the indomitable Royalist soldier, who "might have become almost as great a man as he fancied himself if it had not been for his swaggering, drinking, drabbing, and lying propensities," he has given us what, according to the limits of his genius, corresponds to Scott's Captain Dalgetty. Barecolt is a character in every sense of the word, and his sayings and doings are as amusing as the strange events that befall him are exciting. The story of Arrah Neil is--a rare thing for James--a tragic one; the mystery of the plot is happily solved, yet the end is pathetic. But the pathos is by no means bitter or unmitigated, since the parallel half of the story ends satisfactorily, and due retribution falls on the offenders. James takes up the story of the Civil War again in "The Cavalier" and "Henry Masterton," both of which deal with a more disastrous period in the career of the Royalists. Sir John Hotham and his son ultimately paid the penalty of their indecision, with their heads.

ARRAH NEIL.

[CHAPTER I.]

About two centuries ago, in times with which we are all familiar, as they comprised a period of English history, the events of which have affected the social condition of the British people more than almost any which have preceded or followed that period--about two centuries ago, there stood upon the slope of a gentle hill, in a picturesque part of England, an old brick mansion of considerable extent, and of a venerable though flourishing exterior. On the right hand and on the left there was a wood of various trees, amidst which Evelyn might have delighted to roam, choice children of the British forest, mingled with many a stranger grown familiar with the land, though not long denizened in it. In front was a terrace flanked with quaintly-carved flower-pots of stone; and beyond that stretched a lawn several roods in extent, leaving the mansion fully exposed to the eye of every one who wandered through the valley below. Beyond the lawn again a wide view was obtained over a pleasant scene of hill and dale, with the top of a village church and its high tower peeping over the edge of the first earth-wave; and far off, faint and grey, were seen the lines of a distant city, apparently of considerable extent. The house itself had nothing very remarkable in its appearance, and yet circumstances compel us to give some account of it, although it is but building up to pull down, as the reader will soon perceive. The middle part consisted of a large square mass of brickwork, rising somewhat higher, and projecting somewhat farther, than the rest of the building. It had in the centre a large hall-door, with a flight of stone steps, and on each side of the entrance were three windows in chiselled frames of stone. On either side of this centre was a wing flanked with a small square tower, and in each wing and each tower was a small door opening upon the terrace. Manifold lattices, too, with narrow panes set in lead, ornamented these inferior parts of the building in long straight rows, and chimneys nearly as numerous towered up from the tall peaked roofs, not quite in keeping with the trim regularity of the other parts of the edifice. The whole, however, had a pleasant and yet imposing effect when seen from a distance; and to any one who looked near, there was an air of comfort and cheerfulness about the mansion which well compensated for the want of grace. The view, too, from the terrace and the windows was in itself a continual source of calm and high-toned pleasure to the minds that dwelt within, for they were those that could appreciate all that is lovely, more especially in the works of God; and over the wide scene came a thousand varying aspects, as the clouds and sunshine chased each other along, like the poetical dreams of a bright and varying imagination. Morning and sunset, too, and moonlight and mid-day, each wrought a change in the prospect, and brought out something new and fair on which the eye rested with delight.

It was evening: the lower limb of the large round sun rested on a dark line of trees which filled up one of the slopes of the ground about six miles off; and above the bright and glowing disc, which seemed to float in a sea of its own glory, were stretched a few small dark clouds, edged with gold, which hung over the descending star like a veil thrown back to afford one last look of the bright orb of day before the reign of night began. Higher still, the sky was blushing like a bride; and woods and fields, and distant spires and hills, all seemed penetrated with the purple splendour of the hour. Nothing could be fairer or more peaceful than the whole scene, and it was scarcely possible to suppose that the violent passions of man could remain untamed and unchastened by the aspect of so much bright tranquillity.

Winding along at the foot of the hill, and marking the commencement of what might be called the plain--though, to say the truth, the wide space to which we must give that name was broken by innumerable undulations--appeared a hard but sandy road, from which a carriage-way led by a circuit up to the mansion. In some places high banks, covered with shrubs and bushes, overhung the course of the road, though in others it passed unsheltered over the soft, short grass of the hill; but just at the angle where the two paths separated, the ground rose almost to a cliff, and at the bottom was a spring of very clear water gathered into a little stone basin.

By the side of the fountain, at the time we speak of, sat a figure which harmonised well with the landscape. It was that of a young girl, not yet apparently sixteen years of age. Her garb appeared to be that of poverty, her head uncovered by anything but rich and waving locks of warm brown hair, her face and neck tanned with the sun, her feet bare, as well as her hands and her arms above the elbows, and her apparel scanty, and in some places torn, though scrupulously clean. She seemed, in short, a beggar, and many a one would have passed her by as such without notice; but those who looked nearer saw that her features were very beautiful, her teeth of a dazzling whiteness, her limbs rounded and well formed, and her blue eyes under their long jetty eyelashes as bright, yet soft, as ever beamed on mortal man. Yet there was something wanting in her face, an indefinable something, not exactly intellect, for there was often a keen and flashing light spread over the whole countenance. Neither was it expression, for of that there was a great deal. Neither was it steadiness, for there frequently came a look of deep thought, painfully deep, intense, abstracted, unsatisfied, as if the mind sought something within itself that it could not discover. What it was it is difficult, nay, impossible to say; yet there was something wanting, and all those who looked upon her felt that it was so.

She sat by that little fountain for a long time, sometimes gazing into the water as if her heart were at the bottom of the brook; sometimes, suddenly looking up, with her head bent on one side, and her ear inclined, listening to the notes of a lark that rose high in air from the neighbouring fields, and trilled the joy-inspired hymn under the glowing sky; and as she did so, a smile, sweet, and bland, and happy, came upon her lip, as if to her the song of the lark spoke hope and comfort from a higher source than any of the earth.

While she was thus sitting, more than one horseman passed along the road; but the poor girl gave them only a casual glance, and then resumed her meditations. One or two villagers, too, on foot, walked on their way, some of them giving her a nod, to which she answered nothing. A thin and gloomy-looking personage, too, with a tall hat and black coat and doublet, rode down from the mansion, followed by two men of somewhat less staid and abstinent appearance; and as he passed by he first gazed on her with not the most holy smile, but the moment after gave her a sour look, and muttered something about the stocks. The girl paid him no attention, however.

At length a horse trotting briskly was heard coming along the high-road; and a moment after, a gay cavalier, well mounted and armed, with feather in his hat and gold upon his doublet, long curling locks hanging on his shoulders, and heavy gilt spurs buckled over his boots, appeared at the angle of the bank. There he pulled up, however, as if doubtful which path to take; and seeing the girl, he exclaimed in a loud but not unkindly tone, "Which is the way to Bishop's Merton, sweetheart?"

The girl rose and dropped him a graceful curtsey, but for her only reply she smiled.

"Which is the way to Bishop's Merton, pretty maid?" the stranger repeated, bringing his horse closer to her.

"The village is out there," replied the girl, pointing, with her hand along the road; "the house is up there," she added, turning towards the mansion on the hill; and then she immediately seated herself again with a deep sigh, and began once more to gaze into the fountain.

The stranger wheeled his horse as if to ride up to the house, but then paused, and springing to the ground, he turned to the girl once more, asking, "What is the matter with you, my poor girl? Has any one injured you? Is there anything ails you? What makes you so sad?"

She looked in his face for a moment with a countenance totally void of expression, and then, gazing down into the water again, she resumed her meditations without making any reply.

"She must be a fool," the stranger said, speaking to himself. "All the better for her, poor girl; I wish I were a fool too. One would escape half the sorrows of this life if he did not understand them, and half the sins, too, if he did not know what he were about. What a happy thing it must be to be a rich fool! but she is a poor one, that is clear, and the case is not so fortunate. Here, sweetheart; there's a crown for thee. Good faith! I am likely, ere long, to thank any man for one myself, so it matters not how soon the few I have are gone."

The girl took the money readily, and dropped the giver a low curtsey, saying, "Thank your worship; God bless you, sir!"

"He had need, my pretty maid," replied the stranger, "for never man wanted a blessing more than I do, or has been longer without one." And thus speaking, he sprang upon his horse's back again, and rode up towards the house.

When he was gone, she to whom he had spoken continued standing where he had left her, meditating sadly, as it seemed, for several minutes; and at length she said in a low tone, "Alas! he does not come--he does not come. Perhaps he will never come again--oh, how I wish he would stay away!"

The whole speech was as contradictory as a speech could be, especially when the look and manner were taken as part and parcel thereof. But there was nothing extraordinary in the fact; for man is a mass of contradictions, and there is scarce one enjoyment that does not partake of pain, one apprehension that is not mingled with a hope, one hope that is not chequered by a fear. Antagonistic principles are ever warring within us, and many of the greatest contests result in a drawn battle. If, however, the girl's first words and the last had been evidently in opposition to each other, the wish with which she concluded was instantly belied by the glow upon her cheek, and the light in her eye, when she once more heard the sound of a horse's feet coming from the direction of the little town of Bishop's Merton.

"It is he!" she cried, with a smile, "it is he! I know the pace, I know the pace!" and running into the middle of the road, she gazed down it, while a horseman, followed by three servants, came on at a rapid rate, with a loose rein and an easy seat. He was a young man of seven or eight-and-twenty, with long fair hair, and pointed beard, tall and well made, though somewhat slight in form, with a grave and even stern cast of features, but a broad high forehead, clear but well-marked brows, and lips full but not large. His face, as I have said, was grave, and seemed as he rode forward, unsusceptible of any but a cold thoughtful expression, till suddenly his eyes lighted on the poor girl who was watching him, when a bright and beaming smile broke over his whole countenance, and a complete change took place, like that which spreads over a fine country when the storm gives place to sunshine.

"Ah, Arrah Neil!" he cried, "my poor Arrah Neil, is that you come back? Where is your grandfather, poor child? have they set him free?" And he, too sprang from his horse, taking the girl's hand with a look of tender compassion.

"No, he is not free," replied Arrah Neil; "he never will be free."

"Oh, yes," answered the gentleman; "these things cannot last for ever, Arrah. Time will bring about changes, I doubt not, which will deliver him from whatever prison they have taken him to."

"Not from that prison," answered the girl, with tears rising in her eyes; "it is a low and narrow prison, Lord Walton. I told them he would die when they took him, and he only reached Devizes. But they are happy who sleep--they are happy who sleep;" and sitting down by the side of the well, she fell into thought again.

The stranger stood and gazed at her for a moment without uttering a word. There are times when silence is more eloquent of sympathy than the choicest words of condolence. One of the servants, however, who had ridden up, and was holding his lord's horse, burst forth with an oath, "The Roundhead rascals! I wish I had my sword in their stomachs! The good old man was worth a score of them."

"Hush!" said his master, sternly; "hush! no such words in my hearing, Langan!"

"Then, faith, my lord, I must speak them behind your back," murmured the man; but his master had taken a step forward, and was bending down his head to speak to the poor girl. "Come up to the house Arrah," he said; "you must not stay here alone, nor go back to the cottage either. Come up to the house, and my sister will comfort and be kind to you."

The girl gazed in his face for a moment, and then, suddenly starting up, as if some remembrance flashed across her mind, she exclaimed, "No, no! do not go home, sir! Do not go there. Misfortune will happen to you if you go there--I am sure it will--I am quite sure it will."

"But why, Arrah?" asked her companion, with an incredulous smile; "what makes you think that there is any danger? Have you seen any of the parliament people there?"

"There was Dry, of Longsoaken," replied Arrah Neil; "but he came down again, and it is not that. But I must not say what it is. Yet do not go up--do not go up! kind, good Charles Walton, do not go up!"

The young nobleman looked at her with an expression of much commiseration for her sorrows, but no reliance on her words. "I must go, Arrah," he said; "you know my sister is there; and even if there be danger I most go. Come up, Arrah, there's a good girl, and we will do the best we can for you in these sad times."

The poor girl shook her head sadly, and, after a moment's pause, replied, "Ah! you think me a fool; and so I am, perhaps, for things trouble me much here," and she laid her finger on her brow; "memories--memories that haunt me, but are like dreams that we try to recall distinctly after sleep is gone, and yet have but faint images of them, as of trees in a mist. But I am not a fool in this, sir; and I beseech you not to go."

"Stay with her, Langan," said Lord Walton, "and bring her up to the house. The fit is upon the poor girl, and her grandfather's death may make it worse. You loved him well, and will be kind to her. Stay with her, good fellow, and persuade her to come up. I must go now, Arrah," he continued; "but come up with Langan, for Annie will be glad to see you again, and will try to comfort you."

Thus saying, he remounted his horse, and rode onward up the hill.

[CHAPTER II.]

In the well-sanded parlour of a small but neat inn, called the "Rose of Sharon," on the evening of the same day whereof we have just been speaking, and in the village, or town, as perhaps we should call it, of Bishop's Merton--for it was beginning to give itself the airs of a great place--sat two personages finishing their supper, about half-past nine o'clock. Their food was a cold sirloin of roast beef--for the English nation were always fond of that plain and substantial commodity--and their drink was good English ale, the most harmonious accompaniment to the meat. The elder of the two was a hard-featured, somewhat morose-looking personage, but of a hale, fresh complexion, with a quick grey eye. There was a great deal of thought upon the brow; and round the mouth were some strongly defined lines, we might almost call them furrows. He was as thin and spare, too, as a pair of tongs, but apparently strong and active for his age, and his long limbs and breadth of chest spoke considerable original powers. He was dressed altogether in black; and though a tall steeple-crowned hat lay on a chair by his side, he wore while sitting at meat, a small round cap of dark cloth, in the shape of a half pumpkin, on the top of his head. He had also a good strong sword leaning on the chair beside him, habited like himself in black, with steel points and hilt.

The other was a younger man, very different in appearance; a good deal taller than his companion, and apparently more vigorous; his face decorated with an immense pair of moustaches, and a somewhat pointed beard, both of that indistinct hue which may be called whey-colour. His hair floated upon his shoulders in the style of the Cavaliers; but, to say the truth, it seemed somewhat unconscious of the comb; and his dress, too, displayed that sort of dirty finery which by no means prepossesses the wary usurer or experienced tradesman with the idea of great funds at command on the part of the wearer. His doublet of soiled leather displayed a great number of ornamented buttons, and shreds of gold lace; his collar and hand-ruffles were of lace which had once been of high price, but had seen service probably with more masters than one, and had borne away in the conflict with the world many a hole and tear, more honourable in flag or standard than in human apparel. Ranging by his side, and ready for action, was an egregious rapier, with a small dagger placed beside it, as if to set off its length to greater advantage. On his legs were a large pair of jack-boots, which he seldom laid aside, and there is even reason to suppose that they covered several deficiencies; and hanging on a peg behind was a broad beaver, very unlike the hats usually worn in England at the time, ornamented with a long red feather.

As to his countenance and its expression, both were very peculiar. The features in themselves were not bad--the eyes large, and somewhat prominent. The nose, which was so pre-eminent as to form the chief object in the expanse of his countenance, whichever way his face was turned, was not altogether ill-shaped, and might have passed muster amongst the ordinary noses of the world, had it not been that it was set in the midst of a patch of red, which seemed to have transferred itself from the cheeks to unite in the centre of the face. The expression was bold, swaggering, and impudent; but a touch of shrewd cunning was there, diversified every now and then by a quick, furtive look around, which seemed to show that the worthy gentleman himself, like a careful sentinel, was always upon the watch.

Certainly, seldom were there ever seen companions more opposite than were there seated at supper on the present occasion; and yet it not unfrequently happens, in this strange life of ours, that circumstances, inclination, or wayward fortune, makes our comrade of the way the man, of all others, least like one's self; and of all the great general principles which are subject to exceptions, that which has the most is the fact of birds of a feather flocking together.

"I have done," said the elder of the two, laying down his knife.

"Pooh, nonsense!" cried the other; "you haven't eaten half-a-pound. I shan't have done this half-hour. I am like a camel, Master Randal. Whenever I have an opportunity, I lay in a store in my own stomach for the journey."

"Or like an ass," replied the other gentleman, "who takes more upon his back than he can carry."

"No, not like an ass either," replied the man with the great moustaches, "for an ass bears the food for other people--I for myself. How can you or I tell whether we shall get another meal for the next three days? 'Tis always right to prepare for the worst; and therefore, so long as my stomach will hold and the beef endure, I will go on."

"The man who never knows when he has enough," answered his companion, "is sure, sooner or later, either to want or have too much, and one is as bad as the other."

"Oh, your pardon, your pardon!" cried the tall man; "give me the too much. I will always find means to dispose of it--I am of the too much faction. It's my battle-cry, my rallying word. Give me the too much by all means. Did you ever see a carpenter cut out a door? Did you ever see a tailor cut out a coat? Did you ever see a blacksmith forge a horse-shoe? They always take too much to begin with. There are plenty of bags in the world always wide open for superfluities; but, to say truth, I never found I had too much yet: that's an epoch in my history which is to come."

"Because, like other fools, you never know when you have enough," replied the man called Randal; "and as for your future history, it will form but a short tale, easily told."

"I know what you would say--I know what you would say," replied the other: "that the last act will find me in the most elevated situation I have ever filled, though I may still be a dependant. But I can tell you, my good friend, that in my many dangerous expeditions and important occupations, I have escaped the cross piece of timber and the line perpendicular so often, that I fear I am reserved for another fate, and am in great dread every time I go upon the water."

"You are quite safe," replied the other, with a grim smile: "I'll wager a thousand pounds upon your life, in a worm-eaten boat, with a hole in the bottom. But hemp, hemp, I would have you beware of hemp! 'Oddslife! to hear you talk of your dangerous expeditions and important occupations---- Cease, cease! I would sleep in peace, to-night and you will give me an indigestion."

"Pshaw!" cried the other; "you have no more stomach than a pipped hen; and as to my exploits, what land have I not visited? what scenes have I not seen? To whom, if not to me, was owing the defence of Rochelle? To whom----"

"Hush, hush!" said his companion; "tell the tale to others. I would as soon drink vinegar, or eat stale cabbage, as hear lies four times repeated, even with a variation."

"Lies!" cried the other; "thunder and lightning, sir----"

"There, there," cried his companion, quietly waving his hand: "that will do; no more of it. Thunder and lightning will do nothing at your bidding; so the less you have to do with them the better, lest you burn your fingers. Try to be an honest man, leave off lying; don't swagger but when you are drunk; and perchance you may be permitted to hold the horses while other men fight."

"Well, there is no use in quarrelling with a maggot," replied his tall comrade; and, taking to his knife again, he commenced a new inroad on the beef, in assailing which, at least, he kept his word with a laudible degree of fidelity.

In the mean while, the gentleman in black turned his shoulder to the table, and fell into deep thought. But after a moment or two he opened his lips, with an oracular shake of the head, not exactly addressing his speech to his companion, but more apparently to the hilt of his own sword, the point of which he had brought round between his feet, and the blade of which he twirled round and round with his hands while he was speaking.

"Nine out of ten of them," he said, "are either rank fools or cold-hearted knaves, presumptuous blockheads, who think they have a right to command, because they have not wit enough to obey; or cunning scoundrels, who aim alone at their own interests, when they are affecting to serve only their country, and yet are fools enough not to see that the good of the whole is the good of every part."

"Who, who, who? Whom do you mean?" answered the other.

"English gentlemen," replied the man in black; "English gentlemen, I say."

"Complimentary, certainly," remarked his comrade; "and by no means too general or comprehensive. I dare say it's very, true, though. So here's to your health, Master Randal."

"Let my health alone," said Randal, "and take care of your own; for if you drink much more of that old ale, your head to-morrow morning will be as heavy as the barrel from which it comes, and I shall have to pump upon you to make you fit for any business whatsoever. Come, finish your supper, and take a walk with me upon the hill. But whom have we here? One of the rebels, I take it. Now, mind your part, but do not lie more than your nature absolutely requires."

The last words of this speech were, as may be supposed, spoken in a low voice, an addition having been suddenly made to the party in the room where they were sitting.

The personage who entered was the same thin, self-denying-looking gentleman who had passed poor Arrah Neil, as she sat by the fountain in the morning, and had in his own mind, charitably furnished her with a lodging in the stocks. That we may not have to return in order to relate this gentleman's previous history hereafter, we may as well pause here for a moment to say the few words that are needed on the subject, especially as some reference may be made to his former life in another place.

Master Dry, of Longsoaken, as he was now called, had risen from an humble origin, and, though now a wealthy man, had commenced his career as the errand-boy of a grocer, or rather general dealer, in the village of Bishop's Merton. His master was a rigid man, a Puritan of the most severe cast, and his master's wife a buxom dame, given somewhat to the good things of life, especially of a fluid kind, which she employed the ingenuity of young Ezekiel Dry in obtaining for her, unknown to her more abstemious better-half. He thus acquired some small skill in deceiving sharp eyes; and it was whispered that his worthy patron did not fail to give him further improvement in this peculiar branch of science, by initiating him into the mystery of the difference between a yard measure and a yard of tape or ribbon, between a pound weight and a pound of sugar or butter; between which, as the learned reader is aware, there is a great and important distinction.

As worthy Ezekiel Dry grew up into a young man, his master settled down into an old one; and at length Death, who, like his neighbours in a country town, is compelled occasionally to go to the chandler's shop, called one morning at the door of Ezekiel's master, and would not be satisfied without his full measure.

The usual course of events then took place. There was a widow, and a shopman; the widow was middle-aged and wealthy, the shopman young and poor; and Mr. Dry became a married man, and master of the shop. During a probation of twenty years, which his state of matrimony lasted, he did not altogether escape scandal; but in those times, as in others, very rigid piety (at least in appearance) was not always accompanied by very rigid morality; and those people who conceived that they might exist separately, looked upon the latter as of very little consequence where the former was pre-eminent.

At length, after having resisted time and strong waters (which her second husband never denied her in any quantity) to the age of nearly seventy, Mrs. Dry slept with her ancestors; and Mr. Dry went on flourishing, till at length he sold his house and shop to another pillar of the conventicle, and bought a good estate in the near neighbourhood, called Longsoaken. He still kept up his connection with his native town, however, became a person of the highest consideration therein, took part in all its councils, managed many of its affairs, was acquainted with all its news, and was the stay of the Puritans, the terror of the parson, and the scorn of the Cavaliers.

It was his usual custom, as he still remained a widower, to look into the "Rose of Sharon" every fine afternoon--less, as he said, to take even the needful refreshment of the body, than to pause and meditate for half-an-hour, before he retired to his own house; but it was remarked that, on these occasions, he invariably had a small measure of some kind of liquid put down beside him, and consulted the host upon the affairs of everybody in the place.

In the present instance, Mr. Dry had received immediate information that two strangers had appeared at the "Rose of Sharon" between eight and nine, and he had hastened up from Longsoaken without loss of time; but he had spent nearly half-an-hour with the landlord in an inner chamber, inquiring into all the particulars of their appearance and demeanour. Now, the landlord had lost more than one good customer in consequence of the unpleasant interference of his respected neighbour, who had occasionally caused some of the most expensive visiters at his house to be committed as "malignants;" but as he dared not show any resistance or make any remonstrance to a person so high in authority as Master Dry, of Longsoaken, his only course was to defend the characters of his guests as far as was safe. But the worthy host was a timid man, and never ventured to pronounce a decided opinion in the presence of his betters.

In answer, therefore, to the questions now addressed to him, he replied, "Oh dear, no, worshipful sir! That is to say--for one cannot be certain of anything in this ungodly world--they do not look like it at all. Malignants are always gay in their apparel, and the gentleman is dressed just like yourself, all in black. He has got a Geneva skullcap, too, I should not wonder if he were a gifted man like yourself."

"That may be a mere disguise," said Mr. Dry.

"Then, malignants are always roystering blades," continued the landlord; "calling for all manner of things, beginning with wine, and ending with strong waters. Now, these good people have nought but beef and ale; though, doubtless, as all godly men may do for the comfort of the inner man, they will take something more warming before they go; but, as yet, one tankard of ale is all they have had."

"That looks well," said Mr. Dry, oracularly; "not that I would condemn any man for using creature comforts in moderation, according to his necessity. Some men's complexion, if of a cold and melancholy nature, does require such helps. I myself am driven to it--but what more, my friend? Are they grave in their discourse?"

"As heart could wish," replied the landlord. "I should take them rather for the most pious and humble----"

"I will see them myself," interrupted Dry, who began to suspect the landlord. "It is not easy to deceive my eyes."

But the worthy host contrived to detain his worshipful fellow-townsman for some five minutes longer, in order that the guests might finish their meal in peace, by opening a conversation relative to the return of "the poor silly girl, Arrah Neil," as he called her, in regard to whom he had shrewd suspicions that Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, entertained sentiments not quite so rigid as those which his words in the morning might seem to imply.

On this part of their conversation, however, I shall not dwell, as it would be neither very instructive nor very amusing, but will return once more to the parlour of the inn which Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, entered with a staid and stately step, his two eyes bent upon the ground, as if he were in deep meditation. The younger of the two guests in the parlour lolled in his chair and bit his lip. The elder considered Mr. Dry attentively, but suffered him to enter the room and approach the table without saying a word. Neither did he make any movement of limb or feature, but remained cold, stiff, and dry, as if his limbs and his countenance were made of wood. Mr. Dry, however, always recollected that he was a man in authority; and great success in life, where there is any weakness of character, is sure to produce a confident self-importance, very comfortable to the possessor thereof, though not particularly agreeable to his friends and companions.

As neither of the others uttered a word, then, he began the conversation himself without farther ado.

"I trust we are brethren, sir," he said, addressing the gentleman whom we have called Randal.

"I trust we are so," replied the other.

"Ahem!" said Mr. Dry, "my name is Dry, sir; Dry, of Longsoaken."

"You may be soaked long enough," murmured the man at the table to himself; not loud enough to be heard; "you may be soaked long enough before you are moistened, Mr. Dry."

But his companion, who saw his lips move, gave him a grave look and replied to the intruder, "I am happy to hear it, sir. It is a godly name, which I have heard of before. Will you never have done with that beef, Master Barecolt?"

"But this mouthful, but this mouthful," replied the gentleman at the table, "and then I am with you."

"One word before you go," said Mr. Dry: "you seem, sir, a godly and well-disposed man, and I doubt not have been led into the right way; but there is an air of prelatic malignancy about this person at the table."

"You are altogether mistaken, worthy Dry," said the good gentleman who had been paying such devoted attention to the beef; "there is nothing malignant about my nature, and the air you talk of is but a remnant of French manners caught while I was serving our Calvinistic brethren in that poor, benighted land. In me, sir, you behold him whom you may have heard of--who in the morning preached to the people in the beleaguered city of Rochelle, from the 2nd verse of the 24th chapter of the book of Joshua, 'Your fathers dwelt on the other side of the flood in old time;' and who in the evening led them out to battle, and smote the Philistines hip and thigh. That is to say, broke through the stockade, and defeated two regiments of the guards."

"I have heard of the deed," replied Mr. Dry.

"Then you must have heard likewise," said the gentleman at the table, rising up at full length, and making the intruder a low bow, "of Master Deciduous Barecolt."

"I think I have, I think I have," said Mr. Dry.

"Then, again," cried Barecolt, "when I defended the pass in the Cevennes, with only two godly companions, against the Count de Suza and a hundred and fifty bloodthirsty Papists--you must surely have heard of that exploit."

"I cannot say I have," replied Mr. Dry.

"Then, sir, you are ignorant of the history of Europe," answered the other with a look of high indignation; "for trust the name of Deciduous Barecolt is known from the mouth of the Elbe to the mouth of the Danube, and will descend to posterity upon the stream of time, only rendered imperishable by that which destroys other things. Goodnight, Mr. Dry. Now, Master Randal, I am ready to accompany you. Shall we sing a psalm before we go?"

"No," replied Randal abruptly, and picking up his hat, he led the way out of the room.

The inn was situated near the extremity of the town; and at the distance of about two hundred paces from the door, the two strangers emerged from between the lines of houses, and found themselves among the hedgerows. Without any hesitation as to the track which he was to pursue, the younger gentleman mounted a stile to the right, and took a path which, crossing the fields, wound gradually up over one slope after another till it reached the brow of the hill on which Bishop's Merton House was placed.

It was a fine clear moonlight night; and at the distance of about a mile from the mansion, they caught a sight of its wide front, extending along the hill till the wings were concealed by a little wood, behind which, as they walked on, the whole building was speedily lost.

"It is a fine old place," said Barecolt to his companion; "it always puts me in mind of the Escurial."

"More likely puts you in mind of the stocks," said Randal; "for you have both seen and felt the one, and never set eyes upon the other."

"How can you tell that I never saw it?" exclaimed his companion; "you have not had the dandling of me ever since I was a baby in arms."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Randal; "but I am sure you never have seen it, because you say you have. However, you must either speak truth to-night or hold your tongue. I did not stop you in your course of gasconade with that roundheaded knave at the inn, because I knew that you must void a certain quantity of falsehood in the day, and it was necessary to get rid of it before you came up here; for this young lord is not one to take counterfeit coin."

"The monster!" exclaimed Barecolt; "there is not a more cruel or barbarous creature in the earth than the man who drives from his door all the sweet little children of the imagination which you call lies. He is wanting in all human charity. Give me the generous and confiding soul who believes everything that is said to him, and enjoys the story of a traveller who relates to him wild scenes in lands he never has visited, just as much as if it were all as true as history----"

"Which is itself a lie," rejoined the other. "Had this young man's father been alive, you would have found a person after your own heart. He was a man of vast capabilities of belief. His mind was but a looking-glass, always representing what was before it; his religion was in the last sermon he had heard, his politics in the last broadsheet, his opinions those of his companions for the hour, his taste the newest mode that he had seen. He was the quintessence of an ordinary-minded man; but his son is a very different being."

Barecolt made no rash promise of abstaining from his favourite amusement, but walked on for about a hundred yards in silence, till suddenly his companion exclaimed, "Do you not see a strange light shining through the wood before us? Hark, there is an alarum-bell!" And hurrying his pace, he issued forth from the wood some three hundred yards farther on, where the cause of the light they had remarked became too visible.

Rising up from one of the flanking towers of the old house, in large white volumes, to the very sky, was a tall column of smoke, spreading out towards the top, while from the building itself poured forth the rushing flame like a huge beacon, illuminating all the country round. Each window in that tower and the neighbouring wing emitted the same blaze; and it was very evident--although a number of persons were seen moving about upon the terrace, engaged apparently in the endeavour to extinguish the fire--that it was making its way rapidly towards the rest of the house.

The two strangers ran as fast as possible to give assistance. But before I pursue their adventures on that night, I must turn to speak of all that had taken place within the mansion of Bishop's Merton during the evening preceding the disaster which I have described.

[CHAPTER III.]

There was in the mansion of Bishop's Merton one of those delightful old chambers which, like a warm and benevolent heart, have a nook for every one. It was a large wide room, with a recess on one side big enough to have formed another room, and a lesser recess at each corner, on the same side, made by two small square turrets, each lighted by its own windows, and containing tables and chairs of its own, so that the studious or the meditative, but not the unsociable, could sit and read, or muse apart, without being actually cut off from the society assembled. The walls were all covered with tapestry, descended through many generations in the same family, and which had covered the walls of a similar chamber in an old castle, partly destroyed luring the civil wars of the Roses, and pulled down at the commencement of the reign of Henry the Eighth.

Out from the tapestry, however, after an old fashion, which certainly showed pictures to much greater advantage than when plastered upon the face of the wall, stood a great many portraits of different degrees of art, supported at the lower part by a gilt iron bracket, and upheld in a slightly sloping position by an iron bar at the top. From the cold, severe Holbein to the rich and juicy Rubens and the poetical Vandyke, all the famous artists of the last two centuries had exercised their pencils in pourtraying the features of a race which had always been fruitful in beauty; and the history of the changeful mind of those two ages was shadowed forth in the varying costume in which the characters appeared. Nor is it, let me say, dear reader, in passing, a alight indication of the state of the popular mind that is afforded by the dress of the day. Look at the Chevalier in his long floating locks, his silks and velvets, and at the Roundhead, in his steeple hat, his straight-cut suit and prim cloak, each with his heavy-hilted sword and large flapping gloves, and say whether Naseby Field and Marsden Moor, and all the deeds on either part, do not naturally, and not purely historically, connect themselves with such apparel; and then turn to ourselves, with our straight-cut frock-coats, neat, close-fitting boots, and other mathematical habiliments, which seem to have been fashioned by the rules and compasses of a Laputan sage, and tell me whether they do not plainly speak of an age of railroads and steam-boats.

There, however, stood the pictures of the brave and beautiful of other times, bending down over their once-familiar halls and the doings of their descendants, as the spirits of the dead may be supposed to gaze upon the actions of the children they have left behind; and there in the oriel window, just about the time of day at which we commenced this tale, sat a creature whom those long-gone bold warriors and lovely dames might look upon with pride, and own her of their blood.

It was a lady of some twenty years of age, not very tall, but yet, if anything, above the middle height of women. She was very beautiful too in feature, with a skin as white as alabaster, and as smooth, yet with the rose glowing in her cheek, and her arched lips red and full of health.

I have long discovered that it is impossible to paint beauty with the pen; and, therefore, I will say no more than may be sufficient merely to give the reader some idea of what kind and sort hers was of, more that the harmony which ought always, and generally does, in some degree exist between the form and mind may be understood, than to draw a picture of which imagination would still have to fill up half the details. Though her skin, as I have said, was so fair, her hair, her eyebrows, and her eyes were dark--not exactly black, for in them all there was a gleam of sunny warmth which like the dawn brightened the deep hue of night. The expression of her countenance was generally gay and cheerful, but varying often, as a heart quickly susceptible of strong feelings, and a mind full of imagination, were affected by the events in which she took part, and the circumstances around her. Youth and health, and bountiful nature, had endued her form with manifold graces; and though her limbs were full and rounded in contour, yet they displayed in every movement lines of exquisite symmetry, and, like the brother of Joab, she was swift of foot as the wild roe. As is often the case with persons of quick fancy, her mind, though naturally of a cheerful and hopeful bent, was nevertheless not unfrequently overshadowed by a cloud of passing melancholy; and a look of sadness would occasionally come into her fair face, as if the consciousness which is in most hearts that this world of glittering delusions has its darker scenes, even for those of the brightest fate, made itself painfully felt at times when no apparent cause for grief or apprehension was near. But such shadows passed quickly away, and the general tone of her heart and her expression was, as we have said, bright and sunshiny.

Her father had been a man who took his ideas greatly from those amongst whom he lived. In short, he attributed too much importance to the opinions of his fellow-men. We may attribute too little to them, it is true, and even great men are bound to pay some deference to the deliberate judgment of many; but it is usually--nay, invariably--a sign of weak understanding, to depend for the tone of our own thoughts upon those around. However, as he was thrown into the society of men who set great value upon accomplishments, such as they were in those days, he had made a point of having his daughter instructed in all the lighter arts of the times. To sing, to dance, to play on various instruments, to speak the two languages most in fashion at the court, French and Italian, with the ease and accent of a native, had seemed to him matters of vast importance; and as she showed every facility in acquiring whatever he desired, he had no cause to be discontented with her progress. She might, perhaps, have been taught to consider such things of much importance too; but she had a mother--the safeguard of God to our early years. That mother was a woman of a high and noble mind, somewhat stern, perhaps, and rigid, yet not unkind or unfeeling; and between a parent weak, though possessed of talent, and one keen and powerful in intellect, though not quick or brilliant, it may easily be guessed which gave the stronger impress to the mind of the child. Thus Annie Walton learned somewhat to undervalue the accomplishments which, to please her father, she acquired; and though she possessed less of the stern, calm, determined character of her mother than her brother Charles, and more of the pliant and easy disposition of her father, yet she inherited a share of high resolution and firm decision, which was requisite, even in a woman, to enable her to encounter the dangers and difficulties of the times in which she lived.

She sat then in the oriel window of the hall at Bishop's Merton, reading a page printed roughly on coarse paper, while now a smile, somewhat saddened, and now a look of anger, somewhat brightened by the half-faded smile, passed over her sweet face, as, in one of the broadsheets of the day which had been left with her a few minutes before by Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, she saw the doings of a parliament which began by asserting the rights of the people, and ended by attacking the just prerogatives of the crown; which commenced by opposing tyranny and deceit in the rulers of the land, and ended by far exceeding all the tyranny and deceit it had opposed, and adding the most beastly hypocrisy and violence, fraud, rapine, and cruelty, to the crimes and follies which it had found existing. She read and smiled--she read and sighed; for, though her family had taken no part in the deeds of the last twelve months, and though her mother had been through life rather attached to the doctrines of the Presbyterians than their opponents, yet there was something in the cause of the Cavaliers, with all their faults, in their very rashness and want of all pretence--something in the cold-blooded hypocrisy and false pretexts of the Parliamentarians--which had engaged her sympathies on the losing side, and roused her indignation against the successful.

While she was thus occupied, a horseman passed rapidly before the window towards the principal door of the house, crossing like a quick bird in its flight; and, casting down the paper, Miss Walton ran out, murmuring, "It is Charles!"

There was a large old-fashioned vestibule hung with pikes and arms, corslets and head-pieces, and stags' antlers, and hunting horns, and all the implements of real battle, and of the mimic warfare of the chase. The door leading to the terrace stood wide open, with an old servant on either side; and as she bounded forward with the expectation of meeting her brother, her countenance beaming with pleasure to greet him on his return, a stranger entered, and advanced at once towards her.

Annie Walton's face suddenly became graver, and a blush rose into her cheek; but the cavalier came forward with a frank and unembarrassed air, walked straight up to her, and took her hand as if he had been an old friend.

"You thought it was your brother," he said, with easy grace, saving her all trouble of explanation, "and you are disappointed, Miss Walton. Would that I had a sister to look so joyful on my return to my old halls! but your disappointment will have no long life. Charles Walton will be here ere the world be an hour older; and in the mean time you must show me and my poor beast fair hospitality till the master of the mansion comes himself to tell you more about his friend, Sir Francis Clare."

He bowed as he thus introduced himself, and Annie Walton, with all courtesy, but with a grave air, invited him to the hall where she had been sitting, trying to call to mind the name he had mentioned amongst those of all her brother's acquaintances. She could recollect no such person, however, as Sir Francis Clare; and although there was in the frankness of the stranger's manner something that pleased her, yet she almost thought it too free in one whom she could not believe to be very intimate with Lord Walton. Yet there was a grace as well as an ease in his demeanour, a tone not easily described, but which can only be acquired by long, intimate habits of familiarity with persons of high mind and education, a self-possession, distinct from impudence, which showed her at once that the visiter was not one of the wild and reckless roysterers of the court and army of King Charles, who presumed without merit, and endeavoured to cover vulgarity of spirit with self-confidence.

Leading the way then to the hall, she begged the stranger to be seated. He bowed, and let her take her place, while he remained standing before her, calculating rapidly what was passing in her thoughts, and, to say truth, somewhat struck with the beauty of this cynosure of neighbouring eyes, who, whatever he might have expected to find, went far in loveliness beyond his imagination.

There was a momentary pause while she thought of what was next to come, but the stranger spoke first. "I must seem very bold, I fear, and somewhat too free, Miss Walton," he said at length, "in thus treating you as an old acquaintance; but the circumstances of these days engender strange habits of rapidity in all our doings. Rough times abridge ceremonies, and besides, when our thoughts are familiar even with these whom we have never met, a sort of one-sided friendship grows up in our breast towards them which makes us forget that it is not reciprocal. I have so often heard your brother talk of you, so often conversed, with him of you, that I may think myself lucky that at our first meeting I did not offend you by calling you Annie."

"It would have surprised more than offended," replied his fair companion, with a smile; "but Charles will, I trust, soon make us better acquainted. Have you seen him lately?"

"Not for five years," answered Sir Francis Clare; "and yet, sweet lady, know more of his proceedings than you do who parted with him but a week ago; not that he is deep-dyed in plots and conspiracies kept from his sister's ear; but simply, because he wrote to me yesterday one of his brief but comprehensive notes, telling me what he purposed, and giving me a rendezvous here today, which I, with my usual impatience, have run before by near an hour. I heard of him too, as I came along, and though I found that I should be before him, yet I hurried on--not to surprise his sister all alone, and make her wonder what strange rash man had come to visit her, believe me."

"Such an object were little worth the spur, Sir," replied the lady, laughing: "but if I understand you right, your friendship with my brother must have begun when he was in France."

"Long before that," replied the cavalier; "but when last I parted with him he was in Italy, where he left me to return to his own house. We bade each other farewell under the Logga de Lanzi, in the fair town of Florence."

"Oh! how I long to see that place," cried Annie Walton--"it is one of the dreams of my imagination which, perhaps, may never be realized."

"Few dreams of the imagination ever are," answered her companion. "He who gives himself up to fancy is like a man led by a child, who tells him of all the wonderful things that he will show him in the garden of the world, and when he comes to see the marvels, finds them but May blossoms and brier roses, that fade as soon as gathered, and leave a bunch of thorns in his hand."

Annie Walton raised her eyes to the stranger's brow, and gazed at the rich floating hair that covered it, to see if she could trace any of the marks of that age which has proved the world and discovered its delusions. But all was youthful and open; there was nothing grey or grave, and she replied--

"You speak sadly of this earth and its enjoyments, sir; and yet I would not part with Fancy and all her pleasant deceits if I could."

"Never! Never!" cried Sir Francis Clare, eagerly. "If I may use a paradox, sweet lady, the deceits of reality are ten times more dangerous than those of imagination. If all things are delusions except the hopes of a higher and a holier world, let us keep the pleasant delusions at least, and they are those of fancy--but what have we here?--The last news from London?"

"The reply of the parliament to the king's message," answered the lady; "and thirty-one good reasons for rejecting his majesty's offers, with the godly and soul-saving declaration of several pious men concerning Popery and Prelacy."

The stranger laughed.

"How easy is it," he cried, "to cover gross treason, not only to king, but to country, with fair pretexts of freedom, or to hide what they themselves call the most carnal self-seeking with a garb of religious zeal, and to give the fairest names to the blackest passions of our nature! 'Tis a trite remark, but one that forces itself upon us every day; and yet this is the trade that succeeds in the world, so that gross deceit raises itself to high places, and sits in purple and fine linen, while Honesty is left to beg her bread, and plain Truth stands shivering in a ragged blanket."

"But I should think such barefaced hypocrisy as this," answered the lady, "would deceive no one. People may pretend to believe it, but it must be mere affectation, as bad as the hypocrisy itself."

"Your pardon, madam," replied the cavalier: "there never yet was falsehood, however impudent, which, often repeated and told with a smooth face, would not find many to give it ready credence. Not a day passes but we see some monstrous lie, decked out with strong assurances of sincerity and zeal, pass current with the multitude. Oh, lady! there is an appetite for falsehood in the world that makes the many-headed monster gorge the food, however dirty, and, like a hungry dog, pluck morsels from the very kennel. Yet there is some truth, too, in what these people say. I am not one to cover them with bad names; for, alas! however wrong they may be now, the king put himself in fault at first. The man who suffers himself to be compelled to do justice to others, will, some time or another, have to compel others to do justice to him; and he who has abandoned his friends in time of need, will surely have to lament their loss when he has to struggle with enemies."

"And has the king done this?" asked Annie Walton.

"Strafford, Strafford," said the cavalier, with a melancholy shake of the head; "bold, firm-hearted, gallant Strafford. That fatal error was the downfall of King Charles. Where is the hand that now shall raise him up? Lady, when a general finds himself in a town about to be besieged by the enemy, he strengthens his fortifications, and throws down all the scattered houses and indefensible suburbs that might give the foes advantage in their approach; but the king pursued a different course: he threw down his defences, and maintained all the suburbs and weak points. But this is sorry conversation for a lady's ears," he continued. "What a fair scene does this window show! In riding through the low ground I did not mark all the beauty around me."

"It is indeed as fine a view as any in the country round," replied Annie Walton; "and often, when I feel sad at heart, I come and gaze out here, and seem to find comfort and confidence from the sight."

"And are you ever sad at heart?" asked Sir Francis Clare, with a smile.

"Not very often, it is true," she answered; "but still, in the present disturbed state of the country, which is like one of those dark storms through which one can see no glimpse of coming sunshine, I cannot but sometimes feel fears and apprehensions--not for myself, indeed, for no one would hurt a woman, I suppose, but for my brother; and when I am thus depressed I need the sight of things which speak, with a voice not to be misunderstood, of God's power, and his goodness too, to show me that though the tempest may rage for a time, it will give place to brighter hours at last, and perhaps in itself work benefit even while it seems destined to destroy."

"Oh, may you ever feel thus!" cried the cavalier, eagerly; "for it was such faith brought back the dove to the ark at length. Yet often, when we see a world of roaring waters around us, and destruction on every side, the heart will sink, and trust and confidence give way for a time. But still," he added, laughing, "I am not one to entertain many sombre thoughts; and if the gay companions of thoughtless hours could know with what sad ideas I have entertained a fair lady, they would recommend me a Geneva skull-cap and a straight black cloak. I can assure you, our talk in the court is much less solemn. Except for an hour in the morning, when we speak soberly of war and policy, as men take a walk after breakfast for a good digestion, our days pass much in the consideration of lace collars, the fashion of sword-knots, and of how to get them. The world, I believe, and most of the things in it, are not worth the waste of five minutes' heavy thought; and, weighed in a just balance, perhaps, a madrigal and a charge of horse, a sonnet of tiffany poetry, and the plan of a campaign, are matters much more nearly of the same importance than we think.--But there comes your brother, or I am mistaken."

"Yes, yes!" cried the lady, gladly, gazing out of the open window into the valley, along which a small party of horsemen were riding: "he will be here directly." And she and her companion, whose conversation had greatly won upon her, continued watching the progress of the young Lord Walton, as he rode rapidly along the valley, till he was hid behind the high-wooded banks, near which, as we have already related, he paused to hold a short conversation with poor Arrah Neil. They wondered what detained him so long under the trees; but after a brief pause he appeared again, and in a few minutes he sprang from his horse at the hall-door.

[CHAPTER IV.]

"Ha, Francis!" exclaimed Lord Walton, grasping the cavalier's hand with warm eagerness, as soon as he had received the embrace of his sister, "are you here before me? You must have used the spur from Worcester, if your letter left the good town before you."

"I have used the spur, Charles," replied his friend, "on purpose to outrun you, and introduce myself to this fair lady without your assistance. You know I was always the most impatient of mortals, and strange, I fear, she thought me; for I could plainly see that she had never heard the name of Francis Clare before." He spoke the last words with a gay laugh and some emphasis.

"Perhaps not," answered Lord Walton, with a grave smile; "but she must know you now, Francis, as one of her brother's dearest and oldest friends. However, I must send her away from us for a minute, for I have a task for her, sad, but pleasing to perform. I just now found poor Arrah Neil, dear Annie," he continued; "she was sitting by the Bishop's Well, dark and sorrowful, as well she may be. The poor old man Neil is dead. They dragged him as far as Devizes, where the lamp that has burned so faintly for the last two years went out, and the poor girl has found her way back hither. Something must be done for her, Annie; and till we can settle what, she must stay here. I left Langan with her to bring her up; so see to her comfort, sister, for by her dress I think they must have robbed her by the way."

"Poor child!" cried Annie Walton. "I was sure the old man would die. Can these really be Christians, Charles--for a few rash words, spoken in haste, to take a man of seventy from his sick bed?"

"His words meant more than they seemed, Annie," answered her brother; "at least, so I gather from their answer to my application for his release; but see to her comfort, dear girl, and then come back to us, for the poor thing spoke of some evil hanging over me here, and, though at times so strange, I have often remarked she speaks not lightly."

"No indeed, Charles," replied his sister, with an anxious look. "Evil hanging over you? What can she mean?"

"I know not, Annie," replied Lord Walton. "Nothing has happened to cause you alarm, has there?"

"Nothing," she answered. "Dry, of Longsoaken, was here this morning, but he was all smoothness and civility."

"That looks ill," said Sir Francis Clare. "He must be a Roundhead by his name; and whenever they speak smoothly, beware of the serpent in the grass."

"And he is a serpent, if ever the earth produced one," answered Lord Walton, thoughtfully. "Did he speak smoothly and civilly? So, so! What was the object of his visit, Annie? or had he any apparent object?"

"Purely, it seemed," replied Miss Walton, "to ask after my health during what he called your long absence. I told him your absence had not been long--only a week; and that you had already concluded your business with the committee, and would return to-day. So then he left that paper with me, which he said must be marrow and fatness to all well-disposed noblemen like yourself. But, indeed, he seemed well affected towards you, and said, I now recollect, something about the people of Bishop's Merton having encroached upon your land at Sarham, which he should be happy to set right for you, and which he could do, if you pleased, without your name appearing in the matter, so as not to affect your popularity with the God-fearing people of the place."

"Where did he learn I ever feared to have my name appear in any act I did?" asked Charles Walton, proudly. "'Tis but such low and creeping things as he is who do things they dare not own. He had some other object; this is all a pretence. But go, dear Annie; there is Langan with the poor girl: perhaps she will tell you more than she would say to me; but do not press her, Annie, if she be unwilling.--And now, Francis," he continued, as his sister left the room, "first, welcome after so long an absence; next, what is this serious business that you would speak with me upon?"

"Faith, but a little matter as this world goes," replied his friend; "and yet one which would have been considered mighty some ten years ago. Now men draw two straws for the longest, or toss up a crown-piece to know, which party they will choose; whether they will fight for their rightful king or his rebel parliament----"

"Not quite so, Francis," replied Charles Walton, seriously; "With me, at least, the question would ever be a serious one, whether I should draw my sword for the representatives of the people of England, when fighting for the just liberties of the land, or for a sovereign who has somewhat infringed them--even if the case stood exactly as the parliament puts it; but----"

"I am glad you have added those words, Charles," interrupted the cavalier; "for on them hangs all the rest. The king is willing to do ample justice to all men. Granted that he has committed faults--and who has greater cause to complain than I have?--granted that he has had bad advisers--granted that he sacrificed Strafford----"

"A terrible fault indeed," replied Lord Walton.

"Granted that his exactions were unjust--ship-money a breach of the best and soundest laws--the star-chamber an iniquitous tyranny; still these errors were a part of his inheritance; and perhaps, if we looked closely, we should find that our fathers who suffered, and by suffering encouraged such things--who fawned upon the hand that pressed them to the ground--who bowed readily to tyranny whenever it stretched forth its rod--have as great a share of the responsibility as he has who only used the powers transmitted to him by his predecessors. But I came not to discuss such questions, Charles Walton. The king has committed errors; he grieves for them; he is ready to repair them; he has done all that man can do to remedy evils past, and provide security against their recurrence. He calls upon every loyal subject to aid him, not only in defending the throne itself, but the country, from those who would evidently shake its constitution to the ground, overthrow its best institutions, and establish, if not the reign of anarchy, the rule of a many-headed monster, which will, if tolerated, end in a despotism more terrible than any we have yet seen within the land. And will Charles Walton, gallant and chivalrous as he is known to be--will he refuse to obey that call? Or is he, who was wont to be so clear-sighted and so keen, one of those who believe that the pretences of the parliament are true; that they seek but to reduce the power of the crown within due limits, to lop the prerogative of those branches that bore oppression, and secure the freedom of the people, yet leave the stability of the throne? Or does he approve of hypocritical pretexts even to gain such ends? No, no! I know him better."

"Certainly," replied the young nobleman; "I neither approve the practices nor believe the pretences of the parliament. But I have hitherto trusted, my dear friend, though they may be now intoxicated with authority, the exercise of which is new to them, and in their pride may encroach upon both the prerogative of the crown and the liberty of the subject--for I can conceive a parliament to become a more terrible tyrant than even a monarch--yet I say, I have trusted that the wiser and the better members of that body will recover from the drunkenness that some have felt, and the fears that have affected others; and that, at all events, if any dangerous and outrageous exercise of power should take place, those who have never favoured the arbitrary use of the royal prerogative, or the licentious exactions of the commons, may have sufficient weight to counterbalance that authority which is but delegated by the people, and which the people can again resume."

"Fatal confidence," exclaimed the cavalier, with a dark and melancholy look, "which never has been, never will be justified! Yet it is one that in all civil strifes many wise and many good men have entertained, till they discovered, when too late, how cruelly they had deceived themselves; till, hanging between two parties and supporting neither, they saw the one sink lower and lower, and the other, which perhaps they most condemned, rise into power, and go on in evil; and then, when they strove to arrest the course of wrong, found themselves either carried away by the current and involved in wickedness they would fain have opposed, or sunk beneath the torrent with those who endeavoured to divert it while it was yet feeble, and whose efforts they might have rendered successful, had they joined therein in time. Let me tell you, Charles, that in the history of all contentions such as those that now shake the land, there is a time when the balance of sincerity and right is clearly on one side, and that it is then true lovers of their country should step in with their whole strength to turn the balance of power upon that side also. There is such a time, believe me; and now is the moment!"

"Perhaps it is," answered Lord Walton, thoughtfully. "I said, my friend, that I had hitherto felt the impressions I described. I did not deny that they are somewhat shaken, perhaps more than I believe."

"When that time has come," continued the cavalier, without appearing to mark his reply, "it is the duty of every man to ask himself, On which side is now the right? on which side is now the danger? and, casting away the memory of old faults and old grievances, to choose boldly and conscientiously between the two. If he chooses well, it will be easy for him at any after-time to guard against a renewal of errors on the part of those whom he supports; but if from any fear of such a renewal he turns to the side which he knows to be acting amiss, he commits himself for ever to the errors he supports, and can never hope to stop their course, or avert their consequences. What I ask you then to do is, to choose! I say not, join the king: I say not, oppose the parliament: I merely say, lay your hand upon your heart, forgetting mistakes that are past, ask yourself, which is now right, and which is now wrong? and choose as your conscience shall direct."

Lord Walton paused for a few moments in deep thought; then giving his hand to his friend, he said, "I will! Ask me no more at present, Francis; nor inquire whether, when I say, I will, I might not say, I have. Resolutions such as these had better be spoken of as little as possible till they can be executed. Stay till to-morrow morning: then back to the king; your further presence here might be dangerous to yourself and hurtful to your cause. And now to other things: how long had you been here before I came?"

"Long enough to find it a dangerous abode, good friend," replied the cavalier. "In truth, Walton, if you have not got an angel here, you have what is more like one than any thing my eyes have yet seen."

"Oh! I know your gallant speeches," answered Charles Walton, with a laugh, his face losing the grave cast which was habitual to it, and brightening with cheerful light; "but Annie is well accustomed to hear sweet things, and I fear not the effect of any high-flown southern compliments on her little heart, which, however gentle, is firm enough to stand a longer siege than any you will have time to give it. But," he added, while his brow grew sad again, "I will own to you, Francis, it is her future fate that in these troublous times half makes a coward of me; and, though knowing what is right, that will I do; yet there is a hesitating fear within me, that in the course I am destined to pursue, I may bring down sorrow and misfortune upon that bright, kind being, who has been ever my sunshine and my hope."

"I can feel that it must be so, Charles," replied his friend, gravely. "Had I a sister such as that, it would be so with me. Therein I can do little to console, and perhaps less to counsel or to help you. But yet, Charles Walton, you know I am something of the ancient knight: my sword and heart for my king and my fair lady; and without any rash promising of love for one whom I have only known an hour, such as one-half of our gay courtiers would make, I promise you, that whatever befalls you, so long as life and strength last, my next thought, after my duty to God and my sovereign, shall be to care for the protection and safety of my friend's sister."

Lord Walton smiled, with a look in which pleasure and grief were strangely blended, but he replied nothing, merely once more pressing Clare's hand.

"Why do you smile, Charles?" asked the cavalier. "Is it that you think me too young, too light, too gay, to take such a task upon myself. My honour, my regard, you do not doubt, I know, and as for the rest, these are days when the old times of chivalry must revive, or the sun will set in darkness indeed; and in these ancient periods men young as I am have, with a holy devotion, been the safeguards and protectors of dames well nigh as fair and bright as this, if we may believe the tales we read."

"But those tales still ended in a marriage, Francis," said Lord Walton.

"Well there let it!" cried the cavalier, gaily. "Here I dedicate my heart and sword to her. Those bright eyes shall be my loadstars on the road to glory, her smile give double vigour to my arm, and fresh sharpness to my lance. There, Walton, is not that the true Orlando? But seriously, what meant your somewhat rueful smile just now? Was it that you thought the gay youth of former days but little fit to supply a brother's place in time of need; or, perhaps, still less, to take a husband's duties on him, if fate and circumstances should draw your sister's heart towards him? But let me tell you, Charles, these are times that make even the thoughtless think; and when I buckled me to the cause I serve, I cast away and left in foreign lands all but the higher purposes of the heart."

"No, no, Francis," replied Lord Walton, interrupting him; "it was neither doubt, nor fear, nor mockery, that made me smile. You do not suppose that, did I not know and see all that is noble and generous in your nature, and bright and keen in your mind, I would have taken you to my heart as I have done. That there might be some weeds in the garden I will not deny; but they were only such as an hour's labour would pluck out with ease, or such as would wither away under the first hot sun, and leave the flowers and fruit behind uninjured. I smiled but to think that some five years ago, when we were both in happier days than these, I often thought that I would gladly give my Annie to my early friend, but little dreamed that times might come when he himself would offer, ere he had seen her twice, to be her defender and protector in case of her brother's death: and who shall say, Francis, how soon such loss may call for such support. But here she comes again; let us say no more of this; but, thank you, thank you from my heart for all you promise. I know right well that promise will be kept, if it cost your last drop of blood."

The faces of both gentlemen were grave when Annie Walton joined them, and on hers too there were traces of some tears. "Poor Arrah Neil!" she said; "hers indeed has been a hard fate. She has made me weep with the tale of the old man's sufferings, so mildly and so sweetly did she tell it. But I could obtain no further information in regard to the danger she apprehended might befall you, Charles; and I cannot but think that her words were spoken in one of those strange dreamy moods that sometimes fall upon her."

"I think so too," answered Lord Walton; "at least it may be so. Where have you lodged her, Annie?"

"She is with good dame Rachel now," answered his sister; "but to-night she is to have the little room near the west tower, and to-morrow you must tell me more of your plans for her, Charles."

"I will, I will," replied Lord Walton, "to-morrow; ay, to-morrow," and he fell into thought, without concluding the sentence.

The evening passed more cheerfully than the conversation which has been detailed seemed to promise. All were anxious to snatch a few hours from the gloomy thoughts that hung over the times, and few allusions were made to the circumstances of the day; but any other subject which minds full of rich stores could produce was chosen, as if to exclude more sombre topics. From time to time, indeed, both Annie Walton and their new companion would for a moment or two look grave and sad, as some passing cloud of thought swept over them; but the young lord, whose power over himself was great, kept the same even tenor, not gay, for such was not his disposition; not gloomy or meditative, for he did not choose to be so, but calm and easy, conversing without apparent effort on a thousand varied things, and never for an instant showing the least absence or forgetfulness. Yet, perhaps, all felt that there were dangers and disasters abroad on every side, though they sat there as a cheerful party, with the windows of the heart closed against the storm that raged without.

There was but one moment when a shadow seemed to fall upon all, and that too was produced by a song. Charles Walton had asked his sister to sing before they parted for the night; and after some thought, seeking in vain for a livelier strain, she chose--perhaps from the irrepressible anxieties of her own heart--a little ballad, which had been a favourite of her mother's, to the following effect:--

THE SONG.

Hope sung a song of future years,

Replete with sunny hours,

When present sorrow's dew-like tears

Should all be hid in flowers.

But Memory backward turned her eyes,

And taught the heart to fear

More stormy clouds, more angry skies,

With each succeeding year.

But still Hope sung, as by that voice

Such warnings sad were given,

In louder strains bade Youth rejoice,

And Age look on to heaven.

Each kept silence for a minute or two after the song was done, and each gave a sigh; but then the cavalier would fain have persuaded Miss Walton to sing again, for her voice was one of those full of native music, which the ear longs for when once heard, as the weary heart of manhood thirsts to taste again the fearless joys of infancy. But she declined, saying she was somewhat weary; and shortly after the little party separated for the night.

Charles Walton shook his friend's hand warmly as they parted, at a yet early hour, and adding to the good-night, "We will speak more before you go to-morrow," he himself retired to his chamber, to pass several hours in meditation ere he lay down to rest.

As soon as he was alone, the young lord sent away a servant who was waiting for him, and then leaned his head upon his hand for some ten minutes without moving. At length he raised his eyes to a heavy sword that hung above the old carved mantel-piece, rose, took it down, drew it from the sheath, and gazed upon the blade. There were some dents and notches in the edge; and saying in a low tone, "It has done good service--it may do more," he thrust it back again, and hung it up as before.

"I will go to my cabinet and write two lines to the king," he added, after a short pause; but then again he stopped and meditated, murmuring, "No, it were better not to write: such documents are dangerous. I will send a message. I see they suspect me already. It were as well to destroy the commission and those other papers, and, if at all, at once. I will do it now. What is the matter?" he continued, as some one knocked at the door.

"Charles, Charles!" cried his sister, coming into the room; and as he sprang to meet her, he saw that her face was very pale.

"There is a terrible smoke," she exclaimed, "and a rushing sound like fire."

"Where? where?" asked her brother, eagerly hurrying towards the door.

"In the corridor, beyond my room," answered Annie, "towards the west wing. Oh, bid them ring the alarum-bell!"

"On no account! on no account!" cried her brother, darting out. "Call all the servants, Annie! Run, Alice!" he continued, to one of his sister's maids, who had followed her, pale and trembling; "send Hugh and Roger here, and then call the rest. Smoke, indeed! There is fire somewhere! Quick, girl! quick! Go back, my Annie, and dress yourself again. I will soon tell you more." And thus saying, he hurried on through the wide gallery, upon which the door of his bed-room opened, and then along the corridor beyond.

The smoke grew thicker at each step he took; the crackling and rushing sound of fire soon became audible, and then a fitful flash broke across the obscurity, like that of a signal-gun seen through a heavy mist.

In a minute he was at a large door which closed the end of the corridor, and, through the neighbouring window he could see the projection of one of the flanking towers, with a small loophole showing a red glare within.

"Here is the fire," he cried, "in my own cabinet! How can this have happened?" and he laid his hand upon the latch. The door was locked. He tried to turn the key, but it was embarrassed. "Bring me an axe!" he exclaimed, hearing several of the servants following him rapidly. "Bring me an axe directly--quick--quick!--all the papers will be burned," and again he tried to turn the key.

"The charter chests were removed, my lord, to the next room," said the good servant Langan. "I moved them myself by your own order, just before we went, that the floor might be repaired."

The young lord laid his hand upon his brow for an instant, and then said, "Let the rest perish then! It is no matter; and just as he spoke, the alarum-bell rang loud and long.

"What fool has done that?" exclaimed Charles Walton. "Ah, Francis! is that you?" he continued, speaking to Sir Francis Clare, who was up and following him fully dressed. "A word in your ear: mount your horse quickly and begone," he whispered. "We shall have all the country on us in half-an-hour. See, there are some twenty on the terrace already. Langan, here--go the round with this gentleman to the stables by the back way, then through the wood with him till he is beyond the grounds. Francis, say I am determined!" he added again, lowering his voice. "You shall see me soon. Away, away, good friend! You know not the people here."

By this time servants were hurrying up with buckets of water, and with axes to break down the door; but before he suffered that to be done, Lord Walton turned to one of those behind, saying, "See to poor Arrah Neil; she is in the chamber just beneath us. Take her to your lady's room. Now, Roger, you and Dick move out the chests from the place where Langan says he put them. Take them down to the terrace; but set some one to watch them. Hark! there is something fallen within."

"The great case of books, my lord, by the sound," said one of the men.

"Now give me an axe," cried the young nobleman, and with a few blows he dashed the lock off the door, and pushed it open, bidding the men throw in the water as he did so.

Out burst the flames and smoke, however, as soon as the obstruction was removed, with such fury, that all were forced to run back; and as it somewhat cleared away, the frightful scene of destruction that the interior of the tower displayed, too plainly showed that there was no possibility left of saving that part of the building.

"Now, my good men," cried the young lord, "let as many as can find buckets keep pouring on the water. The others help me to cut away the woodwork between the tower and the rest. Some of you run up to the corridor above, break down the panelling, and throw it back away from the flames. Fear not, but at all risks cut off the tower from the rest of the house. Call some of those men up from below. Why do they stand idle there?"

The scene of hurry and confusion that succeeded can be imagined by those who have witnessed the consternation produced by a fire in a rural district, where few of those means and appliances which in great towns exist in plenty, but often are found ineffectual even there, are to be met with at all. To prevent the flames from extending to the rest of that wing was found impossible, notwithstanding all the efforts of the noble master of the mansion, and the strenuous exertions of his servants, who speedily recovered from the first confusion of surprise, and recollected the old military habits which they had acquired in former days. The tenantry, too, who flocked up at the sound of the alarum-bell, gave eager but not very efficient help, as well as a number of the townsfolk; but still the fire gained ground, extended from the tower to the rooms in the wing, ran along the cornices, caught the beams, and threatened the whole building with destruction, when a tall, grave stranger in a black cloak and hat walked calmly up to Lord Walton, who had come down to the terrace to give directions to the people below, and said in a low tone--

"A few pounds of gunpowder, my lord, and a linen bag laid above that doorway, and under the coping-stone, will separate the fire from the building. The stone passage cuts it off below; there is but a narrow gallery above, and if you can but break up the corridor----"

"I see! I see!" cried Lord Walton. "Thanks, sir, thanks. Run, Hugh, to the armoury; you will find some powder there."

"I beg, sir, that I may be permitted to make the saucisson," cried a tall man in flaunting apparel. "At the celebrated siege of Rochelle I constructed the famous petard wherewith we blew in the----"

"I thank you, sir," replied the master of the mansion, looking at the person who addressed him from head to foot with a quick but marking gaze; "I will make it myself;" and without further notice he proceeded to give the necessary orders, and to take precautions both to ensure the safety of all persons near, and to guard the building as much as possible from damage by the explosion.

When all was ready, he went into the house to bring his sister forth, lest by any chance the rooms in which she had hitherto remained should be shaken more than he expected; and then, after having placed her at a distance, he himself fired the train, which, being unconfined, except at one part, carried the flame in an instant to the bag of powder, causing it to explode with a tremendous roar. A quantity of brickwork was thrown into the air; the gallery above fell in the moment after; and then, after a short pause, a tall neighbouring tower between the place where the powder had taken effect, and that where the fire was raging, bulged out about half-way up, and then crashed down, strewing the terrace with a mass of broken ruins.

In the anxiety and excitement of the moment, Lord Walton had observed little but what was passing immediately before him; but as he marked the effect and was turning round to look for his sister, in order to tell her that the rest of the mansion was saved, the stranger in black who had spoken to him before, once more addressed him in a low voice, saying--

"You had better look to those chests, my lord; Colonel Thistleton is eyeing them somewhat curiously. As for me, I will wish you good-night; I love not the neighbourhood of parliamentary commissioners; but if you want good help at need, which perhaps may be the case soon, you have only to send a trusty servant to inquire for Martin Randal at Waterbourne, ten miles hence, and you will have fifty troopers with you in two hours."

"I understand, I understand, major!" replied Lord Walton. "God speed you with my best thanks Colonel Thistleton! What came he here for?"

"No good," replied Randal, walking away and beckoning to his tall companion, who followed him with a pompous stride, while Lord Walton turned towards the spot to which he had directed his attention. He there perceived for the first time, three men on horseback, and one who had dismounted and was speaking with a servant who had been placed to watch the two large chests of papers which had been removed from the wing of the building.

As Lord Walton gazed at him, he stooped down once more to look at the chests with a curious and inquiring eye; and striding up to him at once, the young nobleman demanded, in a stern tone--

"Who are you, sir? and what do you want with those cases?"

"My name, my lord, is Thistleton," replied the other; "a poor colonel, by the permission of Providence, in the service of the parliament of England; and when matters are a little more composed I will inform your lordship, as my errand is with you, what excited my curiosity in regard to these cumbrous packages."

"Oh, Colonel Thistleton! That is a different affair," answered Lord Walton. "As soon as I have ascertained that all further danger of the fire spreading is past, I will have the honour of entertaining you as far as my poor house, half destroyed as it is, will admit."

The parliamentary colonel bowed gravely, and the young nobleman then proceeded to give further directions to his people, mingling with commands respecting the fire and the security of the rest of the mansion, sundry orders spoken in a low tone to those servants on whom he could most rely, and to some of his principal tenants.

When he had assured himself that all was safe, and had set a watch, he returned to his sister's side, and led her back to the house, whispering as he went--

"Keep two of your maids with you in your chamber tonight, Annie. See to poor Arrah Neil; and at dawn tomorrow, dear girl, make preparations for a journey. Ask no questions, sweet sister, but pack up all that you most value--all trinkets, jewels, gold and silver, for we may, perhaps, have to go far."

Annie Walton gazed at him with a look of sorrowful, half-bewildered inquiry; but he added, "I cannot explain now, dear one; I will tell you more to-morrow;" and she followed him silently into the house, where he left her, and at once went back to show as much courtesy to Colonel Thistleton and his companions as the feelings of his heart would permit.

[CHAPTER V.]

"This is a lamentable and very sad visitation, my lord," said Colonel Thistleton, as soon as he was seated with two companions in the large room we have before described.

"It is indeed, colonel," replied Lord Walton, "and will cost me at least ten thousand pounds to repair; so that I hope you have not come for anything like a benevolence, such as our kings of old used sometimes to levy upon their subjects, for I could ill spare one to the honourable house just now.----Langan," he continued to the servant who appeared at the door, "have wine and meat set out in the hall. We shall all want refreshment."

"No, my lord," replied Colonel Thistleton, with some degree of hesitation; "the houses of parliament resort to no illegal and unjustifiable acts of taxation. Labouring but for the defence of themselves, of the king's person, and the liberty and laws of the kingdom, they take care to abide by the true rights and customs of the country; but at the same time, my lord, they think it but proper and necessary, as well for the safety of the state as for the exculpation of persons unjustly accused, to inquire into and examine, either by the judges appointed by law, or by a committee of their own body, where any highly honourable and devout person is subjected to calumny, into all charges of resistance to the authority of the two houses, or of conspiracy for the purpose of levying war and further endangering the condition of the poor distracted realm."

The colour somewhat increased in Lord Walton's cheek, but without pause he replied, gravely--

"They are quite right, sir; and if, as I gather from what you say, you are come into this part of the country upon such an errand, you will find me very ready and willing to give you every assistance in my power."

Now, the commission Colonel Thistleton had to perform was of a nature somewhat delicate; for the demeanour of the Walton family, at the first resistance shown to the arbitrary proceedings of the court, had been favourable to the views of general freedom, which were then alone apparent on the side of the parliament; and though it had become evident that the young lord had grown cold as they stretched their pretensions, and had even remonstrated against several of their proceedings, yet his course had not been so decided as to cut off all hope of attaching him to the party favourable to resistance of the royal authority by arms, while the task that the worthy committee-man was charged to execute was one likely to alienate him for ever, if the grounds for suspicion were found unreasonable. However, he was a skilful man, ever ready to take advantage of opportunity, and he therefore replied--

"I was quite sure, my lord, that we should find every readiness in your lordship. We have, indeed, the unpleasant duty to perform (which I trust we shall do discreetly) of investigating charges against a number of persons in this country; but as it is advisable that those in whose affection and loyalty we have the utmost confidence should set an example to others against whom there is just cause of suspicion, it is as well that I should inform your lordship that not long since, at Chippenham, a false and calumnious accusation was made against you to our worthy brother, Dr. Bastwick, here present----"

"Of which I do not credit a word," added the doctor.

"Charging you with countenancing the cruel preparations for war made by the king against his loyal subjects, and with having entered into correspondence with his majesty, and received a commission under his hand to levy horse against the honourable houses."

He paused, as if for a reply, and Lord Walton, with a frowning brow and flushed cheek, answered--

"So, sir, I am to suppose, in short, that you have come hither to examine my house, and search for the correspondence you speak of?"

"Exactly, sir," replied a less prudent member of the committee, named Batten; but Thistleton cut him short by adding, "We are perfectly sure that your lordship, whose family have always been godly and well-disposed, would rejoice at an opportunity of showing the world how readily you would submit to the authority of parliament, and clear yourself of all false and unjust reproaches."

"Should such reproaches against a person of such a character be listened to for a moment?" asked the young nobleman; "and on my word, gentlemen," he added, "you are somewhat bold men to venture on the task."

"Not so bold as you give us credit for, my lord," replied Batten, taking once more the reply out of Thistleton's mouth: "there is a troop of horse under your park wall."

"Then it seems," rejoined Lord Walton, "that you did not really calculate upon such unresisting submission as you affected to expect at first. I must, of course, yield to force. However," he continued with a smile, "I am certainly not prepared to resist, even if I were willing."

"That want of preparation shows your lordship to be innocent," answered the cautious Thistleton--"a point upon which I have no doubt. It was judged necessary to institute inquiries into all cases of malignant resistance to the authority of parliament in this country; and it was to meet any opposition in such instances that the troop of horse was sent, not against your lordship, of whose conduct we are quite sure, though we thought it would show unrighteous partiality if we did not in some way notice the charges made against you----"

"Charges made upon oath, be it remarked," said Dr. Bastwick.

"Well, gentlemen," rejoined Lord Walton, "it is useless to discuss this question further. I will even take it for granted that you have due warrant for your proceeding, and merely ask what you intend to do next."

"Why, the fact is this, my very good lord," replied Thistleton: "the information stated that we should find the papers in question in the west tower, in a chamber used by your lordship as a cabinet or writing-room, on the first floor from the ground. Now, I was informed but now, that two large chests which I saw on the terrace without contained writings of value, which had just been removed from the fire. It would be satisfactory to us to look into those cases."

"Surely not to-night," said the young nobleman.

"I think it would be expedient," said Thistleton.

"It would prevent evil surmises," added Bastwick.

"No time like the present," cried Batten. "The king's commission might be gone before to-morrow."

"The keys, I fear, have been lost in the fire," answered Lord Walton, giving him a look of contempt.

"They will easily be broken open," replied Batten.

"I may not exactly like to have all my papers left open to the world," said the young nobleman, gravely; "but having now clearly ascertained how far the suspicions of the parliament really go, I will make no further objection. But I give you all notice, that I protest against this act; and that when next I take my place amongst the peers of England, I will move for an inquiry into the whole proceeding.----Without there! bring in those cases of papers, and some instrument for forcing open the locks." Thus saying, he rose, and, turning to the window, looked out upon the terrace, which was still partially illuminated by the fitful glare of the decaying fire in the tower.

In a few minutes four stout servants appeared, carrying in the chests, and having received orders to break them open, soon laid the contents bare before the eager eyes of the parliamentary commissioners. Great, however, was their disappointment to perceive nothing on the top but old deeds and parchments, with many a waxen seal pendent from its broad ribbon. They were not so easily satisfied, however, and proceeded to turn out the whole contents, strewing the floor of the saloon with yellow papers, while Lord Walton spoke a few words to Langan, who left the room.

"Well, gentlemen, are you satisfied?" asked the young nobleman at length, when the bottom of each case was laid bare. "If so, the servants shall replace the papers, and we will to supper."

The committee whispered together for a moment ere they replied, but Lord Walton could catch the words "No, no! not now. To-morrow at daybreak. There has evidently been no preparation. Have up the troop by that time," and other broken sentences, which evidently showed him that further proceedings were in contemplation.

"We will, my lord, put off any further perquisitions till to-morrow," Colonel Thistleton replied at length, "upon your lordship pledging us your word of honour that you will not leave the house, nor send out of it any paper of any kind or sort whatever."

"I shall most assuredly leave the house," replied Lord Walton, "for I am going in five minutes to assure myself that the fire will spread no farther. But if you mean that I am not to absent myself, I have no intention of so doing, and will promise to stay and entertain my unexpected guests as befits their quality and commission: nor will I send hence or make away with any paper, from the warrant of array directed by Henry II. to my ancestor, down to the cellar-book of the old butler. So now, sirs, to supper; and let us forget for the time all that is unpleasant in our meeting. The day will come, and that before the world is a week older, when I will deal with this matter in the proper place and in the proper manner."

"Be that as you please, my lord," replied Thistleton; "we doubt not we shall be justified. Myself and Dr. Bastwick will in the mean time gladly accept your hospitality. Captain Batten, however, may be wanted with his troop."

"Nay," cried the young lord, "it were a pity to deprive yourselves of one of your most able and active members. If Captain Batten have any orders to give, he can send them in writing. There lie paper and pens, and I remarked that he had a trooper without. My wine is good, gentlemen, and venison is yet in season."

"It will do as well to write," said Batten, who, always ready to take his part in all that was unpleasant, was not without inclination to share in things more agreeable; and proceeding to the writing-table in the window, he had soon concocted a hasty note, which he carried out himself; while the rest, with the owner of the mansion, proceeded to the eating-hall.

When the meal was over--and the commissioners did not spare it--Lord Walton ordered them to be conducted to the rooms prepared for them, and took leave, saying, "Tomorrow, gentlemen, at five, if you please, we will proceed to further business. In the mean while, good night."

The beds were soft and downy, the guests of Lord Walton tired with the fatigues of the preceding day, and it was somewhat later than the hour appointed when the members of the committee rose; and then, on looking forth from his window, Captain Batten was surprised and disappointed not to see his troop of horse drawn up in the park, as he had ordered them to muster there by half-past four. His two companions were down before him, and he found them, with the noble owner of the mansion, in the hall. Lord Walton immediately signified in a grave tone that it would be better to proceed on their search; but the task was sooner begun than ended, for Bishop's Merton House, even in its dismembered state, was not easily examined from one end to the other. Room after room was ransacked, every article of furniture which could be supposed to conceal papers was subjected to the perquisitions of the three commissioners; and it must be recollected that, in those days, people had not multiplied the luxuries and conveniences of life to such a degree as scarcely to be able to turn amidst the crowd of superfluities. Still nothing was discovered; for Lord Walton, though young, was a man of regular habits, and his papers were not all scattered over his dwelling, but gathered regularly into one repository.

At length Colonel Thistleton, after having twice passed through the corridor and gallery, pointed to a door in the former, saying, "We have omitted that room several times, my lord. It may be necessary that we examine there, merely for the sake of making our task complete. You will understand me clearly, my most honourable friend, that I am perfectly satisfied, and indeed was so from the first; but we must be enabled to say that we have not left any part of the mansion unseen."

The young nobleman heard him to the end, and then replied gravely--

"Those are my sister's apartments, sir."

"Nevertheless, my lord," answered Dr. Bastwick.

But Lord Walton cut him short, with a frowning brow and a flushed cheek.

"There is no 'nevertheless,' sir," he said. "Those are my sister's apartments--that is enough. Let me see the man that dares wag a foot towards them."

"Nay, my good lord," cried Thistleton, in a mild and deprecating tone, "we mean no offence. If the lady sleep, we can wait her awaking. We need not go in now."

"Neither now nor ever, sir," answered the young nobleman, sternly. "There are no papers of mine there; of that I pledge my honour. If that satisfies you, well."

"But it does not, sir," cried Batten.

"Then that is well also," answered Lord Walton, turning away with a look of scorn.

Thistleton spoke a word to his two companions, and then followed the young nobleman, exclaiming--

"My lord, my lord!"

"You speak loud, sir," rejoined Charles Walton, walking on. "I will hear you in the hall. Remember there are people who can sleep despite of parliamentary committees."

"This is too insolent," whispered Batten. "If you arrest him not, Master Thistleton, I will."

"Leave him to me," answered the colonel, gravely. "A committee of the house must not be bearded by the best man in the realm. Leave him to me;" and thus saying, he followed the young lord down the stairs.

When they were in the hall, in which were several servants, Lord Walton paused in the midst.

"Now, gentlemen," he said, "what are your further commands?"

"I have but to ask, my lord," demanded Thistleton, "whether you are disposed to resist the lawful authority of parliament?"

"The unlawful exercise of authority it does not possess, you mean," replied the peer. "But, not to cavil at words, sir--if I say I am, what then?"

"Why, then I should be obliged to do that which would be most unpleasant to me," replied Colonel Thistleton.

"I rather think, however, that such must be the result, sir," rejoined Charles Walton, with a cold and indifferent air.

"I mean, sir, that I shall be compelled to put you under some restraint," said Thistleton, with an angry brow, "which must certainly be done if----"

"If I permit you," added Lord Walton, seeing that he paused. "Colonel Thistleton, you are mistaken," he continued, advancing towards him. "I arrest you, sir, for high treason, in the king's name! Give up your sword!" and he laid his hand firmly on his shoulder.