Part 18

“He is, Rachel. Let us take a seat beside our comfortable hearth. Well, well, I never knew what the word window meant before. It signifies, I suppose, a place for the wind to come in at. Some of the old witches, who were executed at Lancaster, on the day of our marriage, may have come to the cave, to raise such a squall. The mill is safe, and so is this house. But oh, how many there will be who are shelterless!”

They again sat down, and, for a time, their conversation was inaudible. The wind raved louder, and went to the highest note in the maniac gamut. At intervals, when the storm subsided into low meanings, and dying sounds, the lightning flashed vividly, as if the glances of nature were still angry, although her voice was hushed. The miller and his dame crept closer together. When they could not speak, they listened to the wind tremblingly, like children over some fireside tale of terror. Rachel rested one hand upon her husband’s shoulders, and the other, sometimes, sought his neck. Both shuddered, as they turned their eyes to the window, but had perfect confidence when they gazed upon each other’s face, illuminated by the cheerful light of the hearth. There is magic in that blaze to man and wife. Not even sunset, with its gorgeous hues lighting up the window beside which they sit, much less the soft artificial rays thrown from the finely polished marble of the ceiling, can reveal the same sources of inexpressible domestic happiness! Wealth, laugh not at the affection of the poor. Love is within the breast, and flutters not on spangled garments of costly quality and workmanship, or haunts palaces. Love dwelt with the first pair, when they were driven from Paradise, and were only covered with leaves. The language of the poor to you may appear rude; but there are some to whom it is music, as sweet as it is sincere. Their touch to you may appear hard, but there are some who thrill under the beating of its every pulse. And youth, laugh not at the affection of the aged, for the heart is never leafless and sapless! When they are about to step into the grave, they walk closer together, and every movement is an embrace.

Accordingly, no young couple could have been more loving than Hans and Rachel Skippon, and the storm led them to speak of their many comforts.

“Rachel,” replied Hans, to a remark of the dame, upon the pleasures of their retired life, “it is even so, and I would not exchange places with the proudest lord in the land. Nay, I would not sell my miller’s coat. This morning, as I walked into Lancaster, a stout, stiff-necked lad came forward, and asked me to become a soldier, promising great distinction. Says I, white is the colour of my flag, and the only coat of of mail I shall ever consent to wear, must be a coat of meal!”

“A soldier!” ejaculated Rachel.

“Aye, aye,” was the reply. “War is soon to be played. The governor of our castle has gone to the High Court in London, to give evidence against traitors, and many such traitors there are said to be, whom the Parliament refuses to put down. I heard that the king’s throne and head are in jeopardy.”

“Woe, woe to the land!” groaned the dame. “A handsome lad, and yet to lose his crown and his life.”

“Well, well,” said Hans, “his majesty may thank his silly father. What good, even to the tenth generation, could the race of the ungodly man expect, who gave orders that the people should sport on God’s holy day? Rachel, hast thou forgot the proclamation which he caused the parson to read? I was but a youth then, and oft I could have liked to visit you on Sunday. But the wish was blasphemous. The parson said we were not to think our own thoughts, and as my father thought I should not visit you, I took _his_ thoughts.”

“Not always,” returned the dame, as she took his hand, “not always, even upon that subject.”

“Well, well, I give in to you, Rachel. But on that Sunday, after the service was over, the parson drew from his robes a long roll of paper, and, wiping his mouth very unmannerly, as he always did, before his eyes, read that it was the King’s most gracious will that the people, on leaving the church, should enjoy themselves in all manner of recreations and sports. He added, that our Solomon might well give laws to all his subjects. My father and I went to a friend’s house, and there solemnly bewailed the state of the country; the rulers of which scrupled not to enact the most awful iniquity. As we returned home, in front of the church there were dances, and games of archery, in which the parson himself joined most heartily. His croaking voice shouted lustily, and his stick-shanks leapt up in the air, while his broad skirts flapped like a swallow’s wings. A smile was on his face, which was thrown backwards as we passed. My father, in his righteous wrath, struck the hypocrite to the earth. In the crowd we escaped, but never more did we darken that house of prayer by our presence.”

“Yes, Hans, the Lord will be avenged for that proclamation of sport on his own day. A silly King James was, indeed. My father saw him as he passed through Preston, and he never spoke highly of kings afterward.”

So interesting was the subject of their conversation, connected with old remembrances, that for some time they were not aware that the storm had altogether subsided. It was now a beautiful calm, and soft breezes stole in at the opened window. Hans walked forth to the mill, and thence gazed down upon the vale. A dim reflection of the moon, pale with weeping, as she struggled through the clouds, to gain some of the clear azure sky, which here and there appeared, was resting on the swollen brook. A sound from the distance fell upon his ear. He strained his eyes, and, at length, recognized a form on horseback entering the vale.

“Rachel, Rachel, what can it be?” and there was terror, mingled with curiosity, in the tones. His dame suddenly appeared, but to her it was an equal mystery; not long to remain so, however, for speedily the horse was reined up at the foot of the mountain.

“Ho!--help!--help!” exclaimed a man’s voice.

“Nay, nay, Hans, dost see that which he carries in his arms! My God, look there,--that pale face, lifted to the moon. He is a murderer! He gazes on it. Well may he shudder.”

“Help, good folks,” the voice repeated, in earnest tones. “Give assistance to a lady. Good heavens, must my Mary die and follow her father!”

A female shriek was heard, and the face raised itself to the horseman, and small white arms were thrown around his neck. Hans and his wife instantly hastened down the narrow winding path which led to the barred entrance.

“Thank heaven, and you, good friends! Bayard, do not stir, as I descend with my sweet burthen. Dame, will you give her shelter?”

“Aye, aye, sir. Beautiful creature! she seems asleep. Yet why should she be abroad, and in your care, on such a night?”

“You must not question me,” was the reply, “at present; shew me the way,” and he carried his companion, as gently as he would an infant. “God bless thee, Mary,” he frequently muttered, as he put the small face closer to his breast, and drew his cloak around her form.

Rachel preceded him into the warm and comfortable room, and drew a large easy chair from its place in the corner, to the fire. He slowly bent on his knee, and seated his burden there. Her head fell back, but her hands still grasped those of the horseman. She was deadly pale, and might have been thought a corpse. There was a mingled expression of madness, sorrow, and love, on the beautiful outlines of her face. So long had they rode in the darkness, that she could not open her eyes when the light fell upon them, and even her finely pencilled lashes were still and motionless. Her little feet, raised from the floor, quivered and trembled.

The good dame bustled about, and amid all her offices of kindness, attested by her looks that she was plunged into a mystery, from which she had no objections, instantly, to be extricated; only she did not, in so many words, implore help. As she removed the wet garments from the fair stranger, she gazed anxiously upon her companion. He was young and handsome. He was nobly attired in a cloak of deep mourning, and as it was thrown back in his motions, a sword, belted by his side, was seen. His locks, as the fashion of the times required from young gallants, were long, and they curled gracefully down his shoulders. Since he entered, his eye had never turned from the face of his companion.

“Mary, my Mary,” he at length said, as he played with the black ringlets on her forehead, “look upon me, Mary.”

“Father, dost thou call? I’ll soon come to thee, soon, soon--wherever thou art. But, I must see thy face. Oh! a headless father to come to! yet, father, I _will_ come!” and she gave a loud shriek of madness.

“Hush, Mary,--am I not spared to thee? Cannot we travel through life together; and if we have no home through the wide world, all in all to each other?”

No reply was made. He cast a look of anguish towards the dame and her husband, who had then returned from sheltering the horse.

“She understands me not. Oh! who can comfort her now?”

“She is asleep,” said the dame, “and oh! young gentleman, if, as I believe from her words concerning a father, you have removed her from a father’s roof, you never, never can be happy. She is, indeed, a beautiful creature to lie in your bosom, walk by your side, and sing to you her own sweet dreams. But does the young bird sing any more when taken from the nest? In every look, however fond, you will behold a silent reproof for tearing her away from her duties to an old father, without a blessing. The husband may give the ring, but unless the father gives his blessing, she is cursed. Oh, must that young head bow before a father’s curse? Look at her slumbers, they ought to have been beneath the roof of her own home. She might have perished in this awful night, and murder had been added to your crime. Take her back to a father’s arms.”

“A father!” was the sorrowful reply. “She has no father; nor can I as yet, claim over her the protection of a husband. Her father perished, yesterday, by the order of a tyrant king, under the false evidence of the governor of your castle. I had endeavoured to convey her away from the scenes of her grief, and had engaged a boat at Lancaster. But I dared not venture my precious freight on such an awful night, and I have wandered, I know not whither. Providence has brought me here to kind friends.”

“Young gentleman,” replied Hans, while tears were trickling freely down his withered cheeks, “God will reward thee for thy care and love to the orphan one. But whither would you bear her? Here she may find a home, until happier days come, for I know that you will seek the wars. She cannot depart at present.”

“No, no,” added the dame, “you must agree to leave her, and I shall be a careful and affectionate mother, though an humble one.”

“Thanks, my good friends, both from the dead and the living! I could not have hoped that so secure a home was awaiting her. O nourish her for my sake, and when she speaks of her father, mention my name, Henry Montressor, and assure her, that he will be father, husband, all! I must leave her this moment. Should she awake, we could never part. There is a purse of gold. Use it freely.”

“Not for ourselves,” replied the generous miller. “Although she be of gentle blood, we make her our child. Her sorrows will be lightened in our home, in this peaceful retreat.”

“Now,” said Montressor, and he gently disengaged his hands from the grasp of his sleeping companion. He softly kissed her lips. He started up, dreading that the tear which had fallen on her cheek, would awake her. He raised his hands to heaven.

“God of mercy, if thou hast one whom in all the earth thou lovest more than another, for innocence and misfortune, let that one be Mary Evelyn! Let angels guard her, under the direction of her sainted father. Send peace to her sorrows. Let thy balm drop into every wound, thou gracious Being.”

“Amen,” responded the miller and his wife.

And surely God himself repeated the same Amen; for a sweet beauty, shining in quiet happiness, rested upon the features of the sleeping one. Montressor pointed to her, whilst he said in anguish,--

“And should she wander in her mind, oh, soothe her. When she awakens, tell her that I am safe, and that soon I am here again. One kiss more, my Mary.”

Hans conducted him down to the pass, and soon the sound of the horse’s hoofs were unheard in the distance. The moon was shining brightly.

“Never,” said Hans, “were the rays so sweet here before. And well may they, such a beautiful face lies in our house!”

* * * * *

The weary months of winter passed on, and Mary Evelyn was a gentle maniac. Unremitting were the attentions of her humble friends, but she heeded them not. She was always, when awake, playing with the counterpane of her little bed; starting up, and shrieking in her sport.

“Arthur Montressor,” she would say, “why do you go forth alone to gather flowers for me? Must I not accompany you, and gather the most beautiful for your own auburn locks? Ah! there is an old venerable man enters. How beautiful are those white locks, and that meek, meek face. Go, Arthur. I must stay here, alone, with the headless man! headless, look at him,--gory neck! Ha, ha!”

Spring came, and the good dame brought flowers and strewed them upon the pillow. They were steeped in the morning’s dew, and as Mary applied them to her burning forehead, and parched lips, she smiled and seemed to be pleased. But she played with them, and their heads came off.

“Yes, yes,--he was beheaded!”

After this she daily became calmer, until she was herself again; the beautiful and blushing Mary Evelyn. Yet, think not that the madness had departed! Reason is like a mirror; break it,--you may replace the fragments,--still it is broken. She loved to wander forth along the glen, or into the cave. Her soul was like a harp, which every spirit of Nature could touch. Madness had sublimed many a thought and feeling, until they seemed to hold converse with the spiritual world.--Nature is more personal than is generally thought. She has a soul as well as senses. The latter are the pleasant sights, the sweet fragrance, and the music of voices, but the soul of Nature is that deep internal working every where, whose will operates upon the senses. Have we not felt the throbbing of its pulse of life, and can she live without a soul? Nature, therefore, is earth’s best comforter to the lonely, because she feels and acts--a free agent.

Mary Evelyn could now also enjoy the conversation of the miller and his wife.

“Miss Evelyn,” Hans once in good humour remarked, “we thought that you never would speak to us. But, as my mother used to observe, ‘persons may carry an egg long in their pocket, and break it at last.’”

Whenever Miss Evelyn wished to be alone, she could retire to her own little apartment, which opened into the back of the glen, or wander into the cave, where the various sounds of the brook falling amidst the rocks and cavities, and the notes of the birds, whose nests were there, beguiled her melancholy.

Meanwhile active hostilities between the King and Parliament had commenced. The sword had been unsheathed, and blood was already on its edge. Counter acts, threats, and impeachments, ceased, and the field was taken. Lancashire, echoing the voice of Lord Strange, declared for Charles, and engaged in the struggle. A few of the principal towns had been seized upon, and held by the Royalists, in spite of the assaults of the Parliamentary forces; but the latter, under the command of the most able generals, and fresh with the enthusiasm of a new-born liberty, were soon to be successful.

The inmates of Dunald Mill were not altogether ignorant of these troublous times. The clapper made a constant noise, and Rachel’s speech, of which she naturally had a great fluency, was incessant: still, these combined agencies could not deafen their ears to all the reports. On the sabbath, when they repaired to Lancaster, although it was the day of peace, there were no subjects of conversation afloat, except rumours of war. In the church, many a seal had the parson opened, amidst thunderings and lightnings, and black horses, and white horses, and red horses, and riders bearing bows, conquering and to conquer, had spurred forth. Then he would, from Scripture prophecy, delineate the character of the opposite leaders in the war. When Lord Strange planted the royal standard in the county, the parson’s text was, “Who is this that cometh from Edom?” Edom, he very judiciously considered, as synonymous with Lathom, the family seat of his lordship. When Oliver Cromwell was reported to be marching into Lancashire, at the head of a body of men, whom he had himself levied and disciplined, he travelled into the Apocalypse, and gave out the following;--“And they had tails like unto scorpions, and there were stings in their tails, and their power was to hurt men, five months. And they had a king over them, who is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon.”

“Abaddon!” the parson exclaimed. “Yes, Cromwell is a bad un, a thorough bad un!”

Often did he descend into the valley of vision, and take a view of the dry bones; or enter the field of battle called Armageddon. He would then pray, and the clerk held up his hands and stayed them, lest Amalek might prevail. And truly for the length of an hour he prayed, as some of the dissolute Royalists remarked, without ceasing or sneezing. Alas! cavalier parsons could quote and apply Scripture language as ludicrously and blasphemously as roundhead ranters!

Thus, war had lately been the constant theme. It seemed to be pleasant to Miss Evelyn; and when all the tender and the beautiful of her sex were imploring success on the handsome king, she supplicated a blessing upon the arms of the fierce republicans, and when news came of victory on the side of the Royalists, the cloud which passed over her brow betokened that she considered herself as one of the vanquished.

One Sunday morning, Hans, after donning his holiday attire, entered the little room in front, where they generally sat together, and found his wife and Miss Evelyn unprepared to attend him to church.

“So, Rachel, you intend to preach at home?”

“Yea, Hans,” was the reply, “my lady and I have agreed to stay at Bethel, and not go up to Zion. It is not safe for females to travel in such dangerous times. Nor can I enjoy the privileges of Zion at present. Whenever I enter the church, my thoughts are disquieted within me. It is so near the castle, and I think more of cannons and soldiers, than any thing else. Nor is the parson clothed with salvation, he speaks always of war. God will indeed make this a Bethel, and Rachel Skippon shall sing aloud for joy.”

“Yes, my dear friends,” said Mary Evelyn with enthusiasm, “how delightfully shall we spend the Sabbath! the little glen behind, shall be our church, where no roof but that canopy above, can intercept our ascending praise. The flowers shall be our hymn books. Nay, nay, they whisper of a Creator, but not of a Saviour. Even the lilies which he pointed out so beautifully when on earth, are silent of Him! How calm is every object around! In what a holy and sabbath repose do the rays fall, as if they were the feet of angels, dancing so lightly upon our earth!”

“Yes,” replied Hans, in true christian feeling, “the sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath. Take away this day, and we could not tell what heaven is. And yet that profane prince proclaimed sports thereon, and appointed that his book should be laid on the pulpit, along with the book of life. But, I must away to the public ordinances. Should war come to Lancaster, which side must I fall into? Alas, Evelyn speaks so beautifully of the holy puritans, who hate a tyrant over their consciences, that for some time I have ceased to pray for him who is called King.”

“Hans,” replied the dame, with some warmth, “if I thought you could be so foolish as to take the sword, as truly as I live, I would this moment disable you from leaving the house. But you could not mean this;--no, no. Well, you can go, and to entice you home, I shall prepare some savoury meat, such as thy soul loveth, of which you may eat in abundance, and praise the Lord. Wont you bid farewell to your wife?”

She threw her arms around his neck, but the old man seemed offended.

“Do you intend to disable me?” he asked, as he put her arms from about him. “Thirty-five long years have I lived with you, and never listened to such language. But since you have become Job’s wife, I must be Job, and shew patience. Come, wife, kiss me,” and he gave a loud and hearty laugh, which he suppressed when he remembered that it was the sabbath.

“Fie, fie, Hans, to speak of kissing before a young lady! It is unseemly.”

“Verily, dame, Miss Evelyn knew what kissing meant before. She blushes--Good morning, Miss Evelyn. Good morning, dame. Hush, just one, do not make a disturbance; it is the sabbath.”

The miller walked up the glen, and soon gained the highway. At every step he beheld proofs of the bad effects of the “Book of Sports.” No crowds were to be seen moving to church, but they were loitering by the way, engaged in mirth and games.

“Ha!” exclaimed Hans, as he beheld an old man tottering on before him,--“who can this be? I should know his gait, but then, his apparel is changed. It is old Sir Robert; but before, he was always dressed as a gay cavalier.”

The old knight turned round. His white locks hung over a plain-fashioned coat, and his hat was stripped of the proud plume which he had once sported. His age might be seventy, although his face was rosy.

“Well, well, good miller,” he kindly said, “art thou alone also? I left my beloved daughters at home, for I am fearful of the times.”

“You have nothing to fear, Sir Robert,” replied the miller, “in Lancaster, since you are a Royalist.”

“A Royalist!” echoed the knight, and he shook his head. “Not much of that now; no, no. The king has become a tyrant, and I disown his cause. A gallant nephew of mine, a roundhead by principle, in a battle of last month, was made prisoner, and the king gave him no quarter--but death!”

“The taking away of life,” rejoined the miller, “Charles seems to consider as his kingly prerogative.”

“His turn will come at last, Republicans say it _shall_, Death says it _will_. And what is a King? The meanest beggar. The poor man may only have one morsel of bread,--the king demands the half of it, and he is not frightened, for all his pride, and by his thoughts of dirt and scab to eat it. He,--a great man! Go to the treasury, and there you will see the widow’s mite, and the starving man’s alms! and Charles puts forth his white hand and takes them!”

“Yea, truly,” said Hans, “I am more independent in my cottage, than Charles in his palace. I earn my bread by labour, but he just puts on a few robes which we have all patched up with our own rags, blows a whistle which we have bought for him, and plays with a toy which he calls a sceptre, and for all this he receives his million.”