Part 2

The drawbridge arose instantly, and, as they entered, Sir Richard gave the Earl a warm welcome. “In mourning, my noble friend? Is the Countess of Derby in health?”

“Yes,” was the reply--“But I wear these weeds for my late unfortunate master: and never shall they be exchanged--unless for a court dress, to appear with my heroic lady, in the palace of his son.”

“Never,” was the ejaculation of Colonel Seaton, who now bowed his homage to the loyal nobleman and his companions. The word seemed ominous--but it was intended to be _more_ than ominous. A tear trembled in the Earl’s eye, and, although delicate was the hand which brushed it away, that hand seemed formed for the sword. “Excuse my weakness,” he added. “Loyalty costs me much; but for every tear which falls on the ground, that ground shall drink, till it be glutted, aye, dyed with the enemy’s blood.” This was said in no threatening tone, but, from its very mildness, was thrilling with the sternest revenge, and breathing the spirit of the deadliest resolution; as the still calm, sometimes truly announces the darkness and fury of the tempest.

“Sir Thomas Tyldesley and a distant relation, whom he calls his nephew;--dear to me for themselves, as well as for their loyalty, accompany me,” said Derby, introducing them to Sir Richard; “we met at Preston, in the royal name, once more to try the cause of Charles.”

“My sword,” replied Sir Thomas to the praise of the governor, “once intervened between the king and death; and gladly would I have intervened myself, to save him from his shameful end. I can do the same for his son: my nephew will support me,” and he looked with emotion upon his young relative. They informed Sir Richard, that at the head of six hundred men, they were on their march to possess themselves of Wigan, and then to join the army of the king. Colonel Seaton councilled them to delay their march till the morrow, and then some of the garrison might be prepared to accompany them. Meanwhile, he assured them that a messenger should be sent to the camp, to make known this resolution. He stepped aside to one of his men, and, in a low and firm voice said, “Mount horse ere another minute is gone, and meet Colonel Lilbourne, and bid him haste to seize upon Wigan. Stay--” as he bethought himself, “your course may be seen at present; in half-an-hour you will be favoured by the night,--and ride, as from death!” “Perhaps,” he muttered to himself, as he moved on to join the Earl, “Lilbourne may give them a welcome, if his friendship be hasty, in these very walls.”

Sir Richard Houghton had now conducted the new comers up to the battlements, through ponderous arches, and had asked Derby’s blessing upon his beautiful daughter. Kind was the Earl’s language to the maiden, as, gently taking her arm, he put it within that of young Tyldesley; “Let the smiles of beauty always honour and reward the young and brave royalist!”

“Old soldiers likewise honour the youthful royalist,”--interrupted Colonel Seaton, who had joined them--“and perhaps high honours await him on the morrow.” These words were not heard by young Tyldesley, who was gallantly paying his compliments to the lady. Her eye never wandered from the ground, even to gaze upon the handsome cavalier, until they had entered the great hall, and she was led by him to a seat in the recess, with the casement opening upon the woody precipices of the tower. She then stole a glance at him, as he gazed upon the scene without. He seemed agitated with some remembrance newly awakened. Anne’s eyes were still upon him, until, at length, he broke from his reverie.

“Excuse my rudeness, fair lady:--the times prevent us from giving the attention we are proud to show. In the midst of courtesy, aye, and of tenderer duties, the trumpet calls us away, or some painful remembrance comes, like a cloud, over our joy. Three years ago I was cloistered within the walls of Oxford, striving successfully for literary honours. My sister,--fair and beautiful as the lady-love of a poet’s dream; and pure as an angel--for she transformed earth into a holy spot, and then fondly clung to every flower which grew there, of hope and love--came from home to visit me. It was towards sunset, in summer, when she entered my apartment. She rushed not forth to meet me, as was her wont. She was pale, and her golden ringlets were disordered;--but her countenance was intensely thoughtful, and she assumed all the affection of an elder sister, kissed my brow, and asked God to bless her brother Henry. Cold were her lips, as I fondly pressed them. I put her hand within my bosom, and encircled her slight frame with my arm. I begged her to tell me her distress. I had not a friend to inquire respecting; we were two orphans; and, therefore, I knew that the causes of her anguish were bound up in herself. ‘Oh! Eleanor,’ I said, ‘how different is this meeting from our last; in this very room, when you bounded in, all fondly and playfully, and gave me a kiss for every medal of honour I had won.--See,’ and I showed her many which I had won since--‘will you refuse me a sister’s reward?’ She bent forward--her arms were twined around my neck, when her head sunk on her bosom. ‘Oh! tell me!’ I exclaimed with an earnestness almost frantic, ‘why are you thus disturbed?’ She slowly raised her face, with a strange expression, and asked, ‘Does a nerve of my frame tremble, brother? do mine eyes drop one little tear? why, then, should ye suppose me distressed?’ Here a bell tolled suddenly--it was no requiem for the dead--but for a noble youth who was shortly to be so.

“She started up, and exclaimed, ‘it is time!--brother, ask me not a question, but silently accompany me.’

“‘Where?’ I inquired.

“‘To the place of execution!’

“The truth now flashed upon me. She took my arm and we left the room. It was a beautiful night, so like the present. I lamented the fate of him who must bid adieu to earth, when it was so lovely, and on a scaffold! and I longed to know the tie which bound my sister to him, but I dared not question her. We had already left the suburbs of Oxford, and the dense crowd was in sight at a short distance. She broke the silence, ‘Henry, do not hold me, when I quit your arm; do not, for my mother’s sake. That vow is sacred to us both!’ We had now reached the place of death. The sun gleamed upon the block. I thanked God that he was to be beheaded as a gentleman, and not hanged as a dog. He came upon the scaffold with a proud step, and a haughty mien. His head was uncovered, and dark were the beautiful locks, which hung over his neck;--but that head, which might have lain on my sister’s bosom, was to be as a piece of wood for the axe of the executioner! My sister never trembled, but gazed upon him. He started as he looked upon the block! He approached,--the executioner was about to unbuckle the sword of the condemned cavalier, when, with a proud glance, he forbade him. He knelt:--his lips moved in prayer. His eyes fell upon the marks of military honour on his breast. ‘Sir William,’ he said, ‘thou art no more.’

“At his name, my sister gave one scream of madness; he started up at the sound, and his eyes were upon Eleanor. ‘My Eleanor!’ he exclaimed: she rushed to the scaffold; but in a moment he was bound down to the block, and the axe fell, but not before a loud shout came from his lips, ‘God save King Charles!’ and there was my sister kneeling over him, and then attempting to snatch the head from the executioner, in her frenzy. I sprung forward--I heard a fall--Eleanor was dead upon the headless trunk! I rushed home with the lifeless body in my arms, and there pronounced a vow of revenge upon the rebels, by whom I had lost a sister.

“My books were disregarded, and I joined my brave uncle. But--this night is the exact type of that awful night! and I--have no sister!”

He buried his face in his hands. In sympathy, tears were flowing down the cheeks of Anne. He raised his eyes, and blessed her for one tear shed over the memory of Eleanor. He even ventured to take her hand--and it was not withdrawn--“Excuse me,” he said, “I cannot leave the subject soon, as I cannot leave her grave when I visit it, until the dews are falling upon my prostrate form. It is sacred. You remind me of her. And will the fair Anne Houghton refuse to be unto me what my Eleanor was?”

At this moment the warriors entered the hall, and a council was held, as to their future movements, when Sir Richard bade his daughter give orders to the domestics for the feast. In an hour the entertainment was ready, and the hall lighted. Sir Thomas Tyldesley sat at the table in full armour, and at every movement which he made, the clang of his armour was heard, amidst the sober mirth of the feast. Colonel Seaton inadvertently remarked “The Lord’s people of old were commanded to eat the passover with their staves in their hands, ready to depart; and his people, now, must eat with their swords in their hands.”

“Friend,” replied the knight, “that speech savours too much of a roundhead, who must always be quoting scripture. I once knew one of them, whom Cromwell advised to read carefully the account of Jael and Sisera; and after he had done so, he would inquire at every old woman whom he met, whether she had got such articles as a long nail, a heavy hammer, and a strong arm; and told her to operate upon the head of a cavalier, assuring her ‘that the Lord had delivered all such into her hand,’ and that she would henceforth be a mother in Israel. No, no, colonel,--I do not say let soldiers leave piety to monks, but let them, I say, leave sermons, homilies, and long faces.”

“Well spoken,” said Sir Richard Houghton, “but our friend hates the roundheads.”

“I do,” replied the Colonel, “God save King Charles.”

At this moment a blast was heard, and Sir Richard arose, when Seaton again interrupted them. “Keep your seat, worthy knight, and entertain your guests. I will go and parley with the new comer; it is the blast of a royalist.” He strode away saying in his heart, “God save Cromwell.”

In a short time he returned with the stranger, who was of an athletic frame, altogether destitute of grace, though not of dignity; for he strode into the hall with a commanding air. His eye moved restlessly over the forms of the warriors, when the Earl of Derby started up, with his hand on his sword.

Colonel Seaton stepped between them, “You behold a friend, noble Earl! the governor of a loyal castle, who has come to deliberate with Sir Richard Houghton, in reference to their garrison: not knowing whether they ought to join the King at Worcester, or keep to their castle.”

The Earl was satisfied, and only remarked that “he had been deceived by a resemblance.”

The stranger was invited cordially to partake of the cheer; during which he spoke but little, and yet seemed interested in the conversation. At length Sir Thomas Tyldesley proposed that a song should be sung, adding “that amongst royalists there were to be found the only true poets.”

“Nay, Sir Thomas,” replied the Earl of Derby, “the republicans can boast of one whose name shall be the boast of our country to latest ages, whose lays are wild and majestic. When in London, I was desirous of seeing the man who wrote so bitterly against the king; expecting to see a fiend in human disguise. His house was mean: I thought that he surely had not taken bribes, otherwise he might have lived in a magnificent mansion. As I entered, two females were writing, and the sound of an organ came from the further end of the room. I turned there, and beheld a beautiful man, seated behind the faded hangings, with a countenance so serene and angelic, and his eyes looking up to heaven, as if his soul was ascending on the breath of the music. He was dictating to the ladies, who called him father. He moved not his eyes: his face was pale, but every muscle seemed to vibrate with thought and feeling. His hair was parted in front, over a beautifully formed brow, and fell in brown ringlets over his shoulders. He could not be young--there was so much of thought:--he could not be old--there was so much of happiness. ‘Dorothy,’ he said, ‘I have given you the last sentence:--subscribe Joannis Miltonus.’”

“Milton!” exclaimed the stranger with enthusiasm. “John Milton!”

“His daughter,” the Earl continued, “beheld me; they told their father that an armed stranger was present. His sword was on the table--he grasped it--but instantly laid it down. ‘He is welcome, though I cannot see him. All is dark--dark--not even shadows. But your errand, sir stranger?’--and his sightless orbs seemed to turn upon me, with the sweetest, and yet most dignified expression. I dared not announce with what views I had come, but I went close to his side, and took the hand (it scarcely touched as if it were human) which was stained with my master’s blood, and I kissed it in profoundest admiration. I remained for hours, happy, useful hours. He arose, as I prepared to depart; I yet see his form; I yet hear his step. He led me to the door, and blessed me. I have often thought of the interview, and as I passed the Darwen a few hours ago, I repeated his lines--though they were commemorative of the king’s defeat,--

‘And Darwen’s streams with blood of Scots embrued.’”

Here the stranger was much moved, and frequently repeated to himself, “my Milton! my Milton!”

“Yes,” added Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “it was on such a night as this, three years ago, that Cromwell defeated the Duke of Hamilton.”

“It was,” replied the stranger, averting his gaze.

The conversation now began to turn upon their warlike plans, and Henry Tyldesley, conceiving that he might be more agreeably occupied, led Anne to a seat in the recess, where our fair readers, we doubt not, have been frequently wishing them to be, together and alone.

Music was heard from the battlements, through the casement; the moon shed her softening light upon the young hero’s armour, and he almost fancied that the rays were the fingers of his beautiful companion. They spoke not, though their eyes had met, and though the emotions with which they were lighted up, could not be mistaken. They loved fondly, and to them both it was that holy and rapturous thing--first love--which is for ever remembered, even in old age, as something more beautiful and real than a dream of earth. In war, love is seen only as in a glimpse, yet then it is most interesting. Does the dove ever appear so much the spirit of peace and hope, as when her silver wings are seen, like eternal types of light, through the darkness of the storm, ascending to heaven? How beautiful then is every flutter! Darkness is over all, except these wings, and they appear purer and whiter than ever! Thus is it with love, when it clings, fonder and fonder, in the midst of danger; and when slender arms twine themselves around the martial form, as if they could give a charm against wounds and death, which reach through corslet and shield.

Young Tyldesley had taken her hand, and she had not withdrawn it, when a shadow was reflected from the casement, at which they sat within hearing of the Darwen. Anne started, and on turning round beheld her maid, who motioned her to leave the hall. There was an unusual earnestness in her manner as she whispered “for God’s sake--for your own--not a moment’s delay, my lady!”

Her mistress silently obeyed her.

They were now both upon the battlement, at the eastern extremity.

“We are out of hearing,” said the maid, looking cautiously around; and gazing upon Anne, whispered with terror, “you are betrayed!--betrayed--and in the power of false hearts, but daring hands!”

“Never,” replied her mistress with energy, “who dares asperse his character and motives?--the stranger is true--”

“My young lady thinks of love,” returned her maid,--“but I refer not to a lover. Nay, blush not; I meant not, that falsehood, either to his king, or his lady-love, is in the heart of that young and handsome cavalier; no, he and his companions I could swear over my dead husband’s bible, are loyal and noble. But the new comer, whom Colonel Seaton admitted, is a traitor!--nay, start not, my fair mistress,--and Houghton Tower is now in the hands of Charles the First’s murderers!”

There was a fearful reality, thrilling in the voice of the attendant; so different from the gossiping tone, for which she was somewhat noted.

“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed her mistress, “and are we betrayed? I doubt the fidelity of Seaton. He had the countenance of an honest man until this day; but I now fear me, that his heart is deceitful and villainous. The stranger, too, seemed sullen; still, there was an expression of cunning. Yet why should we tremble? Let their heads grace the walls of Houghton Tower!--my father shall see it done.”

“Hush, hush, my lady,” replied her maid, “other heads than those of traitors may, ere long, grace the turrets. They are supported by the garrison. I learned as much from one of the sentinels, and a high admiration he expressed for the stranger, whom my husband, heaven rest his soul! would have addressed as an ungainly butcher, such is the villain’s appearance.”

Here she was interrupted:--she beheld two forms in the distance, approaching, and she whispered to her mistress, to screen themselves from view, behind the enormous engine posted on the battlements. Scarcely had they done so, before they heard steps near them, and instantly a dead pause was made. A stern voice now lowly broke upon the silence, and Anne recognized it to be that of the stranger, only it seemed more authoritative, even in its whispers. “Is all safe? Is every thing in readiness?”

“Yes,” was the short reply of his companion, Colonel Seaton; but it was given in an obsequious and reverential tone.

“But Derby, and his companions--”

“Your excellency,” returned Seaton, “they shall be taken care of. Though the night is not dark, still, dangers beset their way back to the camp; and since their health is valuable, we must not expose them beyond the limits of Houghton Tower. We are good nurses, and are generally able to lull all whom we love, into a long and sound sleep. Fear not--they are safe;”--and he laughed in scorn.

After a moment’s pause, the stranger replied, “Seaton, you speak of sleep; let us then think of a bed for them. I have heard of a deep draw-well in the court; they would not be disturbed there. ’Twill but keep them from a sea of blood, into which, heaven assisting me, the royalists must soon be plunged, and drowned, like Pharoah’s host, in the red sea,--aye, red indeed! But, Seaton, see that these three men do not quit the tower; their troopers shall be an easy prey--they are sheep without a shepherd.”

“Fear not,” the Colonel again said; “they are safe. They have been men of blood, and it is but befitting them, that they should undergo a cleansing. The ruffian Tyldesley pointed out to me some stains of blood upon his armour--aye, the blood of our companions: the well shall wash them out. Your excellency shall triumph over all your enemies.”

“Again,” interrupted his companion, “I charge it upon you. I am not wont to come unattended, but, at present, I have run every hazard, encountered every danger, to learn how our cause prospers. The enemy is in our power. Seaton shall defeat Derby at Houghton Tower, and his general shall defeat Charles at Worcester.”

The stranger here spoke in a soothing and flattering tone. He added a few more words, but they were inaudible. The speakers then trod to and fro, upon the battlements, conversing with each other in whispers. Sometimes the stamp of the stranger was heard enforcing his words.

The fair Anne, concealed with her attendant, behind the engine, had listened in terror to the preceding conversation. She saw that they were surrounded by the most artful plots, managed by powerful and experienced agents; that the cause for which she had so long implored the assistance of heaven, was in the greatest danger; that her father, and young Tyldesley, whom she did not now blush to think of as a very dear friend, with his uncle, and Derby, must perish; and that she herself was at the mercy of stern and unflinching ruffians. But how could she inform them of treachery, when the traitors were walking near the place of her concealment? Every moment seemed an hour; and, perhaps, it was then being determined that every royalist in the tower, should be dragged by the garrison, to a disgraceful end! She was almost frantic with impatience, and she knew, likewise, that one slight movement of her posture, as well as a whisper, might betray her.

Again the two republicans stood opposite to the place where the females were concealed, and their conversation could be heard.

“All is safe,” said the stranger. “A few hours will bear me to my men, assured that no enemy can annoy me in the rear; and before me is the hungry skeleton of a wandering king. Pity that the royal fool will not become my groom. He should be fed and clad, and I might, eventually, raise him to hold my stirrup.” There was intense mockery in his tones. He continued,--“aye, and when his time allowed him to sport, I might procure him a gilded staff for his sceptre, and he might crown himself, with straw from the manger--the Lord’s anointed!”

Not a smile passed over the face of the speaker, and Seaton, was silent. The words were too earnest to be taken as humourous sallies. The stranger resumed,--“He returns again to England. Poor fool! Nature seems to have _beheaded_ him at his birth! and all that the Lord’s people can do, is to bury him.” The speaker’s scorn here seemed to increase, until he became silent. Colonel Seaton ventured to inquire--

“Your excellency departs early?”

“In a few minutes hence,” was the reply. “I may be suspected;--as I entered the hall, Derby seemed to recall my features. The dead, methinks, have a better cause to bear me in memory, than the living. Yet Derby should recollect me; I once crossed swords with him, disguised in habit, but not in countenance; and to a singular incident he owed his safety. He fought bravely, and I should have dispatched him gallantly, had--but this avails not now. He seems to know me.”

“Nay,” replied Seaton, “he spoke kindly to you after I explained the purport of your visit. Let us return to the hall for a little.”

“Why?” asked the stranger proudly;--“to be discovered? and then the stay of England’s army and England’s freedom would be broken! No, I mount horse instantly.”

“Your hasty departure may excite suspicion, and frustrate our schemes.”

“’Tis well. I go to bid them adieu, a long adieu; ’tis probable that I may never see them more. I am not in the habit of searching wells, there to renew old acquaintanceship.”

They passed on. Anne started up from her concealment. Not a moment was to be lost, after the republican disappeared in the distance. But alas! she could gain admittance to the hall by no other way than that which they had taken. She reached the hall door,--she heard her father, in a loud and merry tone of voice, pledge the health and safety of the stranger. For a moment she stood irresolute, when Seaton and his companion appeared. “Fair maid,” said the stranger, “receive my wishes and prayers, as I bid you adieu.” In a moment he was gone, and she rushed into the hall.

“Speak not! ask no questions, noble warriors!” she exclaimed. “We are betrayed! Yes, father, that stranger you have harboured as a guest, is a republican, and Seaton has been acting as his spy. The garrison are likewise traitors, and from us all escape is cut off--”

“I knew that it was Cromwell,” replied Derby, as he started from his seat, “but heaven grant that he is not yet beyond our reach; I’ll die in capturing him! My friends, let us pursue!”

He drew his sword, and every sign of feebleness left his frame. Attended by his two companions, and the governor, he rushed forth, exclaiming “treason! treason!”