Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source 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.
ARRAH NEIL
BY
G. P. R. JAMES
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS LIMITED
MDCCCCIII
[Illustration: Logo]
_The Introduction is written by_ LAURIE MAGNUS, M.A.; _the Title-page
is designed by_ IVOR I. J. SYMES.
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.