For England's war revered the claim
Of every unprotected name;
And spared, amidst its fiercest rage,
Childhood, and womanhood, and age.
So sung a great poet and excellent man, but begging the master's
pardon, if War herself spared them, the consequences of war reached
them sadly. It never has been, and never will be, that in times of
civil contention, when anarchy has dissolved the bonds of law, the
fierce passions, which in the breasts of too many are only fettered by
fear, will not break forth to ravage and destroy. There never was yet
strife without crime, and never will be. Certainly, such was not the
case in the civil wars of the great rebellion, and many an act was
committed with impunity under cover of the disorders of the time, of
the most black and horrible character. True, the justice still held
his seat upon the bench, to take cognizance of all crimes but
rebellion; true, mayors and corporations existed in cities, and
exercised municipal authority; but the power thus possessed was not
unfrequently used for the gratification of the person who held it on
the side of the parliament, and if not held by one of that party, was
utterly disregarded by those who were.
Of this fact, Mr. Dry, of Longsoaken, was very well aware; and after
making his escape from the carriages during the skirmish at the
bridge, he had, with the assistance of his companion, dragged poor
Arrah Neil along with him, assuring the parliamentary committee-man
who accompanied him, that he did it solely to deliver the poor girl
from the men of Belial with whom she was consorting, and to place her
in the hands of a chosen vessel, a devout woman of his neighbourhood,
whom he likened, in an irreverent strain, to Anna the prophetess.
Whether his companion put full faith in his sincerity and singleness
of purpose or not, does not much matter. Captain Batten was not one to
quarrel with any one's hypocrisy; and indeed it seemed that a sort of
agreement had been made amongst the Roundheads--like that by which men
take paper money instead of gold and silver--to let each man's
religious pretences pass current as genuine coin, however flimsy might
be the materials of which they were made. The real purpose of Mr. Dry
was, to take poor Arrah Neil back to Bishop's Merton for his own
views; and his motives were, as the reader will learn hereafter, of a
very mixed character. But, after having wandered about with Batten and
Dr. Bastwick for two days, during the course of which he was more than
once seen studying a packet of old letters, he expressed a strong
desire to go under the escort of some body of parliamentary troops
into Yorkshire, where he declared he had just recollected having some
business of importance to transact.
No opportunity occurred for several days, during which time the whole
party who had escaped from the Cavaliers, at the invitation of the
worthy common councilmen of Coventry, took up their abode for a time
in that ancient city, Mr. Dry watching poor Arrah Neil with the
closest care, and giving out to the landlady of the inn at which he
lodged that she was a poor ward of his, of weak understanding, over
whom it was necessary to keep a strict guard.
The pious landlady of Coventry believed every word that Mr. Dry
thought fit to tell her. How could she do otherwise, indeed, with so
very devout a person? and to say the truth, the demeanour and
appearance of Arrah Neil did not serve to belie the assertions of the
old hypocrite who had her in his power. She remained the greater part
of each day plunged in deep and melancholy musings; and though she
more than once attempted to escape, and said she was wrongfully
detained, yet she entered into no long explanations, notwithstanding
sundry opportunities afforded her by the hostess, who was not without
her share of curiosity. The fit, or, as she called it, the cloud of
gloom, had come upon her again. It had passed away, indeed, during the
active and bustling time of the march from Bishop's Merton, and so
indeed it always did, either in moments when all went clear and
smoothly, or in times of great difficulty and danger; but still it
returned when any of the bitter sorrows and pangs of which every life
has some, and hers had too many, crossed her way, and darkened the
prospect of the future.
It was not sullenness, reader; it was no gloomy bitterness of spirit;
it was no impatience of the ills that are the lot of all; it was no
rebellions murmuring against the will of God: neither was it madness,
nor anything like it, though she acted sometimes strangely, and
sometimes wildly, as it seemed to the common eyes of the world, from a
strong and energetic determination of accomplishing her object at the
time, joined with the utter want of that experience of the world which
would have taught her how to accomplish it by ordinary means. What was
it then? you will ask, and may think it strange when I say--_memory_.
But so it was: memory, confused and vague, of things long gone before,
which formed so strong a contrast with the present, that whenever
sorrow or disappointment fell upon her, some former time, some distant
scenes of which she knew not the when nor the where, rose up before
her eyes, and made even herself believe that she was mad. She
recollected bright looks and kind words, and days of happiness and
nights of peace and repose, to which she could not give "a local
habitation and a name." Were they visions? she asked herself; were
they dreams? where could they have occurred? what could they have
been? Was it from some book which she had read, she often inquired,
that such fanciful pictures had been gleaned, and had then fixed
themselves as realities in her mind?
She could not tell; but when such memories rose up, they took
possession of her wholly--bewildered, confused, overpowered her. For a
time she was a creature of the past; she scarcely believed in the
present; she knew not which was the reality--the things gone by, or
the things that surrounded her.
During the whole time that she remained at Coventry, this cloud was
upon her, and she paid little attention to anything but the continual
questioning of her own heart and mind. She attempted, as we have said,
to escape--indeed, more than once; but it was by impulse rather than
by thought; and when frustrated, she fell at once back again into
meditation. She did not remark that Dry treated her in a very
different manner from that which he had ever displayed towards her
before; that he called her "Mistress Arrah;" that he tried to soothe
and to amuse her. She noticed, but without much attention, that
different clothing had been provided for her from that which she had
been accustomed to wear; but whenever her mind turned from the past
towards the present again, her thoughts busied themselves with Charles
Walton and his sister, and she would have given worlds to know how it
fared with those she loved.
That the victory had been won by the Cavaliers she was aware, but at
what price it had been bought she could not tell, and she trembled to
think of it. No one, indeed, spoke to her upon the subject; for Dry
was silent, and for reasons of his own, he took care that she should
be visited by none but the landlady of the inn.
At length two pieces of intelligence reached him on the third day
after their arrival in Coventry, which made him resolute to pursue his
journey into Yorkshire immediately.
The first of these was communicated to him by one of his own servants,
to whom he had sent shortly after the skirmish, and was to the effect
that the great majority of the people of Bishop's Merton had espoused
the royalist cause, and that messengers had arrived from Lord Walton,
ordering him to be apprehended immediately, if he made his appearance
in the place. With this news, however, came the money he had sent for;
and on the evening of the same day, Dr. Bastwick brought him the
second piece of information, which was merely that a troop of the
parliamentary horse would pass through Coventry the following day, on
their road to Hull, where Sir John Hotham was in command for the
parliament. It was added that Master Dry might march safely under
their escort, and he accordingly spent the rest of the evening in
buying horses and equipage for himself and Arrah Neil, and set out the
following day on his journey.
The tedious march towards Hull need not be related; during the whole
of the way the old man rode beside his charge, plying her with soft
and somewhat amorous words, mingled strangely and horribly with texts
from Scripture, perverted and misapplied, and graced with airs of
piety and devotion, which those who knew him well were quite aware had
no share in his dealings or in his heart.
Arrah Neil paid little attention to him, answered seldom, and then but
by monosyllables. To escape was impossible, for he had now too many
abettors with him, and she was never left alone for a moment, except
when locked into a room during a halt. Yet she looked anxiously for
the opportunity; and whenever any objects were seen moving through the
country as they passed, her heart beat with the hope of some party of
Cavaliers being nigh, and giving her relief. Such, however, did not
prove the case, and about noon of an autumnal day, they entered the
town of Hull.
Here Mr. Ezekiel Dry separated himself from the troop, with thanks for
their escort, and made his way towards the centre of the town, where
stood the house of a friend with whom he had often transacted business
of different kinds. The friend, however, had since he saw him married
a wife, and was absent from the town; and though Mr. Dry assured a
demure-looking maid-servant, who opened the door, that his friend
Jeremiah had always told him he might use his house as his own, the
maid knew Jeremiah better than Mr. Dry, and demurred to receiving any
guest during her master's absence.
When the worthy gentleman had finished his conversation, and made up
his mind that he must seek an inn, he turned round to remount his
horse, and was somewhat surprised to see Arrah Neil gazing round her
with a degree of light and even wonder in her look, for which he
perceived no apparent cause. The street was a dull and dingy one; most
of the houses were of wood, with the gables turned towards the road;
and from the opposite side projected a long pole, from which swung a
square piece of wood representing, in very rough and rude style, the
figure of a swan the size of life. Yet over the dark and time-stained
face of the buildings, up the line of narrow street, round the windows
and doors carved with quaint figures, ran the beautiful eyes of Arrah
Neil, with a look of eager satisfaction which Ezekiel Dry could in no
degree account for. They rested principally upon the figure of the
swan, however, and as that emblem showed that it was a house of public
entertainment, thither Mr. Dry turned the horses' heads, and bade her
alight at the door.
Arrah sprang to the ground in a moment, and entered the house with an
alacrity which Mr. Dry had never seen her before display. Something
appeared to have enchanted her, for she almost outran the hostess, who
led the way, saying, "This way, pretty lady--this way, sir." But when
she stopped at a door in a long open corridor, Arrah Neil actually
passed her, exclaiming--
"No, not that room; I should prefer this;" and, without waiting for an
answer, she opened the door and went in.
"Dear lady, you seem to know the house quite well," said the hostess;
"but yet I do not recollect having seen your pretty face before."
"Talk not of such vanities," said Mr. Dry, with a solemn tone; "what
is beauty but the dust, and fair flesh but as a clod of clay?"
"Well, I am sure!" said the landlady, who was what Mr. Dry would have
called a carnal and self-seeking person, but a very good woman
notwithstanding. "Ah, sir! what you say is very true; we are all
nothing but clods of earth; there can be no doubt of it: it's very
true indeed."
Finding her so far docile, Mr. Dry determined to make a still greater
impression, in order to ensure that his object of keeping Arrah Neil
within his grasp should not be frustrated by the collusion of the
landlady. He therefore set to work, and held forth to her upon
godliness, and grace, and self-denyingness, and other Christian
virtues; touching a little upon original sin, predestination,
election, and other simple and easy subjects, with a degree of
clearness and perspicuity such as might be expected from his original
station and means of information. The landlady was confounded and
puzzled; but it was utterly impossible to tell what he really meant by
the unconnected images, quotations, and dogmas which he pronounced;
she was unconvinced of anything but of his being a vehement Puritan,
which she herself was not.
However, as it did not do to offend a customer, she shook her head and
looked sad, and cried from time to time, "Ah, very true! God help us,
poor sinners that we are!" with sundry other exclamations, which,
though they did not convince Mr. Dry that she had not a strong
hankering for the fleshpots of Egypt and the abominations of the
Amorites, yet showed him that she was very well inclined to please
him, and made him believe that she would fulfil his bidding to the
letter.
He accordingly called her out of the room as soon as he thought he had
produced his effect, and explaining to her what he pleased to call the
situation of his poor ward, he warned her particularly to keep the
door locked upon her, to suffer no one to hold communication with her,
and especially to prevent her from getting out, for fear she should
throw herself into the water or make away with herself, which he
represented to be not at all unlikely.
The hostess assured him that she was deeply grieved to hear the young
lady's case. She could not have believed it, she said, she looked so
sensible and cheerful.
"Ah!" replied Mr. Dry, "you will see her dull enough soon. It comes
upon her by fits: but you must attend very punctually to my orders, or
something may take place for which you will weep in sackcloth and
ashes."
"Oh, sir, I will attend to them most particularly," said the landlady.
"What will you please to order for dinner, sir? Had not I better put
the lady down a round-pointed knife? Is she dangerous with her hands?"
"Oh, no," answered Mr. Dry. "It is to herself, not to others, she is
dangerous. And as for dinner, send up anything you have got,
especially if it be high-flavoured and relishing, for I have but a
poor appetite. I will be back in about an hour; and, in the mean time,
can you tell me where in this town lives one Hugh O'Donnell, an
Irishman, I believe?"
The landlady paused and considered, and then replied that she really
could not tell; she knew of such a person being in the place, and
believed he lived somewhere at the west of the town, but she was not
by any means sure.
The moment Mr. Dry was gone, the good woman called to the cook, and
ordered a very substantial dinner for the party which had just
arrived; but then, putting her hand before her eyes, she stood for the
space of a minute and a half in the centre of the tap-room, as if in
consideration; then said, "I won't tell him anything about it: there
is something strange in this affair; I am not a woman if I don't find
it out." She then hurried up to the room where she had left Arrah
Neil, unlocked the door, and went in.
The poor girl was leaning on the sill of the open window, gazing up
and down the street. Her face was clear and bright; her beautiful blue
eyes were full of intellect and fire; the look of doubt and inward
thought was gone; a change had come over her, complete and
extraordinary. It seemed as if she had awakened from a dream.
When the landlady entered, Arrah immediately turned from the window
and advanced towards her. Then, laying her hand upon her arm, she
gazed in her face for a moment so intently that the poor woman began
to be alarmed.
"I am sure I recollect you," said Arrah Neil. "Have you not been here
long?"
"For twenty years," replied the hostess; "and for five-and-twenty
before that in the house next door, from which I married into this."
"And don't you recollect me?" asked Arrah Neil.
"No," replied the landlady, "I do not; though I think I have seen some
one very like you before, but then it was a taller lady--much taller."
"So she was," cried Arrah Neil. "What was her name?"
"Nay, I can't tell, if you can't," replied the landlady.
"I know what I called her, but I know nothing more," answered Arrah
Neil. "I called her mother--and perhaps she was my mother. I called
her mother as I lay in that bed, with my head aching, my eyes burning,
and my lips parched; and then I fell into a long deep sleep, from
which I awoke forgetting all that went before, and she was gone."
"Ay!" cried the landlady; "and are you that poor little thing?" and
she gazed upon her for a moment with a look of sad, deep interest. The
next instant she cast her arms round her and kissed her tenderly. "Ah,
poor child!" she said at length, with tears in her eyes, "those were
sad times--sad times, indeed! 'Twas when the fever was raging the
country. Sad work in such days for those who lodged strangers! It cost
me my only one. A man came and slept in that bed; he looked ill when
he came, and worse when he went. Then came a lady and a child, and an
old man, their servant, and the house was full, all but this room and
another; and ere they had been here long, my own dear child was taken
with the fever. She was near your own age, perhaps a year older; and I
told the lady overnight, so she said she would go on the morrow, for
she was afraid for her darling. But before the morning came, you too
were shaking like a willow in the wind, and then came on the burning
fit, and the third day you began to rave, and knew no one. The fifth
day my poor girl died, and for a whole day I did not see you; I saw
nothing but my dead child. On the next, however, they came to tell me
the lady had fallen ill, and I came to watch you, for it seemed to me
as if there was something between you and my poor Lucy--I knew not
what; you had been sisters in sickness, and I thought you might be
sisters in the grave. I cannot help crying when I think of it. Oh,
those were terrible days!" And the poor woman wiped her eyes.
"But my mother?" cried Arrah Neil--"my mother?"
"Some day I will show you where she lies," answered the hostess; and
Arrah wept bitterly, for a hope was crushed out to its last spark.
"She got worse and worse," continued the landlady; "and she too lost
her senses; but just as you were slowly getting a little better she
suddenly regained her mind; and I was so glad, for I thought she would
recover too; but the first words she spoke were to ask after you. So I
told her you were much better, and all she said was, 'I should wish to
see her once more before I die, if it may be done without harming
her;' and then I knew that she was going. I and the old servant
carried you, just as you were, and laid you on her bed, and she kissed
you, and prayed God to bless and keep you; but you were weak and dozy,
and she would not have you wakened, but made us take you back; and
then she spoke long with the old man in a whisper; but all I heard
was, 'You promise, Neil?--you promise on your salvation?' He did
promise--though I did not know what it was. Then she said, 'Recollect,
you must never tell her unless it be recovered.' Recovered she said,
or reversed, I remember not well which; but from that moment she said
nothing more but to ask for some water, and so she went on till the
next morning, just as the day was dawning, and then she departed."
A short space passed in silent tears on the part of Arrah Neil, while
the good woman who told the tale remained gazing forth from the
window; but at length she continued: "Before you could run across the
floor again, nay husband died, but with him it was very quick. He was
but three days between health and death; and when I had a little
recovered I used foolishly to wish that you could stay with me, and be
like my poor Lucy; but you were a lady and I was a poor woman, so that
could not be; and in about six weeks the old man paid all that was
owing, and took you away. It is strange to think that you should be
the same pretty child that lay there sick near ten years ago."
"It is as strange to me as to you," said Arrah Neil; "for, as I tell
you, I seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and for a time I forgot all;
but since then all the things which occurred before that time have
troubled me sadly. It seemed as if I had had a dream, and I recollect
a castle on a hill, and riding with a tall gentleman, who was on a
great black horse, while I had a tiny thing, milk-white; and I
remember many servants and maids--oh! and many things I have never
seen since; but I could not tell whether it was real or a mere fancy,
till I came into this town and saw the street which I used to look at
from the window, and the sign of the house that I used to watch as it
swung to and fro in the wind. Then I was sure it was real; and your
face, too, brought a thousand things back to me; and when I saw the
room where I had been, I felt inclined to weep, I knew not why. Well,
well may I weep!"
"But who is this old man who is with you?" asked the landlady,
suddenly. "He is not the old servant, who was as aged then as he is
now; and what is this tale he tells of your being his ward, and mad?"
"Mad!" cried Arrah Neil--"mad! Oh, no! 'Tis he that is wicked, not I
that am mad. He and another dragged me away from those who protected
me and were good to me--kind Annie Walton, and that noble lord her
brother--while they were fighting on the moors beyond Coventry. I his
ward! He has no more right to keep me from my friends than the merest
stranger. He is a base, bad man--a hypocrite--a cheat. What he wants,
what he wishes, I know not; but he had my poor old grandfather dragged
away to prison, and he died by the road."
"Your grandfather!" said the widow; "What was his name?"
"Neil," answered the poor girl; "that was the name he always went by."
"Why, that was the old servant," said the hostess. "He had been a
soldier, and fought in many battles. I have heard him tell it often.
But this man--this man has some object, young lady. He knows more of
you than perhaps you think. He told me that you were mad, and his
ward; but he knew not that you had a friend so near at hand, who,
though she be a poor, humble woman--Hark! there are people speaking at
the door. 'Tis he, I dare say. Say not a word to him, and we will talk
more by-and-by. Do not be afraid--he shall not take you away again so
easily, if there be yet law in the land. But he must not find me with
you;" and, thus saying, she opened the door, and lei the room.