Leaving poor Diggory Falgate to find his way out of the vault as best
he might, or, if he rather chose to stay there, to make what
discoveries he could, we must return by the reader's good leave to
some of the more important personages of our tale; premising, however,
that although we have dwelt thus long upon the adventures of the
worthy sign-painter, those adventures were by no means without their
influence upon the fate of the other personages in their history. We
must also pass over a period of several days since last we were at
Langley Hall, allowing the reader's imagination to supply the few and
quiet changes which time had brought about, no event of any
consequence having taken place in the interim.
It was a warm and glowing evening, though Autumn had spread his brown
mantle over the trees; and while fair Arrah Neil and Lady Margaret
Langley sat in the old lady's usual drawing-room, with the windows
open as in midsummer, Annie Walton was seated under a little clump of
beeches at the back of Langley Hall, the Earl of Beverley, somewhat
recovered from his wound, stretched on the dry grass at her feet.
They were happy enough to enjoy long pauses in conversation; for their
mutual love, as the reader has already been given to understand, was
known and acknowledged by each; and their minds, starting from one
common point, would run on in meditation along paths, separate indeed,
but not far distant, and then, like children playing in a meadow,
would return to show each other what flowers they had gathered.
"How calm and sweet the evening is!" said the earl, after one of these
breaks. "One would hardly fancy the year so far advanced. I love these
summer days in autumn, dearest. They often make me look on to after
years, and think of the tempered joys and tranquil pleasures of old
age, calling up the grand picture of latter life left us by a great
Roman orator, when the too vivid sun of youth and manhood has somewhat
sunk in the sky, and we have freshness as well as warmth, though not
the fervid heat of midsummer."
"I love them too," answered Miss Walton; "and I think that in every
season of the year there are days and hours of great beauty and
grandeur. Though I like the early summer best, yet I can admire the
clear winter sky, and the dazzling expanse of white that robes the
whole earth as if in ermine, and even the autumnal storm with its
fierce blast, loaded with sleet, and hail, and withered leaves. But I
was thinking, Francis, of how peaceful all things seem around, and
what a horrible and sinful thing it is for men to deform the beautiful
earth, and disturb the quiet of all God's creation with wild wars and
senseless contests."
"A woman's thought, dear Annie," replied the earl, "and doubtless it
_is_ sinful; but, alas? the sin is shared amongst so many, that it
would in any war be difficult to portion it out. 'Tis not alone to be
divided amongst those who fight or amongst those who lead; it is not
to be laid at the door of those who first take arms or those who
follow; it is not to be charged to the apparent aggressor: but every
one who, by folly, weakness, passion, prejudice, or hatred, lays the
foundation for strife in after years, has a share in the crime. Oh!
how many are the causes of war! Deeds often remote by centuries have
their part; and always many an act done long before rises up--like an
acorn buried in the ground and springing up into a tree--and is the
seed from which after contentions spring. Even in this very contest in
which we are now engaged, though we may see and say who is now right
and who is wrong, yet what man can separate the complex threads of the
tangled skein of the past, and tell who most contributed to bring
about that state which all wise men must regret? Years, long years
before this, the foundation was laid in the tyranny of Henry, in the
proud sway of Elizabeth, in the weak despotism of James, in the
persecution of the Papists of one reign, in that of the Puritans in
another; in lavish expenditure, in vicious indulgence, in favouritism
and minions, in the craving ambition of some subjects, in the
discontented spirit of others, in the interested selfishness, the
offended vanity, the mortified pride of thousands; in weak yieldings
to unjust demands, in stubborn resistance of just claims, in fond
adherence to ancient forms, in an insatiate love of novelty and
change: and all this spread through generations, dear Annie, all of
which have their part in the result and the responsibility."
"Too wide a range, Francis, for my weak mind to take in," replied the
lady; "but I do know it is sad to see a land that once seemed happy
overspread with rapine and wrong, and deluged in blood."
"To hear no more the church-bells ringing gaily," said the earl with a
smile, "or to see the market and the fair deserted. These may indeed
seem trivial things; but yet they are amongst those that bring home to
our hearts most closely the disruption of all those ties that bind men
together in social union."
"But there are in the home of every one more terrible proofs than that
of the great evil," answered Miss Walton. "Never to see a friend, a
brother, a father, quit our side without the long train of fearful
inquiries--When shall I see him again? Will it be for ever? How shall
we meet, and where? Oh, Francis! how many a heart feels this like mine
throughout the land! Danger, accident, and death, at other times dim,
distant forms that we hardly see, are now become familiar thoughts,
the companions of every fireside; and calm security and smiling hope
are banished afar, as if never to return."
"Oh! they will come back, dear Annie," replied the earl. "This is a
world of change. The April day of man's fluctuating passions has never
cloud or sunshine long. No sooner does the calm light of peace
overspread the sky than storms are seen gathering on the horizon; and
no sooner do war and tumult imitate the tempest in destruction and
ruin than a glimpse of the blue heaven gleams through the shadow, and
gives promise of brighter moments at another hour."
"But that hour is often a lifetime," answered the lady. "We are but at
the beginning shall we ever see the close?"
"Who can say?" rejoined Lord Beverley; "but one thing is certain,
Annie. We are under God's will, my beloved. He can lengthen or shorten
the time of trial at his pleasure; we ourselves, and all the men with
whom or against whom we may act, are but his instruments. We can no
more stride beyond the barrier he has fixed than the sea can pass the
boundary of sands with which he has surrounded it. Our task is to do
that which we conscientiously believe it is our duty to him to do in
the circumstances wherein he has placed us; and we may be sure that,
however much we may be mistaken, if such is our object and purpose,
the errors of understanding will never be visited on our heads as
crimes by him who knows the capabilities of every creature that he has
made, and can judge between intention and execution. God punishes sins
and not mistakes, dear girl; he tries the heart as well as the
actions, and holds the balance even between each; and though we may
suffer in this world for the errors of others or for our own, there is
exhaustless compensation in the hand of the Almighty for those who
seek to do his will, and those who wilfully disobey it."
"I have learned a lesson on that score from the dear girl within
there," replied Miss Walton; and as she spoke she naturally turned her
eyes to the room where she knew Arrah Neil was sitting. "What can be
the matter?" she continued instantly: "see! Arrah is making eager
signs to us to come in!"
The earl rose slowly and with difficulty; and before he had advanced
more than a step or two with Annie Walton, who hastened anxiously to
return to the house, Arrah Neil, with her sunny brown hair floating
wildly about her face, came running out to meet them.
"Quick, quick, my lord, for pity's sake!" she cried "there is a large
body of men before the drawbridge. The people are holding them in
parley; the Lady Margaret says she can conceal you from all eyes if
you make haste." She spoke with breathless eagerness; and Lord
Beverley hurried his pace as much as possible, but with perfect
calmness, turning with a smile to Annie Walton, and saying--
"Fresh evils of civil war, Annie; but I fear not the result."
The time occupied in crossing to the house seemed fearfully long to
Miss Walton and Arrah Neil; but they found Lady Margaret waiting
tranquilly enough at the small door that led into the meadow, and the
old lady's only words were--
"Follow;" to the earl; and "Wait in the withdrawing-room--they will
not let them in till I order it," to her two fair guests. Then leading
the way with a calm step, she conducted Lord Beverley up the same
stairs and through the same passages which she had followed with her
niece on the first night of her stay at Langley Hall; but turning a
little to the right at the door of Annie Walton's chamber, she brought
the earl into a small detached room, which seemed isolated from every
other part of the building.
"Here you will be safe," she said.
"I think not, dear Lady Margaret," replied Lord Beverley, with a smile
at what he thought her want of experience in such matters.
"We will see," she answered, advancing to the other side of the room,
where stood a huge antique fireplace, with a chimney-piece of rich
wrought stone. "No moving pictures, no sliding panels here," said Lady
Margaret; "but place your hand upon that pillar, my good lord, and
push it strongly--more strongly towards the hearth. There," she
continued, as the whole mass swung back, displaying an aperture large
enough for a man to pass, but not without stooping; "you will find a
bolt within which will make it as fast as masonry. The stairs lead you
into rooms below, where no one can come without my leave. You shall be
supplied with all you want.--But, hark! On my life, they have let the
men in! Quick, my lord, and bolt the door. I will send somebody soon
but I must go down lest those girls make some mistake if questioned."
Lord Beverley entered at once, and feeling over the face of the stone
for the bolt, pushed it home, and made the whole secure. He then
paused and listened, waiting patiently for several minutes. At first
he could hear no sound in the remote and well-covered place where he
was concealed; but at length he caught the noise of voices and steps
running hither and thither in the house. They came near, passed away
into other chambers on the left, returned, sounded in the passage, and
then in the adjoining room. He could perceive that several men
entered, examined the wainscot, tried every panel, moved every article
of furniture, and at length shook the mantel-piece and the stone
pillars on either side of the chimney; but the bolt held close and
fast, and the receding steps showed him that these unwelcome visiters
had turned their course elsewhere.