Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  It was a large old hall, lined with black oak. The sun was setting,but setting in splendour; and the rich rosy light poured in throughthe windows, casting a faint glow upon the old carved wreaths andglistening panels.

  "Perhaps," said Lord Walton, as they entered and he closed the door,"I had better order them to bring lights, dear Arrah, for the sun willbe down ere my tale is told."

  "Oh, no," answered Arrah Neil; "there will be light enough for so sada story as this must be; and we can sit in this window, where we cansee the last look of day."

  Her cousin led her to one of those old-fashioned window-seats wheremany of us have sat in our own youth, and took his place beside hisfair companion, gazing with her for a moment upon the evening sky. Atlength, with a start, as if he had forgotten for a time the cause oftheir coming, he said--

  "But to my tale, Arrah. Many years ago, my poor aunt fancied herselfthe happiest of women--far from courts and crowds, in the midst ofwild scenes that suited her turn of mind, with a husband who loved herdeeply, and a daughter whom they both adored. Sir Richard was,however, a soldier of much renown, and in the wars of Ireland hecarried Lady Margaret and their child to Dublin. They there becamefirst acquainted with a young Irish nobleman, nearly related to thatgreat man--for I must call him so, though he was a rebel--thecelebrated Earl of Tyrone. Your mother was then but a child, dearArrah, and this nobleman a youth; but after the return of Sir Richardand his wife to Langley Hall he came to visit his eldest sister, whowas then married to the Earl of Beverley. Near neighbourhood producedintimacy; but the Irish noble and the English knight differed on manya point--in mere opinion, it is true; but the effect was such, thatwhen the young man asked the hand of the old man's daughter, it wasrefused with some discourtesy. Lady Margaret herself would not hear ofsuch a marriage, though rank, station, and fortune, all were his; butshe loved not to part with her daughter, and still less to part withher for a land which she looked upon as barbarous and full of strife.Your father, Arrah, was rash and vehement, impatient of opposition andeasily moved to every daring deed, though generous, kind, and full ofhonour. He had gained your mother's love, too, and he knew it; andwhen he left Langley Hall, rejected in his suit, he vowed that sixmonths should not pass ere she should be his bride. Not six weeks wentby when, after going out to walk, sad and lonely, as had become hercustom, she did not return. Search was made, but she could not befound, and no certain information was to be obtained. One man hadheard a distant cry; one had seen a ship hovering on the coast hardby, and several had met a troop of men--strangers, evidently, bothfrom their dress and language--wandering near Langley Hall. A fewweeks of terrible suspense passed, and then Lady Margaret received aletter in her daughter's hand, signed 'Arabella Tyrone.' It told ofher marriage with him she loved, and that love was openlyacknowledged. There was, indeed, a vague hint given that she had notgone willingly, nor intentionally disobeyed her parents; but nodetails were afforded.

  "The answer was written in anger, bidding her neither see them norwrite to them more; and Sir Richard, remembering the vow of him whowas now his son-in-law, swore that he would find a time to make himbeg for pardon on his knees. Years passed ere that bitter vow could beexercised. Your father, for the sake of an adored wife, bent hisspirit to sue by letter for forgiveness and oblivion of the past; butthat did not satisfy the stern old man, and at length his time came.Fresh troubles broke out in Ireland. Sir Richard Langley received afresh command; and against your father--then alas! preparing to takearms against the government--he chiefly urged an expedition. Thatcountry has always had divisions and feuds in its own bosom; and aparty of the enemies of Tyrone were easily found to join their effortsto a small body of regular troops, and guide them through the passesto your father's castle."

  "I remember it well," said Arrah Neil, "and the terrace looking to themountains."

  "When Sir Richard found that he whom he sought was absent with hiswife and child," continued Lord Walton, "and that there was likely tobe the most desperate resistance without fruit, he was inclined topause, and perhaps might have retreated; but those with whom he wasnow acting overruled his will. They would not hear of delay orhesitation, with their enemy's hold before them. He remonstrated invain; the attack commenced; and though he took no part therein, andlikewise restrained his men, he had the grief of seeing his daughter'sdwelling taken, pillaged, and burned to the ground before his eyes.There, alas! perished, dear Arrah, the poor sister of my friend yourcousin; and the sight of her blackened remains, which at first hewould hardly believe were not yours, though he had before been toldwere not there, turned the heart of Sir Richard Langley to morecharitable thoughts. He repented bitterly, but the cup of hischastisement was not yet full. Your father, after having seen yourmother and yourself embark to seek refuge in Holland, was taken by aparty of the old knight's troops, demanded by the government as astate prisoner, and in spite of every effort, remonstrance, prayer,and petition, was tried and executed as a traitor. Pardon me, dearArrah, that I speak such harsh words, and do so without trying tosoften them, for I wish to be as brief as may be."

  Arrah Neil wept, but made no answer, and Lord Walton went on:--

  "Amongst those who most earnestly entreated for your father's lifewere Sir Richard Langley and my aunt, Lady Margaret; but those weretimes, Arrah, when pampered sovereignty had never known the softeningtouch of adversity, and flatterers and knaves were heard when thehonest and true were scorned. Nought availed and the old knight gavehimself up to bitter remorse. Your poor mother was sought for, andevery post took a letter to some one of those lands which it wassupposed she might have visited; but no such person was found, and atlength a vague rumour reached Langley Hall that she and her child weredead. Whence it came, what was its foundation, no one could discover;but, as year rolled on after year and no tidings arrived, the reportwas credited. The old man accused himself of murdering his daughterand her husband; inflicted on himself strange and superstitiouspunishments; and, though poor Lady Margaret, knowing that her heartwas not burdened with the deeds that had taken place, bore her sadbereavement more tranquilly, yet she could not altogether exculpateherself from the charge of harshness, and she shared in all hispenitence and took part in all his grief. Though remorse often goeswith long life, yet such was not the case here. Sir Richard Langleydied after four or five years of unavailing regret, and Lady Margaretremained as you have seen her--changed, very much changed, from whatshe once was, but yet with fine and noble principles at heart. She wasalways of a somewhat wild and enthusiastic temper of mind, and thatdisposition has deviated of late into great eccentricity of character.The thing that she has most loved and cherished, if not the onlything, has been that faithful dog, which was saved when young from theburning castle of your poor father, and which on the night of yourarrival displayed such strange signs of recognition."

  "Oh, I remember him well now!" replied Arrah Neil: "there was a sunnybank below the terrace, near a small lake, and I used to lie with mylittle arms round his shaggy neck, and laugh when in play he bit atthe curls of my hair. It seems but as yesterday, now that the darkmist has been removed from my memory. But go on, Charles; I do butstop you."

  Lord Walton had fallen into a reverie; a sweet one it was, to which hehad been led by the picture that she drew of her fair self in infancy.He thought he saw her on the flowery bank, at sport with her roughcompanion, and he might have paused to gaze long at the pleasantsight, had not her words roused him.

  "I have no more to tell, dear Arrah," he replied: "the rest of yourfate and history you know better than I do; but yet there is onepoint----"

  He stopped and gazed upon her, as far as the fading light would lethim do so, and his heart beat more than he had thought anything onearth could have made it do. Arrah Neil raised her eyes with a look ofinquiry to his face; but the inquiry was instantly answered by whatshe saw there, and with a cheek of crimson she withdrew her glance assoon as it was given.

  "Arrah,"
said Lord Walton, in a low and agitated tone, "I have lovedyou long--longer, I now find, than I myself have known. Ay, Arrah, Ihave loved you from childhood; and lately I have thought, have hoped,have dreamed, perhaps, that you loved me."

  Arrah Neil was silent for a moment--only a moment; but she did nothinglike any one else; and once more raising her eyes to his face, shelaid her soft hand on his and asked, "Whom have I ever loved but you?"and then the tears rolled over the long lashes and diamonded hercheek.

  Charles Walton had felt in those few brief moments as he had neverfelt before--as he had never imagined that he could feel. He, thecalm, the firm, the strong-minded, had felt timid as a child beforethe cottage-girl, the object of his long bounty, the partaker of hishouse's charity; and he knew from that strange sensation how powerfulwas the love within him; while she, though agitated, though moved,gained from the very pure singleness of the one strong passion whichhad dwelt in her breast for years, that strength to avow it which heseemed scarcely able to command.

  But that avowal, once made on her part--though he knew it, though hecould not doubt it before--at once restored him to himself again; andcasting his arms round her, he called her his own dear bride.

  A few minutes passed in sweet emotions--in words so broken andconfused that they would seem nonsense if here written--in signs andtokens of the heart which form a sacred language that ought not to betranscribed. But then Charles Walton spoke of his sister's approachingmarriage, and urged that she whom he loved would that day put the sealupon their fate also.

  Arrah turned pale and shook her head; and when her lover, withsoothing words and kind assurances, sought to remove what he believedto be the mere timid scruples of a young heart to so hasty a marriage,she answered--

  "No, Charles, no! It is not that. I would not so ill repay yourgenerous kindness; I would not so badly return my benefactor's love.But I cannot--no, I cannot--I ought not--nay, I dare not unite my fatewith yours till all doubt is removed of who and what I am. Oh,Charles! I love you deeply. You know it--you must have seen it; butyet, in truth and deep sincerity, I tell you that, even if you hadcondescended to wed the poor, wild peasant girl, as you knew her longago, Arrah Neil had too much love for Charles Walton to let him sodegrade himself. No; as your equal by birth, however much inferior inmind and every other quality, I am yours when you will. I will not saya word: I will not plead even for a day's delay; but there must be nodoubt--it must be all proved."

  "My dearest Arrah," replied her lover, tenderly, "I have no doubt. Allis clear--all is proved to me."

  "But not to the world, Charles--not to the world," she answered. "Youhave yourself admitted it; and you must not, indeed you must not urgeme, if you would not make me unhappy--unhappy either to refuse aughtthat you ask or to do that which I think wrong."

  Still he would have persuaded, but she gazed at him reproachfully,saying, "Oh, Charles, forbear!" and he felt her heart beat violentlybeneath his arm.

  "Well, then, Arrah," he said in a somewhat mournful tone, "remember,my beloved, you have promised that whenever these papers can befound--and I trust that will be soon--or that your birth be by anyother means clearly established, you will be mine without delay."

  "The instant that you ask me," replied Arrah Neil; and shortly afterCharles Walton led her back to the arms of Lady Margaret Langley. Heleft her there, hurried out to the houses where his men were lodged,and seeking out old Major Randal, bade him to send a small party inthe direction of Bishop's Merton, with orders to inquire for CaptainBarecolt at every village on the way.

  "In that part of the country," he said, anticipating the old soldier'sobjections, "I find that the parliamentary party dare not show theirfaces, and there can be no danger of a surprise. Lord Hertford'speople keep the Roundheads down."

  "Oh! I have no objection, my good lord," answered Major Randal, drily."I could as ill spare Barecolt as your lordship, though he has beentoo much absent from his troop of late; but if it be for his majesty'sservice, I have nought to say. However, in time of need he alwaysproves himself a good soldier, and in time of idleness he amuses me,which few things do now-a-days. I can hardly make him out yet, afterhaving known him ten years or more; for I never knew any one buthimself who was a braggart and a brave man, a liar and an honest one.However, I will send out a party to-night, as your lordship seemsanxious."

  The old officer went forth to do as he proposed; but Lord Walton didnot return at once to his dwelling, as might be supposed. On thecontrary, he remained in Major Randal's quarters, buried in deepthought, so intense, so absorbing, that several persons came and wentwithout his perceiving them. For months he had struggled against thepassion in his bosom. He had struggled successfully, not to crush, butto restrain it; and like a dammed-up torrent it had gone on increasingin power behind the barrier that confined it, till, now that theobstacle was removed, it rushed forth with overwhelming power. Therewas an eager, a vehement, an almost apprehensive longing to call herhe loved his own, which can only be felt by a strong spirit that hasresisted its own impulses. There was a fear that it never would be--avague impression that some unforeseen impediment, some change, somedanger--nay, perhaps, death itself--would interpose and forbid it; andwhen he roused himself with a start, he resolved to urge Arrah withevery argument to cast aside all her scruples and be his at once.

  He found her seated by Lady Margaret, the old woman's hand in hers andthe stag-hound's head upon her knee, and there evidently had beenagitating but tender words passing; for Arrah's eyes were full oftears, though there was a sweet smile upon her lip. Charles Walton wastoo full of his errand for any concealment: he told Lady Margaret all,and besought her to join her persuasions to his, which she didjoyfully. But the fair girl resisted, gently, sweetly, yet firmly,even though he spoke of the chances of his own death. The thoughtbrought bright drops into her eyes again; but still she besought himnot to ask her, and looked so mournfully in his face when he seemed todoubt her love, that he was once more forced to yield.

  What was it that made her resolute against his wishes--ay, against thedearest feelings of her own heart? There was a dread, a fancy, that ifshe became Charles Walton's wife, and the proofs of her birth shouldnever be discovered, he might regret what he had done; that he mightwish the words unspoken, the bond of their union broken. She did notdo him full justice, but the very idea was agony; and though she knewthat, whatever he might feel in such a case, he was too generous tolet her perceive his regret, yet she saw sufficiently into her ownheart to be sure that she should doubt and fear, and that no peace, nojoy, would ever be hers, if in her marriage to him there was one causewhich could produce reasonable regret.