Legends of Lancashire. Peter Landreth
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