Legends of Lancashire 3

Legends of Lancashire 3

At this moment, her eye was arrested by a reflection of light

in the distance. It was the gleam of arms, from a small body of

soldiers; over whom the banner of Charles was waving.

 

In her joy, Anne Houghton clasped her hands, and fervently said,

“Thank God! all are not traitors.” She turned round, and met the

searching glance of Colonel Seaton, one of Cromwell’s spies.

 

“Fair lady--yonder troop is a loyal body. But--” and his

countenance darkened with thought as he spoke,--“they have now

encamped, and three horsemen leave the line, and are galloping in

the direction of the tower. Well--for their reception!”

 

There seemed to be a concealed meaning in his tones, and in haste

he strode away. Three men were now seen approaching the avenue

which led to the gateway. The foremost seemed to have no armour,

but a sword. He wore no helmet, but a low cap, with a white

plume. He was clad in a mourning garb, and over his left arm his

cloak was flung, as for a shield. Keen was his eye, though he had

evidently passed the meridian of life, and the fair lady of the

tower almost believed that she only stood at a short distance from

him--so quick was its flash. Behind him was a handsome youth,

equipped in light panoply, who seemed fitted either for contesting

the battlefield--or for sighing, not unpitied, in a lady’s bower.

Light was the rein which he passed over his charger, and yet, as

it plunged furiously, the rider sat with indifference. The third

horseman, who seemed altogether absorbed with papers on which he

was glancing, was the most stalwart. His coat of mail was clasped

over a breast, full and prominent, and his horse startled whenever

his mailed hand was placed upon its mane, to urge it forward. His

eye never sought the fortress of the tower, until they had arrived

at the drawbridge--when the warder’s horn sounded the challenge,

and Sir Gilbert appeared on the walls. The first horseman called

out, “The Earl of Derby, with two friends, in the service of

Charles.”

 

The drawbridge arose instantly, and, as they entered, Sir Richard

gave the Earl a warm welcome. “In mourning, my noble friend? Is the

Countess of Derby in health?”

 

“Yes,” was the reply--“But I wear these weeds for my late

unfortunate master: and never shall they be exchanged--unless for

a court dress, to appear with my heroic lady, in the palace of his

son.”

 

“Never,” was the ejaculation of Colonel Seaton, who now bowed his

homage to the loyal nobleman and his companions. The word seemed

ominous--but it was intended to be _more_ than ominous. A tear

trembled in the Earl’s eye, and, although delicate was the hand

which brushed it away, that hand seemed formed for the sword.

“Excuse my weakness,” he added. “Loyalty costs me much; but for

every tear which falls on the ground, that ground shall drink, till

it be glutted, aye, dyed with the enemy’s blood.” This was said in

no threatening tone, but, from its very mildness, was thrilling

with the sternest revenge, and breathing the spirit of the

deadliest resolution; as the still calm, sometimes truly announces

the darkness and fury of the tempest.

 

“Sir Thomas Tyldesley and a distant relation, whom he calls his

nephew;--dear to me for themselves, as well as for their loyalty,

accompany me,” said Derby, introducing them to Sir Richard; “we

met at Preston, in the royal name, once more to try the cause of

Charles.”

 

“My sword,” replied Sir Thomas to the praise of the governor, “once

intervened between the king and death; and gladly would I have

intervened myself, to save him from his shameful end. I can do the

same for his son: my nephew will support me,” and he looked with

emotion upon his young relative. They informed Sir Richard, that at

the head of six hundred men, they were on their march to possess

themselves of Wigan, and then to join the army of the king. Colonel

Seaton councilled them to delay their march till the morrow, and

then some of the garrison might be prepared to accompany them.

Meanwhile, he assured them that a messenger should be sent to the

camp, to make known this resolution. He stepped aside to one of his

men, and, in a low and firm voice said, “Mount horse ere another

minute is gone, and meet Colonel Lilbourne, and bid him haste to

seize upon Wigan. Stay--” as he bethought himself, “your course

may be seen at present; in half-an-hour you will be favoured by

the night,--and ride, as from death!” “Perhaps,” he muttered to

himself, as he moved on to join the Earl, “Lilbourne may give them

a welcome, if his friendship be hasty, in these very walls.”

 

Sir Richard Houghton had now conducted the new comers up to the

battlements, through ponderous arches, and had asked Derby’s

blessing upon his beautiful daughter. Kind was the Earl’s language

to the maiden, as, gently taking her arm, he put it within that of

young Tyldesley; “Let the smiles of beauty always honour and reward

the young and brave royalist!”

 

“Old soldiers likewise honour the youthful royalist,”--interrupted

Colonel Seaton, who had joined them--“and perhaps high honours

await him on the morrow.” These words were not heard by young

Tyldesley, who was gallantly paying his compliments to the lady.

Her eye never wandered from the ground, even to gaze upon the

handsome cavalier, until they had entered the great hall, and she

was led by him to a seat in the recess, with the casement opening

upon the woody precipices of the tower. She then stole a glance at

him, as he gazed upon the scene without. He seemed agitated with

some remembrance newly awakened. Anne’s eyes were still upon him,

until, at length, he broke from his reverie.

 

“Excuse my rudeness, fair lady:--the times prevent us from giving

the attention we are proud to show. In the midst of courtesy,

aye, and of tenderer duties, the trumpet calls us away, or some

painful remembrance comes, like a cloud, over our joy. Three

years ago I was cloistered within the walls of Oxford, striving

successfully for literary honours. My sister,--fair and beautiful

as the lady-love of a poet’s dream; and pure as an angel--for she

transformed earth into a holy spot, and then fondly clung to

every flower which grew there, of hope and love--came from home

to visit me. It was towards sunset, in summer, when she entered

my apartment. She rushed not forth to meet me, as was her wont.

She was pale, and her golden ringlets were disordered;--but her

countenance was intensely thoughtful, and she assumed all the

affection of an elder sister, kissed my brow, and asked God to

bless her brother Henry. Cold were her lips, as I fondly pressed

them. I put her hand within my bosom, and encircled her slight

frame with my arm. I begged her to tell me her distress. I had

not a friend to inquire respecting; we were two orphans; and,

therefore, I knew that the causes of her anguish were bound up in

herself. ‘Oh! Eleanor,’ I said, ‘how different is this meeting

from our last; in this very room, when you bounded in, all fondly

and playfully, and gave me a kiss for every medal of honour I had

won.--See,’ and I showed her many which I had won since--‘will

you refuse me a sister’s reward?’ She bent forward--her arms were

twined around my neck, when her head sunk on her bosom. ‘Oh! tell

me!’ I exclaimed with an earnestness almost frantic, ‘why are

you thus disturbed?’ She slowly raised her face, with a strange

__EXPRESSION__, and asked, ‘Does a nerve of my frame tremble, brother?

do mine eyes drop one little tear? why, then, should ye suppose me

distressed?’ Here a bell tolled suddenly--it was no requiem for

the dead--but for a noble youth who was shortly to be so.

 

“She started up, and exclaimed, ‘it is time!--brother, ask me not a

question, but silently accompany me.’

 

“‘Where?’ I inquired.

 

“‘To the place of execution!’

 

“The truth now flashed upon me. She took my arm and we left the

room. It was a beautiful night, so like the present. I lamented the

fate of him who must bid adieu to earth, when it was so lovely,

and on a scaffold! and I longed to know the tie which bound my

sister to him, but I dared not question her. We had already left

the suburbs of Oxford, and the dense crowd was in sight at a short

distance. She broke the silence, ‘Henry, do not hold me, when I

quit your arm; do not, for my mother’s sake. That vow is sacred to

us both!’ We had now reached the place of death. The sun gleamed

upon the block. I thanked God that he was to be beheaded as a

gentleman, and not hanged as a dog. He came upon the scaffold with

a proud step, and a haughty mien. His head was uncovered, and dark

were the beautiful locks, which hung over his neck;--but that head,

which might have lain on my sister’s bosom, was to be as a piece

of wood for the axe of the executioner! My sister never trembled,

but gazed upon him. He started as he looked upon the block! He

approached,--the executioner was about to unbuckle the sword of

the condemned cavalier, when, with a proud glance, he forbade him.

He knelt:--his lips moved in prayer. His eyes fell upon the marks

of military honour on his breast. ‘Sir William,’ he said, ‘thou art

no more.’

 

“At his name, my sister gave one scream of madness; he started

up at the sound, and his eyes were upon Eleanor. ‘My Eleanor!’

he exclaimed: she rushed to the scaffold; but in a moment he was

bound down to the block, and the axe fell, but not before a loud

shout came from his lips, ‘God save King Charles!’ and there was my

sister kneeling over him, and then attempting to snatch the head

from the executioner, in her frenzy. I sprung forward--I heard a

fall--Eleanor was dead upon the headless trunk! I rushed home with

the lifeless body in my arms, and there pronounced a vow of revenge

upon the rebels, by whom I had lost a sister.

 

“My books were disregarded, and I joined my brave uncle. But--this

night is the exact type of that awful night! and I--have no sister!”

 

He buried his face in his hands. In sympathy, tears were flowing

down the cheeks of Anne. He raised his eyes, and blessed her for

one tear shed over the memory of Eleanor. He even ventured to take

her hand--and it was not withdrawn--“Excuse me,” he said, “I

cannot leave the subject soon, as I cannot leave her grave when I

visit it, until the dews are falling upon my prostrate form. It

is sacred. You remind me of her. And will the fair Anne Houghton

refuse to be unto me what my Eleanor was?”

 

At this moment the warriors entered the hall, and a council was

held, as to their future movements, when Sir Richard bade his

daughter give orders to the domestics for the feast. In an hour the

entertainment was ready, and the hall lighted. Sir Thomas Tyldesley

sat at the table in full armour, and at every movement which he

made, the clang of his armour was heard, amidst the sober mirth

of the feast. Colonel Seaton inadvertently remarked “The Lord’s

people of old were commanded to eat the passover with their staves

in their hands, ready to depart; and his people, now, must eat with their swords in their hands.”