University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

It can be very readily conceived what was the effect produced by this announcement
of the name and rank of the gentleman, who had come in so opportunely to interrupt
the summary proceedings of the Ironsides—a name which had been rendered honorably
notorious by the gallantry and conduct of its owner, throughout the long and bloody war
which had so fiercely devastated England—a rank which placed him in the immediate
command of all the military parties within the limits of his district. The men immediately
presented arms; and with an aspect singularly meek and crest-fallen, the cornet
commenced stammering out a justification of his barbarous proceedings. But Chaloner
scarce heard him through four sentences—wherein, though laboring hard to show some
case against Frank Norman, he had entirely failed to do so—before he interrupted him.

“No, sir—no cause at all!” he said; “no cause at all, even to arrest the young man.
If he did strike the soldier, he was in execution of no duty. I do assure you, Cornet
Despard, that it is very well for you I came up, ere you had gone further. As it is, sir,
give me your sword; return straightways to your quarters, and report yourself under
arrest. I will see your colonel, and confer with him to-morrow. How now, master
Sherlock,” he continued, “what have you been about, to bring yourself within the
pale of martial law?”

“Lord love you, General Henry,” returned the jolly farmer, “nothing! unless it be
a crime in the calendar to find a horse! And if it be, it is a very new one! But I
don't know, mayhap the young man thought I stole it.”

“Fie! fie! thou steal, John Sherlock! That scarcely will pass muster, even for a
suspicion. Here is another very palpable straining of authority, which trust me, Cornet
Despard, I am not the man to pass over or forget. Setting aside the gross injustice,
the petty pelting tyranny of these proceedings, sir, the mere report of such things, done
by an officer of the parliament, will work more evil to the cause than a defeat on a
pitched field of battle. We shall have all the country crying out on us, and that too

very justly; for of a truth this is the very wantonness of petty persecution. What were
the further duties, sir, enjoined upon this patrol, besides the bullying of idiot boys, and
plundering of peddlers' packs? What were your orders?”

“To scour the country roads, searching such places as I should deem suspicious, and
making prisoners all armed malignants, with an especial view to the arrest of Captain
Wyvil, who escaped somewhere in this quarter from Gettes's brigade last night. When
I had finished here, I did propose to make further search at Woolverton.”

“To what end, sir? The Hall was searched last night, as I have learned this morning
by a dispatch from my worshipful friend, master Selby; and no one found therein,
nor any shade of reason for suspicion. There was some rudeness too on that occasion,
and his fair daughter was entreated but discourteously. Strange! that men, calling
themselves soldiers, and wearing honorable swords, should stoop unto so base actions.
Enough, sir! for the present—you know my pleasure—this sword shall be restored to
you only upon the verdict of your officers. Lancepesade, Cornet Despard is your prisoner;
march him at once on to head-quarters, and give my service, Major General
Chaloner's service, and fair greeting to Colonel Keating, or to Major Gettes—and I
have ordered him under arrest for a court martial! And for yourself, sir, and your
men, I bid you to beware. I have heard complaints erewhile of much misconduct
toward the people of the country. See that ye bear yourselves henceforth soberly at
the least, and modestly; or it shall be the worse for ye. It hath pleased,” he continued,
reverentially touching the brim of his hat as he spoke—“It bath pleased the
Great Dispenser of the universe to put an end to the bloody and infuriate strife which
hath now for so many years laid waste our native land! The power of the parliament
is firmly established throughout all England! There are no enemies in arms
throughout the island! And you must learn to know, that although soldiers, ye are
citizens also; and as citizens amenable to the English laws; to which, in my district
at the least, I will take care that ye shall be obedient! Remember, men, what I now
say to you, so shall ye 'scape, it may be, worse censure in the time to come—and
above all, remember that, while I rule in Worcestershire, all men of all opinions, of all
parties, so they obey the laws and keep the peace of the land, shall be protected harmless,
as our countrymen and brothers. Now, lancepesade, release your prisoners,
draw off your men, and mount them, and make no tarrying on the way. See that you
do report yourself at Barnsley Moor ere noon! Begone, sir.”

Within five minutes the horses were unpicketed, the musketoons reslung; the corporal
gave the word, “prepare to mount—mount! Fall in! by files Ma-arch!
Steady, men! Trot!” and with their late commander riding crest-fallen, dark and
sullen, as a disarmed and disgraced prisoner in the centre of the detachment, they
swept off at a hard trot, that soon caused the jingling of their spurs and scabbards, and
all the noisy clatter of their harness to be lost in the distance, down the green windings
of the lane.

The Ironsides were scarcely out of hearing when Henry Chaloner dismounted from
his horse, and casting the bridle to the oldest of his servants, who had sprung to the
ground as soon as he saw his master alighting, desired him to bait the beasts with a
good feed of oats, and then to get his breakfast with his fellows; instructions which
were attended to forthwith with a degree of alacrity that seemed to prove them by no
means unwelcome. After having given these directions, he turned to John Sherlock,
and begged that he would proceed no farther on his way till they should have some
minutes of discourse together—and receiving his assurance that he would wait his
pleasure, if it should be till midnight, he stooped his head to pass into the low-browed
porch, and entered the little hostelrie in silence.

“There now!” exclaimed the farmer, as he disappeared—“there goes as brave a
soldier, and as good a gentleman as any one in all England!”

“Ay! that he is,” replied young Norman, “be the other who he may. If all the
Puritans were such as Henry Chaloner, many a kingsman hereaway would join with
them.”

“Puritan! Tush—he's no more a Puritan than thou be,” Sherlock answered. “He
always went to church, while church there was i' the old abbaye—and never was seen
at conventicle—and he rides well with the staghounds—ay! and I've seen him shoot
at the butts, and dance around the maypole—many's the summer evening! He is no
Puritan!”

“Why man, he was against the king from the beginning,” retorted the other; “he
spoke against him always in the parliament houses; and when the people armed, he
was among the first, and fought in every battle through the war from Edgehill down
to Worcester; and if he was opposed to them that cut the king's head off at Whitehall,
when it was done and over, he helped to keep the son out of the father's throne.
If he be not a Puritan—then I don't know what is one!”

“Well! well! he isn't what I call one,” persisted honest John, “for he isn't a
preaching and a praying always, in season and out of season—and he don't snuffle
through his nose, like a hog in a high wind; nor whine like a whipped spaniel. He
isn't a fanatic, nor a hypocrite, nor a canter—not a fawner on the great, nor a grinder
of the poor and helpless. He has an honest kind heart, and an open eye that looks a
man i'the face; and a frank smile on his lips, and a ready and bold answer on his
tongue. And so I say he is not a Puritan—and what I say, that I'll uphold, Frank
Norman.”

“That's right,” answered Norman, laughing—“that's right, John, always! But
you'll find no one here to content with; for he is a good gentleman, and well liked
through the country—Puritan or no! But it won't do, my standing chattering here
with all my rounds to go—and the morn growing late already—I must be moving, and
that briskly—there's an outlying buck somewhere nigh Reardon forest, that I've been
after these three days, and for the life of me I cannot get on's slot.” And with the
words he took his rifle up again, looked at the priming and the flint, and whistling a
lively air, vaulted over the fence near the horse-trough, and traversing the meadow with
a light springy step was lost to sight in the plantations at the farther side. His example
was immediately followed by John Brent and the peddler, who went off, the former
leading his white pony, and the latter sturdily shouldering his pack, in the direction
of the Hall; while the bold farmer, after watching the grooms for a few minutes busied
about the horses, tied the black charger to a staple in the shade, and stretching himself
out at full length on a settle in the sunshine, to wait the officer's leisure, was soon
snoring in as sound a morning's sleep as ever sealed an eyelid.

In the meanwhile the subject of their conversation, quietly lifting the latch of the
old oaken door, entered the kitchen; which was, as usual in those days, the principal
apartment of the inn. It was a large long room with wainscoted wall, and a low
ceiling of black oak from which were suspended hams, flitches of bacon, and huge
pieces of hung-beef, sufficient to have maintained an army for a twelvemonth. The
whole farther end of the room was occupied by an enormous fireplace, with a high-backed
wooden settle on each side of it, and a tall mantelpiece grotesquely carved and
blackened with the smoke of ages. Along the front, looking out upon the little green
and the old oak-tree, were no less than three latticed casements, their ample sills bedecked
with pots of flowers and sweet herbs; and under these was a huge oaken
dresser, so brightly polished that it might well have served for a mirror to the bright-cheeked
damsels of the inn. The greater part of the wall, facing the windows, was
covered by a rack filled with long rows of splendid pewter trenchers hardly less clear
than silver—a tall old eight-day clock surmounted with a glorious canopy of peacock's
feathers—two corner beauffets well stored with silver tankards, long Venice drinking
glasses, pieces of antique porcelain, a japan box or two of knives and spoons, and a gilded
salt-cellar—the glory of the whole collection, and an heirloom of the family—with sundry
short-legged, high-backed chairs, completed the furniture of the quiet hospitable
room. It should be added, that everything was most minutely and fastidiously clean
from the neatly-sanded floor to the polished platters, and gleaming copper candlesticks
and skillets, arranged so orderly upon the walls. There was not a cobweb in the

darkest nook; not a grain of dust on the panes of the corner cupboards, not a cloud of
moisture on the drinking glasses, not a speck of tarnish on the cups and tankards—the
white dimity curtains were not merely spotless, but glossy with the traces of the recent
iron; the very flytraps of paper, quaintly fashioned by the scissors, which hung from
the low beams, seemed to be but just placed there, so free were they from any stain or
blemish.

It must not be supposed, however, that these particulars were all, or indeed any of
them, now observed by the young soldier—his eye did indeed run over them as he entered,
but if he noted them at all, it was merely as things which he had seen an hundred
times before, and of which the absence alone would have surprised him. Had it,
however, all been unusual and new, as on the contrary it was familiar to his eyes, he
would at that moment have disregarded it—for there were two groups in the room,
either of which, from their distressful and interesting aspect, would have monopolized
the thoughts of any one. The first was composed of the unhappy idiot—or `innocent,'
as he was delicately termed by the country folks, who had not recovered from his
seizure, although the violence of the paroxysm was even now abating—surrounded by
several females of the house, bathing his sallow brow with simple essences, laving the
acrid slaver from his quivering lips, and using such mild remedies to soothe him as
their experience had taught them to apply.

Among these, most conspicuous was the girl Cicely, with another pippin-cheeked
dark-eyed handmaid, and a thin gaunt old woman with snow-white hair neatly arranged
below her checkered kerchief—but superintending all, and observing with a deep anxious
eye the long-drawn sobs and convulsive twitches of the boy, was a young woman,
whose appearance could scarce fail to create an immediate interest in the eyes of the
most casual observer. She was a pale fair creature, with a singularly intellectual expression
on her features, which were moulded in the most exact lines of Grecian symmetry.
There was not, however, one shade of color on her pure pale cheek; not one
tint of the blood showing through the transparent skin—all was as colorless, and seemingly
as cold, as statuary marble, except the mouth, which with a singular contrast, was
of the ripest richest crimson—her eyes were very large and bright, of a deep liquid
blue; but they too had a strangely cold and chilling aspect—a clearness, like that of
the cloudless frosty sky of a December day, which, although quite as deep and liquid
and transparent in its hue, could never be mistaken for the warm azure of a midsummer's
evening. Her hair, which was exceedingly profuse, even to redundance, was
strained tight across the shapely temples, and rolled up into a knot of the smallest possible
dimension low down on the neck, as might be seen through the thin lawn of
her unornamented cap. In person she was below the middle size, slightly and delicately
made, with small neat feet and hands, so white and slender that many a court
lady might have envied them: her dress was a high-necked close-fitting gown of some
black stuff and a white apron, worn without any ornament at all, except a wedding
ring of plain gold, which perhaps might explain both the black garments, and the
melancholy air—for no words can describe the fixed and settled sadness which was
visible, not in her tranquil features only and her unsmiling lip, but in every sound of
her voice, in every movement of her body, in every look of her clear unimpassioned
eye. She spoke, and moved, and looked, like one who, although in the world, is yet
not of it—who with duties to perform, and cares to undergo, has neither pleasure in the
present, nor hope in the future—and alas! how sad, how unspeakably sad and pitiful!
that one so young, so gentle, and so fair, should have been so bereaved, as to make all
the laughing earth, with all its sounds and sights of beauty, one wide illimitable tomb
for ever!

The second group, which had an interest little if at all inferior to the first, consisted
of three persons only—an old, old woman—so old that she seemed indeed to have lived
far beyond the space allotted to man's sojourn here below—seated erect in a large easy
chair before the fire, and two little children. A single glance showed that the ancient
dame was confined to her seat by some paralysis, or other ailment, which crippling her

lower limbs, had left the upper portion of her body unaffected, and her mind unimpaired—she
was stone-blind, moreover, with that uncommon species of blindness,
which, while it entirely destroys the vision, yet spares the appearance of the eyeball;
so that it is but by the wandering unspeculative glare of the clear orbs, that a stranger
can pronounce them sightless. A terrible expression of anxiety and grief and fear was
now distorting the serene lineaments, and filling the blind eyes of the helpless woman
with bitter scalding tears, as with a querulous and lamentable cry she would now wail,
and now asked hurried questions, which no one could find time to answer, concerning
“her boy—her poor boy—her poor, witless, innocent boy—Martin!”

The little children, two bright-haired, blue-eyed, fairy-looking girls, of six and eight
years old, clinging to the grandmother's apron, had tried at first to comfort her with
their small artless prattle, assuring her that cousin Martin would soon be better, and the
like; but now seeing that the old woman's tears and terrors but increased, they too
were sympathetically frightened, and were both weeping, as fast as their little eyes could
weep, they knew not wherefore.

Such was the scene that met the kind eye of Henry Chaloner, as he entered; and he
immediately advanced to the first group, as being that where he most probably might
render some assistance—but seeing immediately that those about poor Martin, long
since habituated to his malady, were managing him as well, or better, than he could
have advised himself, and that his seizure was fast yielding to their soothing applications,
he turned away gently without asking any question, and walked across the room
with a light step toward the old lady.

“Don't be alarmed,” he said, in the lowest tones of his deep measured voice—“don't
be alarmed, I beg of you, dear dame—for there is no occasion, I assure you.”

“Dear Lord!” cried the old woman, starting at the unexpected sounds, for the bustle
about the sick youth, and the quietness of his own movements had prevented her discovering
the entrance of the young soldier—“Dear Lord! if that be not General
Henry!” for with the instinctive quickness of the blind she had easily recognized his
accents, which were, indeed, sufficiently remarkable.

“It is, indeed, Dame Rainsford,” he replied, taking her hand gently as he spoke,
and sitting down upon the wooden settle near her—“it is indeed I—and sorry I am
too, to find you thus grieved and terrified; but I assure you there is no occasion for
alarm, much less for grief—at all! And you well know I would not say that, if it were
not true, even to set your poor heart at rest—but truly there is none! Some rude men
here a little time since alarmed poor Martin, it would seem, and he has had one of his
wonted fits—no more I do assure you—and it is yielding fast, I see, even now to your
fair daughter-in-law's kind tendance—he will be better, I dare promise you, anon!”

“Ay, sir—I'll warrant it,” responded the old woman, reassured instantly by the calm
voice and characteristic consolations of Henry Chaloner—“I'll warrant it, if that be
all. Marian knows how to care for him well—heigho! poor Marian—I was afraid that
it was something worse, for I heard Martin cry out fearfully a while since—and they
have had no time to answer a poor, helpless, castaway, old thing such as I am—but I
don't find any fault—for they're good children all of them, heigho! but since I lost my
poor boy Roger, in that sad fight there at Long Marston, it's all dull somehow—dull
and dreary—and no head to the house like! though Marian be a wonder! Well!
well—it's all for the best—all for the best, thank God—and His good time will come!”

“Ay—indeed, is it,” answered Chaloner. “He never burthens any beyond their
power to bear, and never casts a snare before the feet of any, but that therewith he
frames a path whereby to make escape from it! And lo! here in good season, Martin
is on his feet again, and doing bravely.”

“Bring him this way—bring my poor child this way—will you not, Marian? where
are you taking him, my girl?”

“To lie down, mother, for a while,” replied the young, pale widow, obeying her
words, nevertheless, and guiding the helpless being across the sanded floor—“he always
needs sleep, you know, after the fit leaves him!”

A melancholy scene, but one of surpassing interest and beauty, followed; as the poor
idiot, led up by his widowed aunt, approached his bereaved sightless parent, on whom
his meaningless and stolid eye dwelt with a feeble glimmering of expression, as if his
veiled imperfect memory partially recognized the venerable being who, years ago had
soothed his anguished infancy. A faint sick smile played over his pale lips, as by the
force of habit he bowed his head to meet the pressure of her thin shrivelled tremulous
fingers, and felt her kiss upon his sallow forehead, and the warm tears, which fell like
summer rain upon his matted locks.

“Bless thee, my boy—my poor, poor boy! God bless thee—for thou art very dear
to me—oh! very! very! although thou be not comely to the sight—nor gifted with
the light of heavenly reason—very dear art thou to my soul—child of affliction, being
of suffering and sorrow—sole relic and last gift of my fair first-born—God's goodness
be about thy lifelong darkness, to guide and comfort and protect thee.”

The heavy tears dropped fast and frequent from the kind eyes of Chaloner at this
heart-touching prayer, and as he saw that aged woman deprived of all the wonted blessings
of this life, crippled, and blind, and reft of all her children, bending in grateful
prayer over that idiot boy; his soul was so full that he could not frame an `Amen,' as
she ended.

They led the poor youth to a chamber, and gradually the comely and serene tranquility,
which was its usual expression, resumed its reign over the face of the blind
woman; and the tears of the little girls were lost like April showers in light sunny
laughter, as they played with the fringe of Henry's scarf, and wondered at his glittering
sword-hilt; and Marian and her maidens returned from their labor of love, and all
things again wore their wonted aspect.

A thoughtful, quiet gladness was perceptible on the wan features of the youthful
widow, as she greeted her kind guest, and apologized briefly and simply for the neglect
he had experienced, and the confused state of the household.

“Oh! speak not of it,” he said, much more quickly than it was his custom to reply—
“speak not, I pray you, of it, if you would not grieve me. I saw, and was very sorry
for the cause, and if I could I would have prevented it in time—you will believe me when I
say, I would—as it is, I will take care no such abuse occur again within my district. But
now, my good Marian, I must put you to some trouble. I have ridden nearly a score
of miles this morning, and have not broken my fast yet—and I have with me six
hungry knaves besides. Will you prepare some food for us—and show me to your summer
parlor, where I may write a letter, and commune with my own thoughts a little
while in private?”

“Surely, sir, surely!” she replied; “would it were in my power to show by greater
services, my gratitude for all your goodness. Walk this way, General Henry!” and
as she spoke, she opened a small door in the chimney corner, behind the oaken settle,
which gave access to a narrow winding staircase, up which she led him into a pleasant
lofty chamber, occupying one of the gables, and overlooking from its large latticed
window, the smooth green meadows, and the dark quiet woodlands in the distance.
The floor was strown with clear white sand, the fireplace filled with the varnished
leaves and bright red berries of the holly; the walls were wainscoted with highly-polished
oak—there was a round table, with a standish, pens and paper, and two vast old-fashioned
arm-chairs in the recess of the window—and, in short, all was so cool and
clean and tranquil, and the mild air of the radiant autumn morning came in so balmily
through the leaves of the old oak, and caught such pleasant perfumes from the flower-pots
on the window-seat, that a more fitting place could hardly have been found wherein
to fix the mind in meditation. And so thought Henry Chaloner, as he threw himself
into the chair, and wrote, and pondered on his writing; while servants went and came,
and spread a larger board behind him with all appliances for the morning meal, unheard
by him, or at the least unheeded. At last, his task concluded, he raised his head, and
asking for a taper and some wax to secure his letters, desired that his head groom might
come to him; and, by the time he had fastened up the two notes he had written, the
man stood before him.

“Andrew,” he said, “let James Warr take the Peacock gelding, and ride with all
speed to Colonel Hastings's quarters at Low Barnsley—he must be contented with a
crust of bread and a draught of ale till his errand is done—for it is all important.
Then he may feed his horse, and dine and breakfast both in one, and ride home at his
leisure. There is no reply to wait for; and do thou take this note thyself to Woolverton,
to Master Selby's, and tarry for an answer. It will not hold thee long; and thou
must e'en make up for it, when thou get'st back. I warrant me thou'rt hungry now—
but there's no help for it, good Andrew. The meat will tarry, but not so the matter.”

“I'm not so hungry, sir, but I can ride all day, and all night, too—and that gladly—
fasting, if it were on your service,” answered the old groom, who had long served, and
well loved his young master.

“I thank you, Andrew, and believe you;” he replied, “but shall not have, I hope,
so far to tax your willingness. Meanwhile, as you go down, ask them to serve my
breakfast.”