Miss Walton whispered something to her brother as he ended, to which he replied quickly--
"You are right, Annie; I will do it. Stay with my aunt, and cheer her till we return. There is a tale to be told to this dear girl," he said, speaking to Lady Margaret, "which is too sad for you to tell. Let me do it, my dear aunt--I know all the facts."
"Ay, but not the feelings, Charles," replied the old lady; "yet do so if you will. I can tell the rest hereafter, when I am calmer, for this will pass away. I never thought to have shed tears again. I fancied the fountains were dried up. Tell her, Charles, tell her; but not here."
"No; I will speak with her in the dining-hall," replied Lord Walton. "Come, dear Arrah. It is better to perform a painful task at once; and taking her hand he led her from the room."
[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 through the windows, casting a faint glow upon the old carved wreaths and glistening 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 will be down ere my tale is told."
"Oh, no," answered Arrah Neil; "there will be light enough for so sad a story as this must be; and we can sit in this window, where we can see the last look of day."
Her cousin led her to one of those old-fashioned window-seats where many of us have sat in our own youth, and took his place beside his fair companion, gazing with her for a moment upon the evening sky. At length, with a start, as if he had forgotten for a time the cause of their coming, he said--
"But to my tale, Arrah. Many years ago, my poor aunt fancied herself the happiest of women--far from courts and crowds, in the midst of wild scenes that suited her turn of mind, with a husband who loved her deeply, and a daughter whom they both adored. Sir Richard was, however, a soldier of much renown, and in the wars of Ireland he carried Lady Margaret and their child to Dublin. They there became first acquainted with a young Irish nobleman, nearly related to that great man--for I must call him so, though he was a rebel--the celebrated Earl of Tyrone. Your mother was then but a child, dear Arrah, and this nobleman a youth; but after the return of Sir Richard and his wife to Langley Hall he came to visit his eldest sister, who was then married to the Earl of Beverley. Near neighbourhood produced intimacy; but the Irish noble and the English knight differed on many a point--in mere opinion, it is true; but the effect was such, that when the young man asked the hand of the old man's daughter, it was refused with some discourtesy. Lady Margaret herself would not hear of such a marriage, though rank, station, and fortune, all were his; but she loved not to part with her daughter, and still less to part with her for a land which she looked upon as barbarous and full of strife. Your father, Arrah, was rash and vehement, impatient of opposition and easily moved to every daring deed, though generous, kind, and full of honour. He had gained your mother's love, too, and he knew it; and when he left Langley Hall, rejected in his suit, he vowed that six months should not pass ere she should be his bride. Not six weeks went by when, after going out to walk, sad and lonely, as had become her custom, she did not return. Search was made, but she could not be found, and no certain information was to be obtained. One man had heard a distant cry; one had seen a ship hovering on the coast hard by, and several had met a troop of men--strangers, evidently, both from their dress and language--wandering near Langley Hall. A few weeks of terrible suspense passed, and then Lady Margaret received a letter in her daughter's hand, signed 'Arabella Tyrone.' It told of her marriage with him she loved, and that love was openly acknowledged. There was, indeed, a vague hint given that she had not gone willingly, nor intentionally disobeyed her parents; but no details were afforded.