"Then, faith, my lord, I must speak them behind your back," murmured the man; but his master had taken a step forward, and was bending down his head to speak to the poor girl. "Come up to the house Arrah," he said; "you must not stay here alone, nor go back to the cottage either. Come up to the house, and my sister will comfort and be kind to you."
The girl gazed in his face for a moment, and then, suddenly starting up, as if some remembrance flashed across her mind, she exclaimed, "No, no! do not go home, sir! Do not go there. Misfortune will happen to you if you go there--I am sure it will--I am quite sure it will."
"But why, Arrah?" asked her companion, with an incredulous smile; "what makes you think that there is any danger? Have you seen any of the parliament people there?"
"There was Dry, of Longsoaken," replied Arrah Neil; "but he came down again, and it is not that. But I must not say what it is. Yet do not go up--do not go up! kind, good Charles Walton, do not go up!"
The young nobleman looked at her with an expression of much commiseration for her sorrows, but no reliance on her words. "I must go, Arrah," he said; "you know my sister is there; and even if there be danger I most go. Come up, Arrah, there's a good girl, and we will do the best we can for you in these sad times."
The poor girl shook her head sadly, and, after a moment's pause, replied, "Ah! you think me a fool; and so I am, perhaps, for things trouble me much here," and she laid her finger on her brow; "memories--memories that haunt me, but are like dreams that we try to recall distinctly after sleep is gone, and yet have but faint images of them, as of trees in a mist. But I am not a fool in this, sir; and I beseech you not to go."
"Stay with her, Langan," said Lord Walton, "and bring her up to the house. The fit is upon the poor girl, and her grandfather's death may make it worse. You loved him well, and will be kind to her. Stay with her, good fellow, and persuade her to come up. I must go now, Arrah," he continued; "but come up with Langan, for Annie will be glad to see you again, and will try to comfort you."
Thus saying, he remounted his horse, and rode onward up the hill.
[CHAPTER II.]
In the well-sanded parlour of a small but neat inn, called the "Rose of Sharon," on the evening of the same day whereof we have just been speaking, and in the village, or town, as perhaps we should call it, of Bishop's Merton--for it was beginning to give itself the airs of a great place--sat two personages finishing their supper, about half-past nine o'clock. Their food was a cold sirloin of roast beef--for the English nation were always fond of that plain and substantial commodity--and their drink was good English ale, the most harmonious accompaniment to the meat. The elder of the two was a hard-featured, somewhat morose-looking personage, but of a hale, fresh complexion, with a quick grey eye. There was a great deal of thought upon the brow; and round the mouth were some strongly defined lines, we might almost call them furrows. He was as thin and spare, too, as a pair of tongs, but apparently strong and active for his age, and his long limbs and breadth of chest spoke considerable original powers. He was dressed altogether in black; and though a tall steeple-crowned hat lay on a chair by his side, he wore while sitting at meat, a small round cap of dark cloth, in the shape of a half pumpkin, on the top of his head. He had also a good strong sword leaning on the chair beside him, habited like himself in black, with steel points and hilt.