The woman stood speechless at the ravings of her master. His mind had always before been calm, as the stillest lake embosomed in a summer glen. Even when his lady died, the composure of a feature was not disturbed. Amidst treachery and private grief he had been unmoved. But now, what agitation amidst the silent thoughts of an old heart! Beautifully was it fabled by the ancients, that should the sleeping waters of Lethe, on whose fair breast, no breeze came to silence the murmur of its loving waves, which were only heard by young spirits revelling there—be stormed into fury by any influence, no trident of Neptune could assuage them. The young, when their hopes are blasted, know nothing of the grief felt by the aged, when their last hope dies, and when winter is over their feelings.
At length Sir Richard recovered himself, so far as to inquire where his daughter was. “She has gone,” was the reply, “with the Earl of Derby. The young horseman has avowed his love for her.”
“Eternal curses on them all!” thundered forth the knight. “Thus it is. These old men have conspired to ruin her. Derby pressed her upon the youth’s notice, and has persuaded her to accompany them. They are pledged against her innocence! aye!” his rage still increasing,—“so have I heard of the unlicensed conduct of cavaliers—but I will be revenged!—and henceforth, I am the bitter enemy of all royalists!” In a moment, passion and love for his daughter had brought him to this conclusion. He invoked curses on Charles. Every prepossession in favour of the cause which he hitherto supported, was gone, and in its place, inflexible and active hate had entered.
He left the hall, and acquainted the garrison,—who, we have seen, were well disposed to Cromwell, with his daughter’s flight, and instantly inspired them with deadly revenge. They all loved Anne; she had listened to the tale of war which the very humblest of them had to recite; and many of them had almost been compelled to acquaint her with the plot of the Parliamentary officers. But at present they were cool enough to observe, that it would neither be prudent nor safe to make a sally upon Derby’s followers, to whom they were inferior in number. It was, therefore, agreed, that at the hour of midnight, fifty men from the tower should accompany Sir Richard Houghton, to join the army of Captain Lilbourne, who was then supposed to be marching from Manchester, to seize on Wigan, and defend it against the royalists. Thus, Sir Richard Houghton, formerly a true, though by no means an active, defender of Charles, became a zealous supporter of Cromwell.
Long before morning had dawned upon the camp, the Earl of Derby was stirring about, and ordering all to be in readiness for departure. No signal had been seen from Houghton Tower. It was, therefore, concluded, that there had been no mutiny in the garrison. In a short time, the trumpet was sounded, and all were mounted, waiting the command to march. Derby rode into the centre, in full armour, accompanied by his faithful servant, a Frenchman, who was proud to behold his master once more arrayed for the field, where he should distinguish himself. Every lock of his dark hair was concealed beneath his steel-front beaver, and the mournful expression usual to his features, was now exchanged for that of sternness. A loud shout was raised for “King Charles and Derby.”
The trumpets sounded, and in triple rank, with the earl in front, and Sir Thomas Tyldesley and his nephew, accompanied by the young page, in the rear, they hastily marched on. Lord Widdrington, and Sir Robert Throgmorton, with a few soldiers, rode in different directions, to give the alarm, should the enemy appear, though that was not considered as at all likely.
The page kept close by young Tyldesley, in the march; yet he spoke little, even when Anne Houghton, his mistress, was introduced to be praised. Upon giving expression to a beautiful and earnest prayer, that Charles might return to his own, young Tyldesley took his hand; it shrunk timidly from his grasp. “Poor page,” and as he spoke, he drew his arm around his slender form, “thou seemest to be but ill nerved for this day’s work. Thou tremblest.”
“I have left many dear friends behind me, and I am here alone.”
“But not unbefriended,” was Tyldesley’s reply. “Keep by me; I will avert danger from thee. Be merry, gentle youth, and thou shalt yet dance a gay measure with your mistress,—when she is my bride.”
“But—” the crimson colour which mantled his features, changing to a deadly paleness as he spoke, “should you fall, what is for me?”