CHAPTER II.

That same day Colonel George Walton was sitting with his niece, Elvira, and chatting with her about the marriage. The leaven of puritanism was not so severely bitter in high as in low life. Among the latter there was still left something like cheerfulness and blithe talk.

Sitting down near his niece, the uncle asked why she looked so sad?

“I am thinking, second father.”

“And of what, Elvira?”

“Daughter, always call me daughter, second father.”

“Well then, daughter. So, to-day, you are to be a bride!”

The uncle then playfully supposed that ’twas the puritan lover who was to be the bridegroom; whereat the young lady protested, but the uncle soon uttered the talismanic name, Arthur.

They were still talking when a trumpet call was heard without the fortress.

A happy sound, for it announced the arrival of the bridegroom--Lord Arthur Talbot, in reality, but plain Master Arthur Talbot in those puritan times.

Soon the young lord was within the room where were waiting for him the gentle Elvira and her good uncle Colonel George--not the plain little room where they had been chatting, but in the chief hall of the castle, where armor glistened on the walls, and from the windows of which could be seen the bristling fortifications.

He met her, proud of himself and of her, and dressed gaily, in defiance of popular taste. And, truth to tell, but few in the great room could compare in demeanor or good looks, with Lord Arthur, or rather Master Talbot.

Among the ladies present was Madame Henrietta, bustling about from place to place like a careful housekeeper. She did not notice that a messenger came rapidly to the general with a letter, nor did she mark that as he read it he started and then looked up at her. Nor did she hear the order he gave to let no female pass from the castle without an order from himself--except, of course, the marriage party. For the marriage was to take place at the neighboring village church. The messenger bowed low and left the room, and still Madame Henrietta was bustling about, busy and cheerful.

Turning to his daughter and Arthur, the general said, he should not be able to attend the ceremony. And he was presently in deep conversation with several of his gentlemen. Suddenly he turned to madame.

“Lady--a parliamentary order compels me to depart with you for London--have no fear.”

Those about her saw Madame Henrietta start and turn pale, but they did not think much of the matter; and, being bidden to the feast, were soon moving from the room.

Arthur heard the intimation given by the general, and said, naturally enough, to the colonel, “Is she a friend of the Stuarts?”

“She is, I believe, suspected,” replied the discreet colonel, turning away.

The young bridegroom looked pityingly at Madame, and she saw that he did so. As the company were leaving the room Arthur came up to the lady, and began talking idly to her, but when the room was empty of all but themselves--when the little bride had flown to her room, and the general had gone to consult with his officers--she said in answer to some question of his, “Cavalier!”

Quickly he answered, “You may trust me, lady. Speak, speak.”

“May I speak, even if my head is in danger?”

“You shudder. Be not afraid. Speak, whoever you are; I will save you. Speak softly, or thou mayest be heard.”

“Save me! too late. The fate of Charles will be the fate of his wife.”

“The queen, the queen!” the young lord whispered, half in respect, half in fear, and he sank upon his knee.

“‘Tis a mockery to kneel to me.”

“I swear to save your majesty, or be lost myself.”

“My lord, my lord, you speak vainly. Leave me. You cannot save me, and would involve yourself in ruin. Rise, sir, rise!”

He immediately obeyed, and stood humbly before her.

“Well, my lord?”

“I will save your majesty.”

She turned hopelessly away, but the next moment she was smiling cheerfully, as Elvira, holding a white lace veil in her hand, came running up to her companion of so many pleasant weeks.

“Am I not charming? Am I not as white as snow? Am I not like a lily? Ah, ah! This is my wedding dress; and my hair, Signor Arthur, is perfumed with the roses thou hast brought me; and on my neck are the pearls thou gavest me.”

They both praised her and her dress, but the young coquette kept her eyes upon the veil.

“Madame Henrietta, dost love me?”

“Does a mother love her child?”

“Ah, well, then I would know how this long veil of mine will look on me, by seeing how ’twill look on thy dear head. Now stoop--stoop--stoop--madame, as though I were a queen, and you were to be dubbed a knight.”

“Nay,” said the young lord, as the lady was about to kneel.

“But I say I will,” said the bride.

“I would I could as easily assure thee lasting happiness, fair girl,” said the lady, gravely. And kneeling, her head was soon enveloped in the beautiful lace veil.

The bridegroom looked on helplessly, and seemed troubled at this act.

“Charming--charming,” cried the laughing Elvira. “Who can see your blushes now? You look like a bride yourself. Pray now, who could tell you from me?”

The young lord suddenly started, and his grave face lighted up with hope.

“Nay, wear it--wear it,” said Elvira. “I must leave you for a little, young bride and bridegroom; for I have yet to put on my diamonds. Stay here--stay here.” And she ran laughing from the room.

“Thou art saved--thou art saved!”

It was the young lord who spoke, and, as he did so, the imperilled queen for one moment hoped, but the next she was deep sunk in despair, and only breathed the air of liberty again when the colonel entered the room, and coming up to her, said: “The fairy Elvira should not hide her face beneath that envious mantle--let me raise it.”

“Nay, nay,” said Arthur.

“No? Surely! May Heaven bless thee, niece--daughter! May good Heaven bless thee, and keep thee as happy as thou art now I hope--thou dost not speak?”

“She hath vowed neither to speak nor show her face till we are one.”

“So--so: but ’tis time we had set out--so follow me--follow me!”

And he left the room.

The queen was about taking off the veil.

“Stay--stay, your majesty;--’tis a miracle! Who shall know you? And have I not a pass from the castle?”

“Nay--I fear for thy life, my lord.”

“Nay, queen; to refuse would be to cast from thee Heaven’s gift. Come--come.” And he led her respectfully towards the door. But there stood a wild-looking puritan--Captain Richard Forth to wit--his sword drawn, and his eyes flashing.

“Thou shalt draw steel for her,” and he stood immovable in the doorway.

In a moment the lord’s sword was out of its sheath, but the queen ran between the thirsty weapons, and in so doing her veil was deranged, and her face seen.

“I forbid thee, my lord, and thou--man of blood.”

“‘Tis not she, ’tis Madame Henrietta,” murmured the puritan, and lowered his sword.

The lord’s sword, however, was still raised.

“Thou canst go, Arthur Talbot; thou mayest take her with thee. Go, both of ye, in peace. Go, and I prophecy that thou shalt weep bitter tears--that thou shalt sit apart and lonely, that thou shalt yearn for thy distant country, that thou shalt float in a sea of misfortunes. Begone! thou wanderer.”

Then the young lord trembled as he thought of his bride whom he was about to desert. But the loyalty of a cavalier was his honor; so he turned to the door and led Madame Henrietta over its threshold.

The puritan stood erect and motionless in the room waiting for retribution. He--he the rejected, the insulted, would triumph.

Through the window he saw them reach the bridge, pass it, pass the gate, to horse and away, away!

Still he waited.

Then came footsteps towards the room, those of the bride, her father, and several attendants.

“Arthur--Arthur,” said the young bride coming in laughingly for the crowning veil. “Ah captain! good day! Master Talbot--is he here?”

“He was but an instant since.”

“And--and now?”

“He hath fled, he hath deserted thee!”

Then there was a great cry and a start.

“And the lady--Madame Henrietta--gone also?”

Soon horsemen were flying from the castle--the rattle of drums calling to arms spread over the place--every soul about the castle was hurried and frightened. All but Captain Richard Forth, who stood cold and gratified, nursing his vengeance, and saying it was a judgment.

But as he hears the alarm bell, he hears mixed with it a strange wild cry--near him--almost at his ear.

Still the call to arms was repeated--still the alarm-bell rang out its dismal warning, and again the dull appealing cry was heard.

This time he knew whence it came. It was uttered by Elvira.

Wildly she was looking before her, and tearing the bridal flowers she wore to shreds, and breaking into bits the lace about her dress.

“She--she wears the white veil! He looks on her, he smiles, and whispers that she is _his_ bride. And I, whom now am I? Elvira is his bride--am not _I_? Elvira? why is he not here?”

Then wanderingly she placed her trembling right hand upon her head. “No, no,” she cried, and dropped the hand to her side.

“Elvira--dear daughter--speak to me.”

“No--no--NO--I am not Elvira.”

“How pale thou art, Elvira.”

“And--and thy eyes are fixed and staring.”

“The judgment is heavy,” said the Captain, implacable. “Thus heaven punishes perfidy. SHE IS MAD.”

And yet the captain stood calmly as the general fell despairingly at his feet.

“But thou wilt return--mine Arthur--thou wilt return. I will faithfully wait for thee--wait--wait! And thou wilt come, Arthur. I will weep, I will weep for thee.”

“Tears, tears,” said Captain Richard Forth; “tears for such as he--heaven’s tears. MAIDEN, I WILL AVENGE.”

“Oh! how my heart throbs; and before my eyes is a great rain of blood. Arthur, Arthur, help me--help--help!”

Then all those puritans there standing cursed him, and “the woman.”

“Let not house, nor shore, harbor these accursed. Let their heads be free to the scorn of the wind and the storm, and may the dogs bark wrathfully at them. Let the whole earth war with them through life, and cast them from her bosom when dead. Let them live wishing for death. Let heaven be unapproached by them.”