Immediately succeeding the execution of Charles I., General Walton was in command of a fortress, then standing not far from Plymouth. One of his officers was his brother, Colonel George Walton. This man loved his brother’s daughter, as many an unmarried uncle will love nephews and nieces, and with an affection almost equal to that of the best of fathers!

And it is also true that this daughter, Elvira, loved her uncle even more than she loved her own father, the general. This young lady was promised in marriage, to a puritan officer, Captain Richard Forth, but it may be stated that she herself had favored the pretentions of Lord Arthur Talbot, a strong, unyielding royalist.

Just after the death of Charles the First, a lady arrived at the fortress, and was received by General Walton as the friend of his daughter—the friend of his daughter only in this, that a dear friend had recommended the unknown lady to his care.

She called herself Madame Henrietta, and no more. They thought her a French lady—and indeed her slightly imperfect English proved her to be a foreigner. But they asked no questions. She was franked by the dear friend, and so she was made welcome.

She soon became the companion of Elvira, who, young and light-headed, would kiss, torment, and delight this unknown lady, all within a minute. And thus things were when the General gave way to the united entreaties of his brother and Madame Henrietta, and recalled the promise of his daughter’s hand to the Puritan Colonel.

Imagine the curtain of our story drawn up, and what do you see? A platform of the fortress, the solemn sentries walking to and fro. The sun rises, and then these honest, straightforward religious puritans, sing their usual morning hymn.

This service over, the gates of the fortress are opened to the market girls, with their fresh, demure faces, and their neat, almost sombre, garments.

There is much talking about the young lady Elvira, the governor’s daughter, and how she was going to be married, and who to, and what he was like—but all this little tittle-tattle was carried on gravely, and with a demure air.

But pacing apart is Captain Richard Forth—his puritan heart strongly beating against the governor’s injustice in recalling his promise, and the shame that a puritan leader should marry his daughter to one of the godless cavaliers.

Nay—he speaks his complaints out aloud—whereon Robertson, a fellow officer, tells him to wear a fair face—there are his country and his soul to live for yet. “Open thy heart to me.”

“’Tis not a righteous act, I say. He hath promised me the maiden—and now I have returned, he doth recall his word.”

“Heaven is a bride who never turneth away from the true lover.”

“Death were welcome.”

“I would fain death passed over thee if thou art in that frame, Richard Forth.”

“I have lost her—I have lost her!”

“And thereby perchance thou hast gained much. Heaven is merciful and all-seeing. Hark! dost hear the good march—embrace thy good sword—’twill not fail thee.”

“But my weak arm may, my friend.”

“Shame on thee, Richard Forth—methinks thou art a coward.”

“No, friend, no! not a coward, but weak.”

And the two friends turned towards the castle.

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.”

CHAPTER III.

So she remained, day after day, ever waiting for the bridegroom’s return, and dismally decking herself in what she took for marriage garments. Sometimes she would take a soldier walking on the ramparts for him she had lost. But she would soon discover her mistake, and then she would sit patiently waiting and gazing from the window.

When, too, the sound of drum or trumpet reached her ears, she would imagine herself again going through the terrible scene when she discovered Arthur’s flight.

Meanwhile, Captain Richard Forth held fast by his vow of vengeance; and, like a soldier, calmly waited for the hour of the fight.

The doctors who were called in to Elvira could give no hope; but one said that perhaps a sudden joy or grief might restore the lost reason.

On one of many days, the colonel was conversing with the captain, when the luckless girl wandered near them.

Her uncle addressed her kindly.

“Prithee, who art thou?” she made answer to the uncle she had loved so well.

“What!” said he, assuming a heart-breaking cheerfulness; “dost not know me Elvira?”

“Ah! truly, truly. He is waiting for me. Quick, quick! Thou wouldst not surely keep a bridegroom waiting. Quick—quick—quick.”

Then she perceived the stern puritan, Richard Forth, who was now weeping.

“Verily, ’tis a tear on thy face. Ah, thou, too, hast loved, and art forgotten. I love thee for thy lost love.”

It was on this occasion, after the lady had been induced to return to her apartment, that the colonel took the captain into his confidence.

“Thou must save this man.”

“How?—whom?”

“Lord Arthur Talbot.”

“Save Arthur Talbot? And again? It is not in my power to do so.”

“If thou couldst save him wouldst thou?”

“’Twould be by death.”

“The flight was not Talbot’s fault alone; at least, ’twas as much the fault of his loyalty, for she was a royalist.”

“The arm that striketh him shall go unpunished. He is outlawed; he that will may kill him. He shall die.”

“Is thy vengeance justice, man? or is it jealousy? Again, the hand that shall slay him will also slay Elvira. Then thou shalt hear remorse whispering in the storm, and thy life will be a burden to thee. Forget this hate; forgive—mercy!”

For a little while the stern puritan held up his head. Then it fell.

“I will forget this hate—I will save him.”

“’Tis the proof of thy patriotism, Richard.”

“If his heart be open—not if he cometh armed. Not if he bear arms against his country.”

“No, no—then no mercy, Richard, no mercy.”

“What if he were among the cavaliers now encamped near us, who, it is rumored, will attack us at daybreak?”

“His blood be on his own head. Let him perish.”

CHAPTER IV.

Not two hours after that conversation, Lord Arthur Talbot came rapidly towards the house which the general, now encamped at some distance from his fortress, occupied. It was a large house near the camp. Surrounded by an enclosure of tall trees, and high walls, this house stood, and in its old weed-filled garden, the witless lady sometimes wandered. Some of the windows of the house opened down to the grounds, and to a wide terrace.

Arthur reached the wall, soon clambered to the top, and was just dropping to the ground when a sentinel espied him and fired. But he missed his aim, and the next moment the lord was on the grounds of the house.

“Safe,” he muttered thankfully, and looking about him he thought how sweet it was to see the house and garden once again, to see his dear native land, which he quitted three months before to save a queen, who was now in safety and comparatively happy. What joy he thought it would be to tell his Elvira the glorious truth—that he had saved a queen from death—and had restored a mother to her children. His heart beat as he thought of her joy when he had told his tale, and proved his honor and his love for her. He was loyal too, even though a royalist, and had never thought of bearing arms against his country.

As he moved hesitatingly towards the house, the lost lady passed the open windows, singing a ballad her lover had taught her.

He started, and turned towards the spot whence came the welcome sound.

So gently he began singing the ballad. Nay—he sang it quite through, and yet no answer was made.

As he concluded, there were heard the sounds of steps near him. He fled into the shadow of some friendly trees, as his beating heart told him of the coming of the puritans.

Nearer and nearer came the sound. Surely, ’twas a picket of soldiers. They passed on, and their steps were lost in the distance. He stood again beneath the windows, and once more chanted the ballad she so loved.

She came to one of the casements—slowly—slowly—dreamily.

“It has ceased—the loved wind, which sings his song.”

She stepped through the open window on to the terrace.

“Ah, my Arthur, where art thou?”

“Here, dearest, by thy side—at thy feet.”

“Thou! is’t thou?” And she put her arms about him. “Thou dost not deceive me?”

“I deceive thee! never, Elvira.”

“I tremble; why? Is misfortune near?”

“No—no; be joyful. Love smiles beneficently upon us.”

“How—how long is it since I saw thee?”

“Three weary months.”

“No, no; three centuries of sighs and agony. And have I not called to thee—Arthur—Arthur—return!”

“But she was in danger, and I saved her.”

“And—and thou lovdst her?”

“I?—her?”

“Is she not thy wife?”

“Nay—”

“Nay, but is she?”

“I love her whom I have ever loved—whom I shall love till death is with me—and ’tis thee.”

“Ah! then he did not love her. Then I will love him better than ever—better than ever. Yet tell me, if thou didst not love her, why didst thou follow her?”

“Her life was in danger.”

“Whose life, love? Whose?”

“The queen’s; she was the queen.”

“The queen!”

“A moment more, and she would have been doomed to the scaffold.”

“Then—then thou dost love me?”

“Art thou not in my arms? Doth not my heart tell thee how I love thee? I would rather die than part from thee. Each waking moment since we parted I have thought of Elvira, and dreamt of her each minute that I slept; and when I was on the sea, I said my love was as boundless as the waves.”

“I am dying with joy—dying; and yet—yet I am afraid; I am quite afraid. Put your hand upon my heart. Now, doth it beat?”

As she laid his hand upon her breast, there was heard the sound of a drum-roll. Immediately it destroyed the partial sense with which she had been blessed while speaking to her lover.

“Hark!” she said, hurriedly and terribly, “I know the sound, but now I fear it no longer. Yes, I tore her veil from off her head, and trampled on it. I did—I did. And—and thou wilt not leave me?”

“Great powers?” he cried, looking into her dreamy eyes; and in a great whirl of fear, he fell back from her.

There came floating on the air the exchange of the watchword, “England and Cromwell.”

“Come,” he said, moving towards the house: “let us go in.”

Then she was seized with a violent paroxysm. Calling out that he wished to leave her—to go back to her for whom she had been deserted. She poured forth shriek upon shriek till the air was all astir.

Alarmed at the sudden discovery he had made, he tried to fly from her, but she clung to him—still shrieking that he would leave her, and that he was going to the woman with whom he had fled.

“Be silent.”

“He would fly me—”

“Oh—be silent.”

“Help—help—for pity’s sake!”

“Ah!”

Then came the alarmed puritans, running in from all sides. From the house—from the garden—over the walls they streamed—nearer and nearer, till they surrounded the lover and his mad bride.

While he, all his fear merged in overwhelming sorrow, stood gazing at her who was then his ruin; for had she not called his dread enemies about him?

Amongst the rest came Captain Richard Forth. And as he saw his enemy in his power—his enemy wearing his sword, and come secretly in the night-time from the puritan camp—he saw he was unworthy to live, and he cried, “The ungodly shall perish from off the face of the earth. Thou hast crept to death, Arthur Talbot; thou hast crept here to death!”

The dreadful word made a dreadful impression on the lady. She trembled violently, pressed her hands about her head, and uttered the word over and over again. Was this the great terror that might save her? The learned doctor had said a sudden joy or terror might restore her.

“Arthur,” she cried at last, in a tone far different from that in which she had spoken to him but a minute since, and fell upon his breast. She was saved! So he had returned to restore her to reason, and she—she had destroyed him.

Even in the one word, “Arthur,” she betrayed him.

“Arthur Talbot,” they cried aloud; and each man drew his breath hard, and grasped his sword.

“Let the unrighteous perish; let no hand be stretched forth to save him.”

Said the captain, “Thou art brave enough not to fear death, Arthur Talbot. Be prepared—thou art of the camp of the lost—thou shalt surely die.”

“He die? and have I caused his death? I who love him better than I love my life?”

The stern puritan, as he watched the effect of his hasty speech upon the poor lady’s countenance, was sorry he had spoken.

Said the puritans among themselves—“Behold a judgment. Is he not delivered into our hands? Then he must surely die!”

“Fear not,” said the lost man to his destroyer—she whom he loved so well. “Fear not, death is easy to the brave, and I am brave, or thou wouldst have never loved me.”

The captain and the colonel looked hesitatingly one at the other, and then at the cavalier. The puritans murmured and cried aloud.

“What! shall not the sword fall when the Lord hath bidden it to destroy?”

“I have killed him, I have killed him,” she exclaimed, now miserably sane.

“Fear not, my own Elvira.”

Again the puritans cried out—

“Wherefore shall we not destroy the enemy?”

Suddenly a trumpet sounded.

A moment, and the face of the colonel was full of joy, and yet wet with new-born tears. The message was a pardon signed by Cromwell, for all cavaliers who should lay down arms before the action.

Said Lord Arthur Talbot. “I have never borne arms against the nation. I have belonged to no camp. I have arrived in England but this evening, and came hither from the vessel.”

The puritans forgot themselves, for they gave a shout of joy.

And even the bitter Captain Richard Forth was heartily glad to find that Arthur Talbot’s blood had not been shed.

So the young bridegroom did not die, and the bride did not therefore destroy him, and his marriage at last took place, sanctified by the glorious truth that he, the bridegroom, had saved a human life. Not only the life of a queen, but the life of a loving mother.