“Put this ring upon your hand,And let no more be said,Or the next report may be,You’re shot clean through the head.”
“Put this ring upon your hand,And let no more be said,Or the next report may be,You’re shot clean through the head.”
“Put this ring upon your hand,And let no more be said,Or the next report may be,You’re shot clean through the head.”
Don Basilio saw the force of the argument, and accepted the ring.
Then there was the scratching of pens, and the signing of names, and in less time than it takes to record the fact, Rosina was a wife!
And at this moment arrived Doctor Bartolo, with aposse of people—the Alcade, and one, two, three—a whole regiment of alguazils.
“Arrest them, arrest them all.”
“What me. Figaro—arrest me!”
“I say arrest them all, they all are thieves.”
It is reported that the alcade marched up to the count with great dignity, but when he saw who it was—a real living count—he fell back without any show of dignity whatever.
And to a certain question that the doctor put to Figaro, this was all the reply:—“Chink, chink.” The question—simply how it was that Figaro could turn against him and betray him: “Chink, chink.” An argument without reply.
The doctor was not a bad doctor—and as he could do himself no good by being angry—and as the bridegroom was a count—why he forgave them.
And as this chronicle is all about the loves of two people who are now happily married, and about a guardian who is a guardian no longer, why, obviously, this chronicle is ended.
This tells of a hunch-back only, who wears two masks,The one is mocking jest—the second godlike love,And if he wears them both too mixedly—chide not—But dole him and his woes some pity.Now fall to.
This tells of a hunch-back only, who wears two masks,The one is mocking jest—the second godlike love,And if he wears them both too mixedly—chide not—But dole him and his woes some pity.Now fall to.
This tells of a hunch-back only, who wears two masks,The one is mocking jest—the second godlike love,And if he wears them both too mixedly—chide not—But dole him and his woes some pity.Now fall to.
Inthe sixteenth century, kings and dukes still kept their fools. The Duke of Mantua had his—a poor hunch-back, whom they called Rigoletto. He was as witty as any fool in France or Italy; and he was an honest man in this—that he despised the courtiers, who bowed low before the tyranny of the duke, who broke up their families as a child would toys, and quite as fearlessly. And if, as the tale goes on, you find he had some human love in him, remember he is a hunch-back, and give him double praise.
The duke, whose whole life was a panorama of gallantry, despised his conquests; and, being handsome, believed no woman could withstand him. He was as heartless as he was handsome, and he had no affection for a living soul, unless, indeed, for Rigoletto, whom he loved for his power of satirizing the courtiers, who loved Rigoletto accordingly.
This fool, Rigoletto, was superstitious; moreover, he had a secret, which it was the hope of his life to keep from that terrible court; for a fool, a jester, a hunch-back, may have loves and secrets like other men.
The duke had discovered a beautiful girl, whom he followed daily as she went to prayers. For weeks he followed her each day, and yet all he learned was that she lived in a mean house in a mean street, and that every day the same unknown man visited her.
He still knew no more; when, on a certain night, he gave a grand ball at his palace. A happy, happy ball, where each man trembled as the giver of the feast turned eyes upon his wife or daughter! A happy, happy, fête! He was paying the Countess Ceprano great attention, when Rigoletto entered the hall, and saw the husband of the lady jealously watching them.
“What troubles you count?” said the fool, smiling maliciously.
Rigoletto turned away gibing at the courtiers, crossed the hall, and was gone.
Hardly had he left, than the Lord Marcello stepped quickly up to a group, declaring he had great news to tell them. They crowded about him, wondering what he had to say. ’Twas of Rigoletto. “What, had he lost his hump?” cried one. “Hadhebecome straight?” cried another.
“No, no,” replied the lord. “Rigoletto, Rigoletto has a mistress!”
They all laughed merrily, perhaps a little cruelly, for men and women love to return blow for blow. “What a change, from a hunch-back to a cupid.” They were yet laughing, when the fool passed near them with the duke, who was still thinking of the Ceprano’s wife.
“Steal her away!” said the fool.
“Easily conceived, but not easily performed,” replied the duke.
“This very evening. Have you no prisons, great duke? Can you not banish him? Or take his head?”
“What, Ceprano’s head?” asked the duke aloud, and turning to that noble.
“Yes—what is it good for?”
The count drew his sword as the duke smiled, and the fool affected to be overcome with fear.
“Ah! ah! he is very amusing to-night.” But the fool did not see how menacingly the courtiers drew together, and frowned at him.
The duke lightly warned the fool that he might jest too deeply, and that the count’s sword might end his jokes.
“Bah! who shall be brave enough to touch the duke’s favorite?”
And he imitated the duke, and turned away from the group of nobles, not noticing their angry looks and gestures.
At this moment an aged lord appeared at the door, and violently thrust himself into the hall, though the servants tried all they could to hold him back. His hair was white, his limbs trembling—his was another family the duke had dishonored.
The guests started with surprise.
“Iwillsee the duke, and even here blazon forth his crimes.”
“Iwillsee the duke—and even here blazon forth his crimes,” exclaimed the fool, mockingly, and, as well as he could, imitating the grand posture of the aged noble.
“Poor wretch!”—— Then, turning to the duke, the lord again exclaimed that he spoke in the name of his dishonored family, and called for justice.
“Justice—justice!” continued the fool.
“Let him be arrested,” said the duke, as he frowned upon this new comer.
“He is mad,” said the fool, solemnly.
“He is mad,” repeated the courtiers.
“Be both accursed,” cried the old lord to the fool.
The soldiers seized him—“thou and thy shameful master—who can laugh at a father’s grief—be both accursed.”
The fool, as the curse was uttered, drew on one side, put his hands together affrightedly, and said to himself, his superstition all dominant, “He cursed me—he cursed me.”
Meanwhile, the cowardly courtiers merely looked after the doomed lord as he was led away.
* * * * *
That same night, when the weary dancing was over, and the duke no more required his fool, Rigoletto stole out, and went quickly to an obscure part of the city, to a high thick wall, in which was a small retiring door.
He had almost reached it, his head drooping at the thought of the terrible curse, when a ruffianly man jostled him. “Who are you? Go; I need you not.”
“Signor, I am a man who has a dagger at your service, ready at a word!”
“You are a thief.”
“No; but a man who for money will rid you of your rival. You have a rival.”
“Who is he?”
“Is not your mistress near at hand?”
The fool trembled violently for a little; but recovering, he hurriedly asked how much the fellow would charge to kill a man? How he would be sure to slay him?
The brigand said he struck his victims in the street, or in his own house.
His own house? How was that?
Said the brigand—his sister danced in the streets, she decoyed the man who was to fall, and, by his faith, the matter was at an end. And how did he kill? By his faith, noiselessly, with the sword which he then carried.
The fool hurriedly asked where he could meet him again, if he might want him—was told here, at that very spot, on any night. Rigoletto gave some money, and the ruffian slouched away.
Instead of opening the door, the fool stood looking after the brigand, and thinking what difference was there much between them? If the brigand wounded with his steel, he, the fool, thrust and wounded with his tongue. Then again he thought of the terrible curse, and turned towards a gloomy house at hand—the house of the very man who had but now cursed him. Then he thought that if he were bad, ’twas not his will, but the wills of nature and of men. To be deformed, to be a fool, to be condemned to laugh against his will, never to be pitied, never to gain tears! Then he frowned as he thought of the cowardly and hateful courtiers, and then again he was thinking of the awful curse—for surely a curse by one condemned to death might live—might live! He trembled as he asked himself why this thought so clung to him? Then warily he opened the door and crept in—into a courtyard, a jealous courtyard, which hid what it held from the common gaze by great high walls.
To him ran a beautiful girl, who kissed and embraced him. A mistress? No! no! His daughter—his daughter,whom he so loved, who made him human, who made him fear the curse! The mother of that girl had married him for pity’s sake, and the poor fool’s daughter knew not what her father was. She often wondered; and now, on this very night; she no sooner saw him than she began asking him gaily to tell her the long promised secret. She prayed him to tell her who had been her mother, what he himself, her father, was.
He confusedly parried her questions, and told her hurriedly that she must never leave the house—never except to prayers. She answered that for now three months he had ever spoken so; should she never, never see the city? Again he only warned her never to leave the house, and trembled as he thought that if he lost her they would only laugh at a poor fool’s loss.
Giovanna was his daughter’s companion and servant through the weary days, and as she now came from the house into the courtyard he ran to her, and nervously bade her guard his Gilda—his only child. Truth to tell, the memory of the curse sat heavily on him, and he trembled greatly.
Suddenly he thought he heard a noise at the gate; in the dark, thick night he rashly opened it, and ran two or three steps forward. Before he could return, a figure had glided into his stronghold and reached the shelter of a tree. Is there nothing that will warn him of the thief—the thief that came in that night to steal away his treasure? Is there nothing to prompt him to stay at home that night—near her to guard her? He has come to the house but for a few blest moments in which to see her; he hastens to creep back to the palace to play the fool again. This is one of the desolate nights when he may not creep to her door, and watch like a faithful dog till morning. He must return to the weary palace prison. “Good night, dear Gilda,” he says. The girl pouts, but the father kisses her frowns away, and says again, “Good night, dear daughter,” and unwisely turns away, and pulls to the creaking door.
“His daughter,” thought the thief, who had stolen through the doorway. “His daughter,” thought the duke, for it is he—“The fool, then has a daughter.”
So, while the father crept back to court, the duke was trying to gain the love of his innocent daughter, whispering that he was a poor student who thought only of her—“Gilda.”
At last the noble liar stole away again, and then, Gilda, thinking more of the supposed student than of her father, turned from the gate to which she had walked with the duke, and moved towards the house. She had to ascend a score of steps to reach a terrace, past which was the house, and as she arrived on the highest of those steps, she was seen from the dark street by several men, who said amongst each other, “See, that is she. How beautiful she is. That is Rigoletto’s mistress!”
At this moment the poor fool returned to his gate. “Why do I return? Alas! the curse, the curse!”
As he stood, the men in the street came near to Rigoletto, and so drew his attention to them. They knew him in a moment—the hunch showed plain. They were lords of the court; and amongst them was Ceprano, the count, who had drawn his sword upon the jester, and who now again drew it. “Softly,” whispered one to him; “if he is killed where will be our laughter to-morrow!” Then the speaker turned and told Rigoletto—who started as he spoke—they were there to steal from Ceprano his countess—that the fool must help them. They had the keys of the house, they said. See, the speaker handed to the trembling fool the keys.
The curse—he still thought of the curse as he took the keys. What if they had come to steal his treasure? For a moment he held these keys listlessly; then suddenly he swept a trembling fore-finger over the loop of one of them—and as he did so he half knelt and nearly wept aloud—for on the friendly steel he felt the count’s heraldic crest. So they were not deceiving him—they had come not to the house where lived his Gilda—but to the other—the other. Then, full of thanks, he had to laugh and make a sorry jest—because of their adventure.
“Come,” said the same speaker, “aid us,” and he placed on the fool’s face a mask, and bound it about his head with a handkerchief—and the next moment the poor creature was holding the ladder by which they climbed to steal his daughter.
Standing there, he heard the crash of wood as they forced a window. (“Why, if they had the keys,” he thought, “did they want a ladder? why break into the house?”) Then for a few moments there was silence. Then a door opened, feet trampled near him, he heard even a smothered cry. Still he remained holding the ladder, still he saw nothing, for a handkerchief, unknown to himself, was hanging over his eyes. Then the steps sounded more distant, and at last were lost altogether.
He waited a little, and was then startled as his wandering hand found the handkerchief hanging loosely over his eyes. He flung it from him, and oh! by the faint light, he saw, the whole terrible truth. The open garden gate,—a scarf that had fallen from her shoulders as she was carried away—the desolate home!
He ran in—round the garden like a chased rat—up the steps, till he reached the house—into it—tore at the serving-woman—dragged her forth silently and without a word—then at last, finding his voice, he cried, “The curse—the curse,” and fell upon the ground, mercifully insensible.
Oh! the weary, weary hours till daylight; till he could search through the city for his daughter. The age of fear, with but a faint poor hope to bear him through it. See the poor fool who has mocked the aged lord—see him wandering up and down the house; then out into the streets; and then back again into the house, afraid to leave it! The house—how changed! And when he sees anything dearly associated with her, he touches it, kisses it—as though she were dead, and for her sake he loved it! Wearily, wearily dragging on life, till the crowd of courtiers met to receive the duke, on his rising for the day. Then the fool’s gay dress was donned again, covering his breaking heart, and the cap and bells mocking his deep, loving sighs.
“Good morning, Rigoletto—what news?”
“News? you are nearer hell to-day than yesterday, by a score of hours. (Oh! my child! where art thou, oh! my child!)”
“See,” they whispered to each other, “see how his eyes search for her. Mark how hardly he draws his breath!”
Then turning to them, he went on lightly, “You look well, gentlemen. Last night’s cold air, then, did you no harm?”
“Last night,” said one, “I slept well through the night.”
For an instant he thought perhaps it was all a dream; but the next moment he saw a mask and a handkerchief lying on a table. “See,” they said to one another, as he walked negligently to the table, “see how he marks all things!”
Then he saw the handkerchief was not hers, and still wondering if she were in the palace, he asked jauntily, “Is the duke still asleep?”
As he spoke, a page entered, and said the duchess desired to see the duke.
Said a courtier, “He is asleep.”
“But,” said the page, “he was awake not a minute since.”
“Canst thou not understand? He would not now be questioned.”
The fool heard this conversation, and guessed its meaning. “Ah! then she is here!”
“She—who?”
“The poor girl you stole from under my roof.”
“You are mad. If you have lost your mistress, ’tis not within these walls you will find her.”
For a moment he stood before them, jauntily and smiling as ever; then the revengeful lords might have surely been satisfied, for the mocked fool was at their feet.
“This is a new jest for thee, Rigoletto.”
All the small silver bells upon his head-dress rang as he clasped his hands together. “She is my daughter, she is my daughter. If, if I have offended you, you are great lords, and will not be revenged on a poor fool.”
Then he started to his feet as several courtiers lookedmeaningly towards a door, and ran towards it. But they pressed upon him, and drove him back. He battled with them hard, he threatened, yelled, overthrew them. All to no purpose; he was still far, far from the door. Then he wept, and in his wretchedness flattered them, and said he knew they had feeling hearts, and again asked them where was his daughter. And then again he fell upon his knees before them, before them who had so often flinched from him, and lowered his head humbly.
He was still kneeling when the door opened, and through it came his daughter—white, trembling, frightened.
She saw and ran to him, as he sprang from the ground.
“My daughter, my daughter! See you, my lords, she is my child, my only child! Oh, be not afraid, daughter, these are all noble lords; it was only in jest, only in jest. Why even I wept, but you see I am laughing now! But why dost thou weep, why dost thou weep?”
She made no answer, only hid her face lower and lower.
Then he flung himself down in a chair, half in mad jest, half in real madness, and in a pompous voice, cried out, “Begone, ye people, and bid the duke not approach while I remain here.”
They began to laugh, for the vengeance was complete; there was no more need to bar the door. Saying, fools and children must be humored, these great lords departed.
Then she confessed to him how each day going to church she saw a handsome stranger; how this stranger had come only the night before and told her he was poor and loved her. Then the men who had just left them tore her from her home; and the rest of her history was miserable silence.
A moment he held her from him; then he laid her head upon his breast and caressed her, and absolved himself of his sins by bitter, bitter tears. So then, heaven did not hear his prayer, that the curse should fall on him alone; it had, indeed, fallen on her. He stooped down, and kissed her as she lay in his arms; then he bade her look up, and told her that they would leave that place for ever.
Still she was weeping, and hiding her eyes from him, her father, when the door opened, and there stood the aged count, who on the day before had cursed him. He was surrounded by soldiers—had been condemned, and was now being led off to prison.
He did not see the fool; but as he came near to the fool he muttered, “So my curse was vain; this duke still lives. Is there no hand to be found to slay him?”
“Here, here,” whispered the fool, “here.” And though he rocked with fear he came a step forward, his daughter still in his encircling arms.
The next moment the one father had passed from the room, while the other again bent his head, wept over, and kissed his lost, and yet found, daughter.
Astormyangry night; the wind weeping and whistling high up in the sky, and a thick stifling vapor crawling over the earth—over the whispering muddy river; winding in and out the gay palace like a poisonous serpent. Near to this sickening river was a cracked ruined house through the crevices in the walls of which might be observed a flickering light.
No house was near this wretched hut, which was called an inn. Within this place lived the ruffian who had accosted Rigoletto on the night when his daughter was stolen away. He was cleaning a leathern belt and singing softly at his work.
Who are these wayfarers, toiling along the dark road to the ruined inn? They are the fool and his daughter.
She still loved the duke; and the fool, hoping to kill the awful passion, had brought her to this lonely spot. He told her to creep softly to the house, and look in through the broken door. As she did so, the duke himself, now in a new disguise, came quickly along, and up to the door. She shrank back from him, and he passed into the inn, ordering a room and wine.
Then as she and her father stood shivering near thedoor, he began singing in dispraise of woman. They saw the brigand lay upon the table some bottles and glasses. That done, he struck the low ceiling several times, and immediately a girl came running into the room—a gipsey girl who danced about the streets. The duke ran to her as she avoided him, and the brigand came cautiously out upon the road.
“Shall he live, Signor Rigoletto?” whispered the ruffian.
“Wait—wait,” replied the father. And both men spoke so softly, that Gilda did not hear. She did not care to hear, as she looked once more on him whom she had so dearly loved when she thought him a poor student.
“Good,” said the bandit, and went out slowly into the darkness.
Then as the two stood there miserably, the duke began laughing and chatting with the gipsey girl. Soon Gilda was weeping, as was also her father. Yet still within the hut continued the laughter and the singing.
“Thou art sure now, he loves thee not—thou art sure now. Hear me: we will leave this country at once. Go thou home, dress thyself in the clothing of a nobleman, my child, and fly to Verona. Thou knowest where to go when thou art there. I will come to thee to-morrow.”
“Now—come with me now.”
“Now? No, not now.” He spoke with terrible hesitation.
The girl kissed her father and went towards their house. Through the gloom he watched her and saw her pass the garden gate. Then he searched about for the bravo. The assassin was lounging at the corner of the house, and at a motion from the fool he came forward.
Eagerly Rigoletto put money into his hand, saying the rest should be his when the man was dead. Then he turned away, saying that at midnight he would return.
The bravo carelessly replied that he had no need of help, he could, alone, cast the body into the river.
“No,” said the fool, suddenly stopping; “let that be my portion of the work.”
“Good,” said the assassin, carelessly; “who is he?”
“His name is Crime and mine is Punishment.”
The bravo shrugged his shoulders, and then carelessly opened the door of the hut, and entered, while the fool turned, and with downcast head, moved slowly away, afraid to go home till the vengeance was completed.
Loud roared the storm; the lightnings lit up the hovel, and the wavering thunder rolled incessantly. Yet had the assassin no fear.
The duke said he should remain all night, and bade the new comer leave them. But the gipsey girl prayed the young duke to depart. Said the bravo, he should be glad to place his room at the stranger’s disposal, and he hid the golden money the fool had given him.
The duke attended by the bravo, ascended a ricketty flight of stairs to a room, more dilapidated, if possible, than the one below.
Saying it was like sleeping in the open air, the noble flung down his hat and sword, fell upon the bed, and was soon asleep.
The ruffian by that time was drinking the wine the duke had left. At last he said slowly—“Go up, and if he sleeps, bring away his sword.”
The gipsey girl obeyed sorrowingly, for the stranger was so handsome that she had grown to feel some pity for him.
As she stole up the stairs another girl was near at hand—the wretched Gilda; who, disguised in the clothes of a page, came creeping towards the inn.
Nearer and nearer till she was close to the door and pressing it. Looking through the crevice, she saw the girl coming down with the sword glittering in her hand.
“Do not kill him—do not kill him,” cried the gipsey girl.
“Kill him!” cried the fool’s daughter.
There, still listening, she heard the gipsey tempt him, saying, that when the fool came back he could take his money and kill him. But the bravo angrily cried that his honor was dear to him; he would not kill the fool, he would slay the stranger. Rigoletto had paid him well.
Gilda shuddered as she listened; so her father had paid the bravo to kill the duke.
Again the gipsey girl prayed for the stranger’s life.Again the assassin refused. At last he said quickly that if a traveller came past he would slay him in his place—the fool could not tell who might be in the sack.
Then the gipsey wept as she said there was no hope of a traveller passing while the storm raged so fiercely.
Why does she tremble and draw back from the crevice? What? shall this woman, this dancing gipsey, weep and pray for him? And shall she, Gilda, do nothing to save him? Who is this woman that she should weep for him? Will she—this gipsey—die for his sake? Yet she, Gilda, could. Again she looked, and saw the gipsey still kneeling and weeping. Then she would die for his sake. Thus her love and jealousy had lost her.
The next moment she had entered—the storm raging more fiercely than before.
Walking proudly and fearlessly through the night air, came the fool, sure that by this time his vengeance was complete—the vengeance for which he had waited an age of grief.
Forth from the hut came the bandit, dragging a heavy sack. There he lay, then—dead; there was the chinking of money over the still burden, and there the bravo had left the fool alone with the destroyer. “So then,” thought Rigoletto, “here was the great duke, lying dead at his, the poor fool’s feet.” Then he thought he should like to see the face of his enemy, before he cast him into the black waters.
Yet no, he would not like to see his face; so he began drawing away the sack, when—merciful powers!—he heard the voice of the duke singing gaily, as he moved away, saved, in the distance.
“But then whose body lay at his feet? Whose?”
With a might of horror, he tore open the mouth of the sack; and there, within it, lay—his daughter!
“My daughter! Heaven! my Gilda! Yet no, she is now on her way to Verona. Is this a dream? Oh, no! no dream. My daughter! oh, my daughter!”
In an agony of grief he ran to the door of the hut, and beat at it, when he heard a voice—hervoice—calling to him.
“She lives—she lives! oh! she lives!”
He was down at her side again, tearing her from the shameful sack with his trembling hands.
“My father! oh, my father!”
“’Tis thou, and they have stricken thee.”
“They have stabbed me—here—here.”
And wearily she pressed her hands about her heart, as the wretched man drew back, saying to himself, that he—he himself had killed her.
She was silent for a moment, still wearily pressing her breast.
“Speak—speak to me! oh, daughter!”
“I am almost too weak to speak, dear father. Lay thy hand upon my head, and bless me. If I may always think of thee, I will. Near my mother, I will pray for thee—near my mother.”
What is this with which he is suddenly stricken; what conviction is growing on his mind as his eyes grow yet wilder, and he grasps his throat with his trembling hand?
“My child, do not leave me. Have pity on me, tarry yet a little longer—leave me not in the world alone—oh I—and I am thy father—bid thee stay!”
She does not answer. He bends over her, as the dread conviction forces itself upon him.
“Dead! Dead! Dead!”
He wraps his hands round his head, looks wildly to the lowering sky, and cries:—
“The curse—the undying curse!”
Then he speaks no more.
Mercy for him as—his breath grows thick—mercy for him as he clasps his helpless hands together prayerfully. Mercy—mercy!
His faults are not all his own. He hath but mocked the world as it hath mocked him! Who would not hate where he is scorned? Oh—many are forgiven who have sinned more deeply.
See the clasped hands—the bloodless lips. Mercy—mercy!
So at last it hath fallen on him—the grace of forgiveness.
Immediatelysucceeding 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.
Thatsame 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 shewas 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 ishisbride. And I, whom now am I? Elvira is his bride—am notI? 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.”
Soshe 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.”
Nottwo 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, butisshe?”
“I love her whom I have ever loved—whom I shall love till death is with me—and ’tisthee.”
“Ah! then he didnotlove 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 havethought 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,dothit 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. Andas 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.