“Old soldiers likewise honour the youthful royalist,”—interrupted Colonel Seaton, who had joined them—“and perhaps high honours await him on the morrow.” These words were not heard by young Tyldesley, who was gallantly paying his compliments to the lady. Her eye never wandered from the ground, even to gaze upon the handsome cavalier, until they had entered the great hall, and she was led by him to a seat in the recess, with the casement opening upon the woody precipices of the tower. She then stole a glance at him, as he gazed upon the scene without. He seemed agitated with some remembrance newly awakened. Anne’s eyes were still upon him, until, at length, he broke from his reverie.
“Excuse my rudeness, fair lady:—the times prevent us from giving the attention we are proud to show. In the midst of courtesy, aye, and of tenderer duties, the trumpet calls us away, or some painful remembrance comes, like a cloud, over our joy. Three years ago I was cloistered within the walls of Oxford, striving successfully for literary honours. My sister,—fair and beautiful as the lady-love of a poet’s dream; and pure as an angel—for she transformed earth into a holy spot, and then fondly clung to every flower which grew there, of hope and love—came from home to visit me. It was towards sunset, in summer, when she entered my apartment. She rushed not forth to meet me, as was her wont. She was pale, and her golden ringlets were disordered;—but her countenance was intensely thoughtful, and she assumed all the affection of an elder sister, kissed my brow, and asked God to bless her brother Henry. Cold were her lips, as I fondly pressed them. I put her hand within my bosom, and encircled her slight frame with my arm. I begged her to tell me her distress. I had not a friend to inquire respecting; we were two orphans; and, therefore, I knew that the causes of her anguish were bound up in herself. ‘Oh! Eleanor,’ I said, ‘how different is this meeting from our last; in this very room, when you bounded in, all fondly and playfully, and gave me a kiss for every medal of honour I had won.—See,’ and I showed her many which I had won since—‘will you refuse me a sister’s reward?’ She bent forward—her arms were twined around my neck, when her head sunk on her bosom. ‘Oh! tell me!’ I exclaimed with an earnestness almost frantic, ‘why are you thus disturbed?’ She slowly raised her face, with a strange expression, and asked, ‘Does a nerve of my frame tremble, brother? do mine eyes drop one little tear? why, then, should ye suppose me distressed?’ Here a bell tolled suddenly—it was no requiem for the dead—but for a noble youth who was shortly to be so.
“She started up, and exclaimed, ‘it is time!—brother, ask me not a question, but silently accompany me.’
“‘Where?’ I inquired.
“‘To the place of execution!’
“The truth now flashed upon me. She took my arm and we left the room. It was a beautiful night, so like the present. I lamented the fate of him who must bid adieu to earth, when it was so lovely, and on a scaffold! and I longed to know the tie which bound my sister to him, but I dared not question her. We had already left the suburbs of Oxford, and the dense crowd was in sight at a short distance. She broke the silence, ‘Henry, do not hold me, when I quit your arm; do not, for my mother’s sake. That vow is sacred to us both!’ We had now reached the place of death. The sun gleamed upon the block. I thanked God that he was to be beheaded as a gentleman, and not hanged as a dog. He came upon the scaffold with a proud step, and a haughty mien. His head was uncovered, and dark were the beautiful locks, which hung over his neck;—but that head, which might have lain on my sister’s bosom, was to be as a piece of wood for the axe of the executioner! My sister never trembled, but gazed upon him. He started as he looked upon the block! He approached,—the executioner was about to unbuckle the sword of the condemned cavalier, when, with a proud glance, he forbade him. He knelt:—his lips moved in prayer. His eyes fell upon the marks of military honour on his breast. ‘Sir William,’ he said, ‘thou art no more.’
“At his name, my sister gave one scream of madness; he started up at the sound, and his eyes were upon Eleanor. ‘My Eleanor!’ he exclaimed: she rushed to the scaffold; but in a moment he was bound down to the block, and the axe fell, but not before a loud shout came from his lips, ‘God save King Charles!’ and there was my sister kneeling over him, and then attempting to snatch the head from the executioner, in her frenzy. I sprung forward—I heard a fall—Eleanor was dead upon the headless trunk! I rushed home with the lifeless body in my arms, and there pronounced a vow of revenge upon the rebels, by whom I had lost a sister.
“My books were disregarded, and I joined my brave uncle. But—this night is the exact type of that awful night! and I—have no sister!”
He buried his face in his hands. In sympathy, tears were flowing down the cheeks of Anne. He raised his eyes, and blessed her for one tear shed over the memory of Eleanor. He even ventured to take her hand—and it was not withdrawn—“Excuse me,” he said, “I cannot leave the subject soon, as I cannot leave her grave when I visit it, until the dews are falling upon my prostrate form. It is sacred. You remind me of her. And will the fair Anne Houghton refuse to be unto me what my Eleanor was?”
At this moment the warriors entered the hall, and a council was held, as to their future movements, when Sir Richard bade his daughter give orders to the domestics for the feast. In an hour the entertainment was ready, and the hall lighted. Sir Thomas Tyldesley sat at the table in full armour, and at every movement which he made, the clang of his armour was heard, amidst the sober mirth of the feast. Colonel Seaton inadvertently remarked “The Lord’s people of old were commanded to eat the passover with their staves in their hands, ready to depart; and his people, now, must eat with their swords in their hands.”