“Fy, let us a’ to the bridal,
For there’ll be lilting there;
For Jock’s to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi’ the gowden hair.”
--_Francis Sempill._
Nothing remains to close the tale save the nuptials of the hero and
heroine. Everything has been briefly (and, we trust, satisfactorily)
disposed of, so that, at the merry tinkle of the marriage bell, the
curtain may fall, and nothing more be desired.
Stephen de Ermstein, in the ardour of his love, soon overcame all the
objections which his proud-hearted father entertained to his proposed
union with the daughter of Hawksglen. So soon as the necessary
arrangements could be made, and the nuptial day fixed, Sir Dacre
invited Elliot to spend some days with him at Warkcliff. Elliot went;
and now these two, who had been enemies, buried their past feuds in
oblivion. There were feasts and revels and hunting matches during
Elliot’s visit, and Warkcliff was full of rejoicing.
At length came the day on which Stephen was to lead his beautiful
bride to the altar. It was a sunny day at the end of Spring. All was
holiday and gladness in the village of Warkcliff. Floral arches
spanned the resounding street, banners waved from the windows, and the
porch of the old church was gaily decorated. Young and old were in
their best attire, and on every face was joy.
Escorted by a numerous retinue of her friends, the bride had come to
the castle that morning. Noon was the nuptial hour. The gladsome
procession now left the castle amidst the thunder of guns from the
battlement, the shouts of the people, and the loud strains of music.
It was a gay and gaudy spectacle: the plumed horses, the foot-cloths
of velvet that swept the ground, the blaze of gold and jewels, the
floating banners, the armed men!
Never had Eleanor looked so beautiful, as now, with blushing cheeks
and downcast eyes, she was led along to the altar to wed the youth of
her heart’s choice. The stormy time of sorrow was over, and the torch
of love and hope burned purely bright.
In the brilliant sunshine the bridal party slowly approached the
sacred fane, at whose altar two fond hearts were to be united for
ever. Who could have foreseen this joyful hour when the young heir of
Warkcliff had the cold world before him--a world without a friend?
And now the happy pair entered the church, and came before the altar
and the priest. The blush of Eleanor grew deeper, and a tear of joy
trembled in her downcast eye.
“Behold, while she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest who to her speaks,
And blesseth her, with his uplifted hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks.”
The rite was soon concluded, and Eleanor was the blissful bride of
Stephen de Ermstein!
THE END.