"Now blooms the lily by the bank,The primrose on the brae;The hawthorn's budding in the glen,And milk-white is the slae;The meanest hind in fair ScotlandMay rove their sweets amang;But I, the Queen o' a' Scotland,Maun lie in prison strang."
"Now blooms the lily by the bank,The primrose on the brae;The hawthorn's budding in the glen,And milk-white is the slae;The meanest hind in fair ScotlandMay rove their sweets amang;But I, the Queen o' a' Scotland,Maun lie in prison strang."
"Now blooms the lily by the bank,The primrose on the brae;The hawthorn's budding in the glen,And milk-white is the slae;The meanest hind in fair ScotlandMay rove their sweets amang;But I, the Queen o' a' Scotland,Maun lie in prison strang."
At last we see a long hall in the old castle of Fotheringay; a platform laid with black—the actors and spectators all clothed in black. There comes in, unsupported, to die, a lady of noble presence. She has been wickedly denied the aid of her spiritual comforter, and, alone with God, has administered to herself the last sacrament of her religion, without the blessing or counsel of a minister. Even her latest moments are disturbed by theological dispute. But she is calm, and resigned to God's will. She lays her head on the block. The executioner strikes and makes a ghastly wound. She does not even stir. He strikes again, but his work is incomplete; and with a third blow the life and sorrows of Mary Stuart are brought to an end.
It is one of the great problems of history, says Mr. Caird, whether these terrible calamities were brought upon her by her own wickedness or by the contrivance of others.
We have reason to believe that the child is now living who, as man orwoman, will hear and see the last mention in history ofGood Queen Bess.
Of all the humbugs of history, the reputation manufactured for Elizabeth, the daughter of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, is at once the most insolent and the most disgusting. We do not care to give a personal opinion of this woman, and will accept, for the present, her character as mildly described by the historian Robertson, which is to the effect that she was an habitual and mean liar, a peevish, bad-tempered, vacillating, untrustworthy sovereign, whose parsimony, and variableness, and small economy would have ruined herself and her kingdom but for the fact that she had a great statesman by her, and that good luck continually picked her out of the imbroglios into which she had fallen. She was a vain, bad-tempered, irresolute, deceitful old woman. And this is as lenient a view of Elizabeth as could be taken of her with the historic lights possessed by Robertson.
But, compared with what we now know her to have been from the results of modern discoveries among official and state paper records, Robertson has here painted an angel of loveliness.
And just in proportion as Elizabeth has fallen on the historic page, Mary Stuart is elevated by every fresh discovery of original documentary evidence. She was, indeed, as Mr. Caird writes, a winning, gentle-hearted woman, and the correspondence of her own time, before men's hearts were hardened against her by passion, bears much testimony to her virtues.
Throckmorton, the English ambassador in France, even during her war with England, wrote of "her great wisdom for her years, her modesty, her judgment in the wise handling of herself and her matters." And another of the English ambassadors, who became one of her deadliest enemies, says of her only a few months before her grievous calamities were brought upon her, "There is one cheer and one countenance always on the queen." Even after she was imprisoned in Lochleven, Throckmorton wrote of her to Elizabeth, "The lords speak of the queen with respect and reverence." Lord Scrope said, "She has an eloquent tongue and a discreet head, stout courage, and a liberal heart." And Sir Francis Knollys reported of her, "She desireth much to hear of hardiness and valiancy, commending by name all approved hardy men of her country, although her enemies, and she concealeth no cowardness, even in her friends." Lethington wrote of her soon after her return to Scotland, "She doth declare a wisdom far exceeding her age."
After she was uncrowned, Murray and his council recorded of her, that "God had endowed her with many good and excellent gifts and virtues;" and he spoke of her in the same way in private.
The Earl of Shrewsbury, after having had the custody of the Queen of Scots during fifteen years of her imprisonment in England, was consulted by Elizabeth on the subject of a treaty for her liberation. She desired especially to know from him for her guidance, whether Mary's promises could be relied on if she were free. Shrewsbury's answer was, "I believe that if the Queen of Scots promises any thing, she will not break her word."
Her frequent and earnest pleadings with foreign powers for justice and mercy to her subjects cannot be read without interest and admiration. Her letters have been gathered from every corner of the earth, and every page of them marks the elegance and simplicity of her thoughts. If any man who has a prejudice against her will sit down and read that correspondence, in which she treats of all theincidents of life, he will rise from the perusal with a different notion, not of her mind only, but her heart. These are the records which we can read now, exactly as they dropped from her pen, untainted by the bitterness of party, as so little else which concerns her was permitted to be. And we can see her there as she disclosed herself to her most confidential friends, whether in the highest business of state or in the trivial affairs of daily life.
Mr. Caird's plan does not embrace a connected narrative of Mary's reign, and we regret that he has found it necessary to omit a narrative of the treacherous manner in which the destruction of the Earl of Huntly was brought about. On Mary's arrival in Scotland, every one was surprised that Mary should select for her chief state councillor her half-brother, the Lord James, instead of the Earl of Huntly. No one knew that Mary had been craftily persuaded by James that Huntly was not loyal. The plan of her brother was as wicked as it was deep. It was at once to deprive Mary of a loyal adviser and a powerful friend, and to raise his own fortunes on Huntly's ruin. It is curious to see how all this affair is ingeniously misrepresented by Mr. Froude in his so-called history. Yielding to James's solicitations, begun years before, Mary, after creating him Earl of Mar, created him Earl of Murray. But this latter title he did not wish to assert until he could obtain the lands appertaining to the title, which he had procured while living in ostensible friendship with the man he had doomed to ruin. The lands were in Huntly's possession, and Murray made up his mind to have them. "But Huntly," says Mr. Froude, "had refused to part with them." Who was Huntly? He was earl chancellor of the kingdom, a man aged fifty-two, a powerful Catholic nobleman, who could bring twenty thousand spears into the field. He had done good service for Mary's mother against the English. English gold had not stained his palm. He was a man marked for saying that he liked not the "manner of Henry VIII.'s wooing." He had wanted Mary to land at Aberdeen, was at the head of the loyal party on Mary's arrival, and had sought to warn her of her brother's craft and ambition. Mr. Froude thus describes him, (vol. vii. p. 454:)
"Of all the reactionary noblemen in Scotland the most powerful and dangerous[39]was notoriously the Earl of Huntly. It was Huntly who had proposed the landing at Aberdeen. In his own house the chief of the house of Gordon had never so much as affected to comply with the change of religion," etc.
"Of all the reactionary noblemen in Scotland the most powerful and dangerous[39]was notoriously the Earl of Huntly. It was Huntly who had proposed the landing at Aberdeen. In his own house the chief of the house of Gordon had never so much as affected to comply with the change of religion," etc.
What depravity! Would not change his religion, nor even have the decencyto affect to comply! Positively an atrocious character! Nevertheless, so perfect is the command of a philosophical historian over his feelings that these dreadful facts are recorded without comment. It is evident that the lands of such a wretch as Huntly ought to be given to one so "God-fearing" as Murray. "A number of causes combined at this moment to draw attention to Huntly." But, all counted, the number is just two—one of them utterly frivolous, and the other, "he had refused to give up the lands." Mr. Froude is now candid, and tells us that Murray "resolved to anticipate attack, (none was dreamed of,) to carry the queen with him to visit the recusant lord in his own stronghold, and either to drive him into a premature rebellion or force him to submit to the existing government."
"Murray's reasons for such a step," continues Mr. Froude, "are intelligible."Perfectly. "It is less easy," he continues, "to understand why Mary Stuart consented to it." And then Mr. Froude proceeds to wonder over it with John Knox's guesses, and his own "if," "perhaps," and "may be." Less easy indeed! It is utterly impossible, unless one consents to look at Mary Stuart as she was—a young woman easily influenced through her affections, and with a sincere sisterly attachment for the man in whom she failed to recognize her worst enemy. Difficult indeed to understand the suicidal measure of ruining the most powerful Catholic nobleman in Scotland, and strengthening the hands of the most powerful Protestant leader. "Huntly's family," says Mr. Froude, "affirmed that the trouble which happened to the Gordons was for the sincere and loyal affection which they had to the queen's preservation," (vii. 456.) And they were right. We leave Mr. Froude to speculate on the malicious motive Mary Stuart must have had for thus lopping off her right hand. Murray now manages to draw the queen and her attendants over moor and mountain two hundred and fifty miles to Tarnway, within the lands of the earldom of Murray. She was entirely guided by him, and he used her authority to compass his personal ends and weaken her throne.
Alexander Gordon at first refused to open the gates of Inverness Castle to the queen, but complied the next day, on the order of Huntly. Murray had Gordon immediately hung, and his head set on the castle wall. Mr. Froude describes this brutal murder as "strangling a wolf-cub in the heart of the den," (vol. vii. p. 457,) all that Murray does being of course lovely. Mary was now surrounded by Murray and his friends, who poisoned her mind against the Huntlys with stories that the earl meant to force her into a marriage with his son, and had other designs against her person and royal authority; and Mary believed them. "Whereupon," writes Randolph to Cecil—for Murray had brought his English friend, Elizabeth's servant, along with him—"whereupon there was good pastime." Huntly yielded all that was demanded of him. His castles and houses were seized, plundered, stripped, and he was a ruined man. Lady Huntly spoke sad truth when, leading Murray's messenger into the chapel of the house, she said to him before the altar, "Good friend, you see here the envy that is borne unto my husband; would he have forsaken God and his religion, as those that are now about the queen, my husband would never have been put as he now is," (vol. vii. p. 458.) Mr. Froude reports this incident, and very properly spoils its effect by the statement that Lady Huntly was "reported by the Protestants to be a witch." Huntly was driven to take up arms. "Swift as lightning," says Mr. Froude, with yellow-cover tinge of phrase, "Murray was on his track." And now "swift as lightning"—sure sign of mischief meant—Mr. Froude moves on with his narrative, omitting essential facts, but not omitting a characteristic piece of handiwork. News came from the south that Bothwell had escaped out of Edinburgh Castle; "not," glides in our philosophic historian—"not, it was supposed, without the queen's knowledge," (vol. vii. p. 459.) After a wonderful victory of his two thousand men over Huntly's five hundred—a mere slaughter—Murray brought the queen certain letters of the Earl of Sutherland, found, he said, in the pockets of the dead Earl of Huntly, and showing treasonable correspondence. They were forgeries; but they answered his purpose. "Lord John, (Huntly's son,) after a full confession, was beheaded in the market-place at Aberdeen,"(vol. vii. p. 459.) There was no confession but that whichMurray told the queenhe made, and Mr. Froude forgets to tell us that Murray caused young Gordon's scaffold to be erected in front of the queen's lodging, and had her placed in a chair of state at an open window, deluding her with some specious reason as to the necessity of her presence.
When the noble young man was brought out to die, Mary burst into a flood of tears; and when the headsman did his work, she swooned and was borne off insensible. Here is Mr. Froude's short version of these facts: "Her brother read her a cruel lesson by compelling her to be present at the execution." Mr. Froude also forgets to tell us that Murray had six gentlemen of the house of Gordon hung at Aberdeen on the same day. But a few pages further on, he has the insolent coolness to tell us of a prize that Mary "trusted to have purchased with Huntly's blood"! (vol. vii. p. 463.) After all, you thus perceive that it was not Murray, but Mary, who wrought all this ruin.
Mr. Caird presents with great force the result of modern discoveries in the State Paper Office touching the details of the Riccio conspiracy, and shows conclusively that Murray was its real head, and also the chief organ of communication between the conspirators and the English government. The previous knowledge of the intent to murder Riccio, and the probable danger to Mary's life, is brought home to Elizabeth. She could not have been accounted guiltless, even if she had remained passive, merely concealing from her royal sister the bloody tragedy which was being prepared for her with the knowledge of her agent in Scotland. This agent (Randolph) she supported vehemently, protected the assassins, negotiated and trafficked until she got them restored, supplied Murray with large sums of money immediately before and immediately after Riccio's death, and took the first opportunity to gratify her vindictiveness against Darnley by open insult.
In the conspiracy for the murder of Riccio, no one was more deeply implicated than Darnley. He had allowed himself to be flattered and tempted by Murray, Maitland, and the rest with the prospect of a royal crown. But while these crafty men used him in this way for their own ends, they had not the slightest idea of allowing him to be more than a puppet in their hands. The knowledge of Darnley's complicity in the murder had wrung Mary's heart; but after the first burst of grief, she saw clearly that he was the dupe and tool of others. Her respect for him could not be otherwise than shaken; but her affection preserved him from the punishment which he richly merited. And for his sake she spared his father (Lenox) also, whom she justly blamed most; but she never permittedhimto enter her presence again. Considering that she had released him from the consequences of treason only twelve months before, and that he had now repeated the offence under such aggravated circumstances, and had beguiled his son into the same evil course, bringing misery upon her household, her forbearance can be attributed only to surviving tenderness for her husband.
Mr. Caird places in a very clear light the development of the contempt and hatred of the conspirators for Darnley, which gradually hardened and intensified into the conspiracy to murder him; and as we watch its growth, it is sad to witness the suffering, sacrifices, and self-denial of a noble-hearted woman all wasted invain, and upon a most unworthy object. And yet more sad is it when we see, in such falsifiers of history as Mr. Froude, the very clearest and highest proofs of womanly goodness and wifely devotion wrenched and perverted into evidence of crime and murder.
In connection with this subject, Mr. Caird draws attention to the record of the Scotch Privy Council—an account the more valuable because the very men composing the council attempted at a later period to cast discredit on the queen. Here is their testimony: "So far as things could come to their knowledge, the king (Darnley) had no ground of complaints; but, on the contrary, that he had reason to look upon himself as one of the most fortunate princes in Christendom, could he but know his own happiness." And they added, "That although they who did perpetrate the murder of her faithful servant had entered her chamber with his knowledge, having followed him close at the back, and had named him the chief of their enterprise, yet would she never accuse him thereof, but did always excuse him, and willed to appear as if she believed it not; and so far was she from ministering to him occasion of discontent, that, on the contrary, he had all the reason in the world to thank God for giving him so wise and virtuous a person as she had showed herself in all her actions."
There are few points in the history of this period on which writers are so thoroughly agreed as the utter worthlessness and incapacity of Darnley, and there are also few cases which so completely as that of Darnley exemplify the too common weakness of the superior woman for the inferior man who possesses her affection. Trafficking on her affection, and seeking to wring from her a consent to his demands, he came very tardily to what was by all supposed to be her dying-bed at Jedburg. His bearing shocked all beholders. It was at this time Mary made her will, the inventory attached to which is a modern discovery. She left Darnley twenty-five jewels of great value, and opposite one cherished ring wrote with her own hand, "It is the ring with which I was betrothed. I leave it to the king who gave it to me." And yet Mr. James Anthony Froude informs us that Mary was then planning this husband's murder!
The most admirable chapters of Mr. Caird's work are those which treat of
The author shows conclusively, from an array of original testimony which cannot be disputed, the precise nature, extent, and composition of the conspiracy to effect this assassination, and presents the whole question in an entirely new light.
As revealed by Mr. Caird, the conspiracy, by the time the moment was reached for execution, had trebled itself. That is to say, there were in the field on the eventful night of the murder, three separate and independent bands of assassins, one of which most certainly acted independently of the other two. Bothwell and his party, thrust forward to do the work by associates quite as guilty as he, but possessed of more brains, were, materially, innocent of Darnley's killing, although fully guilty in intent. They blew up the house at Kirk o' Field, supposing that Darnley went with it. There can now be but little doubt that when the explosion took place Darnley was already a dead man, smothered orburkedby a special band.
For some hours after the explosion,no trace of Darnley's body could be found; but as morning dawned, it was discovered in a garden eighty yards from the house. The attendant who slept in the room with him was lying dead at a short distance further away. Each had on a night-shirt. There was not a fracture, contusion, or livid mark, nor any trace of fire on their bodies, and the king's clothes were lying folded beside him. A fur pelisse, open as if dropped, was lying near him. Now, if we are to suppose that Darnley was blown up in the air, we must believe it possible that a human body could be thrown a distance of eighty yards without any marks of violence; that another body was thrown the same distance with the same results; and—stranger than all—that Darnley's fur pelisse and slippers were also blown uninjured to his side by the explosion, while five other inmates of the house were buried in the ruins.
One fact of equal importance and interest is well established by modern investigation. It is the guilty knowledge, and actual or implied association of Queen Elizabeth of England in all the secret plots set on foot by the nobility of Scotland against Mary and her interests.
She was fully advised of the murder of Riccio three weeks before it took place, and Mr. Caird establishes, we think, conclusively, that she was quite as well advised concerning the Darnley murder.
Fourteen years after the occurrence, one of the first acts of King James, on his freedom from tutelage, was to commit the Earl of Morton to the Castle of Edinburgh, charged with the murder of Darnley.
Morton was one of the very few surviving conspirators. Bothwell was dead in exile; Maitland had poisoned himself, and Murray had been shot down in the streets of Linlithgow.
As soon as Queen Elizabeth heard of Morton's arrest, she made the most frantic efforts to prevent his trial. She endeavored to stir up insurrection in Scotland; she threatened war; she moved an army to the frontier; she sent back to Scotland as her ambassador, Randolph, so thoroughly familiar with all its murderous plots. Leicester, her lover, wrote to Randolph with a suggestion scantily veiled that the young king might follow his father—"He will not long tarry in that soil. Let the fate of his predecessor be his warning." And close on the heels of that, came official notice that Elizabeth would assist and maintain the Scots in protection of Morton. But James owed a debt to the memory of his murdered father, to the name of his captive mother, who was then pining in her English prison, and, in spite of Elizabeth's threats and violence, Morton was brought to trial, found guilty, and sentenced to death. Mr. Caird cites and refers to a mass of dispatches connected with Elizabeth's movements in this Morton matter which we have never seen elsewhere alluded to, and adds Queen Elizabeth's violence before Morton's trial and execution was not more remarkable than her sudden attitude of acquiescence as soon as his mouth was shut. "Did he hold some terrible secret whose disclosure she feared?"
The murder of Darnley occurred on the 10th of February, 1567. A full fortnight before, Mary's ambassador in Paris wrote to her that he had received a hint from the Spanish ambassador that the queen should take heed to herself, for there was a plot on foot to her injury. The letter reached Mary twelve hours too late to be of any service as a warning. But even if she had received it, towhom could she have turned for aid or information? All the lords were in the plot, and she was surrounded by conspirators. The question is asked, Why did she not bring to justice the murderers of Darnley? Her situation was such that it was simply impossible for her to get at the knowledge of any fact dangerous to the conspirators. Denunciatory placards were issued in Edinburgh. But if shown, she would there find herself charged with being an accomplice with Bothwell and others in the murder. Knowing this to be an outrageous slander on herself, she would naturally conclude that it was equally so on them. And if herself innocent, Bothwell was the very last of her lords whom she could suspect of having cause of quarrel with the king. He was almost the only man who had supported Darnley, and it is certain he was not of those to whom Darnley had demonstrated antipathy. The wild scheme of ambition which Bothwell afterward pursued had probably not clearly developed itself even in his own mind till after Darnley's death. Dreams he may have had. But the scheme which he finally executed seems to have been the growth of opportunity.
After the murder, Mary shut herself up in a dark chamber, and kept it until her physicians compelled her to go to Seaton. A month after the murder, when Killigrew, the English ambassador, saw her, she was still in a dark chamber, and seemed in profound grief. Two such tragedies as had befallen her within a twelve-month were more than enough to shatter the nerves of any woman.
And now came a fresh warning from Paris that some new plot was in progress. The Spanish ambassador, by whom the warning of the Darnley murder had been given, said,
"Apprise her majesty that I am informed, by the same means as I was before, that there is still some notable enterprise in hand against her, whereof I wish her to beware in time."
"Apprise her majesty that I am informed, by the same means as I was before, that there is still some notable enterprise in hand against her, whereof I wish her to beware in time."
No explanation was given, and the poor queen was of course bewildered. She had heart and nerve enough for her own risk; but she at once took precautions for the safety of her child, the heir to the crown. She at once placed him in charge of the Earl of Mar, and lodged him in the strong castle of Stirling. And this fact is more than answer to the assertion that Mary was at this time under the influence of Bothwell. If any such influence had existed, he would not have permitted the disposition that was made of the child. His first effort on coming to power was to get the young prince into his hands. The Earl of Mar justified Mary's confidence, and withstood the efforts not only of Bothwell, but of Murray, to get possession of the child.
Then came the distribution of the crown lands among the conspirators by the ratification of parliament.
This matter was at once the main cause of Darnley's murder and the bond of union among the murderers. On the evening of the adjournment of parliament, its members were entertained at a supper by Bothwell. After the feast, a bond was produced by Sir James Balfour, by which they bound themselves to sustain Bothwell's acquittal, recommended him as the fittest husband for the queen, and engaged to support him with their whole power, and to hold as enemies any who should presume to hinder the marriage. They all signed but one, the Earl of Eglinton. It was at this time that Bothwell began to manifest his intentions to Mary, and a letter of hers relates that he tried "if he might by humble suit purchase our good-will, but found our answer nothing correspondent to his desire."Mary then went to Stirling to visit her child. She probably wished, says Mr. Caird, by leaving Edinburgh at this juncture, to indicate to Bothwell that her rejection of his approaches was decisive; and he acted as if he thought so. His next step was that of adesperate man.
On her return from Stirling, three days later, he suddenly met her on the road with a large armed force, seized her, made her escort prisoners, and carried her off to his castle at Dunbar. He kept her there for eleven or twelve days. When she resisted his insolence, he produced the bond granted to him by the nobility, and she there found the signatures of every man from whom she could have expected help. Not one moved a finger in her defence. Huntly and Lethington, who were there with Bothwell, would not fail to remind her of the calamities which she had brought upon herself by opposing the policy of her nobles in her former marriage. Day after day she held out, but no help came. Sir James Melville, who had been taken prisoner with her, records that such violence was at last used that she no longer had a choice. Bothwell, in his dying confession, said that he accomplished his purpose "by the use of sweet waters." Morton's proclamations charged him with using violence to the queen, "and other more unleisum means." It seems not unlikely, therefore, that he employed some sweetened potion. Mary herself says that "in the end, when she saw no hope to be ridd of him, never man in Scotland ance making a mint for her deliverance, she was driven to the conclusion, from their hand-writes and silence, that he had won them all." He partly extorted and partly obtained her consent to marriage. Bothwell then conveyed the heart-broken queen, surrounded by a great force, to the Castle of Edinburgh. He next carried her before the judges, after lining the streets and crowding the courts and passages with his armed retainers. She there submitted to make a declaration that she "forgave him of all hatred conceived by her for taking and imprisoning her;" and also that she was now at liberty. The necessity for such a declaration implies previous coercion. Mr. Caird explains that, under the then existing law, Bothwell had committed an offence punishable with death if he had not obtained this declaration. A marriage was formally solemnized, and so little was her will consulted that it was in the Protestant form. Fettered by their bond, the nobles all looked on and lent no aid. One honest man there was, though, the Protestant minister Craig, who boldly told Bothwell that he objected to the marriage because he (Bothwell) had forced the queen. Called upon to proclaim the banns, Craig denounced it from the pulpit, and afterward publicly testified in the next general assembly that he was alone in opposing the marriage, and that "the best part of the realm did approve it, either by flattery or by their silence."
TheSilver Casket Lettersare treated by Mr. Caird as they must be by every fair-minded man. He says, "These letters, in truth, were as gross and clumsy fabrications as ever were put forward." His thorough analysis of the longest letter—a love-letter of fourteen quarto pages of print—is the most successful we have seen.
Mr. Caird closes his work with two scenes so effectively portrayed that our readers will thank us for transcribing them:
"After much earthly glory, and a long reign, the time came at last when the greatQueen Elizabeth must die. Wealth, grandeur, power which none might question—all were hers. But a cold hand was on her heart. The shadow of death was creeping over her—slow, very slow, but deepening every hour. There was not one left who loved her, or whom she could love. Her most trusted servants trembled at her passions, and longed for a change. Hume tells us she rejected all consolation. She refused food. She threw herself on the floor. She remained sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring her existence an insufferable burden. Few words she uttered, and they were all expressive of some inward grief which she did not reveal; but sighs and groans were the chief vent of her despondency, which discovered her sorrows without assuaging them."Oh! the long and unutterable agony of such a time. What is there on earth that could bribe one to bear it willingly? How bitterly she must have realized the words addressed to her by Mary Stuart on the eve of her execution:"'Think me not presumptuous, madam, that now, bidding farewell to this world, and preparing for a better, I remind you that you also must die and account to God for your stewardship as well as those who have been sent before you. Your sister and cousin, prisoner of wrong,'Marie R."Ten days and nights Queen Elizabeth lay thus upon the carpet; then her voice left her, her senses failed, and so she died."
"After much earthly glory, and a long reign, the time came at last when the greatQueen Elizabeth must die. Wealth, grandeur, power which none might question—all were hers. But a cold hand was on her heart. The shadow of death was creeping over her—slow, very slow, but deepening every hour. There was not one left who loved her, or whom she could love. Her most trusted servants trembled at her passions, and longed for a change. Hume tells us she rejected all consolation. She refused food. She threw herself on the floor. She remained sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring her existence an insufferable burden. Few words she uttered, and they were all expressive of some inward grief which she did not reveal; but sighs and groans were the chief vent of her despondency, which discovered her sorrows without assuaging them.
"Oh! the long and unutterable agony of such a time. What is there on earth that could bribe one to bear it willingly? How bitterly she must have realized the words addressed to her by Mary Stuart on the eve of her execution:
"'Think me not presumptuous, madam, that now, bidding farewell to this world, and preparing for a better, I remind you that you also must die and account to God for your stewardship as well as those who have been sent before you. Your sister and cousin, prisoner of wrong,'
Marie R.
"Ten days and nights Queen Elizabeth lay thus upon the carpet; then her voice left her, her senses failed, and so she died."
Mary Stuart had gone long before, destroyed and done to death by this woman; sent to the scaffold in a land where she had been wrongfully kept a prisoner, to whose law she owed no allegiance, and by virtue of a law which was passed to compass her death. On her way to execution, she was met by her old servant, Andrew Melville. He threw himself on his knees before her, wringing his hands in uncontrollable agony.
"Woe is me," he cried, "that it should be my hard hap to carry back such tidings to Scotland!"
"Weep not, Melville, my good and faithful servant," she replied; "thou shouldst rather rejoice to see the end of the long troubles of Mary Stuart. This world is vanity, and full of sorrows. I am Catholic, thou Protestant; but as there is but one Christ, I charge thee in his name to bear witness that I die firm in my religion. Commend me to my dearest son. May God forgive them that have thirsted for my blood."
She then passed to the scaffold. She surveyed it, the block, the axe, the executioners, and spectators undauntedly as she advanced. She prayed to God to pardon her sins and forgive her enemies.
The two executioners knelt and prayed her forgiveness.
"I forgive you and all the world with all my heart; for I hope this death will give an end to all my troubles." She then knelt down and commended her spirit into God's hands, and the executioners did their work.
The sad tale is told. All the actors have been nearly three centuries in their graves; but their story shall stir the hearts of men till the world's end.
A bridemaid! I had become a necessity. A sense of such importance was novel to me. It was a pleasant awakening to a consciousness that I had attained womanhood. To have been a bride would not have filled me with such unmingled joy; for then I might have been thinking over the possibilities of the future. Now I had only to play my part in the bright and bewildering present.
That there had been bridemaids before my time, of the loftiest and of the lowliest degree, from the jewelled princess to the humble dairy-maid, rendered my position none the less novel and refreshing. Then, too, the circumstances of the case were not to be lightly passed over—I had been chosen from among so many whose claims to consideration were far above mine.
An imaginative child always seeks and finds some object in which to concentrate its thoughts and its loves; something real to serve as an embodiment of its ideal fancies. Hence, all the wealth of my fervent nature had centred on Marian Howard.
From earliest childhood I had watched and wondered at her rare and high-born beauty. Every feature in her face seemed to have a distinct and separate fascination, while every adornment of dress that could enhance her varied charms was brought into requisition. To look upon her was a feast of pleasure to my eyes.
The quiet dignity of her manner kept a distance between us, so that she was a sort of far-off idol, after all. In her company we never gave way to our outgushing school-girl nature. I sometimes thought she would be happier if she were only more like us, or if we should welcome her with a girl's free and fervent greeting. But who dared try the experiment?
As we grew older, our paths in life diverged. Soon after leaving school, Marian went to live and to love in a foreign land, while I returned to the quiet pleasures of a rural home.
Four years passed, and then the fine old house which had so long remained silent again showed signs of life. They had returned—the widowed aunt and her beautiful niece.
The preparations for the wedding were immediately commenced, and Marian repaid my early devotion by offering me the highest mark of her confidence and regard.
The old tenderness came rushing back when I again beheld her more stately and more beautiful than ever. She told me it would be a quiet wedding—only a few friends, and I her only bridemaid. My arrangements were soon completed, and I awaited anxiously the appointed time. Soon it was the day before the marriage. I went over to assist in the final preparations, and was to spend the night with Marian. The morrow would witness, in the case of my friend, the great event of a woman's life—to be given away in marriage. I say of a woman's life, because marriage can hardly have the same significance for men; they are not given away.
The distinguished stranger who was so soon to call Marian his wife was certainly unlike any of the men I had ever known; but I had known so few, and my knowledge of the world was so limited, that I did not feel competent to pass judgment on him. Then there were such method, such calmness and system about the man, about the unbendingaunt, about Marian, and about the whole house, that I felt cold with a chilling sense of not being able to get warm again, though it was a lovely summer afternoon. More of nature and less of art, I thought, might have warmed the approaching festivities.
The evening shadows were falling. We had just finished arranging and rearranging the costly bridal gifts, when Marian was summoned to attend her aunt.
Among the other presents was that grand conception, Gustave Doré'sWandering Jew. This work of human genius seemed a strange companion for the rare articles of luxury that surrounded it.
I took up the book and went out upon the balcony. The softly-fading twilight, the subdued spirit of the house, the reflective turn my own mind had taken, prepared me for impressions of the awful and sublime.
It is said that "real genius always rises, and in rising it finds God." Surely the force and truth of this thought were here exemplified; for who could look upon these scenes, so truthful and intense, without a feeling of awe and reverence?
I was thus occupied, I know not how long, when suddenly Mr. Gaston recalled me to myself. "How absorbed you are, Miss Heartly! I have been watching you with much interest. Pray, has the book any bearing upon the coming events of to-morrow? Court beauties, I suppose," he continued carelessly, as he came toward me.
"Why!" said I, "you have returned early, Mr. Gaston. You cannot have taken that delightful drive Marian proposed to you?"
"No," he answered; "I have no inclination for solitude; but you ladies are so occupied with these time-killing nothings, these endless little arrangements so indispensable to your happiness, that we lonely mortals are entirely ignored and forgotten."
"I think, sir, that calamity seldom befalls you," I replied, thus adding, perhaps, to vanity already sufficiently great.
"But the book?" he continued, opening it listlessly. "Oh! the old fable in a new dress. It is strange how women cling to the marvellous and impossible. They seem to have but two absorbing ideas—love and religion. Extremes in either usually lead to the same pernicious result. I suppose an idol is a necessity to them, and it matters little in which they find it."
"I do not understand you," I replied. "Are you in jest, or are you seriously denouncing revealed religion?"
"Revealed religion!" he repeated. "Is it possible that, at this stage of the world's advancement,youstill cling to that antiquated idea of Christianity?"
The modern methods of fashioning a god to suit the impious desires of vain and conceited mortals was then unknown to me. I looked at the man with wonder and distrust. He read my confusion and hastened to explain himself.
"Religion," he said, "as you accept it, makes us cowards instead of men. My reason ismyreligion; I acknowledge no other guide."
"Ah! then," I exclaimed, "how often must you stumble by the way." I turned to the most effective picture in the book. "Here is an instance of the vanity of human pride. Here we can see the end of man's boasted strength—the anguish of a lost soul hopelessly looking for repose and peace."
"An imposing fable," he replied, "wanting only a woman's faith to give it substance and reality."
I was rising to put an end to thisunprofitable and distasteful conversation, when Marian joined us. My disturbed manner plainly annoyed her, and she evidently suspected its cause; for she addressed Mr. Gaston in German quite earnestly. Soon turning to me he said, "Pray, excuse me, Miss Heartly; I was not aware that you were a Catholic. I know your people feel most keenly what they profess. Of course you have already stamped me a condemned heretic."
"It is not for me to pass judgment on you," I replied; "and if I did, my opinion could be of very little value."
"Come, come!" said Marian, "this is a most unapt and gloomy subject for my marriage eve; and the sun, too, has gone down sullenly. I hope there is nothing prophetic in all this."
"What! growing serious now?" I said, as I drew her arm within mine, and we went to look for the fiftieth time at the final arrangements for the morrow's festivities.
I could not, however, throw off the feeling of uneasiness that my interview with Mr. Gaston had left. He had a way of cheapening one, so that, without knowing why, you fell immeasurably in your own estimation. This is never a comfortable condition to find one's self in, and it takes a good deal of nice logic to bring one back to one's normal state.
Perhaps it was the loftiness of his style that awed me; for he had a magnificent way of carelessly throwing the world behind him and walking forth in a sort of solitary dignity. "His manners are courtly," Marian's aunt said, and certainly they possessed all the cold stiffness that characterized her particular circle; still, I felt I had no real grounds for this feeling of distrust and aversion to Mr. Gaston, and I began to think it was rather ungenerous to hold him in so unfavorable a light. I could not shake off, however, an undefined dread of the approaching marriage. The apathy and indifference which had always been peculiar to my young friend did not forsake her even now, when apparently on the very threshold of happiness. I thought that intensity of feeling perhaps kept her thus silent, for overpowering happiness has this effect sometimes. The delusion was, however, speedily dispelled.
That night a sealed chapter in Marian's life was laid open to me, and I saw her as I had never seen or thought of her before.
After locking the chamber-door, she seated herself by my side, and said, "This is the first time in my life that I have known perfect freedom; I mean a liberty to do and say what I like with a feeling of security.
"You remember the 'Greek Slave.' Well, I am not unlike that delicate girl chained in the market-place. Every inclination of my heart has been chained down and locked, and my aunt has kept the key.
"I was an uncomplaining, passionless child. In my cradle I received my first lessons in self-control. As I grew older, I learned another lesson, too unnatural for even a thoughtful child like me to understand. I was not needed here; I was considered only as a desirable ornament for this great house. I might as well have been placed upon a pinnacle and petrified at once, for all the childhood that was allowed to take root within me.
"My aunt's domestic misfortunes had embittered her, and she had no children to soften the natural austerity of her soul. My mother, who was her only sister, had, contrary to my aunt's wishes, married where her heart inclined. This was never forgiven or forgotten until she lay dead, and I was a wailing infant at her side.
"My father soon afterward perishedat sea, and my aunt took me to her home.
"She was not designedly cruel; but she knew nothing of a child's requirements. The freezing system seemed to her the most effectual method of crushing out a young, impulsive nature. There was danger I might become rebellious, and hence she required the utmost meekness and submission.
"As soon as I came to understand the power of beauty, I saw that it was to mine I owed food and raiment; for it fed the exhaustless vanity of my aunt, with whom display was then, and still is, the moving spring of her existence.
"I was a drawing-room child, kept for exhibition at stated intervals. The tiny jewels on my neck and arms were hateful to me. My embroidered robe was a costly thing. I had given a young life for it.
"I had a mortal fear of losing my beauty. Our gardener's daughter—a comely, cheerful-looking girl, whom I was always glad to see, for she made the morning brighter with her fresh young face—had caught that loathsome disease, the small-pox. When she recovered, the change that had come upon her so terrified me, that I was seized with a sensation as of coming danger. I shrank from the girl, as if she would be the cause of some future misery to me.
"She had a mother to whom she seemed infinitely more dear now than she had ever been. But I, a lonely waif, what would become of me if I should be transformed like her?
"It was not altogether for my own gratification that I desired to retain this beauty. It was not my own beauty. It belonged to my aunt, and was all I had to give her in return for what she gave me.
"I was not a child that saw angels in the skies, or that expected manna to come down from heaven to feed me.
"Artificial and unsatisfying as my life has always been, I have a clinging desire to remain with it.
"At times I have had a vaguely conceived notion of one day getting away from it and of being free; but the bending and breaking system has so subdued me that I might lose myself if left to the guidance of my own free-will.
"Marriage is a solemn thing. Would you like to change places with me to-night, Mary?"
I could not say yes, and I dared not say no; for I saw that she was losing courage, and beginning to hesitate about the important event so soon to transpire.
"That is a strange question, Marian dear," I replied. "To-morrow ought to be, and I hope will be, the happiest day of your life. Surely you must love this man when you have promised to be his wife?"
"Oh! yes," said she, "as well as I understand what it is to love. I sometimes tremble for fear I have not the qualities that make woman lovable and attractive. You forget how little I know of Edward Gaston.
"Our acquaintance began in a little German town, where he was stopping, for the purpose of establishing his claims to a disputed inheritance. He is an American by birth and education. He soon became a constant visitor with us. My aunt and he were on the best of terms. My own interest in him had never passed beyond the civilities of an ordinary acquaintance until he again joined us at Naples, where he lost no time in making known the state of his feelings.
"My aunt seemed to have had some previous knowledge of his preference; but its announcement was to me a complete surprise.
"She was proud of her nice discriminationin the selection of her friends, and Mr. Gaston had come into our circle labelled and indorsed a gentleman.
"Her gracious consideration, however, of his offer, in no wise obscured her caution. Satisfied as to his worldly affairs, and well assured of his position at home, there was nothing wanting but my consent, which was really the most trifling part of the arrangement. I accepted this marriage engagement as I would have accepted any other condition so mapped out for me.
"Business of a pressing nature which could be delayed no longer, called Mr. Gaston to America, and I did not see him again until our return a month ago.
"You see how little I know of him. Can you wonder that I am constrained in his presence? Of course, every thing will be different when I come to know him better.
"But I have one cause of feverish anxiety. I am not above the petty subterfuges almost incidental to a life like mine. A desire to hide mistakes committed through childish ignorance made me unscrupulous, as any member of a household who is watched and suspected must naturally be. Habit may have made these little irregularities almost a second nature, but my blood recoils from a wilful and deliberate deception. I am afraid Edward is misled with regard to my aunt's pecuniary condition.
"This life of seeming affluence, which has become as necessary to her as the air she breathes, drains heavily on her slender resources. Such portion of her time as is not spent in her handsome carriage, or in drawing-room entertainments, is passed in a most frugal and even parsimonious mode of living, and it is only by an economy painful to contemplate that she has kept things floating thus far.
"I cannot acquaint Edward with my aunt's existing embarrassments. She is my only kinswoman; and misguided as she is, I have a tender affection for her. I hope to be able to offer her a home with us, when, as soon must be the case, the last act in this miserable farce shall have been played.
"Now, perhaps, you can understand why I thus passively submit to a marriage that I would turn from if I could. I cannot openly say to Mr. Gaston, 'I have no fortune, I hope you expect none;' even to covertly approach the subject would be to impugn his motives, and I certainly have no right to suspect him of harboring mercenary ones. Still, I wish he were acquainted with the truth; for the world, you know, looks upon me as sole heiress of my rich aunt.
"I have no knowledge of what passed between Edward and my aunt at Naples, when our marriage was agreed upon; but I have a constant dread least he may have been deceived. I once mentioned to him, in conversation, that he would claim a portionless bride; but he seemed to take no notice of what I said, and I fear he still thinks my aunt's circumstances to be in reality what they seem."
"In giving way," I replied, "to such groundless fears, dear Marian, you underrate your own worth. Think how many noble and honorable men would be proud to call you wife, and in giving you a life of happiness make amends for the past." Yet as I looked in the silver starlight upon that lovely face, which had so attracted me in my childhood, I could not but regret deeply and sadly that she was not of my faith; for then she might receive wiser counsel than I could give from one of those whom Christ in his mercy has ordained to be a guide and a staff to weak and wavering souls.
The wedding breakfast was all thateven Marian's fastidious aunt could have desired. The few favored guests were of the most approved type. It would seem as if a judicious instructor had given each of them a select number of words, which they used with exemplary caution, and then retired to the contemplation of their own individual greatness.
As to Marian, the despondency of the night before had quite left her, and there was a high and noble resolve in her manner that made me truly happy to behold, while it calmed, if it did not entirely dispel, my own gloomy forebodings. The serene expression of her sweet face would have drawn me nearer to her, if that were possible.
How I loved her, as she stood before me, beautiful in the purity of her white robe, and infinitely more beautiful in the chastened security of her firm and lofty purpose—to be a true and honorable wife to Edward Gaston; to meet the conditions of her new life, whatever they might be, with a woman's trust and confidence, and better still, with a woman's hope in the never-failing reward of duty faithfully performed.
I could have been positively gay through desire to sustain Marian, and to let her know, without telling her in words, how thoroughly I appreciated and how heartily I approved her noble intentions, her courage and confidence; but as measured words and actions alone were allowed, I had to restrain myself. Still, the cooling process did not diminish my ardor, and when I got Marian all to myself, in her room, I kissed her so approvingly, and was so extravagant in the expression of all that I felt, that she folded me with loving tenderness to her breast, and kept me there so long that I felt with the quick beating of her warm heart she was giving me some of her own newly-found courage.
"Whatever happens to me, Mary dear, in the extremity of any darkness that may come upon me, I shall always know that you are true to me, that you are still my friend."
The tears that fell upon her hand as she gently raised my head, were my only answer, and she accepted them in the spirit in which they were shed.
In returning to my ordinary duties, I had much to reflect upon, much that made me still uneasy for Marian and her future, where so many doubts and fears seemed hanging on the will of one human being.
Vague rumors of Mr. Gaston had reached us, that he was a man wholly without fortune, drifting on the surface of events; darker things, too, were whispered with an indirectness which gave them an uncertain coloring. In my love for Marian, and in my fear for her, I could not credit these suspicions; yet my anxiety to again see her, and discover for myself the truth or fallacy of these reports, was intense. Indeed, my state of anxious doubt was becoming intolerable when I received a letter from Marian, telling me she was already tired of travelling, and would return soon to make a last visit to her old home before leaving for her future and distant one.
It was agreed that they should spend the day after their arrival with us. I was so happy and so occupied in preparing for their reception, that I had almost forgotten my previous anxiety in my present desire to have every thing ready and in perfect order.
The pleasure I felt in the prospect of having my darling with me so soon was dreadfully toned down by the consciousness of my own inability to satisfy her aunt's critical taste. I trembled as I thought of her scrutinizing glance; but I had a never-failing source of hope in my mother. Her good-natured hospitality was ofsuch a melting kind that I dared hope that even the rigid aunt might thaw under it, which she really did, greatly to my relief and comfort.
The dinner passed off creditably. My tranquillity was now entirely restored, and I had time to devote to Marian.
Up to this moment I had viewed her through the medium of my excited condition; now I was calmed, and, so far as the affairs of the day went, contented.
Marian's manner was restless and uneasy. My perception was keenly alive to the slightest difference between what she did and said now and to what she did and said formerly. So solicitous was I, that I think the most trifling modulation in her voice had a significance for me.
Much as I had looked forward to this reunion, much as I had desired it, now that Marian was with me, I shrank from being alone with her. I think if we had been that summer evening even in the solitude of a mountain fastness, an intuitive delicacy would have kept both of us from speaking one word upon the only subject that filled our hearts.
My mother's humanizing influence was having its effect on the stately old lady. She was captured without knowing it. Mr. Gaston had gone out for a walk; so Marian and I were left alone. I tried to talk about her new home, and repeated some things Mr. Gaston had told me before the wedding.
"Edward has changed his mind," said Marian, "and has found it necessary to make some different arrangements; so I really cannot tell much about our home. It is very far away; don't you think so, Mary?" I saw that her feelings were beginning to get the upper hand, and I did not dare trust myself to reply. I turned from her immediately on the pretext of having forgotten some household duty. She strolled out to the garden in a spiritless way.
Every thing was revolving itself in my mind, and I was beginning to reproach myself; perhaps if I had encouraged her to speak, it might have lifted the load from her heart; another opportunity might not be permitted us; and yet, bowed down as the poor girl was, it would not have raised her in my esteem had she even with me disparaged her husband. To cover him with a wife's forbearance was now one of her hard but imperative duties, and I knew she would not shrink from it. This must be a check to our confidence, a bridge over which my kindliest sympathy must never pass.
Unmistakable evidences of a storm close at hand made me run to the arbor where I had last seen Marian. She was not there. While deliberating where I should next go, I heard Mr. Gaston's impatient tread. He stopped by a clump of trees near me, and in tones of suppressed anger commenced upbraiding his defenceless wife.
"What did you mean by suggesting such a thing as that?" he began; "have you any right to dispense hospitalities, to propose or consider them in that grand style of yours?"
"In expressing the wish," replied Marian, "that my aunt would be able to spend the winter with us, I had no intention of doing any thing beyond a natural act of gratitude; and I was not aware, Edward, that your feelings had so changed toward her. I am sure she has done nothing to merit your displeasure."
"Nothing to merit my displeasure? You are a most creditable disciple! She has made you like herself, truly. Is it nothing in your eyes that she has always lived a life of nicely-arranged deception? Your accomplished aunthas conducted a forlorn hope with a woman's tact, and the victims of her trickery are expected to bow to her superior sagacity. In a burst of universal sympathy you propose to take this wreck of decayed grandeur to my house. This was a part of the plot, I suppose."
"Edward," interrupted Marian, "how dare you speak in this way of my aunt, who has shown you so many marks of sincere regard? That she has not husbanded her resources, I grant; but that misfortune rests entirely with her, she is the only sufferer. She made you no promises, gave you no reason to expect a fortune with me; this I have learned since our marriage. Have no fear of the incumbrance. Dear as she is to me, I would rather let her beg from door to door than see her a recipient of your bounty!"
"Oh! you are proud now," he replied in a voice of withering scorn. "Take care," he continued; "you have not seen the end yet. Make yourself ready to depart. I want to leave this house instantly."
"Edward," she said, "however you choose to afflict me, whatever tortures you have in store for me, do not, I beseech you, subject me just yet to the pity of those I love, of those who love me. These people are my truest friends. I would not make them sharers of my misery. Spare me a little longer."
"Your fine speeches and these people are alike objects of indifference to me. Make yourself ready; I am going."
She made a movement to obey him; but turning round again, she said, "Edward"—the voice and tone I shall never forget; it was as if all she had ever valued in life had whispered a last farewell—"Edward, as I had hoped to give you a wife's unfailing duty, to be trustful, loving, and true; so I had hoped you would give me a husband's protection, and perhaps a husband's love."
"I am not fond of scenes," he interrupted; "your requirements are of so nice and delicate a nature that I would be quite incapable of gratifying them; so I shall not trouble myself to make the attempt; and for the future, spare yourself any unnecessary display of sentiment."
I could not have left the arbor without being seen. Marian passed by slowly, not to the house, but in an opposite direction, and Mr. Gaston started for the lower end of the garden. I caught a glimpse of him as he turned an angle of the walk. A wicked look had settled on his handsome face, as if dark spirits were urging him on.
A peal of thunder, prolonged and terrible, startled me. I ran to the house. The lightning was truly awful, and peal following peal of thunder made one shudder and long for human companionship. I had lost Marian in the gloom and darkness. She was not in the house; I did not see her in the garden. I went out into the storm in search of her.
I found her standing quite alone in sad and listless silence. Can it be, I thought, that death has no terrors for one so gifted and so young? She seemed imploring that doom which the most abject and miserable would flee from if they could. I knew then, as well as I knew afterward, that she would have welcomed death that night without one single regret.
"Marian, dear," I said, approaching her, "how can you remain alone, and exposed in this manner, when every thing about you is quaking with fear?"
"I do not heed the storm," she answered; "I like it, it is so wonderful."
"Come, come, darling! Why, the rain has drenched you," I replied,putting my arm about her and leading her to the house.
The storm had set in furiously. There was no leaving the house that night. I resolved that Marian should sleep with me; so I went to Mr. Gaston and told him I regretted our limited accommodations obliged me to offer him a temporary bed in the parlor.
When I told Marian of this arrangement, she seemed relieved. "I am glad to spend the night here and with you, Mary," she said. "All is so quiet and peaceful."
Quiet and peaceful! The greater storm in her own breast made her forget the contending elements without.
My aversion to Mr. Gaston was, I believe, heartily reciprocated, and he must have chafed at my influence over Marian. He took her away from her home, never to return, on the very next day. They sailed for Cuba shortly afterward.
The crisis Marian had feared for her aunt soon came, and she went, with the remnant of her fortune, to live in some western town.
Seven years had rolled by since all this, and Marian was fast passing into the shadows we like to call up when the world is hushed around us and, we are thinking—thinking.
I was married, and laughing children were crowding out these earlier remembrances.
An affection of the throat, from which my husband was suffering, rendered the best medical advice necessary. I accompanied him to New York, where I found—let me pause in telling it, to do reverence to the unseen hand that led me there—Marian.
In this lonely stranger how little do I behold of my childhood's earliest pride!
"From Clifton?" said the physician thoughtfully, after examining my husband's case. "I have a patient, a strange case; she is paralyzed, and her mental faculties are stunned. A Cuban family brought her here and placed her under my care. Her husband had committed a forgery, and had fled the country to escape arrest. She is an accomplished lady, I should judge. She was left in Havana quite poor and friendless. I have been led to speak to you about her because she is always writing two words—Mary and Clifton. The Spanish lady who brought her here knew nothing of her former history."
I was silent during this recital, and so white that the doctor offered me water. I thanked him, and expressed a wish to go to my friend immediately.
"I cannot return to the hospital this morning," he said; "but I will give you my card, which will admit you to the lady at once."
There I found her, a silent, faded figure, sitting still, and for all purposes of life quite dead.
I was awed as I stood before her. I sat down and took her poor, neglected hand in mine. She looked at me and made a feeble attempt to gather back her hair which had fallen in great disorder about her shoulders. I rose to do this for her. It was still glossy and beautiful as ever. I began to arrange it in the fashion she had worn it seven years before. She took my hand from her head, laid it in her lap, chafed it, then reverently raised it to her lips. I could restrain my tears no longer, and I hid my face in the folds of her faded dress. She turned me toward her and wiped the tears from my cheek.
"You are going home with me, Marian darling," I said; "to live always in our own old home."
"I know it," she whispered; "I have been waiting for you so long, so very long."
This was the first time she hadspoken to me. The nurse had told me that she spoke occasionally, but always in an absent and incoherent manner.
Sea-bathing was recommended; but the doctor was of the opinion that her mind would never recover its original vigor.
I would like him to see her as she left me this morning, calm and beautiful, when the bell of the convent, where she is teaching German, summoned attendance.
My religion is no longer strange to her. She has accepted it as the crowning blessing of her life, and with a thankful spirit she speaks of the chastening hand that led her to this security and peace.