END OF COOK THE TENTH.
BOOK THE ELEVENTH—THE SCAFFOLD.
I.—THE LAST PARTING BETWEEN THE EARL OF DERWENT-WATER AND THE COUNTESS.
The last sad parting between the Earl of Dervventwater and the countess must now be detailed.
The interview took place in the prison-chamber in the Devereux Tower, and on the day before the execution.
After his condemnation, the earl had passed most of his time in prayer, and had so completely succeeded in reconciling himself to his fate, that he forbade the countess to make any further efforts for his deliverance. Indeed, after the escapes that had taken place, any fresh attempt would have been futile.
The unhappy countess was staying at Dagenham Park, an old manorial mansion, near Romford in Essex, belonging to a Roman Catholic family, and she came over every day to the Tower, accompanied by Father Norham, in the hope of seeing her husband.
Latterly, permission had been refused her, but, on the day before the execution, she was allowed to visit him with the priest.
Not having seen him for a few days, she was much struck by the change in his appearance. His countenance had a very serene expression. All trouble had vanished from it, and it was plain from his looks that his thoughts were fixed on high.
“You have no longer any fear of death, I perceive, my son,” said Father Norham.
“I have no desire for life, father,” he replied. “I am better prepared to die than I might be at a future time, were my days prolonged.”
“I shall soon rejoin you, my lord,” said the countess.
“No, live!—I would have you live,” he cried. “You are young, beautiful—and I trust have many years of happiness before you. I would not have them abridged. But think of me always—think how fondly I have loved you—think how entirely happy I have been in your society. Never for a single moment has my heart swerved from its devotion to you. Fate has separated us for a time—but it was against my will. My love has been sacrificed to my sense of duty.”
“I know it, my dearest lord,” she cried, with a look of anguish. “Oh! how bitterly I reproach myself that I urged you to join this fatal expedition. Would I could recall the past! Would we could be at Dilston together as in former days! Never! never should you leave it! But I must not speak of the past.”
“Nay, it does not pain me,” said the earl tenderly. “Let us quit his dungeon for a moment in thought, and transport ourselves to Dilston. Let us stand together—as we have so often stood—upon the terrace, and gaze upon the far-spreading prospect. Ah! the scene rises before me, as I speak! We are in the glen, wandering by the side of the stream. We are in the forest, and I enter the Maiden's Walk, and receive a warning.”
“What more?” cried the countess.
“Nothing,” replied the earl. “The vision has disappeared. Alas! my sweet love, Dilston will be yours no more. The house you have brightened with your presence will be taken from you. I cannot bequeath it to you. Yet I should wish to be laid with my fathers in the vault beneath the little chapel.”
“It shall be done, my dearest lord,” she cried earnestly. “Your wishes shall be fulfilled.”
“I do not think that resting-place will be denied me,” said the earl.
“Have no fear, my lord,” said Father Norham. “The malice of your enemies will not extend to that length. All shall be done as you desire. When the tragedy is over, the body shall be conveyed by slow stages—and only by night—to Dilston. During the day it shall rest in some Catholic chapel, and masses shall be said.”
“I will accompany it, and see the last sad rites performed,” said the countess.
“You give me inexpressible comfort,” said the earl. “It was the sole request I had to prefer.”
Shortly afterwards the earl retired with Father Norham into the cell adjoining the prison-chamber, where the priest heard his confession, and gave him absolution.
During this interval, the countess knelt down and prayed fervently.
At length, the earl came forth, and she arose, perceiving from his looks that the moment of parting was come.
He extended his arms, and flying towards him, she was clasped to his breast.
Thus they remained for some minutes amid a silence, broken only by her sobs.
He then made a slight effort to loosen her embrace, but she clung to him even more tenaciously.
“We must part, my best beloved,” he said, printing a kiss upon her brow.
“Oh! I knew not the anguish of this hour,” she cried. “Would my heart would break and relieve me!”
“For your husband's sake, calm yourself, dear daughter, I implore you!” said the priest.
But her grief was too violent to be restrained, and a paroxysm ensued that found vent in a fearful shriek, that burst through the grated windows of the fortification, and almost froze the blood of such as heard it.
She then became insensible.
On regaining consciousness, she no longer beheld her husband. She had parted from him for ever. She had been carefully removed to the Lieutenant's lodgings, where restoratives were applied.
As soon as her strength permitted, she left the Tower with Father Norham, and returned to Dagenham Park; feeling as if her heart were broken.
II.—HOW LORD WIDDRINGTON TOOK A LAST LEAVE OF THE EARL OF DERWENTWATER.
GLOOMY was the morn, and in unison with the sombre deed about to take place.
Already a scaffold, draped in black, on which the Earl of Derwentwater and Lord Kenmure were to pay the forfeit of their lives, had been erected on Tower-hill.
At an early hour three strong detachments of Life Guards marched from Whitehall, and posted themselves round the scaffold.
At the same time, a crowd of curious observers of both sexes began to assemble, and increased so rapidly that within an hour the whole summit of the eminence was densely thronged.
Some sympathy was expressed for the unfortunate lords about to suffer, but it would almost seem that the majority of the spectators were drawn thither by curiosity rather than by any other feeling.
Like all other crowds they exhibited great impatience because they supposed they were kept waiting, and manifested their displeasure by groaning at the Life Guards, who, however, treated them with supreme contempt.
Not till ten o'clock did the sheriffs make their appearance, and way was cleared for them by their guard through the crowd. They proceeded to the Transport Office—a building at the rear of the scaffold—where rooms were prepared for those about to die.
At the same time, a bell within the Tower began to toll, and almost immediately afterwards, a party of grenadiers issued from the Bulwark Gate, followed by two hackney-coaches, in which were the condemned nobles and their chaplains.
With Lord Derwentwater was Father Norham; with Lord Kenmure was the Reverend Mr. Sharp, a Presbyterian minister.
On either side of the coaches marched javelin men to keep off the crowd.
Had not Lord Derwentwater been attended by a
Romish priest, his youth and good looks would have excited extraordinary sympathy among the beholders, but the sight of Father Norham irritated them, and they expressed their hatred of Popery by hootings. Lord Der-wentwater seemed wholly undisturbed by the clamour.
Lord Kenmure met with a much better reception, and Mr. Sharp contrived to let the mob know that his lordship held Popery in abomination.
In this manner the two lords were conducted to the Transport Office, where they alighted, and were separately conducted to their rooms.
In the room prepared for the Earl of Derwentwater, Lord Widdrington, who had been reprieved, was waiting to take a last leave of his friend, and was so deeply affected that Father Norham deemed it advisable that the interview should not be prolonged.
While bidding farewell to the earl, Lord Widdrington said, in accents of profound emotion:
“Were I to live a thousand years I should never forget you! You will always remain to me an example of fortitude and resignation. Your heroism makes me regret that I have accepted life, since it would be a privilege to die with you. I need not wish you firmness at the last, for I know you will not want it.”
With this, he embraced him, and left the room.