Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

That mounts and falls by turns.--Dryden.

The painful situation of Lady Constance de Grey had not lost any portion of its sorrow, or gained any ray of hope, on the first of June, three days after we last left her, at which period we again take up her story. She was then sitting in a small, poor cottage between Whitesand Bay and Boulogne, watching the slumber of the excellent old man whose regard for her had brought upon his head so much pain and danger. Ever since he had been removed to the hut where they now were, he had lingered in great agony, except at those times when a state of stupor fell upon him, under which he would remain for many hours, and only wake from it again to acute pain. He had, however, that morning fulfilled the last duties of his religion, with the assistance of a good monk of Boulogne, who now sat with Lady Constance, watching the sweet sleep into which he had fallen for the first time since their shipwreck.

Across the little window, to keep out the light, Constance had drawn one of her own dresses, which had been saved by the sailor Bradford having tied the leathern case that contained them to the plank which had brought herself to shore; but still through the casement, notwithstanding this sort of extemporaneous curtain, the soft breath of the early morning flowed in; and the murmuring voice of the treacherous ocean was heard softly from afar, filling up every pause in the singing of the birds and the busy hum of all the light children of the summer.

The calmness of the old man's slumber gave Constance hope; and with a sweet smile she sat beside him, listening to the mingled voice of creation, and joining mentally in the song of praise that all things seemed raising towards the great Creator. Indeed, if ever mortal being might be supposed to resemble those pure spirits who, freed from all touch of clay, adore the Almighty in his works, she then looked like an angel, in form, in feature, and in expression, while, robed all in white, and watching the sick bed of her ancient friend, she looked upon his tranquil slumber with that bland smile of hope and gratitude.

In the mean while the old monk sat on the other side of his bed, regarding him with more anxiety; for long experience in visiting those who hung upon the brink of another world tad taught him, that sleep like that into which the clergyman had fallen as often precedes death as recovery. It had continued thus till towards mid-day, the cottage being left in solitude and silence; for the sailor Bradford had gone to seek remedies from a simpler at Boulogne, and Jekin Groby had stolen away for a visit to Calais, while the people to whom the cottage belonged were absent upon their daily occupations. At length, however, a slight sort of convulsive motion passed over the features of the old man, and, opening his eyes, he said in a faint, low voice, "Constance, my dear child, where are you? My eyes are dim."

"I am here, my dear sir," replied Constance. "You have been sleeping very sweetly. I hope you feel better."

"It is over, Constance!" replied Dr. Wilbraham, calmly, but feebly. "I am dying, my child. Let me see the sunshine." Constance withdrew the curtain, and the fresh air blowing on the sick man's face seemed to give him more strength. "It is bright," cried he; "it is very bright. I feel the sweet summer air, and I hear the glad singing of the birds; but I go fast, dear daughter, where there are things brighter and sweeter; for surely, surely, God, who has clothed this world with such splendour, has reserved far greater for the world to come."

The tears streamed down Constance's cheeks, for there was in the old man's face a look of death not to be mistaken; that look, the inevitable precursor of dissolution to man, when it seems as if the avenging angel had come between him and the sun of being, and cast his dark shadow over him for ever.

"Weep not, Constance," said the old man, with faint and broken efforts; "for no storms will reach me in my Redeemer's bosom. In his mercy is my hope, in his salvation is my reliance. Soon, soon shall I be in the place of peace, where joy reigneth eternally. Could I have a fear, my dear child, it would be for you, left alone in a wide and desolate world, with none to protect you. But, no; I have no fear: God is your protector; and never, never, my child, doubt his goodness, nor think that he does not as surely watch over the universe as he that created it at first. Everything is beneath his eye, from the smallest grain of sand to the great globe itself; and his will governs all, and guides all, though we see neither the beginning nor the end. Constance, I am departing," he continued, more faintly: "God's blessing be upon you, my child! and, oh! if He in his wisdom ever permits the spirit of the dead to watch over those they loved when living, I will be with you and Darnley when this frail body is dust."

His lips began gradually to lose their power of utterance, and his head fell back upon the pillow. The monk saw that the good man's end was approaching fast, and placing the crucifix in his dying hand, he poured the words of consolation in his ear; but Dr. Wilbraham slightly motioned with his hand, to signify that he was quite prepared, and fixing his eyes upon the cross, murmured to himself, "I come, O Lord, I come! Be thou merciful unto me, O King of mercy! Deliver speedily from the power of death, O Lord of life!"