Mary of Burgundy; or, The Revolt of Ghent

by G. P. R. James

"Let me beseech you not to go, madam," exclaimed the old cavalier who had accompanied them thither: "I never yet did know any one who attempted to pry into the hidden secrets of fate, who did not bitterly repent it."

"Madam," said the Lord of Hannut, "follow, I entreat, your own judgment alone. I urge you not to read or to forbear; yet, as far as my memory serves me, you may read without much apprehension; for though you may have many a painful scene yet to go through--as who in life has not?--still there will be bright days, and many, before the end."

"I will go, my lord," replied Mary. "Come, Alice, lend me your arm. My lord, I will follow you."

"Ho, without, there! a light! a light!" exclaimed the Lord of Hannut. "Pause yet a moment, lady. The sun is down, and the dim and narrow passages of this building are not to be trod by a stranger without more light than yon twilight sky will now afford. Bear a torch to the end of the gallery, Roger," he added, speaking to a tall old man, who appeared at his summons. "Now, madam, permit me to lead you on."

Thus speaking, he took the hand of the princess reverently in his own, and led her from the chamber, followed by Alice of Imbercourt. The next moment, Mary found herself in a long gallery, pierced by many windows turned to the westward, through which might be seen the fiery streaks left by the setting sun upon the verge of the stormy sky. Manifold doors opened opposite to these windows, and between the apertures the effigies of many a warrior frowned in steel, while the red glare of the sunset flashed upon the polished armour, as each suit stood supported by its wooden figure, giving to all the prominent points a bloody hue, akin to the associations that the sight of those implements of war called up. At the end of this long corridor was a wide archway, at which, ere Mary had paced half the length of the gallery, a figure took its place, bearing a lighted torch; and though the whole arrangement of the building was, in that age, more common, and consequently appeared less gloomy, than it would seem at present, still there was an aspect of solemn grandeur about it, that raised, and yet saddened, the feelings of Mary of Burgundy, as she advanced in the firm belief that she was about to see the scheme of her future life laid open before her eyes.

Passing through the archway, with the torch-bearer preceding them, the old lord and his two fair companions wound round the greater part of the building, in order to reach the apartment in which he pursued his studies, without passing through the common hall; and as they swept along the dark and narrow passages, with the torch-light flashing on the rude and mouldered stone, the sense of awe and expectation increased in the bosom of the princess almost to the height of pain. Alice, too, felt it, and was profoundly silent; and when at length they entered the chamber, in which the lonely hours of a long life had been spent in solitary and mysterious study, she gazed around her with a glance of curiosity and apprehension, which clearly showed that she herself had never set her foot within its walls before. The silver lamp hung lighted from the roof; and the attendant with his torch drew back to let them pass, carefully avoiding, however, to set his foot across the threshold.

Mary's heart beat quick; and she now began to ask herself whether she had any right to unveil that awful future over which the Almighty has cast so profound a shadow. What was she about to do? To learn her fate, without the possibility of changing it; to acquire the knowledge of each event that was to happen, without the power of avoiding or ruling it as it arose; to mark every danger while yet it lay in the womb of the future; to foreknow every pang while yet it was far distant; to sip the cup of agony and fear, drop by drop, long before fate compelled her to the draught; and to make each day miserable with the certainty of the morrow's sorrow.

While such thoughts passed through her mind, the old noble took down one of the large volumes from the cabinet, and unfastening the golden clasps with which it was bound, he laid it on the desk beneath the lamp. "Madam," he said, "you wished to know the fate of your future years; it is now before you. Event by event I have marked the current of the past, and I have found no error yet in what is there written. Read, then, if you will, and with full confidence; for as sure as that we all live, and that we all must die, every turn of your coming existence is there, written down."

Mary took a step or two towards the book, laid her fair hand upon the yellow leaves, then paused, and gazed upwards for a moment. "No!" she exclaimed at length, "no, it is wiser, it is better as it is! Most merciful was the decree of the Most High, that veiled the future in uncertainty. Forgive me, God, that I have sought to pry beyond the limits that thou thyself hast set! No, no! I will not read!" So saying, she drew hastily back, as if afraid of her own determination, cast open the door, and quitted the apartment.

The Lord of Hannut followed, in some surprise. "Madam," he said, as he offered his hand to guide the princess through the passages which the want of the torch now rendered totally dark, "I will not say you have done wrong; but you have, I own, surprised me."