TO ADELAIDE MARIE DE MONTMORENCI.

AFTER a long and painful journey through life, with a heart exhauſted by afflictions, and eyes which can no longer ſupply tears to lament them, I turn my every thought toward that grave on the verge of which I hover. Oh! why then, too generous friend, require me to live over my misfortunes? Such has been the peculiarity of my fate, that though tor⯑tured with the poſſeſſion and the loſs of [2] every tye and hope that exalts or endears humanity, let but this feeble frame be co⯑vered with the duſt from which it ſprung, and no trace of my ever having exiſted would remain, except in the wounded conſciences of thoſe who marked me out a ſolitary victim to the crimes of my pro⯑genitors: For ſurely I could never merit by my own the miſery of living as I have done—of dying as I muſt do.

Alas! your partial affection demands a memorial which calls back to being all the ſad images buried in my boſom, and opens anew every vein of my heart. Yet conſummate miſery has a moral uſe, and if ever theſe ſheets reach the publick, let the repiner at little evils learn to be juſter to his God and himſelf, by unavoidable com⯑pariſon. But am I not aſſuming an inſo⯑lent conſequence in thus admoniſhing? Alas, it is the dear-bought privilege of the unfortunate to be tedious!

My life commenced with an incident ſo extraordinary as the following facts alone could incline any one to credit. As ſoon as capable of reflection, I found myſelf [3] and a ſiſter of my own age, in an apart⯑ment with a lady, and a maid older than herſelf. —Every day furniſhed us with whatever was neceſſary for ſubſiſtence or improvement, ſupplied as it ſeemed by ſome inviſible hand; for I rarely miſſed either of the few who commonly ſurround⯑ed me. This Receſs could not be called a cave, becauſe it was compoſed of vari⯑ous rooms; and the ſtones were obviouſly united by labor; yet every room was diſ⯑tinct, and divided from the reſt by a vaulted paſſage with many ſtairs, while our light proceeded from ſmall caſements of painted glaſs, ſo infinitely above our reach that we could never ſeek a world be⯑yond; and ſo dim, that the beams of the ſun were almoſt a new object to us when we quitted this retirement. Theſe re⯑marks occurred as our minds unfolded; for at firſt we were content, through habit and ignorance, nor once beſtowed a thought on ſurrounding objects. The lady I have mentioned called us her chil⯑dren, and careſſed us both with parental fondneſs. —Bleſt with every gentle charm, [4] it is not wonderful ſhe fully poſſeſſed the affections of thoſe who had no one elſe to idolize. Every morning we met in a larger room than the reſt, where a very venerable man performed maſs, and con⯑cluded with a diſcourſe calculated to en⯑dear retirement. From him we learnt there was a terrible large place called the world, where a few haughty individuals commanded miſerable millions, whom a few artful ones made ſo; that Providence had graciouſly reſcued us from both, nor could we ever be ſufficiently grateful. Young hearts teem with unformed ideas, and are but too ſuſceptible of elevated and enthuſiaſtic impreſſions. Time gave this man inſenſibly an influence over us, as a ſuperior being, to which his appear⯑ance greatly contributed. Imagine a tall and robuſt figure habited in black, and marked by a commanding auſterity of manners. —His features bore the traces of many ſorrows, and a kind of early old age, which intereſted every obſerver. The fire and nobility of his eye, the graceful⯑neſs [5] of his decay, and the heart-affecting ſolemnity of his voice,

gave an authority almoſt irreſiſtible to Fa⯑ther Anthony, as we called him from hearing our mamma, to whom we under⯑ſtood he was brother. He uſually partook our dinner, and from that time 'till the next morning vaniſhed, for we knew not how or where he went. The interval we paſſed in little uſeful works, or in conver⯑ſation with our mamma, whoſe only em⯑ployment was that of forming our minds, for the world we were taught to dread. — She was our world, and all the tender af⯑fections, of which I have ſince proved my heart ſo full, centered in her, and my ſiſ⯑ter. Time and ſorrow had given a wan delicacy to features exquiſitely regular, while the ſoft ſymmetry of her perſon united every common idea of beauty and elegance to a feminine helpleſſneſs, which is, when unaffected, the moſt intereſting of all charms. Her temper was equal, and her underſtanding enriched by a moſt ex⯑tenſive [6] knowledge, to which ſhe was every day adding by perpetual ſtudy. Inclined ſtrongly by nature to ſerious reflection, and all her favorite employments, I uſed to paſs thoſe hours at her ſide Ellinor de⯑voted to her play-things, or to Alice, whoſe memory was overcharged with thoſe marvellous tales children always delight in. As our ideas every day expanded, we thought more and more concerning our origin, and our impriſonment. We knew Father Anthony conſtantly diſappeared, but how or where was a ſecret beyond our comprehenſion; for in all our reſearches we never found a door except thoſe com⯑mon to the family, and which ſhut us from the world. Ellinor, whoſe lively imagi⯑nation readily imbibed the romantic and extravagant, conjectured we were in the power of ſome giant; nay, ſuch was her diſguſt to Father Anthony, that ſhe ſome⯑times apprehended he was a magician, and would one day or other devour us. I had a very different idea; and fancied our retreat a hallowed circle to ſeclude us from the wicked, while Father Anthony [7] was our guardian genius. Frequently we by agreement interrogated Alice, who though fond to the common degree of an old nurſe of both, but more eſpecially Ellen, reſiſted thoſe little arts nature her⯑ſelf inſpires. Our mamma we now and then ventured to ſound, but her gravity always diſconcerted us, and we retreated from a vain attempt.

She once abſented herſelf fourteen days, and left us to our own conjectures, in a ſpot truly chearleſs. Part of the time we ſpent in ſearching once more for a door, and the reſt in childiſh lamentations for her loſs; which Alice ſtill aſſured us would be but a temporary one. Inflexible in the diſcharge of her duty, ſhe ſtill perſiſted in locking our apartment every day after dinner, at which time all who had occa⯑ſion, doubtleſs, paſſed in and out of the Receſs.

Being deprived of my cuſtomary re⯑ſource, books, to amuſe a part of our melancholy leiſure, we mutually agreed to invent tales from the many whole-length pictures, which ornamented the beſt room, [8] and to take them as they came alternately. Ellinor readily invented a ludicrous ſtory upon the portrait of an old man, which made us both laugh heartily. I turned my eyes to conſider what I ſhould ſay a⯑bout the next; they reſted on the figure of a man of noble mien, his dreſs I then knew no name for, but have ſince found to be armour; a page held his helmet, and his hair, of a pale brown, fell over his ſhoulders. He was ſurrounded with many emblems of martial merit, and his eyes, which ſeemed bent on me, were full of a tender ſweetneſs. A ſentiment of veneration, mingled with a ſurpriſing ſoftneſs, pierced my ſoul at once; my tongue faltered with a nameleſs idea, and I reſted my head againſt the ſhoulder of my ſiſter. That dear girl turned to me with quickneſs, and the beam of her eye was like that of the picture. I ſurveyed her over and over, and found in every feature the ſtrongeſt reſemblance; when ſhe frowned, ſhe had all his dignity; when ſhe ſmiled, all his ſweetneſs. An awe, I could not conquer, made me un⯑able [9] to form any tale on that ſubject, and I directed my attention toward the next. It repreſented a lady in the flower of youth, dreſt in mourning, and ſeeming in every feature to be marked by ſorrow; a black veil half ſhaded a coronet ſhe wept over. If the laſt picture awakened vene⯑ration, this ſeemed to call forth a thou⯑ſand melting ſenſations; the tears ruſhed involuntarily into our eyes, and, claſp⯑ing, we wept upon the boſoms of each other. "Ah! who can theſe be? cried we both together. Why do our hearts thus throb before inanimate canvas? ſurely every thing we behold is but part of one great myſtery; when, will the day come, deſtined to clear it up?" We walked arm in arm round, and moralized on every portrait, but none intereſted us like theſe; we were never weary of ſur⯑veying or talking about them; a young heart is frequently engroſſed by a favorite idea, amid all the glare of the great world; nor is it then wonderful ours were thus poſſeſſed when entombed alive in ſuch a narrow boundary. I knew not why, [10] but we lived in the preſence of theſe pic⯑tures as if they underſtood us, and bluſhed when we were guilty of the ſlighteſt folly.

The moment our mamma returned, we flew into her arms, and interrupted her tender careſſes with importunate enquiries concerning theſe favorite pictures. She regarded us with aſtoniſhment—her eyes filled with tears, and ſhe bade us leave her to recover herſelf alone. Shortly after ſhe ſummoned Alice, and held with her a converſation which reſtored her tranquil⯑lity; but ſhe carefully avoided our enqui⯑ries, endeavouring to diverſify our hours by muſic, drawing, poetry, geography, and every ornamental branch of educa⯑tion. Whenever we verged toward an hint about the retreat—"wait, my dear girls, ſhe would ſay, the appointed hour—alas, one may follow it, when you will wiſh yourſelves ſtill uninformed." —Im⯑preſſed with an undefinable melancholy, our years paſſed on 'till womanhood ap⯑proached.

[11]Pardon me if I linger over theſe ſcenes; I have but few ſuch to relate, and they are all of my life upon which my heart dares to pauſe. How are we born to in⯑vent our own miſeries! We ſtart forward from the goal of youth, fearleſs and im⯑patient, nor know the heights and depths through which we muſt labor; oppreſſed in turn by every element, and often over whelmed with that moſt in ſupportable of all burthens, our own diſſatisfied ſouls. How have I wept the moment I quitted the Receſs—a moment I then lived but in hope of! To be always erring, is the weakneſs of humanity, and to be always repent⯑ing, its puniſhment.—Alas! could we learn wiſdom without experience, man⯑kind would perhaps be too happy.

Father Anthony in time ingratiated him⯑ſelf with us, by his continual remonſtran⯑ces againſt our being ſhut up in a place which bounded our ideas ſo much that he deſpaired of making us comprehend half of what he taught us. We ſeconded his advice with endleſs entreaties. Our mamma, who was perſuaſion itſelf in her [12] own perſon, was not proof againſt it in that of another. "Alas, my children, would ſhe often ſay, by what fatality do you ſo paſſionately deſire to leave a home you will hereafter remember with a pleaſure full of regret? In vain you would return to it—you will loſe a taſte for the tranquil enjoyments this ſolitude offers, without perhaps finding any to ſupply them. Yet far be the ſelfiſh weakneſs from my heart of puniſhing you, even for your welfare. You ſhall ſee this ad⯑mired world. May it ever pleaſe you as it will at firſt ſight!"

We embraced her with youthful tranſ⯑port, and then each other—"We ſhall go at laſt, exclaimed both together, we ſhall ſee many more like ourſelves!"

"What ſay you, children? cried ſhe; ah! you will ſee few indeed like your⯑ſelves."

The next day was appointed for our enfranchiſement. We packed and unpacked our little luggage fifty times over for mere employment 'till the appointed hour came; when we were ſummoned to the [13] chamber of our only friend, who was walking about apparently agitated with a ſecret.

"Are you grieved, mamma, cried I, that we are going to be happy?"

"Ah, no Matilda! I am grieved, be⯑cauſe I think you are juſt ceaſing to be ſo. In this peaceful ſolitude I could ſupply to you every loſt relation—the adopted chil⯑dren of my heart, I ſtood between you and a fate at once diſtinguiſhed, obſcure, and affecting.—Alas, why do you wreſt your⯑ſelves and your ſecret from me? Why do you oblige me to tell you, you muſt never more call me any thing but Mrs. Marlow?"

"Never more call you mamma! ſighed I, incoherently, who then are our pa⯑rents?"

"You have no father, he who gave you a being ſleeps in the boſom of God."

"Our mother—"

"Lives—but not for you—enquire no farther; let this ſpecimen of knowledge teach you to fear it.—When the time re⯑quires it, I ſhall diſcloſe your whole ſtory; [14] —weep no more, my lovely, my affect⯑ing girls; I have loſt but a name; for my nature is unalterable. All who will ſee us know I never was married, which abſo⯑lutely compelled me to this diſcovery. But I dare believe they will rely on my rectitude, and welcome you by whatever name I ſhall give you. Reaſons you will hereafter know, induce me always to con⯑ceal a retreat, where alone I could have hid you, and both muſt, ere we leave it, ſolemnly promiſe never to diſcloſe the ſe⯑cret."

Chilled with this ſolemn preparation, our deſire of liberty vaniſhed; we felt like links ſtruck from the chain of crea⯑tion; and ſtill with reſtleſs imaginations explored the remainder of a myſtery which we wept by anticipation. "She lives, but not for you!" were words whoſe ſound vibrated to my heart, while pleaſure danced around me, and the doubt attend⯑ing the future, often robbed the preſent of enjoyment.

After we had made at her knees the ſtrict promiſe required, ſhe muffled our [15] faces, and taking my hand, as Alice did my ſiſter's, led us through many cold paſ⯑ſages for ſome minutes; when unbinding our eyes, we found ourſelves in a noble cloiſter. We flew into the garden it bor⯑dered, and how ſtrong was the impreſſion of the ſcene before us! from the manſion, which ſtood on a hill, ſpread a rich and fertile valley, mingled with thickets, half ſeen or cluſtered hamlets, while through the living landſcape flowed a clear river,

The ſun was ſinking, involved in ſwell⯑ing waves of gold and purple, upon whom we almoſt gazed ourſelves blind: for though we had often read and heard of his effulgence, the author of univerſal being can alone diſplay it. Imagination, Madam, may ſometimes ſurpaſs the won⯑ders of art, but thoſe of nature leave all imagination far behind.

Mrs. Marlow led us through the Abbey, which might rather be called a palace: it [16] was erected upon the ruins of a Monaſtery deſtroyed at the Reformation, and ſtill was called by the name of St. Vincent. It had all the Gothic magnificence and elegance, and we learnt with pleaſure that Mrs. Marlow, the ſiſter of its owner, Lord Scroope, was conſidered by every ſervant as its miſtreſs. A noble apartment within hers was allotted for us, and the charms of the new world mingled with our melancholy reveries, alike deſtroy⯑ing our reſt. The riſing of the ſun, whoſe firſt beams gilt our windows, rouzed us entirely. Methinks, while I expatiate on theſe trifles, time ſeems ſuſ⯑pended, and the ſcene ſtill exiſting before me. The rich dew-drops, thoſe jewels with which nature decks her boſom, glit⯑tering to the rays that wandered over the graſs: the various animals that ſeemed to derive a daily exiſtence from the return of that glorious orb: the morning hymn of the winged creation, all united to awaken our gratitude, and humble us be⯑fore the author of our being. "Accept, oh God, would we cry ſpontaneouſly, the [17] adoration of two hearts, who know no claim in this mighty univerſe but thee! oh deign to bleſs the deſire of doing right with the power! and if only ſorrow touch our hearts, ſanctify it with reſignation: ſo when time delivers us up to eternity, hope may be our conductor!"

We were delighted with a playful group of fawns and deer, with whom we longed to frolic, and ſtole through Mrs. Marlow's chamber into the park, by a paſſage ſhe had pointed out to us the day before. What was our ſurprize when we ſaw thoſe with whom we had in idea mingled, were large fierce creatures, and that had they not run from us, we muſt from them; that every bird feared its natural pro⯑tector, and that man lived in continual warfare with every things in creation, even to his own ſpecies!

I am tedious, and muſt have done with theſe puerilities, which yet on reflection yield the pureſt pleaſures of our lives. Mrs. Marlow procured for us the beſt in⯑ſtructors in every art and ſcience that re⯑mote reſidence afforded, and, by her own [18] example, gave that elegant finiſh to our manners, precept never can. Extremely detached, by our ſituation, from ſociety, we eaſily diſcerned Mrs. Marlow was willing we ſhould be ſo, for ſhe frequently expreſſed anxiety at the thoughts of Lord Scroope's return; who, I underſtood, was ſent am⯑baſſador to the Hague from Queen Eli⯑zabeth, Our maſters, our ſervants, and the various ruſtics who tenanted the eſtate, met in the chapel of St. Vincent's Abbey once a week, and thoſe were all our intercourſe with ſociety. On the evening of every Sunday we regularly went to the cell of Father Anthony, which was a cot raiſed by Lord Scroope (to whom he ſtood in the ſame relation as Mrs Mar⯑low) on the verge of a large wood which ſheltered the manſion behind. Here, while we were indulged with all thoſe ſimple repaſts novelty gives charms to, our minds were enlarged by converſations on every thing ſublime or inſtructive. If benevo⯑lence drew Mrs. Marlow abroad, ſhe made us always her companions, and gave her alms but through our hands; ordering [19] us ever to add ſome mite of our own, in proportion to our means. Avarice is rarely the vice of youth; at leaſt, if I may [...]udge by my own heart; for the chief joy of receiving, to me, was that of giving. Nor could Charity have deſcended to earth in a more lovely form, than that of Mrs. Marlow. At a tale of diſtreſs her eye aſſumed a melting benignity rarely ſeen, and never deſcribed; while her approach gave that pleaſure to every ſufferer, one ſhould feel at the viſible preſence of a guardian angel.

Three years elapſed in this manner, ere Lord Scroope returned; and when he did, he was ſo deeply engaged in politics, that the various preſents he continually ſent from London, was to us the only differ⯑ence.

Still the ſad found,—"your mother lives—but not for you!" rung through our hearts occaſionally; ſtill we equally de⯑ſired to diſcover the Receſs; and wan⯑dered through St. Vincent's Abbey with the ſame curioſity we once before did through that. The more we reflected, the [20] more we were convinced it muſt be near us; but the reſpect we had for Mrs. Mar⯑low's ſolemn injunctions, ſealed our lips to every ſervant, and we never were allowed to ramble unattended.

Mrs. Marlow, endued with the pureſt principles, juſtly conceived happineſs the nobleſt uſe of underſtanding; and bent her whole attention towards convincing us, the fate appointed us was the moſt deſirable in the world. "Here, would ſhe ſay, in a happy retirement, free alike from the drudgeries of high or low life, peace and innocence becalms your hearts, and blooms on your cheeks. Unenvying and unenvied as now, may that moment find you none can avoid! Ah, how un⯑like the vices and miſeries of a court! There you can have no vice ſo injurious to yourſelves as ſincerity; no merit, like hypocriſy. Love and friendſhip are un⯑known, and their names made uſe of but to entrap the unwary. Women that have beauty are deſtroyed by it, and all who have not, are neglected. The gifts of man take place of the gifts of God, and money [21] alone conſtitutes merit.—Ah, never! ne⯑ver! my dear girls, can you enough bleſs that indulgent Providence, which with⯑draws you from it!"

Shall I confeſs my vanity? When I looked in the glaſs, I did not think I ſhould be neglected, even at court. I had no opportunity for forming any juſt com⯑pariſon indeed; for the ruſtics around us, ſcorched with toil, had only charms enough left to ſhew what they might have been with care. The clearneſs of my complexion, and the delicacy of my fea⯑tures, left me no equal, but my ſiſter: Nay, even our habits, though often only of a finer camblet than theirs, were made in ſo different a manner, that they did not appear to be compoſed of the ſame mate⯑rials.

However diſpoſed to profit by the ad⯑vice of our more than parent, Heaven did not permit us to be happy. The clouds broke at once over our heads; Mrs. Marlow, our only tye on earth, and therefore doubly prized, was ſeized with a fever; the more dangerous, becauſe it [22] was not violent enough at firſt to ſhew itſelf. To paint our diſtraction would be a vain attempt, Kneeling on each ſide her bed, for fourteen days and nights, we by tears and inward ſupplications perſe⯑cuted the Almighty. Affectionately at⯑tached to us, ſhe ſtruggled for our ſakes with the diſorder, 'till having worn her down to a ſkeleton, it began at laſt to abate; but notwithſtanding every effort of art, could never be eradicated. Scarce had we breathed after this diſtreſs, when an ex⯑preſs from London delivered a pacquet to Mrs. Marlow, which occaſioned her in⯑ſtantly to ſummon Father Anthony; they remained in conſultation for ſome time, when they bade Alice order us inſtantly to join them.

"My children, ſaid Mrs. Marlow, faintly, an unforeſeen event obliges us once more to retire to the Receſs. Every thing is at this moment preparing for our reception. You are now at years to judge of the im⯑portance of its concealment, nor will I longer make it a myſtery.—But why thus afflict yourſelves for a temporary re⯑ſtraint? [23] If I am willing, for your ſakes, to be carried thither, like a corpſe into a tomb, ſurely you will not be ſo un⯑generous as to vent one ſelfiſh lamen⯑tation?"

Effectually ſilenced by this noble re⯑proof, we collected, in confuſion and grief, our clothes and ornaments; when, returning to her room, we found there Father Anthony, an old domeſtick called James, Alice, and the Houſekeeper; who, having diſperſed the other ſervants; pre⯑ceded us to a ſtore-room on the ground floor, and opening a preſs, unfaſtened a falſe back, which conducted us into a clo⯑ſet, dark, but for our torches. She then lifted a part of the floor, fitted very neatly, and diſcovered a narrow pair of ſtairs, down which we went, leaving her behind, and effectually ſecured ourſelves, by bolt⯑ing it firmly on the inſide. We paſt through ſeveral ſubterraneous paſſages built on arches, and preſerved from damps by cavities which paſſed through every ſtatue that ornamented the garden, 'till at laſt we reached our priſon. But judge of [24] my aſtoniſhment, when I found the ſo of⯑ten-ſought entrance was a door of the ſize of that portrait which firſt gave me ſuch ſingular ſenſations, and which I perceived was made to fall together, with a ſpring al⯑moſt imperceptible.

Father Anthony ſilenced the exclama⯑tions I would have made, and drew me at once to Mrs. Marlow; who, pale and lifeleſs with the fatigue of this removal, gave additional terrors to the moment. Whether the agitation of her mind in⯑creaſed her malady, or it was originally beyond cure, I know not; but ſaw, with ſpechleſs affliction, from the moment of our return to the Receſs, ſhe would ne⯑ver leave it alive. Encloſed in a ſpot with⯑out ſufficient air, attendance, or advice, we ſaw her finiſh her generous attachment to us, by reſolutely reſiſting our intrea⯑ties.

"Let us quit this dreary place, I would ſay, if but for a cottage. Let us not, in loſing you, have the cruel aggravation of contributing to ſo great a misfortune.—Oh! [25] what more can we have to fear, than the loſs of all we love?"

"Why, why, my children, returned ſhe, thus embitter a common fate? Can I, who have voluntarily paſſed my youth in a tomb, dread to bury my duſt in it? You know my opinion is ſingular, nor do I think man could avert the ſtroke when God recalls us, however wiſe or willing. If I had been taken earlier from you, indeed, heavy to all muſt have been the calamity; but after hav⯑ing taught you to live, there remains this only leſſon, and my duty is complete; you now are enabled to judge for your⯑ſelves, confide in God, and he will not deſert you."

"Alas! would I cry, drowned in tears, from your eye alone have we learnt when we did any thing aright; we ſhall no lon⯑ger know good from evil when that dear eye is cloſed."

"Matilda, replied ſhe with a ſolemn air, remember only when you are called to any important action, to conſult your heart in ſolitude; God has placed in that [26] heart an unerring monitor, and if we hear not the ſmall ſtill voice, it is becauſe we drown it in the noiſe of the world; then ſhall we meet again to part no more; then at the tribunal of the Moſt High, I ſhall gladly ſay, "theſe trea⯑ſures, O Lord, didſt thou entruſt to my hand unfullied, behold even ſo I reſtore them."

Riſing up as ſhe pronounced theſe words, ſhe held a hand of each of us to her heart, while her eyes ſtreamed with a kind of glory when lifted toward her Creator. Never did I ſee ſuch an animated figure; her ſoul ſeemed that moment burſting from its beauteous manſion to join its ſiſter angels.

"Matilda and Ellinor, my more than children, you recollect, ſaid ſhe, I ſup⯑preſſed your curioſity once, by telling you, I would reveal your ſecret finally when the hour demanded it. That hour is come. Alas! I cannot but weep to remember, that a thouſand intereſting ideas are now going to withdraw your affections from her who agonizes over you."

[27] We kiſſed her hand in ſpeechleſs ſor⯑row—

"'Tis true, continued ſhe, my brother might hereafter diſcloſe your ſtory, but there are among its incidents, ſome that need the gentleneſs of a woman to teach you to bewail, without imitating. In this little hiſtory you will find the full motive of my retreat, and the means by which it was effected."

"You already know I am ſiſter to the preſent Lord Scroope, but you know not that I derived my birth from the ill-judged zeal of my mother. Bred up a Papiſt, ſhe no ſooner entertained a paſſion for Lord Scroope, than ſhe formed a deſign to convert him to the Catholick religion. She was handſome, as I have always heard, and he was young; he affected to be ſen⯑ſible of her efforts, which redoubled her zeal. She thought the love of Heaven alone actuated her heart, but he took ad⯑vantage of thoſe moments, and ſhe found too late ſhe had ſacrificed her own ſoul's welfare to his indulgence: her relations, [28] who had the more encouraged her, as my father was a great match in point of for⯑tune, exaſperated at an error they ought rather to have charged themſelves with, ſhut her up, and treated her with the ut⯑moſt rigor."

" In this terrible ſituation ſhe was deli⯑vered of me; her relations took me in⯑ſtantly from her ſight; they wrapt me in the moſt diſgraceful habiliments, and ſent me, with a letter full of the bittereſt threats and taunts, to my father. Far from feeling that indifference very young men uſually behold their offspring with, he received me as the firſt gift of Heaven, and, committing me to the charge of pro⯑per people, made me of no leſs conſe⯑quence than if I had been his legitimate daughter, and heireſs of his eſtate."

"In the mean time my mother was kept in total ignorance of the fate of her child; miſerable in her own heart, and eternally taunted for the diſgrace ſhe had brought on her family, ſhe at length re⯑ſolved to make her eſcape to Lord Scroope; —ſhe effected it, and found in [29] his houſe the treaſure of all her hopes, her child; but as ſhe was not of an age to be independent, on her being diſcovered by her kindred, ſhe was again torn from his arms, and I was forever bereaved of a mother before I was ſenſible I had one. How often did my father repent his in⯑juſtice to her! it hung heavy on his ſoul in life, and was moſt terrible in death. In vain he ſought her, for never from that hour did Heaven permit the erring pair to meet. A few years afterwards he married, and had by his wife the preſent Lord; this circumſtance, far from leſſening his affec⯑tion, endeared me ſtill more to him; he remembered I had no fortune but from his bounty, no claim but on his heart. His Lady having no more children, be⯑gan to conſider me as her daughter, and the misfortune of my birth was almoſt forgotten. In this ſituation I grew up, careſſed by all his friends, and admired infinitely more than I deſerved; for from the time my brother grew of an age to appear in the world, Lord Scroope had left St. Vincent's Abbey for the Court. [30] Many matches offered, of which my fa⯑ther often entreated me to chuſe. I how⯑ever, ſaw no man with a preference; and as I was ſenſible my heart was too tender not to become partial, I wiſhed to evade all propoſals 'till then. I had in this in⯑terval the misfortune to loſe my father, whoſe ſenſes failing him in his laſt ſick⯑neſs, he had no power to make a neceſſary proviſion for me; yet' in his delirium he raved of me and my mother continually. I felt this loſs the leſs ſenſibly, as I was treated with the utmoſt generoſity and tenderneſs by my brother and the dowa⯑ger Lady Scroope; but I found my train of admirers diminiſh apace, when one appeared, who atoned in my eyes for the loſs of a thouſand. He was a young Weſt-Indian, poſſeſſed of a conſiderable for⯑tune, an amiable perſon, and an untainted heart. When I ſay I loved him, I ſpeak but coldly; you will know how well here⯑after. Mr. Colville, for that was his name, was of a character too much re⯑ſembling the young Lord Scroope's, not to be favoured by him. He proved by [31] the generoſity or his behaviour, the ſince⯑rity of his love; neither the misfortune of my birth, or want of riches, dimi⯑niſhed his ardor; but rather, on the con⯑trary, augmented it. His fortune was independent, and I was not deſirous of more than a very moderate, competence. The day of our marriage was fixed, and arrived equally wiſhed by both. We were united in the preſence of the Lord and Lady Scroope, who had loaded me with noble preſents. Our hearts were gay, and a large company aſſembled on the occaſion, invented a thouſand diverſions. I was ſitting after dinner at the head of the table, ſinging, when a ſervant entered and whiſpered my huſband; he roſe up, and followed him into the next room; my eyes were induſtrious to find him, and as he left the door open, I perceived him, from an oppoſite pier glaſs, take a packet of letters from a man, he held them in his hand 'till I ceaſed ſinging, and then began reading: he continued to do ſo ſome minutes, when I ſaw his hand ſhake with great; violence, which ſoon di⯑miniſhing, [32] he fell to the ground. I ſtarted up in the utmoſt agitation; — he was cold and convulſed. I took up the papers, but had not read half as far, before I was as inſenſible as himſelf."

(Mrs. Marlow was ſo affected at this paſſage, ſhe had not power to proceed; at laſt recovering, ſhe held up her hands, while her ſine eyes were drowned in tears, and repeated)

"Let me not, oh God, ſince I ſurvived that moment, ſink under the remem⯑brance of it! I muſt cut ſhort deſcription, my children, on a circumſtance which ſo nearly affects my heart. The letters were from his mother; after telling him ſhe had ſuffered him to depart with the more eaſe for England, as ſhe wiſhed to have an opportunity of declaring a ſecret to him, ſhame had long ſuppreſſed, and which her decaying health forbid her lon⯑ger to conceal, ſhe related the incidents of her life; a few of which decided our fate, and convinced me the ſame parents gave birth to both. What a terrible diſ⯑covery! I ſhall paſs over thoſe events [33] you already know, and only mention, that on being forced by her tyrannical re⯑lations from Lord Scroope's houſe, they ſent her under the care of an uncle, in the Spaniſh ſervice, to the Weſt-Indies. Dur⯑ing the paſſage, ſhe found herſelf again with child; her kinſman, exaſperated at this circumſtance, uſed every means to pre⯑vail on her to marry Mr. Colville (a ſettler whoſe plantations joined his, and who was a paſſenger on board-the ſame veſſel) without acquainting him with her ſituation. Per⯑ſecuted and diſtreſſed on all ſides, ſhe at laſt took a reſolution on the firſt occaſion, to declare all to her lover. His aſſiduity furniſhed her with one ere long, which ſhe did not neglect. As ſoon as he had conquered his ſurpriſe, he aſſured her ſhe ſhould never repent her generous confidence in his honor, which affected him the more ſenſibly as his friend would meanly have deceived him. He owned himſelf ſo attached, that if ſhe could give up fruitleſs hopes to partake his fortune, he would marry her directly, with⯑out claiming any right from the ceremony, [34] but that of releaſing her from the tyranny, of her kindred, and hereafter providing, in the ſame manner for her child as he would for any of his own. Overcome with the ſeverity of her treatment, from thoſe who were bound to pity her, and ſenſible the ſtranger who could ſpeak ſo generouſly on the ſubject, might make her as happy as ſhe now durſt hope to be, ſhe requeſted time to deliberate on the propoſal; he granted it. Some days elapſed, during which, ſhe reſolved to ſecure to herſelf the privilege of keeping one of her children, by conſenting. They were united by a holy father then on board, who, at Mr. Colville's deſire, gave out he had married them two months before in London, but concealed it from ſome motives reſpecting the lady's friends. Her uncle, under whoſe care ſhe was, not ſuſpecting the eclairciſſement, was aſtoniſhed how ſhe had brought her lover to conſent to this; but, as his authority was at an end by her compliance with his wiſhes, he affected the utmoſt ſatisfaction, and offered them ſome valuable preſents, [35] Mr. Colville, whoſe ingenuous heart ab⯑horred his meanneſs, refuſed with con⯑tempt thoſe poor compenſations, for a deceit which might have proved ſo fatal to his happineſs, nor left him to ſuppoſe he was ignorant of the favor intended him. He painted the infamy of the pro⯑ceeding in the ſtrongeſt colours, and on their arrival at Jamaica, carried his bride to his own plantation, without deigning to take leave of her relation. "Here, ſaid the dear lady, I gave birth, my ſon, to you, and here I firſt learnt to be happy. The generous kindneſs with which Mr. Colville treated you, the unwearied at⯑tention he ſhewed to me, deſerved, and obtained, my whole heart. It ſeemed as if the ſincerity of my conduct had can⯑celled its errors; I may truly ſay, I ne⯑ver ſaw him careſs you, without ardently wiſhing you had a claim to the name he beſtowed on you. You grew up without my ever hearing of your real father, and as it little became me to wound the heart of my huſband, I preſerved an abſolute ſilence on the ſubject, nor ſeemed to re⯑member [36] ſuch a perſon ever had exiſted. I will not ſay I never thought of him; nature taught you to recall him to my mind by a thouſand artleſs geſtures. —I gave you, after ſome years, two ſiſters and a brother, the loſs of whom you doubt⯑leſs remember. A generous, though ſi⯑lent ſtruggle, continued during their lives, between Mr. Colville and myſelf ; I al⯑ways attempted to convince him you, though the elder, had not more than a juſt portion of my love; and he, no leſs anxiouſly, ſought to ſatisfy me his own children had not made him forget what he had promiſed reſpecting you. Hea⯑ven, however took them to itſelf, and Mr. Colville divided between you and me a fortune too dearly gained by his loſs; though you have paid the tribute of filial gratitude over his grave, my ſon, remember, that is inſufficient; you owe him every thing, and can never diſcharge the obligation. Your youth, and the pleaſure Mr. Colville took in being called your father, made it very improper I ſhould intruſt to you a ſecret ſo humiliating; to myſelf, and dif⯑treſſing [37] to him; yet, ſenſible of the neceſ⯑ſity, I have, ſince his death, a thouſand times reſolved on it, and as Conſtantly given up the deſign. At laſt, my dear child, you rendered it eaſier to me, by propoſing to viſit England, and I ſuffered you to go with leſs regret, becauſe I hoped you there would find another pa⯑rent, one whoſe claim in you is the ſame with mine, and one, who I am aſſured, will proudly acknowledge you. Go then, my dear Anthony, to Lord Scroope, ſhew him this letter, tell him, for I am not afraid to ſay it, even to yourſelf, I ſend him a ſon worthy of a nobler name than theweakneſs of your mother has given you. Tell him, I will not allow him to provide for your ſiſter Gertrude, ſince the fortune I poſſeſs is already deſtined to her, if living. Do you, my dear Anthony, re⯑pair my loſs to her, for never, in reſpect to my huſband's memory, will I ſee again the father of my children; this place ſhall be my grave, and here, while life remains, I will bleſs my dear children, and pray that [38] the ſins of their parents may never be viſited upon them."

"Vain wiſh, ſaid Mrs. Marlow; the ſtroke was already given. Judge for me, my dear girls, what I felt on reading ſuch tender ſentiments, and remember⯑ing the characters were thoſe of a mo⯑ther!"

"We were removed to ſeparate apart⯑ments; Mr. Colville, no longer my huſ⯑band, had ſtrength of conſtitution, but not ſtrength of mind, to ſupport this ca⯑lamity; he fell into a deep melancholy, and ſhut himſelf from all the world: as to me, Heaven, in mercy, took away my ſenſes by a violent fever; I remained in a dangerous ſituation ſeveral weeks, during which time he formed a reſolu⯑tion, my reſteration gave him opportu⯑nity to effect. Each wanting courage to ſee the other, he informed me, by letter, he only waited my conſent to return to his own country, and diſpoſe of his effects, the produce of which might endow the monaſtery where he ſhould receive the holy habit. He conjured me to ſupport [39] a misfortune, his letter convinced me, he was unable to endure. The ſad choice he had made was already mine; I wrote to inform him of it; I conjured him ne⯑ver to betray to our mother the fatal event of her concealment, but to perſuade her we were both happy. —What a vain requeſt! had not Heaven deprived her of ever ſee⯑ing him, how could he have concealed ſo exquiſite a diſtreſs? —A wound in the heart will ever bleed on the flighteſt touch."

"I recovered my ſenſes, but that diſguſt with which every diſappointment (and how much more ſo deep a one!) over⯑whelms a young mind, made every thing odious to me; the hours when I was ſo pleaſingly deceived, were all I reckoned in my life. Before I left my room, my Lord's marriage with the Lady Matilda Howard was concluded; his union with the firſt Lady in England, both in birth and beauty, gave the greateſt pleaſure to all who loved him. Little able, and leſs diſpoſed to aſſiſt at feſtivities, I retired on the plea of bad health to the Abbey. [40] The death of the Dowager Lady Scroope; in the midſt of the pleaſures, entirely damped them. Lord Scroope conducted his new Lady into the country, to paſs the time of mourning; the amiable en⯑gaging bride conceived a friendſhip for⯑me, which, as is frequently the caſe in roble minds, had perhaps its ſource in my misfortunes. With, all the graces that adorn grandeur, Lady Scroope had the ſweet ſimplicity of a village maid; a heart full of the moſt exquiſite delicacy and ſenſibility, and features, which did juſtice to her mind. My Lord perfectly adored her, and her rank and charms ſoon made me find St. Vincent's Abbey no longer a retirement."

"A letter came in a ſhort time from my brother, which informed me, on his ar⯑rival at Jamaica, he found my mother had died during his abſence; this was accompanied with bills for a large ſum, as my portion of her valuable legacy. There is ſomething ſo tender in the name, the idea of a mother, although unknown, chat in ſpite of my other afflictions, I found [41] a very ſenſible one in her loſs. My heart had now no reſting place. Before, the re⯑membrance that the blow came from her, however unintentionally, gave me a little courage, which I was not ſure I poſſeſſed till it was loſt. There is a pleaſure to hearts capable of refinement, in ſacrificing ſomething to the friends we love; the ſi⯑lence we endured to ſave her from diſtreſs had leſſened mine, which now broke forth anew. The amiable Lady Scroope neg⯑lected nothing to ſoften it; ſhe uſed every effort to prevent my retiring to the mo⯑naſtery, as I had purpoſed; her influence over her Lord made her wiſhes too ſurely his for him to neglect adding his intrea⯑ties; the obligations I owed his family, the eſteem I had for his Lady, and the very refinement I have mentioned, made me unable to refuſe. I could never make too large amends for ſuch kindneſs. My ſiſter-in-law, who rather boaſted than diſowned the title, to gratify me, neg⯑lected the amuſements natural to her years, and a mind at eaſe; it ſeemed as if I had the authority veſted in her, and [42] not her will, but mine, directed the fami⯑ly. Our gueſts departed by degrees, and Lady Scroope's brother, the young Duke of Norfolk, with ſome other relations, alone remained.

"To ſatisfy my brother Anthony no le⯑vity had eraſed from my mind the tender ties which once united us, and which neither time nor reaſon could ever entirely diſſolve, I laid before him the motives of my conduct, and conjured him to be⯑lieve, ſince I could never be his, I never would be another's. Lady Scroope not being able to prevail on me to return to London, departed without me, after ex⯑torting a promiſe, that I would think no more of a nunnery. She had left the Abbey three months, when ſhe gave birth to the preſent Lord, to the inexpreſ⯑ſible joy of her huſband. To ſhew all the gratitude in my power for the favors I had received both from Lord Scroope and his mother, I divided my fortune, and in⯑ſiſted on their accepting half, as a preſent to the young heir. The generous Matilda would have returned it, but her Lord, [43] more ſenſible of the value of money, re⯑ceived the gift. She reproached me for it with that kind raillery which friends know how to make ſo agreeable; ſhe told me ſhe ſhould ceaſe to love me, ſince the world would now call her attachment in⯑tereſted.

In the time of her abſence, I ſpent many hours in reviewing the ruins with which this place abounded; the gloomy mag⯑nificence of thoſe great remains of art, was more ſuited to my ſadneſs of ſoul than the ſofter and more varied ſcenes of nature; the liking I had conceived for theſe places, doubtleſs firſt cauſed the houſekeeper to ſhew me the Receſs. She had lived in the family a vaſt number of years, and knew the ſecret. How often had I walked through its ruined ailes, without ſuſpecting it could poſ⯑ſibly contain one habitable ſpot! I will now, my dear children, explain its ſituation and ſtructure: —It was once inhabited by nuns of the order of St. Winifred, but deſerted before the [44] abolition of Convents, from its ruinous condition; in this ſituation it remained many years, ſhunned by the country peo⯑ple, and devoutly viſited by thoſe tra⯑vellers whom chance or curioſity brought this way. When the Reformation, in the time of Henry, robbed the monks of their vaſt domains, the anceſtor of Lord Scroope obtained this land of the King; he pulled down the monaſtery to erect a convenient manſion in the ſame taſte, and diſcovered a ſecret paſſage from thence to the Convent; it was blocked up without being generally known, and the ruins left as an addition to the proſ⯑pect; nor till chance gave the commu⯑nication a value, was it remembered. The nobleman who could obtain ſo vaſt a favor, 'tis needleſs to mention, pro⯑feſſed the reformed religion, but not able to forget that in which he had been brought up, his houſe became the aſylum of many of the unrevenued fathers; this circumſtance being noticed, he found his views in the world depended on his ex⯑pelling them, when the ſecret paſſage oc⯑curred [45] to his remembrance. He had the ſtones removed cautiouſly by the holy fa⯑thers, and found the place well arched and paved, and free from damps; it termina⯑ted in a room they ſuppoſed to have been the refectory, and which ſtill re⯑mained entire. They removed, by de⯑grees, ſuch accommodations as were ne⯑ceſſary into it, and thither the refugees retired, being ſupplied with food from the Abbey; but finding themſelves ſhut up in too ſmall a place, and in total want of employment, they began working under ground, and by degrees formed two other paſſages from the Receſs, one of which ends in the Hermit's cave, where the eldeſt of them lived, and the other in the midſt of the ruins. Thus providing againſt diſcovery, or rather ſecuring their eſcape if that ſhould happen. In ſurvey⯑ing the ruins, they found ſeveral places encloſed, and yet undemoliſhed; from among thoſe, they ſelected the few we have lived in, chuſing them always ſe⯑parated to prevent ſuſpicion. Thus, in a few years, each father had his own [46] cell, and a monaſtery was hid among the ruins of the convent. At length, the ſeverity of government abating, ſeveral of the monks ventured again into the world, and of the eight who made it their aſylum, two only ended their days here. Lord Scroope, ſenſible of the va⯑lue of ſuch a retirement, carefully kept the ſecret when its inhabitants were gone; two ſervants alone knew it, and they were faithful; nor till the houſe-keeper told me the ſtory, had I an idea of ſuch a place.

This account appeared almoſt fabulous to me; —the ruin was at leaſt half a mile from the manſion, which then had a view of it riſing plantations daily diminiſhed, till the wood became frequented, or indeed paſſable only on the ſide near the Hermit's cave: I impatiently deſired to explore the whole romantic ſecret.

The houſe-keeper did not delay a mo⯑ment to gratify my curioſity; ſhe ſum⯑moned an old ſervant who knew the way, with torches, to lead me through the windings. The arched roof which was, [47] by ſome contrivance in the building, kept aſtoniſhingly free from damps, echoed to our very feet. The gloomi⯑neſs of the ſcene accorded with my ideas, and ſuggeſted a ſcheme which I have ſince thought a providential one, to my mind. The diviſion of the rooms, the bare walls, and holes in the roof for air, diſpleaſed me; but ſince my affection for Lord and Lady Scroope debarred me from de⯑voting myſelf to a convent, I reſolved to fit this place up, and retire to it whenever the owners, with their gueſts, made St. Vincent's Abbey too gay for me. Three times I viſited it, and each time found my deſire greater. I diſcourſed with the old man, who, from a conſiderable re⯑ward I offered him, agreed, with the aſſi⯑ſtance of his ſon, who was a builder, to ren⯑der this a comfortable habitation. I was unwilling to admit a third perſon into the ſecret, but ſoon diſcovered his ſon James was already acquainted with it. They directly began lodging their implements in the cave, which was altered to give a face to the whole. Three months made [48] it what it now is; charmed with a de⯑vice which I little foreſaw would be uſe⯑ful to my friends, the houſe-keeper and my maid Alice, brought, by my direc⯑tion, every neceſſary to the dark room, from whence the men fetched them. The time of my Lord's return drew nigh, the place was aired, and my books and clothes already carried there; no ſooner had I reſigned the care of the family into the hands of my amiable ſiſter, than I acquainted her with my intended retreat. Her ſurpriſe was extreme at ſeeing how commodious we had rendered ſo ſe⯑queſtered a ſpot; but being fearful, if ſhe oppoſed my reſolution, of ſeeming to conſtrain me, ſhe ſuffered me to indulge my fancy. Hither then I retired, at⯑tended by Alice and James, the latter of whom lived in the cave to ſecure us from diſcovery, and furniſh us every little convenience. This ſolitude, ſo ſuitable to the ſadneſs of my ſoul, was inexpreſ⯑ſibly agreeable to me; it had all the ad⯑vantages of a nunnery, without the tie [49] to continue in it; a reſtriction the moſt likely to make retirement odious. My brother Anthony (with whom I conſtantly correſponded) charmed with the deſcrip⯑tion of a ſpot ſo well calculated for hearts wounded like his and mine, aſſured me, inſtead of ſhutting himſelf up in a con⯑vent, for which he felt he had no voca⯑tion, as ſoon as he thought he could bring himſelf to conſider me only as a ſiſter, he would fix his reſidence in the cave.

I had remained there two months, when a meſſenger arrived to recall Lord Scroope to Court; the cauſe could not remain a ſecret. Mary of Scotland, that beautiful and unfortunate Queen, who had been impriſoned by her ſubjects as an acceſſary to the murder of her huſband, had found means to eſcape, and implore the protection of Elizabeth. The jea⯑louſy and hatred that princeſs had long entertained for one ſo ſuperior in thoſe endowments moſt admired by herſelf, made this ſtep excuſable in Mary, only [50] from the cruelty of her ſituation. But did not that very ſituation entitle her to royal treatment? In Elizabeth many noble qualities are mingled with impati⯑ence, caprice, pride, and exceſſive vanity. Overjoyed at getting a rival into her hands, doubly formidable, inſtead of offering Mary a princely aſylum, till, on the proof of her innocence, ſhe ſhould be reſtored to her crown, Elizabeth inſtantly made the Queen of Scots ſenſible of her power, by dropping thoſe ardent expreſſions of friendſhip and eſteem with which all her letters had before been filled (moſt pro⯑bably to hide the very reverſe) and inſiſt⯑ing on her conſenting to be tried by laws, with which ſhe was unacquainted, and never yet ſubject to. It was to propoſe thoſe harſh terms to Mary, the Queen had ſent for Lord Scroope; ſhe deputed him in concert with the duke of Norfolk, and ſeveral other Lords Commiſſioners, to receive from Mary her juſtification, and examine into the authenticity of the proofs.

[51]The deſerted, nay, almoſt betrayed Queen of Scotland, too late found how little the profeſſions of the great are to be relied on. She was now in a worſe con⯑dition than if ſhe had ſtill remained in her own country, and ſubmitted to laws by which ſhe had governed. Compelled, by the ſeverity of her fate, to bend to a woman but equal with herſelf; to give herſelf up a priſoner to a government ſhe had never offended, and over which ſhe was probably deſtined to reign; as a cri⯑minal, to attempt a juſtification before people too probably ordered to condemn her, and, even if they avoided that, too politic to clear her innocence, and re⯑ſtore her freedom: For the Queen of En⯑gland had already placed a number of peo⯑ple around her, who watched all her ſteps ſo cautiouſly, that they wanted only the name to become a guard. Amid all theſe fears and mortifications, ſubmiſſion was Mary's only meaſure. She had learnt, young as ſhe was, to ſubmit with dignity, and demand a degree of generoſity, by not ſeeming to doubt of finding it. She there⯑fore [52] received the Queen's pleaſure with compoſure, delivered herſelf into Lord Scroope's hands, and agreed to defer ap⯑pearing before her ſiſter Elizabeth, 'till ſhe could appear with honor.

This great event engroſſed the atten⯑tion of all Europe. Various opinions were formed, and Elizabeth never found Mary more formidable than when in her power. All blamed her errors, but they pitied her youth, and imputed many of them to inexperience and faults in her education. Her uncommon beauty, af⯑fability, elegance of manners, and ex⯑preſſion, were ſtrongly commended by all who had ſeen her, and thoſe who had not, liſtened to the tale with avidity, and re⯑ported it with increaſe. Every word in her praiſe was a dagger to the heart of Eliza⯑beth, and the unfortunate Mary's greateſt crimes with her, were the graces ſhe re⯑ceived from nature.

Lady Scroope had ſpent ſome of her early years in the French Court. Mary was too affable and amiable not to attach every one for whom ſhe had an inclina⯑tion, [53] and the friendſhip ſhe ſhewed for the Lady Matilda, would have made the ſeparation the more afflicting, but that Mary, by the death of Francis the ſecond, found herſelf no longer attached to France, and was obliged, with infinite regret, to quit the kingdom ſhe had been educated in, to govern one filled with do⯑meſtic jars, and almoſt ignorant of thoſe ſoftneſſes which give charms to ſoci⯑ety; and which, in a peculiar degree, adorned the court ſhe had hitherto reigned over.

The troubles in which ſhe had been plunged, from the hour ſhe returned to Scotland, had ſcarce given her leiſure to diſtinguiſh thoſe ſhe had formerly honored with her notice: Lady Scroope had, how⯑ever, always preſerved an attachment to her, leſs the fruit of gratitude than ſym⯑pathy. The Queen's preſent ſad ſitua⯑tion, of which ſhe heard amply from her Lord, touched her to the very ſoul. She accuſed Elizabeth of meanneſs and injuſ⯑tice; and, without doubting the inno⯑cence of Mary, ſhe ardently deſired to [54] lighten her captivity, and convince her, that misfortune had not robbed her of every friend. Theſe ſentiments were too fervently generous not to engage me. I inſenſibly took part in what intereſted my ſiſter ſo nearly, and learnt to deplore a Princeſs thus treated, whom, in a happier ſituation, I ſhould doubtleſs have cen⯑ſured.

Lord Scroope, to ſatisfy his wife, who entreated him to the ſtep, repreſented to Elizabeth, the impropriety of leaving the Queen of Scots unaccompanied by any lady of diſtinction, and without the at⯑tendance, nothing could exempt the place ſhe had choſen for an aſylum, from pay⯑ing her, whether guilty or innocent. To give force to this, he hinted the error of harſh meaſures, which intereſted the com⯑mon people, and by engaging their pity, might weaken their fidelity.

The laſt reaſon, weighed infinitely more with our Queen than the firſt, for her heart was more full of policy than feeling. She however appointed Lady Scroope to [55] attend upon Mary, and ſent orders to treat her more ſuitably to her rank.

Overjoyed at carrying her point, with⯑out appearing in it, Lady Scroope did not delay her journey; but unwilling to leave me, ſhe uſed all her intereſt and in⯑fluence to perſuade me to accompany her. She repreſented, ſhe did not wiſh to en⯑gage me in any gay ſcenes, the office ſhe was allotted to, being that moſt conform⯑able to the melancholy turn of my mind. The inclination I had to ſee Mary joined with her, and I conſented.

Bolton Caſtle, whither Mary had been conducted by the Queen's command, was a ſtrong fortreſs on the borders of York⯑ſhire; without furniture, or accommoda⯑tions for a royal gueſt, it declared at once to that Princeſs, the melancholy captivity to which ſhe was deſtined. The huma⯑nity of Lord Scroope in vain attempted to conceal the fate that awaited her; ſhe gave herſelf up to an immoderate grief, which was augmented by the news of Bothwell's death, who had taken refuge in Norway.

[56]We were met at Derby by the Duke of Norfolk, whoſe ardent deſire to ſee the Queen of Scots had induced him to join us. This nobleman was of an amiable preſence, in the prime of life, full of a ge⯑nerous ardor, a captivating vivacity. Without an equal in rank in England, he had formed, long ſince, the deſign of eſpouſing Mary, and Both well's death had renewed hopes her marriage with him had fruſtrated. I was amazed at the difference viſible in the manners of the Duke; nor did I immediately perceive whence his impati⯑ence of any diſappointment, and deep reveries could proceed; but the pleaſure he took in hearing his ſiſter's commen⯑dations of the Queen, the ſoftneſs that ſparkled in his eyes, while he related the events her letters to Bothwell had laid open, ſhewed me, that ambition had raiſed a flame in his heart, he miſtook for love.

We arrived at Bolton, and Mary was not apprized, till Lady Scroope was in⯑troduced to her preſence, that Elizabeth had ſent her a friend ſo anxiouſly deſirous [57] to lighten her captivity. I would deſcribe the Queen of Scotland to you, my dear children, had not nature drawn a truer pic⯑ture of her than I can give. —Look in the glaſs, Matilda, and you will ſee her perfect image.

I could not contain my aſtoniſhment— "Oh heavens! exclaimed I, is it poſſible, in lamenting the fate of that injured Queen, I have wept for a mother!"

"A ſhort time will explain all, ſaid Mrs. Marlow. The Queen was in the bloom of youth, and the ſorrow which hung over her features, gave them an irreſiſtible attraction. Her air of reſigned dignity and feminine ſweetneſs, was mingled with innocence and unconſcious modeſty. If I was inclined to pity her before, how greatly was that ſentiment enlivened! Her faults ſeemed to vaniſh, or to be atoned by her misfortunes. Nothing could be more intereſting than her firſt interview with Lady Scroope, whoſe tears alone could expreſs her ſorrow and affec⯑tion.

[58]How muſt a ſcene, which diſtreſſed me, touch a heart prepared to love her! The Duke found there was a paſſion ſtronger than ambition; her crown no longer engroſſed his thoughts, it was herſelf alone he deſired; he lamented the evils it had overwhelmed her with, and from which, even her reſignation of it, would not relieve her. Love commu⯑nicated all its delicacies at once to his heart; and the man who had dared aſpire to her, while in proſperity and peace, in this ſad moment of humiliation had not preſumption to lift his eyes to her, to ſpeak of his affection, or inſult her by his com⯑paſſion.

Lady Scroope was too quick-ſighted to overlook this change in her brother; but far from drawing any ill preſage from it, ſhe flattered herſelf he was deſtined to re⯑ſtore the Queen, and to find in her grati⯑tude and affection, a reward proportioned to his merit.

Willing to relieve the tediouſneſs of the hours, that Lady deviſed amuſements of which no one partook, though all, from [59] a juſt ſenſe of the intention, appeared ſatisfied with them. The ſilence and me⯑lancholy of the Duke of Norfolk engaged the Queen; ſhe found it a delicate com⯑pliment to her diſtreſs, and regarded him with an attention too flattering to be over⯑looked. —Charmed with an eſteem, which he had rather wiſhed than hoped, the ar⯑dor of his ſoul found words, and Mary diſcovered, in attempting to attach a friend, ſhe had gained a lover. Conſi⯑dering her intereſt only, ſhe muſt have encouraged him; but, remembering how fatal her partiality might one day prove, ſhe conjured him to ſubdue while yet in its infancy, a paſſion it would be cru⯑elty to encourage; to remember her only as an unfortunate friend, and in that light, confeſſed herſelf obliged to him for his intereſt and power in her favor [...]

In the firſt wildneſs of love, nothing ſeems impoſſible; an anſwer ſo mild, only animated the hope it was meant to extin⯑guiſh. He formed a thouſand projects, he engaged his ſiſter in his intereſt, and [60] every hour of his life was filled up by plans for the deliverance of the amiable Queen. But as it was impoſſible his reſidence ſhould be a ſecret, and he juſtly feared awakening the attention of Elizabeth, be⯑fore his ſchemes were ripe for execution, he engaged his ſiſter to make a requeſt, he wanted courage to mention; ſince ſhe might, with more propriety, repreſent to the Queen, the policy of rendering her fate his.

In this dangerous conjuncture, the unfortunate Mary liſtened once more to the partial advice of her heart; which prompted her to yield to ſo noble, ſo de⯑ſerving a lover. She had caught his frenzy, and realized the fictions of his brain with the ſame facility. His vaſt eſtates, numerous vaſſals, and ſtill more, his ex⯑tended and noble connexions, flattered her with the hope of amply rewarding him, and ſhe thought it but generous to let the recompence rather precede the ſervice than follow it.

Fatal deluſion of a prejudiced mind! Oh Mary, too tender Princeſs! why were [61] not all the paſt misfortunes of thy life, which had their ſource in love, monitors to thee? Why did they not teach thee to avoid this error, which heightened every affliction, and gave new pangs to a long, long captivity?

The Duke not daring to engage his brother-in-law in an action contrary to his commiſſion, entruſted his intention only to his ſiſter. Too ardent and too amiable an advocate to be denied, the Queen of Scots was perſuaded by that Lady to unite herſelf with the Duke. They were married in the preſence of the Lady Scroope and myſelf, Sir Arthur Foreſter, and the Duke's two Secretaries.

Poſſeſſed in herſelf of all his wiſhes, the priſon of the Queen became a palace to the Duke; and every hour ſeemed to add to a paſſion, which appeared at firſt incapable of addition. The authority Mary had given him over her, the tenderneſs with which ſhe regarded him, were powerful motives againſt the approaching ſeparation; but Lady Scroope ſaw with concern, the ex⯑travagance of a paſſion ſhe had encou⯑raged. [62] She knew too well the temper of Elizabeth, not to anticipate her reſent⯑ment, if this ſtep was diſcovered, and knew likewiſe his own ſafety would be a poor motive, for perſuading her brother to leave Bolton; ſhe therefore repreſented to him, how ill he rewarded the lovely Queen of Scots, by lengthening an impriſonment it was his duty to curtail; and aſked him what expectation Mary might form from a huſband, who already preferred his own indulgence, to her freedom, happineſs, and glory?

Theſe reproaches were too true to of⯑fend the Duke. He lamented, but yielded to the cruel neceſſity. Mary, as if fore⯑warned that theſe hours were all the eaſy ones remaining of her life, uſed every means to detain him; but the generoſity of her affection, awakening his more ſtrongly, he bade adieu to the charming wife, he was never more to meet, and ſet out for London, to engage all his friends to favor a marriage, no one now could prevent. He flattered himſelf, his intereſt [63] was ſo great, that the Queen would be reduced to conſent, whether conſonant to her inclination or not. Indeed, this was the only rational mode of proceeding; for to imagine Elizabeth weak enough to unite her rival and heireſs, voluntarily, to the firſt of her ſubjects, would have been an unpardonable blindneſs.

Fortune, however, had deſtined other⯑wiſe, and only ſmiled awhile, to make her frown more terrible. All the great Lords of Elizabeth's Court, who had ſeen, with regret, the impriſonment of Mary, entered with pleaſure into Norfolk's ſchemes. His letters were filled with the moſt flattering hopes, and the Queen, who was with child, gave him notice of it. This circumſtance added to his joy; he promiſed, before the time of her deli⯑very, ſhe ſhould have her priſon gates opened by all the nobility of England. The Earls of Shrewſbury, Derby, Bed⯑ford, Northumberland, Weſtmoreland, Pembroke, Southampton, Arundel, and Suffex, had warmly engaged in his cauſe; and their Names alone would influence [64] many. But the friend he moſt relied upon, was the Earl of Leiceſter, whoſe aſcendancy over the Queen was well known; he had taken on himſelf the diſ⯑cloſure of the whole to Elizabeth, when that meaſure became neceſſary. In the mean time, Norfolk uſed every means to prevent the Regent of Scotland from ac⯑cuſing Mary to the Queen; nor was his artifice unſucceſsful. Murray, after hav⯑ing entered England for no other purpoſe, ſuddenly returned, without taking any ſtep in the buſineſs; a circumſtance, which defeated all the meaſures of the Engliſh Court. But Elizabeth more ſtrongly ap⯑prehending from this ſome plot to releaſe Mary, removed her to Tutbury, and added the Earl of Shrewſbury to Lord Scroope, as her keepers.

My ſiſter ſtill followed her, nor could I deſert her in ſuch a ſituation. We had hoped, from the information of the Duke, to find the Earl of Shrewſbury inclined to favor her; but whether he foreſaw the end of this unfortunate project, or had deceived Norfolk, he kept a ſtrict watch [65] over the Queen's actions, whoſe condi⯑tion now confined her to her apartment.

The Duke, flattered by Murray's re⯑treat, commiſſioned ſome of his friends in Scotland, to ſound that nobleman on the ſubject of his marriage; they unwa⯑rily laid open more than he intended, and Murray, enraged at having been his dupe, ſent notice of the plot to Elizabeth. She was on a viſit to Lord Leiceſter, who was ill, when the letter arrived; and con⯑fiding to that favorite, the cauſe of her agitation, he ſent, while the Queen was conſulting with Cecil, to warn Norfolk to retreat, as Elizabeth ſeemed bent on committing him to the Tower. Thun⯑derſtruck at this unexpected diſcovery, the Duke ſet out, with precipitation, for his ſeat of Kenning-Hall; but, reflecting on the road, that his flight was a ſtronger proof againſt him than the accuſation of his enemies, he returned directly; he was however met by ſome officers, ſent in purſuit of him, and conducted to Burn⯑ham.

[66] His Secretary poſted off to Tutbury with an account of all theſe proceedings. They ſunk the deeper into the heart of the Queen, as ſhe hoped, by this time, to have been at liberty. She was every hour in expectation of an event which muſt publiſh her marriage, or load her with infamy. In this hard trial, Lady Scroope ſuggeſted to her the only ſafe way of proceeding; which was, to convey her child, by the Duke's Secretary, im⯑mediately after its birth, out of the Caſtle, and concealing the cauſe of her indiſpoſi⯑tion, wait a more favorable moment for avowing her marriage. This was the only plan to avoid injuring the Duke's ſafety, or her own honor. To prepare every thing againſt the time, I took my leave of the Queen, as returning to St. Vincent's Abbey; and retiring to a neigh⯑bouring hut hired on purpoſe, waited with my maid, to receive the infant ſhe ſhould bring into the world, which was to be car⯑ried to the Receſs, and placed under my care, till the fate of its parents could be aſcertained.

[67] This ſad moment was haſtened by a ſadder event:—Bothwell, who was ſup⯑poſed to be dead, found means to convey a letter to the Queen, aſſuring her the re⯑port was ſpread only to quiet the Scots, who otherwiſe would never have ſuffered him to reſt; and that he waited in Den⯑mark till the diviſions of her kingdom ſhould enable him to raiſe a powerful party, and attempt her deliverance. Mary, on the firſt ſight of the well known hand, felt all the horrors of her fate; ſhe fell into ſtrong convulſions, which were ſucceeded by the pains of labor. She gave birth to two girls—for you, my dear children, are the fruit of this fatal marriage, who, ſcarce had been held to the boſom of a mother, before you were divided from it, I fear, for ever.

The faithful Secretary conveyed you with the tendereſt caution to me. When he repeated this ſad tale, oh! how my ſoul wept for the ill-fated Queen! I vowed ye ſhould be mine, for ye were the children of misfortune, and never, never have I broke that vow; diſtreſs en⯑deared [68] me to you with a parental kind⯑neſs, and fortune gave you to me to con⯑ſole me for all her ſeverity. 'Tis you only have kept alive in my heart the ſofteſt impulſes of nature. You were cherubs in your infancy, and grew up to chear my days, and embelliſh my ſoli⯑tude. Full of the great charge veſted in my hands, I ſought the earlieſt opportu⯑nity of quitting a dangerous place; I brought you ſafe to this ſpot, attended by Alice, after having you baptized Matilda, the elder (which you was by a few mi⯑nutes) after Lady Scroope, and Ellinor after the Duke's mother.

To return to the Queen of Scots:— She languiſhed a long time between ill-health and deſpair; but the Duke found means to aſſure her that this misfortune ſhould not long ſeparate them. He applied now to the Pope to annul Mary's former marriage with Bothwell; the Pope hop⯑ing to find ſome great advantage in the projected union, ſeemed inclined to grant his requeſt; but the conditions he im⯑poſed [69] were ſo hard, that the Duke had no hope.

In the mean time, Elizabeth finding an effectual bar placed between Mary and Norfolk by Bothwell's being yer alive, and having ſome hopes from the ill-health of the Queen of Scots, of ſeeing an end of her fears, after conveying her to Coventry, ſhe releaſed the Duke, at the interceſſion of his conſtant friend Lord Leiceſter. Senſible of the raſhneſs of his former con⯑duct, he reſolved to avoid that fault, and made no attempt to ſee the Queen of Scots, employing himſelf in hunting and diverſions at Kenning-Hall, till the ſpies of Elizabeth, perſuaded he had laid aſide his projects, gave up their employment. The Duke paſt from the ſeat of one friend to that of another, to appearance in ſearch of amuſement, but in reality to aſſure himſelf of their attachment; and, as if by accident, to viſit St. Vincent's Abbey, and embrace the daughters of his love. You were a twelvemonth old when I conducted the Duke in the night to this Receſs. The captivity and ſad ſituation [70] of his wife aroſe a thouſand times more ſtrongly to his mind when he beheld her children torn from her boſom as if the product of diſhonour, and hid in ſolitude from every human eye; to ſee, and know he could not prevent this, pierced him to the very ſoul. He ſpent the night in viewing you, in recommending you to Heaven, in forming a thouſand ſilent complaints againſt his deſtiny, and reſolu⯑tions, which by ſhortening his life, perpe⯑tuated on you the evils he ſought to reme⯑dy. But when the dawn of day compelled him to return to his apartment, he again took you both into his arms, and while the tears of paternal affection flowed gracefully down his cheeks, poured on you a thouſand bleſſings; he then gave you to me, and while I was ſtilling Ellinor, he ſat in a deep reverie, when ſuddenly ſtarting from it, he came and ſtood by me, and taking my hand—

"I have yet hopes, my dear Mrs. Mar⯑low, ſaid he, of bringing theſe infants into life, as the daughters of the lovelieſt, the moſt amiable of ſovereigns; till when, I [71] commit them to you, as the moſt ſacred of all depoſits. Teach them to enjoy an humble rank, and they will adorn a high one; keep them in total ignorance of their birth till able to know its inutility. But if Heaven never allows me to claim them, —if the misfortunes of their pa⯑rents end but with their lives, act up to the ſacred character with which I alike inveſt you and my ſiſter. Never let them know the Court of Elizabeth, but innocently and happily let them die in the deſert where they bloomed."

"Shades of the honored Howard and the amiable Mary, I have fulfilled your injunctions, exclaimed Mrs. Marlow, (turning with an enthuſiaſtic action to the pictures I have mentioned with ſo much reſpect) your words have been ever preſent to my memory, and my cares have not been uſeleſs."

"Alas, Madam, ſaid we, dropping with an emotion of awe on our knees, are theſe lovely figures the portraits of our parents? Oh! my father, my tender unhappy father! ſhall we never, ſee you? Were we never to [72] be held in you arms but while inſenſible of that bleſſing? And you, my dear mo⯑ther, who brought us forth in bitterneſs and pain, ſhall we not ſpend our lives in ſoftening yours, and ſhed our ſorrows upon your grave?"

"You interrupt, and diſtreſs me, chil⯑dren, ſaid Mrs. Marlow, let me finiſh my melancholy tale; you will, alas! have hours enough for complaint.

The Duke departed the next day, and in a ſhort time, Elizabeth having appointed the Lords Huntingdon and Hereford in the room of Lord Scroope, the Queen of Scots was deprived of her only comfort, by the departure of his Lady.

The Duke, finding gentle attempts in⯑effectual, reſolved on a meaſure he deem⯑ed infallible, and entered into a treaty with a truſty Spaniard named Ridolpho, to engage the Duke of Alva to aſſiſt him with ten thouſand men, to be landed at Harwich, from whence they were to march to London, to intimidate Eliza⯑beth. The Duke of Alva conſented, [73] and even the Pope at length aſhamed of neutrality, took a ſhare in Mary's de⯑liverance. Every thing was prepared; Norfolk's friends in England only waited the ſignal to join him, when one of thoſe trifling accidents which diſconcert the wiſeſt ſchemes, rendered this in a moment abortive.

To foment the diviſions in Scotland ſo much as to keep the Regent employed, and prevent him from interfering in the affair, the Duke ſent many ſums to be ſcattered among the Queen's friends, in that kingdom, at different times; —but now when the criſis approached, he had prepared a large bag of gold, which with a letter, he unfortunately truſted to a man quite ignorant of the plot; the carrier, in putting it up, by ſome accident cut the bag, and the contents filling him with aſtoniſhment, he communicated this ſin⯑gular diſcovery to a ſervant of Lord Bur⯑leigh's, who was his brother; this man, through a hope of getting the gold be⯑tween them, and ſuppoſing ſome myſtery was hid in the letter, perſuaded him to [74] ſhew it to his maſter; the carrier con⯑ſented, and Lord Burleigh eaſily per⯑ceiving the plot, though not its ex⯑tent, communicated it to the Queen; in conſequence of which the Duke was arreſted in his bed, and all his ſervants impriſoned.

This fatal ſtroke overturned every re⯑maining hope; betrayed by his ſervants, all the letters he had written and received on that ſubject, moſt of which he had or⯑dered to be burnt, were produced againſt him; his very benevolence was conſtrued into a crime, and ſome money he ſent to the Counteſs of Northumberland, who was in exile and diſtreſs with her Lord, became an article in his impeachment. He was condemned, and heard, his ſen⯑tence with a fortitude which melted Lord Shrewſbury, who pronounced it, into tears.

Lady Scroope, diſtracted at her bro⯑ther's fate, fell at the feet of the Queen, and left nothing unſaid to move her; but all ſhe could obtain was the deferring his execution, for Burleigh had ſo ſtrongly [75] prepoſſeſſed Elizabeth with the idea that the Duke ſought her life, that although no circumſtance aroſe to confirm it on his trial, nothing could baniſh it from her mind.

But what was the ſituation of the Queen of Scotland at this completion of her misfortunes! An exile from her own country, a priſoner in another, a wife without a right to that name, and a mother, while a ſtranger to her children; her fate was wound up in the condemna⯑tion of her huſband; and ſhe had the poig⯑nant affliction of knowing ſhe had raiſed the axe againſt him, which all her tears could not avert. Pierced with deſpair, ſhe conjured the Lady Scroope to aſſure the Queen ſhe would not only voluntarily conſent to remain her priſoner for life, but would give up her claim to the Crown of England, if her ſiſter (as ſhe was com⯑pelled to ſtile her) would free the Duke: of Norfolk, and reſtore him to his ho⯑nors. This propoſal Elizabeth received: as a fineſſe, from which ſhe only ſaw how [76] deeply Mary's heart was linked with his. Even the all-prevailing Leiceſter's elo⯑quence failed; ſelf-preſervation was an unconquerable principle in the ſoul of Elizabeth.

The Duke was beheaded fourteen years ago, when you, my dear children, who were bought with his life, were not above two years and a half old. He died as he had lived, with dignity and honour.

Never was nobleman more lamented: he had endeared himſelf to the body of the people by his courage, generoſity, and affability; and to his equals, by an un⯑conſciouſneſs of ſuperiority, which pre⯑vented envy, and an uniformity of con⯑duct, which gained admiration. He was the firſt victim to the Queen's fears, nor could ſhe have choſen one whoſe merits were ſtronger proofs of the value ſhe ſet on herſelf.

Lady Scroope deteſting too late the ar⯑tifices of the Court, and ſunk in affliction for the loſs of a brother ſhe adored, retired [77] hither with her Lord, who had thrown up his employments. Her body partook of the debility of her mind, and ſoon gave ſymptoms of a decay, which reduced her to the grave.

Her temper too was quite changed. This Receſs, which ſo lately appeared a horrible dungeon, now ſeemed to her, as to me, a calm retirement from the odious forms and cares of life. She ſpent many days, (and would every one, had it not afflicted her Lord) in weeping over you; in tracing in Matilda the mildly-beautiful features of her friend, and in Ellinor, the captivating graces of her brother. 'Tis to her you owe theſe valuable pic⯑tures.

Eſtranged from all ſociety, the Queen of Scots gave herſelf up to the blackeſt deſpair, ſhe had, alas! no hope to ſoften her captivity, no boſom to receive her tears; with Norfolk died all proſpect of releaſe, and at the ſame time all deſire of it; what was the univerſe to her without he embelliſhed it? Would it not have aug⯑mented her affliction to have enjoyed [78] a ſovereignty ſhe durſt never hope to ſhare with him?

Elizabeth, whoſe fears were always awake from this moment, cut her daily off from ſome comfort or convenience; fre⯑quently changed her keepers and priſon; and by her ſeverity, taught the captive Queen that hatred may be ſtronger even than love.

Lady Scroope ſurvived her brother but a twelvemonth, and left no inheritor of her virtues. She recommended you both in the moſt fervent manner to her Lord, who ſolemnly ſwore to make a proviſion for you ſuitable to his fortune, though not your birth.

Some years paſt away, when Lord Scroope, whoſe grief was at an end, find⯑ing himſelf tired of the inactivity of a country life, accepted ſome overtures the Queen made to recall him. He left to me the charge of St. Vincent's Abbey; which he has not inhabited ſince.

Hurried on by other events, I have hi⯑therto neglected to mention the return of [79] my brother Anthony, in three years after I brought you here. He fixed his reſidence in the hermit's cell, devoting his time to the ſtudy of phyſic, and the care of ex⯑horting the poor, except at thoſe hours you have ſeen him in; for his life and mine have been uniform.

I have only two circumſtances more to mention; one of which is more afflicting to me, than I once believed, aught reſpect⯑ing money, could ever be. Lord Scroope, who has been abroad ſome years in a pub⯑lic character, has become the object of the crafty Burleigh's hatred, or ſuſpicion, and is now confined; while his eſtates and wealth are ſeized by the Queen, who knows ſo well the value of money, that it is too probable my Lord will never be able to fulfil the promiſe made to his wife in your favor.

The other is, that during ſeveral paſt years, I have not been able to hold any intelligence with the Queen of Scotland, who ſent me ſome letters during the firſt years of her impriſonment, which, with thoſe ſhe wrote to the Duke, I have pre⯑ſerved, [80] with various other teſtimonials of your birth. Time may enable her yet to give you the ſplendor to which you were born; for Elizabeth is now ſtricken in years, and Mary more worn by ſorrow than age. Wait, then my dear children, with patience, when I am in my grave, the deſtination of providence, and never claim your parent till ſhe pleaſes to acknow⯑ledge you. No virtue is more accepta⯑ble to God than patience. To beſtow happineſs, is only in his power; to de⯑ſerve it, ever in our own. Oh! if my prayers are heard! if my wiſhes aſcend to the throne of the Moſt High, he will lead you through this world in peace; he will unite you again to my boſom in a better!"

Here our generous protectreſs, our more than mother, ended, claſping us to her heart with an ardor that evinced the ſincerity of her words.

But what new ideas; what amazing feelings did her narration give birth to? The impulſes of nature taught us to trea⯑ſure every word ſhe uttered; for what in [81] the hiſtory of our parents could be indif⯑ferent? Never did our ſolitude appear ſo amiable—"the Court of Elizabeth!"— Oh my lamented father, could the ſole in⯑flictor of all thy evils, ever, ever attach thy children! Could ſhe who oppreſſed her equal, and a Queen, innocent at leaſt in all that reſpected her, only becauſe ſhe was in her power, be capable of alluring two hearts, untainted by that courtly po⯑liteneſs, which ſanctifies the errors of a ſovereign, and terms her very vices noble weakneſſes?

But then, to learn I had a mother yet alive; to believe I might one day be re⯑ceived to her arms, only endeared by misfortune; full of this melting, this heart expanding idea, I would have ſought her priſon; I would have been the companion of it: happy, if all my cares could make her forget for one moment, the rigour of her fortune; or call to her remembrance, amidſt all her complaints, againſt the injuſtice of the world, that it ſtill contained two beings [82] who were willing to return for her the life ſhe gave.

My duty to Mrs. Marlow alone di⯑vided my heart: ſhould I deſert her, who had neglected every thing for us? What! are the ties of nature to cancel, in one moment, thoſe of inclination, gratitude, and eſteem? Oh, no! I owed, it is true, my being to another; but ſhe to whom I owed the beſt part of that being, the for⯑mation of my mind, the inſtilling thoſe ſentiments which alone make us valuable to ourſelves and ſociety, had a claim be⯑yond all others, which nothing but death could diſſolve. That awful moment was drawing nigh; every one that paſſed, ſtole ſomething from the mortal part of Mrs. Marlow. Oh thou amiable ſaint! thou woman after God's own heart! can I re⯑member the time when thou wert called from us, without floods of unavailing tears? Never—never—ſelfiſh as they are, they will flow, even though ſo often ex⯑hauſted.

[83] She delivered us a caſket, which con⯑tained the papers ſhe mentioned, and di⯑vers atteſtations, ſigned by herſelf, and the late Lady Scroope, and filled with all the ornaments of her youth. Then, after recommending us tenderly to Father An⯑thony, ſhe joined in prayer with him, and all her little family; and in the midſt, expired.

Oh, Madam, how ſtrange, how terrible to me, was that moment! I ſaw Death firſt ſeize on one dearer than myſelf: the manſion in which we lived, now became a ſolitude indeed—a ſilence—how ſo⯑lemn! prevailed. In the firſt flow of a rational grief, how vaſt a vacuum is left in the heart! to hear no longer the voice which led us through life: to ſee the eyes, whence ours drew fortitude, cloſe, never more to open: the whole frame aſſume that awful pallidneſs, every moment in⯑creaſes, and which brings ſo melancholy a memento to the breaſt! Theſe touching ideas cannot always ariſe; ſome loſſes de⯑ſtroy the power of reflection and complaint; [84] carried away by the bitterneſs of deſpair, we are only ſenſible of an agony beyond expreſſion.

To attempt interring the duſt of Mrs. Marlow in the chapel, muſt have awaken⯑ed the ſuſpicions of the Queen's officers. The ſecret of our retirement was in the breaſt of only three domeſticks, and it was highly neceſſary to keep it concealed. On this account, a grave was made for her in Father Anthony's cell, whither we conveyed her, wrapt in white, and crowned with the fading produce of this world, in imitation of that ever-blooming wreath promiſed hereafter to all, who per⯑ſevere in virtue.

Grief makes the moſt violent impreſ⯑ſion in youth; but, happily, it is the moſt tranſient: a little time abated the ſharp⯑neſs of ours; nevertheleſs, our ſolitude being deprived of its ornament, appeared uniform, melancholy, and diſguſting. We gradually loſt our aſſiduity in our works, when we no longer promiſed ourſelves the great reward of her praiſe. Father Anthony, who was never a favorite with us, [85] became every day more unpleaſant. Mrs. Marlow always preſerved a ſway over him, which ſoftened the ſeverity of his manners: that being now at an end, and his temper ſtill more hurt by his affliction for her loſs, he appeared a gloomy tyrant; and the ad⯑ditional carefulneſs with which he ob⯑ſerved us, laid an odious reſtraint on all our expreſſions, and made our meals wear an air of ſullenneſs each party was uncon⯑ſcious of cauſing.

Obliged to hide in our own hearts all the little follies and wiſhes we had been uſed to reveal without fear, we converſed with the Father only upon moral and indif⯑ferent topics; thus every day was the ſame, and each of courſe more tedious, when Ellinor ſuggeſted a ſcheme which gave us ſome amuſement. This was to explore the paſſage leading to the ruins, where we might at leaſt breathe the freſh air, and, for one hour, have the pleaſure of a little novelty. I readily came into the propoſal, having had a curioſity to emerge from the moment I heard that paſſage firſt mentioned. It was the full height of ſum⯑mer, [86] and we pitched upon a long afternoon, when we had no fear of being ſought for.

The paſſage was narrower, cloſer, and damper than the others, but very ſhort. We took a torch that we might find the way of opening it. When we drew near the mouth, I obſerved ſome little holes, made doubtleſs to give the concealed perſon an advantage. I made Ellinor keep back while I examined the place, but ſaw nothing, however, to awaken any appre⯑henſion; a long avenue of broken arches, intermingled with brambles and wild wall-flowers, in the paths of which the graſs grew very high, was all I could diſ⯑cern —nothing could more fully prove the unfrequentedneſs of the ſpot. We therefore examined the faſtening immedi⯑ately, and found it a ſmall ſquare door with two hinges on the top, and faſtened acroſs the bottom by a large bar of iron laid on ſtrong hooks. I was unable to open it alone; Ellinor therefore extin⯑guiſhed the light to aſſiſt me; but with all our curioſity and courage, the ſight of the pile of ruins threw us into an univerſal [87] trepidation. On turning round, to ſee how the entrance was hid, we perceived a high, raiſed tomb, at each corner of which ſtood a gigantic ſtatue of a man in armour, as if to guard it, two of whom were now headleſs. Some famous knight, as appeared by his numerous en⯑ſigns, lay on the tomb. The meagre ſkeleton had ſtruck an arrow through his ſhield into his heart; his eyes were turned to the croſs which St. Winifred held before him. Nothing could be better contrived than this entrance, for how⯑ever rude the ſculpture, the ornamental parts took the eye from the body of the tomb. The little door, which dropt after us, was one ſtone made thin, and lined with wood, and ſo neatly fitted, that even when unfaſtened, it was not to be diſcerned. For a long way beyond, the proſpect was wild and awful to exceſs; ſometimes vaſt heaps of ſtones were fallen from the building, among which, trees and buſhes had ſprung up, and half in⯑volved the dropping pillars. Tall frag⯑ments of it ſometimes remained, which [88] ſeemed to ſway about with every blaſt, and from whoſe mouldering top hung cluſters and ſpires of ivy. In other parts, ruined cloiſters yet lent a refuge from the wea⯑ther, and ſullenly ſhut out the day; while long echoes wandered through the whole at the touch of the lighteſt foot; the in⯑tricacies of the wood beyond, added to the magnificence of art the variety of nature. We quitted, with regret, our new empire, when the ſun left his laſt rays on the tops of the trees.

We reſolved to conceal our ramble, left Father Anthony ſhould forbid us to repeat it. Thoſe, Madam, who would maintain a laſting ſway over young peo⯑ple, muſt, by ſoftening the diſtance of age, ſteal into their confidence. Love and reſpect are united, but if fear once cloſes the avenues to the heart, no other ſentiment ever overcomes it; obedience is then never led by inclination, and we re⯑joice to eſcape from haughtineſs or auſte⯑rity, however venerable the ſorm they aſſume.

[89]From what trifles ſpring the pureſt pleaſures of life! a proſpect, a flower, a ſong can dilate the heart, while the paſſions are yet hid in it, nor have poi⯑ſoned its ſimplicity, and curtailed its en⯑joyments.

Concealed pleaſures are allowed to be the greateſt; no remark can be more juſt; to deceive the watchful, reflects a compli⯑ment on our own ſagacity, which renders us inſenſible to the error.

Almoſt every day did we viſit this dar⯑ling ſpot, always, like young birds, ven⯑turing one ſtep further; and ſo often had we ventured without ſeeing a human be⯑ing, that, at laſt, we ceaſed to fear. On one ſide the wood ſhelved down for a con⯑ſiderable way, beyond which the road was cut, and mingled with hamlets that gave a promiſe of ſociety, which the ruſticity of their inhabitants would not allow them to fulfil.

But you reproach me with loſing time in unintereſting deſcriptions. —Ah, Ma⯑dam! this wood was not always a de⯑ſart. Chance, or, rather I ſhould ſay, [90] Providence, led into its ſolitary wind⯑ings, the man, of all Elizabeth's Court, the moſt diſtinguiſhed and admired; the man to whom nature had been prodigal of every advantage, which art and ap⯑plication had poliſhed to the higheſt per⯑fection.

One day, in calling my ſiſter, I diſco⯑vered in the hollow of the wood and building, a very fine echo; delighted with this, I began ſinging; the notes dying diſtinctly away, formed a melancloly ſym⯑phony, when I was interrupted by Ellinor, who quitting ſome birds that flew tamely to be fed by her hand, ran towards the Receſs with great ſpeed, waving to me to follow her. We had ſo often alarmed each other without any cauſe, that I hardly moved, when a noiſe I heard among the trees (which grew extremely thick on that ſpot) alarmed me. A voice, that ſunk at once from my ear to my heart, conjured me in the moſt earneſt manner to ſtop. Notwithſtanding the neceſſity I found for flying, my eyes longed to claim acquaintance with the [91] features to which that voice belonged, and my head, by an involuntary motion, was turned over my ſhoulder. The gen⯑tleman had now made a way through the ſhrubs which impeded his paſſage, and I found it impoſſible to retreat but by diſ⯑covering, a ſecret it was highly my intereſt to conceal. Perhaps I was not ſorry to have an excuſe to my own heart for a raſh⯑neſs it was too ſenſible of. The irreſolu⯑tion of my attitude, which was that of a perſon ready every moment to run, made him approach with profound ſubmiſ⯑ſion and reſpect; but finding me attempt to fly, though almoſt without knowing it, he inſtantly ſtopt.

"By whatever chance, ſaid he, nature has hid in this ſequeſtered ſpot her faireſt productions, permit me, ladies, to derive an advantage from it. Believe me, you ſee a man who needs too much your compaſſion and aſſiſtance to venture to inſult you, were ſuch a thought capable of intruding into a heart never yet inhu⯑man. Let me conjure you, then, to judge of my intentions by your own, and allow [92] me, if you know of an aſylum (and are not, like me, driven here by ſome preſent diſ⯑treſs) to ſhelter myſelf from aſſaſſins too well prepared to take my life, for courage to preſerve it."

The perſon of him who pronounced theſe words, made their effect indelible. He appeared ſomething paſt the bloom of life, but his beauty was rather fixed than faded; of a noble height and per⯑fect ſymmetry, he would have had an air too majeſtic, but that the ſweetneſs of his eyes and voice tempered the dignity of his mien. His complexion was of a clear and poliſhed brown; his eyes large, dark, and brilliant; his hair gracefully marked the turn of all his features, and his dreſs was of a dove-coloured velvet, mingled with white ſattin and ſilver; a crimſon ſaſh inwoven with gold; hung from his ſhoulder with a picture; and the order of the garter, as well as a fo⯑reign one, with which he was inveſted, ſhewed his rank not leſs diſtinguiſhed than his perſon.

[93]Aſtoniſhment—anxiety—a thouſand ra⯑pid ideas melting into each other, and, defying language, confuſed and ſilenced me; when Ellinor, more miſtreſs of her own judgment, took upon her to anſwer, by directing him to Father Anthony's cell, aſſuring him at the ſame moment, this was all we could do to ſerve him. — "Ah, Ellen! cried I, paſſionately ſeizing her hand, he then muſt return and be mur⯑dered!" Struck with the vehemence of my own words, my eyes ſunk to the ground, and changeable bluſhes covered my features, which redoubled when the ſtranger took my hand, with a grace all his own, and bowing on it.

"To your generous intention, Madam, I ſhall at leaſt be a debtor—this is not a time or place for deliberation—fly, I be⯑ſeech you, while you are yet able; the villains who purſue me, may not reſpect your youth, your beauty, or your inno⯑cence, and nothing could ſo greatly add to my misfortune as the involving you in it. If heaven lengthens my days, I may, [94] perhaps, be able to convince you, him you wiſhed to ſave is not unworthy your concern; if, on the contrary, this proves my laſt, I have only to requeſt you will deliver this (untying and giving me the picture) to the Queen, who will not fail to diſtinguiſh the bearer.

How, how did every word penetrate my heart—Ah! how rapid is the progreſs of paſſion, and how, in one moment, does it quicken, nay, double every ſenſe and ſenſibility! I could, with the ſame eaſe, have expoſed my own boſom to the aſſaſ⯑ſins as his. Fear ſurmounted every pru⯑dential conſideration, and I was only go⯑ing to uſe the caution of enquiring who he was, when the ſound of voices, not far diſtant, put that out of my head. Re⯑taining, in mine, the hand which had hi⯑therto held it, I led him through the moſt ſolitary arches to the foot of the tomb; but our aſtoniſhment at ſight of him, bore no compariſon with his, when he found this to be our habitation. The time not admitting any explanation, he aſſiſted us to enter, and followed himſelf; when, leaving [95] Ellinor to watch the approach of thoſe we had heard, I conducted him into the large room of the Receſs. With an im⯑patient gratitude, he fell at my feet to thank me for my anxiety, but inſtantly ſtarting back, he threw me into ſuch a tre⯑pidation, that I ſunk into a ſeat without power to look behind me, imagining ei⯑ther that the murderers, or at leaſt, Fa⯑ther Anthony, muſt be at hand; when looking around him, and at me by turns, he exclaimed,

"Merciful heaven! by what ſtrange ordination of thine do I find, in this de⯑ſart, two dead portraits of my unhappy friend, and the Queen of Scots, and two breathing ones, more lovely than even themſelves?"

Imagine my diſtreſs at this ſpeech. I ſaw, in one moment, the whole of a ſe⯑cret preſerved with ſuch caution for ſo many years, committed, to a ſtranger by an indiſcretion, which ſtill I could not condemn in myſelf. Fluctuating with all the irreſolution of youth, I now knew not whether I ought to deny the truth of [96] what he had averred, or repoſe, in turn, a confidence in his honor; but the time I had ſpent in deliberating convinced him; for my confuſion was an affirmative no⯑thing could overcome.

"You are ſilent, Madam, cried he, but your eloquent eyes imply a doubt it is my duty to clear. Oh! if I was capa⯑ble of wronging your confidence, or be⯑traying any ſecret you wiſh concealed, heaven would have abandoned me to the fate from which its faireſt daughters ſaved me. Look but at that picture, and you will find an indubitable evidence of my ſincerity."

It was the picture of Elizabeth, given by herſelf to Robert Dudley, as the in⯑ſcription informed me.

"Ah! have I then, returned I, been the happy means of diſcharging the debt long owing to Lord Leiceſter?"

"How, how have I been ſo fortunate, returned he, as to diſtinguiſh myſelf to you? —If I durſt believe, and yet it muſt be ſo—for how ſhould a leſs lovely mother give being, to ſuch children, and how, [97] otherwiſe, ſhould ſuch matchleſs beauty and elegance be hid in a deſart? Tell me, I conjure you, Madam, whether my paſt friendſhip with the Duke of Norfolk, does intitle me to yours?"

"It does, indeed, my Lord, cried I, (burſting into tears at the name of my fa⯑ther) to my eterhal gratitude Your frank avowal ſets me above all diſſimulation; I dare own to you, you have gueſſed my birth moſt truly."

"But, why then were you buried in this ſolitude? Why not acknowledged in France?"—

"Ah, my Lord! might I not, with much more reaſon demand, how the favorite of Elizabeth came unattended and alone to ſeek, in this ſolitude, an aſylum from aſſaſſins?"

"I will reply to you with candor, Ma⯑dam, added he, and thus beſpeak your confidence. The favor of a ſovereign may eaſily make us great, but many circumſtan⯑ces muſt concur to make us happy; and when you hear ſome events of my life, I may promiſe myſelf your compaſſion."

[98]Ellinor, having executed her commiſ⯑ſion, rejoined us at this moment. I will frankly confeſs I wiſhed her abſence, and had impoſed a taſk on her I could never have executed. The preſence of Lord Leiceſter had awakened in my mind a thouſand hopes and wiſhes unknown be⯑fore. Not recollecting the improbability of his paſſing ſo many years without form⯑ing tender attachments, almoſt unconſci⯑ouſly I aſpired to his heart; and my apprehenſion of Ellinor's ſuperior charms, had made me meanly cheat her of an op⯑portunity of making a firſt impreſſion: by ſubmitting to my injuſtice ſhe rendered me ſenſible of it in the moſt generous manner, and the care I then took to diſ⯑play her merit, induced my Lord to ima⯑gine I regarded him with indifference. Thus I reaped a double advantage from my return to rectitude.

My ſiſter informed us, ſhe had ſeen four men examining every part of the ruins; certain Lord Leiceſter muſt be hid among them, as one had picked up his hat (which he doubtleſs dropt when he [99] addreſſed me) and ſwearing never to quit the wood till they had found him, they ſe⯑parated to purſue the ſearch.

I turned pale at this terrible intelli⯑gence, which made his departure impoſſi⯑ble; but as we every moment expected Father Anthony, who might have a ſhare in the alarm the aſſaſſins would occaſion, we agreed to hide my Lord in Mrs. Mar⯑low's chamber, which had been hitherto deſerted, and a place where none but our⯑ſelves would ſeek him.

It was now evening, and as the age and infirmities of our maid rendered her ra⯑ther an incumbrance than relief, we ſet before Lord Leiceſter a repaſt, perhaps more adapted to his health than his ap⯑petite, but all that our Retreat at that time afforded; and, withdrawing, left him that we might be ready if our guardian ſhould viſit us.

As I would not have you imagine, how⯑ever we were indebted to nature, the ſur⯑priſe Lord Leiceſter expreſſed; ſprung only from our beauty, I muſt obſerve to you, we dreſt to the taſte of Mrs. Marlow, rather [100] than that of any country; and thoſe ha⯑bits which covered happy hearts, pre⯑ſerve A long ſuperiority in the fancy. Cloſe jackets and coats, of pale grey, were trimmed round the ſkirts and ſleeves with black bugle fringe; the collars were thrown back from the throat and cheſt with point lace, and tied at the boſom with black taſſels; our hair, which was very thick, covered our necks and fore⯑heads, falling in rings from under cam-brick coifs; ſmall beaver hats, with high crowns, and waving black feathers, com⯑pleted our appearance, at once too ruſtic and too elegant not to ſtrike every perſon. Simplicity is the perfection of dreſs, and Ellinor preſents herſelf in that I have de⯑ſcribed, more beautiful than when adorned with all the gaudy trappings pride and luxury has invented. She had an arch, a ſmiling eye, which, while it indicated obſervation, teemed with good nature; a complexion perfectly fair, and delicately heightened by a bloom which came from the heart, as its changeableneſs implied; a graceful ſtature, and a manner which [101] won almoſt every one to love her half as well as I did. But I need not expa⯑tiate on my Ellen's character; though dormant at preſent, it will ſoon demand your compaſſion in the hardeſt trials of life.

Love, Madam, is the parent of art. When we left Lord Leiceſter, without declaring my own ſentiments concerning him, I ſought to penetrate into my ſiſter's, for that conſtant error of a firſt paſſion had infected me, and I fancied the man who had ſubdued my heart, might thoſe of all my ſex; every glance increaſes a fear ſo exquiſite; I thought conſtantly I read in her eyes ideas afflictingly ſimilar to my own; yet the lively ſenſe ſhe expreſſed at our indiſcretion, which ſhe eaſily conceived would put us in the power of Elizabeth's favorite, made me very doubtful; for al⯑though the ſame apprehenſion occurred to me, the confidence I already had in his honour, and the ſtrong anxiety I felt, for his life, made it a faint and diſtant alarm.

[102]This night I firſt found my reſt diſ⯑turbed by the reflections of my mind. I hoped one moment every thing. I flattered myſelf the ſimplicity of my edu⯑cation, and the purity of my heart, would, by a contraſt with thoſe of the court, atone for the want of that poliſh a court alone can give; the obſcurity of my birth, I found too ſenſibly a misfortune, and with⯑drawing my compaſſion for the firſt time from my parents, beſtowed it on myſelf. Yet again would I ſay, can he deſpiſe the daughter of his friend? will he deſtine me to ſuffer for an indiſcretion in which I had no ſhare! Oh! let me judge his heart by my own, which already feels the ſovereignty of the univerſe would be too little for happineſs, if he was not to par⯑take it.

The calm reſt of my ſiſter ſet my heart at eaſe reſpecting her; I told every mo⯑ment as it paſſed, anxiouſly expecting that in which Lord Leiceſter was to begin his narration. I had exhauſted the few misfor⯑tunes my imagination had treaſured, with⯑out [103] being able to find any which could, in ſo well governed a country, reduce a man of his diſtinction to flight; but how, untainted with the vices of the world, could I gueſs at the real one?

Without acquainting Lord Leiceſter, who had the conduct of our education, we made him ſenſible we had reaſons for concealing him from every perſon: he had too much politeneſs to preſs for an expla⯑nation, and we were compelled to leave him alone till the departure of Father An⯑thony ſhould give us an opportunity to liſten to his hiſtory.

The Father, always ſlow and delibe⯑rate, ſeemed this day to have gained an addition to thoſe qualities; inſtead of re⯑tiring after dinner, as uſual, he began a long diſcourſe (from a momentary impa⯑tience I had diſcovered through ſome trifling occaſion) on the ſubduing our paſſions, every word of which augmented mine, and the leſs we ſeemed ſenſible of his argument, the more he was inclined to prolixity, till my impatience having ariſen [104] to the greateſt height, allayed of itſelf; and I learnt, nothing but acquieſcing in all he advanced, could put a period to the tedious converſation. This fineſſe ſuc⯑ceeded; he departed, and without ſtaying a moment longer than was neceſſary to aſ⯑certain that circumſtance, we releaſed the Earl, and conducted him to our great room, as we called it.

Lord Leiceſter did not delay to gra⯑tify our curioſity, but began his ſtory thus: (for to prevent the coldneſs a relater al⯑ways gives to events, and as almoſt the very words are familiar to my memory, whenever a narration occurs, I, in juſtice to the perſon concerned, ſhall give him the power of ſpeaking for himſelf.)

"Sprung from a family too diſtin⯑guiſhed to be unknown to you, ladies, I might paſs over the early part of my life in ſilence, did not one circumſtance in it account for the honours and favours my royal miſtreſs has delighted to ſhower upon me. The laſt of five ſons, I was too young to be ſenſible of the loſs when my [105] unhappy family were ſacrificed to their own ambition and epiſcopal tyranny. Without any fortune, and obnoxious to thoſe who had trembled at the very name of North⯑umberland, no happier fate had awaited me from the perſecutions of Mary's reign (a time which will fill the lateſt with hor⯑ror) had not the Earl of Arundel gene⯑rouſly ſcreened me from her rage. He had me conducted from a ſeat of my father's, beſtowed on him by the Queen, to Hu⯑bert Hall, a noble one of his own, where I was educated with his children, without being known to the world. The kind⯑neſs of this nobleman well deſerves com⯑memoration, ſince to the compaſſion awakened by my youth and helpleſs ſtate, nothing was added but a grateful remembrance of a ſmall favour the Lord Guildford had ſhewn him, at a time when his religion was more feared, though leſs puniſhed, than ours then was. Senſible of all his generoſity, I neglected nothing to prove my gratitude; and habit giving me the ſame advantage in his affection [106] with his own children, he ſeemed to take pleaſure in numbering me among them, and propoſed to unite me to one of his daughters, who had from her infancy en⯑tertained a partiality for me. Fate was againſt him; for of the four lovely chil⯑dren he had when I was added to the number, I ſaw him without one, when I was but fifteen. Theſe loſſes, far from ſouring his temper, only ſoftened it; he bent himſelf more intently on eſtabliſhing me in all his fortunes, and was not without hopes of obtaining the reverſion of his title for me. Miſs Lineric, the daughter of his ſiſter, and the heireſs of a large fortune, beſides what ſhe might hope from him, was the lady he made choice of for me; and the agree⯑ment was formed with her father and guardians, without my knowledge; nor did I venture, on being aſked for it, to refuſe my conſent, although I had never ſeen the lady, and found my heart ut⯑terly repugnant to a match in which it had no ſhare."

[107]The princeſs Elizabeth, (whoſe noble endurance of an unjuſt impriſonment, will reflect eternal honour on her prudence) was, during the life of her ſiſter, kept in cloſe captivity; various Lords, as various fears obliged them to change, had the charge of her; the Earl of Arundel was for a ſhort time, entruſted with the impor⯑tant office, and thus was I early introduced to the knowledge of that pious lady. Far from extending the prejudices ſhe might juſtly have imbibed againſt my family to me, ſhe was pleaſed to honour me with her notice; to take amuſement in poliſhing my manners and accompliſhing my mind. Brought up a Catholic, it was to her I owed the enlightening of my underſtand⯑ing, and the diſcretion to conceal a dif⯑ference of opinion from my benefactor, which might have alienated, and perhaps broken his heart.

My attachment to her was as great as her own goodneſs; I longed, with the ardour of youth, to ſignalize myſelf in her ſervice; nor was it long before an occaſion offered. The Earl of Devon⯑ſhire, [108] actuated, either by love or ambition, flattered himſelf that the Princeſs's captivity would make her gladly embrace a propoſal of marriage: he engaged many noblemen who favoured the Proteſtant religion in the ſcheme, and he imagined nothing was ne⯑ceſſary towards obtaining her conſent but her knowledge of the deſign. To effect this, he diſguiſed himſelf as a gardener, and worked ſeveral days in the hope of ſeeing Elizabeth, but in vain; for the Queen's orders were ſo ſtrict, that ſhe was allowed for exerciſe only a long gallery with lat⯑ticed windows, which joined to her apart⯑ment. The awkwardneſs of the Earl in his new employment, of which I was fond, and conſequently a competent judge, caught my attention; I ſpoke to him, and the involuntary tremor, cauſed by a fear of detection, ſtrengthened my ſuſ⯑picion; he eluded my queſtions with too much exactneſs, to be what he af⯑fected; and this I mentioned caſually to the Princeſs, while entertaining her in the gallery: ſhe liſtened to what I ſaid at⯑tentively, and then walking to the win⯑dow, [109] deſired me to point out the man; he was ſitting to reſt himſelf, with his eyes fixed intently on the houſe; Elizabeth remained at the window buried in thought; at laſt, turning towards me, ſhe demanded, if I eſteemed her enough to run ſome hazard for her ſake? I aſſured her with an eagerneſs proportioned to the de⯑ſire I had to ſerve her, that ſhe could command nothing I would not execute with joy. She replied, "had not ſhe ex⯑pected ſuch an anſwer, ſhe had not ventured ſuch a queſtion; —what I wiſh then, continued the Princeſs, is that, when you can find him alone, you will tell that man, I have ſeen, and know him; and ſince I cannot doubt his intention is to render me ſome ſervice, I requeſt he will ſignify its nature by you; but as he may doubt the ſincerity of a gentle⯑man, whoſe intereſt ſeems ſo oppoſite to his own, ſhew him this jewel, he will remember it, and ſay I bid you tell him, it was the gift of his father to me ſome years ago."

[110]"The Princeſs then took from her arm a remarkable diamond, and gave it to my care; I withdrew from her preſence, and never did night ſeem longer than that I ſpent, before it was poſſible for me to execute her command; but reſolved not to loſe a moment, I aroſe very early, and placed myſelf in a thicket, through which I knew he muſt paſs. His reluctance to mix with the daily labourers, whoſe hap⯑pineſs reaches not beyond a coarſe meal, and a coarſe jeſt, made him uſually come alone, and when the reſt were paſt, I ſaw him approach. Certain, without know⯑ing who he was, that he muſt be a man of diſ⯑tinction, I drew near him with reſpect, and delivered my embaſſy; the confuſion and doubt my addreſs occaſioned, vaniſhed at fight of the diamond; he fell into raptures at the goodneſs of the Princeſs, and no words ſeemed ſufficient to teſtify his gra⯑titude for my ſervice."

Acquainted enough with the world to know the placing a confidence is the fureſt way of attaching a young mind, he made no ſecret of his name, and gave [111] into my hands a letter as valuable to him as his life.

Elizabeth, diſguſted at the free hope he ex⯑preſt, or perhaps unwilling to remove herſelf ſtill farther from the throne by offending her ſiſter, declined the propoſal of the Earl, who neglected no inſtance to induce her to change her mind, as he could never hope to find a time ſo favorable for her eſcape: he fancied at laſt, I had an intereſt in her rejecting him, and when nothing could prevail with her, laviſhed all his re⯑proaches on me, as the capital obſtacle. I know not to what extremities he might have carried his reſentment, had not Lord Arundel, to whom the head gardener had declared his ſuſpicion of this man, from having found ſome jewels ſewed in his garb, cauſed him to be apprehended; but his ill health and infirmities, diſabling him from an immediate examination, no⯑tice was ſent to the Court, and the Earl confined with caution. The Princeſs alarmed at this accident, which ſhe fore⯑ſaw her enemies would conſtrue to her diſ⯑advantage, without giving her a chance to [112] juſtify herſelf, forgot that calmneſs, which conſtituted in her early years the meri⯑torious part of her character. I too ſen⯑ſibly felt her afflictions, not to participate in this; and to prove my ſympathy, formed a deſign, which the romantic generoſity Incident to youth alone could juſtify.

Intruſted with the charge of the cri⯑minal, it was very eaſy for me, in the dead of night, to ſet him free; but to render my generoſity complete and en⯑ſure his eſcape, I ordered a horſe to be in readineſs in the thicket as for myſelf, and furniſhing him with ſome clothes of my own, conducted him to the garden gate, and returned more ſatisfied with my own conduct than I ever yet had been.

The conſequences of his eſcape ſug⯑geſted themſelves immediately to Lord Arundel on his receiving the informa⯑tion; he ſent for me, as my connivance was evident, and angry at my refuſing even a reaſon for it, ſave the promiſe I had made, he ordered me to be confined, and diſpatched a meſſenger to Court with the full particulars of the priſoner's en⯑largement. [113] A ſhort time, however, abated his reſentment; he reproached himſelf for a raſhneſs as culpable as my own, and ſent ſeveral of his ſervants to ſtay the firſt, but not finding him return, he was pleaſed at once to forget my obſtinacy, and, by coming to viſit me, ſhew he pardoned my fault. —He then told me he had nothing to propoſe, that would enſure my ſafety, but immediate flight; and not doubting that he could appeaſe the Queen, recommended me to ſet out immediately for Ireland, to take refuge with his bro⯑ther-in-law, Sir Patrick Lineric. Over⯑whelmed with his goodneſs, I had no way to atone for my error, but obedience, and prepared for my journey without he⯑ſitation; —the reluctance with which the Earl parted from me, was a cutting re⯑proach; but heaven did not ſuffer me to eſcape unpuniſhed: I was met on the road by a party of guards, conducted by the firſt meſſenger, who, ignorant of the change in Lord Arundel's reſolution, imagined I was making my eſcape likewiſe, and con⯑jured the officer to ſeize me: aſtoni⯑ſhed [114] at a ſtroke ſo unforeſeen and unlucky, I delivered up my arms without reſiſtance, and was conducted to the Tower of Lon⯑don.

Some days elapſed without my ſeeing any but my guard, when I was con⯑ducted before the privy council, and interrogated concerning what I knew of the priſoner and his deſigns; but re⯑fuſing to anſwer, I was remanded back to a cloſer dungeon and harder fare. This was repeated ſeveral times, inſomuch that I was aſtoniſhed at not being tried and ſentenced by the law; when one day I was agreeably ſurprized at ſeeing Lord Arundel enter my priſon. Want of air and proper food had ſo altered me, that the good man, neglecting his commiſſion, wept like an infant on my neck; but re⯑covering, and remembering he was not ſent to conſole me, —and had witneſſes at⯑tending to report our diſcourſe, he began with conjuring me, by every power he had over me, as a father, a guardian, and a friend, to provide for my own ſafety by a diſcovery of all I knew, without which [115] my life would be devoted, in ſpite of his efforts, and the affliction of loſing the only prop of his age, would infallibly ſhorten his days.

The gentleneſs of this addreſs, the concern which wrung every venerable feature, pierced my ſoul; and, although I could not betray the Princeſs, I will candidly confeſs I lamented my raſh officiouſneſs; but as repentance was fruit⯑leſs, I had only to ſummon patience to endure an evil I had brought on myſelf: nevertheleſs, to afflict the benefactor, to whoſe goodneſs I owed all, was a trial in⯑deed. I threw myſelf at his feet, I con⯑jured him only to remember my obſtina⯑cy, to caſt me from his heart, but never to employ a power I revered, to make me odious and contemptible, —aſſuring him, an honourable death was, in my eyes, in⯑finitely more to be deſired than a life pro⯑longed by treachery and ingratitude. — He regarded me with attention, and after ſeeming to deliberate for a mo⯑ment, he proceeded to offer me the moſt ſplendid rewards. I ſtopt him; "oh, [116] my Lord! exclaimed I, can you think ſo meanly of the man before you, as to be⯑lieve, after reſiſting your intreaties, he can poorly be bribed to do ill; how truly un⯑worthy then were I of the name of your ſon?"

"What can I ſay?" ſaid he, turning to ſome men preſent, and drawing his hands from mine to claſp them together in an agony of grief; "how ſeek to cor⯑rupt a conſtancy I admire? Adieu, my dear ſon, I am unequal to the taſk im⯑poſed on me. May the God who taught you principles ſo juſt, bleſs and protect you, whatever your fate; my days may ſtill be fewer than yours, and this is, per⯑haps, an eternal farewell. —Adieu again, I will never forget you;" ſaying theſe words, he caught hold of ſome perſons preſent, who rather carried than led him out.

I had before this been ſupported by pride, but the ſenſe of doing wrong, had never mingled with my feelings till now: my own life had hitherto preſented no⯑thing to make it particularly valuable; [117] but that of Lord Arundell, was a bleſſ⯑ing to himſelf and his country: and what right had I to ſhorten it? I, whoſe peculiar duty it was to watch over his de⯑cay, and ſmooth his paſſage to the grave; this remembrance gave me inexpreſſible grief.

I found likewiſe that the court, from my reſolution, imagined the plot of much more conſequence than it really was; yet after ſo many denials I could not declare the whole, without bringing an imputa⯑tion, more terrible than death, on my memory: I therefore called together every reflection that could fortify my mind, and waited my fate with compoſure.

A very few days after this interview put an end to the life of a Queen, whoſe cruelty caſt a blot alike on her ſex and re⯑ligion, and Elizabeth being placed on the throne by the voice of the people, made the opening of my priſon doors one of her firſt cares; —ſhe did me the honour of ſee⯑ing me in the garments I had worn in my confinement, and gave me her royal word that ſhe could find no greater pleaſure in [118] her ſovereignty, than that of rewarding my fidelity.

An allay was prepared to this ſatis⯑faction; Lord Arundell expired the night before of the gout in his ſtomach; but, knowing I might claim my ſafety from the new Queen, he had left me joint heir with his niece, of his eſtates, with only one condition, which was, that of mar⯑rying her; ordering the covenant ſhould be fulfilled in two years, and if either party refuſed to comply, his or her ſhare of the fortune ſhould go to the other. — All the advantages I could have reaped, had he left me ſole heir of his wealth, would never have recompenſed me for his loſs. This blow leſſened the hopes of my life; I had promiſed myſelf in the firſt moments of my freedom, to convince this nobly diſintereſted friend, that independence could never leſſen my gratitude, but would rather increaſe an attachment to which the malicious could then aſſign no motive but the juſt one.

The Queen, in the firſt years of her reign, loaded me with honors, called me [119] her knight, nor entered into any amuſe⯑ment in which I was not a party. The obſequious behaviour of my equals, flat⯑tered a vanity latent in my heart, and per⯑ſuaded me they ſaw deeper into her inten⯑tions than myſelf. I was much younger than Elizabeth, and involved in another engage⯑ment, yet the world thought ſhe loved me; but being little diſpoſed to matrimony, and by the Queen's bounty enabled to indulge myſelf, I gave up to miſs Lineric the eſtates of her uncle, without even ſeeing her, becauſe I would not offend the rela⯑tion of Lord Arundell, by giving the world reaſon to believe I did it from diſtaſte. This circumſtance no ſooner reached the ear of the Queen, than it filled her with gladneſs viſible to the whole Court, which confirmed them in the belief I was deſtined one day to ſhare her rank. I had reaſon to be convinced, from many circumſtances of the Queen's conduct, known but to myſelf, that ſhe really had an affection for me, and only waited till ſome of the elder nobility, who were my rivals, had given up the purſuit, [120] and till my years allowed her to make me her choice, without bringing a cenſure on her prudence.

Attached to Elizabeth rather by gra⯑titude than affection, I had patience enough to wait her reſolution, and enter⯑tained myſelf rather with the gaieties, than the politics of the kingdom. It was at this time the beautiful Mary of Scotland ſhone forth (fatally for herſelf) the rival of Elizabeth, and deſtroyed that peace which proſperity and admiration had contributed to beſtow on our Queen. In the adverſity of her youth, ſhe flattered herſelf with ſupporting a ſuperiority over her oppreſſor by a diſcreet ſubmiſſion; but to meet with ſo powerful a rival in beauty, talents, and empire, when at the ſummit of her glory, was a ſtroke as mor⯑tifying as unexpected: She ever ſickened at the name of Mary, and, by extra⯑vagant praiſes, pointed the ſevere remarks ſhe continually made on her conduct. She maintained with a rigid exactneſs the advantages ſhe poſſeſſed, from the ſitu⯑ation [121] of her kingdom, over her neighbour, and continually affected to chuſe her a huſband from the handſome and diſſolute nobles of her Court. Melvil, the Scotch Ambaſſador, among other preſents to Eli⯑zabeth, brought with him a picture of the Queen of Scotland; it was done by a French artiſt exquiſitely ſkilled; this lit⯑tle portrait Elizabeth always wore hanging to her breaſt: I never beheld it without admiring the fineſt imitation art could ex⯑ecute of the moſt finiſhed production of nature. One evening while the Queen was converſing with me, my eyes, by a kind of habit, were fixed on this orna⯑ment: ſhe ſuddenly roſe, and retired in great wrath to her apartment. She ſhut herſelf up three days before the extrava⯑gance of her reſentment permitted her to form any reſolution; at laſt the Counteſs of Somerſet came to me with the pic⯑ture, and an aſſurance from the Queen, that as ſhe perceived I could never be happy without the original, ſhe ſhould alter her deſigns, and had ſent directions [122] to the Earl of Bedford to propoſe me to Mary.

Thunder-ſtruck at ſo exceſſive and ridi⯑culous a jealouſy, I neglected nothing to ſatisfy the Queen; I made a thouſand pro⯑teſtations of my indifference to the Queen of Scots in vain; Elizabeth's pride was offended, and that was the hardeſt to ap⯑peaſe of all her paſſions—ſhe inſiſted on my keeping the picture, and haughtily forbad me ever to remember her but as my ſovereign.

I retired from her preſence piqued by her haughtineſs, which, though a quality adapted to her rank, is diſguſting in her ſex. The picture of Mary was yet in my hand—when I remembered the ſweet⯑neſs and affability ſhe was famed for, the infinite ſuperiority of her charms, and the ſoftneſs of her character, I was grateful to Elizabeth for her anger; ſince it broke the ties my gratitude had formed, and left me in hope of a happier fate. — I repented a meſſage I had ſent off to the Earl of Bedford to forbid his mentioning [123] my name, and only wiſhed it might ar⯑rive too late. —In my union with Eliza⯑beth I ſaw I muſt be a cypher, for ſhe was jealous to exceſs of her power: with Mary I might ſhare a kingdom, and, by ſtudying her humour, render her and my⯑ſelf happy. All our wiſhes are not, how⯑ever, to be ſucceſsful. The Queen of Scots, prepoſſeſſed that Elizabeth intend⯑ed to raiſe me to the throne of England, believed the propoſal a jeſt, and treated it as ſuch. The Earl of Bedford gave into this, from a conviction he ſhould oblige me by it, and thus I found myſelf, after having aſpired to two Queens, without hopes of either.

From the moment of my being neg⯑lected by Elizabeth, I had found myſelf in the condition of thoſe favorites who fall from the pinnacle of greatneſs to ob⯑ſcurity. After ſeeing my preſence make a circle, and my apartment a Court, I ap⯑peared alone, or continued in ſolitude. Vanity, and not generoſity, had governed me, and of thoſe who followed, no one really loved, and all envied me; they re⯑joiced [124] in my diſgrace, and ridiculed my ambition. What ſhall I ſay, ladies? ſhall I give falſe motives for my actions, or con⯑feſs faults my youth may cxcuſe? I muſt be ſincere, whether that ſincerity intereſts you in my favour or otherwiſe.

Reſolved at all events to have the pleaſure of mortifying my enemies—I wrote to the Queen, aſſuring her, the ho⯑nors ſhe had loaded me with, were incum⯑brances, ſince ſhe had withdrawn her favor, and if my offence (unwitting as it was) exceeded forgiveneſs, I requeſted to reſign my employments and retire to Kenilworth. This letter I took an opportunity of pre⯑ſenting to her in the gardens of Sheen, and, far from pronouncing a ſevere ſen⯑tence, ſhe was pleaſed to ſhed tears, and tenderly reproached me on the lightneſs of my attachment; on which I took the picture of the Queen of Scots, and caſting it into the Thames, entreated her to bury with it the remembrance of my fault. —She gave me her hand to kiſs, and I had the pride of leading her to the Court, re-inſtated in her favor.

[125]This diſgrace taught me a uſeful leſ⯑ſon; which was to employ my power but to ſerve the worthy, the only way to ſe⯑cure friends and avoid making enemies. I learnt how to rate juſtly all who ſur⯑rounded me, to deſpiſe flattery, and by never elevating myſelf, put it out of the power of malice or envy in future to hu⯑miliate me. The Queen was preſſed by the Parliament to marry; ſhe had pro⯑miſed to deliberate on the propoſal, and my intereſt in her heart, made me hope a favorable concluſion to my ſuit, when an unfortunate chance overturned all my ſchemes and hopes, and made me trem⯑ble whenever the Queen opened her lips to me, leſt I ſhould hear a reſo⯑lution which was ſo lately my utmoſt wiſh.

Sir Walter, the head of the Deve⯑reux family, was lately created Earl of Eſſex; he had been ſent to Ireland to ſub⯑due the rebels, where he married. He returned to Court to preſent his bride, whom I had ſcarce regarded a moment, when my heart became ſenſible of a ſen⯑timent [126] unknown to it before. I was am⯑bitious of her notice, and envied the courtiers who ſurrounded her; I yet trem⯑bled to approach her, and the compli⯑ment of introduction was delivered by me with a low voice and timid air; the cold dignity of her manner, and her inſtantly turning from me to converſe with Lord Sands, affronted me highly. I examined all I had ſaid or done, but not finding any thing exceptionable on my part, I condemned her as a flattered girl, vain of accidental advantages even to folly; I retired with the Queen without taking any farther notice of Lady Eſſex. The Queen gave a ball that evening: I dreſt ſeveral hours too ſoon, and continually fancied the clock ſtood. Not doubting that I had the power of mortifying Lady Eſſex, I determined to uſe it; even her Lord ſeemed united in her offence, though I had no complaint to make againſt him but that he had married her. In ſhort, pleaſ⯑ed or angry, I could think of nothing but her, and though I ſtaid at home till quite [127] tired, I found myſelf the firſt in the draw⯑ing room.

The Queen learning I was there, and pleaſed with my attention, which ſhe placed to her own account, ſent for me to her cloſet; among other queſtions ſhe aſked how I liked Lady Eſſex, and the aſperity with which I cenſured her, was far from diſpleaſing Elizabeth, who had a talent for ſatire and was fond of all who excelled in it.

We entered the room at the ſame mo⯑ment with the lovely bride, more obvi⯑ouſly ſo as more adorned. The Queen turned to me who was leaning on the back of her chair—"I think, ſaid ſhe, my Lord, I muſt take the liberty of ap⯑pointing you to dance with Lady Eſſex, that the Court may have an opportunity of admiring how well I have matched her." "I thought, returned I, your Ma⯑jeſty had promiſed me the pleaſure of enter⯑taining you; and, ſurely Lady Eſſex has matched herſelf much more happily." "Lord Leiceſter, madam, ſaid that Lady in an ironical tone, is uniform in his opi⯑nion [128] reſpecting me, and for once I agree with him." Saying this, ſhe gave her hand to her Lord, who honoured the younger Cecil with it. Amazed at a pique, I could no way explain, I remained in a ſullen re⯑verie, till the Queen interrupted it by aſking, if I did not think Lady Eſſex's wit inclined to the ſevere? I replied, "when I knew whether ſhe had any ſenſe, I ſhould judge of her wit, but that at pre⯑ſent ſhe was perfectly unintelligible to me." "Why, ſurely my Lord, cried the Queen, leaning on the arm of her chair, and raiſing her eyes to mine, you know ſhe was Miſs Lineric?" What a fund of intelligence was conveyed in theſe few words, and what a revolution did they make in my mind! —To find I had refuſed, and in refuſing inſulted the wo⯑man on whom my happineſs muſt depend, or, rather, from whoſe reſentment my miſery was begun. —Pride, anger, and ambition vaniſhed; my heart overflowing with chagrin and love, applauded her juſt diſdain, and owned ſhe could never de⯑ſpiſe me for my ſtupidity half ſo much as [129] I did myſelf. Inſenſible to all the diſ⯑courſe of the Queen, my eyes purſued with a vain and late regret the beauteous bride, till the meanders of the dance eluding my ſight, I ſtruck my head in a tranſport againſt the Queen's chair, and being obliged to excuſe myſelf, complain⯑ed of a vertigo and retired.

I was interrupted in the midſt of the diſagreeable reflections ariſing from the paſt ſcene, by Elizabeth's phyſician, whom ſhe had graciouſly ordered to attend me. He eaſily invented a reaſon for a malady his art could neither cauſe or cure, and having directed me to be bled, left me to repoſe. The Queen ſent ſeveral meſ⯑ſengers to enquire after me, and when I paid my duty next to her, almoſt gave me a relapſe by diſmiſſing her attendants. Perplexed and uneaſy, I hardly dared to raiſe my eyes, or anticipate her de⯑termination. I met hers, which ſeemed equally irreſolute, and a pauſe of a few moments was at laſt interrupted by Eli⯑zabeth.

[130]She informed me, that after the moſt mature deliberation, ſhe found, that although ſhe preferred me to all men exiſting, ſhe could not by marrying make me happy, or be ſo herſelf; that in yielding to this weakneſs of her heart, ſhe ſhould for ever fully her reputa⯑tion for wiſdom, which would always, while ſingle, teach her how to manage other potentates, either by hope or fear; and that ſuch a degradation, in general opinion, would too ſenſibly affect her. — Leiceſter, ſaid ſhe, thou ſeeſt my inge⯑nuous motives—I know thou loveſt me, and to make thee ſome amends for the grief this muſt give thee, be aſſured by our royal word, that we will never marry another man however glorious his rank. Conſider, therefore, whatever matrimo⯑nial treaties are on foot as tubs thrown out to the whale, and remember Eliza⯑beth's friendſhip ſhall diſtinguiſh thee al⯑moſt as much as her choice could.

I kiſſed the hand ſhe held out to me with apparent chagrin, but in reality ſhe had relieved my heart from a heavy load. [131] I ventured to admire a fortitude which reduced me to deſpair, and thus amply gra⯑tified that vanity, which in her, takes the lead of ſenſibility. Nevertheleſs, I was ſtruck with her demand of a ſolemn pro⯑miſe on my part, never to marry without her conſent, and conſidered it as a ſelfiſh and arbitrary exaction unknown to a ten⯑der heart.

The whole Court learnt I had loſt my hopes without loſing my influence. The Queen, juſt to her promiſe, gave me a palpable ſuperiority on every occaſion, and I only deſired it to make my homage more gratifying to the fair Lady Eſſex, who ſhewed too much anger to rob me of hope. Had ſhe appeared equally indif⯑ferent and polite, ſhe would totally have diſcouraged me, but a man may reaſon⯑ably flatter himſelf with the proſpect of a pardon, as long as a lady deigns to appear offended. I made every poſſible conceſſion to her pride, and the pleaſure ſhe found in humbling me, interwove me inſenſibly with her happineſs.

[132]I ſhould ſpare to your virgin delicacy, ladies, the acknowledgment of a diſgrace⯑ful and guilty love, was it not abſolutely eſſential to mark the remainder of my ſtory. There was a levity and incon⯑ſiſtency in the manners of Lady Eſſex, which ſoon awakened her Lord's jealouſy, and as ſhe had always been indulged to folly, ſhe could ſo ill brook any reſtraint, that it threw her the more readily into my power. The belief that I was loved alone by her, and had myſelf reduced her to make another choice, enabled her to pre⯑ſerve a merit with me even in her fall. The few hours we could ſteal, were la⯑viſhed in the moſt ardent affection. I grew almoſt as jealous of her as her Lord, and bleſt the caution with which he ſhut her up more and more, even from me, ſince it to⯑tally excluded all other lovers. The oftener I ſaw her, however, the more ardently I de⯑ſired it; and when at laſt her Lord was ap⯑pointed to the command of the forces in Ire⯑land, whither he deſpotically reſolved to carry her, my paſſion and grief kept pace [133] with hers; the Court preſented nothing to me worthy to ſupply the loſs of one ſo ami⯑able, and had not the Queen given me a command in the Low Countries, I know not how I ſhould long have concealed the emptineſs of my boſom, now its tenant was flown.

Several years paſt away in a variety of ſcenes without my ſeeing Lady Eſſex, when the early death of her Lord left her at liberty to fix her reſidence in England. I returned home on the firſt intelligence. The ſober widowhood in which ſhe lived, made it difficult for me to gain admiſſion to her preſence, which I at laſt effected by a diſguiſe. Her beauty ſhone through her ſables with new and more touching graces, while my heart betrayed me into involuntary exclamations and careſſes. She wept, and retreating from my arms, aſſured me, the only action of her life ſhe repented was that attachment which had ſullied her innocence, and which ſhe was reſolved to expiate by eternal ſecluſion and repentance. All my intreaties were fruitleſs. She burſt [134] from me into an apartment where ſhe told me, her brother, Mr. Lineric, was, who inſtantly ruſhed into the room, and de⯑manded by what right I had preſumed to detain her? I anſwered truly, by that of a lover alone, and flattered myſelf with gain⯑ing the intereſt of this young Iriſhman in favor of my pretenſions, by obtaining a conſiderable poſt for him the next day. I eaſily diſcerned her aim was a marriage with me, which from every reaſon, and more eſ⯑pecially the promiſe I had made to the Queen, I wiſhed to avoid. Endleſs negoci⯑ations were carried on, and theſe fermented the weakneſs of my heart to ſuch a degree, that I forgot her error. Vanity but too eaſily perſuades a generous man to pardon a ſrailty of which he is the cauſe and the object. Lady Eſſex liſtened very readily to an honourable propoſal, and gave me at Greenwich an excluſive claim to that hand ſo long, ſo paſſionately beloved.

Anxious to conceal this event from the Queen, who rigidly maintained over me the rights of a jealous lover, while ſhe [135] diſclaimed the title, I viſited my bride very rarely, and my affection rather en⯑creaſed than diminiſhed; in fact, I was the more completely happy when with, becauſe I hourly experienced, in every abſence, the impoſſibility of being happy without her."

To return one moment to the poor Matilda; from the moment Lord Leiceſ⯑ter named this Lady, my heart preſaged her his wife; the cloſing evening had luckily prevented the various changes of my countenance from being viſible, but the ſuppreſt ſwellings of my heart at laſt conquered my ſpirits, and I ſunk back at this part of his recital, if not fainting, at leaſt ſenſeleſs.

Lord Leiceſter, alarmed, united with the terrified Ellinor to recover me; when fearing my full eyes would betray my heart, I urged indiſpoſition, and beſought his excuſe for retiring to my chamber. He made many apologies for having fa⯑tigued me, to which Ellinor alone could anſwer. As ſoon as he left us, giving [136] way to an irreſiſtible impreſſion of ſad⯑neſs, I threw my arms round Ellinor, and wept bitterly; her generous tears ſtreamed with mine, and we ſeemed fully to mingle ſouls without exchanging one word.

"I underſtand you, my beloved ſiſter, ſaid ſhe, and will ſpare your delicacy, but you wanted courage to hear the whole, and this lady is not immortal. Think better of yourſelf and your hopes, my dear Matilda, for Ellinor becomes a prophet in your cauſe, and ſays Lord Leiceſter and you were born for each other."

This little ſally could not call the ſmile ſhe wiſhed for into my cheek. I was the more hurt at this event, becauſe I had, (though I know not for what reaſon except that we all too readily believe what we wiſh) overlooked it in my arrangement of ſuppoſitions. I paſt the whole night in walking about my room, and lamenting. "He is married! I would exclaim; that invaluable heart and hand are then ano⯑thers! Oh, juſt Heaven! have I then in⯑herited my mother's fate with her fea⯑tures? [137] Is a guilty paſſion ordained to be the crime and ſcourge of all my race? let me at leaſt bury it in my boſom. Yes, cried I, with conſcious dignity, I may be unfortunate but not cenſurable: the daughter of Mary ſhall be worthy the Stuart line. When this admired Leiceſter returns into the world, he ſhall remember with reverence this innocent aſylum, and the family of Howard ſhall be ſtill dear to him. Oh may he return in ſafety to that moſt happy of wives! while I waſte my youth in a ſolitude only pleaſing by its having once been his ſhelter." Self would then predominate, and floods of impaſſioned tears waſh away every juſt re⯑ſolution. Alas, I forget to whom I am writing; the language and thoughts of lovers muſt be uniformly the ſame, and I can only excuſe theſe rhapſodies, by ob⯑ſerving a tender heart traces its own emo⯑tions under the name of another with a melancholy pleaſure.

Lord Leiceſter, at the uſual hour, the next day reſumed his narrative.

[138]"The wars in the Low Countries car⯑ried me abroad half the year; and the re⯑mainder I divided between the Court and my Lady. Security perhaps produced careleſſneſs, and the French Ambaſſador, whoſe Court was intereſted in depriving me of the Queen's favor, as the chief obſtacle to her appointed marriage with the Duke of Anjou, by ſome unexpected vigilance traced out the ſecret of my marriage, of which he immediately apprized Elizabeth. I had the vexation one morning to receive the moſt marked tokens of her diſplea⯑ſure, for ſhe is but too well known to give an unbounded licenſe to her tongue, when⯑ever her paſſions are awakened. She ended her virulent reproaches with ordering me immediately to join the army in the Ne⯑therlands, and never to return without her permiſſion. Thunderſtruck both with the diſcovery and her conduct, I bowed and retired, without attempting to offer a ſingle word in my own defence. The Queen made me however ſome atonement for her violence, by refuſing the Duke, [139] when every preliminary was ſettled; which cruelly diſappointed the French Am⯑baſſador.

No longer condemned to ſilence, my retinue eſcorted Lady Leiceſter to Kenil⯑worth Caſtle, as the ſafeſt reſidence while the Queen's anger continued; and I obeyed her in departing for Holland. I ſoon learnt that Elizabeth's chief reaſon for not recalling me, was the being obliged to pardon my wife, to whom, by a moſt unaccountable whim, ſhe had transferred all her reſentment, and whom ſhe hoped to puniſh by continuing to ſeparate us. The times, and a variety of reaſons, made our correſpondence uncertain; months ſometimes elapſed, and without I ſent an expreſs, I obtained no news of one ſo dear to me. I was unjuſt enough to im⯑pute the difficulties by turns to the Queen and my enemies; and piqued at Elizabeth's ungenerous motive for exiling me, reſolved to paſs over incognito into England, and conduct Lady Leiceſter into the Nether⯑lands, or, if ſhe was averſe to that meaſure, endeavour to appeaſe the Queen.

[140]I executed my deſign ſo happily, that my arrival at my own Caſtle was the firſt news of my intention to Lady Lei⯑ceſter, whom I found confined to the houſe by indiſpoſition. It ſtruck me her joy was nearly allied to ſorrow; but the thought was momentary, and I imputed it to her malady. Her beauty appeared much impaired, but placing the altera⯑tion merely to grief for my abſence, it became a new call upon my tenderneſs. She told me the terror ſhe was under of Elizabeth had made her almoſt a priſoner in her own houſe, where ſhe had paſſed fifteen months without any company ex⯑cept her brother, who had kindly fol⯑lowed her into this ſolitude to fix her in⯑fluence over an ungovernable train of ſer⯑vants to whom ſhe was a ſtranger. I re⯑turned Lineric every acknowledgment, and complimented him with a fine dia⯑mond given me by the States on a former occaſion.

"A long abſence from this manſion, where art and nature unite to produce al⯑moſt the effect of novelty, made it ap⯑pear [141] a moſt heavenly retreat from the noiſe and buſtle of a camp. I paſſed the afternoon in ſurveying the gardens, and directing many neceſſary alterations.

"Inſenſibly fatigued beyond bearing, I conſented, at the perſuaſion of my Lady, to retire and endeavour to reſt an hour early in the evening. I had ſlept ſeveral, when my valet, Le Val, threw open the curtains, and with a countenance full of horror and intelligence, deprecated the wrath ſuch a rude ſalutation muſt neceſ⯑ſarily occaſion."

"Amazed beyond expreſſion, I bad him recollect himſelf, ſince, while thus confuſed, I could not rely on his ac⯑counts, however kind his intention."

"Pardon me, my Lord, ſaid he, the liberty your ſafety reduces me to take, of ſounding the truth of the grievous intel⯑ligence I am obliged in duty to reveal, by firſt queſtioning your Lordſhip: have you remarked that almoſt all your domeſticks are changed?"

I was ſtruck with conviction by the [142] queſtion, though I had not made the ob⯑ſervation.

"No, no, ſaid he warmly, there was a deviliſh reaſon for that."

"Beware, Le Val, returned I, of what you would inſinuate; for if, without proof you dare aſperſe—"

"I have but too ſufficient reaſons my Lord, added he, ſhaking his head, but they ſhall never paſs this boſom if you give an affirmative to my next demand. — Are you convinced, my Lord, that man is brother to my Lady who is called ſo?"

"I heſitated."

"Let us hope not, ſaid he with vehe⯑mence, leſt we ſhock humanity; for as ſure as one God made than both, they are but too well agreed."

Horror-ſtruck with the idea, my heart ſickened, and involuntarily admit⯑ted a doubt but too many circumſtances corroborated. —Her love of retirement might proceed more from ſuch an attach⯑ment than regard for me—nay, even her marriage be but an honourable veil to the [143] looſeſt connexion. I had neither power nor will to ſilence the poor fellow, who went on with an honeſt eagerneſs—

"Of all the ſervants long retained by your Lordſhip, two only remain, and the reſt are a ſet of ungoverned Iriſh, attached by country to both brother and ſiſter. The ſewer owns he kept his place by ſilence and ſubmiſſion, and dame Mar⯑gery, the houſekeeper, moſt probably, by managing all my Lady's ſecrets. But the ſewer will make oath of my Lady's intercourſe with Lineric, and, that far from wiſhing for your return, they are alarmed at it beyond meaſure, as my Lady expects every hour to be delivered. — Nor is this all."

"Give me time to breathe, Le Val! cried I, for this horrible intelligence un⯑mans me."

"I could not be ſilent and know you wronged, my Lord, though your ſword were to rip out my heart. But I fear the worſt—I fear leſt ſomething is now hatch⯑ing againſt your life, for my Lady is in Margery's room, directing ſome carp in [144] the manner you uſed to like ſo well; and I ſaw Lineric's ſervant ſet out for Coven⯑try, from whence he is this moment re⯑turned with a horſe his ſpeed has half killed."

"Well, well, ſaid I, be aſſured I ſhall conſider over all you have ſaid, and will avoid taſting the diſh you mention."

"Ah my Lord! that will only con⯑vince them you ſuſpect their diabolical intention, and the ſervants of their own placing form a little army in the houſe. If my Lord will hear the advice of his ſervant, I have a way to propoſe, which will have no ill conſequence if no ill is meant; if otherwiſe, it will fall only on the contrivers. Another diſh compoſed of the ſame ingredients, the ſewer can place at the bottom of the table; when the ſupper is ſerved, I will pretend to be drunk, and making a ſcuffle in the adjoining hall, my Lady and her brother will naturally take the alarm, and interfere; the ſewer can in the interim change the two diſhes, by which means my Lady will taſte the [145] diſh of her own preparing, and muſt abide the event."

This plan was of itſelf ſo innocent, and well contrived, that I reſolved to au⯑thoriſe it, and Le Val, ſatisfied with his diſcovery, retired. He had indeed re⯑lieved his mind, but what a weight had he left on mine! The bare idea had filled me with a thouſand horrors. Every thing confirms us in either love or hatred. —The ſilence of my friends when my marriage was diſcovered; her tears, her altered perſon, that remiſſneſs in writing, for which I had in my own heart cenſured the Queen—all, in ſhort, I ſo lately thought ineſtimable proofs of her love, now roſe as terrible preſumptions of her guilt; and yet, when I ſaw her enter my chamber preſently after, and tenderly ac⯑cuſe me for ſo long an abſence, I could have received a mortal draught from her hand with leſs pain than it coſt me to ſuſ⯑pect her.

The day was cloſing, and the table covered when I entered the Hall, occaſi⯑oned by my long ſleep. Le Val began the [146] premeditated uproar, and Lady Leiceſter with her brother flew towards the door, whence the attendants had before depart⯑ed, eager to increaſe the buſtle. The faithful ſewer, on whom I kept an eye, exchanged the diſhes in the manner agreed, and we returned to the table. I obſerved to my Lady that ſhe trembled violently which ſhe naturally enough attributed to the alarm. Aſſuring me ſhe had herſe prepared the carp, ſhe inſiſted on my do⯑ing honor to it, and urging her to bea me company, I accepted her invitation. An involuntary emotion made me every moment ready to prevent her taſting the exchanged diſh; but the pleaſure with which the infamous Lineric ſeemed to ſee me ſwallow the ſuppoſed death, kept me from ſpeaking. Scarce was the table cleared, when Lady Leiceſter ſunk back in ſtrong convulſions, Conſcience made Lineric exclaim, "poiſon, poiſon!" Every common antidote was adminiſtered in vain; ſhe was borne to her chamber in an hopeleſs ſtate, and I retired to mine to meditate alone. This terrible conviction [147] of the unhappy fate prepared for me on my return from an exile ſhe alone had oc⯑caſioned, converted my love into horror and averſion, She raved dreadfully at in⯑tervals, and perſiſting to the laſt I had poi⯑ſoned her, expired early in the morning. The blackneſs of the ſoul diffuſed itſelf over the body, and the proof of her infi⯑delity was too obvious in her perſon.

Whether Lineric's conſtitution was leſs liable to infection, or that he had taſted the carp more ſparingly, it was not till ſhe expired that he found himſelf af⯑fected; but the doſe was too deadly for him to eſcape. Convinced by his ſiſter's exam⯑ple, that there was no effectual antidote, he ſummoned all his Iriſh domeſtics into his chamber. The faithful Le Val choſe that moment to enter mine, and inform me of the conſultation, which he inſiſted would produce ſome fatal event, if I did not conſent that moment to mount horſes which were ready, and attended by him and Williams ſet out for London; this ſtep would give me the advantage of firſt re⯑preſenting the fact, while it ſecured my [148] perſon from any ſavage revenge; the ſewer in the interim, by the intervention of the tenants, might ſecure the Caſtle the moment the ruffians abandoned it in pur⯑ſuit of me.

This advice had its due weight with me, and quitting the Caſtle by ſtealth, I rode off with Le Val and Williams from my own ſervants as the worſt of aſſaſſins, and from my home as my grave. It was now day-break, and we had not pro⯑ceeded, many miles, when, from the top of a hill, we perceived a party apparently purſuing; having the fleeter horſes, we kept the advantage for near twenty miles, when, by taking ſome ſhorter road un⯑known to us, we ſaw them very near. St. Vincent's Abbey appeared at the ſame moment in ſight, which Le Val conjured me to ſeek, giving him my cloak to miſ⯑lead the aſſaſſins. We had no time for deliberation; I ſtruck into the wood, where, finding my horſe an incumbrance, I left him to his fate, and was endeavour⯑ing to make my way through the buſhes, without any certainty of being right, [149] when I had the happineſs to meet ſo fair a deliverer."

Lord Leiceſter thus concluded his ſto⯑ry; but oh! how much of my life had evaporated during the relation! The un⯑conquerable anxiety with which I followed him, united my heart for ever with his; and convinced me, no diſparity of either ſituation or years can reſtrain the eager ſentiments of youth ſeeking for merit. As the only acknowledgment for his no⯑ble frankneſs, I in turn related the little tale already repeated, of our melancholy birth, and undecided fate. Tears, com⯑poſed of every melting ſenſation, ſeemed to fall from my eyes on his heart. Thoſe fine eyes were teeming with ſome generous conſolation, when a ſudden noiſe obliged us to ſeparate. Hardly could he regain the chamber, hallowed as Mrs. Marlow's, ere Father Anthony joined us: the na⯑tural auſterity of his air heightened by ſome preſent chagrin. He threw himſelf into a chair, and preſerved a long ſilence; which, fear of his having pene⯑trated into our myſtery, prevented my [150] breaking. Confuſed beyond deſcription, a thouſand colours chaſed each other from my cheek; nor had I power to raiſe my eyes to my ſiſter, who, accuſtomed equally to love and honor me, ſeemed, in hold⯑ing my hand, to have gained a ſufficient protection.

"Unfortunate children! cried he, with a deep ſigh, Heaven has at laſt completed the calamitous circumſtances under which you were born: deſtined to an impriſon⯑ment as laſting as your royal mother's, you have but the melancholy advantage of chuſing it. Lord Scroope is dead in the confinement and diſgrace with which Elizabeth, rewarded him: his lands, his honors, the very ſpot on which you ſtand, all, are the property of a diſtant relati⯑on, and you now ſee before you your only friend—a feeble, helpleſs friend; bending daily towards that grave you alone render diſpleaſing to him. The moment may yet come, when the rights of your mother will aſcertain yours, and all I can do for you in the interim, is to convey you ſe⯑cretly into France, and place you under [151] the protection of the family of Guiſe; their prudence or their pride, may equally induce them to ſecure you an aſylum in a monaſtery."

The terrible alternative implied in theſe words, froze up my blood; and the beatings of my heart died away: —to be⯑come an exile from England—to forget Lord Leiceſter—or to be forgot by him— to be delivered up a martyr to the family of Guiſe; perhaps by them tyrannically buried in a eloiſter, a perjured ſelf-con⯑demned wretch, whoſe ſoul was full of an earthly image, while devoting itſelf to its Maker. All the arguments and en⯑treaties Father Anthony made uſe of in a long harangue, were loſt upon me; I knew him to be ſpeaking but by the mo⯑tion of his lips, and offered up to God, in my tears, a confutation of all he could advance. He left us not till too late for another interview with Lord Leiceſter; and I paſt the night in an anguiſh time can never eraſe from my memory—pale, unrefreſhed, either by ſleep or dreſs, I met [152] my Lord next morning, more like a ſpectre than myſelf. He took my hand, and expreſſing his ſurpriſe but by a glance, kiſſed it in tender ſilence. I did not dare raiſe my eyes to his, and tears ſtealing from under their lids, fell on the united hands. Oh, how much was expreſſed in the ſilence of that moment! I ſeemed, to underſtand all I wiſhed, and at length reſpired freely. Ellinor, unreſtrained by the tender de⯑licacy which actuated me, declared to Lord Leiceſter at once the fate allotted us, and her utter deteſtation of it. The eagerneſs with which he entered into our intereſts, beſpoke ſomething ſtronger than friendſhip. A thouſand times he aſſured Ellinor of his eſteem and affection: to me he ſaid nothing, but preſſing the hand he ſtill held, its trembling confeſſed it knew all the diſtinction. A ray of pleaſure once more enlightened my ſoul: methought at that moment I could have borne every evil fortune can inflict. No, he will never forget me, ſighed I to my⯑ſelf, in whatever remote ſolitude I am [153] again loſt to him; this dreary Receſs, the daughters of Mary, in their ruſtic garb, and lowly manner, will eclipſe all the glories of a court,, all the gifts of Eliza⯑beth. For the remainder of his ſtay, a ſerene delight, which neither aroſe from, nor can be conveyed by language, ani⯑mated us alike; the intercourſe of the eyes and heart took place of that of the tongue, and perhaps nothing was more remote from our thoughts than what we converſed about: till my Lord fixed my attention by declaring he would no longer intrude on our goodneſs than till the next morning. A ſigh accompanied theſe words, and a ſigh was my only reply. Ellinor, who ever treated him with a freedom inſeparable from a diſintereſted regard, inſiſted he ought not to quit ſo ſafe an aſylum raſhly. He replied, he ſhould bury himſelf with us, did he not hope to reviſit it in a more acceptable manner. Breaking, off at theſe words with an irreſolution and timidity which ſhewed he had not ſaid all he intended, after pauſing a few moments, he reſum⯑ed, [154] "Can you pardon, Ladies, a friend⯑ſhip perhaps too officious? But ſince your natural ſupport, and juſt hopes have failed, may I flatter myſelf you will have the goodneſs to ſuſpend your reſolutions re⯑ſpecting the future, till I can appear with honor again before, you? A ſhort time is due to clearing my own fame; for ill would it become me to claim the guardi⯑anſhip of the Royal Mary's beauteous chil⯑dren, while loaded with opprobrium." He was proceeding, when the cough of Father Anthony ſtartled us. Scarce had Ellinor time to lead my Lord out at one door, ere he entered at another to viſit Alice, who had ſunk under the fatigue and grief attending the loſs of her miſ⯑treſs. With an art I had newly learnt, I ſnatched up a book, in which I affected to be ſo abſorbed, as not to hear him till at my ſhoulder. With real perturbation I aroſe on his ſpeaking; and, as uſual, was preceding him to Alice's chamber, when he called me back in haſte, and pointing to the ground, bade me give him what lay there. But what words can [155] expreſs the various emotions which ran through my frame, when I perceived it was the picture of Elizabeth, which the Earl had, in retiring, ſomehow or other dropt! Inſtead of obeying, I ſnatched it up, and attempted to hide it in my bo⯑ſom; when, with a ſtrong arm, the Fa⯑ther wreſted it from me, and read in my features half the myſtery: the name en⯑graved on it, the date, all put him out of doubt as to the owner, and nothing re⯑mained but to learn how I had come by it. Without the fineſſes of my ſex on the occaſion, as ſoon as my terrors and tears permitted, I related the whoſe adventure incoherently. With his cuſtomary ſtern⯑neſs, he overwhelmed me with reproaches. "Raſh girl, cried, he, could no human prudence ſave thee? Did not the loſt Saint, whom I muſt ever lament, en⯑tomb herſelf merely to preſerve a ſecret, the folly of a baby's curioſity, betrayed ere her aſhes were cold? What confidence can be placed in the favorite of Elizabeth, whoſe intereſt it undoubtedly muſt be, to flatter thoſe in whoſe hands his life [156] now is, and then deliver them up to exalt himſelf by the total ſilent ruin of the Stuarts? prudence directs us rather to ſecure ourſelves by retaining him for ever here."

"Firſt, may I periſh on the block where my father ended his days! cried I, in a tranſport of love and grief: let me, oh God, rather be a martyr to the ſins of man⯑kind, than ſubmit to partake them! What! be more cruel than the aſſaſſins, from whom we ſaved him? Pardon me, Father, cried I, reccovering myſelf; but you know not the ſtory or the heart of Lord Leiceſter, who, far from betraying us, is anxious to become our guardian and protector."

"Such a guardian as the wolf is to the lamb, retorted he acrimoniouſly—who, oh, who would willingly have the ma⯑nagement of youth! Unhappy child, added he, wilt thou inherit the faults with the features of thy mother? an idle weak⯑neſs like thine ſapped all her morals, and left a ſtain on her life, time never can eraſe. [157] but if not more virtuous, be at leaſt more prudent."

"Hold, Father Anthony, cried I, with a dignity which awed even him into ſilence, nor cancel all the merit of your actions, by a ſurmiſe my foul diſdains. Far be it from me to cenſure a parent, but ſtill far⯑ther be it to deſerve the cenſure of an in⯑different perſon. I may have erred, but only in innocence; and the life that beats within this boſom, can never iſſue to a no⯑bler purpoſe, than to ſave that of Lord Leiceſter."

Nothing is more dangerous than, to judge a generous and youthful mind harſh⯑ly: it then is too eaſily acquitted to itſelf, and riſes againſt ſuſpicions it is unconſci⯑ous of deſerving. The ſhock the Father's doubts had given me, brought to light, without one idea of ſhame, that partiality I durſt hardly before acknowledge to my⯑ſelf.

Convinced by my manner, he had loſt his influence over me, he commanded, Ellinor to re-conduct my Lord into his [158] preſence, and requeſted to be left alone with him. I departed moſt reluctantly, but I would not entirely exaſperate him. The injuſtice of mankind gave me too much reaſon to dread leſt he ſhould affront Lord Leiceſter, who might unite the innocent with the guilty, and aban⯑don us entirely: averſions extend but too frequently through families; nay, even deſcend from generation to gene⯑ration.

Their conference continued two whole hours, while I counted the moments in painful expectation; at laſt Father An⯑thony entered our room, and bidding Ellinor entertain Lord Leiceſter, deſired me to collect my ſpirits, and liſten to him.

"However my ſuſpicions may offend you, young Lady, ſaid he, I will ſuppoſe it poſſible I may-know as much of the world, who have paſſed my youth in it, as you who have yet been confined almoſt to theſe walls. Well had it been if you had never gone beyond them. When I tell [159] you this Lord you have ſaved demands your hand, you will indulge a thouſand romantic ſallies, and ſee in his requeſt a love as blind as your own. Perhaps there may be ſomething in that: perhaps too he recollects that your mother is the next in ſucceſſion to the crown of England— that ſhe may die in priſon, and that the averſion the Engliſh ever entertain to a foreign ſway, may prevail over the prior claim of your brother James, and his ambition may be gratified by a preference given to you. The cruel neceſſity im⯑poſed by your unlimited confidence of at⯑taching Lord Leiceſter to your intereſt, makes it needleſs to enumerate the objecti⯑ons I could reaſonably urge againſt your union: the recent loſs of his wife, I find, puts it in his power to marry you: you have left yourſelf no choice but to marry him: and never will I conſent to his departing from this Receſs, till the con⯑tracts I ſhall dictate are ſolemnly ſigned and the marriage completed in all its forms."

[160]"Imagine, Madam, my ſituation dur⯑ing this ſpeech—" "Oh, Anthony, thy dictatorial manner then was happi⯑pineſs! in one moment to emerge from the abyſs of deſpair, and ſoar into the regi⯑ons of bliſs: to find the generous Leiceſ⯑ter was willing once more to ſacrifice his ſafety for love; once more to riſque a diſpleaſure from which he was not yet re⯑lieved: to raiſe me from obſcurity—ah! to raiſe me to himſelf! a height, in my eſtimation, beyond the throne of my anceſ⯑tors! The fond hope, ſuggeſted by the Fa⯑ther's ſpeeeh, of one day rewarding my Lord's tenderneſs, was all I remembered of it. Crowns and ſceptres, thoſe play-things in the hands of love, ſurrounded me in imagination, and impaſſioned tears rolled down my glowing cheeks, while I ſaid to myſelf, in the language of Miranda, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of."

Reflection and circumſtances a little foftened Father Anthony, who ſaw him⯑ſelf on the point of being relieved from a heavy charge, to which his impove⯑riſhed [161] fortune, and decaying years, ren⯑dered him unequal. The amiable Leiceſter joined us, and every heart being lighten⯑ed of its load, an evening of ſuch refined pleaſure ſucceeded, that could I wiſh to live over one of my whole life, I would ſelect that as the happieſt.

The intereſt, the honor of my Lord, demanded his return to Court, and Father Anthony having prepared due contracts, inſiſted on my compliance. His com⯑mands, and the wiſhes of Lord Leiceſter, added to theſe weighty reaſons, over-ruled my ſenſe of decorum, and our hands were united.

The peculiarity of the ſituation can alone excuſe ſuch a marriage; but I was born for obedience. Formed wholly of the mild elements, I wept the diſap⯑pointment of my wiſhes ever in ſilence. Scarce had the tranſport of finding my⯑ſelf happy given place to reaſon, when my mother recurred to my mind. Un⯑bleſt by her matron preſence, my nup⯑tials were but half hallowed; nay, un⯑bleſt [162] with her conſent. I compared with grief her fate and mine: a long cap⯑tivity had impaired her health, and no hope of a releaſe to her ſpirits. I, al⯑though pent in a ſtill narrower priſon, beheld it encloſe almoſt every human good, and could have conſented to end my days in it.

But the honor, the welfare of my Lord ordained otherwiſe; every paſſing hour gave his enemies an advantage Our ſer⯑vant James had been ſent immediately on our marriage to Kenilworth caſtle, which he informed us on his return was in the poſſeſſion of the faithful tenants, who had been able, of all the ſervants, to ſecure only Dame Margery. This deteſta⯑ble inſtrument of a ſuperior's barbarity, more terrified at the idea of an infamous death than any due ſenſe of her crime, attempted to end her days with a rem⯑nant of the poiſon prepared for her Lord; but being detected, it only ſupplied a new proof of her guilt. Tormented by fear and deſpair, ſhe at laſt ſound means to ſtrangle herſelf in the night. In her my [163] Lord loſt one evidence of his innocence, which made his preſence at court doubly neceſſary. The family of Lineric, having received information of the melancholy cataſtrophe of both brother and ſiſter, from the Iriſh ſervants, who had been their abettors, had carried away the bodies, as if to inter them, but kept them in the hands of ſurgeons, ſtill undetermined how to proceed.

Involved in one fate with my love, I knew no peace even in his arms; but with inceſſant admonitions drove him from me, refuſing reſolutely to accompa⯑ny him: and although his fondneſs in⯑duced him to urge my departure, his rea⯑ſon muſt ſuggeſt to him all its danger. Would Elizabeth, who thus reſented his marrying an equal, ever pardon his af⯑piring to her blood? and how could we ſufficiently guard from others a ſecret my very features betrayed to him? Actuated but by the ſingle wiſh, of paſſing my life near Lord Leiceſter, I neither aſked to be known, or honored by any one but himſelf, nor to be greeted by a title only endeared to me, becauſe he bore it.

[164]The ſtrong averſion with which I had been taught to regard the reigning Queen, might perhaps influence me in this caſe. Before I gave my hand to Lord Leiceſter, I had made him promiſe never to carry me to Court; a promiſe readily given, ſince it perfectly accorded with his wiſhes. Nay, in this happy union, every wiſh I could form ſeemed to be completed; I gained to that dear mother, (who ne⯑ver left my thoughts, although I could neither aſk her advice or conſent in de⯑ciding my fate) a powerful friend in the favourite of her unjuſt rival. I hoped he might yet be prevailed on to attempt her freedom; and I already placed myſelf at her feet, overcome with the dear idea of having been the inſtrument of her deli⯑verance. Alas, Madam, were it not for ſuch vague imaginary joys, how could we exiſt? All our real pleaſures fall infinitely ſhort of theſe; Tor the preceding and fol⯑lowing afflictions oblige our reaſon too often to correct them. But fancy, pow⯑erful fancy, gains vigour from diſappoint⯑ment; and an infant hope ever ariſes like [165] the Phoenix from the aſhes of the dying one.

A week after my marriage, Lord Lei⯑ceſter departed for Court, promiſing. ſoon to return, and conduct me to Kenilworth, where he had previouſly reſolved I ſhould reſide with Ellinor. He depended leſs on Elizabeth's partiality, than the juſtice of his cauſe, and was far from declining a trial, in which he was ſatisfied his inno⯑cence would become conſpicuous. He was ſorry nevertheleſs to convince the Queen he had wronged her confidence, only to obtain, the moſt unworthy of her ſex.

From his departure I date my entrance into the world. I had rather, till this, pe⯑riod, looked on, than lived in it. Now I began to feel its anxieties, the painful con⯑ſequences of its. tendereſt ties. Shall I tell you all, Madam, that paſſed in my heart? In ſpite of the proof I had received, of a matchleſs affection, I could not perſuade my ſelf Lord Leiceſter would ever return. If the Queen, rinding him once more free, and taught his value by his loſs, [166] ſhould at laſt reſolve to eſpouſe him, how could a poor girl, already poſſeſſed, and left in a ſolitude, where even the news of his infidelity could not reach her till too late, how would ſhe weigh againſt a crown? Where could ſhe hope for juſ⯑tice, when the Sovereign who ſwears to protect, muſt find it her intereſt to⯑condemn her? Overcome with this for⯑midable phantom, I gave myſelf up for ſome days to a deſpair as violent as my love. This imagination was only in⯑terrupted by another not leſs afflicting. How, if his intereſt in the Queen's heart had expired in his abſence; if equally offended at his diſobedienee and its mo⯑tive, ſhe ſhould join with his enemies? His proofs appearing leſs ſatisfactory to me than himſelf, I feared it was poſſible he might be condemned, as a criminal, when he was in reality the devoted vic⯑tim.

One of theſe ſuppoſitions Was as un⯑juſt to the Queen, as the other to my dear Lord; and Father Anthony diſpelled [167] them all by ſome letters he brought me. I had the happineſs to find Lord Leiceſ⯑ter was received by the Queen with kind⯑neſs, and that the family of Lineric, per⯑ſuaded of his innocence, would not pro⯑voke him to make public the infamous deſign of his late wife, by calling him to a trial; he had therefore but one cau⯑tion to obſerve, which was, ta conceal this new union with more care than the laſt. to effect this, he muſt delay our meet⯑ing for ſome little time, left his immedi⯑ately retiring from Court ſhould lead the curious to ſearch into the cauſe.

My doubts vaniſhed with theſe proofs of his attention. I had only now to con⯑tend with the involuntary hatred I had conceived for the Receſs. I wandered through every apartment, without finding; reſt in any: my impaſſioned fancy fol⯑lowed my love into the court, and the ſilence and conſinement I lived in, be⯑came more and more odious, I beheld with aſtoniſhment the compoſure of my ſiſter, and envied her a tranquillity I would [168] not have regained, by being unmarried, if 1 could.

At laſt the happy hour arrived when I was to quit my retirement. Lord Lei⯑ceſter had projected the mode of my departure ere he left me. Le Val and his valet were the only perſons in the ſecret. To all others, we paſſed for young women educated in a Convent, who, not finding a call to the monaſtic life, came with the conſent of our friends, to embelliſh the retirement of Lord Lei⯑ceſter by our muſical talents. This tale we were well able to ſupport, for my voice was a very fine one, and the ſkill and taſte of Mrs. Marlow, added to the tuition of a maſter, had taught me to manage it properly. Ellinor had not the ſame advantage, but touched the lute with a delicacy ſo exquiſite, that we became neceſſary to each other; and as I never ſung ſo well without her accompa⯑niment, ſhe had been ſo accuſtomed to adapt it to my voice, that ſomething ſeemed wanting to either, when the other was ſilent. The paſſion Lord Leiceſter had [169] for muſic, in which he was a proficient, gave the ſtrongeſt probability to the whole. He had paid a handſome ſum to accompliſh the two daughters of his ſtew⯑ard in that ſcience, and the young wo⯑men were taught to expect an addition to their number. The time Le Val remain⯑ed in the Receſs, preparing every thing for our departure, was long enough for him to ſeem employed in fetching us from abroad. Lord Leiceſter came ſe⯑veral times to direct all, and to ſup⯑port and cheer us with accounts of the care he had taken to render the apart⯑ments deſtined to us, commodious and agreeable.

The Receſs, till now, ſo calm, ſo tire⯑ſomely tranquil, became at once full of confuſion and hurry; the family pictures were taken from their frames, and conveyed through Father Anthony's cell, gradually to Kenilworth.

By what ſtrange caprice is it, every⯑thing ſeems dear to us the moment we know we muſt loſe it? Involuntary tears filled my eyes when the hour of my de⯑parture [170] arrived. As much a ſtranger to the world as if juſt born into it, how could I promiſe to myſelf years as peaceful as I had experienced in the Receſs? Long habit has the art of giving charms to places; or, rather, it is the people who inhabit them. It ſeemed to me, as if in quitting the ſpot where the duſt of Mrs, Marlow was interred, I quitted likewiſe her idea: every ſpot I looked on was marked by ſome noble ſentiment, or ten⯑der emotion of that dear lady: but I was unjuſt to myſelf, for I have carried in my heart, through, every ſcene of life, her reſpectable image, and nothing but death can efface it.

To part with thoſe we love, is the moſt painful ſtretch of humanity; but what can make it painful to part with thoſe we do not love? Separation, like death, ſeems to eraſe all the individual ever did to diſpleaſe us, and leaves no remembrance but of his obliging actions. We loſt but little in Father Anthony; but could he forget what he muſt loſe in us? His [171] declining years, and ill health, required the tendereſt attention; and ſurely, the care he had ſhewn in educating us, gave him a juſt claim to ours. My feelings, in this were ſuperior to my ſiſter's, for he had been the means of my happi⯑neſs. I joined my intreaties to thoſe of the generous Lord Leiceſter, to prevail on him to reſide in a retirement at Kenil⯑worth: but although he ſeemed deeply affected at parting with us, he was inflex⯑ibly bent on ending his days where thoſe of his ſiſter ended. James ſtill remained to attend on him, and Alice was carried very ill to the carriage which conveyed us away.

We took nothing but the ornaments from the Receſs, leaving the furniture ready to accommodate any future unfortu⯑nates, whom the Father ſhould think worthy ſuch a relief.

It was in the duſk of the evening we arrived at Kenilworth caſtle: the ſteward's wife received us with her daughters. Unconſcious of our ſuperiority, they treated us as young people, Who ſought, [172] from the generoſity of their maſter, a comfortable ſubſiſtence. Although I had agreed to confirm this ſtory, I felt myſelf ſhocked at the freedom they uſed from it. I could have fallen to them, but was af⯑fronted at their riſing to me: A little time however reconciled me. "It is Lord Leiceſter's intereſt, and ſhall be my plea⯑ſure," was always my argument with my⯑ſelf. Mrs. Hart, for that was the name of this domeſtick, expatiated on her Lord's perſon, character, and magnificence; ſhe officiouſly pointed out the rich ornaments of the gallery and apartments, and looked round to us every moment with the imper⯑tinent expectation of ſeeing us filled with the low awe and ſurprize of people unac⯑cuſtomed to grandeur. The indifference with which we regarded every thing, was not a leſs affront to her conſequence: ſhe ſhrunk before it, and paſſed the re⯑mainder of the evening in a cold and haughty ſilence. Her daughters, not more amiable than herſelf, gloomily regarded our dreſſes, and by whiſpering, excluded us from joining in the converſation.

[173]Such was my introduction into the family it was my right to govern. My heart ſunk within me; I believed my⯑ſelf already fallen to a ſervant, and neg⯑lected by Lord Leiceſter. Unuſed to the circumſpection neceſſary, where ſe⯑crecy is deſired, I demanded to be wel⯑comed in his arms. I ſurveyed the eyes of my Ellinor, fearful they might re⯑proach me for having innocently degrad⯑ed the daughter of the Queen of Scots; but that dear girl, too delicate to add to my uneaſineſs, preſerved, apparently, her gaiety, and ſweetly accommodated herſelf to the people with whom fortune had mingled her.

The alledging fatigue and indiſpoſition, obliged them to conduct us to the apart⯑ment allotted us. I ſhould perhaps have wondered at its richneſs, but that I ſaw ſcarce any inferior. I was no ſooner left in it with Ellinor, than I gave free ſcope to the tears I had ſcarce been able before to ſuppreſs. My face was hid in her bo⯑ſom, when the voice of Lord Leiceſter recalled me to myſelf. I dried my eyes, [174] unwilling to reproach him even by a tear: he entered through a private door, to change the cauſe of my grief to joy; for in his pre⯑ſence I hardly ever knewn any other emo⯑tion; and the generous anxiety with which he entreated our pardon for the reception diſcretion had obliged him to order us, had ſomething in it ſo graceful, ſo ardent, and tender, that all the pride of my heart ſub⯑ſided at once, and left it full of gratitude and affection.

We wiſhed my ſiſter a good night, and then paſſing through a dark paſſage, the whole length of the grand gallery, came into Lord Leiceſter's apartments, to which every place I ever ſaw was mean. He had a noble ſpirit, a ſplendid fortune, and an exquiſite taſte. He had greatly improved this ancient ſeat, the gift of Elizabeth: its finely choſen ſituation, ele⯑gant architecture, and ſuperb furniture, made it the model of a thouſand others. The beauties divided through the reſt of the houſe in this apartment were united; and he gave a proof of the attention inſepa⯑rable from real love, by omitting nothing [175] to embelliſh it, he had ever heard me commend. Ah, Madam! theſe are the mighty trifles that ſo exquiſitely flatter a tender heart, and form its moſt perfect enjoyments.

THE RECESS, &c.
PART II.

THE communication between our apartments was a profound ſecret to all the ſervants but Le Val and Williams, my Lord's valet; in whoſe fidelity, after the late trial, he had the moſt perfect con⯑fidence. We were, to keep up the farce, preſented to Lord Leiceſter the next day, who ſoon, by his growing diſtinction, taught Mrs Hart and her daughters to obſerve a kind of deference in their be⯑haviour to us. He ordered them to at⯑tend [177] us round the gardens and park, and not to fail ſhewing us whatever was worth obſervation; and through what a beauti⯑ful variety did they lead us! a world in miniature! A magnificent lake preſented itſelf, in whoſe clear boſom the trees were reflected, and round which the ſheep and deer grazed on rich paſture: ſwans and water-fowls innumerable played on its ſurface, and an aight in the centre was made highly pictureſque by ſeveral half-ſeen cottages, and emblems of agri⯑culture. The late Lady Leiceſter needed not to have made a merit of reſiding within theſe walls, ſince nature and art could furniſh nothing lovely that was not encloſed here. Several gilded boats, and little veſſels, danced on the boſom of the lake, and added, by the various ſtream⯑ers which played upon the ſurface, to the gaiety and richneſs of the proſpect. When we turned the other way, the Go⯑thic towers, ſwelling baſtions, gigantic ſtatues, and majeſtic ſweep of the build⯑ing, made, that an object ſcarce leſs wor⯑thy of admiration.

[178]All our allotted employment was to ſing to Lord Leiceſter while at dinner; but as he frequently entertained the neigh⯑bouring Nobles and Gentlemen, a cur⯑tain of muſlin was drawn over the bal⯑cony to ſcreen us from obſervation. In the evening we ſometimes fiſhed on the lake; or Lord Leiceſter, to indulge in our company, joined in the concert we formed: every day brought with it ſome amuſement, and the reſtraint we lived under, kept up, even in matrimony, all that delicacy, and ſpirit of affection, which is, by caſe of mind, too apt to decay. At laſt, painful neceſſity obliged Lord Leiceſter to return to Court: he, however, would not leave me with more than one equal in the family, therefore di⯑rected that I ſhould preſide one month, and my ſiſter the next; by this method, rendering it hard for them to fix on his favorite. We likewiſe, with the ſteward's daughters, wore one kind of habit, and buſied ourſelves in the working rich, ta⯑peſtry.

[179]But my own happineſs could not eraſe from my mind the oppoſite fate of the unhappy Queen who gave us birth. She was then confined at a place not far diſtant from Kenilworth. I had already tried all my intereſt with Lord Leiceſter in her favour, without ſucceſs; and ſo juſt was his no⯑ble inflexibility, that at the moment my heart was pierced by it, my reaſon ad⯑mired it. "Another man, would he ſay, in attempting the releaſe of the ill-fated Mary, would only forfeit his obedience, and endanger his life; and were thoſe all, perhaps I ſhould not be able to refuſe my Matilda. But remember, my love, to theſe I muſt add, the blackeſt treachery and ingratitude: it would be, viper like, ſtinging to death the generous heart that warmed me. Never employ the voice of virtue to charm me to vice; for what ſeems a duty in you, would be the worſt of crimes in me; and what confi⯑dence could my wife have in my honor, if I was capable of betraying a partial Sovereign?"

[180]I then would urge, my only wiſh was to reſtore my mother's liberty, which no⯑thing but an unparalleled breach of con⯑fidence could have taken from her for eighteen years; obſerving, her crown had been lined with thorns too keen for her to deſire to wear it again.

"Ah, my dear Matilda! he would cry, how ignorant are you of theſe terri⯑ble emotions, jealouſy and revenge! per⯑mit me to know your mother's character better than yourſelf. She had too much pride and pleaſure in reigning, to ſubmit tamely to this impriſonment; or even ſuppoſing, tired of the evils always in⯑ſeparable from a Crown, ſhe could maſ⯑ter her juſt reſentment, and ſeeking an aſylum with her children, aſk only to die in peace, her relations would not ſuffer it. The ambition of the Guiſes is become a proverb; they would make uſe of her name and wrongs to ſhake the throne of Elizabeth; and inſtead of guarding the Queen, to whom I owed a perfect duty, I ſhould have have the miſery of ſeeing [181] a terrible war devour my country, of which I was the cauſe. Who knows, my dear Matilda, if amidſt theſe cala⯑mities my temper might preſerve its equa⯑lity? I might remember, with regret, the fatal advice which had miſled me, and you might lament, too late, the ſa⯑crificing your own happineſs to a fallaci⯑ous hope of reſtoring your mother's— Remember Elizabeth is now declining, the chances of life may bring about all you wiſh. —The compaſſion of the people has been kept alive for Mary theſe ſeven⯑teen years; ſhould we loſe Elizabeth, her very impriſonment would turn to her ad⯑vantage, by keeping her in the midſt of a kingdom to which ſhe is the lawful heir: my ſuppoſition is not vague, for the ex⯑ample of Elizabeth herſelf proves it very poſſible.

What could I oppoſe to reaſoning ſo juſt? I could only recommend the cauſe of my dear parent to him who can pull down the mighty and exalt the weak.

[182]Every letter from my Lord was filled with complaints of the tediouſneſs of the Court, and breathed the very ſoul of love. —He often intreated me to tell him I was happy, and when I complied, reproached me, through a tender caprice, for being ſo without him. —He required me to enu⯑merate my hourly employments, and al⯑though half my time was ſpent in writing pacquets to him, always complained of the ſhortneſs of my letters. He, indeed, gave me no cauſe to retort; for it appeared as if he withdrew from the Court half of his hours to amuſe me with all the little humorous incidents it continually fur⯑niſhed. But even theſe had not always the power to effect what he wiſhed—my fate never allowed me one hour of perfect happineſs, and an evil aroſe in his abſence which filled me with the moſt terrible ap⯑prehenſions.

My lovely ſiſter, who was ever my pride and delight, poſſeſſed in a peculiar degree, that amiable gaiety which leſſens the diſtance of rank. From her firſt in⯑troduction [183] at Kenilworth, ſhe had given way to an increaſe of ſpirits, natural from ſuch a change in our proſpects, little fore⯑ſeeing how great a danger might ariſe from it. —Williams had been raiſed by Lord Leiceſter to the ſuperintendancy of the family on his returning to Court. He preferred this man, believing he would, from knowing me his Lady, take care I was treated with due reſpect. Williams had been a ſoldier, and had contracted the autho⯑ritative air annexed to petty officers, which made him in appearance peculiarly ſuited to the poſt aſſigned him. —Imuſt confeſs he was never a ſavorite with me; nature had been unkind to him, and he had been more unkind to himſelf, in not ſoftening her ſeverity. He was beyond the meri⯑dian of life, his perſon coarſely made, his complexion ſwarthy, and his face much ſcarred; he had beſides a fierceneſs of mien which ſcarce bent to Lord Leiceſter, who, of all men, eminently poſſeſſed the art of inſpiring as much reſpect as affection.

[184]This man then, madam, marked out thus by nature, ventured to raiſe his eyes to the royal, the beautiful Ellinor—the ſprightli⯑neſs of her manner abated his reſpect, and he had the inſolence to declare his paſſion; call it honourable, and ſolicit her return. My ſiſter had too much underſtanding not to feel her own fault, and too much pride to ſupport his inſolent freedom. She left him with ineffable diſdain, as not worthy of a reply; and came directly to me—a pre-ſentiment of ſome evil conſequence aroſe in my mind at the moment ſhe re⯑lated the inſult. I reſolved to give Lord Leiceſter immediate notice of it, that he might take his meaſures accordingly, and in the mean while appeared conſtantly with my ſiſter. But we had to manage a man equally artful and fearleſs. He had the conſummate impudence to open my letter, and (finding its ſubject) detain it. In the mean time, no advice arriving from Lord Leiceſter in anſwer to mine, I re⯑mained on the rack of uncertainty; tor⯑mented by the confidence of a wretch from whom there was no poſſible eſcape, [185] and uncertain even of the nature or extent of our danger. At laſt, unable, as the wife of Lord Leiceſter, to endure his inſults, and tired of waiting my Lord's reſolution, I took an opportunity of repreſenting to him the daring boldneſs of his conduct, in ſpeaking of love to the ſiſter of his Lord.

Without any emotion or confuſion, he pleaded guilty to the charge, but artfully endeavoured to exculpate himſelf from preſumption, by alledging the rank in which we appeared, and the ſuppoſition that we were raiſed from obſcurity by his Lord; who of courſe could only ennoble me. —At this inſinuation, all the pride of Norfolk and Mary animated my features, yet fortunately recollecting myſelf, I replied with moderation; for the villain doubtleſs aimed at diſcover⯑ing from whom we really ſprung, ſince our habitation had too probably ſtruck him as containing a conſequential ſecret.

I forbad him mildly ever to addreſs my ſiſter in that light again, without the ap⯑probation of my Lord, and attempted to [186] retire; when ſtopping me, he bad me re⯑collect that I talked to one poſſeſſed of more authority in the houſe than myſelf; that I likewiſe knew a ſecret of the ut⯑moſt importance was in his power, and he was determined to make every uſe of it, in caſe I did not perſuade my ſiſter to accept him; that I muſt imagine him a fool by referring him to Lord Leiceſter; in ſhort, inſtead of aſking him, he was reſolved to prevent his arriving at the knowledge of the affair, for which reaſon he had kept back all my laſt letters.

How cruel, madam, was my ſituation! alone, without any means of gaining pro⯑tection from the remainder of my ſervants except by declaring a ſecret he knew too well I would never reveal; to be thus braved, as well as inſulted, was dreadful! I had yet no way of eluding him, ſince the whole family were under his governance, and had I offered to write to Lord Lei⯑ceſter through, any other channel, I had the greateſt reaſon to fear it would fall into his hands.

[187]By this terrible dilemma were the days of the wife of Lord Leiceſter embittered in the midſt of affluence; in a ſpot which might be called the palace of pleaſure. — Thus ſituated, I could only counteract treachery and art by the ſame. I appeared, after ſome reflection, alarmed at his threats, and more willing to forward his views: I exacted from him an oath not to betray my ſecret, and on my ſide ſolemnly vowed never to mention his, but to em⯑ploy my intereſt with my ſiſter in his fa⯑vor: —We parted with, mutual diſtruſt, and an apparent reliance on each others ſincerity. I performed one part of my promiſe by conjuring Ellinor to deceive him with falſe hopes, till Lord Leiceſter's return gave me an opportunity of conſult⯑ing him on the ſafeſt way of diſpoſing the traitor. It was with much reluctance ſhe conſented, but it would have been a cru⯑elty unlike her character, to refuſe to lighten an evil ſhe was the innocent cauſe of. I had then only to find ſome means of letting my Lord know it without breaking my word: for once in my life I [188] was guilty of duplicity, and, like Philoc⯑tetes, found my equivocation furniſhed a terrible puniſhment. I wrote a letter, de⯑claring the whole to Lord Leiceſter, which I kept in my boſom to give to him whenever he ſhould return; in the mean time I wrote as uſual, and delivered my letters to Williams. The profound ſilence I obſerved on this ſubject, probably in⯑ſpired him with confidence, and although Ellinor refuſed to marry him directly, the point he aimed at, the complaiſance with which we both treated him, lulled him at laſt into a perfect ſecurity.

Worn out with hourly complaints of this wretch's impertinence to my ſiſter, and my fears of the event, I counted, with more than a lover's impatience, the days which muſt elapſe before I could ſee Lord Leiceſter. At length the happy one arrived which brought him, and gave me at once joy and ſorrow, for who could tell me all its conſequences? —Foſtered in a Court, where he knew but one ſuperior, Lord Leiceſter had added a perſonal pride to that which naturally ſprung [189] from the nobility of his birth. The par⯑tiality of his Sovereign, who diſpenſed, through love, with his obedience, had prevented his learning to diſguiſe his foibles: it was the buſineſs of every one to ſeem blind to them, by which means he was a favorite without being a hypocrite. Thoſe who loved him well enough to allow for this error, and a va⯑nity I can ſcarce term ſo, when I re⯑member the various and numerous ad⯑vantages he poſſeſſed, might do any thing with him. Impaſſioned, generous, good⯑natured, and noble, where once he was attached, his fortune, honor, nay life, would be riſked for his friend; but the few who are worthy that name, too often confined his affections. Lord Leiceſter was too exalted perhaps to be loved. But I digreſs. Pardon me, Madam, when you conſider the cauſe. This openneſs of heart gave me juſt reaſon to apprehend a guilty mind would read the indignant eye of my love, and induced me to ſup⯑preſs, for ſome days, the intended diſclo⯑ſure. [190] My precaution ſucceeded; Willi⯑ams knew the character of his Lord, and finding by the freedom and confidence he ſtill teſtified, that I was true, began to rely on my word. A journey on which he was accidentally ſent, aſſiſted me highly, in leaving time for my Lord to cool. I laid the letter on his table one evening before I went to bed: Lord Leiceſter, who was in another room, came in after me, but had not half read it when he frightened me by his rage and indignation. Had the man been in the houſe I know not how the matter would have ended, but at length my tears and diſtreſs ſoftened him; he paſſed two days after in a thoughtful man⯑ner; I knew not, nor ventured to aſk him his reſolutions: at the end of that time he regained his temper and compo⯑ſure; he ſaw the apprehenſions lurking ſtill in my heart, and bade me take cou⯑rage, for he had found a way to quiet them for ever. I conjured my Lord at leaſt to conceal with caution his conſci⯑ouſneſs of the affair, which he promiſed, [191] and in a great degree performed; but whe⯑ther it was that knowing he was apprized of it made me fancy his manner would reveal it, I cannot ſay; certain it is, I never ſaw him look at or ſpeak to this man afterwards, without feeling my heart ſink within me.

Sir Francis Drake, at this time, formed all the converſation of England; he had fitted out a large fleet againſt the Spani⯑ards, with which he was ready to ſail from Plymouth. Many noblemen, and others, engaged as volunteers, and an in⯑finite number of people aſſembled from all parts to view the fleet. Lord Leiceſ⯑ter, who had always been a ſtrong friend to Sir Francis, ſet out to take leave of him, and enlarged the train of domeſtics he uſually travelled with, for the ſake of appearing honorably among numbers who did not know him. So ardent was the deſire of all ranks of people to partake the ſight, that not a ſingle male ſervant willingly ſtaid behind. —Williams had ſo great a reliſh for theſe expeditions, that he aſked my Lord to take him; Le Val's [192] ſickneſs keeping him at Kenilworth, Lord Leiceſter complied. A fortnight elapſed before they returned, during which poor old Alice expired: with her died one of the witneſſes of my marriage: Father An⯑thony was ſtill in good health, as James, who regularly came once a month, brought word.

Lord Leiceſter returned, and returned without Williams. —Struck to the heart, I had ſcarce ſtrength to enquire what was become of him. My Lord aſked me if I ſuſpected him of having murdered the rogue? "I have only ſent him, added he, with a gay air, a long voyage, to teach him to keep a fecret. I knew no other way of getting rid of the raſcal. Sir Francis has undertaken to provide for him too effectually for my dear Matilda to know any further anxiety on his account; in ſhort, he is ſhut up in a diſtant part of the veſſel, the ſailors are taught to conſider him as a madman, and have neither time to liſten to his tales, nor ſenſe to under⯑ſtand them. —Thus, my dear love, our fears are entirely over."

[193]"Rather begun," I might have replied, for no rhetoric ever after charmed mine to reſt. —A thouſand accidents ruin our tranquillity, but it is better to endure their worſt conſequences, than return evil for evil. —However neceſſary the ſtep, the aſſuming a right to puniſh this man, was too culpable in my eyes, not to make me uneaſy; yet, ſince it certainly was to relieve me, Lord Leiceſter ex⯑ecuted the ſcheme, and becauſe nothing could now recall it, I ſeemed ſatisfied: Ellinor too perſuaded me to be ſo, from thinking the traitor juſtly puniſhed.

Before Lord Leiceſter returned to Court, I gained his conſent to a pro⯑ject I had long revolved; this was, to viſit my mother—to have the joy of being held in her arms, and to be ac⯑knowledged by her bleſſing. —He was too anxious to indulge all my wiſhes, to refuſe me in this inſtance; but, not being able to further it openly, he only gave me a ſufficient ſum of money to [194] bribe her keepers, and directed Le Val to attend us.

This man was as faithful as Williams was the reverſe—if at firſt he reſpected me but as the wife of his maſter, I afterwards gained an aſcendant with him from my own conduct, which attached him to me as much as to his Lord, and made the moſt eſſential ſervices ſeem trifles in his eyes. Eager to oblige and obey, he ſeemed always ready to fly before he knew whi⯑ther, and a word of commendation was a ſufficient recompence. He was now in the poſt of Williams, who was ſuppoſed to have voluntarily embarked with Sir Francis, and the ſecret of his fate was confined to Lord Leiceſter, my ſiſter, and myſelf.

Attended by Le Val, we ſet out for Coventry with beating hearts. We were to viſit, not merely a mother, but an only parent, the ſole perſon in whoſe arms we could claim a refuge; though now, alas, far more able vainly to offer her one. We were to ſee that Queen whoſe matchleſs beauty was her leaſt or⯑nament; [195] to behold her graces withered by eighteen years confinement; to ſhare in her afflictions, and prove how dearly the children, who had never known her, could love their mother.

But, alas! Madam, we were not per⯑mitted to realize theſe viſions. —Le Val found her keepers too honeſt, or too fearful to ſuffer any ſtranger to converſe with her, and the only privilege money could pur⯑chaſe, was that of ſeeing the Queen, through a grated window, take her morn⯑ing walk in a ſmall garden. Overwhelmed with deſpair at this news, we yet em⯑braced the only indulgence we could gain. —But, what did we not think that faithleſs woman deſerved, who thus treated her equal, her relation, her friend! We were conducted to the window, where we were permitted to remain without attend⯑ants; we ſaw her come down the walk— but oh, how changed, and yet how lovely! Damp rooms had weakened her limbs— her charming arms were thrown round the necks of two maids, without whoſe aſſiſtance ſhe could not move—a pale [196] reſignation ſat on her ſtill beautiful fea⯑tures: her regal mien could not be eclipſed by a habit of pale purple, nor her fine hair by the veil which, touched her fore⯑head. —Her beads and croſs were her only ornaments, but her unaffected pi⯑ety, and patient ſufferance, mingled the Saint with the Queen, and gave her charms beyond humanity. Our emoti⯑ons were too rapid and ſtrong for deſcrip⯑tion; we wept—we incoherently ex⯑claimed —and ſtriking ourſelves eagerly againſt the bars, ſeemed to hope ſome ſupernatural ſtrength would break them. More afflicted at ſeeing her thus, than not ſeeing her at all, I neither could be⯑hold her for my tears, or reſolve to loſe a look by indulging in them. —She drew near the ſpot where we ſtood, when our hands, which we had thruſt, in ſupplication, through the bars, caught her attention. — She raiſed her fine eyes, with their uſual divine compoſure, to the window— I would have ſpoke, but my lips denied all utterance. Alas! that bleſſed—that be⯑nignant glance, was the firſt, the laſt, the [197] only one we ever received from a mo⯑ther. —When ſhe withdrew her eyes ſhe carried my very ſoul with her; all my ſtrength failed at once, and I ſunk in a ſwoon in my ſiſter's arms.

Suſpicions of this nature made it dan⯑gerous for my Lord, were we frequently to appear there; yet this momentary view had awakened ſenſations, which, though leſs ſtrong than love, were equally laſt⯑ing, and which empoiſoned my hours in the boſom of happineſs. Bitter tears upon the cheeks of my Leiceſter, when with fond endearment he would ſtrain me to his boſom, alone ſpoke my thoughts, and I ſacrificed the leſs to the greater duty. — Ellinor, my dear Ellinor, was, on this theme, my only counſellor, and we ſpent days in forming a thouſand projects; weeping every evening at diſcovering their impracticability. The frequent ab⯑ſences of my Lord, left me too much leiſure for this melancholy employment; [198] yet the ardor of his paſſion made him chuſe every opportunity, however ſhort, to be with me, and 1 trembled leſt theſe inceſſant journeys ſhould attract the no⯑tice of Elizabeth, who had been for ſome time indiſpoſed, and was of courſe more ſenſible to any inattention of her favorite. But Lord Leiceſter had not been uſed to con⯑troul, and ſometimes imputed hints to in⯑difference which aroſe from the moſt ge⯑nerous motives, for my life was without any enjoyment in his abſence, but the hope of ſeeing him again. When he was away, I wandered wearily through every room, and ſaw only a magnificent ſolitude: but, whenever he appeared, joy and mu⯑ſic animated the whole family; every apartment ſeemed to have found its gueſt, and every ſervant the happy s;ubject of his duty.

To excuſe his frequent abſences to the Queen, my Lord avowed a paſſion for hunt⯑ing, with which his conduct ſo little agreed, that he ſhut himſelf up in Kenilworth Caſtle, and ſeldom paſſed beyond his own walls. Conſcious this muſt in time be obſerved, [199] I learnt to ride expertly, and often obliged him to accompany us in mere prudence. To prevent our being too much fatigued, my Lord generally ordered a tent to be pitched, with refreſhments, in the foreſt; and one morning, finding myſelf ill, I quitted the chace almoſt directly, and went in ſearch of our reſting place, guided by a huntſman, as ignorant of it as our⯑ſelves. Among the cloſeſt and moſt in⯑tricate paths we encountered a gentleman on horſeback, attended by many ſer⯑vants; to make way for us, he ordered his ſervants to return, and diſmounting, bowed, and remained uncovered while we paſſed.—Addreſſing the man who attended us, he eagerly enquired for my Lord—the queſtion, I knew not why, alarmed me; I turned inſtantly to ex⯑amine his features, and my horſe conti⯑nuing his pace, ſtruck my head againſt an arm of a tree with ſo much violence, that the reins dropt from my hand, and the ſtranger was juſt quick enough to catch me. I fainted: one of his train opened a [200] vein in my arm, which inſtantly revived me, and I found myſelf in the ſtranger's arms, who preſſed, with more than com⯑mon concern, the hand he held. Con⯑fuſed and perplexed with this accident, I endeavoured in vain to withdraw it, and ſeeing my hair had fallen in its uſual curls over my neck, looked about for my hat, which yet hung on the bough that ſtruck me. Regardleſs of every intreaty, I per⯑ſiſted in mounting my horſe, and return⯑ing inſtantly, after I had rendered him every acknowledgment his active polite⯑neſs merited. He replied with ſuch peculiar grace and gallantry, as gave me a great deſire to know who he was, but his pur⯑ſuing me with his eyes, rendered it impoſ⯑ſible for ſome time: after which the huntſ⯑man informed me he was the nephew of Lord Leiceſter, Sir Philip Sidney. His appearance confirmed the agreeable im⯑preſſion made by his character, and I only regretted being introduced to him by a vexatious accident which ſeemed too much to poſſeſs his mind. Engroſſed by theſe [201] reflections, although I lay down, it was impoſſible to cloſe my eyes, when the abrupt entrance of my Lord rouſed me completely. Extreme vexation and dis⯑order marked his air, and without the leaſt enquiry into my hurts, he threw himſelf into a chair by me, and la⯑mented the malice of his fortune. Alarmed beyond meaſure, I ſtarted from the bed, and kneeling at his feet, conjured him to tell me in what new inſtance he had reaſon to complain. —"Matilda, ſaid he, fixing his eyes on me with a ſad intent⯑neſs, the Queen approaches." —My heart died within me at the words; his ſup⯑porting arms alone ſaved me from falling to the ground, and his careſſes from faint⯑ing.

"I know her well, continued he, and have every reaſon to fear we are betrayed. The ſubtilty of approaching without an expreſs, convinces me that ſhe ſuſpects at leaſt ſome charm in Kenilworth I dare not avow, I had always purpoſed, in com⯑pliance alike with my promiſe and my [202] ſafety, to convey you to the Receſs in caſe this event happened; but now I fear the appearance it will have, alike to my own ſervants and Sidney's companions, who are all of the Queen's train, and but too much ſtruck with your beauty. —One ex⯑pedient alone remains—tell me, my love, may your Leiceſter hope to triumph over your becoming pride, your juſt reſent⯑ment? —Will you condeſcend to appear before Elizabeth in the ſame humble light in which you have hitherto ap⯑peared; and, forgetting awhile ſhe has been the perſecutor of your family, will you conſider her only as the patroneſs of your huſband?"

"I will forget every thing, cried I, in a tranſport of tenderneſs, which interferes with your ſafety and ſatisfaction: too hap⯑py in having ſomething to ſacrifice in proof of my love, I will be whatever you wiſh—as the daughter of Mary, my ſoul riſes againſt Elizabeth; but, as the wife of Leiceſter, I ought to know no pleaſure except his; nor have I had, till [203] this alarming moment, a merit in ſubmiſ⯑ſion."

"What are the ties of marriage, ſaid my Lord (the tears mingling on our cheeks) to theſe inviſible ligaments of the ſoul! I can ſo little bear to be ſurpaſſed in generoſity, that I can hardly refrain from leading you to the Queen as her hoſteſs, and charming the court with the ſight of a wife, who is my ſole pride and everlaſting pleaſure."

Precious, ineſtimable moment of my life, when the warmth of my heart was ſo fully diſplayed, ſo gloriouſly anſwered!—Ah, Madam, Lord Leiceſter had the rare ſecret of governing a generous mind.

The ſame conſiderations prevailed on Ellinor to give the ſame conſent, and the ſhort hour previous to the Queen's arrival was ſpent by us in ſchooling our eyes and hearts, leſt the ſpirit of the injured and pride of the noble ſhould betray all.—Apprehenſive too, leſt the ſimilitude my features bore to thoſe of my unfortunate mother, might ſtrike ſome idle obſerver, [204] I departed from her mode of dreſs, and letting my hair curl more over my face and neck, enwreathed it fancifully with flowers; then mixing with the villagers in habits reſembling theirs, we waited to uſher the Queen into the great hall, by ſtrewing that and the inner court with aromatic herbs.

The amazing hurry produced by this unexpected viſit, had not ſubſided, when the cannon proclaimed the approach of Elizabeth. A faint ſickneſs came over me; my limbs were ſcarce able to ſup⯑port my weight, and my eyes hardly ſerved to guide my ſteps. My nature ſhuddered at her, and the ſpirit of Nor⯑folk trembled proudly within me. Moſt fortunately confounded with the gay ca⯑valcade, I ſoon had performed my taſk, and retired without once fixing my eyes on her face. I ſtruggled much with my⯑ſelf, and regained a tolerable ſhare of com⯑poſure ere her dinner was ſerved, at which we were, as uſual, to ſing. Concealed from the public gaze, I had now an op⯑portunity [205] of examining the Queen. She was talking to my Lord, who waited be⯑hind her chair. Though the features of Elizabeth retained nothing of her mo⯑ther's ſweetneſs, they were regular; her eyes were remarkably ſmall, but ſo clear and quick, they ſeemed to comprehend every thing with a ſingle glance; the de⯑fect in her ſhape taking off all real Ma⯑jeſty, ſhe ſupplied that deficiency by an extreme haughtineſs; a ſevere, ſatirical ſmile marked her countenance, and an abſurd gaiety her dreſs. I could not but ſuppoſe foreigners would imagine that Queen owed much of her reputation to her counſellors, who could diſgrace. her venerable years by a bare neck, and a falſe head of hair made in the moſt youthful faſhion. Yet, under other cir⯑cumſtances, the ſcene would have been charming. The hall enriched and adorn⯑ed with ſine ſtatues, tapeſtry, and purple fringed with gold, the high arched Gothick windows, which being thrown, open, gave a beautiful view of the lake, covered with newly ornamented boats, ſtruck the Queen with admiration; while [206] the immenſe crowd of royal attendants, and above all, the profound reſpect of many of the nobles, were ſights no leſs new to me. I turned my eyes round to diſcover if among them I could find any to com⯑pare with Lord Leiceſter. Where, ah where! could they ſelect his equal! ſuppreſt anxiety gave a redoubled glow to his cheek, and his expreſſive eyes pierced through the veil which hid us from all others. Dinner removed, the muſic be⯑gan. The uſual pieces played, a ſilence enſued only interrupted by my voice and the lute of my ſiſter. Amazement ſeemed to transfix every beholder, and all eyes purſued the bent of Lord Leiceſter's— The Queen dropt a peach ſhe was paring, and ſpeaking with warmth to Sidney, he replied with an air ſo enlivened as ſhewed his heart was in the ſubject. Scarce had I reached the concluſion of the air, when the curtain was drawn aſide, by the offi⯑cious Sidney, and we ſtood expoſed to the view of the whole court. Over⯑whelmed with a thouſand ſenſations, I dropt the book I ſung from, and Ellinor [207] bent over her lute with a beautiful modeſty. The various exclamations of the noble⯑men might have flattered our vanity, had we not been continually told any thing can make, to courtiers, the wonder of an hour. That fatal moment was ſure the critical one of my life; it awakened dan⯑gerous ſuſpicions in the ſoul of Elizabeth; endleſs anxiety in the man in whom my life was bound up, and a paſſion in the heart of another, the cold hand of death alone could extinguiſh. I mean the ami⯑able Sidney: charmed at finding in the perſon who charmed the whole court, thoſe features indelibly impreſſed on his memory, he delivered himſelf entirely up to his predilection with a generous warmth.

The moment I could recollect myſelf, I conſidered the Queen attentively; ſhe ſat in the penſive poſition into which our appearance had thrown her; ſometimes ſurveying us with deep obſervation, then, with a keener glance, Lord Leiceſter. I labored to ſupport the painful examina⯑tion with compoſure, but the care de⯑feated [208] itſelf, and involuntary bluſhes co⯑vered my face, as often as I became the object of her attention. The indifference the Queen expreſſed towards the muſic, obliged every one elſe to be ſilent on the ſubject, and we ſoon obtained permiſſion to retire. Sydney, who was the meſſen⯑ger, overwhelmed us with apologies for the ſhare he had in our confuſion, although by the command of his ſovereign. I had perpetual reaſon for reſenting his officiouſneſs, but Sidney was not born to be hated. To exalted generoſity, and the moſt manly courage, he joined ele⯑gance, refinement, and a temper ſuperior to events, Yes, gallant Sidney, this no⯑ble juſtice Matilda owes thy virtues! —of all her misfortunes, that of becoming thine touched her moſt deeply. —Our apparent ſtate of dependence never once induced Sir Philip to forfeit that reſpect a man of merit owes to himſelf;—it only united to the politeneſs univerſally due to the ſex, an affecting deference which dig⯑nified its object. A huſband leſs adored than Lord Leiceſter, might with reaſon [209] have dreaded ſuch a rival—Midnight alone gave us the freedom of comparing opinions, and I ſaw, with unſpeakable re⯑gret, the peace of my Lord deſtroyed during this viſit. A depreſſion, he could hardly account for, filled up the intervals we paſſed together; and, inſtead of employ⯑ing them in forming any reaſonable plan, nothing remained of all our mutual ten⯑derneſs but ſilence, ſighs, and tears.

Elizabeth, in defiance of time and un⯑derſtanding, indulged a romantic taſte inconſiſtent with either; and, not ſatis⯑fied with real pre-eminence, affected to be deified by the flattery of verſe. The Lady of the Lake was the title ſhe choſe to be known by here, and nothing art could invent, or wealth procure, was wanting to render the various pageants complete. A boat ſcooped like a ſhell, and enclosing a throne, conveyed her to the aight, where I and many more, ha⯑bited like Nereïds, waited to receive her, and uſhering her to a grotto inlaid with ſhells and looking-glaſs, we preſented her, [210] in baſkets made of ſea-weed, pearl, coral, amber, and every jewel of the water; while the place reſounded with panegy⯑rics ſo labored and miſapplied, that it was with difficulty we forebore ſmiling at the gravity with which ſhe liſtened to them.

I found, with ſurprize, Lord Leiceſter feared the eyes of every indifferent ſpec⯑tator would penetrate through a myſtery, Elizabeth only had an intereſt in deve⯑loping. It is the common weakneſs of humanity to bend the attention ſolely to minute objects, while the leading ones come upon us totally unawares. —I, on the contrary, fancied myſelf every mo⯑ment ſurveyed with a harſh air by an in⯑flexible imperial rival. —Every lady of the court, under the pretext of ſeeking our intimacy, continually ſounded Ellinor and myſelf on our real condition, and the timid incoherent manner in which we an⯑ſwered, gave me the moſt mortal fears of their enployer. —Abject ſlaves to the Queen's amuſement, ſhe kept us conti⯑nually [211] in her ſight, and without deigning to open her own lips, ſeemed to tempt us to complain by eternal whims. —In thoſe moments, love, ſhame, and apprehen⯑ſion, ſpoke a language intelligible in all countries in the features of Lord Leiceſ⯑ter; and Elizabeth, having doubtleſs aſ⯑ſured herſelf, by theſe artifices, that there muſt be ſomething to reveal, left her train at one end of the gallery, and re⯑tiring to the other with my Lord, inter⯑rogated him, as I inſtantly conjectured. —The fate of my mother now aroſe more ſtrongly to my mind. "Ah! why, thought I, did I leave the happy ſolitude in which ſhe placed me, only to ruin the object of my affections, and deliver myſelf up to an inexorable tyrant, who can now wreak her malice without even being ſuſpected!" Inſenſible to the gay crowd who addreſſed me, I obſerved my Lord reply to her ea⯑ger queſtions with heſitation and anxiety; as he talked, he fixed his eyes on me with the uneaſy air of a perſon who wiſhes to convey through them what he is hopeleſs [212] of making you comprehend any other way. I reſolved to prevent an error on my part, by a timely retreat; when ſud⯑denly ſpeaking aloud, Lord Leiceſter ad⯑vanced towardsus: —"Mark well all I ſay," ſaid he, in a whiſper, leading me and my ſiſter to the ſeat of the Queen, —"I ſhall more ſurpriſe theſe children, ſaid he, with the knowledge of their origin than your Majeſty—it is needleſs to give them the reaſons I have laid before you for this ſecrecy; it muſt be ſufficient honor and pleaſure for them to find themſelves daughters of the houſe of Dudley, and objects of their Sovereign's gracious pa⯑tronage." Seeing him bend his knee, ours, ſtubborn and reluctant as they were, gave way, and we kiſſed the fatal hand ſhe majeſtically tendered. She informed us, ſhe added us to her train of maids of honor, and ſhould carry us with her on the morrow towards London.—Lord Lei⯑ceſter, charmed with having eluded all her ſuſpicions, dreamt not of the ſnare he had wound round his own heart in yielding us up to Elizabeth, whoſe conſummate art [213] induced her to give credit to a moſt im⯑probable fiction, on purpoſe to place us beyond his reach, which ſhe could no other way have effected.

The hour of reſt enabled him to open all his heart. —I underſtood that Eliza⯑beth had addreſſed him in ſo deciſive a manner on the conviction of our being born above our preſent rank, that he could not hope to ſave us from the moſt menial degradations but by a falſe confi⯑dence; Heaven inſpired him with the idea of a poſſibility, that his brother, the Lord Guildford, might have married Lady Jane Grey, a twelvemonth ere the two politic Dukes of Suffolk and North⯑umberland thought it prudent to appear leagued; during which, he declared the unfortunate Lady Jane gave birth to us both: the ſame policy induced them to conceal this event till the Suffolk family ſhould be eſtabliſhed on the throne, and that hope being for ever defeated, prudence ſtill buried us in oblivion; —finally, that the ſe⯑cret reſted now only in his own boſom, from Whence his attachment to Elizabeth would [214] never ſuffer it to tranſpire, and that if the Queen ſtill wiſhed to patroniſe us, he thought it would be prudent to let us imagine ourſelves his own illegitimate daughters.—To all this Elizabeth replied little, but ſuffering him to ſettle it his own way, perſiſted only in taking us from him.

Her mode of conduct convinced me at once that ſhe utterly diſcredited the whole of this fiction; which allied us, by another branch, almoſt as near to the throne as we really ſtood. Would not a jealous, ſelfiſh ſoul, like hers, have demanded dates, facts, teſtimonials and witneſſes? Would ſhe not have made us undergo the fate of Lady Catherine, the legal heir of the houſe of Suffolk, whom, by a barbarous, unfeminine uſe of power, ſhe tore from the moſt near and ſacred of human tyes, and condemned, even in the bloom of youth, to a ſolitary life of impriſon⯑ment, only for having dared to become a wife and mother?—Would not, in a word, all the fury of her temper have [215] blazed forth, but that ſhe meditated a more ſafe and ſilent ruin?

Unwilling to add to the anguiſh of this moment by one ſurmiſe, I threw my⯑ſelf into his arms, and ſilent, ſpeechleſs, ſtrained him to my heart—ſupplicating, mentally, that God who alone could pro⯑tect us. No language could have affected Lord Leiceſter like this conduct.—He accuſed himſelf of having, meanly conſi⯑dered his own ſafety; and we were ob⯑liged repeatedly to aſſure him, we thought he had acted with the moſt conſummate judgment, ere we could reconcile him to himſelf. "Surely Matilda thinks me a ſufficient ſufferer, cried he, in loſing the charm of her ſociety?—Can I have for⯑gotten, that I dare no longer indulge even my eyes with her beauty?—Can I have forgotten that all other men may freely adore her, and that her happineſs is not more in the power of Elizabeth than mine is in hers?—Did I not know the Queen would willingly puniſh her whole race with the celibacy ſhe im⯑poſes on herſelf, I ſhould doubt her pro⯑tecting [216] the pretenſions of Sydney; but ſhe dreads too much multiplying claims to the crown, and I alone ſhall be perſe⯑cuted with his paſſion—Pity my ſituati⯑on, added he, and with a uniform cold⯑neſs, daſh his preſumptuous hopes. — How do I lament the fate which in⯑volves the fair Ellinor in calamities the ſame motives cannot reconcile her to! but ſince her choice and affections led her into the world, I rely upon her generous ſoul to ſupport its evils with prudence and patience.—This will be our laſt con⯑verſation for ſome time—one only cau⯑tion let me recommend to you both—make no confidants, cultivate the friend⯑ſhip of Lady Pembroke, and never for⯑get that you conſtantly act under the eye of a haughty, jealous, and revengeful So⯑vereign."

Needleſs admonition! Could a daugh⯑ter of the Stuart line ceaſe to dread and hate Elizabeth?—Could a wife too, who ſaw the life of the man ſhe loved depended on her prudence, for one moment dare to ſhew ſhe did ſo?

[217]Condemned to mingle with the world, I entered it with preſages ſo melancholy as ſhewed my future fortune.—Without daring to teſtify my grief, even by a look, I departed from that hoſpitable manſion in which I had vainly promiſed myſelf long years of unſpeakable happineſs.—I departed without my Lord, and in ſo do⯑ing experienced every miſery of love and dependence.—Ah! how weak are thoſe wretches who look up to us with wonder, cried I, mentally, as we paſſed through every town, did ye know the breaking heart this ſplendid garb covers!—did ye feel the galling chain which writhes round it, and deepens my cheek with deſtructive beauty, how would you bleſs the graci⯑ous God who gives you peace and igno⯑rance!

Received, acknowledged, and admired, we ſoon became familiar appendages to Elizabeth; nor had we any hopes of ſee⯑ing our bondage end but with her life. It was not the leaſt of my evils that I in⯑volved my Ellinor in this calamity, which love of me could alone render ſupporta⯑ble. [218] By a caprice for which there is no accounting, Elizabeth, whoſe eyes were ever watchful, and heart ſuſpicious, bent both for ever on Ellinor; who endured from her, with ſilent indignation, a thou⯑ſand paſſionate extravagancies. Contrary to Lord Leiceſter's idea, I plainly per⯑ceived ſhe encouraged every pretender to either, obviouſly to develope the myſtery ſhe eaſily diſcerned through his falſe con⯑fidence.—Tortured with the paſſion of Sir Philip, I found all my rigor could not ex⯑tinguiſh hopes the Queen patronized, while Lord Leiceſter's confidence ſeemed to contract, in proportion as it became diffi⯑cult for me to partake it.

The fair Pembroke attached herſelf particularly to Ellinor, and Roſe Cecil, Lord Burleigh's ſecond daughter, pro⯑feſſed an unbounded friendſhip for me. I had ſo great a deference to the command of my Lord, as to withhold mine, till time convinced me too feelingly, ſhe was incapable of abuſing it. She was almoſt a ſtranger at Court as well as ourſelves, [219] and brought up under a mother who ab⯑horred it; the death of that mother leav⯑ing her to the care of an ambitious father, he flattered himſelf her beauty would win her a huſband of merit, ere ſhe had gained courage to aſſert her own choice. He was not miſtaken in the firſt opinion: the ten⯑der bloom both of her mind and perſon, attached to her a thouſand hearts, but though in all other inſtances compliance itſelf, in the article of marriage, ſhe re⯑fuſed to obey even the Queen, who con⯑ſequently hated her. This ſad confor⯑mity of ſituation, both were at liberty alike to lament, and with the candor in⯑cident to youth, I found it difficult to limit my lamentations. Our ſituations and tempers made us alike cultivate an attachment with Lady Arundell, Sir Phi⯑lip's eldeſt ſiſter, who had long ſince re⯑tired to a ſeat of his on the banks of the Thames, upon the impriſonment of her Lord. With leſs ſhining qualifications than her more fair and fortunate ſiſter, Lady Arundel poſſeſſed a Roman ſtrength of ſoul. Beloved from childhood by [220] Elizabeth, ſhe might have remained a favorite, even while her huſband was a victim, but ſhe inexorably inſiſted on ſharing his priſon, and when it ſoon after became his grave, retired in an honorable poverty, and owed her little income to her brother's bounty.—Thus, in inno⯑cence and hallowed widowhood, paſſed the days of this amiable woman, who now en⯑joyed that firſt and laſt of human plea⯑ſures, the ſeeing herſelf ſurrounded with friends, although ſhe had only merit to attach them.

The reſentment of Philip the ſecond of Spain broke forth at this period, and employed every one's thoughts; more eſpecially the Queen's, with whom love was ever ſo ſubordinate a conſideration, that I flattered myſelf Lord Leiceſter would chuſe this opportunity to plan our future meetings, and a little relieve me from the inſupportable tortures of perpe⯑tual hypocriſy. When now, to complete my evils, he for whom I renounced every diſtinction due to my ſex and birth, he in whom my ſoul was treaſured, regarded [221] me with coldneſs and diſdain. I ex⯑amined my own heart. It did not make me a ſingle reproach; but the know⯑ing I was wronged could not reſtore my peace. I began to dread that ſatisfied love had given place to ambition; that conſidering me as the only bar between himſelf and Elizabeth (who became more and more gracious to him) he vainly re⯑gretted he had made me ſo. —My ha⯑tred to the Queen redoubled, although ſhe treated me much better than my ſiſter, as ſhe always conceived Ellinor his fa⯑vorite, becauſe the vehicle of his ſenti⯑ments to me: yet, though his diſplea⯑ſure was ſtrongly marked, it did not ſpring from indifference; for at the ſame time he carefully avoided my converſa⯑tion, he inceſſantly watched my actions, and was always in my view, without ever being in my reach. —It was impoſſible not to diſcern he muſt be jealous; but alas, ſuſpicion ſoon makes the cauſes it ſeeks. My bluſhes and the diſorder of my air, when any ſuppoſed lover ad⯑dreſſed me, confirmed his fatal prejudice; [222] and the impoſſibility of finding an oppor⯑tunity to acquit myſelf, almoſt diſtracted me. Fortune, ſhortly after, added the only aggravation my fate admitted.

The fair Roſe Cecil, whoſe attachment I have mentioned, had inſenſibly engaged my affections by the warmth of her own. The pleaſure I took in diſcourſing about my Lord, made me overlook for a time, that ſhe was equally unwearied of the topic; but the eager manner in which ſhe revived it, while increaſing ſorrow buried his name in my heart, at laſt opened my eyes. I obſerved her more cloſely, I ſaw the ſtrong affection which impelled her to be near to him, while her heightened colour, and univerſal agitation, whenever he addreſſed her, made the ſecret incli⯑nation of her heart but too obvious. There are wives who would have ſeized this occaſion to retort, but ſhe was ſo in⯑nocent I could not diſtruſt her, and was above appearing to do ſo. Some imagi⯑nary ſlight overcame a mind ſo delicate, and one evening ſhe indulged in her tears, and unboſomed her whole heart. In [223] vain, ſhe ſaid, did years and circum⯑ſtances divide her from Lord Leiceſter, ſince ſhe took more pleaſure in ſilently ad⯑miring him, than in being admired by the whole world—"Ah, madam, cried ſhe, how barbarous are hereditary hatreds! Exert yourſelf for me, deareſt Matilda, di⯑veſt my Lord's mind of ſo narrow a preju⯑dice, aſſured that this obligation will dou⯑ble an attachment equally produced by your own merit and the family you ſpring from."

What a propoſal was this to a wife—to a wife, did I ſay; alas, to a lover—a wild and extravagant lover!—She embraced me, and hid her tears and agitations on my boſom—-a boſom which ſtruggled with agonies yet more trying. Affected alike with her innocence and her fate, I returned her careſſes, and wept like a mo⯑ther over her child. —She left me ſuf⯑ficient leiſure to conſider my anſwer; I told her, in pitying, I ſhewed her all the kindneſs in my power, ſince the little in⯑fluence I had with my Lord was obvious [224] enough. I hinted that hers muſt ever be a hopeleſs attachment, as the viſible diſ⯑tinction of the Queen made it very im⯑probable Lord Leiceſter ſhould marry any other woman, not to mention the vaſt diſparity between her years and his.

She replied, that ſhe had conſidered this over ſo often, that ſhe had reconciled herſelf to every article.—-The Queen thought more of war than marriage, and ſurely if Lord Leiceſter could be brought to do juſtice to her heart, her youth would never be conſidered as a fault.

In ſhort, I eaſily underſtood that what ſhe wiſhed, ſhe was reſolved to hope. I dropped the ſubject, but it was with in⯑finite chagrin I beheld this lovely girl en⯑courage a paſſion, ſo many cauſes concurred to render hopeleſs. In fact, it did not long eſcape the Queen's notice, and the un⯑fortunate Roſe ſaw every body appear to be acquainted with her weakneſs but its object, who ſhewed a coldneſs towards her, almoſt amounting to diſlike: to me ſhe always flew for conſolation, and I [225] frequently adminiſtered that I could not find.

On ſo important an event as the expected invaſion, the Engliſh were all prepared to take arms: Lord Leiceſter, as their leader, was already encamped; and I parted with him in common with the other Courtiers, without the privilege of utter⯑ing a ſyllable that might give peace to his heart or my own. The miſery of my ſitu⯑ation became intolerable, when fear of my Lord's ſafety was added to every other fear, and I reſolved on an explanation, whatever the conſequence. The natural aſcendancy love and ſuperior years gave him over me when preſent, vaniſhed with him: I intreated him to ſuffer me by knowing to repair an involuntary fault, and before it was too late, recover an affection I could not long ſurvive. I conjured him to re⯑member he was my all in this life, and that if he continued to withhold his confidence, I could only conclude he repented the having ever beſtowed it; and ſhould finally [226] give up all care of a being, which was no longer dear to me when it ceaſed to be ſo to him.

The equivocal turn of theſe expreſſions I thought would ſecure this letter, even if intercepted, from producing any evil conſequence; and while dubious how to convey it, Sir Philip Sidney demanded permiſſion to take leave of me:—not all the pangs I ſuffered through his love, could rob him of my regard—the diſ⯑guiſing it was all in my power. To his care I committed this letter, aſſured he might be truſted even with the truth; and tranſported with the leaſt mark of my con⯑fidence, he promiſed all that lovers uſually promiſe.

No ſooner was he gone, than I remem⯑bered the ill-choſen meſſenger might ren⯑der Lord Leiceſter inſenſible to the contents of a letter bliſtered with my tears.—Alas! when once we enter the labyrinth of poſ⯑ſibilities, to which jealouſy is the fatal centinel, hardly ever can we extricate our⯑ſelves. The gentle conſolations of El⯑linor [227] were all my fate had left me; but for her, ſickneſs muſt have been the con⯑ſequence of ſorrow: but during the hours of retirement (for one apartment held us) ſhe omitted nothing to ſooth or ſtrengthen my mind:—incomparable ſiſter! what a ſoul was thine! Oh! why were tears my only tribute to thy boundleſs gene⯑roſity?

At length Lord Brook arrived expreſs from the camp, and took the firſt oppor⯑tunity to deliver me a letter from my Lord. He ſaid I had found means to convert the accuſer into the criminal, and conjured me to pardon a mean jealouſy, which puniſhed itſelf. My too ready obedi⯑ence to the Queen's command, he added, and the obvious pleaſure I had found in his nephew's converſation, had poiſoned every moment of his life ſince I came to Court. Sydney talents, his equal years, his generous diſpoſition, all conſpired to make him a for⯑midable rival. "I am not meanly jealous of your perſon, continued he—no, Ma⯑tilda, it is your heart of which I am a [228] miſer; nor do I wiſh you mine, whatever your loſs may coſt me, longer than you wiſh yourſelf ſo. Under the cruel cir⯑cumſtances impoſed on us, leſs might excuſably alarm a heart which has ſo ſe⯑verely ſuffered for its candor; yet, too juſt in my nature to conſider that as your fault, which muſt have proved our mutual misfortune, I reſolved to bury in my bo⯑ſom its killing ſuggeſtions, and ceaſe to perſecute you with a paſſion which you dared not repel, however reluctant your heart. But that which would have made a com⯑mon mind jealous, has eradicated the weakneſs from mine; for nothing but ſpotleſs innocence could have made you chuſe out my imaginary rival as the ve⯑hicle of your ſentiments. Truth and conviction flaſh upon my bewildered ſenſes, and love breathes through every invaluable line of your dear letter.—How, how ſhall I ever recompence you for my injuſtice?—I can no longer live without humbling myſelf at your feet, and receiving a pardon I fear I ſhall never de⯑ſerve. I have at length reſolved to con⯑fide [229] our ſecret to Lady Arundell—ſorrow and experience have ſurely taught her diſ⯑cretion. Her houſe is the only retired one I know of to which you can come with ſafety. Appear indiſpoſed, and the Queen will not ſuſpect more in the requeſt of paſſing ſome time with my niece, than the obvious one of being unable to ſupport the hurry and fatigue of the times. I will prepare Lady Arundell for your reception, and ſnatch the firſt moment conſiſtent with my duty to fly and enliven your ſolitude. The embrace that confirmed you mine was leſs dear to me, than that which will ſeal your forgiveneſs.—Oh! my love, ended he, who could endure the tortures of doubt, were not the mo⯑ment of reconciliation ſo exquiſite a tranſ⯑port!"

Ah, true indeed! for all the pleafures of my life faded before that moment! I ſeemed to tread in air, and had hardly command enough of myſelf to affect lan⯑guor and ſickneſs. Elizabeth, who al⯑ways found herſelf fatigued with indiſpo⯑ſition, becauſe not ſubject to it herſelf, [230] readily conſented to my ſpending a month with Lady Arundell, who received me with infinite pleaſure. I found ſhe had been only appriſed of my marriage, and that my Lord ſtill withheld the ſecret of my birth. She allotted me a magnificent apartment, which concluded with a ſa⯑loon opening to the Thames. This no⯑ble room was embelliſhed with valuable paintings, ſome of which were not yet finiſhed, and a painter of eminence fre⯑quently attended to complete them. This man was employed by her to take a pic⯑ture of me, which might fill up the interval of my Lord's abſence, as well as agreeably ſurpriſe him. I was one day dreſſed gaily for this purpoſe, and waiting in the ſaloon. I perceived the man enter, but how was I ſurpriſed to ſee him a moment after at my feet! I turned indignantly towards him. Ah, heavens! it was my Lord, my Lei⯑ceſter himſelf! who ſafe in that diſguiſe, which he and Lady Arundell had agreed on, was to forbid the painter whenever he could viſit us with ſafety. We learnt from him news of the utmoſt importance, [231] that Heaven itſelf had fought for Eliza⯑beth, and defeated an armada her power could ill have coped with. This intel⯑ligence, by ſecuring Lord Leiceſter, joyed even my heart; and the pride of forgiving being added to the pleaſure of loving, life could beſtow no more on me.

I had now learnt to be beforehand with ſuſpicion; and as Sir Philip, charmed with the opportunity of ſeeing me out of the chilling circle of a Court, was almoſt a daily viſitor, I reſolved to end his hopes, even at the riſque of an implied con⯑fidence. I could hardly ſometimes for⯑bear weeping to ſee him thus purſuing a ſhadow, and waſting a glorious youth.—Oh Sidney! you was worthy of a better fate, and could I accuſe myſelf of em⯑bittering yours, I ſhould be a wretch in⯑deed!—but no, I honored, revered, ad⯑mired you; nay, had I not already exchanged my heart, it muſt have been yours—you, whom ſo many women have loved, and none, no none were ever known to hate.

[232]Having formed my reſolution, I per⯑mitted him one day to lead me to the ter⯑race. Overjoyed with the diſtinction, he entertained me with a thouſand pleaſant ſallies.—Ah! is there a more pungent ſenſation in nature, than the neceſſity fortune ſometimes impoſes on generous minds to afflict each other? I opened my lips—the truth hovered on them—but it was not till he himſelf tenderly preſſed me to add language to my expreſſive looks, and confide to him the ſentiments I had en⯑deavoured to ſuppreſs, that I could ſpeak. "Alas! Sir Philip, cried I, why am I re⯑duced to tell you, your merit and your attachment are by a combination of events⯑my only misfortunes?"

"What do you utter, Madam? cried he —is this poſſible?"—

"A painful truth, returned I, which the higheſt eſteem for you could alone extort. —I am ſenſible of the influence of Eliza⯑beth, but believe me, I am among thoſe who cannot obey her."

"Obey her! returned he; does the fair Matilda know ſo little of me, as to ima⯑gine [233] I would owe her hand to regal au⯑thority?—No Madam, Sidney would not on ſuch terms, he may proudly ſay, deign to accept even yourſelf. While my paſſion was only my own misfortune, I thought myſelf at liberty to indulge it, but the moment it becomes yours, pride, honor, ſenſibility, all ordain eternal ſi⯑lence.—Yet, ſurely, added he, in an affecting tone, a heart like mine might hope to know the fatality which thus wounds it."

"By the love you have profeſſed for me, cried I, ſeizing his hand in turn with⯑energy; by the honor which actuates you towards every human, being, I conjure you preſs no farther into a ſecret I have no right to reveal—if I had—

"If you had!—ah lovely, generous, candid Matilda—no, I will not invade any myſtery you think it neceſſary to con⯑ceal. Since my hard fate deprives my youth of its ſole charm and hope—yet ſurely time—ah, may I hope nothing from time?—age would ſteal upon me [234] unobſerved were you but to allow me ex⯑pectation."

"Why, why, cried I, weeping, am I compelled to a half confidence in a heart ſo noble!—but be aſſured, Sir Philip, time can never unite us by any other bonds than thoſe of eſteem; and ſurely, every day muſt ſtrengthen thoſe."

"I think I underſtand you, replied he, fixing his eyes on mine with a melan⯑choly firmneſs,—and ſhall I expoſe you to the ungoverned paſſions of the Queen?— no, ſince I am never—ſince eſteem is to be the only bond between us—he pauſed, and kneeling kiſſed both hands, as if taking an everlaſting leave—when next you ſee me—though I wring every fibre of this heart—when next you ſee me, I will feel intitled to all your eſ⯑teem."

Riſing, he quitted me, and walked towards his barge, with ſad and irreſolute ſteps, frequently looking back as if he was ready to return, and recant his decla⯑ration: but the barge ſwiftly conveying him toward London, I gave free vent to [235] the tears I had with infinite difficulty ſup⯑preſſed.

The following evening Lord Leiceſter had promiſed to paſs with us: he arrived with an air of ſatisfaction it was impoſſi⯑ble I could avoid ſharing, even while ig⯑norant of its cauſe. "Who would rely on the conſtancy of a lover, ſaid he, with a happy ſmile, ſince even my Matil⯑da's charms could not retain my nephew's attachment! He has ſollicited the Queen's conſent to marry Miſs Walſingham; you know her love for him, but his ſudden re⯑turn of it, amazes all acquainted with both. Elizabeth calls him a whimſical fool, but does not care to offend Sir Francis by refuſing her conſent, however diſpleaſed at his thus matching himſelf—the marriage will be celebrated in a few days, and my Matilda is invited to her rival's triumph."

"Ah no, I ſhould have returned, had his jealouſy not taught me caution, thy Matilda has a triumph of her own to enjoy." Alas, I now underſtood Sidney's parting words, and my heart floated in [236] tears tinctured ſo ſtrongly with every ſet⯑timent but love, that I could hardly diſ⯑tinguiſh whether that had not a ſhare in the ſublimity of the moment.

My Lord preſſed me to return to Court previous to the ceremony; he even gave o it I meant to do ſo, and this I only un⯑derſtood by a line which accompanied the formal invitations ſent to me and Lady Arundel. "Ah Madam, added Sir Philip, in the poſtcript, is it true that you return ere my ſacrifice is compleated?"

"No, I will not return, ſighed I, a huſ⯑band's claims extend no farther, and hu⯑manity reſumes its rights."

The dread that malicious obſervers might once more pry into Lord Leiceſ⯑ter's moments of retirement, at laſt con⯑quered the reluctance I felt at returning to Court. I ſaw, in defiance of danger, ſelf-indulgence continually increaſed upon him. At firſt, a few hours of the evening were all he devoted to me and Lady [237] Arundel; ſhortly after he came later and paſſed the night; he then pleaded fear of diſgracing one or the other, and loſt whole days.—"Ah, couldſt thou won⯑der thy former marriage was diſcoverd?" ſaid I often to myſelf, after exhauſting all my rhetoric in vain to drive him from me.—Oh Leiceſter! what was the wrath of Elizabeth then, to that ſhe would feel could ſhe explore the whole of this ſe⯑cret?" I entreated Ellinor to write me word my abſence was much remaeked, and at laſt returned once more a voluntary victim.

A ſad and ſilent admiration was the only expreſſion of my features at ſight of Sir Philip; he ſighed at the compliment indiſpenſable due, which his bride re⯑ceived with a cold contempt. To a coun⯑tenance naturally harſh and inquiſitive, however beautiful, Miſs Walſingham had always united a temper, proud, paſſionate, and peeviſh. Her ſtrong attachment to Sir Philip, had in all inſtances, where he was concerned, ſubdued for a time, or, veiled thoſe failings. He could not be [238] ignorant of a paſſion he had ſo often been rallied upon, and the moment he found it was not poſſible for him to make his own choice, he generouſly reſolved to in⯑dulge hers. His motives could not be doubted, as all the Court knew ſhe had no fortune, and every body ſaw it was in her power to become the happieſt of wo⯑men. —But alas, it was not in her na⯑ture—far from ſeeking to win upon his heart, by a ſilent indulgence of all his little foibles, ſhe wearied him with im⯑portunate fondneſs, and whenever buſi⯑neſs or wearineſs drove him from home, employed the interval in fomenting vi⯑olent paſſions, with which ſhe ſeldom failed to overwhelm him on his return. Incapable of bending ſo noble a mind to the little triumph of conquering a low one, and as incapable of regulating his life by-the narrow rules ſhe would have laid down for him, he ſaw no al⯑ternative but the purſuit of glory, and ſollicited to be ſent to his government of Fluſhing.

[239]Oh, pardon me, beloved Leiceſter, the bitter tears I ſo often ſhed for the gal⯑lant Sidney. —Ah why, had he not choſen my ſiſter? She was free, ſhe had a hand, a heart, a perſon worthy his; ſhe would have crowned his days with hap⯑pineſs and his grave with honor. Alas, in the weak pride of humanity we ſeek to new model the diſtinctions of nature, and inſolently oppoſe our limited faculties to omniſcience.

New diſturbances in the Netherlands, now obliged Lord Leiceſter, as com⯑mander in chief, to accompany his ne⯑phew. I ſaw them both depart, with a reluctance ſo extreme as foreboded ſome calamity. The generous Sidney under⯑ſtood my ſilence, my conflicts, my wiſhes. "Rely on my cares—rely on my honor, ſaid he at parting, and be aſſured, my breaſt muſt be cold as the earth which then will cover it, ere that feels one wound which lodges the fair Matilda's heart.— Oh, let me worſhip the wife ordination of Providence! If amidſt all the evils [240] fate and imprudence have overwhelmed me with, I ſtill weakly feel a regret at pronouncing a laſt adieu, what muſt I have endured had I been the choſen! but why by ſuch remembrance diſturb her I love!—Yet dear is the ſenſibility, adored Matilda—Oh let the tears which now enrich your cheeks, be wholly Syd⯑ney's!

And they were wholly Sidney's! A ſad preſentiment heightened the anguiſh of his parting, by telling me we never more ſhould meet. It remains not for my weak pen to paint the heroic death of Sir Philip Sidney; It has employed the nobleſt. Even envy and malice dropt involuntary tears, while friendſhip was exhauſted in vain lamentations. As to me, I ſet no bounds to me ſorrow, and every reaſon which once confined my eſteem for him to my own boſom, dying with him, I mourned as for a darling bro⯑ther; and thus perpetuated the ſecret ha⯑tred of his window, who, weak woman, envied me even the melancholy privilege of bewailing him.

[241]Anxiety for the fate of Lord Leiceſter, which this event muſt neceſſarily excite, too ſoon gave way to a ſtill nearer care. In vain I imputed my continual indiſpo⯑ſitions to grief: time confirmed an ap⯑prehenſion which had frequently alarmed me immediately after my Lord's depar⯑ture. I found but too plainly, that im⯑prudent love had produce a new misfor⯑tune, and that I bore about a living teſti⯑mony of my marriage, from which the worſt conſequences might ariſe.

Ah, unhappy babe, thy mother's an⯑guiſh foreran thy birth! Deprived by a ſad combination of circumſtances of a welcome from thy mother, throbs of terror were thy firſt ſymptoms of exiſtence. This accumulation of misfortune ſeemed to benumb me reaſon. I knew not what to reſolve on. I ſaw myſelf almoſt in my royal mother's melancholy predica⯑ment when I was born. "Alas, perhaps I may to-morrow be entirely ſo, I would cry to myſelf; let me fly then while yet my priſon gates are open." —The eye of [242] Elizabeth became yet more dreadful to me; I fancied every moment it dived into my heart, and death for ever ſeemed to ſurround me in forms yet dearer to me than my own.

My ſiſter's better ſenſe eaſily diſcerned how dangerous and how vain a project flight muſt prove. "You, ſhe would ſay, whoſe timid heart ſhrinks even from thoſe it loves: who have hitherto trod the moſt ſafe and confined circle; who hardly know what lonelineſs means; how, in this ſituation, can you encounter the pe⯑rils of the road, the inſolence of ſtrangers, the dangers of the ſea, and the terrors of a camp? Even admitting all theſe happily paſt, in following Lord Leiceſter, you only change the object of Elizabeth's re⯑ſentment; from which, diſtance may not ſhield either you or your Lord.—Oh, by how many ways may ſhe revenge her⯑ſelf! —Leiceſter it is true loves you; but in you, at preſent, are centered future diſtinction, pomp, and a variety of plea⯑ſures never yet indifferent to him:— theſe [243] will be the leaſt of his loſſes; and be⯑lieve me, if the ſecret tranſpires, that it is his own way will one day prove your deareſt conſolation: —and, ſurely, my dear Matilda will not entirely forget a ſiſter, whoſe only joy or ſorrow ſhe yet has been."

The laſt tender conſideration entirely ſubdued a ſpark of diſpleaſure excited by the former. I ſubmitted my wavering reſolutions to her direction, and wrote an anonymous letter, deſcriptive of my ſitu⯑ation, which, with innumerable charges, Lady Arundel delivered to Lord Brook, the diſtinguiſhed friend of Sir Philip Sid⯑ney, to convey into Lord Leiceſter's own hands. That amiable woman became the confident of my preſent fear, and with unwearied kindneſs conjured me to rely upon her conduct—in her houſe ſhe aſ⯑ſured me of an aſylum, and in herſelf of another mother for the unfortunate infant. I felt all the indulgence of Heaven in providing me ſuch an unexpected reſource; and almoſt wiſhed I had not made my [244] Lord a partaker in cares, he was ſo little able to relieve. By her advice I ſummoned courage to appear again in the Court. "We ſeldom, ſaid the prudent Lady Arun⯑del, criticiſe thoſe we ſee every day; no⯑velty alone attracts curioſity; and if you are abſent any time, ſome eye of the many your return will attract, may pierce through every veil into the cauſe. I will carefully watch, and when neceſſary, warn you to retreat."

I found on my return, the fair Roſe Cecil had quitted London by the com⯑mand of her father, who was highly in⯑cenſed, alike at her refuſal of a very ad⯑vantageous match, and the paſſion which cauſed it. The loſs of her ſociety, which at another time I ſhould have lamented, be⯑came an advantage in the preſent delicate conjuncture. I no longer durſt wiſh for companions I could not keep at a diſtance; and I hoped ere we met again I ſhould be more at liberty to cultivate the attachment ſhe profeſſed to me, while time would have [245] conquered that unfortunate one which alone could interfere with it.

I counted the moments ere a letter could arrive from my Lord—in vain Elli⯑nor aſſured me the time was inſufficient, had Lord Brook's journey met with no delay. We were talking this over one morning, when a loud knocking at the door much earlier than uſual, ſtartled us both; how was I amazed a moment after to ſee my Lord ruſh in, booted, and with that diſordered dreſs and air which ſhewed him juſt arrived! Pale, and ſpeechleſs, I threw myſelf into his arms, and made no other return to his embraces than by ſighs and tears, while Ellinor, ſtruck with the ſingularity of his conduct, repeatedly de⯑manded how he came there?—"To ſee, to ſave my love, cried he, fixing his eyes on mine with unutterable fondneſs; will not my Matilda bleſs. me with another ſelf? and could I be ſuch a ſavage to leave her to face the pain, the grief, the danger alone? Dry your tears, my moſt beloved, am not I with you? I, whom [246] you have made the happieſt of mankind; I, who was born but to worſhip you?"—"Imprudent! cried I ſtriking my own boſom—alas, my love, how is it I ſee you here?" It ſeemed as if reaſon, like light, pierced at once through the chaos of his mind. Abſorbed in the ſingle conſidera⯑tion of my ſituation, he had poſted to England without reſting a moment on the receipt of my letter, nor could find a cauſe might ſatisfy even indifferent ob⯑ſervers, much more the jealous ſoul of Elizabeth.—"Ah, heavens! we are now indeed ruined, cried I, wringing my hands, the implacable enemy of my peace will become ſo of yours, and every mali⯑cious eye will now be fixed on her who ſinks under the moſt caſual obſervation. —Oh that the ſilent manſion in which I ſo long vegetated had been my grave, ſince I quitted it but to become a misfor⯑tune to the man I love?"—"Why will my Matilda, returned Lord Leiceſter, with a noble mildneſs, monopolize love and generoſity? Perhaps I have yet ſuffi⯑cient influence over Elizabeth, to per⯑ſuade [247] her, fears for her welfare alone brought me home; but even if not, ſhall I refuſe to bear a ſingle mortification for her ſake who has borne ſo many for mine?—The worſt ſhe can diſcover is our marriage; your birth is beyond the power of malice. Summon all your fortitude, my love, and let us concert every meaſure neceſſary to our mutual ſafety, for I will take every care of myſelf you would wiſh, me. Never more, I ſolemnly ſwear, will your huſband leave you. Dreams of for⯑tune and favor fade away before the re⯑alities of life; let us, with our darling ſiſ⯑ter, ſeek a ſhelter in France; I want not the means of affluence, independent of the Queen. Let us then avow our union, and thus convert my dear Matilda's ten⯑derneſs, always her firſt charm, alike into her virtue and her happineſs. There, ſafe from the vengeance of Elizabeth, we may, without fear or diſhaonor, quietly await her diſſolution. Imagine, my love, the exquiſite tranſport of encircling the Throne of your mother with lovely [248] pledges of our union; ſo while empire fills every power of her imagination, na⯑ture may throb through every pulſe to her heart."

The fond, fond viſion floated alike through my brain! Lord Leiceſter, indif⯑ferent to the opinion of the Queen, reſolv⯑ed to wait on her without entering into the reaſons of his return, which was already known through the Court. Elizabeth had for ſome time kept her chamber, never⯑theleſs ſhe permitted him an audience ere ſhe left her bed. I knew her capricious temper, and while meditating what line ſhe meant to purſue, ſeveral of her ladies then in waiting came out of her chamber; the laſt of whom told me it was her plea⯑ſure I alone ſhould witneſs her converſa⯑tion with Lord Leiceſter. Conſcience ſhivered my whole frame, and I entered the apartment as a condemned wretch would that where the rack was preparing. Lord Leiceſter, equally ſurprized, pointed out by an expreſſive glance a place where the cloſed curtain would prevent her re⯑marking [249] the changes of my countenance; and thither, more dead than alive, I took my ſtation. "Leiceſter, ſaid ſhe, in a languiſhing voice, thy unexpected return upon the news of my indiſpoſition, is a freſh mark of thy watchful duty and un⯑wearied paſſion. I have long reſiſted that tender inclination which diſtinguiſhed thee in earlieſt youth; but now, when I have no potent enemy to fear, I may crown thy paſſion and indulge my own, without endangering myſelf or the ſtate. —A new plot I have diſcovered to releaſe Mary, renders it abſolutely neceſſary I ſhould, by marrying, cut off her hopes and thoſe of her party; I ſhall now, in turn, ſurpriſe them. Long have I weighed the buſineſs in my mind, and frequently determined to recall thee; but thy return, by evincing the ſtrength of thy tender⯑neſs, demands an immediate recompence. —Take then at laſt the ſo-long-withheld hand of Elizabeth, who thus reſigns all authority over thee, except that thy heart gives her." She pauſed, extending a [250] withered hand. Lord Leiceſter confuſed beyond all expreſſion, and expecting me to drop ſenſeleſs every moment, heſitated a few broken ſentences of faint gratitude, and kiſſed the fatal hand ſhe no longer drew from him, fixing a moment after his eyes on me; and oh, how compre⯑henſive was the look! —"I perceive by thy trembling, my Lord, continued ſhe, how much I have ſurprized thee. Reco⯑ver thyſelf. —My election of thee is ex⯑pected by every one, and ſhall be imme⯑diate to mortify Mary. I find myſelf well enough to quit my chamber; it is my in⯑tention thou ſhouldeſt lead me hence this evening, and, by taking a regal ſeat un⯑der the ſame canopy, prepare the kingdom for the declaration I purpoſe making to⯑morrow. The ceremony of eſpouſal will demand time and ſplendor, but never more ſhalt thou quit her who finds, after trying every effort, it is impoſſible to live with⯑out thee."

There are inſtances in nature of timid beings whom darkneſs merely would de⯑prive [251] of their ſenſes, who yet, on deſpe⯑rate emergencies, encounter the jarring elements without ſhrinking. —I, who had till that moment been compoſed of tears and trembling, now found I muſt no longer hang a helpleſs weight on the heart of my huſband, and bleſſing the caprice which made her ſelect me as the only wit⯑neſs of her dotage, I leant againſt the ta⯑peſtry, and endeavoured, by a ſelf-col⯑lected air, to arm him for the occaſion. I had the miſery to ſee his fortitude dimi⯑niſh in proportion as mine increaſed, and that after ſtruggling with his feelings till almoſt convulſed, he was obliged to quit the preſence of the Queen precipitately, and ſcarcely could his failing limbs con⯑vey him thence. The ladies, before diſ⯑miſſed, now entering, the Queen called the Lady Latimer to her bedſide, and I fol⯑lowed the footſteps of my Lord. —"Hea⯑vens and earth, cried I, on looking round in vain for him, what is now to become of me!" Even Ellinor, my only comfort, fate had cruelly robbed me of, nor was ſhe to be found throughout the whole pa⯑lace. [252] Ere the tumults of my mind could ſubſide into recollection, I was informed Lady Arundel's barge waited to convey me to Chelſea, where ſhe was greatly in⯑diſpoſed. Eaſily imagining this was a feint of Lord Leiceſter's, to unfold his ſenti⯑ments to me in ſafety, I haſtened into it, and was conveyed to the fatal ſaloon on the banks of the Thames, once con⯑ſecrated to love and pleaſure only. I found Lord Leiceſter alone with his niece, meaſuring the apartment with unequal ſteps and a diſtracted air; he took my hand, and ſoftening with pity for my ſituation, led me to a ſeat, and threw himſelf by me. His tears bedewed the hand he kiſſed. —"Support yourſelf ſtill, my ſoul, ſaid he, the criſis is come unawares; and fate is beforehand with our intentions. Elizabeth indeed has ſurprized me, but as her paſſion, however weak and abſurd, is generous, it now ſtabs me to the heart. — To ſuffer her to publiſh it to the world, to ſtamp with ridicule my Sovereign, my benefactreſs, would no doubt awaken her [253] moſt mortal hatred, and rob me of my own eſteem. —Matilda, my love, can you ſupport the truth, and all the truth? —Did I not tell you that, one day or another, your anxious wiſh of ſeeing your mother free might interfere with your own happi⯑neſs? It has indeed; for even at the mo⯑ment the Queen in tender confidence im⯑parted to me a plot to releaſe Mary, ſhe meant to obviate by her own marriage, my ſecret ſoul upbraided me as an abet⯑tor, if not a principal in that plot. —Hap⯑py in the idea of ſurpriſing you with its event, and far from expecting ſo extraor⯑dinary a one on the part of the Queen, I find by papers Lord Burleigh gave me ere I entered her apartment, that the enthuſi⯑aſtic aſſiſtants of Mary premeditated the martyrdom of Elizabeth, and have reaſon to imagine, ſhe by this time knows the man whom ſhe was willing to level with herſelf, has been capable of ſo infamous a concealment. Nay, how do I know how far I may be included in the barbarity? She may be led to believe, the hand to which ſhe gave her own an hour ago, [254] was armed with a dagger, and ready every moment to uſe it. —My life is at ſtake, and oh! what is infinitely dearer, every virtue which once I hoped would long ſurvive me, cancelled by ingratitude." — The agitations of his mind almoſt deprived him of his ſenſes. —I threw myſelf at his feet. —"Oh! if ever the unfortunate Ma⯑tilda was dear to you, cried I, now ſhew it—now ſtruggle to endure for her—has ſhe ever feared to do ſo for you? It is in vain to hope any thing from Elizabeth, as circumſtances appear ſhe muſt condemn you.—Already I ſee you in the Tower—I ſee thoſe gates open to receive you, that have entombed ſo many alike noble and innocent. If you would have the babe its mother's anguiſh almoſt urges into a premature exiſtence—oh! if you would have it ſee the light of Heaven, plunge her no farther in deſpair.—Fly now, now, this very moment while we have yet the power. While you live your innocence may yet be vindicated; and while you live I may perhaps be able to do ſo."

[255]Lord Leiceſter, ſhaking his head, gave a deep ſigh—a ſigh more ſoul-piercing than the moſt violent agitation.—"You know not what you ſay, my love, return⯑ed he—even now, in all probability, my houſe is ſurrounded, and expreſſes diſ⯑patched to cloſe every port in the king⯑dom, ſhould I attempt to leave it, and hardly is there a ruſtic in England to whom my features are unknown. One expedient alone remains, and greatly would that ſoften the ſtroke. You are neither ex⯑poſed to my danger, nor like me the marked of every eye—flight is ſtill in your power, and in you I ſhall ſtill think my⯑ſelf ſafe—put yourſelf under the protec⯑tion"—"Never, cried I, ſtarting up with vehemence; I am your wife, that holy title I will maintain before men and an⯑gels, and nothing—nothing I in turn ſo⯑lemnly ſwear ſhall part us. I will, with watchful duty, ſhare the priſon to which I ſhall always remember I have con⯑demned you; and oh! if your fate is accelerated by my means, be aſſured I alike will ſhare your grave," —"One [256] hope of ſafety is yet yours, cried Lady Arundel. How could it eſcape you that the Receſs may ſtill ſupply a ſad and dear aſylum till we can judge of cir⯑cumſtances?" —The thought had indeed occurred to me, but I dared not name the memorial of the preſent misfortune. I examined his eyes in ſilence. "My gentle love, my ſweet Matilda, can I reſolve to grieve thee, ſighed he, ſpeak, would you wiſh me to conduct you thither?" My tears only allowed me to pronounce, "yes." "Yet how, reſumed he, is it poſſible? —How can you ſup⯑port the inevitable fatigues of the jour⯑ney, with the addition of its fears in your preſent ſituation?" "I can ſup⯑port any thing, every thing, ſobbed I in⯑articulately, but the idea of your danger." "Yes, my love, added he, kiſſing away my tears, I will, if poſſible, live to re⯑ward your unexampled tenderneſs. Lady Arundel think for us, ſuggeſt the mode of our departure." "It ſhould be ſudden, cried our generous friend, and how can either be ſufficiently diſguiſed, or how [257] ſhall we find proper attendants." "We will have none with us, returned Lord Leiceſter, I rely on your care to ſummon Le Val from Kenilworth Caſtle; he is maſter of the ſecret of the Receſs, whi⯑ther he can follow us, and convey with care, at different times, the treaſure hoarded in the Caſtle; while with the ve⯑nerable foſter-father of my love, we wait your farther informations." —"Ah, how happy was it, added I, your fond⯑neſs obliged me to ride! now can I follow you fearleſs of any thing but Eli⯑zabeth. Supply me, dear Lady Arundell, with the homely garb of a ſervant; my Lord muſt have recourſe to the diſ⯑guiſe of a painter, invented and worn on a happier occaſion, yet if even I hardly knew him in it, who elſe ſhall diſcover him? Oh, haſte my darling friend! ſecure us the fleeteſt horſes—I ſeem every mo⯑ment environed with the guards of Eli⯑zabeth —when ſhall we be any thing but a trouble to you?"

The amiable Lady Arundell provided all in the manner required, and we ſet [258] off immediately. Ere ſun-ſet we reached a peaſant's cot near St. Alban's, where my Lord inſiſted we might with ſafety take a little reſt, which indeed I greatly re⯑quired. Accuſtomed to paſs and repaſs that road for ever, he fancied he remem⯑bered every face he ſaw, and I too ſurely thought all remembered him. Our ruſ⯑tic hoſt and his wife ſeemed juſt to have underſtanding enough to connect the idea of myſtery with us, and I rouſed my Lord ere break of day, ſecretly reſolving no more to enter a houſe till we reached our aſylum. Even the pro⯑fuſe recompence my Lord beſtowed on the peaſants, rather according with his ſoul than his appearance, excited their ſuſpicions; they preſſed us to ſtay in a manner which pointed mine, and we de⯑parted with a precipitation which I dare ſay confirmed theirs: purſuing our jour⯑ney by roads little frequented, Lord Leiceſter being perfectly acquainted with the ground. I went through incredible fa⯑tigues without complaint; riding the whole [259] day with no other refreſhment than a draught of new milk, ſupplied by a girl as we paſſed along; till as the ſun was declining, we reached a brow which commanded St. Vincent's Abbey. At the well known proſpect my heart di⯑lated —my eyes wandered over the whole with ſenſations our firſt home only can excite. —Nature ſeemed to tinge the woods with deeper verdure—the tranſlu⯑cent ſtream meandered in majeſtic ſilence, undiſturbed by noiſy bargemen. —Inno⯑cence ſeemed to reſt under the ſhade of the willows which every where fringed its margin, and the empurpled ſun diffuſed the repoſe he ſeemed haſtening to par⯑take —an invincible charm took poſſeſſion of my heart, and even the ſenſe of misfor⯑tune was for the moment ſuſpended.

"Here, cried I, checking my horſe, here we ſhall be ſafe—ah, more than ſafe, here we may be happy! —Why, why cannot thoſe hours return when firſt we met? thoſe hours of undeſcribable fe⯑licity? —This landſcape then bounded [260] our wiſhes; in its narrow circle is con⯑tained all neceſſary to exiſtence, in our⯑ſelves all eſſential to happineſs: but ſo⯑ciety, that firſt of bleſſings, brings with it evils death only can cure. And the venerable Father Anthony, with what joy—ah! with what ſorrow will he re⯑ceive us—forewarned even by our pre⯑ſence of affliction, he will hardly dare to indulge the rapture of a moment."—Every ſentiment and ſenſation mingling thus in my mind filled the interval ere we arrived at the ſpot, where my heart re⯑cognized the minuteſt object. Alight⯑ing at ſome diſtance, Lord Leiceſter faſ⯑tened the horſes in an obſcure part of the wood, and we proceeded on foot to the hermit's cave. Evening began now to gloom over the hemiſphere.—I had before agreed not to open my lips, till my Lord had by degrees revealed him⯑ſelf to Father Anthony, whoſe enfeebled ſenſes might not be able to reſiſt the ſurpriſe; but how did that return upon ourſelves, when a voice with which we [261] were unacquainted replied to us without opening the door! Heart-ſtruck, I caught the arm of Lord Leiceſter, who eagerly enquired after the hermit. "He has been dead theſe ten days, returned the man, and is interred among the Scroope family in the vault of St. Vincent's Ab⯑bey: I am placed here to protect the few effects he left behind, till his relati⯑ons ſhall direct what is to be done with them."—"And thus vaniſh our hopes of ſafety, peace, and pleaſure, ſighed I, turn⯑ing diſconſolately from the cave." "Oh, fainted Anthony, I have now no tears for thee, and that loſs I lately ſhould have ſhed floods for, is now heard with indif⯑ference. Where, wretched wanderers as we are, where now can we betake our⯑ſelves? Had we ſtaid in London, friend⯑ſhip, nay intereſt, might have ſheltered us; here I am as well known as you are there, and the poſſeſſors of St. Vincent's Abbey will infallibly diſcover both. Nay we know not who thoſe are, and whether we might not throw ourſelves into the power [262] of our worſt enemies."—"Alas my love, what do you ſuffer for my ſake! it is in vain to affect ſtrength; nature fails, and I muſt reſt if only on the damp earth."—"Gracious God! exclaimed Lord Lei⯑ceſter, ſupporting me in his arms, how have we deſerved this accumulation of evils? Let us wind through the wood; who knows, my Matilda, but providence has left the gate of the tomb open to ſhel⯑ter us? It is plain the peaſant who inha⯑bits the cave is not acquainted with the ſecrets of father Anthony, and in all pro⯑bability that of the Receſs died with him. Oh! ſtruggle a little, but a little, my love, ſomething bids me believe Heaven will yet protect us."

Though faint between want of nouriſh⯑ment and exceſſive fatigue, I yet ſtrove to follow my Lord, but did it ſo ſlowly, that night entirely involved us ere we reached the tomb. Long cuſtom, however, ena⯑bled me to lead him aright.—"It is open, cried he, in a tranſport of joy, come, my love, and let me aſſiſt you to enter." —He [263] did ſo, but hardly was I within it, ere I found myſelf violently ſeized by ſeveral perſons; who inſtantly deprived me of the power of utterance had heaven allowed it, but agony and horror ſo entirely overcame me, that I ſunk ſenſeleſs in their arms.