long explanations. What are your commands with me?’
“‘Your ladyship,’ said the old man, ‘had once a sister.’
“‘True; whom I loved as my own soul.’
“‘And a brother.’
“‘The bravest, the kindest, the most affectionate!’ said Lady Bothwell.
“‘Both these beloved relatives you lost by the fault of an unfortunate
man,’ continued the stranger.
“‘By the crime of an unnatural, bloody-minded murderer,’ said the lady.
“‘I am answered,’ replied the old man, bowing, as if to withdraw.
“‘Stop, sir, I command you,’ said Lady Bothwell. ‘Who are you that, at
such a place and time, come to recall these horrible recollections? I
insist upon knowing.’
“‘I am one who intends Lady Bothwell no injury, but, on the contrary,
to offer her the means of doing a deed of Christian charity, which the
world would wonder at, and which Heaven would reward; but I find her in
no temper for such a sacrifice as I was prepared to ask.’
“‘Speak out, sir; what is your meaning?’ said Lady Bothwell.
“‘The wretch that has wronged you so deeply,’ rejoined the stranger, ‘is
now on his death-bed. His days have been days of misery, his nights
have been sleepless hours of anguish--yet he cannot die without your
forgiveness. His life has been an unremitting penance--yet he dares not
part from his burden while your curses load his soul.’
“‘Tell him,’ said Lady Bothwell sternly, ‘to ask pardon of that Being
whom he has so greatly offended, not of an erring mortal like himself.
What could my forgiveness avail him?’
“‘Much,’ answered the old man. ‘It will be an earnest of that which
he may then venture to ask from his Creator, lady, and from yours.
Remember, Lady Bothwell, you too have a death-bed to look forward
to; Your soul may--all human souls must--feel the awe of facing the
judgment-seat, with the wounds of an untented conscience, raw, and
rankling--what thought would it be then that should whisper, “I have
given no mercy, how then shall I ask it?”’
“‘Man, whosoever thou mayest be,’ replied Lady Bothwell, ‘urge me not so
cruelly. It would be but blasphemous hypocrisy to utter with my lips the
words which every throb of my heart protests against. They would open
the earth and give to light the wasted form of my sister, the bloody
form of my murdered brother. Forgive him?--never, never!’
“‘Great God!’ cried the old man, holding up his hands, ‘is it thus the
worms which Thou hast called out of dust obey the commands of their
Maker? Farewell, proud and unforgiving woman. Exult that thou hast added
to a death in want and pain the agonies of religious despair; but never
again mock Heaven by petitioning for the pardon which thou hast refused
to grant.’
“He was turning from her.
“‘Stop,’ she exclaimed; ‘I will try--yes, I will try to pardon him.’
“‘Gracious lady,’ said the old man, ‘you will relieve the over-burdened
soul which dare not sever itself from its sinful companion of earth
without being at peace with you. What do I know--your forgiveness may
perhaps preserve for penitence the dregs of a wretched life.’
“‘Ha!’ said the lady, as a sudden light broke on her, ‘it is the villain
himself!’ And grasping Sir Philip Forester--for it was he, and no
other--by the collar, she raised a cry of ‘Murder, murder! seize the
murderer!’
“At an exclamation so singular, in such a place, the company thronged
into the apartment; but Sir Philip Forester was no longer there. He had
forcibly extricated himself from Lady Bothwell’s hold, and had run out
of the apartment, which opened on the landing-place of the stair. There
seemed no escape in that direction, for there were several persons
coming up the steps, and others descending. But the unfortunate man was
desperate. He threw himself over the balustrade, and alighted safely in
the lobby, though a leap of fifteen feet at least, then dashed into
the street, and was lost in darkness. Some of the Bothwell family made
pursuit, and had they come up with the fugitive they might perhaps have
slain him; for in those days men’s blood ran warm in their veins. But
the police did not interfere, the matter most criminal having happened
long since, and in a foreign land. Indeed it was always thought that
this extraordinary scene originated in a hypocritical experiment, by
which Sir Philip desired to ascertain whether he might return to his
native country in safety from the resentment of a family which he had
injured so deeply. As the result fell out so contrary to his wishes, he
is believed to have returned to the Continent, and there died in exile.”
So closed the tale of the MYSTERIOUS MIRROR.
End of Project Gutenberg’s My Aunt Margaret’s Mirror, by Sir Walter Scott