"Since you know our object without our telling it, the only question
that remains is, whether you have the power to relieve my sister's
anxiety?"
"I have, madam," answered the Paduan scholar; "but there is still a
previous inquiry. Have you the courage to behold with your own eyes
what the Cavaliero Philippo Forester is now doing? or will you take it
on my report?"
"That question my sister must answer for herself," said Lady Bothwell.
"With my own eyes will I endure to see whatever you have power to show
me," said Lady Forester, with the same determined spirit which had
stimulated her since her resolution was taken upon this subject.
"There may be danger in it."
"If gold can compensate the risk," said Lady Forester, taking out her
purse.
"I do not such things for the purpose of gain," answered the foreigner.
"I dare not turn my art to such a purpose. If I take the gold of the
wealthy, it is but to bestow it on the poor; nor do I ever accept more
than the sum I have already received from your servant. Put up your
purse, madam; an adept needs not your gold."
Lady Bothwell considering this rejection of her sister's offer as a
mere trick of an empiric, to induce her to press a larger sum upon him,
and willing that the scene should be commenced and ended, offered some
gold in turn, observing that it was only to enlarge the sphere of his
charity.
"Let Lady Bothwell enlarge the sphere of her own charity," said the
Paduan, "not merely in giving of alms, in which I know she is not
deficient, but in judging the character of others; and let her oblige
Baptisti Damiotti by believing him honest, till she shall discover him
to be a knave. Do not be surprised, madam, if I speak in answer to your
thoughts rather than your expressions, and tell me once more whether
you have courage to look on what I am prepared to show?"
"I own, sir," said Lady Bothwell. "that your words strike me with some
sense of fear; but whatever my sister desires to witness, I will not
shrink from witnessing along with her."
"Nay, the danger only consists in the risk of your resolution failing
you. The sight can only last for the space of seven minutes; and should
you interrupt the vision by speaking a single word, not only would the
charm be broken, but some danger might result to the spectators. But if
you can remain steadily silent for the seven minutes, your curiosity
will be gratified without the slightest risk; and for this I will
engage my honour."
Internally Lady Bothwell thought the security was but an indifferent
one; but she suppressed the suspicion, as if she had believed that the
adept, whose dark features wore a half-formed smile, could in reality
read even her most secret reflections. A solemn pause then ensued,
until Lady Forester gathered courage enough to reply to the physician,
as he termed himself, that she would abide with firmness and silence
the sight which he had promised to exhibit to them. Upon this, he made
them a low obeisance, and saying he went to prepare matters to meet
their wish, left the apartment. The two sisters, hand in hand, as if
seeking by that close union to divert any danger which might threaten
them, sat down on two seats in immediate contact with each other:
Jemima seeking support in the manly and habitual courage of Lady
Bothwell; and she, on the other hand, more agitated than she had
expected, endeavouring to fortify herself by the desperate resolution
which circumstances had forced her sister to assume. The one perhaps
said to herself, that her sister never feared anything; and the other
might reflect, that what so feeble a minded woman as Jemima did not
fear, could not properly be a subject of apprehension to a person of
firmness and resolution like herself.
In a few moments the thoughts of both were diverted from their own
situation, by a strain of music so singularly sweet and solemn, that,
while it seemed calculated to avert or dispel any feeling unconnected
with its harmony, increased, at the same time, the solemn excitation
which the preceding interview was calculated to produce. The music was
that of some instrument with which they were unacquainted; but
circumstances afterwards led my ancestress to believe that it was, that
of the harmonica, which she heard at a much later period in life.
When these heaven-born sounds had ceased, a door opened in the upper
end of the apartment, and they saw Damiotti, standing at the head of
two or three steps, sign to them to advance. His dress was so different
from that which he had worn a few minutes before, that they could
hardly recognize him; and the deadly paleness of his countenance, and a
certain rigidity of muscles, like that of one whose mind is made up to
some strange and daring action, had totally changed the somewhat
sarcastic expression with which he had previously regarded them both,
and particularly Lady Bothwell. He was barefooted, excepting a species
of sandals in the antique fashion; his legs were naked beneath the
knees; above them he wore hose, and a doublet of dark crimson silk
close to his body; and over that a flowing loose robe, something
resembling a surplice, of snow-white linen; his throat and neck were
uncovered, and his long, straight, black hair was carefully combed down
at full length.
As the ladies approached at his bidding, he showed no gesture of that
ceremonious courtesy of which he had been formerly lavish. On the
contrary, he made the signal of advance with an air of command; and
when, arm in arm, and with insecure steps, the sisters approached the
spot where he stood, it was with a warning frown that he pressed his
finger to his lips, as if reiterating his condition of absolute
silence, while, stalking before them, he led the way into the next
apartment.
This was a large room, hung with black, as if for a funeral. At the
upper end was a table, or rather a species of altar, covered with the
same lugubrious colour, on which lay divers objects resembling the
usual implements of sorcery. These objects were not indeed visible as
they advanced into the apartment; for the light which displayed them,
being only that of two expiring lamps, was extremely faint. The master
--to use the Italian phrase for persons of this description--approached
the upper end of the room with a genuflexion like that of a Catholic to
the crucifix, and at the same time crossed himself. The ladies followed
in silence, and arm in arm. Two or three low broad steps led to a
platform in front of the altar, or what resembled such. Here the sage
took his stand, and placed the ladies beside him, once more earnestly
repeating by signs his injunctions of silence. The Italian then,
extending his bare arm from under his linen vestment, pointed with his
forefinger to five large flambeaux, or torches, placed on each side of
the altar. They took fire successively at the approach of his hand, or
rather of his finger, and spread a strong light through the room. By
this the visitors could discern that, on the seeming altar, were
disposed two naked swords laid crosswise; a large open book, which they
conceived to be a copy of the Holy Scriptures, but in a language to
them unknown; and beside this mysterious volume was placed a human
skull. But what struck the sisters most was a very tall and broad
mirror, which occupied all the space behind the altar, and, illuminated
by the lighted torches, reflected the mysterious articles which were
laid upon it.
The master then placed himself between the two ladies, and, pointing to
the mirror, took each by the hand, but without speaking a syllable.
They gazed intently on the polished and sable space to which he had
directed their attention. Suddenly the surface assumed a new and
singular appearance. It no longer simply reflected the objects placed
before it, but, as if it had self-contained scenery of its own, objects
began to appear within it, at first in a disorderly, indistinct, and
miscellaneous manner, like form arranging itself out of chaos; at
length, in distinct and defined shape and symmetry. It was thus that,
after some shifting of light and darkness over the face of the
wonderful glass, a long perspective of arches and columns began to
arrange itself on its sides, and a vaulted roof on the upper part of
it; till, after many oscillations, the whole vision gained a fixed and
stationary appearance, representing the interior of a foreign church.
The pillars were stately, and hung with scutcheons; the arches were
lofty and magnificent; the floor was lettered with funeral
inscriptions. But there were no separate shrines, no images, no display
of chalice or crucifix on the altar. It was, therefore, a Protestant
church upon the Continent. A clergyman, dressed in the Geneva gown and
band, stood by the communion-table, and, with the Bible opened before
him, and his clerk awaiting in the background, seemed prepared to
perform some service of the church to which he belonged.
At length there entered the middle aisle of the building a numerous
party, which appeared to be a bridal one, as a lady and gentleman
walked first, hand in hand, followed by a large concourse of persons of
both sexes, gaily, nay richly, attired. The bride, whose features they
could distinctly see, seemed not more than sixteen years old, and
extremely beautiful. The bridegroom, for some seconds, moved rather
with his shoulder towards them, and his face averted; but his elegance
of form and step struck the sisters at once with the same apprehension.
As he turned his face suddenly, he was frightfully realized, and they
saw, in the gay bridegroom before them, Sir Philip Forester. His wife
uttered an imperfect exclamation, at the sound of which the whole scene
stirred and seemed to separate.
"I could compare it to nothing," said Lady Bothwell, while recounting
the wonderful tale, "but to the dispersion of the reflection offered by
a deep and calm pool, when a stone is suddenly cast into it, and the
shadows become dissipated and broken." The master pressed both the
ladies' hands severely, as if to remind them of their promise, and of
the danger which they incurred. The exclamation died away on Lady
Forester's tongue without attaining perfect utterance, and the scene in
the glass, after the fluctuation of a minute, again resumed to the eye
its former appearance of a real scene, existing within the mirror, as
if represented in a picture, save that the figures were moveable
instead of being stationary.
The representation of Sir Philip Forester, now distinctly visible in
form and feature, was seen to lead on towards the clergyman that
beautiful girl, who advanced at once with diffidence, and with a
species of affectionate pride. In the meantime, and just as the
clergyman had arranged the bridal company before him, and seemed about
to commence the service, another group of persons, of whom two or three
were officers, entered the church. They moved, at first, forward, as
though they came to witness the bridal ceremony, but suddenly one of
the officers, whose back was towards the spectators, detached himself
from his companions, and rushed hastily towards the marriage party,
when the whole of them, turned towards him, as if attracted by some
exclamation which had accompanied his advance Suddenly the intruder
drew his sword; the bridegroom unsheathed his own, and made towards
him; swords were also drawn by other individuals, both of the marriage
party, and of those who had last entered. They fell into a sort of
confusion, the clergyman, and some elder and graver persons, labouring
apparently to keep the peace, while the hotter spirits on both sides
brandished their weapons. But now the period of brief space during
which the soothsayer, as he pretended, was permitted to exhibit his
art, was arrived. The fumes again mixed together, and dissolved
gradually from observation; the vaults and columns of the church rolled
asunder, and disappeared; and the front of the mirror reflected nothing
save the blazing torches, and the melancholy apparatus placed on the
altar or table before it.
The doctor led the ladies, who greatly required his support, into the
apartment from whence they came; where wine, essences, and other means
of restoring suspended animation, had been provided during his absence.
He motioned them to chairs, which they occupied in silence; Lady
Forester, in particular, wringing her hands, and casting her eyes up to
heaven, but without speaking a word, as if the spell had been still
before her eyes.
"And what we have seen is even now acting?" said Lady Bothwell,
collecting herself with difficulty.
"That," answered Baptisti Damiotti, "I cannot justly, or with
certainty, say. But it is either now acting, or has been acted, during
a short space before this. It is the last remarkable transaction in
which the Cavalier Forester has been engaged."
Lady Bothwell then expressed anxiety concerning her sister, whose
altered countenance and apparent unconsciousness of what passed around
her, excited her apprehensions how it might be possible to convey her
home.
"I have prepared for that," answered the adept; "I have directed the
servant to bring your equipage as near to this place as the narrowness
of the street will permit. Fear not for your sister; but give her, when
you return home, this composing draught, and she will be better
to-morrow morning. Few," he added, in a melancholy tone, "leave this
house as well in health as they entered it. Such being the consequence
of seeking knowledge by mysterious means, I leave you to judge the
condition of those who have the power of gratifying such irregular
curiosity. Farewell, and forget not the potion."
"I will give her nothing that comes from you," said Lady Bothwell; "I
have seen enough of your art already. Perhaps you would poison us both
to conceal your own necromancy. But we are persons who want neither the
means of making our wrongs known, nor the assistance of friends to
right them."
"You have had no wrongs from me, madam," said the adept. "You sought
one who is little grateful for such honour. He seeks no one, and only
gives responses to those who invite and call upon him. After all, you
have but learned a little sooner the evil which you must still be
doomed to endure. I hear your servant's step at the door, and will
detain your ladyship and Lady Forester no longer. The next packet from
the continent will explain what you have partly witnessed. Let it not,
if I may advise, pass too suddenly into your sister's hands."
So saying, he bid Lady Bothwell good-night. She went, lighted by the
adept, to the vestibule, where he hastily threw a black cloak over his
singular dress, and opening the door intrusted his visitors to the care
of the servant. It was with difficulty that Lady Bothwell sustained her
sister to the carriage, though it was only twenty steps distant. When
they arrived at home, Lady Forester required medical assistance. The
physician of the family attended, and shook his head on feeling her
pulse.
"Here has been," he said, "a violent and sudden shock on the nerves. I
must know how it has happened."
Lady Bothwell admitted they had visited the conjuror, and that Lady
Forester had received some bad news respecting her husband, Sir Philip.
"That rascally quack would make my fortune were he to stay in
Edinburgh," said the graduate; "this is the seventh nervous case I have
heard of his making for me, and all by effect of terror." He next
examined the composing draught which Lady Bothwell had unconsciously
brought in her hand, tasted it, and pronounced it very germain to the
matter, and what would save an application to the apothecary. He then
paused, and looking at Lady Bothwell very significantly, at length
added, "I suppose I must not ask your ladyship anything about this
Italian warlock's proceedings?"
"Indeed, Doctor," answered Lady Bothwell, "I consider what passed as
confidential; and though the man may be a rogue, yet, as we were fools
enough to consult him, we should, I think, be honest enough to keep his
counsel."
"_May_ be a knave--come," said the Doctor, "I am glad to hear your
ladyship allows such a possibility in any thing that comes from Italy."
"What comes from Italy may be as good as what conies from Hanover,
Doctor. But you and I will remain good friends, and that it may be so,
we will say nothing of Whig and Tory."
"Not I," said the Doctor, receiving his fee, and taking his hat; "a
Carolus serves my purpose as well as a Willielmus. But I should like to
know why old Lady Saint Ringan's, and all that set, go about wasting
their decayed lungs in puffing this foreign fellow."
"Ay--you had best set him down a Jesuit, as Scrub says." On these terms
they parted.
The poor patient--whose nerves, from an extraordinary state of tension,
had at length become relaxed in as extraordinary a degree--continued to
struggle with a sort of imbecility, the growth of superstitious terror,
when the shocking tidings were brought from Holland, which fulfilled
even her worst expectations.
They were sent by the celebrated Earl of Stair, and contained the
melancholy event of a duel betwixt Sir Philip Forester, and his wife's
half-brother, Captain Falconer, of the Scotch-Dutch, as they were then
called, in which the latter had been killed. The cause of quarrel
rendered the incident still more shocking. It seemed that Sir Philip
had left the army suddenly, in consequence of being unable to pay a
very considerable sum, which he had lost to another volunteer at play.
He had changed his name, and taken up his residence at Rotterdam, where
he had insinuated himself into the good graces of an ancient and rich
burgomaster, and, by his handsome person and graceful manners,
captivated the affections of his only child, a very young person, of
great beauty, and the heiress of much wealth. Delighted with the
specious attractions of his proposed son-in-law, the wealthy
merchant--whose idea of the British character was too high to admit of
his taking any precaution to acquire evidence of his condition and
circumstances--gave his consent to the marriage. It was about to be
celebrated in the principal church of the city, when it was interrupted
by a singular occurrence.
Captain Falconer having been detached to Rotterdam to bring up a part
of the brigade of Scottish auxiliaries, who were in quarters there, a
person of consideration in the town, to whom he had been formerly
known, proposed to him for amusement to go to the high church, to see a
countryman of his own married to the daughter of a wealthy burgomaster.
Captain Falconer went accordingly, accompanied by his Dutch
acquaintance with a party of his friends, and two or three officers of
the Scotch brigade. His astonishment may be conceived when he saw his
own brother-in-law, a married man, on the point of leading to the altar
the innocent and beautiful creature, upon whom he was about to practise
a base and unmanly deceit. He proclaimed his villany on the spot, and
the marriage was interrupted of course. But against the opinion of more
thinking men, who considered Sir Philip Forester as having thrown
himself out of the rank of men of honour, Captain Falconer admitted him
to the privilege of such, accepted a challenge from him, and in the
rencounter received a mortal wound. Such are the ways of Heaven,
mysterious in our eyes. Lady Forester never recovered the shock of this
dismal intelligence.
* * * * *
"And did this tragedy," said I, "take place exactly at the time when
the scene in the mirror was exhibited?"
"It is hard to be obliged to maim one's story," answered my aunt; "but,
to speak the truth, it happened some days sooner than the apparition
was exhibited."
"And so there remained a possibility," said I, "that by some secret and
speedy communication the artist might have received early intelligence
of that incident."
"The incredulous pretended so," replied my aunt.
"What became of the adept?" demanded I.
"Why, a warrant came down shortly afterwards to arrest him for
high-treason, as an agent of the Chevalier St. George; and Lady
Bothwell, recollecting the hints which had escaped the Doctor, an
ardent friend of the Protestant succession, did then call to
remembrance, that this man was chiefly _prone_ among the ancient
matrons of her own political persuasion. It certainly seemed probable
that intelligence from the continent, which could easily have been
transmitted by an active and powerful agent, might have enabled him to
prepare such a scene of phantasmagoria as she had herself witnessed.
Yet there were so many difficulties in assigning a natural explanation,
that, to the day of her death, she remained in great doubt on the
subject, and much disposed to cut the Gordian knot, by admitting the
existence of supernatural agency."
"But, my dear aunt," said I, "what became of the man of skill?"
"Oh, he was too good a fortune-teller not to be able to foresee that
his own destiny would be tragical if he waited the arrival of the man
with the silver greyhound upon his sleeve. He made, as we say, a
moonlight flitting, and was nowhere to be seen or heard of. Some noise
there was about papers or letters found in the house, but it died away,
and Doctor Baptisti Damiotti was soon as little talked of as Galen or
Hippocrates."
"And Sir Philip Forester," said I, "did he too vanish for ever from the
public scene?"
"No," replied my kind informer. "He was heard of once more, and it was
upon a remarkable occasion. It is said that we Scots, when there was
such a nation in existence, have, among our full peck of virtues, one
or two little barleycorns of vice. In particular, it is alleged that we
rarely forgive, and never forget, any injuries received; that we used
to make an idol of our resentment, as poor Lady Constance did of her
grief; and are addicted, as Burns says, to 'nursing our wrath to keep
it warm.' Lady Bothwell was not without this feeling; and, I believe,
nothing whatever, scarce the restoration of the Stuart line, could have
happened so delicious to her feelings as an opportunity of being
revenged on Sir Philip Forester, for the deep and double injury which
had deprived her of a sister and of a brother. But nothing of him was
heard or known till many a year had passed away."
At length--it was on a Fastern's E'en (Shrovetide) assembly, at which
the whole fashion of Edinburgh attended, full and frequent, and when
Lady Bothwell had a seat amongst the lady patronesses, that one of the
attendants on the company whispered into her ear, that a gentleman
wished to speak with her in private.
"In private? and in an assembly-room?--he must be mad--Tell him to call
upon me to-morrow morning."
"I said, so, my lady," answered the man; "but he desired me to give you
this paper."
She undid the billet, which was curiously folded and sealed. It only
bore the words, "_On business of life and death_," written in a hand
which she had never seen before. Suddenly it occurred to her, that it
might concern the safety of some of her political friends; she
therefore followed the messenger to a small apartment where the
refreshments were prepared, and from which the general company was
excluded. She found an old man, who, at her approach, rose up and bowed
profoundly. His appearance indicated a broken constitution; and his
dress, though sedulously rendered conforming to the etiquette of a
ball-room, was worn and tarnished, and hung in folds about his
emaciated person. Lady Bothwell was about to feel for her purse,
expecting to get rid of the supplicant at the expense of a little
money, but some fear of a mistake arrested her purpose. She therefore
gave the man leisure to explain himself.
"I have the honour to speak with the Lady Bothwell?"
"I am Lady Bothwell; allow me to say, that this is no time or place for
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 mayst be," replied Lady Bothwell, "urge me not so
cruelly. It would be but blasphemous hypocrisy lo 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 host
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 have
perhaps 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.