|The last sad parting between the Earl of Dervventwater and the countess
must now be detailed.
The interview took place in the prison-chamber in the Devereux Tower,
and on the day before the execution.
After his condemnation, the earl had passed most of his time in prayer,
and had so completely succeeded in reconciling himself to his fate, that
he forbade the countess to make any further efforts for his deliverance.
Indeed, after the escapes that had taken place, any fresh attempt would
have been futile.
The unhappy countess was staying at Dagenham Park, an old manorial
mansion, near Romford in Essex, belonging to a Roman Catholic family,
and she came over every day to the Tower, accompanied by Father Norham,
in the hope of seeing her husband.
Latterly, permission had been refused her, but, on the day before the
execution, she was allowed to visit him with the priest.
Not having seen him for a few days, she was much struck by the change
in his appearance. His countenance had a very serene expression. All
trouble had vanished from it, and it was plain from his looks that his
thoughts were fixed on high.
“You have no longer any fear of death, I perceive, my son,” said Father
Norham.
“I have no desire for life, father,” he replied. “I am better prepared
to die than I might be at a future time, were my days prolonged.”
“I shall soon rejoin you, my lord,” said the countess.
“No, live!--I would have you live,” he cried. “You are young,
beautiful--and I trust have many years of happiness before you. I would
not have them abridged. But think of me always--think how fondly I have
loved you--think how entirely happy I have been in your society. Never
for a single moment has my heart swerved from its devotion to you. Fate
has separated us for a time--but it was against my will. My love has
been sacrificed to my sense of duty.”
“I know it, my dearest lord,” she cried, with a look of anguish. “Oh!
how bitterly I reproach myself that I urged you to join this fatal
expedition. Would I could recall the past! Would we could be at Dilston
together as in former days! Never! never should you leave it! But I must
not speak of the past.”
“Nay, it does not pain me,” said the earl tenderly. “Let us quit his
dungeon for a moment in thought, and transport ourselves to Dilston. Let
us stand together--as we have so often stood--upon the terrace, and gaze
upon the far-spreading prospect. Ah! the scene rises before me, as I
speak! We are in the glen, wandering by the side of the stream. We are
in the forest, and I enter the Maiden's Walk, and receive a warning.”
“What more?” cried the countess.
“Nothing,” replied the earl. “The vision has disappeared. Alas! my sweet
love, Dilston will be yours no more. The house you have brightened with
your presence will be taken from you. I cannot bequeath it to you. Yet
I should wish to be laid with my fathers in the vault beneath the little
chapel.”
“It shall be done, my dearest lord,” she cried earnestly. “Your wishes
shall be fulfilled.”
“I do not think that resting-place will be denied me,” said the earl.
“Have no fear, my lord,” said Father Norham. “The malice of your enemies
will not extend to that length. All shall be done as you desire. When
the tragedy is over, the body shall be conveyed by slow stages--and
only by night--to Dilston. During the day it shall rest in some Catholic
chapel, and masses shall be said.”
“I will accompany it, and see the last sad rites performed,” said the
countess.
“You give me inexpressible comfort,” said the earl. “It was the sole
request I had to prefer.”
Shortly afterwards the earl retired with Father Norham into the cell
adjoining the prison-chamber, where the priest heard his confession, and
gave him absolution.
During this interval, the countess knelt down and prayed fervently.
At length, the earl came forth, and she arose, perceiving from his looks
that the moment of parting was come.
He extended his arms, and flying towards him, she was clasped to his
breast.
Thus they remained for some minutes amid a silence, broken only by her
sobs.
He then made a slight effort to loosen her embrace, but she clung to him
even more tenaciously.
“We must part, my best beloved,” he said, printing a kiss upon her brow.
“Oh! I knew not the anguish of this hour,” she cried. “Would my heart
would break and relieve me!”
“For your husband's sake, calm yourself, dear daughter, I implore you!”
said the priest.
But her grief was too violent to be restrained, and a paroxysm ensued
that found vent in a fearful shriek, that burst through the grated
windows of the fortification, and almost froze the blood of such as
heard it.
She then became insensible.
On regaining consciousness, she no longer beheld her husband. She
had parted from him for ever. She had been carefully removed to the
Lieutenant's lodgings, where restoratives were applied.
As soon as her strength permitted, she left the Tower with Father
Norham, and returned to Dagenham Park; feeling as if her heart were
broken.