which dissolved the bonds of affection. On that day when the attack of
Bunker's Hill occasioned a carnage which thinned the British ranks,
Captain Arundel and Mr Meredith stood foremost in the bloody contest.
Accident had placed them in the same brigade: they fought and fell
together. The body of the young officer was carried off by the
Americans; and the mortally-wounded captain conveyed to the habitation
of his wretched wife and daughter, where, shortly afterwards, he
expired.
The keen and piercing anguish felt by Ellen and her mother, in
consequence of this sorrowful event, had changed to silent and corroding
melancholy, when they embarked for their native land, after having
received every attention which the governor and garrison could offer as
a tribute to the memory of the deceased. On their arrival in Britain, a
pension was granted to Mrs Arundel, which, in the event of her death,
was to be continued to her daughter; and with this they retired to a
small village northward of the Scottish metropolis, where a maiden
sister of Captain Arundel, who was remarkably fond of Ellen, resided.
But, as no retirement will conceal the charms of beauty, nor any circle,
however confined, prevent the fame of accomplishments from spreading
beyond its limit, Mr Newton, a widower of independent fortune, not much
past the prime of life, having been told of Ellen, resolved to visit the
Arundels. An opportunity soon presented itself. The house which the
ladies inhabited was advertised for sale; and, under pretence of an
intention to purchase, he wrote Mrs Arundel, desiring to know when it
would be convenient for him to call; to which Mrs Arundel returned a
polite answer, naming an early day.
Mr Newton went; and, after he had viewed the house and gardens with the
air of an intending purchaser, Mrs Arundel, desirous of cultivating the
acquaintance of so distinguished a neighbour, asked him to stay tea;
which being unhesitatingly accepted, he was introduced to the fair, the
amiable, the still mourning Ellen. Prepared by the universal voice to
admire, love was the immediate consequence of a visit, which he
requested leave to repeat, in terms with which civility could not refuse
to comply; and a few weeks confirmed Mr Newton the ardent and the
professed lover of Ellen. But her heart was still engaged; nor could she
abandon even a hopeless passion. The character, the fortune, the
unobjectionable person of Mr Newton, were urged to her, by her only
friends, with such energy, but mildness, of persuasion, that, enforced
by the declarations of her admirer, she was prevailed upon to promise
him her hand, though not her heart; and a day was named for the
celebration of their nuptials.
The necessary preparations now engaged the attention of Mr Newton and
the two matron ladies; whilst Ellen passively yielded to the assiduities
of her friends, and suffered the adornments of her person, and the
intended provisions of settlement to be adjusted, without once
interfering.
A few mornings before the appointed day, as Ellen was seated at
breakfast with her mother and aunt, a note was put into her hands. She
saw at a glance that it was from Mr Newton; and she immediately handed
it across the table to Mrs Arundel, who read:--
"MADAM,--That your heart is not at all interested in the intended event,
you have, with candour, frequently acknowledged to me. You will not,
therefore, even wish to receive an apology for my releasing you from an
unsuitable engagement.
"My long-lost son--my son whom I had for years resigned to Heaven--is
restored to me; and Providence, which has bestowed on me this consummate
happiness, will not permit me to add to it a wish which concerns myself.
He is young; he is amiable; and more worthy of your regard than I am. It
is my sincere wish that he should become your husband. I shall,
therefore, take an early opportunity of introducing him to you.
"My real name is _not_ what you have hitherto considered it to be. I
changed it when, on the supposed death of my son, I retired from my
usual place of residence to a distant part of the kingdom, to avoid the
importunities of some worthless relations; but, until I have the honour
of disclosing to you in person my real name, I beg to subscribe myself,
Madam, yours very truly,
"J. B. NEWTON.
"_To Miss Ellen Arundel._"
When this most extraordinary epistle was read, Ellen turned deadly pale,
and would certainly have fallen to the ground, had not a young man
entered through the window which opened out on the lawn, and caught her
in his arms. He was followed by Mr Newton.
"Ellen," exclaimed the latter, "behold my son!"
The sorrowing girl cast her eyes upon the form of him who held her.
"Meredith!" she cried, and threw herself, weeping, upon his shoulder.
Her tears were tears of joy. Little more remains to tell. Ellen Arundel
gave her hand to the son on the very day which had been appointed for
her nuptials with the father.
CHATELARD.
Some time after the unfortunate Queen Mary had established her court at
Holyrood, on her return from France, to ascend the throne of her
ancestors, a stranger arrived at a certain tavern or hostelry, kept by
one Goodal, at the foot of the Canongate of Edinburgh. The former had
last come from Leith, where he had been landed from a French vessel some
two or three hours previously. He was a young man, probably about three
or four and twenty, tall and handsome in person, of a singularly
pleasing countenance, and of mild and exceedingly gentleman-like
demeanour. His lofty forehead and expressive eye bespoke the presence of
genius, or, at least, of an intellect of a very high order; while his
general manners indicated a refined and cultivated mind. There was
marked, however, on the brow of the interesting stranger very palpable
traces of saddening thoughts--his whole countenance, indeed, exhibiting
the characteristics of a deep and rooted melancholy; but it was of a
gentle kind, and bore no likeness to the stern gloominess of
disappointed ambition. His sadness was evidently a sadness of the
heart--the result of some grievous pressure on its best and tenderest
feelings and affections.
After having partaken of some refreshment, the stranger desired a small
measure of wine to be brought him. This order was executed by mine host
in person; and, indeed, from what afterwards followed, it seemed to have
been given with an express view to that result; for, on the landlord's
placing the wine before his guest, the latter requested him, with great
politeness of manner, to sit down and share it with him; saying that he
wanted a little information on two or three particular points. Mine
host, seating himself as desired, expressed his readiness to afford him
any information of which he himself was possessed. Having thanked the
former for his civility, and pressed him, not in vain, to taste of his
own wine, the stranger said--
"Is the queen, my friend, just now at Holyrood?"
He was answered in the affirmative. The querist paused, sighed, and next
inquired if she walked much abroad--what were the hours she devoted to
that recreation--whether she was accompanied by many attendants on these
occasions--and whether her ordinary promenade was a place easy of
access. Having been informed on all these points, he again relapsed into
thought, and again sighed profoundly. After a short time, however, he
once more recovered himself, and suddenly exclaimed, but more by way of
soliloquy than inquiry--
"Is she not beautiful--transcendently beautiful?"
Mine host, who was not a little surprised by the abruptness of the
question, and the enthusiasm of manner in which it was expressed,
replied, that she surely was "Just as bonny a creature as he had ever
clapt ee on--a plump, sonsy, nice-lookin lass."
A slight expression of disgust, or rather of horror, at the homely terms
employed by mine host in speaking of the beauty of the queen, passed
over the countenance of his guest. It was, however, but momentary, and
was not observed, or at any rate not understood, by him whose language
had called it forth.
"Ay, beautiful is she," went on the enthusiastic stranger, leaning back
in his chair, and gazing on the roof, in a fit of ecstasy, and in
seeming unconsciousness of the presence of a third party--"beautiful is
she to look upon, as is the rising sun emerging from the purpled east;
beautiful as his setting amidst the burnished clouds of the west; lovely
as the full moon hanging midway in her field of azure; grateful to the
sight as the green fields of spring, or the flowers of the garden; and
pleasant to the ear are the tones of her voice, as the song of the
nightingale in the grove, or the sound of the distant waterfall."
Here the speaker paused in his rhapsody, continued silent for some
moments, then suddenly returning, as it were, to a sense of the
circumstances in which he was placed, he brought his hands over his
forehead and eyes, as one recovering from an agony of painful and
melancholy thoughts. Surprised by this extraordinary conduct of his
guest, the landlord of the house began to conceive that he had got into
the company of a madman; yet he marvelled much what description of
madness it could be, since it was made evident only when the queen was
spoken of--the stranger speaking on all other subjects rationally and
composedly.
"She walks not much abroad, you say, my friend?" said the latter,
resuming the conversation which he had broken off to give utterance to
the rhapsody which has just been quoted.
"Very seldom, sir," replied mine host; "for ye see she doesna fin hersel
quite at hame yet amang us; but she'll come to by and by, I've nae
doot."
"And she is not easy of access, you say--no chance of one being able to
throw himself in her way?"
"Unco little, I should think," replied mine host, "unless she could be
fa'n in wi' gaun to the chapel to mass; for she still abides by thae
abominations, for a' John Knox can say till her."
A flush of resentment and indignation crossed the pale countenance of
the stranger at the last expressions of the innkeeper, and he threw a
glance at him strongly expressive of these feelings, but suddenly
checked himself, paused for a moment, and then resumed his queries in
the calm and gentle tones which seemed natural to him--
"How likes she the country, know ye?
"Indeed, I canna weel say," replied mine host; "but I rather doot, frae
what I hear, she's no athegither reconciled till't yet. She thinks, I
daursay, we're rather a roughspun set o' folk--a wee thing coorse i' the
grain or sae."
"Ay, that ye are, that ye are," said the stranger, with more candour
than courtesy, again throwing himself back in his chair, and again
beginning to rhapsodise as before. "She is among ye--the beautiful, the
gentle, the accomplished, the refined--as a fawn amongst a herd of
bears. She is in your wild and savage land, like a lovely and tender
flower growing in the cleft of a rock--a sweet and gentle thing,
blooming alone in the midst of rudeness and barrenness. Oh, uncongenial
soil! Oh, discordant association! Dearest, cruellest, loveliest of thy
sex!"
If mine host was amazed at the first outpouring of his guest's excited
mind, it will readily be believed that it was not lessened by this
second ebullition of fervour and passion. He, in truth, now became
convinced that he was distracted; and, under this impression, felt a
strong desire to be quit of him as soon as possible. With this view, he
took an early opportunity of stealing unobserved out of the apartment--a
feat which he found no difficulty in performing, as his guest seemed
ultimately so wholly wrapped up in his own thoughts, as to be quite
unconscious of what was either said or done in his presence. Soon after
mine host had retired, the stranger ordered paper, pen, and ink to be
brought him. They were placed upon his table, he himself the while
walking up and down the apartment with measured stride and downcast
look, as if again lost in profound and perplexing thought; and at
intervals the sound of his footsteps, thus traversing his chamber, was
heard throughout the whole of the night. The stranger had slept none; he
had not even retired to seek repose; but those periods during the
night--and they were of considerable length--in which all was silent in
his apartment, were employed in writing; and when morning came, the
result of his labours was exhibited in a letter, curiously, or rather
fancifully, folded, tied with a green silk thread, and highly perfumed.
This letter was addressed on the back, "To the Most Illustrious
Princess, Mary, Queen of Scotland."
Having brought the proceedings of the stranger to this point, we will
shift the scene to the sitting apartment of the queen in Holyrood. Here,
surrounded with her maids, the young and lovely princess was, at the
moment of which we speak, engaged in working embroidery, and laughing
and chatting with her attendants, amongst whom were two or three young
French ladies, who had accompanied her from France. The queen and her
maids were thus employed, then, when the gentleman-usher, who stood at
the door of the apartment, entered, and, with a low obeisance, presented
a letter to the queen. It was the same as that addressed to her by the
stranger, and above referred to. The queen took the letter, with a
gracious smile, from the person presenting it, and, contemplating it for
a moment, before she opened it, with a look of pleased surprise--
"This, sure," she said, "is from none of our Scottish subjects: the fold
is French." And she sighed. "It has the cut and fashion of the _billet
doux_ of St Germains; and," she added, laughing, "the precise flavour,
too, I declare. But I should know this handwriting," she went on; "I
have seen it before. This, however, will solve the mystery." And she
tore the letter open, and was instantly employed in reading it, blushing
and smiling by turns, as she proceeded with the perusal. When she had
done, "Maria," she said, raising her eyes from the paper, and addressing
one of her French ladies, "who, think you, is this letter from?"
"I cannot guess, madam," replied the young lady appealed to.
"Do try," rejoined Mary.
"Nay, indeed, I cannot," said the former, now pausing in her work, and
looking laughingly at her mistress. "Perhaps from the Count Desmartine,
or from Dufour, or Dubois."
"No, no, no," replied the queen, laughing; "neither of these, Maria; but
I will have compassion on your curiosity, and tell you. Would you
believe it?--it is from Chatelard, the poet."
"Chatelard!" repeated the maiden, in amazement. "What in all the earth
can have brought him here?"
"Nay, I know not," said the queen, blushing, for she guessed, or rather
feared, the cause. "But read, and judge for yourself," she added,
handing her attendant the letter, which contained a very beautiful
laudatory poem, full of passion and feeling, addressed to herself, and
which the writer concluded by requesting that he might be permitted to
form part of her court; declaring that it would be joy inexpressible to
him to be near her person--he cared not in how mean a capacity. The
having opportunities of seeing and serving her, he said, would reconcile
him to any degradation of rank--to any loss, save that of honour.
"In truth, very pretty verses," said the lady-in-waiting, returning the
poem to the queen; "but, methinks, somewhat over-bold."
"Why, I do think so too, Maria," replied Mary. "Chatelard rather forgets
himself; but poets, you know, have a license, and I cannot be harsh to
the poor young man. It would be cruel, ungenerous, and unworthy of me."
"But what say you, madam, to his request to be attached to your court?"
"Really, as to that, I know not well what to say, indeed," rejoined the
queen. "Chatelard, you know, Maria, is a gentleman, both by birth and
education. He is accomplished in a very high degree, and of a graceful
person and pleasing manners, and would thus do no discredit to our
court; but, I fear me, he might be guilty of some indiscretions--for he
is a child of passion as well as song--that might lead himself into
danger, and bring some blame on me. Still, I cannot think of rejecting
altogether his humble suit, so prettily preferred; and, if he would
promise to conduct himself with becoming gravity and reserve in all
matters, and at all times, I should have no objection that he was
attached to our court. I will, at all events, make trial of him for a
short space."
Having said this, the queen, now addressing the ladies present
generally, went on--
"Ladies, I will shortly introduce to you a new gallant; but I pray ye
take care of your hearts; for he is, I warrant ye, one especially given
to purloining these little commodities. He is handsome, accomplished,
and a poet; so mind ye, ladies, I have warned you--be on your guard.
Kerr," she now called out to a page in waiting, "go to the hostelry
whence this letter came, and say to the gentleman by whom it has been
sent, that we desire to see him forthwith. Let him accompany you, Kerr."
The page instantly departed; and we will avail ourselves of his short
absence on this mission, to say briefly who Chatelard was--what was his
object in coming to the Scottish court--and of what nature were the
fears which the queen expressed regarding him.
Chatelard, then, was a young French gentleman of rank, of rare
accomplishments, and a poet of very considerable excellence. His seeking
to attach himself to Mary's court, was the result of a violent and
unhappy attachment to her person; and her fears for him, proceeding from
a suspicion of this attachment, were, that he would commit himself by
some rash expression of his feelings. She was displeased with his
presumptuous love, yet found she could not, as a woman, but look on it
with pity and compassion and hence her disposition to treat with
kindness and affability its unhappy victim. Prudence, indeed, would
certainly have dictated another course than what Mary pursued with
Chatelard, in thus admitting him to her presence; but Mary's error here
was an error of the heart, and more to be regretted than blamed.
In a short while after the messenger had been despatched with the
invitation to Chatelard, the door of the queen's apartment was thrown
wide open, and that person entered. His bow to the queen was exceedingly
graceful; and not less so, though measured with scrupulous exactness in
their expression of deference, were those he directed to her ladies.
Chatelard's countenance was at this instant suffused with a blush, and
it was evident he was under the excitement of highly-agitated feelings;
but he lost not, for a moment, nor in the slightest degree, his presence
of mind; neither did these feelings prevent him conducting himself at
this interview with the most perfect propriety.
"Chatelard," said the queen, after the ceremonies of a first salutation
were over, "I perceive you have lost none of your cunning in the gentle
craft. These were really pretty lines you sent me--choice in expression,
and melodiously arranged. I assure thee it is a very happy piece."
"How could it be otherwise, madam," replied Chatelard, bowing low, "with
such a subject?"
"Nay, nay," said Mary, laughing and blushing at the same time, "I am no
subject, Chatelard, but an anointed queen. Thou canst not make a subject
of me."
Chatelard now in turn blushed, and said, smiling, "Your wit, madam, has
thrown me out; but, avoiding this play on words, my position is good,
undeniable. All men acknowledge it."
"Go to--go to, Chatelard--thou wert ever a flatterer. But 'tis a poet's
trade. Thou art a dangerous flatterer, however; for thou dost praise so
prettily that one cannot suspect thy sincerity, nor be angry with thee,
even when thou deservest that they should. But enough of this in the
meantime. Thou mayst now retire; and I think the sooner the better, for
the safety of these fair maidens' hearts, and your own peace of mind,
which a longer stay might endanger. Our chamberlain will provide thee
with suitable apartments, and see to thy wants. Mark," she added,
laughingly, "we retain thee in our service in the capacity of our
poet--of court poet--a high and honourable appointment; and thy reward
shall be the smiles and approbation of these fair ladies--the beauty of
all and each of whom I expect thou wilt forthwith embalm in immortal
verse."
Chatelard, bowing, was now about to retire, when the queen, again
addressing him, said, "We will send for thee again in the afternoon, to
bear us company for awhile, when thou wilt please bring with thee some
of thy newest and choicest madrigals."
Expressing a deep sense of the honour proposed to be conferred on him,
of the queen's kind condescension, and avowing his devotedness to her
service, Chatelard withdrew, and was provided with the promised
apartments by the express orders of Mary herself. To these apartments we
shall follow the enthusiastic but audacious lover. On being left alone,
Chatelard again fell into one of those reveries which we have already
described, and again launched into that strain of extravagant adulation
which, on another occasion, we represented him as indulging in. Again he
compared Mary, in his incoherent ravings, to everything that is
beautiful in earth, sea, and sky; but comparing her to these only that
he might assert how far she surpassed them. There were mingled, too,
with his eulogiums, on this occasion, expressions of that imprudent
passion which subsequently at once urged him to commit the most daring
offences, and blinded him to their consequences. Poor Chatelard's
ravings, in the instance of which we are just speaking, were
unconsciously uttered; but they were unfortunately loud enough to arrest
the attention of the domestics, who were passing to and fro in the lobby
into which the door of his apartment opened. These, attracted by his
rapturous exclamations, listened, from time to time, at his door, and
were highly amused with the rhapsodies of the imprudent poet. The
latter, becoming more and more vehement, and, in proportion, more
entertaining, the domestics finally gathered in a cluster around the
door, to the number of six or eight, and, with suppressed laughter,
overheard all that the excited and unguarded inmate chose to utter.
That, however, was so incoherent, or at least of so high-flown a
character, that the listeners could make nothing of it; and, as they
could not, they immediately concluded it to be nonsense, and the speaker
a madman. But there came one to the spot, at this unfortunate moment,
who, with sharper intellect and more apt comprehension, at once
discovered the meaning that lurked under the florid language of the
poet's ill-timed soliloquies.
While the servants were crowded around the door of Chatelard's
apartment, too intent on their amusement to notice the approach of any
one, another party, we say, had advanced to within a few paces of where
they stood. Here, with his arms folded across his breast, he had
remained observed for several seconds, gazing with a look of surprise
and displeasure on the merry group assembled around the poet's door. He
was, however, at length discovered, when the knot of listeners instantly
broke up in the greatest hurry and alarm.
"How now," exclaimed the unexpected intruder--a person of about thirty
years of age, of rather slender form, of cold and haughty demeanour, and
austere countenance--"How now?" he exclaimed, in a voice whose tones
were naturally severe--"what means this idling?--what do ye all here,
knaves, in place of attending to your duties?"
Instead of answering this question, the terrified domestics were now
endeavouring to make off in all directions; but the querist's curiosity,
or perhaps suspicion, having been excited by what he had seen, he
instantly arrested their progress, by calling on them, in a voice of
increased severity and vehemence, to stop.
"Come hither, Johnstone," he exclaimed, addressing one of the
fugitives--"I must know what you have been all about." And, without
waiting for an answer, "Who occupies this apartment?" he inquired,
pointing to that in which was Chatelard.