_A Story of Hampton Court._
Some ten years ago, there resided for a time, in a pleasant suite of
apartments at Hampton Court, a young and beautiful gentlewoman, who was
greatly beloved by all who knew her, for her goodness and her sweet and
winning ways. Lady Mary Hamilton, or "the Lady Mary," as she was
called by the pensioners and retainers there, was the youngest daughter
of a poor Scottish nobleman, and the widow of a still poorer young
officer. Captain Hamilton, soon after his marriage, was ordered to
join the army in Afghanistan and for several months dared danger and
death, and endured frightful hardships, in that dreadful war against a
treacherous and savage people.
At last, in a skirmish among the mountains, he was seen to fall under
the spear-thrust of a fierce Afghan chief, and was reported as
"killed," though his body was never recovered by his victorious
comrades. It was supposed that the natives had carried him off in
their retreat, to plunder him at leisure.
But the Lady Mary never would give him up as really dead; and though
she was very sorrowful and anxious for him, she could not be persuaded
to put on a widow's dress, or cover her soft, brown hair with a widow's
cap. She even refused to receive a widow's pension, professing always
a firm belief that her husband was yet living.
Month after month went by, till two long years had passed, and brought
her no word from her beloved George; and still she did not despair.
It was said that she was kept up by happy dreams--that her husband
often came to her in her sleep, and told her to be of good cheer, and
all would yet be well. However that may have been, it is certain that
she never wholly lost heart.
The queen kindly offered Lady Mary apartments at Hampton Court, and she
gladly accepted, for she was poor, and then, she felt that she should
like the melancholy quiet of the old palace far better than the gayety
and bustle of the town. And so she came to Hampton Court to live, and
"wait for my husband," she said, smiling sadly, while her friends shook
their heads, and whispered among themselves that "the poor dear
creature was hardly in her right mind."
The lonely Lady Mary soon became a great favorite with the guards and
servitors at Hampton Court. They all felt for her a tender, respectful
pity, and would do any thing in their power to serve her. Being very
shy, she never liked to visit the show apartments of the palace, at
hours when she might meet strangers. So, the kind porter would often
let her go in by herself, and sometimes even give her the keys, that
she might stay as long as she pleased in any of the halls or galleries.
She was romantic and poetical, and loved much to visit the grand old
hall, on summer evenings, and see the rich sunset light pour in, and
then fade softly out through the gorgeous stained windows. Sometimes,
she would linger here till the long twilight was over, and the
starlight and moonlight struggled through the stained glass, and
faintly lit up the hall, silvering over the faded tapestry and banners,
glistening on the old arms and armor. Strolling up and down the hall,
or seated under one of the great windows, she would think and dream,
and try to forget the sorrows of her humble life in remembering the
misfortunes of the great and royal ones, who had so often walked where
she walked, and sat where she sat.
Once old Roger, the porter, asked her if she were not afraid to stay
there, all alone by herself, so late.
"Why, no," she answered, "what should I be afraid of?"
He shrugged his shoulders, but said no more; I suppose because he did
not know what to say, to such a simple, childlike question.
One lovely August evening, the Lady Mary stayed later than usual in
"Wolsey's Hall."
The sunset glory faded and faded away; the twilight deepened and
deepened into night; the moon and the stars looked in upon her through
the great window. She was weary and sad, and the lonely stillness of
that place seemed to suit her; she seemed to _feel_ the calm moonlight
in which she sat, bathing her like a soft, soothing flood. She leaned
her head against the tapestried wall, closed her eyes, and thought, and
thought of the great days and splendid festivals long gone by--of kings
and queens, brave knights, and beautiful ladies, and--when all at once
that vast hall was lighted up as though by magic! Music swelled
through the arches, and a splendid court came slowly sweeping in!
First walked a stout, red-faced man, all velvets and jewels, with a
dark, sorrowful-looking lady on his right; and on his left, an elderly
man, with a bold, haughty face, and a rich dress of scarlet velvet and
ermine.
The Lady Mary recognized these as Henry VIII., Queen Katharine, and
Cardinal Wolsey.
They were followed by maids of honor, gentlemen, priests, and pages.
Soon there was a livelier peal of music, and the dance began. The king
danced with the most beautiful of the maids of honor, whom he smiled
lovingly upon, while the poor queen looked very unhappy. So the Lady
Mary knew that this fair maid must be Anne Boleyn.
When the dance ended, the gay court passed out; but again there was
music, and another swept in. This was headed by a proud, stately
woman, with golden hair, and cold blue eyes. She wore a sparkling
diadem; her dress was of stiff brocade, thickly bestrewn with pearls
and diamonds, while about her neck was a ruff so prodigious, that it
alone would keep everybody at a very respectful distance. On her left,
walked a handsome noble, most royally dressed, and behind came a
brilliant host of beauties, pages, cavaliers, poets, and statesmen.
The Lady Mary now recognized Queen Elizabeth, the Earl of Essex, and
the court.
The queen took her place upon the throne and graciously desired her
court to be seated. Before them was a stage; they were to witness a
play. The queen signified that she was ready, and the play began. It
was "Henry VIII., or the Fall of Wolsey."
The queen seemed interested, and applauded occasionally, though the
actors played badly. They were half frightened to death at appearing
in that august place, before her august majesty; all but one, who went
through with his part in a quiet, manly way, which did him great
credit. This was the author--William Shakspeare.
At length the queen, court, and actors all went out, and there came in
next, not a court, with music and pomp, but quietly and silently, a
dark, sad-looking man, leading two children by the hand. These three
walked up and down the hall, several times--the man talking to the
children, and telling them, it seemed, something very sad, for they
cried and clung to him, and then the three passed out, weeping.
The Lady Mary knew these to be Charles I. and his children, whom he had
been telling, perhaps, that he might soon be put to death.
Next there came, in stillness also, a stern, haggard-faced man, in a
rough, half-military dress, with a sweet delicate-looking lady, in
white. She was clinging to his arm, and seemed expostulating with him
very earnestly, but he shook his head, yet at the same time he tenderly
smoothed her hair, with his strong hand, and playfully pinched her thin
cheek, and tried to smile. Then he suddenly turned, and strode out of
the hall. The lady stood a moment, looking after him mournfully, and
then passed out also.
The Lady Mary knew these two to be Cromwell and his daughter Elizabeth,
who often interceded with her father, for political offenders.
Again there was loud music, and again a brilliant court came pouring
in. First walked a dark, dissolute-looking young man, very gayly
dressed, with long curls dangling about his shoulders, handing
carelessly along a pale, dispirited lady, who didn't seem to find much
comfort in the queenly diadem she wore.
The ball began, and soon it was turned into a wild revel. Beautiful,
but bold ladies, and reckless looking gentlemen, danced and laughed,
sung and feasted, and gamed, and grew merrier and madder every minute.
The Lady Mary became frightened, for she saw that she was in the
profligate court of Charles II. She tried to hide behind the tapestry
by the window, but a rollicking nobleman, whom she recognized by his
portraits as the Earl of Rochester, caught sight of her, and sprang
forward, to drag her out into the midst of the hall! She flung his
hand off, with a scream, and lo, he, the king, the queen, the court,
the lights, every thing vanished!
_It was all a dream!_
The Lady Mary was alone in the old hall, in the silent night, now
darker than before, for a cloud had come over the moon.
She groped her way to the door, unlocked it, and passed into the
withdrawing room. At the further end she saw some one coming, she
could not see who it was, by the dim starlight, so she asked: "Roger,
is that you?"
"No, Mary," answered a glad, tremulous voice, "it is not Roger--it is
I--George!"
With a wild, joyful cry, the Lady Mary sprang forward, and was clasped
in her husband's arms.
And _this_ was not a dream.
Captain Hamilton had been severely wounded, and taken captive by the
Afghans. They had kept him a close prisoner in the mountains, not even
permitting him to write a letter to any one, for two years. He had at
last been discovered, liberated, and sent home to recover his health,
which had suffered somewhat in his hardship and confinement.
On arriving at Hampton Court, whither he had been directed from London,
he had been told by old Roger where his wife probably was, as he could
not find her in her apartments, and was on his way to the hall, when he
met her, as we have seen.
The next time that the Lady Mary visited that old hall, to walk in the
moonlight, or muse in her favorite window-seat, it was observed that
she did not go alone.