11. XI.
THE CAVALIER IN PURPLE VELVET.
I issued from Rosemary Lane, passed beneath the
shadow of the Tower, which rose grim and lugubrious
above the houses, reached Whitehall, mounted, and
returned towards Hampton Court, plunged in thought,
and overcome by the strange scene which I had
witnessed.
I had been the guest of the headsman! But for this
terrible person's refusal to accept the hand I had offered,
my own would have clasped the bloody palm which
had severed so many necks.
I shuddered almost at the thought,—living over the
whole scene again. The hand resting so tenderly on
the bright curls of the child had struck off the proud
head of Strafford! Within a few feet of me, there in
that mysterious closet, was the frightful instrument
which had so often cut through flesh, blood-vessels, and
vertebræ, from whose keen, impassive edge human
blood had so often been wiped! Seated opposite me
in friendly talk, the talk of guest and host, was the
grim human being who had entered the cell of the
condemned as with the tramp of a fate, bound the firm
or trembling arms, hobbled the feet with the inexorable
cord, and, striking the victim on the shoulder when
the moment came, had muttered, in his hoarse voice,
“You belong to me now!”
All the way to Hampton Court I was thinking of my
singular adventure; but as I came in front of the palace
a figure, visible through one of the tall windows, banished
every other thought. It was the figure of Frances
Villiers, standing erect in the full light of the flambeaux
flooding the apartment. She was clad in rich
brocade, cut low, so that her exquisite neck was clearly
revealed; the beautiful head, with the looped-up pearls,
was bent towards one fair shoulder. She was smiling
with her habitual expression of grave sweetness, and
apparently listening to some one.
I drew rein, and, concealed beneath the shadow of a
great oak, gazed long at the girl who had now become
more dear to me than my life. In a day, an hour, as
it were, I had come to love her with all the power of
my being. She had waked up my slumbering heart,
and henceforward I felt that she, and she alone, was
my queen!
Pardon this gush of romance, friend,—'tis an old
gray-head that indulges in it. Many decades have
flown since then; I am aged, and the bloom of life is
gone; but I remember, and will until I die, the beautiful
figure I gazed on that night through the windows
of the palace of Hampton Court.
I was still watching the exquisite figure, as it moved
to and fro in attendance on the queen, when a sudden
trampling was heard in the great avenue, and a party
of horsemen, three or four in number, came on at
headlong speed.
The incident aroused me from my reverie with something
like a shock. Who were these horsemen who
presumed to ride in so careless a manner towards the
palace? It was
lèse-majesté, almost, to pay this small
respect to the queen. Could some partisans of the
parliament design an insult, or a raid on the deer?
Resolved to know, I spurred to meet them, and, interposing
myself in the way, ordered them to halt.
No attention whatever was paid to my order. On
the contrary, I was nearly ridden over. A cavalier,
richly clad in purple velvet slashed with satin, a deep
lace collar, and wearing a gray beaver with a feather,
rushed by me at full speed; the rest followed. They
all clattered to the great gateway, and then a sudden
commotion followed, to ascertain the character of
which I hastened to the palace.
The Guards were hastening to form line, and every
sword was brought to the salute. The cavalier in the
purple velvet habit had leaped to the ground. He was
a person of middle age, with curling hair worn long,
mustache and royale, large, mournful eyes, a long, thin
face, and a very graceful person. There was something
commanding in his air, and I was not long left
in doubt as to his identity. The palace was in commotion;
figures passed and repassed hurriedly in the
queen's apartment, at which I had been gazing; then,
as the cavalier of the velvet habit gave his bridle to
one of his attendant gentlemen, the great staircase
suddenly blazed, the flambeau-bearers descended, and
in the midst of her maids of honor, gathered round
her like a flock of doves, her majesty the queen was
seen to come rapidly down the staircase.
As she came, the melancholy face of the cavalier filled
with smiles. It was the expression of a husband who
loves his wife and returns after long absence. He
hastened towards her; they met in the full light of the
flambeaux, and were clasped in a close embrace.
“Sweet heart!” exclaimed the cavalier, with glowing
cheeks.
“Dear heart!” was the queen's response, in a murmur,
and on the two faces I could see the sunshine of
the heart.
They then drew back, as though to avoid the eyes
of those around them, and passed up the great staircase
between a double line of lords and ladies, her
majesty leaning fondly on her companion's arm. The
light of the flambeaux fell upon them in a sort of
glory. They disappeared, and, as they were lost sight
of, a great shout rose, rolling through the palace,—
“Long live their majesties!”
I had seen King Charles I. at last. He had left his
escort on the road from Scotland, mounted his horse
like a common cavalier, and, attended by only a few
of his lords, had ridden straight to Hampton Court to
see Queen Mary.
