22. XXII.
THE PORTRAIT OF STRAFFORD.
Nearly two hours had passed, I think, after Harry's
disappearance, when I was aroused from my dreamy
half-slumber by footsteps on a side corridor leading to
the anteroom in which I lay. A moment afterwards
the door opened, a figure slowly entered, and this
figure paused in front of a portrait upon which the
moonlight fell in a flood of light. A second glance
told me that the new-comer was King Charles. He
was clad in a dressing-gown of velvet; his head, with
its long curling hair, was bare; and the pale, melancholy
face, with an unhappy light in the dark eyes, was
turned towards the portrait, upon which the king fixed
a long and absorbed look. So intense indeed was that
gaze that my eyes followed it and fell upon the portrait.
It represented a man past middle age, and the face
was an extraordinary one. Dark, harsh features; eyes
full of dauntless courage, mingled with a sort of stern
severity, and mournful foreboding, as it were, of some
approaching calamity; lips upon which were written an
unshrinking resolve, a will all iron; and in the poise
of the grand head something majestic, calm, and imposing;—such
was the portrait which the moonlight fell
upon, and at which the king now gazed, standing
motionless as a statue in front of it.
At least ten minutes passed, and not a muscle of the
king's figure stirred. Then I saw his bosom heave, a
low groan issued from his lips, and he raised one hand
to his eyes, as though to brush away tears.
Whose was this portrait which had aroused such
terrible emotion? for the tears of kings are terrible,
and burn as they fall. I knew not, but was soon to
know. The king was still looking with the same absorbing
gaze upon the picture, when another figure appeared
at the door, remained there for a moment motionless,
then entered the apartment, treading noiselessly, and
stood beside the king. The shadow of the new-comer—
a man—was thrown upon the wall. The king started,
and turned with a wild look towards the man; then,
drawing a long, deep breath, Charles exclaimed, in a
broken voice,—
“Oh, Digby! methought that— I am unnerved
to-night, and this face—”
He turned again towards the portrait.
“The eyes haunt me,” he murmured, “the mournful
eyes of the man I sent to his death! Strafford!
Strafford! Would to God I had died before I grew a
coward and allowed cozening voices to persuade me to
your death!”
The king pressed his thin white hand to his forehead
as he spoke, and, interrupting Lord Digby, who essayed
to speak, added, in the same broken voice,—
“There are deeds that brand men as cowards in history.
I thought myself brave once, but I signed that
terrible warrant! It was forced from me, they tell me
to console me. I resisted, protested, refused, they say,
but I signed at last! Well, that day, Digby, was the
blackest of my life. I was a forsworn gentleman! I
was a king, and I acted as a coward! I had the power
to say no, and I said yes. Strafford was my friend,—
faithful unto the death; and my return for all was to
send him to that death with my own hand!”
The speaker's emotion was overpowering as he
uttered these words. He covered his face with his
hands, and sobbed like a child. His frame shook. A
shudder passed through my own frame as I looked and
listened.
Lord Digby seemed to experience the same emotion,
and could scarce speak.
“I beseech your majesty,” he said at last, “to cease
this fearful talk, and retire from this apartment. What
evil spirit counseled your majesty to come hither?”
“No evil spirit, Digby, but the conscience in my
breast,” murmured the king.
“Your majesty exaggerates the part borne by yourself
in the death of Strafford. That signature to the
death-warrant was forced by enemies; the very bishops
counseled it: the good of the realm was paramount.”
“No good comes out of evil: 'twas cruel cowardice,
Digby, and has borne its fruits.”
“Cowardice! that word again? Who will dare call
your majesty a coward?”
“History!”
The word was uttered with a solemnity that thrilled
through me.
“Let us banish all glosses and party passion from
this question,” said the king, gloomily. “For the
opinions of this generation I care little, esteeming them
but lightly. My reign is stormy and divides all minds;
royal prerogative and democratic power are at issue:
wonder not, then, that my bitter enemies charge me
with untold crimes. I am a tyrant, a violator of my
word, the author of the fearful Irish massacre; I am a
despot, reigning by fraud and falsehood and duplicity;
of all the monsters of history, Charles I. of England is
the most monstrous. And these charges, Digby, are
so bitterly insisted upon that all men's minds will soon
be poisoned against me. Well, I care not. I never
violated my word of gentleman yet. I claimed, as to
tonnage and the rest, what I thought my just and immemorial
prerogative only. When I heard of the Irish
murders, I shuddered like the most protestant of my
subjects. In my own heart I am guiltless of all this;
but history will bring against me another charge, and
of this I am guilty!”
He spoke in a low tone, motioning to Lord Digby
to be silent.
“I am guilty of that man's death,” he said, raising
his hand slowly, and pointing to the picture. “He
worked for me, fought for me, served me faithfully.
And I, who should have defended him, abandoned him
to his enemies. Of fraud, falsehood, tyranny, I am
guiltless: the charges pass me by as the idle wind. Of
Strafford's blood I am guilty! When that head, that
should have worn the crown, fell on Tower Hill,
Charles, the first of the name, of England, was forsworn!”
I could see in the moonlight that the king's forehead
was covered with drops of cold sweat. He had
mastered himself by an immense effort, but the tears
and agony of the outer man a moment before seemed,
so to speak, to have struck inward. The wound bled
internally and was past cure.
The king continued to gaze for a long time upon
the portrait. At last his lips opened, and he muttered,
in tones almost inaudible,—
“Farewell, Strafford! 'Twere better to have lost my
crown than to have consented to your death! But the
deed is done. I carry in my breast an ineradicable
remorse! Smiles and happiness are not for me any
longer on this earth! Yet I go to my work. I am
king, and dare not shrink. You are no longer beside
me, with your great brain and fearless soul, to be my
strong tower of defense! I go on my path alone.
Farewell! Something tells me that I will ere long
rejoin you.”
As he uttered these words, the king went towards the
door, but, as though the great rugged head of the portrait,
with its dark eyes, still fascinated him, looked
over his shoulder at it as he moved away.
I shall never forget the face of the king as I saw it
then in the moonlight. It was deadly pale, and in the
eyes was that settled gloom which is seen in all his
portraits.
A moment afterwards he was gone with Lord Digby,
and the steps died away on the corridor.
