17. XVII.
VIRGINIA.
A few pages more will terminate my memoirs.
I found her majesty the queen at the château of the
Duchess de Montmorenci, in a hall hung with black
ever since the execution of the great duke by Richelieu.
And here in this funereal mansion the illustrious
widows mingled their tears.
The queen scarce shed any when I gave her the
king's letter and last message. A dumb despair seemed
to have dried up the fount of her tears; and when I
had finished my tragic narrative she simply dropped
her head, fixing her eyes steadily upon the floor, and,
seeing that she had forgotten my presence, I silently
went out of the apartment, leaving the august mourner
to herself.
Frances Villiers had remained with her, and now
received me and soothed me. Need I relate what
followed? The sole obstacle to our union had been
the promise made to Harry. He was not dead now,
but alive, and certainly would never more prove my
rival. Thus I came to Frances, and took her hand
and pressed it to my lips. An hour afterwards she had
promised me; and in a month she was my wife,—the
dearest and best wife man ever had.
Thus, friendly reader, whether of my own blood or
other, I have come to the end of my story. Would
you have a few words more, and know how my life
passed afterwards? The record will fill but a page,
and I lay it before you. I remained on the continent,
attached to the French court, until the summer of
1650, when I went with his majesty Charles II. on
that ill-fated expedition that terminated at Worcester.
I shared his perils and adventures thereafter, and may
some day relate them. Now I will record only the
fact that I escaped in safety and rejoined my wife in
Paris.
The year afterwards I was in Virginia, and was building
my house here on York River. Some old cavalier
friends had preceded me, and told marvels of the
country,—of the cheap and fertile lands, the stately
rivers, and the charming climate. I therefore collected
my resources, set sail from France, established
myself on the great York, and have never revisited
England.
The Cecils flourish there still,—Harry being the
head of the house. My dear father is long since dead,
—God rest him, and bless his memory! And Harry, the
owner of Cecil Court, writes me at length by every
sailing-vessel, filling his sheet with laughing comments
on affairs around him, and memories of old times.
Just across the York resides Frank Villiers with his
wife Cicely,—a well-to-do planter, surrounded by rosy-faced
children. He and my dear friend Mr. Page of
“Rosewell” are here constantly. And my old age
thus passes serenely in the midst of my family and
friends, beneath the sunshine of one of the most beautiful
of all lands.
For all I am grateful,—chiefest of all for my dear
wife and my happy children. God made the first portion
of my existence stormy; he has mercifully sent the
sunshine to bathe with its mild splendor my old age.
I thank him humbly, and strive to love my fellow-creatures
as I should. Old enmities have long since
disappeared from my heart. The smiles of my dear
Frances and my little ones shine brightly. And that
cheerful sunshine lights up my life, blotting out all the
sad memories of the past.
THE END.
