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MU Uii MIMFI Mli Miiiim H IfaM ifi Jl J
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(Original |'ortrij.
(•'orthe Southern Literary Gazette.
LINES.
jl lW dream-like art thou fled, bright eve,
shone on
jivLove! Gone, gone for aye! and yet, not
10.-t!
; ; lV - Minified joys, through memory’s ma^lc
glass,
dl Hr, .1 id glum in hues prismatic.
V iJ it’ Love’s golden smile hath here the gift,
ravishingly to charm the soul,
\ ,(ol and to its deep, bewild’ring sweetness ;
What tongue of seraph tone may sing of that
v|.,-t pure, ineffable, sublimest phase
lili-s, tiie soul shall prove, when Deity
sthall stamp, upon Love’s immortality,
Eternity's broad seal, resplendent
V. i!i the smile of God—its bright reward,
I ,y. ts heaven ! KOBE DU SUD.
Chari’ *ten, JWr. 9, 1850.
- tmflKT ’ * -II ■■■■■llllll IMBi
felnttii Cal ts.
From “ Fairer* for the People.”
I IK LAST OF THE RUTIIVENS.
tiIAPTEIt 11.
Oita day, in mid-winter, when Tower
jjiil so often reddened with blood, lay
white under many inches of snow, a
woman might have been seen taking
ini’ wav over the portcullis into the
Thuci 1 . irshe seemed to belong to the
middle class, her hood and kirtle were
of humble fashion, black and close. —
Wr was a small, insignificant-looking
v •man too, and seemed to be admitted
. the awful slate-prison, or rather to
in there,all ractingfrom the ward
ed no more notice than a bird flying
in at a captive's window’, or a little
lil'dit-eycd mouse peering at him in
t’ c dark.
Her errand, she said, was o the go
vernor's lady. Thither she was brought
through gloomy passages that seemed
to make her shudder, under narrowly
barred silent w indows, at which she
bMiked up with a terrified yet eager
g anee. as if she expected to see appear
there llie wan face of some wretched
prisoner. She reached the Governor’s
apartments. There air and light were
not wanting, though it was in the grim
old Tower. From it might be seen the
shining Thames, with ships of all na
tions gliding by. There were flowers,
too, growing in the heavy embrasures
of one window, and in the other was a
group of human flowers—a young mo
ther and her beautiful children.
The stranger briefly stated her errand.
(She had heard that the lady desired an
attendant for her daughters, and she
came to offer her services, bearing cre
dentials from one whom the governor’s
wife knew.
“The name is Scottish: are you
from ourcountry?” said thegraceful mo
ther, her fair face brigtening w ith kind
liness.
u My father was, and so were all my
nearest ties,’* answered the woman in a
low voice as she pulled her hood closer
over her face.
“ You say was and were: are all gone
then ‘?”
“ Yes, madam : l am quite alone.”
“ Poor young thing !”
“Nay, 1 am not young; Jlin thirty
four years old.'’
“And you have never been married?”
“ No.”
- Ah!” sighed the happy young wife
of twenty-live, with a sort of dignified
compassion. But she was of a kindly
nature, and she discerned that the
>vranger wore a look of great sweet
ness, and had withal a gentle voice
—that truest index ofa womanly spir
it. She enrolled her in her household
at once.
” And you are willing, my good
What did you say was your Christian
name ?” „
” Lettice.”
” Are you willing to reside in the
Tower? It is at best but a dreary
place for us as well as for the poor
prisoners? though, thanks to our mer
il King James, we have had but few
> (editions here lately.
Lettice faintly shuddered —perhaps
it was to hear such gentle lips speak so
inditlerently of these horrors —but she
answered, “ 1 am quite satisfied, ma
dam : even this prison seems a home
to one who has just lost the only home
.-he over knew, and who has now none
in the wide world.”
’die spoke with great simplicity, and
in the calm manner of a woman who
has been taught patience by long suf
fering. Nevertheless, when the goveri*
o. ’s lady bade her take oil her mantle
and hood, and the three little maidens,
summoned from the inner room, came
gathering round her, and, won by her
sweet looks, offered childish kisses, Let
tice s self-control failed, and a few tears
began to fall from her eyes.
“Nay, take heart, my countrywo
man,” said the young matron kindly :
“we will make you very happy here ;
and perhaps find you, too, a braveyeo
man-warder with a good estate: king
James takes care his Scottish subjects
skill thrive in merry England.
And, quite satisfied that in a wealthy
marriage she had thus promised the
chief good of life, the lady departed.
That night Lettice saw the stars rise
and shine— noton the limpid Cam, not
on the quaint old garden where her
childish feet had played, and where af
terwards —all earlier memories blotted
out by those of one terrible night —
idle had walked patiently, bearing the
burthen of her sorrow for sixteen years.
Sixteen years! It was thus long
since Patrick Ruthven had disappeared
and yet no tidings had ever been heard
of or from him. She had exerted all
energies, exhausted all schemes —so
far as she dared without endangering
her father’s safety —but could gain no
clue as to the after-fate of the doomed
youth. Whether he still languished in
j Non, or had been freed by escape or
death, all was mystery : her only cer
tainty was, that he had not perished on
the scaffold.
And so pray mg for him day and
night, and loving him continually, this
i MM iiii, mrnm m rnmmm tis Am aib mam. am m inim wmMmm.
faithful woman had lived on. The days
and years ofher youth had glided from
her like the waves of a river, uncount
ed, for no light of love rested upon
them. Their onward course she neither
watched nor feared.
She saw the young men and maidens
of her own age pass away into the whirl
of life, woo. and marry, and gather
round them a third generation, while
she remained the same. Wooers she
had, for when sorrow comes in early
youth, and fails to crush, it sometimes)
leaves behind a tender charm beyond
all beauty, and this made Lettice not !
unsought. Some women—good wo
men too —can love in their simple, j
easy-hearted fashion, twice, thrice,many ;
times. Others pour out their whole j
soul in one love, and have no more left :
to give ever after. Lattice Calderwood
was one of theso.
Her father lingered many years in i
great bodily weakness, and in an al
most fatuous old age. She tended him j
unwearied!} until he died. Then, when
she had no kindred tie left in the wide j
world, no duty to perform, none to |
love, none to obey, she formed a reso- ;
lution, over which she had been lons
brooding with an intensity of persever
ing will such as few women have, but
which none ever has except a woman.
That resolution planned, maturely
guided, carried through many hin
drances, formidable indeed, but which
fell like straws before the might ofher
great love—Lettice found herself at last
an inmate of the Tower. If there—as
in all human probability he was, unless
no longer of this world—she should
certainly discover Patrick Ruthven.—
Further plans she saw not clear, still
doubtful as she was of Ids very exis
tence. But as she sat by herself in the
silent midnight, within a few yards, it
might be, of the spot where, if living
he still dragged on his mournful days ;
or where, if dead, his spirit had parted
from the body —there came upon her
a conviction which often clings to those j
whose portion is somewhat like to hers.
“ He is not dead,” Lettice murmur
ed. “else he would come to me; he
knew 1 should not have feared. No.
he is still living; and, if living, 1 will
find and save him.”
So, praying for her Patrick with the
woman’s pale, faded lips —as the girl
had prayed sixteen years before—Let
tice fell asleep.
It was a dangerous thing for the free
inhabitants of the Tower to inquire too j
closely about the prisoners. The days
of Guy Fawkes and Sir Thomas Over
bury were not so long past but that all
who had any interest in the enemies of i
King James were wisest to keep a si
lent tongue and close-shut eyes. Let
tice Calderwood had dwelt for weeks
within the walls where perchance lay
her never-forgotten lover, and yet she
had never heard or breathed the name
of Patrick Ruthven.
Her whole time was spent with the
governor’s children. They, happy lit
tle creatures! played merrily outside
the cells wherein was buried misery and
despair. Sometimes they talked about
“the prisoners” with a light uncon
sciousness, as if speaking of cattle, or
things inanimate. Poor little ones!
how could they undersian 1 the mean
ing of the word ?
“ Do you ever see the—the prison
ers ?” Lettice ventured to ask of them
one day.
“O, yes; a few are allowed to walk
on the leads, and then we peep at them
from below. VVeare very good friends
with one or two —our father says we
may.”
“ Who are they, my child ?” If the
little girl could have known the strong
convulsion that passed over Lettice’s
heart while she put this simple ques
tion !
“ We don’t caJi them anything: they
are only prisoners. They have been
here a great many years, 1 believe. —
One lives there, in the Beauchamp Tow
er—he is always writing; and when
we go in to see him—for he likes us to
come —he does nothing but pull, pufl,
puff!” And the laughing child put her
lingers in her mouth, and began mim
icking a smoker to perfection.
“ Mabel,” said the elder sister, “you
should not laugh at him, for our father
says he is a good man, and the king is
not very angry with him, any more
than with the other man who is shut
up in the Bell-Tower. You should see
him, Mistress Lettice; he is my favour
ite, because he is so gentle. They say
he walks on the leads between his room
and Beaucamp-Tower, night after night,
watching the stars; and he plays with
us children, end gets us to bring him
quantities of flowers, out of which he
makes such wonderful medicines. He
cured Mabel of the chin cough, and fa
ther of the ague, and”
“ Hush, Grace ; Mistress Le f tiee is
quite tired with your chatter. See now
white she looks! ’
“No—goon, my darlings; talk as
much as you will,” murmured Let
tice ; and, rousing herself, she contrived
to learn from them what this prisoner
was like.
A little, bent man —very old the
children thought, because his hair was
quite gray, except a few lock's behind
that were just the colour of Grace’s.—
Lettice, holding the child ou her knee,
had often seeretly kissed the soft fair
curls ; she did so now with passsionate
tenderness. Yet could it indeed be
Patrick —so changed ! The thing seem
ed scarce possible.
Next time the children went to see
this prisoner hid herself, where,
from below-, she could watch the leads
on which he was accustomed to walk.
There w-as the figure of a man, moving
w ith the heavy, stooping, lounging gait
of long captivity. Could it be that
Patrick’s youth had been crushed into
such a pitiable semblance as this ?”
11c came and leaned ou the breast-work
or boundary of his narrow walk. In
the distance the features were indis
tinct; but something in the wavy fall
ing of the hair reminded her of Patrick.
She half uttered a cry of recognition,
suppressed it, sank back and wept. —
His name —if she could only learn the
captive’s name! But there was great
mystery kept about that. The ’chil
dren said “he had none, he had been in
the Tower so many years.” Grace
added, that she had once asked him,
and he answered “ that he had almost
forgotten it.” Alas, poor soul!
Due day Lettice, impelled by a wild
hope, fastened in Grace’s dress a little
childish ornament that she herself had
used to wear : it had been broken, and
the bov Patrick’s rude workmanship
was on it still. If this man were in
deed he, it might catch his eye, and
bring back to his dulled memory the
days of his youth. lie touched the
ornament, Grace said ; observed that
it was pretty ; that he thought he had
once seen one like it, he could not tell
where ; and then his dull mood came
over him, and he would not talk any
more.
Lettice’s eager hope sank ; but on
it she lived yet longer; and day by day
she watched tearfully the poor captive,
who, if not Patrick, had suffered Pa
trick’s doom.
The child Grace fell sick. Lettice
grieved, for she -loved the little girl ;
but this trouble seemed helping to work
out her one great aim of life. Then,
at least, she might hear more of the
prisoner whose skill in medicine had
won the deep gratitude of both the go
vernor and his lady. But Grace im
proved, and still of the invisible phy
sician nothing w-as disclosed. At
length one night when the anxious mo
ther and Lettice were watching the
child, together and alone, there arose an
emergency.
“ The potion will be needed at dawn;
’tis near midnight, and 1 have not sent
to —to the.Bell-Tower,” said the mo
ther. “ What must be done ? Who
can 1 trust 1” She looked at Lettice,
whom she and all the household had
already learned to love —“ 1 will trust
you.”
She explained briefly that the child’s
physician was a state prisoner, who
had acquired his skill during sixteen
years’ captivity ; that his durance was
now greatly softened by the king’s or
der ; but that still, except the govern
or's family, he was allowed to see no
one, nor to hold any communication
with the outer world. “ And,” said the
lady, “if I send you to him, you must
keep silence on all concerning him, for
he and his have been greatly hated by
King James ; and no marvels He is
Patrick, ‘the last of the Ruthvens!’”
What dizzy, tumultuous joy rushed
to the heart of the faithful women, who,
after long silent years, again heard the
music of that name ! But she stood still
and mute, calm, and gave no sign.
“ Lettice, will you go ?”
“ 1 will.” and she went.
There was not a foot heard, not a
breath stirring, in the grim old Tower.
As, bearing the ponderous keys, she
unfastened door after door, the sound
of the opening locks was startling and
awful. At the foot of the Bell-Tower
Lettice paused. Sixteen years seemed
all swept away ; her heart throbbed,
and her pale brow of middle age flush
ed like a young girl’s. Would he know
her ? Would she not appal him, stand
ing suddenly like a spectre by his side?
She pulled her hood over her lace, and
resolved to feign her voice, lest the
shock might overpower his strength.—
Thinking of his emotion, she soon
calmed her own, and came with firm
step to the outer door. There gleamed
a faint ray through some worm-eaten
fissure; the governor’s wife had told
her that he always studied until late in
| the night. Lettice pictured him as at
the old home at Cambridge, as in per
petual youth he dwelt ever in her mem
ory. She saw him, leaning over his
books, with his pale, boyish features,
his fair curls, his dreamy-lidded eyes.
She opened the door, and saw —a gray
headed man, withered and bent, quaint
and careless in dress, sat writing by
lamplight. lie momentarily raised his
head ; the face had a strange, old-world
look, mingled with an aspect half of
vacancy, half of abstraction. Lettice
shrank aghast. It seemed as if the
olden Patrick were dead forever, and
this were a phantom risen up to mock
her. But when he spoke, it was his own
true voice.
“ Ah, you come for the child Grace’s
potion ?” said he. “ ’Tis all prepared;
wait a momont —listen !”
lie rose, put the medicine into her
hand, and proceeded to give various
directions concerning it. Then he sat
down again, and prepared to resume
his reading. Lettice stood silent; .that
he did not recognize her she plainly
saw, yet this was what she had desired.
Why should she feel pain ?
She put back her hood, and ap
proached him; “Master Patrick Ruth
ven !”
“ lie started, but it could only be to
hear the long-unused Christian name ;
for, looking up at her face, now turned
fully on him, his expressed only blank
unconsciousness. lie did not know her!
“ Madam, pardon me; 1 have not
seen you before, but I suppose you
come from little Grace. If I have
omitted anything, -or forgotten
One forgets everything here.” Lettice
groaned.
The poor captive looked disturbed,
bewildered ; restlessly he move his pa
pers about, and she saw his hands, long,
white, and woman-like, whose delicacy
William used to mock, and Lettice to
admire, the same hands she had clasp
ed and kissed in her last frenzied agony
of parting. She did so now.
“ Patrick—Patrick ! have you for
gotten me—even me ?”
He looked at her again, and shook
his head. “ I have seen you some
where I think, perhaps in the old time
before 1 came hither; but my memo
ry is poor, very poor. What is your
name?”
“ Lettice!”
A light came into his face for a mo
ment, and faded. “It is a sweet name.
I used to love it once I believe—some
one I knew bore it; but, as 1 said, I for
get so many things now. Lettice—
Lettice !” lie repeated the name, as
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, NOV. 30, 1850.
if trying to call back images ofa long
past life.
Lettice’s first horror passed. She
discerned all now —she saw what he
had become ; how, shut up from youth
to manhood in t hat fearful prison, his
life had withered there ; how, as the
slow vacant years crawled by, passion,
affection, feeling of every kind, had
grown dull. Wreck as he was —the
wreck captivity had made him—her
never-dying love encompassed him still,
“ Patrick,” she said gently, though
her tears were flowing fast, “ look at
me and try to think of the past. —
There was my father who taught you
when you were a boy ; and I, Lettice
Calderwood, who used to be your play
fellow-. The old house at Cambridge
—the river-bank where you liked to
sit—the garden and the laurel trees.”
His features began to quiver; “It
is dim, very dim ; but I think 1 do re
member ail this, ay, and you, Lettice!
1 am glad to see you once more.”
lie trembled a good deal, and look
ed at her many, times, as though in
comparing his old recollection of her
with her likeness now, the difference
puzzled him.
Lettice said, faintly smiling, “ You
know 1 am old now-—one changes much
in sixteen years. But the smile brought
back her own old seif, and Patrick’s
mind seemed to grow clearer.
“ 1 think, he said with a mournful
simplicity—“l think I must have loved
you once. I rtever forgot you, even
here, until”—and he shuddered—“un
til they put me into that dark, damp
cell, where l heard no sound and saw
no living lace, for 1 know not how long;
I forgot everything then.”
Lettice’s heart was bursting; she
pressed his hands to her breast, and
sobbed aloud. At first he seemed
troubled by her emotion, and then as
it unable to resist, his own gray hair
drooped on Lettice’s shoulder, and the
poor prisoner also wept. By slow- de
gress Patrick’s memory wakened to the
things of the past and of the living
world ; but they seemed to touch him
little. He heard of David Calder
wood’s death with a quiet sigh—all
keen sense of human pain seemed to
be obliterated from his mind. After a
pause he asked, though still half-indif
ferently, “ There was my brother too—
tell me something of William.”
“William acted nobly, und, so acting
ceased to be unhappy!” said Lettice in
a confused voice.
“Unhappy!” repeated the captive
vacantly. “Ah, yes; 1 had forgotten;
we had much sorrow in our youth—he,
and you, and 1”
“ I lush, Patrick! we will not speak
ol that. 1 wrote to \\ illiam, and told
him all; he freed ine from my pro
mises. Time brought him comfort;
he remained abroad, married, and last
year—grieve not, Patrick, for, Jiving,
he had great happiness—last year he
died.”
“Poor William dead!—my last
brother dead !” Patrick said thought
fully ; and sat a long time wistfully
gazing in the air, now and then utter
ing broken words, which showed his
mind was recalling incidents of their
boyish days. At last he said, “ And
you, Lettice—what of yourself?”
“ I am as you left me—poor Lettice
Calderwood; in nothing changed but
years.” She murmured this with her
eyes cast down, as if she had need to
be ashamed that she had felt a wo
man’s one, pure love ; that for it she
had given up all sweetness of wifehood
and motherhood, and stood there in
her faded bloom, speaking no word,
but letting her whole life’s story speak
for her; “See how faithful 1 have been
to thee /”
Perhaps, as Patrick looked on her,
some sense of the greatness of this
love, so strong in its oneness, so pa
tient in its endurance, dawned upon
his bewildered and long paralyzed
sense, lie stretched out his arms to
her, crying, “I am unworthy—most un
worthy ! But, Lettice, love me still;
help me —take care of me ; do not
leave me again !”
He had forgotten, and she too, all
worldly things. Waking, they found
that she was only humble Lettice Cal
derwood, and he a prisoner in the Tow
er. No matter —one at least had
ceased to fear. When a woman once
feels that all depends upon th'e strength
of her love —that the power to will
and to act of necessity lies in her hands
—she gains a courage which nothing
can daunt or quell. And Lettice
bade Patrick Ruthven farewell, whis
pering hope and tenderness which his
long-dulled cars would scarce recieve,
she felt certain that sho should set her
beloved free; ay, as certain as though
she stood at the head of armies to hurl
King James from his throne.
Little Grace recovered ; and unto
the mother’s heart, still trembling with
its recent joy, another heart was led to
open itself, with all its burthen of many
years. One day, when both their spi
rits were attuned to confidence, Lettice
told the governor’s wife her whole sto
ry. It was a story that would have
melted many a one to sympathy ; the
young Scottish gentlewoman listened
even with tears. Ruthven was her
countryman, and she had shown him
kindness ever since her husband was
made governor; he was her child's
preserver, and she determined to try
all efforts to obtain his liberty. She
exerted secret influence at court, at first
with hope of success ; but that year
the bugbear treason was loudly dinned
into the pusillanimous monarch’s ears,
and Tower-Hill was again watered with
its-red rain.
One day the little Grace and Mabel
loudly lamented that they were forbid
den any longer to visit their friend in
the Beauchamp-Tower. On the next,
Lettice and Patrick walking on the,
leads, (where she had liberty to visit
him now,) saw the black procession
winding past, and heard distantly the
heavy sound of the axe’s fall. Patrick
said, “ There dies a just man and a
guiltless, and one that David Calder
wood would have mourned, God re
ceive the soul of Walter Raleigh !”
He spoke calmly, as if such sights
had ceased to move him ; but Lettice
crouched down, hiding her face in inex
pressible horror. When they reenter
ed his narrow prison, she clasped her
arms wildly round her betrothed —for
they had plighted their troth to one
another, whether it were for life or
death —she held him fast; she felt that
to have him safe, with freedom to see
him, to love and coinfort him, was
blessedness even here.
“ And, so for a whole year, through
fear lest the king’s anger should be
roused,nothing more was done towards
effecting Ruthven’s release.
When once a generous purpose roots
itself in a leal Scottish heart, especially
a woma i’s, it is not so eas_y to uproot it
thence. The gvoernor’s wife came to
Lettice one day, and told her that there
was hope; since Queen Anne was dead,
and the king would now fear no treason
from the Ruthven line. She applied to
the court, and answer came that Pa
trick Ruthven should be set at liberty
if some near friend would solicit his
pardon.
“ A form—a mere form—only de
sired to soothe King James’ pride, said
the plain-speaking Scottish lady ; she
came from the bold race of Kirkaldy of
Grange.
But, form as it was, when Lettice
told her lover the tidings he shook his
head in his listless way,and said it could
never be.
“ 1 have no friend in the wide world
to plead for me, or to crave my pardon;
all my kith and kin have died away ;
lam left the last of my race. No,
Lettice ; it is best as it is ! perchance
I would have liked to go once more to
the meadows by the ( ‘am, where the
rare flowers grow; and it would have
been a sweet and thankful duty to ex
ercise my skill in healing on the poor
and needy. But let be —let be ! Do
not talk of worldly liberty ; we will
go and look at the free, free stars, tiiat
roam, night after night, over this prison
and never tire ! Gome, my faithful Let
tice—come!”
But Lettice groaned in spirit. He,
long usued to captivity, scarce felt the
chain ; she, for his sake, writhed un
der it like a double weight.
“ Patrick,” she said, leaning by him
and with him watching the few dull
lights which were scattered throughout
the black city which lay below, while
a yellow mist rising from the river ga
thered over everything, palely and cold
—“My Patrick, would it not be hap
py to go far away from here into your
own clear northern air ? Look !”—and
she pointeed to the barren osier-flats
through which the Thames winds sea
ward—“if, instead of that dull line
were the mountains you told me of
when we were children, the blue hills
rising, height after height, like a good
man’s life, w ieh grows year by year
nearer to heaven, until it melts cloud
like, into heaven itself at last”
The prisoner sighed, and looked on
the blank landscape with glistening eyes
that saw not it, but some dim view be
yond.
Lettice continued ; “Ay, and if we
were free —both free—if we would hide
ourselves in some sweet spot, and live
our old childlike life ?”
He answered restlessly—“Do not
talk of this, or else 1 shall die of long
ing; and 1 had grown so resigned, so
content with books and my herbs. —
Why did you bring me back to the hit
ter world?”
“To save thee, my beloved !” she
answered soothingly. “To take thee
out of prison, and bring back to thee
the dew of thy youth. Shall it not be
so ?”
“ How can it, when there is no one
who has a right to entreat for my par
don ? 1 have no kindred, no tie in the
wide world!”
“ Save one.”
“Ah, true !—forgive me, my faithful
love ! But what can you do ?”
Lettice hid her face on his shoulder.
If she blushed, it was not with shame,
for she knew her own pure heart, and
Heaven knew it too. She rose, and
spoke in a quiet, womanly tone, though
somewhat trembling the while.
“Patrick, we are neither of us young;
all love we bear each other is stilled
into the affection that lives between
two who, having wasted half a life-time
iu sorrow, hope to spend the poor re
mainder together and in peace. You
will not misjudge what I am going to
say ?”
“ No —no,” answered Ruthven in his
absent manner.
“ There is but one way to obtain
your freedom. Dearest, long-lost, and
found, let your wife go and plead for
you before the king !”
The young kinswoman of Kirkaldy
of Grange had a rebellious yearning,
though she was a governor’s lady.—
She liked to thwart King James of his
captives when it could pe done with
safety. Secretly, in order to avoid all
risk to her husband, she introduced a
Scottish minister to the dismal cham
bers of the Bell-Tower. There, in that
dull prison-house, was celebrated a
marriage. Brief it was, and grave ;
without smiles, without tears ; it coflld
not be said without love, for they did
love one another, those two who as girl
and boy. had clung together so wildly
in the garden by the Cam. But their
love was not like that of youth : it was
deep, solemn, still.
W hen the marriage was performed,
Patrick in his dreamy way, said, “Is
it all done ? Am 1 thy husband, Let
tice ?”
She answered, “Yes.”
“A hard task to fulfill; a weary life
to lead ? But art thou content ?”
She answered, “I am content.” And
taking his hand, held it fast in that
which would now guide him through
life.
“ Nay, have no fear, friends,” cheer
ingly said the brave Scottish lady who
had aided them so much. “King James
is feeble-hearted, and he has heard the
people’s outcry against Raleigh’s twelve
years’ imprisonment, sealed at last
with blood. He dare not do the like
again. Lettice, take comfort; you will
soon have your husband free.”
She heard the word —she who had
never dreamed of any other life than
one of aimless loneliness, over which
hung the pale shadow of that early-lost
love. Her heart melted under the
sense of its great content, and she wept
as softly and joyfully as though she had
beeu a young bride.
“ Will his majesty appear to-day,
my Lord of Buckingham ?” said one
of his Scottish attendants of the palace
at Whitehall, meeting the twin stars of
James’ court —“Steenie,” and “Baby
Charles.”
“Wherefore, good Ferguson ?”
“ Because, my lord, there is a person
here craving audience who has been re
commended to me by a countrywoman
of my own.”
“ A woman is it ? My prince, let us
see!”
The woman rose mp and curtsied be
neath the gaze of royalty and nobility;
but she had nothing in her to retain
either. She was pale, little, and of
middle age. “Stcnie” gave her a mock
salutation ; Prince Charles, ever chival
rous to woman, acknowledged her low
ly reverence with his dignified, half
melancholy, Stuart smile, and the two
youths passed out.
“ The king is coming, Mistress Ruth
© ©*
veil; now is your time !” whispered
young Allen Ferguson.
. He entered—the poor feeble pedant,
to whom had dwindled down the an
cient line of Scotland’s kings. Sur
rounding him were the great and no
ble of the day : Gondomar, the gay
Spanish ambassador ; the Lord Chan
cellor Bacon ; all the choicest of the
English nobility left after the death
o %j
sweeping reigns of Mary and Elizabeth;
and those of the king’s own country
whom his conciliatory rule had detach
ed from various factions, to join in fideli
ty to the one branch of the Stuart fam
ily now remaining.
“ Hech, sirs, wha’s here ?” James
cried in hi - sharp, quivering voice,
through which rang the good-humour
produced by a satisfactory arrangement
with Spdin completed that same hour.
“ Petitioning, my bonnie woman!
Aweel, then say your say !”
Lettice told her story in words so
broken that they would scarce have
been understood save for the earnest
ness of her eyes. It was a story touch
ing and interesting even to James and
his frivolous court. To them it sound
ed new and curious to hear of a woman
who had loved and suffered, waited
and hoped, and gone through all trial
for one man’s sake, for seventeen years.
And it so chanced that their possible
mockery of her long maiden life was
prevented by Lettice always unconsci
ously saying “my husband,” as the
governor’s wife had charged her to say,
instead of mentioning at once the hated
name of Ruthven.
James looked discomposed. “My
lords, a king maun do as he wills; ye
a’ ken the chapters in my ‘Basilicon
Doron ’ respecting free monarchies, and
the right or prerogative of rulers. But
1 wadna keep an innocent man—mind
ye, an innocent man —in prison for
saxteen —did she no say saxteen years?
Woman, wha may ye be; and why
dinna ye tell your husband’s name?”
“It is a name, the bearing of which
was the only wrong he ever did your
majesty; I am the wife of Patrick
Ruthven!”
James turned pale, as he ever did at
the sound of that dreaded name. He
never forgot that it was a Ruthven
who acted in that scene of blood which
impressed cowardice on the nature of
the yet unborn babe: he never forgot
the actors in the Gowrie plot, who, for
a brief space, caused him, a king by
birth and right, to be tied and bound
like a felon.
He frowned, and looked round on
his courtiers, who kept a discreet si
lence. Then he said with a pedantic
air, “ Woman, 1 will hear thee again on
this matter,” and passed into the audi
ence-chamber.
Lettice’s heart grew cold. It was a
horrible thing to reflect that life or
death lay on the fiat of that poor, vain,
fickle king. No! On the fiat of a King
far higher, whose government was not
kingdoms, but worlds. Kneeling where
she had knelt to King James, she knelt
to Him, and prayed.
There came, crossing the empty
chamber, one of the nobles who had
formed one of the monarch’s train. He
was an old man, tall and pale. Ilis
demeanor savored more of the courtly
grace of Elizabeth's reign than the fop
pish gallantry of James. He announced
his name at once.
“ Mistress Ruthven, I am the Earl of
Hertford.”
She had heard it in the Tower. It
had been long chronicled there as a
portion of that mournful story of the
Lady Catherine Grey, sister to Queen
Jane, who, marrying Hertford without
Elizabeth’s consent, had been impri
soned until her young life’s close.
He was an old man now, but some
thing in Lettice’s storv had touched
him with the days of his youth. lie
came to say that he would plead her
cause with the king, and that he thought
she had good reason to hope.
“And you have been parted ever
since your marriage—seventeen years?”
“We are but newly married, my
lord; our bridal was in the Tower,”
said Lettice, who never said aught but
truth.
“Ah! no need to tell the king that:
yet it makes a sadder tale still. Where
abides your husband in the Tower?”
“In the Bell-Tower—a narrow,dreary
spot.”
“ 1 know —I know!” He turned
away, perhaps remembering the poor
young mother who nad there given
birth to his two brave sons. He, too,
had felt the bitterness of captivity; and
as he departed from Lettice, having
given her both counsel and cheer, she
heard the old nobleman muttering to
himself, “Seventeen years!—seventeen
years!”
Patrick Ruthven sat in his tower
poring over his wealth of books. An
THIRD VOLUME.—NO, 31 WHOLE NO 131.
August sunbeam, quivering in, rested
on a bunch of dried flowers, which the
herbalist was examining with great
earnestness. He scarce lifted up his
head when the light footstep warned
him of his wife’s entrance.
“Lettice,” he cried, “eureka!” —(‘l
have tound it!’) This plant must be
the veritable hemlock of the ancients—
the potion which gave Socrates death.
Compare the description—see.”
He looked at her; she was trembling
all over with joy.
“My husband,” she said breathless
ly, “leave these books; come and gaze
out in the clear morning air; how fresh
it is!—how free—free—free ?”
She repeated the word, that her tid
ings might dawn upon him slowly, not
too bewilderingly. She drew him out
upon the prison leads, and bade him
look northwards, where is the distance
the ripening wheat-fields shone wave
upon wave like yellow seas.
“Think, Patrick, to go thither; to sit
down under the sheaves like little
children, as we used to do ; to hear the
trees rustling, and see the swallows fly :
and then to go home—to a quiet, safe
cottage home. O, Patrick, my hus
band, you are free!”
“I am free !” He, the prisoner for
sevt en years, neither fell down in
sworn of transport, nor wept, nor
grew wild with ecstasy. He only ut
tered the words in a momentous, in
credulous tone —“lam free!” His wife
embraced him with passionate joy ; he
kissed her, stroked her still fair cheek —
fairer still since she had once more
known peace—and then went slowly
back into his dark room.
There he sat motionless, while Let
tice busied herself in putting together
the books and scientific matters which
had gradually accumulated round the
captive. Then she brought him attire
suitable for a man of middle rank at
that period.
“ You must not wear this out in the
world, my Patrick,” said the wife,
touching his threadbare robe ofa fash
ion many years back.
“Must i not?” and he contemplated
the dress, which seemed to him gaudy
and strange. “Lettice,” he murmured,
“I am afraid —is the world so changed?
Must 1 give up my old ways?”
But she soothed him with quiet
words, and made ready for his depar
ture. Ere they quitted the Bell-Tower,
he wen| into the little closet which had
been his bed-chamber, and, kneeling
down, thanked God, and prayed for all
captives a deliverance like his own. As
he rose, there peeped at him a bright
eyed mouse.
“ Poor fellow-prisoner, whom 1 have
fed so many years, who will feed thee
now ?” And breaking oft’ some food,
he called the little creature to his hand
and gave it its last meal.
Then, leaning on his wife’s arm, for
he trembled, and seemed feeble as a
child, Patrick Ruthven left the Tower.
He had entered it a youth of nineteen:
he quitted it a worn-out, prematurely
old man of thirty-six. The prime and
glory of manhood had been wasted in
that gloomy prison. Thank God, there
is no such doom for innocence now !
Far past what then was London’s
utmost verge, Lettice Ruthven led
her husband. He walked through the
streets like one in a dream: all sounds
stunned him ; all sights bwildered him.
It a chance eye noticed his somewhat
strange aspect, he clung to Lettice with
terror, lest he should again be taken.
She told him there was no fear, that
the king had granted him a free par
don ; that PrincS Charles, the merci
ful and warm-hearted, had settled on
him a pension for life. All this he
heard as if he heard it not. Nothing
soothed him but Lettice’s calm smile.
They came to the place which she
had chosen as their first abode. It was
a farm-house planted on one of the hills
to the north of London. Above was
a great wide heath ; below, numberless
little undulating valleys, with trees and
meadows, harvest-fields and streams.
There, after sunset, they took their
evening walk. He, long used to the
close air of the prison, shivered even
at the warm summer wind ; and his
feeble limbs, accustomed to pace their
narrow round, could scarce endure fa
tigue. But Lettice wrapped him warm,
and took him to a soft-wooded bank
with a stream running below. There
he lay, hisjiead on her lap, listening to
the ripple of the water.
He had never heard that sound since
he was a boy sitting beside the Cam,
on the night his brother sailed from
Harwich. Though his memory was
dull yet, and. he rarely spoke of the
past, perhaps he thought of it now, for
the tears crept through bis? shut eyes,
and he whispered—“Lettice, you are
sure, quite sure, that afterwards Wil
liam was happy ?”
She told him again and again that
it was indeed so. She did not tell him
how—though William grew renowned
abroad —he never sent for tidings of
his imprisoned brother. She would
not pain the fraternal love which had
kept its faith through life so close and
true.
“ And, Patrick, are you happy ?”
He answered “Yes!” softly, like a
drowsy child. His wife leaned over
him, and her hand fell on his hair, once
so beautiful, now quite gray. Some
thing of protection was there in her
love for him : the mingling of rever
ence and tender care, due alike to his
great mental power and his almost in
fantile simplicity in worldly things.—
All he had, she honoured with her whole
soul; all he had not, she, possessing,
made his own. She was a lit wife for
him. And so, in this content and peace,
the sun set upon Patrick Ruthven’s last
day of captivity.
CHAPTER 111.
A house, simple, yet not mean, fac
ing the river side at Chelsea ; its upper
stories fanned by that line of majestic
trees, which you, reader, may still stroll
under : and, if you are of dreamy mood
I know no sweeter spot than Cheyne
Walk iu the moonlight; the river ly
ing silvery and calm; the tall trees
rustling among their branches ; telling
tales of the quaint old mansions they
overshadow. But the house ol which
we were speaking was far humbler than
these. Its occupants had chosen it
more for the sake of the trees and the
river than for any interior show. They
lived retired; and when, as now, the
master reentered his own door, he was
not met by a troop of domestics, but
by one little, old, gentle-looking wo
man—his wife.
Twenty more years had passed over
the head of Lettice Ruthven, yet some
thing of its ancient airiness was in her
footsteps still ; and in her eyes shone
the same loving light, for it was kindled
at an altar where the fire was never
suffered to decay.
* { You are late to-night, Patrick ?”
said she.
“ Ah, I have been all through the
meadows at Chiswick in search of herbs
for a poor lad down there who is strick
en with ague. 1 stayed late gathering
them, and there came by a couple of
Roundheads, who hooted at me tor a
wizard hunting for charmed plants in the
moonlight. Ah, me! do I look such a
weird creature, Lettice ?” asked the old
man in a piteous, humble tone.
He certainly had an out-of-the-world
aspect in his long white beard and hair
and his black serge gown, which he
wore to indicate his character as phy
sician. And there was a passive gen
tleness in his voice, which showed how
little able he was to assert his own dig
nity, or to fight his own battles with
the hard world. Well for him that
neither had been needed; that for twen
ty years his life had ilowed in a quiet
stream, he growing continually'more
absorbed in his favourite studies, and
leaving all mundane matters to his
faithful helpmate. She did not usually
trouble him with any of these latter,
but on this day she seemed longing to
talk of something else beside the addi
tions he was making to the ‘’Middlesex
Flora,” or the wonderful cures he had
wrought with simples until then un
known ; or, what he carefully kept to
his wife’s ears alone, his discoveries in
those abstruse and occult sciences, the
love of which seemed inherent in the
Ruthven blood.
“ I have found it out,” he said ; “the
parchment charm worn by m\ brother,
the Earl John. All these years 1 have
kept it, and never deciphered it until
now. It will bring to us and all our
children great prosperity.”
“ All our children!” repeated Let
tice mournfully. She looked at a cor
ner of the room where hung, each in
its never changed place, a boy's plumed
hat, and beside it a heap of well-worn
childish books, mementos of two sons
who had come and been taken away,
leaving the hearth desolate.
“ Ah, I forget !” said the father with
a light sigh. “ Bravely did Aleck read
his Greek Galen ; and as for poor wee
W illie, he knew every plant in Bat
tersea Fields. Well might the gossips
mock at me, saying, ‘ Physician save
thyself; or rather thy two better
selves. But I could not. lam aye
good for little, very little.”
Ilis wife took his hand aflectionate
ly, and said, smiling through her tears,
“ Nay, there is many a one hereabouts
who lifts his hat when Dr. Ruthven
passes by. If the vulgar mock, the
learned honour my husband. And,
Patrick,” she murmured with her sweet
voice of calm, which hid all sorrow
from him, “though our two boys are
wi th God, he has left us our Marie: I
saw her to-dav.”
“ Did she come hither 1”
“ No, she cannot easily leave the
queen’s household, you know. But she
bade me meet her at some friend’s,”
and a faint expression of pain crossed
the mother s face. “ Perhaps she was
right; lam scarce fit to mingle with
court ladies, as Marie does; and Marie
is grow ing as beautiful and as stately
as any of them all.”
“ Is she T’ said Dr. Ruthven absent
ly. He never felt the same affection
for his daughter as he had done for his
two lost sons. Marie had in early
youth been separated from her family,
and taken under the care of the wife of
the former lieutenant of the Tower—
now become a countess, and in high fa
vour in the queen’s household. Through
her means the little girl was afterwards
adopted by Henrietta Maria, to be ed
ucated at court, and raised to*the posi
tion due to the last daughter of the di
rect Ruthven line.
“ She had tidings for me, Patrick—
tidings that may well make a mother’s
heart both tremble and rejoice. The
queen tvishes to dispose of our daugh
ter iu marriage.”
Ruthven lifted his eyes, dropped
them, and then became intent upon a
handful of flow-ers which he had drawn
from the great coarse bag he always
carried in his rambles. It was evident
he took little interest in the news which
had so agitated the mother.
“ Do you not w ish to know- who it is
that will wed our Marie —ay, and at
once —for all is fixed ?”
I hope it may be some good man.
Young women usually do marry—l am
glad she should do so ; but you know,
Lettice, I am a quiet, dreamy old phi
losopher ; I have forgotten all such
things.”
So spoke, after nearly forty years,
the boyish lover who had sat mourn
fully by the side of the Cam. But this
life is an eternal progression. Young,
passionate love must of necessity
change its forms. Yet what matters ‘
that, if its essence remains the same ?
Lettice, the wife of many years, keep
ing in her heart still something of its
fresh, womanly romance, neither mur
mured nor felt pain with her husband
the day of love had gradually passed
into evening-tide. And as with her, so
should it be with all. Never should a
maiden give her troth, never should a
bride stand at the altar, unless she can
look calmly forward to the time when
all romance melts into realitv ; when
youth and passion cease, and even long
assured affection from its very certain
ty, at times grows tame. Never ought
a woman to take the marriage-vow un-