CHAPTER XXIII. THE END
From Marietta Gerald heard how, with that strange fatality ofinconsistency which ever seemed to accompany the fortunes of theStuarts, none proved faithful followers save those whose lives of excessor debauchery rendered them valueless; and thus the drunken Fra, whosewild snatches of song and ribaldry now broke in upon the colloquy, wasno other than the Carmelite, Kelly, the once associate and corrupter ofhis father.
In a half-mad enthusiasm to engage men in the cause of his Prince he hadbegun a sort of recruitment of a legion who were to land in Scotland orIreland. The means by which he at first operated were somewhat liberallycontributed to him by a secret emissary of the family, whom Kelly atlength discovered to be the private secretary of Miss Walsingham, theformer mistress of Charles Edward. Later on, however, he found out thatthis lady herself was actually a pensioner of the English government,and in secret correspondence with Mr. Pitt, who, through herinstrumentality, was in possession of every plan of the Pretender, andknew of his daily movements. This treacherous intercourse had begunseveral years before the death of Charles Edward, and lasted for someyears after that event.
Stung by the consciousness of being duped, as well as maddened by havingbeen rendered an enemy to the cause he sought to serve, Kelly disbandedhis followers, and took to the mountains as a brigand. With years he hadgrown only more abandoned to excess of every kind. All his experiencesof life had shown little beyond baseness and corruption, and he hadgrown to care for nothing beyond the enjoyment of the passing hour,except when the possibility of a vengeance on those who had betrayed himmight momentarily awake his passion, and excite him to some effort ofvindictive anger.
In his hours of mad debauchery he would rave about landing in England,and a plan he had conceived for assassinating the king; then it was hisscheme to murder Mr. Pitt, and sometimes all these were abandoned forthe desire to make Miss Walsingham herself pay the penalty of her baseand unwomanly treachery.
'He came to our convent gate in his garb of a friar to beg,' saidMarietta. 'I saw him but for an instant, and I knew him at once. He wasone of those who, in the "red days" of the Revolution, mocked the orderhe belonged to by wearing a rosary of playing-dice! and he recognisedme as one who had even more shamelessly exposed herself.' A deep crimsonflush covered her face and neck as she spoke, and as quickly fled, toleave her as pale as a corpse. 'Oh, _mio caro_,' cried she, 'there areintoxications more maddening to the senses than those of drinking; thereare wild fevers of the mind, when degradation seems a sort of martyrdom;and in the very depth of our infamy and shame we appear to ourselves tohave attained to something superhuman in self-denial. It was my fateto live with one who inspired these sentiments.' She paused for a fewseconds, and then, trembling on every accent, she said: 'To win hislove, to conquer the heart that would not yield to me, I dared more thanever woman, far more than ever man, dared.'
'Here's to the king's buffoon, and a bumper toast it shall be,' burstin the friar, with a drunken ribaldry; 'and if there are any will notdrink it, let him drink to the Minister's mistress!'
To the sudden gesture which Gerald's anger evoked, Marietta quicklyinterposed her hand, and, in a low, soft voice, besought him to remainquiet.
'If the cause were up, or the cause were down, What matter to you or to me; For though the Prince had played his crown, _Our_ stake was a bare bawbee!'
sang out Kelly lustily. 'Who'll deny it? Who'll say there wasn't soundreason and philosophy in that sentiment? None knew it better than PrinceCharlie himself.'
'And was this man the companion of a Prince?' whispered Gerald in herear.
'Even so; fallen fortunes bring degraded followers,' said Marietta. 'Ihave heard it said that many of his father's associates were of thisstamp.'
'And how could men hope to restore a cause thus contaminated andstained?' cried he, somewhat louder.
'That's what Kinloch said,' burst in Kelly; 'you remember the song--
'The Prince he swore, on his broad claymore, That he 'd sit in his father's chair, But there wasn't a man, outside his clan, That wanted to see him there, boys, That wanted to see him there.'
'A black falsehood, as black as ever a traitor uttered!' cried Gerald,whose passion burst all bounds.
'Here's to the traitors--hip, hip! To the traitors, for it was--
'The traitors all in St. Cannes's hall, They feasted merrily there, While the wearied men sought the bleak, wild glen, And tasted but sorry fare, boys, Tasted but sorry fare.
'Oh, if I 'd a voice, and could have my choice, I know with whom I 'd be, Not the hungry lads, with their threadbare plaids, But the lords of high degree, boys, The lords of high degree.'
'And so thought the Prince too, cried he out fiercely, and in a tonemeant for an insolent taunt. 'He liked the easy life and the soft couchof St. Germains far better than the long march and the heather-bed inthe Highlands.'
'How long must I endure this fellow's insolence?' whispered Gerald toMarietta, in a voice trembling with passion.
'For my sake, Gherardi,' she began; but the Fra overheard the words, andwith a drunken laugh broke in--
'If you have a drop of Stuart blood in you, you 'll yield to the woman,whatever it is she asks.'
Stung beyond control of reason, Gerald sprang to his feet; but beforehe could even approach Kelly, the stout friar had grasped his shortblunderbuss and cocked it.
'Another step--one step more, and if you were the anointed King himself,instead of his bastard, I 'll send you to your reckoning!'
With a spring like the bound of a tiger, Gerald dashed at him; but theFra was prepared, and, raising the weapon to his side, he fired. A wild,mad cry, blended with the loud report echoed in many a mountain gorge,and the youth fell dead on the sward.
Marietta threw herself down upon the corpse, kissing the lifeless lips,and clasping her arms around the motionless body. With every endearingword she tried to call him back to life, even for a momentaryconsciousness of her devotion. The love she had so long denied him, shenow offered; she would be his and his only. With the wild eloquence of amind on fire, she pictured forth a future, now brightened with all thatsuccessful ambition could confer, now blessed with the tranquil joysof some secluded existence. Alas! he was beyond the reach of eitherfortune. The last of the Stuarts lay still and stark on the cold earth,his blue eyes staring without a blink at the strong sun.
When some peasants passed on the following day they found Mariettaseated beside the dead body, the cold hand clasped within both her own,and her eyes riveted upon the features; her mind was gone, and, save afew broken, indistinct mutterings, she never spoke again.
As for Kelly, none ever could trace him. Some allege that he dashed overthe precipice and was killed; others aver that he sailed that samenight from St. Stephano for America, where he was afterwards seen andrecognised by many.
The little cypress tree in the mountains which once marked the grave ofthe last of the Stuarts has long since withered.
THE END
APPENDIX
NOTE I
There is a fragment of a letter from Sir Conway Seymour to HoraceWalpole, written from Rome, where the writer had gone for reasons ofhealth, and in which the passing news and gossip of the day are narratedin all the careless freedom of friendly confidence. Much, by far thegreater part, of the epistle is filled up by artistic discussion aboutpictures and statues, with little histories of the frauds and rogueriesto which connoisseurship was exposed; there is also a sprinkling ofscandal, a light and flippant sketch of Roman moralities, which reallymight have been written in our own day; some passing allusions topolitical events there are also; and lastly, there comes the part whichmore peculiarly concerns my story. After a little flourish of trumpetsabout his own social success, and the cordial intimacy with which he wasadmitted into the best houses of Rome, he says, 'Atterbury's letters ofcourse opened many a door that would have been closed against me asan Englishman, and gav
e me facilities rarely extended to one of ourcountry. To this happy circumstance am I indebted for a scene which Ican never cease to remember, as one of the strangest of my life. You areaware that though at the great levees of the cardinals large crowds areassembled, many presenting themselves who have no personal acquaintancewith the host, at the smaller receptions an exclusiveness prevailsunknown in any other land. To such an excess has this been carried, thatto certain houses, such as the Abbezi and the Piombino, few out of therank of royalty are ever invited. To the former of these great familiesit was my fortune to be invited last Wednesday, and although my goutentered a bold protest against dress shoes and buckles, I determined togo.
'It was not without surprise I found that, although there were scarcelyabove a dozen carriages in waiting, the great Abbezi Palace was lightedthroughout its whole extent, the whole _cour_ being illuminated with theblaze. I was aware that etiquette debarred his Holiness from ever beingpresent at these occasions. And yet there was an amount of preparationand splendour now displayed that might well have indicated such an eventThe servants' coats were, I am told, white; but they were soplastered with gold that the original colour was concealed. As for themagnificence of the Palace itself, I will spare you all description, themore as I know your heart still yearns after that beautiful Guercino ofthe "two angels," and the small Salvator of "St. John," for which theDuke of Strozzi gave his castle at San Marcello; neither will I tormentyour curious soul by any allusion to those great vases of Sevres, withlandscapes painted by both. With more equanimity will you hear of thebeautiful Marquesa d'Arco, in her diamond stomacher, and the Duchessade Forti, with a coronet of brilliants that might buy a province, notto tell of the Colonna herself, whose heavy train, all studded over withjewels, turned many an eye from her noble countenance to gaze upon thefloor. There were not above forty guests assembled when I arrived, norat any time were there more than sixty present, but all apparelled witha magnificence that shamed the undecorated plainness of my humble courtsuit. After paying my homage to his Eminence, I turned to seek out thoseof my most intimate acquaintance present; but I soon discoveredthat, from some mysterious cause, none were disposed to engage inconversation--nay, they did but converse in whispers, and with anabruptness that bespoke expectancy of something to come.
'To while away the time pleasantly, I strolled through the rooms, allfilled as they were with objects to win attention, and having made thetour of the quadrangle was returning to the great gallery, when, passingthe ante-chamber, I perceived that Cardinal York's servants were allranged there, dressed in their fine scarlet liveries, a sight quite newto see. Nor was this the less remarkable, from the fact that his RoyalHighness is distinguished for the utter absence of all that denotesostentation or display. I entered the great gallery, therefore, withsomething of curiosity, to know what this might betoken. The company wasall ranged in a great circle, at one part of which a little group wasgathered, in which I had no difficulty in detecting the thin, sicklyface of the Cardinal York, looking fully twenty years beyond hisage, his frail figure bent nearly double. I could mark, besides, thatpresentations were being made, as different persons came up, made theirreverence and were detained, some more, some less time in conversation,who then retired, backing out as from a royal presence. While I stoodthus in wonderment, Don Caesare, the brother of the Cardinal Abbezi, cameup, and taking me by the arm, led me forward, saying--
'"Caro Natzio," so he now calls me, "you must not be the last to makeyour homage here."
'"And to whom am I to offer it?" asked I eagerly.
'"To whom but to him it is best due. To the Prince who ought to beKing."
'"I am but a sorry expounder of riddles, Don Caesare," said I, somewhathurt,' as you can well imagine, by a speech so offensive to my loyalty.
'"There is less question here," replied he, "of partisanship than of thecourteous deference which every gentleman ungrudgingly accords to thoseof royal birth. This is the Prince of Wales, at least till he be calledthe King. He is the son of Charles Edward, and the last of the Stuarts."
'Ere I had rallied from the astonishment of this strange announcement,the crowd separated in front of me, and I found myself in the presenceof a tall and sickly-looking youth, whose marvellous resemblance to thePretender actually overcame me. Nor was any artifice of costume omittedthat could help out the likeness, for he wore a sash of Stuart tartanover his suit of maroon velvet, and a curiously elaborate claymore hungby his side. Mistaking me for the Prince D'Arco, he said, in the low,soft voice of his race--
'"How have you left the Princess; or is she at Rome?"
'"This is the Chevalier de Seymour, may it please your Royal Highness,"whispered the Cardinal Gualterio, "a gentleman of good and honourablename, though allied with a cause that is not ours."
'"Methinks all Englishmen might be friends of mine," said the Prince,smiling sadly; "at all events they need not be my enemies." He held outhis hand as he spoke: and so much of dignity was there in his air, somuch of regal condescension in his look, that I knelt and kissed it.
'Amid a low, murmuring comment on his princely presence, yet not so lowbut that he himself could hear it, I moved forward to give place to thenext presentation. And so did the tide flow on for above an hour. Wellknowing what a gloss men would put upon all this, I hastened home, andwrote it all to Sir Horace Mann at Florence, assuring him that my loyalattachment to the house of Hanover was unbroken, and that his Majestyhad no more faithful subject or adherent than myself. His reply is nowbefore me as I write.
'"We know all about this youth," says he. "Lord Chatham has had hisportrait taken; and if he come to England we shall take measures in hisbehalf. As to yourself, you are no greater fool than were the Duke ofBeaufort and Lord Westmoreland with the lad's father."
'Strange and significant words, and in no way denying the youth's birthand parentage.
'At all events, the circumstance is curious; and all Rome talks of itand nothing else, since the Walkinshaw, who always took her airings inthe Cardinal York's carriage, and was treated as of royal rank, is nowno more seen; and "the Prince," as he is styled, has taken her place,and even sits in the post of honour, with the Cardinal on his left hand.Are they enough minded of these things at home; or do they laugh atdanger so for off as Italy? For my own part, I say it, he is one to givetrouble, and make of a bad cause a serious case of disaffection, in somuch the more, that men say he is a fatalist, and believes it will behis destiny to sit as king in England.'
I would fain make a longer extract from this letter, were I not afraidthat I have already trespassed too far upon my reader's indulgence. Itis said that in the unpublished correspondence of Sir Horace Mann--amost important contribution to the history of the time, if only givento the world in its entirety--would be found frequent allusion to theChevalier de Fitzgerald, and the views entertained in his behalf. Withall the professional craft of diplomacy, the acute envoy detectedthe various degrees of credence that were accorded to the youth'slegitimacy; and saw how many there were who were satisfied to take allthe benefit of his great name for the purpose of intrigue, without eversincerely interesting themselves in his cause.
NOTE II
In the correspondence to which I have already alluded there is a letterto the British Envoy at Florence, in which a reference is thus madeto an incident in my story. Shall I own that without this historicallusion, I would scarcely have detained my reader by what is, afterall, a mere episodical passage in the tale? Seymour writes--'So far asI can learn, the woman arrested under this charge of sorcery is nota British subject at all, as I at first informed you, although greatreason exists to believe her to be a spy in the Jacobite cause. Allmy efforts to obtain a sight of her have also failed; nor can I evenascertain where it is they have confined her. The common story goes,that she has bewitched the young Chevalier of whom they want to make aPrince of the House of Stewart, and thus entirely spoiled the gamethe Jesuits were plotting. Vulgar rumour adds the enormous rewardsshe demands for disenchanting him and so for
th; but more trustworthyaccounts suggest that all her especial subtlety will be needed to effecther own escape. That she possesses boundless wealth, and is of peerlessbeauty, a miracle of learning and accomplishment, you are, of course,prepared to hear. Would that I were enabled to add my own humbletestimony on any of these points. Neither Alberoni nor Casali have seenher, so that you may easily imagine how hopeless are my chances.
'It is very hard to believe these things in our age; but so they are,and this morning I was told that the "Prince," pardon me the title, hasbeen so much advantaged by her visit, that he has thrown off all his oldmelancholy, and goes about gay and happy. Of this I cannot pronounce,for his Royal Highness has gone down to Caraffa's villa at Orvieto, byway of recovering his health completely, and lives there in the verystrictest seclusion.
'The affair has so many aspects, that in some one or other of them ithas occupied all Rome during the last five or six weeks, and we go aboutasking each other will the Prince marry Guglia Ridolfi, Caraffa's niece?Will he ever be King of England? When will they crown _him_? When willthey burn the witch? Of the latter event, if it show signs of occurring,I am to give due tidings beforehand to our friend Horatio, who, goutpermitting, would come out from England to see the ceremony.
'It is my belief that Mr. Pitt would put this female to more profitableuse than by making a fagot of her, if she had but half what the worldalleges in craft and acuteness. Priests, however, tolerate no rivals,and permit no legerdemain but their own. Poor creature! is it not justpossible that she may be more enthusiast than cheat?
'About the Chevalier himself I have nothing to add. I saw him onThursday a-horseback, and I must own he sat his beast gracefully andwell; he is of right manly presence, and recalls the features of hisfamily, if they be his family, most pleasingly. He dismounted nearTrajan's column to receive the benediction of the Holy Father, who wasthere blessing oxen, it being the festival of St. Martin, who protectsthese animals; and as he knelt down and rose up again, and then salutedthe noble guard, who presented arms, there was a dignity and elegancein his deportment which struck all observers; nor did I marvel asAtterbury's nephew whispered into my ear--the "Dutchman could never havedone it like that."'
C. L.
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 48