She then directed supper to be prepared as usual, and, until it was ready, she spent her time in dividing the money which she had on hand into separate parcels for her attendants, marking each parcel with the name. She sat down at the table when supper was served, and though she ate but little, she conversed as usual, in a cheerful manner, and with smiles. Her friends were silent and sad, struggling continually to keep back their tears. At the close of the supper Mary called for a cup of wine, and drank to the health of each one of them, and then asked them to drink to her. They took the cup, and, kneeling before her, complied with her request, though, as they did it, the tears would come to their eyes. Mary then told them that she willingly forgave them for all that they had ever done to displease her, and she thanked them for their long-continued fidelity and love. She also asked that they would forgive her for any thing she might ever have done in respect to them which was inconsistent with her duty. They answered the request only with a renewal of their tears.
Mary spent the evening in writing two letters to her nearest relatives in France, and in making her will. The princ.i.p.al object of these letters was to recommend her servants to the attention and care of those to whom they were addressed, after she should be gone. She went to bed shortly after midnight, and it is said she slept. This would be incredible, if any thing were incredible in respect to the workings of the human soul in a time of awful trial like this, which so transcends all the ordinary conditions of its existence.
At any rate, whether Mary slept or not, the morning soon came. Her friends were around her as soon as she rose. She gave them minute directions about the disposition of her body. She wished to have it taken to France to be interred, as she had requested of Elizabeth, either at Rheims, in the same tomb with the body of her mother, or else at St. Denis, an ancient abbey a little north of Paris, where the ashes of a long line of French monarchs repose. She begged her servants, if possible, not to leave her body till it should reach its final home in one of these places of sepulture.
In the mean time, arrangements had been made for the last act in this dreadful tragedy, in the same great hall where she had been tried.
They raised a platform upon the stone floor of the hall large enough to contain those who were to take part in the closing scene. On this platform was a block, a cushion, and a chair. All these things, as well as the platform itself, were covered with black cloth, giving to the whole scene a most solemn and funereal expression. The part of the hall containing this scaffold was railed off from the rest. The governor of the castle, and a body of guards, came in and took their station at the sides of the room. Two executioners, one holding the axe, stood upon the scaffold on one side of the block. Two of the commissioners stood upon the other side. The remaining commissioners and several gentlemen of the neighborhood took their places as spectators without the rail. The number of persons thus a.s.sembled was about two hundred. Strange that any one should have come in, voluntarily, to witness such a scene!
When all was ready, the sheriff, carrying his white wand of office, and attended by some of the commissioners, went for Mary. She was at her devotions, and she asked a little delay that she might conclude them: perhaps the shrinking spirit clung at the last moment to life, and wished to linger a few minutes longer before taking the final farewell. The request was granted. In a short time Mary signified that she was ready, and they began to move toward the hall of execution. Her attendants were going to accompany her. The sheriff said this could not be allowed. She accordingly bade them farewell, and they filled the castle with the sound of their shrieks and lamentations.
Mary went on, descending the stair-case, at the foot of which she was joined by one of her attendants, from whom she had been separated for some time. His name was Sir Andrew Melville, and he was the master of her household. The name of her secretary Melville was James. Sir Andrew kneeled before her, kissed her hand, and said that this was the saddest hour of his life. Mary began to give him some last commissions and requests. "Say," said she, "that I died firm in the faith; that I forgive my enemies; that I feel that I have never disgraced Scotland, my native country, and that I have been always true to France, the land of my happiest years. Tell my son--" Here her voice faltered and ceased to be heard, and she burst into tears.
She struggled to regain her composure. "Tell my son," said she, "that I thought of him in my last moments, and that I have never yielded, either by word or deed, to any thing whatever that might lead to his prejudice. Tell him to cherish the memory of his mother, and say that I sincerely hope his life may be happier than mine has been."
Mary then turned to the commissioners who stood by, and renewed her request that her attendants, who had just been separated from her, might come down and see her die. The commissioners objected. They said that if these attendants were admitted, their anguish and lamentations would only add to her own distress, and make the whole scene more painful. Mary, however, urged the request. She said they had been devotedly attached to her all her days; they had shared her captivity, and loved and served her faithfully to the end, and it was enough if she herself, and they, desired that they should be present.
The commissioners at last yielded, and allowed her to name six, who should be summoned to attend her. She did so, and the six came down.
The sad procession then proceeded to the hall. Mary was in full court dress, and walked into the apartment with the air and composure of a reigning queen. She leaned on the arm of her physician. Sir Andrew Melville followed, bearing the train of her robe. Her dress is described as a gown of black silk, bordered with crimson velvet, over which was a satin mantle. A long veil of white c.r.a.pe, edged with rich lace, hung down almost to the ground. Around her neck was an ivory crucifix--that is, an image of Christ upon the cross, which the Catholics use as a memorial of our Savior"s sufferings--and a rosary, which is a string of beads of peculiar arrangement, often employed by them as an aid in their devotions. Mary meant, doubtless, by these symbols, to show to her enemies and to the world, that though she submitted to her fate without resistance, yet, so far as the contest of her life had been one of religious faith, she had no intention of yielding.
Mary ascended the platform and took her seat in the chair provided for her. With the exception of stifled sobs here and there to be heard, the room was still. An officer then advanced and read the warrant of execution, which the executioners listened to as their authority for doing the dreadful work which they were about to perform. The Dean of Peterborough, the Protestant ecclesiastic whom Mary had refused to see, then came forward to the foot of the platform, and most absurdly commenced an address to her, with a view to convert her to the Protestant faith. Mary interrupted him, saying that she had been born and had lived a Catholic, and she was resolved so to die; and she asked him to spare her his useless reasonings. The dean persisted in going on. Mary turned away from him, kneeled down, and began to offer a Latin prayer. The dean soon brought his ministrations to a close, and then Mary prayed for some time, in a distinct and fervent voice, in English, the large company listening with breathless attention. She prayed for her own soul, and that she might have comfort from heaven in the agony of death. She implored G.o.d"s blessing upon France; upon Scotland; upon England; upon Queen Elizabeth; and, more than all, upon her son. During this time she held the ivory crucifix in her hand, clasping it and raising it from time to time toward heaven.
When her prayer was ended, she rose, and, with the a.s.sistance of her attendants, took off her veil, and such other parts of her dress as it was necessary to remove in order to leave the neck bare, and then she kneeled forward and laid her head upon the block. The agitation of the a.s.sembly became extreme. Some turned away from the scene faint and sick at heart; some looked more eagerly and intensely at the group upon the scaffold; some wept and sobbed aloud. The a.s.sistant executioner put Mary"s two hands together and held them; the other raised his axe, and, after the horrid sound of two or three successive blows, the a.s.sistant held up the dissevered head, saying, "So perish all Queen Elizabeth"s enemies."
The a.s.sembly dispersed. The body was taken into an adjoining apartment, and prepared for interment. Mary"s attendants wished to have it delivered to them, that they might comply with her dying request to convey it to France; but they were told that they could not be allowed to do so. The body was interred with great pomp and ceremony in the Cathedral at Peterborough, where it remained in peace for many years.
Now that the deed was done, the great problem with Elizabeth was, of course, to avert the consequences of the terrible displeasure and thirst for revenge which she might naturally suppose it would awaken in Scotland and in France. She succeeded very well in accomplishing this. As soon as she heard of the execution of Mary, she expressed the utmost surprise, grief, and indignation. She said that she had, indeed, signed the death warrant, but it was not her intention at all to have it executed; and that, when she delivered it to the officer, she charged him not to let it go out of his possession. This the officer denied. Elizabeth insisted, and punished the officer by a long imprisonment, and perpetual disgrace, for his pretended offense.
She sent a messenger to James, explaining the terrible accident, as she termed it, which had occurred, and deprecating his displeasure.
James, though at first filled with indignation, and determined to avenge his mother"s death, allowed himself to be appeased.
About twenty years after this, Elizabeth died, and the great object of Mary"s ambition throughout her whole life was attained by the union of the Scotch and English crowns on the head of her son. As soon as Elizabeth ceased to breathe, James the Sixth of Scotland was proclaimed James the First of England. He was at that time nearly forty years of age. He was married, and had several young children.
The circ.u.mstances of King James"s journey to London, when he went to take possession of his new kingdom, are related in the History of Charles I., belonging to this series. Though James thus became monarch of both England and Scotland, it must not be supposed that the two _kingdoms_ were combined. They remained separate for many years--two independent kingdoms governed by one king.
When James succeeded to the English throne, his mother had been dead many years, and whatever feelings of affection may have bound his heart to her in early life, they were now well-nigh obliterated by the lapse of time, and by the new ties by which he was connected with his wife and his children. As soon as he was seated on his new throne, however, he ordered the Castle of Fotheringay, which had been the scene of his mother"s trial and death, to be leveled with the ground, and he transferred her remains to Westminster Abbey, where they still repose.
[Ill.u.s.tration: MARY"S TOMB AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]
If the lifeless dust had retained its consciousness when it was thus transferred, with what intense emotions of pride and pleasure would the mother"s heart have been filled, in being thus brought to her final home in that ancient sepulcher of the English kings, by her son, now, at last, safely established, where she had so long toiled and suffered to instate him, in his place in the line. Ambition was the great, paramount, ruling principle of Mary"s life. Love was, with her, an occasional, though perfectly uncontrollable impulse, which came suddenly to interrupt her plans and divert her from her course, leaving her to get back to it again, after devious wanderings, with great difficulty and through many tears. The love, with the consequences which followed from it, destroyed _her_; while the ambition, recovering itself after every contest with its rival, and holding out perseveringly to the last, saved _her son_; so that, in the long contest in which her life was spent, though she suffered all the way, and at last sacrificed herself, she triumphed in the end.
THE END.