Part 9

At noontide up came her brother-in-law, and made the endeavour to conclude a peace, but this was beyond his powers, for George Endicott was obdurate and his daughter would not give her promise; neither would she leave her father’s house, but dwelt without it for several days, living on such food as the pity of the servants gave her and sleeping on the ground or in the stalls of the horses.

And day by day came Gilbert Farry and tempted her with promises of love and comfort, but she would have none of it, but remained a beggar before her father’s door.

On the tenth day her father came to her and again demanded of her her promise; and if she gave it not, he added, she should no longer have even the shelter of his barns, but be cast out upon the high-road among the knaves and gipsies. Grace Endicott rose up from the straw and stood erect in her torn, soiled garments, with her hair unbound and her cheeks stained with weeping.

“Sir,” she made answer, “I stand between Good and Evil, and you would have me choose Evil. This is my immortal soul you ask for. For certainly I was in the power of the Devil from whom I was rescued by Mr. Bunyan, and if you deny me his converse, then I am no better than lost.”

But her father was in no way moved, and asked if she would promise or go upon the roads.

“Well and well again,” she said with much wildness, “I promise, but it is a lost soul you take into your house.”

Thereupon her father took her by the hand and led her in, and as she crossed the threshold she said again–

“It is a damned soul you bring home, my father.”

In the parlour was a feast spread and wine laid out and Gilbert Farry waiting, and he took her to him with no excuse and kissed her.

“So you have won,” she murmured, and made no resistance.

So for a month she lived quietly in her father’s house, until one day near on Christmas she met Mr. Bunyan in the market-place of Bedford town, and he was being taken to prison for his preaching, and there were many of his following going with him with words of encouragement and love. But Grace Endicott denied him, and looked as if she did not know his face, even asking one who stood by, “Who is that fellow?”

At this John Bunyan looked through the press and spoke to her, quoting scripture–

“Whosoever shall deny Me before men, him will I also deny before My Father which is in Heaven,” he said.

“I obey _my_ father,” answered Mrs. Endicott.

“He that loveth father or mother before Me is not worthy of Me,” spake Mr. Bunyan, and went on his way to gaol.

Now all the rest of that day, being Tuesday, Mrs. Endicott was very silent; those among whom she moved marked it with concern. The next night she came running through the darkness to her sister’s house, all wild and beside herself, and implored them all to come home with her, which they did in a great fright.

Upon the way she told them that her father had fallen ill, and was now dying.

This they found true enough; George Endicott was crouching over a hastily lit fire and bemoaning his sins, and in little while without further speech he died. Mrs. Endicott was taken to her sister’s home on the way, it being then dawn, and they met Gilbert Farry, and told him Mr. Endicott was sudden dead.

“It is no more than I looked for,” said he; whereupon Mrs. Endicott shocked those with her in the cart by laughing, and his remark and her manner of taking it were remembered afterwards.

The end of this business was that the doctors made discovery that George Endicott had been poisoned by a drug given him in his ale; and a drug of this nature had been bought by Mrs. Endicott in Bedford a few hours after John Bunyan had spoken to her; this, together with the circumstances of her late dispute with her father, her being alone with him in the house, the suddenness of his illness and some broken words he had let drop in his last moments, was evidence enough, and Mrs. Endicott was arrested on the awful charge of murdering her father and lodged in Bedford Gaol, to the great scandal and confusion of all Nonconformists and damage to the cause of John Bunyan.

The trial is within the memory of all, and no account of it is here required. Mrs. Endicott defended herself with prudence and spirit and strove to cast the guilt on the man Farry, who was the principal witness against her; and, indeed, his known spite towards her, the fact that Mr. Endicott’s will was in his favour and the misty kind of character he bore gave her some handle, but since she could no wise explain the drug she had bought save lamely saying it was for cleaning tiles and that she knew not its deadly properties, the case looked ill against the woman. Nevertheless, her youth, her comeliness, her known piety and long sweet behaviour, the influence of her relatives and the feeling of the people pleaded for her, and there was no one who doubted that she would be acquitted when on the last day of her trial she startled the court by rising up and declaring herself guilty and a helpmate of the Devil from the moment she abjured John Bunyan in her father’s barn.

In fine she vowed herself a witch, and baring her arm showed them a purple hoof-print on the flesh that was known for the particular mark and sign of Hell. After this she refused to speak again either to her relatives or to the clergyman, and came forth to be hanged next day in a green tabinet gown with red ribbons. Not a word spoke she while being led through Bedford town, but was composed and seemed in a meditation.

With her own hands she tied down her skirts and put up her hair, and so without a prayer or any plea for mercy was hanged in full sight of all Bedford.

There was afterwards found in her gown a paper which was taken possession of by me, being one of the clergy present, and here published by me that all the facts be known to all who care to read. As for Gilbert Farry, he came to the execution and stood close to the gallows, and when she was dead went westward, leaving his properties in his lodgings, nor was he ever seen or heard of again in Bedford.

And his belongings were principally books in pagan languages and gaudy clothes, which were burnt before the Town Hall, for there was a great distrust of this man, it being thought that he had brought to ruin the soul of Grace Endicott.

Here followeth the paper written by Mrs. Endicott the day before she died:–

“Bedford Gaol, Wednesday, March 25th, 1679.

“Powerful is evil and hard to escape, and wise are those who step aside from the world which is set with springes into one of which I fell, who was once a Chrisom child and spun Church linen at my father’s door.

“When I was in my tender years I thought of neither good nor evil, but went my way in empty vanity; then, behold! I had a warning and beheld Hell in its flames and saw that Love was but the Devil and so let go his hand.

“Soon there came a man, wonderful and strong, who took my soul from the embrace of Evil and set it on the road to Heaven and for six years I laboured in that thorny way, and thought I had found peace.

“Yet was the Devil busy, and pursued me and set his hounds on my soul, and his traps for my feet, but the preacher bade me hold fast to him, and surely he was drawing me Heavenwards. Yet through weakness of body I denied him, and the Devil kissed me, and I was a damned soul, and the net was so tight about me I could not move, and being damned could not pray.

“Yet I brooded still on Heaven and the Preacher, and conceived a great wrath against him who had wrung that denial from me, so having the seal of the Devil on me I slew my father and saw him die in the night. And being put on my trial cast spells till they thought me innocent. Yet I was presently weary of this, and did admit my master and to-morrow shall die and be returned to that Great Wickedness of which I am a part, yet once was a saved soul, grace to Master John Bunyan.

“May He whose name I dare not write save others from what befell Grace Endicott.”

Many who read this paper did say she was a mad woman, and many did say she was a witch, and Gilbert Farry the Devil himself, while others swore she was crazed with love for John Bunyan and was innocent and the old man died naturally (for, indeed, the doctors afterwards fell out about his having been poisoned), and yet others held she had lost her wits through the terror she had been in through denying her faith–and who shall make truth out of all this tangle?

THE CUP OF CHICORY WATER

“MADAME SE MEURT! MADAME EST MORTE!”

_Vanitas vanitatum, dixit Ecclesiastes,_ _Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas._

“_O nuit desastreuse! O nuit effroyable, ou retentit tout a coup comme un eclat de tonnerre cette etonnante nouvelle: Madame se meurt! Madame est morte!_”

Madame found herself at the pinnacle of her desires; she had returned to France with news of the treaty of Dover signed, with the friendship of her brother for Louis de Bourbon, with the prospect of yet another conquest to offer to the glorious nation that had adopted her; her triumphant charms had sealed the league between England and France; she had seen Arlington put his name to the paper that rendered void the Triple Alliance. Her influence, they said, and the languishing eyes of Louise de la Querowaille had done it. It was the _coup de theatre_, though a secret one, of a brilliant and unscrupulous policy; it was praised by M. de Louvois and by the King; it was the most dishonourable bargain a sovereign of England had ever set his hand to; it was false, lying, treacherous; it involved the ruin of two nations to satisfy the greed of one man and the ambition of another.

Also it was the seeds from which many years after sprang the hydra-headed league that laid in the slime of defeat the glories of invincible France.

But Madame never knew of that.

All who spoke to her praised her–her, the daughter of an English King and the sister of an English King–for this treaty which betrayed the English people and their allies; she had been always courted for her beauty, her rank; now she found herself courted for her political influence and her skill in the affairs of men–most exquisite of compliments for a clever woman proud of her cleverness.

The greatest nation in the world was beholden to her; there were many to tell her so. Afterwards the Dutch called her a wanton woman, and the English people cursed her as they cursed her brother. But Madame never heard them.

There were two Queens at the Court of France, but Madame was above either; she was the most brilliant, the most admired princess in France, which is to say in the world.

Madame was Henriette-Anne d’Angleterre, Duchesse d’Orleans, sister of Charles Stewart and the sister-in-law of Louis de Bourbon, granddaughter of Henri Quartre and his Medicis Queen, great-granddaughter of Marie Stewart, on both sides of a rich illustrious blood, yet born in the midst of civil war in the beleaguered town of Exeter and brought up a penniless exile.

Now, at five and twenty, at the apogee of her fame with these things forgotten; her brother was restored to her father’s throne, and had avenged himself, God knows, on the English people, Madame lending her delicate aid.

Nine months ago Henriette-Marie de France, Madame’s mother, had died, and Madame had listened to her funeral sermon, preached by the Bishop of Condom. As his glowing eloquence fell on her ears Madame had wept, her gay, light heart touched for the first and perhaps the last time.

She resolved to alter her frivolous, pleasure-loving useless life; she appointed the Bishop her confessor, and made, it may be, some little progress on another path to that which she had followed so far.

His grace of Condom called her a virtuous princess, and, in common with all who knew her, loved her for her gaiety, her charm, her sweetness; his one-time reproof had melted into flatteries now: there could be no censure for her who had detached England from The Triple Alliance.

Her return from England had been celebrated by a succession of balls, fêtes, masques; she had re-conquered France with her dazzling English beauty, her graceful easy manners, and the brilliant success of her mission. Flushed and roseate from her victory she descended like a goddess into her throne in the most glorious court in Europe; she was the idol of the people too, “the most adorable princess who ever lived,” one of her ladies called her. There seemed no word to express her complex charm.

In the midst of her gorgeous triumph Madame was a little grieved, a little stung by the obvious coldness of Monsieur; his jealousy had been the background of her life for the eight years since she had married him. Defying him, she had come more than once very near to giving him cause for open outraged clamour, but her wit, her courage had saved her; it had always ended in Madame laughing at Monsieur.

She laughed at Monsieur now; it had become a habit, though, knowing him to be something justified and not being shallow herself, there was a little ache to be hidden beneath her sparkling demeanour, an ache strengthened perhaps by a memory of the Bishop of Condom’s words and a vague desire to follow them. But there was all her life, she thought; now there was no time for anything but gaiety, applause, the sweet incense of adulation. In the court that toasted Mme d’Armagnac, Louise de la Vallière, Madame Valentinois, Madame de Soissons, she was reckoned the most beautiful woman; she believed that the King loved her; in her heart she believed that he, Adonis and Mars among men, loved her, the unattainable. If she had been free–or even perhaps the wife of any other man–she might have been the Queen of France.

She had coquetted with many; the splendid de Guiche, the romantic de Vardes, Marsillac and Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer, but–the King—

The queen and Monsieur paid her the infinite compliment of being furiously jealous; the d’Armagnacs, the Mancinis, the la Vallières and the lesser beauties spread abroad to dazzle the eyes of majesty were openly overshadowed; Racine wrote for her “Berenice,” and all who saw it performed knew who the heroine stood for–and who was Titus.

The past was stormy but glorious, the future vague but golden; she had the praises of Louis and the endearments of Charles in her ears; she had come from England where she had queened it for a period of meteor-like splendour to France, where she was permanently enthroned.

“This is a glorious year for me,” said Madame. “I think that I am happier than I have ever been.”

It was the twenty-ninth of June, the year 1670, eight days after Madame’s return to France. She and Monsieur had gone to St. Cloud; Madame loved the château; despite the commands of her physician, M. Vyelen, she bathed every morning in the river that flowed down from Paris past the park and wandered at night in the moonlight that was so chilly after the heat of the day. Madame, whose short life had been torn with several fierce illnesses, was careless of her health. This day, the twenty-ninth of June, she had passed quietly. Madame de la Fayette had arrived at St. Cloud, and Madame had been pleased to see her; they had walked in the garden gaily and Madame had talked of her stay in England, of the King her brother; speaking of these things pleased her. She laughed, and was very cheerful. An Englishman was painting Monsieur and Mademoiselle, her eldest daughter; she went to see these pictures, and spoke again of England to Madame de la Fayette and Madame d’Epernon.

Dinner was served in the studio; afterwards Madame lay along the couch and slept, her head almost on the shoulder of Madame de la Fayette.

Monsieur sat for his portrait; his extremely handsome, cold face was turned towards his wife; he appeared not to notice her, but once he remarked that her countenance had changed curiously in her sleep. Madame de la Fayette, looking down, noticed that this was so. Madame did not look beautiful or even agreeable now; the lady reflected that it must be that her loveliness lay in her spirit, but reflected again that she was wrong, for she had often seen Madame asleep and never seen her look less than beautiful before.

Monsieur talked indifferently of many things. Presently the sitting was concluded, and Madame awoke. Monsieur remarked that she looked ill; she took up the glass at her girdle and surveyed herself. She wore a tight-laced gown of pearl-coloured satin, embroidered with wreaths of pink roses; it well suited her blue-eyed loveliness. She dropped the mirror.

“I look well enough,” she smiled.

Monsieur left the room; he had expressed his intention of going to Paris.

Madame descended with Mme Gourdon into the saloon that looked upon the terraces, the fountains, the parkland. It was a beautiful afternoon, lacking but a few moments of five o’clock; the salon was filled with sunshine that showed the dark walls, the polished floor, the furniture heavy, gilded, and Madame walked up and down talking to M. Boisfeane, the treasurer of Monsieur. She complained, laughing, of a pain in her side, and held her hand to it as she walked; the long window was open and a breeze blowing in ruffled the long auburn curls back from her face. Presently Monsieur entered; he wore a pink velvet riding suit and was booted and spurred; he looked at his wife as if he would have spoken to her, but changed his mind and crossed to the window.

“I asked for a cup of chicory water,” said Madame, ignoring him. “Where is Mme de Mecklenbourg?”

As she spoke that lady entered with the Comtesse de Gamaches.

Madame smiled at them; Monsieur turned in the window recess and looked at her; his hands held his gloves behind his back; the sunlight made stars of his spurs and twinkled on his sword-handle. Madame crossed the long room, taking no heed of him; her satin gown rippled with light. She held out her hand delicately.

“I have such a pain in my side,” she said. Chicory water had eased her before. She laughed.

Mme de Mecklenbourg handed the cup to Mme de Gourdon, who gave it the Princess.

Monsieur began putting on his gloves, looking, however, at his wife. Monsieur de Boisfeane was choosing a flower from the vase on the side-table, with an idea of fastening it in his cravat.

The heavy pendulum clock struck five. Madame drank.

When she had finished she moved a step away from the three ladies, the cup in one hand, the other clasped to her heart.

“My side,” she said in a tone of agony; the colour rushed into her face. “Ah!–the pain–I can no more.”

They stood staring at her, Monsieur de Boisfeane with a pink rose held in his hand.

“Ah, my God!” cried Madame; she was now livid, and the cup fell from her grasp. “Hold me up–I cannot stand.”

The Comtesse de Gamaches took her under the arms, for she was falling backwards, and Mme de la Fayette took her hands.

As her husband did not move, Mons. Boisfeane dared not offer his aid. The four ladies supported her to the door; she walked with difficulty; her head, with its fair hair outspread, sank against Mme de Gamaches’ shoulder; her pearl comb, that had been her mother’s, fell out of her locks and rattled on the smooth floor.

Monsieur, moving for the first time since her outcry, picked it up and ordered Mons. Boisfeane to call a doctor.

Madame, moaning, almost fainting, was half lifted, half dragged to her chamber.

This was a handsome room full of the summer sunshine and overlooking the rose terrace. Madame sank across the chair before her dressing-table; Mme de la Fayette held her up while the other ladies unlaced her. In an instant they had her undressed and in a night-gown; they lifted her into the great red-curtained bed.

Her constant complaints and the tears in her blue eyes startled and astonished them; they knew that she was usually patient under pain.

“You are in great anguish?” asked Mme de la Fayette.

“It is inconceivable,” she answered. “What have I done?”

She threw herself from side to side in her agony, clutching at the pillows and her thin night-rail. Mme de Gamaches drew the silk curtains over the bright sunlight and the terraces of St. Cloud. Her first physician came, stared down at her as she lay tossing.

He said she had caught a chill from her bathing, that it was nothing; he could offer no remedy.

She sat up in bed, shuddering with pain.

“I am wiser than you think,” she cried. “I am dying–send me a confessor.”

The doctor repeated that it was nothing dangerous, and left the chamber to prepare a powder.

Madame fell on her side again; her sufferings were horrible. She opened her eyes from a swoon of anguish to see her husband holding back the bed curtains and looking down at her.

She spoke, panting from the pillow.

“Ah, Monsieur!–you have ceased to love me–a long while now–but I–I have never deceived you.”

He turned away without a word.

She lay now on her back exhausted; the curtains were drawn so that she was enclosed in her bed. Her sick eyes traced the pattern on the canopy above her; she heard her ladies whispering.

She thought of de Guiche smuggled into her apartments under the guise of a fortune-teller, of his letters–three, four a day–when she was last sick; she thought of Marsillac, of de Vardes, of M. de Lorraine and of the King—

She thought of the King’s brother, her husband, of how she had angered, flouted, wounded him, of how she had laughed at him.

All at once she sat up and dragged the curtains apart.

“Look to that water I drank,” she gasped. “I am poisoned!” As she spoke she saw that Monsieur was still in her chamber, and she seemed confused. “They mistook one bottle for another,” she said, and fell down again in the bed.

A little tremor of horror ran through the ladies. Madame de la Fayette looked at Monsieur; he appeared neither startled nor terrified.

“Give some of the chicory water to a dog,” he said, “and watch if it be poison or no.”

But Mme de Gamaches said that the cup she had given to Madame had contained the last there was in the bottle.

It was now half-past five; the doctor returned and gave Madame a glass of viper powders mixed with milk; as she dragged herself up to take it she noticed that the sun was still shining brightly through a chink in the curtains, and it shot across her agony; it was a strange thing that the sun glimmered still over the terraces, the rose-beds, the terraces of St. Cloud, and the broad river running from Paris.

The loathsome mixture did her no good; she was smitten with a deadly sickness, and lay quite still, shivering. M. Vyelen felt her hands, icy cold, her feet as cold.

“I am poisoned,” she said; “I am dying.”

The room was crowded with people; many of them were weeping. The noise of it came heavily to her ears; her eyes were closed.

She wondered why they should weep; nobody was there whom she had imagined fond of her; neither De Guiche, Marsillac, M. de Lorraine–her brother, De Vardes or–the King.

And these? Would any of these care? She trusted none but the last.

How far to Versailles? Why did they not send for him?

The curtain was drawn again; this time Mme Desbordes. She declared that she had made the chicory water herself and had drunk of it. This to comfort Madame; it was not–as to the last–true.

Madame persisted that she was poisoned. She sat up in bed; the tears lay in her eyes.

“Give me an antidote,” she said through locked teeth. She was not going to die, she told herself; it was too horrible. People did not die like this in the midst of glory. She clenched her hand against her side and demanded an antidote.

Sainte-Foy, the valet de chambre of Monsieur, brought her a draught composed of Jesuit’s bark and pulverised mummy. Monsieur had sent it, he said; the doctor could recommend no better antidote. She drank it, shivering; the eyes were distracted.