Constance Sherwood: An Autobiography of the Sixteenth CenturyFullerton, Georgiana
History
Constance Sherwood: An Autobiography of the Sixteenth Century
Fullerton, Georgiana
Great Britain -- History -- Elizabeth, 1558-1603 -- Fiction
Oh, you who saw her, as I did, in her young and innocent years, can
you read this without shuddering? Can you think on it without weeping?
As her fall was sudden, so was the change it wrought. With it vanished
affections, hopes, womanly feelings, memory of the past; nay, methinks
therein I err. Memory did yet abide, but linked with hatred; Satan's
memory of heaven. From depths to depths she hath sunk, and is now
wedded to a mean wretch, the gaoler of her old prison. So rank a
hatred hath grown in her against recusants and mostly priests, that it
rages like a madness in her soul, which thirsts for their blood. Some
months back, about the time I did begin to write this history, news
reached me that she had sold the life of that meek saint, that sweet
poet, Father Southwell, of which even an enemy, Lord Mountjoy, did
say, when he had seen him suffer, "I pray God, where that man's soul
now is, mine may one day be." Her father had concealed him in that
house where she had dwelt in her innocent days. None but the family
knew the secret of its hiding-place.
She did reveal it, and took gold for her wages! What shall be that
woman's death-bed? What trace doth remain on her soul of what was once
a share in the divine nature? May one of God's ministers be nigh unto
her in that hour for to bid her not despair! If Judas had repented,
Jesus would have pardoned him. Peradventure, misery without hope of
relief overthrew her brain. I do pray for her always. 'Tis a vain
thought perhaps, but I sometimes wish I might, though I see not how to
compass it, yet once speak with her before she or I die. Methinks I
could say such words as should touch some old chord in her dead heart.
God knoweth! That day I write of, little did I ween what her end would
be. But yet it feared me to hear one so young and of so frail an
aspect speak so boastfully; and it seemed even then to my
inexperienced mind, that my Lady Surrey, who had so humbly erewhile
accused herself of cowardice and lamented her weakness, should be in a
safer plight, albeit as yet unreconciled.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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