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On the 8th of February 1587 Mary died on a scaffold which was erected in the castle-hall at Fotheringay as dauntlessly as she had lived. "Do not weep," she said to her ladies, "I have given my word for you." "Tell my friends," she charged Melville, "that I die a good Catholic." The blow was hardly struck before Elizabeth turned with fury on the ministers who had forced her hand.
I am not sure whether it is not best to go on being duped for a certain time. At all events, our honest Pen had a natural credulity, which enabled him to accept all statements which were made to him, and he took every one of Captain Macheath's figments as if they had been the most unquestioned facts of history. So Bloundell's account about Miss Fotheringay pained and mortified Pen exceedingly.
And so, incredible as it may seem, in the study of the little house behind the Congregational Chapel, on the evening of Sunday, Nov. 10, 1896, Mr. Fotheringay, egged on and inspired by Mr. Maydig, began to work miracles. The reader's attention is specially and definitely called to the date.
I recall one bright day in April when I played truant and had the temerity to go afishing on Spa Creek with Will Fotheringay, the bass being plentiful there. We had royal sport of it that morning, and two o'clock came and went with never a thought, you may be sure.
Mary was tried and sentenced to death, but Elizabeth was a long time making up her mind to sign the order for her execution, and at last punished the clerks who sent it off, as if it had been their fault. So Queen Mary of Scotland was beheaded at Fotheringay Castle, showing much bravery and piety.
From all sides poured in horsemen; gentlemen riding in with their servants; yeomen and farmers come in from the countryside, that they might say hereafter that they had at least been in Fotheringay when a Queen suffered the death of the axe. So the dark had fallen, yet lights moved about continually, and horses' hoofs never ceased to beat or the voices of men to talk.
Maydig, "will find a way about Winch never fear. My dear Sir, you are a most important man a man of the most astonishing possibilities. As evidence, for example! And in other ways, the things you may do...." "Yes, I've thought of a thing or two," said Mr. Fotheringay. "But some of the things came a bit twisty. You saw that fish at first? Wrong sort of bowl and wrong sort of fish.
"She's a dev'lish fine woman, that Mirabel," said Tiptoff; "though Mirabel was a d d fool to marry her." "A stupid old spooney," said the peer. "Mirabel!" cried out Pendennis. "Ha! ha!" laughed out Harry Foker. "We've heard of her before, haven't we, Pen?" It was Pen's first love. It was Miss Fotheringay.
Miss Fotheringay made a low curtsey at the conclusion of this gallant speech, and the Major followed her retreating steps to the door, where he squeezed her hand with the kindest and most paternal pressure. Bows was puzzled with this exhibition of cordiality: "The lad's relatives can't be really wanting to marry him to her," he thought and so they departed.
One night, nevertheless, they were very near to each other: a plank only separating Pen, who was in the boxes of the Museum Theatre, from the Major, who was in Lord Steyne's box, along with that venerated nobleman. The Fotheringay was in the pride of her glory.
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