e
courier, now galloping on the north road to inform him, who was Earl of
Arran yesterday, that he was Duke of Hamilton to-day, and of a thousand
great schemes, hopes, ambitions, that were alive in the gallant heart,
beating a few hours since, and now in a little dust quiescent.

Chapter VII. I Visit Castlewood Once More

Thus, for a third time, Beatrix's ambitious hopes were circumvented, and
she might well believe that a special malignant fate watched and pursued
her, tearing her prize out of her hand just as she seemed to grasp it, and
leaving her with only rage and grief for her portion. Whatever her
feelings might have been of anger or of sorrow (and I fear me that the
former emotion was that which most tore her heart), she would take no
confidant, as people of softer natures would have done under such a
calamity; her mother and her kinsman knew that she would disdain their
pity, and that to offer it would be but to infuriate the cruel wound which
fortune had inflicted. We knew that her pride was awfully humbled and
punished by this sudden and terrible blow; she wanted no teaching of ours
to point out the sad moral of her story. Her fond mother could give but
her prayers, and her kinsman his faithful friendship and patience to the
unhappy stricken creature; and it was only by hints, and a word or two
uttered months afterwards, that Beatrix showed she understood their silent
commiseration, and on her part was secretly thankful for their
forbearance. The people about the Court said there was that in her manner
which frightened away scoffing and condolence: she was above their triumph
and their pity, and acted her part in that dreadful tragedy greatly and
courageously; so that those who liked her least were yet forced to admire
her. We, who watched her after her disaster, could not but respect the
indomitable courage and majestic calm with which she bore it. "I would
rather see her tears than her pride," her mother said, who was accustomed
to bear her sorrows in a very different way, and to receive them as the
stroke of God, with an awful submission and meekness. But Beatrix's nature
was different to that tender parent's; she seemed to accept her grief, and
to defy it; nor would she allow it (I believe not even in private, and in
her own chamber) to extort from her the confession of even a tear of
humiliation or a cry of pain. Friends and children of our race, who come
after me, in which way will you bear your t