“Alas! alas!” cried Cicely, bursting into tears; “my poor mother! what a fate was yours!”
“When all hope of her recovery was extinguished,” continued Nightgall, “I thought that, if any change occurred in the sovereignty or religion of the country, I might, by producing her, and relating a feigned story, obtain a handsome reward for her preservation. But this expectation also passed by. And I must confess that, at length, my only motive for allowing her to exist was that she formed an object to exercise my cruelty upon.”
“Heaven’s curse upon you!” cried Cholmondeley.
“Spare your maledictions,” rejoined Nightgall; “or heap them on my lifeless clay. You will soon be sufficiently avenged. Give me another draught of wine, for my lips are so dry I can scarcely speak, and I would not willingly expire till I have made known the sum of my wickedness.”
The wine given him, he proceeded.
“I will not tell you all the devilish cruelties I practised upon the wretched Alexia (for so, as you are aware, I called her, to conceal her real name), because from what you have seen you may guess the rest. But I kept her a solitary captive in those secret dungeons for a term of nearly seventeen years — ever since your birth, in short,” he added, to Cicely. “Sometimes she would elude my vigilance, and run shrieking along the passages. But when any of the jailers beheld her, they fled, supposing her a supernatural being.”
“Her shrieks were indeed dreadful,” remarked Cholmondeley. “I shall never forget their effect upon me. But you allowed her to perish from famine at last?”
“Her death was accidental,” replied Nightgall, in a hollow voice, “though it lies as heavy on my soul as if I had designed it. I had shut her up for security in the cell in the Devilin Tower, where you found her, meaning to visit her at night, as was my custom, with provisions. But I was sent on special business by the Queen to the palace at Greenwich for three days; and on my return to the Tower, I found the wretched captive dead.”
“She had escaped you, then,” said Cholmondeley bitterly. “But you have not spoken of her daughter?”
“First, let me tell you where I have hidden the body, that decent burial may be given it,” groaned Nightgall. “ It lies in the vault beneath the Devilin Tower — in the centre of the chamber — not deep — not deep.”
“I shall not forget,” replied Cholmondeley, noticing with alarm that an awful change had taken place in his countenance. “What of her child?”
“I must be brief,” replied Nightgall faintly, “for I feel that my end approaches. The little Angela was conveyed by me to Dame Potentia Trusbut. I said she was the offspring of a lady of rank, but revealed no name, and what I told beside was a mere fable. The good dame, having no child of her own, readily adopted her, and named her Cicely. She grew up in years — in beauty; and as I beheld her dawning charms, the love I had entertained for the mother was transferred to the child — nay, it was ten times stronger. I endeavored to gain her affections, and fancied I should succeed, till you” — looking at Cholmondeley—” appeared. Then I saw my suit was hopeless. Then evil feelings again took possession of me, and I began a fresh career of crime. You know the rest.”
“I do,” replied Cholmondeley.
“Have you aught further to disclose?”
“Only this,’’ rejoined Nightgall, who was evidently on the verge of dissolution, “cut open my doublet and within its folds you will find proofs of Angela’s birth, together with other papers referring to her ill-fated parents. Lay them before the Queen; and I make no doubt that the estates of her father, who was a firm adherent to the Catholic faith, and died for it, as well as a stanch supporter of Queen Catherine of Arragon, will be restored to her.”
Cholmondeley lost not a moment in obeying the injunction. He cut open the blood-stained jerkin of the dying man, and found, as he had stated, a packet.
“That is it,” cried Nightgall, fixing his glazing eyes on Angela, “that will restore you to your wealth — your title. The priest by whom you were baptized was the Queen’s confessor, Feckenham. He will remember the circumstance — he was the ghostly counsellor of both your parents. Take the packet to him and he will plead your cause with the Queen. Forget — forgive me—”
His utterance was suddenly choked by a stream of blood that gushed from his mouth, and with a hideous expression of pain he expired.
“Horrible!” cried Angela, placing her hands before her eyes.
“Think not of him,” said Cholmondeley, supporting her, and removing her to a little distance,—” think of the misery you have escaped — of the rank to which you will assuredly be restored. When I first beheld those proud and beautiful lineaments, I was certain they belonged to one of high birth. And I was not mistaken.”
“What matters my newly-discovered birth — my title — my estates, if I obtain them — if you are lost to me!” cried Angela despairing. “I shall never know happiness without you.”
As she spoke, an usher, who had entered the guardroom, marched up to Cholmondeley, and said, “I am the bearer of the Queen’s pardon to you. Your life is spared, at the instance of the Spanish Ambassador. But you are to remain a prisoner on parole, within the fortress, during the royal pleasure.”
“It is now my turn to support you,” said Angela, observing her lover stagger, and turn deadly pale.
“So many events crowd upon my brain,” cried Cholmondeley, “that I begin to fear for my reason — Air! — air!”
Led into the open court, he speedily recovered, and in a transport of such joy as has seldom been experienced, he accompanied Angela to the Stone Kitchen, where they were greeted with mingled tears and rejoicings by Dame Potentia and her spouse.
In the course of the day, Cholmondeley sought out Feckenham, and laid the papers before him. The confessor confirmed all that Nightgall had stated respecting the baptism of the infant daughter of Lady Mountjoy, and the other documents satisfied him that the so called Cicely was that daughter. He undertook to lay the case at once before the Queen, and was as good as his word. Mary heard his statement with the deepest interest, but made no remark; and at its conclusion desired that the damsel might be brought before her.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
HOW JANE WAS IMPRISONED IN THE MARTIN TOWER; HOW SHE WAS VISITED BY ROGER ASCHAM; HOW SHE RECEIVED FECKENHAM’S ANNOUNCEMENT THAT THE TIME OF HER EXECUTION WAS FIXED; AND HOW SHE WAS RESPITED FOR THREE DAYS.
THE Martin Tower (or, as it is now termed, the Jewel Tower, from the purpose to which it is appropriated), where Jane was confined by the Queen’s commands, lies at the north-eastern extremity of the ballium wall, and corresponds in size and structure with the Devilin, or Devereux Tower, at the opposite angle. Circular in form, like the last-mentioned building, and erected, in all probability, at the same period — the latter end of the reign of John, or the commencement of that of Henry the Third — it consists of two stories, having walls of immense thickness, and containing, as is the case with every other fortification, deep recesses, terminated by narrow loopholes. A winding stone staircase, still in a tolerable state of preservation, communicates with these stories, and with the roof, which was formerly embattled, and defended on either side by two small square turrets. Externally, on the west, the Martin Tower has lost its original character; the walls being new-fronted and modernized, and a flight of steps raised to the upper story, completely masking the ancient doorway, which now forms the entrance to the jewel-room. On the east, however, it retains much of its ancient appearance, though in part concealed by surrounding habitations; and when the building now in progress, and intended for the reception of the regalia, is completed, it will be still hidden. While digging the foundations of the proposed structure, which were sunk much below the level of the ballium wall, it became apparent that the ground had been artificially raised to a considerable height by an embankment of gravel and sand; and the prodigious solidity and strength of the wall were proved from the difficulty experienced by the workmen in breaking through it, to effe
ct a communication with the new erection.
Within, on the basement floor, on the left of the passage, and generally hidden by the massive portal, is a small cell constructed in the thickness of the wall; and farther on, the gloomy chamber used as a depository for the crown ornaments, and which requires to be artificially lighted, is noticeable for its architecture, having a vaulted and groined roof of great beauty. The upper story, part of the residence of Mr. Swift, the keeper of the regalia, at present comprehends two apartments, with a hall leading to them, while the ceiling having been lowered, other rooms are gained. Here, besides the ill-fated and illustrious lady whose history forms the subject of this chronicle, was confined the lovely, and perhaps guiltless, Anne Boleyn. The latter fact has, however, been doubted, and the upper chamber in the Beauchamp Tower assigned as the place of her imprisonment. But this supposition, from many circumstances, appears improbable, and the inscription bearing her name, and carved near the entrance of the hall, is conclusive as to her having been confined in this tower.
Here, in 1641, the twelve bishops, impeached of high treason by the revolutionary party in the House of Commons, for protesting against the force used against them, and the acts done in their absence, were imprisoned during their committal to the Tower: — at least, so runs the legend, though it is difficult to conceive how so many persons could be accommodated in go small a place. Here, also, Blood made his atrocious attempt (a story still involved in obscurity — it has been conjectured, with some show of probability, that he was prompted to the deed by Charles himself) to steal the crown jewels; and in this very chamber the venerable Talbot Edwards made his gallant defence of the royal ensigns, receiving for his bravery and his wounds a paltry grant of two hundred pounds, half of which, owing to vexatious delays, he only received, while the baffled robber was rewarded with a post at court, and a pension of five hundred pounds a year in Ireland. Can it be doubted after this which of the two was the offender in the eyes of the monarch?
It must not be omitted that the Jewel Tower enjoys, in common with its corresponding fortification, the Devereux Tower, the reputation of being haunted. Its ghostly visitant is a female figure robed in white — whether the spirit of Anne Boleyn, or the ill-fated Jane, cannot be precisely ascertained.
The Martin Tower acquired its present designation of the Jewel Tower in the reign of James the First, when the crown ornaments were removed to it from a small building, where they had been hitherto kept, on the south side of the White Tower. The regalia were first exhibited to the public in the reign of Charles the Second, when many of the perquisites of the ancient master of the Jewel House were abolished, and its privileges annexed to the office of the Lord Chamberlain.
Jane’s present prison was far more commodious than her former place of confinement in the Brick Tower, and, by Mary’s express injunctions, every attention consistent with her situation was shown her. Strange as it may seem, she felt easier, if not happier, than she had done during the later part of the period of her liberation. Then, she was dissatisfied with herself, anxious for her husband, certain of the failure of his enterprise, and almost desiring its failure, — now, the worst was past. No longer agitated by the affairs of the world, she could suffer with patience, and devote herself wholly to God. Alone within her prison-chamber, she prayed with more fervor than she had been able to do for months; and the soothing effect it produced was such, that she felt almost grateful for her chastening. “I am better able to bear misfortune than prosperity,” she murmured, “and I cannot be too thankful to Heaven that I am placed in a situation to call forth my strength. Oh that Dudley may be able to endure his trial with equal fortitude! — But I fear his proud heart will rebel. Sustain him, Lord! I beseech Thee, and bring him to a true sense of his condition.” Convinced that her days were now numbered, having no hope of pardon, scarcely desiring it, and determined to reject it, if coupled with any conditions affecting her faith, Jane made every preparation for her end. No longer giving up a portion of her time to study, she entirely occupied herself with her devotions. Influenced by the controversial spirit of the times, she had before been as anxious to overcome her opponents in argument, as they were to convince her of her errors. Now, though feeling equally strong in her cause, she was more lowly-minded. Reproaching herself bitterly with her departure from her duty, she sought by incessant prayer, by nightly vigil, by earnest and heartfelt supplication to wipe out the offence. “I have not sinned in ignorance,” she thought, “but with my eyes open, and therefore my fault is far greater than if no light had been vouchsafed me. By sincere contrition alone can I hope to work out my salvation; and if sorrow, remorse, and shame, combined with the most earnest desire of amendment, constitute repentance, I am truly contrite. But I feel my own unworthiness, and though I know the mercy of Heaven is infinite, yet I scarcely dare to hope for forgiveness for my trespasses. I have trusted too much to myself already, and find that I relied on a broken reed. I will now trust only to God.”
And thus she passed her time, in the strictest self-examination, fixing her thoughts above, and withdrawing them as much as possible from earth. The effect was speedily manifest in her altered looks and demeanor. When first brought to the Martin Tower, she was downcast and despairing. Ere three days had passed she became calm, and almost cheerful, and her features resumed their wonted serene and seraphic expression. She could not, it is true, deaden the pangs that ever and anon shook her when she thought of her husband and father. But she strove to console herself by the hope that they would be purified, like herself, by the trial to which they were subjected, and that their time of separation would be brief. To the Duke she addressed that touching letter preserved among the few fragments of her writings, which after it had been submitted to Gardiner, was allowed to be delivered to him. It concluded with these words: “And thus, good father, I have opened unto you the state wherein I presently stand — my death at hand. Although to you it may seem woeful, yet to me there is nothing that can be more welcome than to aspire from this Yale of Misery to that heavenly throne of all joy and pleasure with Christ, my Saviour. In whose steadfast faith (if it may be lawful for the daughter so to write to the father) the Lord who hath hitherto strengthened you so continue to keep you, that at the last we may meet in heaven.”
With her husband she was allowed no communication; and in reply to her request to see him once more, she was told that their sole meeting would be on the scaffold: — a wanton insult, for it was not intended to execute them together. The room, or rooms (for the large circular chamber was even then divided by a partition) occupied by Jane in the Martin Tower, were those on the upper story, tenanted, as before mentioned, by the keeper of the regalia, and her chief place of resort during the daytime was one of the deep embrasures looking towards the north. In this recess, wholly unobserved and undisturbed, she remained, while light lasted, upon her knees, with a book of prayers, or the Bible before her, fearful of losing one of the precious moments which flew by so quickly — and now so tranquilly. At night she withdrew, not to repose, but to a small table in the midst of the apartment, on which she placed the sacred volume and a lamp, and knelt down beside it. Had she not feared to disturb her calm condition, she would not have allowed herself more than an hour’s repose, at the longest intervals nature could endure. But desirous of maintaining her composure to the last she yielded to the demand, and from midnight to the third hour stretched herself upon her couch. She then arose, and resumed her devotions. The same rules were observed in respect to the food she permitted herself to take. Restricting herself to bread and water, she ate and drank sufficient to support nature, and no more.
On the fourth day after her confinement, the jailer informed her there was a person without who had an order from the Queen to see her. Though Jane would have gladly refused admittance to the applicant, she answered meekly, “Let him come in.”
Immediately afterwards a grave-looking middle-aged man, with a studious countenance overclouded with sorrow, appeared. He was
attired in a black robe, and carried a flat velvet cap in his hand.
“What, Master Roger Ascham, my old instructor!” exclaimed Jane, rising as he approached, and extending her hand to him, “I am glad to see you.”
Ascham was deeply affected. The tears rushed to his eyes, and it was some moments before he could speak.
“Do not lament for me, good friend,” said Jane in a cheerful tone, “but rejoice with me, that I have so profited by your instructions as to be able to bear my present lot with resignation.”
“I do indeed heartily rejoice at it, honored and dear madam,” replied Ascham, subduing his emotion, “and I would gladly persuade myself that my instructions had contributed in however slight a degree to your present composure. But you derive your fortitude from a higher source than any on earth. It is your piety, not your wisdom that sustain you; and though I have pointed out the way to the living waters at which you have drunk, it is to that fountain alone that you owe the inestimable blessing of your present frame of mind. I came not hither to depress, but to cheer you — not to instruct, but be instructed. Your life, madam, will afford the world one of the noblest lessons it has ever received, and though your career may be closed at the point whence most others start, it will have been run long enough.”
“Alas! good Master Ascham,” rejoined Jane, “I once thought that my life and its close would be profitable to our Church — that my conduct might haply be a model to its disciples — and my name enrolled among its martyrs. Let him who standeth take heed lest he fall. I had too much confidence in myself. I yielded to impulses, which, though not culpable in the eyes of men, were so in those of God.”
“O madam! you reproach yourself far too severely,” cried Ascham. “Unhappy circumstances have made you amenable to the laws of your country, it is true, and you give up your life as a willing sacrifice to justice. But this is all that can, or will be required of you, by your earthly or your Supreme Judge. That your character might have been more absolutely faultless in the highest sense I will not deny, had you sacrificed every earthly feeling to duty. But I for one should not have admired — should not have loved you as I now love you, had you acted otherwise. What you consider a fault has proved you a true woman in heart and affection; and your constancy as a believer in the Gospel, and upholder of its doctrines, has been equally strongly manifested. Your name in after ages will be a beacon and a guiding-star to the whole Protestant Church.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 168
