“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed Jane fervently, “I once hoped — once thought so.”
“Hope so — think so still,” rejoined Ascham. “Ah, dear madam, when I last took my leave of you before my departure for Germany, and found you in your chamber at Bradgate, buried in the Phædo of the divine philosopher, while your noble father and his friends were hunting, and disporting themselves in the park — when to my wondering question, as to why you did not join in their pastime, you answered, ‘that all their sport in the park was but a shadow to the pleasure you found in Plato’ — adding, ‘alas! good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant’ — at that time I little thought for what a sad, though proud destiny you were reserved.”
“Neither did I, good Master Ascham,” replied Jane; “but you now find me at a better study. I have exchanged him whom you term, and truly, in a certain sense, the ‘divine’ philosopher, for writings derived from the highest source of inspiration — direct from heaven — and I find in this study more pleasure and far more profit than the other. And now farewell, good friend. Do me one last favor. Be present at my ending. And see how she, whom you have taught to live, will die. Heaven bless you!”
“Heaven bless you too, noble and dear lady,” replied Ascham, kneeling and pressing her hand to his lips. “I will obey your wishes.”
He then arose, and covering his face to hide his fast-falling tears, withdrew.
Jane, also, was much moved, for she was greatly attached to her old instructor; and to subdue her emotion, took a few turns within her chamber. In doing this, she noticed the various inscriptions and devices carved by former occupants; and taking a pin, traced with its point the following lines on the wall of the recess where she performed her devotions: —
Non aliéna putes homini quæ obtingere possunt;
Sors hodierna mihi, eras erit ilia tibi,
Underneath, she added the following, and subscribed them with her name: —
Deo juvante, nil nocet livor malus;
Et non juvante, nil juvat labor gravis:
Post tenebras, spero lucem!
The lines have been effaced. But tradition has preserved them. How deeply affecting is the wish of the patient sufferer— “Post tenebras, spero lucem!”
Scarcely had Jane resumed her devotions, when she was a second time interrupted by the jailer, who, ushering a young female into the room, departed. Jane arose, and fixed her eyes upon the new-comer, but did not appear to recognize her; while the latter, unable to restrain her tears, tottered towards her, and threw herself at her feet.
“Do you not know me, dearest madam?” she cried, in a voice suffocated by emotion.
“Can it be Cicely?” inquired Jane eagerly. “The tones are hers.”
“It is — it is,” sobbed the other.
Jane instantly raised her, and pressed her affectionately to her bosom.
“Poor child!” she exclaimed, gazing at her pale and emaciated features, now bedewed with tears, “you are as much altered as I am, — nay, more. You must have suffered greatly to rob you of your youth and beauty thus. But I should have known you at once, despite the change, had I not thought you dead. By what extraordinary chance do I behold you here?”
As soon as she could command herself, Angela related all that had befallen her since their last sad parting. She told how she had been betrayed into the hands of Nightgall by one of his associates, who came to Sion House with a forged order for her arrest, — carried her off, and delivered her to the jailer. How she was conveyed by the subterranean passage from Tower Hill to the secret dungeons beneath the fortress, — how she was removed from one cell to another by her inexorable captor, and what she endured from his importunities, threats, and cruel treatment, — and how at last, when she had abandoned all hope of succor, Providence had unexpectedly and mysteriously interposed to release her, and punish her persecutor. She likewise recounted the extraordinary discovery of her birth — Nightgall’s confession — Cholmondeley’s interview with Feckenham — and concluded her narration thus: “The confessor having informed me that her Majesty desired I should be brought before her, I yesterday obeyed the mandate. She received me most graciously — ordered me to relate my story — listened to it with profound attention — and expressed great sympathy with my misfortunes. ‘Your sufferings are at an end, I trust,’ she said, when I had finished, ‘and brighter and happier days are in store for you. The title and estates of which you have been so long and so unjustly deprived shall be restored to you. Were it for your happiness, I would place you near my person; but a life of retirement, if I guess your disposition rightly, will suit you best.’ In this I entirely agreed, and thanking her Majesty for her kindness, she replied: ‘You owe me no thanks, Angela. The daughter of Sir Alberic Mountjoy — my mother’s trusty friend — has the strongest claims upon my gratitude. Your lover has already received a pardon, and when these unhappy affairs are ended, he shall be at liberty to quit the Tower. May you be happy with him!’”
“I echo that wish with all my heart, dear Angela,” cried Jane. “May Heaven bless your union! — and it will bless it, I am assured, for you deserve happiness. Nor am I less rejoiced at your deliverance than at Cholmondeley’s. I looked upon myself as in some degree the cause of his destruction, and unceasingly reproached myself with having allowed him to accompany me to the Tower. But now I find — as I have ever found in my severest afflictions — that all was for the best.”
“Alas! madam,” returned Angela, “when I see you here, I can with difficulty respond to the sentiment.”
“Do not question the purposes of the Unquestionable, Angela,” replied Jane severely. “I am chastened because I deserve it, and for my own good. The wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, and fortitude is given me to bear my afflictions. Nay, they are not afflictions. I would not exchange my lot — sad as it seems to you — for that of the happiest and the freest within the realm. When the bondage of earth is once broken — when the flesh has no more power over the spirit — when the gates of heaven are open for admittance — can the world, or worldly joys, possess further charms? No. These prison walls are no restraint to me. My soul soars upwards, and holds communion with God and with His elect, among whom I hope to be numbered. The scaffold will have no terror for me. I shall mount it as the first step towards heaven; and shall hail the stroke of the axe as the signal to my spirit to wing its flight to the throne of everlasting joy!”
“I am rebuked, madam,” returned Angela, with a look of admiration. “Oh that I might ever hope to obtain such a frame of mind.”
“You may do so, dear Angela,” replied Jane, “but your lot is cast differently from mine. What is required from me is not required from you. Such strong devotional feelings have been implanted in my breast for a wise purpose, that they usurp the place of all other, and fit me for my high calling. The earnest and hearty believer in the Gospel will gladly embrace death, even if accompanied by the severest tortures, at seasons perilous to his Church, in the conviction that it will be profitable to it. Such have been the deaths of the martyrs of our religion — such shall be my death.”
“Amen!” exclaimed Angela fervently.
“Must we part now?” inquired Jane.
“Not unless you desire it,” replied Angela. “I have obtained the Queen’s permission to remain with you to the last.”
“I thank her for the boon,” returned Jane. “It will be a great consolation to me to have you near me. Angela, you must not shrink from the last duty of a friend — you must accompany me to the scaffold. I may need you there.”
“I will shrink from nothing you enjoin, madam,” replied Angela, shuddering. “ But I had rather — far rather — suffer in your stead.”
Jane made no reply, but pressed her hand affectionately. “I have omitted to tell you, madam,” continued Angela, “that the Queen, before I was dismissed from the presence, urged me to embrace the faith of Rome — that of my father, who perished for his adherence to it — and to use my endeav
ors to induce you to become reconciled with that Church.”
“And what answer did you make?” demanded Jane sternly.
“Such as you yourself would have made, madam,” replied Angela—” I refused both.”
“It is well,” rejoined Jane. “And now I must return to my devotions. You will have a weary office in attending me, Angela. Nor shall I be able to address more than a few words to you — and those but seldom.”
“Think not of me, madam,” replied the other; “all I desire is to be near you, and to join my prayers with yours.”
Both then knelt down, and both prayed long and fervently. It would have been a touching sight to see those young and beautiful creatures with eyes upturned to heaven — hands clasped — and lips murmuring prayer. But the zeal that animated Jane far surpassed that of her companion. Long before the former sought her couch, fatigue overcame the latter, and she was compelled to retire to rest; and when she arose (though it was not yet daybreak), she found the unwearying devotee had already been up for hours. And so some days were spent — Jane ever praying — Angela praying too, but more frequently engaged in watching her companion.
On the morning of Thursday, the 8th of February, the jailer appeared, with a countenance of unusual gloom, and informed his captive that the lieutenant of the Tower and Father Feckenham were without, and desired to see her.
“Admit them,” replied Jane. “I know their errand. You are right welcome, sirs,” she added, with a cheerful look, as they entered. “You bring me good news.”
“Alas! madam,” replied Feckenham sorrowfully, “we are the bearers of ill tidings. It is our melancholy office to acquaint you that your execution is appointed for tomorrow.”
“Why, that is good news,” returned Jane, with an unaltered countenance. “I have long and anxiously expected my release, and am glad to find it so near at hand.”
“I am further charged, by the Queen’s Highness, who desires not to kill the soul as well as the body,” pursued Feckenham, “to entreat you to use the few hours remaining to you in making your peace with heaven.”
“I will strive to do so, sir,” replied Jane meekly.
“Do not mistake me, madam,” rejoined Feckenham earnestly. “Her Majesty’s hope is that you will reconcile yourself with the Holy Catholic Church, by which means you can alone insure your salvation. For this end, she has desired me to continue near you to the last, and to use my best efforts for your conversion — and by God’s grace I will do so.”
“You may spare yourself the labor, sir,” replied Jane. “You will more easily overturn these solid walls by your arguments than my resolution.”
“At least suffer me to make the attempt,” replied Feckenham. “That I have hitherto failed in convincing you is true, and I may fail now, but my very zeal must satisfy you that I have your welfare at heart, and am eager to deliver you from the bondage of Satan.”
“I have never doubted your zeal, sir,” returned Jane; “nor — and I say it in all humility — do I doubt my own power to refute your arguments. But I must decline the contest now, because my time is short, and I would devote every moment to the service of God.”
“That excuse shall not avail you, madam,” rejoined Feckenham significantly. “The Queen and the Chancellor are as anxious as I am for your conversion, and nothing shall be left undone to accomplish it.”
“I must submit, then,” replied Jane, with a look of resignation. “But I repeat, you will lose your labor.”
“Time will show,” returned Feckenham.
“I have not yet dared to ask a question which has risen to my lips, but found no utterance,” said Jane, in an altered tone. “My husband! — what of him?”
“His execution will take place at the same time with your own,” replied Feckenham.
“I shall see him to-morrow, then?” cried Jane.
“Perhaps before,” returned Feckenham.
“It were better not,” said Jane, trembling. “I know not whether I can support the interview.”
“I was right,” muttered Feckenham to himself. “The way to move her is through the affections.” And he made a sign to the lieutenant, who quitted the chamber.
“Prepare yourself, madam,” he added to Jane.
“For what?” she cried.
“For your husband’s approach. He is here.”
As he spoke the door was opened, and Dudley rushed forward, and caught her in his arms. Not a word was uttered for some moments by the afflicted pair. Angela withdrew, weeping as if her heart would break, into one of the recesses, and Feckenham and the lieutenant into another. After the lapse of a short time, thinking it a favorable opportunity for his purpose, the confessor came forward. Jane and her husband were still locked in each other’s embrace, and it seemed as if nothing but force could tear them asunder.
“I would not disturb you,” said Feckenham, “but my orders are that this interview must be brief. I am empowered also to state, madam,” he added to Jane, “that her Majesty will even now pardon your husband, notwithstanding his heinous offences against her, provided you are publicly reconciled with the Church of Rome.”
“I cannot do it, Dudley,” cried Jane, in a voice of agony—” I cannot — cannot.”
“Neither do I desire it,” he replied. “I would not purchase life on such terms. We will die together.”
“Be it so,” observed Feckenham, with a disconcerted look. “The offer will never be repeated.”
“It would never had been made at all if there had been a chance of its acceptance,” returned Dudley coldly. “Tell your royal mistress that I love my wife too well to require such a sacrifice at her hands, and that she loves me too well to make it.”
“Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, gazing at him with tearful eyes, “I can now die without a pang.”
“Have you aught more to say to each other?” demanded Feckenham. “You will meet no more on earth!”
“Yes, on the scaffold,” cried Jane.
“Not so,” replied Feckenham gloomily. “Lord Guilford Dudley will suffer on Tower Hill — you, madam, will meet your sentence on the Green before the White Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard perished.”
“We shall meet in the grave, then,” rejoined Dudley bitterly, “where Mary’s tyranny can neither reach us, nor the voice of juggling priest disturb us more.”
“Your prisoner,” cried Feckenham, turning angrily to the lieutenant.
“Farewell, dear Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, straining him to her bosom—” be constant.”
“As yourself,” he replied, gently disengaging himself from her. “I am ready, sir,” he added to Brydges. And without hazarding another look at Jane, who fell back in the arms of Angela, he quitted the chamber.
Half-an-hour after this, when Jane had in some degree recovered from the shock, Feckenham returned, and informed her that he had obtained from the Queen a reprieve for herself and her husband for three days. “You can now no longer allege the shortness of the time allowed you, as a reason for declining a conference with me,” he said; “and I pray you address yourself earnestly to the subject, for I will not desist till I have convinced and converted you.”
“Then I shall have little of the time allotted me to myself,” replied Jane. “But I will not repine. My troubles may benefit others — if not myself.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
HOW THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH AND COURTENAY WERE DELIVERED OUT OF THE TOWER TO FURTHER DURANCE; AND HOW QUEEN MARY WAS WEDDED, BY PROXV, TO PHILIP OF SPAIN.
ELIZABETH still continued a close prisoner in the Bell Tower. But she indulged the most sanguine expectations of a speedy release. Her affections had received a severe blow in Courtenay’s relinquishment of his pretensions to her hand, and it required all her pride and mastery over herself to bear up against it. She did, however, succeed in conquering her feelings, and with her usual impetuosity began now to hate him in the proportion of her former love. While his mistress was thus brooding over the past, and trying to regul
ate her conduct for the future within the narrow walls of her prison, Courtenay, who had been removed to the Flint Tower, where he was confined in the basement chamber, was likewise occupied in revolving his brief and troubled career. A captive from his youth, he had enjoyed a few months’ liberty, during which visions of glory, power, greatness, and love — such as have seldom visited the most exalted — opened upon him. The bright dream was now ended, and he was once more a captive. Slight as his experience had been, he was sickened of the intrigues and hollowness of court life, and sighed for freedom and retirement. Elizabeth still retained absolute possession of his heart, but he feared to espouse her, because he was firmly persuaded that her haughty and ambitious character would involve him in perpetual troubles. Cost what it might, he determined to resign her hand as his sole hope of future tranquillity. In this resolution he was confirmed by Gardiner, who visited him in secret, and counselled him as to the best course to pursue.
“If you claim my promise,” observed the crafty Chancellor, “I will fulfil it, and procure you the hand of the Princess, but I warn you you will not hold it long. Another rebellion will follow, in which you and Elizabeth will infallibly be mixed up, and then nothing will save you from the block.”
Courtenay acquiesced, and Gardiner having gained his point, left him with the warmest assurances that he would watch over his safety. Insincere as he was, the Chancellor was well disposed towards Courtenay, but he had a difficult game to play. He was met on all hands by Renard, who was bent on the Earl’s destruction and that of the Princess; and every move he made with the Queen was checked by his wary and subtle antagonist. Notwithstanding her belief in their treasonable practices, Mary was inclined to pardon the offenders, but Renard entreated her to suspend her judgment upon them till the Emperor’s opinion could be ascertained. This, he well knew, if agreed to, would insure their ruin, as he had written secretly in such terms to Charles the Fifth as he was satisfied would accomplish his object. Extraordinary despatch was used by the messengers; and to Renard’s infinite delight, while he and Gardiner were struggling for ascendency over the Queen, a courier arrived from Madrid. Renard’s joy was converted into positive triumph as he opened his own letters received by the same hand, and found that the Emperor acquiesced in the expediency of the severest measures towards Elizabeth and her suitor, and recommended their immediate execution. The same despatches informed him that Charles, apprehensive of some further difficulty in respect to his son’s projected union with Mary, had written to the Count D’Egmont at Brussels, with letters of ratification and procuration, commissioning him to repair to the court of London without delay, and conclude the engagement by espousing the Queen by Proxy.
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