The grim expression on the faces of the Guards around, and the murmurs of the crowd who looked on affected them not; perhaps they did not observe them, or it might be that their thoughts were far away, Sir Thomas' perhaps with his wife and children and Sir Hubert's perchance in the past with me in the farmer's shed in Sussex, or it might be by the Thames at Isleworth, or riding with me again to Kingston; or, on the other hand, they were possibly with me now, wondering if I were among the lookers-on, longing to see me once again, in order to say 'Farewell' before the last dark crossing, and hoping that in another life we might meet to part no more.
It happened that, just as the defeated knights were stepping out of the boat, a lad's voice in the crowd—it was Saul's, who, I afterwards learnt, had run away from his master to join the opposite side—shrill, insistent, daring, broke out into the old cry, 'A Wyatt! A Wyatt!' Sir Thomas did not stir, but Sir Hubert looked round, with a sudden beautiful smile. Then, as every one was searching for the boy, with murmured comments on his imprudence and audacity, I leaned forward, calling out to the prisoners, in a clear, distinct tone of voice—
'Courage! Defeat may be Victory in disguise. What looks like loss down here may be counted as pure gain on high!' For it seemed to me that, however disastrous the result, the fact remained that heroes had done heroically. Yes, and if success had crowned their efforts, all men would have praised them. Of that I was assured.
But the sound of my voice, and the sight of my face, as he cast one swift glance at it, unmanned Sir Hubert, and he had to shade his eyes with his hand, as they hurried him and Sir Thomas out of the boat and through the gate; whilst angry, scowling faces turned on me, and my escort had much difficulty in getting me away uninjured.
I scarcely know how I got back to Lady Jane. Only one thing I clearly heard as I was borne through the crowd—it was a voice saying, 'They will both be executed, and the younger one first, because he did not surrender but was taken prisoner with his sword drawn.'
Mistaken the two men may have been, yet they had the courage of their convictions and did what seemed to them to be right, and, at least, they were self-sacrificing, laying down their lives and the joy of living with their loved ones at the call of duty to their fellow-countrymen.
Queen Mary would kill them for it. What of that? Mankind has often crucified and killed its noblest friends. And, after all, it would only be their bodies that were slain; their souls, the best part of them, stripped of their human dress, would wend their way to the Realms of the Blest, where no grief, pain, nor fighting could ever disturb them again.
Nevertheless I fell ill with grief and pain, and was unconscious when they carried me into the house of Sir Thomas Brydges, the lieutenant of the Tower, where Lady Jane had now been removed.
I wished that I could have died too, as I slowly recovered to find that the very worst results for my dear lady had followed upon Sir Thomas Wyatt's defeat, for within three days of his being brought to the Tower, Queen Mary signed her poor young relative's death warrant. Lady Jane was to be beheaded, as was also her father the Duke of Suffolk.
My dear lady broke the sad news to me herself, as soon as I was well enough to hear it.
I was sitting on the wide window-seat of her bedroom, propped up with pillows, when she came and stood beside me, saying gently—
'Margery, you remember when we were at Sion House that I used to read to you out of my Plato, that we were to hold to the road that leads above and justice with prudence always pursue?'
'Yes. Yes. I remember every word,' I said faintly, still being very weak.
'I failed in the latter part,' continued Lady Jane. 'It was at the bidding of others and sorely against my will; nevertheless I was weak and gave way and failed, therefore now,' she paused, looking at me anxiously, as if to see if I were able to bear it, 'now,' she continued very softly, 'I have to pay the penalty.'
I opened my eyes widely, and there must have been a look of horror in them, for she said quickly: 'Do not—do not take it so. I am willing to suffer for my fault meekly, that by so doing I may still "hold to the road that leads above," and you must help me, Margery. I rely upon you to help me,' she continued earnestly, 'for this is a hard step that I have to take, and I am very weak.' Her lips trembled. 'But,' she went on bravely, 'a Greater than Plato has said, "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a Crown of Life." That is thebest Crown, Margery, and I, who had no right to an earthly one, would fain win this Heavenly Crown.'
'Yes,' I said. 'Yes. But——'
'Nay, dear one, we will have no buts. It is one of the great laws of life that he who sins must suffer. I have sinned,' she added meekly; 'I, therefore, must bear the suffering.'
But it seemed to me the greatest shame that ever was that a being so sweet and faultless as my dear mistress, who had been domineered over and bullied until, constrained by love and the keeping of her marriage vow of obedience, she allowed herself to be placed on the throne, should for so slight a fault be condemned to suffer death—I knew that the penalty was death, she having been sentenced to that before and only reprieved for a time by the clemency of the queen.
'I have only a short time to live,' continued Lady Jane, 'and there is much to do, for Mary, with a show of kindness, with which I would rather have dispensed, is going to send her own chaplain, Dr. Feckenham, of Westminster Abbey, to try to shake my faith and bring me over to her Church before I die, or perchance because, even at the last hour, if I become a Roman Catholic, I may be pardoned. I must prepare myself to meet some of the arguments of the chaplain, for I would fain convince him that Protestantism is right, rather than that he should damage my belief,' and so saying she arose, and, fetching a Bible, began to study it assiduously.
But I, in my weakness, closed my eyes, resolving to find, if possible, some way of escape for my dear lady, other than the surrender of her Faith—which I knew she would rather die twenty deaths than surrender or disown—yet unable to think clearly, because of the strange buzzing in my ears and thumping of my heart and trembling of my limbs.
Lady Jane left me to myself for a little while, and presently I grew better and began to plan schemes for getting at the queen and softening her heart by my singing, in order that I might implore her to pardon my dear lady, or for assisting the latter to escape from the Tower by inducing my physician to order me change of air and persuading Lady Jane to exchange clothes with me and walk out of the Tower in my stead. And then my mistress, laying down the Bible she was studying, came to sit beside me, and nipped all my plans in the bud by her first words. For I recognized that she had found a more excellent way than any I could devise, as her mind was stayed upon God, and in that Refuge and Strength she was lifted up above all earthly fears and torments.
'Margery,' she said very gently, 'you have been ill, dear, and your mind is weakened, so that as yet you only see indifferently, like the man who, on first being cured of blindness, saw men as trees walking; but I have had time to consider all things, and God has sent His angels (messengers) to comfort me, until now I would not have things different if I could. I will read you part of a letter I have written to my father, who is also condemned to be beheaded, and who, I am told, grieves more because of having brought me to this pass than because of his own fate.' And, with that, she took a newly-written letter from her bosom and began to read—
'Father,—Although it pleases God to hasten my death by you, by whom my life should rather have been lengthened, yet I can yield God more hearty thanks for shortening my sad days than if all the world had been given into my possession, with life lengthened to my will.' And, after alluding to his grief on her account, the letter continued: 'Though perhaps to you it may seem woeful, to me there is nothing that can be more welcome than, from this vale of misery, to aspire to that Heavenly throne of all joys and pleasures with Christ our Saviour, in whose steadfast faith—if I may be allowed to say so—may the Lord still keep you, that at last we may meet in Heaven.'
'That will comfort him, I think,' said my dear lady, as she folded and put by the letter to await a favourable opportunity for sending it. 'And I mean what I say, Margery. There is no joy this world can give which would compensate for the loss of the Heavenly Home that I now feel to be so near. True, it is a painful gate that I have to pass through, but it will be short, and it leads straight Home.'
Thus she talked, and I saw that to disturb her faith, with any chimerical schemes for escape from it would be cruel in the extreme; also I determined not to sadden her last earthly hours by my grief, for there would be all the years after she had gone in which to mourn, but to do my best to brighten her last short days. Kissing her hand, therefore, I said that she had greatly comforted me, which made her exceedingly glad.
Then she arose, and wrote in Latin, with a pin, on the wall of her room some lines, which she translated thus—
Stand not secure who stand in mortal state;What's mine to-day shall next day be thy fate.
And again—
If Heaven protect, hell's malice cannot wound;By Heaven deserted, peace can ne'er be found.These shadows passed, I hope for light.
'Yes, Margery,' she said, turning to me, 'in spite of all my faults, I have held to the road that leads above, and when the shadows are passed by, then I hope to see the glorious light.'
'If any one ever will see it, you will,' said I, again kissing her hand and looking with the deepest admiration into her sweet young face, which seemed to me to bear the seal of Heaven's own peace.
I do not like to think of how the soul of my dear young mistress was harassed during those last few days by the visits and arguments of Queen Mary's chaplain, Dr. Feckenham.
Mistress Ellen, who had been sent for to keep my dear lady company during my illness, and who remained with us until the end, and I sat, with our needlework, at one end of the apartment, whilst these conferences were going on. We did not hear all that was said, but only enough to show that, learned and clever as was Lady Jane's opponent, he was beaten over and over again by the wise and able manner in which she answered his arguments.
Sometimes a few of her sayings reached us, to be treasured up in our minds, as, for instance, when she replied to his arguments about transubstantiation. Her words were these: 'Where was Christ when He said, "Take, eat, this is My body"? Was He not at the table when He said so? He was at that time alive, and suffered not till the next day.
'What took He but bread? What brake He but bread? Look, what He took He brake, and look, what He brake He gave, and look, what He gave they did eat; and yet all this while He Himself was alive and at supper before His disciples, or else they were deceived.'
But the priest would not admit that she was right in that, or in the other statements she made so clearly and forcibly; he was, however, so won by her gentle and courteous demeanour that he prevailed upon the queen to allow her to live three days longer than the time at first specified, that he might be able more effectually to convince her mind.
This short reprieve was the only good he did, to my thinking. But Lady Jane said that having to answer his arguments strengthened and fortified her mind against all doubts, because whilst searching in her Bible for the right answers to give him she gained a deeper insight into the Truth.
'You must remember always, dear Margery,' she said to me, 'that a really good thing does not lose by being examined. For examination only reveals more and more of its intrinsic worth.'
The fact was that she answered all Dr. Feckenham's arguments with such strength and clearness and such firm conviction as showed plainly that religion had been her chief study, and that now it fortified her, not only against the fear of death, but also against all doubts and apprehensions.
It was always with relief, however, that we saw the priest depart, for the strain of all this arguing upon our lady's mind was extremely great, and indeed she was looking worn and tired out.
On the Sunday evening, which was to be her last in this world, she wrote a letter in Greek to her sister Catherine, and put it with a New Testament in the same language which she was bequeathing to her. At my request she translated for me the first part of her letter, which ran, as nearly as I can remember, as follows;—
'I am sending you, my dear sister Catherine, a book which, though not outwardly trimmed with gold or curious embroidery made by the most artful fingers, yet intrinsically is worth more than all the precious mines of which this world can boast. It is the book, my best loved sister, of the law of the Lord; it is His Testament and last Will, which He has bequeathed to us—it will lead you to the path of eternal joy, if you read it desiring to follow its counsels, and will bring you to an immortal, everlasting life. It will teach you how to live and how to die.'
It was in our last talk together, before the fatal day of her execution, that my dear lady bestowed upon me her beloved Plato, advising that I should learn to read it in the language in which it was written.
'I cannot teach you Greek now, dear Margery,' she said, 'but there will be others.'
I made a gesture of despair. What should I care for others when she had gone? I could not speak without breaking down, so I said nothing. And Lady Jane seemed to understand, for she was very sweet and kind.
'It will always be a consolation to you, Margery,' she said, 'to remember that you have been the greatest comfort to me. Ever since I first saw your sweet face entering the drawing-room at Sion House I have loved you dearly. I had been praying for some one to come to me who was young like me—I feel old now, dear, though it is scarcely a year since then, but so much that is sad has happened.'
I stroked her hand and kissed it, for I could not speak, and if I had spoken my poor words might have spoiled the interview.
And then it was that she asked me to write an account of that last year of her life, relating exactly how it happened that she was made queen, and how the throne passed away from her, leaving in its stead a scaffold; also describing how it came about that the head which had worn a crown was forfeited, and that for an error of her mind her poor frail body was killed, adding, 'Margery, others may write more learnedly of the matter, but I would fain be represented to posterity as I am rather than as I am supposed to be. And God will help you, if you ask Him,' she said, seeing my fear and dread that I should not be able to do it properly.
'It is not fine writing that is wanted,' she went on, 'but a plain, unvarnished statement of the facts. And, Margery,' she said in conclusion, 'you must also tell the story of brave Sir Thomas Wyatt's insurrection and of your dear knight's gallant efforts to cause me to reign over this land, and to gain back the throne for me. I have been thinking, dear, that I was hard upon them always in my great desire to be left alone. But since you told me that Sir Thomas Wyatt's object was against Queen Mary's Spanish marriage and that Sir Hubert's motive was to save England from bigoted Roman Catholicism and Spain and the Inquisition, I have come to view the matter differently, and so will others, if you tell them exactly what they thought. Come, Margery, look up, dear one, for you have a great work before you, and you must take heart and live to do it. You have to vindicate the honour of two noble knights and of your mistress, and clear their names, which have been smirched and blackened by the tongues of powerful enemies. No one can do it but you, dear, in exactly the same way, for your loving eyes have seen us as we are and not as we are supposed to be; and you possess Love, the master-key, which can explain all that has appeared so wrong and presumptuous and rebellious in our lives. You must do this for me, Margery, and for your dear knight, Sir Hubert, and for Sir Thomas Wyatt.'
I promised that I would, and she blessed and thanked me very solemnly, saying that she was sure that God would give me strength and wisdom for the task.
And I thought then that this must be the special work which Master Montgomery said might be given me to do when I left home and went to London.
The fatal day of the execution dawned at last, and I would that I could draw a veil over its direful happenings. But my lady's charge is upon me to tell everything exactly as I saw it occur, and so I cannot pick and choose.
It was February 12, a dull, cold morning, and within the Tower people went about with dismal faces, as well they might, for most were sorry for my poor young mistress.
She had passed a great part of the night—her last night—in prayer, and it was only at my earnest entreaty that she at length lay down for an hour or two before morning broke. Then she slept as sweetly as a little child, and Mistress Ellen and I stole on tiptoe to the bedside to look at her, as those look who will not see the loved face any more.
I could fancy once that her lips moved in her sleep, pronouncing the name of Dudley, and doubtless even her sleeping thoughts were with her young husband, who was also that day to suffer the same extreme penalty of the law, but not at the same place. He was to die upon Tower Hill, where the authorities dared not execute his poor young wife, lest the sight should appeal to the hearts of the people, causing them to rise in a mass to prevent the double execution. She therefore was to die upon the scaffold erected before St. Peter's Chapel on the Green, within the Tower.
When the time came for her to rise we shrank from awaking her to such a fate, but at length were obliged to do so; and though for a moment a look of terror crossed her face, it quickly changed to one of the sweetest resignation. She thanked us gently for not allowing her to sleep too long, and, except that she was pale, her manner appeared to be much as usual.
At her request we dressed her in black velvet, with a drooping collar of white lace falling low from her slender neck.
'There is not much of it to sever,' she said pathetically, encircling it for a moment with her right hand, but desisting and throwing her arms round me as she saw my look. 'It will be over so soon,' she said. 'One moment, and then the gates of heaven will open wide, and for my Saviour's sake I, sinful I, washed in His blood, clothed in His righteousness, will be permitted to enter in.'
That was her belief. And the comfort and the glory of it spread a veil over and shed a halo round all that was coarse and revolting in the manner of her death.
It had been arranged that Sir Thomas Brydges, the lieutenant of the Tower, in whose house we were, was to escort her to the scaffold, but first he had the melancholy task of conducting her husband, Lord Guildford Dudley, out of the Tower to the more public scaffold on Tower Hill, where a vast concourse of people were assembled.
Early in the morning the queen had sent Lady Jane permission to have an interview with her husband, but she, thinking that this would be too trying for them both, declined the favour, saying she would meet him within a few hours in heaven.
As she stood at a window looking out, however, she saw Lord Guildford Dudley going to execution, and an hour afterwards beheld men bearing his corpse back to its last resting-place in St. Peter's Chapel.
Immediately after that terrible sight she wrote down in a book three short sentences in Greek, Latin and English.
The first, roughly translated, was—
'If his slain body shall give testimony against me, his blessed soul shall render an eternal proof of my innocence in the presence of God.'
The second said—
'The justice of men took away his body, but the Divine mercy has preserved his soul.'
The English sentence ran as follows—
'If my fault deserved punishment, my youth, at least, and my imprudence were worthy of excuse. God and posterity will show me favour.'
Dr. Feckenham came from the queen to attend her to the scaffold, and I was afraid that he would trouble her; but I noticed as I followed them, with Mistress Ellen, that my lady was not attending to his words, but kept her eyes fixed upon a book of prayers in her hand.
The passing bell began to toll slowly and solemnly. It was almost more than I could bear, and the sound of it seemed to startle Lady Jane, for she looked up; and then, appearing for the first time to perceive the faces around her, she bowed and spoke to them, saying to Dr. Feckenham—
'God will abundantly requite you, good sir, for your humanity to me, though your discourses give me more uneasiness than all the terrors of my approaching death.'
'Look!' whispered Mistress Ellen at that moment. 'Look at those awful birds!'
There were indeed a couple of ravens hovering about in the air, as if waiting for the death that was so soon to take place.
I did not scream, but felt as if my heart would burst, and the physical pain almost overpowered the mental.
Thus we walked across the Green to the scaffold, where there were not so many people assembled, some dreading much to see so sad a sight as the execution of my dear lady.
She was not shedding a tear all the time, but bearing herself with meek and gentle dignity, and Mistress Ellen and I were weeping bitterly behind her.
And now she stood on the scaffold and spoke to the spectators, and this was what she said, as nearly as I can remember—
'My lords, and you good Christian people, which come to see me die, I am under a law, and by that law, as a never-erring judge, I am condemned to die; not for anything I have done to offend the queen's majesty, for I am guiltless—but only that I consented to the thing that I was forced into——' She went on to confess herself a sinner and deserving of death, but thanked God that He had given her time to repent of her sins and to trust herself to her Redeemer. Then she continued—'Pray with me and for me whilst I am yet alive, that God, of His infinite goodness and mercy, will forgive my sins, how numberless and grievous soever against Him; and I beseech you all to bear me witness that I here die a true Christian woman, professing and avouching from my soul that I trust to be saved by the blood, passion and merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour only, and by no other means, casting far behind me all the works and merits of my own actions as things so far short of the true duty I owe that I quake to think how much they may stand up against me. And now I pray you all, pray for me and with me.'
The bell went on tolling, and the great dark birds hovered overhead, while the sound of sobs and bitter weeping was also to be heard.
Only Lady Jane shed no tears, as kneeling, she repeated the Psalm,Miserere mei, Deus—
'Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness: according to the multitude of Thy mercies do away with mine offences.
'Wash me thoroughly from my wickedness, and cleanse me from my sin....'
And so on, the words of penitence, grief and supplication in those clear young tones rising from the slight, black-robed figure and mingling with the louder, harsher sounds of woe and death, went to our hearts and reached more surely still the heart of Him Who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities, and without Whom not even a sparrow can fall to the ground.
When she had repeated the whole Psalm, Lady Jane arose, and turning to Mistress Ellen and me, gave us her gloves and handkerchief, and Sir Thomas Brydges asking for some token, she bestowed upon him her prayer-book, having first written in it a few lines, at his request. These were, as nearly as I can remember them—for she showed them to me, thinking no doubt that they would comfort me, who could scarcely see them for my tears—
'Forasmuch as you have desired so simple a woman to write in so worthy a book, good Master Lieutenant, therefore I shall as a friend desire you, and as a Christian request you, to call upon God to incline your heart to His laws, to quicken you in His way, and not to take the Word of Truth entirely out of your mouth. Live still to die, that by death you may purchase Eternal Life. All have to die. If you were to live as long as Methuselah, yet a time would come when you had to die. As the Preacher saith, "There is a time to be born and a time to die, and the day of our death is better than the day of our birth."
'Yours, as the Lord knows, as a friend,'JANE DUDLEY.'
And now, with hands that trembled a little, she attempted to undo the fastenings of her heavy black dress, and perceiving that she bungled over it, the executioner offered to assist her, but she turned immediately to us her gentlewomen, upon which we took off her dress, and gave her a handkerchief to bind over her eyes. She did this herself, and then the executioner, kneeling before her, asked her for pardon, which she gave him most willingly.
'I pray you dispatch me quickly,' she added.
'Yes, madam.'
'Will you take it off before I lie down?' she asked, pointing to the handkerchief.
'No, madam.'
She began to feel for the block, asking, 'Where is it?'
Some one guided her to it, and saying, 'Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,' she laid down her head, which at one stroke was severed from her body.
* * * * *
'All is over!' I cried miserably, as I recovered from another illness, to find myself being tended by Mistress Ellen, in a poor lodging in Fleet Street. 'There is nothing left—nothing!'
'There is God,' said my companion.
It was the first time I had ever heard her speak of Him, or indeed of religion, for she always averred that todois better than to talk; therefore her three words now made all the more impression.
'He has taken my dear lady,' sobbed I rebelliously.
'He gave her to us in the first instance,' was the reply. 'And I know,' gently added the good woman, 'that He has taken her through a quick, though painful, door into the glory beyond. There, doubtless, her joy is so extreme as to have caused her already to forget the pain that went before, and there it behoves us to try and follow her.'
And with that Mistress Ellen ran out of the room, for she was well nigh breaking down herself, in spite of her brave words.
But I turned my face to the wall and lay weeping a long while.
Mistress Ellen was a wise woman; she had brought me out of the Tower that I might recover, away from the scenes which were full of memories of our dear lady; and now, when I was slowly regaining my health in the poor lodgings, which were all we could afford, knowing that the best thing for me would be some useful occupation, she urged that I should begin at once upon the task which my dear lady had left to me.
I therefore sat down before a quantity of clean blank writing paper, a pot of ink and a stock of new quill pens. There were the materials for the framework of my book, and I had the will to do it, yes, and the ability, for I could write a pretty hand and string sentences together, as my lady knew, and my brain was teeming with the facts I had to tell; but there was something lacking, because now I could not write a word. Whenever I lifted up my pen to try and set one down a shadow came between me and the paper, so that I could see nothing except the dear face of my lover as I saw it last when he raised his hand to hide his eyes, and a voice said in my heart, 'He is not dead yet, though he is condemned. He is languishing in the Tower prisons, condemned to death, yes, but not dead yet, and while there is life there is hope.'
Yet I had been told there was none for those who entered the Tower by the Traitors' Gate.
I was sitting one day as usual before my writing materials, unable to set down a word, and thinking over all this again and again, when there was a loud knocking at the house door, and presently our landlady came up to us ushering a visitor into the room.
It was Jack Fish, and the sight of his broad face and burly figure brought to my mind most vividly the times when, with Sir Hubert, I had met with him before. Almost I saw again the half-filled cart in the old shed in Sussex, and, through the dim light, my dear knight's handsome face emerging from the heap of straw in the corner at the sound of this good man's cheery voice, assuring us that he would send our enemies away. Also I seemed to hear again the rolling of the coach and trampling of horses' feet upon the queen's highway, later on, as Master Fish's voice pointed out our danger and particularly mine in the coach, suggesting that I should leave it and escape on horseback, which advice, being carried out, saved me from again falling into my enemy's hands; and, most of all, the sight of Master Jack Fish brought to my mind vividly my dear imprisoned knight.
'Poor child!' said my visitor, forgetting everything except my youth and sorrow of heart. 'Poor child! Thou hast had a hot place in the battle! Thy loving heart again put thee in the position of the greatest danger!' and he turned his head aside, for big tears were rolling down his honest cheeks.
I wept, too, then, though I had been thinking that I had no more tears to shed, and the page that I was to write upon became wet and bleared.
'What have they done to her?' I heard Master Fish inquiring aside of Mistress Ellen, adding low, 'Don't tell me that they tortured her in the Tower, or——' in his mighty indignation he became inarticulate, but made a gesture as if he could kill some one.
'The torturer was Grief, and the instrument that was used was the child's heart,' answered my companion very softly. 'It is a size too big for her weak frame,' she added.
'Aye, aye.' He muttered something which I could not hear, but Mistress Ellen's rejoinder startled me—
'Hair is a mere detail. It began to grow grey when her lover was brought into the Tower, and became white the day we lost our lady.'
Jack Fish began to walk up and down the room in no little agitation. Suddenly he stopped short and returned to me.
'Would it comfort thee, dear,' he said, with great gentleness, 'to know that thou hast been avenged in Sussex, where that brute, Sir Claudius Crossley, in endeavouring to escape from the just punishment of his ill deeds, came into collision with a party of rough fellows, some of whom had once been his devoted followers in deeds of violence, who, turning upon him when he was down, seized and drowned him in the very same pond by the roadside in which he had himself been used to drown witches?'
I shuddered.
'Poor wretch!' I said. 'May God have prepared him for his end!'
'And now,' said my visitor, 'we must look to thee.' For he perceived that his information about Sir Claudius had scarcely enlivened me. 'We must look to thee,' he repeated. 'Thou hast had it a bit rough,' he added tenderly. 'Sometimes the storm of life gathers and breaks upon one all at once—but it spends itself—it spends itself,' he faltered and almost broke down, because for the first time I looked up and he saw my eyes, 'and then, for all the future,' he continued hurriedly, 'there is a great calm. God grant that it may be so with thee, my child!' and he laid his hand tenderly upon my poor spoilt head.
Then I opened my heart to the good man, telling him all about my dear lady's execution, and that my true lover, Sir Hubert Blair, still lay in the Tower under sentence of death, adding that it was my dread, night and day, that they would take his life in the same way as that in which they had already taken my poor mistress's.
'If they do I shall die,' I wailed. 'I cannot live! I cannot live if Hubert is beheaded too!'
Master Jack Fish looked very grave. He was thinking, as he afterwards told me, of the hundreds of rebels who were being condemned to death on all sides, and that the prisons were full, and even the poor men were packed into the churches, to await their turn to hang upon the gibbets set up by the roadsides and elsewhere. Sir Thomas Wyatt was to be beheaded on April 11, and it was not likely that Sir Hubert Blair, who had aided and abetted him in everything, would be set free.
'There is only one person in the land who can do it,' he said at length. 'Queen Mary can pardon your lover, if she likes.'
Queen Mary, the murderer, as she seemed to me, of her poor young relation, my dear mistress, and of many, many more. Was it likely that a heart so hard could be touched by another woman's woe? Was it possible that the hand which signed Lady Jane's death warrant would sign the pardon of a much more aggressive rebel at my request? Yet memory recalled to me a woman, unhappy, lying sleepless on her bed, to whom I sang, with the result that my singing touched her heart, arousing generosity and kindness. Could I possibly obtain the chance once more of singing to her, and then, haply, pleading, pleading as for my life and more than life, that she would spare my lover?
I broke out into eager words, acquainting Master Fish with the manner in which I got into the Tower before to go to my dear lady, by singing to the queen, and then winning the boon from her; and he listened very feelingly, almost as much excited about the matter as I was. When I had told him all, he asked the name of the physician by whose means I had obtained access to the queen, and where he lived; and when I acquainted him with the fact that it was Dr. Massingbird, who had a surgery in the Strand, though he was frequently at Court, he left me in haste, saying that he would go to see what could be done.
* * * * *
They had taken me to the queen, in her palace at Westminster, by Her Majesty's command. She was not now sorrowfully lying on a sleepless bed, but sitting in state, in a magnificent reception-room, and surrounded by great Court ladies. I stood up before her to sing, and every one was silent, waiting to hear the sweet and thrilling sounds which were to proceed from my young lips: and I was bidden to begin, and asked what I was waiting for, and told not to be frightened, and encouraged, kindly enough at first, and then impatiently.
For this terrible thing happened to me. I could not sing a note. Now, in the extremity of my need, when so much depended on my singing, though I opened my mouth, no sound proceeded from it. My voice had gone.
'Sing!' commanded Queen Mary, in her deep voice. 'Begin at once.'
I looked at her, at that awful woman who had killed my lady, and who was killing such large numbers of those who had rebelled against her, and less than ever could I sing; for a feeling of disgust and hatred was surging up within me, whilst my brain teemed with the reproaches I dared not utter, even if I could.
'Massingbird'—the queen's voice seemed to come from a great distance now, as she spoke to the physician who took me to her—'what is the meaning of this? I allowed you to bring here the girl with the wonderful voice, who sang to me in the Tower, that time I suffered so much from sleeplessness, and you have brought this girl who cannot sing, and who cannot be the same girl as the lovely one who sang to me before.'
'Madam, she is the same girl, I assure your Majesty,' said the Court physician in his courtliest tone.
'She cannot be the same!' cried the queen angrily. 'This is no young girl with golden hair and a sweetly pretty rosebud face. This is a woman, with a sad, pale countenance, and—and white hair.'
'It is sorrow,' said the physician gently, 'which has changed the pretty child into the grief-stricken woman, and a terrible anxiety and dread is even now crushing her heart and killing her.'
'Killing her?' cried the queen incredulously.
'Yes, killing her. Death has already laid his hand upon her hair—her pretty golden hair—bleaching it white, then, going downwards, he has taken her voice—we did not know that until she stood up here to sing——'
'Pooh!' exclaimed Mary, still angrily. 'What stuff! She looks a peevish woman,' and, disgustedly, 'she cannot sing.'
Then Dr. Massingbird's indignation overmastering his habitual caution, he exclaimed—
'Can the caged lark sing? Can those whose "tears have been their meat day and night" sing? Can the broken heart burst forth into singing? Can the mourner sing for joy and gladness? This poor young lady,' he turned to me, laying a kind, fatherly hand upon my shoulder, 'this poor young lady has lost her best friend on the scaffold, and her lover, a lad of twenty-one, lies in the Tower under sentence of death. These things have bleached her hair and taken the colour from her face; moreover, as we have just discovered, they have robbed her of her voice.'
'Is this true?' The queen's deep voice asked the question of me, but the effort of trying to answer it, of attempting to express some of the words of pleading for my lover and of beseeching for his life, was more than I could bear, and I fell down unconscious at Queen Mary's feet.
* * * * *
When I came to myself, the queen was holding a cup to my lips, and calling upon me at the same time to wake up and hear some joyful news.
I opened my eyes and looked into her face incredulously. What joyful news could there be for me, who had parted company with joy long since? Sorrow I knew, and pain and disappointment, but not joy. It was so long since joy had visited me that I could scarcely believe in its possibility.
'Come! Come! Try to rouse yourself,' said Dr. Massingbird. 'Her Majesty is going to be very good to you.'
Then my lips moved.
'No,' I said, 'do not deceive me. I could not even sing to her. I lost the opportunity which you were so good as to get for me,' and I sighed heavily, having hoped so much from it.
Then Mary spoke.
'Meg Brown,' she said, and the old assumed name startled me, 'I am going to give your lover, Sir Hubert Blair, a free pardon——'
'What,' I interrupted, turning excitedly to the physician, 'what is her Majesty saying?I cannot understand, I cannot understand!' and I put my hand to my head.
The physician explained that the queen was about to pardon my beloved.
'Yes, that I am,' said Mary, quite good-naturedly. 'The rascal does not deserve it. But I do it for your sake, because I think you have suffered quite enough.'
'And I have not even pleaded for him!' I said to myself, and must have spoken aloud, for the queen answered—
'Your white hair and your sorrowful face, together with your good friend's words, have pleaded for your lover more eloquently than any singing could have done.'
Then, gazing at me, she added—
'Take her away, Dr. Massingbird; she is looking very ill. I will make out the proper papers and send them to Sir Thomas Brydges, who will do the rest. 'Margaret'—she spoke to me—'what you need now, to restore you to health, are happiness and country air. You must let Sir Hubert Blair take you home to your father's house near Brighthelmstone. (These last words disclosed the fact that Queen Mary knew who I was.)
* * * * *
Of the meeting with my dear one, when he came to me out of the Tower, I cannot adequately write—such times are not for strangers' eyes—the relief and joy of it are thrilling my heart even yet, after ten years, as they will no doubt for the whole of my remaining life.
From the Tower Sir Hubert came to me in the poor lodgings in Fleet Street, and they were poor no longer; and praise and thanksgiving ascended from them to Almighty God, who had softened Queen Mary's heart and given back my lover from the jaws of death.
We only remained in London until after the execution of that brave knight, Sir Thomas Wyatt, whom we were allowed to visit first, though unable to obtain any remission of his sentence. Sir Hubert witnessed his execution, and told me afterwards that nis manner to the last was brave and undaunted, and that, far from incriminating others, in order that he might gain favour for himself, as did some, he, being afraid that Princess Elizabeth might be implicated in his insurrection, proclaimed from the scaffold, before he suffered, that she and the Earl of Courtenay had nothing to do with it. His saying that so publicly, in all probability, saved Princess Elizabeth's life; as Queen Mary, incensed and alarmed for her own safety and the safety of her monarchy, was already planning her sister's doom.
Sir William and Lady Caroline Wood, meanwhile, succeeded in escaping to Holland, the former having been too much mixed up with Wyatt's insurrection to hope for safety in a land reeking with the blood of those who had taken part in it.
Hubert took me home to my father's house near Brighthelmstone, where I received a cordial welcome from him and Hal and Jack, and all the servants, amongst whom I found poor Betsy, who, being excluded from the Tower whilst I was with Lady Jane, and, being left without means, had trudged all the way to my father's house on foot, to beseech him to begin another insurrection by calling upon all Sussex to take up arms, and come to fetch me out of the Tower before I was burned alive and beheaded.
'Betsy has led me such a life with her tongue,' said my father, 'that I have threatened to turn her out of the house many and many a time, but she would not go,' and he laughed, drew me to him, and kissed me. 'I was very anxious about you, Margaret,' he said more gravely, 'and made many inquiries as to your welfare, but I could not deprive poor Lady Jane of your help and the solace of your presence at such a time.'
'Nor did I wish to leave her,' I rejoined. 'Indeed, I could not have done so.'
And then I took my dear Hubert to see Master Montgomery, who was mightily pleased with him, and told us that he had prayed for me every day since first I went to Isleworth, in the old church in which he ministered. He was immensely interested to hear of all that I had passed through, and the work that had been given me to do, and my love for my dear lady, of whose terrible fate he had only hitherto received a garbled and imperfect account. And, as I told him the sad story, lit up here and there with gleams of beauty from my lady's faith and hope, sitting safely there in his quaint study, between him and my dear knight, the whole history took shape in my mind, and I knew how I should best be able to tell it with pen, ink and paper.
A few days after that we heard that Master Montgomery, together with other Protestant ministers, was to be turned out of his benefice; but before that happened he married me and Sir Hubert Blair in the old church, where my mother was buried, and where I had worshipped almost all my life.
The living was then handed over to a Roman Catholic priest, and my father took his good old friend, Master Montgomery, into his own house, where he prayed and preached to the household, in our private chapel, besides instructing my brothers in Greek and Latin, and the way in which they should conduct themselves, and the Faith as it is revealed to us in the Testament of our Lord.
My dear husband carried me off to his beautiful place, Harpton Hall, where I have found a most happy home with him, and where our good friend, Master Jack Fish, often visits us, bringing with him his estimable wife, who is no other than Mistress Ellen: for, after my departure from London, discovering that they were congenial souls, and she being in great need of a protector, and his chivalrous nature requiring some one to protect, they agreed to marry. Saul, who is Master Fish's servant, usually accompanies them, and always looks for a little kindly notice from me, and a few words, showing that I have not forgotten how he helped me in the past, when I was in danger of what was for me far worse than death.
Here, too, my brothers, Jack and Hal, now bearded men, delight to come. For the shooting, or the fishing, or the hunting, they say, though I know that they like to see their sister incidentally, and her husband too, whom they admire greatly.
And here I have, at length, after long years, completed the task given to me by my dear lady, in memory of whom I have named our little daughter Jane, whilst our boy, our only son, we called Tom, after Sir Thomas Wyatt, in the hope that he may grow as brave and heroic as the knight in, we trust, a far happier cause.
The sun is sinking in the west as I lay down my pen, and the shadows fall across the old stone sundial on the lawn, around which Sir Hubert has had inscribed, in letters of gold—
'Hold to the Road that leads Above; and Justice with Prudence by all means pursue.'
And I think that I hear again the sweet tones of my lady's voice saying—
'It is like our dear Lord's teaching, though it was uttered more than four centuries before He came to live as a Man upon earth.'
And those other words, spoken long afterwards—
'A Greater than Plato said, "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a Crown of Life." That is the best Crown, Margery.'
THE END
My task is done—not brilliantly, not at all brilliantly, but to the best of my poor ability, and I turn away from the thought of this world's little criticisms, which may assail and rend my work, to the consideration of how it looks in my own eyes, how it would look in the serious eyes of Lady Jane, if she surveyed it all as searchingly as she studied her beloved Plato; and lastly, and most importantly, how it may appear in the eyes of our Heavenly Father.
And first, as to myself, I have sighed, smiled, and then again wept over these pages, as in them I relived through the exciting, tragic happenings of the year of my life which changed me from a thoughtless child into an extremely earnest-hearted woman, and I think, as the record has taken such deep hold of me, it will also impress others, and know that it will do so in proportion to the greatness of their souls. For little souls find only small things everywhere, whilst big ones, like my Lady Jane's, find things so great and glorious as to lift them over life's petty details into the vast, wide prospects of the children of God, who see from the Delectable Mountains straight into the Heart of the Kingdom.
As to the way in which Lady Jane would regard this book were she looking at it, I have no fear. She would see that I have in every respect endeavoured to fulfil her wish that I should represent facts as I saw them, and not as they appeared to be to others.
And with regard to the aspect my poor little work has in the eyes of our Heavenly Father, it is impossible to know. I can only pray Him to mercifully grant that what is false and unworthy in this narrative may be forgotten, whilst what is good, true and beautiful, may sink deeply into the hearts of its hearers, and always, always be remembered as long as life shall last.
MARGARET BROWN.