BOOK VIII.CONSTANCE TYRRELL.

End of the Seventh Book.

OF THE IMPORTANT DISPATCH RECEIVED FROM THEEMPEROR BY PHILIP.

OF THE IMPORTANT DISPATCH RECEIVED FROM THE

EMPEROR BY PHILIP.

About a month must now be allowed to elapse. During this time, the whole of the conspirators, with the exception of Osbert Clinton, had suffered death on Tower Hill. But though Osbert’s execution was thus delayed, no hope of pardon was held out to him. On the contrary, he was told by Sir Henry Bedingfeld, who visited him almost daily, that his sentence would infallibly be carried out, and that he ought to be prepared for a sudden summons to the scaffold. “I will give you notice when I am sent for by his Majesty,” he said. “That will be an intimation to you that the hour is at hand.”

The Queen’s accouchement being now daily expected, great preparations were made for the important event; religious processions thronged the streets, prayers were offered for her Majesty’s safe deliverance, and couriers kept in constant readiness to bear the gladsome tidings toforeign courts. While all were on the tenter-hooks of expectation, the Romanists were gratified, and the Protestants deeply chagrined, by the sudden and, as it turned out, unfounded intelligence that her Majesty had given birth to a son. The news spread with extraordinary rapidity, not only in London, but throughout the whole kingdom. Public rejoicings were made. Bonfires were lighted in the streets.Te Deumwas sung in the churches, and one preacher—the priest of St. Anne’s in Aldersgate—went so far as to describe the personal appearance of the new-born Prince, depicting him as a miracle of beauty and proportion. But next day all was changed. The Romanists were mortified by the authoritative contradiction of the report, whilst the Protestants exulted. Other rumours were then circulated, and it was said that the Queen had died in child-bed. But this statement was soon discovered to be false, and it eventually became known that the disease under which her Majesty was labouring, and which had deceived her physicians, was dropsy.

For some days Mary continued in a very precarious state, and serious apprehensions of a fatal result were entertained; but these dangerous symptoms abated, and in less than a week she was pronounced out of danger. During her illness she had been sedulously attended by Constance Tyrrell, for whom she had sent when she supposed herself sinking, and it was to Constance’s unwearying attentions that she mainly attributed her recovery.

Naturally, the Queen’s state of health had been a source of the deepest anxiety to Cardinal Pole, and the news of her amendment was a proportionate relief to him. Having received permission to wait upon her, he immediately repaired to Whitehall, and on arriving at the palace he was met by Doctor Ford, the Queen’s physician, who conducted him to her Majesty’s presence.

Mary was in her cabinet, reclining in a large easy-chair, propped up by cushions, wrapped in a loose gown of purple velvet, lined with miniver, and with her feet supported by a tabouret. Her features were swollen, and her complexion turbid, and she had an air of extreme lassitude and debility. The only person by whom she was attendedwas Constance Tyrrell, who likewise looked extremely pale and ill.

Having accompanied the Cardinal to the door of the cabinet, Doctor Ford retired.

“I am glad to see your Eminence,” said Mary, as the Cardinal approached her. “Sit down beside me, I pray you. At one time I feared I should never behold you again; but I am better, and I owe my preservation, under Heaven, to the ministry of this damsel. Without her I believe I should have died, and I never can forget the services she has rendered me—never sufficiently requite them.”

“Your Majesty overrates my poor services,” said Constance.

“She has poured balm into my wounded heart, as well as helped me to sustain my bodily sufferings,” pursued Mary. “Oh, my good Lord Cardinal, how can I have so deeply offended Heaven that I should be thus severely afflicted!—that the boon I have so earnestly prayed for should be denied me. What have I done to merit this chastisement?—how have I sinned? I have searched my breast, but can discover no wickedness therein. I have swerved from no duty. It cannot be a crime to love the King my husband—though, perchance, I have made him an idol. But enjoin me any penance you please. I will perform it.”

“I enjoin you only resignation to the decrees of Heaven, gracious Madam,” returned Pole. “Your afflictions have been given you for some wise but inscrutable purpose, and must be patiently borne.”

“I have borne them with patience,” rejoined Mary; “yet it is hard to be deprived of blessings which are vouchsafed to the meanest of my subjects. How many a poor cottager’s wife can clasp her offspring to her breast!—while I, alas! am childless.”

“Your grief is shared by all your subjects, Madam,” observed the Cardinal.

“Not by all,” rejoined Mary, with asperity. “There are many who exult in my distress, who have prayed that I might have no issue, but that the sceptre might pass from my hands to those of my sister Elizabeth. And theirprayers would seem to be heard, while mine are rejected. Oh, what happiness would have been mine had a son been granted me, for I feel all a mother’s tenderness in my breast. A son would have compensated me for all my troubles—for the neglect I have experienced, and for the desertion which will ensue—but now I shall go to my grave broken-hearted.”

“Be comforted, Madam, be comforted,” said Pole. “All will yet be well. The King willnotleave you.”

“Hewillleave me, that is certain,” rejoined Mary. “And then will come the severest part of my trial. When he is gone, all will be a blank to me. I would fain bury my woes in a cloister.”

“No, Madam, you must rouse yourself,” said Pole. “You must not give way to this excess of grief. It has pleased the Supreme Disposer of events to deprive you, and the country placed under your governance, of a great blessing; but do not repine on that account. Rather rejoice that you have been afflicted. Devote all your energies to the welfare of your kingdom, and to the maintenance of religion. Peace will then be restored to your breast—peace, which nothing can disturb.”

“I do not expect to find peace on this side of the grave,” sighed Mary; “but I will try to follow your Eminence’s counsel.”

“In time your wounds will be healed,” rejoined Pole; “and you will then understand why they have been inflicted.”

“I humbly resign myself to Heaven’s decrees,” said Mary. “Fiat voluntas tua.”

At this juncture, without being announced, the King entered the cabinet, followed by Count D’Egmont. His Majesty’s features did not wear their customary sombre expression, but were radiant with joy, and his deportment evinced considerable excitement.

Advancing quickly towards the Queen, and bowing reverently to the Cardinal, he said,—

“Count D’Egmont has just brought me a most important letter from the Emperor, and I lose not a moment in laying its contents before your Majesty.”

Then, turning to Pole, who was about to withdraw, headded, “I pray your Eminence not to retire. The matter is one that will interest you. Not to keep you in suspense, I will state at once, and in a word, the purport of the dispatch. The Emperor is about to abdicate, and resign his hereditary dominions to me.”

“What do I hear?” exclaimed Mary, in extremity of surprise. “The Emperor about to abdicate!”

“’Tis exactly as I have stated, Madam,” cried Philip. “I have it here under his own hand.”

“His Imperial Majesty has for some months meditated this step, gracious Madam,” interposed D’Egmont, bowing to the Queen, “but it is only recently that his final resolution has been taken. Of late a profound melancholy has seized upon him, which he finds it impossible to shake off. Tired of pomp and state, sated with glory and conquest, wearied with the cares of government, racked by a cruel disease, which allows him little respite from suffering, his august Majesty is about to put off the purple robe and crown, and, clothing himself in the lowly garb of a monk, to pass the remainder of his days in seclusion. I have been sent by the Emperor to announce his determination to his royal son, into whose hands he designs to relinquish his vast dominions.”

“You hear, Madam—you hear what my father intends,” cried Philip, with irrepressible delight.

“Yes, I hear it,” rejoined Mary, mournfully.

“The solemn ceremony of abdication will take place at Brussels,” pursued D’Egmont, “in the presence of all the nobles and deputies of Flanders, who, at the Emperor’s request, will transfer their allegiance to his son. Subsequently, the sovereignty of Castile and Aragon will be ceded to King Philip.”

“And what of the crown of Germany?” demanded Philip.

“That will deck the brows of your uncle Ferdinand, King of the Romans,” said D’Egmont. “The Empire of Germany will be resigned in his favour.”

“Is such my father’s intent?” said Philip.

“I believe so, Sire—nay, I am sure,” returned D’Egmont. “To prove the motives by which your august sire is actuated in his retirement, it will be enough to state, that out of hisimmense revenues he only intends to reserve himself a pension of a hundred thousand ducats.”

“Only so much,” cried Mary. “Why, ’tis less than a noble’s revenue.”

“It is more than the Emperor will need, Madam, in the solitary life he designs to lead,” observed D’Egmont.

“I am filled with amazement,” observed Pole. “That Charles V., the foremost monarch of Christendom, the greatest warrior of the age, who holds in his hands the destinies of Europe, should retire in the plenitude of his power, is indeed a wondrous circumstance, to which there is no parallel, save in the instance of Diocletian. May the Christian monarch be as happy in his retirement as was the heathen Emperor in his garden at Salona. Heavy, indeed, must be the weight of a crown, since its wearer desires to put it off thus.”

“In his letter to me, the Emperor explains the motives of his intent to abdicate,” said Philip. “Referring to the troubled and agitated life he has led, to his great fatigues and exposure, his frequent travels in Europe and Africa, the constant warfare in which he has been engaged, and his incessant labours for the public welfare and for religion, he observes: ‘As long as my strength would allow me, I have fulfilled my duties, but now my infirmities counsel—nay, command—repose. Ambition, and the desire to rule, no longer sway my breast. The remainder of my days will be consecrated to holy thought and preparation for eternity. To you, my son, and to your care, I shall resign my vast possessions, conjuring you never to relax in your efforts for the welfare of the people committed to your charge. The time may come when, exhausted, loaded withinfirmitiesinfirmities, and praying for release, you may desire to imitate your father’s example.’”

“May that day be long distant!” cried D’Egmont. “A brilliant career is before your Majesty.”

“Yet let the Emperor’s words never be forgotten, Sire,” remarked Pole, solemnly. “Lay them to heart, and be guided by them; and so, when you arrive at that period which your august sire has reached, when earthly glories shall fade away and become as nothing in your sight, you will derive comfort from the happiness and prosperity youhave conferred upon your people. Rarely has a crown been similarly bestowed. Never could crown be more richly graced. Wear it, Sire, as it has hitherto been worn—wear it as your great father has worn it, and when you put it off, you will do so, like him, without a sigh.”

“Once mine, I shall be in no haste to part with it,” observed Philip. “But have I no congratulations from your Majesty?” he added to the Queen. “Do you not rejoice with me on my good luck?”

“Your good luck is my misfortune,” rejoined Mary. “This unlooked-for act of the Emperor must cause our separation.”

“Only for a season,” returned Philip. “I must needs obey my father’s summons to Brussels; but I shall speedily return.”

“Impossible!” cried Mary. “As King of Spain, you will have much to do, and cannot quit your dominions, even if you should be so minded. No! I am not to be deceived.Icannot go to Spain, or to Flanders, andyouwill not come to England. Henceforward we must dwell apart.”

“Nay, nay, you are wrong, Madam—by my faith, you are!” cried Philip. “I shall return before three months have elapsed. Meantime, I confide you to the care of his Eminence, who, I trust, will be rarely absent from you. It is my wish,” he added, “that the Lord Cardinal be appointed chief of the Privy Council, and that nothing concerning the government of the realm be concluded without his sanction.”

“All shall be done as you desire,” rejoined Mary.

“Nay, Sire, I must decline a post for which I am unfitted,” said Pole, “and which, as it would necessarily engage me in concerns of the world, is little suited to the spiritual character with which I am invested.”

“But I will take no refusal,” said Philip. “You must, at least, accept the post till her Majesty is perfectly restored to health.”

“I shall have only your Eminence to look to when the King is gone,” said Mary. “If need be, I must lay my positive commands upon you.”

“In that case I have no alternative but submission,” rejoined the Cardinal. “The sole condition I would annexto my consent is, that I may be allowed to exercise my religious functions as heretofore.”

“Far be it from me to interfere with them,” said Mary. “Apartments shall be assigned you in the palace, so that I may have an opportunity of seeing you more frequently, and profiting by your counsels.”

HOW SIR HENRY BEDINGFELD CAME FOR OSBERT’S DEATH-WARRANT;AND WHAT HE OBTAINED.

HOW SIR HENRY BEDINGFELD CAME FOR OSBERT’S DEATH-WARRANT;

AND WHAT HE OBTAINED.

At this moment an usher entered, and informed the King that Sir Henry Bedingfeld was without, having come to Whitehall in obedience to his Majesty’s commands.

“Admit him straight,” replied Philip. And as the usher withdrew, Philip approached the Queen, and spoke a few words to her in a low tone. What he said was inaudible to the others, but its import could be gathered from Mary’s troubled looks. She attempted some remonstrance, but the King appeared inflexible.

While this was passing, Constance stole softly towards the Cardinal, and said to him in a whisper, “Sir Henry Bedingfeld is come for Osbert’s death-warrant. I am sure of it, from the look given me by her Majesty. Oh! my Lord Cardinal, intercede for him with the King—intercede for him, I implore of you.”

“I will do what I can,” replied Pole, in the same tone.

Meantime, Philip continued urgent with the Queen, his manner becoming stern and peremptory.

“Must it be done at once?” inquired Mary.

“Ay, at once,” rejoined the King. “I will have his head before my departure to-morrow. Then I shall be sure that my injunctions are obeyed. Here is the warrant,” he added, placing a scroll of parchment before her. “Sign it.”

Mary, however, manifested great reluctance, and was still appealing to the King, who continued inflexible, when Sir Henry Bedingfeld appeared, and making a profound obeisance to the royal pair, said, “I await your Majesty’s commands.”

“I shall be ready for you in an instant, good Sir Henry,” rejoined the King. “Sign it, Madam—sign it,” he added quickly to the Queen. “Why do you hesitate?”

“Because——” And she glanced towards Constance, who had now turned aside, weeping. “I owe my life to her,” she added. “Ought I to requite her thus?”

“I have said I will not depart without assurance of this traitor’s death,” rejoined Philip; “and your reluctance shows how my orders would be obeyed in my absence. Sir Henry Bedingfeld awaits the warrant.”

Thus urged, Mary took up the pen, when Pole interposed.

“A moment, Madam,” he cried. “Ere you sign that death-warrant, I crave permission to say a few words to his Majesty.”

“I am entirely at your Eminence’s disposal,” rejoined Philip, advancing towards him.

“Sire,” said Pole, “you will, I am assured, acknowledge that Heaven’s bounties have been bestowed upon you with a lavish hand.”

Philip assented, and Pole went on. “You have been summoned to the greatest throne in Europe, and while your heart is naturally elated by what you have gained, it should be opened to the kindliest and most generous emotions. Let your first act be one which shall show you are influenced by such feelings.”

“What would you have me do?” replied Philip, somewhat coldly. “I am about to testify my gratitude to Heaven by public prayer and thanksgiving in Westminster Abbey, by largesses to my attendants, by liberal donations of alms to the poor, and in various other ways, as my confessor shall direct, and as I trust will meet with your Eminence’s approval.”

“All this is well,” replied the Cardinal; “and yet your heart may not be touched as I would have it. Perform a noble deed. Osbert Clinton has deeply offended you. His life is in your hands. Pardon him.”

“I cannot pardon him,” replied Philip. “I have sworn that he shall die.”

“I will absolve you of your oath,” said the Cardinal. “The occasion is one that demands from you some self-sacrifice, and you must make it.”

“I would do aught in my power to gratify your Eminence, to whom I am infinitely beholden, but I cannot forego an act of just vengeance,” replied Philip. “I have purposely delayed this execution, not from any intention of sparing the traitor, but because I would prolong his punishment. To-morrow he dies. Press me no more, for I must perforce refuse your request. I will not be balked of my revenge.”

“It is well, Sire,” replied Pole. “But I warn you that you will repent your indulgence of this evil passion.”

“You plead the cause of a rebel and traitor,” cried Philip, impatiently. “Osbert Clinton has been justly condemned for his crimes.”

“Search your heart, Sire,” said the Cardinal, in a severe tone, “and you will find why Osbert became a rebel and a traitor. He was loyal and devoted till his wrongs—ay, wrongs, Sire—made him what he is.”

“But he rose in rebellion against the Queen,” cried Philip.

“I pardon him for his offences against me—fully and freely pardon him,” interposed Mary; “and I pray your Majesty to pardon him likewise.”

Philip made no reply, but his looks continued inexorable.

“Essay what you can do,” said Pole, in a low voice to Constance.

“Alas, I despair of moving him,” she rejoined. “Nevertheless, I will make the attempt.” And casting herself at Philip’s feet, she said, “Oh, Sire, if this sentence be carried out, and Osbert perish on the block, you will have my life to answer for as well as his, since I shall not long survive him. The blow which strikes him will reach me also. I am the cause of all Osbert’s treasonable acts. But for his love for me, he would have been loyal and devoted to you and to her Majesty. Oh, that you had never seen me, Sire! Oh, that chance, on your arrival in this country, had not brought you near me! Since that fatal hour nothing but calamity has attended me. But now that you are departing, Sire, leave me not to wretchedness and despair. Pity Osbert, Sire—overlookhis offences, and pardon him. By so doing, you will save yourself from a remorse which no penitence will remove, but which will ever haunt you if you doom us both to death. But no, Sire, I see you relent—your nobler and better feelings triumph—you are yourself—the worthy son of Charles V. You forgive me—you pardon Osbert Clinton?”

“Arise, Constance,” said Philip, taking her hand and raising her; “you have conquered. That I have done you much wrong, and caused you great unhappiness, I freely confess. That I may have goaded Osbert Clinton into the commission of the offences of which he has been guilty, I will not attempt to deny. But I will make amends. He shall have a pardon.”

“Nobly done, Sire!” ejaculated Pole. “Nobly done!”

“To make sure that Osbert is worthy of the grace bestowed upon him,” said Philip, “he shall accompany me to Brussels, and thence to Spain, and when I have proved him, I will send him back to reap his reward.”

“Oh, Sire, you overwhelm me with gratitude!” cried Constance. “Happiness, so long a stranger to me, begins to smile on me again.”

“On his return, it will be for your Eminence to complete the work by bestowing upon him the hand of your ward,” said Philip to the Cardinal.

“And at the same time I shall surrender the fortune which I hold in trust for her,” said Pole.

“Sir Henry Bedingfeld,” said Philip to the Lieutenant of the Tower, whose looks manifested the lively interest he took in what was passing, “you will return to the Tower, not with a death-warrant, but with an order for Osbert’s immediate liberation.”

“Here it is, Sir Henry,” said Mary, tracing a few lines on a sheet of paper, and giving it to Bedingfeld. “Tell him that he has our full pardon.”

“I shall not fail, gracious Madam,” rejoined the Lieutenant of the Tower, with a profound obeisance.

And he moved towards the door. Before reaching it, however, he was stopped by an usher, who placed a packet in his hands, saying it was important, and had just been brought from the Tower. The packet contained a letter,enclosed within which was a small piece of paper. On glancing at the letter, Bedingfeld started, and his countenance fell.

“What is the matter, Sir Henry?” demanded the King, remarking his altered looks.

“The prisoner, Sire!—the prisoner!” faltered Bedingfeld.

“What of him?” shrieked Constance, in tones that chilled those who heard her. “What has happened?”

“Read, Sire,” said Bedingfeld, handing the missive he had just received to the King.

“Ha! is it so?” cried Philip, his countenance changing as he read the dispatch. “Remove her, I pray you, my Lord Cardinal,” he added to Pole.

“I will not go till I learn the truth,” cried Constance, distractedly. “Speak, Sir, I conjure you,” she added to Bedingfeld.

“Better let her know the truth, be it what it may,” said Pole.

“Ay, speak, Sir Henry—keep her not in suspense,” said the Queen. “The prisoner was well when you left the Tower—ha?”

“He was, Madam, but——”

“But what?” demanded Mary.

“Since then he has died by poison,” said Philip.

“By poison! how could it be procured?” asked the Queen.

“It appears to have been contained in a ring which he was unluckily allowed to wear,” replied Philip.

“Is there no poison left for me, that I may join him?” cried Constance.

“Kind Heaven support her!” exclaimed Pole. “Her reason wanders.”

“No, I am calm enough now,” she rejoined.

“Then you may bear to hear that Osbert’s last thoughts were given to you,” said Philip. “This scrap of paper was found clutched in his dying grasp. On it are written the words, ‘Farewell for ever, beloved Constance!’”

Taking the piece of crumpled paper from the King, she gazed at it for a few moments, and then pressed it convulsively to her lips.

“Farewell, Osbert—farewell for ever!” she cried.

“No, not for ever,” rejoined Pole, solemnly. “You will be united in a better world.”

Praying the Cardinal to stay with her and console her, the King withdrew with D’Egmont and Bedingfeld.

Left alone with Pole and the Queen, Constance was permitted by them to indulge her grief without restraint before any attempt at consolation was made; but when these paroxysms were over, and she became calmer, the good Cardinal poured balm into her bruised spirit, and ceased not till his efforts were successful.

From that moment Constance became perfectly resigned—and though all youthful gaiety and lightness of heart deserted her, and her features wore an unvarying expression of melancholy and sadness, she never uttered a murmur. She would fain have spent the rest of her life in solitude and retirement, but the Queen refused to part with her, and retained her with her to the close of her days.

With remarkable consideration, Mary did not interfere with her religious observances, but allowed her what she denied all others, freedom of conscience. This concession, however, on the Queen’s part, was made on the earnest recommendation of Cardinal Pole. Thus Constance continued unshaken in her faith. By her gentle assiduities she was enabled materially to alleviate the anguish of mind endured by the Queen during Philip’s absence, and when at length Mary sank after protracted suffering, her last moments were soothed by Constance Tyrrell.

TWO LIGHTS EXTINGUISHED.

Upwards of three years had flown since the occurrences last narrated—three terrible years, during which religious persecution never ceased. Bradford and Marsh had perished at the stake, so had Ridley and Latimer, with many others, and Cranmer had won a martyr’s crown. Gardiner had long gone to his account, being stricken with a mortal disease, while reading a letter describing the torments of Ridley and Latimer. He lingered for a month, and then dying, was buried with great pomp in Winchester Cathedral. But though Gardiner was gone, Bonner yet lived, and the barbarous proceedings against the Protestants were unrelaxed.

On Cranmer’s death, Pole was immediately created Archbishop of Canterbury, and began to put into execution the plan he had long designed for reforming the abuses of the Church. Notwithstanding the opposition of the clergy, aided as they were by Paul IV., the then ruling Pontiff, whose displeasure Pole had incurred, he succeeded in effecting many beneficial changes, and would doubtless have accomplished much more, had he been spared, but in the very midst of his exertions he was attacked by a quartan ague, engendered by the pestilent exhalations from Lambeth marshes. By its extreme violence, the fever threatened from the first a fatal termination.

Though not unconscious of his danger, and, indeedscarcely entertaining a hope of recovery, the Cardinal continued his labours during the intervals when he was free from fever. His chief cause of concern at this moment was, that the Queen also was lying upon a sick couch, from which it was scarcely probable she could rise. Foreseeing the disastrous consequences to the Church of Rome which must inevitably ensue from her death, he felt so troubled in spirit that his mental anxiety added force to the attacks of the ague.

Throughout the Cardinal’s illness, Priuli watched over him with unremitting solicitude, and such entire reliance had Pole in the judgment and devotion of his friend, that he confided everything to him. One day, when the Cardinal was free from fever, and he and Priuli were alone together in the library of Lambeth Palace, he requested his friend to unlock a small coffer which he pointed out, and at the same time gave him a key. Priuli obeyed, and on opening the coffer perceived within it a parchment, so endorsed as to leave him no doubt as to its nature.

“That is my will,” said Pole. “I desire you to read it.”

On perusing the document, Priuli found that the Cardinal had appointed him his sole heir and executor, whereupon, looking Pole earnestly in the face, he said, “I am glad you have consulted me on this matter, dear friend, and allowed me the opportunity of expressing my opinion upon it. It would have grieved me to disobey your injunctions, and yet I cannot conscientiously fulfil them. Readily will I undertake the office to which you have appointed me, and will carefully attend to your directions as to the distribution of your property, but with regard to the rich inheritance you would bestow upon me, I must peremptorily decline it. I cannot—will not accept any part of it. I thank you for the intent, but I am rich enough without this augmentation of my worldly goods.”

“Distribute my possessions among the poor, or build churches and hospitals with them,” rejoined the Cardinal. “Whatever you do, will, I am sure, be for the best. But if you decline my bequest, at least accept some slight object, be it only a jewel or ring, to be kept as a memorial of our long friendship.”

“I desire neither jewel nor ring, nor any other memorialricher than the breviary you constantly use,” replied Priuli. “Of all gifts, I should value that the most.”

“It shall be yours, dear friend,” rejoined Pole. “I shall keep it as long as my eyes are able to fix upon it—as long as my hands will hold it—then take it. May it afford you the comfort it has ever afforded me, and draw you towards Heaven, as it has never failed to draw me.”

Pole was constant in his inquiries after the Queen, and on her part Mary was equally anxious for information as to the state of his health. Messengers were continually passing between Lambeth Palace and Whitehall, but from neither place were the tidings satisfactory. On the contrary, the reports of the condition of both illustrious sufferers grew worse, and it became a question as to which of the two would be the survivor. Pole prayed that he might be the first to depart—but it was not so ordained.

The grief felt by every member of the Cardinal’s vast establishment for the deprivation which they felt they must soon undergo, was sincere and profound, but no one deplored his exalted master’s precarious condition more deeply than Rodomont Bittern. The poor who thronged the gates of the palace, and received alms and food from Priuli, put up earnest prayers for their benefactor’s recovery.

But the fever abated not, and though its attacks were somewhat mitigated in severity, still the Cardinal’s debilitated frame was less able to withstand them. He daily grew weaker and weaker.

Notwithstanding his prostration, however, he was carried twice in each day to the chapel to hear mass. One evening after vespers, the large easy-chair in which he reclined was wheeled into the library, and Priuli, who now seldom left him, took his accustomed place by his side. Four days having elapsed since the Cardinal’s last attack, it was certain that the night would not pass without a return of the fever. Notwithstanding this, Pole was conversing cheerfully with his friend, when Rodomont Bittern entered to say that Mistress Constance Tyrrell was without, and desired to see his Eminence.

“Admit her straight,” replied Pole. “She is ever welcome.”

And the next moment Constance came in. Theexpression of her countenance, which was as pale as death, struck Priuli, but did not appear to attract Pole’s attention. Moving noiselessly towards the Cardinal, Constance knelt before him, while he spread his thin white hands over her head, and in feeble tones gave her his benediction.

“How fares the Queen?” inquired Pole, as Constance arose. “She was somewhat easier this morning, as I understand.”

“Her Majesty is easier now,” replied Constance. “She is free from all pain.”

“Is she gone?” inquired Pole, while a premonitory shiver shook his wasted frame.

“She is gone,” rejoined Constance. “The heart that has so long suffered has ceased to beat.”

“May the angels of Heaven receive her soul and present it before the Lord!” exclaimed Pole. “And may whatever sin she has committed in life through human frailty be forgiven her! Did her spirit pass away easily?”

“Most easily,” replied Constance. “Her sole concern was for the welfare of her Church.”

“The chief pillar of the Church is broken,” cried Pole, in a voice of anguish; “and my hand, which might have helped to support the falling structure, is also powerless.Domine, salva nos, perimus! Salvator Mundi, salva Ecclesiam tuam.”

For some moments he remained in fervent prayer, after which he seemed calmer, and inquired if the Queen had said aught concerning the King her husband.

“She spoke not of him at the last,” replied Constance, “but it would seem that the loss of Calais produced a deep impression on her, for she said, ‘My physicians seek to know the cause of my malady. Let them open my breast, and they will find “Calais” graven on my heart.’”

“It was not the loss of Calais that broke her heart,” said Pole.“Heaven“Heavenforgive him who has brought her prematurely to the tomb. England has lost a great sovereign, and our Church its chief defence. Elizabeth is now Queen, and with her the Protestant Church will be restored. Fortunately, I shall not live to see that day. Farewell, dear daughter. My blessing be ever upon you!”

Finding that the fever was coming on, he caused himselfto be transported to his chamber, and was laid upon the couch which he was never again to leave with life.

Towards morning his condition became alarming, and he received extreme unction, the last rites being performed by the Bishop of Asaph. This done, after some words to Priuli, he clasped to his breast the crucifix, which he had ever with him, and seemed to sink into a gentle slumber. And so he breathed his last.

Crucifix and breviary were kept as sacred relics by Priuli.

In the chapel of Saint Thomas à Becket, which he himself built in Canterbury Cathedral, rests the saintly Reginald Pole. This simple inscription is placed over his tomb:—

Depositum Cardinalis Poli.

LONDON:WHITING AND COMPANY, LIMITED, SARDINIA STREET, LINCOLN’S-INN-FIELDS.

LONDON:

WHITING AND COMPANY, LIMITED, SARDINIA STREET, LINCOLN’S-INN-FIELDS.

Transcriber’s NoteHyphenation is not entirely consistent. Where hyphenation occurs on a line or page break, the hyphen is retained or removed based on the usage elsewhere in the text.Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.15.42welcomed her with [e]very demonstration of joyAdded.20.26[Y/L]et us give them reasonReplaced.27.28the Cross of Santiago[./,]Replaced.38.1which represent the renow[n]ed Sir BevisAdded.39.1Then all the wealthy merchants of South[h]ampton,Removed.43.41thus ensconced themse[l]ves,Added.53.26where the traitor[or]ous noblesRemoved.54.16white as m[u/a]rbleReplaced.57.5I command you to let me go[.]Added.57.31and all the town flock[ /e]d to the quayRestored.76.2to q[n/u]estion him further?Inverted.100.4Heaven avert such a contingency[?/!]Replaced.106.28I am a physici[a/o]n to those who are sickReplaced.113.29during a s[ei/ie]ge.Transposed.137.1found scant accom[m]odationAdded.143.1at whic[k/h] King ArthurReplaced.157.25[“]My confessor, Father Alfonso, shall take you in hand.Added.160.42upon a sta[i]rcaseAdded.164.10there was a tolerably ex[s/t]ensive gardenReplaced.174.40“Again I say, forbear[?/!]” cried Osbert.Replaced.189.17and on the haut[-]pas, but not beneath the canopyRemoved.199.41twelve gentlemen ushers[,] steward,Added.201.11Further on co[u]ld be observedAdded.205.6Yonder comes his Em[m]inenceRemoved.208.24Mary looked ill and la[u/n]guidInverted.210.5retorted Gard[e/i]ner Gardiner.Replaced.240.21after passing th[r]ough the vestibuleAdded.241.24but may confidently look forward to[ to] a meetingRemoved.250.41[i]t has not been contrary to law.Restored.252.12[“]but I gave up allAdded.258.25I will bring back the man to him to[-]morrow.Restored.260.8having been excommun[ci/ic]atedTransposed.266.24and receive my blessing[,/.]Replaced.274.40she was borne to the sacris[i]ty by RodomontRemoved.276.12Hide yourself in this cupboa[r]d,Added.276.28Are you still in the same mood as when I saw you last[./?]Replaced.281.4[“]Again, I implore you to renounce your errors.”Added.295.30as soon as he and Bonner were left alone.[”]Removed.298.32But why should she be exposed to such treatment[./?]Replaced.299.3said Mary[,/.]Replaced.301.8I warn you, therefore[,] of your dangerAdded.304.28the solicitation of Gard[e/i]nerReplaced.313.27grasping the hand stretched out to him.[”]Removed.317.18the alarm-bell was run[g] more violently than everAdded.318.24shout[ing/ed] several voices,Replaced.320.28Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver.[”]Added.321.13and suffic[i]ent smaller craftAdded.324.2demanded Osbert, on seeing him.[”]Removed.334.12Bonner said, in a bitter and derisive tone[,/.]Rep336.41he is excommunicated[./,]and if ye give him aughtReplaced.354.11“That is best know[n] to themselves,”Added.356.9they are rebels and traitor[s]!Added.370.31had considerable pretensions to beauty[.]Added.376.12to that of Queen Catherine [./?]Replaced.378.41away with you,” cried Lilias[.]Added.396.36“To[-]morrow they will be privately interrogated,”Restored.403.31loaded with infi[r]mitiesAdded.415.34[“]Heaven forgive himAdded.

Transcriber’s Note

Hyphenation is not entirely consistent. Where hyphenation occurs on a line or page break, the hyphen is retained or removed based on the usage elsewhere in the text.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.

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