BISHOP BONNER.
BISHOP BONNER.
BISHOP BONNER.
Shortly afterwards, the Bishop of London was announced by the usher. A brief preliminary description of this remarkable prelate may be necessary.
Edmond Bonner, Bishop of London, whose severity towards the Protestants has caused his memory to be justly detested, was by no means the savage-looking or repulsive personage generally supposed. Of middle height, stout, and of fresh complexion, he had rather a jovial countenance, being fond of good cheer, and his features, except when inflamed by passion, as they not unfrequently were, had a pleasant expression. But he was exceedingly hot-tempered, and when excited, lost all control of himself, and became perfectly furious. Neither did his anger, though easily roused, quickly subside. In some respects he resembled his royal master, Henry VIII. His disposition was cruel and vindictive, and he never forgot or forgave an injury. To the Reformers, whom he bitterly hated, he proved, as is well known, a terrible scourge.
Born towards the close of the 15th century, Bonner was now near upon sixty, but though he had undergone many hardships, and had endured more than four years’ imprisonment in the Marshalsea, his spirit was unbroken, and his health unimpaired. During his long captivity he had been supported by the conviction that the ancient worship would be restored, and his enemies be delivered into his hands.What he had hoped for, and prayed for, having come to pass, he promised himself ample compensation for the afflictions he had endured. Learned and acute, Bonner had early attracted the attention of Wolsey, by whom he was much employed; and being subsequently appointed chaplain to Henry VIII., he rose rapidly in favour, as he accommodated himself without scruple to the King’s caprices. Instrumental in furthering the divorce with Katherine of Aragon, Bonner co-operated in the religious changes accomplished by his royal master, and was also entrusted by him with several missions of great delicacy, which he fulfilled very satisfactorily, rendering himself altogether so useful, and continuing so subservient, that, though often rebuffed by the monarch—as who was not?—he never entirely lost his good graces.
But when Edward VI. mounted the throne, all was changed. Opposed to the Reformation, though he did not dare openly to manifest his hostility to it, Bonner was regarded with suspicion and dislike by the chiefs of the Protestant party, who determined upon his overthrow. Cited before an ecclesiastical commission, of which Cranmer was the head, notwithstanding an energetic defence, appeals to the King against the illegality of the tribunal, and the injustice of his sentence, Bonner, at that time Bishop of London, was deprived of his see and benefices, and imprisoned in the Marshalsea, whence he was only liberated on Mary’s accession. Restored to his diocese, and reinstated in power, he burned to avenge himself on his enemies, chief amongst whom he reckoned Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer. But now that they were safe in prison, he was content to wait. The cup of vengeance was too sweet to be hastily drained.
Bonner’s appearance at this juncture was hailed with satisfaction by Gardiner, who could count upon his support against Pole, and he therefore remarked, after the bishop had made his obeisance to their Majesties, “My associate in the ecclesiastical commission concurs with me that no mercy whatever should be shown to heretics.”
“Mercy to heretics!” exclaimed Bonner, surprised. “It were mistaken clemency to spare such dangerous offenders. Rigorous measures will alone check the spread of the pestilenceby which your kingdom is unhappily affected, gracious Madam,” he added to the Queen. “Now is the time to strike terror into the hearts of these false brethren—to exterminate them by fire and sword.”
“The Lord Cardinal does not think so,” rejoined Mary. “He is of opinion that those convicted of heretical pravity should be leniently dealt with.”
“You amaze me, Madam,” cried Bonner.
“The object your Majesty has in view,” said Pole, “being to bring back those who have strayed from the paths of truth, and not to drive them yet further off, gentleness, and not force, should be employed. By severity you will increase the evil instead of curing it. Fear will make hypocrites, not converts.”
“No matter,” cried Bonner. “Let the sacramentarians conform outwardly. We care not to search their hearts. Enough for us if they profess themselves Catholics.”
“I grieve to hear you say so, my lord,” rejoined the Cardinal. “It is better to have an open enemy than a false friend. Our Church does not desire to encourage dissimulation, put to eradicate error and schism. I beseech your Majesty to pause before you proceed further in a course which I foresee is fraught with danger. Hitherto, all has gone well. Your enemies are confounded. Your people are loving and loyal, willing to make any sacrifices for you, save those of conscience. The faith of your forefathers is restored in its integrity. Your kingdom is reconciled to the Holy See. Is this an opportune moment for persecution? Would you sully the snowy banner of the Church with blood? Would you destroy a tithe of your subjects by fire and sword—by burning and massacre? Yet this must be done if persecution once commences. Such means of conversion are as unwarrantable as impolitic—contrary to the will of Heaven, and likely to provoke its wrath. I defy the advocates of severity towards heretics to produce a single passage from the Gospel that would authorise Christians to burn their fellow-men for questions purely of conscience. As, therefore, such rigour cannot be sustained by appeal to Holy Writ, neither can it be upheld by any other consideration. It will increase the evil complained of, rather than mitigate it.”
“Your Eminence forgets how much we have suffered from the Reformers,” remarked Bonner.
“If they have done ill, ought we to imitate them in ill-doing?” rejoined Pole. “Let us prove to them that we are better Christians than they are. Your Majesty may trust me, that the true way to convert the Protestants is to reform our own clergy, whose ill-regulated conduct has led to heresy and backsliding. Better this remedy than the stake.”
“All this shall to the Pope,” observed Gardiner, in a low tone, to Bonner. “His Eminence will be speedily recalled.”
“It is high time he should be recalled, if he entertains these opinions,” rejoined the other, in the same tone.
“Nothing that has been urged will shake my purpose,” said Mary. “I will free my kingdom from the curse that has so long afflicted it, even though I inundate the land with blood. But I agree with your Eminence that much reform is needful in our own clergy, whose manners provoke scandal, and encourage infidelity. I will address myself to the task. To you, my Lord Chancellor, and to you, my Lord Bishop,” she added to Gardiner and Bonner, “I commit the extirpation of heresy. Relax not in your efforts.”
“Rest assured we will not, gracious Madam,” replied Gardiner.
“Your Eminence seems to think,” observed Bonner to the Cardinal, “that the Lord Chancellor and myself have not used proper means of weaning back these misguided men from their errors. As there are two prisoners confined within the Lollards’ Tower for religious offences, may I venture to inquire whether you have succeeded in accomplishing their conversion?”
“Not as yet,” replied Pole; “but I do not despair of ultimate success.”
“What prisoners do you refer to?” demanded Mary. “I have not heard of them.”
The Cardinal was about to reply, when a look from the King stopped him.
“Who are they, I repeat?” cried Mary, somewhat sharply, surprised at Pole’s disinclination to answer.
“One of them is the unhappy Constance Tyrrell, and theother the half-crazed fanatic, Derrick Carver,” replied the Cardinal.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mary. “Was your Majesty aware that these persons are confined here?” she added to the King.
“They were sent hither by my orders,” rejoined Philip, coldly.
“And why was I not informed of the matter?” asked Mary.
“Because I did not deem it needful,” replied the King.
“Not needful!” exclaimed Mary. “By my soul, but it was needful! ’Twas a strange step to take without my knowledge or privity.”
“You heat yourself unnecessarily, Madam,” interrupted Philip. “’Twas to spare you annoyance that I kept the matter secret from you.”
“How so?” demanded Mary. “The unaccountable disappearance of this girl troubled me, as you know, and Carver’s supposed escape was equally displeasing to me.”
“You would have been informed of all in good time,” said Philip. “How I discovered their hiding-place, and why I sent them hither, shall be explained anon.”
“I trust the explanation will prove satisfactory,” replied Mary. “Meantime, I will see the prisoners myself, and interrogate them.”
“Shall they be brought before you?” inquired Pole.
“No,” returned the Queen; “I will proceed to the Lollards’ Tower. Your Eminence will attend me thither.”
“’Twere better not, Madam,” said Philip. “Be ruled by me, and let alone this visit.”
“You have some motive,” rejoined Mary, in a low tone—“some powerful motive for wishing me not to see Constance Tyrrell. I will see her. I will question her. I will learn the truth.”
“Well, then, learn the truth, Madam,” said Philip. “If you are pained by it, it is not my fault.”
“You have deceived me,” continued Mary—“shamefully deceived me. Of that I am convinced.”
“Reserve these remarks for a more fitting opportunity, Madam,” said the King. “Since you are bent upon going to the Lollards’ Tower, I will not interfere to prevent you.But at least put some guard upon yourself, and breed not scandal by your causeless suspicions.”
Without making any reply, Mary arose. The King offered his arm, but she rejected it, saying she needed not support. Philip, however, was determined to accompany her, and they went forth together, attended by the Cardinal. No one else ventured to follow them, and Gardiner and Bonner, fearing the King might be offended with them, thought it best to retreat, and hastily quitted the palace.
HOW CONSTANCE TYRRELL WAS BROUGHT BEFORE THEQUEEN IN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
HOW CONSTANCE TYRRELL WAS BROUGHT BEFORE THEQUEEN IN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
HOW CONSTANCE TYRRELL WAS BROUGHT BEFORE THE
QUEEN IN THE LOLLARDS’ TOWER.
Preceded by Rodomont Bittern and others of the guard, and attended by the Cardinal, their Majesties crossed the court to the Lollards’ Tower. As the Queen was slowly ascending the steps leading to the entrance, a sudden faintness seized her, and she paused.
“Better turn back, gracious Madam, if you feel ill,” observed the Cardinal, noticing her extreme paleness.
“No, it will pass in a moment,” she replied.
Resolved not to give way, she went on; but the effort was too much for her, and she had no sooner gained the Post Room than she sank on a chair completely exhausted.
“What place is this?” she asked, in a feeble voice, and glancing around.
“It is called the Post Room, Madam, from that wooden pillar in the centre,” replied Pole.
“It looks like a torture-chamber,” observed Philip.
“It has been put to a similar purpose, I fear,” said the Cardinal. “Yon pillar has not served merely to support the roof.”
“Where is Constance Tyrrell?” demanded Mary.
“In the prison-chamber overhead,” replied Pole. “The staircase is steep and difficult. ’Twould be hazardous to your Majesty to mount it.”
“Let her be brought down,” said the Queen.
Upon this, Rodomont Bittern, who, with Simon Mallet, keeper of the tower, stood waiting for orders, immediately disappeared through an arched doorway at the further end of the sombre apartment. Shortly afterwards they returned, bringing with them Constance Tyrrell. This done, they retired.
Constance looked thin and pale, but her colour heightened as she beheld Philip seated near the Queen. The blush, however, quickly faded away, and was succeeded by a death-like pallor, but she did not lose her self-possession. Advancing towards her, the Cardinal said, in a low tone,—
“Kneel to her Majesty. Peradventure, you may move her compassion.”
Constance did as she was bidden, and threw herself at the Queen’s feet, crying,—
“If I have offended your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness.”
“What have I to forgive you, minion?—what have you done?” said Mary, fixing a searching look upon her. “I know nothing of your proceedings since you fled from Hampton Court. Where have you hidden yourself? Why were you brought here? Speak!”
“It is a long story to tell, Madam,” cried Constance, troubled by the stern gaze of the King.
“On peril of your life, I command you to conceal nothing from me!” cried Mary, with a burst of uncontrollable fury. “Confess your guilt, or I will wrest the avowal of it from you by torture. Speak out, and you have nothing to fear—but hesitate, equivocate, palter with me, and you are lost.”
“As I hope for salvation, Madam,” rejoined Constance, “I have nothing to confess.”
“It is false!” cried the Queen, with increasing fury. “I read your guilt in your looks. You cannot regard me in the face, and declare you have not injured me.”
“I can look Heaven itself in the face, and declare I am innocent of all offence towards your Majesty,” rejoined Constance.
“The King, no doubt, will confirm your assertions,” observed Mary, bitterly.
“If I did not, I should belie the truth,” replied Philip.
“By whose contrivance did you fly from Hampton Court?” demanded Mary.
“Not by the King’s, Madam. I fled with Osbert Clinton.”
“Tut! Osbert Clinton was merely a tool,” exclaimed Mary, incredulously. “Did his Majesty know of your hiding-place?”
“Assuredly not, Madam,” replied Constance. “He it was I dreaded most.”
“Ha! we are coming to it now,” cried Mary. “Why did you dread him?”
“Nay, Madam, persist not in these inquiries, I entreat you,” interposed the Cardinal. “You will gain nothing by them, and will only torture yourself.”
“Though each word should wound me to the quick, I will have it,” said Mary. “Why did you fear the King?”
“Oh! bid me not answer that question, Madam—I cannot do it.”
“I will answer it for you,” said Mary. “Contradict me if you can. You thought that the King loved you, and would pursue you.”
“If she believed so, her flight was justifiable, and merits not reproach from your Majesty,” observed the Cardinal. “Pardon me if I say you are unjust towards this maiden. I am satisfied you have no real ground of complaint against her.”
“At least, she has been the cause of much trouble to me,” cried Mary.
“The innocent cause,” said Pole.
“Ay, truly so,” said Constance. “I have never wronged your Majesty in act or thought. Beset by dangers, I fled from them, and, if I did wrong, it was from error in judgment, and not from ill intent. Had I stayed——But I will not dwell upon what might have happened. Your Majesty’s reproaches cut me to the soul. I do not deserve them. Rather, indeed, am I an object of pity than reproach. Six months ago I was happy. My life was unclouded—but a change came suddenly, and since then all has been darkness and misery.”
“You could not expect happiness, since you have fallen from your faith,” said the Queen, severely. “You havejustly provoked the wrath of Heaven, and cannot wonder that you have felt the effects of its displeasure. From what you have said, and from what his Eminence has urged in your behalf, I do not believe you have been culpable towards me. But you have cost me many a pang,” she added, placing her hand upon her breast.
“Yield to the pitying emotions which I can see sway your breast, gracious Madam,” interceded Pole, “and forgive her.”
“For the affliction she has caused I do forgive her,” replied the Queen, with an effort; “but if her conduct towards myself is free from blame, as you represent it, in other respects it is reprehensible. She was nurtured in the true faith, and was once a model of piety—nay, even contemplated devoting herself to a religious life. But she has listened to the baneful exhortations of one of these teachers of heresy, and has become a proselyte to the new doctrines. What shall be done with her?”
“Leave her to me, Madam,” rejoined the Cardinal. “I do not despair of accomplishing her cure. My hand shall lead you back,” he added to Constance. “My voice shall direct you. It cannot be that one of a devout nature like yourself, imbued from childhood in the principles of our Holy Church, familiar with its rites and worship, can efface its doctrines from your breast, and abandon them for another creed. Your conscience must be troubled. The sure way to regain serenity is to abjure your errors.”
“Time was when every word uttered by your Eminence would have found a response in my breast,” rejoined Constance. “But the rites I formerly practised seem to me idolatrous, and the doctrines then taught me unwarranted by the Gospel. I cannot go back to the faith of Rome.”
“You shall be forced back, Mistress, if you continue perverse,” cried the Queen, sharply.
“Hold, Madam!” exclaimed Pole. “In this instance let me have my way. I would win back this maiden by gentleness, and not by coercion. I would appeal to her reason and judgment, and not to her fears. Her cure may be the work of time, because the disorder under which she labours is obstinate, but I do not think it will baffle my skill.”
“If I could be persuaded by anyone to return to the faith I have abjured, it would be by your Eminence,” said Constance, yielding to the kindly influence of his manner.
“You see, Madam, I have already made some little impression,” observed Pole to the Queen. “Mildness is more efficacious than violence. As she was enticed from the fold, so must she be lured back to it.”
“Well, have your way with her,” replied Mary. “Where is the other prisoner, Derrick Carver?”
“In a dungeon beneath this room,” replied Pole. “He was placed there in order that no communication should take place between him and Constance Tyrrell. They have not seen each other since they were brought to the Lollards’ Tower.”
“Such were my orders,” observed Philip.
“It is well,” rejoined the Queen. “They shall see each other now. Let him be brought before me.”
AN ACCUSER.
AN ACCUSER.
AN ACCUSER.
On being brought into the room by Rodomont and Mallet, Derrick Carver made a profound reverence to the Queen, but none to Philip and the Cardinal. Then addressing himself to Constance, he said, “Welcome, daughter! is the time come for our deliverance from bondage?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
“How long, O Lord! wilt thou suffer thy saints to be persecuted?” exclaimed the enthusiast. “It would be glad tidings to me to learn that the end of my weary pilgrimage was near at hand.”
“Are you prepared to meet the death you seem to covet?” asked Pole.
“I trust so,” replied Carver. “I have prayed long and deeply.”
“And repented of your sins—of your murtherous designs against the life of his Majesty?” pursued Pole.
“I do not regard that design as sinful,” said Carver. “Repentance, therefore, is uncalled for.”
“And you believe yourself to be religious, mistaken man,” rejoined Pole. “I tell you, if you die in this impenitent state, you will perish everlastingly. You are so blinded by pride and vain-glory that you cannot discern evil from good, and persuade yourself that you are actuatedby high and noble motives, when in reality your motives are sinful and damnable. You are nothing more than an execrable assassin; so hardened in guilt that your heart is inaccessible to virtuous and honourable feelings. True religion you have none. You profess to believe in the tenets of the Gospel, yet practise them not. Our blessed Saviour would never number you among his followers, but would cast you off as an unprofitable and faithless servant. You reject truths you do not understand, treat sacred rites as superstitious, and revile those who differ from you in opinion. Go to! you ask for death, and yet you are unfit to die.”
“It is not for you to pass sentence upon me,” said Carver. “Heaven, to whom my secret motives are known, will judge me.”
“And condemn you, if you repent not,” said Pole, “for your soul is charged with heavy offences. As I am informed by those who have heard you, you have prayed for her Majesty’s destruction.”
“I have prayed Heaven to touch her heart, so as to cause her to abandon idolatry, or to abridge her days,” rejoined Carver. “Better she be removed than false gods be set up in our temples.”
“And know you not that by giving utterance to such a prayer you incur the doom of a traitor?” said Pole. “Your offences are so rank and monstrous, that unless you exhibit some penitence, I cannot intercede in your behalf with her Majesty.”
“I ask for no grace from her, and expect none,” replied Carver. “Had I twenty lives, I would lay them down for my religion and for my country. We have been delivered to a foreign yoke. But it will not bind us long.”
“Peace!” cried Rodomont. “Knowest thou not that thou art in the presence of the King?”
“I know it well, and therefore I speak out,” rejoined Carver. “I tell this proud Prince of Spain that England will never submit to his hateful and tyrannous rule. The country will rise up against him, and cast him off. He persuades himself that a son will be born to him, and that through that son he will govern. But he ispuffed up with vain hopes. Heaven will refuse him issue.”
“Ha! this passes all endurance,” cried Philip.
“Have I touched thee, tyrant?” pursued Carver, exultingly. “Heaven, I repeat, will refuse thee issue. The support on which thou countest will be taken from thee. Didst thou dare make the attempt, the accursed Inquisition would at this moment be established amongst us. Thou hast it in reserve for a future day, but ere that day arrives thy perfidy will be discovered. False to thy oaths, faithless to thy Queen, treacherous to all, thou shalt meet thy just reward.”
“Faithless to me!” exclaimed Mary. “What wouldst thou dare insinuate, thou foul-mouthed villain?”
“That which I will dare maintain,” rejoined Carver—“that the consort you have chosen and have placed on the throne beside you is false to his marriage vows.”
“Away with him!” cried Philip, furiously.
“Stay!” exclaimed Mary. “I would question him further.”
“Forbear, I beseech you, Madam,” interposed Pole. “You only give him power to level his poisonous shafts against you.”
“His tongue ought to be torn from his throat for giving utterance to the lies his black heart has conceived!” cried Philip.
“My tongue has uttered no lies,” said Carver. “I have shown the Queen how she has been deceived.”
“Thou hast simply proved thine own wickedness and malevolence,” said Pole. “Her Majesty despises thy slander.”
“But it cannot pass unpunished.” said Philip. “Let the false villain instantly retract the calumnies he has uttered, or he shall be tied to yon post and scourged till he shall confess himself a liar and a slanderer. Let him be forced to recite the prayer for her Majesty’s safe deliverance, on pain of further torture. And, until he manifest contrition for his offences, let his chastisement be daily repeated.”
“I will do none of these things,” rejoined Carver, resolutely.“Scourge me to death, and I will not retract a single word I have uttered. I will not pray that the Queen, whom thou hast deceived and wronged, may bear thee a son, and so confirm thine authority. But I will pray to the last that my country may be delivered from oppression, that the Papal power may be overthrown, and the Protestant religion be re-established.”
“Thy resolution shall be tested,” said Philip.
“Your Majesty is justly incensed against this miserable man,” said Pole to the King. “Yet would I step between him and your anger, and entreat you to spare him the chastisement you have ordered to be inflicted upon him. I do not seek to extenuate his offences, they are many and heinous, and he must bear their punishment. But spare him additional suffering. Spare him the scourge and the rack.”
“I will spare him nothing unless he retract,” replied Philip, sternly.
“I would accept no grace procured by thee,” said Carver to Pole. “As the representative of Antichrist, I regard thee with loathing and detestation, and will take nothing from thee.”
“Were not thy mind distraught, thou couldst have no antipathy to one who would befriend thee,” replied the Cardinal. “My religion teaches me to bless those that curse us, to pray for them that use us despitefully. Be assured I shall not forget thee in my prayers.”
Carver regarded him steadily, but made no answer.
“I shall pray that thy heart may be softened,” pursued Pole, “that thou mayst understand thy sinfulness, and truly repent of it ere it be too late. Once more I beseech your Majesty to spare him the torture.”
“Be it as you will. I can refuse your Eminence nothing,” replied Philip.
“This is all the revenge I would take,” said Pole, turning to Carver. “You have declared that you hate me—that you regard me as the representative of Antichrist. You profess yourself to be a believer in the Gospel. My practice is, at least, more conformable to its precepts than yours.”
Carver made no reply, but his lip slightly quivered.
“Miserable man,” continued Pole, looking at him compassionately, “I pity you, and would save you if I could. I see the struggle going on in your breast. Wrestle with the demon who would gain the mastery over your soul, and cast him from you. Pride stifles the better emotions of your heart. Do not restrain them.”
“If I listen to him much longer, my resolution will fail me,” murmured Carver. “I cannot resist his influence.”
“Ere long you will be in a better frame of mind,” continued Pole, “and more accessible to the arguments I would employ.”
“Think it not,” interrupted Carver, at once recovering his sternness. “You will never convert me to Popery and idolatry.”
“I may at least make you sensible of your errors, and lead you to repentance,” said Pole. “The rest lies with Heaven.”
“He shall remain in your Eminence’s charge during a short space,” said Mary, “in the hope that you may be able to bring him to a full sense of his enormities, and prepare him for his end. His life is forfeited.”
“So the death to which I am doomed be the same as that wherewith the staunchest adherents of our faith are menaced, I am content,” said Carver.
“Thou shall have thy wish,” rejoined Mary. “Thy death shall be by fire.”
“Then I shall gain my crown of martyrdom,” cried Carver, exultingly.
“Fire will not purge out your sins,” said the Cardinal. “Those will cling to the soul, which is indestructible. Therefore repent.”
“And speedily,” added Mary, “for thy time is short.”
Hereupon her Majesty arose, and, quitting the Post Room, proceeded to the chapel, to which, as we have previously intimated, there was access from the lower part of the Lollards’ Tower.
Here mass was performed, and, by the Queen’s express orders, both Constance Tyrrell and Derrick Carver were brought into the chapel during the service. At its closethey were taken to the cells, while the royal pair proceeded with the Cardinal to the banquetting chamber, where a collation was prepared.
The Queen, however, declined to partake of the repast, saying she felt faint and ill, and two ladies who had accompanied her to the palace being hastily summoned, she retired with them.
HOW THE QUEEN CONFIDED HER GRIEFS TO THE CARDINAL.
HOW THE QUEEN CONFIDED HER GRIEFS TO THE CARDINAL.
HOW THE QUEEN CONFIDED HER GRIEFS TO THE CARDINAL.
Philip, who exhibited little uneasiness at the Queen’s indisposition, was still seated at table with Pole, when the Cardinal’s physician, Doctor Forest, came in, and informed his Eminence that her Majesty desired instant speech with him.
“The Queen is not seriously ill, I trust, Sir?” said Philip, alarmed by the physician’s grave looks.
“She appears to have received a severe shock, Sire,” replied Forest, “but I trust no ill consequences may ensue. Her Majesty wishes to see your Eminence—alone,” he added to the Cardinal.
“Go to her at once,” said Philip. “If my hopes of succession should be blighted, it will be grievous indeed. But you have no such fears, Sir?” he added quickly to the physician.
“I shall have no fear if her Majesty’s mind can be tranquilised,” replied Forest—“and that, I trust, his Eminence will be able to accomplish.”
“My reliance, then, is upon you,” said Philip to the Cardinal. “A few words from your lips will not fail to calm her.”
Thereupon Pole hastened to the apartment where the Queen had been conveyed. On entering it, he found her reclining on a couch, and attended by her ladies, who, on his appearance, immediately withdrew.
“I am much concerned to see your Majesty thus,” observedPole. “It will be a real affliction if your visit to me should be productive of ill consequences to yourself.”
“I am sorry I came,” replied Mary. “The words of that malignant heretic have sunk deep into my breast. He said that I shall never be a mother.”
“Let not his words trouble you for a moment, gracious Madam,” said Pole. “They are of no account. He but gave utterance to the evil wishes of his heart—nothing more. Dismiss all fears from your breast, and look joyfully and confidently forward to the moment which will crown a nation’s satisfaction in your marriage by giving it a prince.”
“Your words are comforting,” replied Mary, faintly; “but I cannot shake off my fears. Something whispers in mine ear that the fond hopes I have indulged will prove vain. And what will happen then?” she continued, with a shudder. “I shall lose my husband.”
“Oh! think not so, gracious Madam—think not so!” cried Pole. “If the consummation you dread were to happen—which Heaven, in its goodness, avert!—and fill the land with sorrow—the King, your husband, would be more devoted to you than ever.”
“Hear me, my Lord Cardinal,” said Mary, grasping his arm convulsively. “I have already lost my husband’s love, if I ever possessed it, which I more than doubt. Were I to disappoint his expectations now, he would leave me.”
“Leave you, gracious Madam! Impossible!”
“I say he would,” rejoined the Queen. “This is the only tie that binds us together. I cannot give him my kingdom, and if I fail to give him an heir, through whom he may exercise the sovereignty, he will return to Spain.”
“I cannot believe him so ungrateful,” cried Pole. “Your Majesty does him injustice.”
“His conduct towards me leaves no doubt as to his intentions,” rejoined Mary. “On our first meeting he vowed he loved me, but his vows were false. I am not blind to my defects. I know that I have few charms of person to attract him—that I have neither youth nor beauty. But I gave him a deep, true love. Moreover, I gave him a kingdom. How has he requited me?—by neglect, by harshness, by infidelity.”
“Oh! Madam, I would willingly discredit what I hear,” cried Pole. “If it be as you represent, I pity you from the bottom of my heart.”
“My sainted mother, Queen Katharine of Aragon, was most unhappy,” pursued Mary; “but I am little less unhappy. Neglected, injured, scorned as I am by my husband, I cannot, despite the efforts I make, shake off the love I bear him. I summon pride to my aid, but in vain. My heart is wrung with jealousy, but I hide my torments. What shall I do if I lose him?”
“You will not lose him, gracious Madam—fear it not,” exclaimed Pole. “I will remonstrate with him. I will convince him of the wickedness of his conduct.”
“Proceed with caution, or you will only make matters worse,” said Mary. “Were I to lose him, I should die.”
“Do not distress yourself thus, Madam,” said Pole. “Exalted as is your station, it does not exempt you from the ordinary sufferings of humanity—nay, it exposes you to greater ills than fall to the lot of those less loftily placed. The King is unworthy of your love, I grant, but I counsel you not to resent his neglect, nor to reproach him. Bear yourself ever gently towards him, ever maintaining your own dignity, and if you win not back his love, you are certain to gain his esteem.”
“Perchance I have reproached him overmuch,” cried Mary. “But, as I have already said, my heart has been wrung by jealousy.”
“Crush all such feelings, at whatever cost,” rejoined Pole. “Give him no grounds of complaint.”
“But his unkindness makes me wretched,” cried Mary. “Would I could hate him—despise him!”
“It is sad that love like yours should meet so poor a return,” sighed Pole; “and the King is blind to his own happiness that he does not estimate the treasure he casts away, to set up worthless baubles in its place. Pray constantly and fervently to Heaven to bless you with a son, and if your prayers are granted, you will be happy.”
“But if Heaven should deny me the blessing?”
“Heaven will compassionate you,” said the Cardinal. “It will not be deaf to prayers like yours.”
“Yet my mother’s prayers were unheard, though herwrongs and sufferings were greater than mine. She died neglected, heart-broken. Such may be my fate.”
“The indulgence of these thoughts is like to bring about the very calamity you would avert, Madam,” said Pole. “You know and feel how much depends upon the event we so much desire, and your physician will tell you that to a favourable issue freedom from agitation and anxiety are essential. You will undo all the good if you harass yourself thus unnecessarily.”
“I will try to follow your counsel,” replied Mary. “And now, my good Lord Cardinal, answer me one question. Have I wrongfully suspected Constance Tyrrell?”
“Madam, I truly think so,” replied Pole.
“Then send for her instantly, that I may repair the wrong I have done,” cried Mary.
The Cardinal readily complied, and ere long Constance made her appearance.
“Come hither, child,” said the Queen, in a kind voice, on seeing her. “I have done you injustice. But I will make amends. You told me that you fled from Hampton Court with Osbert Clinton. Why did you trust him?”
“I trusted him because—because he loved me, gracious Madam,” replied Constance. “Since then we have been affianced.”
“Is the King aware of your betrothal?” inquired Mary.
“He is, Madam,” replied Constance. “But he has forbidden Osbert, on pain of death, to see me again.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mary. “Then I cannot aid you as I should wish to do. You must think of Osbert no more.”
“I cannot obey you in that respect, Madam,” replied Constance. “He is never absent from my thoughts.”
“Poor child!” exclaimed Mary. “Your fate is as sad as my own. We are both doomed to unhappiness.”
“But it is in your Majesty’s power to make me happy—to make Osbert happy,” cried Constance.
“Alas! child, you give me credit for more power than I possess,” rejoined Mary. “I dare not oppose the King in this matter. Osbert must not see you again. Should he do so, I cannot save him from the King’s resentment. But I will do all I can for you. You shall be released from confinement,but you must remain for a time with the good Cardinal, who, I am sure, will be a father to you.”
“I will willingly take charge of her,” said Pole. “She shall have free range of the palace.”
“But she must not quit it without my consent,” said Mary. “Neither must she see Osbert Clinton.”
“I will answer for her,” rejoined the Cardinal.
“Nay, I will answer for myself,” cried Constance. “I thank your Majesty from the bottom of my heart, and will faithfully obey your injunctions.”
“It will be a period of probation, that is all,” said the Queen. “You will be better and happier for it in the end—at least, I trust so. And now, child, you may retire. Remember what I have said about Osbert Clinton.”
“I shall not fail, gracious Madam,” she replied. And kissing the hand extended to her by the Queen, she withdrew.
Some further conversation then took place between Mary and the Cardinal, which had the effect of restoring the Queen to comparative cheerfulness, and she declared that she now felt quite able to return to Whitehall. By her desire, Pole then summoned her ladies, and, on their appearance, quitted her to communicate the glad intelligence of her recovery to the King.