XXXVI How Cholmondeley Learnt the History of Cicely; How Nightgall Attempted to Assassinate Renard; and of the Terrible Fate That Befel Him
Cuthbert Cholmondeley, after upwards of a week’s solitary confinement, underwent a rigorous examination by certain of the Council relative to his own share in the conspiracy, and his knowledge of the different parties connected with it. He at once admitted that he had taken a prominent part in the siege, but refused to answer any other questions. “I confess myself guilty of treason and rebellion against the queen’s highness,” he said, “and I ask no further mercy than a speedy death. But if the word of one standing in peril of his life may be taken, I solemnly declare, and call upon you to attest my declaration,—that the Lady Jane Grey is innocent of all share in the recent insurrection. For a long time, she was kept in total ignorance of the project, and when it came to her knowledge, she used every means, short of betraying it,—tears, entreaties, menaces,—to induce her husband to abandon the design.”
“This declaration will not save her,” replied Sir Edward Hastings, who was one of the interrogators, sternly,—“By not revealing the conspiracy, she acquiesced in it. Her first duty was to her sovereign.”
“I am aware of it, and so is the unfortunate lady herself,” replied Cholmondeley. “But I earnestly entreat you, in pity for her misfortunes, to report what I have said to the queen.”
“I will not fail to do so,” returned Hastings; “but I will not deceive you. Her fate is sealed. And now, touching the Princess Elizabeth’s share in this unhappy affair. Do you know aught concerning it?”
“Nothing whatever,” replied Cholmondeley; “and if I did, I would not reveal it.”
“Take heed what you say, sir,” rejoined Sir Thomas Brydges, who was likewise among the examiners, “or I shall order you to be more sharply questioned.”
Nightgall heard this menace with savage exultation.
“The rack will wrest nothing from me,” said Cholmondeley, firmly.
Brydges immediately sat down at a table, and writing out a list of questions to be put to the prisoner, added an order for the torture, and delivered it to Nightgall.
Without giving Cholmondeley time to reflect upon his imprudence, the jailor hurried him away, and he did not pause till he came to the head of the stairs leading to the torture-chamber. On reaching the steps, Nightgall descended first, but though he opened the door with great caution, a glare of lurid light burst forth, and a dismal groan smote the ears of the listener. It was followed by a creaking noise, the meaning of which the esquire too well divined.
Some little time elapsed before the door was again opened, and the voice of Nightgall was heard from below calling to his attendants to bring down the prisoner. The first object that caught Cholmondeley’s gaze on entering the fatal chamber, was a figure, covered from head to foot in a blood-coloured cloth. The sufferer, whoever he was, had just been released from the torture, as two assistants were supporting him, while Wolfytt was arranging the ropes on the rack. Sorrocold, also, who held a small cup filled with some pungent-smelling liquid, and a sprinkling-brush in his hand, was directing the assistants.
Horror-stricken at the sight, and filled with the conviction from the mystery observed, and the stature of the veiled person, that it was Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley uttered his name in a tone of piercing anguish. At the cry, the figure was greatly agitated—the arms struggled—and it was evident that an effort was made to speak. But only an inarticulate sound could be heard. The attendants looked disconcerted, and Nightgall stamping his foot angrily, ordered them to take their charge away. But Cholmondeley perceiving their intention, broke from those about him, and throwing himself at the feet of him whom he supposed to be Dudley, cried—“My dear, dear lord, it is I, your faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. Make some sign, if I am right in supposing it to be you.”
The figure struggled violently, and shaking off the officials, raised the cloth, and disclosed the countenance of the unfortunate nobleman—but oil! how changed since Cholmondeley had seen him last—how ghastly, how distorted, how death-like, were his features!
“You here!” cried Dudley. “Where is Jane? Has she fled? Has she escaped?”
“She has surrendered herself,” replied Cholmondeley, “in the hope of obtaining your pardon.’”
“False hope!—delusive expectation!” exclaimed Dudley, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. “She will share my fate. I could have died happy—could have defied these engines, if she had escaped—but now!—”
“Away with him!” interposed Nightgall. “Throw the cloth over his head.”
“Oh God! I am her destroyer!” shrieked Dudley, as the order was obeyed, and he was forced out of the chamber.
Cholmondeley was then seized by Wolfytt and the others, and thrown upon his back on the floor. He made no resistance, well knowing it would be useless; and he determined, even if he should expire under the torture, to let no expression of anguish escape him. He had need of all his fortitude; for the sharpness of the suffering to which he was subjected by the remorseless Nightgall, was such as few could have withstood. But not a groan burst from him, though his whole frame seemed rent asunder by the dreadful tension.
“Go on,” cried Nightgall, finding that Wolfytt and the others paused. “Turn the rollers round once more.”
“You will wrench his bones from their sockets,—he will expire if you do,” observed Sorrocold.
“No matter,” replied Nightgall; “I have an order to question him sharply, and I will do so, at all hazards.”
“Do so at your own responsibility, then,” replied Sorrocold, retiring. “I tell you he will die if you strain him further.”
“Go on, I say,” thundered Nightgall. But as he spoke, the sufferer fainted, and Wolfytt refused to comply with the jailor’s injunctions.
Cholmondeley was taken off the engine. Restoratives were applied by Sorrocold, and the questions proposed by the lieutenant put to him by Nightgall. But he returned no answer; and uttering an angry exclamation at his obstinacy, the jailor ordered him to be taken back to his cell, where he was thrown upon a heap of straw, and left without light or food.
For some time, Cholmondeley remained in a state of insensibility, and when he recovered, it was to endure far greater agony than he had experienced on the rack. His muscles were so strained that he was unable to move, and every bone in his body appeared broken. The thought, however, that Cicely was alive, and in the power of his hated rival, tormented him more sharply than his bodily suffering. Supposing her dead, though his heart was ever constant to her memory, and though he was a prey to deep and severe grief, yet the whirl of events in which he had been recently engaged had prevented him from dwelling altogether upon her loss. But now, when he knew that she still lived, and was in the power of Nightgall, all his passion—all his jealousy, returned with tenfold fury. The most dreadful suspicions crossed him; and his mental anguish was so great as to be almost intolerable. While thus tortured in body and mind, the door of his cell was opened, and Nightgall entered, dragging after him a female. The glare of the lamp so dazzled Cholmondeley’s weakened vision, that he involuntarily closed his eyes. But what was his surprise to hear his own name pronounced by well-known accents, and, as soon as he could steady his gaze, to behold the features of Cicely—but so pale, so emaciated, that he could scarcely recognise them.
“There,” cried Nightgall, with a look of fiendish exultation, pointing to Cholmondeley. “I told you you should sec your lover. Glut your eyes with the sight. The arms that should have clasped you are nerveless—the eyes that gazed so passionately upon you, dim—the limbs that won your admiration, crippled. Look at him—and for the last time. And let him gaze on you, and see whether in these death-pale features—in this wasted form, there are any remains of the young and blooming maiden that won his heart.”
“Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, making an ineffectual attempt to rise, “do I indeed behold you? I thought you dead.”
“Would I were so,” she cried, kneeling beside him, “rather than what I am. And to see you thus—and without the power to relieve you.”
“You can relieve me of the worst pang I endure,” returned Cholmondeley. “You have been long in the power of that miscreant—exposed to his violence, his ill-usage, to the worst of villany. Has he dared to abuse his power? Do not deceive me! Has he wronged you?—Are you his minion? Speak! And the answer will either kill me at once, or render my death on the scaffold happy. Speak! Speak!”
“I am yours, and yours only—in life or death, dear Cholmondeley,” replied Cicely. “Neither entreaties nor force should make me his.”
“The time is come when I will show you no further consideration,” observed Nightgall, moodily. “And if the question your lover has just asked, is repeated, it shall be differently answered. You shall be mine to-morrow, either by your own free consent, or by force. I have spared you thus long, in the hope that you would relent, and not compel me to have recourse to means I would willingly avoid. Now, hear me. I have brought you hither to gratify my vengeance upon the miserable wretch, writhing at my feet, who has robbed me of your affections, and whose last moments I would embitter by the certainty that you are in my power. But though it will be much to me to forego the promised gratification of witnessing his execution, or knowing that he will be executed, yet I will purchase your compliance even at this price. Swear to wed me to-morrow, and to accompany me unresistingly whithersoever I may choose to take you, and, in return, I swear to free him.”
“He made a like proposal once before, Cicely,” cried the esquire. “Reject it. Let us die together.”
“It matters little to me how you decide,” cried Nightgall. “Mine you shall be, come what will.”
“You hear what he says, Cholmondeley,” cried Cicely, distractedly. “I cannot escape him. Oh, let me save you!”
“Never!” rejoined Cholmondeley, trying to stretch his hands towards her. “Never! You torture me by this hesitation. Reject it, if you love me, positively—peremptorily!”
“Oh, Heaven direct me!” cried Cicely, falling upon her knees. “If I refuse, I am your destroyer.”
“You will utterly destroy me, if you yield,” groaned Cholmondeley.
“Once wedded to me,” urged Nightgall, “you shall set him free yourself.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Cicely. “Death were better than that. I cannot consent. Cholmondelcy, you must die.”
“You bid me live,” returned the esquire.
“You have signed his death-warrant!” cried Nightgall, seizing her hand. “Come along.”
“I will die here,” shrieked Cicely, struggling.
“Villain!” cried Cholmondeloy, “your cruelty will turn her brain, as it did that of her mother Alexia.”
“How do you know Alexia was her mother?” demanded Nightgall, starting, and relinquishing his grasp of Cicely.
“I am sure of it,” replied Cholmondeley. “And, what is more, I am acquainted with the rightful name and title of your victim. She was the wife of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, who was attainted of heresy and high treason, in the reign of Henry the Eighth.”
“I will not deny it,” replied Nightgall. “She was so. But how did you learn this?”
“Partly, from an inscription upon a small silver clasp, which I found upon her hood when I discovered her body in the Devilin Tower,” replied Cholmondeley; “and partly, from inquiries since made. I have ascertained that the Lady Mountjoy was imprisoned with her husband in the Tower; and that at the time of his execution she received a pardon. I would learn from you why she was subsequently detained?—why she was called Alexia?—and why her child was taken from her?”
“She lost her senses on the day of her husbands death,” replied Nightgall. “I will tell you nothing more.”
“Alas!” cried Cicely, who had listened with breathless interest to what was said, “hers was a tragical history.”
“Yours will be still more tragical, if you continue obstinate,” rejoined Nightgall. “Come along.”
“Heaven preserve me from this monster!” she shrieked. “Help me, Cholmondeley.”
“I am powerless as a crushed worm,” groaned the esquire, in a tone of anguish.
Nightgall laughed exultingly, and twining his arms around Cicely, held his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and forced her from the cell.
The sharpest pang he had recently endured was light to Cholmondeley, compared with his present maddening sensations, and had not insensibility relieved him, his reason would have given way. How long he remained in this state he knew not, but, on reviving, he found himself placed on a small pallet, and surrounded by three men, in sable dresses. His attire had been removed, and two of these persons were chafing his limbs with an ointment, which had a marvellous effect in subduing the pain, and restoring pliancy to the sinews and joints; while the third, who was no other than Sorrocold, bathed his temples with a pungent liquid. In a short time, he felt himself greatly restored, and able to move; and when he thought how valuable the strength he had thus suddenly and mysteriously acquired would have been a short time ago, he groaned aloud.
“Give him a cup of wine,’” said an authoritative voice, which Cholmondeley fancied he recognised, from the further end of the cell. And glancing in the direction of the speaker, he beheld Renard.
“It may be dangerous, your excellency,” returned Sorrocold.
“Dangerous or not, he shall have it,” rejoined Renard.
And wine was accordingly poured out by one of the attendants, and presented to the esquire, who eagerly drained it.
“Now leave us,” said Renard; “and return to the torture-chamber. I will rejoin you there.”
Sorrocold and his companions bowed, and departed.
Renard then proceeded to interrogate Cholmondeley respecting his own share in the rebellion; and also concerning Dudley and Lady Jane. Failing in obtaining satisfactory answers, he turned his inquiries to Elizabeth’s participation in the plot; and he shaped them so artfully, that he contrived to elicit from the esquire, whose brain was a good deal confused by the potent draught he had swallowed, some important particulars relative to the princess’s correspondence with Wyat.
Satisfied with the result of the examination, the ambassador turned to depart, when he beheld, close behind him, a masked figure, which he immediately recognised as the same that had appeared at the window of his lodgings in the Bloody Tower, on the evening when Jane’s death-warrant was signed by the queen.
No sound had proclaimed the mask’s approach, and the door was shut. The sight revived all Renard’s superstitious fears.
“Who, and what art thou?” he demanded.
“Your executioner,” replied a hollow voice. And suddenly drawing a poniard, the mask aimed a terrible blow at Renard, which, if he had not avoided it, must have proved fatal.
Thus assaulted, Renard tried to draw his sword, but he was prevented by the mask, who grappled with him, and brought him to the ground. In the struggle, however, the assassin’s vizard fell off, and disclosed the features of Nightgall.
“Nightgall!” exclaimed Renard. “You, then, were the mysterious visitant to my chamber in the Bloody Tower. I might have guessed as much when I met you in the passage. But you persuaded me I had seen an apparition.”
“If your excellency took me for a ghost, I took you for something worse,” replied Nightgall, keeping his knee upon the ambassador’s chest, and searching for his dagger, which had dropped in the conflict.
“Release me, villain!” cried Renard. “Would you murder me?”
“I am paid to put your excellency to death,” rejoined Nightgall, with the utmost coolness.
“I will give you twice the sum to spare me,” rejoined Renard, who saw from Nightgall’s looks that he had no chance, unless he could work upon his avarice.
“Hum!” exclaimed the jailor; who, not being able to reach his dagger, which had rolled to some distance, had drawn his sword, and was now shortening it, with intent to plunge it in the other’s throat—“I would take your offer—but I have gone too far.”
“Fear nothing,” gasped Renard, giving himself up for lost. “I swear by my patron, Saint Paul, that I will not harm a hair of your head. Against your employer only will I direct my vengeance.”
“I will not trust you,” replied Nightgall, about to strike.
But just as he was about to deal the fatal blow—at the very moment that the point of the blade pierced the ambassador’s skin, he was plucked backwards by Cholmondeley, and hurled on the ground. Perceiving it was his rival, who was more hateful to him even than Renard, Cholmondeley, on the onset, had prepared to take some part in the struggle, and noticing the poniard, had first of all possessed himself of it, and then attacked Nightgall in the manner above related.
Throwing himself upon his foe, Cholmondeley tried to stab him; but it appeared that he wore a stout buff jerkin, for the weapon glanced aside, without doing him any injury. As Cholmondeley was about to repeat the thrust, and in a part less defended, he was himself pushed aside by Renard, who, by this time, had gained his feet, and was threatening vengeance upon his intended assassin. But the esquire was unwilling to abandon his prey; and in the struggle, Nightgall, exerting all his strength, broke from them, and wresting the dagger from Cholmondeley, succeeded in opening the door. Renard, foaming with rage, rushed after him, utterly forgetful of Cholmondeley, who listened with breathless anxiety, to their retreating footsteps. Scarcely knowing what to do, but resolved not to throw away the chance of escape, the esquire hastily attired himself, and taking up a lamp which Renard had left upon the floor, quitted the cell.
“I will seek out Cicely,” he cried, “and set her free; and then, perhaps, we may be able to escape together.”
But the hope that for a moment arose within his breast was checked by the danger and difficulty of making the search. Determined, however to hazard the attempt, he set out in a contrary direction to that taken by Nightgall and Renard, and proceeding at a rapid pace soon reached a flight of steps, up which he mounted. He was now within a second passage, similar to the first, with cells on either side; but though he was too well convinced, from the sounds issuing from them, that they were occupied, he did not dare to open any of them. Still pursuing his headlong course, he now took one turn—now another, until he was completely bewildered and exhausted. While leaning against the wall to recruit himself, he was startled by a light approaching at a distance and, fearing to encounter the person who bore it, was about to hurry away, when, to his inexpressible joy, he perceived it was Cicely. With a wild cry, he started towards her, calling to her by name; but the young damsel, mistaking him probably for her persecutor, let fall her lamp, uttered a piercing scream, and fled. In vain, her lover strove to overtake her—in vain, he shouted to her, and implored her to stop—his cries were drowned in her shrieks, and only added to her terror. Cholmondeley, however, though distanced, kept her for some time in view; when all at once she disappeared.
On gaining the spot where she had vanished, he found an open trap-door, and, certain she must have descended by it, took the same course. He found himself in a narrow, vaulted passage, but could discover no traces of her he sought. Hurrying forward, though almost ready to drop with fatigue, he came to a large octagonal chamber. At one side, he perceived a ladder, and at the head of it the arched entrance to a cell. In an agony of hope and fear he hastened towards the recess, and as he approached, his doubt was made certainty by a loud scream. Quick as thought, he sprang into the cell, and found, crouched in the further corner, the object of his search.
“Cicely,” he exclaimed. “It is I—your lover—Cholmondeley.”
“You!” she exclaimed, starting up, and gazing at him as if she could scarcely trust the evidence of her senses; “and I have been flying from you all this time, taking you for Nightgall.” And throwing herself into his arms, she was strained passionately to his bosom.
After the first rapturous emotions had subsided, Cicely hastily explained to her lover that after she had been borne away by Nightgall she had fainted, and on reviving, found herself in her accustomed prison. Filled with alarm by his dreadful threats, she had determined to put an end to her existence rather than expose herself to his violence; and had arisen with that resolution, when an impulse prompted her to try the door. To her surprise it was unfastened—the bolt having shot wide of the socket, and quitting the cell, she had wandered about along the passages, until they had so mysteriously encountered each other. This explanation given, and Cholmondeley having related what had befallen him, the youthful pair, almost blinded to their perilous situation by their joy at their unexpected reunion, set forth in the hope of discovering the subterranean passage to the further side of the moat.
Too much engrossed by each other to heed whither they were going, they wandered on;—Cicely detailing all the persecution she had experienced from Nightgall, and her lover breathing vengeance against him. The only person she had seen, she said, during her captivity was Xit. He had found his way to her dungeon, but was discovered while endeavouring to liberate her by Nightgall, who threatened to put him to death, if he did not take a solemn oath, which he proposed, not to reveal to the place of her captivity. And she concluded the dwarf had kept his vow, as she had seen nothing of him since; nor had any one been led to her retreat.
To these details, as well as to her professions of love for him, unshaken by time or circumstance, Cholmondeley listened with such absorbing attention, that, lost to everything else, he tracked passage after passage, unconscious where he was going. At last, he opened a door which admitted them to a gloomy hall, terminated by a broad flight of steps, down which several armed figures wore descending. Cholmondeley would have retreated, but it was impossible. He had been perceived by the soldiers, who rushed towards him, questioned him and Cicely, and not being satisfied with their answers, conveyed them up the stairs to the lower guard-room in the White Tower, which it appeared the wanderers had approached.
Here, amongst other soldiers and warders, were the three giants, and instantly addressing them, Cholmondeley delivered Cicely to their care. He would have had them convey her to the Stone Kitchen, but this an officer who was present would not permit, till inquiries had been made, and, meanwhile, the esquire was placed in arrest.
Shortly after this, an extraordinary bustle was heard at the door, and four soldiers entered carrying the body of a man upon a shutter. They set it down in the midst of the room. Amongst those, who flocked round to gaze upon it, was Cholmondeley. It was a frightful spectacle. But in the mutilated, though still breathing mass, the esquire recognized Nightgall. While he was gazing at the miserable wretch, and marvelling how he came in this condition, a tall personage strode into the room, and commanding the group to stand aside, approached the body. It was Renard. After regarding the dying man for a few moments with savage satisfaction, he turned to depart, when his eye fell upon Cholmondeley.
“I had forgotten you,” he said. “But it seems you have not neglected the opportunity offered you of escape.”
“We caught him trying to get out of the subterranean passages, your excellency,” remarked the officer.
“Let him remain here till further orders,” rejoined Renard. “You have saved my life, and shall find I am not ungrateful,” he added to Cholmondeley.
“If your excellency would indeed requite me,” replied the esquire, “you will give orders that this maiden, long and falsely, imprisoned by the wretch before us, may be allowed to return to her friends.”
“I know her,” rejoined Renard, looking at Cicely; “and I know that what you say is true. Release her,” he added to the officer. And giving a last terrible look at Nightgall, he quitted the room.
“Is Cicely here? groaned the dying man.
“She is,” replied Cholmondeley. “Have you aught to say to her!”
“Ay, and to you, too,” replied Nightgall. “Let her approach, and bid the others stand off; and I will confess all I have done. Give me a draught of wine, for it is a long story, and I must have strength to tell it.”
Before relating Nightgall’s confession, it will be necessary to see what dreadful accident had befallen him; and in order to do this, his course must be traced, subsequently to his flight from Cholmondeley’s dungeon.
Acquainted with all the intricacies of the passages, and running with great speed, Nightgall soon distanced his pursuer, who having lost trace of him, was obliged to give up the chase. Determined, however, not to be baulked of his prey, he retraced his steps to the torture-chamber, where he found Wolfytt, Sorro-cold, and three other officials, to whom he recounted the jailor’s atrocious attempt.
“I will engage to find him for your excellency,” said Wolfytt, who bore no very kindly feeling to Nightgall, “if he is anywhere below the Tower. I know every turn and hole in these passages better than the oldest rat that haunts them.”
“Deliver him to my vengeance,” rejoined Renard, “and you shall hold his place.”
“Says your excellency so!” cried Wolfytt; “then you may account him already in your hands.”
With this, he snatched up a halberd and a torch, and bidding two of the officials come with him, started off at a swift pace on the right. Neither he nor his companions relaxed their pace, but tracked passage after passage, and examined vault after vault—but still without success.
Renard’s impatience manifested itself in furious exclamations, and Wolfytt appeared perplexed and disappointed.
“I have it!” he exclaimed, rubbing his shaggy head. “He must have entered Saint John’s Chapel, in the White Tower, by the secret passage.”
The party were again in motion; and, taking the least circuitous road, Wolfytt soon brought them to a narrow passage, at the end of which he descried a dark crouching figure.
“We have him!” he cried, exultingly. “There he is!”
Creeping quickly along, for the roof was so low that he was compelled to stoop, Wolfytt prepared for an encounter with Nightgall. The latter grasped his dagger, and appeared ready to spring upon his assailant. Knowing the strength and ferocity of the jailor, Wolfytt hesitated a moment, but goaded on by Renard, who was close behind, and eager for vengeance, he was about to commence the attack, when Nightgall, taking advantage of the delay, touched a spring in the wall behind him, and a stone dropping from its place, he dashed through the aperture. With a yell of rage and disappointment, Wolfytt sprang after him, and was instantly struck down by a blow from his opponent’s dagger. Renard followed, and beheld the fugitive speeding across the nave of Saint John’s Chapel, and, without regarding Wolfytt, who was lying on the floor, bleeding profusely, he continued the pursuit.
Nightgall hurried up the steps behind the altar, and took his way along one of the arched stone galleries opening upon the council-chamber. But, swiftly as he fled, Renard, to whom fury had lent wings, rapidly gained upon him.
It was more than an hour after day-break, but no one was astir in this part of the citadel, and as the pursued and pursuer threaded the gallery, and crossed the council-chamber, they did not meet even a solitary attendant. Nightgall was now within the southern gallery of the White Tower, and Renard shouted to him to stop; but he heeded not the cry. In another moment, he reached a door, opening upon the north-east turret. It was bolted, and the time lost in unfastening it, brought Renard close upon him. Nightgall would have descended, but thinking he heard voices below, he ran up the winding stairs.
Renard now felt secure of him, and uttered a shout of savage delight. The fugitive would have gained the roof, if he had not been intercepted by a party of men, who at the very moment he reached the doorway communicating with the leads presented themselves at it. Hearing the clamour raised by Renard and his followers below, these men commanded Nightgall to surrender. Instead of complying, the miserable fugitive, now at his wits’ end, rushed backwards, with the determination of assailing Renard. He met the ambassador at a turn in the stairs a little below, and aimed a desperate blow at him with his dagger. But Renard easily warded it off, and pressing him backwards, drove him into one of the deep embrasures at the side.
Driven to desperation, Nightgall at first thought of springing through the loophole; but the involuntary glance that he cast below, made him recoil. On seeing his terror, Renard was filled with delight, and determined to prolong his enjoyment. In vain, Nightgall endeavoured to escape from the dreadful snare in which he was caught. He was driven remorselessly back. In vain, he implored mercy in the most abject terms. None was shown him. Getting within the embrasure, which was about twelve feet deep, Renard deliberately pricked the wretched man with the point of his sword, and forced him slowly backwards.
Nightgall struggled desperately against the horrible fate that awaited him, striking at Renard with his dagger, clutching convulsively against the wall, and disputing the ground inch by inch. But all was unavailing. Scarcely a foot’s space intervened between him and destruction, when Renard sprang forward, and pushed him by main force through the loophole. He uttered a fearful cry, and tried to grasp at the roughened surface of the wall. Renard watched his descent. It was from a height of near ninety feet.
He fell with a terrific smash upon the pavement of the court below. Three or four halberdiers, who were passing at a little distance, hearing the noise, ran towards him, but finding he was not dead, though almost dashed in pieces, and scarcely retaining a vestige of humanity, they brought a shutter, and conveyed him to the lower guard-room, as already related.
“I have no hope of mercy,” gasped the dying man, as his request was complied with, and Cicely, with averted eyes, stood beside him, “and I deserve none. But I will make what atonement I can for my evil deeds. Listen to me, Cicely, (or rather I should say Angela, for that is your rightful name,) you are the daughter of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, and were born while your parents were imprisoned in the Tower. Your mother, the Lady Grace, lost her reason on the day of her husband’s execution, as I have before stated. But she did not expire as I gave out. My motive for setting on foot this story, and for keeping her existence secret, was the hope of making her mine if she recovered her senses, as I had reason to believe would be the case.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed Cholmondeley.
“You cannot upbraid me more than I now upbraid myself,” groaned Nightgall; “but my purpose was thwarted. The ill-fated lady never recovered, and disappointment, acting upon my evil nature, made me treat her with such cruelty that her senses became more unsettled than ever.”
“Alas! alas!” cried Cicely, bursting into tears; “my poor mother! what a fate was yours!”
“When all hope of her recovery was extinguished,” continued Nightgall, “I thought, that if any change occurred in the sovereignty or religion of the country, I might, by producing her, and relating a feigned story, obtain a handsome reward for her preservation. But this expectation also passed by. And I must confess that, at length, my only motive for allowing her to exist was that she formed an object to exercise my cruelty upon.”
“Heaven’s curse upon you!” cried Cholmondeley.
“Spare your maledictions,” rejoined Nightgall; “or heap them on my lifeless clay. You will soon be sufficiently avenged. Give me another draught of wine, for my lips are so dry I can scarcely speak, and I would not willingly expire till I have made known the sum of my wickedness.”
The wine given him, he proceeded.
“I will not tell you all the devilish cruelties I practised upon the wretched Alexia, (for so, as you are aware, I called her, to conceal her real name,)—because from what you have seen you may guess the rest. But I kept her a solitary captive in those secret dungeons, for a term of nearly seventeen years—ever since your birth, in short,” he added, to Cicely. “Sometimes, she would elude my vigilance, and run shrieking along the passages. But when any of the jailors beheld her, they fled, supposing her a supernatural being.”
“Her shrieks were indeed dreadful,” remarked Cholmondeley. “I shall never forget their effect upon me. But you allowed her to perish from famine at last?”
“Her death was accidental,” replied Nightgall, in a hollow voice, “though it lies as heavy on my soul as if I had designed it. I had shut her up for security in the cell in the Devilin Tower, where you found her, meaning to visit her at night, as was my custom, with provisions. But I was sent on special business by the queen to the palace at Greenwich for three days; and on my return to the Tower, I found the wretched captive dead.”
“She had escaped you, then,” said Cholmondeley, bitterly. “But you have not spoken of her daughter?”
“First, let me tell you where I have hidden the body, that decent burial may be given it,” groaned Nightgall. “It lies in the vault beneath the Devilin Tower—in the centre of the chamber—not deep—not deep.”
“I shall not forget,” replied Cholmondeley, noticing with alarm that an awful change had taken place in his countenance. “What of her child?”
“I must be brief,” replied Nightgall, faintly; “for I feel that my end approaches. The little Angela was conveyed by me, to Dame Potentia Trusbut. I said she was the offspring of a lady of rank,—but revealed no name,—and what I told beside was a mere fable. The good dame, having no child of her own, readily adopted her, and named her Cicely. She grew up in years—in beauty; and as I beheld her dawning charms, the love I had entertained for the mother was transferred to the child—nay, it was ten times stronger. I endeavoured to gain her affections, and fancied I should succeed, till you”—looking at Cholmondeley—“appeared. Then I saw my suit was hopeless. Then evil feelings again took possession of me, and I began a fresh career of crime. You know the rest.”
“I do,” replied Cholmondeley. “Have you aught further to disclose?”
“Only this,” rejoined Nightgall, who was evidently on the verge of dissolution. “Cut open my doublet; and within its folds you will find proofs of Angela’s birth, together with other papers referring to her ill-fated parents. Lay them before the queen; and I make no doubt that the estates of her father, who was a firm adherent to the Catholic faith, and died for it, as well as a stanch supporter of Queen Catherine of Arragon, will be restored to her.”
Cholmondeley lost not a moment in obeying the injunction. He cut open the blood-stained jerkin of the dying man, and found, as he had stated, a packet.
“That is it,” cried Nightgall, fixing his glazing eyes on Angela,—“that will restore you to your wealth—your title. The priest by whom you were baptised was the queen’s confessor, Feckenham. He will remember the circumstance—he was the ghostly counsellor of both your parents. Take the packet to him and he will plead your cause with the queen. Forget— forgive me—”
His utterance was suddenly choked by a stream of blood that gushed from his mouth, and with a hideous expression of pain he expired.
“Horrible!” cried Angela, placing her hands before her eyes.
“Think not of him,” said Cholmondeley, supporting her, and removing her to a little distance,—“think of the misery you have escaped,—of the rank to which you will assuredly be restored. When I first beheld those proud and beautiful lineaments, I was certain they belonged to one of high birth. And I was not mistaken.”
“What matters my newly-discovered birth—my title—my estates, if I obtain them,—if you are lost to me!” cried Angela, despairingly. “I shall never know happiness without you.”
As she spoke, an usher, who had entered the guard-room, marched up to Cholmondeley, and said, “I am the bearer of the queen’s pardon to you. Your life is spared, at the instance of the Spanish ambassador. But you are to remain a prisoner on parole, within the fortress, during the royal pleasure.”
“It is now my turn to support you,” said Angela, observing her lover stagger, and turn deadly pale.
“So many events crowd upon my brain,” cried Cholmondeley, “that I begin to fear for my reason—Air!—air!”
Led into the open court, he speedily recovered, and in a transport of such joy as has seldom been experienced, he accompanied Angela to the Stone Kitchen, where they were greeted with mingled tears and rejoicings by Dame Potentia and her spouse.
In the course of the day, Cholmondeloy sought out Feckenham, and laid the papers before him. The confessor confirmed all that Nightgall had stated respecting the baptism of the infant daughter of Lady Mountjoy, and the other documents satisfied him that the so-called Cicely was that daughter. He undertook to lay the case at once before the queen, and was as good as his word. Mary heard his statement with the deepest interest, but made no remark; and at its conclusion desired that the damsel might be brought before her.
XXXVII.—-HOW JANE WAS IMPRISONED IN THE MARTIN TOWER; HOW SHE WAS VISITED BY ROGER ASCHAM; HOW SHE RECEIVED FECKENHAM’S ANNOUNCEMENT THAT THE TIME OF HER EXECUTION WAS FIXED; AND HOW SHE WAS RESPITED FOR THREE DAYS.
The Martin Tower (or, as it is now termed, the Jewel Tower, from the purpose to which it is appropriated), where Jane was confined by the queen’s commands, lies at the north-eastern extremity of the ballium wall, and corresponds in size and structure with the Develin, or Devereux Tower, at the opposite angle. Circular in form, like the last-mentioned building, and erected, in all probability, at the same period—the latter end of the reign of John, or the commencement of that of Henry the Third, it consists of two stories having walls of immense thickness, and containing, as is the case with every other fortification, deep recesses, terminated by narrow loop-holes. A winding stone staircase, still in a tolerable state of preservation, communicates with these stories, and with the roof, which was formerly embattled, and defended on either side by two small square turrets. Externally, on the west, the Martin Tower has lost its original character; the walls being new-fronted and modernized, and a flight of stops raised to the upper story, completely masking the ancient door-way, which now forms the entrance to the jewel-room. On the cast, however, it retains much of its ancient appearance, though in part concealed by surrounding habitations; and when the building now in progress, and intended for the reception of the regalia, is completed, it will be still further hidden. * While digging the foundations of the proposed structure, which were sunk much below the level of the ballium wall, it became apparent that the ground had been artificially raised to a considerable height by an embankment of gravel and sand; and the prodigious solidity and strength of the wall were proved from the difficulty experienced by the workmen in breaking through it, to effect a communication with the new erection.
Within, on the basement floor, on the left of the passage, and generally hidden by the massive portal, is a small cell constructed in the thickness of the wall; and further on, the gloomy chamber used as a depositary for the crown ornaments, and which requires to be artificially lighted, is noticeable for its architecture, having a vaulted and groined roof of great beauty. The upper story, part of the residence of Mr. Swift, the keeper of the regalia, at present comprehends two apartments, with a hall leading to them, while the ceiling having been lowered, other rooms are gained. Here, besides the ill-fated and illustrious lady whose history forms the subject of this chronicle, was confined the lovely, and, perhaps guiltless, Anne Boleyn. The latter fact has, however, been doubted, and the upper chamber in the Beauchamp Tower assigned as the place of her imprisonment. But this supposition, from many circumstances, appears improbable, and the inscription bearing her name, and carved near the entrance of the hall, is conclusive as to her having been confined in this tower.
Here, in 1641, the twelve bishops, impeached of high treason by the revolutionary party in the House of Commons, for protesting against the force used against them, and the acts done in their absence, were imprisoned during their committal to the Tower:—at least, so runs the legend, though it is difficult to conceive how so many persons could be accommodated in so small a place. Here, also, Blood made his atrocious attempt (a story still involved in obscurity—it has been conjectured, with some show of probability, that he was prompted to the deed by Charles himself), to steal the crown jewels; and in this very chamber, the venerable Talbot Edwards made his gallant defence of the royal ensigns, receiving for his bravery and his wounds, a paltry grant of two hundred pounds, half of which, owing to vexatious delays, he only received, while the baffled robber was rewarded with a post at court, and a pension of five hundred pounds a-year in Ireland. Can it be doubted after this which of the two was the offender, in the eyes of the monarch?
* The view of this fabric, at page 321, was taken from the spot cleared out for the erection of the New Jewel Rooms; and as the latter structure is already in a state of forwardness, and will be probably finished before Christmas, this aspect of the old tower can scarcely be said to exist longer.
It must not be omitted that the Jewel Tower enjoys, in common with its corresponding fortification, the Devereux Tower, the reputation of being haunted. Its ghostly visitant is a female figure robed in white—whether the spirit of Anno Boleyn, or the ill-fated Jane, cannot be precisely ascertained.
The Martin Tower acquired its present designation of the Jewel Tower, in the reign of James the First, when the crown ornaments were removed to it from a small building, where they had been hitherto kept, on the south side of the White Tower.
The regalia were first exhibited to the public in the reign of Charles the Second, when many of the perquisites of the ancient master of the Jewel House were abolished, and its privileges annexed to the office of the lord chamberlain.
Jane’s present prison was far more commodious than her former place of confinement in the Brick Tower, and by Mary’s express injunctions, every attention consistent with her situation was shown her. Strange as it may seem, she felt easier, if not happier, than she had done during the latter part of the period of her liberation. Then, she was dissatisfied with herself, anxious for her husband, certain of the failure of his enterprise, and almost desiring its failure,—now, the worst was past. No longer agitated by the affairs of the world, she could suffer with patience, and devote herself wholly to God. Alone within her prison-chamber, she prayed with more fervour than she had been able to do for months; and the soothing effect it produced, was such, that she felt almost grateful for her chastening. “I am better able to bear misfortune than prosperity,” she murmured, “and I cannot be too thankful to Heaven, that I am placed in a situation to call forth my strength. Oh! that Dudley may be able to endure his trial with equal fortitude! But I fear his proud heart will rebel. Sustain him, Lord! I beseech thee, and bring him to a true sense of his condition.”
Convinced that her days were now numbered, having no hope of pardon, scarcely desiring it, and determined to reject it, if coupled with any conditions affecting her faith, Jane made every preparation for her end. No longer giving up a portion of her time to study, she entirely occupied herself with her devotions. Influenced by the controversial spirit of the times, she had before been as anxious to overcome her opponents in argument, as they were to convince her of her errors. Now, though feeling equally strong in her cause, she was more lowly-minded. Reproaching herself bitterly with her departure from her duty, she sought by incessant prayer, by nightly vigil, by earnest and heart-felt supplication to wipe out the offence. “I have not sinned in ignorance,” she thought, “but with my eyes open, and therefore my fault is far greater than if no light had been vouchsafed me. By sincere contrition alone can I hope to work out my salvation; and if sorrow, remorse, and shame, combined with the most earnest desire of amendment, constitute repentance, I am truly contrite. But I feel my own unworthiness, and though I know the mercy of Heaven is infinite, yet I scarcely dare to hope for forgiveness for my trespasses. I have trusted too much to myself already—and find that I relied on a broken reed. I will now trust only to God.”
And thus she passed her time, in the strictest self-examination, fixing her thoughts above, and withdrawing them as much as possible from earth. The effect was speedily manifest in her altered looks and demeanour. When first brought to the Martin Tower, she was downcast and despairing. Ere three days had passed, she became calm, and almost cheerful, and her features resumed their wonted serene and seraphic expression. She could not, it is true, deaden the pangs that ever and anon shook her, when she thought of her husband and father. But she strove to console herself by the hope that they would be purified, like herself, by the trial to which they were subjected, and that their time of separation would be brief. To the duke she addressed that touching letter preserved among the few fragments of her writings, which after it had been submitted to Gardiner, was allowed to be delivered to him. It concluded with these words:—“And thus, good father, I have opened unto you the state wherein I presently stand,—my death at hand. Although to you it may seem woful, yet to me there is nothing that can be more welcome than to aspire from this Vale of Misery to that heavenly throne of all joy and pleasure with Christ, my Saviour. In whose steadfast faith (if it may be lawful for the daughter so to write to the father), the Lord who hath hitherto strengthened you so continue to keep you, that at the last we may meet in heaven.”
With her husband she was allowed no communication; and in reply to her request to see him once more, she was told that their sole meeting would be on the scaffold:—a wanton insult, for it was not intended to execute them together. The room, or rooms, (for the large circular chamber was even then divided by a partition,) occupied by Jane in the Martin Tower, were those on the upper story, tenanted, as before-mentioned, by the keeper of the regalia, and her chief place of resort during the day-time was one of the deep embrasures looking towards the north. In this recess, wholly unobserved and undisturbed, she remained, while light lasted, upon her knees, with a book of prayers, or the bible before here, fearful of losing one of the precious moments which flew by so quickly—and now so tranquilly. At night, she withdrew, not to repose, but to a small table in the midst of the apartment, on which she placed the sacred volume and a lamp, and knelt down beside it. Had she not feared to disturb her calm condition, she would not have allowed herself more than an hour’s repose, at the longest intervals nature could endure. But desirous of maintaining her composure to the last, she yielded to the demand, and from midnight to the third hour stretched herself upon her couch. She then arose, and resumed her devotions. The same rules were observed in respect to the food she permitted herself to take. Restricting herself to bread and water, she ate and drank sufficient to support nature, and no more.
On the fourth day after her confinement, the jailor informed her there was a person without who had an order from the queen to see her. Though Jane would have gladly refused admittance to the applicant, she answered meekly, “Let him come in.”
Immediately afterwards a grave-looking middle-aged man, with a studious countenance overclouded with sorrow, appeared, he was attired in a black robe, and carried a flat velvet cap in his hand.
“What, Master Roger Ascham, my old instructor!” exclaimed Jane, rising as he approached, and extending her hand to him, “I am glad to see you.”
Ascham was deeply affected. The tears rushed to his eyes, and it was some moments before he could speak.
“Do not lament for me, good friend,” said Jane, in a cheerful tone, “but rejoice with me, that I have so profited by your instructions as to be able to bear my present lot with resignation.”
“I do indeed heartily rejoice at it, honoured and dear madam,” replied Ascham, subduing his emotion, “and I would gladly persuade myself that my instructions had contributed in however slight a degree to your present composure. But you derive your fortitude from a higher source than any on earth. It is your piety, not your wisdom that sustains you; and though I have pointed out the way to the living waters at which you have drunk, it is to that fountain alone that you owe the inestimable blessing of your present frame of mind. I came not hither to depress, but to cheer you—not to instruct, but be instructed. Your life, madam, will afford the world one of the noblest lessons it has ever received, and though your career may be closed at the point whence most others start, it will have been run long enough.”
“Alas! good Master Ascham,” rejoined Jane, “I once thought that my life and its close would be profitable to our church—that my conduct might haply be a model to its disciples—and my name enrolled among its martyrs. Let him who standeth take heed lest he fall. I had too much confidence in myself. I yielded to impulses, which, though not culpable in the eyes of men, were so in those of God.”
“Oh madam! you reproach yourself far too severely,” cried Ascham. “Unhappy circumstances have made you amenable to the laws of your country, it is true, and you give up your life as a willing sacrifice to justice. But this is all that can, or will be required of you, by your earthly or your supreme Judge. That your character might have been more absolutely faultless in the highest sense I will not deny, had you sacrificed every earthly feeling to duty. But I for one should not have admired—should not have loved you as I now love you, had you acted otherwise. What you consider a fault has proved you a true woman in heart and affection; and your constancy as a believer in the gospel, and upholder of its doctrines, has been equally strongly manifested. Your name in after ages will be a beacon and a guiding-star to the whole Protestant church.”
“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed Jane, fervently. “I once hoped—once thought so.”
“Hope so—think so still,” rejoined Ascham. “Ah, dear madam, when I last took my leave of you before my departure for Germany, and found you in your chamber at Bradgate, buried in the Phædo of the divine philosopher, while your noble father and his friends were hunting, and disporting themselves in the park—when to my wondering question, as to why you did not join in their pastime, you answered, ’that all their sport in the park was but a shadow to the pleasure you found in Plato’—adding, ’alas! good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant’—at that time, I little thought for what a sad, though proud destiny you were reserved.”
“Neither did I, good Master Ascham,” replied Jane; “but you now find me at a better study. I have exchanged him whom you term, and truly, in a certain sense, the ‘divine’ philosopher, for writings derived from the highest source of inspiration,—direct from heaven—and I find in this study more pleasure and far more profit than the other. And now farewell, good friend. Do me one last favour. Be present at my ending. And see how she, whom you have taught to live, will die. Heaven bless you!” <
“Heaven bless you too, noble and dear lady,” replied Ascham, kneeling and pressing her hand to his lips. “I will obey your wishes.” He then arose, and covering his face to hide his fast-falling tears, withdrew.
Jane, also, was much moved, for she was greatly attached to her old instructor; and to subdue her emotion, took a few turns within her chamber. In doing this, she noticed the various inscriptions and devices carved by former occupants; and taking a pin, traced with its point the following lines, on the wall of the recess where she performed her devotions:
Non aliéna putes homini quæ obtingere possunt;
Sors hodierna mihi, eras erit ilia tibi.
Underneath, she added the following, and subscribed them with her name:
Deo juvante, nil nocet livor malus;
Et non juvante, nil juvat labor gravis:
Post tenebras, spero lucem!
The lines have been effaced. But tradition has preserved them. How deeply affecting is the wish of the patient sufferer—“Post tenebras, spero lucem!”
Scarcely had Jane resumed her devotions, when she was a second time interrupted by the jailor, who, ushering a young female into the room, departed. Jane arose, and fixed her eyes upon the new-comer, but did not appear to recognise her; while the latter, unable to restrain her tears, tottered towards her, and threw herself at her feet.
“Do you not know me, dearest madam?” she cried, in a voice suffocated by emotion.
“Can it be Cicely?” inquired Jane, eagerly. “The tones are hers.”
“It is—it is,” sobbed the other.
Jane instantly raised her, and pressed her affectionately to her bosom.
“Poor child!” she exclaimed, gazing at her pale and emaciated features, now bedewed with tears, “you are as much altered as I am,—nay, more. You must have suffered greatly to rob you of your youth and beauty thus. But I should have known you at once, despite the change, had I not thought you dead. By what extraordinary chance do I behold you here?”
As soon as she could command herself, Angela related all that had befallen her since their last sad parting. She told how she had been betrayed into the hands of Nightgall by one of his associates, who came to Sion House with a forged order for her arrest,—carried her off, and delivered her to the jailor. How she was conveyed by the subterranean passage from Tower Hill to the secret dungeons beneath the fortress,—how she was removed from one cell to another by her inexorable captor, and what she endured from his importunities, threats, and cruel treatment,—and how at last, when she had abandoned all hope of succour, Providence had unexpectedly and mysteriously interposed to release her, and punish her persecutor. She likewise recounted the extraordinary discovery of her birth—Nightgall’s confession—Cholmondeley’s interview with Feckenham—and concluded her narration thus:—“The confessor having informed me that her majesty desired I should be brought before her, I yesterday obeyed the mandate. She received me most graciously—ordered me to relate my story—listened to it with profound attention—and expressed great sympathy with my misfortunes. ‘Your sufferings are at an end, I trust,’ she said, when I had finished, ‘and brighter and happie days are in store for you. The title and estates of which you have been so long and so unjustly deprived, shall be restored to you. Were it for your happiness, I would place you near my person; but a life of retirement, if I guess your disposition rightly, will suit you best.’ In this I entirely agreed, and thanking her majesty for her kindness, she replied:—‘You owe me no thanks, Angela. The daughter of Sir Alberic Mountjoy—my mother’s trusty friend—has the strongest claims upon my gratitude. Your lover has already received a pardon, and when these unhappy affairs are ended, he shall be at liberty to quit the Tower. May you be happy with him!’”
“I echo that wish with all my heart, dear Angela,” cried Jane. “May heaven bless your union!—and it will bless it, I am assured, for you deserve happiness. Nor am I less rejoiced at your deliverance than at Cholmondeley’s. I looked upon myself as in some degree the cause of his destruction, and unceasingly reproached myself with having allowed him to accompany me to the Tower. But now I find—as I have ever found in my severest afflictions,—that all was for the best.”
“Alas! madam,” returned Angela, “when I see you here, I can with difficulty respond to the sentiment.”
“Do not question the purposes of the Unquestionable, Angela,” replied Jane, severely. “I am chastened because I deserve it, and for my own good. The wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, and fortitude is given me to bear my afflictions. Nay, they are not afflictions. I would not exchange my lot—sad as it seems to you—for that of the happiest and the freest within the realm. When the bondage of earth is once broken,—when the flesh has no more power over the spirit—when the gates of heaven are open for admittance—can the world, or worldly joys, possess further charms? No. These prison walls are no restraint to me. My soul soars upwards, and holds communion with God and with his elect, among whom I hope to be numbered. The scaffold will have no terror for me. I shall mount it as the first step towards heaven; and shall hail the stroke of the axe as the signal to my spirit to wing its flight to the throne of everlasting joy.”
“I am rebuked, madam,” returned Angela, with a look of admiration. “Oh! that I might ever hope to obtain such a frame of mind.”
“You may do so, dear Angela,” replied Jane—“but your lot is cast differently from mine. What is required from me is not required from you. Such strong devotional feelings have been implanted in my breast, for a wise purpose, that they usurp the place of all other, and fit me for my high calling. The earnest and hearty believer in the gospel will gladly embrace death, even if accompanied by the severest tortures, at seasons perilous to his church, in the conviction that it will be profitable to it. Such have been the deaths of the martyrs of our religion—such shall be my death.”
“Amen!” exclaimed Angela, fervently.
“Must we part now?” inquired Jane.
“Not unless you desire it,” replied Angela. “I have obtained the queen’s permission to remain with you to the last.”
“I thank her for the boon,” returned Jane. “It will be a great consolation to me to have you near me. Angela, you must not shrink from the last duty of a friend—you must accompany me to the scaffold. I may need you there.”
“I will shrink from nothing you injoin, madam,” replied Angela, shuddering. “But I had rather—far rather—suffer in your stead.”
Jane made no reply, but pressed her hand affectionately.
“I have omitted to tell you, madam,” continued Angela, “that the queen, before I was dismissed from the presence, urged me to embrace the faith of Rome,—that of my father, who perished for his adherence to it,—and to use my endeavours to induce you to become reconciled with that church.”
“And what answer did you make?” demanded Jane, sternly.
“Such as you yourself, would have made, madam,” replied Angela—“I refused both.”
“It is well,” rejoined Jane. “And now I must return to my devotions. You will have a weary office in attending me, Angela. Nor shall I be able to address more than a few words to you—and those but seldom.”
“Think not of me, madam,” replied the other; “all I desire is to be near you, and to join my prayers with yours.”
Both then knelt down, and both prayed long and fervently. It would have been a touching sight to see those young and beautiful creatures with eyes upturned to heaven—hands clasped—and lips murmuring prayer. But the zeal that animated Jane far surpassed that of her companion. Long before the former sought her couch, fatigue overcame the latter, and she was compelled to retire to rest; and when she arose (though it was not yet daybreak), she found the unwearying devotee had already been up for hours. And so some days were spent—Jane ever praying—Angela praying too, but more frequently engaged in watching her companion.
On the morning of Thursday, the 8th of February, the jailor appeared, with a countenance of unusual gloom, and informed his captive that the lieutenant of the Tower and Father Feckenham were without, and desired to see her.
“Admit them,” replied Jane. “I know their errand. You are right welcome, sirs,” she added, with a cheerful look, as they entered. “You bring me good news.”
“Alas! madam,” replied Feckenham, sorrowfully, “we are the bearers of ill tidings. It is our melancholy office to acquaint you that your execution is appointed for to-morrow.”
“Why that is good news,” returned Jane, with an unaltered countenance. “I have long and anxiously expected my release, and am glad to find it so near at hand.”
“I am further charged, by the queen’s highness, who desires not to kill the soul as well as the body,” pursued Feckenham, “to entreat you to use the few hours remaining to you in making your peace with heaven.”
“I will strive to do so, sir,1’ replied Jane meekly.
“Do not mistake me, madam,” rejoined Feckenham, earnestly. “Her majesty’s hope is that you will reconcile yourself with the holy Catholic church, by which means you can alone ensure your salvation. For this end, she has desired me to continue near you to the last, and to use my best efforts for your conversion—and by God’s grace I will do so.”
“You may spare yourself the labour, sir,” replied Jane. “You will more easily overturn these solid walls by your arguments than my resolution.”
“At least, suffer me to make the attempt,” replied Feckenham. “That I have hitherto failed in convincing you is true, and I may fail now, but my very zeal must satisfy you that I have your welfare at heart, and am eager to deliver you from the bondage of Satan.”
“I have never doubted your zeal, sir,” returned Jane; “nor—and I say it in all humility,—do I doubt my own power to refute your arguments. But I must decline the contest now, because my time is short, and I would devote every moment to the service of God.”
“That excuse shall not avail you, madam,” rejoined Fecken-ham, significantly. “The queen and the chancellor are as anxious as I am, for your conversion, and nothing shall be left undone to accomplish it.”
“I must submit, then,” replied Jane, with a look of resignation. “But I repeat, you will lose your labour.”
“Time will show,” returned Feckenham.
“I have not yet dared to ask a question which has risen to my lips, but found no utterance,” said Jane, in an altered tone. “Mv husband!—what of him?”
“His execution will take place at the same time with your own,” replied Feckenham.
“I shall see him to-morrow, then?” cried Jane.
“Perhaps before,” returned Feckenham.
“It were better not,” said Jane, trembling. “I know not whether I can support the interview.”
“I was right,” muttered Feckenham to himself. “The way to move her is through the affections.” And he made a sign to the lieutenant, who quitted the chamber.
“Prepare yourself, madam,” he added to Jane.
“For what?” she cried.
“For your husband’s approach. He is here.”
As he spoke, the door was opened, and Dudley rushed forward, and caught her in his arms. Not a word was uttered for some moments by the afflicted pair. Angela withdrew weeping as if her heart would break, into one of the recesses, and Feckenham and the lieutenant into another. After the lapse of a short time, thinking it a favourable opportunity for his purpose, the confessor came forward. Jane and her husband were still locked in each other’s embrace, and it seemed as if nothing but force could tear them asunder.
“I would not disturb you,” said Feckenham, “but my orders are that this interview must be brief. I am empowered also to state, madam,” he added to Jane, “that her majesty will even now pardon your husband, notwithstanding his heinous offences against her, provided you are publicly reconciled with the church of Rome.”
“I cannot do it, Dudley,” cried Jane, in a voice of agony—“I cannot—cannot.”
“Neither do I desire it,” he replied. “I would not purchase life on such terms. We will die together.”
“Be it so,” observed Feckenham, with a disconcerted look. “The offer will never be repeated.”
“It would never have been made at all, if there had been a chance of its acceptance,” returned Dudley, coldly. “Tell your royal mistress, that I love my wife too well to require such a sacrifice at her hands, and that she loves me too well to make it.”
“Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, gazing at him with tearful eyes, “I can now die without a pang.”
“Have you aught more to say to each other?” demanded Feckenham. “You will meet no more on earth!”
“Yes, on the scaffold,” cried Jane.
“Not so,” replied Feckcnham, gloomily. “Lord Guilford Dudley will suffer on Tower Hill—you, madam, will meet your sentence on the green before the White Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard perished.”
“We shall meet in the grave, then,” rejoined Dudley, bitterly, “where Mary’s tyranny can neither reach us, nor the voice of juggling priest disturb us more.”
“Your prisoner,” cried Feckenham, turning angrily to the lieutenant.
“Farewell, dear Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, straining him to her bosom—“Be constant.”
“As yourself,” he replied, gently disengaging himself from her. “I am ready, sir,” he added, to Brydges. And without hazarding another look at Jane, who fell back in the arms of Angela, he quitted the chamber.
Half an hour after this, when Jane had in some degree recovered from the shock, Feckenham returned, and informed her that he had obtained from the queen a reprieve for herself and her husband for three days. “You can now no longer allege the shortness of the time allowed you, as a reason for declining a conference with me,” he said: “and I pray you address yourself earnestly to the subject, for I will not desist till I have convinced and converted you.”
“Then I shall have little of the time allotted me to myself,” replied Jane. “But I will not repine. My troubles may benefit others—if not myself.”