“Oh, he will never love me!” murmured she, sadly.
“He will love you, for you it will be that will save his life. Hasten, then. Jane, haste! Write him quickly one of those tender notes that you indite with so masterly a hand. Invite him to a meeting to-night at the usual time and place.”
“Oh, I shall at last have him again!” whispered Lady Jane; and she stepped to the writing-table and with trembling hand began to write.
But suddenly she stopped, and looked at her father sharply and suspiciously.
“You swear to me, my father, that no danger threatens him if he comes?”
“I swear to you, Jane, that you shall be the one to save his life! I swear to you, Jane, that you shall take vengeance on the queen—vengeance for all the agony, the humiliation and despair that you have suffered by her. To-day she is yet Queen of England! To-morrow she will be nothing more than a criminal, who sighs in the confinement of the Tower for the hour of her execution. And you will be Henry’s seventh queen. Write, then, my daughter, write! And may love dictate to you the proper words!”
CHAPTER XXX. THE FEAST OF DEATH.
For a long time the king had not appeared in such good spirits as on this festive evening. For a long time he had not been so completely the tender husband, the good-natured companion, the cheerful bon-vivant.
The pains of his leg seemed to have disappeared, and even the weight of his body seemed to be less burdensome than usual, for more than once he rose from his chair, and walked a few steps through the brilliantly lighted saloon, in which the ladies and lords of his court, in festive attire, were moving gently to and fro; in which music and laughter resounded. How tender he showed himself toward the queen to-day; with what extraordinary kindness he met the Duke of Norfolk; with what smiling attention, he listened to the Earl of Surrey, as he, at the king’s desire, recited some new sonnets to Geraldine!