All that had seemed small, petty, and wretched in the daytime seemed a thousand times more mean and unworthy now. She was haunted by the stiff little figure of Queen Catherine, whose personality had suddenly flashed out on her, by the fair sullen image of Anne, and the vulgar enmity of Lady Marlborough. She was tortured by the idea that she had done everything wrong....
She sat up in bed and locked her hands over her heart.
"I must not despair—God will not let me despair," she clung to that word, "God—ah, He knoweth best—He seeth what man cannot see—therefore He did not give me children, knowing I could not have endured this if their safety had been at stake."
The Palace clock struck one. Like an echo came the bell of the Abbey Church, then the dead silence again.
The Queen rose from her bed and made her way lightly to the dressing-table. After a little fumbling she found the tinderbox and struck a light.
The silver table, the enamel, jade, and gold boxes glittered into points of light. In the depths of the mirror she saw her own face lit by the little flame she held.
It flared out between her cold fingers. She struck another and lit one of the tall candles in the red copper stands.
By the dim wavering light she found her scarlet shoes and a little mantle of fox's fur that she put on over her muslin night-dress. She then took up the candlestick, which was so heavy that it made her wrist shake, and quietly left the room, which opened into the cabinet.
Here she paused at the red lac desk, unlocked it with the gold key she wore round her neck, and took out a packet tied with orange ribbon.
These were the letters she had received from the King since his departure. She looked at them tenderly, took up her candle again, and passed on through an antechamber to a private door that led straight into the chapel.