The duchess stood gazing after him, filled with strange apprehension. The force with which he had wrung her hand was still painful, and there was an expression in his face which made her heart sink with sad forebodings. What had befallen him? Where was her daughter—and why did he, who so seldom forgot the etiquette of his high station, take leave of her thus, when only going forth for a morning? As the gentle and yet proud lady stood pondering these things in her mind, the old counsellor, whom we have mentioned, returned slowly up the corridor, and approaching her with touching reverence, told her all. She thanked him, tried to smile as she extended her hand—but in the effort her strength gave way, and she fell pale and helpless on the stone floor. The old man lifted her in his arms, and carrying her to the Lady Jane Seymour’s room, placed her on the bed, and bathed her temples with water, which he laved from a silver basin with his hand, till at last he went forth in despair to call assistance, for she lay upon the glowing counterpane pale and still, like a draped statue reposing in the purple gloom which filled the chamber; and for many long hours the lady who had always seemed so quiet, proud, and almost void of feeling, remained as one dead.
It was half an hour before Lady Jane was informed of her mother’s condition. She was still in her father’s closet, with her hand locked in that of Lord Dudley, and her large troubled eyes bent earnestly upon him, as he spoke to her in a voice so deep, so earnest and impassioned, that every tone thrilled through her heart with a power that made it tremble.
“Do not look at me thus. In the name of heaven, speak to me, Jane. I have not done this; it is no fault of mine. Do I not love you?—ay, and will forever! I will follow my father, beseech him, kneel to him if needs be, and put an end to this dreadful contest; but speak to me first—my own—my dearest—say that you will struggle for power to aid me that—nay, Jane, nay, do not shrink from me; one kiss—one look, to prove you love me as before, and I will go at once. All will terminate well—God bless you!”
As the young man finished his hurried speech, he lifted the young girl from his bosom, where she had fallen in utter abandonment to her tenderness and grief, pressed her forehead with his lips again and again—then folding her to his heart once more, he carried her to the chair her father had just occupied, and placing her within it, was about to leave the room. Lady Jane put back the long ringlets that had fallen over her face with both hands, and looked after him through the tears that almost blinded her. Then rising to her feet, she tottered toward him with outstretched arms, and when he turned for a last look, sprang forward and wound them almost convulsively round his neck. It was but the paroxysm of a moment, for scarcely did she feel his clasp together about her, when she drew gently back, checked the tears that gushed into her eyes afresh, and spoke breathlessly, as one whose very heart was ebbing with the words, as they came laden with pain to her lips—
“It is in vain, Dudley, all in vain. There have been words and deeds, this day, between your father and mine, which must separate us forever. Farewell!”
He would have expostulated, have soothed her with hopes which had no foundation in his own mind, for his thoughts were in confusion, and his heart seemed ready to break with contending feelings; but as he spoke, her slender fingers wreathed themselves convulsively around his hand, her face was uplifted to his for a moment, and she glided swiftly through the door and along the corridor to the chamber where her mother was lying, and left him standing bewildered and in pain, as if a guardian spirit had been frightened from its brooding place in his heart.
In an apartment belonging to that portion of the tower occupied by the sovereigns of England sat a pale, slender boy reading. The room was furnished in a style of magnificence, befitting one of high rank and of habits more elegant and studious than were usual to the court of Henry the Eighth during his reign. The books which it contained were richly bound, and some of them encrusted with jewels; all had clasps either of silver or of gold, and a portion were entirely filled with manuscript in the hand-writing of the late King Henry.
Tall windows cut deep into the massive walls in one side of the room filled it with light. The massive stone sills were cushioned with velvet, and upon the cushions, musical instruments of the most precious wood and inlaid with gold, had been flung down, as if their owner had become weary of one amusement only to seek another. The boy arose from his easy leathern chair, and moving toward the window, ran his fingers thoughtfully over the strings of a lute that lay on the cushion, gazing idly through the glass at a court below, as he was thus occupied. After a moment he sauntered back to the chair, took up the volume of manuscript which he had left open on a small and curiously carved table standing near the window, and sinking once more to his seat he began to read again, but the book seemed to fatigue him at last, so allowing it to sink, still open, to his lap, the youth gradually sank to a fit of abstracted musing, and sat with his head resting on his hand, and his large eyes fixed dreamily on the face of a great ebony clock which stood opposite the window, its burnished face glittering through a whole bower of carved wood, and its huge pendulum swaying to and fro with a dull, sleepy motion, well calculated to continue the state of languid thoughtfulness into which the youth had fallen.
As King Edward the Sixth—for the boy was no less a personage—sat musing, thus languid from ill health, and rendered somewhat more sad than usual from the manuscript and book which he had been reading, a page entered, and before he had time to speak, Lord Dudley, son of the reigning protector, followed him into the room. The young nobleman looked pale and much agitated, and Edward himself seemed a little startled by his abrupt entrance, for he was so little accustomed to being consulted on matters regarding the welfare of his kingdom, that any person thus nearly connected with the Lord Protector became an object of nervous dread to him; for such persons seldom interrupted his retirement except to counsel some change of residence, or dictate regarding his personal habits, which to a person naturally shy, and rendered sensitive by illness, was always a subject to be dreaded, but never opposed. It was therefore with something of dismay in his pale features, that Edward received his visiter.