“Bishop of Winchester,” replied the Queen, “how many hours have you knelt before my father, Henry the Eighth, and have yet failed to turn him from his purpose! I am by nature as jealous—as firm—as obstinate, if you will—as he was. Arise.”
“No, madam,” replied Gardiner, “I will not rise till I have convinced you of your error. Your august father was a prince of high and noble qualities, but the defects that clouded his royal nature would show to double disadvantage in one of your sex. Dismiss all thought of this faithless Earl from your heart,—banish him from your presence, from your kingdom,—nay, keep him in durance if you will, but use no harsh measures against the Princess Elizabeth. Every step taken against her will be fearfully resented by the Protestant party, of which, I need not remind you, she is the representative.”
“And what matter if it be, my lord?” rejoined Mary. “I am strong enough to maintain my own authority, and shall be right glad of some plea to put down heresy and schism by fire and sword. You are not wont to advocate this cause.”
“Nor do I advocate it now, madam,” returned Gardiner. “All I counsel is prudence. You are not yet strong enough to throw off the mask of toleration which you have hitherto worn. Your first parliament has not yet met. The statutes establishing the Reformed religion are yet unrepealed,—nay, though I shame to speak it, the marriage of your illustrious parents has not yet been confirmed.”
“You should shame to speak it, my lord,” rejoined Mary, fiercely; “for it is mainly by your machinations that the divorce was obtained.”
“I own it to my sorrow,” replied Gardiner, “but I then owed the same obedience to your illustrious sire that I now owe to your highness. I did your injured mother great wrong, but if I live I will repair it. This, however, is foreign to the subject. Your majesty may believe me when I tell you, your worst enemies could not desire you to take a more injudicious step, or one more fraught with danger to yourself, than to strain your prerogative against Courtenay and Elizabeth.”
“Were I to assent to your request and set them free,” replied
Mary, after a moment’s reflection, “the first act of the princess would be to unite herself to this perfidious villain.”
“I do not think it,” replied Gardiner. “But what if she were to do so?”
“What!” exclaimed Mary, furiously. “The thought revives all my indignation. Am I so tame of spirit that I can bear to see him whom I have loved united to a rival I hate? No, my lord, I am not. This is no doubtful case. I have heard his treachery with my own ears—seen it with my own eyes—and I will terribly avenge myself. Courtenay never again shall behold Elizabeth. He has breathed his last false sigh—uttered his last perjured profession of love—exchanged his last look, unless they meet upon the scaffold. You know not what an injured woman feels. I have the power of avenging myself, and, by my father’s head, I will use it!”