“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: