short of chains and fetters could have kept her from going to Brandon
that evening. There was an inherent force about her that was
irresistible and swept everything before it.
In our garret she was to meet another will, stronger and infinitely
better controlled than her own, and I did not know how it would all
turn out.
_CHAPTER XII_
_Atonement_
I had not been long in the room when a knock at the door announced the
girls. I admitted them, and Mary walked to the middle of the floor. It
was just growing dark and the room was quite dim, save at the window
where Brandon sat reading. Gods! those were exciting moments; my heart
beat like a woman's. Brandon saw the girls when they entered, but
never so much as looked up from his book. You must remember he had a
great grievance. Even looking at it from Mary's side of the case,
certainly its best point of view, he had been terribly misused, and it
was all the worse that the misuse had come from one who, from his
standpoint, had _pretended_ to love him, and had wantonly led him on,
as he had the best of right to think, to love her, and to suffer the
keenest pangs a heart can know. Then you must remember he did not know
even the best side of the matter, bad as it was, but saw only the
naked fact, that in recompense for his great help in time of need,
Mary had deliberately allowed him to lie in that dungeon a long,
miserable month, and would have suffered him to die. So it was no
wonder his heart was filled with bitterness toward her. Jane and I had
remained near the door, and poor Mary was a pitiable princess,
standing there so full of doubt in the middle of the room. After a
moment she stepped toward the window, and, with quick-coming breath,
stopped at the threshold of the little passage.
"Master Brandon, I have come, not to make excuses, for nothing can
excuse me, but to tell you how it all happened--by trusting to
another."
Brandon arose, and marking the place in his book with his finger,
followed Mary, who had stepped backward into the room.
"Your highness is very gracious and kind thus to honor me, but as our
ways will hereafter lie as far apart as the world is broad, I think it
would have been far better had you refrained from so imprudent a
visit; especially as anything one so exalted as yourself may have to
say can be no affair of such as I--one just free of the hangman's
noose."
"Oh! don't! I pray you. Let me tell you, and it may make a difference.
It must pain you, I know, to think of me as you do, after--after--you
know; after what has passed between us."
"Yes, that only makes it all the harder. If you could give your
kisses"--and she blushed red as blood--"to one for whom you care so
little that you could leave him to die like a dog, when a word from
you would have saved him, what reason have I to suppose they are not
for every man?"
This gave Mary an opening of which she was quick enough to take
advantage, for Brandon was in the wrong.
"You know that is not true. You are not honest with me nor with
yourself, and that is not like you. You know that no other man ever
had, or could have, any favor from me, even the slightest. Wantonness
is not among my thousand faults. It is not that which angers you. You
are sure enough of me in that respect. In truth, I had almost come to
believe you were too sure, that I had grown cheap in your eyes, and
you did not care so much as I thought and hoped for what I had to
give, for after that day you came not near me at all. I know it was
the part of wisdom and prudence that you should remain away; but had
you cared as much as I, your prudence would not have held you."
She hung her head a moment in silence; then, looking at him, almost
ready for tears, continued: "A man has no right to speak in that way
of a woman whose little favors he has taken, and make her regret that
she has given a gift only that it may recoil upon her. 'Little,' did I
say? Sir, do you know what that--first--kiss was to me? Had I
possessed all the crowns of all the earth I would have given them to
you as willingly. Now you know the value I placed on it, however
worthless it was to you. Yet I was a cheerful giver of that great
gift, was I not? And can you find it in your heart to make of it a
shame to me--that of which I was so proud?"
She stood there with head inclined a little to one side, looking at
him inquiringly as if awaiting an answer. He did not speak, but looked
steadily at his book. I felt, however, that he was changing, and I was
sure her beauty, never more exquisite than in its present humility,
would yet atone for even so great a fault as hers. Err, look
beautiful, and receive remission! Such a woman as Mary carries her
indulgence in her face.
I now began to realize for the first time the wondrous power of this
girl, and ceased to marvel that she had always been able to turn even
the king, the most violent, stubborn man on earth, to her own wishes.
Her manner made her words eloquent, and already, with true feminine
tactics, she had put Brandon in the wrong in everything because he was
wrong in part.
Then she quickly went over what she had said to me. She told of her
great dread lest the king should learn of the visit to Grouche's and
its fatal consequences, knowing full well it would render Henry
impervious to her influence and precipitate the French marriage. She
told him of how she was going to the king the day after the arrest to
ask his release, and of the meeting with Buckingham, and his promise.
Still Brandon said nothing, and stood as if politely waiting for her
to withdraw.
She remained silent a little time, waiting for him to speak, when
tears, partly of vexation, I think, moistened her eyes.
"Tell me at least," she said, "that you know I speak the truth. I have
always believed in you, and now I ask for your faith. I would not lie
to you in the faintest shading of a thought--not for heaven
itself--not even for your love and forgiveness, much as they are to
me, and I want to know that you are sure of my truthfulness, if you
doubt all else. You see I speak plainly of what your love is to me,
for although, by remaining away, you made me fear I had been too
lavish with my favors--that is every woman's fear--I knew in my heart
you loved me; that you could not have done and said what you did
otherwise. Now you see what faith I have in you, and you a man, whom a
woman's instinct prompts to doubt. How does it compare with your faith
in me, a woman, whom all the instincts of a manly nature should
dispose to trust? It seems to be an unwritten law that a man may lie
to a woman concerning the most important thing in life to her, and be
proud of it, but you see even now I have all faith in your love for
me, else I surely should not be here. You see I trust even your
unspoken word, when it might, without much blame to you, be a spoken
lie; yet you do not trust me, who have no world-given right to speak
falsely about such things, and when that which I now do is full of
shame for me, and what I have done full of guilt, if inspired by aught
but the purest truth from my heart of hearts. Your words mean so
much--so much more, I think, than you realize--and are so cruel in
turning to evil the highest, purest impulse a woman can feel--the
glowing pride in self-surrender, and the sweet, delightful privilege
of giving where she loves. How can you? How can you?"
How eloquent she was! It seemed to me this would have melted the
frozen sea, but I think Brandon felt that now his only hope lay in the
safeguard of his constantly upheld indignation.
When he spoke he ignored all she had said.
"You did well to employ my Lord of Buckingham. It will make matters
more interesting when I tell you it was he who attacked you and was
caught by the leg under his wounded horse; he was lame, I am told, for
some time afterward. I had watched him following you from the gate at
Bridewell, and at once recognized him when his mask fell off during
the fight by the wall. You have done well at every step, I see."
"Oh, God; to think of it! Had I but known! Buckingham shall pay for
this with his head; but how could I know? I was but a poor, distracted
girl, sure to make some fatal error. I was in such agony--your
wounds--believe me, I suffered more from them than you could. Every
pain you felt was a pang for me--and then that awful marriage! I was
being sold like a wretched slave to that old satyr, to be gloated over
and feasted upon. No man can know the horror of that thought to a
woman--to any woman, good or bad. To have one's beauty turn to curse
her and make her desirable only--only as well-fed cattle are prized. No
matter how great the manifestation of such so-called love, it all the
more repels a woman and adds to her loathing day by day. Then there was
something worse than all,"--she was almost weeping now--"I might have
been able to bear the thought even of that hideous marriage--others
have lived through the like--but--but after--that--that day--when
you--it seemed that your touch was a spark dropped into a heart full of
tinder, which had been lying there awaiting it all these years. In that
one moment the flame grew so intense I could not withstand it. My
throat ached; I could scarcely breathe, and it seemed that my heart
would burst." Here the tears gushed forth as she took a step toward him
with outstretched arms, and said between her sobs: "I wanted you, you!
for my husband--for my husband, and I could not bear the torturing
thought of losing you or enduring any other man. I could not give you
up after that--it was all too late, too late; it had gone too far. I
was lost! lost!"
He sprang to where she stood leaning toward him, and caught her to his
breast.
She held him from her while she said: "Now you know--now you know that
I would not have left you in that terrible place, had I known it. No,
not if it had taken my life to buy your freedom."
"I do know; I do know. Be sure of that; I know it and shall know it
always, whatever happens; nothing can change me. I will never doubt
you again. It is my turn to ask forgiveness now."
"No, no; just forgive me; that is all I ask," and her head was on his
breast.
"Let us step out into the passage-way, Edwin," said Jane, and we did.
There were times when Jane seemed to be inspired.
When we went back into the room Mary and Brandon were sitting in the
window-way on his great cloak. They rose and came to us, holding each
other's hands, and Mary asked, looking up to him:
"Shall we tell them?"
"As you like, my lady."
Mary was willing, and looked for Brandon to speak, so he said: "This
lady whom I hold by the hand and myself have promised each other
before the good God to be husband and wife, if fortune ever so favor
us that it be possible."
"No, that is not it," interrupted Mary. "There is no 'if' in it; it
shall be, whether it is possible or not. Nothing shall prevent." At
this she kissed Jane and told her how she loved her, and gave me her
hand, for her love was so great within her that it overflowed upon
every one. She, however, always had a plenitude of love for Jane, and
though she might scold her and apparently misuse her, Jane was as dear
as a sister, and was always sure of her steadfast, tried and lasting
affection.
After Mary had said there should be no "if," Brandon replied:
"Very well, Madame Destiny." Then turning to us: "What ought I to do
for one who is willing to stoop from so high an estate to honor me and
be my wife?"
"Love her, and her alone, with your whole heart, as long as you live.
That is all she wants, I am sure," volunteered Jane, sentimentally.
"Jane, you are a Madam Solomon," said Mary, with a tone of her
old-time laugh. "Is the course you advise as you would wish to be done
by?" And she glanced mischievously from Jane to me, as the laugh
bubbled up from her heart, merry and soft as if it had not come from
what was but now the home of grief and pain.
"I know nothing about how I should like to be done by," said Jane,
with a pout, "but if you have such respect for my wisdom I will offer
a little more; I think it is time we should be going."
"Now, Jane, you are growing foolish again; I will not go yet," and
Mary made manifest her intention by sitting down. She could not bring
herself to forego the pleasure of staying, dangerous as she knew it to
be, and could not bear the pain of parting, even for a short time, now
that she had Brandon once more. The time was soon coming--but I am too
fast again.
After a time Brandon said: "I think Jane's wisdom remains with her,
Mary. It is better that you do not stay, much as I wish to have you."
She was ready to obey him at once.
When she arose to go she took both his hands in hers and whispered:
"'Mary.' I like the name on your lips," and then glancing hurriedly
over her shoulder to see if Jane and I were looking, lifted her face
to him and ran after us.
We were a little in advance of the princess, and, as we walked along,
Jane said under her breath: "Now look out for trouble; it will come
quickly, and I fear for Master Brandon more than any one. He has made
a noble fight against her and against himself, and it is no wonder she
loves him."
This made me feel a little jealous.
"Jane, you could not love him, could you?" I asked.
"No matter what I could do, Edwin; I do not, and that should satisfy
you." Her voice and manner said more than her words. The hall was
almost dark, and--I have always considered that occasion one of my
lost opportunities; but they are not many.
The next evening Brandon and I, upon Lady Mary's invitation, went up
to her apartments, but did not stay long, fearing some one might find
us there and cause trouble. We would not have gone at all had not the
whole court been absent in London, for discovery would have been a
serious matter to one of us at least.
As I told you once before, Henry did not care how much Brandon might
love his sister, but Buckingham had whispered suspicions of the state
of Mary's heart, and his own observations, together with the
intercepted note, had given these suspicions a stronger coloring, so
that a very small matter might turn them into certainties.
The king had pardoned Brandon for the killing of the two men in
Billingsgate, as he was forced to do under the circumstances, but
there his kindness stopped. After a short time he deprived him of his
place at court, and all that was left for him of royal favor was
permission to remain with me and live at the palace until such time as
he should sail for New Spain.
_CHAPTER XIII_
_A Girl's Consent_
The treaty had been agreed upon, and as to the international
arrangement, at least, the marriage of Louis de Valois and Mary Tudor
was a settled fact. All it needed was the consent of an
eighteen-year-old girl--a small matter, of course, as marriageable
women are but commodities in statecraft, and theoretically, at least,
acquiesce in everything their liege lords ordain. Lady Mary's consent
had been but theoretical, but it was looked upon by every one as
amounting to an actual, vociferated, sonorous "yes;" that is to say,
by every one but the princess, who had no more notion of saying "yes"
than she had of reciting the Sanscrit vocabulary from the pillory of
Smithfield.
Wolsey, whose manner was smooth as an otter's coat, had been sent to
fetch the needed "yes"; but he failed.
Jane told me about it.
Wolsey had gone privately to see the princess, and had thrown out a
sort of skirmish line by flattering her beauty, but had found her not
in the best humor.
"Yes, yes, my lord of Lincoln, I know how beautiful I am; no one knows
better; I know all about my hair, eyes, teeth, eyebrows and skin. I
tell you I am sick of them. Don't talk to me about them; it won't
help you to get my consent to marry that vile old creature. That is
what you have come for, of course. I have been expecting you; why did
not my brother come?"
"I think he was afraid; and, to tell you the truth, I was afraid
myself," answered Wolsey, with a smile. This made Mary smile, too, in
spite of herself, and went a long way toward putting her in a good
humor. Wolsey continued: "His majesty could not have given me a more
disagreeable task. You doubtless think I am in favor of this marriage,
but I am not."
This was as great a lie as ever fell whole out of a bishop's mouth. "I
have been obliged to fall in with the king's views on the matter, for
he has had his mind set on it from the first mention by de
Longueville."
"Was it that bead-eyed little mummy who suggested it?"
"Yes, and if you marry the king of France you can repay him with
usury."
"'Tis an inducement, by my troth."
"I do not mind saying to you in confidence that I think it an outrage
to force a girl like you to marry a man like Louis of France, but how
are we to avoid it?"
By the "we" Wolsey put himself in alliance with Mary, and the move was
certainly adroit.
"How are we to avoid it? Have no fear of that, my lord; I will show
you."
"Oh! but my dear princess; permit me; you do not seem to know your
brother; you cannot in any way avoid this marriage. I believe he will
imprison you and put you on bread and water to force your consent. I
am sure you had better do willingly that which you will eventually be
compelled to do anyway; and besides, there is another thought that has
come to me; shall I speak plainly before Lady Jane Bolingbroke?"
"I have no secrets from her."
"Very well; it is this: Louis is old and very feeble; he cannot live
long, and it may be that you can, by a ready consent now, exact a
promise from your brother to allow you your own choice in the event of
a second marriage. You might in that way purchase what you could not
bring about in any other way."
"How do you know that I want to purchase aught in any way, Master
Wolsey? I most certainly do not intend to do so by marrying France."
"I do not know that you wish to purchase anything, but a woman's heart
is not always under her full control, and it sometimes goes out to one
very far beneath her in station, but the equal of any man on earth in
grandeur of soul and nobleness of nature. It might be that there is
such a man whom any woman would be amply justified in purchasing at
any sacrifice--doubly so if it were buying happiness for two."
His meaning was too plain even to pretend to misunderstand, and Mary's
eyes flashed at him, as her face broke into a dimpling smile in spite
of her.
Wolsey thought he had won, and to clinch the victory said, in his
forceful manner: "Louis XII will not live a year; let me carry to the
king your consent, and I guarantee you his promise as to a second
marriage."
In an instant Mary's eyes shot fire, and her face was like the
blackest storm cloud.
"Carry this to the king: that I will see him and the whole kingdom
sunk in hell before I will marry Louis of France. That is my answer
once and for all. Good even', Master Wolsey." And she swept out of the
room with head up and dilating nostrils, the very picture of defiance.
St. George! She must have looked superb. She was one of the few
persons whom anger and disdain and the other passions which we call
ungentle seemed to illumine--they were so strong in her, and yet not
violent. It seemed that every deep emotion but added to her beauty and
brought it out, as the light within a church brings out the exquisite
figuring on the windows.
[Illustration]
After Wolsey had gone, Jane said to Mary: "Don't you think it would
have been better had you sent a softer answer to your brother? I
believe you could reach his heart even now if you were to make the
effort. You have not tried in this matter as you did in the others."
"Perhaps you are right, Jane. I will go to Henry."
Mary waited until she knew the king was alone, and then went to him.
On entering the room, she said: "Brother, I sent a hasty message to
you by the Bishop of Lincoln this morning, and have come to ask your
forgiveness."
"Ah! little sister; I thought you would change your mind. Now you are
a good girl."
"Oh! do not misunderstand me; I asked your forgiveness for the
message; as to the marriage, I came to tell you that it would kill me
and that I could not bear it. Oh! brother, you are not a woman--you
cannot know." Henry flew into a passion, and with oaths and curses
ordered her to leave him unless she was ready to give her consent. She
had but two courses to take, so she left with her heart full of hatred
for the most brutal wretch who ever sat upon a throne--and that is
making an extreme case. As she was going, she turned upon him like a
fury, and exclaimed:
"Never, never! Do you hear? Never!"
Preparations went on for the marriage just as if Mary had given her
solemn consent. The important work of providing the trousseau began at
once, and the more important matter of securing the loan from the
London merchants was pushed along rapidly. The good citizens might
cling affectionately to their angels, double angels, crowns and pounds
sterling, but the fear in which they held the king, and a little
patting of the royal hand upon the plebeian head, worked the charm,
and out came the yellow gold, never to be seen again, God wot. Under
the stimulus of the royal smile they were ready to shout themselves
hoarse, and to eat and drink themselves red in the face in celebration
of the wedding day. In short, they were ready to be tickled nearly to
death for the honor of paying to a wretched old lecher a wagon-load of
gold to accept, as a gracious gift, the most beautiful heart-broken
girl in the world. That is, she would have been heart-broken had she
not been inspired with courage. As it was, she wasted none of her
energy in lamentations, but saved it all to fight with. Heavens! how
she did fight! If a valiant defense ever deserved victory, it was in
her case. When the queen went to her with silks and taffetas and fine
cloths, to consult about the trousseau, although the theme was one
which would interest almost any woman, she would have none of it, and
when Catherine insisted upon her trying on a certain gown, she called
her a blackamoor, tore the garment to pieces, and ordered her to leave
the room.
Henry sent Wolsey to tell her that the 13th day of August had been
fixed upon as the day of the marriage, de Longueville to act as the
French king's proxy, and Wolsey was glad to come off with his life.
Matters were getting into a pretty tangle at the palace. Mary would
not speak to the king, and poor Catherine was afraid to come within
arm's length of her; Wolsey was glad to keep out of her way, and she
flew at Buckingham with talons and beak upon first sight. As to the
battle with Buckingham, it was short but decisive, and this was the
way it came about: There had been a passage between the duke and
Brandon, in which the latter had tried to coax the former into a duel,
the only way, of course, to settle the weighty matters between them.
Buckingham, however, had had a taste of Brandon's nimble sword play,
and, bearing in mind Judson's fate, did not care for any more. They
had met by accident, and Brandon, full of smiles and as polite as a
Frenchman, greeted him.
"Doubtless my lord, having crossed swords twice with me, will do me
the great honor to grant that privilege the third time, and will
kindly tell me where my friend can wait upon a friend of his grace."
"There is no need for us to meet over that little affair. You had the
best of it, and if I am satisfied you should be. I was really in the
wrong, but I did not know the princess had invited you to her ball."
"Your lordship is pleased to evade," returned Brandon. "It is not the
ball-room matter that I have to complain of; as you have rightly said,
if you are satisfied, I certainly should be; but it is that your
lordship, in the name of the king, instructed the keeper of Newgate
prison to confine me in an underground cell, and prohibited
communication with any of my friends. You so arranged it that my trial
should be secret, both as to the day thereof and the event, in order
that it should not be known to those who might be interested in my
release. You promised the Lady Mary that you would procure my liberty,
and thereby prevented her going to the king for that purpose, and
afterwards told her that it had all been done, as promised, and that I
had escaped to New Spain. It is because of this, my Lord Buckingham,
that I now denounce you as a liar, a coward and a perjured knight, and
demand of you such satisfaction as one man can give to another for
mortal injury. If you refuse, I will kill you as I would a cut-throat
the next time I meet you."