The near approach of death found Jane as unshaken as before, or rather
she rejoiced that her deliverance was at hand. Compelled to her infinite
regret to hold a disputation with Fecken-ham, she exerted all her
powers; and, as upon a former occasion, when opposed to a more
formidable antagonist, Gardiner, came off victorious. But though
defeated, the zealous confessor did not give up his point, trusting he
should be able to weary her out. He, accordingly, passed the greater
part of each day in her prison, and brought with him, at different
times, Gardiner, Tunstal, Bonner, and other prelates, all of whom tried
the effect of their reasoning upon her,—but with no avail. Bonner, who
was of a fierce and intolerant nature, was so enraged, that on taking
leave of her he said with much acrimony—“Farewell, madam. I am sorry for
you and your obstinacy, and I am assured we shall never meet again.”
“True, my lord,” replied Jane; “we never shall meet again, unless it
shall please God to turn your heart. And I sincerely pray that he may
send you his holy spirit, that your eyes may be opened to his truth.”
Nor had the others better success. Aware that whatever she said would be
reported to the disadvantage of the Protestant faith, if it could be so
perverted, she determined to give them no handle for misrepresentation,
and fought the good fight so gallantly that she lost not a single point,
and wrung even from her enemies a reluctant admission of defeat. Those
best skilled in all the subtleties of scholastic argument, could not
perplex her. United to the most profound learning, she possessed a clear
logical understanding, enabling her at once to unravel and expose the
mysteries in which they sought to perplex her, while the questions she
proposed in her turn were unanswerable. At first, she found Feckenham’s
visits irksome, but by degrees they became almost agreeable to her,
because she felt she was at once serving the cause of the Gospel, and
taken from her own thoughts. During all this time, Angela never for a
moment quitted her, and though she took no part in the conferences, she
profited greatly by them.
Two days before she suffered, Jane said to Feckenham, “You have often
expressed a wish to serve me, reverend sir. There is one favour you can
confer upon me if you will.”
“What is it, madam?” he rejoined.
“Before I die,” returned Jane, “I would fain see Angela united to her
lover, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. He was ever a faithful follower of my
unfortunate husband, and he has exhibited a like devoted attachment to
me. I know not whether you can confer this favour upon me, or whether
you will do so if you can. But I venture, from your professions of
regard for me, to ask it. If you consent, send, I pray you to Master
John Bradford, pre bendary of Saint Paul’s, and let him perform the
ceremony in this chamber.”
“Bradford!” exclaimed Feckenham, frowning. “I know the obstinate and
heretical preacher well. If you are willing that I should perform the
ceremony, I will undertake to obtain the queen’s permission for it. But
it must not be done by Bradford.”
“Then I have nothing further to say,” replied Jane.
“But how comes it that you, Angela,” said Feckenham, addressing her in
a severe tone, “the daughter of Catholic parents, both of whom suffered
for their faith, abandon it?”
“A better light has been vouchsafed me,” she replied, “and I lament that
they were not equally favoured.”
“Well, madam,” observed Feckenham, to Jane, “you shall not say I am
harsh with you. I desire to serve Angela, for her parents’ sake—both of
whom were very dear to me. I will make known your request to the queen,
and I can almost promise it shall be granted on one condition.”
“On no condition affecting my opinions,” said Jane.
“Nay, madam,” returned the confessor, with a half-smile, “I was about
to propose nothing to which you can object. My condition is, that if
Bradford is admitted to your prison, you exchange no word with him,
except in reference to the object of his visit. That done, he must
depart at once.”
“I readily agree to it,” replied Jane, “and I thank you for your
consideration.”
After some further conference, Feckenham departed, and Angela, as soon
as they were alone, warmly thanked Jane for her kindness, saying—“But
why think of me at such a time?”
“Because it will be a satisfaction to me to know that you are united to
the object of your affections,” replied Jane. “And now leave me to my
devotions, and prepare yourself for what is to happen.”
With this, she withdrew into the recess, and, occupied in fervent
prayer, soon abstracted herself from all else. Three hours afterwards,
Feckenham returned. He was accompanied by Cholmondeley, and a
grave-looking divine in the habit of a minister of the Reformed Church,
in whom Jane immediately recognised John Bradford,—the uncompromising
preacher of the Gospel, who not long afterwards won his crown of
martyrdom at Smithfield. Apparently, he knew why he was summoned, and
the condition annexed to it, for he fixed an eye full of the deepest
compassion and admiration upon Jane, but said nothing. Cholmondeley
threw himself at her feet, and pressed her hand to his lips, but his
utterance failed him. Jane raised him kindly and entreated him to
command himself, saying, “I have not sent for you hero to afflict you,
but to make you happy.” <
“Alas! madam,” replied Cholmondcley, “you are ever more thoughtful for
others than yourself.”
“Proceed with the ceremony without delay, sir,” said Fleckenham.
“I rely upon your word, madam, that you hold no conference with him.”
“You may rely upon it,” returned Jane.
And the confessor withdrew.
Bradford then took from his vest a book of prayers, and in that
prison-chamber, with Jane only as a witness, the ceremony was performed.
At its conclusion, Angela observed to her husband—“We must separate
as soon as united, for I shall never quit my dear mistress during her
lifetime.”
“I should deeply regret it, if you did otherwise,” returned
Cholmondcley. “Would I had like permission to attend on Lord Guilford.
But that is denied me.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, a shade passed over Jane’s
countenance—but she instantly checked the emotion.
“My blessing upon your union!” she cried, extending her hands over the
pair, “and may it be happy—happier than mine.”
“Amen!” cried Bradford. “Before I take my leave, madam, I trust I shall
not transgress the confessor’s commands, if I request you to write your
name in this book of prayers. It will stimulate me in my devotions, and
may perchance cheer me in a trial like your own.”
Jane readily complied, and taking the book, wrote a short prayer in the
blank leaf, and subscribed it with her name.
“This is but a slight return for your compliance with my request, Master
Bradford,” she said, as she returned the book, “but it is all I have to
offer.”
“I shall prize it more than the richest gift,” replied the preacher.
“Farewell, madam, and doubt not I shall pray constantly for you.”
“I thank you heartily, sir,” she rejoined. “You must go with him,
Cholmondeley,” she continued, perceiving that the esquire lingered—“We
must now part for ever.”
“Farewell, madam,” cried Cholmondeley, again prostrating himself before
her, and pressing her hand to his lips.
“Nay, Angela, you must lead him forth,” observed Jane, kindly, though
a tear started to her eye. And she withdrew into an embrasure, while
Cholmondeley, utterly unable to control his distress, rushed forth, and
was followed by Bradford.
Jane’s benediction did not fall to the ground. When the tragic event,
which it is the purpose of this chronicle to relate, was over, Angela
fell into a dangerous illness, during which her husband watched over
her with the greatest solicitude. Long before her recovery, he had been
liberated by Mary, and as soon as she was fully restored to health, they
retired to his family seat, in Cheshire, where they passed many years
of uninterrupted happiness,—saddened,—but not painfully,—by the
recollection of the past.