Nor death, nor sleep, nor any dismall shade
Of low, contracting life, she then doth fear;
No troubled thoughts her settled mind invade:
The immortal root of life she seeth clear,
Wisheth she ever were engrafted here.
HENRY MORE.
It had been arranged between Katharine and her ever-constant friends,
the Juxons, who had accompanied her from London on this melancholy
occasion, that she should go to the palace alone, while they awaited
her return on the bank of the river. They had come from Westminster by
water in the morning; and, in the event of her petition being attended
with success, were to go back in the same manner direct to the Tower.
They had been provided with a swift four-oared boat, well manned,
hired for the day; and while Katharine was in the palace, Jane and her
husband sat under the trees not fifty yards from the river, and in
sight of the boat. The men had been cautioned against drinking or
straying, and having shown all civility and attention, rested idly on
the bank, to all seeming in contented obedience. But whether their
patience had been exhausted, or the mournfulness of the party was
displeasing to them, or they felt bribed by the chances of feasting
and merriment with some party of pleasure, just before Katharine came
down to the river, they suddenly took boat and rowed swiftly away,
unheeding the loud and vain remonstrance of Juxon.
By this petty perplexity she was for some time delayed. It was long
before any conveyance could be found. Every horse--every
carriage--every boat was out. It was one of those delicious days, when
all the world, as by common consent, keeps holyday:--when sorrows,
disappointments, wrongs, and sordid cares are left within doors; when
grass is in its greenest beauty; when hedges are white and
sweet-scented; when lovely blossoms cover all the orchards; and
flowers are every where, and foliage is fresh and young, and birds
are in full song.
Absorbed, patient, unconscious, Katharine sat still, her hand within
that of Jane. Juxon at last returned, rowing a small wherry himself,
and placing them in it, made for the Tower with his best vigour. He
said little; but as he passed the numberless boats, which were crowded
with glad and joyous groups, here noisy with laughter, there vocal
with sweet and innocent songs, the natural expression of youthful
enjoyment, his heart bled for Katharine. But, in truth, all these
sights and sounds gave her little disturbance--they were unheeded. Her
spirit was preparing for a great trial, and was lying low before a
hidden throne, imploring strength.
As soon as they reached the neighbouring wharf, Juxon accompanied her
to the gate of the Tower, promised to provide a lodging for the night
in that neighbourhood, where they might all remain, and to return for
her.
And now this sad and gracious woman was left to pass through all the
slow and cold formalities of admission alone. By no less than five
different officers was her paper examined; and with some there was
unkind delay, and with others, the rude questioning of an unfeeling
curiosity. At last came the prison itself. Here the order from the
lieutenant of the Tower having been duly recognised was obeyed in
surly silence, by a stern-faced gaoler and his assistants. Heavy doors
were slowly unlocked; and harsh and grating sounds, and the clank of
keys, and the turning of strong bolts, made her blood chill.
A lighter door, as of an apartment, was at length unlocked quietly,
and she was ushered into a chamber, where her cousin sat at a table
writing, with his back to the entrance. He did not, at first, turn
round, fancying it was one of the gaolers. One grated window in his
front, having a northern aspect, looked out upon a wall so close to
it, that not even sunshine could be ever visible upon it. There were a
few books upon his table:--here, too, there was an hour-glass. A
little very ancient furniture, of oak, relieved the nakedness of the
walls; and there was an aspect in the gloomy room which did properly
belong to the prison of a state criminal of rank.
The conductor of Katharine respectfully announced a visiter, and as
immediately withdrew, and turned the lock. Francis rose:--he
recognised Katharine at once, and with a mute embrace; then placed her
with reverent tenderness in a seat, and went for a moment to the
window, to recover his composure, after which he came and sat down
beside her. Katharine was collected, and did not shed a single tear;
but the first words she would have uttered died within her, and found
no voice. Francis took her hand in a grave, calm manner:--
“Remember,” said he, “my dear, beloved Katharine, that this must be no
melancholy parting. If any thing on earth could make me loth to quit
it, most true it is, the thought that it must yet, for a brief season,
be your dwelling-place, would make me cast a lingering look behind.
But even that I have struggled with and conquered; nor does your
presence shake my resolution. You must rejoice with me--not weep. It
is a bad world, sweet cousin, and I have been among the worst upon it.
But I have found the Great Deliverer; or, rather, have been found of
him; and I do look beyond it now:--ay, Katharine, and have done so for
many years. My spirit panteth to be gone; and well I know that thou
art only kept on earth, as angels are, to minister God’s mercy to the
wretched. I knew that I should have thy charitable prayers, but did
not think to see thee. How didst thou gain admission? It has been
denied to some of my true friends. Besides, I thought thee far away,
and wrote especially to the tyrant’s private secretary to say that we
had had no intercourse for years; and that you knew nothing of my
actions, nor were you even acquainted with any of the Royalists
engaged. I marvel much this favour hath been granted me, and humbly
thank my God for this last blessing.”
The while he spoke she looked upon him steadily, and at every word did
gather strength and peace.
“How is it, Francis, that I feel no grief? How is it that I have
stood face to face today with Cromwell without a falter of the tongue?
How is it that I feel this nearness of thy death as if it were the
appointment of some hallowed honour to wipe out all the noble errors
of thy deceived heart, and write upon thy tomb their glorious
confession? I did ever love you well, Francis--now better than ever.
We are no longer young: I can read in your worn lineaments, as in a
mirror, the lines of care, which Heaven has traced upon mine own. Your
hair is grey, and war and woe have done their work upon you, and
quenched the brightness of your eye of fire. Now you are dear to
me;--now that you stand upon the verge of the invisible world,
prepared, with prostrate heart, and with courageous faith, to enter
in. I do not come to weep with thee:--your spirit kindles mine--I will
rejoice.”
“There spoke the woman of my love--of my heart’s choice. Katharine, I
do own to thee, that when I did engage with this last band to strike a
blow for freedom, and when discovery came, and chains and judgment
followed, the thought that you would know my last true effort, would
call it constant, honest, and drop a tear upon my grave, was a strong
cordial to my wearied spirit, and did enable me to look at Cromwell in
all his state and power with a bright defiance. I do marvel that he
granted me this favour:--what said he?”
“He did not do it readily. He spoke you fair and justly as a soldier;
but only in one point he did you grievous wrong.”
“In what? I pray you name it.”
“He seemed to fear that I might bring you poison or a dagger--and so
the scaffold lose a victim, and baser men an example for their
terror.”
“And what said you in answer?”
“I told him that you had a nobler scorn of death, and a holier fear of
God, than so to sin against your soul.
“He said that bravest men might dread the dishonours of the scaffold.
“I told him these now were no dishonours--that it was a place
ennobled by the blood of a royal martyr.”
“Dared you so much? How looked he?”
“He loured and bent his eyes upon the ground. Just then his lady
daughter entered. She whispered him, and, as I think, did plead for
me--for, after she went forth, he wrote the permission instantly and
more. The after-sentence is remitted:--then, when the axe hath done
its cruel work, thou art mine, Francis--these hands shall fold thy
grave-clothes.”
“Angels of heaven! are ye listening, are ye present? Yes, her steps
are compassed round with holy guardians; her strength is more than
mortal. Am I then helped in this my only trouble? this the last
weakness of my shrinking nature? Have my prayers been heard, and have
I been cared for as a timid child, by him who sitteth on the mercy
seat? The tyrant told you truly, Katharine; for he, half hypocrite,
half hero, is brave as his own sword:--yes--brave men may shrink from
the rude shames done on their lifeless bodies. Remember, noble woman,
that this last great charity doth take away the only bitterness that
made my cup to taste of terror. Now my heart is light, and leaps
within me, as if I felt its pinions struggling to be free. To-morrow
is as a bridal-day to me.”
During this speech Katharine was so much overcome that big tears
rolled down her marble cheeks, and she sought relief in prayer. Her
eyes were raised to heaven in silence, and for a few brief minutes not
a word was spoken by either; for Francis kneeled beside her, and his
heart was lifted up in devout and still communion with hers. Being
calmed and strengthened by this exercise of faith, Katharine was again
able to address him.
“Your hours are now precious, Francis; let me not dare to waste one
golden moment of them: whatever may be your last desires and wishes,
tell me, that they may be religiously observed.”
“They are not many: these papers, which one broken hour of the night
will give me time enough to seal, I would have conveyed by a safe hand
to New England; and perhaps one line from you might comfort my
father’s heart. These few books I would also have sent to him. This,
Katharine, is my Psalter: take it; and till we meet in a better world
use no other. Now hear me; and, for both our sakes, observe my last
directions strictly. To-morrow morning, from the hour of eight to
nine, keep closely to thy chamber, and shut thy door, and do not look
abroad; but make this Psalter thy companion, and read therein the
choicest words of praise and thanksgiving. Yes, praise and
thanksgiving:--remember this. If that I am a pardoned sinner, and that
I am pardoned a humble voice within me whispers, and visionary hands
do point to him the blessed of the Father, who hung on the accursed
tree, and died that we might live. If it be so, then to-morrow I shall
cross Jordan at the narrowest point, and see that heavenly Canaan
where happy spirits dwell: there we shall meet again. Hark! there be
footsteps. One last embrace:--farewell.”
The door was unlocked, and a minister of a countenance most kind and
holy did softly enter. He paused, irresolute at the sight of
Katharine, and would have withdrawn till their interview might end.
“Nay, my reverend and dear friend, come in, I prithee:--this is the
lady of whom I spoke to you: my only relative in England. She hath
come to do me the last charitable offices of earthly love. You are
prepared, I see, to comfort and refresh me. My cousin will keep this
feast with us.”
At these words the good man entered, bearing a salver and a cup, over
which a white napkin was decently spread; and when the door had again
been closed, and the clank of the keys at the gaoler’s girdle had died
away in the long passages, and the world and the world’s sounds were
all shut out, that dull and grated prison became a temple,--and they
three in a mournful humility did make their meek confession, and in
faith, hope, and charity, did feast upon a Saviour’s love.