A FORLORN HOPE
The Great Hall had quickly filled with ladies and gentlemen. Mary Tudor
had rapidly approached the dais, holding out one gracious hand to Wessex
and vouchsafing but a cold, callous look to Ursula Glynde, who, like
some young, wounded fawn, seemed to be standing at bay, facing this
crowd of indifferent spectators who had literally come between her and
her happiness.
It seemed as if Mary felt a cruel delight in bringing before the young
girl's notice the hopelessness of her position, the irreparability of
the breach which existed now between her and His Grace of Wessex.
The Queen's jealous eyes had already noted the cold salutation with
which Wessex so readily left Ursula's side, in order to turn to the
new-comers. His Grace was evidently glad to see the end of a painful
interview, and Mary was too weak a woman not to rejoice at sight of the
heartache which was expressed in Ursula's pallid face, and not to try to
enhance the pain of the wound.
Therefore when Wessex respectfully kissed her hand she kept him close
beside her, whispering tender words which she hoped her rival might
hear.
"It seems like a beautiful dream, my lord," she said gently, "to see you
once more at our Court. The ugly nightmare is over, and I am almost
happy."
"I humbly thank Your Majesty," replied the Duke. "My whole life can
henceforth be spent in expressing my gratitude for a graciousness,
which I so little deserve."
"Nay! I pray you to put us to the test, my dear lord. My heart aches
with the desire to grant your every whim."
"Then I beg of Your Majesty a command in France."
"You wish to leave me?" said Mary with tender reproach.
"I hope to save Calais for Your Majesty's crown."
"Ah, my lord! I have more need of friends just now than cities! Whilst
you go to France your Queen will wed King Philip of Spain."
"I hope not, Your Majesty," he rejoined earnestly.
"The letter of acceptance for my royal master already bears Her
Majesty's signature," here interposed the Cardinal blandly.
"Aye! I have pledged my royal word," added the Queen with a short sigh.
"His Eminence hath served us well and . . ."
She made an effort to steady her voice, and avoided meeting the anxious
look which Wessex had cast upon her.
"But we will not mar the happiness of this joyous day," she continued
after a while, speaking with enforced cheerfulness. "My Lord High
Steward here would desire our confirmation of the free pardon granted in
honour of it, to all who were awaiting trial."
"If Your Majesty will deign to append the royal signature," said Lord
Chandois, who was fingering a large document.
"With pleasure, my lord. Are there many awaiting trial?"
Lord Chandois spread the document out on the table, and Mary Tudor
prepared to sign it.
"A dozen or so, Your Majesty," explained the Lord High Steward; "men
and women accused of roguery, witchcraft, and vagabondage."
With a bold stroke of her pen Mary added her royal name to the
declaration of a free pardon.
"Let them be set free," she said, while Lord Chandois once more took
possession of the paper. "It is our royal desire that these poor louts
should thank His Grace of Wessex for their liberty, which they owe to
him."
Once more she turned with her usual affectionate gentleness towards the
Duke. Throughout this brief, seemingly indifferent scene, Ursula had
stood by, like an image carved in stone.
Etiquette forbade her retirement until the Queen granted her leave, and
Mary seemed desirous to keep her close at hand, as a contrast, perhaps,
to the exuberant joy which prevailed among the other ladies and
gentlemen there.
In the midst of all this merriment and gaiety, the hubbub of many
voices, the pleasant laughter and lively banter, two silent figures
stood out in strange contrast. Ursula, rigid, ghostlike in her white
draperies, her young face expressive of hopeless despair and of deadly
sorrow kept in check, lest indifferent eyes read its miserable tale; and
Wessex, moving like an automaton among his friends, answering at random,
trying with all his might to keep his thoughts from straying, his eyes
from wandering, towards that beautiful statue, which now seemed like an
exquisite carven monument of his own vanished happiness.
No one took much notice of Ursula Glynde, she was the disgraced
maid-of-honour, the fallen star, scarce worth beholding, and she was
glad of this isolation, which the selfishness of her former friends
created around her. She looked for the last time upon the pomp and
pageant of this glittering Court life; her very soul yearned for the
peace and seclusion of austere convent walls. For the last time too she
looked upon the man on whom she had lavished all the tenderness of her
romantic temperament, whom she had set up on a pedestal of chivalry from
which she felt loath even now to dethrone him.
She could see that he suffered and that he did not understand. The
misunderstanding, which nothing could clear up now, still made a veil of
darkness before his eyes. Her tender heart ached for him, her soul went
out to him amidst all these people who laughed and chatted around her.
For one brief moment their eyes met across a sea of indifferent
faces--his lighted up with all the ardour of a never-fading passionate
love, and hers spoke to him an eternal farewell.