POOR MIRRAB
A few moments later the whole gay and giddy throng, like a flight of
brilliantly hued butterflies, had fluttered out into the garden.
The wintry sun was bestowing its last cold kiss on the terraces and
bosquets of the park. Beyond, the landscape--wrapped in a delicate haze
of purple--was gently swooning in the arms of this November afternoon.
All bird-song was silent, save the harsh chirrup of aggressive sparrows
and the occasional brisk note of an irrepressible robin.
Close by the fountain a strange, dull group moved about somewhat
listlessly--men and women, a dozen or so, in faded or ragged worsted
mantles, shoes through which the flesh appeared, and mud-stained,
bedraggled hose. Truly a wondrous spectacle on the delicately gravelled
paths of the regal residence! a remarkable picture against the majestic
background of carefully trimmed hedges, or conventional, well-cared-for
shrubberies.
They looked indifferently round them, these poor shreds of society--the
happy recipients of unlooked-for royal bounty. There were all sorts and
conditions of men and women here, from the wrinkly-visaged hag who plied
a precarious trade in illicit goods, to the hardened, sullen lout who
made of Her Majesty's prisons an habitual home. A vagrant too here and
there--one boy, barely in his teens, with pinched, haggard features, on
which starvation had already scribbled her ugly name; a young girl, with
bold, dark eyes, and coarse face masked with glaring cosmetics; and, far
in the remote background, a huddled-up figure of a woman in tawdry
finery, with a torn, bedraggled white dress ill concealing her naked
shoulders, a few scraps of faded ivy-leaves still clinging to her
bright-hued, matted hair.
They were astonished to find themselves here: made curious, senseless
jokes about the marble basin, the trimmed shrubs, the fish in the ponds.
The whole thing was a puzzle, and poverty and hunger had dulled all joy
in them. They had been told that by the Queen's desire and at His Grace
of Wessex' prayer, they were to be immune from punishment for their
present offences, and a vague, dull wonder as to the meaning of this
unexpected clemency filled their benighted souls. They were at liberty,
inasmuch as no man-at-arms actually dogged their footsteps, but they
felt the eyes of stern guardians, court lackeys, or park-keepers fixed
unrelentingly upon them.
So they did not take special advantage of this so-called freedom, nor of
the permission to roam about at will in Her Majesty's own garden. They
clung together in one compact group, feeling a certain strength in this
union of their common misery, and stared open-mouthed at what was
nearest to them and required least effort of the brain to understand.
When at a given moment they saw a number of rich lords and ladies emerge
upon the distant terrace, they felt wholly terrified, and would have
beaten a quick and general retreat had not one of the royal servitors
suddenly called upon them severally to listen.
"His Grace the Duke of Wessex is coming to speak with ye!" said this
gorgeously apparelled personage, addressing the massed group of
miserable humanity. "Stay ye all here, until His Grace arrives. Your
good behaviour may prove for your own good."
And silently, dully, they obeyed. They ceased their aimless wanderings
and concentrated their attention after a while upon a tall figure,
dressed in rich black, which had detached itself from the brilliant
groups on the terrace and was walking rapidly towards them.
So that was His Grace the Duke of Wessex. A serious-minded gentleman,
surely, but lately accused of murder, and proved to be innocent. They
could not yet see his face, only his tall, robust figure moving swiftly
towards them. Strange that a noble duke, a rich and great lord, should
wish to speak with them. The women, as if half ashamed of their ragged
kirtles, had retreated behind the men. The latter had doffed their caps
and were mechanically passing their thin fingers through their tangled
hair.
Quite in the rear the female figure in the bedraggled white gown cowered
against the edge of the marble basin.
Then gradually His Grace came nearer, the women ventured to peep at him
over the shoulders of the men. His face looked kind, though very sad.
The poor people gathered up their courage to face him bravely since he
came all unattended amongst them. One or two of the younger lads
ventured as he approached to utter an humble--
"God save His Grace of Wessex!"
"I thank you all," he said graciously. "And now, my friends, I'd have
you believe that 'twas not idle curiosity which hath brought me here
beside you. But yesterday I stood like you, accused of offence against
the law of the land. I have known the sorrows and humiliations of a
public trial. By Her Majesty's grace you have escaped that trouble this
time, and I have it at heart that all of you who, like myself, have
passed through prison doors should not again be tempted to break the
dictates of your lawgivers. Hunger and sorrow are evil councillors.
Though I know naught of the one I'd have you think sometimes of me as
one who has tasted of the bitter cup of sorrow, and thus thinking, I'd
have you pray to God for mercy on my soul and on that of one who is more
sinful, more misguided than yourselves."
It was a strange little homily, thus delivered without any affectation
by this high-born gentleman to his fellows in sorrow. They did not
perhaps altogether understand him, but in his own quaint way he had
appealed to a comradeship of misery, and the hearts of his hearers went
out to him in a vague feeling of pity and reverence.
They had no need to call for "largesse," for with his own hand he was
already distributing gold to those from whom he had asked prayers.
"God save Your Grace!" muttered men and women, as one by one their rough
palms closed over the munificent donations.
The ladies and gentlemen on the terrace had all watched this little
scene from afar. After a while the curiosity of all these gay idlers was
still further aroused. Some of them wished to watch it a little more
closely, and began slowly strolling down the terrace steps, towards the
quaint group made up of all these miserable vagrants surrounding the
imposing, sable-clad figure of the Duke.
The Queen herself, attracted by the novelty of the spectacle, and her
heart ever yearning for the near presence of the man she still loved so
dearly, turned her steps towards the marble basin, with His Eminence the
Cardinal--ever a faithful attendant--by her side.
When Mary Tudor, closely followed by some of her ladies and courtiers,
thus reached the scene where the little drama was being enacted, they
saw His Grace standing somewhat irresolutely beside the huddled figure
of a woman, whose tawdry drapings and matted, brilliant hair presented
a strange contrast to the dull greys and browns of the other people
around her.
"Wilt thou not hold thy hand out to me, wench," His Grace was saying
somewhat impatiently. "I would fain help thee, as it hath pleased Heaven
I should help thy companions in misfortune."
The servitor who had stood close by all this while, lest the people
prove too importunate or troublesome, now came up to the woman, and,
less benevolently inclined than His Grace, he caught hold of her,
somewhat rudely, by the shoulder.
"Come, wench, wake up!" he said roughly, "think thou His Grace hath more
time to waste on thee? She seems somewhat daft, so please Your Grace,"
added the man with a shrug of the shoulders, "and hath not spoken since
her arrest."
"Who is she?"
"Some vagrant or worse, so please Your Grace. She was arrested a
fortnight ago, and hath never been heard to utter one word."
"Wilt look up, wench?" said Wessex gently.
"I dare not," murmured the woman under her breath.
"Dare not? Why? I'll not harm thee."
"'Tis I have wronged thee so."
Wessex laughed lightly. Clearly the poor wretch was demented, but he
would have liked to have put some money into her own hand, lest some
unscrupulous person should rob her of his gift. Therefore he said as
kindly as he could--
"I forgive thee gladly any wrong thou mayst have done me, and now wilt
look at me in token that thou'rt no more afraid?"
There was silence for a few moments. The poor people, happy with the
rich gifts in their hands, scared too by the presence of so many lords
and ladies, among whom they, however, had not yet recognized the Queen,
all retreated into the background, leaving Wessex and the strange woman
alone and isolated from their own groups, his rich black doublet and
fine mantle and plumes contrasting strangely against the dank,
mud-bespattered white dress of the unfortunate vagrant.
What a quaint picture did they present--these two, whose destinies had
been so closely knit. No one spoke, for every one felt that curious,
unexplainable awe which falls upon the spirit of every man and woman
when in the presence of an unfathomable mystery. And that mystery, every
one felt it. The woman's voice had such a solemn ring in it when she
said, "'Tis I have wronged thee so."
In the very midst of this awed silence the woman suddenly threw back her
head, brushed the hair back from her face, and looked straight into the
eyes of the Duke.
She was wan and pale with hunger, smears of mud spoilt the beauty of her
features, but there was a look even now in that face which made Wessex
recoil with horror. He did not utter a word, but gazed on as if a
ghostly vision had suddenly appeared before him and was mocking him with
its terrifying aspects.
Grinning monsters seemed to surround that girlish figure before him,
pointing with claw-like fingers at the golden hair, the delicate
straight nose, the childish mouth. As in a hellish panorama he suddenly
saw the whole hideousness of the mistake which had wrecked his life's
happiness, and half dazed, helpless, he gazed on as upon the risen
spectre of his past.
A murmur close behind him broke the spell of this magic moment.
"So like the Lady Ursula," whispered one lady to her gallant.
But the name seemed to have reached the woman's dulled ears, and to have
struck upon a sensitive fibre of her intellect.
"Ursula again!" she said vehemently, turning now to face the group of
the elegant ladies who stood staring at her. "Why do you all plague me
with that name? . . . I am Mirrab, the soothsayer . . . I've been taught
to read the secrets of the stars, of the waters, the air, and the winds;
I foretell the future and brew the elixir of life. Wessex saved my life!
'tis his!--I read in the stars that he was in great danger and came to
warn him!"
Her apathy had totally deserted her now. She was gradually working
herself up to a fever of excitement, talking more and more wildly, and
letting her eyes roam restlessly on the brilliant groups before her--the
ladies, the courtiers . . . the Queen. . . .
Then they alighted upon the Cardinal de Moreno, who, pale to the lips,
strove in vain to smother the growing agitation which had mastered him
from the moment when he too first recognized Mirrab. Her passion at
sight of him now turned to fury, and, pointing a vengeful finger at him,
she shouted wildly--
"'Twas he who tricked and fooled me . . . with smooth and lying tongue
he cajoled me! . . . he and his friend . . . then they threatened to
have me whipped . . . if I did not depart in peace!"
Awed, horrified, every one listened. Mary Tudor herself hung upon the
girl's lips. The Cardinal made a final effort to preserve his outward
composure.
"A madwoman!" he murmured with a shrug of the shoulders. "Your Majesty
would do well to retire; there's danger in the creature's eyes."
But Wessex was slowly coming to himself. His horror had vanished,
leaving him calm before this terrible revelation. With the privilege
ever accorded to him by the fond Queen, he now placed a firm hand upon
her arm.
"In the name of Your Majesty's ever-present graciousness to me, I
entreat you to listen to this woman," he said quietly. "Meseems that
some dastardly trick hath been played upon us all."
The Cardinal tried to protest, but already Mary had acquiesced in
Wessex' wish, with a nod of the head.
"I have naught to refuse you, my dear lord," she said sadly.
Vaguely she too had begun to guess the appalling riddle which had
puzzled her for so long, and though her heart dimly felt that she was
even now losing for ever the man whom she so ardently loved, she was too
fearless a Queen, too much of a proud Tudor, not to see justice done in
the face of so much treachery.
Then Wessex once more turned to Mirrab.
"Tell me, girl," he said with utmost calm and gentleness, lest he should
scare again her poor, wandering wits, "tell me without any fear. . . . I
am the Duke of Wessex and I saved thy life . . . then thou hadst the
wish to warn me of some danger . . . and came to the Palace here . . .
and my lord Cardinal tricked thee. . . . How?"
"I do not know," she said piteously, turning appealing, dog-like eyes
upon him. "They dressed me up in fine clothes . . . and then . . . then
. . . when I saw thee . . . and wished to speak with thee . . . he . . .
the dark foreigner barred the way . . . and I know not how it happened
. . ." she added, as a trembling suddenly seized her whole body, "he
jeered at me . . . and . . . and I killed him!"
"'Twas thou, wench, who killed Don Miguel?" ejaculated the Queen,
horrified. "Oh! . . ."
But Wessex only bent his head and murmured in the intensity of his
misery--
"Heaven above me! . . . that I should have been so blind!"
"I killed him . . ." repeated Mirrab with strange persistence, "I killed
him . . . he would not let me go to thee."
"A madwoman and a wanton," here protested the Cardinal with all the
vigour at his command. "Surely Your Majesty will not believe this
miserable creature's calumnies."
"No, my lord," replied Mary with quiet dignity, "we'll believe nothing
until we have heard what Lady Ursula Glynde has to say. Lady Alicia,"
she added, turning to one of her maids-of-honour, "I pray you find the
Lady Ursula. Tell her what has happened and bid her come to us."
In the meanwhile, however, Mirrab seemed to have become aware of the
consequences of her vehement confession. Her wandering wits came slowly
back to her. Terrified, she looked from one to the other of the grave
faces which were fixed upon her.
"What will they do to me?" she murmured, turning appealing eyes on the
one man whom she dared to trust.
"Nay, Mirrab, have no fear," said Wessex kindly, as he took her rough
hands in his and tried to soothe her scared spirits with a gentle touch.
"Once by chance I saved thy life . . . but thou in return hast now
restored to me that which is far dearer than life itself. I am eternally
thy debtor, Mirrab, and I pledge thee the honour of Wessex that no harm
shall come to thee . . . for I myself will beg for thy pardon of Her
Majesty on my knees."
"Nay, my lord," rejoined Mary Tudor earnestly, for he had turned to the
Queen, prepared to proffer his request on his knees, "meseems a grievous
wrong has been done to you--if unwittingly--by your Queen and country.
Let the wench be free to pray to the Holy Virgin for her great sin. I
myself will care for her, and she shall enter any convent she may
choose, and be honoured there as if she had brought with her the richest
dowry in the land. But," she added, turning to Lord Chandois, "I desire
her to make full confession once more before you, my lord, in writing,
and to swear to it and sign it with her name. You may go, wench," she
said finally, turning to Mirrab, "your Queen has pardoned you. May you
be happy in the peace of the convent. We will never forget you, and ever
see that joy shall always be in your life."
Slowly, as the Queen spoke, Mirrab sank upon her knees. It seemed to the
poor girl as if God's angels were whispering words of comfort in her
ear. Two servitors now came close to her, ready to lead her back to the
Palace, there to place her under the charge of waiting-women until her
confession had been duly written and sworn to.
But before she finally allowed herself to be led away she once more
turned to Wessex.
"May I kiss thy hand?" she murmured gently.
He gave her his hand, and she covered it with kisses, and then she
passed out of his life, ever remembered by him, ever comforted, happy in
the peaceful and silent home which the Queen had so royally provided for
her.
But this little interlude had roused the Cardinal's feverish impatience
to boiling point. Already he had tortured his astute brain for some sort
of issue out of this tangled web. He would not own a defeat so readily,
certainly not before he made a final struggle to reassert the dignity of
his position. He forced his face to express nothing but delicate irony,
his eyes not to betray the slightest hint of fear.
"Truly, this is somewhat curious justice," he said, as Mirrab's strange
figure disappeared behind a turn of the tall yew hedge, "surely Your
Majesty will not condemn unheard? . . ."
"No, my lord Cardinal, not unheard," retorted Mary Tudor haughtily. "We
have seen strange things to-day, and can only guess at the terrible
tangle which caused the first gentleman in England to take upon himself
the burden of a heinous crime."
"And no doubt," added Wessex, "that His Eminence can solve the riddle of
how a pure and noble girl was led into sacrificing her honour."
"Nay!" retorted the Cardinal bitingly, "His Grace of Wessex is more
competent than I to solve the riddle of a woman's heart. The Lady Ursula
has confessed; this trick of trying to disprove her tale," he added with
cutting sarcasm, "was well thought on by the most chivalrous gentleman
in England. . . . An it satisfies His Grace," he continued with a
careless shrug of the shoulders, "surely I could never wish to dispel so
pleasant an illusion."
Perhaps the Duke would have retorted in angry words, despite the
unutterable contempt which he felt for this final poisoned shaft aimed
at him by the Cardinal; but just then the groups which surrounded him,
the Queen and His Eminence, parted, and Ursula Glynde stood before them
all.
She still wore the white robes which became her so well, but now they
only helped to enhance the brilliancy of her hair, the clear blue of her
eyes, and a certain rosy flush, which lent to her delicate face a
delicious air of childishness and innocence. She looked at no one,
though her eyes were actually fixed respectfully on the Queen, but her
spirit seemed to have wandered off into a land of dreams.
"Your Majesty sent for me?" she said.
"Lady Alicia has told you?" rejoined the Queen.
Ursula closed her glorious eyes. A ray of intense joy seemed to illumine
her whole face, lighting it with a radiance which surely had its origin
in heaven. Then she slowly turned her head towards Wessex, and in one
little word told him all that her soul contained.
"Everything!" she said.
Everything! that is to say, his sin, his mistrust of her, his great
passionate love, and self-sacrifice for her. Everything! which meant her
own love, her own devotion, her joy to find him true and chivalrous, her
happiness and her hope.
Mary Tudor saw the look and its response from Wessex' eyes. She saw the
end of the one dream which had filled her dull, rigid life and rendered
it hopeful and bright. But she was above all a Tudor. She accepted the
dictate of Fate, she bent the neck to a greater will than her own, and
closed the book of her illusions, never to peruse its pages again. One
last look at the man who had had the one passion of which her strange
hard heart was capable, one short farewell to the vague hope, which
until now would not be gainsaid.
From now and to the end of her days she would be Queen alone--the woman
lay buried amongst the autumn leaves which strewed the walks of old
Hampton Court Palace.
As Queen now she once more turned to Ursula. Justice in her demanded
that every wrong should be righted, every misdoer punished.
"Child," she said quietly, "it was not you then who was with Don
Miguel?"
"No, Your Majesty," replied Ursula, returning to earth at sound of the
Queen's kindly voice, "Lady Alicia tells me that a girl . . . a poor,
sad girl, was in face so like to me . . . that His Grace must have been
mistaken . . . and . . ."
"But, child . . . then why have told a lie? . . ."
"His Eminence told me what to say before the Court, and promised His
Grace would be saved by it."
Her voice dropped to so low a murmur that no one heard it but the Queen
. . . and Wessex.
"I did it to save him!"
"A lie, Your Majesty," protested the Cardinal.
"The truth!" protested Ursula loudly. "I pray Your Majesty to look on me
and him and see on whose face is writ the word--fear."
Almost as if in obedience to Ursula's words Mary Tudor turned and faced
the Spanish Cardinal. He tried to meet her look boldly. Even in defeat
there was a certain grandeur in this man.
He had staked and lost his own position, his future career, his hopes of
a greater destiny, but he had succeeded in his schemes. He knew Mary
Tudor well enough to rejoice in this--that she would never now break her
word to Philip, even though she let the flood of her royal wrath fall
full heavily upon him.
"Go back, my lord, to your royal master," said Queen Mary with lofty
contempt. "My word is my bond, and my pledge to him is sacred; but tell
him, an he wishes to win the heart of the Queen of England, he must send
an honest man to woo her."
Then without another glance at him, without looking to see if he
followed her or not, she beckoned to her ladies and gentlemen, her
attendants and her courtiers, and, without once turning her royal head
towards the spot where had died her happiness, she walked firmly in the
direction of her Palace.