Chapter II (3)

The page was not so much elated by the gift but that he would have been at his old trick of listening once more; but after advancing a pace into the chamber, Northumberland turned back, looked at the urchin with a half smile, and closed the door himself.

A laugh from his companions, who witnessed his defeat from another end of the room, sent a flood of crimson over the boy’s face, but shaking his curls with an air of good-natured bravado, he gave the golden coin a triumphant toss, which sent it flashing like a star up into the sunshine which poured through a neighboring window, and catching it in his hand again, sprang forward and joined the laugh merrily as the most gleeful among them. Instantly, the noisy troop were silenced by a sharp bell-tone from the king’s chamber.

“Hush!” said the page, balancing the coin on his finger and eyeing it with a roguish look as he bent his head to listen. “That was the crusty old duke! such fellows hate an honest laugh as King Harry did holy water! they would keep us cooped up here like a flock of pigeons without the privilege of a coo. Hark! again, I must keep quiet till the old one is away, and then we will try a game of chuck farthing in the corridor, if we can get this shiner changed into half crowns and farthings.” So, grasping his fingers over the gold, the page nodded to his companions, leaving them half terrified by the thoughts that their merriment had reached—not the king, he was too good and lenient to chide them for harmless mirth—but the stern duke, whom they all feared beyond measure. The page looked back upon them, as he entered the chamber, tried to smile and seem courageous, though he was half frightened out of his wits—and the next instant stood in the presence of his sovereign, with his bright, black eyes—half concealed by their long lashes—bent to the floor, and a brilliant red burning through the ringlets that fell over his cheek. He seemed the very picture of a living and healthy Cupid in disgrace.

“What noise was it that reached us but now from the ante-room?” said the Lord Protector, sternly, as the boy appeared before him. “Is it with this rudeness and riot you surround the chamber of our invalid king? Begone, sirrah! strip off the royal livery at once and return to your mother, if you have one.”

The boy lifted his face to that of the stern duke and his cheek dimpled even while it turned white with fear, a smile was so natural to it. But when the last cruel words were spoken, the long lashes drooped over his eyes again and grew heavy with moisture. He turned away from the face frowning upon him, and, kneeling at the king’s feet, lifted his eyes—now full of tears—to those of his master and said,

“I have no mother.”

Edward’s kind heart was deeply touched by the sadness with which this was said. He was but a youth himself, and forgetful of his dignity and of all but the sweet, pleading face lifted to his, he laid his thin hand upon the curls which fell back from it, and would have kissed the forehead, but an exclamation from Northumberland warned him of the impropriety. Still the page had seen the impulse and the generous tears which filled the mild eyes of his master. His young heart swelled with grateful affection, and, burying his head in Edward’s robe, he sobbed aloud.

“Poor boy! he is an orphan like ourself. You will not send him hence, my lord duke,” said the young king, turning his face with an anxious and almost pleading look upon his guardian. “The offence was not heavy; and see how penitent he is.”

“The offence not heavy, my liege?” replied the duke harshly, “have I not given orders that no sound shall disturb your highness’ repose, and notwithstanding this, am I not distracted almost in my first private audience by the riotous mirth of this urchin and his mates?”

“Nay, we have ourself somewhat to blame in this—having little cause for merriment in our own heart, and pining here day after day—for, alas! kings have no companions—it has sometimes been a comfort to hear the merry laugh of these thoughtless boys—to know that cheerfulness is not shut out from our presence forever. That health and laughter—which is its music—is yet a thing of earth; though, alas! a blessing which we may witness, but never enjoy. Shut out the sunshine which smiles through these windows, the stars which at night time glimmer through that narrow line of glass, and which we have learned to read when pain has made our couch sleepless, till they have become as old friends; break yon lute, whose music is to this faint heart like the voice of a good child to its parent, and, above all, send away the cheerful voices which sometimes fill the next room, and you have wrested from the King of England the only fragment of his inheritance that was ever his.”

The page looked up as his master was speaking, the tears were checked in his eyes, and he knelt breathlessly, as one who listened to the voice of an angel. The proud Northumberland turned his eyes from the pale, spiritual face of his royal ward, and bent them on the floor. There was a look of patient suffering in those features which touched his better nature; something in the sad, broken-hearted feelings which filled that voice, which found a passage to his soul, even through the selfishness and ambition that encased it. Other thoughts, too, were busy in his mind. He had a point to carry with the young monarch—a difficult and doubtful one. His animosity against the page only arose from resentment, excited by his conversation with the lieutenant, and some faint suspicion that he had played the listener while that conversation was held. A moment’s reflection convinced him that to have heard any part of his conference, from the distance at which he had caught a glimpse of the boy in the corridor, was impossible; so, resolving to make his concession the means of obtaining a much greater one from the king, Northumberland determined to seem won to mercy by sympathy and regard for his ward.

While these thoughts were passing through the mind of that crafty man, Edward remained in his chair, supporting his head with one hand, while the other still lay caressingly, and half buried amid the bright ringlets of the kneeling culprit, who gathered the royal robe between his small hands, and kissed the glowing velvet with grateful eagerness, while his bright face was again deluged with tears—such tears as can only know their birth in a warm, wayward, and affectionate nature.

“Forgive the pain my zeal in behalf of a health so precarious has occasioned,” said the duke, advancing graciously to the king, while his face relapsed into one of those bland smiles which sometimes beamed like magic over his proud features. “Heaven forbid that anything which is dear to your highness, however faulty, should be condemned by one whose first aim is to render his king happy! Let the boy go at once! Far be it from me to desire his chastisement. Go, sirrah,” he added, taking hold of the boy’s arm and lifting him from his knees, but still giving to the action and words a tone of good-natured encouragement, “go to the ante-room; here is another piece of gold to repay the fright we have given you.”

The page stood up; his checks flushed once more beneath the tears that stained them. He looked upon the proffered gold, and, with a motion of the head, betraying both pride and boyish petulance, seemed about to refuse it, but a glance from his master, and something in the duke’s eye which awed him, checked the resentful impulse, and taking the gold, with half muttered thanks, he knelt once more at Edward’s feet, kissed the hand which was kindly extended, and bursting into tears again, left the chamber.

The moment he reached the ante-room, our page flung himself on a bench, and burying his face in the tapestry that cushioned it, sobbed aloud. His companions gathered about him in dismay, anxious to learn the cause of his tears; but it was a long time before he would reply to their questions. At last he started up, dashed the two pieces of gold on the stone floor till they rang again, and told his friends to take them up—fling them into the court below—toss them for farthings—do anything with them—but protested that he would never touch them again. After this ebullition of boyish wrath, he gave a glowing description of the tyranny which had been practised upon him by the duke; of the goodness of his royal master; and of the great danger which had threatened them all. Whereupon, they jointly and severally entered into a contract never to laugh again during the whole course of their lives—a resolution they persisted in keeping for a full half hour, when our young hero set them all into convulsions by a most ludicrous imitation of the protector’s manner as he took leave of the lieutenant. When this new burst of merriment died away, the group of youngsters stood for a while frightened by their own boldness, and expecting each moment to hear another summons to the royal chamber; but instead of the sound they feared, came another which overwhelmed them with surprise. It was the voice of their royal master, louder than any one had ever heard it before, and powerful with strong feeling. The duke’s voice was also heard, sometimes stern and almost disrespectfully harsh, again soothing and persuasive, with something of that cajolery in its tone which one might expect from the hired nurse of a wayward child.

While these unusual sounds were continued in the king’s apartment, the pages gradually drew nearer to the door, till they could command some broken sentences of what was passing within. At length the king’s voice grew fainter and less distinct. Northumberland now and then uttered a brief sentence, and his heavy footsteps were plainly heard as he strode up and down the room. At last a sharp ringing of the bells sent the listeners to a distant part of the room, where they stood gazing in each other’s faces, uncertain whether they ought to obey the summons or not. Their doubts were speedily relieved, for the door was flung open and the Duke of Northumberland appeared, looking pale and much agitated. He beckoned with his hand, and the page that we have mentioned so often entered the chamber. He found the king lying back in his chair, faint and pale as death; his lips were perfectly bloodless, and though he seemed insensible, the silken vest worn beneath his robe was agitated by the quick and terrible beating of the heart it covered.

With instinctive affection, the page untied the silken fastenings of his master’s dress, and exposing the delicate neck and chest, which heaved and throbbed as if the heart were forcing a passage through, he commenced chafing it with his hands, till the agitation became less painful and apparent.

At length, Edward unclosed his eyes and drawing his doublet together with a trembling hand, tried to sit up. Northumberland advanced and seemed about to address him, but he shrank back with a nervous shudder. After a moment, he got up again and would have spoken, but his lips only trembled; he had no strength to utter a word. Northumberland walked to a window, where he stood some time with his arms folded, gazing gloomily through the thick glass. Still the page knelt by his master, chafing his hands, and folding the robe over his feet with that kind assiduity which bespoke an affectionate nature.

At length Edward spoke, and the duke turned eagerly from the window, evidently relieved by this proof that his late attack would not be immediately fatal.

“My lord,” said the king, faintly, “you see how impossible it is that this subject can be discussed farther. I beseech your grace, have my wishes obeyed, both regarding your son and all the parties concerned.”

Again Northumberland’s brow darkened, and he seemed about to expostulate, but Edward looked him gravely in the face and added,

“It _must_ be so, my lord duke, or England will not brook the imprisonment of a protector who, with all his faults, knew how to respect the rights of his king.”

The color forsook Northumberland’s face, but still he frowned and looked unyielding. Edward arose feebly from his chair, and leaning upon the shoulder of his page, moved toward an inner bed-chamber. The duke saw by this movement that all hope of further conference was cut off, and feeling himself baffled and forced to act against his wishes by a mere youth, he once more forgot his usual crafty composure and the respect due to his sovereign.

“My liege,” he said, almost imperatively, “this is requiring too much; I cannot grant it.”

Edward turned so as to face the angry noble, and while still supported by the page, answered mildly, but with the same steady will as before,

“My Lord of Northumberland,” he said, “either our uncle, the Duke of Somerset, returns to his palace to-morrow as we have directed, or on the next day he goes there Lord Protector of England.”

With a slight wave of the hand, and with his features contracted with the pain which his effort to speak occasioned, Edward turned away and passed into his bedchamber without waiting for a reply, which, in truth, Northumberland was unable to give, so completely was he astounded by what had already been said.

The page would have called other assistance when Edward reached his bedchamber, but the invalid prevented him, and after having the points of his dress untied, lay down upon the bed, faint and exhausted. The boy moved about him with that soft, gentle tread so grateful in the chamber of an invalid. He smoothed the pillows, drew the counterpane of embossed velvet over the recumbent monarch, and, taking some scented woods from a closet, flung them into a brasier that stood in the fire-place, and nursed the flame beneath till the chamber was filled with a soft, drowsy atmosphere, grateful to the sense, and almost certain to produce tranquil sleep. Then he would steal once more to the bed, pull back the voluminous curtains, and bend over the pale form resting there till his dimpled cheek, so damask and healthy, almost touched that of the monarch, and the wreath of his bright curls fell amid the damp masses of hair which swept over the pillow, in a contrast that was lovely and yet painful to behold. When satisfied that his master was asleep, the boy stole softly from the chamber, as had always been his habit, to await the time of his waking in the next room. He started with surprise on seeing it still occupied by the Duke of Northumberland, who stood before the window gazing sternly into the court below, and evidently lost in a train of most unpleasant thoughts. When the boy entered he started impatiently, and, clearing the frown from his face with an effort, crossed the room.

“Tell your master,” he said, addressing the page, “tell your master that his wishes shall be obeyed—say that all shall be in readiness by eight this evening;” and with these words Northumberland left the royal apartments.

Either the protector’s voice aroused Edward, or he had not slept, for scarcely was the door closed when his voice summoned the page to his bedside. When the duke’s message was repeated to him, a smile of satisfaction settled on his face, and he sank into a tranquil slumber. After awhile those usually quiet apartments were full of bustle and preparation. Attendants passed in and out; pages were seen running to and fro with mysterious faces. More than one laden wherry untied its contents at the tower stairs, and everything bespoke the approach of some uncommon event.

* * * * *

One little month had scarcely passed when the Duke of Somerset, bereft of wealth and station, sat in a gloomy prison room of the tower, expecting each moment to be dragged forth to trial, and, perhaps, an ignominious death. It was a large room, but so dimly lighted that persons sitting together looked sallow and careworn in the dusky atmosphere that filled it. The very sunbeams forced themselves sluggishly through the high window, as if rusted by the masses of old iron which blocked their passage, and were lost, long before they reached the floor, in a web of ragged and dusty cobwebs, which covered the ceiling like mouldering tapestry, moth-eaten and turning to dust where it hung. There, on the gloomy floor of this desolate place, sat the prisoner, striving to read by the unhealthy light, which was only sufficient to make the effort a painful one. He lifted his eyes to the grating with an impatient exclamation, and, flinging his book on the floor, began pacing up and down the stone flags. Instantly a figure started forward from an inner room and lifted the book; while the sweet, pale face of Lady Jane Seymour was raised for a moment to that of her suffering parent, as he moved rapidly up and down the room. She laid the book once more upon the flags, and exerted all her frail strength to move the chair her father had occupied to a station nearer the window. This done, she again lifted the ponderous volume with her two fair hands, smoothed out the dark letter page which had been doubled in the fall, and bearing it to the duke, besought him to sit down, while she read aloud to him.

Somerset paused a moment in his walk, impelled by the persuasive but sad tones of his child; but confinement had made him irritable; so, extricating his disordered cloak from the slight grasp which she had fixed upon it, he pushed the book from him with a violence which sent it crashing to the floor again, and resumed his restless occupation. The book had fallen upon the flags, with its broad leaves downward, and crushed beneath the heavy binding, that, with the ringing of the heavy clasps, as they struck the stones, brought another person into the room, but so changed, so thin, and broken-hearted in appearance, that few persons who had seen the dignified, proud, and lovely Duchess of Somerset, in her high estate, could have recognised her as she stood within the sickly atmosphere of her husband’s dungeon.

The gentle lady moved across the room, her rich, but now soiled, vestments sweeping the dusty floor as she passed; while her daughter was patiently occupied in smoothing the pages which had been injured in their fall, and in brushing away the dust which they had gathered, she approached her husband, placed a hand upon his arm, and looked with a sad smile into his face.

“The apartment within is less gloomy than this,” she said; “come and sit with us; you, who never failed to share the sunshine of life with us, should not thus brood alone, now that sorrow has befallen us. Come!”

Somerset turned abruptly from his noble wife, and to conceal the emotions her sweet, patient manner had awakened, rather than from continued moodiness of spirit, he still paced up and down the darkest part of his dungeon, with all the appearance of continued irritation, for he was ashamed of the tears which, in spite of himself, sprang to his eyes on witnessing his gentle and yet proud wife so fallen and so patient in her ruin.

The duchess was rendered quick-sighted by affection, and, speaking in a low voice to her daughter, the two left the fallen man to the liberty of grief. The room which they entered was scarcely superior to the other, but more light was admitted to it; and where is the spot so dark, or so full of discomfort, that a loving and intelligent woman cannot give some domestic charm to it? When the unfortunate lady and her still more unfortunate child left their palace home, and besought permission to share the confinement of a husband and a father, they had been permitted to bring a few objects of comfort to cheer the desolation which surrounded him. Several leathern chairs, and a stool or two, cushioned and embroidered by the fair beings who selected them for that reason, stood within the room. Lady Jane had swept and garnished the stone floor with her own delicate hands, all unused as they had been to such menial service. A rude table was there, a few favorite books lay upon it, and a lute, the companion of many a happy, childhood hour, was now taken up by that gentle girl, that its sweet tones might soothe the moody spirit of the proud man, who seemed scarcely conscious of her effort to tranquilize him.

Lady Jane knew that it but mocks a broken spirit to see anything it loves over-cheerful; so her strain, though not gloomy, was touching, and a sad one, so sad that her father, as he walked in the adjoining room, forgot the selfishness of his sorrow and wept like a child, that two creatures so gently nurtured should thus inhabit a prison, and, for his sake, exert their broken spirits to render it cheerful. After a while he entered the apartment where they were, and going up to the duchess he bent down and kissed her, while his right hand rested on the head of the young girl sitting at her feet. Lady Jane lifted her grateful eyes to his face and smiled. When her father kissed her forehead also fondly, and with the affection of former times, a swarm of kindly feelings sprang to her heart; her light fingers touched the lute again, and a gush of music, not gay, and yet scarcely sad, filled the dungeon room. It was a home song, such as they had loved in better days, and it awoke many pleasant memories; so, amid all their sorrows, these three persecuted beings sat together in domestic companionship, almost happy. If chains were upon them, their love of each other twisted a few golden links amid the iron which no human power could wrest away.

The memories which the song awakened gradually led the conversation to brighter themes, and for awhile the inmates of that dungeon almost forgot their present condition. They talked of former days, and, as they talked, an expression amounting almost to a smile rose to the face of the father. The sunshine, too, seemed to partake of their joy, streaming in more gaily through the narrow window, and playing, like a wilful but merry child fitfully across the floor; while a bird—a wanderer from green fields far away—pausing a moment outside the casement, poured forth such a gush of music that it thrilled the inmost hearts of the listeners with joy. Could the duke have seen them then how would he have envied them.

But, as the day wore on, their thoughts once more were brought back to the full consciousness of their present situation, and again a shadow came over the souls of the members of that little family, typical of the sunshine which but just before had been shining so merrily through the casement, but which now had vanished, leaving the dungeon room dark and forbidding.

The gloom of coming night at last gathered thickly in the dungeon, rendering it still more cold, desolate and prison-like. The duke still retained his sombre mood and gazed gloomily on the stone flags at his feet, while his patient wife sat by his side, her hand resting in his, and her sweet, low voice now and then whispering words of endearment, such as her proud and modest nature had considered too bold at any time save when the beloved one was in affliction, or in any place except that miserable dungeon room. Hers was the love of a true and delicate nature. And, like the flame of a lamp which, scarcely seen amid the glare of sunshine, grows brighter and more vivid when surrounded by darkness, it seemed the only faithful or bright possession left to the fallen man. Nay, there was yet another, scarcely less wretched than himself, or less clinging and affectionate than the woman who would have comforted him. That gentle girl, still tireless in her wish to please, crouched at his feet, and the soft notes of her lute stole up tremblingly and thrilled amid the darkness which shrouded them all. She felt that her father’s thoughts were far from her, that the melody which sprang from her weary fingers was all unheeded, and yet she played on, glad that in the darkness she could weep without being seen. So, as her hand wandered over the strings, tears streamed down her pale cheeks, unchecked, and fell upon it till the fingers were damp as if they had been laved in a fountain. Sometimes a sob would escape with the tears, but then came a gush of wilder music and the voice of her sorrow was concealed by it.

The wife still wound her fingers lovingly in the prisoner’s hand, grieved that no answering clasp was given back, and yet chiding herself for selfishness that she could expect to be thought of at such a time. The daughter wept on, and still coined her tears into music. But the husband and father had become almost unconscious of these efforts; he was like a caged lion indignant with his keepers, and with his heart full of the forest where he had once prowled a king. At last there was a sound of feet mustering at the prison door. It was about the hour when their evening meal might be expected. The little group looked listlessly up when the bolts were withdrawn, and the glare of a torch fell bright and crimson through the door. Somerset started to his feet, while the duchess withdrew her hand, and resuming her usual air of gentle dignity moved back a pace, where she stood pale and composed, ready to receive the lieutenant who, for the first time, entered their dungeon in person.

“My lord duke,” said the lieutenant, addressing his prisoner with some embarrassment, but throwing into his voice and manner that respectful homage which the fallen protector had scarcely hoped to witness again; “my lord duke, I am sorry to intrude on your privacy, or to interrupt the music with which this gentle lady soothes your prison hours, but I have orders for your removal to another room.”

“To another room!” exclaimed the duchess, while her cheek blanched whiter and her voice was changed with apprehension, “and we, his daughter Lady Jane and myself, surely, surely, we go also!”

“Not yet, noble lady; the protector has ordered it otherwise; but I beseech you take it not to heart, the separation will be a brief one,” said the lieutenant, bending before the terrified duchess as he spoke. “Nay, sweet lady, do not weep,” he continued, turning to Lady Jane, who had dropped her lute to the floor, and stood directly in the light, with her hands clasped firmly together and her tearful face exposed; “it pains me to witness such sorrow for a cause so groundless. It is but a change of apartments! A short time and you will doubtless receive the Lord Protector’s sanction to cheer the noble duke’s apartments once more; meantime, my orders are imperative! My lord duke, I trust that you will not be displeased with the change. Permit me to lead the way!”

“I will be ready to attend you in a moment,” replied the duke, “but first grant me a moment’s privacy. As my return is uncertain, I would take leave of the duchess and my child without so many witnesses!”

The lieutenant bowed, and withdrawing from the dungeon, closed the door. Then all the strong affections of his nature rushed back upon the wretched duke, for he believed that they were separating him from his family forever. He tried to speak, but could not; a rush of feelings, that had weighed down his heart to apathy before, choked his utterance; a silent embrace and the clinging arms of his wife were forced from his neck; another embrace, a blessing on his child, and before they could cry out or strive to detain him, the door swung to with a sharp crash, the light disappeared, and those suffering and helpless creatures were left alone.

“Mother!” That word arose amid the darkness faint and broken with tears.

“My child, we are alone!” replied a second voice, made strong by the agony of parting.

“No, not alone, mother, God is with us!” And, as she spoke, that noble girl stretched forth her hands and groped the way to her mother in the darkness. As she passed the lute, which still remained on the floor, her garments brushed the strings and a tone of music stole through the room—a pleasant tone—and it seemed that an angel had answered to those trustful words.

The duchess, who had sunk down in agony of heart, began to weep when she heard the sound, and so, in that dark and lonesome prison room, those two helpless beings clung together and comforted each other.

An hour went by, and once more a sound of heavy feet was heard outside their dungeon. The bolts shot back and a flood of light revealed the duchess sitting in the chair left vacant by her husband. Kneeling upon the floor, and half lying in her mother’s lap, was the Lady Jane; her face had been buried in the vestments of her parent, and she had been praying, but, as the door opened, her head was thrown back and a joyful expression filled the soft brown eyes turned eagerly upon the entrance. It was crowded with people, and an exclamation of pleasant surprise burst from the duchess and her daughter when two females entered the dungeon, each with a heavy bundle under her arm. In the foremost Lady Jane recognised her old nurse, and the other had long been chief tyring-woman to the duchess. Never were human beings so welcome, never two beings “so happy without knowing why,” as these old warm-hearted women.

“There,” said the nurse, holding the Lady Jane in her arms, and kissing her fondly between the words; “there, I say, you with the crusty face, roll in the coffer—that will do!” she added, as one of the men brought in a good sized coffer, which the duchess recognised as her own.

“Now,” continued the old woman, still with her arms around her astonished foster-child, “place that mirror on the table; softly, man, softly, you are not wielding your iron bolts now, and that silver frame is easily bruised if you knock the fillagree work about after that fashion!—there, set it down, for a bungler as you are; place the lamp in front; be careful, knave, you are treading on my lady’s lute—pick it up!” The man pushed the lute aside with his foot, and set the lamp down without regard to the old woman’s order.

“So, you cannot pick up the lute which a noble lady has fingered, forsooth! Wait a few days, and we shall see you creeping on your knees for the honor, instead of standing there with a look as stubborn as your own iron bars. Go, bring in the case of essence bottles, if that does not prove too heavy a task, and then take yourself off, for a clumsy cur; a pretty serving-man you would make, I trow!”

The man, on whom the old woman’s eloquence was exercised, seemed very willing to obey her last command. He brought in the case which she had desired, and, placing it on the table, left the dungeon and was about to lock the door, but just as he was closing it a clear cheerful voice was heard in conversation with him. After a moment’s delay, the half-closed door was swung open again to admit a handsome boy in the king’s livery, who carried a casket under his arm.

“That was well thought of, my pretty page,” said the nurse, approaching to take the casket, “but who has found courage to break the new protector’s seal? If it was you, boy, I only hope that handsome head may be firm on your shoulders six weeks hence. I would as soon have touched a red-hot coal as the bit of wax sticking to the smallest cabinet in the palace, and I saw all my lady’s jewels counted and locked up weeks ago.”

As she spoke, the old nurse allowed the Lady Jane to escape from her embrace, while she advanced to the page, and would have taken the casket from under his arm, but he stepped aside, with a roguish toss of the head, and dropping on his knee before the young lady, placed the casket in her hand. Bewildered, and as one in a dream, she gazed first upon the casket, then, wonderingly, on the handsome boy at her feet.

“What means this?” she said at last, looking doubtfully toward the duchess, who sat gazing upon the scene with equal wonder. “Our crest is upon the lid, but underneath are the royal arms of England.”

The duchess arose, and, taking the casket from her daughter’s hand, touched a spring. The lid flew open, and, with an exclamation of surprise, the ladies saw, not their own jewels, but a magnificent suite of diamonds which had once belonged to Jane Seymour, the Queen of Henry the Eighth; a young creature who had perished in giving birth to the present king—fortunate, perhaps, in being taken from her earthly state before she had learned how terrible a thing it was to “outlive her husband’s liking.”

“What means this—whence came the jewels?” exclaimed both ladies at once, turning their eyes from the gems that flashed and glowed in the lamplight, to the boy who had risen from his knees, and, with his plumed cap, was brushing away the dust which his vestments had caught from the floor.

“They were entrusted to me by my royal master, the king,” replied the boy, who paused in his occupation and gazed upon the casket, as he spoke, fascinated by the rich hues that played and quivered about it. “I was bade to deliver them to the Lady Jane Seymour—to say that the king desired that she would mingle them with the adornments of her fair person before she placed herself under the escort of the lieutenant, who will be here anon to bring farther orders from the Lord Protector.”

Before the astonished ladies could question him farther, he had obeyed some signal given him from the door, and left the dungeon.

It was in vain the noble duchess questioned the nurse and the tyring-woman. They were too much elated to gratify the anxiety of their mistress, even if they had not been as much mystified as herself. All they could say was, that a messenger had been sent from the Duke of Northumberland with orders to convey them to the tower; that they were commanded to take from the wardrobe, in the palace, every thing necessary for the toilet of their ladies. Though scarcely half an hour was allowed them for a choice, they had filled a coffer, and, with a few things hastily collected, were hurried into a barge and so to the dungeon of their mistress, scarcely realizing how it had all been brought about.

This unsatisfactory information only served to increase the excitement already produced in the minds of the prisoners; while their attendants were busily searching for keys, and smoothing the rich vestments that had been somewhat roughly crowded into the coffer, they looked on as people in a dream. The glare of lights which filled every gloomy angle of their dungeon; the velvet robes flung in glossy robes over the armed chair; the jewels, twinkling and flashing like a cluster of stars, on the table—all seemed like enchantment, and they looked on with a strange emotion of hope mingled with foreboding and almost with affright. Still there was something in all that had transpired, calculated to encourage more than to depress. So after a few brief words of consultation, the mother and daughter sat down and permitted the two women to adorn their persons without farther question. The duchess was speedily arrayed. In spite of her fears, a ray of hope had been awakened, and her face, before so pale and care-worn, became almost happy in its expression, save that a color, far more vivid than was natural to her cheek, betrayed the anxious fears that struggled against the more hopeful feeling that had sprung to life in her heart. She stood by as they wreathed the diamond tiara amid the tresses of her daughter’s hair, and, with her own fair hand, put back two or three of the brown curls where they fell over the young cheek, which gradually became warm and damask from the influence of anticipations which she could not entirely control, and yet which she trembled to encourage. How beautiful she looked in her robe of glowing velvet, with the tiara which had once adorned a queen, shedding its starry brightness amid her hair and over that pure forehead. Her neck, always beautiful, now gleamed out with more pearly whiteness beneath the string of brilliants that shed a rich light upon it; and, as the old nurse busied herself with the point lace which draped her rounded arms, she looked up to her mother, and a sweet, natural smile came faintly over her face. The mother did not smile, but a brighter expression lighted up her eyes, and the two looked almost happy making their strange toilet in a dungeon. The nurse had taken that little hand, which trembled in her clasp with conflicting emotions, and after pressing her lips upon the rosy palm, was drawing on the snowy glove with its embroidery of seed pearls, when there was a sound at the door, as of some person knocking against it with his knuckles, and, after a moment, the lieutenant of the tower once more presented himself. When the duchess advanced eagerly toward him, demanding a reason for all that had transpired, he answered with the calm politeness which usually marked his demeanor, that the Lord Protector had given orders that they should be removed to another room.

“But, tell me,” said the lady, almost beside herself with anxiety, “tell me, is it to the duke—is it to my husband you conduct us?”

A smile stole up to the lieutenant’s face. It might be one of irony aroused by the keen anxiety which she displayed: it might be a sign of admiration for the two beings that could look so lovely amid the gloom of a dungeon; but they could not read its meaning, and he would give no other reply to their question.

The Lady Jane began to tremble, but she placed her arm within that of the duchess, and was supported from the dungeon. Her heart died within her bosom as she found herself in a long, damp passage, surrounded by strange faces, and going, she could scarcely dream where. She looked in her mother’s face; it had become very pale again, and the arm on which she leaned shook beneath the weight of hers. All at once, she felt that the train of her dress had been lifted from the floor. She looked round, and there was that handsome little page grasping the folds of velvet in his small hand, while his bright face was lifted smilingly to hers. He seemed to comprehend and pity the anxiety betrayed by the troubled expression of her face, for drawing close to her side, he whispered—

“Have no fear, sweet lady, there is nothing of harm to dread.”

“Sirrah, fall back to your place,” said the lieutenant, looking sternly over his shoulder.

The boy shrank back, but not till his words had brought comfort to the heart of Lady Jane, and were whispered in the ear of her mother.

On they went, through dark passages and gloomy chambers;—the flambeau carried by their guard, crimsoning the walls as they passed on, and their shadows changing, and seeming to dance in fantastic groups around them as the lights were tossed upwards and flared in the chill currents of air that drew down the corridors. At last, they entered a large room, lighted up and surrounded by a range of cushioned benches, from which some half dozen pages arose with great show of respect as the party entered. The lieutenant and his officers remained standing at the entrance to the room, while two of the pages ran forward to an opposite door, which they held open as if the ladies were expected to pass through. The duchess turned her eyes on the lieutenant, uncertain how to act; he bent his head, and drawing respectfully back, answered her appeal in a low voice.

“Lady,” he said, “my charge ends here; pass on to the next room, where the king awaits you.”

The duchess started as she heard this, and grasping the hand which rested on her arm, whispered—

“Courage, my child, all will be well!”

Though taken by surprise, the noble lady had been so long accustomed to courts that, in crossing the ante-chamber, she resumed the quiet and dignified manner which anxiety had previously disturbed, but the quick feelings of youth could not be so readily controlled, and when the duchess presented herself in King Edward’s apartments, the young creature leaning on her arm was pale as death beneath all the warm glow of her jewels, and trembled visibly with suppressed agitation. The duchess cast a quick glance over the room. Her husband was there, not in his prison garments but robed as became his station, and by his side stood the Duke of Northumberland—though her heart leaped at the sight, she remained to all appearance composed and ready to sustain the dignity of her noble house before the man who had been its bitter enemy. Lady Jane also looked up, and recognised her father, with a thrill of joy such as she had seldom known before, but instantly the happy glow died from her face, and almost gasping for breath she clung to the duchess for support. She had seen another face, that made her heart tremble as she gazed—a face which had haunted her soul with a memory which would not be shaken off, but which in darkness and in sorrow had clung there as “the scent of roses hangs forever around the vase which once preserved them.” It was the face of Lord Dudley—the son of her father’s enemy. The man whom she had loved with all the truth and fervency of a pure and most affectionate heart, but from whom she was separated forever. Was it strange that her cheek and lips grew white or that those heavy lashes drooped sorrowfully beneath the look with which he regarded her? a look which made her heart turn faint with the memories which crowded upon it. She could not meet that glance again. Her father, the highborn and persecuted, was there, and yet that one look had made her almost forgetful of his wrongs.

Before these thoughts could fairly pass through her mind, and while the duchess hesitated at the door that she might have time to gain something of composure, the duke of Northumberland arose from his seat with that air of graceful and proud courtesy which no man could adopt with so much ease, and crossing the room, gave his hand to the duchess, inquired kindly after her health, and requested permission to lead her before the king, who sat in his large easy chair looking almost healthful, and made quite happy in the newly aroused power of conferring happiness upon others. Edward stood up to receive the duchess, and when she would have knelt, he took her hand in his and pressed it affectionately to his lips.

“His Grace of Northumberland will bear witness for us,” he said, “how ignorant we have been of all that you have suffered, and how deeply the knowledge grieved us when it did come. For our sake let all be forgotten; if any power is left to our feeble state, these persecutions shall not happen again.”

The lady, thus kindly addressed, made a grateful reply, which was somewhat restrained by the presence of Northumberland. He must have heard all that was passing, though his face wore the same bland and tranquil smile with which he had first approached her.

After pressing his lips once more to the fair hand in his, Edward turned to the Lady Jane, a smile broke over his pale face, and those large eyes, usually so regretful and sad in their expression, now sparkled with pleasant feelings.

“And our sweet cousin,” he said, looking down upon her lovely face as she sank to his knees, “methinks the prison fare has added to a beauty which was bright enough before. Nay, fair one, if you must do us homage, another hand must raise you.”

As he spoke, Edward had extended his hand as if to raise the young girl from his feet, but instead of this he laid it among the rich tresses of her hair, where it rested pale and caressingly lighted up by his own princely gift of jewels, and sinking to his seat again he bent forward and addressed the wondering girl in a low and earnest voice, smiling as he spoke, and faintly blushing as he saw that his words made the warm color deepen and glow in the cheek that had a moment before looked so cold and pale.

“Nay, do not rise yet,” he said, checking the modest impulse which prompted the bewildered girl to seek the shelter of her mother’s side, and as he spoke, Edward lifted his eyes from the drooping lashes that began to quiver upon the now red, now pallid cheeks, and looked expressively toward Lord Dudley, still keeping his hand upon the young creature’s head. He felt her start and tremble beneath his touch as Lord Dudley came eagerly forward, and though she did not look up, he knew by the trembling of her red lip and the rosy flood that deluged her face and neck, that the music of that familiar footstep had reached her heart.

Dudley returned the young monarch’s smile, as his hand was removed from its beautiful resting place, with a look of gratitude, and bending down he whispered a few words to the Lady Jane as he raised her from the king’s feet. She cast one timid glance on his face; it was eloquent with happiness, so eloquent that her eyes sought the floor again.

The king looked toward the ante-room and gave a signal with his hand. It was obeyed by our favorite page, who glided across the room and softly opened a door leading to the royal oratory. There, within the gleam of a silver sconce which flooded the little room as with a stream of moonlight, stood the king’s chaplain, in his sacerdotal robes, and with a book open in his hand. Upon the marble step at his feet lay two cushions of purple velvet fringed and starred with silver. Lord Dudley led his trembling charge forward, and they knelt down upon these cushions, while King Edward and all within the outer room stood up. A moment, and the deep solemn tones of the chaplain, as he read the marriage ceremony, filled the two apartments. The sweet face of Lady Jane was uplifted, and the pure light fell upon it, as she made her response in a voice rendered low by intense feeling—another response, louder and more firmly uttered—a benediction—and then Lord Dudley led his bride from the oratory.

“Your blessing, my father,” murmured the half happy, half terrified young creature, as she knelt with her lord at Somerset’s feet.

The Duke of Somerset bent down, kissed the beautiful forehead so bewitchingly uplifted, and gave the blessing which made his child happy. The duchess smiled, and wept amid her smiles.

“Ah, Jane,” she murmured, fondly putting back the ringlets her own hand had arranged, “ah, Jane, we little thought this evening would end so happily.”

The king stood by, and turned away to conceal the pleasant tears which filled his eyes.

“One thing more,” he said, “and our slumber will be sweet to-night;” as he spoke, the royal youth advanced to “The two Dukes,” where they stood side by side, and linking their hands together, placed his own upon them.

“Be friends,” he said, “the kingdom has need of you both.”

Edward felt their hands beneath his clasped together, and was satisfied. He was young, full of generous impulses, and believed that two ambitious men toiling for the same object _could_ be friends.

* * * * *

THE ABSENT WIFE.

BY ROBERT MORRIS.

At twilight’s soft and gentle hour
When shadows o’er the dull earth creep,
And nature feels the soothing power
Of coming night and balmy sleep—
When the tired laborer hastens home
His wife and little ones to kiss,
And the young beauty anxiously
Awaits love’s hour of dream-like bliss—
When nest-ward hie both bird and bee,
My fondest thought is still for thee!

Again at midnight’s solemn hour,
When eyes are closed and lips are still,
And Silence, like a spirit’s form,
Rests sweetly on each vale and hill,
When Love and Grief sit side by side
Around some sinking sufferer’s bed,
Or Crime in shadow seeks to hide
A form to every virtue dead,—
E’en then in dreams thy form I see,
Or waking fondly turn to thee!

At rosy morn, when like a gleam
From some far brighter sphere than ours,
The sunlight with its golden sheen
Awakes the world and tints the flowers—
When birds their tuneful numbers raise
And chant a welcome to the dawn,
When Nature lifts her voice in praise,
And day, creation-like, is born—
Then, when are hymns from land and sea,
I bow to Heaven and think of thee!

My lonely room—my quiet hours,
No hand to press—no voice to cheer,
No form to meet in Pleasure’s bowers,
No song to melt the soul to tears—
No welcome home with looks of joy,
No gentle song to tell of love,
No day-dreams of our cherished boy,
No child-like eyes to point above—
No hand to soothe the ruffled brow,
Alas! how much I miss thee now!

Pity the wretch, who, doomed to roam
From day to day this lower sphere,
Unloved by any—loving none,
Still wasting on from year to year,
As lonely as some twinkling orb
That trembles in the distant sky,
A watcher mid the hosts of night
With none to share its company—
Unloved while living, and when dead,
With none a heart-wrung tear to shed!

Alas! how cold and desolate
The path of such a one must be,
How dim his hopes—how sad his fate,
How cheerless his lone destiny!
No eye to mark each changing look,
No lip his fever’d brain to press;
No gentle one in whisper low,
With kindly words his ear to bless,—
To point his thoughts from earth to sky,
And paint some bright Futurity!

Why do we live? Affections—ties
That well and form within the breast,
That intertwine our sympathies
With hopes and joys that make us blest—
These point the panting spirit up
To milder realms beyond the skies,
And whisper to the trembling soul
New bliss awaits in paradise!
Oh! what were life with love away,
Where earth its bound—its limit clay!

Then soon return, fond one, return,
Thy greeting shall be kind and true,
Love’s lamp again shall brightly burn,
And life its purest joys renew!
Oh! absence, like the clouds that throw
Thick shadows o’er the summer sky,
But, passing, leave a brighter glow,
A deeper, purer blue on high:
So now I wait the passing gloom,
That light again may gladden home!

* * * * *

SONG.

Oh! sing unto my soul, my love,
That all-entrancing lay,
Such as the seraphim above
Are singing far away—
It comes as some familiar strain
Once heard in heaven, now heard again.

For sure—as olden sages tell—
We are not all of earth:
The soul, by some mysterious spell,
Has glimpses of its birth;
And memories of things divine
Thrill o’er me at that voice of thine.

They come as half-forgotten dreams
From that eternal land,
The sounds of its celestial streams,
The shores of silver sand,
The angel faces in the air—
Oh! sing, and waft my spirit there!

A. A. I.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Zanoni, a Novel. By the Author of “Pelham,” “Rienzi,” &c. Two
Volumes. Harper & Brothers._