Chapter I

THE little square court of Gonville College lay in shadow beneath a rosy evening sky as the door from the hall opened, and a young man in a master's gown and cap ran out and across the cobbles, followed by half a dozen others. He waved his hand hurriedly as they called after him, shouted something back, and disappeared into a staircase-door in the chapel corner.

Supper had been done ten minutes before; and the half-dozen sisars had been eyeing the cooling dishes regretfully as the old Master, standing up in his place, had told to the company the news for which they had almost forgotten to look.

It was now nearly a year since the fierce doings of the previous summer, when Cambridge had been full of Northumberland's soldiers, and the Duke himself had been taken in King's College, and sent with the Vice-Chancellor and others up to London for trial; and the whole place had hummed with gossip, and reverberated with the tramp of armed men.

Their own College too had distinguished itself. Master Guy Manton, one of their Fellows, had ridden out to Sawston through the gloom of the July night, to take news to Mary Tudor that an assault on her lodging was imminent. He had come back with one of Huddleston's men on the following morning, with an arrow-wound in his arm, and reported that he had seen

The Queen's Tragedy the smoke rising from the burning house whence the new Queen had just made her escape.

Little by little more had come out. Master Manton had not said much himself, but Tom Bradshawe, his boy, had whispered that the Queen had made great promises, although his master had not been the first to bring her the news; that she had thanked him for what he had done and suffered, and asked him for his name. The arrow that pierced his arm had been shot by one of Northumberland's men in a drunken fit, who had staggered out beside the watch-fire at the noise of the galloping hoofs.

But the months went by, and the rebels had paid the forfeit for their fierce game, and the Queen had been crowned, and the arrow- wound long healed; Mary had slept at Cambridge on her return- journey, had sent for Master Manton and talked with him, and then had gone her way, to meet the smouldering sedition in London. This had burst into flame in Wyatt's rebellion, had been quenched by a strong hand and died down again. Yet no word had come for Master Manton.

And now it had come; and he was to go next day.

Some of those who heard the news in the College hall from Master Bacon's Lps were not altogether displeased. It was pleasant to think that the little community had a finger in public affairs — the last connection of the kind had consisted in the removal from their jurisdiction of Phy^wick hostel, at the hands of King Henry — and it was not wholly unpleasant to one or two of the company to think that they had seen the last of Master Manton. He was a strange creature; they could understand neither his tendernesses nor his spasms of rage. He had made himself ridiculous more than once in his friendships, showing a compassion for queer persons that they could

Master Manton Comes to Court not comprehend; and he had made himself a little terrible too half a dozen times in his furies against disloyalty, and his contempt of what they considered academical finesse. " Pecca fortiter! " he had cried indignantly at a College meeting, gathered to consider what form of religion should be observed in chapel. Unconventionality was hard to bear from a young man who had shared in collegiate advantages for little more than ten years, six as a fellow-commoner, and four as a Fellow.

Guy's whole air and appearance too, these gentlemen told one another, were scarcely academic, and they wondered that his tastes had once seemed to be so. His square-built six feet of body, his square jaw and thin, resolute lips, his bright kindly brown eyes, his abrupt judgments, his generosities, his unconcealed impatience, even his very scruples — all these would have been seemly enough for a gentleman of the country or Court, but they were hardly suitable under a Master's cap and gown.

Guy's gesture, as he disappeared, was so decisive that his friends hung back, He had still plenty to do, though he had half-packed his couple of trunks in the afternoon as soon as the messenger had come; and the silversmith would be waiting upstairs with the piece of plate that he proposed to present to the College. There was another interview too that lay before him, which he did not wholly welcome.

His brain whirled with excitement as he groped his way up the dark stairs. His universe had shrunk to pigmy proportions, and a crowd of giant faces looked down, kings, prelates and statesmen, whose names he knew, and who waited now for him to take his place at their feet. He must leave the nursery for the limitless world. The master's ten minutes' speech had brought

The Queen's Tragedy that fact home to him as he listened with grave downcast eyes and a beating heart. This had been the last supper that he would eat in the dark hall to the accompaniment of the Vulgate droned from the little wooden pulpit at the lower end. To-morrow he would eat in kings' palaces.

He must be strong now — he told himself — he must be strong. There must be no more sentiment.

He was unusually brusque with the silversmith who saluted him deferentially in the entry upstairs, and called to him to come after as he went in through the outer door into his own room.

It was a wide low chamber, strewn with ill-smelling rushes on which lay his two leather trunks, and a couple of beds stood side by side at the further end between the windows that looked out on to the eastern end of the chapel and the old priof y buildings. The room was in confusion. A pile of books lay on the table, ready for packing, and three or four chairs with tumbled clothes upon them were pushed back against the tattered hangings of the outer wall. Two more windows opposite gave on to the court of the College.

He took the silver salt-cellar from the man, and turned it over. It appeared satisfactory. It was octagonal with an oval depression, and on the side he saw the arms of the College, the inscription In usum Coll. Gonv., and his own name. It was curious to think that he would never put knife to it himself.

" Twelve ounces? " he said sharply.

" Twelve ounces, sir," said the man.

" Very good. I will send the money in the morning."

Guy set the silver down when the man was gone, looked round the room, drew a long breath and went across to his trunks.

Master Manton Comes to Court

But he was not long left to himself; there were footsteps and talking on the stairs; a couple of the young Fellows came in, and were presently leaning against the wall, striding about, examining the salt-cellar, criticising his packing, asking a hundred questions; while a group of pensioners gathered continually at the door, eyeing awfully this man on whom had fallen the shadow of Royalty.

Guy glanced up at them once or twice, but did not see the man he wanted, and went on answering questions as he packed.

Yes; he would be off by nine o'clock, he said, and in London by the evening. He was to go straight to Whitehall. He would ride with the Queen's messenger, and Tom too was to go... He did not know whether he could keep the boy, but he hoped so; for he was to have half-a-dozen servants of his own. If not, Tom should be sent straight back at the first opportunity... Yes; he was at the tailor's now being fitted for a suit.

Master Sweetnam's face fell.

" We shall miss him in chapel," he said.

" We shall be the gainers at Court," observed Guy over his shoulder as he knelt at his trunk. " He sings better every day. He must enter her Grace's choir. Master Denison says that his voice will last a long while yet."

He was very cheerful and good-humoured this evening; and answered all their questions politely as he went to and fro in his shirt and hose, and struggled with his packing. He mourned over the quarto Terence that he could not get in, and presented it elaborately to Master Sweetnam with his loving regard; he did not brag once of the life that lay before him, or sneer at that which he left behind. Yet he sighed with contentment when the chapel-bell began to ring, and his friends trooped out.

The Queen's Tragedy

Master Sweetnam, burdened by the Terence, turned to his friend as they came into the court.

" As satisfied as ever," he said.

" Pah! he is mad with pride. But he will find out."

The two nodded their heads sagaciously as they went into chapel.

Guy was serenely unconscious and careless of their opinion. Of course he was satisfied! Why should he not be?

He drew back a curtain presently in a pause of his packing, and looked out on to the east window of the chapel, and the glimmer of light within and Blessed Mary with her Child in her arms in red and blue on the centre pane. The sight gave him a further thrill of freedom. There they all were, that little set of folks with whom he had lived so long, repeating together the old acts that they had repeated for twenty years past, some of them, though in varying phrase and language, and would repeat for twenty years more, with their heads down on their books, and one of the priests leading them from his stall; and then they would come out, and go to bed soon; and come out again in the morning, and re-enact the uneventful day, toiling over their microscopic crumbs of Greek, laying down the law to gaping boys, and quarrelling among themselves as to the law they laid down; and all was to do again, over and over again.

And here was he with his face towards a new and vivid mystery, and excitement and self-reliance in his heart.

He turned back again exulting as the door opened and a boy came in.

" Well? " he said.

" The suit will be here by six o'clock, Master Manton."

Tom Bradshawe was flushed and excited too. He was a dark well-grown child of twelve years old,

Master Manton Comes to Court pale-faced and black-eyed; and had been a sizar in the College for nearly a year. Guy had taken pity on him, soon after his coming. He had found him tied under the pump one cold morning, and, in a kind of fury had released him and taken him upstairs to his own room. Guy's wrath on that occasion had caused laughter in the College; but he had spoken his mind and gone his way. He had presently attached the boy to himself, had become his tutor by backstairs' influence, and taken him to sleep in his room. Then he had discovered that Tom possessed an extraordinary contralto voice, and the boy had been set to sing in chapel — the fame of his voice had spread; but he had declined all offers, and refused to leave his master. Now Tom's reward had come, and he was to seek his fortune in London under the patronage of her Grace's new gentleman.

Guy made an enquiry or two about the horses, deputed him to go with the silversmith's money next morning, and finally asked him whether he had seen Master Stephen Brownrigg.

" I saw him coming out of chapel just now," said the boy.

Guy pondered.

" Well, go to bed," he said, " and go to sleep. I shall not be coming yet."

Ten minutes later Guy slipped on his doublet, and went out.

As he walked across the court in the summer darkness to Stephen's room he was wondering what he would say. He knew he would meet with reproaches and sullenness, and he was doubtful how to deal with them. He was tired of patience.

Stephen had come up to Gonville College as a sizar

The Queen's Tragedy six years before, a clumsy, high-shouldered lad of eighteen, and Guy, as usual, had been sorry for him. He had watched him, at first with amusement and then with pity, carrying four tankards at once and dropping two of them, and shedding salad along the rushes of the hall. Then he had begun to patronize him a little, though he was only Stephen's senior by four years; he had allowed him to bring his lexicon and his grammar up to the comparative quiet of his own study; and little by little had begun to get at his heart. He had found there a very fierce and uncontrolled fire that burned as hotly for disorder as Guy's for authority. Guy did not care very much for what was taught or done, or as to who sat on the throne of England; but he did desire that all should be in order; and it seemed that on the other hand Stephen Brownrigg's soul was one of those doomed from infancy to be opposed to government. As a boy he had headed an ink-pot rebellion at Norwich grammar-school, and had made passionate speeches on the inherent freedom of manhood; then he had quieted a little on coming to College, till again his ardour had broken out in a wider field. On Edward's accession he had presided at indignation meetings in the sizar's room in favour of the Lady Elizabeth; then he had become reconciled when he understood that the new government did not make for peace, but again had flared out at the prince's death; and Guy had observed him, with mingled irritation and amusement, marching beside Northumberland's men across the market-place, and bellowing once more for the Lady Jane Grey. Now there was an end of all that; the Lady Jane had suffered for the sins of her father-inlaw and her own acquiescence in treason; Mary ruled at Westminster, and there was nothing left for Stephen but the luxury of a desperate cause.

And what was Guy to say to him now? Stephen had

Master Manton Comes to Court said violent things last year when his patron had done what he could for the Queen. What would he say now, and how should it be met?

Guy had tried patience, and it had been met by insolence. So at last he was beginning to be a little tired of his friend; and as he climbed the stairs, he did not find it very difficult to resolve that sternness was best. Sentiment was out of place in one who was to take part in public affairs; a career could not be carved out except by strength; tenderness was very well in college life; it did not hinder academical advancement; but a Court was a different matter; and it would not be amiss either for Stephen's sake or his own to practise a little severity and self-control.

The Queen's Tragedy

But his heart relented again as he pushed the door wide after tapping, and remembered all that had happened here.

It was a depressing little room, under the roof, low, and with sloping sides; a great table in the centre, on which burned a single candle, was piled with confusion; books, papers, a gown, a heap of dirty linen, a couple of plates and a jug lay together there, with the tail of a quill cocked arrogantly from an ink-horn in the middle. The scanty rushes on the floor resembled ancient hay; the hangings, of an incredible age and filth, showed patches of discoloured wall through their rents; and in the midst of the debris, between the table and the tumbled bed, stood Stephen, pale and high-shouldered, with long light hair, in his old green clothes, with a prayer-book in his hand, and an expression in which resentment, dramatic pride, reproach and dignity strove with piety. He had apparently been saying his prayers, and had stood up at the sound of the footstep.

Guy shut the door and came across to the table.

" Do not be a damned fool," he said quietly.

Stephen put his hands together on the table, with the book in them, and faced him.

" So this is what you came to say, Master Manton? "

Guy sat down on the table sideways, pushing aside the dirty linen, as he had pushed it twenty times before. His appearance was a very strong contrast to Stephen's. He looked a capable, reasonable person, who had both a heart and a will of his own. At present, however, as he addressed himself to speak to this tiresome lad, his will was more evident than his heart, both in his bearing and his sharp resolute voice. He knew this man's temper, and was not discouraged by the acrid fierceness of his voice.

Master Manton Comes to Court

" I came to say good-bye, Stephen," he said, looking at him, " because you did not come to me. I expected you. Tom and I are off by nine o'clock."

Stephen stood as rigid as a statue.

" See here," went on the other quietly, still watching that thin sharp-cut face. " I am not come to weep, or to ask your pardon for following my conscience. I have told you a hundred times what I think; and I have as much right to a conscience as you. Mine tells me that Mary is Queen, and that the old Religion is the better; so I propose to serve them both by going to London. I do not wish to talk about my plans. I wish to talk about yours, and to say good-bye."

Still Stephen glared at him without moving.

Guy's impatience surged up.

" You might be civil," he said. " I think I have not been unkind to you."

Stephen caught his breath sharply; but there was nothing but cold anger in his answer.

" I do not wish to be uncivil, sir, so I cannot say what I think."

" My good fellow, I have told you that I do not want you to say what you think about me. I am quite aware that you think me a knave for serving my Queen. I wish to talk about you."

" Then I will not," barked the other suddenly. " I have my own plans, Master Manton. They do not concern you."

Guy slipped off the table and stood up.

" That is uncivil and churlish," he said sternly. " I came here to ask if I could serve you. I am not going to whine and coax any more; but I will say my say and begone. It is this: you will find yourself in trouble soon. I sheltered you last time when you were playing the madman in February. Your name was before the

The Queen's Tragedy master for damning Queen Mary on the market-place, and I quieted him. You know that! And now I am going, and there will be none to shelter you."

" I do not want to be sheltered."

" Very well then. I hope you will remember '

" See here, Master Manton; we are on opposite sides now; you have told me so yourself. Well, I do not take counsel from my enemies."

Guy looked at him; at his sharp, out-thrust chin, his excited eyes and his pale writhing lips. For a moment he thought of keeping his resolution, and stamping out without another word. Then he relented again; this impotent rage was so piteous in this frail unbalanced creature. Besides, they had been friends for a year.

" My dear lad you do not know what you are saying. Cannot you be civil? You will be sorry to-morrow."

" I shall not," cried the other, " I have borne with your patronage too long."

" You will be sorry to-morrow," said Guy imperturbably, " and you will be in some trouble the day after; and I shall not be here as I was last time. Be reasonable and civil."

Stephen slammed the prayer-book on to the table. " Master Manton, will you do me the honour to take my word? We are enemies, not friends. You are going to serve this — this — "

" Ah! be careful! " cried Guy.

— this — this Mary Tudor," hissed Stephen, " who has slain hundreds of God's people already —

" Rebels," put in Guy's voice.

" who has slain her own cousin

" A rebel again," said Guy.

" Who is to make a Spanish marriage, and set about burning Christians

-heretics," slipped in the other voice. 14

Master Manton Comes to Court

Stephen slammed his hands down too, and leaned across the table, like a mad cat on the point of springing.

" Well, sir! Go you to serve that side, and I go to serve the other."

The moment he had said it he seemed to recover himself. He stood back and took up his prayer book. But Guy was startled.

" What is that? " he asked.

" That is my affair," said Stephen sullenly.

" You go to serve the other? "

The other was silent.

" Listen to me, Master Brownrigg. I do not know what you mean by that; but I will tell you something. If I hear a word of any plotting or such folly, I shall not shelter you again. I shall work against you with all my power; I shall not scruple to give you up. Remember that."

Stephen was looking at him steadily now, and smiling bitterly.

" That is better, Master Manton. Now we understand one another. I will wish you good-night now with all my heart, on those terms."

For a moment Guy thought of making one more appeal. This mad fool seemed in earnest as never before. It was a man, no longer a boy, who had said that; and it was evident that he meant it. He would surely find himself in prison soon; and Guy hated the thought of it. But he remembered his resolution; he had tried tenderness, and it had failed; he would try it no longer, and his decision was almost a relief.

" I do not wish good-night to my enemies, sir," he said coolly. " I wish them a better mind first. If you wish to ask my pardon for this insolence before nine o'clock to-morrow, I shall be ready to hear you. And be good enough to remember what I have said."

The Queen's Tragedy

He wheeled about and left the untidy room, and the venomous figure standing there.

He was still angry as he came up to his own room. Stephen had never been so outrageously offensive before; and the ingratitude of the whole affair stung him bitterly.

He went straight across the darkness of his room to the boy's bed.

" Tom, are you awake? "

" Yes, sir."

" Tom, I have quarrelled with Stephen. He is mad, I think. Have you heard anything? "

" He is going to London, Master Manton. I thought you knew that," came the voice from the bed.

" To London? When did you hear that? "

" To-night, sir. The sizars were talking of it."

" Why is he going? "

" I do not know, sir."

There was silence for a moment. Then Guy turned away.

" Very well, boy. Speak of it to no one, and keep your eyes open in London. Now go to sleep."

" Yes, sir."

Guy lay long awake that night in the warm summer darkness, staring out over the College roofs at the unfathomable depth of stars, with no sound in his ears but the steady breathing from the truckle bed at his side, and the occasional scamper of a rat across the rushes.

It was all very strange and bewildering; the quarrel he had had with Stephen, and the news he had heard of him, no less than the prospect of the next day.

He set his teeth at last, and fell asleep.

Whitehall stood up blue and splendid against the flushed southern sky as Guy and Tom, with a couple of the Queen's men, rode up to it from Charing Cross at sunset.

They had ridden all day through the hot summer scents and sights, now on the wide road, now in short cuts under leafy roofs where the gnats sang loud in the green gloom, and rustlings and cries in the undergrowth had told of the life of the woods; they had halted for three hours in the middle of the day, ridden on towards London in the afternoon, and caught sight of the palace soon after passing the City, a huddle of roofs and towers set in greenery, the shining river on the left, and faintly seen, far behind, the long white line of the Abbey.

Tom's tired horse felt himself pressed very close to his companion, as the four passed in at last through the gate from St. James' Park; and Guy, looking at the boy, saw that his black eyes were wide and anxious and his lips parted.

He himself forgot the dust and the weariness; but it was in expectancy rather than anxiety. Cambridge seemed smaller than ever now; it had receded more quickly than they had ridden; the fractious College meetings, the tiny stir of academic politics, even his quarrel with Stephen — all seemed very little and unreal now that he had come to the heart of affairs. Yet half a dozen times he had turned, thinking that Stephen was by his side. He had talked a good deal to Tom as they rode — of pageants, of floating towers on the Thames, from which men shot with culverins, of the lord of misrule with his heralds and trumpets, even of matters of State, and the Queen's enemies, of loyalty and treason. He had told him of Wyatt's rebellion, and had pointed up at Ludgate where the traitor

The Queen's Tragedy had demanded entrance, and Temple Bar where he had been taken. Above all, remembering his own resolutions, he had hammered into his mind that they would both have to stand alone now; Tom must not expect to be cossetted and protected any more.

But under all ran a current of other thoughts, that merged now and then in long silences. He was come up by special favour of the Queen; his opportunity was held out to him, and he did not doubt his capacity to grasp it. Only, he reminded himself for the hundredth time, he must be hard and resolute.

The palace wore something of a collegiate air to their eyes as they rode across the great court and dismounted; all about them lay long walls pierced with windows, with here and there a gateway, and on the further side the hall itself; but the figures that moved there were in green and white instead of black, and the brazen cry of a trumpet sounded in place of the mellow bell of Great Saint Mary's.

Their horses were led away, when the luggage had been unstrapped, and a blue-liveried fellow with a silver badge on cap and sleeve bearing the impaled rose and arrows of Mary, took them through the little vestibule and up a flight of stairs. The passages were not yet lighted, and Guy felt the boy again press close to him as they passed on in the gloom, up the stairs, along a passage or two, down a few steps, and on again till all sense of direction was lost. The house was very still, as most of the inmates were at supper; but once or twice they passed a motionless figure, armed and silent, standing before a closed door.

At last the servant threw a door on the left open, and waved them in.

It was a pleasant enough room, with green saye

Master Manton Comes to Court hangings, a great bed on the right hand side, a settle before the cold hearth on the left, and a round table with two or three chairs in the centre. A couple of other doors opened again to right and left, and a long window, through which showed the river, faced the door by which they had entered.

" You will sup here, sir," said the man, setting down the trunk he carried. " And the Queen's Grace will see you at eight o'clock."

When the man was gone, Guy went across to the window and opened it. The sun had dipped below the palace roofs, but the sky was still glorious, and the ruddy splendour blazed below on the broad out-flowing tide. Across the water showed the green banks of Southwark, with the houses to the left; and on the right among the trees the red and white towers of Lambeth. The river itself was all astir with swans and shippingj a couple of barges were making their way upstream with laughter and music, trailing rich tapestries, and streaming their standards behind; and between and about them whisked the wherries, like swift water beetles intent on busy idleness. The air was full of joyous sound, the cries of voices across the water, the chirp of birds overhead, and the mellow fairy-thunder of the bells of the City tolling out the Angelus.

When he had fastened the latch again and turned round with an almost uncontrollable excitement and pleasure beating at his heart, Tom was still standing by the table, staring about him, at the rushes underfoot, the barred ceiling overhead, the dim design of wreath and blossom on the walls, the sepulchral bed. Guy gave a snort of laughter.

" Dear boy," he said, " do not look like that. It is no prison we are in, after all."

The Queen's Tragedy

They supped presently, when the candles were lighted and the windows shuttered, from two or three dishes and a jug of ale that the servant brought and set down on the table, and then fell to unpacking. Guy had a very tolerable russet suit that he had got during Northumber-land's stay in Cambridge, as it was necessary then for even Masters of Arts to be decently dressed; and with Tom's help he put it on, combed out his hair and adjusted his lace.

Then the two sat down on the settle side by side.

Tom began to ask questions again, and Guy had to break his pleasant train of thought to answer him. He wished to know what was the position of the gentleman in blue and silver; whether the Queen's Grace would come herself to the room or not; what had happened to the horses; whether he would have to wear his sizar's gown at dinner; where he would sleep.

Guy satisfied him, assured him that the horses were well cared for, and showed him the little truckle-bed, pushed under the great four-poster.

Meanwhile his own mind worked and postured. He would know in an hour now what his work would be; what would be the personality of his mistress, better than he could gauge it during the terrible minutes at Sawston or the few words in Trinity — in less than an hour, in fact, for a bell somewhere in the crowded palace beat out the half-hour. He would hear her gratitude, and deprecate it, and use it — the gratitude of a Tudor, of a daughter of that fierce king who had wielded the powers of Church and State at his will; of a woman who had suffered cruelly and persevered and won her crown.

And meanwhile Tom questioned, and mused in silence over the answers, till his eyes rolled in his head with the weariness of long, hot hours in the open air.

The servant came in again presently to take away the 20

Master Manton Comes to Court supper things, and Guy's heart leapt at the hand on the latch; but the man said nothing and went out.

Guy turned to the boy. He felt strung up now and strong; and he thought it a good opportunity to drive the lesson home he had begun to teach him during the ride.

" See here, Tom," he said; — and at the tone in his voice the boy was awake and alert, watching him nervously.

" See here, Tom. You remember what I said to-day? You cannot be tied to my side always. We must each fight for our own hand. I cannot run after you here, as at Cambridge — you understand? "

Tom nodded.

" You will have to do the best you can; and you must not run to me in every trouble. There is sure to be trouble. You are certain you can put up with it? If not, you had best pack again to Cambridge to-morrow."

The boy nodded again.

Guy had a sharp prick of tenderness at the mute anxiety in the black eyes. For a moment he wished to reassure him — to tell him that he did not mean what he said; and that this strange world should not come between them.

Then he fought down his tenderness.

" Very well," he said abruptly, " I think you will do well now. Only you will remember. And meantime, my dear boy, we are both going to be very happy indeed."

Once more, ten minutes later, Guy rose, smoothed down his silk, flapped the lace clear of his sleeves, and pressed his straight brown hair; and as he did so there came a knock at the door.

" The Queen's Grace will see you, sir," said the servant, with the faintest addition of deference in his manner.

The Queen's Tragedy

Guy licked his lips, glanced at Tom who was upright and awake enough now, and walked out.

They went along a passage or two, up and down stairs; and as they went the appearance of the walls and floor changed a little. Here and there was matting instead of rushes, the hangings were more sombre and splendid, the lamps at the corners more frequent and better trimmed, and the few silent figures by the doors more formal in their attitudes.

A door closed the end of the passage, and at this the man stopped and tapped. There was a footstep within, and the door opened. A page stood there, a lad of sixteen, with an air of astonishing arrogance that modified itself a little as he understood Guy's errand.

He said nothing, but motioned him in with a smooth and lazy inclination. Guy found himself in a small room, evidently an antechamber, with a table along one wall and chairs beside it, a hearth decked with flowers, and a tall crucifix above the mantel-shelf. There was a double door at the further end.

Towards this the boy went, and threw both leaves open.

" If you please, sir," he said; and Guy went through.

He found himself, as the door closed behind him, alone at the lower end of a long room, plainly some kind of presence-chamber. There was little furniture in it; a chair with arms stood on a low dais at the further end beneath a canopy on which was emblazoned the rose and arrows of Mary Tudor. The walls were hung from roof to floor with tapestries, the ceiling was painted with wreaths, a table ran the length of the room with chairs pushed against it; one more chair stood by the hearth on the right; a door with a curtain half hiding it was

Master Manton Comes to Court at the further end of the left-hand wall, and the recess of a deep window faced it from the other side.

He stood there, excited and apprehensive, glancing this way and that to take in the details; and then suddenly remembered that he did not know the etiquette. He half turned to the door through which he had come, but wheeled back again; he must not be found whispering and questioning. He reminded himself of his resolutions to be natural; that at least could not displease the Queen; and he could not be far wrong if he knelt and kissed her hand, supposing that she extended it.

Then as he argued with himself, the floor vibrated, there was the sound of an opening latch; he saw an arm shoot out through the further door as if to push back the curtain; and a woman came swiftly through.

Guy dropped on his knees.

The Queen's Tragedy

She stood there a moment, hesitating, a splendid little figure in the light of the candles that burned round the room.

Guy was aware in a moment of the purple velvet, the deep hanging sleeves and train, the cloth-of-gold underskirt, the voluminous lace, and the startling blaze of jewels on stomacher and head-dress. Then she spoke, and his heart leapt at the deep virile voice.

" Master Guy Manton? "

He understood that he was to advance, and he rose from his knees.

The Queen passed the chair-of-state and the table, going towards the hearth, and even in that moment Guy perceived that extraordinary dignity of gait that he remembered at Cambridge.

Then he too went across the room towards the hearth.

The Queen stood for a moment by the chair, extending her hand, and he knelt again and kissed it as he came up.

Then she sat down, drawing her skirts aside, and motioned him to stand.

" You are Master Guy Manton from Cambridge? " she said, glancing again at his very unacademic figure. " I sent for you."

Guy bowed. In spite of his resolutions his tongue was as dry as a stick.

" You came to-day? "

" Yes, madam."

" I must thank you again, sir, for your courtesy to me at Sawston, and your courage: — your arm is healed well? "

Guy bowed again; and made an effort to speak; but she cut him short.

" I wish to do something for you; but I have so few places left."

Master Manton Comes to Court

" I wish for no place, madam, beyond "

Again she cut him short with a glance, and Guy was thankful he had not finished his fatuous deprecation.

" If you would wish to be one of my gentlemen, I shall be happy to have you near me. And you are a scholar, sir? "

" I was Fellow of my College, your Grace."

The reference refreshed him, and he straightened his back a little and began to observe her face. It was bent down as she talked, but he saw in the candlelight the prim, sad lips, the paleness of the forehead, chin and throat, and the slight flush on the cheeks. It was the face of one who had found the world hard. When he met her eyes for a moment at her next sentence, he noticed that even more; they had the same air of aloof suspicion that he had seen in Tom's eyes during the first day of his acquaintance with him. Her deep voice too had in it a kind of pathetic steadiness.

" I should wish to read Greek a little, sir; not very much; — I am no scholar; — and the breviary perhaps. If you take the place, will you be content to be my instructor in that? I should relieve you of many other of your duties."

" I will take very willingly whatever your Grace is pleased to give me."

Again she looked up at him steadily a moment; and he dropped his eyes.

" That is very well, sir. You are a good Catholic, you told me? "

" I have always observed my religious duties, madam."

The Queen was silent.

Guy felt he had turned that corner well. It was an answer he had rehearsed, knowing that it would be needed. And he was not fervently religious.

" There are other matters too," went on the Queen 25

The Queen's Tragedy presently, " but I need not speak of them, beyond saying that I value fidelity in my servants more than all else in the world."

Guy prepared himself for the obvious smooth answer; but he had no time.

" But I do not value assurances," she ended, " so I will not ask for yours."

Guy's ideas of courtliness received a check at this. He did not quite know what to say. This woman was in earnest.

Her next remark was on a simpler plane.

" Your rooms satisfy you, sir? "

" Yes, indeed, madam."

" You shall keep them then. They will be near enough to me. Your duties will be very light. You shall hear of them from Sir Robert Rochester to-morrow."

' I thank your Grace."

" I shall ask for no lessons for the present. That shall be later. Have you any books? "

Guy described his small library.

" The Iliad then, first. I have not read it since I was a child."

Her lips tightened slightly as Guy watched. Some memory, he thought, had pricked her.

They talked for a few moments on Homer; and the Queen asked a question or two about Cambridge.

" The studies have been greatly disturbed," said Guy.

" Like all the kingdom," said Mary; " Please God we will quiet it now."

She looked up at him again a moment; and he felt that there was something more in the air.

Then she began, hesitatingly, but with a certain deliberation too.

" You will meet many strange folk here," she said.

Master Manton Comes to Court

' ' Do not trust all who talk smoothly. Listen much and speak little. That is a lesson I have learned."

Again that cold sorrow sounded in her voice.

" Do not expect too much, Master Manton."

There was a rustle by the door, and the Queen rose. Guy stood hesitating a moment, and as she held out her hand, he dropped on his knees and kissed it. Beneath the mass of rings were lean fingers, well shaped and white, and a thin arm disappearing above into the deep sleeve.

" Good-night, sir."

As she went out by the door through which she had come, still with that stately gait, he saw that two ladies had been standing there, one old and little with grey hair, the other very young and very tall. The younger now held back the curtain for the Queen to pass.

Then the door closed softly.

Guy told Tom briefly that all was well; that he had not been able to speak of the boy's wish to serve him, but that he did not doubt that it could be arranged, as well as the matter of the choir. He told him also of the room and the hangings and the chair-of-state, and the page; and how the Queen had worn no crown but only a jewelled head-dress.

" And you are pleased, sir? " asked the boy.

" Oh, yes," said Guy shortly; and sent him to bed.

But he was not pleased; and after Tom was asleep sat down to review the situation.

First he was not pleased with the position offered him. A few Homer-lessons and a place in processions were not what he had been led to expect. And the Queen's personality did not compensate for his disappointment.

He had somehow expected more joyousness — an air more in accord with the gaiety and splendour of the

The Queen's Tragedy humming palace and the exhilarating view from his windows. After all, he told himself, here she was, safe at home, and secure at last. She had put down a serious revolt in the spring, men said, with both courage and mercy; she had re-established her Religion at a very small cost; she was to be married in a couple of months to the man whom she had chosen from the whole world.

Why was she so cold and peevish?

He supposed, however, that memories were still too strong for her. That chilliness must be the result of her years of watchfulness and terror when she had trembled for her life; her very eyes had screens of reserve drawn behind them that told of a soul that had learnt discretion in a hard school; the prim sorrowful lips tightened now from a long habit of self-repression. Her ideal virtue for her servants — fidelity — rose from a thirty years' experience of treachery. She " trusted he was a good Catholic " — she who had seen her Church profaned and robbed by her own father, and on a black day of terror had herself yielded. She " hoped to read the Iliad and the breviary " — she who had sought to distract her thoughts so often with such books from prospects of disgrace and death. She " trusted her servant's rooms satisfied him " — she who had been servant herself to the daughter of her father's concubine, and had known what it was to have no house that she could call home.

In fact, Guy told himself, as he stood up and stretched, this was not the kind of mistress for which he had looked; nor was his position the one he had had before his eyes. He wondered whether it would have been better to have been more outright.

She had asked him for fidelity. Well, he would give 28

Master Manton Comes to Court her that, but no more, so long as he thought it worth while to remain in her household.

It would be amusing for a little perhaps; and after that, if matters did not mend, Cambridge was always open.

He was conscious of a considerable disappointment as he climbed into bed.

Semper me causae eventorum magis movent, quam ipsa eventa. Cic. ad Aide.