Chapter IV

MARY THE QUEEN DECIDES HER LAST MATTERS AND TAKES HER LEAVE

THE Queen awoke one morning a fortnight later to find her pain almost gone, and with the withdrawal of it reality came back.

These past weeks had been very strange to her; it appeared that reality went no further than the four corners of her bed: the lion on the coverlet over her knees had been far more of a personality to her than the people whom her intellect or senses informed her still existed; these seemed like persons whom she had known long ago, like dwellers in a far country, or like shadows in this: they had their lives and their business, but these lay so apart that they had been scarcely worth consideration. Even the faces that looked in on her through the curtains, the brown-bearded head of the Italian doctor, the eyes of Jane Dormer and the wrinkled cheeks of Mistress Clarentia — all these were no more than the masks or the symbols of persons whom she had once known. They slid into her world for a moment, set food before her, murmured together, held glasses to her lips, and then disappeared again into the shadows. The world had contracted itself into the little rectangular space bounded by green hangings, the wreaths and the lions had been the important facts of life; there were times when it shrank even smaller into the formlessness of her own pain; there were yet other moments immediately before or after sleep, when even that was left

The Queen's Tragedy alone, and her soul sank down, self-conscious and self-absorbed, as through depths of glimmering water into an unknown world where nothing was strange or unexpected, where she walked and talked with those who were long dead, and did not wonder to meet them there.

Yet she had been clear enough when she had sent two lords of the Council to Elizabeth. She had awakened that morning with a distinct knowledge of what lay before her, and of what she must leave behind. She had known that death was not far-off, and she had not feared it even for an instant; but she knew that England must be left behind, and for that she had feared a little. She knew that Elizabeth was true, that she intended what was right, and yet she desired her to say so once more and to enter into a solemn contract with her.

Nearly all day she had been clear-headed; she had talked a little to Jane; she had noticed that one of the candles opposite her had guttered in a draught; that must be removed; it was not seemly.

The Commissioners had come back at nightfall; they had knelt, with the curtains drawn back, and told her expressly that the Lady Elizabeth had promised to keep and promote the Catholic Religion and pay her Grace's debts. Very well, then, her Grace said; the crown should be hers. It had not pleased God hitherto to send a prince to England; therefore it was His will that a princess should rule again. The lords had kissed her hand and gone, and with the effort she had made, the kindly unreality had come back.

Now this morning the veil had lifted again. She still felt a little heavy and weak; but facts had a solidity of their own, and her head was clearer than it had been for weeks.

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters

There were a few arrangements to be made, and she must be brisk.

" Sweetheart," she called out.

There was a rustle, the curtains parted on the right side, and Jane's face was there.

" Pen and ink," said Mary.

The face vanished again.

She certainly felt much stronger this morning. Was it possible that God should yet raise her up? Probably not; at any rate she must make her arrangements. What a long time Jane was; she was surely very slow!

Again the curtains were drawn back.

" What time is it? "

" It is seven o'clock, Madam."

" Very well. There will be time. Are you ready? Write—

' Mary the Queen. This Codicil made by me, Mary —by the Grace of God Queen of England, France, Naples, — no, no! set down et cetera after England — ' and lawful wife — to the most noble and virtuous Prince Philip — by the Grace of God ' ' — she paused a moment — " ' by the same Grace of God King of the said realms and dominions — of England — et cetera — —What day is it, Jane? "

" The twenty-eighth, Madam."

" Set that down then; and the year. Set the year of his Highness' reign before mine."

The pen scratched over the paper.

" Jane."

" Yes, Madam."

" I cannot do it like this — I do not know the terms. Bid a lawyer write it out fair, and do you take down what I wish."

She felt suddenly very tired again. She raised herself a little in bed, knowing that she must not give in.

" Do you hear me, Jane? "

The Queen's Tragedy

" Yes, Madam."

" Set down that if God gives me no fruit of my body, I require that my heir shall pay my bequests."

"... Yes, Madam."

" To the Houses of Religion, and the rest."

"... Yes, Madam."

" Set down that I beg his Majesty to be a father to this realm, and aid my successor."

"... Yes, Madam."

" I can do no more, Jane, now. Bid a lawyer write it out fair and bring it to me this evening."

" Yes, Madam."

When the curtains were drawn again, she felt comforted. At least that was done, or it would be this evening. It was foolish to have put it off so long There were other matters too; she would think of them presently. Meanwhile she had not said her prayers. That was shocking!

" Jane."

The curtains rustled and opened.

" Sit by me on the other side and read my prayers to me. Is the priest come yet? "

" He will be here in half an hour, your Grace."

•' Very well, then."

Then the voice began, but she could not attend very well, and the words did not mean very much; they were uttered and gone again, like wrinkles on a river. She joined in the Paternoster and the Ave, and said the Amens in her hoarse voice; that was all that she could do. She would be better after mass; that always uplifted her, for it did not matter so much as that whether she could follow or no, for God was merciful, and wrought for her in the Sacrifice what she could not do for herself. At least He would not be displeased with rMary the Queen Decides her Last Matters her; she was trying to honour Him as she had always done.

She was thinking all day about the codicil; it appeared to her of vast importance that it should be sealed and signed; so much might depend upon it. She felt a little annoyed with Jane for not showing more excitement. In the afternoon it was brought to her room, and she raised herself to listen while the formal voice read it out of sight. She added a few sentences here and there, and waited till the pen finished its scratching at the end of each; then the paper was taken away again for a fair copy to be made.

" Let four gentlemen be brought to witness it when the fellow comes back," she said. " Master Wentworth had best be one."

" Master Wentworth, Madam? "

" Why, yes," said Mary peevishly, " the cofferer."

" I told your Grace last week " began Jane, looking at her anxiously.

" I beg pardon, sweetheart. I had forgotten."

It was astonishing, Mary thought, how she could have forgotten that Master Wentworth had died last week. It had been one of those pieces of news that had come like a shadow and gone again. She remembered perfectly now that she had prayed for his soul.

" And my lord Cardinal? " asked the Queen presently.

" My lord Cardinal has sent his loving regard again, Madam."

" How is he? "

" My lord is not so well. Monsignor Priuli was here just now."

Mary said nothing for a few minutes; she was watching the lion on the coverlet over her knees; his tail

The Queen's Tragedy seemed to move, she thought. She roused herself again.

" Beg my lord to remember me hi his prayers. I must see Master Manton one day, Jane. Not to-day."

" Yes, Madam."

After supper the lawyer came back.

Mary heard several footsteps in the room, and lay waiting for the usual withdrawal of the curtains. It came, and with it a paper and Jane's face and a writing board. She raised herself in bed, and for a moment her head swam.

Then it cleared again.

She looked through the pages carefully, and addressed herself to write. She was scarcely aware that the room was open now on the left, and of the four faces that watched. The pen would not write well; it seemed instinct with perversity, and to fight cruelly with her lean fingers; but the letters were formed at last. " Marye the Quene."

" There! " said Mary the Queen.

When she had done that, she thought it a pity not to do more, so she turned the stiff sheets over, made a cross and wrote with great care beneath it —

" This is the laste wyll and testament of me Marye the Quene."

" Take it, Jane."

She sank down again, drew up the coverlet to her chin, and lay still, panting a little.

There was a smell of wax in the air, the murmur of a voice, the scratching of a pen. The curtains were closed again now. Then footsteps sounded, and silence.

" Sweetheart." " Yes, Madam."

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters

" Is any here? "

" No, Madam, they are gone."

" I am going to sleep, I think."

It was very strange a while later to find herself able to see the whole room; but she was very much tired, her head ached intolerably; and she could not trouble to ask why the curtains were all drawn back now.

But the room was plain enough, and it seemed very large; she could see the rugs laid across the rushes to deaden sound, the altar against the opposite wall, but the candles were alight. Why was that?...

It was still more curious to see children all about the room — little figures in green-and-white, moving noiselessly to and fro. It was very pleasant to see them, but how had Jane come to let them in?

Some of them had virginals, one or two, regals; it seemed that a concert must have been arranged. What a beautiful thought of Jane's that was! How kind of her to know what she would itke, and to do it without telling her.

There was a lovely boy now at the foot of her bed, leaning on it with his elbows and smiling at her so boldly; that could not be little Lord Darnley?... he was in Scotland, was he not? Besides he was older than this child, and not near so beautiful. This child wore a little crown, too — a tiny circlet of fleur-de-lis set with blue jewels.... Why he was surely her own boy, to whom she had given birth at Hampton Court... she remembered it all so distinctly; and how he was brought to her in his cradle. How quickly he had grown!...

He was gone again now — melted into that gliding throng of children who went up and down in the brilliant light, each pausing to bow and smile at the foot of the

The Queen's Tragedy bed. These dear children! Who were they all? And how came it that there was a lawn under their feet?...

Ah! they were going to sing... they were standing in rows now, like her own choir. The strings were beginning to ripple.... She would close her eyes and listen.

How sweet it was! But what music was that that they sang? It must be Master Byrde's — a new piece that he had written for her; but it was very strange that no one had told her.

She would soon be well, if this went on. How clever of Jane to think of it! The pain had ceased. The lights were going low now; she must give one more look, and thank the children, and tell them

What was this? They were gone again. The curtains were in their place, enclosing her once more. It was all dark....

" Sweetheart, sweetheart," cried the harsh voice.

" Yes, Madam."

" Who were those children? "

" I do not understand, Madam?."

" The children that were playing and singing all about the room."

The curtains were parted, and a face was looking at her. What was the matter with Jane? Why did she look like that?

" Sweetheart, I am much better. What time is it? "

" It is eleven o'clock, Madam? "

" Why are you crying, Jane? "

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters

As the days went by, Mary's mind lay nearly as passive as her body. Through both coursed sensations, that distressed or comforted her according to their nature, and that appeared equally uncontrolled by her conscious volition.

Occasionally she made efforts; she raised herself a little in bed and drank her medicine; she gave small directions and answered the Cardinal's frequent messages, and the questions that came to her from the mouths of persons, whom she seemed to herself to have once known, who knelt like figures in a show, at the foot of her bed, framed in the green folds of the hangings.

She understood for the first time how weak she was, when a letter came from her husband.

There was a murmur of voices one evening; one was Jane's, and the other was one less familiar but which she thought she knew. Then the folds lifted, and De Feria knelt there with a letter in his hand.

He said something, but she could not understand it. She was only thinking that this man was to marry her dear Jane. It was something about Brussels... as swift as possible... his Highness detained....

Then there was a voice at her ear; that was Jane's again, and she understood. She lifted her thin hand slowly.

" Give it to me," she said deliberately. " I cannot read it now; I will read it later. No; none must open it but myself."

Her fingers closed on the thin package, and sank down again on to the coverlet still holding it.

What did they want now? There was surely nothing more! They might leave her in her happiness for a little; it was so good to hold a letter of his in her hands

The Queen's Tragedy again; there was his dear love in it, and she wanted no more than that.

Ah! she understood now what they wished.

She laid down the letter and drew out her other hand.

There were two rings on her third finger, one of black enamel that he had given her, and one gold ring of her own. Her hands shook with weakness as she drew off the second, and held it up. Some warm fingers took it from her.

" Yes," she said " to my dear husband, with my dearest love."

She was alone again now in the green gloom, the curtains had fallen noiselessly; then the door closed softly. She lifted the letter again between her fingers and put it to her lips. Then it sank down and rested on her breast.

The days moved on, marked for her only by the stirring sounds outside the palace; for the windows were always shuttered now and the candles burned day and night.

She still made her efforts now and again, roused herself to answer the necessary questions that seemed more urgent and frequent than ever; to attend to the silent priest who went about his wonderful and beloved work at the foot of her bed morning by morning, even to sign her name once or twice to papers that were held before her. But for the most part she lay quiescent with closed eyes, watching the little scenes that her memory brought up.

It was hard for her to distinguish sometimes between the work of her senses and of her imagination. The faces and voices of her servants and of those long-dead had equally the same quiet unreality. Two or three times

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters she awoke out of her daze, believing that she had talked with her mother and Stephen Gardiner and Philip; and it was not until she moved her head on the pillow, stared at the painted canopy overhead, and touched the palms of her hands with her in-turned fingers, that she remembered that her mother slept in Peterborough, the Bishop in Winchester, and that her husband was far away.

Her confessor came to her two or three times, and before his visits she would do what she could to remember her sins. But they were not very many; she had given way to secret pride sometimes, she had been irritable with her servants; she had not felt or shown sufficient gratitude to them; she feared she had been unjust to, one of them. For the sins of her past life — they were the same, for the most part. She had not always believed the best of those who had seemed to injure her; she had broken a resolution she had once made about that; she had given way to passion sometimes; especially once, when she had slashed with her knife a portrait of her husband — that was when she had thought him unfaithful. She had allowed resentment in her heart against the heretics; but she had not been unjust to them; she had given them every opportunity to clear themselves, and had only enforced the laws of the realm. Worst of all, she had once signed a paper, when she was a girl, denying the prerogative of the Vicar of Christ. She had tried to make amends for that by zeal; but she had only done a very little. Yes, she had made amends to her sister. Yes, she was a pure maiden but for her husband.

One night she awoke — she supposed it was night by the silence round her; but there was one sitting by her bed, with a purple stole across his shoulders. Ah! her confessor again. She must ha.ve sent for him then.

The Queen's Tragedy

She turned slowly in her bed and put her hands together.

" Confiteor Deo, beatae Mariae.... Who are you, father? Ah! yes — Confiteor Deo... I cannot say it, father.... These are my sins. I have twice struck — No, no, of course, those were dreams; I cannot remember. I have shown anger once by my face. I... I have doubted God's love three times. No, I do not doubt it now. I have forgotten His Presence wilfully.... Father, I cannot remember.... Precor Sanctam Mariam, omnes sanctos Dei, et te pater.... Father, I have not made amends in one matter — I will do so; and I have not paid my debts; but I could not — te pater, or are pro me."

Then body and soul lay quiet again to listen to the mercy which she desired.

Presently she awoke and called. " Jane."

"Yes, Madam."

" Master Manton, I wish to see him." " Madam, my lord is coming with the holy oils and Viaticum," came the crisp trembling voice at her ear. " Master Manton first — I must make amends." There was a long silence.

When she opened her eyes once or twice she could see the glimmer of candles through the curtains at the foot of her bed. That was right then; my lord was there with all that was necessary. She tried to pray.

She opened her eyes again at a rustling sound, and Master Manton's face was there, with the altar beyond. She noticed his crumpled ruff and disordered hair, and his eyes fixed on her. Why, what ailed the man?... Was there not an old arrow-wound?...

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters

She made a great effort.

" Master Manton, I am sorry I spoke as I did... in the matter of her Highness. It was not just."

His lips were moving, but she could not hear what he said.

" It was not just. Master Manton, what will you do now? "

Again his lips moved, and she heard a murmur of sound.

" Jane, I cannot hear; tell me what he says."

The crisp young voice spoke in her ear a few sentences. Ah! yes, she understood now. He was going abroad with Monsignor Priuli and Master Kearsley; that was best. It might be that Elizabeth. No, she would not think that; but it was best that he should go.

" Jane."

" Yes, Madam."

" See there be some provision for them. I have not done my duty."

"Yes, Madam."

" And for Master Bradshawe."

Again there was a talking that she could not hear

" What is that, sweetheart? "

" Master Bradshawe is gone, Madam," came the penetrating voice.

"Gone? Whither?"

It was a moment or two before she could understand; it was so unexpected.

" Who is gone with him? " she asked presently.

" Master Norris, Madam."

" I cannot hear, Jane."

' And — and others, Madam," faltered the voice.

jjMary made another effort.

" You say they be all gone to Bishop's Hatfield. What, all? "

The Queen's Tragedy

" Very many, Madam."

" Is that why the house is so quiet? "

" It is evening also, Madam," came the trembling, compassionate voice once more.

Mary lay perfectly still, trying to understand.

They were all gone then, except these few. That was why she had seen so few. How strange that they could not wait a little longer. And was Master Kearsley gone?

She asked that aloud, and the face at the end of the bed lifted itself and cried something that rang confusedly through her head.

" What does he say, sweetheart? "

" Master Kearsley is not gone, Madam. And he will not."

Well, that was better. There were one or two left then. But she did not quite understand yet.

" With Monsignor Priuli, does he say? "

" Yes, Madam."

" But what of my lord Cardinal? "

" My lord is dying, Madam."

Why, of course, she knew that. How foolish to forget! She had asked for his blessing scarcely an hour before, and he had sent it her. She had known it would be his last, until they met again presently.

" Sweetheart."

" Yes, Madam."

" Master Manton understands — I am sorry — and ask his pardon. But he was wrong you see — about her Highness."

" Master Manton understands, Madam."

" Yes — well — Jane I cannot hear you. Why is Master Manton weeping? I am not angry now. I have asked his pardon, have I not? "

" Yes, yes, Madam."

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters

Then the curtains sank noiselessly once more,the heavy darkness closed in swiftly, whirling across her tired eyes, and droning stupor into her ears.

She did not know how long it was before she heard a voice again, but she came up from depths of blackness through twilight, and saw a hand before her face, with a great ring on it, and something white between the fingers. There was a man's voice talking too, but she could not understand what was said.

The hand advanced swiftly and poised itself, and on the white disc she saw a cross in relief.

Her lips opened, and her eyes closed. Then her lips closed too, and she lay there, feeling something melt on her tongue, and striving to realise what it was that had come to her.

She was conscious of her body again now, her wasted limbs, her shrunken breast; and through every fibre of it stole a sweetness. It was to that hideous and distorted thing that the rent Body of her Lord had come; it was that piteous soul that had so toiled with troubles, and striven with desire and fierce passion, perplexed, buffeted, despised, that the stainless and tormented Soul, the awful Divinity of the God whom she had tried so ineffectually to serve, had deigned to visit.

" Jesu! Jesu I " she whispered, "esto mihi Jesus! I have failed, dear Jesus, but Thou hast not."

The twilight faded again to mellow gloom, and the gloom to blackness.

Then someone was touching her; she was conscious that a hand had passed across her face, pressing her eyelids and lips, and a voice that murmured from an infinite distance said words that she could not hear.

Her feet grew cold, and she half drew them up before

The Queen's Tragedy she understood. Then she stretched them again towards the anointed hand.

By the time that the voice had ceased, she knew everything. All that could be done was over. She had only to wait now, passive and expectant for the call that could not be long in coming.

She felt perfectly content and unafraid. What was there to fear? She had failed, she knew very well, in everything to which she had set her hand. But that was not her affair now, for it was not of her will that she had failed. There was but one thing asked of her now, to lie still without sinning in thought or word. She must go to her judge in innocence.

" O Lord Jesu! which art the health of all men living, and the everlasting life of them which die in faith, I, wretched sinner give and submit myself wholly unto thy most blessed will...."

What was that voice reading? Why, she knew very well; it was Jane, and it was the prayer that she had told her to read when the end came.

"... willingly now I leave this frail and wicked flesh, in hope of the resurrection, which in better wise shall restore it to me again.... I see and knowledge that there is in myself no hope of salvation, but all my confidence, hope and trust is in thy most merciful goodness. I have no merits nor good works which I may allege before thee...."

That was true enough, God knew; she had nothing but failure to allege — Philip, England, Elizabeth, Calais; she had failed even in that in which the most desperate sinner succeeds — she had failed even to win love and confidence from those who knew her best — Magdalene, Mistress Rise, Philip, Elizabeth, Master Norris and the rest — not one loved her. There were one or two others

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters perhaps who did — the old woman who was crying now on the other side of the bed; the girl whose voice shook into sobs as she read; even perhaps those two strange gentlemen, whom she had never been able to understand, Master Kearsley and Master Manton. But could she plead that before her God?

"... Now, most merciful Saviour, let all these things profit me which thou has freely given me, that hast given thyself for me "

That was true too Even He had seemed to fail.... There stood by the Cross of Jesus His mother, and Mary, the wife of Philip; — no, not Philip; how did it run? But there were not more than three or four; the rest had forsaken Him and fled.

".,. When death hath taken away the use of my tongue and speech, yet that my heart may cry and say unto thee, In manus tuas Domine."

The deadly heaviness was coming again, droning and roaring. She could not hear or understand. Was this then how death came? The faint green glimmer was fading; a horrible sickness stole up her body; the sweat poured off her face and hands.

Ah! but that was a relief. She would sleep again now. She would just repeat those last words to herself. It was not death, yet, after all.

" Domine Jesu — accipe spiritum meum. Amen."

That was better. She would sleep a little.

The Queen's Tragedy

She awoke finally, and a huge peace enfolded her.

It seemed to her that she was lying somewhere in the sun, alive again after death. The heaviness had lifted, and the pain had gone. Her head felt perfectly clear, and she knew all.

Behind her lay the storm and the tossing and the deadly sickness, and she was come to port.

She had not thought that death would be so quiet at the end; she had expected an agony, an onslaught of demons, a wild struggle in the dark, a sense of battle and pressure; but it seemed that all that was behind now. She knew that there would be no more fighting; there was just one silent change and all would be done with. Well! God was kind, then, after all.

She tried to move her head, but could not; her fingers twitched a little on her breast as if with their own motion, but they seemed not to be her own. That then was the beginning, she told herself. Were her eyes and voice too passed out of her control? No, she could move her eyes at least; she could see the hangings on this side and that, and the crack of light at the foot of the bed. Someone was watching her from there.

She closed her eyes again.

She began to consider what hour it was; but she thought she could not make the effort to ask. It was probably morning; it felt like the morning. It was like the peace of a summer garden before the dawn, when the earth is breathing noiselessly, drinking the dew, stirring slightly with expectation, full of fragrance and mellow coolness after the hot night. It surely must be morning.

The sunrising would be her summons. It would not be the material sun, but another that would rise upon her with healing, and draw her up from this sweet lawn; and

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters that which she would leave behind was so mean and ugly and wrinkled; why should she mind the parting? She feared it would be troublesome; but it would be as little troublesome as possible; it was to be dressed in the brown habit, with the cross and the beads; and it was to be put away soon without any crown or show. Oh! if the world only knew how great and sweet was death; how little and sour and useless was all else — if only she could tell them all, explain to them all that she knew now! She would like to explain....

" Yes, Madam."

That was Jane's voice. How clear it was, like bells after rain; but it seemed far away. No; she would not explain now; perhaps she might later on. And that was Jane's face looking at her.

She closed her eyes again; she did not wish to be interrupted in her thinking about death, and its ease and its pleasantness.

And what of those she left behind?

Well, they would be provided for. Jane was to go for the present to her grandmother in the Savoy: Mrs. Clarentia had a competence. Master Kearsley and Master Manton were to go abroad with the Venetian; Lord Montague and his wife would look after Magdalene if she needed it. But how foolish of the child to refuse good Master Norris who was so fond of her!

And for the others who had left her? Had she any resentment? She searched her heart and found none. It was only natural. She was sorry for Philip; and she would have liked to see him; but he was busy and could not come; it was not his fault; it never had been his fault.

How stupid and passionate she had been about his picture! But she was sorry for that, and had been forgiven by God.

The Queen's Tragedy

She would have liked to see him, however, and explain to him that empires and wealth were not worth very much; they lasted so short a while; and God always did what He pleased with them in the end. Even England did not trouble her; if Elizabeth did not keep her word, it did not matter very much; God would keep His word. And so with all the rest; she had done what she could; she had failed, and all was perfectly right and safe in His hands.

Meanwhile here she lay, and the morning was coming up the sky.

What of purgatory? She scarcely knew; a little, clear spiritual flame; it would not be more than she could bear. God knew how little she could bear. But it did not greatly matter; it would be what was needed, when the time came, and she would be helped and speeded from the altars she had built and the holy houses she had founded; and meantime she lay here in the morning peace with the light broadening.

There were others in the garden now; she could hear them stirring behind the green hedges on either side; perhaps the children were there again; she would like to see them and hear them sing again; and especially that dear boy of hers who had nodded and smiled from the foot of her bed. Perhaps they would begin presently.

There must be several in the room; she heard a metallic sound as if a string had been twanged; how delightful it would be to be sung into death, to rise up from the lawn and go with the music growing faint behind her.

She must open her eyes, if she could, and see the children....

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters

Ah! how foolish of her; it was no garden after all; but her own bedroom. They were curtains, were they not? — not green hedges; and there is something better than even the children. There is the altar decked, and the priest in his holy dress coming in with the vessels. It was indeed morning, and the sun was near at hand.

She moved her eyes round the room and saw faces here and there; some watched her and some the priest. Master Manton was there and Master Kearsley beside him; she could just see them, past the bed-post and the carved emblems of the Passion. My lord of Winchester was somewhere; she had caught sight of his clean young face just now, but it was gone again. There was Mrs. Clarentia; how strange she looked! And Jane — why, Jane was beside her, close on the left with her book in her hand. There were others too; she could hear them behind the curtains. Had they been here all night?

The priest had come down now in his yellow vestments, and faced about. That was the sign. She must join with him if she could....

"... Sed libera nos a malo."

Whose voice was it which said that?

It sounded very hoarse and deep. It could not be her own surely! But she felt the muscles vibrate in her throat; it was indeed her own voice. How wonderful that she could speak; she had not been sure whether she could.

Her voice moved on, and she stared steadily at the sulphur-coloured vestment and the huge red cross, and the rich collar above. How homely and sweet it was to hear mass again, to see the holy things about her; and how good was God to allow it!

" Confiteor deo, Beatae Mariae, omnibus sanctis, et tibi

The Queen's Tragedy

Pater quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo et opere — mea cidpa....

It seemed that her hands would not move to beat on her breast; but it did not matter. God understood.

She finished — " te pater or are pro me."

She could not hear what the priest said, but her lips formed the words; it was pardon again of which he was speaking, and she desired that.

She could not hear the introit; but it was a yellow vestment, and therefore the feast was of a confessor, of one who had suffered and witnessed, though not unto blood. She must listen for the collect and catch his name if she could; she wished to have his prayers, and she did not like to ask Jane.

Kyrie eltison.... Christe deison.... Christe eleison.... Kyrie deison.

That was what she desired — mercy and pardon.

How swiftly he went!

Amen.... Et cum spiritu tuo.

Now he had turned; she would hear the name.

" Deus qui beatum Hugonem...."

Ah! it was an English saint, blessed Hugh himself! Blessed Hugh intercede for this poor English daughter of yours who desires your prayers!

There was another collect; it was very long; perhaps there were two, but she did not care about them; of course she desired all blessed saints to pray for her, but Hugh was enough to think about — Hugh who had lived with kings as their friend and counsellor. If she had had him with her perhaps she would not have made so many mistakes.

The Epistle was done, and she had not attended. What was the gradual?

" Thou hast set upon his head a crown of precious

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters stone... he asked life of thee and thou gavest it him, even length of days for ever and ever. Alleluia! "

It was good to hear that; she had not done with crowns then, if God was merciful. And it would not b* a crown of thorns this time! Neither had she done with life; there was another in saeculum saeculi. 0 blessed Hugh, pray for me that I may have that life!

She lost the Gospel, all but the last words. " Lest when He come He find you sleeping; what I say nnto you, I say unto all, Watch."

He was at the offertory now, lifting the golden vessels; now he was bowed over them; now he was washing his hands, and she could see his lips in profile moving against the silk tapestry; but there was a candle-flame just behind that bewildered her, and she closed her eyes.

How still the room was, and with all those people in it! Yet there were not very many after all; the rest were run to Elizabeth, were they not? She thought someone had told her so. Well! God help her to rule well and keep her word.

It seemed a little darker when she opened her eyes and answered once more —

" Et cum spiritu tuo."

Why! he had finished the secret prayers. How swift he had been.!

" Habemus ad dominum.,..

" Dignum et justum est."

There was the voice murmuring again, but it was further off than ever; it talked on like a voice heard in a dream. There was a murmuring in her ears too that drowned it. Surely these persons were not talking!

No, no! it was a sound within her own head; the

The Queen's Tragedy tinkle of the bell dispelled it, and all was perfectly still again.

She was back in the garden now, lying on her back in deep grass, and looking up into the sky that deepened clear and luminous above her. The hedges were about her again, like those at Richmond, fragrant and dim, with red flowers at the foot and cherry-blossoms above. The birds were silent, but she could hear the rush and gurgle of a stream not far off. There were footsteps swishing softly through long grass on all sides, under the cherry-trees, as if there were a company of children, holding their breath, coming up to surprise her; once she thought she heard a little tender laughter stifled at once.... It was rapturous to lie here, with the pain gone, and the heaviness lifted, in this sweet dark air that waited for the coming of light.... She would lie stiil a little longer, then she would look....

She started slightly at the sound of a bell. That was the signal for the sunrise, was it not? She had been told so as a child — that silver bells rang among the flowers just before the dawn, that they might be awake to meet their Master — ne cum venerit repente, inveniat vos dormientes. She must awake, too; for she, above all others, must not be found sleeping.

How difficult it was to open her eyes! It was like a dream when one cannot wake. The bells were ringing everywhere now, a ripple of sound with pauses, and she struggled a little, hearing her own breath panting in her throat.

Ah! it was no use; her eyes were too heavy; once she lifted them for a moment, and caught a glimpse of a yellow glory, not the sun himself, but his light upon eastern hills; then they closed again. It was not her fault; she could not be blamed; she was so tired

Mary the Queen Decides her Last Matters

The bells had ceased, now, and she was conscious of a light upon her eyelids, fresh and healthful.

How little a thing was this passing from night to day! — marked only by the tinkle of bells, and then the miracle was done. Nothing had moved about her; there had been no cry of trumpets as when a king came; He was only heralded by a breeze among flowers, and in a mystery all was changed. The colours had sprung broad awake, the scents poured out at His coming, and the music of a thousand birds welcomed Him. It was like death itself, which she had thought to be cold and heavy and dark, but of which she had now learned the secret that it was sweet and warm.

How quiet it was again; there was only the rush and gurgle of water, and the footsteps coming through the grass, nearer every moment...

She must open her eyes and see..

Why! there was a greater mystery than sunrise in a garden! A vast figure stood before her, vast and far away; he seemed to fill the heavens from side to side, translucent with yellow light, and down and across from east and west, from sky to earth, burned a gigantic sign.

This man hid the sun, for he held it at his breast; but the glory streamed through him and about him on every side. There were two spear-shaped pinnacles to right and left that caught the light and threw it back, and huge clouds of splendour overhead.

From an infinite distance, through the rush of the pouring water, came tremendous words that shook her heart, and set her throat vibrating.

Agnus Dei, she heard; and answered, Miserere nobis, not knowing that she spoke.

Agnus Dei.... Miserere nobis.

Agnus Dei.... Dona nobis pacem.

The Queen's Tragedy

The pause seemed interminable, but through it ran a sense that the whole universe was gathering up itself in sound, colour and shape to meet some ineffable event; all things hung for a moment on a brink; — then, like the slow movement of a mountain the dim, huge figure bowed itself; the light poured out in floods of colour and glory — there was something tearing at her heart that would not be silenced; it must speak and cry out His beauty.

She cried out — and lay still.

THE END