CHAPTER XXIV

Lady Jane's Death Sentence

I wished that I could have died too, as I slowly recovered to find that the very worst results for my dear lady had followed upon Sir Thomas Wyatt's defeat, for within three days of his being brought to the Tower, Queen Mary signed her poor young relative's death warrant. Lady Jane was to be beheaded, as was also her father the Duke of Suffolk.

My dear lady broke the sad news to me herself, as soon as I was well enough to hear it.

I was sitting on the wide window-seat of her bedroom, propped up with pillows, when she came and stood beside me, saying gently--

'Margery, you remember when we were at Sion House that I used to read to you out of my Plato, that we were to hold to the road that leads above and justice with prudence always pursue?'

'Yes. Yes. I remember every word,' I said faintly, still being very weak.

'I failed in the latter part,' continued Lady Jane. 'It was at the bidding of others and sorely against my will; nevertheless I was weak and gave way and failed, therefore now,' she paused, looking at me anxiously, as if to see if I were able to bear it, 'now,' she continued very softly, '_I have to pay the penalty_.'

I opened my eyes widely, and there must have been a look of horror in them, for she said quickly: 'Do not--do not take it so. I am willing to suffer for my fault meekly, that by so doing I may still "hold to the road that leads above," and you must help me, Margery. I rely upon you to help me,' she continued earnestly, 'for this is a hard step that I have to take, and I am very weak.' Her lips trembled. 'But,' she went on bravely, 'a Greater than Plato has said, "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a Crown of Life." That is the _best Crown_, Margery, and I, who had no right to an earthly one, would fain win this Heavenly Crown.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Yes. But----'

'Nay, dear one, we will have no buts. It is one of the great laws of life that he who sins must suffer. I have sinned,' she added meekly; 'I, therefore, must bear the suffering.'

But it seemed to me the greatest shame that ever was that a being so sweet and faultless as my dear mistress, who had been domineered over and bullied until, constrained by love and the keeping of her marriage vow of obedience, she allowed herself to be placed on the throne, should for so slight a fault be condemned to suffer death--I knew that the penalty was death, she having been sentenced to that before and only reprieved for a time by the clemency of the queen.

'I have only a short time to live,' continued Lady Jane, 'and there is much to do, for Mary, with a show of kindness, with which I would rather have dispensed, is going to send her own chaplain, Dr. Feckenham, of Westminster Abbey, to try to shake my faith and bring me over to her Church before I die, or perchance because, even at the last hour, if I become a Roman Catholic, I may be pardoned. I must prepare myself to meet some of the arguments of the chaplain, for I would fain convince him that Protestantism is right, rather than that he should damage my belief,' and so saying she arose, and, fetching a Bible, began to study it assiduously.

But I, in my weakness, closed my eyes, resolving to find, if possible, some way of escape for my dear lady, other than the surrender of her Faith--which I knew she would rather die twenty deaths than surrender or disown--yet unable to think clearly, because of the strange buzzing in my ears and thumping of my heart and trembling of my limbs.

Lady Jane left me to myself for a little while, and presently I grew better and began to plan schemes for getting at the queen and softening her heart by my singing, in order that I might implore her to pardon my dear lady, or for assisting the latter to escape from the Tower by inducing my physician to order me change of air and persuading Lady Jane to exchange clothes with me and walk out of the Tower in my stead. And then my mistress, laying down the Bible she was studying, came to sit beside me, and nipped all my plans in the bud by her first words. For I recognized that she had found a more excellent way than any I could devise, as her mind was stayed upon God, and in that Refuge and Strength she was lifted up above all earthly fears and torments.

'Margery,' she said very gently, 'you have been ill, dear, and your mind is weakened, so that as yet you only see indifferently, like the man who, on first being cured of blindness, saw men as trees walking; but I have had time to consider all things, and God has sent His angels (messengers) to comfort me, until now I would not have things different if I could. I will read you part of a letter I have written to my father, who is also condemned to be beheaded, and who, I am told, grieves more because of having brought me to this pass than because of his own fate.' And, with that, she took a newly-written letter from her bosom and began to read--

'Father,--Although it pleases God to hasten my death by you, by whom my life should rather have been lengthened, yet I can yield God more hearty thanks for shortening my sad days than if all the world had been given into my possession, with life lengthened to my will.' And, after alluding to his grief on her account, the letter continued: 'Though perhaps to you it may seem woeful, to me there is nothing that can be more welcome than, from this vale of misery, to aspire to that Heavenly throne of all joys and pleasures with Christ our Saviour, in whose steadfast faith--if I may be allowed to say so--may the Lord still keep you, that at last we may meet in Heaven.'

'That will comfort him, I think,' said my dear lady, as she folded and put by the letter to await a favourable opportunity for sending it. 'And I mean what I say, Margery. There is no joy this world can give which would compensate for the loss of the Heavenly Home that I now feel to be so near. True, it is a painful gate that I have to pass through, but it will be short, and it leads straight Home.'

Thus she talked, and I saw that to disturb her faith, with any chimerical schemes for escape from it would be cruel in the extreme; also I determined not to sadden her last earthly hours by my grief, for there would be all the years after she had gone in which to mourn, but to do my best to brighten her last short days. Kissing her hand, therefore, I said that she had greatly comforted me, which made her exceedingly glad.

Then she arose, and wrote in Latin, with a pin, on the wall of her room some lines, which she translated thus--

Stand not secure who stand in mortal state; What's mine to-day shall next day be thy fate.

And again--

If Heaven protect, hell's malice cannot wound; By Heaven deserted, peace can ne'er be found. These shadows passed, I hope for light.

'Yes, Margery,' she said, turning to me, 'in spite of all my faults, I have held to the road that leads above, and when the shadows are passed by, then I hope to see the glorious light.'

'If any one ever will see it, you will,' said I, again kissing her hand and looking with the deepest admiration into her sweet young face, which seemed to me to bear the seal of Heaven's own peace.