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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Frank Morse 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR5100.I15D2 
 
 The daughters of Suffolk. 
 
 3 1924 013 528 595 
 
p^ 
 
 Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013528595 
 
The Daughters of SUFFOLK 
 
By the same Author 
 
 GRAYSTONE 
 
 
 A DREAMER IN 
 
 PARIS 
 
 BRUNHILDA OF 
 
 ORRS ISLAND 
 
HEMRT GREY, D u k E OF SUFKOL 
 
The Daughters of 
 SUFFOLK 
 
 By William Jasper Nicolls 
 
 With Twenty-four Illustrations 
 
 PHILADELPHIA Gf LONDON 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 1910 
 
COPYRIGHT, igiO, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 
 Published May, 1910 
 
 3 ^y c^G / /3 
 
 Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company 
 The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 
 
 Lb 
 
ruble of CONTENTS 
 
 
 PART FIRST 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 Jane . 
 
 ■ Page 
 
 II 
 
 II 
 
 Christmas Eve 
 
 << 
 
 23 
 
 III 
 
 A Lovers' Quarrel . . 
 
 it 
 
 38 
 
 IV 
 
 The Minstrel . . . 
 
 " 
 
 53 
 
 V 
 
 Christmas Morning . . 
 
 f< 
 
 61 
 
 VI 
 
 Lord of Misrule 
 
 K 
 
 71 
 
 VII 
 
 A Rescue . . . . 
 
 ft 
 
 88 
 
 VIII 
 
 Married . 
 
 PART SECOND 
 
 a 
 
 99 
 
 IX 
 
 Marie . . . . 
 
 (( 
 
 113 
 
 X 
 
 Jacques . 
 
 <( 
 
 124 
 
 XI 
 
 Forebodings . 
 
 (t 
 
 >3S 
 
 XII 
 
 Resolution . . 
 
 i( 
 
 >43 
 
 XIII 
 
 High Midnight . . 
 
 (1 
 
 152 
 
 XIV 
 
 The Flight 
 
 CI 
 
 167 
 
 XV 
 
 Martin, the Slave 
 
 ft 
 
 180 
 
 PART THIRD 
 
 XVI Edward the King . 
 XVII Master Cheke . . 
 XVIII Plotting . . 
 
 V 
 
 197 
 209 
 222 
 
XIX Farewell — Bradgate. 
 
 XX The Conspiracy . 
 
 XXI Jane's Wedding 
 
 XXII A King's Will . 
 
 XXIII Friar Grouche . 
 
 XXIV Jane the Queen . 
 
 Page 232 
 
 243 
 247 
 264 
 268 
 
 277 
 
 
 PART FOURTH 
 
 
 
 XXV 
 
 Bloody Mary 
 
 ct 
 
 291 
 
 XXVI 
 
 The Virgin Queen 
 
 ft 
 
 307 
 
 XXVII 
 
 HoMERUS . ... 
 
 tl 
 
 319 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Until Death ... 
 
 <f 
 
 326 
 
List of ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Henry Grey, Duke of SuiFoIk .... Frontispiece 
 
 Roger Ascham Page 32 
 
 A Horn Book " 46 
 
 John Aylmer . " 64 
 
 Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset . . . " 76 
 
 Guilford Dudley " 86 
 
 William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke . . . . " 102 
 
 Mary Tudor "116 
 
 John Heywood "132 
 
 Wilton: Seat of the Earl of Pembroke . . . " 154 
 
 A Running Footman «« 184 
 
 " On the Road to London " " 192 
 
 King Edward the Sixth "198 
 
 John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland . . " 206 
 
 Sir John Cheke . . . . " 210 
 
 Katharine of Aragon " 224 
 
 Anne Boleyn " 244 
 
 Elizabeth " 262 
 
 Jane the Queen . . . . " 278 
 
 Hampton Court Palace. Entrance . . . . " 286 
 
 Mary the First . " 296 
 
 " The Most Damnable Murder " . . . . " 306 
 
 Somerset House "316 
 
 The Tower of London " 332 
 
 vii 
 
PART FIRST 
 
I. 
 
 JANE 
 
 ULLEN and lowering 
 closed the 24th day of 
 December, in the year 
 1 55 1, at Bradgate, in the 
 heart of Leicestershire. 
 The ivies and mistletoe 
 hung in festoons and bunches, in the great hall 
 of Henry Grey. 
 
 Jane, his eldest daughter, a sweet-faced girl 
 of scarce sixteen summers, sat in the alcove of 
 a broad window-seat, overlooking an extensive 
 view of undulating pasture-land. In the mas- 
 sive chimney a few large logs gleamed with a 
 red heat in the ashes of an expired flame. It 
 was a time and circumstance she liked the best; 
 for she was alone, and the rest of the household 
 were afield, hunting. 
 
 Not a sound disturbed the silence of the room, 
 save an occasional hiss and splutter of the logs 
 as they shrank and hardened into coal black 
 
 II 
 
The Daughters 
 
 pieces. Motionless, as if in a trance, she sat, 
 her slender body bent forward, her hands half 
 clasped over a book in her lap, her young and 
 beautiful profile sharply outlined against the 
 thin lace curtains that covered the window. 
 
 This lovely child, with the manners and 
 repose of a cultured lady, was gowned in a robe 
 of green velvet — so low in the neck as to scarce 
 conceal the lines of budding womanhood. The 
 sleeves, exquisitely embroidered with white and 
 silver threads, reached only to her elbows, but 
 under them an inner sleeve of filmy white stuff, 
 encircled her soft round arms. Her wealth of 
 hair, plaited and caught up to the nape of her 
 neck, was tied with a knot of red ribbon; it con- 
 tained a sprig of holly, as did also the flaring 
 front of her corsage. Save a necklace of beads, 
 wound twice around her firm, white neck, no 
 other ornament adorned her charming person. 
 
 As she gazed, with a fixed and enraptured 
 vision, through the window, across the wintry 
 landscape, and to the lowering sky beyond, her 
 Hps parted involuntarily, disclosing twin rows 
 of even white teeth. A half smile hovered for 
 an instant in the dimples of her cheeks, and 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 then was lost in the returning sadness that 
 habitually lurked in her large and serious eyes. 
 
 "Aylmer," she exclaimed, with a sudden 
 brightening, as her eye rested on a horseman 
 who was riding towards the house, across the 
 open pasture, — "and I have read but one chap- 
 ter of my Platonis." She picked up the book 
 lying in her lap, and began to read aloud, in 
 Greek: "For to fear death, my friends, is only 
 to think ourselves wise, without being wise: 
 for it is to think that we know what we do not 
 know. For anything that men can tell, death 
 may be the greatest good that can happen to 
 them: but they fear it, as if they knew quite 
 well that it was the greatest of evils. And what 
 is this but that shameful ignorance, of thinking 
 that we know what we do not know .?" 
 
 She was aware of the fact that the heavy 
 curtains of the doorway had been drawn aside, 
 and that someone had entered the room. No 
 doubt it was Aylmer, — Aylmer, the gentle tutor, 
 her faithful friend who had patiently, and with 
 great forbearance, taught her the delights of 
 intellectual attainments, who had led her, step 
 by step, along the path of learning — removing 
 
 13 
 
The Daughters 
 
 this obstacle, explaining that problem — until 
 now, although a mere child, she could under- 
 standingly read the philosophy of Plato in Greek. 
 
 Thinking he was present, and proud of her 
 proficiency, she continued to read aloud — ^with 
 a shy thought that it would please him. "And 
 I will never do what I know to be evil, and 
 shrink in fear from what, for all that I can tell, 
 may be a good, " 
 
 "Right, my Lady, right!" came a strong 
 masculine voice at her side; and her heart leaped 
 with a choking fright, — for she knew that the 
 voice was not Aylmer's. 
 
 Down tumbled her book on the hard oaken 
 floor, with a clatter that served to increase her 
 nervous agitation. 
 
 "My Lady?" he inquired, as, making a 
 courtly obeisance — a kindly-looking man of five 
 and thirty stepped forward, and stooping, he 
 recovered the book, glanced curiously at its 
 title, and handed it to her — "My Lady?" he 
 repeated soothingly. 
 
 "I was surprised," she explained. 
 
 "Pardon," he said, as he saw the warm blush 
 sweeping over the pallor of the child's face, "but 
 14 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 I came unannounced, and claim the privilege 
 of the season for so doing." 
 
 A smile flitted across her sensitive lips, — 
 "You are right vsrelcome, Master Ascham," she 
 repHed, heartily. " It is I who should ask pardon 
 for so rude a reception, but I was alone, and — 
 and — the Lord of Misrule has turned our senses 
 during the past week." 
 
 "You are not a rebellious subject of his 
 Majesty, I hope?" began Ascham, as he sat 
 down on a broad wooden bench. "Children 
 should delight in Christmas festivities, and 
 mummers " 
 
 He knew that he was mistaken, even before 
 she answered, coldly, — 
 
 "It is pleasing, no doubt, to — children." 
 
 The conversation died as she turned from 
 him, and gazed listlessly out of the window. 
 
 He squirmed, ill at ease on his bench, arranged 
 the broad rufile around his neck, picked at the 
 buckle of his sword belt, and twisting his bonnet 
 in one hand, he smoothed its short plume in the 
 other, for all the world like a bashful school- 
 boy. 
 
 She first broke the silence. 
 15 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "It is current news, Master Ascham," she 
 began, graciously, "that you are about to travel 
 in Germany ? " 
 
 "I am, my Lady," he responded, cheerfully — 
 for her displeasure had weighed heavily on the 
 good man, and right glad he was for the change 
 in her manner. "In truth," he went on, "my 
 visit here, to-day, was timed for the purpose of 
 leave-taking." 
 
 "And my parents afield, with the household, 
 — I am sorry," she added, glancing slyly at him 
 from under her drooping lashes. 
 
 He caught the glance, and from now on he 
 resolved to accept her at her own valuation. 
 She had long been to him a wonderful child, 
 and the author of the "Schoolmaster" had 
 found in Jane Grey "a noble and worthy lady," 
 — a child with the mind and intellect of a 
 philosopher. 
 
 He acknowledged her implied challenge with 
 a deferential bow. 
 
 "It was not his grace the Duke, nor her high- 
 ness the Duchess whom I came particularly to 
 see," he answered, while his studious eyes 
 searched hers. 
 
 i6 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 "My sister Katharine is in her chamber," 
 she suggested. "I will find her." 
 
 She attempted to arise — and again the book 
 fell from her lap to the floor. 
 
 He picked it up and waved a hand in protest: 
 ^"A mere child," he said, "whose thoughts 
 are of the youth, and of things ephemeral: the 
 announcement to her of my presence would 
 not be agreeable." 
 
 "Then I alone, of the household, am left," 
 she remarked, ingenuously, — adding hastily, 
 as she saw a broad smile overspreading his 
 features, — "unless indeed you might care to 
 see some of the gentlemen, or gentlewomen." 
 
 She concluded with a ripple of laughter, as 
 she saw the smile on his face displaced by a look 
 of genuine perplexity. 
 
 "My Lady, I came to see you," he said, 
 bluntly. And she ceased her persiflage. 
 
 He was turning the book in his hands, uncon- 
 sciously smoothing and pressing it with the 
 aff"ectionate handling that only a true book- 
 lover can give, when he abruptly asked her: 
 
 "Why are you not with the others, hunting 
 in the park .'' " 
 
 2 17 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Jane smiled and answered: 
 
 "I think, all their sport in the park is but a 
 shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato: 
 alas, good folk, they never felt what true pleasure 
 meant." 
 
 Ascham showed no surprise at the precise 
 and demure answer of the prim little maiden, 
 but he went on in the same formal manner and 
 asked her: 
 
 "And how came you, Madame, to this deep 
 knowledge of pleasure, and what did chiefly 
 allure you unto it: seeing, not many women, 
 but very few men, have attained thereunto?" 
 The girl looked with confidence into his honest 
 eyes, — 
 
 "I will tell you," she said, "and tell you in 
 truth, which perchance you will marvel at." 
 
 " I have long ceased to marvel at the workings 
 of the spirit," he replied, reverently ; but she 
 paid scant heed to his remarks, so in earnest 
 she now was with her explanation. 
 
 "One of the greatest benefits that God ever 
 gave me is, that he sent me so sharp and severe 
 parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster." 
 
 Ascham bowed his head, as much as to say 
 i8 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 that he was not entitled to so much commenda- 
 tion, as her speech continued: — 
 
 "For when I am in presence of either father or 
 mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, 
 or go, eat, drink, be merry, or sad, be sewing, play- 
 ing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do 
 it as it were, in such weight, measure, and num- 
 ber, even so perfectly as God made the world ! " 
 
 She was leaning towards him, her lovely young 
 face tense with suppressed emotion, as the vigor- 
 ous words, formed in the chaos of misunder- 
 standing, found birth and utterance in the sym- 
 pathetic atmosphere that enveloped her listener. 
 His face beamed with an honest pity as Jane 
 went on: — 
 
 "Or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly 
 threatened, yea presently, sometimes even with 
 pinches, nips, and bobs, — and — and " 
 
 She stopped abruptly, her face crimson, her 
 eyes flashing with an angry light, her whole 
 person quivering with such indignation, that 
 Ascham raised his hand to stop and to soothe 
 her, — 
 
 "There, never mind the question, I merely 
 
 thought, " 
 
 19 
 
The Daughters 
 
 She continued as though he were not present 
 — first biting her Ups, to avoid the shame of 
 tears, — 
 
 "The other ways I will not name for the honor 
 I bear them, so without measure ordered, that 
 I think myself in hell " 
 
 She paused, and turned from him to the win- 
 dow, and as she peered into the fast gathering 
 darkness her spirit calmed, so that she essayed 
 a feeble smile as she continued: — 
 
 "I think myself in hell till time comes that 
 I must go to Mr. Aylmer, who teacheth me so 
 gently, so pleasantly, with such fair allurements 
 to learning, that I think all the time nothing 
 whiles I am with him." 
 
 Roger Ascham arose to leave, — "Indeed, 
 John Aylmer is a worthy man," he remarked, 
 somewhat generously, "I consider him to be a 
 youth of great promise, a Cambridge man, of 
 whom we shall hear more in the future." 
 
 To speak well of whom she likes, is to invite 
 a woman's confidence. Jane was now unreserved 
 as she confessed: — 
 
 "Indeed, when I am called from him, I fall 
 on weeping, because whatsoever I do else but 
 
 20 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 learning is full of grief, trouble, fear, and whole 
 misliking unto me." 
 
 He handed her the book that had caused such 
 an avowal: — 
 
 "May your books be ever a consolation, and 
 delight, my Lady; I have no fear for one who 
 thus conducts her understanding." 
 
 She took her beloved Plato, and pressed the 
 book to her young bosom: — 
 
 "My book," she murmured lovingly, "hath 
 been so much my pleasure, and bringing daily 
 to me more pleasure and more, that in respect 
 of it, all other pleasures, in very deed, be but 
 trifles and troubles unto me." 
 
 She arose and held out her hand. He bent 
 over it and began a homily which he had in his 
 heart to say at parting: — 
 
 " My Lady " 
 
 "Listen " she interrupted. 
 
 They both stood silently as the tuneful sound 
 of a silver horn was heard in the distance. 
 
 "The Duke and his party are returning," said 
 Jane, anxiously. "Master Ascham, you will 
 forgive me when I say that — that — somehow, I 
 would that you were not here — on their arrival." 
 
 21 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 Ascham looked into the troubled face of the 
 young girl, kissed the small white hand which 
 he held in his own, and turned to go. 
 
 "Au revoir, — " he said, cheerfully, "may we 
 indeed meet again." 
 
 He bowed low, retiring with his back towards 
 the door, when he received a sharp blow in the 
 rear that straightened him, instanter, into an 
 angry attitude of defense. At the same moment 
 a lusty young voice sang in his ear: — 
 
 "Stand, — in the name of the Duke!" 
 
II. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 )HE hot blood swept 
 across his sensitive 
 face, and his muscles 
 tightened as he drew 
 his sword. 
 
 "Guard!—" Ascham 
 vjj shouted. 
 
 Then he burst out laughing — his mirth increas- 
 ing to a prodigious roar. 
 
 "My faith!" he exclaimed, when his laughter 
 would let him speak, " I have no cause of quar- 
 rel vnth you, my Lord. May your shallow 
 never grow less." 
 
 He bowed profoundly, the plume in his hat 
 sweeping the floor, as he swung it around in his 
 hand, in a sweeping circle of mock deference. 
 
 The stranger acknowledged the salutation 
 
 with a dignified inclination of his head. "It 
 
 is well, thou miserable bookworm. For the 
 
 instant I cherished the thought of exacting a 
 
 23 
 
The Daughters 
 
 forfeit, for thy insolence, but in consideration 
 of thy ignorance, I pardon thee." 
 
 The bombastic speech ill suited the fantastic 
 appearance of the man who made it. He was a 
 youth of not more than twenty years, and he 
 was dressed in the most outlandish costume 
 that his ingenuity could fashion. It was of 
 every conceivable color, but principally of green 
 and yellow. On his head was a cap and bells, 
 and from the long sleeves of his coat, the hem 
 of his garments, even from the long pointed 
 toes of his buckskins, hung little bells that 
 jingled with every movement of his body. In 
 his hand he carried a stiff hickory sapling, — the 
 same with which he had so unceremoniously 
 plied the nether part of Master Ascham. 
 
 Jane attempted a mirthless laugh, in accord 
 with her visitor, but in her heart she felt a dread 
 as her eyes, closely scanning the figure of the 
 Lord of Misrule, penetrated his disguise, and 
 recognized the familiar figure of young Herbert. 
 
 She knew, that for the ensuing twelve days, 
 
 this graceless young scamp would exercise an 
 
 authority in her father's house that was not to be 
 
 disputed by any, — not even by the Duke himself 
 
 24 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 Truthfully, Ascham was also somewhat dis- 
 quieted, and although he laughed at the ridicu- 
 lous appearance of the Fool King, with a hearti- 
 ness that was a guarantee of its genuineness, 
 nevertheless, inwardly, he was cursing his garru- 
 lous tongue, and laggard memory, that had con- 
 trived to trap him into the Kingdom of Misrule, 
 at so inopportune a time. He had just parted 
 from his royal pupil, Elizabeth, in a sudden fit 
 of pique, over some imagined affront from a 
 member of her household, and he was in no 
 humor to enjoy the roaring period of festivities 
 known as Christmas. 
 
 But, above all else, Ascham was an EngHsh- 
 man ; and he resolved to loyally abide by the 
 customs of his country. 
 
 It was this, for a reason perhaps, and it 
 so happened, that a buxom young maid, just 
 entering the hall with her arms full of fagots 
 to replenish the fire, inadvertently standing 
 for an instant under a sprig of mistletoe, was 
 astonished to find an arm of the distinguished 
 visitor around her shapely waist, while he saluted 
 her full red lips with a smacking kiss! 
 
 Jane laughed, this time heartily, as the em- 
 25 
 
The Daughters 
 
 barrassed maid dropped her fagots on the floor, 
 and ran out of the room. 
 
 The Lord of Misrule advanced sternly. 
 
 "A forfeit," he commanded. "No maid can 
 be kissed in this house at Christmas except by 
 my leave." 
 
 "Amen," replied Ascham piously. "A dozen 
 forfeits if that maid come my way again before 
 Twelfth Night." 
 
 He bowed again to Lady Jane, as arm in arm 
 with the Lord of Misrule, the worthy man dis- 
 appeared through the doorway. 
 
 Scarcely had they gone, when a blithesome 
 young creature slipped from behind a tall 
 wooden screen that stood in a corner of the hall, 
 and softly tiptoed towards the window. She 
 was graceful and piquant, and her childish 
 treble voice was pitched high with her suppressed 
 excitement. 
 
 "Did he kiss her, Jane.''" she demanded, 
 "did he kiss her.?" 
 
 "Did he kiss who, Kitty.?" asked the elder, 
 with provoking deliberation, as her eyes rested 
 lovingly on the roguish face of her sister. 
 
 "You know very well whom I mean," said 
 26 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 the child, petulantly. "I heard everything 
 from behind the screen, but I was afraid to 
 peep." 
 
 "Indeed, Mademoiselle Eavesdropper; well 
 then it was Herbert who kissed Marie." 
 
 "It was not Herbert," Katharine contra- 
 dicted; so positively, that Jane broke out laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " For when they elected him the Lord of Mis- 
 rule I made him promise me that he would — " 
 she faltered in her speech, — " he would not — 
 that he would do no foolishness," she concluded, 
 desperately. 
 
 Jane elevated her eyebrows. "And he the 
 Lord of Misrule ?" She shrugged her shoulders, 
 after the French manner. "Well, then it was 
 Master Ascham who forgot his years and dignity 
 in this merrie Christmas time ?" she suggested, 
 with sHght sarcasm. 
 
 The alternative seemed not altogether con- 
 vincing, but Katharine accepted it with a toss 
 of her head that sent her loosely confined hair 
 into tangled disorder. 
 
 "If Herbert thinks," said this tempestuous 
 
 spirit, "to do thus and so, I'll " 
 
 27 
 
The Daughters 
 
 She was interrupted by a sudden wild chorus 
 of shouts and laughter, accompanied by a mixed 
 roar of horns, bells, and thumping of cudgels 
 that broke from the rear of the hall; and a con- 
 fused shuffling and scraping of approaching 
 footsteps. 
 
 For a moment the sisters gazed apprehensively 
 into each other's faces ; and then Jane, having 
 her wits about her, opened the casement win- 
 dow, and took the other's hand, — 
 
 "This way, Kitty: Jump!" 
 
 They landed on the soft wet turf below, as 
 lightly as thistledown, and gathering up their 
 skirts they made their way cautiously around 
 the corner, and along the walls; keeping out of 
 the moonlight which had burst through the 
 sullen gray sky, and was now enveloping the 
 rising mist on the lawn. They reached a narrow 
 outside stairway that led to the story above. As 
 they crept softly along its stone balustrade Jane 
 cast her eyes backwards, over the dark sides of 
 the Manor, and a nervous chill came suddenly 
 over her as she saw a crouching figure glide 
 slowly around a corner and disappear. 
 
 "Friar Grouche, I could swear," she whis- 
 28 
 
of SufFoIk 
 
 pered to her sister. "It bodes no luck to the 
 feast if that squinting creature enters the house 
 to-night." 
 
 Katharine paused for a moment and cast a 
 furtive glance behind her. "You imagine 
 things, Jane," she panted; but her heart beat 
 furiously as she leaped, two steps at a time, 
 to the balcony above, where she stood quaking 
 and breathless with her sudden fear and exer- 
 tion. 
 
 Meanwhile, the boisterous crowd of servants 
 and retainers, of curious neighbors and lusty 
 tramps, who for the season had access to 
 unaccustomed warmth and food, came jostling, 
 crowding, and pushing into the Hall, bearing 
 in their midst the huge Yule log; which in itself 
 was no less than the entire trunk of a tree, which 
 had been stripped of its bark and thoroughly 
 dried. 
 
 This, with much clamor the motley crowd 
 deposited in the great chimney, and soon kindled 
 into a leaping, dancing flame, that lighted the 
 farthest corners of the room. 
 
 And now began an evening's mirth and jollity 
 the like of which even our grandames have never 
 
 29 
 
The Daughters 
 
 seen. For it passed away, together with many 
 other innocent and manly pleasures, long before 
 they were born. 
 
 The hunting party had returned, and the 
 hospitable Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were 
 surrounded by their many relatives and friends 
 who had been invited to the comfortable fire- 
 place at Bradgate. 
 
 The Manor was one of the most notable in 
 the county, and was a good specimen of the 
 Norman influence which everywhere in England 
 had substituted stone for wood, and intelligence 
 for ignorance; both in their dwellings and in 
 their mode of living. 
 
 In the Hall was a massive fireplace, overhang- 
 ing which was a solid stone mantle. Over this 
 mantle hung suspended a dark colored portrait 
 of an ancestor of the Duke's, and ranged along 
 its surface were various tankards of pewter and 
 brass ; over which, hke tall sentinels, stood 
 two enormous candles, now lighted for Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 Around the walls were hung pieces of armor, 
 steel hats, a cross-bow, a bandrick or belt, a pair 
 of cuishes or armor for the thigh, as relics of 
 30 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 former days; while in one corner were stacked 
 several arquebuses of more recent design. On a 
 window-sill was carved the date, A.D. 1490. 
 
 Of the furniture, no more can be said than 
 the passing notice that the heavy, uncouth 
 pieces were made more for use than for orna- 
 ment. It consisted chiefly of benches which 
 were permanently placed, and some three-legged 
 stools that could be moved about. 
 
 The floor was of heavy hard oak, worn and 
 stained by the feastings of many generations, 
 and covered with rushes — to hide the numerous 
 discolorations. 
 
 As the evening advanced, the Yule Log burned 
 with a fiercer glow of light and heat, and the 
 noise of revelry mingled and grew apace with 
 the crackling of the fire. In front of the blaze, 
 ranged on a semi-circle of low stools, a group 
 of topers warmed their fingers and toes, while 
 they brewed their drink in brass vessels, buried 
 deep in the hot embers. 
 
 Behind them, a minstrel twanged incessantly 
 on a time-worn harp, fretting the strings in 
 accompaniment to a song which he roared at 
 the top of his lungs. 
 
 31 
 
The Daughters 
 
 The first verse began: — 
 
 "Now, Lordlings, listen to our ditty, 
 Strangers coming from afar; 
 Let poor Minstrels move your pity, 
 Give us welcome, soothe our care; 
 In this mansion, as they tell us, 
 Christmas wassail keeps to-day; 
 And, as king of all good fellows, 
 Reigns with uncontrolled sway." 
 
 As he finished each verse the entire assemblage 
 w7ould join heartily in the chorus, as follows: — 
 
 "Hail father Christmas! hail to thee! 
 Honour'd ever shalt thou be! 
 All the sweets that love bestows. 
 Endless pleasures, wait on those 
 Who, like vassals brave and true. 
 Give to Christmas homage due." 
 
 At one end of the room w^as Roger Ascham 
 surrounded by a group of wits, who laughed 
 and applauded as the versatile man recounted a 
 series of romantic tales. They were all more or 
 less colored by the fumes from bottles of "Vino 
 Rubeo," and "de Ossey," with "de Reane," 
 and "de Malvesey," which, from time to time, 
 32 
 
ROGER ASCHAM 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 during the evening, found their way to him and 
 to his admirers from the Duke's private stock. 
 He was the wit of the evening, and, from his 
 side of the house came such sounds of hearty 
 mirth that it permeated the entire Hall, and 
 infused a subtle sense of hilarity to every one in 
 it. It was the time of the Renaissance when 
 there were but few of the Nobility who could 
 not read and write in at least one other beside 
 their own language. Many of them had their 
 "lybrayres" well filled with the Greek and 
 Latin classics, and the scholar, Ascham, could 
 make but few allusions to these worthy masters 
 that was rot understood and appreciated by 
 most of his hearers: So that his lines had fallen 
 in pleasant places. He could also dance well 
 and sing; and he had an artistic nature that 
 harmonized in his studies with his sense of the 
 beautiful; above all he was bright and cheerful, 
 with a buoyant, optimistic disposition that found 
 good in the present, no regrets for the past, and 
 an inspirating anticipation of the future. 
 
 When he was called for a song he arose 
 promptly and in a fairly good baritone voice, 
 somewhat husky with wine, he began to sing: — 
 3 33 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "Lo! now is come our joyful'st feast! 
 
 Let every man be jolly, 
 Each roome with yvie leaves is drest, 
 
 And every post with holly, 
 Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 
 
 And Christmas Blocks are burning; 
 Their ovens they with bak't-meats choke 
 
 And all their spits are turning. 
 Without the doore let sorrow lie; 
 And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
 Wee'le bury't in a Christmas pye, 
 
 And evermore be merry." 
 
 When he had finished the verse he was ap- 
 plauded vociferously by loud clapping of hands, 
 stamping of feet, and knocks of stout oak cud- 
 gels on the stone hearth, while some of the more 
 enthusiastic spirits called: — 
 
 "More, — more, — of the same!" 
 
 Ascham stood for a moment, smiling and 
 confused, "Faith, I have forgotten the words,"^ 
 he said, and then abruptly sat down. 
 
 There was much laughter, and a renewed 
 
 clinking of mugs and tankards, and a pledging 
 
 of healths by the boisterous countrymen; who 
 
 at this time had no fear of their throats being 
 
 34 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 cut by a Danish knife as they threw back their 
 heads and Hfted the cup. 
 
 Amidst all the noise and confusion the Duke 
 called to his daughters for a song. 
 
 "Please sing, Kitty," said Jane nudging 
 her sister, " I am in no voice this evening." 
 
 Katharine blushed and hesitated, "But I 
 have never yet sung before people." 
 
 " But you can," urged Jane. 
 
 As the young girl arose and took her place 
 beside the minstrel she stooped and whispered 
 something in his ear. The old man — for so he 
 appeared by reason of a shaggy white beard that 
 nearly covered his face — nodded his head, and 
 tuned his harp. 
 
 As his hands swept across the strings, and 
 then rested on a full joyous chord, there arose 
 from Katharine's round white throat such a 
 burst of melody, free and buoyant as the ripple 
 of a mountain stream, as to cause a sudden and 
 complete cessation of the indescribable noise 
 and tumult of the room. The words of the song 
 were by Jacques Tahureau, and the music was 
 of the minstrel's own composing. 
 
 She began: — 
 
 35 
 
The Daughters 
 
 " The high Midnight was garlanding her head 
 With many a shining star in shining skies, 
 And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes. 
 And, after sorrow, quietness was shed, 
 Far in dim fields cicalas jargoned 
 A thin shrill clamor of complaints and cries; 
 And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise. 
 With pallor of the sad moon overspread." 
 
 Instantly, every head was turned towards the 
 beautiful girl, whose exquisitely regular features 
 were now illumined with the genius within her. 
 Her large blue eyes, though enveloped with 
 the tender sadness that seems always to lurk 
 beneath heavy lashes, were flashing with the 
 light of emotion which animated her whole 
 frame. Higher and clearer the notes rang, 
 the music was rich with joy; with the natural 
 sweetness of a bobolink, or a lark : — 
 
 " Then came my lady to that lonely place. 
 And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace 
 And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over." 
 
 As they gazed upon the slight perfectly fash- 
 ioned form, the square shapely shoulders rising 
 white and firm from her flaring corsage, the 
 36 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 wanton tress of hair falling low over her fore- 
 head, the straight delicately pencilled eyebrows, 
 the high-bred sensitive nostrils, the beauteous 
 mouth with its cupid bow, they marvelled and 
 whispered together: — 
 
 "It is Katharine?" 
 
 "Yes,— surely, " 
 
 " But, — she is a woman ? " 
 
 "And, so beautiful!" 
 
 As she ended the next lines: — 
 
 "Wherefore the day is far less dear than night. 
 And sweeter is the shadow than the light." 
 
 — her voice faltered, she hesitated, grew a 
 deadly white, and stopped. 
 The minstrel prompted her: 
 
 " Since night has, " 
 
 She turned to him: "I cannot, — Oh I can- 
 not!" she whispered — "that hideous face!" 
 
 He followed her frightened gaze and looked 
 into the ugly, squinting face, Hvid with drink, 
 and diabolical with excitement, of the Friar 
 Grouche. 
 
III. 
 
 A LOVERS' QUARREL 
 
 HERE was a supersti- 
 tion in Leicestershire, 
 in which the people of 
 that locality firmly be- 
 lieved. If a bare-footed 
 or squint-eyed person 
 entered the room where 
 the Yule log was burning, on Christmas Eve, it 
 was woe to that assemblage, individually and 
 collectively, for the ensuing year. 
 
 Small wonder then, that a maiden of Katha- 
 rine's imagination and disposition should behold 
 with fright the black-robed, bare-footed friar 
 whose ugly face and slouching figure was her 
 bugbear from infancy. 
 
 As for her individual knowledge of this un- 
 couth person her memory extended across a 
 vista of eventful years when she first heard the 
 nurse's threat that, "the Black Friar will catch 
 you." That was an anticipated, and quite pos- 
 38 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 sible punishment that to her was more frightful 
 than her sister Jane's solemn admonition that, 
 "the wicked shall be cast into Hell!" 
 
 In her quaking, tender heart she felt that she 
 was wicked, "desperately wicked," as Jane 
 would tell her; every yearning fibre of her sensi- 
 tive, healthy body was pulsating and throbbing, 
 from early morn till evening, with an over- 
 powering love of the good that is bad, and a 
 detestation of the bad that is good. 
 
 So, her enjoyment of evil being at its height 
 as she sang, with her minstrel, a new French 
 love song, her collapse was complete when the 
 Black Friar caught her. 
 
 For he did catch her in his arms — strong and 
 hairy as a bear's — and was about to kiss her, as 
 she swayed half fainting under a bow of mistle- 
 toe, when the young Lord of Misrule, springing 
 suddenly forward, struck the friar such a stinging 
 blow over his bald pate with his switch of office, 
 that he let go of Katharine on the instant. 
 
 Purple with rage he faced young Herbert: 
 "How now? my Lord!" he bellowed in a 
 voice that could be heard in the kitchen. 
 
 "Naught save this. Holy Father," — he bowed 
 39 
 
The Daughters 
 
 low with exaggerated reverence, — "that no 
 maid may be kissed in this household during 
 Christmas but with my permit." So saying he 
 took Katharine by the arm, gave her a gentle, 
 unseen pinch, and led her back to her place by 
 the minstrel. And now, if some were watching 
 closely, they might have detected the girl — a 
 daughter of Eve — ^just rescued from a monster 
 by a handsome young knight, slyly dropping a 
 small white hand, down by her side, into a warm 
 young fist that lay half concealed in the min- 
 strel's wide gray sleeve. They might also have 
 seen, and followed, the glance from her eyes as 
 it flashed into his, and lighted them up so that 
 they no longer looked old and sunken, but were 
 round, bright, and eager. 
 
 These, they might have seen; but they could 
 not have seen the struggle in the pure, girlish, 
 heart against the bad that was good. 
 
 It was a full half hour, but it seemed only a 
 moment, when back came the busy Lord of 
 Misrule. 
 
 "You are wanted, Sir Minstrel, in the kitchen, 
 and you, Katharine," he added, reproachfully, 
 "have danced with me but once this evening." 
 40 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 "And your fault, Herbert," — she began to brave 
 it out, when her conscience smote her, — "but 
 you shall have all that are left." And, avi^ay 
 she tripped with the other, leaving the minstrel 
 to adjust his old gray beard, and to reflect, for 
 the moment, on the mutability of human affairs. 
 
 The dance was a merry one. Almost every- 
 one present joined in it, — even the Duke, who 
 descended from his aristocratic height, and 
 nimbly stepped through the several figures. 
 
 The minstrel had been replaced by a band of 
 musicians who made plenty of loud, if not tune- 
 ful music, on a variety of instruments including 
 the viol, a horn, several flutes, and lute-harps. 
 
 In the moving groups, all keeping time to the 
 rhythmic notes of the enthusiastic musicians, 
 none were so conspicuous as the young and 
 beautiful Katharine and the Lord of Misrule, — 
 in the person of Henry Herbert. 
 
 He was big, strong, full-blooded, and already 
 inclined to stoutness. His complexion was dark, 
 his eyes black, with a glittering, dancing, light 
 in them that flashed with the least excitement. 
 Underneath an extremely low brow, — ^which 
 was surmounted by a dense growth of coarse 
 
 41 
 
The Daughters 
 
 black hair — a pair of large eyebrows met, in a 
 straggling growth of hair on the bridge of his 
 broad nose. 
 
 He had several small accomplishments, 
 could talk a little French, had a smatch of 
 Latin and Greek, and could hold his own at 
 the butts, with broad and flight arrows. He 
 could also ride well, was a good boxer, and, 
 above all he was the best dancer in the county. 
 
 Besides it was whispered that Herbert had 
 expectations, as a younger son of Sir William 
 Herbert, who had but recently been created 
 Earl of Pembroke, — as the illegitimate grand- 
 son of a former valorous knight — and who was 
 well known as an influential nobleman, and one 
 who took an active part in public affairs both 
 as statesman and soldier. 
 
 When the dance was over, Herbert found a 
 quiet corner, off a stairway, where he put the 
 question to Katharine, short and tersely: — 
 
 "When shall we be married — ?" 
 
 He was crowding her closely with an air of 
 
 possession, into an angle of the stairway; and, 
 
 while he talked his hot breath, laden with the 
 
 fumes of much drinking, swept across her face, 
 
 42 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 as he attempted to kiss her. She drew back, 
 offended — "Herbert, have some respect." She 
 blushed and hung her head. This, he mistook 
 for a sign of maiden coyness — and blundering 
 went on. 
 
 "If we are soon to be married," he said, con- 
 fidently, "why not buss when we please.?" 
 
 She saw his eyes dancing with excitement; 
 then her glance included his heavy person, in 
 its ridiculous costume of green and yellow, his 
 gold rings and precious stones, the little bells 
 with their incessant jingling and a revulsion 
 came over her, so that she again hung her head 
 in silence. 
 
 He waited awhile and foolishly pressed his 
 suit: 
 
 "I have the Duke's consent, Katharine," he 
 whispered, bending over her. 
 
 "No doubt," she answered, looking up 
 quickly, "ever since the King has granted your 
 father an Earl's patent it has been naught with 
 my parents but Herbert this, and Herbert that, 
 or, what does Herbert think ? until I am down- 
 right sick of the name!" 
 
 She paused in her thoughtless anger as she 
 43 
 
The Daughters 
 
 noticed its effect on her lover. His eyes flashed 
 ominously, and the red blood mounted under 
 his swarthy skin, showing dull and heavy, as a 
 crimson sunset through yellow dust clouds. 
 His mouth, with its full lips, opened and shut 
 again while it framed no words. Then he 
 reached into his bosom, under the wanton fabrics 
 of green and yellow and drew forth a little hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 It was a very little handkerchief, about three 
 or four inches square, wrought round about, 
 and with a tassel at each corner of gold lace. 
 It had a small silk button in the centre, and had 
 been carefully folded in four cross folds and 
 worn in his hat, until he had deemed a secret 
 place more sacred. 
 
 He handed it to the now frightened girl, arose, 
 and making a profound bow, he walked away. 
 
 "Herbert, Harry," she called tremulously, in 
 an undertone, fearing that others might hear 
 her. But her sweet, imploring, tones that would 
 have lured a savage to her feet, were lost in the 
 furious jingUng of his fool bells. * * * jj^ 
 the middle of the sixteenth century, in England, 
 it was not considered improper for a maiden 
 44 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 to permit her male friends and acquaintances 
 to visit her in her chamber. 
 
 This was probably a custom made necessary 
 by the entire lack of privacy in the dv^ellings of 
 those days. Then, the Hall extended over nearly 
 the entire first floor, and the semi-seclusion of a 
 modern sitting room, library, or parlor, viras 
 practically unknown. 
 
 Katharine's chamber was in the old part of 
 the house, with a door leading off from a balcony 
 to which a narrow stairway of stone led to the 
 garden. There was also another door leading 
 into a larger room adjoining, which was usually 
 occupied by her sister Jane. 
 
 The room was small, as were most of the 
 others, when compared to a modern apartment; 
 the walls were hung with tapestry in which 
 hunters with falcons, their horses and dogs, 
 were grotesquely intermingled with trees and 
 rustic bridges. The bed, which stood in a 
 corner of the room beside a small casement 
 window of diamond shaped glass, was of rough 
 and heavy workmanship. It was narrow, and 
 was covered with a square frame over which 
 hung a red curtain of figured silk. 
 45 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Opposite the bed, against the other side of 
 the wall, was a wide oaken bench' the back of 
 which was rudely carved with fantastic figures 
 and odd, distorted, faces. 
 
 At the head of the bed was a heavy wooden 
 chair with a very high back, and, lying on this 
 chair was a book — a copy of More's "Utopia" 
 — translated into English, which she loved,- from 
 the Latin which she hated, and presented to her 
 by the translator. Raphe Robinson. 
 
 The room would have been cold looking de- 
 pressing and forlorn, save for the trifling evi- 
 dence of its occupancy by a woman. 
 
 On a square table near a south window, 
 stood a jar of jasmine, the delicious odor from 
 its white blossoms permeating the entire room. 
 On the same table, in artistic order — for there 
 must ever be order in art as in nature— were 
 some loose sheets of music, a small inlaid chess 
 board, and her beloved horn-book. 
 
 Around the latter clustered many memories 
 of her childhood days, and she loved it as a 
 child loves an old and worn out doll. 
 
 It was nothing more than a thin board of oak, 
 about nine inches long and five wide, on which 
 46 
 

 - a t. t u - ^ ■- - 
 ab eb i^i oU -uti 
 
 \ ra it 
 
 
 D» be 
 U St 
 
 s\ 
 
 ofi 
 
 (5tt)e H^ ti) i s$ ^ap OUT sailji) br fs 
 n«MM?a^ii«TUot -into tcmptA 
 
 \ HORN UOdK 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 was printed the alphabet, the five vowels, and 
 the Lord's prayer. It had a handle, and was 
 covered in front with a sheet of thin horn to 
 prevent its being soiled. 
 
 On its back was a wonderful picture — a rude 
 sketch of Saint George and the Dragon, — that 
 filled her youthful imagination during many of 
 the silent hours of the night. That marvellous, 
 admirable Saint George, who was stolen away 
 at his birth by the weird lady of the woods, who 
 brought him up to deeds of arms. Katharine 
 knew the story: his body had three marks: a 
 dragon on his breast, a garter wound round one 
 of his legs, and a blood red cross on his arm. 
 Then, there was a stagnant lake abroad, some- 
 where, infested by a huge dragon, whose poison- 
 ous breath had many a city slain, and whose 
 hide no spear nor sword could pierce. And, 
 as she thought of the dragon Katharine would 
 sometimes sit up in bed and draw the curtains 
 apart, a little, and peep around the moon-lit 
 room; every day a virgin was sacrificed to it; 
 and at length it came to the lot of Sabra, the 
 king's daughter, to become its victim. 
 
 Poor Sabra, that was the name of her doll. 
 47 
 
The Daughters 
 
 How every line of Saint George's body, on the 
 back of that horn-book, had been bedewed with 
 Katharine's moist kisses for saving the life of 
 Sabra! for when Sabra had been tied to the stake 
 and left to be devoured by the dragon did not 
 he come up and thrusting his lance into the 
 dragon's mouth, kill it on the spot! 
 
 And so they were married. 
 
 Saint George and the foreign princess, and 
 they lived in Coventry, happily, ever after. 
 
 Hanging on the wall was a portrait of a court 
 lady by Hans Holbein, which had been painted 
 for Henry VHI, and had been presented by 
 him to his niece, Katharine's mother. It was a 
 beautiful portrait and the colors were rich — but 
 the eyes ! — the eyes, sad and mysterious with an 
 unknown sorrow would follow Katharine 
 wherever she moved, in whatever place she 
 went in the room. 
 
 She knew somewhat of that court lady, just 
 a rumor coupled to incautious remarks made 
 in her hearing by her mother's friends, and she 
 pitied her, as one woman pities another whom 
 she thinks has been wronged. 
 
 Into her chamber came Katharine Grey this 
 48 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Christmas Eve, towards midnight. Her face 
 was flushed, her teeth were set, white and gleam- 
 ing beneath her scornful, upturned, lip, her 
 hands clenched into two dimpled fists, and her 
 eyes flashing with rage. She trembled with sup- 
 pressed excitement so that she could scarcely 
 form the words dismissing her maid, who had 
 preceded her with lighted candles. 
 
 "Is there anything, My Lady?" the maid 
 began, patiently, as she pretended not to notice 
 the disorder of her mistress. 
 
 "Nothing, Marie, you may go." 
 
 Here, was no child of fifteen years. As she 
 turned her back to the maid her beautiful form, 
 graceful, svelte, enveloped in a clinging robe 
 of silk and peacock feathers, showed lines of full 
 maturity. 
 
 No sooner had Marie closed the door than 
 Katharine hastened to drop the oaken bar with 
 which it was fastened. Then she took the little 
 silk and jewelled cap from her head and threw 
 it carelessly on her bed. 
 
 " If Herbert thinks," she muttered, and her 
 
 eyes flamed afresh, her bosom heaved, as many 
 thoughts came trooping into her excited brain. 
 4 49 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "Never!" she exclaimed aloud, in reply to 
 some inward suggestion, and as her voice rang 
 through the chamber her sister Jane appeared 
 in the inner doorway. 
 
 "Why, Kitty! what is the matter ?" 
 
 It was a most inopportune question, and, 
 uttered in the calm, precise, manner in which 
 Jane usually spoke, it was in a measure 
 irritating. 
 
 For in truth, Katharine was not at all certain 
 at the moment just what was the matter. She 
 tried to think that Herbert had treated her badly, 
 when he had returned her the little love token, 
 just because she had shown some anger at her 
 parent's preference for the young man, and then, 
 her conscience smote her as she recalled the 
 thriUing moments when her hand rested in the 
 warm grasp of the minstrel. 
 
 It was all very confusing and perplexing, as 
 the image of the Lord of Misrule appeared and 
 disappeared, in a bewildering alternation in her 
 memory, with the image of the white-bearded 
 minstrel in juxtaposition. 
 
 However, she did not hesitate a moment. 
 
 "I was singing," she answered, bravely, and 
 SO 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 then — she fell a-weeping, childlike, in Jane's 
 cool white arms. 
 
 And now came a confession of her troubles, 
 which, when Jane heard, it disturbed her not a 
 little. For she knew that the marriage of 
 Katharine to Herbert, son of the Duke of Pem- 
 broke, was as dear to her father's heart as was 
 her own projected marriage to Dudley, son of 
 the Duke of Northumberland. 
 
 Both projects were matters of state with which 
 the sisters had nothing to do but to conform to 
 their father's will. 
 
 For this reason, as well as for the natural leve 
 and affection which she bore to her impulsive 
 sister, Jane began, with soft pattings and em- 
 braces to soothe her ruffled spirit. 
 
 "Never mind Kitty" she said consolingly, 
 "he will come back, presently, more loving than 
 ever." 
 
 She felt the quick shrug of a warm shoulder 
 under her cool hand. 
 
 "But Jane, — I — I — don't want him to come 
 back, I — " She was interrupted by a light, 
 hesitating, knocking on her door. 
 
 Katharine released herself from Jane's encir- 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 cling arms and proceeded to hastily dry her 
 eyes on a miniature square of fine cambric. 
 
 "There is Herbert, back already," said Jane 
 as she walked towards the door. 
 
 Katharine ran in front of her with a sudden 
 whirl of her lithesome body. 
 
 "Wait — Oh! — Jane, — I don't think it is 
 Herbert," she said, anxiously. 
 
 Jane attempted to put her sister, gently aside. 
 
 "Well then it is Ascham, or perchance, Guil- 
 ford Dudley ? At any rate child we can open 
 the door, what harm on Christmas Eve.?" 
 
 So saying Jane lifted the oaken latch. 
 
IV. 
 THE MINSTREL 
 
 'OME" said Jane, boldly. 
 At a slight pressure 
 from without the great 
 door swung heavily in- 
 ward, admitting the 
 head, with its shaggy 
 white beard, and shoulders of the old minstrel. 
 He started and shrunk back as his glance first 
 caught sight of Lady Jane, and then his form 
 grew more erect as Katharine came forward 
 with outstretched hands. 
 
 "You are welcome, Sir Minstrel," she smiled 
 bravely, as she quickly observed a question in 
 his eyes. "We were just discussing the evening, 
 and my foolish failure in singing your song, 
 but that inhuman face of Friar Grouche com- 
 pletely abashed me, and I could not finish. 
 Here, sit here. Sir Minstrel, and tell us of some 
 of the many happenings that occur in your 
 wanderings." 
 
 S3 
 
The Daughters 
 
 She led him to a corner of the great oaken 
 bench, while she rattled on in an enveloping 
 haze of trifling talk, to hide his evident embar- 
 rassment, while he unconsciously adjusted the 
 beard that had fallen somewhat awry on his face. 
 
 As Jane's quick eye observed the movement 
 she fell to laughing, as she searched his features 
 with a penetrating and most disconcerting gaze. 
 
 "Methinks," she began in mock musing, 
 while she crooked a slender finger under her 
 pointed chin. But what she thought was of no 
 further advantage, or consequence, for, with an 
 angry movement, the minstrel quickly divested 
 himself of beard and wig, at the same time he 
 sprang to his feet, and throwing aside his coarse 
 gray mantle, he exposed the handsome and 
 regular features, and richly apparelled figure, 
 of Seymour, son of the Duke of Somerset. 
 
 He bowed low to the ladies. 
 
 In strong contrast to the decrepit minstrel 
 was the strikingly handsome man who had just 
 attained his majority. As he straightened him- 
 self, and stood erect before the sisters, they 
 viewed him with mingled feelings of alarm and 
 admiration. 
 
 54 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 He was above the average stature, and he 
 carried his well proportioned, muscular figure, 
 with the ease and dignity of poise that could 
 come only from an ancestral line of soldiers. 
 In his face, the features of which were perfectly 
 regular, his eyes of blue shone distinctly, and 
 brilliantly, as an index of a character at once 
 brave, gentle and loving, but also inflexible, 
 determined, and persistent. His eyes, together 
 with the slightly fretful expression of his fore- 
 head, the half scornful curl of his sensitive 
 upper lip, and his manner, indicated a tenacious 
 will, that would steadily maintain its course, 
 that would keep on, and follow up its purpose, 
 in spite of all discouragements and difficulties, 
 to the end. 
 
 Such was the manner of man who, having 
 discarded his minstrel's robe, now addressed 
 himself to Jane. 
 
 "You are surprised, cousin, that I should dare 
 to see Katharine again, you glare at me as though 
 I had committed a cardinal sin ?" 
 
 Jane, nervously, sat down on the chair at the 
 head of the bed, and faced the couple who now 
 sat hand in hand, on the hard bench opposite. 
 55 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Her position was a most trying one, for her love 
 for her sister was the only bright influence in an 
 atmosphere of stern, parental discipline; it was 
 the one sweet, natural love that prevented her 
 from becoming a slave of, so called, duty. 
 
 Her conscience had already grown to such 
 mastery over her inclinations that her brilliant 
 mind was constantly occupied with introspec- 
 tion, so that whatever her nature willed to do or 
 say, seemed to her as suggestions of the evil one, 
 to be averted, or held in check, by an invincible 
 shield of will power, which she had carefully 
 constructed for herself, and which she denom- 
 inated character. 
 
 It was this shield — cold, bright, and glittering 
 — which she mentally placed between the lover's 
 happy faces and her heart, before she answered. 
 
 " It were better for Katharine, it was her duty, 
 not to see you, it was wicked in her to see you 
 again." 
 
 Poor, loving, Katharine who believed in her 
 sister as the incarnation of Truth, bowed low 
 her head from which her wealth of golden hair 
 fell loose and unconfined as a mantle over her 
 sinful neck and shoulders. It was as if the 
 56 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 sentence of a most just judge had been pro- 
 nounced upon her. 
 
 "And you were a man, Jane," Seymour said, 
 as the blood mounted to his angry brow, "I 
 would demand satisfaction for the pain you give 
 Katharine." 
 
 Jane looked into his indignant eyes with a 
 scornful calm. 
 
 "You need not go far to seek a man," she 
 said, quietly, "Herbert, was in the Hall below, 
 just now, and can no doubt be found on the 
 premises, I can find him." 
 
 She arose to go, when Katharine, again, 
 rushed between her and the door. She was wild 
 with fear, and her long burnished hair fell in 
 waving beauty to her knees, enclosing a white 
 upturned face. 
 
 "Would you have m-murder, — for — for — con- 
 science sake," she gasped, her heart beating so 
 rapidly that she could scarcely breathe. 
 
 And, as the younger — by a generation in feel- 
 ing, by a year in age — Hfted her soft arms appeal- 
 ingly, the eyes of the " court lady " in Holbein's 
 portrait on the wall never left her. Then the 
 dimly lighted room became dimmer, while Jane's 
 
 57 
 
The Daughters 
 
 immobile features withdrew farther and farther, 
 until they vanished in the distance. She tottered 
 and swayed, like a delicate lily in a cruel, ad- 
 verse wind, and would have fallen to the floor 
 had not Seymour ran and caught her in his arms. 
 
 "There will be no murder, my Katharine," 
 he whispered in her ear as he gently lifted her 
 unconscious form to the bed, "Not that I fear 
 a score of such as Herbert!" he turned on Jane 
 hotly, while he again assumed his white beard 
 and minstrel's cloak, "but for her, and for her 
 sweet sake alone, I go." 
 
 So saying he strode manfully through the 
 doorway to the balcony, and, without casting a 
 glance behind him, he disappeared into the 
 night. 
 
 "Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth." said 
 Jane, piously, as she set about reviving her sister. 
 
 She had scarcely commenced her loving min- 
 istrations when the sound of music filled the air 
 beneath the window. It came from the little 
 band of musicians who, having finished their 
 services in the hall and kitchen were now going 
 around the mansion, and playing under the 
 guest's windows. 
 
 58 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Katharine's eyes opened slowly, wearily, and 
 then closed again, while her breathing, at first 
 fluttering and uncertain became normal and 
 regular. As she lay exhausted on the bed, Jane 
 held her hand and they hstened to the strains, 
 now distinctly heard under their balcony. Jane 
 blew out the candles and pulled aside the cur- 
 tains from the casement window. The moon- 
 beams entered and tipped the harsh outlines of 
 the old chamber with softening touches of silvery 
 white. 
 
 As the sounds receded they grew fainter and 
 fainter until, finally, they were lost in the dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Nothing could be heard now but an occa- 
 sional sigh, a catching of the breath, half sob- 
 bing of Katharine, and the soft crooning of 
 Jane as she murmured in low tones. 
 
 " My Kitty, my Kitty, for me I care not, but 
 that you must suffer, also " 
 
 "Oh! Jane," the other moaned. "Do you 
 think that he will — ever — come back .'"' 
 
 Jane patted her tear wet face. 
 
 " Hush ! Kitty, you must not," 
 
 "But do you think so, Jane .?" she persisted, 
 59 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 her arms clutched tightly around her sister's 
 neck, while she kissed her cheek, again and 
 again. 
 
 There was a moment of hesitation, A sudden 
 fierce rush of conflicting emotions, a riot of feel- 
 ings, such as occur to any man or woman, no 
 matter how carefully trained or disciplined — 
 tumultuously arrayed against the small guard 
 of Duty. And Duty was overthrown. It fell 
 to the ground, was trampled under foot, and 
 passed over. 
 
 " He will come back to you Katharine, some- 
 time." 
 
 "Oh! Jane,—" 
 
 Her limbs relaxed, as her head drooped, back- 
 wards. Her sobs had ceased, there was silence, 
 quiet, repose, in the dimly lighted chamber. 
 
 Katharine fell asleep, tightly clasped in Jane's 
 arms. 
 
V. 
 CHRISTMAS MORNING 
 
 HEN the sisters awoke, 
 the next morning, it 
 seemed as if their ex- 
 periences of the night 
 before had been a phan- 
 tasmagoria, a phrensy 
 of the brain. Their 
 bodies ached with the cold and unusual mental 
 exertions of the preceding day. They yawned 
 and stared drowsily about them as the increas- 
 ing morning light aroused them to a sense of 
 life and its attendant troubles. And as they 
 stretched their aching limbs, and while their 
 minds slowly recovered their normal condition, 
 they heard the sound of footsteps outside their 
 door, and then a burst of voices chanting an old 
 Christmas carol, the words of which ran: 
 
 " This day to you is born a child, 
 Of Mary, meek and Virgin mild, 
 That blessed son, winsome and kind, 
 6i 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Shall you rejoice, both heart and mind. 
 My soul and life, stand up and see, 
 What lyeth in a bed of tree, 
 What Babe is that, so good and fair ? 
 Christ it is, God's son and heir." 
 
 Being fully dressed, they opened the door 
 suddenly, and beheld a group of servants, both 
 men and women, who were going about the 
 mansion and tapping at each door while they 
 sung their carol. 
 
 "A Merrie Christmas," Jane repeated to 
 Katharine, as they stood shivering, in the 
 cold grey light of six o'clock on a wintry 
 morning. 
 
 It was anything but "merrie" to these two 
 forlorn maidens. As they looked from the 
 window they beheld a sombre view. A wide 
 stretch of sodden pasture land sloped gradually 
 to a fringe of dark forest trees. A cold rain was 
 falling — sullen, depressing, persistent, — with- 
 out any wind or motion to indicate from whence 
 it came, or how long it would continue. In the 
 garden, below, the moonlight of the preceding 
 night, which had tipped with a silvery radiance 
 the evergreens and winter foliage, had vanished 
 62 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 before the slow advance of a grey morning, of 
 a day without sun. 
 
 All the gnawed and weatherbeaten angles of 
 the old mansion showed their seamy and cracked 
 faces, and the trees, without the redeeming 
 shades and shadows, stood motionless as the 
 rain drops gathered and dripped from their 
 bare, unsightly limbs. Not a sign of human 
 life or habitation was in the prospect. Not a 
 sound of bird song was in the damp, heavy air. 
 
 They changed their costumes in silence and 
 prepared themselves as best they could, for the 
 day above all others the most joyous in England. 
 
 The day began with services in a small chapel 
 that was in the village, adjoining the estate. In 
 it, each Sabbath, was heard the reformed ser- 
 vices, compiled by Cranmer and Ridley only a 
 year or two before, and published as the " First 
 Prayer Book of Edward VI." 
 
 It differed from the one now in use by begin- 
 ning the daily service with the Lord's Prayer, 
 by retaining prayers for the dead, and directing 
 the use of the sign of the cross in confirmation 
 and visitation services, and the anointing of 
 the sick. 
 
 63 
 
The Daughters 
 
 It was new to the people, and many of the 
 household of Henry Grey were unable to do 
 more than listen to the services as they were 
 read by Jane's tutor — John Aylmer. 
 
 This young theologian who was then not 
 over thirty years of age, usually conducted the 
 services in the little Chapel, reading the new 
 prayer book from a table in the chancel, while 
 the Duke and those of his family who could 
 read, made responses. 
 
 But Aylmer was zealous in the Reformation, 
 that was now sweeping over the civilized world. 
 He was not satisfied with the "First" prayer 
 book and he was already in touch with Martin 
 Bucer and Peter Martyr, two distinguished 
 foreign reformers who had been called by 
 Cranmer to revise the "Second" prayer book. 
 Bucer had died only a few months previously, 
 and the leaders of the movement in England had 
 paused in their great work, for a day, to lower 
 his body into a grave that was afterwards dese- 
 crated by that bloody Mary of unsavory memory. 
 On the same table within the little chancel was 
 a copy of Coverdale's Bible, translated by Miles 
 Coverdale, afterwards Bishop of Exeter, dedi- 
 64 
 
JOH.V AYLMER 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 cated to Henry VIII and the first English Bible 
 sanctioned by royal authority. 
 
 A copy of this Bible was on the table not solely 
 because that was the proper and fitting place 
 for it to be, but also for the reason that every 
 parish by royal proclamation was obliged to 
 have a copy in the parish church under a penalty 
 of forty shillings a month. 
 
 Here also was Cranmer's Catechism, not com- 
 posed by Cranmer, but only adopted by him. 
 It was originally written in German, was trans- 
 lated into Latin by Justice Jonas, the friend of 
 Luther: was brought to England in 1548, and 
 translated by Rowland Taylor, one of Cranmer's 
 chaplains. It insisted on Three Sacraments — 
 baptism, absolution, and the eucharist — and 
 stated that those who had heathen parents and 
 who died without baptism were "damned 
 eternally." 
 
 A new copy of this translation grim in its 
 teachings, terrible in its finality, was on the 
 table and was used by Aylmer in the instruction 
 of the youth who attended his services. 
 
 The rain ceasing for awhile, a party from the 
 Mansion walked to the Church and Aylmer tak- 
 5 65 
 
The Daughters 
 
 ing his place by Jane, began at once to converse on 
 the subject so near to his heart. " I like not the 
 opening, of our new service," he said, " The Lord's 
 Prayer seems not in place as a preliminary " 
 
 "Indeed," answered Jane, "I find so many 
 changes that I scarce have time to pray, with the 
 effort of following the directions." 
 
 Aylmer looked hard at his pupil as if to fathom 
 the meaning of her reply; was it sarcasm or 
 gentle irony ? 
 
 "And yet I would change it somewhat more," 
 he argued, "I like not the Romanish use of oil 
 in baptism, the unction of the sick, and of prayers 
 for the dead." 
 
 "There be many old ceremonies to which the 
 people are attached," Jane replied, "that in 
 themselves are non-essential, and which it would 
 be a pity to change, for example " 
 
 She was interrupted in her serious discourse 
 by loud shouts, laughter, and a tumult which 
 proceeded from a motley crowd of men and 
 boys who were coming down the same road on 
 which the Duke and his party were soberly walk- 
 ing to church. As they entered the fields, to 
 give the company the highway, a curious pro- 
 66 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 cession passed them, the like of which on such 
 an errand has not been seen for many a year. 
 
 First, running ahead and tumbUng from right 
 to left, and zig-zag across the road, were all the 
 small boys and dogs of the neighborhood, — 
 screaming, whistling, howling, and yelping in 
 one confused and discordant noise. 
 
 Then, spearing at the boys and dogs, and 
 chasing them from one side of the road to the 
 other, rode half a dozen of grotesque figures 
 carrying long wooden poles. These were fol- 
 lowed by a score of mounted men wearing 
 liveries of green and yellow, and their persons 
 bedecked with scarfs, ribbons, and laces, hang- 
 ing all over with gold rings, precious stones and 
 jewels. Tied about their legs they wore, each, 
 a dozen or more bells. In their hands and tied 
 about their necks and wrists they wore embroid- 
 ered handkerchiefs — "borrowed for the moste 
 parte of their pretie Mopsies, and loovying 
 Bessies for bussying them in the darcke." Fol- 
 lowing the mounted men, more gaudily decorated 
 than any of them, rode their King, the Lord of 
 Misrule. He looked neither to the right or the 
 left as he passed the little party of church goers, 
 67 
 
The Daughters 
 
 who were lined up behind the low hedge. Once 
 he stole a covert glance at Katharine, but she 
 took no notice of him beyond a scornful glance 
 that left her nose tilted, somewhat affectedly, in 
 the air. 
 
 After their King had passed there came a 
 disorderly crowd of "baudie Pipers and thon- 
 deryng Drommers, to strike up the Deville's 
 Daunce withall." The whole boisterous crowd 
 marching to the church, "their Pypers pipyng, 
 Drommers thonderyng, their stumppes daunc- 
 yng, their Belles tynglyng, their handkerchefes 
 swyngyng about their heads like madmen, their 
 Hobbie horses, and other Monsters skyrmishyng 
 amongest the throng: and in this manner they 
 went to the church." 
 
 When the mob had passed, the Duke and his 
 party proceeded, slowly, after them. 
 
 "There are some ancient customs," said 
 Aylmer, the horrid din still ringing in his ears, 
 "that might be dispensed with, and nothing be 
 lost." His eyes followed the crowd who were 
 now cavorting around the old church yard, shout- 
 ing and yelling like men possessed of the Devil. 
 
 "Indeed," said Jane, placidly, "I agree 
 68 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 that " "Hurry Jane," interrupted Katha- 
 rine, her face flushed, and her whole manner 
 eager and full of excitement, "or we shall miss 
 the sight in the church." 
 
 "Small loss," growled Aylmer, as he quick- 
 ened his pace. 
 
 Amidst the noise that filled the church from the 
 merry revellers outside, Aylmer as in duty bound 
 began the reformed Protestant services. He had 
 scarcely lifted up his hands in prayer when a 
 crash was heard, and the church doors flew 
 open, tumbling over the vergers who pretended 
 to hold them. With a rush came the whole 
 crack-brained assembly, in a noisy confusion 
 that completely drowned the preacher's voice. 
 
 The congregation, so rudely disturbed in their 
 devotions, jumped to their feet, and some 
 skipped, nimbly, upon the pews, so that they 
 could the better observe the foolish antics of 
 the mummers as they danced around and around 
 the church, "like Devilles incarnate." 
 
 The fantastic performance was not without 
 
 its commercial feature. As the performers 
 
 moved in and out amongst the congregation 
 
 they carried with them small baskets filled with 
 
 69 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 badges on which was painted some "babblerie 
 or other, of Imagerie worke," which they sold 
 to the people for whatever money they could 
 get. And, it was woe to the person who wore 
 no badge when they came out from the church, 
 for these mean ones the mummers "mocked 
 and flouted at shamefully." 
 
 So far had license entered the holy Catholic 
 church in this period of its history. 
 
 Aylmer stood in the chancel, pale with inward 
 anger, while the Duke made haste to empty his 
 pockets of silver into a basket of badges, from 
 which he drew a handful, to decorate his family. 
 
 As for Jane, she submitted to wear one, for con- 
 science sake, but Katharine tore the flimsy thing 
 in bits, and threw the pieces on the stone floor. 
 
 It was at this moment when Herbert in his 
 gaudy insignia confronted her. 
 
 "You must wear a token Katharine," he 
 whispered, " Or even I cannot protect you from 
 their foolishness." 
 
 Katharine's dainty nose went up, a mere trifle, 
 higher. "When I need your protection I will 
 send for you," she answered, proudly, and fol- 
 lowed the others from the church. 
 70 
 
VI. 
 LORD OF MISRULE 
 
 HRISTMAS in the six- 
 teenth century was far 
 different from Christmas 
 of to-day. Instead of 
 being a single day of pro- 
 fuse and indiscriminate 
 exchange of presents, accompanied by mild 
 festivities of a semi-religious character, it was 
 a popular festival that began on the twenty- 
 fourth day of December, and ended on January 
 the sixth, or Twelfth Night. 
 
 During all of this period, all classes mixed in 
 high revelry and merry makings. Hospitality 
 was universal. "An English country gentleman, 
 held open house. With daybreak on Christmas 
 morning the tenants and neighbors thronged 
 into the hall. The ale was broached. Black- 
 jacks and Cheshire cheese, with toast and sugar 
 and nutmeg, went plentifully around. The 
 hackin, or great sausage, must be boiled at day- 
 
 71 
 
The Daughters 
 
 break, and if it failed to be ready two young 
 men took the cook by the arm and ran her around 
 the market place, till she was ashamed of her 
 laziness. 
 
 The women also had their privileges. In 
 some localities it was the right of every maid 
 servant to ask the man for ivy to dress the house 
 withall, and if the man refused, or forgot, the 
 maid stole a pair of his breeches and nailed 
 them to the gate in the yard or highway. In 
 other places a refusal to comply with such a 
 request debarred the man from the privileges 
 of the mistletoe. 
 
 Gentlemen and ladies went to early service 
 in the church, and returned to breakfast on 
 brawn and mustard, and malmsey. Mustard 
 is your great provoker of a noble thirst. Brawn 
 was a dish of great antiquity, made from the 
 flesh of large boars which lived in a half wild 
 state, and when put to fatten were strapped and 
 belted tight around the body, so as to make the 
 flesh dense and brawny." 
 
 Christmas in those days meant two weeks of 
 roaring festivities: of a lusty, vigorous, and 
 hearty revelry. 
 
 72 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 In the Duke's household the Christmas dinner 
 began at eleven o'clock, and continued until 
 late in the evening. 
 
 It was not nearly so elaborate an affair as 
 that held in the Abbey hard by. Here, the 
 Abbott who governed, sat at his table up fifteen 
 steps above the commoner folks, and was served 
 by monks who stopped at every fifth step and 
 chanted in chorus, — while the hot dishes grew 
 cold. 
 
 In the mansion of Henry Grey a long table 
 was spread extending the entire length of the hall. 
 The fire had been replenished with heaps of dry 
 wood, and the flames leaped and wreathed up the 
 deep-throated chimney: a pleasing sight to those 
 who entered from the mist and cold of the outside. 
 
 The head of the table, where the Duke and 
 his family were seated, was elevated a few feet 
 above the rest; his neighbors sat lower, while 
 the retainers, and servants were seated at the 
 lowest level. 
 
 Fresh rushes covered the floor and hid the 
 
 scraps and droppings of the previous feasts. 
 
 As they stood or sat around the long board a 
 
 loud knocking was heard in the kitchen: this 
 
 73 
 
The Daughters 
 
 was the signal made by the cook with a rolHng 
 pin, when the dinner was ready to serve. Amidst 
 much confusion the entertained and their enter- 
 tainers were finally seated. 
 
 Katharine Grey, at the head of the table 
 looked anxiously along the rows of faces for 
 sight of Seymour. She heaved a sigh of mingled 
 relief and disappointment, to find that he was 
 not at the table. 
 
 Her sister Jane pinched her arm. 
 
 "He is over there, by the fireplace, Kitty," 
 she whispered, "don't look his way " 
 
 But Katharine stole a furtive glance; and 
 there was the old white-bearded minstrel twang- 
 ing away on his harp — his head bowed low over 
 the instrument. 
 
 "Oh — sister, don't tell — " she gasped. But 
 Jane's eyes were fixed on the hall doorway as a 
 servant announced in a loud voice — "Lord 
 Dudley." 
 
 There was much commotion and subdued 
 whispering as young Guilford Dudley made his 
 way, with a light elastic step, towards the head 
 of the table. He cordially grasped the hand of 
 Suffolk, who rose to greet him. 
 74 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 "Right welcome Guilford" said the Duke. 
 
 "And how fares it with your father?" 
 
 "He is well," said the young man as he took 
 the place offered him, between the sisters, "And 
 he bade me give you the compliments of the 
 season, and best wishes." 
 
 "We thank you," said Suffolk, aloud. Then 
 in a lower tone he asked : 
 
 "And matters at Court: is there any public 
 news ?" 
 
 "The Duke of Somerset has been committed 
 to the Tower, if that is news, already three weeks 
 old," laughed Dudley, lightly, as he buried his 
 face in a large tankard of malmsey. Suffolk 
 paled a trifle as he lifted his cup to the 
 pledge : — 
 
 " Death to Traitors." 
 He brought his cup heavily to the table. "The 
 Protector in the Tower," he repeated as if to 
 himself: and in his preoccupation his|feyes failed 
 to notice the ashy whiteness that came over 
 Katharine. It spread slowly downwards, from 
 her smooth young forehead, and then to her 
 cheeks, and lips, like the shadow of death. 
 
 The noisy twanging of the harp had suddenly 
 75 
 
The Daughters 
 
 ceased, and she knew that the tidings were cir- 
 culating from mouth to ear along the great hall. 
 Somerset in the Tower — Somerset in the Tower. 
 She knew that Seymour his son would soon hear 
 it, and then 
 
 Try as she would she could not look toward 
 the minstrel. Rigid with fear and apprehension 
 she sat bold upright — her heart beating wildly. 
 Her ears were singing with the alternating 
 rushes of hot blood, and a creeping chilliness 
 came over her that she felt must soon subdue 
 her senses. 
 
 As the music ceased so did the conversation 
 die away to indistinct words, in whispers. So 
 profound was the sudden silence in the hall, 
 that the Duke's next words, although intended 
 only for those near to him, reached to the farthest 
 end of the table. 
 
 "And our cousin. His Majesty, the King — 
 How fares young Edward ?" he inquired. 
 
 "His Majesty is not in the best of health," 
 replied young Dudley, gravely. Then, nudging 
 Jane, playfully, he whispered something in the 
 young girl's ear that kept her awake during many 
 long hours of the night; something that sent the 
 76 
 
FOWARP SF.VMOriR, DUk'F OF SOMKR^ET 
 
 "■'¥ 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 red color mantling her neck, face and ears, until 
 she felt herself on fire; something that made her 
 grow hot and cold by turns, so that she could 
 scarce preserve her composure. 
 
 "Impossible — Dudley," she whispered: "I 
 could never be Queen — never — " She shook 
 like one in an ague. 
 
 And now the Duke's roving eyes seeing first 
 the hot blushes, and discomposure of his eldest 
 daughter, and the waxen paleness of the younger, 
 and feeling the irritation of the man suddenly 
 deprived of his mirth by another's witless re- 
 marks, brought his clenched fist on the table, 
 with an impetuous oath. "How now, Sir Min- 
 strel!" he roared. "Are there no strings to your 
 harp, that you sit under the mantel, like a toad 
 in a shower .'' A song man, for here comes the 
 dinner." 
 
 Katharine turned, and her loving young eyes 
 sought the minstrel's. There was such mute 
 entreaty, such a wealth of love and sympathy, 
 such a pleading, and promise of things to come, 
 in those blue eyes that he scorned the agony in 
 his heart and nodded his head. Checking his 
 grief over the calamity that had come to his 
 77 
 
The Daughters 
 
 father, with a supreme effort, his hands found 
 the strings, and be began a song: 
 
 " The Boar's head in hande bring I 
 With garlands gay, and rosemary, 
 I pray you all synge meriiy. 
 Qui estis in convivio." 
 
 As he sang, in a forced and nasal voice, the 
 first verse of the old melody, a loud chorus 
 joined him from the end of the hall. 
 
 Then, in came a procession of retainers carry- 
 ing between them an enormous platter on which 
 was a great boar's head. It was soused and stuck 
 all over with branches of rosemary, and as they 
 sang in unison the whole assembly arose to their 
 feet, as the dish was deposited on the principal 
 table at the upper end of the hall. 
 
 The occasion was one of great state and 
 solemnity. 
 
 It would be tedious to enumerate the various 
 dishes — many of ancient origin — that garnished 
 the table of Henry Grey on that eventful Christ- 
 mas Day. The dinner was the domestic event 
 of the whole year, and the cook who could 
 arrange the longest bill of fare was considered 
 78 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 as the man of the hour; he was greater in popular 
 favor than the Abbot himself 
 
 The feast opened with what was called, "A 
 warner before the course " but whether the 
 " Warner" was an ancient and honorable 
 ancestor of our modern "cocktail;" a skeleton 
 exhibited by a servant as in the Egyptian 
 banquets; or a sermon by the ranking ecclesi- 
 astic, is of little moment. It was followed by: 
 
 A shelder of Brawne, 
 Frumetye with Veneson, 
 Swan with Chawdron, 
 Capons of high goe, 
 Pik in latymer sauce. 
 Perch in Jeloy, 
 
 Custard royal, 
 Tarte Polyn, 
 Frutt Fromage, 
 
 Following the procession that carried the 
 boar's head came Herbert, as Lord of Misrule, 
 whose authority during the twelve days of Christ- 
 mas, not even the master of the house might 
 question. His general authority was worded 
 as follows: 
 
 79 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "I give full power and authority to his lord- 
 ship to brake up all lockes, bolts, barres, doores, 
 and latches, and to flinge up alle doores out of 
 hendges, to come at all those who presume to 
 disobey his Lord's commands. 
 
 God save the King!" 
 
 An old Puritan writer contemptuously refers 
 to the Lord of Misrule and to his companions 
 as "hell-hounds." Herbert appeared sur- 
 rounded by a court of young blades whom he 
 had appointed to be the officers of his household 
 and guards. 
 
 Preceding him was a herald who, after blow- 
 ing a shrill blast on his trumpet, announced: 
 "The most magnificent and renowned Herbert, 
 by the favor of fortune, Prince of Utopia, Lord 
 of Nowhere, Duke of Happyland, Marquis of 
 Mirth, Master of the Manor of Bradgate, and 
 Commander of all Solemnities whatever." 
 
 As he advanced with a slow and dignified 
 tread and demeanor, suited to his exalted rank, 
 Herbert seemed to feel that a certain amount 
 of the farcical authority vested in him for twelve 
 days of Christmas, was in reahty a patent of 
 nobility. His black eyes danced and glittered, 
 80 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 with excitement, and his flushed face denoted 
 a mind that was laboring under unusual exhila- 
 ration. 
 
 A large round table had been set apart, but 
 near the head of the long board, for him and 
 his court; and to this he strutted with much 
 grandeur of mien, while a quartette of drummers 
 beat vigorously on their drums. 
 
 As he took his seat in the circle of probably a 
 score of companions — graphically described by 
 Stubbes as " lustie-guttes " — this grand "Cap- 
 taine of Mischief" looked somewhat anxiously 
 across the table in search of Katharine. He 
 was probably wondering how all the fanfaronade 
 would strike her fancy — doubtless he would 
 have resigned all of his brief honors for one faint 
 smile of approval from her blue eyes. But, 
 that inscrutable young person, although seated 
 directly opposite to him, near the head of the 
 long table, merely glanced at him, in much 
 the same way that a child would gaze curiously 
 at a group of Morris dancers. 
 
 His eyes roved around the circle of his wanton 
 liveried companions with marked disgust. He 
 turned impatiently in his seat. 
 6 8r 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "She regards me as a Counterfeit Fool," he 
 muttered inwardly, " all that I need now to com- 
 plete my character in her eyes is a coxcomb 
 hood, with asses ears!" 
 
 Then he fell to drinking deep draughts of 
 malmsey, pledging each in turn all who would 
 clink his tankard. 
 
 At the long table Guilford Dudley was enter- 
 taining those within sound of his voice with the 
 latest news of the City. Directly opposite was 
 seated the thoughtful Aylmer who, with Roger 
 Ascham, enjoyed the privilege of being near the 
 host's family at the head of the board. 
 
 It was Aylmer who addressed Dudley: 
 
 "How fares the cause of our religion.?" he 
 asked. "What with the new learning, and other 
 matters of modern devising men seem to give 
 little thought these times to their soul's welfare." 
 He spoke with the earnest seriousness of an 
 enthusiast — his eager gaze fastened on Dudley's 
 laughing face with marked disapproval. 
 
 "My faith, its not the new learning at all, 
 
 but the old customs that interfere with our 
 
 Protestant Doctrine," replied Guilford, "I'd 
 
 have you listen to these notes of a sermon deliv- 
 
 82 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 ered by our own Bishop Latimer before the King 
 himself." 
 
 He drew from his doublet a small book of 
 beautifully embossed leather binding. " Its not 
 in my fashion," he added, glancing slyly at Jane, 
 but the King will have it that we must take notes 
 of the Bishop's remarks, like so many school 
 boys. This is what he said: "I came once 
 myself to a place riding a journey homeward 
 from London, and sent word over-night into 
 the town that I would preach there in the morn- 
 ing, because it was a holy-day; and I took 
 my horse and my company and went thither. 
 I thought I should have found a great com- 
 pany in the church — when I came there the 
 church door was fast locked. I tarried there 
 half an hour and more; at last the key was 
 found, and one of the parish comes to me and 
 says: 'This is a busy day with us, we cannot 
 heare you, this is Robin Hoode's daye, the 
 parish is gone abroad to gather for Robin 
 Hoode.' I thought my rochet should have 
 been regarded, though I were not, but it would 
 not serve, but was fayne to give place to Robin 
 Hoode's men." 
 
 83 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Roger Ascham washed down a bit of fat capon 
 with a draught of red wine: "Small blame to 
 them" he commented, "that they should want 
 to celebrate their Kyngham with Robin Hood 
 as King of the May. 'Tis an old custom, and 
 harmless in its observance." He glanced up and 
 down the board, smihng genially, and received a 
 series of nodding approvals. 
 Aye so it is 
 
 "Many a time I've " 
 
 ■ It was always so- 
 
 But Jane frowned severely : 
 
 " Seek ye first the kingdom of God " she said 
 piously, "and afterwards if you will the Kings- 
 Game." 
 
 Aylmer bowed his approval as he caught the 
 grave eye of his pupil. 
 
 "My lady speaks the truth." he declared. 
 
 "We must shake off these foolish ceremonies 
 if the Protestant doctrine is to prevail." 
 
 Dudley shrugged his shoulders as he closed 
 the book and returned it to his pocket. 
 
 "How about the Lord of Misrule and his 
 'foolish ceremonies'" he quoted to Jane in an 
 undertone as he touched her arm. "I would 
 84 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 have you regard his Most Exalted Highness 
 at this present moment!" 
 
 She half turned her head to obtain a better 
 view of the other table, and her fine high-bred 
 face took on an expression of pity, mingled 
 with contempt, as she watched the antics of 
 Herbert and his companions. Instinctively 
 she lowered her head as the disgraceful sight 
 met her gaze — of Herbert intoxicated, and 
 making futile efforts to climb on the table. His 
 copious libations of the preceding night — a 
 time and place where it would have taken a 
 more experienced head than his to avoid the 
 shame of drinking too little; or the penalties 
 demanded of him who drank too much — added 
 to the various drinks of Christmas brewing, in 
 which he had indulged since early morn, had 
 proven too much for his excitable nature, so 
 that he was now shamefully inebriated. 
 
 But, even as she lowered her eyes, Jane was 
 conscious of the fact that her regard had at- 
 tracted attention. She felt instinctively, that 
 Herbert's redoubled efforts to mount the table, 
 would be followed by something disagreeable, 
 in which she or her sister Katharine would 
 85 
 
The Daughters 
 
 have undue prominence. She trembled a Httle 
 as his eyes met hers in instant, but confused 
 recognition. 
 
 "Now for the wedding — " he mumbled; and 
 a burst of loud laughter came from the round 
 table. 
 
 "Oh, what did he say.?" she asked Guilford 
 apprehensively, the noise drowning his words. 
 
 "Silence!" commanded Herbert, imperiously, 
 as he stood unsteadily on the table, and began 
 to pound it vigorously with his rod of oflSce — 
 "Silence!" he roared. 
 
 There was a gradual cessation of the tumult 
 as Herbert's imperative command rang through 
 the hall. 
 
 Then there was an ominous quiet. 
 
 Katharine — nervous, fearful, anticipative of 
 something she knew not what; but of which her 
 acute susceptibility and delicacy of feeling made 
 her conscious — Katharine glanced hurriedly at 
 the minstrel, and meeting his too ardent gaze 
 hung her head in some confusion. 
 
 When she raised her eyes it was to look 
 squarely into the blazing face of Herbert — full, 
 red, inflamed and furiously angry. 
 86 
 
GUILFORD DUDLEY 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 From his elevated position on the table he 
 was looking down upon her like an incarnate 
 imp of Satan. His uncouth garb of green and 
 yellow; his cap and bells; bells on his sleeves, 
 bells on his long pointed toes, tiny bells that 
 jingled comically with every wrathful gesture, 
 bells whose tinkle only added to his rage — made 
 him appear almost unworthy of even her friend- 
 ship. For the moment she felt happy in her 
 quarrel with such as he appeared to be. 
 
 But she shuddered under the malignancy of 
 his expression, at the malevolence of his gaze 
 as he slowly raised an arm and pointed toward 
 her with his wand of office. 
 
 "My lady Katharine" he began ceremoni- 
 ously and bowing low to her in mock deference 
 he measured his words, slowly, "before the 
 assembled guests — all my loyal subjects — I 
 choose you to be my Queen of Misrule; and in 
 conformity with the new religion, I do now 
 invite and bid you all to the marriage ceremony." 
 
VII. 
 A RESCUE 
 
 NSTANTLY all eyes 
 were turned towards the 
 young girl, and she felt 
 the warm blood rising to 
 the tips of her shapely 
 ears. 
 
 A disagreeable faintness crept slowly over 
 her as she realized the fact that she was the 
 observed of all the company; and she might have 
 succumbed to her weakness, had not a stimulat- 
 ing throb of indignation relieved her. 
 
 Now, she understood Herbert's expression. 
 Now, she realized the awkwardness of her posi- 
 tion; the fatuity of his designs. 
 
 He would marry her forsooth without her con- 
 sent ! He would have her willy-nilly. He would 
 take advantage of his authority, his foolish, 
 ridiculous authority; and that seemed to make 
 it the more contemptible, to think that as Lord 
 of Misrule, he had nominated her to be his wife ! 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 Such a proceeding had once been consummated; 
 but, with a common woman. 
 
 And to be married outside of the Church, 
 without any of the ceremonies so dear to the 
 heart of a woman, so necessary to the heart of 
 romantic Katharine. 
 
 Her indignation changed to anger, and then 
 arose to rage. She grew white and red by turns, 
 her throat swelhng, her eyes snapping danger- 
 ously. 
 
 "Oh! the wretch," she breathed into Jane's 
 ear. She glanced appealingly at her father only 
 to find him shaking with laughter at Herbert's 
 audacity. 
 
 She grew pale as death as she became con- 
 scious of the web that seemed to be ensnaring 
 her at every turn. At that moment she had no 
 desire to marry Herbert, indeed the liking that 
 she ever had for him had changed with the 
 swiftness of a woman's mind to positive dislike. 
 If he persisted in his determination — if he 
 used his authority — she felt that she would 
 hate him. 
 
 For an instant her heart stopped beating as 
 the thought flashed across her mind that behind 
 89 
 
The Daughters 
 
 the foolishness of Herbert there was method — 
 that she might be the victim of a stern pohtical 
 necessity. She had often discussed the matter 
 with Jane; and she had always insisted that 
 Herbert was the choice of her parents — by the 
 way her sister was also laughing at her confu- 
 sion. Then it was all understood, it had all 
 been arranged. 
 
 She raised her head to see Herbert coming 
 towards her followed by all his train of roystering 
 youths and her pallor changed to rosy crimson 
 as her fury increased towards him. He held 
 out his hand to her. 
 
 "Nay Herbert, I wish not the dignity " 
 
 She laughed, but anyone in their senses would 
 have known that such a laugh betokened no 
 good to him who had caused it. Her eyes blazed, 
 like twin sapphires in a setting of crimson velvet, 
 as she arose from her seat at the table and, bow- 
 ing low to her father craved his permission to 
 retire. 
 
 Herbert stared at her in open-eyed admira- 
 tion. The exquisite beauty of the girl had 
 already made her famous throughout all 
 England. He saw her young lithe form sway- 
 90 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 ing before him — her large blue eyes lustrous — 
 defiant, bewitching. Then her dark heavy 
 lashes, downcast, scarcely veiling the dangerous 
 glitter that was consuming him — modestly con- 
 cealing the fear that was in her. He saw the 
 tumultuous heaving of her white shoulders, the 
 rising and falling of the kerchief that covered 
 her lovely neck. He saw the quivering, high- 
 bred, sensitive nostrils dilating, the beauteous 
 mouth curving with scorn. 
 
 "No Kitty, you shall not!" exclaimed the 
 Duke, quickly, "it is but a farce, child," he 
 added soothingly, as he saw the now terrified 
 expression of her face, " Stand up beside Herbert, 
 and go on with the play." 
 
 But Katharine still hesitated, she wavered and 
 hung back. There was a slight commotion at 
 the head of the table, and then came the Earl 
 of Pembroke, father of young Herbert, ponder- 
 ously making his way around the tables, and in 
 and out through the group surrounding Katha- 
 rine. He was closely followed by her father — 
 the Duke of Suffolk. 
 
 They stood beside the frightened maid and 
 motioned the heavily cowled figure, who was 
 
 91 
 
The Daughters 
 
 to officiate as a priest, to proceed with the 
 ceremony. 
 
 "We will stand by you Kitty," said the Earl, 
 jocosely, "see, here is your father, also. Now 
 they can do you no harm." 
 
 Katharine's fear subsided and her anger 
 cooled, but nevert?jeless she was going to show 
 Herbert 
 
 " I am flattered," she began scornfully, as her 
 glance enveloped the sorry figure of the young 
 Lord; then catching the silly and bewildered 
 expression that began to cover his face, she burst 
 into rippling laughter. 
 
 "Katharine," he said, very close to her ear, 
 
 " If you really don't " He seemed to have 
 
 recovered his senses, as one coming out of sleep. 
 His intoxication was gone, and his fury had 
 vanished. He was pale and serious. 
 
 She drew her head away from him. 
 
 "Indeed I appreciate the honor," she said 
 in sarcasm, and her reply was lost in the laughter 
 of the guests who joined in her mirth. 
 
 " But Katharine," he persisted, " If you are 
 unwilling .f"' 
 
 Something seemed to weigh on the young 
 92 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 man's mind, something that made him hesitate. 
 
 '' If you will only answer one little question," 
 he breathed into her ear, earnestly, "then it 
 would matter but little, perhaps. Do you 
 Katharine ? Do you ?" he repeated. "Answer, 
 quick! while those fools are laughing! do you 
 love " 
 
 She cut him short with a toss of her head, 
 scornfully, impatiently; and drew apart from 
 him with evident displeasure. Her action and 
 manner could not have offended him more had 
 she struck him with her hand. He bit his under 
 lip, quivering with emotion, and straightened 
 his broad back, with a stern dignity of manner 
 that near brought her to his side. There were 
 times when Herbert was strikingly handsome. 
 As he drew himself up to his full stature he 
 towered above her — large, strong, full-blooded. 
 His dark features were drawn and tense; his 
 eyes, of a glittering black, had lost their irreso- 
 lute, flickering light, and were fixed with a 
 masterful determination. He had the appear- 
 ance of a strong, powerful man, one who would 
 have his way at any cost. 
 
 The Duke, her father, was watching them 
 93 
 
The Daughters 
 
 closely. He twisted the ends of his long mous- 
 tache, impatiently. 
 
 "Nay, there are no ifs and buts," he com- 
 mented on the few words of the conversation 
 that had reached his ears, "go on with the play." 
 
 He nodded to the priestly looking figure 
 who, at once, began a jargon in Latin, with 
 such uncouth faulty tongue that the saintly 
 father, who was buried in the Abbey hard by, 
 must have groaned and turned in his grave. 
 
 At a pause in the performance the cowled 
 person thrust forth from beneath his mantle, a 
 naked arm and dirty hand. 
 
 "The ring?" he mumbled. 
 
 Katharine started violently. "Nay," she 
 protested, "we can pretend." The ceremony 
 was becoming altogether too real for her liking. 
 
 And, the outstretched naked arm and dirty 
 hand had an evil look. She wondered what 
 manner of man could have such fingers and 
 nails. She tried to penetrate his disguise, to 
 seek his face beneath the heavy hood; but he 
 hung his head lower, and evaded her searching 
 eyes. 
 
 "Faith, I forgot it," Herbert laughed; and 
 94 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 the crowd of guests, pressing closer around him, 
 enjoying his confusion, laughed also, uproari- 
 ously. 
 
 Then they parted to make way for the old 
 minstrel who, as a privileged guest, was pushing 
 them aside, right and left, until he had reached 
 Herbert's side. 
 
 "Here, my Lord," he said aloud; and taking 
 from his pouch a little wisp of silk he unwrapped 
 it, and held aloft a beautiful ring of the most 
 curious and exquisite workmanship. It was 
 finely wrought of burnished gold, and its many 
 gems, cunningly set, flashed and glittered in the 
 firelight like one great jewel. 
 
 There was a chorus of admiring exclamations 
 from the ladies as they encircled Katharine. 
 
 "Well, Kitty!" said one, "With that ring I 
 would care little who was the man." 
 
 "Aye, even a fool, like Herbert." 
 
 "Nay, if it were but a poor scholar like 
 Ascham," said a mischievous damsel to whom 
 the author had been quoting from his own writ- 
 ings, "with such a ring I might be tempted to 
 foolishness." 
 
 They jostled and laughed, made merry in 
 95 
 
The Daughters 
 
 the good old Christmas manner, while Katharine 
 stood quaking in her pointed slippers; and turn- 
 ing red and white by turns, as the minstrel's 
 familiar voice rang in her ears. 
 
 "A Christmas bauble, for my lady Katharine," 
 he shouted above the noisy tumult. 
 
 Herbert took the ring, felt its weight in his 
 hand, and, noting its surpassing richness of 
 design, placed it on Katharine's finger. 
 
 "It bodes no good," he said, banteringly, 
 "for another man to find the wedding ring," 
 then, noting the deadly pallor that was alter- 
 nating with the red in her cheeks, he added, 
 encouragingly, " But, the old man's gray beard 
 will stand as a warrant for his conduct." Then 
 he turned to the minstrel, " I will give you a fair 
 price, old song bird," he said, slowly, "if you 
 came by it honestly." 
 
 " I want no price," said the minstrel in a loud 
 voice, so that as many as could hear him would 
 draw closer through curiosity as he edged closer 
 to the priest. 
 
 Then, with a strong jerk from the back, he 
 pulled the cowl from the fellow's head. 
 
 There, squinting and blinking in the strong 
 96 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 light, like an ill-omened night bird, full in the 
 gaze of the astonished merry-makers, stood 
 Friar Grouche! 
 
 Katharine gave one frightened glance at the 
 ugly, distorted features of the black friar, grew 
 deadly pale and would have fallen had not the 
 minstrel's arm closed around her. 
 
 At the same instant, witli his other arm he 
 dealt a swinging blow across Herbert's face that 
 upset him backwards over one of the benches 
 that lined the long table. 
 
 All the pent up anger of a man slow to wrath 
 was in the stroke that he gave. 
 
 "Take that! Beast, Fool, Knave and liar 
 that thou art!" 
 
 He pulled the white beard from his face and 
 threw it after Herbert in a fit of ungovernable 
 fury. Then he raised his glowing, handsome 
 face and shouted down the hall — " A Seymour — 
 A Seymour!" and as his sword whirled from its 
 scabbard, he pushed Katharine to the wall 
 behind him and swung the blade high in the 
 air, "For the King!" he shouted even more 
 loudly, "and all who hate a damned con- 
 spiracy ! " 
 
 7 97 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 At the sound of his voice near half a score of 
 young fellows arose hastily from their seats at 
 the lower end of the table, and drawing their 
 swords made their way to his side. Surrounding 
 the couple they formed a bristling circle of de- 
 fenders, their swords pointing so that from every 
 side there was no approach, unless one wished 
 to be spitted like a fowl for roasting. 
 
VIII. 
 MARRIED 
 
 HERE was so much 
 noise and confusion 
 
 among 
 
 the 
 
 guests, 
 
 so 
 
 much merry-making, 
 that many who heard 
 Seymour's voice paid 
 him but scant atten- 
 tion; there were some however whose faces 
 paled and whose hearts took on a thumping 
 with such violence that they could scarce 
 conceal their emotions. There was Guilford 
 Dudley in particular, who nervously grasped 
 Lady Jane by the arm and attempted to lead 
 her from the room and with no gentle urging. 
 
 "For your sake, Jane," he explained, in- 
 wardly cursing his chattering jaw and trembling 
 utterance, "for your sake it were best that we 
 withdraw from this unseemly brawl." He was 
 almost dragging her across the room when she 
 suddenly stopped and faced him. "For my 
 99 
 
The Daughters 
 
 sake, Guilford," she repeated slowly "I fear 
 no harm in my father's house." Then noticing 
 his extreme agitation, she drew herself away 
 from his grasp and gazed at him curiously with 
 her large, serene, eyes. 
 
 She had her father's aquiline, aristocratic 
 features; and the calm demeanor of one who by 
 birth and education is superior to many of life's 
 ills. As she regarded his excited face, hers took 
 on an expression of amused contempt. " I shall 
 remain here with Katharine," she said quietly, 
 " but, if you have had ought to do with the con- 
 spiracy that sent Somerset to the Tower, beware 
 of his son and his company yonder." 
 
 She nodded significantly towards young 
 Seymour, and his little group of brave de- 
 fenders. 
 
 As Dudley's eyes followed the direction indi- 
 cated by Jane his nervousness increased. 
 
 "I will have the meddlesome busybody 
 arrested," he said with a sorry show of indigna- 
 tion. "Not by the servants?" inquired Jane 
 quickly, "Seymour is one of us, it were better 
 
 for you " She turned to find that Dudley 
 
 had hurriedly left the Hall. 
 
 lOO 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 The door had scarcely closed behind Dudley 
 when Jane's father moved close to her side. His 
 face was flushed with anger as he viewed the 
 disorder of his table. 
 
 " I saw Dudley slip quietly without," he said 
 in an undertone, "Is he ill?" 
 
 Her calmness remained unruffled. 
 
 "Guilford was not feeling well," she observed 
 dryly, "and he thought that the fresh air might 
 revive him." 
 
 The Duke's quick, inquiring glance was lost 
 in the depths of her hazel eyes. He shrugged 
 his shoulders, impatiently. 
 
 "Rubbish," he exclaimed irritably, "with 
 three good men we could have Seymour's gang 
 by the heels in less time than a friar could say 
 his prayers. Go, Jane and call him." 
 
 He stopped suddenly as his roving eye rested 
 on young Herbert who was crawHng, as best he 
 could, from under the bench whence Seymour 
 had tossed him. His eyes were red, his face 
 swollen, and the short black hair on his head 
 seemed to rise, hke that on the back of a dog. 
 In an instant he would have thrown himself on 
 the bristling sword points encircling Katharine 
 
 lOI 
 
The Daughters 
 
 and Seymour, when a heavy hand grasped him 
 firmly by his collar. 
 
 "Back! back! you young cub," came a deep 
 bass voice in his ears. " I want no holes in your 
 skin, at present — leave young Seymour to me." 
 
 The powerful old Earl of Pembroke held 
 firmly to the neck of his struggling offspring 
 with one hand, while the other followed a silver 
 chain about his shoulders until it grasped the 
 ring of a curiously carved hunting horn. Before 
 raising it to his lips he nodded carelessly to the 
 Duke, his host. "By your leave, my Lord," 
 he began; and, although his voice was low and 
 his words came slowly, one could see that he was 
 holding his temper with much effort, "I have 
 no wish to violate the hospitality of any man, 
 nor can it he said that William Herbert is unable 
 to give and take in Christmas frolic, but, this 
 play, as you term it, seems to me to have pro- 
 gressed beyond the bounds of reason, even to 
 stout knocks and blows, and insulting words 
 such as no member of my family has ever listened 
 to and kept silence." 
 
 He paused, wrestling for command of his 
 temper, his heavy, almost burly figure showing 
 
 I02 
 
WILLIAM HERBERT, EARL OF PEMBROKK 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 in marked contrast to the spare aristocratic 
 slenderness of his host who stood pale-featured 
 but composed beside his daughter Jane. "The 
 play, my lord Suffolk," he went on, heavily, 
 "the play, as I understood the plot, from you 
 and Northumberland, did not include yon son 
 of the Protector?" He looked significantly at 
 young Seymour and his guard; and the edge of 
 his anger hardened and grew keen, a paroxysm 
 of rage overspread his face. 
 
 "No son of mine, my lord, shall take such 
 damned treatment in your house, or even in the 
 King's palace," he roared. 
 
 So saying he blew a shrill blast on his horn, a 
 peculiar call, that was answered almost immedi- 
 ately from without. In a few moments appeared 
 in each doorway leading into the great hall, a 
 body of men; uniformed in plain blue cloth, 
 with chains of gold, and badges of a dragon on 
 their sleeves. Over their suits they wore long 
 capes, also of blue cloth. To the number of 
 perhaps a hundred this brave retinue of the 
 choleric Earl came pouring in from every pas- 
 sage way, their swords unsheathed, their eyes 
 seeking the cause for their assembling. Then 
 103 
 
The Daughters 
 
 they found their lord, who had summoned them, 
 and at his command they pressed back, with the 
 flat side of their swords, the curious guests; and 
 ranged themselves, like a living hedge of blue, 
 around the little circle that enclosed Katharine 
 and Seymour. 
 
 "Gentlemen" said the Earl to those who 
 pressed closely around him, — of the hundred 
 men in blue perhaps fifty were of good fore- 
 bears, — " disarm those young blades, and escort 
 Seymour ten miles towards London." 
 
 There was a sharp play of swords, a clicking 
 and rattling of steel as the blue coats closed in 
 upon the little band of defenders. 
 
 The action was short and decisive; in fact 
 the entire incident, from the unmasking of 
 Friar Grouche, was over in the space of a few 
 moments, so that many of the guests, hazy in 
 their minds and good-natured from much eating 
 and drinking, regarding the affair as part of the 
 Christmas festivities, laughed uproariously at 
 the sorry figure of young Seymour, as several 
 lusty retainers of the Earl Hfted him bodily to 
 their shoulders; and, despite his kicks and 
 struggles, carried him from the Hall. 
 104 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Katharine stood flushing with mortification 
 as her father came forward and took her hand. 
 He was suave and polite to a degree that boded 
 no good for the young girl, as he led her to the 
 irate Earl and his enraged son Herbert. 
 
 "The play gets somewhat rougher my lord," 
 he said, "as the dinner progresses. When wine 
 gets to the head of these youngsters it floods 
 their brains." Then he bowed lower to the 
 younger Herbert and laughed, " my young lord 
 of Misrule no doubt had matters so arranged 
 as to give the play the appearance of a quarrel." 
 His piercing eyes sought those of Herbert, and 
 his look conveyed a meaning that was not lost 
 on either father or son. "The plot was well 
 arranged and acted with such skill as to deceive 
 so brave a wit as my lord the Earl of Pembroke." 
 He bowed again to the Earl and to the guests 
 who were within hearing, "Perhaps," he went 
 on shrewdly, "perhaps it was I who was de- 
 ceived, and," he looked around to the group of 
 blue uniformed men, "the introduction of these 
 gentlemen to our board was also previously con- 
 ceived and dexterously consummated with the 
 connivance of my lord the Earl ? " 
 
The Daughters 
 
 The bluff old soldier, who could no more act 
 a part than a bull-dog could play a fiddle, whose 
 anger had fallen even more quickly than it 
 arose; and, who was willing to retire from a 
 situation that was fast becoming ridiculous, 
 caught eagerly at the Duke's suggestion. He 
 forced a loud laugh and nodded gaily to young 
 Herbert. 
 
 "Faith the boy did well his part," he ex- 
 claimed aloud so that as many as possible of the 
 guests could hear him, "even to the rough tumble 
 across yonder bench, which was indeed acted 
 most truly to nature." Then he added with 
 affected disparagement, "My part was but to 
 bring on the chorus," He inclined his head to- 
 wards his retainers, who, taking the cue from his 
 smiling countenance, cheered him clamorously. 
 
 Herbert, glad in the turn of affairs and noting 
 the perturbed face of Katharine, moved to the 
 side of the young girl, who stood white-faced 
 and silent through it all. 
 
 "It was not my fault Katharine," he whis- 
 pered close to her ear, "that Seymour " 
 
 "Hush!" she interrupted him, impatiently, 
 "My father is speaking." 
 1 06 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 And, as he spoke she caught the words that 
 fell from the Duke's Hps, as the prisoner at the 
 bar hears the concluding words of the judge's 
 charge, her face grew rigid, and her eyes lost 
 their expression. 
 
 "My lord Pembroke," he was saying, in a 
 loud voice from the elevated platform at the 
 head of the table, "has honored our house this 
 day. The play just enacted, in which our 
 beloved daughter Katharine was joined in wed- 
 lock with the lord of Misrule, was more than a 
 play, inasmuch as the ceremony was performed 
 by Friar Grouche, a priest in good standing, 
 with our consent and that of my lord the Earl 
 of Pembroke." 
 
 He turned to the astonished guests and raised 
 a tankard of wine, "to the young couple; may 
 happiness attend them." 
 
 A death-like silence prevailed in the hall; no 
 man daring to say the first word, until a cue 
 could be had from his neighbor. For the road 
 to Tower Hill was worn smooth with the feet 
 of those who, for conscience sake, had held their 
 opinions. 
 
 The words of Henry Grey were not to be ques- 
 107 
 
The Daughters 
 
 tioned by those who sat lower at his table. A 
 man who could have married his daughter Jane 
 to the King, had he so willed, could of a surety 
 marry another daughter to lord Herbert, if he 
 so desired. But, that a priest should have per- 
 formed the rites ? There, was a morsel that 
 threatened to interfere with their digestion. The 
 Protector, Somerset in the Tower, under sen- 
 tence of death, the boy King Edward shilly- 
 shallying with Henry H the French King, and 
 with Charles V. the Spanish Emperor, his sister 
 Mary observing daily mass with her chaplain, 
 his Council revising the book of Common 
 Prayer; in Heaven's name! which way does the 
 wind blow .? They looked from one to the other, 
 and then at the Duke who was standing with 
 tankard held aloft and all rose to their feet. 
 
 Katharine heard the loud clinking of glasses, 
 a buzzing noise, a hum of many voices, faintly; 
 as though coming from afar. Then, she saw 
 the wicked, squinting eyes of the black friar, 
 leering at her, as through an intervening veil of 
 mist, and her heart stood still. An oppressive 
 weight seemed to have descended on her, bear- 
 ing her down so that her knees grew weak, and 
 1 08 
 
of Suflrolk 
 
 trembled beneath her heaviness of mind and 
 body. A numbness, against which she bravely 
 struggled, pervaded her senses; so that when 
 young Herbert spoke to her she was scarcely 
 aware of his presence. When he touched her 
 hand the effect was magical. She started vio- 
 lently, like one awakened from sleep, her eyes 
 grew large and round, her brows contracted, the 
 corners of her mouth fell; every line in her young 
 face showed dislike, disapproval. 
 
 She drew herself up to her slender height. " I 
 shall never be your wife, Herbert." 
 
 She said it quickly, earnestly, almost pro- 
 phetically, her large blue eyes searching his, 
 almost in pity; she spoke as though she foresaw 
 events that would cause him pain. 
 
 Then, first craving permission of her parents, 
 she withdrew from the great hall, and went to 
 her own room. 
 
PjiRT SECOND 
 
IX. 
 MARIE 
 
 UTSIDE, the dull gray 
 afternoon settled more 
 dark and dismal as the 
 day grew older; the 
 apathetic, listless face of 
 Nature showed signs of 
 increasing gloom, as the 
 rain began to fall in pattering, dull monotony. 
 Within the great hall below, the sound of 
 mirth and festivity arose with heightening vol- 
 ume as the night advanced. In the old part of 
 the house, in the privacy of her room, lay 
 Katharine, her face buried in the pillows of the 
 narrow bed that stood in a corner, sobbing as 
 though her heart would break. It was a little 
 room, with a door that led by an outside stair- 
 way of stone to the garden below, a very small 
 room with high walls, hung about with ancient 
 tapestry in which were depicted hunters with 
 falcons, trees, and rustic bridges — Katharine's 
 8 "3 
 
The Daughters 
 
 room; and when one included the small garden 
 at the foot of the outside stairs, it might be said 
 that it was Katharine's world, so seldom had 
 she strayed from it. 
 
 While she wept, prone upon the bed, her 
 young French maid, Marie, drew the heavy 
 curtains of figured silk over the narrow case- 
 ment windows, and was deftly arranging a few 
 sticks of dry wood in the fireplace ; softly, care- 
 fully so that no harsh sounds should disturb 
 the grief of her mistress. 
 
 Presently, a cheerful, bright flame, twisting 
 in and out amongst the bits of wood, cast a 
 lively, dancing light on the walls, on the ceiling, 
 and on the fantastic faces deeply carved in the 
 big oaken bench that stood against the wall. As 
 the faggots kindled and the flame grew larger 
 under the skilful coaxing of Marie, the little 
 room took on a cheery glow that was warmly 
 reflected from the shining folds of the red silk 
 curtains. Marie was handy, Marie was clever; 
 but, above all things, Marie was wise. She tip- 
 toed around the room, softly, anxiously, but 
 with the firm conviction that Nature was doing 
 more for her distracted mistress than she could 
 114 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 do; so, Marie went about assisting Nature and 
 making things comfortable. 
 
 When the fire burst into a crackling blaze 
 she fetched a little kettle of water and swung 
 it on an over-hanging crane. Then she dabbed 
 her plump fists into the cushions that covered 
 the bench and set them in order. And, as she 
 went around the room attending to her homely 
 duties, the sound of Katharine's sobbing grew 
 less and then ceased. 
 
 Marie stood still and held her breath. "Now 
 if the blessed child could sleep — Mother of 
 Sorrow — I mean our Father." For Marie was 
 but recently turned Protestant. Then she prayed 
 in her native tongue as suited her best. There 
 was a period of silence, a deep sigh and Katha- 
 rine sat up on the edge of her bed. Her face 
 was flushed and wet with tears, her hair was 
 wildly dishevelled; but, her blue eyes glittered 
 in the firelight with the cold hardness of bur- 
 nished steel. The spirit of that persevering and 
 determined woman, her grand-mother, Mary, 
 daughter of Henry VH, who, for duty's sake 
 married Louis XH of France and afterwards 
 her heart's desire, Charles Brandon, seemed to 
 115 
 
The Daughters 
 
 inhabit those wondrous eyes of hers as she fixed 
 them on her maid. 
 
 "Marie," she called from out of the shadow. 
 
 "Yes, my lady." 
 
 "Marie, I am going away." 
 
 "Yes, my lady." 
 
 The Httle French maid, eternally occupied 
 after the manner of her nation, was arranging 
 the disordered coverings of the bed preparatory 
 to undressing her mistress for the night. In 
 Marie's mind there was but one thing to do 
 under all circumstances, whether of happiness 
 or sorrow, and that was the first thing that came 
 to hand. So she dabbed at the pillows, smoothed 
 the coverings, and busied herself about the room. 
 
 Katharine's eyes followed her as she neatly 
 arranged the things on the table; the sheets of 
 music; the embroidery; and the little horn book, 
 when she saw that, the sigh struggling from her 
 heart, between suppressed sobs, caught spas- 
 modically in her throat, nigh to suffocation. 
 
 "I am going away, forever, Marie." 
 
 As she said it Katharine's under lip twitched 
 ominously, and her eyelids trembled, as though 
 the tears were again to fall. 
 ii6 
 
MARY TUDOR 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Marie laid some larger pieces of wood on the 
 lire, and then dropped the oaken bar across 
 the door. 
 
 "Yes, my lady," she commented, briskly. 
 Altogether Marie took the announcement of 
 Katharine's departure with what, under the 
 circumstances, might be called indifference. 
 It served to stay the flow of tears from Katha- 
 rine's blue eyes, and also to cause that impetuous 
 young woman to glide from her bed to the floor 
 with a most remarkable suddenness. She caught 
 the little maid by her arm. "Marie!" she 
 exclaimed, indignantly, "are you not sorry, 
 that I am going away — forever?" Her voice 
 arose on the last word with anxious fervor. 
 Marie shook her head and smiled hopefully. 
 "But, no, my lady," she answered confidently, 
 "because we go together." Katharine's hand 
 slipped from the maid's arm as she caught the 
 happy expression in her bright upturned face. 
 
 "Together?" she questioned. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! certainly, always and forever." 
 The warm hearted girl, unable to longer con- 
 trol the affection that she had for her mistress, 
 threw her arms around Katharine and pressed 
 
 117 
 
The Daughters 
 
 her tightly to her bosom. All the barriers of 
 artificially constructed rank fell awayand melted, 
 before the touch of nature that made these two 
 souls equal. 
 
 Then, remembering her duties, with a hawk's 
 wing Marie carefully brushed the ashes on 
 the hearth. "Zut!" she exclaimed impatiently, 
 "what is this land of fog and rain, rain, rain: 
 always the sky is gray?" She scraped the 
 hearthstone viciously. Then she stood up and 
 clasping her hands in front she gazed thought- 
 fully into the cheerful fire. "Yes, together we 
 shall go away my lady — to France, perhaps ? " 
 She said it cautiously, tentatively. 
 
 "To France.?" 
 
 The maid's suggestion struck Katharine as 
 an inspiration. "To France," she repeated as 
 she sat on a low stool, her elbows on her knees, 
 her chin resting in the palms of her white hands. 
 Then she turned suddenly towards the inner 
 door, the one leading into her sister Jane's 
 apartment. 
 
 "My sister?" she asked as she held a warn- 
 ing finger to her lips. Then she felt a pang of 
 remorse as the thought entered her mind that 
 ii8 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 already she had commenced to play a part the 
 end of which might lead to, she knew not where. 
 
 "My lady Jane is in the great Hall, with 
 my lord Dudley," answered Marie promptly. 
 Nevertheless she stole softly to the door and, 
 Hstening for a moment, she pushed it gently 
 open, "the room is dark," she said "there is 
 no one there." Then she closed the door and 
 fastened it with its brass chain and pin. Com- 
 ing back to Katharine she stood behind her, and 
 began deftly to remove the hair pins and fasten- 
 ings that confined her wealth of golden hair. 
 " But yes," came the soft voice of the dark eyed 
 maid to Katharine's wounded spirit, " to France, 
 why not?" She brushed the fair tresses, that 
 gleamed in the fire-light like threads of silk and 
 gold, with a soft, even, soothing pressure that 
 calmed the irritable nerves. 
 
 "Why not.''" repeated Katharine, while her 
 eyes were fixed on the red embers that glowed 
 beneath the flames. 
 
 The hard worldly look had left her face, and 
 in its place lurked the mild trance-Uke expres- 
 sion of one who revels in a world of imagination. 
 
 Marie's light fingers were skilfully plaiting 
 119 
 
The Daughters 
 
 the masses of lustrous hair into one long heavy 
 braid. 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle," she sighed, "there is 
 but one France, Mon Dieu, but there the people 
 smile; and the sun shines. It is in France, 
 Mademoiselle, that one sees the flowers, and 
 where one hears the songs of birds, and the 
 laughter of children . . . and if, perhaps, 
 we go together you will be happy; so happy. 
 Ah, Mon Dieu," she spoke almost inaudibly as 
 she fell on her knees behind her Mistress, to tie 
 with a ribbon the end of the long burnished 
 braid, "in France one is contented and may 
 marry who they please." 
 
 The words recalled Katharine from her rev- 
 eries. She straightened her back and brought 
 her hands together in an agony of indecision. 
 
 "But, Marie, I am married," she wailed. 
 The little maid sprang to her feet and raised 
 her hands in protest. 
 
 "Mon Dieu, it is not your fault. Mademoi- 
 selle," she exclaimed, briskly, so confidently in 
 fact that Katharine observed her curiously. 
 
 "Then you know what happened at dinner .?" 
 she inquired, hopefully. 
 1 20 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Marie held up one smooth hand, palm up- 
 wards, and blew an imaginary thistle-down 
 from its pink surface. 
 
 "Poof! it is nothing," she said scornfully, 
 "Mademoiselle is not the least bit married, 
 No, Mademoiselle, not so much as I am to 
 Jacques." She paused and flushed a rosy red 
 that was not unpleasant to look upon, as Kath- 
 arine smiled. "But you are not the least bit 
 married to Jacques ? " she asked, anxiously. 
 Marie shrugged her plump shoulders, express- 
 ively and returned her mistress' smile. 
 
 "Pas encore, Mademoiselle. In France one 
 cannot be taken unawares by a villainous 
 
 Jacobin like, like " She stopped, crossed 
 
 herself, and peered nervously into the dark 
 corners of the room . . . "Hist!" 
 
 Katharine started violently as the little maid 
 held up a finger. "Nonsense, Marie," she said 
 petulantly. " It was only a night bird entangled 
 in the ivy." Again she gazed moodily into the 
 fire, absorbed in thought. 
 
 Her vague desire to flee from her surroundings 
 that had become hateful to her, and her growing 
 indignation at the authors of the trick, of which 
 
 121 
 
The Daughters 
 
 she was the innocent victim, the spirit of her 
 ancestors; these were revolving in her mind, 
 and crystallizing into a firm resolution with 
 increasing strength. There were a few moments 
 of faltering indecision as her gaze, following the 
 flickering fire-light around the room, rested lov- 
 ingly on its familiar objects. 
 
 She recalled many hours of ennui as well as 
 of contentment, but the joyous hours seemed 
 to have far outnumbered the others. . . 
 
 Within the heavy walls of an English Manor 
 in those days there was not much of brightness 
 or enjoyment for a young girl of Katharine's 
 temperament; but, such as it was, it was Home. 
 As she hesitated, the fire-light touched with its 
 radiance, and brought more clearly to her view, 
 all the intimate and personal objects of her home 
 life. On the table was the chess board; the 
 pieces of beaten silver lying in disorder, as she 
 had left them, yesterday. . . "Yesterday? 
 Was it but yesterday.?" she asked herself, 
 aloud. And Marie, as in duty bound answered, 
 "Yes, my lady." 
 
 "No, surely," she went on as though Marie 
 was not present, " It was the day before Christ- 
 
 122 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 mas, when Jane and I " Then she noticed 
 
 that the maid was arranging the disordered 
 chessmen, and she called to her as one coming 
 out of a dream: "Marie, what day is this ?" 
 
 The maid, accustomed to the vagaries of her 
 young mistress, put the chessboard with its men 
 of silver on a small shelf that over-hung the wide 
 oaken bench, and answered, lightly, " But what 
 should it be, my lady, if not the blessed day of 
 Christmas?" 
 
 "Christmas Day," repeated the unhappy 
 girl, as her head hung lower, and her chin sank 
 more deeply into the palms of her hands. 
 
 "And I was so happy, Marie, only the day 
 before?" .... 
 
 For a long time she sat thinking, thinking. 
 The minutes lengthened as she sat motionless, 
 in unbroken reverie. 
 
X. 
 JACQUES 
 
 £)HEN Katharine arose and 
 drew her slender form to 
 its full height, she seemed 
 to have advanced in years 
 and dignity. In that brief 
 space of time, during 
 which she had suffered 
 her first great sorrow, the loving, stormy, impet- 
 uous, forgiving child, seemed to change as by a 
 miracle to a cool, calculating, determined woman. 
 "Marie," she ordered, "We leave here to- 
 night." She stooped and pulled from their 
 hiding place, under the bed, a pair of light 
 saddle-bags. "These will hold the few neces- 
 sary things that we need." She paused; "from 
 Leicester we go to London." 
 
 "From there," suggested Marie, breathless, 
 "we sail for France.?" 
 
 "To No Man's Land." she added, mockingly. 
 Then pitying the disappointment of her maid, 
 124 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 whose countenance fell abruptly, she explained, 
 "I will first seek Edward the King, who, being 
 my own age and in a measure connected, will 
 of his tender pity release me from this hateful 
 plot." Marie's face grew more troubled. 
 
 " Pardon, my lady, but it is said that my lord 
 Herbert " 
 
 She was interrupted by a loud double knock 
 on the outer door. 
 
 Katharine, overwrought and sensitive, uttered 
 a cry of alarm as her maid advanced to open the 
 door. 
 
 "Wait, wait, Marie," she commanded. 
 
 In another moment she had slipped behind 
 the curtains of her bed and drew them close 
 together. "Now, Marie," she directed from 
 behind the curtains. "I am away, away; not 
 here you understand .? There is no one here 
 but you, and you do not know when " 
 
 Another series of double knocks rattled im- 
 patiently on the outer door. 
 
 "Yes, yes, my lady," Marie answered her 
 
 mistress, "I understand you perfectly." Then 
 
 she addressed herself to the unknown visitor. 
 
 "Mon Dieu, monsieur le Diable, for no other 
 
 I2S 
 
The Daughters 
 
 would knock at a lady's door in that manner, 
 but you are in a hurry " 
 
 She tripped lightly to the door and raised the 
 oaken bar; then she opened it wide to admit the 
 vociferous person of an excited young French- 
 man. 
 
 "Jacques!" she exclaimed as she caught sight 
 of his disordered countenance — and her temper 
 arose. 
 
 He was an attendant at the dinner table and 
 was attired as one of Herbert's retainers. Over 
 his fantastic costume he wore a long blue cloak 
 that reached nearly to his feet; in his hand he 
 held a bonnet, trimmed with velvet and a waving 
 plume of feathers. He had taken advantage of 
 the many temptations offered him, so that his 
 volatile nature was aflame with a pride and 
 courage known as — Dutch. 
 
 He looked over the shoulder of the maid, and, 
 seeing no one in the room, he caught her sud- 
 denly around the waist and kissed her cordially. 
 " Marie, my little one," he said endearingly as 
 he attempted to repeat the salute, but she 
 slipped from his heavy embrace in the twinkling 
 of an eye. 
 
 126 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 "Peste! You are abominable," said Marie 
 indignantly, as the mixed aroma of his various 
 potations assailed her delicate nostrils, " What's 
 the matter with you ?" 
 
 The young man made another effort to catch 
 her but she easily evaded his clumsy endeavors 
 by keeping the table between them; and all the 
 time she was making signs to him that the fool- 
 ish fellow missed seeing. 
 
 Then she changed her tone of voice. 
 
 " Eh bien, what brings you here at this hour .^" 
 she demanded, sternly. 
 
 He bowed politely. "My love first, and duty 
 next," he repHed, ceremoniously. One could 
 perceive from his exaggerated manner that he 
 was imitating some of the young lords who were 
 in the hall below. 
 
 Marie laughed musically. 
 
 "Then it is time for thy duty," she said, 
 logically. And he began: 
 
 "My lord Herbert, lord of Misrule, and lead- 
 ing devil in Hell's kitchen, below, is pleased to 
 enquire regarding the health of his wife, my 
 lady Kath " 
 
 He got so far when there was a creaking sound 
 127 
 
The Daughters 
 
 from the bed in the corner, the next instant the 
 curtains were flung apart and Katharine blazed 
 upon him. 
 
 "Tell your lord, the Devil, to go to to 
 
 return from whence he came. Go!" 
 
 She stamped her foot passionately as the 
 frightened youth hastily gathered up his long 
 cloak and fled from her presence. 
 
 "His wife, indeed!" she panted, contemptu- 
 ously, her throat contracting so that she could 
 scarcely talk, "a sorry day when the daughter 
 of a Duke can be trapped into marriage at 
 Christmas tide like a — a common " 
 
 Her voice failed her for rage and indignation, 
 as she threw herself on the bed in a paroxysm 
 of temper. . . 
 
 Meanwhile Marie, the wise, slipped quietly 
 from behind the table and out into the long dark 
 corridor that led to the great stairway. Softly, 
 on tip-toe, she followed swiftly the luckless 
 messenger of "his exalted highness the lord of 
 Misrule," and, overtaking him at the top of the 
 stairs, she lightly touched his shoulder. 
 
 "Jacques," she whispered tenderly. 
 
 The young man turned at her touch and the 
 128 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 sound of her voice, as a flare of light from the 
 hall below illumined the broad stairway. 
 
 It fell upon her laughing, upturned face, and 
 made a most enticing picture, but his heart was 
 full of wrath, and he would have none of her 
 blandishments. He turned his back on her, 
 folded his arms and stood, obstinately staring 
 at the hangings on the wall. 
 
 "Jacques, thou silly boy," came to him lov- 
 ingly, more tenderly, from behind him, some- 
 where. Then he felt a warm pair of arms with 
 their fringes of dainty ruffles, around his neck, 
 clinging to him and trying vainly to bring him 
 to her level. 
 
 "Oh, thou art so tall and straight, Jacques," 
 she pouted, fretfully, "thou might stoop, a little, 
 just a little." She was standing on her pointed 
 toes, her red Hps close to his ear as he turned 
 suddenly, and caught her in much the same way 
 that one would capture a bright-colored butter- 
 fly, that hovered too near. 
 
 There was a stifled scream as Marie's head 
 and shoulders were enveloped in the voluminous 
 folds of the long blue cloak, by the dexterous 
 arm of her lover. . . . 
 9 129 
 
The Daughters 
 
 " But you said I was abominable," he accused 
 her, as they moved into the shadow. 
 
 "And my lady Katharine within plain hear- 
 ing," she reminded him, rebukingly. "Thou 
 foolish Jacques, when wilt thou ever learn dis- 
 cretion ? " 
 
 He was about to answer her when she laid 
 a warning finger across his lips 
 
 " Hist ! " she cautioned him, " there is some one 
 coming." 
 
 A door swung open noisily behind them and 
 out walked Henry Grey, the master of the house, 
 and his guest William Herbert, the Earl of 
 Pembroke. There was scarcely time for the 
 lovers to step quickly aside behind the tapestry 
 hangings. They were engaged in earnest con- 
 versation and apparently oblivious to their 
 surroundings. 
 
 "But, my lord," said Pembroke, heavily — 
 his voice was thick with good wine — "there 
 may be some doubt as to the legality of such a 
 marriage. In these times " 
 
 The Duke, whose arm was linked in that of 
 the other interrupted quickly, "exactly, in these 
 times," he repeated confidentially, "nothing is 
 130 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 legal. But, I have Northumberland's word for 
 it that Somerset will be " He glanced fear- 
 fully around the corridor and whispered a word 
 into the Earl's ear that made the stout old 
 soldier turn pale. 
 
 "No; will he go that far?" He twisted his 
 neck in an uncomfortable manner and looked 
 ill at ease. "And how about the Council?" 
 Suffolk snapped his finger lightly. 
 
 " They will all do as he directs. A few months 
 at the furthest and my daughter Jane will marry 
 
 his son Guilford Dudley, and then " He 
 
 turned squarely to look into the Earl's eyes, 
 and kept silence. Pembroke stuck both hands 
 into the pockets of his waistcoat and hung his 
 head in deep thought. " I see," he said, shaking 
 his head and compressing his lips, tightly. 
 Then, as if changing the subject, he said, "They 
 tell me that the young King's health is none of 
 the best?" 
 
 They were walking slowly down the corridor. 
 "No, Dudley says " 
 
 Then their voices streamed away into the 
 noise below, as they passed on down the great 
 oaken stairs. 
 
 131 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Jacques and Marie came, fearfully, from 
 behind the curtains. 
 
 "Dieu merci," she said, trembling at the 
 narrowness of their escape, "And monsieur had 
 found us eavesdropping, and loitering about 
 the corridors, we would have had our two ears 
 nailed to a post as a warning to idlers." Jacques 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Truly, there was a boy suffered that, in the 
 City the other day, because he said that the 
 Princess Mary would be the next ruler." 
 
 Then, the business in hand recurring sharply 
 in Marie's memory, she caught the flap of her 
 companion's long blue cloak and examined it 
 critically. "Wouldst thou know it, my stupid, 
 amongst all the other blue garments in the hal 
 masque, if I should wear it this evening ?" 
 
 He laughed, confidently, as he laid a finger 
 on a broad stain of brownish color, that dis- 
 figured the cloak on one shoulder and partly 
 down the front. "Of a certainty," he said, 
 "the clumsy Englishman that wore it stooped 
 awkwardly beneath my platter and upset a 
 tankard of red wine." He unbuckled the silver 
 fastening at his throat and handed her the cloak. 
 132 
 
cs;^^^^^^^--, '^ 
 
 JOHN HEYWOOD 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 "See that thou wear it, fickle one, and have no 
 fear but I will follow it." 
 
 She took the cloak and also his bonnet with 
 the waving plume and turned to leave him. A 
 broad burst of laughter, coming from the hall 
 below accompanied by the clapping of hands 
 and stamping of feet, made her pause. 
 
 "What is it?" she inquired, curiously. 
 
 "Oh, that's the Interlude," he replied, "I 
 heard them say it was the best that Heywood 
 ever wrote; but, to my ears it is nothing more 
 than senseless jargon of the heavy English type. 
 Pah ! these English." He shrugged his shoulders 
 expressively. 
 
 She laughed, "Poor Jacques, thou never 
 couldst make head or tail of English." "Nor 
 ever wish to," he joined in, briskly; then, com- 
 ing nearer he put his arm around her waist and 
 sighed prodigiously, "Marie, when do we re- 
 turn to France ? " His homesick heart was in 
 his throat; the gaiety about him fell away, one 
 could swear that his eyes were full of tears. . . 
 
 She pillowed his head for an instant on her 
 plump shoulder, as a mother would her child, 
 "Poor boy, sooner perhaps than we think; but 
 133 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 tell me Jacques at what hour do they begin the 
 bal masque?" 
 
 He raised his head, half ashamed of his 
 emotion and thought for a moment. "At ten 
 o'clock the musicians begin," he said. 
 
 "And when do they unmask ?" she questioned 
 further. 
 
 "When the Abbey bells nng midnight," he 
 replied. 
 
 "Then I have much to do," she said, as she 
 sprang swiftly from his arms and tripped down 
 the long corridor. At the turn she looked back 
 and kissed her hand to him with a gesture that 
 was full of meaning. 
 
XI. 
 FOREBODINGS 
 
 S Katharine's rage sub- 
 sided her mind began to 
 present to her mental 
 vision the unfortunate 
 scenes through which she 
 ^ had just passed. And, 
 as she reviewed the events which had culmi- 
 nated in her mock marriage to Herbert, for so 
 she still regarded it, she saw clearly how every- 
 thing had been arranged to entrap her, by those 
 whom she claimed most of all as her natural 
 guardians and protectors. 
 
 When her father, whom she loved, had an- 
 nounced pubHcly that he had tricked his daugh- 
 ter into unwilling wedlock, that moment the 
 love she had for him changed to contemptuous 
 indignation. She recognized the Duke's author- 
 ity as head of his household; and had he com- 
 manded her to marry Herbert, she would still 
 have retained for him her love and respect, al- 
 135 
 
The Daughters 
 
 though she might not have obeyed him. But, to 
 be led into a trap, step by step and all the while 
 protesting ? Then there was the shameful pub- 
 licity of it all; how her friends would laugh at 
 her, and how they might misconstrue her father's 
 wretched play ? She imagined that she could 
 hear them whispering in the corners of the great 
 hall below; the corners in the shadows away from 
 much of the noise and from the glare of the 
 searching firelight. "She was bound to have 
 him," one would say: while another would shake 
 her head knowingly. "Aye, indeed, ever since 
 his father. Sir William Herbert, was created an 
 earl, my lord the duke, her father, has left no 
 stone unturned." Then they would laugh again, 
 and nothing stings like ridicule. And thus they 
 would say, and so forth; and, all the time they 
 would be making fun of her and of the miserable 
 farce that had ended for her in a loveless mar- 
 riage. For now she was sure that she had no 
 love for Herbert, even that she loathed him and 
 never wished to see his face again. And, as her 
 dishke for Herbert increased, there seemed to 
 grow in her heart a longing for the friendship 
 of such a man as Seymour, a man fashioned 
 136 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 after her own mind. Perhaps she would meet 
 him in London, accidentally; and he would take 
 her part, and compel them to release her from 
 a compact that was hateful ? 
 
 The thought stirred her to renewed action; 
 and she arose, walked to the window and drew 
 aside the curtains. Pressing her face close to 
 the glass, she could barely discern the outlines 
 of some trees whose dark, naked limbs shewn 
 obscurely against the starless sky. 
 
 Shivering with a nameless dread, she drew 
 the curtains closely again and sank despondently 
 on the chair by her bedside. The venture on 
 which seemed to hang her future appeared more 
 formidable as she viewed the night through her 
 casement window; the world outside of her little 
 room was so large, so gray, so terrible! 
 
 It was indeed no easy undertaking for a girl 
 of Katharine's age and training. The mansion 
 of Henry Grey was buried deep in the heart of 
 a comparatively uninhabited country. It was 
 located near the edge of the Charnwood forest, 
 and in the centre of a park, several miles in cir- 
 cumference. The park was entirely surrounded 
 by a high stone wall. The building was very 
 137 
 
The Daughters 
 
 large and commodious and had many gables 
 and turrets, in keeping with its soHtary magnifi- 
 cence. 
 
 One could wander through pasture and wood- 
 land, over hill and dale for ten miles without 
 leaving the estate; and come to Groby Castle, 
 which would have been the family residence but 
 for its dilapidated condition. The forest of 
 Charnwood, which belonged principally to 
 Henry Grey, was more than twenty miles in 
 extent. All of this vast estate was practically 
 nothing more than a wilderness of waste land, 
 and was entirely devoid of population. Apart 
 from his own retainers there lived no other 
 people in the immense tracts of land that formed 
 the estate of Bradgate. Katharine's home was 
 one of the finest in all England, in the midst of 
 a profound solitude. It was in the heart of 
 merrie England and yet for miles around there 
 was nothing but uninhabited fields and forests. 
 Henry Grey was one of the landowners whom 
 King Edward VI had in mind when he issued 
 a proclamation, " to punish men who put plough 
 ground to pasture, and Carriers over Sea of 
 Victuals, if they leave not these enormities they 
 138 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 shall be streightly punished very shortly, so that 
 they shall feel the smart of it." 
 
 Henry Grey had received a copy of the procla- 
 mation and had laughed contemptuously. He 
 was then Marquis of Dorset; a few months 
 afterwards the same hand that had issued the 
 proclamation created him Duke of SufFolk. 
 Thus was his disobedience punished right 
 smartly. Meanwhile the people, the common 
 people, were not so blind but that they were 
 beginning to see things for themselves. 
 
 While Jane Grey was reading Plato in the 
 original Greek, and while Katharine employed 
 her leisure hours with More's "Utopia" in 
 Latin, the people were reading, in rough vigor- 
 ous English, "The Wyll of the Devyll," by 
 Humphrey Powell, and many of them were 
 enjoying the bitter invective and general drub- 
 bing that this fearless author was administering 
 to the Roman CathoHc church. 
 
 In his "Wyll" the Devil bequeaths to the 
 lawyers, "two right hands to take money from 
 both sides," while lechers have left to them "a 
 crafty wytte to wrest the scriptures and to make 
 them serve for filthy purposes." The same class 
 139 
 
The Daughters 
 
 of commoners were also reading with delight, 
 a rollicking burlesque on the lower class called 
 "Cocke Lorells Bote" in which human follies 
 were depicted in the characters of the butcher, 
 the baker and candle-stick maker, who take a 
 sort of Canterbury pilgrimage around England 
 in a boat. Nor did the notorious captain of the 
 "bote" omit a chance to whack at his Holiness, 
 the Pope, which shows the spirit of the times. 
 
 It was in the ale-house where the authors of 
 the middle i6th century found the necessary 
 atmosphere for their stories; and curiously 
 enough, it was the woman who sought her 
 cronies there, while her middle-class husband 
 was afield. The women got drunk at taverns, 
 flirted with the men, and beat their husbands 
 when they remonstrated! 
 
 The shrewd, ironical spirit of the i6th cen- 
 tury was growing apace; the love of learning 
 was abroad in the land. But, superstition was 
 rampant; and the belief in fetishes, love charms 
 and magic prevailed in England. Jugglery and 
 legerdemain was pronounced miraculous; and 
 magic was used to discover lost things, to bring 
 back lovers, and to cure disease. Astrologers 
 140 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 foretold events by the position of the stars; 
 mankind was hunting the philosopher's stone 
 and the fountain of youth ; people rubbed them- 
 selves with magic ointment to produce dreams, 
 and cured disease by drinking water from a 
 skull! England was a Roman Catholic land, 
 and the priests played on the poor people's 
 fears by selling them the counter charms of the 
 Church. . . . 
 
 The household of Henry Grey was Protestant, 
 whether from selfish or political motives, stu- 
 dents of history can judge for themselves, Jane 
 being particularly sincere in her belief, while 
 Katharine ? Well, she never gave the matter 
 much thought. She was too intelligent to place 
 absolute confidence in the prevailing supersti- 
 tions, nor did she have the courage to openly 
 deny their malignant influences. When she 
 looked from her window into the dark night 
 her imagination produced, before her mind's 
 eye, an innumerable train of ill omens that filled 
 her heart with fear. Foremost of these was the 
 squint-eyed friar whose ugly face seemed to peer 
 at her from the outside darkness. At almost any 
 hour of the day or night she could conjure - 
 141 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 up the face above all others that she most 
 dreaded. 
 
 At night the doors of the mansion were closed 
 and barred at an early hour, as were also the 
 gates of the wall surrounding the park. To pass 
 these locked exits at dead of night, to traverse 
 miles of lonely bridle paths through dense forests, 
 to issue forth at last from her father's estate into 
 a strange land! This, is what affrighted her. 
 This, is what made her strong young heart to 
 melt and suffuse her face with a deathly pallor; 
 so that Marie, who had quietly entered the room, 
 was alarmed and ran hastily to her side. 
 
 "Give the matter no further thought, my 
 lady," she said, encouragingly. "I have sent 
 Jacques to my lord Herbert with the answer — 
 ' My lady sleeps.' " 
 
XII. 
 RESOLUTION 
 
 Y lord, young Edward 
 Seymour, did not go ten 
 miles towards London." 
 The French maid empha- 
 sized the word "young" 
 and confidently awaited 
 developments. 
 Katharine's weariness vanished; she rushed 
 to Marie and grasped that astute young woman 
 by her arm, "What do you mean?" she de- 
 manded. "What do you know? Quick, Marie." 
 Her heart was bounding, her breath fluttering, 
 her dignity gone. 
 
 Marie in turn took her mistress by the 
 arm and thus they stood; holding each other 
 by the arms and looking into each other's 
 eyes; the one reading the other's heart, easily, 
 clearly, comprehendingly as though it were a 
 printed page, the other vainly endeavoring to 
 conceal it, 
 
 143 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "Mon Dieu! my mistress, but I am glad he 
 is so handsome, so fine, so " 
 
 Katharine interrupted her, impetuously. She 
 stamped her foot, "Marie, I command you." 
 She was a tempest, an angry goddess, a beautiful 
 woman. 
 
 Marie quailed beneath her blazing eyes. " It 
 was Jacques who told me how my lord Seymour, 
 riding in the midst of the Earl's retainers, did 
 suddenly breast his horse at those riding behind 
 him, tumbling them over like German toys, and 
 then ride away like mad." The impulsive maid 
 rushed against a chair and toppled it over with 
 a resounding crash. "So!" she said, laughing. 
 Katharine smiled faintly; and Marie attempted 
 to kindle it into merriment. She put on Jacques 
 blue cloak and bonnet and mimicked the luck- 
 less youth, both in voice and manner, until 
 Katharine burst into laughter. 
 
 Where her courage had nearly failed, her 
 sense of humor had aroused her to renewed 
 hope, renewed effort; her eyes sparkled, her 
 step was elastic as she moved quickly around 
 the room, selecting such things as she thought 
 were necessary for her sudden flight. 
 144 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 And, while she made her arrangements, her 
 mind was full of love and anxiety for young 
 Seymour. Whither had he gone ? How could 
 she honestly communicate with him ? Was she 
 really married to Herbert ? These questions 
 kept repeating themselves over and over in the 
 girl's mind, until they wearied her with their 
 monotony. 
 
 Marie was singing softly to herself an old 
 song from Bocace: 
 
 "Que mon amour rend mon ame contente — " 
 
 and, every now and then, giving a sly glance at 
 her mistress. 
 
 When they had nearly completed their prepa- 
 rations, the maid put Jacques cloak around her 
 shoulders and fastened her hair in a tight knot 
 to put on his bonnet. 
 
 "I am going down to the hall, my lady, and 
 will return with Jacques; I will come up by the 
 outside stairway and will knock on your win- 
 dow, so," — She rapped three times with her 
 dimpled fist on the casement, — " then everything 
 will be ready, and we shall depart." 
 
 "But Marie, how can we leave at night?" 
 
 TO 145 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Katharine shuddered as she imagined that she 
 saw the black friar's face at the window. " It 
 is so dark and cold; and we must ride through 
 those dreadful forests alone, just you and I." 
 
 "And Jacques," interrupted Marie, quickly. 
 "Oh, Jacques is so brave and strong; he 
 would kill any body who would hurt us." She 
 nodded affirmatively in reply to Katharine's 
 inquiring glance. "Mon Dieu, yes my lady, 
 Jacques is determined." She gHded from the 
 room leaving Katharine alone. 
 
 When she reached the lower hall, the uproar 
 was deafening. The guests were still eating 
 and drinking as though they would never have 
 enough. Some of the younger men were ringing 
 bells, blowing horns and kissing the girls, whose 
 hysterical shrieks added a high pitch to the 
 universal clamor. 
 
 This was the period of the Pagan Renais- 
 sance, when as Taine says: — "Man adored 
 himself and there indured no life within him 
 but that of paganism." They feasted, and 
 drank and made merry as they were encouraged 
 to do by their teachers and their heroes from 
 pagan Greece and Rome. 
 146 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 A few still clung to the Bible, and the truth 
 was in them, but they were but few as compared 
 with the masses, who followed after strange gods. 
 
 Ascham was discoursing upon this subject 
 amidst a circle of admiring friends, who had 
 withdrawn somewhat from the noisy tumult. 
 
 "We have the Italians to blame," he said 
 thoughtfully, "for our own bad manners; our 
 youth do read of their ill life in many books 
 translated into English and to be had in every 
 shop in London." 
 
 "Aye, so they do," joined Aylmer, "there 
 are more of these books, ungodly and frivolous, 
 set out in print to catch the youth, than ever 
 before; I have seen and read some of them, from 
 curiosity." 
 
 Ascham snapped the lid of his tankard, as if 
 to emphasize his disapproval. 
 
 "Even so," he said, emphatically. "They 
 have in more esteem the triumph of Petrarch, 
 than the Genesis of Moses: they make more 
 account of Tully's writings, than Saint Paul's 
 epistles; more of a jest of Rabelais, than a story 
 of the Bible." His eyes were roving in disappro- 
 bation over the roystering crowd of revellers, 
 147 
 
The Daughters 
 
 when his attention was arrested by the peculiar, 
 undulating and graceful carriage of a youth, 
 who, in a long blue cloak and black mask was 
 approaching his table. Ascham's gaze remained 
 even more fixed as he caught sight of a dainty, 
 well-turned, pair of ankles and a neatly fitting 
 pair of French shoes, that were in fair view 
 below the hem of the cloak. 
 
 "By my faith," he said, nudging his neigh- 
 bor, "I never saw a more shapely " His 
 
 remarks were cut short by the youth, who 
 stopped in front of the table and timidly sur- 
 veyed the group. 
 
 "Master Ascham.^" came from behind the 
 mask, in very poor English, " I would very much 
 like him to see, alone." 
 
 Ascham arose from his seat and winked 
 covertly to his friends. 
 
 "At your service. Mademoiselle," he replied, 
 in perfectly correct French as he moved to her 
 side, and Marie nearly grew dizzy with fright. 
 
 "Then you knew that I was not a man .''" she 
 asked, nervously; as they walked into an adjoin- 
 ing alcove. 
 
 Ascham's glance again followed the lines of 
 148 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 the blue cloak; from the silver buckle at the 
 collar, even to the hem. "Aye, I know a vs^oman 
 when I see one," he asserted confidently. 
 
 "Mon Dieu," exclaimed poor Marie, desper- 
 ately — " But, I must know, for the sake of my 
 mistress." Then she lifted her mask sufficiently 
 high to disclose a bewitching pair of red lips, 
 flanked by two rows of white teeth, they were 
 most enticing. 
 
 '"Ware the mistletoe," said Ascham looking 
 aloft, but, she deftly stepped aside and frowned. 
 "No mistletoe. Master Ascham, it is more seri- 
 ous," she began, pleading. "My mistress says 
 that you know everything. Tell me honestly 
 how far will the Council go in the matter relating 
 to the Duke of Somerset ?" 
 
 Ascham started violently, and clapped a hand 
 over the enticing mouth. "Chut!" he exclaimed 
 impatiently, " for less curiosity than that, a 
 woman might lose her head. Beware of matters 
 that do not concern you." He looked about 
 him cautiously and added more gently, "tell 
 thy mistress, whoever she may be, that Ascham 
 is but a poor scholar and that he has no knowl- 
 edge of state affairs." 
 
 149 
 
The Daughters 
 
 He bowed politely, and returning to the table 
 rejoined his friends. 
 
 Marie stood looking after him for a moment 
 and shrugged her shoulders. "Beast, Cochon!" 
 she said, scornfully. Then she mingled with 
 the throng of maskers in her quest for Jacques. 
 
 She was not long in finding him; scarcely had 
 she reached the other side of the hall, when she 
 felt a light touch on her arm. 
 
 "I saw thee in close converse with Master 
 Ascham," he said, jealously. "Thou hast ever 
 some one to divert thy mind." 
 
 She turned her back to him, petulantly. 
 "Mon Dieu, must a body converse with one 
 only ? Have done and follow me quickly." 
 
 She moved rapidly away, in and out amongst 
 the maskers, with Jacques at her heels. When 
 they had gained the courtyard she drew him to 
 one side and informed him of her mistress' con- 
 templated flight. 
 
 "Take three good horses from the stables," 
 she instructed him. " It matters not to whom 
 they belong, and wait for us at the far end of the 
 bridge that crosses the creek. Hide there in the 
 shrubbery and wait for our signal, so." She 
 150 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 drew a small silver whistle from a chain, hang- 
 ing to her belt, and blew it softly; it might have 
 been the sighing of the wind, that had risen and 
 was blowing away the rain clouds. 
 
 Jacques squeezed her arm, tenderly, "All 
 right, little one, I shall be there; and then " 
 
 "And then," she repeated, "We ride to Lei- 
 cester, where my lady has made further arrange- 
 ments." 
 
 "Thou wert always great for planning," said 
 Jacques, admiringly. "Shall I take a few 
 belongings with me ?" 
 
 "Whatever thou hast of value," she advised 
 him. "We may journey for some days." So 
 saying she glided away from the shadows to- 
 wards the mansion, to make her preparations, 
 for — as she hoped — the flight to France. 
 
XIII. 
 HIGH MIDNIGHT 
 
 'HORTLY before mid- 
 night of that same Christ- 
 mas day, Katharine Grey 
 sat before the dying 
 embers of her fire in 
 deep thought. She had 
 firmly resolved to leave the protection of her 
 father's roof, in fact she had arrived at that 
 point in her process of reasoning where there 
 seemed to be no alternative. She was convinced 
 in her mind, that the hasty marriage to young 
 Herbert was simply part of the political plot, 
 entered into by her father with WiUiam Herbert, 
 the rich Earl of Pembroke, and Dudley, the 
 more powerful Duke of Northumberland; but 
 as to their ulterior motives she was unable to 
 arrive at any conclusion. 
 
 She knew that the plot concerned, also, her 
 sister Jane, for they had frequently discussed 
 the matter together; and, the understanding 
 152 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 reached, which Katharine had invariably re- 
 fused to approve, or to consider, contemplated 
 her marriage to Henry Herbert on the same day 
 that Jane would marry Guilford Dudley. That 
 her sudden union to Herbert, under pretence 
 of a play, was the result of her recalcitrant 
 demeanor towards him, she had not the shadow 
 of a doubt; and her resentment augmented the 
 longer she suffered her memory to recall the 
 humiliating circumstances. Therefore, she 
 would not live with him, that was definitive; 
 and to avoid him she must leave her father's 
 house, that was equally determinate. 
 
 These conclusions had been formed, and her 
 plans had all been arranged, but Katharine still 
 sat before the fire, in deep thought; for a more 
 serious problem to her, than any she had as yet 
 attempted to solve lay before her. Beside her 
 on the floor were the bags, which she had so 
 laboriously packed, with the articles which she 
 thought necessary to take with her on her 
 journey. Amongst other things, these included 
 her horn-book; a Venetian mirror of most 
 elaborate and costly workmanship; some very 
 delicate pieces of lace, and a jar of sweet-meats; 
 153 
 
The Daughters 
 
 a package of love letters from Seymour, and an 
 English Bible. There was also a heavy cut 
 glass bottle of lavender, at that time a fashion- 
 able perfume, and some intimate objects of 
 personal adornment. The coiffure was an 
 elaborate affair in those days, and Katharine's 
 selection included also the various contrivances 
 of wire, wool, and other materials used in its 
 construction. 
 
 These, to her mind, necessary things, took 
 up so much space in her travelling bags, and 
 their selection had caused her so much thought 
 and indecision, that when she came to view 
 her wardrobe her strength entirely vanished, 
 and she sank helplessly on the low stool before 
 the fire. 
 
 The problem that faced Katharine was by 
 no means an easy one. During the sixteenth 
 century there prevailed a spirit of pride and 
 ostentation, of lavish display, and of elaborate 
 and costly dressing, such as had not before been 
 seen in England. The costumes that properly 
 belonged to a lady of Katharine's rank would 
 have been worth a small fortune, and the proper 
 packing of them into large bags, or "mails," as 
 154 
 
of Suflrolk 
 
 they were called, would have required the ser- 
 vices of Marie for several days. Of course 
 Katharine had no intention of taking all of her 
 wardrobe with her; but she had resolved to pre- 
 sent a creditable appearance — she must have 
 something to wear! But what shall she take? 
 The question was hard of solution, for the gowns 
 of that period included the wide flowing, stiffly 
 formed vertugalle, or as it was called in England, 
 the farthingale of which "the sleeves were 
 formed of rolls, very large at the shoulder and 
 diminishing as they descended to the wrist, so 
 as to present an object anything but graceful. 
 The head emerged from a vast ruff or frill sup- 
 ported by wires, which gave it the form of a fan ; 
 it was called a fraise, and was made to rise be- 
 hind more than a foot above the head." 
 
 The trains or tails to these dresses were extrav- 
 agantly long, and were proportioned to the 
 degree of nobility of the wearer; those of Kath- 
 arine's wardrobe had a traiHng length of at 
 least seven yards ! Of necessity, these full dress 
 creations required a maid or page follower to 
 lift them up. 
 
 These gowns, or farthingales, Stubbes declares 
 155 
 
The Daughters 
 
 were "some of silke, some of velvet, some of 
 grograine, some of tafFatie, some of scarlet, and 
 some of fine clothe of ten, twenty, or forty shil- 
 lings of a yarde. But if the whole gowne be not 
 of silke or velvet, then the same shall be laide 
 with lace, two or three fingers broode, all over 
 the gowne, or else the most parte; or if not so, 
 as lace is not fine enough sometimes, then it 
 must be garded with great gardes of velvet, 
 every garde fower or sixe fingers brood at the 
 least, and edged with costly lace; and as these 
 gownes be of divers and sundry colours, so are 
 they of divers fashions, chaunging with the 
 moone, for some be of new fashion, some of the 
 olde, some of thys fashion, and some of that, 
 some with sleeves hanging downe to their skirtes, 
 trailing on the ground and cast over their shoul- 
 ders like cowe tails. Some have sleeves much 
 shorter, cut up the arme, and poincted with 
 silke ribbons very gallantly tied with tru-love 
 knottes, for so they call them. . . Some have 
 capes reachyng down to the middest of their 
 backes, faced with velvet, or els with some fine, 
 wrought silke taffatie, at the least, and fringed 
 about very bravely: and to shut up aH 'n a worde, 
 156 
 
o/ SufFolk 
 
 some are pleated and rinsled downe the backe 
 wonderfully, with more knacks than I can de- 
 clare." .... 
 
 "Then have they petticoates," Stubbes con- 
 tinues, "of the best clothe that can be bought, 
 and of the fayrest dye that can be made. And 
 sometimes they are not of clothe neither, that 
 is thought too base, but of scarlet, grograine, 
 tafFatie, silke and such like, fringed about the 
 skirtes with silke fringe, of chaungeable colour. 
 But whiche is more vayne, of whatsoever their 
 petticoates be, yet must they have kirtles, for 
 so they call them, either in silke, velvette, gro- 
 graine, taffatie, sassen, or scarlet, bordered 
 with gardes, lace, fringe, and I cannot tell what 
 besides; so that, when they have all their goodly 
 robes upon them, women seem to be the smallest 
 part of themselves." .... 
 
 "Their netherbockes and stockings," this 
 eminent Puritan writes, "are either of silke, 
 jeansey, worsted, crewell, or at least, of as fine 
 yearne, thread, or clothe, as is possible to be 
 hadde: yes, they are not ashamed to weare hose 
 of all kinds of chaungeable colors, as green, red, 
 white, russet, tawny, and els what. . . Then 
 157 
 
The Daughters 
 
 these delicate hosen must be cunningly knit, 
 and curiously indented in every point with 
 quirks, clockes, open seame, and everything els 
 accordingly, whereto they have crooked shoes, 
 pinsuets, pantoffles, and slippers; some of blacke 
 velvet, some of white, some of Spanishe leather, 
 and some of English, stitched with silke, and 
 embrodered with golde and silver all over the 
 foot, with other gew-gaws innumerable; all of 
 which if I should endeavor myself to expresse, 
 I might with like facilitie number the sands of 
 the sea, the starres in the skie, or the grasse 
 upon the earth, so infinite and innumerable be 
 their abuses." 
 
 One can easily see how formidable and per- 
 plexing was the question of clothing, luggage, 
 or impedimenta, confronting Katharine when 
 she began the selection of suitable apparel. 
 With a sigh she turned from these to a costly 
 collection of long handled feather fans, from 
 which after much irresolution she selected one 
 that was covered with mother-of-pearl, as a 
 proper ornament, and useful article, for her 
 journey to France. She was vainly endeavoring 
 to fit the long handle to the saddle bags, when 
 158 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 her attention was arrested by Marie's three 
 knocks on the casement window. 
 
 "Impossible," she exclaimed, desperately, 
 "I am not nearly ready." Then she passed 
 around the various objects that littered the floor, 
 and raised the window latch. The casement 
 opened outwardly, and as the sill was very low, 
 Marie easily stepped over it and entered the 
 room. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! my lady!" she protested, "we 
 have but half an hour until midnight mass, and 
 after that it will be too late." 
 
 As she spoke, her glance went past her young 
 mistress to the various heaps of feminine apparel 
 spread out on the bed, on the chairs and benches, 
 on the tables, on the floor, piled up in dire con- 
 fusion; until there was scarcely a space left 
 unincumbered. 
 
 In the middle of the room stood Katharine, 
 her hair loosely undone and threatening to fall 
 at any moment, her face flushed with the unusual 
 exertion, and her whole manner distracted and 
 despairing. 
 
 "Marie," she said, half crying with vexation, 
 "We cannot start to-night. It is impossible." 
 159 
 
The Daughters 
 
 The little maid, seeing the outhnes of her 
 beloved France to grow fainter came perilously 
 near to uttering an impatient outcry; but, her 
 good sense returning, she merely shrugged her 
 shoulders, and laid aside her bundle, and the 
 long blue cloak in which she had been enveloped. 
 
 " So — " she smiled, patiently, — " Then I 
 must put the room in order, in case my lord 
 Herbert—" 
 
 She got no further, when Katharine stepped 
 nimbly across the various piles of impedimenta 
 that lay strewn in her way; until she had reached 
 the long blue cloak that her maid had discarded. 
 Throwing it hastily across her shoulders, she 
 made for the casement window and would have 
 stepped out upon the stone stairway, had not 
 Marie caught her skirts. 
 
 "Pardon, my mistress, but in truth the court 
 yard below is no fitting place for my lady Kath- 
 arine alone, at this hour." 
 
 Katharine turned on her, indignantly. " Haste 
 then," she commanded, "and stop thy senseless 
 prittle-prattle, which only consumes our pre- 
 cious time and does us no good." 
 
 Having accompHshed her purpose, Marie 
 i6o 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 set to work right quickly, bringing order out of 
 chaos in an incredibly short time. Discarding 
 Katharine's list of necessary articles, she placed 
 in their stead such things as her experience and 
 training suggested would be suitable for the 
 journey. Then she selected from Katharine's 
 wardrobe a warm, comfortable, travelling cos- 
 tume, quilted and lined with soft furs; and skil- 
 fully assisted her mistress in dressing. 
 
 "Pardon my lady," she said, timidly, "but 
 no doubt you have your purse about you, a belt 
 perhaps — and your jewels ? " 
 
 "Not a shilling," said Katharine, blankly, 
 and staring at her maid with increasing concern 
 as the situation dawned upon her. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you might forget," said 
 Marie, lightly, as she drew from her pocket a 
 soft leather belt; and, running hurriedly to a 
 small closet that was concealed in the chimney, 
 she drew forth a jewel case, and emptied its con- 
 tents into the little belt. 
 
 This done, she deftly strapped the contrivance 
 around her shapely leg, and stood upright, 
 laughing. "Now," she said with a sigh of 
 relief, "We are ready." 
 II i6i 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Once more Katharine moved towards the 
 window. "Peste!" said Marie, contemptu- 
 ously, " I have no mind left, I foi;get everything." 
 She flew to her bundle and drew forth a long 
 blue cloak, similar to the one that Katharine 
 had so suddenly appropriated. This she 
 handed to her mistress, but the latter turned, 
 impatiently. 
 
 "What need have we to waste the time in 
 exchanging garments that are exactly alike ^. 
 Come quickly Marie, I would be gone." 
 
 Marie pointed to the broad stain that dis- 
 figured her cloak, "It is not comely," she pro- 
 tested, as she fitted the other to her mistress. 
 Katharine moved around nervously, while Marie 
 hastily arranged the bed, with a bundle under 
 the coverings, to counterfeit the form of her 
 sleeping mistress. Then she placed the night 
 light, a roughly constructed mass of tallow, in an 
 iron holder, on the table; and drawing the bed 
 curtains she unbolted the door that led into lady 
 Jane's apartments. 
 
 "Now," she said, confidently, "We shall not 
 be missed until daylight, at the very earliest." 
 
 Carrying the saddle bags between them, they 
 162 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 went forth, through the casement window, and 
 carefully closed it behind them. They had 
 scarcely done so when the Abbey bells pealed 
 out the midnight mass. This was the signal 
 for unmasking; and Marie crossed herself as 
 the clear tones of the bells echoed, back and fro, 
 between the old walls of the mansion. "We 
 start not a moment too soon," she whispered to 
 Katharine, as the noise issuing from the hall 
 below seemed like bedlam, broken loose. 
 
 The uproar found a lusty response from the 
 stable boys, and those who did duty in the court- 
 yard. Katharine and her maid were quaking 
 with fear as they hurriedly walked amongst the 
 crowd — mingling with a swarm of laughing, jok- 
 ing, cursing, and drunken men and boys, who 
 thronged in every vantage point of door and 
 window. 
 
 As they hastened by these various groups, 
 and had gained some distance away from the 
 buildings, the light from the beacons and torches 
 grew dimmer, and they were obliged to pro- 
 ceed over the uneven and muddy ground with 
 more caution. 
 
 "If anyone should accost us," Marie cau- 
 163 
 
The Daughters 
 
 tioned her companion, in a low tone of voice, 
 " you have but to mention the name of my lord 
 Herbert, w?ho as lord of Misrule — " "Stop!" 
 Katharine drew herself up a full head taller 
 than her maid, and faced her in the semi-dark- 
 ness; Marie knew that her eyes were blazing, 
 though she could scarcely see them. "I shall 
 do no such thing," she said, heartily, "and I 
 shall take offense," she added, warningly, 
 "if you ever mention the name again in my 
 presence." 
 
 Marie dropped her holding of the saddle bags. 
 "Then my lady will please remain here," she 
 cautioned, "while I go yonder to the gate alone; 
 there is but one name other than our master's, 
 the Duke himself, that will open that gate 
 to-night." 
 
 Katharine glanced nervously, as far as she 
 could see around the vast park, and then ahead 
 at the blazing cresset that flared in its iron 
 basket, over against the gate. 
 
 "I shall go with you, Marie," she said, 
 
 promptly, "And it matters little, after all, what 
 
 authority you invoke, so that our plans do not 
 
 miscarry; even Herbert may be mentioned, in 
 
 164 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 a case of extreme necessity," she added, reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 When they came closer within the circle of 
 light made by the cresset, they were roughly 
 hailed by Adrian Stokes, the gate keeper. He 
 was a gnarled and twisted, a cross-grained man; 
 one upon whose spirit the festivities of Christmas 
 acted contrariwise and in exact proportion. 
 "Whither away, you brace of night owls ?" he 
 shouted to them, in a voice that was uncommonly 
 cross and peevish. 
 
 Katharine dropped her end of the saddle-bags, 
 and stood speechless with astonishment; to hear 
 herself so accosted, by one of her father's lowest 
 servants, was beyond her immediate under- 
 standing. 
 
 But Marie stepped quickly forward, and 
 snapped her fingers under the man's nose. 
 
 "Zut!" she said in high dudgeon, "A brace 
 of night owls, is it ? And thus you dare speak 
 to gentlemen who wear the Herbert livery! 
 Open yon gate, thou crooked stick, before we 
 call our comrades." 
 
 Adrian held up his lanthorn, the better to 
 examine the young gallants, and when he saw 
 165 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 that they wore the long blue cloaks, similar to 
 a hundred others that had passed his way that 
 day, his manner softened. 
 
 "My light is not so good," he mumbled, then 
 he added firmly, "Nevertheless I open the gate 
 to none at this hour, save on the Duke's own 
 warrant." 
 
XIV. 
 THE FLIGHT 
 
 ERE was confusion to all 
 of Marie's careful plan- 
 ning; she could have wept 
 with rage and disappoint- 
 ment, as her snapping 
 black eyes searched the 
 gate keeper's churlish face, for some hint that 
 would bend him to her will. But he was stohd, 
 and immovable; his physiognomy was as void 
 of intelligence, as fixed and as hardened as the 
 bark of a tree. 
 
 But a circumstance occurred, trifling in itself, 
 but to Marie's quick wit worth an inspiration, 
 that gave her tongue a lash with which she 
 could sting the man into activity. It was but 
 a single stroke, a sound coming through the 
 misty air, from the deep-throated Abbey bell, 
 a single stroke that marked the first interval of 
 the mass. 
 
 The sound had not died away when her ready 
 167 
 
The Daughters 
 
 eyes detected a fluttering movement of the 
 man's hand, as he piously crossed himself. In 
 a moment she had conspicuously followed his 
 example, and then stood, with bowed head, the 
 incarnation of Catholic humility. 
 
 " I did wrong to misjudge thee, and thou but 
 doing thy duty," she began, sweetly, "it were 
 better, had we simply declared our wish to 
 attend the mass." 
 
 Adrian's features relaxed somewhat their 
 rigidity; but he still regarded the boy, as he 
 thought her, suspiciously. 
 
 "And when did Sir William's retainers turn 
 Catholic ?" he asked her curiously. 
 
 She moved closer to him, and lowered her 
 voice. "And how long has the Duke of Suffolk's 
 gate keeper been an obedient son of the Romish 
 Church ?" she demanded. 
 
 The man raised his heavy oaken stave as if 
 to strike her, and then slowly lowered it. " Hold 
 thy wagging tongue," he answered hotly, "there 
 is some one approaching." 
 
 Marie turned in time to see a burly figure 
 emerging from the darkness. As it came closer 
 into the circle of light, there was a stifled scream 
 i68 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 from Katharine, as she recognized the ugly 
 features, and the ungainly form of friar Grouche. 
 
 He was tottering in his gait, and swaying 
 from side to side; as though he would lose his 
 balance at every step. 
 
 "Holy Mother!" exclaimed Marie, fervently, 
 as she linked her arm through Katharine's and 
 turned her from the light. 
 
 The friar scarcely noticed them, as he ad- 
 vanced singing, lustily: 
 
 "Qui estis in convivio — " 
 
 His voice was husky and rasping with much 
 drink. Having arrived at the gate, and finding 
 it locked, he gave tongue as one nigh bereft of 
 his senses. "Ho! Adrian," he roared, "open 
 this accursed gate, or perdition awaits thee." 
 
 "In France," whispered Marie, "L'abbe 
 Dumont could have opened yon gate with a 
 prayer." 
 
 The gatekeeper turned the bolt with an iron 
 key that hung from his belt. 
 
 "Your Reverence," he said, dutifully. 
 
 By making a supreme effort the friar managed 
 to lurch through the opening, without hitting 
 169 
 
The Daughurs 
 
 either post; as he disappeared into the friendly 
 shades of the forest road he was still singing: 
 
 " Qui estis in convivio — " 
 
 Adrian stood holding open the great iron 
 gate. " If you are coming," he said roughly to 
 Katharine and Marie, "move your legs, and be 
 quick about it." 
 
 As they picked up the saddle bags^ one at 
 each end, and passed through the gate; the 
 keeper accosted them — "You go heavily laden 
 to the mass.?" "Aye," returned Marie, flip- 
 pantly, for she had no more fear of him, " the 
 burden of our sins is intolerable." 
 
 Adrian closed the gate with a loud clang that 
 meant everything, but he said nothing. 
 
 As they went further from the light into the 
 forest, the darkness became more dense; and 
 the young women, unaccustomed to such a 
 journey, found it a difficult matter to keep in 
 the open road. 
 
 "I would that we were safely out of this," 
 said Katharine, nervously, as she peered ahead 
 as far as she was able, into the forest. "Where 
 do we meet Jacques and the horses .?" 
 170 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 "At the far end of the bridge, my lady," 
 replied Marie. "Doubtless you remember a 
 group of hawthorne " 
 
 "Help! Oh Help!" interrupted Katharine, 
 as she uttered a sudden, sharp, outcry. 
 
 "Sacre! What is it?" exclaimed Marie, as 
 they came to a halt. The little maid was scared 
 almost out of her senses. 
 
 "Oh Marie," gasped her mistress. 
 
 "What is it.?" repeated Marie, irritably, 
 "Mon Dieu, I see nothing. But she crossed 
 herself quickly; and is it not well known that 
 St. Sulpicius, while a mere child, went to pray 
 by night at a ruined church near his father's 
 house; two black demons, who haunted the 
 ruin, would have scared him from his devotions, 
 but he drove them away with the sign of the 
 cross. And was it not so with St. Frodobert, 
 who in the same manner drove away a devil 
 that used to stop him on his way to school; and 
 the Belgian St. Juetta, when she went to her 
 devotions at night ? 
 
 Marie crossed herself, while every nerve in her 
 body tingled with fear. Then, she raised her 
 hand and brushed aside a low-hanging bough 
 171 
 
The Daughters 
 
 that had entangled its forked ends in Katharine's 
 head gear. 
 
 "Oh Marie," the latter laughed, hysterically, 
 "I was sure that the friar's great, dirty fingers 
 were in my hair." 
 
 "Zut! the beast," said Marie, "the old 
 Jacobin, if he should dare " 
 
 "Hush," said her mistress, trembling, as she 
 grasped her companion's arm. "Oh, I know 
 there is something prowling near us!" 
 
 They stood still, intently listening to the faint 
 sound of trickling drops of water that fell from 
 the overladen trees. The grey darkness was so 
 intense, that they could see only the dim out- 
 lines of the leafless branches; but there was no 
 under-brush, or wild growth to impede their 
 progress, and they had often traversed the forest 
 road together. 
 
 As they proceeded, cautiously, making their 
 way through the forest, the night became darker, 
 and the wind sighed more heavily through the 
 naked limbs overhead; the sounds of revelry, 
 and of human habitation, had become less dis- 
 tinct, while a turn in the road had closed their 
 view of the house and its twinkling lights. It 
 172 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 was scarcely a mile, that intervened between 
 them and the place where Jacques and the horses 
 were concealed, but it seemed to the timid girls 
 as though ten times that distance. The different 
 turns in the road, that were so familiar when 
 travelled by daylight, became less distinct in 
 the overhanging gloom of a stormy night. At 
 each fork in the road they would become con- 
 fused, and selecting first the one to the right, 
 then the one to the left, would finally agree on 
 the one that seemed to be the least dark and 
 gloomy. This method of procedure, while 
 giving them the advantage of two evils, led them 
 far astray; so that they became tired and greatly 
 exhausted. The burden that they carried to- 
 gether appeared to grow heavier, and they were 
 obliged to stop more frequently, and, putting the 
 bags on the ground, to rest and recover their 
 strength. 
 
 At one of these intervals, Katharine's high 
 mettle neared the verge of complete overthrow. 
 "I can go no farther," she moaned, "there is 
 no strength in me. We must have walked for 
 ten miles." She sank down on the leather bags, 
 at the foot of a wide spreading oak, and pulled 
 173 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Marie to a seat beside her. So far the latter had 
 kept her courage, and indeed much that be- 
 longed to her mistress, by humming light catches 
 of old songs, and droll sayings, the humor of 
 which had helped them on their way; but now 
 Marie was silent. Her spirits were gone; her 
 gaiety overwhelmed by the dreariness of their 
 surroundings, by fatigue, by the consciousness 
 that her plans had miscarried, and that Jacques 
 could nowhere be found. She could say nothing, 
 but sitting closer beside her mistress she put her 
 arm around her, she was overcome with drowsi- 
 ness, with a sense of utter exhaustion; so much 
 so, that in a moment later she was asleep on 
 
 Katharine's shoulder 
 
 Now, the vague white light of a summer morn- 
 ing illumines the mist, and the bare limbs of the 
 trees have become clothed in beautiful green 
 leaves, green of every conceivable shade. In a 
 dazzling aurora of pale golden light, the tender 
 things wave and flutter before the gentle breath 
 of dawn. With the murmuring rustle of the 
 leaves, the faint chirps of sleepy birds mingle; 
 at first with but occasional notes, and then, 
 with ever increasing numbers, until the fresh 
 174 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 morning air is full of harmony, — still Marie 
 sleeps ! 
 
 The pale golden light has changed to a rosy 
 hue, a beautiful light that tips the edges of the 
 white blossoms in the orchard, with a radiance 
 such as no artist has ever painted. And just 
 beyond the orchard, half covered with vines, is 
 a little cottage, a stone cottage with a red tiled 
 roof; and it really seemed to Marie as if she was 
 now standing in the large garden, that adjoined 
 the Manor. And as she stood in the pathway, 
 the birds fluttered down from the trees to her 
 feet, and picked up the crumbs of bread that 
 she threw to them. 
 
 And Jacques was on one knee, trimming the 
 borders of sweet-smelling shrub; and he peeped 
 into the baskets that she was carrying, Jacques 
 was always teasing. . . . 
 
 And as she went her way, down the gravelled 
 walk, he waved his hand to her: 
 
 "Bon jour, Marie, bon jour." .... 
 
 Then she awoke, and was greatly ashamed. 
 
 In a moment she had gently withdrawn her 
 
 hand from Katharine's waist, and, standing up 
 
 in the cold grey light of approaching day, she 
 
 175 
 
The Daughters 
 
 took careful note of her surroundings. And as 
 her eyes strained to penetrate the mist, it seemed 
 to her that the grey skies, as seen through the 
 openings, between the trees, was not all of a 
 density, but that a solid mass of darker color 
 spread its square lines before her vision. 
 
 "My lady," she exclaimed, hastily, "my 
 heavy eyes play me the stupid. Is yonder dark 
 mass the Castle Groby, perhaps ?" 
 
 Katharine ran quickly to her side, and looked 
 in the direction pointed out to her by the maid. 
 "Groby Castle," she said apprehensively, "sure- 
 ly we could not have wandered so far from our 
 route." But as she spoke, a light morning 
 breeze blew away the mist, and for a moment 
 revealed, but too plainly, the ruined old Castle, 
 that would have been a welcome sight to Kath- 
 arine, under other circumstances. 
 
 The dilapidated old structure was of stone, 
 and was falling away, in its surroundings of utter 
 ruin and neglect. At one time, within its strong 
 heart, it had sheltered those who claimed its 
 protection;butnowthey had all died. . . . The 
 decayed remains of walls and portcullis, of 
 turrets and tower, were distinguished only by 
 176 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 the skeletons of their former fashion. In the 
 great hall, that once blazed with light from an 
 enormous fire in the centre, while all around 
 were seated friends, retainers, and guests, there 
 now remained nought save a gloomy darkness; 
 damp, mouldy, and ill-smelling. 
 
 Over all had crept, with its stifling, evil em- 
 brace, the English ivy; with such luxuriant 
 growth, that it seemed to have destroyed the 
 support to which it clung. . . . 
 
 As the two young women stood watching the 
 old castle, with mixed feelings of relief and 
 anxiety, they noticed a thin spiral of smoke as- 
 cending, sluggishly, from one of the inner courts. 
 
 Their first impulse was to turn back, and to 
 secrete themselves once again in the forest; but 
 their fatigue was so great, and their terror so 
 increased, as they gazed into its gloomy recesses, 
 that they decided to go forward, and to claim 
 protection of whomsoever it might be. 
 
 "It is my father's castle," said Katharine, 
 bravely, "and, there can be none other than his 
 friends and retainers, on the domain under a 
 heavy penalty. We must have rest and shelter 
 for awhile; for indeed I can go no further," 
 
 1 2 m 
 
The Daughters 
 
 So saying, Katharine and her maid advanced 
 to the castle, following a sort of footpath, that 
 led through the ruins to an inner court yard. 
 In one corner of this court was an archway, that 
 was formerly an entrance to a lofty hallway. 
 The arch was intact for a distance of probably 
 a hundred feet. Beyond that, as could be seen 
 by the light that came through the broken roof, 
 was a great hall of the castle. 
 
 As the tired maids drew nearer to the arch, 
 they discovered the fire from which they had 
 seen the ascending smoke. It was burning 
 briskly, as though recently replenished with 
 wood; and over it hung, suspended by a chain 
 from a roughly constructed tripod, a small iron 
 kettle, from which arose, in the keen damp air 
 of the morning, a smell so unsavory as to cause 
 a feeling of disgust that approached to faintness. 
 In front of the fire was a rough attempt of con- 
 struction, resembling a table and bench; made 
 of some old timber and loose stones piled unskil- 
 fully together. On the table was an earthen jug, 
 containing water, and a piece of dark-looking, 
 mouldy bread. What was in the pot can only 
 be conjectured, but, a starving man will eat rats! 
 178 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 "Ah, Mon dieu!" exclaimed Marie, as her 
 quicker senses discovered the miserable creature; 
 dirty, ragged, unkempt, whom they had dis- 
 turbed in the preparation of his morning meal. 
 At the sound of her voice the creature turned 
 from his crouching position over the fire, and 
 uplifted to their gaze the face of a man. It was 
 the face of a man who had suffered all "the 
 slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." A 
 face waxen and ghastly white, from which all 
 his heart's blood had receded; a face in which 
 were set two lustreless eyes, that stared at the 
 young girls, without recognition, without emo- 
 tion, without apparently understanding. 
 
 "Martin, the slave," said Katharine, as her 
 eye rested for an instant on the symbol " S " that 
 had been burned with a hot iron on the man's 
 white forehead. And Marie blessed herself, 
 furtively, as the fellow tried to conceal an iron 
 band around his neck, by drawing up the ragged 
 edges of his doublet. 
 
XV. 
 MARTIN, THE SLAVE 
 
 N England, during this 
 period, slavery still ex- 
 isted. Not merely the 
 holding in bondage of 
 an inferior race, as the 
 negroes, but of English- 
 men, born on English soil. 
 
 Children were sold into slavery by their 
 parents, under stress of poverty. Thieves w^ere 
 sold, like cattle in the market, as a punishment 
 for their crimes; some w^ho were not thieves 
 were sold to pay their debts. 
 
 Laborers, English born, who worked in the 
 coal and salt mines, were legally bound, on 
 entering the mines, to perpetual service there; 
 and in case the property, on which the mines 
 were located, was sold; the right to their services 
 passed, without any expressed grant, to the pur- 
 chaser. The sons of the miners could follow 
 no occupation but that of their fathers, and they 
 i8o 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 were not at liberty to seek for employment any- 
 where else than in the mines to which they had 
 been attached by birth. 
 
 No sooner had Edward VI. ascended the 
 throne than the following statute was made: 
 "That a runaway, or anyone who lived idly for 
 three days, should be brought before the justices 
 of the peace, and marked V with a hot iron on 
 the breast, and adjudged the slave of him who 
 brought him for two years. He was to take the 
 slave and give him bread, water, or small drink, 
 and refuse meat, and cause him to work by beat- 
 ing, chaining, or otherwise; and, if within that 
 space, he absented himself fourteen days, he 
 was to be marked on the forehead, or cheek, by 
 a hot iron with an S, and be his master's slave 
 forever; a second desertion was made felony. 
 It was lawful to put a ring of iron round his 
 neck, arm, or leg." .... 
 
 Martin, the slave, had suffered all, save the 
 extreme penalty of the law; as the result of a 
 life-long desire for personal freedom of action. 
 His parents had worked in the coal mines at 
 Newcastle, at the time of his birth; and, con- 
 sequently, through no fault of his own, he had 
 i8i 
 
The Daughters 
 
 inherited the life of bondage under which his 
 spirit chafed. 
 
 As a boy of twelve years, he had worked in 
 the loathsome darkness of the coal pits; with 
 a chain that passed between his legs, and which 
 was attached to a leather harness, around his 
 neck and body, he had drawn the heavy cars 
 of coal to the pit mouth. For years he had 
 traversed those dismal entries — running along 
 on all-fours, like a dog! 
 
 Then in a fit of desperation, he ran away, and 
 received the hot iron on his breast, a sizzling 
 touch that left the letter V as a red scar on his 
 white flesh. 
 
 That was his first effort for liberty. Upon 
 his second attempt, the cruel brand had pressed 
 his tired forehead marking it with the letter S 
 which stands alike for saint or sinner. 
 
 As he sat crouching on his heels, in the manner 
 peculiar to miners, his faded eyes assumed a 
 look of intelligence as Katharine spoke. . . . 
 
 "Think you," she asked Marie, "that Jacques 
 will still await us at the bridge, even after such 
 an interval of time .? " 
 
 "Jacques will still be there," answered Marie 
 182 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 confidently, "even until we arrive, whenever 
 that may be, in reason." 
 
 "Then we can tax this man with our com- 
 mands, and bring Jacques to us. Martin, do 
 you know me ? " she asked abruptly. 
 
 At the same time she removed the man's 
 bonnet that she had been wearing for a disguise; 
 and, drawing aside the folds of the long blue 
 cloak, she stood before him apparelled as a 
 woman. A beautiful woman, upon whose 
 healthy young face a tiresome night walk, 
 through the forest, had left but little impression. 
 
 His white face, upturned to hers, all scarred, 
 and pitted with the blue marks that the sharp 
 edges of flying bits of coal had left in the skin, 
 assumed an expression of interest. "Aye, my 
 lady," he replied, in a strong Northumberland 
 accent, "you be the lady Katharine." As he 
 spoke he glanced nervously around the ruins, 
 like an animal apprehensive of capture. 
 
 She pretended to take no notice of his sus- 
 picions and went on, kindly, "I have heard it 
 said, Martin, that you are a good runner." 
 
 The man's features relaxed into a grin. "Aye, 
 my lady," he admitted, proudly, although the 
 183 
 
The Daughters 
 
 question somewhat disturbed him, "I once did 
 ten miles to the hour and beat my master's run- 
 ning footman." He arose painfully and tried 
 to straighten his bent figure. 
 
 "I am not so good a man now," he added. 
 
 "But you could still do the distance for me 
 in, say, twice that time ?" suggested Katharine. 
 
 " For my lady Katharine, I will do my best," 
 answered the slave, for with him, as with every 
 man, woman, and child on the estate, Katharine 
 was a prime favorite. 
 
 "Thank you, Martin," she said, graciously, 
 " You will not only serve me, but will also be of 
 
 great assistance, and " Here she stopped 
 
 and looked around her at the bits of old rags 
 and morsels of food with which he had fur- 
 nished his habitation. Then she looked frankly 
 into the man's weary eyes: 
 
 "Tell me the truth, Martin, I will do you no 
 harm, you were running away again ?" 
 
 The slave started violently and his white face 
 grew more ghastly. He nervously fingered the 
 iron band around his neck and coughed with a 
 dry, choking sound. He knew as well as Kath- 
 arine that, if caught the third time, his punish- 
 184 
 
\ RL NM\(. KDOTMA.V 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 ment would be death. A miserable death at the 
 hands of the servants and other slaves of the 
 estate, who would stone him to a quivering mass 
 of bruised flesh. But the spirit that had nerved 
 him to make two attempts for liberty, was not 
 yet quenched in the man; and he answered, 
 truthfully. " It will be freedom or death for me 
 my lady, it was born in me." 
 
 And, somehow, as he spoke, he seemed to have 
 forgotten the pain that bent his back; and he 
 stood erect, while a flush of manhood tinted the 
 dead whiteness of his face as the rising sun 
 illumines a wintry landscape. 
 
 Katharine's generous heart kindled at the 
 brave answer of the unfortunate wretch, branded 
 and shackled who, single-handed, and in face 
 of the most cruel adversity, still had the courage 
 to fight on to the end. She held out her hand 
 to him, as to a knight; and he, falling on his 
 knees, reverently touched her fingers with his 
 lips. 
 
 "You shall be free, Martin," she promised 
 
 him, "if I must ask the favor with mine own 
 
 petition to the King. . . . And now you 
 
 can advance the matter of your Uberty, and of 
 
 185 
 
The Daughters 
 
 my happiness by making all speed to the bridge 
 just beyond the park gate; there, in a clump of 
 hawthorn, you should find a man secreted and 
 in the care of three horses. 
 
 " Bid him bring them to Castle Groby as fast 
 as they can travel." 
 
 "And if the man should doubt the word of 
 a slave?" Martin suggested. 
 
 "Tell him that some one awaits him who 
 wears a long blue cloak, with a broad stain on 
 the shoulder," answered Marie, promptly. 
 
 Martin tied the leather thong more securely 
 around his thin body; pulled a tattered bonnet 
 low down over the letter S on his forehead and 
 turned to go. Then he removed his bonnet, and 
 knelt again before Katharine. "May all the 
 saints have you in their keeping, my lady," he 
 said, manfully. "It is not for one so ignorant 
 and unskilful as I am, to walk into the lion's 
 den, and out again, alive; they will take me of 
 a certainty, but — but" — he hesitated, as one who 
 was not used to conversing with a lady, " to die 
 m the service of my lady Katharine, is to die like 
 a man." He bowed awkwardly, and again 
 started on his way. But Katharine called him. 
 i86 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 "Stop, Oh, stop!" she commanded. "If you 
 
 think that any such danger " But he was 
 
 running towards the forest, as fas't as his weak- 
 ened legs would carry him. In a moment he 
 had disappeared into the gloomy shade, happy 
 in the new life, which he hoped would end in a 
 manly death. . . . 
 
 Katharine turned to Marie, who had thrown 
 the ill-smelling pot over a wall and was now 
 rekindling the fire. "Oh!" she said, in pity, 
 "do you think that they will indeed kill him }" 
 
 Marie ceased from her labors and stood a 
 moment, with her arms akimbo, her busy brain 
 full of other problems. "Jacques might do so," 
 she said, thoughtfully, "if he should come on him 
 unexpectedly; he must be terribly cross, after 
 waiting all night in the dark." 
 
 Katharine laughed in spite of her fears, but 
 she instantly checked her mirth for her heart 
 was touched by the poor slave's devotion. "I 
 would have no harm come to him on my ac- 
 count," she said, remorsefully. "Oh why did 
 we send him on so dangerous a chance ?" 
 
 "Have no care for the fellow, my lady," 
 prompted Marie. "One can visit a lion's den 
 187. 
 
The Daughters 
 
 in safety when the animals have eaten their fill. 
 There is not a man, or woman either for that 
 matter at Bradgate, who has not eaten and drank 
 since yesternight, until they could hold no more. 
 My word for it, he will find none but sleeping 
 lions on the domain this day; and before they 
 awake we shall be well on our way to London." 
 
 "And how soon may that be?" asked Kath- 
 arine, with a sleepy yawn that implied security. 
 The warmth of the fire, and a comforting con- 
 viction that she had escaped from the immediate 
 consequences of her sudden flight; together with 
 the fact that she was famihar with the ruins of 
 Groby Castle from childhood, made her sur- 
 roundings appear natural; and her adventure 
 more rational. 
 
 After all, she had many good friends in 
 London and if the worst should happen and she 
 should be arrested upon her father's order ? 
 Even so, a runaway daughter was different 
 from a runaway slave! So Katharine yawned 
 again, with a sleepiness that was almost over- 
 powering, while Marie made a rapid calculation 
 on the tips of her pink fingers. 
 
 " He will be two hours, going," she said, " and 
 i88 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 half that time returning with the horses — that's 
 three; and another hour because the roads are 
 heavy — that's four hours for us to wait and to 
 employ our time as best we can." 
 
 "Had we the great clock of the abbey in 
 view," said Katharine, ruefully, "we might 
 count the minutes, and so at least occupy our 
 minds." 
 
 Then, as she held her hands outstretched be- 
 fore the fire, her eyes caught the glitter of the 
 ring that Herbert had placed on her finger. 
 With an angry frown she was about to pull it 
 from her hand, and cast it into the debris that 
 surrounded her, when suddenly her mood 
 changed. "It is Seymour's ring," she said to 
 herself, softly. "I will wear it for his sake." 
 
 But, at a time when Marie did not observe 
 her, she slipped the ring from one finger to 
 another. . . . 
 
 The mist had cleared away and a wintry sun 
 was high in the heavens, before the impatient 
 maidens descried in the distance a little body 
 of horsemen coming towards them. They had 
 just emerged from the forest, at a more distant 
 point than that taken by Katharine and her 
 189 
 
The Daughters 
 
 maid ; and .as they came on at a full gallop they 
 seemed to number more than the expected 
 rescue party, which at the most could only be 
 Jacques with the three horses and possibly 
 Martin. 
 
 "Four horses, my lady," said Marie, anx- 
 iously, although no question had been asked. 
 "And three riders," added Katharine, who was 
 almost undone with fatigue and apprehension. 
 
 " If— if it should be, Oh, Marie, I am so " 
 
 The poor girl trembled, with alternating emo- 
 tions of hope and fear, as the little cavalcade, 
 now in single file, checked, somewhat, their gait 
 as they drew nearer to the castle. 
 
 "Who rides ahead?" Katharine asked of 
 her maid; and the question was entirely un- 
 necessary, and was intended more to hide her 
 feelings than for any need she had of asking, 
 for her heart told her even before her eyes could 
 discern his features, that the young knight, who 
 rode his horse with such grace and skill, was 
 Edward Seymour. 
 
 "Katharine!" he exclaimed, as he swung 
 himself lightly from his horse and handed his 
 bridle rein to Jacques; but, it was said in such 
 190 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 a manner that there was no need of saying 
 more — before the others. . . . 
 
 When they walked outside the castle walls, 
 apart from the rest, Katharine told him of her 
 hopes and plans. As she finished he shook his 
 head mournfully, "Thou wert brave, my Kath- 
 arine, to come thus far, and to attempt a plead- 
 ing before the King, but he will do naught for 
 us. The same power, that has brought my 
 father in disgrace to the Tower, is strong enough 
 to take you back, a prisoner, to the arms of 
 Herbert." 
 
 Katharine raised her eyes to the blue sky over- 
 head, " I will die first," she said solemnly, and, as 
 he looked into the quiet depths of her steadfast 
 eyes, he knew that she had spoken the truth. 
 
 There was silence between them as they 
 strolled about the ruined old pathways, all 
 overgrown with dead weeds, and debris, until 
 she spoke: "There is a matter," she began, 
 and then she stopped, in some confusion. He 
 looked anxiously into her crimson face, at her 
 lovely disorder, at the sweeping lashes that veiled 
 her eyes, "I know what you would say," he 
 promptly !nterpreted. 
 
 191 
 
The Daughters 
 
 " How could you, when I have said nothing ? " 
 she rejoined, much reUeved. 
 
 He smiled, " I can tell by your manner, even 
 before you speak; you would remind me that 
 you are a married woman." 
 
 The words seemed to sting her, for she quiv- 
 ered, and trembled as she stood with drooping 
 head before him, "And would men so regard 
 the maid, who suffered such wrong, such vio- 
 lence, as they did to me in the hall of my father 
 yesterday ?" she asked him, speaking the words 
 slowly and distinctly. 
 
 His troubled face denoted his concern as he 
 replied, "until the wrong has been undone, I 
 think that men would so regard you." 
 
 Katharine quietly drew from her hand the 
 ring, Seymour's ring, that Herbert had placed 
 on her finger, and handed it to him, " until that 
 day arrives," she said, sadly. . . . 
 
 "Not more than an hour's ride from the 
 farthest limit of your father's estate, there dwells 
 a franklin; an honest man who holds his lands 
 of the crown, and free from any feudal servi- 
 tude," explained Seymour. "To him we will 
 confess our need of meat and drink; and having 
 192 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 obtained some needed rest, we will journey to 
 London." 
 
 "And the poor slave ?" said Katharine, com- 
 passionately, as her eyes rested on Martin, who 
 was caring for the horses. 
 
 "I have given him enough gold to purchase 
 his freedom, should he be taken," answered 
 Seymour, "there will no harm come to him." 
 
 13 
 
PART THIRD 
 
XVI. 
 EDWARD THE KING 
 
 N the royal apartments at 
 Westminster, at a large 
 table, in a room hung 
 with heavy tapestries, 
 and furnished with mas- 
 sive furniture, sat a 
 youth of scarcely sixteen years of age, reading 
 aloud from a large manuscript folio. But for 
 the costly style of his attire, the elaborateness 
 of which, at this period, denoted the wearer's 
 rank, and his surroundings, he would have been 
 considered a very ordinary looking boy; with 
 small commonplace features, and of girlish 
 manners. He wore a doublet of embroidered 
 purple silk, over a white shirt of the same 
 material, the collar of the shirt falling loosely 
 over the neck of his doublet. 
 
 Over this was a black velvet coat, or jacket, 
 edged with ermine, and embroidered with silver. 
 The armlets of the jacket reached only to his 
 197 
 
The Daughters 
 
 elbow; but below that his arms were covered 
 with elaborately worked sleeves. Around his 
 neck, resting low on his shoulders, was a broad 
 band of exquisitely wrought filigree work, set 
 with numerous and costly jewels. His bonnet, 
 which was carelessly lying on the floor beside 
 his chair, was a flat, turban-shaped, headgear, 
 also of velvet, and ornamented with jewels; a 
 short feather plume was fastened to the bonnet 
 with a gold buckle, and it hung suspended above 
 his left ear when he wore it. 
 
 Although the boy's features were ordinary, 
 they were nevertheless pleasing from their 
 distinctly feminine characteristics. 
 
 His eyes were large and lustrous, and con- 
 tained at all times an expression of candor and 
 kindliness, that invited the confidence of those 
 with whom he talked. 
 
 But his small mouth, and pointed irresolute 
 chin, denoted a vain and petulant disposition, 
 one that could be easily led and even controlled 
 by a stronger will. 
 
 Such was the son of Jane Seymour, the beau- 
 tiful wife of Henry VHI, who gave up her Hfe 
 at his birth. Such was Edward VI, King of 
 198 
 
I\i;; IcnWARD THE SIXTH 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 England and Supreme head of the church of 
 England and Ireland. . . . 
 
 The manuscript from which he read, was in 
 his own handwriting; large, square, legible 
 characters, with which he had evidently taken 
 great pains and of which he was proud. On 
 the other side of the table, at which sat the 
 king, stood his tutor, John Cheke, Master of 
 Arts, "who sought to bring him up in learning 
 of Tongues, of the Scriptures, of Philosophy and 
 all Liberal Sciences." As the young king read 
 aloud from his Journal, the tutor would make 
 comments upon his pupil's work. 
 
 "In the month of May," read Edward, "died 
 the French King called Francis " 
 
 "Pardon, your Majesty," corrected Master 
 Cheke, gently, "but the sad occurrence of which 
 you write, was in the month of March, scarce two 
 months after the death of your illustrious father." 
 
 Edward impatiently shrugged his shoulders 
 and pursed his small mouth defiantly. "I have 
 written it as happening in May," he said irri- 
 tably, "and care not to change it." And so it 
 remains to this day, as anyone can see; for the 
 diary, or journal has been preserved, even to the 
 199 
 
The Daughters 
 
 present time. Master Cheke, knowing the 
 temper of his royal pupil, remained discreetly 
 silent, while Edward continued to read. 
 
 "A Parliament was called, where an uniform 
 Order of Prayer was institute, before made by 
 a number of Bishops and learned men gathered 
 together in Windsor." 
 
 Master Cheke coughed cautiously; and Ed- 
 ward looked up from his book. "A Parliament 
 called by your Majesty," he corrected, well 
 knowing that it would be taken in good will. 
 
 The cloud on the boyish brow cleared as he 
 noted the correction, "by Me," and his voice 
 arose to a shrill treble, as he began to read his 
 account of the fall of his uncle, Edward Sey- 
 mour, the Duke of Somerset, Regent and Pro- 
 tector; and the rise of his rival Dudley, Earl of 
 Warwick, as follows: 
 
 "In the mean season in England rose great 
 Stirs, like to increase much if it had not been 
 well forseen. The council, about nineteen of 
 them, were gathered in London, thinking to 
 meet with the Lord Protector and to make him 
 amend some of his disorders. He fearing his 
 
 state caused the Secretary " 
 
 200 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Master Cheke held up a hand, apologetically, 
 "It might be well to say, in your Majesty's 
 name," he suggested, diplomatically. And the 
 King, exceedingly well pleased, wrote: "In 
 My Name." Then he went on, "to be sent to 
 the Lords, to know for what cause they gathered 
 their Powers together; and if they meant to 
 talk with him, that they should come in a peace- 
 able manner. The next morning being the 6th 
 of October and Saturday, he commanded the 
 armour to be brought down out of the armory 
 of Hampton Court, about 500 Harnesses, to 
 arm both his and my men, with all the gates 
 of the house to be Rampeir'd, People to be 
 raised; People came abundantly to the house. 
 That night, with all the People, at nine or ten 
 of the clock of the night, I went to Windsor and 
 there was Watch and Ward kept every night." 
 
 John Cheke, whose sensitive nature denoted 
 the scholar, rather than the soldier, or politician, 
 was nervously gliding from one place to another, 
 while his pupil was reading: for the face of the 
 stern Protector, angry, inflexible, seemed to 
 watch him from among the folds of the heavy 
 curtains. It was a time when greater men than 
 201 
 
The Daughters 
 
 he spoke of such matters in modest whispers, 
 if at all. And the loud, careless reading of 
 Edward disturbed him not a Httle. He sought 
 to placate the angry face that seemed to haunt 
 the apartment: "Your Majesty's uncle, the 
 Protector, was ever watchful, concerning your 
 Majesty's welfare," he said, cautiously. 
 
 Edward looked up annoyed. "My Uncle was 
 more concerned for himself and for his own 
 gain," he replied, "as the record will show." 
 
 Master Cheke subsided into another fit of 
 silence, and the King proceeded: "The Lords 
 sat in open places of London, calling for Gentle- 
 men before them and declaring the cause of 
 accusation of the Lord Protector, and caused 
 the same to be proclaimed. After which time 
 few came to Windsor, but only mine own men 
 of the Guard, whom the Lords willed, fearing 
 the rage of the People so lately quieted." 
 
 The King paused again; and the tutor, think- 
 ing he must say something, commented dryly, 
 "It was a turbulent period." Which remark 
 being of no account, one way or the other, the 
 King suffered to pass unnoticed, and continued 
 his reading: 
 
 202 
 
of SuflFolk 
 
 " Then began the Protector to treat by Letters, 
 sending Sir Philip Hobbey; lately come from 
 his ambassage in Flanders, to see to his Family, 
 who brought in his return a letter to the Pro- 
 tector, very gentle, which he delivered to him; 
 another to Me; another to my House, to declare 
 his Faults, Ambition, Vain Glory." 
 
 Master Cheke started, nervously; he was 
 sure that he heard the deep, commanding voice 
 of the Protector: "Remember Master Cheke, 
 that Edward is a Seymour, one of us — one of us." 
 And there was his face again! A face so stern 
 and rigid, that it had never changed its expres- 
 sion when he had signed a warrant for the 
 execution of his own brother. 
 
 "Entering into rash wars in my Youth," 
 Edward continued, "negligent looking on New 
 Haven, enriching of himself of my treasure, 
 following of his own opinion, and doing all by 
 his own Authority. . . . Which letters were 
 openly read, and immediately the Lords came 
 to Windsor, took him and brought him through 
 Holborn to the Tower. Afterward I came to 
 Hampton Court, where they appointed " 
 
 Again Master Cheke held up a hand, timidly, 
 203 
 
The Daughters 
 
 and Edward stopped reading. "As in the other 
 case, your Majesty, it would be only right to 
 say, by your Majesty's consent." 
 
 A pleasant expression again flitted across the 
 young face, as he took up his quill pen and 
 wrote: "by My consent." After which he 
 remarked to his tutor, "It pleases me well to 
 have so careful and learned a teacher," and he 
 continued to read. 
 
 Master Cheke pressed his hands together, 
 rigidly, and bowed low to the King; a half 
 stifled sigh escaped him, — the result of holding 
 his breath, with fear. Somerset in the Tower, 
 Somerset in the Tower! Incredible. 
 
 "The Lord Protector," said Edward, "by 
 his own agreement and Submission, lost his 
 Protectorship, Treasureship, Marshalship, all 
 his Moveables, and more, 2000 pounds yearly, 
 from the revenue of his lands." 
 
 "And also his head, your Majesty," came 
 low, but distinctly, in a voice that was not 
 Master Cheke's. And, as the King looked up 
 from his Journal, he encountered the large, 
 innocent-looking eyes of John Dudley, Duke 
 of Northumberland. He had stepped into the 
 204 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 room from somewhere behind the hangings, and 
 advanced to the table with the easy, careless 
 movement of one who was about to exchange 
 the compliments of the season. 
 
 Edward closed his book, abruptly, and his 
 delicate cheeks paled. "Has the sentence, in 
 truth, been consummated ?" he asked. 
 
 "In very truth, your Majesty," answered 
 Dudley, as he twirled the long, slender stem of 
 a house-plant between his thumb and forefinger. 
 " Your uncle, the Lord Protector of other days, 
 is no more." 
 
 The boy leaned forward, over the table, his 
 mouth half open, his lustrous eyes, Jane Sey- 
 mour's eyes, slowly filling with tears. The long 
 accusation, that he had just read to his tutor, 
 against Somerset, the Protector, faded away in 
 the rush of kindly thoughts of his uncle, Edward 
 Seymour. "Dead," he muttered, as his head 
 fell lower, lower, until it rested upon his out- 
 stretched arms. . . . 
 
 Master Cheke moved, noiselessly, backward, 
 
 until he had reached the door; then, quietly 
 
 pushing aside the hangings, he passed swiftly 
 
 through the adjoining apartments, on through 
 
 205 
 
The Daughters 
 
 the numerous passages of the Palace, and out 
 into the open air. For a mile or more he walked 
 rapidly through certain lanes and unfrequented 
 streets of London; until he finally stood in 
 front of a small, but respectable looking house 
 in the suburbs. Before he could knock on the 
 double door the upper half opened quietly and 
 a small, tear-stained face looked into his anx- 
 iously. " I myself saw you through the window. 
 Ah! Mon Dieu, it has happened." 
 
 Master Cheke passed her in the hall; "Yes 
 Marie," he said, almost in a whisper, while he 
 nervously loosened the tie at his neck, "The 
 Duke of Somerset is dead ! " 
 
 Katharine, leaning over the balustrade at 
 the top of the stairway, called to Master Cheke. 
 
 "Is there any hope of a reprieve?" And 
 Jacques, at the same moment appearing at the 
 kitchen door, heard him answer — 
 
 "My lady, he is dead." . . . 
 
 Behold, the little party of runaways from 
 
 Bradgate, who, after a tedious journey of nearly 
 
 one hundred miles, arrived, finally, in London, 
 
 and had found a temporary refuge in Master 
 
 206 
 
JOHN DUDLEY, DUKt OF NORTHlIMBERI-A^•D 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Cheke's private residence, where they had been 
 safely conducted and introduced by his friend 
 and pupil, young Edward Seymour. Small 
 wonder, under the circumstances, that Sir John 
 Cheke — he had recently been knighted by King 
 Edward — should feel occasional chills running 
 down his spine as if cold steel had been applied 
 to the back of his neck, as he removed his outer 
 garments, and seated by the little wood fire in 
 the hall he gazed into the troubled eyes of Kath- 
 arine. As he held his thin white hands out- 
 stretched before the tiny blaze, he tried to collect 
 his thoughts, and to form some plan for his 
 future guidance. 
 
 But, try as he would, his mind did nothing 
 but perform a continuous revolution, to which 
 there was no beginning or end. Young Seymour 
 and Katharine had taken him into their con- 
 fidence, and that troubled him. He knew that 
 Dudley, the innocent-looking Duke of North- 
 umberland; Herbert, the warlike Earl of Pem- 
 broke, and Katharine's father, the suave and 
 treacherous Duke of Suffolk, were banded 
 together for some definitive purpose; he had 
 also witnessed the struggle which the brave 
 207 
 
The Daughters of SuflFolk 
 
 Protector had made against them, a struggle 
 of a brave man in the open, against a multitude 
 of snakes in the grass, and the result! He won- 
 dered how they could have succeeded, for the 
 people were not with them; he knew that, for 
 he went among them and heard their conver- 
 sation. Then, searching for the strength of the 
 conspirators, his mind dwelt on his royal pupil, 
 and went no farther. They had captured his 
 boyish fancy, fed his foolish vanity, so that 
 Edward turned a deaf ear to his uncle and 
 joined his enemies. Now it was all plain to 
 Master Cheke; he must, of necessity, sail his 
 little boat in the wake of the larger craft. Then, 
 having in a measure settled the matter that was 
 troubling him, he was conscious that Katharine 
 was still looking at him — no, not at him, but 
 through him ! As she sat, in her favorite position 
 on a low stool, her chin in her hands, her elbows 
 on her knees, her beautiful young face showed 
 keen disappointment. 
 
 "You have joined the conspiracy," she said 
 confidently. 
 
XVII. 
 MASTER CHEKE 
 
 OW, in the midst of these 
 troublous times, there 
 must needs alight on his 
 threshold, like a pair of 
 cooing doves driven be- 
 fore a stormy wind, these 
 youthful lovers; claiming his aid and protection. 
 This is what annoyed the learned man, as 
 he walked slowly to the Palace, one fine morning 
 of the next week, this is what terrified the benef- 
 icent, charitable, and worthy old chancellor, 
 Sir John Cheke. 
 
 For he was not a man of action, and he pre- 
 ferred rather to defend his pronunciation of the 
 Greek vowels, against the assaults of Gardiner; 
 or to defend his phonetic method of English 
 spelling, than to champion the cause of Katha- 
 rine, before the King. "This is not the time," 
 he said to himself, as he made his way, through 
 the wretched streets of London "to speak to the 
 14 209 
 
The Daughters 
 
 King of a matter that concerns young Seymour." 
 Then his face cleared, like an April day, as a 
 sunny and cheerful thought entered his mind, 
 "I like her well, she may be the Queen some 
 day!" he said, suddenly. 
 
 This was the learned Cheke, of whom Harvey 
 said, some years later: "His style was the 
 honeybee of Plato." As he walked, further and 
 further, his head bent, his hands behind his 
 back, he began to compose a love sonnet, in 
 imitation of the Greek. A task that so occupied 
 his mind, and fixed his attention, as to render 
 him totally oblivious to his surroundings; so 
 that, in the space of an hour or more he found 
 himself in the shop of a small bookseller, instead 
 of the King's Palace. Nodding carelessly to 
 the proprietor, who sat warming his thin legs 
 before a fire of faggots, he began to turn over 
 the volumes that stood on a high bench near 
 the door. 
 
 "Ha," he exclaimed, as he picked up a slender 
 book, "another play, by Bilious Bale." The 
 bookseller stopped rubbing his shins, and looked 
 up to the tall man whose face was not unfamiliar. 
 "Aye, and its a great beating he gives the 
 
 2IO 
 
SIR JOHN CHEKE 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Papists," he said, insinuatingly; for it was well 
 to know one's customer, be he Reformed, or 
 Catholic. 
 
 "I like him not," said Cheke, as he returned 
 the volume to its place. The old man came 
 forward to show his wares. "A lightsome thing, 
 by Richard Edwards," he said, holding in his 
 hand a small pamphlet. 
 
 Master Cheke looked at it for a moment and 
 thrust it into an inner pocket of his cloak. Then 
 he began to examine the more serious looking 
 folios. But the bookseller was a shrewd mer- 
 chant, and he baited his hook with the same 
 coloured fly. 
 
 "A book of Poems," he said, contemplatively, 
 "by Nicholas Grimoald.?" 
 
 Cheke left the folios, and returned to the tall 
 bench. "It may be worth while," he com- 
 mented. "I will take it with me." 
 
 And so the good man went on, buying the 
 new books and browsing amongst the old; until 
 his wits returned, suddenly, and he remembered 
 that he had set off for an appointment with the 
 King. A serious task lay before him; for King 
 Edward was possessed with an ambition to be 
 
 211 
 
The Daughters 
 
 great, as an author. In furtherance of this 
 desire he had sent for John Cheke, unquestion- 
 ably one of the most learned men of his age, his 
 old tutor, and had conferred on him the order 
 of knighthood. It was necessary for Sir John 
 to make all haste to the King's presence. When 
 he arrived at the Palace, an attendant was await- 
 ing him, with orders to bring him at once to the 
 King's private study. "His Majesty has sent 
 me, three times," said the high-born page, with 
 a show of impatience, that was not lost on the 
 sensitive scholar, "and he is not in the best of 
 humor," he added. 
 
 Master Cheke forgot his Greek sonnet and 
 other distracting thoughts, as he bowed low to 
 Edward, the King. In truth he had a deep 
 affection for the boy, to which he gave expres- 
 sion, some years afterwards, in his "Royall 
 Elegie on King Edward the VI," which, in a 
 measure, was returned by his pupil; but, Edward 
 had been waiting, in the cold uncomfortable 
 room, for more than an hour. "I thought that 
 you must be seriously ill," he greeted his absent- 
 minded teacher, "or else, that some mishap had 
 befallen you, to keep Me waiting." Edward 
 
 212 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 always wrote " me," with a capital M. He ac- 
 cented the word in his speech, and paused to 
 give the unlucky Master of Arts and Science an 
 opportunity to clear himself of so grave an 
 offense, but Master Cheke remained silent. 
 
 In fact there was nothing that he could say, 
 nothing that would answer his purpose. 
 
 " I did miscalculate the time, your Majesty," 
 he finally stammered; and Edward, who really 
 held the worthy man in great respect, seeing 
 his embarrassed state, pressed the matter no 
 further. He opened the Journal, that lay on 
 the table in front of him, and began to read: 
 
 "My Lord Somerset was delivered of his 
 bonds, and came to court." He stopped, sud- 
 denly, and gazed into his tutor's benign counte- 
 nance. "Master Cheke," he said, seriously. 
 "In the matter of my uncle, the Protector, I 
 think that we were somewhat a little severe in 
 our remarks, during our last reading." 
 
 "Your Majesty," replied Cheke, nervously, 
 for the chills were again about his neck, as he 
 imagined that he heard a slight rustling behind 
 the heavy hangings, "your nature is to find no 
 fault with those who do their duty." 
 213 
 
The Daughters 
 
 The King was pleased with this answer; and 
 the one behind the curtain, whoever he might 
 be, was welcome to construe it as it might affect 
 him. 
 
 And so the reading continued, of trifling and 
 important events, as recorded in the Journal of 
 Edward the Sixth. 
 
 One day he had noted the " baiting of bears 
 and bulls," and on another he issued a procla- 
 mation, "that all Wooll-winders should take 
 an oath that they would make good cloth." On 
 another occasion he noted the fact that "Joan 
 of Kent was burnt for holding, that Christ was 
 not Incarnate of the Virgin Mary." And shortly 
 afterwards, he had written that: "The Ambas- 
 sadors had a fair supper made them by the Duke 
 of Somerset; and afterwards went to the Thames 
 and saw both the Bear hunted in the water, and 
 also Wild-fire cast out of boats, and many pretty 
 conceits." 
 
 To all of which, and much more beside. 
 Master Cheke gave solemn and earnest atten- 
 tion; he added to the record here, and sub- 
 tracted there, whenever the King would permit, 
 so that the same would be rightly expressed. 
 214 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 When he had finished reading all that he had 
 written, the King dipped his pen into the ink, 
 and wrote at the top of a new leaf: 
 
 "The Duke of Somerset had his head cut off 
 upon Tower Hill, between eight and nine a 
 clock in the morning." Then he turned to Sir 
 John. "That is all that I have written in my 
 Journal," he said, " but here is another subject 
 upon which I would have your criticism." He 
 took from a leather cover several manuscript 
 pages; "I will read it to you, Master Cheke," 
 said the boy with much suppressed enthusiasm. 
 
 He began: 
 
 " In eucharist then, there is bread, 
 Whereto I do consent: 
 Then with bread are our bodies fed; 
 
 And further what is meant — ?".... 
 
 The poem continued in the same style for 
 sixteen stanzas, and ended as follows : 
 
 " This doe I say, this have I said, 
 This saying say will I, 
 This saying, though I once denaid, 
 I will no more to die." 
 215 
 
The Daughters 
 
 He stopped. "What think you, Master 
 Cheke?" The old Provost of King's College, 
 the most refined critic of the English language, 
 made answer: 
 
 "With your Majesty's consent, I will submit it 
 to my friend John Foxe, in whose judgment, on 
 matters religious, I have the greatest confidence." 
 
 In " that worthie Booke of Martyrs, made by 
 that famous Father and excellent Instrument 
 in God his Church, Maister John Fox, so Httle 
 to be accepted, and all other good books little 
 or nothing to be reverenced; whilst other toyes, 
 fantasies, and bableries, whereof the world is 
 ful, are suflFered to be printed," in that excellent 
 work there is a note regarding King Edward's 
 Poem as follows: "This piece is worthy of 
 perpetual memory to the immortal fame and 
 glory of this young Prince." 
 
 He took the manuscript and was about to 
 withdraw, when he suddenly remembered the 
 petition entrusted to his care. 
 
 "Your Majesty," he said, "there arrived at 
 my humble dwelHng, a young maiden in great 
 distress of mind. She claims that a great wrong 
 has been done her." 
 
 216 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 Edward's utninous eyes grew large and round, 
 as was always the case whenever he heard of 
 any manner of sorrow, as he arose from the table 
 and motioned to the door leading into the audi- 
 ence chamber. 
 
 " I will hear your petition, Sir John, with the 
 others who have been waiting, in the room 
 adjoining." It was a common occurrence to 
 present such requests; and Edward, having a 
 gentle nature, seldom refused to hear the suppli- 
 cations of his people. 
 
 But Katharine's prayer was not of the ordi- 
 nary, and so Sir John advised the King. 
 
 "Pardon, your Majesty," he said, anxiously, 
 "but the matter concerns a lady of high degree 
 and she craves your private consideration." 
 
 The young King faced about, his anger rising. 
 "What! No scandal, I trust. Master Cheke." 
 
 Sir John bowed low, his features curiously 
 immovable. "The lady is of royal blood, your 
 Majesty, and " 
 
 Edward interrupted him. "Then hold your 
 
 silence, my Master, our cousin will do better, 
 
 if her cause is just, to present her request 
 
 in person. But I would know her name," 
 
 217 
 
The Daughters 
 
 he added. "My sisters know how to make 
 their addresses. Who then is this distressed 
 relation ? " 
 
 "The lady Katharine Grey, your Majesty," 
 said Sir John, to whom the commission entrusted 
 to his care, was most unpleasant. 
 
 Then as he was about to retire from the royal 
 presence, he backed awkwardly into the arms 
 of John Dudley, the harmless, innocent, Duke 
 of Northumberland. 
 
 "A charming lady," said the Duke, pleas- 
 antly, as he at once joined in the conversation, 
 "and but recently married to the son of our 
 good friend, the Earl of Pembroke." He paused 
 a moment to search the countenance of Sir John 
 Cheke, with one of his compelling, threatening 
 glances, and then drew a letter from the pocket 
 of his cloak. 
 
 " I have here, your Majesty, a letter from her 
 father, Suffolk: and was about to bring the 
 same to your Majesty's attention, when I over- 
 heard the lady mentioned by our learned Master 
 Cheke." 
 
 King Edward took the letter from the Duke's 
 hand, and began to read. As he continued, his 
 218 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 brow contracted and he pursed his small mouth, 
 until his face took on an expression of authority. 
 When he had finished reading, he turned to Sir 
 John, who in truth, wished a dozen times that 
 the devil had taken young Seymour and his love 
 affairs, before he had come to him. "We will 
 hear what you have to relate, Sir John, about 
 our cousin the lady Katharine," he said as he 
 resumed his seat at the table. 
 
 The Duke again fixed his gaze on the scholar, 
 but John Cheke had a poet's courage, when in 
 defense of a sorrowing damsel; and he minded 
 him not. Then, he told the King of the trick 
 that had been played upon the young girl, 
 whereby she had been trapped into marriage 
 with one whom she did not love. And, telling 
 the tale as Katharine had told it to him; but 
 embellished with all the rhetoric of which he 
 was a master, the King suddenly gave judgment, 
 boy-like, and without so much as hearing a 
 word from the Duke. "The marriage shall not 
 stand," he said, impetuously; and one could 
 have heard in his speech an echo of his royal 
 father's voice, the imperious King Henry the 
 Eighth. "I command you, my Lord Northum- 
 219 
 
The Daughters 
 
 berland, to have a declaration made that the 
 marriage has been null and void from the begin- 
 ning; and you will invoke the lav7, through our 
 council, in proper legal form, to free our cousin 
 Katharine from the burden of this farce." 
 
 With a mahgnant look, first at the successful 
 scholar, which made the latter to creep in his 
 flesh, Northumberland made his obeisance. 
 "As the King commands," he said, with much 
 show of obedience, " so shall it be." 
 
 Master Cheke also bowed low to Edward. 
 "Your Majesty is ever just to high and low 
 alike. Your judgment of which I am to be the 
 honored bearer, will give joy and a new Hfe to 
 my lady Katharine Grey." . . . 
 
 As the worthy man, full of happiness at the 
 thought of what he had accomplished, wended 
 his way homeward; his contented mind, reflect- 
 ing in a healthful manner upon his body, made 
 him sensible of a great thirst that was annoying 
 his palate. And, his mind and body agreeing 
 as to the direction. Master Cheke was soon 
 inside of a snug Httle tavern, where men of 
 letters were wont to congregate. After the keen 
 edge of his appetite was somewhat blunted, he 
 220 
 
of SufFoIk 
 
 called for pen and paper; a few small sheets of 
 Spanish manufacture were handed him, and he 
 wrote : 
 
 " Deep in my soul thine image dwells. 
 Still, silently, a tear mine eyelid swells 
 When, night or day, I stop to rest, 
 And think a moment-which is best; 
 Life's ceaseless toil, and tinsel prize. 
 Or just to dream about thine eyes ? 
 O Love! how strong; how great thy power, 
 O Life! how weak; to grant an hour, 
 A moment of the rapture true, 
 A second of those days-with You." 
 
 These were the lines that had been entangling 
 his thoughts during the morning. Thrice he 
 read over the verses, and after each reading he 
 would sit absorbed in deep meditation. The 
 rhyme was an imitation of Marcus Argentarius, 
 but the theme was old; old, even before the 
 Greek was born. 
 
XVIII. 
 PLOTTING 
 
 ENRY THE Eighth died 
 on January the twenty- 
 eighth, in the year 1547 — 
 unloved, unmourned, and 
 detested equally by both 
 Catholics and Protes- 
 tants. Before his death he provided in his 
 will, that his son Edward — by Jane Seymour 
 — should succeed him; and next, Mary, daugh- 
 ter of Catharine, of Aragon; and, failing 
 Mary and her issue, his daughter — by Anne 
 Boleyn — Elizabeth: Provided, that both Mary 
 and Elizabeth, should marry only with the 
 consent of the counsellors, appointed to Ed- 
 ward in his minority. Failing Elizabeth and 
 her issue. Lady Frances, daughter of Charles 
 and Mary Brandon, the mother of Jane and 
 Katharine Grey, was to be the heir to the 
 crown. This latter possibility, remote as it 
 might appear to the ordinary Englishman of 
 222 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 that age, was regarded by the Duke of North- 
 umberland, as a possible occurrence; which, 
 by his power and influence over the young king, 
 aided by circumstances, might be made a fact. 
 So he had taken into his confidence a few of the 
 council, upon whom he thought he could 
 depend. In furtherance of his plans he soon 
 found it convenient to make a visit to his friend 
 Henry Grey. 
 
 When he arrived at Bradgate he found his 
 fellow conspirator in a state of mind bordering 
 on panic. He was peevish and irritable, and 
 had no sooner conducted his visitor to a corner, 
 remote from the rest of the household, when he 
 drew from amongst a large bundle of papers, 
 a letter, which he handed to Dudley. "There," 
 he said, angrily, "is a token from William 
 Herbert, for the writing of which I should run 
 him through the body with my sword." 
 
 Northumberland took the letter from Suf- 
 folk's hand, smiling softly, gently. "You war- 
 like lords forever speak of deathly hits by 
 sword, or pistol; but, to my mind the headsman 
 doth a neater stroke than either dag or rapier — 
 I would be great in the Council." He lowered 
 223 
 
The Daughters 
 
 his head, and raised his eyes until the white 
 showed beneath the pupils, as he gazed fixedly 
 at Suffolk. 
 
 The latter squirmed uneasily on his chair, and 
 pulled at the ends of his long drooping mustache. 
 This cat-like Dudley, this soft, purring, smiling 
 Dudley, with his large childlike eyes, and cold, 
 clammy hands — his friend? He sat still as 
 Northumberland read the letter aloud: 
 
 "With Somerset's head in the basket, God 
 knows whose turn will come next. I care not 
 to take the chance, my lord, and doubt not 
 that the matter can be so arranged as to sever 
 the light bonds existing between the Lady 
 Katharine and my son Henry." 
 
 Dudley suffered the letter to fall to the floor, 
 and made no effort to recover it. "Pembroke 
 is too easily alarmed," he said, in his low 
 measured voice, "he worries over a cause that 
 has already been settled. The king has advised 
 the Council of his wish to have the marriage of 
 the Lady Katharine declared null and void 
 from the beginning." 
 
 "The King?" questioned Suffolk— " Then 
 you showed him not the letter in which I 
 224 
 
KATHARINK OF ARAGON 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 explained to you how the rites had all been 
 legally performed and with my consent." 
 
 Dudley's face flushed, a trifle, as he recalled 
 the interference of Sir John Cheke. "My 
 Lady Katharine had already gained her peti- 
 tion," he said indifferently, "and as it turns 
 out for the best — Ah! here comes the Lady 
 Jane," he said, as he caught sight of her cross- 
 ing the great hall. 
 
 "And your son, Guilford," added Suffolk, 
 as his glance went past his lovely daughter, to 
 the young man following her — " they are seldom 
 seen apart." 
 
 A genuine smile of approbation and pleasure 
 swept across the crafty features of Northumber- 
 land. "So it should be," he commended. 
 "For, through the union of this well matched 
 pair, there will come much greatness to you — 
 and me." He arose and made a sweeping bow 
 as Jane Grey approached. 
 
 "My lord, the Duke," she greeted him, and 
 holding out her hand as though she were indeed 
 a queen. 
 
 "My lady," he replied, as he touched the 
 tips of her fingers to his lips. 
 IS 225 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "I am consumed with anxiety," she said, 
 "about my sister Katharine; it is now a month 
 since she left us, and I could wait for news of 
 her no longer — even at the risk of interrupting 
 you, and of offending my father," she gave a 
 hurried look in Suffolk's direction; she ex- 
 pected to find his brow fretted, and his 
 irritation manifested by some sarcastic phrase 
 — but, to her surprise, her father smiled upon 
 her, blandly. 
 
 " Thy parents' ears were ever open to so good 
 and virtuous a daughter," he said, pompously. 
 "Regarding thy sister Katharine's affairs; she 
 has taken her matters into her own hands, and 
 through a petition to the King has undone all 
 our plans." 
 
 "Not all our plans, my lord," corrected 
 Dudley, politely, "the disaffection of Lord 
 Pembroke is but a minor occurrence, a dis- 
 appointment that can be easily remedied 
 when we have need of him." He smiled, and 
 lowered his eyes, as he affected a humility, a 
 gentleness in his manner and speech that ill 
 suited his reputation; for since the execution 
 of Somerset, his former friend and confidant, 
 226 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 and for whose death he was responsible, John 
 Dudley was now master of England. 
 
 "In what manner did the King receive my 
 sister's petition ? " asked Jane, hastily, for she 
 was apprehensive lest her father's unusual mani- 
 festation of affection for her should suffer a 
 relapse, before she had news of Katharine. 
 
 " The King promptly approved of thy sister's 
 disobedience," answered Suffolk, in a tone of 
 irony that was not lost upon the others — "Our 
 cousin, the King, never loses an opportunity of 
 doing us a favor." 
 
 The irascible Duke arose to his feet and began 
 to pace the hall, back and forth, apparently 
 oblivious to his surroundings. Jane and Guil- 
 ford Dudley sauntered off together, while the 
 gentle Northumberland kept his seat, and 
 watched his colleague, from under his drooping 
 eyehds. As Suffolk drew near him in his aimless 
 march up and down the hall Northumberland 
 accosted him, quietly, "Your good cousin, the 
 King, will not have many more opportunities 
 to grant favors to you or to anyone else." 
 
 Suffolk stopped abruptly, and looked with 
 curiosity at the upturned countenance of the 
 227 
 
The Daughters 
 
 other. "What mean you, my lord ? It were 
 better to talk to the point, and as men, now 
 that the children have left us." 
 
 A faint smile hovered over the inscrutable 
 face of Dudley as he answered — "The young 
 King's health is rapidly faihng," he said, slowly, 
 deliberately, "his fast waning strength shows 
 unmistakable signs of coming death." 
 
 "Death!" repeated Suffolk, unable to conceal 
 his excitement and suspicions. "If you have 
 been the cause of " 
 
 "Stop!" exclaimed Northumberland, as his 
 hand went swiftly to his sword hilt, his pale 
 face was aflame, his self control was gone — 
 "another word by which you would brand me 
 a child murderer, and we fight to the death." 
 He stood up to his full stature, his strong body 
 quivering, his breath choking him as he spoke. 
 
 Suffolk retreated a few paces, before the 
 other's anger. "I made no charge," he said in 
 apology, "but merely put the question." 
 
 "To the bottom of Hell with you and your 
 questions! " answered Dudley, hotly. His anger 
 was furious, his rage unbridled. "Think you, 
 Henry Grey, that I have forgotten the banquet 
 
 228 
 
o/ Suffolk 
 
 that you and Somerset arranged for me — a feast 
 at which my dead body was to be the unwelcome 
 guest?" He stepped back, and raising his arm 
 pointed a finger at the frightened Suffolk — 
 "And you — you! dare iccuse me of murder." 
 He stood for a moment, rapidly recovering his 
 temper, and when he spoke again it was in the 
 same gentle cadence with which his friends were 
 familiar. "When the King dies" he said, 
 calmly, "then " 
 
 "The princess Mary will come to the throne," 
 said Suffolk, like a guilty school-boy, overjoyed 
 that his master's rage had passed away. 
 
 "Not if we are successful in our enterprise," 
 rejoined the other, serenely. 
 
 "And if not?" asked Suffolk, quickly. 
 
 " If not, — if not," — repeated Dudley, dream- 
 ily, as if the subject no longer possessed any 
 interest to him. 
 
 "If the princess Mary should ascend the 
 throne?" prompted the Duke of Suffolk, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Oh, in that event you and I will lose our 
 Protestant heads," he said sharply, incisively, 
 like the quick, cutting stroke of an axe. 
 229 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Suffolk paled to an ashy whiteness, as though 
 he had already suffered the trial, and sentence 
 of a new Council; his throat became dry and 
 contracted, as he made efforts to speak. " Could 
 such a contingency happen ? " he said in a 
 strained voice. "Excepting a few of the old 
 school adherents, the princess would have no 
 support, we have our retainers, and the foreign 
 soldiers." 
 
 Dudley waved his hands in a comprehensive 
 circle before him. "The princess Mary is the 
 Nation's hope," he said tersely, "we shall have 
 to fool, or fight the people of all England." 
 Then his head sank low, until his short beard 
 touched his breast, and he remained silent for 
 some moments. As he continued plunged in 
 deep thought, Suffolk began to think for him- 
 self. " If the chance is so great," he suggested, 
 hopefully, and his face cleared as though an 
 oppressive burden had been lifted from his 
 shoulders, "it were better for us to stop now 
 and to seek our ends no further." 
 
 Northumberland's scornful eyes rested for a 
 moment on the tall handsome figure of the 
 aristocratic Suffolk, and his lips curled, dis- 
 230 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 dainfuUy, " It is too late, my lord, to turn back 
 or to seek safety in the ranks of our enemies. 
 Dost think that the Queen Mary would so 
 soon forget the outrageous treatment that she 
 received at our hands as the CathoHc Princess ?" 
 
 "Softly," cautioned Suffolk, as he held a 
 warning finger to his lips while his eyes searched 
 carefully the farther corners of the hall. " There 
 are those of my household who might be tempted 
 to inform." 
 
 "Ha — ha!" laughed the master of England, 
 and his mirth sounded gruesome to Henry 
 Grey, "your imagination leads forward at too 
 rapid a pace. Mary is not yet the Queen, my 
 lord of Suffolk, — nor yet likely to be," he added 
 insolently. "We want no Harlot of Babylon to 
 rule over us, I was but testing thy courage." 
 
XIX. 
 FAREWELL— BRADGATE 
 
 I HE winter had ended, 
 summer was at hand; 
 the time was drawing 
 near when Jane Grey 
 was to consummate her 
 marriage with Guilford 
 Vd Dudley, to leave her 
 father's house, and all that was dear to her 
 heart at Bradgate. 
 
 She had been gently, but firmly, drawn into 
 the engagement by the persistence of her parents 
 and that of her lover; and now in this lovely 
 month of May there was to be, for her, a part- 
 ing from home that struck her with a weight 
 of misery. Not that she cared particularly for 
 the separation from her father and mother; 
 they had been to the conscientious girl but 
 vigorous teachers, far more severe in their 
 admonitions than her tutor, the learned Aylmer. 
 They were to her dutiful mind the stern guar- 
 232 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 dians, to be respected and obeyed, but not to be 
 loved. In her receptive nature the trees and 
 flowers, the dumb animals, the shady glens, 
 the sunny pasture lands of Bradgate, w^ere 
 engraved deeper, more firmly, than the parental 
 ties. As she walked alone in a secluded by- 
 path of the park adjoining the great mansion, 
 her heart was sorely tried. She felt as though 
 each particular tree and grassy walk was famil- 
 iar, and conscious of her presence, and that 
 they would be lonely during her absence. She 
 loved them with all her young heart, and she 
 imagined that they returned her affection. The 
 day was warm, it was nearly the last of May, 
 but a gentle breeze stirred the air, heavy and 
 sweet with the smell of blossoms. As she 
 walked along, the tall trees, sighing with a 
 fluttering rustle in their highest branches, 
 seemed to look down upon her with a sad and 
 personal interest; and the flowers springing up 
 in her pathway, brushed her garments with a 
 touch, that seemed to her, of friendly affection. 
 But now she was to leave all this, all that was 
 near and dear to her from infancy. Each sum- 
 mer the garden would bloom, while the thrushes 
 233 
 
The Daughters 
 
 and blackbirds were singing in the leafy branches 
 of the overhanging trees. 
 
 Over in the pasture the sheep would browse, 
 and the hot sun would warm the earth into 
 fragrant odors, into delicious scents, and per- 
 fumes; while it made dark tracings on the 
 velvety green of the turf. 
 
 And the old Manor, the fine old rectangular 
 structure of red bricks and stone, with its four 
 towers, one at each angle, and many mysterious 
 corners, where she and her sister Katharine 
 had penetrated imd "discovered" with many 
 exciting thrills and childish screams, the ghosts 
 and little neighbors. And the garden, with its 
 high surrounding walls of stone; and a sun dial 
 around whose base a lordly peacock was wont 
 to strut in its vain pride and glory; the old 
 Manor, with its walls all covered with ivy, her 
 home; the house in which she was born. 
 
 She had watched the summers blossom forth 
 each year, blossom and bloom until the ap- 
 proach of winter; when trees and flowers alike 
 shed their foliage on road and pathway. She 
 trod lightly, this warm afternoon, on a walk 
 that led through the leafy arches of the trees, 
 234 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 with unutterable sadness in her heart; for she 
 was taking leave of Bradgate. Scarcely con- 
 scious of her direction, so absorbed was she in 
 thought, her steps led her to a small summer 
 house, and arbor; that stood at the edge of a 
 group of trees, on the top of a knoll or hill. In 
 front of the house, which was nearly covered 
 with flowering vines, stood a few rustic seats that 
 commanded a view of the beautiful rolling coun- 
 try surrounding the Mansion. Jane stood for 
 a few moments, lost in admiration of the lovely 
 scene that lay before her. At her feet was an 
 undulating country, covered with a soft growth 
 of deep green. Browsing through the verdure 
 were many cattle and sheep; contentedly eating 
 their fill, in uninterrupted peace. 
 
 Above her head the sky was of the deepest 
 blue; and, off in the distance, in front of her, 
 a few fleecy clouds moved slowly across the 
 reddening horizon. 
 
 The sensitive girl, in harmony with her sur- 
 roundings, nestled in a corner of one of the 
 benches, while her eyes wandered dreamily 
 over the famihar view. 
 
 Suddenly, without any previous intimation 
 235 
 
The Daughters 
 
 or warning, she felt a soft pair of hands fold 
 over her eyes, and a fluttering voice was asking: 
 
 "Who is it, Jane, Who is it?" 
 
 Jane's hands caught the shapely wrists that 
 rested on her shoulders, and she held them in 
 a tight embrace. 
 
 "Who is it?" she laughed impulsively, 
 "Who could it be, other than my dear little 
 mad-cap sister, Kitty?" She drew her down 
 on the seat beside her, "Come here" she said 
 lovingly, as one hand released Katharine's 
 wrist, the better to encircle her waist. "Here, 
 now tell me everything, everything my Kitty, 
 from the time you left us." 
 
 Katharine, loving, stormy, forgiving Katha- 
 rine, clung to her sister with both arms. 
 
 "Oh, Jane," she sighed, her large blue eyes 
 brimming with happiness. "I am so glad, so 
 glad." She took a deep breath of content- 
 ment — "So glad, that you did not scold me." 
 Jane's sense of duty suddenly revived. 
 
 "You deserve it, of course," said the elder 
 sister, conscientiously, "but I have no heart at 
 present, for such unpleasant duty. How left you 
 Master Cheke?" 
 
 236 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 Katharine's face changed from mirthfulness 
 to soberness. "The good man was much per- 
 turbed in spirit at the taking off of the Duke 
 of Somerset, it was dreadful." She gazed out 
 over the peaceful valley that lay in front of her. 
 "Oh, Jane the brutahty of man is terrible; 
 in London there is no safety for anyone who 
 dares to have an opinion. Sir John is at his 
 wits' end, for the many things that he has written, 
 and his ideas publicly expressed." 
 
 "They would do him no harm," said Jane, 
 quietly, " He has the king's love and respect, he 
 will see that no process overtakes so worthy a 
 man." 
 
 " But the king is ill, very ill," said Katharine, 
 anxiously. "He pays little or no attention to 
 matters of state, but keeps close to his chamber. 
 Oh Jane, what if the king should die ?" Kath- 
 arine withdrew from her sister's arms, and 
 throwing back her head she gazed, apprehen- 
 sively, into her calm face. It was no secret 
 between the sisters; the love that the king had 
 for Jane, it was no secret in all of the court 
 circle; it was a pity that so suitable a match 
 could not be made, but Dudley, the master 
 237 
 
The Daughters 
 
 of England, had his own selfish views, his own 
 ends to attain; while hearts were breaking, 
 and men and women were dying at his ruthless 
 command. 
 
 "What if the King should die?" repeated 
 Katharine, uneasily. But Jane was lost in deep 
 thought, while her eyes opened round and wide 
 as they sought the farthest limit of the horizon. 
 Presently she spoke, but in an absent manner, 
 as though to herself, " In that case, the Princess 
 Mary would be Queen of England." 
 
 Katharine shuddered, nervously, "And what 
 would become of us?" she asked, with much 
 concern. Jane's mind came back to the loving 
 child at her side, and again she encircled her 
 with a protecting arm. "We should be much 
 the same, Kitty; pursuing our studies, for 
 Guilford promises that when we are married 
 we shall live not far from Bradgate." Katha- 
 rine started, with an angry movement — 
 "Pshaw! Guilford promises, indeed; I hate 
 Guilford, I hate his father," she was breathless 
 and trembling with quick emotion, as she 
 awaited Jane's anger. But it came not. As 
 she scanned her face it seemed to Katharine as 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 if her sister was far from her, as if her spirit was 
 absent, and that she was talking to her unre- 
 sponsive body. She caught her arm and shook 
 it, impatiently. "Jane, please do stop looking 
 like an angel; listen." Jane's eyes rested ten- 
 derly on her sister. "Sir John Cheke says, if 
 Mary is to be the Queen, that we shall all lose 
 our heads!" 
 
 Jane's face relaxed into a smile, "Sir John 
 must have already lost his, to make such a 
 saying." 
 
 "Our father will be the first." 
 
 "Nonsense," answered Jane. 
 
 "And your dear Dudley the next." 
 
 "Absurd." 
 
 "Ascham and Aylmer," continued Katharine, 
 tremulously, "and — and then all of our friends 
 who are Protestants!" 
 
 "Silly," insisted Jane; then looking more care- 
 fully at Katharine, she noticed a fine ring of 
 curious workmanship — its jewels blazing and 
 sparkling in the afternoon sun — a ring that she 
 had seen before. 
 
 "Has thy love for Seymour changed?" she 
 asked, abruptly, changing the subject. 
 239 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Katharine made an awkward attempt to hide 
 her jewelled hand beneath the other, and failed. 
 "It is a pledge between us," she said, timidly, 
 as she held up her hand. She looked for some 
 word from her sister; but again Jane's eyes 
 were fixed on the horizon, her mind striving to 
 pierce the future. 
 
 Katharine slowly drew the ring from her 
 finger and held it in the palm of her hand for 
 her sister's inspection. "See," she said in a con- 
 fidential voice, "it hath a secret." 
 
 Jane's curiosity was somewhat aroused. 
 
 "And how is that.?" she questioned. 
 
 Katharine showed her how the ring consisted 
 of five links, cunningly contrived, one within 
 the other: the four inner ones contained the 
 following poetry, composed by her lover: 
 
 " As circles five by art compact 
 -shows but one Ring in sight, 
 
 So trust uniteth faithfull mindes 
 -with knott of secret might; 
 
 Whose force to break but greedy Death 
 -noe wight possesseth power, 
 
 As time and sequels well shall prove, 
 -My Ringe can say no more." 
 240 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 When Katharine had read the verses, slowly 
 turning the circles round in her hand, she looked 
 for some word from Jane, but her sister was 
 again wrapped in deep meditation. 
 
 She seemed as though she had not heard the 
 endearing couplets. This afternoon, the last 
 that she was destined to spend at Bradgate, the 
 sensitive girl appeared to be in communion 
 with the other world. Her keen bright intellect, 
 educated to the highest perceptive plane, no 
 doubt enabled her to see beyond her environ- 
 ments; and to contemplate, with absorbing 
 interest, the future. 
 
 Katharine grew offended. 
 
 "I suppose that my doings have no further 
 concern for you," she said, impatiently. 
 
 Jane came back to earth. 
 
 "Everything that concerns you, my Kitty, is 
 of moment to me. I was but thinking, selfishly 
 of my future." 
 
 "With Guilford.?" asked Katharine, mock- 
 ingly. 
 
 "With Guilford," repeated Jane, tenderly. 
 
 Katharine remained silent, she was thinking. 
 During her long stay in London she had heard 
 i6 241 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 many things, of which her sister was ignorant; 
 she had been in the current of metropolitan 
 life, mixing with the people — the people, who 
 after all were the real masters of England. 
 
 She had listened to the people when they 
 spoke of the Dudleys. She had shuddered 
 with fright when, in the full glare of the open 
 streets, the people had cursed the Duke of 
 Northumberland and all of his family. She 
 had heard their cries of rage, when the people 
 first learned that the Duke of Somerset was 
 to be executed. She had seen a soiled handker- 
 chief, one of many hundreds, that a spectator 
 had rushed forward and dipped in the Protec- 
 tor's blood, that he might keep him in memory. 
 She had seen all these things in London; and 
 they had influenced her mind, but they were as 
 nothing to one act of the Dudleys, one that 
 concerned her personally. They had compelled 
 young Edward Seymour to flee for his life, to 
 go to France. That was the chief reason why 
 Katharine Grey hated the Dudleys. 
 
XX. 
 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 N the meantime, King 
 Edward the Sixth, in his 
 bigotry and blind zeal for 
 the "new religion," fell 
 into the carefully laid 
 plans of the Duke of 
 Northumberland, and his son-in-law. Lord 
 Hastings, to whom he had given his daughter 
 in marriage. 
 
 The King had been taught to have implicit 
 faith in the royal autocracy; and, as supreme 
 ruler of England and head of the Church, he 
 was ready to set aside both his father's will, and 
 parliamentary statute, by ignoring his sister 
 Mary's rights of succession, and substituting 
 therefor those of his sister EHzabeth. 
 
 The former was a Catholic, and in spite of the 
 
 Council's admonitions she continued steadfast 
 
 in her faith; in this resolution she was supported 
 
 by her powerful cousin, the Emperor Charles 
 
 243 
 
The Daughters 
 
 the Fifth, of Germany. In King Edward's 
 Journal, he wrote: "The Lady Mary sent 
 letters to the Council, marvelling at the Im- 
 prisonment of Dr. Mallet, her Chaplain, for 
 saying of Mass before her Household, seeing it 
 was promised the Emperor's Ambassador she 
 should not be molested in religion, but that she 
 and her Household should have the Mass said 
 before them continually. 
 
 They answered: "That because of their duties 
 to king, country and friends they were compelled 
 to give answer. That they would see, not only 
 him, but also all other mass-sayers and break- 
 ers of order, strictly punished. And that as 
 for promise, they had, nor would give none to 
 make her free from the punishment of the law 
 in that behalf" 
 
 So far was the Princess Mary at variance 
 with both king and council. 
 
 But the accession of the Princess Elizabeth 
 was as little pleasing, if not so dangerous, to 
 Dudley's ambition, as was the chance of having 
 Mary for his Queen. To set aside both of the 
 king's sisters, and also to pass over Frances 
 Brandon, the wife of Henry Grey, and to place 
 244 
 
•V ^ el 
 
 ■WNK r.OLEYN 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 her daughter Jane the next in succession, con- 
 stituted the "conspiracy," to which Henry Grey, 
 WilHam Herbert, and a few other noblemen of 
 lesser degree, under the commanding genius of 
 John Dudley, had committed themselves. 
 
 It was a daring project, and one full of possi- 
 bilities the least of which occurring would cause 
 an untimely collapse and failure. 
 
 The very element on which the conspirators 
 counted as their tower of strength was their 
 weakest point; Protestantism. 
 
 England at the close of Henry the Eighth's 
 reign was essentially a Catholic nation, in its 
 form of religion. Henry, himself, before his 
 death, longed to become reconciled to the uni- 
 versal church of which he had once been proudly 
 styled by the Pope "The Defender." At such 
 seasons he would execute those who denied 
 certain Catholic dogmas, then, when the humor 
 had passed, he put to death those who main- 
 tained the old religion. For over thirty years 
 this monster had ruled over fair England. The 
 wonder is that the people did not rise and kill 
 him, as they would a ferocious and dangerous 
 animal. But Henry was not unpopular with 
 245 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 the common people, so long as his severity 
 touched only the nobility. It was only when 
 his Six Articles became law that they realized 
 their danger. The "Whip with Six Lashes" 
 might lash any of them. But in spite of it all 
 they held to their old religion. They saw no 
 change in its observance, they desired none. 
 The "Book of Common Prayer," formulated 
 by his son King Edward, was indeed to the 
 common people but the Catholic ritual, made 
 plain and easy to their understanding. 
 
 This attitude of the people was apparent to 
 the Princess Mary, and her acute counsellor, 
 Stephen Gardiner, once bishop of Winchester, 
 now imprisoned in the tower, and they bided 
 their time. . 
 
XXI. 
 JANE'S WEDDING 
 
 RIGHT was the sky and 
 glorious the sunrise, that 
 began the 24th day of 
 May, in the year 1553, in 
 the old city of London. 
 The gorgeous decora- 
 tions of rich hangings and costly paintings, of 
 marbles and rare embroideries, were placed to 
 their best advantage in Durham House, the 
 home of John Dudley. 
 
 In the great hall and galleries, a few of the 
 artists still lingered over their work, moving a 
 chair here, and arranging the folds of a curtain 
 there, so that the best effect would be obtained, 
 in the magnificent display. The mansion was 
 almost regal in its sumptuous furnishing, and 
 John Dudley's household was crowded with 
 his retainers. At the expense of the nation, he 
 had a band of a hundred yeomen, fully armed, 
 and of which forty were attired in black velvet 
 247 
 
The Daughters 
 
 cloaks, with white and black sleeves on their 
 doublets; the other sixty wore plain black cloth 
 capes, over white hose and doublets. To these 
 were added, at his own expense, a hundred more 
 of young gentlemen of distinguished ancestry; 
 well mounted horsemen who also wore his livery. 
 
 In the Duke's household, also, were many 
 domestic officials; a chamberlain, who carried 
 a white wand of office, and at whose bidding the 
 numerous ushers and waiters flitted hither and 
 yon, around the. lordly mansion. A chef pre- 
 sided over the kitchen, and a small band of 
 assistant cooks, carvers, and cup-bearers. Al- 
 together, the Duke of Northumberland's re- 
 tainers, male and female servants, numbered 
 nearly three hundred persons. 
 
 As the morning advanced, the magnificent 
 apartments took on an appearance of Hvely 
 animation. The artist decorators, and their 
 workmen, had all departed after giving the final 
 touches to their work, and the rooms were now 
 filling with those members of the Duke's family 
 who were to take part in the approaching cere- 
 mony; the marriage of Guilford, his fourth son, 
 to the Lady Jane Grey. 
 248 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 As they took their various positions in the 
 splendid rooms and stairways, the scene became 
 one of brilliant splendor and luxury. Many 
 of the household were costumed in crimson 
 velvet and white satin, embroidered with threads 
 of gold; and as they formed in Hne in the great 
 hall to receive the numerous guests, their bright 
 appearance contrasted superbly with the rich 
 dark tapestries on the walls behind them. The 
 pages also were in bright colored Hveries; and 
 they hurried in and out of the various entrances, 
 on orders from their superiors or of their own 
 merry volition. An air of subdued excitement 
 pervaded the air as high-noon drew near. 
 
 Now the final preparations have all been 
 made. A chorus of selected voices have been 
 placed in an alcove, ready to chant the hymn of 
 marriage, for the happy couple; while a band 
 of musicians are also occupying an honorable 
 position, to furnish music for the festivities that 
 are to follow the ceremony. 
 
 As the guests arrived they were received by 
 the various ushers and shown to the places re- 
 served for them; and it was woe to the gorgeously 
 apparelled chamberlain, if by any ill chance an 
 249 
 
The Daughters 
 
 usher would seat one of lower rank above an- 
 other. In this matter, the ladies were more 
 concerned than their lords; for this was the 
 most notable event of the season, and many 
 would find in their placing the favor or indiffer- 
 ence of their host, the greatest man in England. 
 
 As he stood in the great hall receiving guests, 
 the Duke of Northumberland might have been 
 considered the most fortunate man in the King- 
 dom. By his own will he had dissolved the 
 Parliament. By the same inflexible determina- 
 tion he had removed Somerset, the only formid- 
 able obstacle to his plans, and now his son was 
 to marry the woman whom he proposed to make 
 the Queen of England. 
 
 It was with scarcely concealed exultation that 
 his face lighted with smiles, and his manner 
 became condescending and affable towards his 
 guests who were now rapidly arriving; so rapidly 
 chat the chamberlain and his corps of ushers had 
 all they could do to properly receive them. 
 
 As they pressed forward to greet their host, 
 the guests found him surrounded by his own 
 family, his children, and their wives and hus- 
 bands. There was Robert Dudley, his son of 
 25° 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 infamous memory, who as the Earl of Leicester 
 did so much to discredit the fame of the Queen 
 EHzabeth; there was also Robert's wife, Amy, 
 daughter of Sir John Robsart, whom afterwards 
 he was accused of having murdered. He was 
 elegantly dressed in the most costly apparel, 
 that set off his handsome person to the best 
 advantage; but, when he opened his mouth to 
 talk, his conversation exposed his lack of 
 knowledge. 
 
 And there was also present. Lord Lisle, 
 another son who had married Lady Anne, 
 daughter of Somerset, the Protector, whom 
 the Duke of Northumberland had sent to his 
 death. And Katharine, the Duke's daughter 
 who had married Lord Hastings, eldest son of 
 the Earl of Huntingdon; they were both present. 
 
 The guests also found when they were shown 
 to their places, that most of the old nobility were 
 conspicuously absent. The Duke might invite, 
 threaten, or command, but these proud old 
 famihes kept close to their mansions in town, 
 or to their estates in the country. They would 
 have nothing in common with a society of such 
 recent growth. 
 
 251 
 
The Daughters 
 
 This obduracy in those who of all others he 
 most desired to have at the wedding feast, may 
 have tinctured the Duke's happiness more 
 deeply than his manner indicated. To every- 
 one shown to his presence his greeting was 
 most cordial and gracious; to none was he more 
 so than to the Earl of Pembroke, who had de- 
 serted his cause, but whose wife would not 
 forego attendance at so notable a gathering. 
 
 The absence of so many of the old nobility 
 may have been a drop of gall in the Duke's cup 
 of happiness; but he speedily forgot it as a half 
 suppressed flutter went around the rooms, when 
 a herald announced the arrival of the King. 
 
 Young Edward, dressed in a magnificent 
 attire of gold and silver cloth, with its doublet 
 of embroidered satin, and coat of purple velvet 
 sparkUng with costly jewels and decorations, 
 advanced with a slow and feeble step to meet 
 the Duke. His face was white, and his cheeks 
 sunken, with the ravages of a disease that had 
 nearly run its course. As he passed through the 
 brilliant assembly, leaning heavily on the arm 
 of his old friend and tutor. Sir John Cheke, 
 such a stillness prevailed among the guests that 
 
 252 
 
o/ Suffolk 
 
 one could hear the King's troubled breathing 
 as he struggled with his weakness. 
 
 The Duke hastened to meet him with out- 
 stretched hands. "Your Majesty," he said, as 
 he made his most courtly bow, "you do my 
 humble abode an honor, such as I had hoped 
 for, but hardly dared to expect." 
 
 The King returned his bow with a nod of 
 tired indifference, " Sir John would have it so," 
 he said in so feeble a voice that few heard him. 
 "Where are my cousins, Jane and Katharine ?" 
 He straightened his slight form and looked 
 about him, at the numerous guests who were 
 now crowded in every nook and corner of the 
 great hall, in quest of the young ladies to whom 
 he was devotedly attached. 
 
 "They await your Majesty," said Dudley, 
 as he led the King to a small room that was 
 screened from the great hall by heavy curtains 
 of cloth of gold. Pushing them aside, the Duke 
 again made a low bow as the King and Sir John 
 Cheke entered the room. 
 
 "My dear cousins," exclaimed the King, with 
 more animation than he had as yet shown, as 
 his faded eyes rested upon the lovely visions ot 
 253 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Jane and Katharine Grey. "My dear cousins." 
 They came forward; Katharine's sorrowful 
 blue eyes large and round with grief at sight 
 of the King's altered appearance, and would 
 have made a lowly obeisance had he not re- 
 strained them. 
 
 "No Jane, not here, my cousin, it is your 
 wedding morning, and we come to render hom- 
 age, not to receive it." He led her back to her 
 seat, and began a fit of coughing that left him 
 weak and trembling. 
 
 Again the curtains were drawn aside, and 
 George Owen, the court physician, entered the 
 room. "Your Majesty," he said apologetically, 
 "I was among the guests, and hearing your 
 Majesty in some distress " 
 
 Edward waved his hand, irritably, " Return 
 to the guests," he commanded, with just a 
 shadow of his father's presence, " I shall send 
 for you in need." 
 
 The skilful physician, first searching the 
 King's face, and anxiously noting his difficult 
 breathing, slowly withdrew. As he passed be- 
 tween the curtains the Duke's light hand fell 
 on his shoulder, "How long will he Uve?" he 
 254 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 whispered, while a smile that was meant for the 
 guests, covered his face. 
 
 "A month, a week, perhaps an hour, God only 
 knows," said the doctor, with the freedom of 
 speech of one whose familiarity with death 
 makes him indifferent to earthly rank or title. 
 "He is here contrary to my advice." So saying, 
 the honest man took a seat near the curtains, 
 determined to enter the room again whenever, 
 in his judgment, it was necessary. 
 
 With Jane were her parents, the Duke and 
 Duchess of Suffolk, who, after making their 
 obeisances, retired with Sir John to an adjoining 
 room, one of many that followed en suite, around 
 the great hall; leaving Jane and the King alone. 
 
 "I arranged this interview, my cousin," he 
 began slowly, "so at the last moment, if neces- 
 sary, you could still withhold your hand from 
 young Dudley." He gazed keenly into her calm 
 young face, and seeing nothing there but a sud- 
 den alarm at his question, he went on more 
 rapidly. "Since the attempt on Katharine's 
 happiness I have watched the Duke," he glanced 
 at the curtains, and lowered his voice to a whis- 
 per, "and I like not his methods." 
 255 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "Oh, My Liege, there is some mistake," 
 began Jane dutifully. But the King held up a 
 warning hand, "A King has many ears," he 
 said solemnly, and his young face looked old 
 and careworn. "I know more than they sur- 
 mise, but his plans agreeing with mine, except- 
 ing this marriage, I have permitted Northum- 
 berland to have his way." 
 
 He sank back, in a corner of the cushioned 
 couch, exhausted with the effort of talking. His 
 eyes were fixed on her, and he seemed to have 
 lapsed into a half conscious condition; presently 
 his eyes grew brighter, and a smile spread slowly 
 over his wan features, "Jane, come closer." 
 
 She pushed a light chair of Chinese workman- 
 ship, close to the head of the couch. 
 
 "Your Majesty," she answered. But her 
 heart was full of alarm at the King's faint symp- 
 toms. "Your Majesty, must not tire your mind 
 with my poor affairs." 
 
 Then, the King knew that his interference 
 was not needed. " It is of your own accord then, 
 and you wish it so.?" he said quickly, while a 
 small spot reddened his pale cheek. 
 
 She hung her head and remained silent for a 
 256 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 moment; then she raised her eyes and looked 
 calmly into his. 
 
 "I have chosen Guilford, and, with your 
 Majesty's permission, the ceremony will be after 
 mine own heart." She quietly arranged a few 
 pearls, that had fallen out of place, on her white 
 damask gown, and waited for what he had to say. 
 
 "So," said the King coldly, "Then I have 
 taken much pains for nothing, I wish you much — 
 
 much " His lips moved, but no sound 
 
 issued, his face grew deathly pale, a shivering, 
 convulsive tremor overcame him, and he would 
 have fallen forward to the floor, but Jane caught 
 him. 
 
 "Oh God!" she cried out in terror. "The 
 King,— help!" 
 
 Instantly, before all others, the watchful 
 physician was at his side. . . . 
 
 One by one the guests took their departure, 
 softly, quietly, tip-toeing down the magnificent 
 corridors, and through the sumptuously fur- 
 nished apartments; dispersing, abashed, horri- 
 fied, in the presence of death. 
 
 The Duke and his immediate family, alone, 
 were left of all the gay throng that an hour 
 
 17 257 
 
The Daughters 
 
 before had crowded the luxurious mansion. At 
 intervals a gentleman of the household would 
 step, silently, over the heavy floor coverings to 
 announce: 
 
 "The King still lives." 
 
 "His Majesty is resting." 
 
 "There is no change." 
 
 And all the while the Duke sat with bowed 
 head, wondering if the end had indeed come, 
 not only to the King but to all of his carefully 
 arranged plans. In his pocket, — he dared not 
 trust it in any other place, — he carried a carefully 
 prepared document, for Edward's signature, in 
 which the King, excluding his sisters Mary and 
 Elizabeth, nominated the Lady Jane Grey as 
 his successor to the throne. And now the King 
 was lying at the point of death, and the document 
 still unsigned. Inwardly he cursed the foolish 
 delay that now threatened, not only to set aside 
 his plans, but also to imperil his safety. Wea- 
 rily, the long moments followed in painful sus- 
 pense, as the poor young king, with the aid of 
 his physician, faintly gasped for breath, and 
 contested, little by little, the supremacy of 
 death. Anxiously, the proud nobleman. Earl 
 258 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 of Warwick, Duke of Northumberland, Master 
 of England, waited the smallest intelligence 
 from the humble physician. . . . 
 
 There was a stir, a slight commotion at one 
 of the hall entrances, that caused the Duke to 
 raise his head in vexation. Calling one of the 
 pages he bade him go and ascertain the cause 
 of the unseemly noise. The page returned with 
 the chamberlain, who informed the Duke, that 
 a messenger, of distinguished appearance, had 
 forced his way past the lower servants, and was 
 now at the hall, insisting that he must see the 
 Duke in person. 
 
 "Is he alone.?" asked Northumberland, sus- 
 piciously. 
 
 "He rides alone, my lord," replied the cham- 
 berlain, mysteriously, "and from the appear- 
 ance of his horse, his business must be urgent." 
 
 The Duke looked cautiously about him, and, 
 seeing that a score of his armed retainers were 
 sauntering through the long corridors, within 
 call, he ordered that the messenger be admitted 
 to his presence. 
 
 Scarcely had the officious chamberlain deliv- 
 ered the order, when a youth of strikingly hand- 
 259 
 
The Daughters 
 
 some appearance burst into the hall; and, with 
 a stride that was the more noticeable from the 
 silence of the surroundings, he reached the 
 Duke. 
 
 "That," he said, contemptuously, "from a 
 lady, to a villain!" He took a small packet 
 from the pocket in his cloak, and tossed it, 
 insolently, into the Duke's lap. Then, before 
 any of the retainers could be summoned, he 
 turned and hurriedly left the room. 
 
 Glancing hastily around, to see if any of the 
 others had witnessed the insult, the Duke slowly 
 unwound the silken thread that tied the letter, 
 and read: 
 
 "My Lord Duke: My sister and I were, 
 some days ago, apprised of the plots and cabals 
 which your ambition for the advancement of 
 your own house has led you to form in order to 
 exclude us both from the succession to the crown. 
 We were not, however, willing to give credit to 
 these reports, because we could not conceive 
 that a gentleman of your merit, of whom we hold 
 so good an opinion, and who evinced, when you 
 took the reins of government of this kingdom, 
 260 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 such ardour and zeal in the defense of laws and 
 justice, was capable of doing one of the most 
 scandalous acts of injustice, that of inducing 
 and even forcing an innocent King, when in the 
 languor of bodily infirmity, to exclude, under 
 foolish suspicions and ill-founded pretexts, by 
 a surreptitious and violent will, the lawful heirs 
 of the crown, those who have been so recognized 
 by will and by a legitimate act of open parHa- 
 ment. 
 
 Now, why do us this injustice ? Is it to call 
 to the inheritance of the crown persons more 
 remotely allied, of other blood, and other name, 
 merely because they are your relations ? Is this 
 the fair renown that the King our dear brother 
 and sovereign lord, will, through your mad pas- 
 sion, leave behind, if God should take him from 
 us ? Is this the mighty honor your lordship will 
 gain, to make use of your present power, only 
 to exclude from the succession the rightful 
 daughters of King Henry our father, and the 
 sisters of the father's side of King Edward, to 
 bring in the daughters of the Duke of SufFolk, 
 who has had no other claim than that of having 
 married one of our aunts ? 
 261 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Is this the illustrious glory that you are to 
 acquire among foreign nations, when they shall 
 know that, by your passion and ambition, are 
 violated and broken the most sacred laws of this 
 kingdom and the legitimate rights of the suc- 
 cession to the throne ? 
 
 However, we console ourselves in the hope, 
 that heaven which is adverse to wrong done upon 
 earth, will restore health to our royal brother, 
 and give him time to discover that he has been 
 over-reached and ill-counselled; and to your 
 lordship time for repentance for your machina- 
 tions against thegloryof the King, the tranquillity 
 of the kingdom, the laws of the state, the rights 
 of the crown, and our individual interests. 
 But if God wills otherwise, we hope that He, 
 the guardian of Justice, will take in hand our 
 cause, so trampled upon by your lordship; and 
 that the parliament and the judges, who are the 
 defenders of the laws and the crown, will draw 
 us out of that oppression into which your ambi- 
 tion has cast us. 
 
 I remain, meanwhile, in that state in which 
 you have placed me, 
 
 Elizabeth." 
 262 
 
ELIZABETH 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 The Duke refolded the letter, and absent- 
 mindedly wound the silken thread around it, 
 over and over again. 
 
 "Sweet sister Temperance," he said, mock- 
 ingly, and using the term by which the King 
 spoke of his sister, "is in no pleasant mood." 
 Then, hearing a foot-fall near by, he hid the 
 packet in his doublet, and, looking up met the 
 benign face of Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of 
 London. 
 
 "No ill-tidings, I trust," said the eminent 
 prelate, "It would ill fit the good news I bring 
 you." The Duke read his face. "The King is 
 better?" he asked, eagerly. 
 
 "So much better," answered the bishop, "that 
 he wishes to be taken to Greenwich." 
 
 "And the Lady Jane.?" asked the Duke, as 
 he felt his courage returning, and his plans 
 reforming. 
 
 "The Lady Jane, acting on my advice, is 
 willing to proceed with the ceremony after the 
 King's departure." 
 
 "Thank God," said Dudley, fervently. 
 
XXII. 
 A KING'S WILL 
 
 ^LOWLY and feebly, the 
 King rallied from the 
 attack that had seized him 
 in the house of North- 
 umberland. Everything 
 that science could do, 
 and the physicians knew as little then as they 
 do to-day, of a cure for consumption, was done 
 to arrest the progress of the dread disease that 
 was now rapidly nearing its end. The King, 
 an earnest Protestant and now conscious of his 
 approaching death, had been easily persuaded 
 that if he neglected to make a will leaving the 
 crown to Lady Jane, at that time the most 
 learned and ardent in the new religion of any 
 who were eligible to the crown; it would of a 
 certainty fall to the Princess Mary, who was a 
 devoted member of the Roman Catholic Church. 
 The fear of such an event added zeal to the 
 persuasions and entreaties of Edward's advisers. 
 264 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 For a brief period the King had contemplated 
 making a will, setting aside the claims of the 
 Princess Mary, and substituting those of his 
 other sister the Princess Elizabeth; but, it was 
 pointed out to him, that Elizabeth was but 
 lukewarm in her protestant religion; could 
 not be depended on to carry out the reforms 
 of which he had been so earnest an advocate; 
 and, that she "must also be set aside, because 
 her father, Henry the Eighth, had by act of 
 Parliament bastardized her, and if this act 
 of bastardy were not acknowledged to be of 
 force neither could the same act against Mary 
 be binding." 
 
 So the King made his will, the draft of which 
 drawn up in his own hand, was the document 
 that the Duke of Northumberland so carefully 
 concealed about his person. When the Council 
 met he stated to them his wishes. There was 
 present at the meeting Sir Edward Montague, 
 chief justice of the common pleas. Sir Thomas 
 Richard Baker, the chancellor of the Augmen- 
 tations, together with other attorneys, who were 
 noted specialists on parUamentary law. With 
 one accord they decided that the act of Parlia- 
 265 
 
The Daughters 
 
 ment settled the right of succession, and that 
 they could not change it. 
 
 When the Duke of Northumberland heard 
 these men speak he was livid with anger. 
 
 "I have made them what they are," he ex- 
 claimed, "and now the rascally attorneys show 
 their ingratitude." 
 
 He adjourned the Council, to meet a week 
 later, "at which time, my masters," he admon- 
 ished them, "you will come fully convinced of 
 its legality and prepared to sign the will." 
 
 On the 2 1 St of June it received the signa- 
 tures of the lords in Council, of almost all the 
 judges, and of the attorneys and the sohcitor 
 general. Twenty-four members of the Council 
 pledged their oaths to defend to the uttermost 
 the will of the King; and if any man should ever 
 attempt to alter it, to punish him as an enemy 
 of the kingdom. 
 
 The will declared that the descendants of 
 Mary, sister of Henry the Eighth, were of the 
 whole blood to Edward by the father's side, that 
 they were natural born within the realm, "very 
 honorably brought up, and exercised in good 
 and godly learning, and other noble virtues, so 
 266 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 that there is great trust and hope to be had in 
 them that they be and shall be very well inclined 
 to the advancement and setting forth of our 
 commonwealth." 
 
 And, "the King doth, therefore, upon good 
 deliberation and advice, herein had and taken, 
 by these presents declare, order, assign, limit, 
 and appoint, that if it shall fortune us to de- 
 cease, having no issue of our body lawfully 
 begotten, that then the said imperial crown and 
 realm shall be unto the eldest son of the said 
 Lady Frances, wife of the Duke of SufFolk, and 
 granddaughter of Henry the Eighth lawfully 
 begotten, being born into the world in our life 
 time. ... in default of which to the Lady 
 Jane, eldest daughter of the said Lady Frances." 
 
 The will was engrossed on parchment, signed 
 by Edward, sealed with the great seal, to the 
 great rehef of Dudley, and carefully put away, 
 until the young King's death. 
 
 Northumberland's star was again in the as- 
 cendant; nothing seemed to stand in the way 
 of his ambition, nothing; save the perverse 
 happenings, that men foolishly call. Chance. 
 
XXIII. 
 FRIAR GROUCHE 
 
 O Jane was married; and 
 she and her sister Kath- 
 arine were sitting in a 
 small room, on the 
 second floor of Sion 
 House, a beautiful estate 
 in the suburbs of London, that had been pre- 
 sented to the Duke of Northumberland by King 
 Edward. The room had been fitted up as a sort 
 of studio, where Jane continued her study of 
 the classics, and conducted her correspondence. 
 As she bent over her desk, the voice of her sister 
 came to her from the deep recesses of an open 
 window that commanded a fine view of the river. 
 "To whom are you writing, Jane } " 
 "To Henri Bullinger, at Zurich," she replied, 
 without raising her head. 
 
 Katharine tossed an oaten cake to a small grey- 
 hound that was playing at her feet, and laughed 
 to see him catch it before it reached the floor. 
 268 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 "Forsooth, in Latin," she exclaimed, flip- 
 pantly. Somehow Jane's correspondence was 
 of a kind that weighed heavily on her mind. 
 
 " On religious matters, of course ? " she ven- 
 tured. To both of which remarks Jane made 
 no reply. 
 
 "That old Swiss busybody?" she added, 
 mockingly. Then Jane laughed, much against 
 her duty. "Thou chatter-box," she said as she 
 put away her writing materials and came to the 
 window. "Thou rattlebrain." 
 
 Katharine shrugged her shoulders, after the 
 French fashion, " I may not have such knowledge 
 as my learned sister; but, there are some things I 
 know that everyone should know." She stood up 
 straight, expanding her chest and lowering her 
 head, in the vain attempt to make a double chin, 
 her whole attitude being one of matronly dignity. 
 
 Jane burst into hearty laughter. " Kitty, you 
 witch," she exclaimed, "if the Duchess, my 
 respected mother-in-law, were to see you now, 
 mocking her, she would drive us both from the 
 house." 
 
 Katharine's face resumed its natural expres- 
 sion. "Pshaw!" she said, haughtily. "I defy, 
 269 
 
The Daughters 
 
 " But just then, the door opened briskly, to 
 
 admit the stately form of her Grace, the 
 Duchess of Northumberland. Her sharp keen 
 eyes went rapidly over the room, and rested, 
 in undisguised disapproval on Katharine. 
 
 "Idle, as usual," she remarked loftily, in a 
 high unmusical voice. 
 
 Katharine flushed, as she stooped and made 
 several frantic, but unsuccessful efforts, to rescue 
 her embroidery from the playful grey-hound. 
 "I was employed, but a moment ago," she 
 explained, like an abashed school girl. 
 
 The Duchess laughed, scornfully. "Em- 
 ployed," she repeated, with withering emphasis. 
 "I have never seen such deplorable ignorance 
 of things that everyone should know." 
 
 Katharine's eyes sought those of her sister, 
 in rising mirth, as the familiar phrase sounded 
 in her ears, but the latter prudently kept her 
 face averted. 
 
 "Jane," asked the old lady, abruptly, "how 
 many loaves are in a bushel of wheat?" 
 
 Jane's face grew crimson with vexation. "I 
 care not how many loaves are in a bushel, nor 
 how many fish are in a pound," she replied, 
 270 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 sharply "My father and my mother never 
 brought me up with baking and cooking; such 
 commonplace subjects do not interest me, I 
 would leave them to the comptroller." The 
 Duchess held up her hands, and raised her eyes 
 to the ceiling. "God a mercy!" she exclaimed, 
 in astonishment that one so meek as Jane should 
 answer so keenly. Then recovering from her 
 first surprise, her anger arose, and she raised 
 her voice, imprudently, " then you should know 
 better," admonished the Duchess, "for when 
 Guilford is made King, and you are the Queen, 
 you should know the common things that con- 
 cern the people." 
 
 Jane's dark eyes opened wide in surprise. 
 "When Guilford is King," she repeated. 
 "That will never happen," she said, decidedly, 
 "and as to my chance of being the Queen, there 
 are many lives, thank God, between me and so 
 great a calamity." 
 
 "Think you so ?" replied the Duchess, hotly, 
 for Jane's calm demeanor, and her superior 
 manner, together with the setting aside of Guil- 
 ford's ambitions, irritated her beyond endurance. 
 "How many, think you, may there be ?" 
 271 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Jane's anger having abated, in proportion as 
 the other's increased, answered judicially. 
 
 "There is Edward, the King, God save him; 
 and the princesses, Mary and Elizabeth, and 
 their issue; and my mother; all of these before 
 the chance would come to me." 
 
 The Duchess was tormented with the im- 
 portance of a secret that had been foolishly 
 intrusted to her keeping. She was also annoyed 
 at the indifference manifested by Jane and 
 Katharine to her constant admonitions. She 
 was as proud and ambitious as the Duke, her 
 husband, but much more vain and foolish; and 
 the thought that her son Guilford might soon 
 be King of England, was more than she could 
 keep to herself 
 
 "There is neither one or the others," she 
 exclaimed, hastily, " save only Edward the King, 
 and they have given up all hope of his recovery." 
 
 "What meaneth your Grace ?" said Jane, in 
 a fluttering voice; while her limbs began to 
 tremble so that she could scarcely stand. 
 
 The Duchess looked at the obedient girl with 
 rapturous foretaste of things to come. " I mean 
 that the King has willed you his crown, for so 
 272 
 
of SuflFolk 
 
 the Duke told me, and that only the poor rem- 
 nant of his life is between you and the throne!" 
 
 The eyes of the Duchess were sparkling with 
 the excitement of anticipation, as she threw her 
 arms around Jane's slender body, and pressed 
 the future Queen to her ample bosom. "Oh 
 my beloved daughter!" she cried. "Think, 
 Oh think of the happiness that awaits us when 
 Guilford is made the King." 
 
 "When Guilford is made the King," re- 
 peated Jane in a puzzled voice, "you said, but 
 just a moment gone, that I was to be the bene- 
 ficiary of the King's will, and now 'tis Guilford." 
 
 The Duchess withdrew her encircling arms, 
 with celerity, "Ungrateful child," she chided, 
 "after all that the Duke has done for you." 
 Then as suddenly, her manner changing, she 
 grasped Jane's hand and kissed it fervently. 
 "My gracious Sovereign and Queen, soon to 
 be, accept the first homage, for I can wait no 
 longer, of one who has ever been thy faithful 
 friend and " 
 
 "Stop," interrupted the now thoroughly 
 frightened girl, as she quickly withdrew her 
 hand. "I shall hear no more, you must be mad 
 1 8 273 
 
The Daughters 
 
 to utter such treason." Then, bursting into 
 tears, with nervous excitement, Jane hurriedly 
 left the room, the Duchess trailing at her heels. 
 Katharine, left alone, her blue eyes wide open 
 in astonished surprise, sat staring out of the 
 open window, trying to grasp the situation and 
 its possibilities. As her eyes rested on the 
 familiar view of the garden, the road, and the 
 river beyond, she seemed to follow each detail 
 with the most minute exactness. There was 
 the wing of the mansion, devoted principally 
 to the domestics; its walls covered with ivy, 
 with openings for the windows and doors. The 
 fruit trees; now green with foliage, instead of 
 white with blossoms, and the hawthorn hedge, 
 fragrant, sweet-smelling. She was staring at 
 the lower branches of the hedge, when she saw 
 a man creeping stealthily in its shadow. He 
 was a ragged, unkempt figure of a man, and was 
 clothed in what appeared to be a single garment, 
 resembling a gown, that reached from his head to 
 his dirty bare feet. The garment was tied at the 
 middle with a piece of rope, and from the neck 
 hung a hood or cowl. The man's naked arms 
 were visible, extending from wide open sleeves. 
 274 
 
of SuflFolk 
 
 As Katharine watched his suspicious move- 
 ments, the fellow chanced to raise his head 
 toward the window; and, at the same time, the 
 bright July sun fell full on his face. 
 
 " Friar Grouche ! " she exclaimed with a sudden 
 nervous dread; as his squinting, bloated face 
 shone clear and distinctly in the sunlight. " What 
 evil wind has blown him hither .? " She withdrew 
 somewhat farther from the window, hoping that 
 the friar had not seen her; while she watched 
 his movements with the eyes of an eaglet. 
 
 In those days it was not uncommon for men 
 of the friar's profession to beg their daily wants 
 from door to door, while wandering over the 
 country. He belonged to an order of itinerant 
 preachers, who carried neither food nor script 
 in their purses; and they seldom went hungry. 
 
 Keeping well in the shadow of the hedge and 
 shrubbery, friar Grouche made his way cau- 
 tiously towards the door of the kitchen. 
 
 Knowing their habits, Katharine was at a loss 
 to understand why a friar should go so stealthily 
 about his business; and she was even more sur- 
 prised to see him dehver a small bundle to one 
 of the servants, instead of receiving alms. Her 
 275 
 
The Daughters of SufFolk 
 
 mind dwelt on the occurrence for some moments 
 after the man had crept out of the garden, in 
 much the same way that he had entered. 
 
 " It betokens no good," she said to herself in 
 a low voice, " for ill-luck ever attends him." 
 
 She had hardly uttered the prediction when 
 the door opened, quietly; and Marie, her maid 
 entered. She held, extended in one hand, as far 
 from her face as possible, a small bundle. It was 
 addressed in Latin to: — "Joanna Graia," and 
 was wound about with a piece of greasy string. 
 
 "It was left here by Monsieur le Diable," 
 explained Marie, "but, Mon Dieu, I thought 
 first that we would examine the nasty thing." 
 She began to unwind the string, and removing 
 several soiled wrappers, disclosed a small cake, 
 resembling the oaten biscuit in common use. 
 
 Katharine's quick wit gave her sudden alarm. 
 
 "Here, give it me, Marie." She took the cake 
 and attempted to fling it from the window. But 
 it fell short of the mark, and the grey-hound, 
 thinking that it was meant for him, began to 
 eat it, and, in spite of Katharine's frantic efforts 
 to prevent it, swallowed the poisoned morsel. 
 
 Within a few hours, the dog was dead. 
 276 
 
XXIV. 
 JANE THE QUEEN 
 
 OW let the Lady Jane 
 Grey tell the story, these 
 are her own words: 
 
 "When it was publicly 
 reported that there was no 
 more hope for the King's 
 hfe, as the Duchess of Northumberland had 
 before promised that I should remain in the 
 house with my mother, so she, having understood 
 this soon from her husband, who was the first 
 that told it to me, did not wish me to leave my 
 house, saying to me that if God should have 
 willed to call the King to his mercy, of whose 
 life there was no longer any hope, it would be 
 needful for me to go immediately to the Tower, 
 I being made by his Majesty heir of his realm. 
 Which words being spoken to me thus unex- 
 pectedly, put me in great perturbation, and 
 greatly disturbed my mind, as yet soon after 
 they oppressed me much more. 
 277. 
 
The Daughters 
 
 " But I, nevertheless, making little account 
 of these words, delayed not to go from my 
 mother. So that the Duchess of Northumber- 
 land was angry with me and with the Duchess my 
 mother, saying that, if she had resolved to keep 
 me in the house, she should have kept her son, 
 my husband, near her, to whom she thought I 
 would certainly have gone, and she would have 
 been free from the charge of me. And, in truth, 
 I remained in her house two or three nights, but 
 at length obtained leave to go to Chelsea, for 
 my recreation, where soon after, being sick, I 
 was summoned by the Council, giving me to 
 understand that I must go that same night to 
 Sion, to receive that which had been ordered for 
 me by the King. And she who brought me this 
 news was the Lady Sidney, my sister-in-law, the 
 daughter of the Duke of Northumberland, who 
 told me with extraordinary seriousness that it 
 was necessary for me to go with her, which I did. 
 
 "When we arrived there, we found no one, 
 but soon after came the Duke of Northumber- 
 land, the Marquis of Northampton, the Earl of 
 Arundel, the Earl of Huntingdon, and the Earl 
 of Pembroke. By which lords I was long held 
 278 
 
JANE THE QUEtN 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 in conversation, before they announced to me 
 the death of the King, especially by the Earls of 
 Huntingdon and Pembroke, who, with un- 
 wonted caresses and pleasantness, did me such 
 reverence as was not at all suitable to my state, 
 kneeling down before me on the ground, and in 
 other ways making semblance of honouring me. 
 And acknowledging me as their sovereign lady, 
 so that they made me blush with infinite confu- 
 sion, at length they brought to me the Duchess 
 Frances my mother, the Duchess of Northumber- 
 land, and the Marchioness of Northampton. 
 
 " The Duke of Northumberland, as Presi- 
 dent of the Council, announced the death 
 of King Edward, shewing afterwards what 
 cause we had all to rejoice for virtuous and 
 praiseworthy life that he had led, as also for his 
 very good death. Furthermore, he pretended 
 to comfort himself and the bystanders by prais- 
 ing much his prudence and goodness, for the 
 very great care that he had taken of his kingdom 
 at the very close of his life, having prayed God 
 to defend it from the Popish faith and to deliver 
 it from the rule of his evil sisters. He then said 
 that his Majesty had well weighed an act of 
 279 
 
The Daughters 
 
 parliament, wherein it was already resolved that 
 whoever should acknowledge the most serene 
 Mary, or the lady Elizabeth, and receive them 
 as true heirs of the crown of England, and these 
 should be held all for traitors, one of them having 
 formerly been disobedient to her father, Henry 
 the Eighth, and also to himself, concerning the 
 truth of religion, and afterwards also capital 
 enemies of the word of God, and both bastards. 
 
 "Wherefore in no manner did he wish 
 that they should be heirs of him and of the 
 crown, he being able in every way to disinherit 
 them. And therefore, before his death, he gave 
 order to the Council that, for the honour they 
 owed to him, and for the love they bare to the 
 realm and for the affection that was due to their 
 country, they should obey this his last will. 
 
 " The Duke then added that I was the heir 
 named by his Majesty to succeed to the crown, 
 and that my sisters should likewise succeed me 
 in case of my default of issue. 
 
 " At which words all the lords of the Council 
 
 kneeled down before me, telling me that they 
 
 rendered to me the honour that was due to my 
 
 person, I being, of true and direct lineage, heir 
 
 280 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 to that crown, and that it became them in the 
 best manner to observe that which with deHber- 
 ate mind, they had promised to the King, even 
 to shed their blood, exposing their own lives to 
 death. Which things, as soon as I had heard, 
 with infinite grief of mind, how I was beside 
 myself stupefied and troubled, I will leave it to 
 those lords who were present to testify, who saw 
 me, overcome by sudden and unexpected grief, 
 fall on the ground, weeping very bitterly, and 
 then, declaring to them my insufficiency, I 
 greatly bewailed myself for the death of so noble 
 a prince, and at the same time turned myself 
 to God, humbly praying and beseeching him, 
 that if what was given to me was rightly and 
 lawfully mine, his Divine Majesty would grant 
 me such grace and spirit that I might govern it 
 to his glory and service, and to the advantage 
 of his realm. 
 
 " On the day following, as is known to every- 
 one, I was conducted to the Tower, and shortly 
 afterwards were presented to me by the Marquis 
 of Winchester, Lord High Treasurer, the jewels, 
 with which he also brought me the crown, 
 although it had never been demanded from 
 281 
 
The Daughters 
 
 him by me or by any one in my name; and he 
 further wished me to put it on my head, to try 
 whether it really became me well or no. The 
 which, although with many excuses, I refused to 
 do, he nevertheless added that I might take it 
 without fear and another also should be made 
 to crown my husband with me. Which thing, I 
 for my part, heard truly with a troubled mind, 
 and with ill will, even with infinite grief and 
 displeasure of heart. 
 
 " And, after the said lord was gone and I 
 was reasoning of many things with my husband, 
 he assented that if he were to be made King, he 
 would be made so by me, by act of parliament. 
 But afterwards I sent for the Earls of Arundel 
 and Pembroke, and said to them that, if the 
 crown belonged to me, I should be content to 
 make my husband a Duke, but would never 
 consent to make him King. Which resolution 
 of mine gave his mother, this my opinion being 
 related to her, great cause for anger and dis- 
 dain, so that she bemg very angry with me and 
 greatly displeased, persuaded her son not to 
 sleep with me any longer as he was wont to do, 
 affirming to me moreover that he did not wish 
 282 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 in any wise to be a Duke but a King. So that I 
 was constrained to send to him the Earls of 
 Arundel and Pembroke, who had negotiated with 
 him to come, from me, otherwise I knew that 
 the next morning he would have gone to Sion. 
 " And thus in truth was I deceived by the 
 Duke and the Council and ill treated by my hus- 
 band and his mother. Moreover, as Sir John 
 Gates has confessed, he the Duke, was the first 
 to persuade King Edward to make me his heir. 
 As to the rest, for my part, I know not what the 
 Council may have determined to do, but I know 
 for certain that twice during this time, poison 
 was given to me, first in the house of the Duch- 
 ess of Northumberland, and afterwards in the 
 Tower, as I have the best and most certain testi- 
 mony And all these things I have 
 
 wished to say for the witness of my innocence 
 and the disburdening of my conscience." . . . 
 
 Jane was not anxious to take upon herself 
 the responsibility thrust upon her by the Duke 
 of Northumberland. She well knew the danger 
 that encompassed those who wore a crown, — 
 the crown of England. 
 
 283 
 
The Daughters 
 
 "I am not so young," she said to those who 
 sought to persuade her, "nor so little read in 
 the guiles of Fortune, to suffer myself to be 
 taken by them. If she enrich any, it is but to 
 make them the subject of her spoil. If she raise 
 others, it is but to pleasure herself with their 
 ruin. What she adorned but yesterday, is to- 
 day her pastime; and if I permit her to adorn 
 and crown me, I must to-morrow suffer her to 
 crush and tear me to pieces. Nay, with what 
 crown does she present me ? A crown which 
 has been violently and shamefully wrested from 
 Katharine of Aragon, and made more unfor- 
 tunate by the punishment of Anne Boleyn, and 
 others who wore it after her; and why then would 
 you have me add my blood to theirs, and be the 
 third victim from whom this fatal crown may be 
 ravished, with the head that wears it?" Thus 
 pleaded the Lady Jane Grey. 
 
 But, upon the solemn warnings, which 
 amounted to threats, made to her by the Duke 
 of Northumberland; that, unless she accepted 
 the honor, the Princess Mary, as Queen, would 
 punish with death her father, mother, sisters 
 and husband, Jane tearfully consented to wear 
 284 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 the crown. This resolution being obtained, 
 preparations were hastily made to have her pro- 
 claimed the Queen. 
 
 The day of her coronation a great crowd 
 assembled in the vicinity of Durham House to 
 view the procession that was to escort Jane to 
 the Tower where she was to be crowned. 
 
 London at this time contained a population 
 of only 150,000 souls; but it was already noted 
 for its fine streets and edifices; for its bridge 
 over the Thames river consisting of nineteen 
 arches of solid stone; for its cathedral of Saint 
 Paul; and for its importance as a shipping port 
 from which issued and arrived, from all parts 
 of the world, "numerous ships of three and four 
 hundred tons burthen." It was governed by 
 a body of about twenty-five persons called Alder- 
 men, chosen from the wealthiest and most mon- 
 eyed citizens; almost in the form of a republic, 
 with unlimited power, " so that neither the King 
 nor the King's ministers interfered in anything." 
 
 Here dwelt the real masters of England, and 
 
 when they assembled in the streets to view the 
 
 procession, they preserved "an ominous silence." 
 
 Not a cap was thrown into the air, not a voice 
 
 28s 
 
The Daughters 
 
 was raised as the richly uniformed soldiers, " the 
 halberdiers dressed in striped hose of black and 
 tawny, with velvet caps decked at the side with 
 silver roses and doublets of murrey and blue 
 cloth, embroidered on the front and at the back 
 with the royal blazon, woven in gold," passed 
 along. Not a cheer greeted those who wore the 
 magnificent liveries of the Duke of Northumber- 
 land. 
 
 As the procession advanced, the crowd could 
 see the officers bearing the mace and the sword 
 of state. Then came a body of knights and 
 judges in their robes of scarlet. When the 
 Aldermen and the Lord Mayor appeared, also 
 in gorgeous crimson velvet, a shout of approval 
 went up from the Londoners, but, it was in 
 honor of the city officials and their insignia, of 
 which they were vain, and not for John Dudley. 
 
 As soon as the procession reached the river 
 the participants were embarked in barges and 
 departed for the Tower. The Thames was full 
 of craft of all sorts that darted in and out and 
 across the route of the royal procession, making 
 much confusion; but, no flags fluttered from 
 their peaks, no bright streamers of ribbon 
 286 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 adorned their sails, or oarlocks. They were 
 there from curiosity, and their activity only pro- 
 voked curses from those who took part in the 
 procession, for their perverse interference. 
 
 The people on shore watched the boats as 
 they proceeded on their way, silently, indiffer- 
 ently. There were no acclamations, no rejoic- 
 ings; for the people hated Dudley. 
 
 But it mattered little to him, for an hour 
 afterwards Jane Grey, the wife of his son 
 Guilford, was Queen of England; the govern- 
 ment, the revenues, the fortified places, and 
 the army were all in his hands. 
 
 Beside that, he feared no foreign interfer- 
 ence; the Emperor of Germany and the King 
 of France were content to let such a purely 
 domestic affair shape itself The clergy also 
 were with him. Nicholas Ridley, the most 
 esteemed and respected prelate in England; 
 and many other of the lesser clergy preached 
 in favor of the change of dynasty. Only the 
 common people opposed him. 
 
 John Dudley's star was at its zenith; his 
 ambition had placed him where he must either 
 remain stationary or fall. 
 387 
 
PART FOURTH 
 
 19 
 
XXV. 
 BLOODY MARY 
 
 HEN Friar Grouche 
 emerged from the gar- 
 den of Sion House, he 
 returned in all haste to 
 his Catholic confederates 
 and told them all that he 
 had heard, as he stood under the open window 
 of Jane's room. They were not long in sending 
 word, by prearranged messengers, to the Prin- 
 cess Mary. She awaited the death of the King, 
 with calm confidence in the strength of her posi- 
 tion. She was not aware of the clumsy attempt 
 to poison the Lady Jane Grey; that was the 
 work of an over-zealous underling. She knew 
 that it was the Duke of Northumberland, alone, 
 who was the head and front of the conspiracy 
 to deprive her of the throne; her inheritance, 
 and her hatred towards him only increased 
 the more, as she was made aware, by her trusty 
 spies, of his doings. Mary was now thirty-eight 
 291 
 
The Daughters 
 
 years of age and unmarried; her life had been 
 one of bitterness, of disappointments and humili- 
 ation. Separated from her mother, accused of 
 illegitimacy, offered in marriage to almost any 
 one who would have her — and refused; in ill 
 health, and unprepossessing in appearance; what 
 stored up bitterness must have been in her heart, 
 as she waited for Edward's death. Then, when 
 her school-master, a Cathohc, was put to death 
 for his religion; and the Countess of SaHsbury, 
 her dearest friend, also a Catholic, suffered the 
 same fate; how she must have hated the Prot- 
 estants, or Reformers. And her brother 
 Edward, the King, who had tormented and 
 persecuted her, by sending commissions to 
 inquire about her domestic affairs; how she 
 spent her time, how she prayed! It is not 
 likely that she loved her brother the more, for 
 having imprisoned her chaplain; and set ser- 
 vants in her house to spy on her; it is doubtful 
 whether she experienced any grief over the 
 event when, at last, they told her that the King 
 was dead. . . . 
 
 It was the practice of the Venetian Senate to 
 demand from its ambassadors a full account of 
 292 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 the courts and countries to which they had been 
 accredited. From the report made by Giovanni 
 Michele, presented to the Doge and Senate of 
 Venice, upon his return from his Embassy to 
 England, we have the following description of 
 the Princess Mary: 
 
 "She is of short stature, well made, and 
 moderately pretty; her eyes are so lively that 
 she inspires reverence and respect and even 
 fear, whenever she turns them; nevertheless she 
 is very short sighted. Her voice is deep, almost 
 like that of a man. She understands five lan- 
 guages; English, Latin, French, Spanish, and 
 Italian, in which last, however, she does not 
 venture to converse. 
 
 " She is also much skilled in ladies' work, such 
 as producing all sorts of embroidery with the 
 needle. She has a knowledge of music, chiefly 
 on the lute, on which she plays exceedingly well. 
 As to the qualities of her mind, it may be said of 
 her that she is rash, disdainful, and parsimoni- 
 ous rather than liberal. She is endowed with 
 great humihty and patience, but withal high 
 spirited, courageous and resolute; having during 
 the whole course of her adversity been guiltless 
 293 
 
The Daughters 
 
 of any the least approach to meanness of com- 
 portment; she is, moreover, devout and staunch 
 in the defence of her religion. 
 
 "Some personal infirmities under w^hich she 
 labors are the causes to her of both public and 
 private affliction; to remedy these, recourse is 
 had to frequent blood-letting, and" this is the 
 real cause of her paleness and the general weak- 
 ness of her frame." 
 
 Such is the picture of Mary, as sketched by 
 one who had frequently seen and conversed 
 with her. When the news reached her that the 
 King was no more, she was at her devotions, at 
 Keninghall, in the county of Norfolk. The 
 castle was situated in the middle of a forest and 
 was difficult of access, so that she could not be 
 taken by surprise; and to this circumstance is 
 due the first failure of Northumberland, inas- 
 much that he did not secure her person. 
 
 By reliable messengers she then sent a letter 
 to the Council, asking why she had not been 
 officially informed of her brother's death; and 
 that she would at once take the necessary steps 
 to have her rights proclaimed. The Council 
 replied to this letter that she was illegitimate, 
 294 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 disinherited, and that they had already recog- 
 nized the claims of Lady Jane Dudley. 
 
 This was Mary's opportunity. 
 
 She went into Suffolk, the enemy's country, 
 proclaimed herself the Queen, and assuring the 
 Protestants that she would not change the laws 
 of Edward, nor the form of reHgion that he had 
 established, she soon had the satisfaction of 
 seeing the people, the common people, ranging 
 themselves under her banner. They came by 
 tens, and they came by fifties, and hundreds, 
 anxious to enlist in her cause; so that, in a very 
 few days she found herself at the head of over 
 thirty thousand men, resolved to fight to the 
 death, to place her on the throne of her father. 
 
 Now, it was evident that if Northumberland 
 was to continue his prestige, he must do so by 
 force of arms. All his cunning, all his di- 
 plomacy, all his hypocrisy and subtleties by 
 which he had succeeded in reaching the goal 
 of his ambition, in placing the Lady Jane Grey 
 on the throne of England, must now give way 
 to an open fight, on a fair field with no favors. 
 Hastily gathering together his forces in London, 
 he found himself in command of about ten 
 295 
 
The Daughters 
 
 thousand men, of whom two thousand were 
 mounted. But few of the little army were in 
 sympathy with his cause; a number threatened 
 to desert at the first favorable opportunity, and 
 many were of foreign birth, and Catholics. 
 
 The Princess Mary conducted her cause 
 with the most remarkable skill and vigor. She 
 was not long in establishing her rights. The 
 rapid success which crowned her efforts, to 
 dispossess her cousin from the position that 
 she had usurped, rendered Jane's situation 
 extremely dangerous; and tore aside the veil 
 of ambition, which, until then, had blinded 
 Northumberland. 
 
 He had raised his forces, which were quartered 
 in London; but, suspicious, with reason, of the 
 faith of his colleagues, and of the effect of his 
 absence from the capital, he resolved to stay 
 near Jane, and persuaded her father, the Duke 
 of Suffolk, to take command of the army. But, 
 the filial tenderness of the young Queen, excited 
 by those who desired the absence of Northum- 
 berland, made her sensible of the danger to 
 which her father would be exposed; and these 
 considerations, joined to the knowledge that 
 296 
 
JVLdRYl, 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Northumberland had more capacity than Suf- 
 folk, decided her to place him at the head of her 
 troops. 
 
 Before his departure, he represented to the 
 Council, the peril that the Queen would be in 
 during his absence, and he cautioned them that 
 her peril would also be theirs. 
 
 Then, the Duke of Northumberland, accom- 
 panied by the Marquis of Northampton, Lord 
 Grey, and several other nobles, advanced to 
 meet the troops of Mary. When they passed 
 through Shoreditch, the people maintained a 
 sullen silence, so that Northumberland remarked 
 to Lord Grey: "The people run to see us, but 
 no one says, God be with you." Before they 
 arrived at Bury Saint Edmund, the Duke found 
 his forces too weak to give battle to Mary's 
 army; and he wrote from the camp to the Council 
 for reinforcements. Under the pretext of exe- 
 cuting his commands, the Council took the 
 opportunity of leaving the Tower, the better 
 to preserve their persons in safety and made 
 efforts to raise the necessary troops. But they 
 found it difficult to recruit men who were will- 
 ing to fight against Mary; and the part of the 
 297 
 
The Daughters 
 
 army that had been left in London, also showed 
 unmistakable signs of attachment to her cause. 
 These circumstances and Mary's solicitations, 
 in which she promised pardon to all who would 
 join her, caused the collapse of "the conspiracy." 
 Arundel was the first to throw aside the mask 
 that covered his real sentiments; and in an 
 assembly which was held in Bayard Castle, the 
 residence of the Earl of Pembroke, this lord, 
 who, with the others had just previously sworn 
 to shed his blood to defend Jane Grey, now spoke 
 loudly of the cruelty and injustice of Northum- 
 berland ; of his excessive ambition ; of his criminal 
 designs by which he had compromised all the 
 Council; he ended his speech by saying, that the 
 only way to expiate their crimes was to immedi- 
 ately recognize the rights of their legitimate 
 Sovereign. 
 
 Pembroke seconded his motion with ardor 
 and said, as he threw up his bonnet, that he had 
 determined to maintain the rights of Mary 
 against all comers. 
 
 Within one week Mary was publicly pro- 
 claimed the Queen. The people received the 
 heralds with joyful acclamations; very different 
 298 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 from those accorded to poor Jane Grey, only 
 a few days before. Neither ambition or diplo- 
 macy could now hide Jane's deplorable condi- 
 tion. Northumberland, knowing that his for- 
 tune and his life were at stake, returned to Cam- 
 bridge; where, abandoning the Queen whom 
 he had himself placed on the throne, he loudly 
 proclaimed Mary, Queen of England. His 
 army promptly went to pieces, each man caring 
 for his own safety, and a week later he was 
 arrested by his false friend, Arundel, on the 
 charge of high-treason, and conducted to the 
 Tower. . . . 
 
 A month after Northumberland was led 
 forth to his execution on Tower Hill. 
 
 Thus ended the towering ambitions of John 
 Dudley, Earl of Warwick, Duke of Northumber- 
 land, and at one time Master of England. Had 
 his fate resulted only in his own punishment, 
 there would have been few to lament his sudden 
 death; but, his machinations had involved the 
 innocent Jane, and she too must suffer the 
 extreme penalty of the law for a crime of which 
 she was entirely innocent. 
 
 Immediately after the Duke's arrest, Jane 
 299 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Dudley and her husband, also her father and 
 mother, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, were 
 imprisoned in the Tower, accused of the crime 
 of high treason. Queen Mary, cruel and vindic- 
 tive, gave rigorous orders to have the prisoners 
 put in separate rooms and to begin an immediate 
 prosecution. 
 
 Fully convinced of the futility of their defense, 
 Guilford and Jane, the two victims, pleaded 
 guilty, and the sentence of death was pronounced 
 against them. 
 
 Then began a weary imprisonment for Jane; 
 during which time her rare courage and forti- 
 tude never forsook her. She not only bore her 
 own sorrow bravely, but, at the same time she 
 sought to cheer and console those of her family 
 and companions who were dear to her heart. 
 To her father she wrote the following letter: 
 
 "Father: Although it hath pleased God to 
 hasten my death by you, by whom my life should 
 rather have been lengthened, yet I can so pa- 
 tiently take it, that I yield God more hearty 
 thanks for shortening my wofull days, than if 
 all the world had been given into my possession, 
 300 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 with life lengthened at my own will. And albeit 
 I am very well assured of your impatient dolours, 
 redoubled many ways, both in bewailing your 
 own woe and especially, as I am informed, my 
 wofull estate ; yet my dear father, if I may, with- 
 out offense, rejoice in my own mishaps, herein 
 I may account myself blessed, that washing my 
 hands with the innocence of my intentions, my 
 guiltless blood may cry before the Lord, Mercy 
 to the innocent! And yet though I must needs 
 acknowledge, that being constrained, and, as 
 you know well enough continually persuaded, 
 yet in taking it upon me, I seemed to consent, 
 and therein grievously offended the Queen and 
 her laws, yet do I assuredly trust that this my 
 offence towards God is so much the less; in, that 
 being in so royal a state as I was placed, the 
 honor forced upon me never mingled with mine 
 innocent heart. 
 
 And thus, good father, I have shown you my 
 present state, my death near at hand. Although 
 to you perhaps it may seem wofull, yet to me 
 there is nothing that can be more welcome than 
 from this vale of misery to aspire to that heav- 
 enly throne of all joy and pleasure, with Christ 
 301 
 
The Daughters 
 
 my Saviour: in whose steadfast faith (if it may 
 be lawful for the daughter so to write to the 
 father) the Lord that hath hitherto strengthened 
 you, so continue to keep you, that at the last we 
 may meet in heaven with the Father, Son and 
 Holy Ghost. 
 
 I am your obedient daughter till death, 
 
 Jane Dudley." 
 
 There was another message to her father, 
 written in a prayer book a few days before her 
 death : 
 
 "The Lord comfort your Grace, and that in 
 his word wherein all creatures only are to be 
 comforted. And although it hath pleased God 
 to take away two of your children: yet think 
 not, I most humbly beseech your Grace, that 
 you have lost them; but trust that we, leaving 
 this mortal life, have won an immortal life. 
 And I, for my part, as I have honored your 
 Grace in this life, will pray for you in another 
 Hfe. 
 
 Your Grace's humble daughter, 
 
 Jane Dudley." 
 302 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 To poor, heart-broken Katharine, Jane sent 
 her last message. It was written the night 
 before her death, at the end of her Greek testa- 
 ment: 
 
 "I have sent you, my dear sister Katharine, 
 a book, which although it be not outwardly 
 trimmed with gold, or the curious embroidery 
 of the artfullest needles, yet inwardly it is worth 
 more than all the precious mines which the vast 
 world can boast of; it is the book, my only best, 
 and best beloved sister, of the law of the Lord; 
 it is the Testament and last will, which he be- 
 queathed unto us wretches and wretched sin- 
 ners, which shall lead you to the path of eternal 
 joy, and if you with a good mind read it, and 
 with an earnest desire follow it, no doubt it shall 
 bring you to an immortal and everlasting life; 
 it will teach you to live and learn you to die; it 
 shall win you more and endow you with greater 
 felicity, than you should have gained possession 
 of our woful father's lands; for as if God had 
 prospered him, you should have inherited his 
 honours and manors, so if you apply diligently 
 this book, seeking to direct your Hfe according 
 303 
 
The Daughters 
 
 to the rule of the same, you shall be an inheritor 
 of such riches, as neither the covetous shall with- 
 draw from you, neither the thief shall steal, 
 neither yet the moths corrupt; desire with David, 
 my best sister, to understand the law of the 
 Lord our God, live still to die, that you by death 
 may purchase eternal life, and trust not that 
 the tenderness of your age shall lengthen your 
 life: for unto God, when he calleth, all hours, 
 times and seasons are alike, and blessed are they 
 whose lamps are furnished when he cometh, for 
 as soon will the Lord be glorified in the young 
 as in the old. 
 
 My good sister let me once more again, en- 
 treat thee to learn to die; deny the world, defy 
 the devil, and despise the flesh, and delight 
 yourself only in the Lord ; be penitent for your 
 sins, and yet despair not; be strong in faith, yet 
 presume not; and desire with Saint Paul to be 
 dissolved and to be with Christ, with whom, 
 even in death there is life. 
 
 Be like the good servant, and even at midnight 
 
 be waking, lest when death cometh and stealeth 
 
 upon you, like a thief in the night, you be with 
 
 the servants of darkness found sleeping, and 
 
 304 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 lest for lack of oil you be found like the five 
 foolish virgins, or like him that had not on the 
 wedding garment and then you be cast into 
 darkness, or banished from the marriage; rejoice 
 in Christ, as I trust you do, and seeing you have 
 the name of a Christian, as near as you can 
 follow the steps and be a true imitator of your 
 master Christ Jesus, and take up your cross, lay 
 your sins on his back and always embrace him. 
 Now as touching my death, rejoice as I do, 
 my dearest sister, that I shall be delivered of this 
 corruption, and put on incorruption; for I am 
 assured that I shall, for losing of a mortal life, 
 win one that is immortal, joyful, and everlasting; 
 the which I pray God grant you in his most 
 blessed hour, and send you his all-saving grace 
 to live in his fear, and to die in the true christian 
 faith; from which in God's name I exhort you 
 that you never swerve, neither through hope of 
 life, nor fear of death ; for if you will deny his 
 truth, to give length to a weary and corrupt 
 breath, God himself will deny you, and by 
 vengeance make short what you by your soul's 
 loss would prolong; but if you will cleave to him, 
 he will stretch forth your days to an uncircum- 
 20 305 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 scribed comfort, and to his own glory, to the 
 which glory, God bring me now, and you here- 
 after, when it shall please him to call you. 
 
 Farewell once again, my beloved sister, and 
 put your only trust in God, who only must help 
 you. Amen. 
 
 Your. loving sister, 
 
 Jane Dudley." 
 
 The next day, after this message to Katharine 
 had been written, there was committed the most 
 damnable murder that has ever stained the 
 pages of English history. 
 
 Jane Grey, a beautiful young girl of seventeen 
 years, a model of womanly virtues, a dutiful 
 daughter, a loving wife; learned, courageous, a 
 devout Christian, innocent of any crime; this 
 lovely being was led to the block and deliber- 
 ately executed! . . . 
 
 Thus died, the oldest daughter of Suffolk, 
 after a reign of nine days and an imprisonment 
 of seven months: the unfortunate Lady Jane 
 Grey. 
 
''the most damnable murder 
 
XXVI. 
 THE VIRGIN QUEEN 
 
 HE wind blew fiercely 
 around the old grey 
 corners, and weather- 
 beaten gables of Brad- 
 gate. It whistled with 
 a shrill, angry note; 
 and lamented with a 
 wild cry, as it rushed through the naked tree 
 branches. Ever and anon it burst with a sudden 
 fury of noise and tempest, against the casement 
 windows of the old mansion. It twisted and 
 swirled, abated and increased again, with re- 
 newed force, as if it sought to penetrate and 
 destroy the time-worn structure. Then, faiUng 
 in its efforts, it would die away into a plaintive 
 sigh, into a sullen, fitful moaning, accompanied 
 by rain drops, that trickled down the walls of 
 the ancient pile; like tears, slowly falling across 
 the furrowed features of an old man. 
 The broad sweep of gravelled road, that had 
 307 
 
The Daughters 
 
 formerly led the numerous mounted visitors to 
 the hospitable front door of Henry Grey, was 
 now overgrown with tangled masses of dead 
 weeds and grass; and only a narrow muddy 
 path circling around to the servants' quarters, 
 designated the way by which a stranger on foot 
 could gain admittance to the building. A few 
 of the glass panes in the leaded sashes of the 
 windows were broken, and in their place were 
 stuffed bunches of old rags to keep out the cold. 
 
 Apparently the house was untenanted; but, 
 from one of the tall chimneys, that sprung from 
 an angle of the court yard, a thin spiral of smoke, 
 struggling to arise from the brick flue, was 
 speedily overtaken by the wind, and scattered 
 into little curling wreaths, that seemed to vanish 
 as soon as they appeared above the chimney 
 top. 
 
 Into this region of neglect came, like a whirl- 
 wind, a galloping horse and rider. Stopping 
 suddenly before the park gate, the man dis- 
 mounted and led his tired horse along the 
 devious windings of the tangled footpath. 
 Turning aside from it he entered the court yard 
 and halted before a flight of stone steps that led 
 308 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 from the long-neglected garden to a small 
 terrace above. In the stone balustrade were 
 several large iron cressets, fixed on ornamental 
 brackets. They were blackened by the smoke 
 of former flaring torches, and were eaten and 
 scaly with rust. To one of these irons the unex- 
 pected visitor to Bradgate tied his horse; then, 
 unrolling a blanket from his saddle bow, he 
 covered the sweating and trembling beast from 
 neck to flank. 
 
 "Poor old Homer," he said compassionately. 
 " I pressed you too hard the last hour, perhaps, 
 and nothing to feed on, but dead thorns and 
 rubbish at our journey's end." He patted the 
 powerful animal on his neck, felt the wild heart- 
 beats at this chest and spoke encouragingly: 
 
 " One more mile, my poor horse, like the last, 
 and I had done you an injury." The thorough- 
 bred tossed his head and then rubbed his nose 
 affectionately against his master's shoulder. 
 "But," he added joyfully, as his eyes ranged 
 from the curling smoke at the top of the chimney 
 to its base in the court angle, "yonder smoke 
 must come from the fireplace in her room, and, 
 there must be someone there." 
 309 
 
The Daughters 
 
 So saying he ran up the old moss-grown stone 
 steps and stood, irresolutely, on the terrace of 
 Katharine Grey's room. 
 
 While he paused there for a moment, breath- 
 less with expectation, and consumed by an 
 anxious dread of what might have occurred 
 during his absence, there flashed across his 
 brain one of those instantaneous impressions 
 in which the mind is enabled, by some unknown 
 effort of memory, to recall a previous event, 
 and to present in an instant a scene, in all its 
 details. 
 
 He had a vision of Katharine's room, as he 
 had seen it on Christmas eve, just five long 
 years before, when he had suddenly appeared 
 before them in his minstrel's disguise, and had 
 left the sisters in a fit of rage. He recalled the 
 blissful sensation that he had experienced, when 
 he had carried Katharine's lithe, beautiful, body 
 as she lay unconscious in his arms. He saw 
 again the narrow bed with its red curtains, and 
 the little table with all of her personal belong- 
 ings. And the cheery fire in the grate, contrast- 
 ing with the pot of flowering jasamine. 
 
 Then he raised his hand to knock on the case- 
 310 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 ment window. As he did so it opened, almost 
 immediately, disclosing the bloated, leering, face 
 of Friar Grouche ! 
 
 "My lord Seymour," said the black friar, 
 who had been watching young Edward's move- 
 ments through the window, from the time when 
 he had passed through the park gates, "in what 
 way," he asked with a bow of mock humility, 
 "can a poor friar serve so distinguished a 
 visitor ?" 
 
 For answer the young man, recovering quickly 
 from his surprise at meeting so unexpected and 
 disagreeable a visitor in Katharine's room, sud- 
 denly seized the man by the throat-latch of his 
 dirty cowl, and pulled him bodily through the 
 open window. Then, turning him so that he 
 faced the garden, he applied the toe of his heavy 
 riding boot to the friar's person, in such a man- 
 ner and with such force, as to send that luck- 
 less person half way down the flight of stone 
 steps. 
 
 "There, you maggot, you pest!" he called 
 after the priest. "You can best serve me by con- 
 tinuing on to your Abbot, and by telling him 
 that Bloody Mary of hateful memory, is dead. 
 3" 
 
The Daughters 
 
 Also that Edward Seymour is master of Brad- 
 gate by the grace of our Protestant Queen, 
 Elizabeth." 
 
 A wild cry of joy, mingled with sobs and 
 hysterical sounds, coming to Edward from the 
 inner side of the window, caused him to leap 
 hastily into the room. There, he found Katha- 
 rine and her widowed mother, the Duchess of 
 SuflFolk, locked in each other's arms, and giving 
 free vent to their emotions. . . . 
 
 Friar Grouche picked himself up from the 
 hard steps and rubbed a bruised shin. Then he 
 looked with an evil eye at the retreating form 
 of Seymour as he disappeared through Katha- 
 rine's window. "May all the devils in Hell 
 torment you forever," he called, after the case- 
 ment had been closed, "you and your heretic 
 Queen. My curse upon you and yours to the 
 end of time!" 
 
 Then his mahgnant glance fell on Homer, 
 who had been too tired and leg-weary to shy, 
 even at a monk tumbling down the stairs in 
 front of his nose. The friar's squinting eyes 
 lighted with the thought of vengeance. "Alia 
 tentanda via est," he said in Latin. "There are 
 312 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 more ways than one in which an humble servant 
 of the church can do a good work, bonus dormi- 
 tat Homerus; my sleeping beauty, I will take 
 you where you can have your nap in peace." 
 
 He uncovered Homer, and put the blanket 
 over his own shoulders. Then he led the horse 
 away, into the deep recesses of Charnwood 
 forest. 
 
 Meanwhile Edward Seymour was doing his 
 best to relate to the happy women, the principal 
 happenings of five years, condensed into a narra- 
 tive of an hour's telling. He related to them the 
 story of his wanderings in France. How he had 
 joined the army of the Huguenots, and how he 
 had fought under the leadership of Prince 
 Louis of Cond6. And of the time when, hard 
 pressed for a hiding place, he had found refuge 
 in a little Provengal village, in a cottage belong- 
 ing to Jacques and Marie, who had married 
 and settled on the dear soil of France, never to 
 wander again. How he had kept himself in- 
 formed of the occurrences in his native land by 
 means of an occasional correspondence with 
 his sister Jane Seymour. How she had written 
 him of the horrible deaths of the good Protest- 
 313 
 
The Daughters 
 
 ant bishops; Ridley, Latimer, Cranmer, all 
 burnt at the stake on warrants of Queen Mary. 
 Of the latter's marriage to Philip of Spain. Of 
 the imprisonment of Elizabeth, of those days 
 of terror, and nights of mental torture. Then 
 the joyful news had come to him that the Queen 
 Mary could do no more harm; that she was 
 dead. 
 
 Then Katharine in turn told Seymour how 
 poor old Sir John Cheke had been forcibly 
 dragged from his home by Queen Mary's officers, 
 and thrust into one of the loathsome dungeons 
 of the Tower. How the sensitive scholar had 
 begged and petitioned the Queen to release 
 him; and how he had finally gained his freedom 
 by abjuring his religion; a price so great that it 
 laid on the poor man's conscience until he died 
 of remorse, shortly after. How she had longed 
 and prayed for her absent lover, — for him. And 
 she showed him his ring which had never been 
 removed from her finger since he had placed it 
 there. But, when she essayed to speak of her 
 father, and of her sister, Jane, her voice quavered 
 and her throat swelled so that she could say no 
 more. 
 
 314 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 Her mother continued the recital of many 
 things that had occurred in Seymour's absence. 
 In calm, even, tones the Duchess related how, 
 after the execution of her husband and daughter, 
 Mary, the Queen, had commanded them to re- 
 turn to Bradgate, and to place themselves under 
 the direction and instructions of the Abbot. She 
 told him how the friars from the Abbey, near by, 
 had descended upon the estate like a swarm of 
 locusts, and had devoured everything that 
 could be eaten; so that many times they had 
 faced starvation, for want of the plainest food. 
 Then, what the priestly beggars had not con- 
 sumed they had stolen, and carried away; so 
 that there was but one poor cow left in the stable, 
 and not a single horse, of all the noble animals 
 that once fattened in their spacious quarters. 
 
 The Duchess heaved a deep sigh, as she 
 stretched out her cold hands towards the flicker- 
 ing blaze that slowly licked the irons, while it 
 scarcely consumed the few small faggots. In 
 those hands Seymour saw the unfailing signs 
 of suffering, to which the poor woman had been 
 subjected. They were thin, white, and almost 
 transparent. The veins stood out prominently 
 315 
 
The Daughters 
 
 from the flesh, which was pinched and sunken. 
 As she held them outstretched towards the 
 cheerless blaze, in which there was so little 
 warmth, he noticed that the fingers remained 
 crooked, and her hands only half open, as though 
 she lacked the strength or inclination to open 
 them fully. And, as his eyes went further 
 around the room, he saw many other evidences 
 of the miserable poverty that had so quickly 
 overtaken the house of Henry Grey. 
 
 Across the door, leading into the great hall, 
 heavy planks had been roughly nailed, so that 
 it could not be opened. "We never use that 
 part of the house" explained Katharine in a half 
 whisper, "since, — since," — ^her voice failed her, 
 and she hung her head to hide her tears. 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Seymour gently. And 
 as he swallowed the lump that arose in his throat, 
 he made a resolution that whatever life he had 
 left should be spent in comforting and caring 
 for the stricken girl, who sat nervously trem- 
 bling by his side. 
 
 "We use this room only, my mother and 
 myself, while Adrian, the gate-keeper, cares 
 for us; he is the only servant left on the place." 
 316 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 "And I have not even a squire," said Edward, 
 as a smile overspread his features. "The 
 moment after my audience with the Queen, I 
 took the road with Homer, and nothing save 
 what the saddle bags would carry, and here we 
 are on the next day, my good horse alone for 
 company." 
 
 "Good Homer," said Katharine, with kin- 
 dling interest in life's affairs, " He shall have my 
 
 loaf of oat-meal as a reward for, — for " 
 
 She paused in some confusion, as she looked 
 into the eager face of her lover. 
 
 "For what?" he said, as he gazed into the 
 frank blue eyes, longing for a confession of her 
 love. She returned his gaze, steadily, "For 
 bringing you here," she honestly avowed. 
 
 "Where is the horse ?" interrupted the Duch- 
 ess, with practical directness. "We have no 
 beast of any kind, saving one old cow, in the 
 stables, and shall have great need of Homer to 
 help us out of this wilderness." She shivered 
 and drew an old shawl closely around her shoul- 
 ders. Then she walked to the casement and 
 looked down on the court-yard below. 
 
 Edward followed her to the window. "He 
 317 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 is there, at the foot of the steps, tied to the — to 
 
 the " As he spoke his gaze ranged the stone 
 
 steps from top to bottom, and the words died 
 away on his Hps, for Homer was not anywhere 
 to be seen. 
 
 Seymour carefully examined the iron bracket, 
 to which he had tied him, and seeing no evidence 
 of a struggle, in which the horse might have 
 broken his fastenings, he searched the muddy 
 ground for foot-prints; and soon discovered 
 those made by friar Grouche and the horse, 
 which he followed as far as the bridle path that 
 led to the Abbey, through Charnwood forest. 
 
 "So," mused Edward, with rising anger. 
 "My friend the priest has me again in his debt: 
 I thought to have settled matters between us, 
 but as he has pointed out the way, I shall follow 
 his lead, and demand horses and subsistence 
 sufficient to take us away from this desolate 
 place; I doubt if the fat Abbot will ignore the 
 seal of Elizabeth." 
 
 Then, adjusting his sword and dagger, and 
 carefully testing their condition, he stepped 
 cautiously into the path that wound through 
 the forest to the Abbey. 
 318 
 
XXVII. 
 HOMERUS 
 
 HE keen biting wind fell 
 to a chilly breeze that 
 nipped the bare legs of 
 Friar Grouche, as he 
 noiselessly led Seymour's 
 horse along the wet and 
 slippery path. As he 
 emerged from the forest into a broad sweep of 
 pasture land, he stopped and peered back into 
 the forest; then he listened intently, but hearing 
 no sound save that of dripping water, and the 
 flutter of a half starved bird that had followed 
 him in the hope of receiving a discarded crust 
 of bread, he gathered the reins around Homer's 
 neck. 
 
 "My faith," he said, crossly, as the thought 
 struck him. "Why should I walk like a beggar 
 and an empty saddle within reach of my leg ? 
 Here! Homerus, stand still, you fool!" As he 
 spoke he made several futile efforts to get his 
 319 
 
The Daughters 
 
 foot into one of Homer's dangling stirrups. But 
 the intelligent animal seemed loath to permit so 
 scurvy an individual to mount him; and kept 
 turning round and round, forging and plunging 
 over slippery hillocks and splashing into the 
 muddy places. The friar had some difficulty 
 in holding fast to the end of the leading rein. 
 
 " You devil," said the priest, impatiently, " I 
 might as well have an eel by the tail." Again 
 he attempted to mount, but the horse laid back 
 his ears and made frantic efforts to bite him. 
 
 Then the friar grew wary, and his spirit was 
 aroused. He looked calmly into the big angry 
 eyes of Homer, while he recalled a trick that he 
 had learned as a boy; in those old days, when, 
 as a vassal of the lord Abbot, he had lived on 
 one of the little farms belonging to the Abbey. 
 Those days when he stole wood from the forest 
 and killed forbidden deer with his cross-bow; 
 for which latter offence he confessed, and suf- 
 fered no punishment, if a fore-quarter of the 
 animal was left at the Abbey kitchen. Those 
 days before he had developed a longing for 
 knowledge of a higher order, the boy could steal 
 a horse from pasture, and ride away many a 
 320 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 mile on night forays, the nature of which added 
 nothing to his reputation amongst other tenants 
 of the Abbot. He remembered the trick. 
 
 Running his hand quietly, but firmly down 
 one of the horse's forelegs he raised his foot; 
 then with a push, and a dexterous sharp pull 
 of the bridle rein, he threw the horse with vio- 
 lence to the ground. As the surprised animal 
 regained his feet, the friar adroitly vaulted into 
 the saddle. "Now, my Homerus," he said 
 exultingly, a flush of his old vagabond courage 
 coursing through his veins, as he gathered the 
 reins firmly in his strong hands, "one more test 
 of a friar's horsemanship, — then away for the 
 Abbey." 
 
 He dug his sandalled heels into the horse's 
 belly; and Homer pranced and curvetted around 
 the blanket that had fallen to the ground. The 
 friar rose in his stirrups, and sniflFed the keen air 
 that came sweeping over the open country. The 
 smell of the wet ground reminded him of a 
 former life. The wide stretch of moor, as viewed 
 from the back of a restive horse, had a new and 
 delightful interest for him. He tried to recall 
 the circumstances under which he had seen it 
 21 321 
 
The Daughters 
 
 before, under similar conditions. Then, he 
 tried to pick up the blanket; but Homer shied 
 and pranced around so that he could not get It. 
 A broad smile came over the face of the priest. 
 
 " So, you wont let me get the blanket, foolish 
 Homerus: do yoU know that I could make you 
 walk over it on your hind legs ? " 
 
 The friar's squinting eyes were blazing with 
 excitement, as he struggled for mastery over 
 the powerful beast; but he sat firmly, and 
 gripped the horse between his sinewy knees 
 like a vise. 
 
 His blood was stirred with the recollection 
 of his youth; of a time when he had borne the 
 dubious honor of having been the hardest man 
 to catch, on horseback, of any thief in the county. 
 An iron cross hung suspended by a stout chain 
 from his girdle. Managing the horse easily 
 with one hand, he unclasped the cross and chain 
 so that it swung free in his other hand. Then, 
 cantering away some distance, he came around 
 in a wide circle; and, dealing the horse a sting- 
 ing blow on his flank, with the iron cross, he 
 rushed, at a full run, towards the blanket. In 
 another instant he shd down flat on the horse's 
 322 
 
of SufFolk 
 
 neck, and hanging to the animal with one arm 
 and leg, he skilfully picked the blanket from the 
 ground, and threw it across his saddle bow. 
 Then he gradually brought the madly excited 
 horse to a quiet trot. 
 
 There was so much grace and skill exhibited 
 in the action, that it would have taken a poorer 
 horseman than Edward Seymour, to refrain 
 from clapping his hands and applauding the 
 priest. 
 
 The latter had taken no account of the direc- 
 tion in which he had been cavorting over the 
 country; and when he had brought Homer to a 
 walk, he found himself at the edge of the forest 
 from which Seymour had emerged in time to 
 witness the whole performance. 
 
 "By the gods!" he exclaimed as he took his 
 horse by the bridle, "and I had not seen it with 
 mine own eyes, within the last minute, I would 
 have wagered a thousand gold pieces the horse 
 would kill you. Small wonder that you took 
 the beast, and you such a rider! Come Friar," 
 he went on, as the man slipped in much confusion 
 from the horse's back, "you are too good a fellow 
 to spend your life crawling through the cells of 
 323 
 
The Daughters 
 
 yonder Abbey, like a maggot through cheese. 
 Join with us, and I will give you the mate of 
 Homer for your mount." 
 
 Again the vagabond blood in the friar thrilled 
 with the thought; the call of the fields was still 
 upon him. His heart beat manfully at the sug- 
 gestion that Edward made; of a gold hiked 
 sword ; of a thoroughbred horse ; of a life of 
 travel and adventure ; of plenty to eat, and 
 better, — to drink. Then the thought came over 
 him that the Catholic Queen Mary was dead ; 
 and there would doubtless be hard times ahead 
 for the Abbeys, under the Protestant Queen 
 Elizabeth. He hesitated for a moment, and then 
 made answer: 
 
 "I bear you no grudge my lord. The rough 
 treatment that you gave, me, awhile past, I have 
 charged to the hot blood of youth. We are both 
 men." He stopped, and hung his head; then 
 he raised his eyes. "There was a time — " He 
 stopped short. For a moment the face of the 
 friar glowed with an inner light, that made his 
 ugly features actually pleasant to look upon. 
 Then, as if ashamed of showing to another even 
 a glimpse of the good that was within, his man- 
 324 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 ner abruptly changed; and his face hardened 
 to its habitual cunning. 
 
 "Thanks, my lord, for the chance you have 
 made me; but, I am only a poor friar, and must 
 remain so, — one of the least of the Brethren." 
 
 "Then," said Seymour, disdainfully, as he 
 mounted Homer, and settled himself comforta- 
 ably, in the saddle, "do you walk ahead, and 
 show me the shortest path to the Abbey, the 
 evening comes apace and I need the assistance 
 of your lord, the Abbot." 
 
XXVIII. 
 UNTIL DEATH 
 
 O Katharine Grey joy 
 came on a summer 
 morning in the year 
 1560, when she and 
 Jane Seymour, her con- 
 s t a n t companion, re- 
 ceived a summons to 
 appear at Court, as Maids of Honor to the 
 Queen. 
 
 On that day also, Jane received a letter from 
 her brother Edward, in which he wrote that he 
 had arrived in London, to receive the honor that 
 the Queen had conferred upon him, and that he 
 had been created the Earl of Hertford. 
 
 Within the letter was enclosed another, ad- 
 dressed: to the Lady Katharine Grey. 
 
 As she read its contents her pale face flushed 
 
 and grew pink; as in the old times, that seemed 
 
 so long ago. She was now wondrously lovely. 
 
 She had arrived at the age of early womanhood, 
 
 326 
 
The Daughters of Suffolk 
 
 and all her childish promises of physical beauty 
 and grace, had matured into a form of matchless 
 symmetry. As she stood by a window in the 
 Royal Palace, looking out over the river that 
 flowed beneath, she drew in her breath with a 
 secret, almost bewildering, sense of unspeakable 
 
 joy- 
 It was here at last, her happiness! . . . . 
 
 Below on the river, the soft lappings of the tiny 
 waves against the bow of a boat, as a sturdy 
 rower forced it forward with a steady stroke of 
 oar; the loud laughter of the careless people, 
 and their conversation as they went to and fro, 
 attending to their various occupations, all these 
 familiar sounds which heretofore had seemed 
 but to mock her grief; all, all, now mingled 
 with the joy in her heart, and changed the joy 
 to rapture- 
 
 Oh! it was good to be loved, to be alive! 
 
 The sadness of her life, in which she had 
 passed so many years, had now become a back- 
 ground ; it was dark and gloomy, but, — of the 
 past. 
 
 Then her memory recalled her sister Jane, 
 and the last letter that she had received from 
 327 
 
The Daughters 
 
 her; and the old struggle was renewed in her 
 mind, between the good that was bad, and the 
 bad that was good. 
 
 "Oh!" she said to herself, in mental despera- 
 tion, "if Jane were only here to tell me what I 
 ought to do." 
 
 Then she read Seymour's letter over again, 
 very slowly, the words burning deeply into her 
 receptive mind: 
 
 • • • "but, my beloved, although we can- 
 not gain the Queen's consent, nevertheless we 
 shall be married soon." • • • 
 
 The words rang in her ears like the sweet 
 sound of splashing fountains to a weary and 
 thirsty traveller- Away with duty! Away with 
 her obedience to the Queen! It was the voice 
 of her beloved, calling to her through a long 
 vista, through a vale of tears. • • • he 
 might come for her any hour, at any moment! 
 
 She shut her teeth, tightly, to keep her chatter- 
 ing lips from proclaiming her happiness aloud. 
 She wanted to sing, to laugh, to cry. 
 
 In her hand she held the precious letter from 
 the man she loved ; the man to whom she had 
 given her childish heart, long ago. Through 
 328 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 all those terrible, solitary years, she had pressed 
 his memory so closely to her tender heart, that 
 it had grown there. It had become a part of her 
 very existence. Now, it was no longer to be but 
 a memory; it had become a substance, a reality, 
 a creed, — three in one. She would see him; she 
 would embrace him; she would love him. Then, 
 come death, or whatever fate had in store for 
 her, she would be content. 
 
 These were the thoughts that occupied Kath- 
 arine's mind, as she gazed from the window of 
 the Palace of Westminster. So absorbed was 
 she in her thoughts, that Jane Seymour's voice 
 at her ear startled her. "The Queen goes to 
 Eltham this morning to hunt," she said, " and," 
 she hesitated a moment, and looked keenly into 
 her friend's face, "my graceless brother has 
 arrived." 
 
 Katharine blushed a deep red, and trembled. 
 "So soon," she stammered; and she turned her 
 head, and appeared to gaze, indifferently, out 
 of the window. 
 
 Jane Seymour laughed aloud, and then, 
 regretting her imprudence, she looked cautiously 
 around, to see if others were observing them. 
 329 
 
The Daughters 
 
 " Faith, you did it so well," she said admir- 
 ingly, "that you near deceived me." 
 
 There was a long whispered conversation 
 between the friends; then they sauntered slowly 
 from the apartments. . . . 
 
 Had anyone been attracted by their move- 
 ments, they would have seen the two young 
 maids of honor leave the palace, by the stairs 
 at the orchard, and then walk demurely along 
 by the sands to the Earl of Hertford's house in 
 Chanon Row. Had they still been curiously 
 inclined, they could also have seen the Lady 
 Jane Seymour, quietly leaving the house by a 
 small unfrequented doorway; they could have 
 seen her hasten to a nearby chapel, where a 
 priest was in waiting to perform the marriage 
 ceremony. A few of the more persistent might 
 have entered the chapel with the little wedding 
 party; and they probably would have been asked 
 to witness the ceremony that united Edward 
 Seymour, Earl of Hertford and Katharine Grey, 
 the second daughter of Suffolk. 
 
 Here the story properly ends. Here I would 
 willingly draw the veil of oblivion over the 
 330 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 lives of the united pair, and leave the reader 
 to indulge in pleasant reverie over Katharine's 
 long deferred happiness. But, grim History 
 records the fact that they were both immediately 
 committed to the Tower. 
 
 That terrible pile of stone, that has become 
 saturated with the blood of so many men and 
 women ; whose blackened walls have echoed and 
 re-echoed with the loud cries and agonized whis- 
 pers of so many breaking hearts! That vaulted 
 sepulchre, was Katharine's home for seven 
 dreary years. There, through the friendly aid 
 of the keeper, she and her husband were often 
 allowed to be together. There, she spent all 
 the years of her married life. There, her chil- 
 dren were born. There, she wrote the pathetic 
 petition to Queen Elizabeth: 
 
 "I dare not presume, most gracious Sover- 
 eign, to crave pardon for my disobedient and 
 rash matching of myself, without your Highness' 
 consent. I only most humbly say unto your 
 Highness, to continue your merciful nature 
 towards me. I acknowledge myself a most 
 unworthy creature, to feel so much of your 
 gracious favor as I have done. My just-felt 
 331 
 
The Daughters 
 
 misery, and continual grief, doth teach me daily, 
 more and more, the greatness of my fault, and 
 your princely pity increaseth my sorrow, that I 
 have so forgotten my duty towards your Majesty, 
 this is my great torment of mind. May it there- 
 fore please your excellent Majesty to permit me 
 to be a most lowly suitor unto your Highness, to 
 extend towards my misearble state your Majes- 
 tie's further favor and accustomed mercy. 
 
 Which upon my knees, in all humble wise, I 
 crave with my daily prayers to God, that he 
 may long continue and preserve your Majesty's 
 reign over us." 
 
 The so called "Virgin Queen," whose amours 
 fill the pages of history, could not forgive these 
 true lovers. It may be that she was afraid to 
 grant liberty to one who had so strong a claim 
 to the throne ; there were many who thought 
 that Katharine's title was as good if not better 
 than Elizabeth's ; be that as it may, the Queen 
 steadily refused all entreaties both of the prison- 
 ers and of their many influential friends; whose 
 petitions only seemed to increase her severity. 
 
 She issued strict orders to have Katharine 
 and her husband confined in separate parts of 
 332 
 
iwiiiii 
 
 
of Suffolk 
 
 the Tower, where communication was impos- 
 sible. 
 
 This last stroke of adversity was the final 
 one, to which she succumbed. 
 
 One cold, blustry, day in January, poor, 
 loving, tempestuous, forgiving Katharine Grey, 
 yielded her tired, weary, spirit back to God. 
 
 From her slender fingers they drew two rings. 
 One was of curious workmanship and design; 
 and consisted of several links, secretly con- 
 trived, the which they could not open; the 
 other had upon it a Death's head, around which 
 was engraved: 
 
 " While I live, yours." 
 
 THE END