like my life, may redound to thy honour, and the welfare of thy holy church.” While Jane was thus devoutly occupied, her sisters, who stood behind her, could scarcely control their uneasiness, but glanced ever and anon timorously round, as if in expectation of some fearful interruption. Their fears were speedily communicated to the ushers; and though nothing occurred to occasion fresh alarm, the few minutes spent by the Queen in prayer appeared an age to her companions. There was something in the hour—it was past midnight,—and the place, calculated to awaken superstitious terrors. The lights borne by the attendants only illumined a portion of the chapel; rendering that which was left in shadow yet more sombre; while the columned aisles on either side, and the deeply-recessed arches of the gallery above, were shrouded in gloom. Even in broad day, St. John’s Chapel is a solemn and a striking spot; but at midnight, with its heavy, hoary pillars, reared around like phantoms, its effect upon the imagination will be readily conceived to be far greater.
Already described as one of the most perfect specimens of Norman ecclesiastical architecture, this venerable structure, once used as a place of private worship by the old monarchs of England, and now as a receptacle for Chancery proceedings, has, from its situation in the heart of the White Tower, preserved, in an almost unequalled state, its original freshness and beauty; and, except that its floors are encumbered with cases, and its walls of Caen stone disfigured by a thick coat of white plaster, it is now much in the same state that it was at the period under consideration. It consists of a nave with broad aisles, flanked (as has been mentioned) by twelve circular pillars, of the simplest and most solid construction, which support a stone gallery of equal width with the aisles, and having an arcade corresponding with that beneath the floor is now boarded, but was formerly covered with a hard polished cement, resembling red granite. The roof is coved, and beautifully proportioned; and the fane is completed by a semicircular termination towards the east.
Old Stowe records the following order, given in the reign of Henry the Third, for its decoration:—“And that ye cause the whole chapel of St. John the Evangelist to be whited. And that ye cause three glass windows in the same chapel to be made; to wit, one on the north side, with a certain little Mary holding her child; the other on the south part, with the image of the Trinity; and the third, of St. John the Apostle and Evangelist, in the south part. And that ye cause the cross and the beam beyond the altar of the same chapel to be painted well and with good colours. And that ye cause to be made and painted two fair images where more conveniently and decently they may be done in the same chapel; one of St. Edward, holding a ring, and reaching it out to St. John the Evangelist.” These fair images—the cross—the rood,—and the splendid illuminated window, are gone—most of them, indeed, were gone in Queen Jane’s time—the royal worshippers are gone with them; but enough remains in its noble arcades, its vaulted aisles, and matchless columns, to place St. John’s Chapel foremost in beauty of its class of architecture.
Her devotions over, Jane arose with a lighter heart, and, accompanied by her little train, quitted the chapel. On reaching her own apartments, she dismissed her attendants, with renewed injunctions of secrecy; and as Lord Guilford Dudley had not returned from the council, and she felt too much disturbed in mind to think of repose, she took from among the books on her table, a volume of the divine Plato, whose Phædo, in the original tongue, she was wont, in the words of her famous instructor, Roger Ascham, “to read with as much delight as some gentlemen would take in a merry tale of Boccace,” and was speedily lost in his profound and philosophic speculations.
In this way the greater part of the night was consumed; nor was it till near day-break that she was aroused from her studies by the entrance of’ her husband.
“Jane, my beloved queen!” he exclaimed, hastening towards her with a countenance beaming with delight. “I have intelligence for you which will enchant you.”
“Indeed! my dear lord,”’ she replied, laying down her book, and rising to meet him. “What is it?”
“Guess,” he answered, smiling.
“Nay, dear Dudley,” she rejoined, “put me not to this trouble. Tell me at once your news, that I may participate in your satisfaction.”
“In a word, then, my queen,” replied Lord Guilford,—“My father and the nobles propose to elevate me to the same dignity as yourself.”
Jane’s countenance fell.
“They have not the power to do so, my lord,” she rejoined gravely; “I, alone, can thus elevate you.”
“Then I am king,” cried Dudley, triumphantly.
“My lord,” observed Jane, with increased gravity, “you will pardon me if I say I must consider of this matter.”
“Consider of it!” echoed her husband, frowning; “I must have your decision at once. You can have no hesitation, since my father desires it. I am your husband, and claim your obedience.”
“And I, my lord,” rejoined Jane, with dignity, “am your queen; and, as such, it is for me, not you, to exact obedience. We will talk no further on the subject.”
“As you please, madam,” replied Lord Guilford, coldly. “To-morrow you will learn the Duke’s pleasure.”
“When I do so, he shall know mine,” rejoined Jane.
“How is this?” exclaimed Dudley, gazing at her in astonishment. “Can it be possible you are the same Jane whom I left—all love—all meekness—all compliance?—or have a few hours of rule so changed your nature, that you no longer love me as heretofore?”
“Dudley,” returned Jane, tenderly, “you are dear to me as ever; and if I accede not to your wishes, do not impute it to other than the right motive. As a queen, I have duties paramount to all other considerations,—duties which, so long as I am queen, I will fulfil to the best of my ability, and at every personal sacrifice. Be not wholly guided by the counsels of your father,—be not dazzled by ambition. The step you propose is fraught with danger. It may cost me my crown, and cannot ensure one to you.”
“Enough,” replied her husband, apparently convinced by her arguments. “We will postpone its further consideration till to-morrow.”
When that morrow came, Dudley’s first business was to seek his father, and acquaint him with the manner in which his communication to the Queen had been received. The haughty Duke appeared surprised, but imputed the failure to his son’s mismanagement, and undertook to set it right. With this view, he repaired to the Queen’s apartments, and on obtaining an audience, informed her that he and the lords of the council had resolved to place her husband on the throne beside her. Her answer differed in nothing from that which she had returned to Lord Guilford, except that it was couched in a firmer tone; but it had this addition, that she was well aware of his Grace’s object in the proposal, which was, in effect, to obtain possession of the supreme power. In vain arguments, entreaties, and even threats, were used by the Duke: Jane continued inflexible. Northumberland was succeeded by his no less imperious spouse, who, with all the insolence of her arrogant nature, rated her daughter-in-law soundly, and strove to terrify her into compliance. But she, too, failed; and Lord Guilford was so enraged at his consort’s obstinacy, that he quitted the Tower, and departed for Sion House, without even taking leave of her.
Perplexed as he felt by Jane’s conduct, Northumberland was too well versed in human nature not to be aware that a character however soft and pliant may, by the sudden alteration of circumstances, be totally changed,—but he was by no means prepared for such a remarkable display of firmness as Jane had exhibited. The more he considered the matter, the more satisfied he became that she had some secret counsellor, under whose guidance she acted, and with the view of finding out who it was, he resolved to have all her motions watched.
