V.—OF THE MISUNDERSTANDING THAT AROSE BETWEEN QUEEN JANE AND HER HUSBAND, LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY.
NOT appearing, and some time having elapsed since her departure, her sisters, who were anxiously awaiting her return in the room adjoining the council-chamber, became so uneasy, that, notwithstanding her injunctions to the contrary, they resolved to go in search of her. Accordingly, bidding the ushers precede them, they descended to the chapel; and their uneasiness was by no means decreased on finding it buried in darkness, and apparently empty. As they gazed around in perplexity and astonishment, a deep-drawn sigh broke from the northern aisle; and, hurrying in that direction, they discovered the object of their search, who had been hidden from view by the massive intervening pillars, extended upon a seat, and just recovering from a swoon into which she had fallen. Revived by their assiduities, Jane was soon able to speak, and the first thing she uttered was a peremptory order that no alarm should be given, or assistance sent for.
“I am now well—quite well,” she said, with a look and in a tone that belied her words, “and require no further aid. Do not question me as to what has happened. My brain is too confused to think of it; and I would fain banish it altogether from my memory. Moreover, I charge you by your love and allegiance, that you mention to no one—not even to my dear lord and husband, should he interrogate you on the subject,—how you have just found me. And if my visit here be not remarked by him—as is not unlikely, if he should remain closeted with the Duke of Northumberland,—it is my will and pleasure that no allusion be made to the circumstance. You will not need to be told, dear sisters, that I have good reasons for thus imposing silence upon you. To you, sirs,” she continued, addressing the ushers, who listened to her with the greatest surprise, “I also enjoin the strictest secrecy;—and look well you observe it.”
The solemn and mysterious manner in which the Queen delivered her commands quite confounded her sisters, who glanced at each other as if they knew not what to think;—but they readily promised compliance, as did the ushers. Supporting herself on the arm of Lady Herbert, Jane then arose, and proceeded at a slow pace towards the eastern stair-case. As she was about to turn the corner of the aisle, she whispered to Lady Hastings, who walked on her left—“Look behind you, Catherine. Do you see nothing on the ground?”
“Nothing whatever, your highness,” replied the other, glancing fearfully over her shoulder. “Nothing whatever, except the black and fantastic shadows of our attendants.”
“Thank Heaven! it is gone,” ejaculated Jane, as if relieved from a weight of anxiety.
“What is gone, dear sister?” inquired Lady Herbert, affectionately.
“Do not ask me,” replied Jane, in a tone calculated to put an end to further conversation on the subject. “What I have seen and heard must for ever remain locked in my own bosom.”
“I begin to think a spirit must have appeared to your majesty,” observed Lady Herbert, whose curiosity was violently excited, and who, in common with most persons of the period, entertained a firm belief in supernatural appearances. “Every chamber in the Tower is said to be haunted,—and why not this ghostly chapel, which looks as if it were peopled with phantoms? I am quite sorry I proposed to visit it. But if I am ever caught in it again, except in broad daylight, and then only with sufficient attendance, your majesty shall have free leave to send me to keep company with the invisible world for the future. I would give something to know what you have seen. Perhaps it was the ghost of Anne Boleyn, who is known to walk;—or the guilty Catherine Howard,—or the old Countess of Salisbury. Do tell me which it was—and whether the spectre carried its head under its arm?”
“No more of this,” said Jane, authoritatively. “Come with me to the altar.”
“Your majesty is not going to remain here?” cried Lady Hastings. “I declare positively I dare not stop.”
“I will not detain you longer than will suffice to offer a single prayer to Heaven,” rejoined the Queen. “Be not afraid. Nothing will injure, or affright you.”
“I am by no means sure of that,” replied Lady Hastings. “And now I really do think I see something.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Jane, starting. “Where?”
“Behind the farthest pillar on the right,” replied Lady Hastings, pointing towards it. “It looks like a man muffled in a cloak. There!—it moves.”
“Go and see whether any one be lurking in the chapel,” said Jane to the nearest usher, and speaking in a voice so loud, that it almost seemed as if she desired to be overheard.
The attendant obeyed; and immediately returned with the intelligence that he could find no one.
“Your fears, you perceive, are groundless, Catherine,” observed Jane, forcing a smile.
“Not altogether, I am persuaded, from your manner, my dear sister, and gracious mistress,” rejoined Lady Hastings. “Oh! how I wish I was safe back again in the palace.”
“So do I,” added Lady Herbert.
“A moment’s patience and I am ready,” rejoined Jane.
With this, she approached the altar, and prostrated herself on the velvet cushion before it.
“Almighty Providence!” she murmured in a tone so low as to be inaudible to the others, “I humbly petition thee and supplicate thee, that if the kingdom that has been given me be rightly and lawfully mine, thou wilt grant me so much grace and spirit, that I may govern it to thy glory, service, and advantage. But if it be otherwise—if I am unlawfully possessed of it, and am an hindrance to one who might serve thee more effectually, remove, O Lord, the crown from my head, and set it on that of thy chosen servant! And if what I have this night beheld be a fore-shadowing and a warning of the dreadful doom that awaits me, grant me, I beseech thee, strength to meet it with fortitude and resignation; so that my ending, 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
