The one woman he honoured, the other he must perforce despise, and yet--such is the heart of man--he was more ready than ever to give up life, honour, a great name, and still greater destiny, so that the worthless object of his whole-hearted affection should be spared public disgrace.

He would not have named Ursula Glynde in this chaste, virgin Queen's presence, the very remembrance of that awful night was a pollution, but proud and haughty as he was, he dwelt on that memory, for it was the last which he had of her.

Mad, foolish, criminal, sublime Love! The sin of the loved one was dearer to him than all the virtues of which other women were capable, and whilst Mary Tudor would have given him a crown, he found it sweeter far to accept ignominy for Ursula's sake.

Perhaps something of all these thoughts which went on in his mind was reflected in his face, for Mary, who had been watching him keenly, said after a while with a tone of bitter resentment--

"My lord, I know that your silence over this mysterious affair is maintained out of a chivalrous desire to shield another . . . a woman.

. . . Ah, consider. . . ."

"I have considered," replied Wess.e.x firmly, "and I entreat Your Majesty . . ."

"Nay! 'tis I who entreat," she interrupted him vehemently. "Let us look facts in the face, my lord. Think you we are all fools to believe in your c.o.c.k-and-bull story? A woman was seen that night flying from the Palace across the terrace . . . who was she? . . . whence did she come?

. . . None of the watch could see her face, and the louts were too stupid to run after her . . . but there are those within this Court at this moment who will swear that that woman was Ursula Glynde."

Strangely enough this was the first time, since that fatal night, that this name was actually spoken in Wess.e.x' hearing: it seemed to sting him like the cut of a lash across his face. For that one brief instant he lost his icy self-control, and Mary saw him wince.

"Ursula has been questioned," she continued, "but she remains obdurately silent. Believe me, my lord, you waste your chivalry in defence of a wanton."

But already Wess.e.x had recovered himself.

"Your Majesty is mistaken," he rejoined calmly. "I know naught of Lady Ursula Glynde, and I defend no one by confessing my crime."

"You'll not persist in that insensate confession."

"'Twill not be necessary, Your Majesty, my judges have it in full, writ by mine own hand."

"You'll recant it."

"Why should I? 'Twas done willingly, in full possession of my faculties, under no compulsion."

"You'll recant it!" she persisted obstinately.

"Why should I?"

"Because I ask it of you," she said with great gentleness, "because I . . ."

She rose from her chair, and came closer to him. Then as he, respectfully, would have risen too, she placed a detaining hand upon his shoulder.

"Listen, my lord," she said, "for I've thought of it all. . . . This is not a moment when foolish prejudices and mock modesty should stand in the way of so great an issue. . . . I would throw my soul, my future life, my chances of paradise on that one stake--your innocence. . . ."

"Your Majesty . . ."

"Nay, I pray you, do not waste these few valuable minutes in vain protestations, which I'll not believe. . . . There's not a sane man in this country who thinks you guilty. . . . Yet on this confession your judges and peers will condemn you to death . . . must condemn you, so that the law of England is satisfied--and you, my lord, will suffer death with a lie upon your lips."

"The truth," rejoined Wess.e.x firmly; "'twas I killed the Marquis de Suarez."

"A lie, my lord, a lie," protested Mary pa.s.sionately; "the first you've ever told, the last you'll be allowed to breathe. . . . But let it pa.s.s.

. . . I'll not torture your pride by forcing you to repeat that monstrous tale again. Would I could wrench her secret from the cowardly lips of that hussy. . . . Oh! if I were a man . . . a king like my father! . . . I'd have her broken on the wheel, tortured on the rack, whipped, lacerated, burnt, but I'd have the truth from her!"

Wess.e.x took her hand in his. She was trembling from head to foot. The inward, real Mary Tudor had risen to the surface for this one brief moment. All the cruelty in her, which in after life made this wretched woman's name the byword of history, seemed just then to smother her very womanhood, her every tender thought. At the touch of Wess.e.x' hand she paused suddenly, shamed and in tears, that he should have seen her like this.

"Before she came you said many sweet words to me," she murmured, as if trying to find an excuse for her terrible outburst. "Ah! I know . . . I know . . ." she added, with a bitter tone of melancholy, "you never loved me . . . how could you? . . . Men like you do not love an ill-favoured creature like me, old, bad-tempered . . . with something of the brute under the queenly robes. . . . But . . . you had affection for me once, my dear lord . . . and an unimpa.s.sioned love can bring happiness sometimes. . . . I would soon make you forget these last terrible days . . . and . . ."

Her voice had sunk down very low, almost to a whisper now, the hand, which he still held in his own, trembled violently and became burning hot.

"And no one would dare to whisper ill of the King Consort of England."

He turned to her; she was standing beside him, her hand imprisoned in his, her face bent so that he could not meet her eyes. But there was such an infinity of pathos in the att.i.tude of this domineering, haughty woman wilfully humbling her pride before her love, that with a tender feeling of reverence he bent the knee before her and tenderly kissed her hand.

"Ah, my sweet Queen," he said with gentle sadness, "I am and always will be your most devoted subject--but do you not see how impossible it is that I should accept this great honour, which you would deign to confer upon me?"

"You refuse? Is it that you have not one spark of love for me?"

"I have far too much veneration for my Queen to allow her to sully her fair name. If being avowedly guilty I were acquitted by Your Majesty's desire, 'twould be said the Queen had saved her lover . . . and then married a felon."

"I would stake mine honour, that no one shall dare . . ."

"Honour is already lost, my Queen, once it is at stake."

"But I will save you," cried Mary with ever-increasing vehemence, "in spite of yourself, in spite of your confessions, in spite of all these lies and deceptions. . . . I'll save you in the very teeth of your judges and your peers, and proclaim to the whole world that I saved you--guilty or not guilty, proud gentleman or felon--because my name is Mary Tudor, and that there is no law in England outside my will."

Pride and pa.s.sion almost beautified her. Her love for this man was the one soft, tender trait in her strange and complex character, but Tudor-like she _would_ have her way, she would rule his destiny, command his fate, tear and destroy everything around her so long as her caprice held sway. But he had suddenly risen to his feet, and stood confronting her now, tall and erect, with a pride as great, as obstinate as her own, a haughty dignity which neither Queen nor destiny, neither sorrow, disgrace or fear had the power to bend.

"Ere that dishonour fall upon us both, Your Majesty," he said firmly, "the last Duke of Wess.e.x will lie in a suicide's grave."

Her eyes were fixed upon his, and he, carried away by the poignancy of this supreme battle fought by his pride against her pa.s.sion, allowed her to read his innermost thoughts. He had nothing to hide from her now, not even his love, miserable and desperate as it was: but he wanted her to know that not even at this fateful moment, when he stood 'twixt a scaffold and a crown, did he waver in the firm resolve which had guided him throughout his life.

He would _not_ become the tool and minion of a Tudor queen--loving enough now, but endowed with all the vices and all the arrogance of her race; he would not barter his life in order to become the b.u.t.t of contending political factions, the toy of ambitious parties, flattered by some, hated by most, despised by all. A courtier, a lapdog, an invertebrate creature without power or dignity.

Bah! the hangman's rope was less degrading!

And Mary, as she read all this in the expressive eyes which met hers fully and unwaveringly, realized that her cause was lost. She had staked everything on this one final appeal, but she, a Tudor, had struck against an obstinacy greater than her own. She could not flatter, she could not bribe, and he was--by the very hopelessness of his present position--beyond the reach of threats or punishment.

He saw that her heart was admitting that she was vanquished. The hardness within him melted into pity.

"Believe me, my Queen," he said gently, "the memory of your kind words will accompany me to my life's end, it will cheer me to-morrow and sustain me to the last. And now for pity's sake," he added earnestly, "may I entreat Your Majesty to order the guard . . . and to let me go."

"That is not your last word, my lord," urged Mary with the insistence of a desperate cause. "Think. . . ."

"I have thought--much," he replied quietly. "Life holds nothing very tempting at best, does it? The honour of the Queen of England and mine own self-esteem were too heavy a price to pay for so worthless a trifle."

Mary would have spoken again, but just then there was a discreet knock at the door twice repeated. She had perforce to say--

"Enter!" and the next moment a page-in-waiting stood bowing before her.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"The Lord High Steward has arrived at the Palace, Your Majesty,"