CHAPTER XXXIII
IN THE LORD CHANCELLOR'S COURT
The great Hall at Westminster was already thronged with people at anearly hour of the morning, and the servants of the Knight Marshal andthe Lord Warden of the Fleet had much ado to keep the crowd back withtheir tipstaves.
All London was taking a holiday to-day: an enforced holiday as far asthe workers and merchants were concerned, for there surely would be nobusiness doing in the City when such great goings-on were occurring atWestminster.
The trial of His Grace the Duke of Wessex on a charge of murder! A trialwhich, seeing that the accused had confessed to the crime, could but endin a sentence of death.
It is not every day that it is given to humbler folk to see so proud agentleman arraigned as any common vagabond might be, and to note how agreat nobleman may look when threatened with the hangman's rope.
Is there aught in the world half so cruel as a crowd?
And His Grace had been very popular: always looked upon, even by themeanest in the land, as the most perfect embodiment of English pride andEnglish grandeur, he had always had withal that certain graciousness ofmanner which the populace will love, and which disarms envy.
But with the exception of his own friends, people of his own rank andstation, who knew him and his character intimately, the people at largenever for a moment questioned his guilt.
He had confessed! surely that was enough! The loutish brains of thelower proletariat did not care to go beyond that obvious self-evidentfact. The meaner the nature of a man, the more ready is he toacknowledge evil, he seeks it out, recognizes it under every garb. Who,among the majority of people, cared to seek for sublime self-sacrificein an ordinary confession of crime?
The wiseacres and learned men, the more wealthy burgesses, and people ofmore consideration, were content with a few philosophical reflectionsanent the instability of human nature and the evil influences of Courtlife and of great wealth.
No one cared about the man! it was the pageant they all liked. Whatthought had the mob of the agonizing rack to which a proud soul wouldnecessarily be subjected during the course of a wearisome and elaboratetrial? They only wanted to see a show, the robes of the judges, theassembly of peers, and that one central figure, the first gentleman inEngland, once almost a king--now a felon!
A fine sight, my masters! His Grace of Wessex in a criminal dock!
Places in the Hall were at a premium. The 'prentices were well to thefore as usual; like so many eel-like creatures, they had slipped intothe front rank as soon as the great doors had been opened. Some fewwaifs and vagrants--acute and greedy of gain--were making good tradewith small wooden benches, which they sold at threepence the piece tothose who desired a better view.
The women were all wearing becoming gowns, sombre of hue as befitted theoccasion. His Grace of Wessex was noted for his avowed admiration forthe beautiful sex. They had all brought large white kerchiefs, for theyanticipated some exquisite emotions. His Grace was so handsome! therewas sure to be an occasion for tears.
But only as a pleasurable sentiment! Like one feels at the play, wherethe actor expresses feelings, yet is himself cold and unimpassioned.What His Grace himself would feel was never considered. The crowd hadcome to see, some had paid threepence for a clearer sight of theaccused, and all meant to enjoy themselves this day.
Proud Wessex! thou hast sunk to this, a spectacle for a common holiday!Thy face will be scanned lest one twitch escape! thy shoulders if theystoop, thy neck if it bend! A thousand eyes will be fixed upon thee incuriosity, in derision--perchance in pity!
Ye gods, what a fall!
The Lord High Steward of England was expected to arrive at ten o'clock.In the centre of the great court a large scaffold had been erected, notfar from the Lord Chancellor's Court. In the middle of this there wasplaced a chair higher than the rest and covered with a cloth, which borethe royal arms embroidered at the four corners.
This was for my Lord High Steward.
Each side of him were the seats for the peers who were to be the triers.Great names were whispered, as the servants of the Knight Marshalarranged these in their respective places. There was the chair for theEarl of Kent, and my lord of Sussex, the Earl of Hertford, and LordSaint John of Basing, and a score of others, for there were twenty-fourtriers in all.
On a lower form were the seats for the judges, and in a hollow place cutin the scaffold itself, and immediately at the feet of my Lord HighSteward, the Clerk of the Crown would sit with his secondary.
And facing the judges and the peers was the bar, where presently theexalted prisoner would stand.
No one was here yet of the greater personages, the servants were stillbusy putting everything to right, but some gentlemen of the Queen'shousehold had already arrived, and several noble lords who would be merespectators. His Grace's friends could easily be distinguished by thesombreness of their garb and the air of grief upon their faces. Mr.Thomas Norton, the Queen's printer, was sorting his papers and cuttinghis pens, and two gentlemen ushers were receiving final instructionsfrom Garter King-at-Arms.
There was indeed plenty for the idlers to see. Great ropes had beendrawn across the further portions of the Hall, leaving a wide passagefrom the main entrance right down the centre and up to the Lord HighSteward's seat. Behind these ropes the crowd was forcibly kept back. Andthe gossip and the noise went on apace. Laughter too and merry jests,for this was a holiday, my masters, presently to be brought to aclose--after the death sentence had been passed and every onedispersed--with lively jousts and copious sacks of ale.
But of all this excitement and bustle not a sound penetrated within theprecincts of the Lord Chancellor's Court, where His Eminence theCardinal de Moreno sat patiently waiting.
Desirous above all things of escaping observation, he had driven overfrom Hampton Court in the early dawn, and wrapped in a flowing blackcloak, which effectually hid his purple robes, he had slipped into theHall and thence into the Inner Court, even before the crowd had begun tocollect. Since then he had sat here quietly buried in thoughts, calmlylooking forward to the interview, which was destined finally to unravelthe tangled skein of his own diplomacy. Once more the destinies ofEurope were hanging on a thread: a girl's love for a man.
Well! so be it! His Eminence loved these palpitating situations, thesehairbreadth escapes from perilous positions which were the wine and saltof his existence. He was ready to stake his whole future career upon awoman's love! He, who had scoffed all his life at sentimental passions,who had used every emotion of the human heart, aye! and its everysuffering, merely as so many assets in the account of his far-reachingpolicy, he now saw his whole future depending on the strength of agirl's feelings.
That she would certainly come, he never for a moment held in doubt. Inthese days the commands of a sovereign were akin to the dictates of God;to disobey was a matter of treason. Aye! she would come, sure enough!not only because of her allegiance to the Queen, but because of herintense, vital interest in the great trial of the day.
So His Eminence waited patiently in the Lord Chancellor's Court, whichgave straight into the great Hall itself, until the appointed time.
Exactly at half-past nine the door of the room was opened, and UrsulaGlynde walked in. The Cardinal rose from his seat and would haveapproached her, but she retreated a step or two as he came near and saidcoldly--
"'Tis Your Eminence who desired my presence?"
"And 'tis well that you came, my daughter," he replied kindly.
"I was commanded by Her Majesty to attend; I had not come of my own freewill."
She spoke quietly but very stiffly, as one who is merely performing asocial duty, without either pleasure or dislike. The Cardinal studiedher face keenly, but obviously she had been told nothing by the Queen asto the precise object of this interview.
She looked pale and wan: there was a look of acute suffering round thechildlike mouth, which would have seemed pathetic to any one save tothis callous dissector of human hearts. Her
eyes appeared unnaturallylarge, with great dilated pupils and dry eyelids. She was dressed indeep black, with a thick veil over her golden hair, which gave her anunlike appearance, and altogether made her look older, and strangelydifferent from the gay and girlish figure so full of life and animationwhich had been one of the brightest ornaments of old Hampton CourtPalace. The Cardinal motioned her to a seat, which she took, then shewaited with perfect composure until His Eminence chose to speak.
"My child," he said at last, bringing his voice down to tones of thegreatest gentleness, "I would wish you to remember that it is an old manwho speaks to you: one who has seen much of the world, learnt much,understood much. Will you try and trust him?"
"What does Your Eminence desire of me?" she rejoined coldly.
"Nay! 'tis not a question of desire, my daughter, I would merely wish togive you some advice."
"I am listening to Your Eminence."
"I am listening to Your Eminence."]
The Cardinal had taken the precaution of placing himself with his backto the light which entered, grey and mournful, through the tall leadedwindow above. He was sitting near a table covered with writingmaterials, and in a large high-backed tapestried chair, which furtherenhanced the ponderous dignity of his appearance, whilst helping toenvelop his face in complete shadow. Ursula sat opposite to him on a lowstool, that same grey light falling full upon her pale face, which wasturned serenely, quite impassively upon her interlocutor.
His Eminence rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and his head inhis delicate white hands. The purple robes fell round him in majesticfolds, the gold crucifix at his breast sparkled with jewels: he was apast master in the art of _mise-en-scene_, and knew the full value ofimpressive pauses and of effective attitudes during a momentousconversation, more especially when he had to deal with a woman. Hispresent silence helped to set the young girl's aching nerves on edge,and he noticed with a sense of inward satisfaction that her composurewas not as profound as she would have him think: there was a distincttremor in the delicate nostrils, a jerkiness in the movements of herhand, as she smoothed out the folds of her sombre gown.
"My dear child," he began once more, and this time in tones of morepronounced severity, "a brave man, a good and chivalrous gentleman, isabout to suffer not only death, but horrible disgrace. . . . On theother side of these thin walls the preparations are ready for his trialby a group of men, whose duty it will be anon to allow the justice ofthis realm to take its relentless course. The accused will standself-convicted, yet innocent, before them."
Once more the Cardinal paused: only for a second this time. He noticedthat the young girl had visibly shuddered, but she made no attempt tospeak.
"Innocent, I repeat it," he resumed after a while. "His Grace has manyfriends; not one of them will believe that he could be capable of sofoul a crime. But he has confessed to it. He will be condemned, andhe--the proudest man in England--will die a felon's death. . . ."
"I knew all that, Your Eminence," she said quietly. "Why should yourepeat it now?"
"Only because . . ." said the Cardinal with seeming hesitation, "youmust forgive an old man, my child . . . methought you loved His Grace ofWessex and . . ."
"Why does Your Eminence pause?" she rejoined. "You thought that I lovedHis Grace of Wessex . . . and . . . ?"
"And yet, my child, through a strange, nay, a culpable obstinacy, you,who could save him not only from death, but also from dishonour, youremain silent!"
"Your Eminence errs, as every one else has erred," she replied with thesame cold placidity; "I am silent because I have naught to say."
The Cardinal smiled with kind indulgence, like a father who understandsand forgives the sins of his child.
"Let us explain, my daughter," he said. "That fatal night, when theMarquis de Suarez was killed, a woman was seen to fly from that part ofthe Palace where the tragedy had just taken place. . . ."
"Well?"
"Do you not see that if that woman came forward fearlessly and owned thetruth, that it was from jealousy or even to defend her honour that HisGrace killed Don Miguel, do you not see that no judge then will find himguilty of a wilful and premeditated crime?"
"Then why does not that woman come forward?" she retorted with the firstsign of vehemence, noticeable in the quiver of her voice and the suddenflash in her pale cheeks, "why does she not speak? she for whose sakeHis Grace of Wessex not only took a man's life but is willing tosacrifice his honour?"
"She seems to have disappeared," said His Eminence softly, "perhaps sheis dead. . . . Some say it was you," he added, leaning slightly forwardand dropping his voice to a whisper.
"They lie," she replied. "I was not there. 'Tis not for me His Grace ofWessex will suffer both death and disgrace in silence."
This time His Eminence did not smile. There had been a sudden flash inhis eyes at this quick, sharp retort--a sudden flash as suddenly veiledagain. Then his heavy lids drooped; once more he looked paternal,benevolent, only just with a soupcon of sternness in his impassive face,the aloofness of an austere man towards the weaknesses of more mundanecreatures.
Never for a moment did he reveal to the unwary young girl all that hehad guessed through her last unguarded speech.
Her love for Wessex! that he knew already! Its depth alone was arevelation to him. But her jealousy! How her lips had trembled and herhand twitched when speaking of another, an unknown woman who had calledforth in Wessex that spirit of noble self-sacrifice, that immolation ofhis own honour and dignity, which had finally landed him in a criminaldock.
A woman's passion and a woman's jealousy! Two precious assets in HisEminence's present balance. He pondered over what he had learned, andvictory loomed more certain than before. He loved this presentsituation, the acute tension of this palpitating moment, when he seemedto hold this beautiful woman's soul, bare and fettered, writhing withagony and self-torture.
To dissect a human heart! to watch its every quiver, to note the effectof every searing iron applied with a skilful hand! then to achievesuccess in the end through subtle arts and devices seemingly so full ofbenevolence, yet instinct with the most refined, most far-reachingcruelty! This was the form of enjoyment which more than any otherappealed to the jaded mind of this blase diplomatist. The feline naturewithin him loved this game with the trembling mouse.
But outwardly he sighed, a deep sigh of disappointment.
"Ah! if they lie!" he said, a gentle tone of melancholy pervading hisentire attitude, "if indeed it was not you, my daughter, who were withDon Miguel that night . . . then naught can save His Grace. . . . He hassuffered in silence. . . . He will die to-morrow in silence . . . andinnocent."
He had risen from his chair, and began wandering about the narrowroom--aimlessly--as if lost in thought. Ursula was staring straightbefore her. The first revelation of her present danger had suddenlycome to her. As in a flash she had suddenly realized that this man hadsent for her in order to use her for his own ends. She felt that she wasliterally in the position of the mouse about to be sacrificed to thegreedy ambition of this feline creature, who had neither rectitude norcompunction where his ambition was at stake.
Yet after that one betrayal of her emotions she had made a vigorouseffort to regain her self-control. Every instinct of self-preservationwas on the alert now, and yet she knew already that she was bound tosuccumb. To what she could not guess, but she felt herself the weakervessel of the two. He was calm and cruel, passionless and tortuous,whilst she _felt_ with all her heart and soul and with all her senses.
And though he could not now see her face the Cardinal studied her everymovement. He could see her figure stiffen with the iron determination toretain her self-possession, and inwardly he smiled, for he knew that thenext moment all that rigidity would vanish, the marble statue wouldbecome living clay, the palsied nerves would quiver with horror, and sheherself would fall, a weeping, wailing creature, supplicating at hisfeet.
And this by such a simple method!
Just the openin
g of a door! gently, noiselessly, until the sound fromthe Great Hall entered into this inner room, and voices clearly detachedthemselves from the confusing hubbub.
Then His Eminence whispered, "Hush, my daughter! listen! my Lord HighSteward is speaking."
At first perhaps she did not hear, certainly she did not understand, forher attitude did not relax its uncompromising stiffness.
Lord Chandois was delivering his first speech.
"My lords and gentlemen," he said, "ye are here assembled this day thatye may try Robert d'Esclade, Duke of Wessex, for a grievous and heinouscrime, which he hath wilfully committed."
It was just the opening and shutting of a door--the claw of the cat uponthe neck of the mouse. At first sound of Wessex' name Ursula had risento her feet, straight and rigid like a machine. She did not look towardsthe door, but fixed her eyes on him--her tormentor--fascinated as abird, to whom a snake has beckoned and bade it to come nigh.
The colour rose to her cheeks, the reality was gradually dawning uponher. That man who spoke in the Great Hall beyond was a judge--there wereother judges there too. When she arrived at Westminster she had seen agreat concourse of people, heard the names of great legal dignitarieswhispered round her, and of peers who had been summoned for a greatoccasion.
That occasion was the trial of the Duke of Wessex on a charge of murder.
"No, no, no," she whispered hoarsely, somewhat wildly, as she took astep forward; "no, no, no . . . not yet . . . it is not true . . . notyet----"
The thin crust of ice which had enveloped her heart was melting in thebroad garish light of the actual, awful fact--the commencement ofWessex' trial.
She tottered and might have fallen but for the table close beside her,against which she leant.
Her calm and composure were flying from her bit by bit. She had at lastbegun to understand--to realize. Up to now it had all been so shadowy,so remote, almost like a dream. She had not seen Wessex since that lasthappy moment when he had pressed her against his heart . . . since thenshe had only heard rumours . . . wild statements . . . she knew of hisself-accusation--the terrible crime which had been committed--but herheart had been numbed through the very appalling nature of thecatastrophe following so closely upon her budding happiness . . . it hadall been intangible all this while . . . whilst now . . .
"The Duke hath made confession," said the Cardinal, and his voice seemedto come as if in direct answer to her thoughts. "In an hour at mostjudgment will be pronounced against him, and then sentence of death."
She passed her hand across her moist forehead, trying to collect herscattered senses. She looked once or twice at him in helpless, appealingmisery, but his face now was stern and implacable, he seemed to her tobe the presentment of a relentless justice about to fall on an innocentman. Her throat felt parched, her lips were dry, yet she tried to speak.
"It cannot be . . ." she repeated mechanically, "it cannot be . . . no,no, my lord, you are powerful . . . you are great and clever . . . youwill find a means to save him . . . you will . . . you will . . . yousent for me. . . . Oh! was it in order to torture me like this that yousent for me?"
"My child. . . ."
"That woman?" she continued wildly, not heeding him, "that woman . . .where is she? . . . find her, my lord . . . find her, and let me speakto her. . . . Oh! I'll find the right words to melt her heart . . . shemust speak . . . she must tell the truth . . . she cannot let him die. . . no, no . . . not like that. . . ."
Gone was all her pride, all her icy reserve, even jealousy had vanishedbefore the awful inevitableness of his dishonour and his death. Shewould have dragged herself at the feet of those judges who were about tocondemn him, of this man who was taking a cruel delight in torturingher; nay! she would have knelt and kissed the hands of that unknownrival, for whose sake she had endured the terrible mental tortures ofthe past few days, if only she could wrench from her the truth whichwould set _him_ free from all this disgrace.
"That woman!" she repeated with agonizing passion, "that woman . . .where is she? . . ."
"She stands now before me," said the Cardinal sternly, "repentant, Ihope, ready to speak the truth."
"No! no! it is false!" she protested vehemently, "false I tell you! Itwas not I . . ."
Her voice broke in a pitiable, wistful sob, which would have melted aheart less stony than that which beat in the Cardinal's ambitiousbreast.
"Oh! have I not endured enough?" she murmured half to herself, half inappealing misery to him. "Jealousy--hate for that woman whom he loves ashe never hath loved me . . . whom he loves better than his honour . . .for whose sake he will stand there anon, branded with infamy. . . ."
Her knees gave way under her, she fell half prostrate on the floor atthe very feet of her tormentor.
"Find her, my lord," she sobbed passionately, "find her . . . you can. . . you can. . . ."
But for sole answer he once more pushed the door ajar.
Another voice came from the body of the hall now, that of Mr. Barham,the Queen's Serjeant--
"And having proved Robert d'Esclade, Duke of Wessex, guilty of this mostheinous murder, I, on behalf of the Crown, will presently ask you, mylord, to pass sentence of death upon him."
"No, no, no--not death!" she moaned, "not death. . . . They are mad, mylord--are they not mad? . . . He guilty of murder! Oh! will no one comeforward to prove him innocent?"
"No one can do that but you, my daughter," replied His Eminence sternly,as he once more closed the door.
"But you do not understand. In God's name, what would you have me do? Iloved him, it is true, but . . . it was another woman . . . not I!another woman, whose honour is dearer to him than his own . . . forwhose sake he killed . . . for whose sake he is silent . . . for whosesake he will die . . . but that woman was not I . . . not I!"
"Alas!" he replied placidly, "then indeed nothing can save His Gracefrom the block. . . ."
He sighed and returned to his former place beside the table, like a manwho has done all that duty demanded of him, and now is weary and readyto let destiny take its course.
Ursula watched him dully, stupidly; she could not read just then whatwent on behind that mask of suave benevolence. Could she have read theCardinal's innermost thoughts she would have seen that completesatisfaction filled his ambitious heart. He knew that he had succeeded,it was but a question of time . . . a few minutes, perhaps; but he had agood quarter of an hour to spare, in which the tortured soul before himwould fight its last fight with despair. There was the long arraignmentto be read out by the Clerk of the Crown, then the names of the triersto be called out in their order--all that, before the prisoner wasactually called to the bar. Oh yes! he had plenty of time, now that hewas sure of victory.
The girl wandered mechanically towards the door, her trembling handsought the latch, but was too weak to turn it. She glued her ear to thelock and perchance heard a word or two, for even the Cardinal caught thesound of a loud voice reading the deadly indictment.
"The prisoner hath confessed . . .
"This most heinous crime . . .
"For which sentence of death . . .
"Return his precept and bring forth the prisoner."
Ursula straightened out her girlish figure; with a firm hand now shesmoothed her veil over her hair, and rearranged the disordered folds ofher kerchief. She crossed the room with an unfaltering step, and oncemore took a seat on the low stool opposite to His Eminence the Cardinal.
She seemed to have reassumed the same icy calm which she had wornearlier in the interview; she was quite pale again, and all traces oftears had disappeared from her eyes.
Quite instinctively, certainly against his will, the Cardinal failed toreturn the steady gaze which she now fixed upon him. As she sat thereclose to him, her great lustrous eyes trying to search his very soul, heknew that at last she had guessed.
She _knew_ that he was fully aware of the fact that she was not thewoman for whose sake the Duke of Wessex was suffering condemnation atthis very moment.
All the meshes of the base intrigue which had landedthe man she loved in a felon's dock escaped her utterly, but this muchshe realized, that the Cardinal had worked for the Duke's undoing, thathe knew who her rival was, that he was wilfully shielding that woman,whilst callously sacrificing her--Ursula Glynde--to the success of somefurther scheme.
She knew all that, yet she did not hesitate. Her love for Wessex hadfilled all her life--first as a child, then as an ignorant girlworshipping an ideal. When she saw him, and in him saw the embodiment ofall her most romantic beliefs, she loved him with all the passionateardour of her newly awakened woman's heart. From the moment that histouch had thrilled her, that his voice had set her temples throbbing,that her pure lips had met his own, she had given him her whole love,given herself to him body and soul for his happiness and her own.
So great was her love that jealousy had not killed it; it had changedher joy into sorrow, her happiness into bitterness, but the heart whichshe gave to him she was powerless to take away. He had fooled her, ledher to believe in his love for her, but his life was as precious to hernow as it had been that afternoon--which seemed so long ago--when shefirst raised her eyes to his and met his ardent gaze.
She was face to face with the most cruel problem ever set before a humanheart, for she firmly believed that if through her self-sacrifice shesaved him from death and dishonour, he would nevertheless inevitablyturn to the other woman, for whose sake he was suffering now; yet shewas ready with the sacrifice, because of the selflessness of her love.
How well the Cardinal had managed the tragedy which had parted two noblehearts! Each believed the other treacherous and guilty, yet each wasprepared to lay down life, honour, happiness for the sake of the lovedone.
"Your Eminence," said Ursula very quietly after a little while, "yousaid just now that I could save His Grace of Wessex from unmeriteddisgrace and death. Tell me now, what must I do?"
"It is simple enough, my daughter," he replied, still avoiding herclear, steadfast gaze; "you have but to speak the truth."
"The truth, they say, oft lies hidden in a well, my lord," she rejoined."I pray Your Eminence to guide me to its depths."
"I can but guide your memory, my daughter, to the events of the fatefulnight when Don Miguel was murdered."
"Yes?"
"You were there, in the Audience Chamber, were you not?"
"I was there," she repeated mechanically.
"With Don Miguel de Suarez, who, taking advantage of the late hour andthe loneliness of this part of the Palace . . . insulted you . . . or. . ."
"Let us say that he insulted me. . . ."
"His Grace then came upon the scene?"
"Just as Your Eminence describes it."
"And 'twas to defend your honour that the Duke of Wessex killed DonMiguel."
"To defend mine honour the Duke of Wessex killed Don Miguel."
"This you will swear to be true?"
"Without hope of absolution."
"And you will make this tardy confession, my daughter, to His Grace'sjudges freely?"
"Whenever it is deemed necessary I will make the confession to HisGrace's judges freely."
She swayed as if her senses were leaving her. Instinctively the Cardinalput out his arm to support her, but with a mighty effort she drewherself together, and looked down upon him with all the regal majesty ofher own sublime self-sacrifice.
But, flushed with victory, His Eminence cared nothing for the contemptof the vanquished. It had been a hard-fought battle. His Grace was savedfrom death and Queen Mary Tudor could not help but keep her word. It wasa triumph indeed!
He touched a hand-bell, a servant appeared. A few whispered instructionsand the end was accomplished at last.
But, God in Heaven, at what terrible cost!
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