That night Lord Guilford Dudley and Jane, attended by Cholmondeley, who was included in the pardon, left the Tower, and repaired to Sion House. On finding herself once more restored to freedom, and an inmate of the house she loved so well, Jane was completely prostrated. Joy was more difficult to bear than affliction; and the firmness that had sustained her throughout her severest trials now altogether forsook her. But a few days brought back her calmness, and she poured forth her heartfelt thanks to that beneficent Being, who had restored her to so much felicity. Measureless content seemed hers, and as she traversed the long galleries and halls of the ancient mansion—as she wandered through its garden walks,—or by the river’s side—she felt that even in her proudest moment she had never known a tithe of the happiness she now experienced.
Day after day flew rapidly by, and pursuing nearly the same course she had adopted in prison, she never allowed an hour to pass that was not profitably employed. But she observed with concern that her husband did not share her happiness. He grew moody and discontented, and became far more reserved than she had heretofore known him. Shunning her society, he secluded himself in his chamber, to which he admitted no one but Cholmondeley.
This conduct Jane attributed in some degree to the effect produced upon his spirits by the reverse of fortune he had sustained, and by his long imprisonment. But she could not help fearing, though he did not confide the secrets of his bosom to her, that he still cherished the project he had darkly hinted at. She was confirmed in this opinion by the frequent visits of her father, who like her husband, had an anxious look, and by other guests who arrived at nightfall, and departed as secretly as they came.
As soon as this conviction seized her, she determined, at the hazard of incurring his displeasure, to speak to her husband on the subject; and accordingly, one day, when he entered her room with a moodier brow than usual, she remarked, “I have observed with much uneasiness, dear Dudley, that ever since our release from imprisonment, a gradually-increasing gloom has taken possession of you. You shun my regards, and avoid my society,—nay, you do not even converse with me, unless I wring a few reluctant answers from you. To what must I attribute this change?”
“To anything but want of affection for you, dear Jane,” replied Dudley, with a melancholy smile, while he fondly pressed her hand. “You had once secrets from me, it is my turn to retaliate, and be mysterious towards you.”
“You will not suppose me influenced by idle curiosity if I entreat to be admitted to your confidence, my dear lord,” replied Jane. “Seeing you thus oppressed with care, and knowing how much relief is afforded by sharing the burthen with another, I urge you, for your own sake, to impart the cause of your anxiety to me. If I cannot give you counsel, I can sympathy.”
Dudley shook his head, and made a slight effort to change the conversation.
“I will not be turned from my purpose,” persisted Jane; “I am the truest friend you have on earth, and deserve to be trusted.”
“I would trust you, Jane, if I dared,” replied Dudley.
“Dared!” she echoed. “What is there that a husband dares not confide to his wife?”
“In this instance much,” answered Dudley; “nor can I tell you what occasions the gloom you have noticed, until I have your plighted word that you will not reveal aught I may say to you. And further, that you will act according to my wishes.”
“Dudley,” returned Jane gravely, “your demand convinces me that my suspicions are correct. What need of binding me to secrecy, and exacting my obedience, unless you are acting wrongfully, and desire me to do so likewise? Shall I tell why you fear I should divulge your secret—why you are apprehensive I should hesitate to obey your commands? You are plotting against the queen, and dread I should interfere with you.”
“I have no such fears,” replied Dudley, sternly.
“Then you own that I am right?” cried Jane, anxiously.
“You are so far right,” replied Dudley, “that I am resolved to depose Mary, and restore you to the throne, of which she has unjustly deprived you.”
“Not unjustly, Dudley, for she is the rightful queen, and I was an usurper,” replied Jane. “But oh! my dear, dear lord, can you have the ingratitude—for I will use no harsher term, to requite her clemency thus?” *
“I owe her no thanks,” replied Dudley, fiercely. “I have solicited no grace from her, and if she has pardoned me, it was of her own free will. It is part of her present policy to affect the merciful. But she showed no mercy towards my father.”
“And does not your present conduct, dear Dudley, prove how necessary it is for princes, who would preserve their government undisturbed, to shut their hearts to compassion?” returned Jane. “You will fail in this enterprise if you proceed in it. And even I, who love you most, and am most earnest for your happiness and honour, do not desire it to succeed. It is based upon injustice, and will have no support from the right-minded.”
“Tush!” cried Dudley, impatiently. “I well knew you would oppose my project, and therefore I would not reveal it to you. You shall be queen in spite of yourself.”
“Never again,” rejoined Jane, mournfully;—“never again shall my brow be pressed by that fatal circlet. Oh! if it is for me you are about to engage in this wild and desperate scheme, learn that even if it succeeded, it will be futile. Nothing should ever induce me to mount the throne again; nor, if I am permitted to occupy it, to quit this calm retreat. Be persuaded by me, dear Dudley. Abandon your project. If you persist in it, I shall scarcely feel justified in withholding it from the queen.”
“How, madam,” exclaimed Dudley, sternly; “would you destroy your husband?”
“I would save him,” replied Jane.
“A plague upon your zeal!” cried Dudley, fiercely. “If I thought you capable of such treachery, I would ensure your silence.”
“And if I thought you capable, dear Dudley, of such black treason to a sovereign to whom you owe not merely loyalty and devotion, but life itself, no consideration of affection, still less intimidation, should prevent me from disclosing it, so that I might spare you the commission of so foul a crime.”
“Do so, then,” replied Dudley, in a taunting tone. “Seek Mary’s presence. Tell her that your husband and his brothers are engaged in a plot to place you on the throne. Tell her that your two uncles, the Lords John and Thomas Grey, are conspiring with them—that your father, the Duke of Suffolk, is the promoter, the leader, of the design.”
“My father!” exclaimed Jane, with a look of inexpressible anguish.
“Add that the Earl of Devon, Sir Thomas Wyat, Throckmorton, Sir Peter Carew, and a hundred others, are leagued together to prevent the spread of popery in this country—to cast off the Spanish yoke, with which the people are threatened, and to place a Protestant monarch on the throne. Tell her this, and bring your husband—your father—your whole race—to the block. Tell her this, and you, the pretended champion of the gospel, will prove yourself its worst foe. Tell her this—enable her to crush the rising rebellion, and England is delivered to the domination of Spain—to the inquisition—to the rule of the pope—to idolatrous oppression. Now, go and tell her this.”
“Dudley, Dudley,” exclaimed Jane, in a troubled tone, “you put evil thoughts into my head—you tempt me sorely.”
“I tempt you only to stand between your religion and the danger with which it is menaced,” returned her husband. “Since the meeting of parliament, Mary’s designs are no longer doubtful; and her meditated union with Philip of Spain has stricken terror into the hearts of all good Protestants. A bloody and terrible season for our church is at hand, if it be not averted. And it can only be averted by the removal of the bigoted queen who now fills the throne.”
“There is much truth in what you say, Dudley,” replied Jane, bursting into tears. “Christ’s faithful flock are indeed in fearful peril; but bloodshed and rebellion will not set them right. Mary is our liege mistress, and if we rise against her we commit a grievous sin against heaven, and a crime against the state.”
“Crime or not,” replied Dudley, “the English nation will never endure a Spanish yoke nor submit to the supremacy of the see of Rome. Jane, I now tell you that this plot may be revealed—may be defeated; but another will be instantly hatched, for the minds of all true Englishmen are discontented, and Mary will never maintain her sovereignty while she professes this hateful faith, and holds to her resolution of wedding a foreign prince.”
“If this be so, still I have no title to the throne,” rejoined Jane. “The Princess Elizabeth is next in succession, and a Protestant.”
“I need scarcely remind you,” replied Dudley, “that the act just passed, annulling the divorce of Henry the Eighth from Catherine of Arragon, has annihilated Elizabeth’s claims, by rendering her illegitimate. Besides, she has, of late, shown a disposition to embrace her sister’s creed.”
“It may be so given out—nay, she may encourage the notion herself,” replied Jane; “but I know Elizabeth too well to believe for a moment she could abandon her faith.”
“It is enough for me she has feigned to do so,” replied Dudley, “and by this means alienated her party. On you, Jane, the people’s hopes are fixed. Do not disappoint them.”
“Cease to importune me further, my dear lord. I cannot govern myself—still less, a great nation.”
“You shall occupy the throne, and entrust the reins of government to me,” observed Dudley.
“There your ambitious designs peep forth, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “It is for yourself, not for me you are plotting. You would be king!”
“I would,” returned Dudley. “There is no need to mask my wishes now.”
“Sooner than this shall be,” rejoined Jane, severely, “I will hasten to Whitehall, and warn Mary of her danger.”
“Do so,” replied Dudley, “and take your last farewell of me. You are aware of the nature of the plot—of the names and object of those concerned in it. Reveal all—make your own terms with the queen. But think not you can check it. We have gone too far to retreat. When the royal guards come hither to convey me to the Tower, they will not find their prey, but they will soon hear of me. You will precipitate measures, but you will not prevent them. Go, madam.”
“Dudley,” replied Jane, falling at his feet—“by your love or me—by your allegiance to your sovereign—by your duty to your Maker—by every consideration that weighs with you—I implore you to relinquish your design.”
“I have already told you my fixed determination, madam,” he returned, repulsing her. “Act as you think proper.”
Jane arose and walked slowly towards the door. Dudley laid his hand upon his sword, half drew it, and then thrusting it back into the scabbard, muttered between his ground teeth, “No, no—let her go. She dares not betray me.”
As Jane reached the door, her strength failed her, and she caught against the hangings for support. “Dudley,” she murmured, “help me—I faint.”
In an instant, he was by her side.
“You cannot betray your husband he said, catching her in his arms.
“I cannot—I cannot,” she murmured, as her head fell upon his bosom.
Jane kept her husband’s secret. But her own peace of mind was utterly gone. Her walks—her studies—her occupations had no longer any charms for her. Even devotion had lost its solace. She could no longer examine her breast as heretofore—no longer believe herself reproachless! She felt she was an accessary to the great crime about to be committed; and with a sad presentiment of the result, she became a prey to grief,—almost to despair.