astonished. “I have refused to believe the rumours of the King’s—. I shrink from the word; but the people say he deserted his minister.”
“Desertion is not the word, my love. I can assure you,—and you knew the nobleness of the man well enough to believe it without question,—Strafford wrote to His Majesty to desire him not to feel bound by his pledge concerning the preservation of his life.”
Henrietta was silent.
“I can show you the letter,” the Countess said. “If it was for the public good that he should die, he set the King free from all pledges to protect him. No, no! there was no desertion!”
“Besides,” the Countess went on, replying to Henrietta’s unspoken thought, “the promise was given when we all supposed that such a man’s death must be the greatest of calamities,—that his loss as a Minister of the Crown, as a ruler of the people, would be irreparable.”
“We have always so imagined,” said Henrietta, sighing.
“And how short-sighted we are! how little we know when we are most confident!” sighed the Countess in response. “We all know now that he could never have served the King again, that he must have been removed altogether from public affairs. Does not that make a great difference, my child?”
“But who knows this, and how?”
“Is it possible, my love, that you have not read Mr. Pym’s accusations? Have you not heard of the King’s avowal to the Lords that Lord Strafford must be for ever excluded from public affairs? Ah! if you had been here then! If you had been with me in the House of Lords when the little Prince of Wales carried in the King’s letter, you would have seen how His Majesty and everybody suffered.”
“You hoped that letter would prevail,” said Henrietta, “or you would not have been there.”
“O yes! we all hoped, as long as we could; and it was right to make every effort, you know. The King told us all (and I can testify how true it was) that it had grieved his heart to sign the sentence the day before. He said, as he took the pen, that Strafford was the happier man of the two.”
“No doubt of that,” sighed Henrietta.
“Well! when the young Prince entered the House with the letter, we all had to rise, of course; and I, though behind a curtain, could scarcely stand. What a moment it was! I cannot say I had much hope when the postscript came to be read,—entreating that if Strafford could not be spared, he might live till the Saturday. It showed that His Majesty had no hope. Do not you see this, my love?”
“Certainly: but why show it so plainly? It made the letter of no use.”
“As the Queen said, my child, the time was past for the King to consult his own feelings. All would be lost if the enemy had not their own way in this case. Every effort had been made; there was to have been a rescue—”
“I know, I know,” Henrietta interrupted.
“You have heard about that plot: then perhaps you have heard what a scene it was in the House when Mr. Pym disclosed the whole story. Mr. Pym is a wonderful man, Henrietta!”
“Perhaps so: but tell me one thing. What made the King first promise Lord Strafford that his life should be safe, and then sign away his life?”
“Hush—sh—sh! my dear,” whispered the Countess. “You forget whom you are speaking of. You forget the noble release I told you of.”
“No. I do not forget either.”
“But you forget those sayings of Strafford’s which you used to repeat with such admiration;—that it is vain and foolish and presumptuous to judge of the conduct of the King, because he must understand his affairs so much better than others can,—must know his own reasons, and so on. Do not you remember, my dear?”
“O yes; and I see how true it is when it is a case of raising money, and other management of the business of the realm: but when a word of honour passes between gentleman and gentleman—I cannot understand it.”
“No, my love: we women cannot judge of gentlemen’s feelings and obligations in such serious matters. If you had seen the Prince of Wales—”
“I was thinking of him,” said Henrietta. “What a lesson for him!”
“He is very young, my love.”
“A boy of eleven knows what a word of honour means. If he does not then, he never will.”
“And he is precocious, I must own,” said the Countess. “You should see him making love among the maids of honour! But I cannot laugh yet. Amusing subjects revolt me. Everybody at Court feels this, and I am sure Mr. Pym does no less. It is true, as you say, my love, that God gives strength on both sides, otherwise Mr. Pym could never have gone through his task in such a way; and we, the friends of the departed, could not have borne such a calamity as we do. You heard how the dear old archbishop was shaken? I told Mr. Pym, and I thought you might know in that way. Our friend wished to meet the dear archbishop once more; and the day before his death he begged the Lieutenant of the Tower to permit it. The Lieutenant told him how to proceed to get leave; but he had too high a spirit to ask any favour of the parliament, though I should certainly have asked Mr. Pym if I had been aware at the moment. So our friend sent a message to the archbishop to beg his prayers, and that he would come to the window that dreadful morning.
“And did he?”
“He did, and, do you know, he fainted! O no, it is no wonder. I am sure it was the most miserable day of my life. They say there was not a smile seen in the whole Court that day. I cannot answer for it, for I shut myself up; and the Queen was so good as to desire that I might not be disturbed. But they told me afterwards.” After a pause, she continued, with a shudder, “I thought I should have lost my wits that day. I could think of nothing but—O my child! was it
