And there, in the same household, lived Elizabeth—balancing, as it were, on the edge of a cliff—forgotten by Mary, except at odd intervals, intervals Elizabeth herself prayed would not come.

Nevertheless, there came a day when she walked into one of the rooms of the palace at Whitehall, with one of the Queen’s guards in attendance behind her. She looked round the empty room.

“The Queen is not here.”

“The Queen bade me bring you hither, lady. She will be here. Your pardon.” He bowed and went down the wide eaiicrv.

Elizabeth looked after the man’s retreating figure as though she would have hurried after him. A strange, helpless look. She took up her stand in the angle of the door and wall, and waited.

It was not long before voices reached her, and she stiffened, bracing herself, and unconsciously shrinking a little against the wall. The deep, hoarse tones of Mary’s voice, the sonorous murmur that was Gardiner’s …

Elizabeth’s brain strained in a desperate prayer. The whole world knew of the dark tragedy which brooded over the palace of England… That Philip was weary of his middle-aged, ailing wife and had gone to Spain, irate with a cold, inflexible anger worse than any storms. The people of England would not let him be crowned King… His Queen’s recurrent hopes of a child had proved to be a hysterical delusion… Philip was cheated in everything for which he had undertaken the marriage, and he would have no more of it.

Oh God! ran Elizabeth’s frantic plea, let but this fancied babe she thinks she carries be a babe of flesh … and let her bear it, and bring her reason back… Let Philip love her.

… Let her forget me. … Help me, dear God…

They came into the room, sweeping past the corner where she stood, not seeing her. Mary was speaking:

. . no more of it. I’ll have no more of it. These burnings will be done in a manner different to this! We’ll make no more pageantry out of it. How many went to the fire yesterday?”

“Six, Your Majesty. Six men and women.”

Gardiner’s voice was discreetly without emphasis; but a gleaming satisfaction sounded in it.

Elizabeth shut her eyes, tensed her whole body to still the sick shudder which pierced her. Mary’s frenzied holocaust was searing her kingdom now, the flames and the black smoke streaming to heaven till the eyes of men were blinded with them, and the stench of burning flesh damning the free air they breathed.

… Her people would not be shepherded into the Kingdom of Heaven? Then, they should be charred into the depths of hell … until none were left but the faithful, the remnant of true believers…

It was not only her fanatic dogma that goaded her on. Her own anguish of frustrated passion and vain hopes possessed her.

There was a madwoman on the throne…

“Six heretics!” The words echoed in the room. “Six rotten souls hastened to hell. And a crowd of two thousand Englishmen cheer them, bid them be of good hope, as though they were martyrs.”

“It has been like this since Ridley and Latimer burned,” Gardiner said as though offering some explanation.

“What are your priests about,” she raged, “that they cannot teach what is heaven and what is hell? Hell is to tremble at! Can they not see in the burning flesh of the heretics what may hereafter be their own punishment?”

“They have been taught to love the devil,” Gardiner told her.

Mary wrung her jeweled hands together.

“ Tis judgment on England for her sins. The judgment I must bear, for I am England.”

“God knows the judgment is not on you. You have but erred in being too merciful. You must not rest till every little root and tendril is scorched and the soil clean for the true seed.”

“Hereafter, these burnings shall be done privately,” Mary said stubbornly. “Make no more show of it. Who goes to the stake shall go alone, in secret.”

“And lose the example of God’s holy wrath?” Gardiner ejaculated. “Nay, Your Majesty! Better, far better, you sent out word that any man or woman in a crowd that sees a man burned and utters one word of comfort shall burn with him. If you must burn a hundred men and women tied together, at one time, you must do so. They must learn to fear God.”

In his vehemence, a thread of saliva ran down his gray beard.

Behind the door, Elizabeth pressed the knuckles of one hand against her mouth. She swallowed violently. She felt herself hideously likely to be sick on the spot…

Mary groaned aloud.

“Were but my Philip here, they never would affront me thus.” She peered up at Gardiner from where she sat, and Elizabeth saw a dreadful vacant look, a helpless look, in her face.

“Do you think he is angry with me? ”

“Dear madam,” Gardiner answered coolly, “why should the Prince be angry with you? He loves you—you are his wife.”

“He came here to be King,” Mary said starkly, “and yet they never crowned him. Parliament never let him be crowned… Think you had he been crowned King of England he ever would have left England before his heir could be born?”

“Your Majesty, you know his father needs him.”

Gardiner spoke wearily, as to an importunate child.

“Who needs him most?” Mary demanded roughly. “Charles, the Emperor, or I, his wife, these long months pregnant with his heir? Who needs him? …

“Bishop,” she ordered suddenly, “go get you to prayer. There’s not enough praying done in the realm. God looks in the heart of England and I tremble for what He finds here. Bishop—I have lost Philip—”

“Your Majesty—” Gardiner strove to break the flow of agonized speech.

“And I know why,” Mary went on, unhearing. “This court is black with sin. This court of mine crawls with the filth of evil. There are women here, women who, with the perversions of their flesh, tempted him. He fled from them. He fled from them to God. That’s why he is not here—

“He does not love England, England is cold, and Spain is warm. … In Spain the sun shines down all days of the year. God smiles on Spain, for Spain is godly…

“Bishop, you are right: there must be more purgings in this land. Go get you to prayer… We must make the sun shine here…”

“Your Majesty—” Gardiner succeeded in getting her wild eyes focused on his face, and moved his head, indicating Elizabeth. iMary stared at her in a long silence.

“What do you here?” she croaked in a loud, harsh voice. “You sent for me.” Elizabeth was so rigid with horror and dread that she could barely move her lips.

“Did I?” Mary said vaguely. “What for? I do not want you. Philip is gone, and ’twas he who asked me to show you mercy. Philip is gone—”

“He will be back when the babe is born,” Elizabeth said in a whisper.

“Aye, when the babe is born!” Mary repeated the words with a piteous, dead hopelessness.

Elizabeth’s voice strengthened. She spoke with a forced brightness, in an ordinary tone.

“ ’Tis not unusual for a first babe to be late!”

“Aye—but two months,” Mary groaned deeply. “That’s a long time. … Two months the doctors erred on. They said he should be born in June, and this is August.”

She lifted her head.

“But the pains come! They’ve started twice — and I am with child. ’Tis not an easy thing to be a Queen, and be with child. Do I not carry him well?”

“Excellent well, Your Majesty,” Elizabeth answered.

“I have seen those at this stage are blown up like a full-rigged ship,” Mary said with satisfaction, “and can scarce manage their weight across a room. My babe lies close within me.

A heartbreaking softness stole into the last words. In the same instant, it vanished. Mary’s eyes lit with a strange sly gleam and her deep voice rose unnaturally high.

“Elizabeth! It is a good thing to carry a babe and know him to be heir to England. Think you not so?”

“I know you have great joy in it, Your Majesty,” Elizabeth said.

“And you—do you have joy in it?”

“Even as yourself, Your Majesty.”

“You lie!” Mary screamed shrilly. “You lie, you smiling bitch! Look at her, Gardiner—see how she smiles and lies. Now she’s afraid to smile… Come here.”

Elizabeth moved forward with frozen limbs and knelt before her. Mary gave a high shrieking peal of laughter.

“I do believe that in her heart she still hopes to be Queen! Do you?”

Elizabeth knelt, with her eyes determinedly fixed on Mary’s face above her own. She could not speak. Her throat was closed.

“Answer me! Do you still hope to be Queen? Speak!” Mary screamed, and struck the girl across the mouth, so that she dropped back on her heels.

“So! You dare not speak! … This throne is mine, and Philip’s, and our babe’s. Look you—see you this ring upon my hand?” She thrust her hand before Elizabeth’s face. “My marriage ring. Look well, and let the image of it burn on your eyes forever. For while I live, in my love of Philip, God and England—I am Queen. While I do live, this ring shall never leave my finger. And only when I die will it leave me, to go

to this small one within me. Keep that within your heart, along with all the hopes of your succession!”

The frenzy guttered and sank. In its place a bewildered misery closed visibly over her head. She cried out, “Why do the pains not start? … They started twice before, and stopped. Why do they not start now? God knows, I’m ready!”

“Your Majesty,” Gardiner’s voice was heard for the first time since Mary had come face to face with Elizabeth. The girl still sat, watching every change of Mary’s tormented face, listening to the gamut of her voice, rooted, not daring to move. Gardiner stood, as he had stood all the while, a tall shadow behind the Queen’s chair. Both Mary and Elizabeth started as he spoke. The one in her frenzy, the other in her rigid horror, had forgotten that he was in the room.