To Catherine, the quietude she enjoyed in this charming retreat was inconceivably delightful. Never from the hour when she had become the suspicious and inexorable Henry’s bride until death released her from his tyranny, had she been free from dread. Now she could once more call her life her own, and could pursue her own inclinations without trembling for the consequences.
The sole drawback to her complete felicity was that she was necessarily deprived of so much of her husband’s society. The utmost caution had to be observed in their intercourse during this period. Only two faithful servants were intrusted with the important secret. Seymour’s visits were paid at night, long after the household had retired to rest. The river offered a secure approach to the garden. Screened by an overhanging willow, his light, swift bark, manned by trusty boatmen, awaited his return. A postern, of which he alone possessed the key, and a secret staircase, admitted him to the queen’s apartments.
With what rapture was he welcomed by Catherine! How anxiously she expected his coming! how she counted the moments if he was late! How she sprang to meet him when his footstep was heard! How she strained him to her bosom when he appeared! With what pride, with what admiration did she regard him! His noble lineaments seemed to grow in beauty, his stately figure to acquire fresh grace, the oftener she gazed upon him!
Deeply, devotedly did Catherine love her husband. And was her tenderness returned? Let us not ask the question. Perhaps Seymour deemed he loved her then. At all events, Catherine was deluded into that belief. Alas! poor queen! It was well she could not see into the future.
A month had flown by, when Catherine was seated alone one night in her chamber, anxiously expecting her husband. It was long past the hour at which he usually came. What could have detained him? She arose, and went to the large bay-window looking upon the garden, but the night was dark, and she could make out nothing but the sombre masses of the trees, and the darkling river beyond.
Returning, she took up a volume that was lying on the table, and applied herself to its perusal. But her thoughts wandered away from the subject, and finding it vain to attempt to fix them upon the book, she resolved to essay the soothing effect of music, and sat down to the virginals.
The apartment in which we have thus found her was situated in the west wing of the house, and its windows, as we have intimated, looked upon the terrace and on the expansive reach of the river. It was spacious, with a beautifully moulded ceiling, and wainscots of black polished oak. Several paintings adorned the walls, noticeable among which were portraits of Henry the Eighth’s three children—Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth—as well as of the Duke of Richmond.
Catherine was still seated at the instrument, playing a half-melancholy tune, which harmonized with her feelings, when the hangings that covered the doorway were suddenly drawn aside, and her husband stood before her. While he divested himself of the long dark cloak in which he was enveloped, and threw it, with his crimson velvet cap, on a chair, she flew towards him with an exclamation of delight, and flung her arms about his neck.
“So you are come at last, Seymour,” she cried. “I feared some mischance had befallen you.”
“I have had much to do to-night, sweetheart,” he replied. “But I bring you good news. Come and sit by me,” he added, flinging himself into a couch, “and you shall hear it.”
Catherine delightedly complied. “Has his majesty bestowed some new honor upon you?” she inquired.
“am to have the Garter in a few days, with Dorset and the Earl of Derby,” he said; “but it is not to that I refer.”
“What is it, then?” cried Catherine. “Nay, let me guess. I have it! You are to be made governor of the king’s person! The protector will retire in your favor!”
“Alas! no,” rejoined the admiral. “That is a piece of good fortune not likely to occur to me. But the matter in question concerns you quite as much as myself, Kate.”