the support of these dignities, the Council, knowing his private
wishes in that regard, had thought proper to grant to Seymour ‘500
pound lands,’ and to Hertford’s son ‘800 pound lands, and 300
pound of the next bishop’s lands which should fall vacant,’–his
present Majesty being willing. {5}
Tom was about to blurt out something about the propriety of paying
the late King’s debts first, before squandering all this money,
but a timely touch upon his arm, from the thoughtful Hertford,
saved him this indiscretion; wherefore he gave the royal assent,
without spoken comment, but with much inward discomfort. While he
sat reflecting a moment over the ease with which he was doing
strange and glittering miracles, a happy thought shot into his
mind: why not make his mother Duchess of Offal Court, and give
her an estate? But a sorrowful thought swept it instantly away:
he was only a king in name, these grave veterans and great nobles
were his masters; to them his mother was only the creature of a
diseased mind; they would simply listen to his project with
unbelieving ears, then send for the doctor.
The dull work went tediously on. Petitions were read, and
proclamations, patents, and all manner of wordy, repetitious, and
wearisome papers relating to the public business; and at last Tom
sighed pathetically and murmured to himself, “In what have I
offended, that the good God should take me away from the fields
and the free air and the sunshine, to shut me up here and make me
a king and afflict me so?” Then his poor muddled head nodded a
while and presently drooped to his shoulder; and the business of
the empire came to a standstill for want of that august factor,
the ratifying power. Silence ensued around the slumbering child,
and the sages of the realm ceased from their deliberations.
During the forenoon, Tom had an enjoyable hour, by permission of
his keepers, Hertford and St. John, with the Lady Elizabeth and
the little Lady Jane Grey; though the spirits of the princesses
were rather subdued by the mighty stroke that had fallen upon the
royal house; and at the end of the visit his ‘elder sister’–
afterwards the ‘Bloody Mary’ of history–chilled him with a solemn
interview which had but one merit in his eyes, its brevity. He
had a few moments to himself, and then a slim lad of about twelve
years of age was admitted to his presence, whose clothing, except
his snowy ruff and the laces about his wrists, was of black,–
doublet, hose, and all. He bore no badge of mourning but a knot
of purple ribbon on his shoulder. He advanced hesitatingly, with
head bowed and bare, and dropped upon one knee in front of Tom.
Tom sat still and contemplated him soberly a moment. Then he
said–
“Rise, lad. Who art thou. What wouldst have?”
The boy rose, and stood at graceful ease, but with an aspect of
concern in his face. He said–
“Of a surety thou must remember me, my lord. I am thy whipping-
boy.”
“My WHIPPING-boy?”
“The same, your Grace. I am Humphrey–Humphrey Marlow.”
Tom perceived that here was someone whom his keepers ought to have
posted him about. The situation was delicate. What should he
do?–pretend he knew this lad, and then betray by his every
utterance that he had never heard of him before? No, that would
not do. An idea came to his relief: accidents like this might be
likely to happen with some frequency, now that business urgencies
would often call Hertford and St. John from his side, they being
members of the Council of Executors; therefore perhaps it would be
well to strike out a plan himself to meet the requirements of such
emergencies. Yes, that would be a wise course–he would practise
on this boy, and see what sort of success he might achieve. So he
stroked his brow perplexedly a moment or two, and presently said–
“Now I seem to remember thee somewhat–but my wit is clogged and
dim with suffering–”
“Alack, my poor master!” ejaculated the whipping-boy, with
feeling; adding, to himself, “In truth ’tis as they said–his mind
is gone–alas, poor soul! But misfortune catch me, how am I