the effigy of the new King’s mother, Jane Seymour, represented by
his side. One branch sprang from this pair, which mounted to a
third stage, where sat the effigy of Edward VI. himself, enthroned
in royal majesty; and the whole pageant was framed with wreaths of
roses, red and white.’
This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing
people, that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice
of the child whose business it was to explain the thing in
eulogistic rhymes. But Tom Canty was not sorry; for this loyal
uproar was sweeter music to him than any poetry, no matter what
its quality might be. Whithersoever Tom turned his happy young
face, the people recognised the exactness of his effigy’s likeness
to himself, the flesh and blood counterpart; and new whirlwinds of
applause burst forth.
The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch
after another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular
and symbolical tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some
virtue, or talent, or merit, of the little King’s. ‘Throughout
the whole of Cheapside, from every penthouse and window, hung
banners and streamers; and the richest carpets, stuffs, and cloth-
of-gold tapestried the streets–specimens of the great wealth of
the stores within; and the splendour of this thoroughfare was
equalled in the other streets, and in some even surpassed.’
“And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me–me!”
murmured Tom Canty.
The mock King’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were
flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. At this
point, just as he was raising his hand to fling another rich
largess, he caught sight of a pale, astounded face, which was
strained forward out of the second rank of the crowd, its intense
eyes riveted upon him. A sickening consternation struck through
him; he recognised his mother! and up flew his hand, palm outward,
before his eyes–that old involuntary gesture, born of a forgotten
episode, and perpetuated by habit. In an instant more she had
torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and was at his
side. She embraced his leg, she covered it with kisses, she
cried, “O my child, my darling!” lifting toward him a face that
was transfigured with joy and love. The same instant an officer
of the King’s Guard snatched her away with a curse, and sent her
reeling back whence she came with a vigorous impulse from his
strong arm. The words “I do not know you, woman!” were falling
from Tom Canty’s lips when this piteous thing occurred; but it
smote him to the heart to see her treated so; and as she turned
for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was swallowing her
from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted, that a
shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and
withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken
valueless: they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags.
The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting
splendours and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom
Canty they were as if they had not been. He neither saw nor
heard. Royalty had lost its grace and sweetness; its pomps were
become a reproach. Remorse was eating his heart out. He said,
“Would God I were free of my captivity!”
He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the
first days of his compulsory greatness.
The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and
interminable serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old
city, and through the huzzaing hosts; but still the King rode with
bowed head and vacant eyes, seeing only his mother’s face and that
wounded look in it.
“Largess, largess!” The cry fell upon an unheeding ear.
“Long live Edward of England!” It seemed as if the earth shook
with the explosion; but there was no response from the King. He
heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf when it is
blown to the ear out of a great distance, for it was smothered
under another sound which was still nearer, in his own breast, in