“I should indeed be grieved to hear it,” replied Jane, in a tone of anguish; “but I trust it is not so.”
“It is as I have said,” answered Feckenham.
“Heaven pardon him!” exclaimed Jane. “You bring me ill news, indeed. I had far rather you came to tell me the executioner was waiting for me—nay, that my husband was about to be led to the block—than this fatal intelligence. I thought our separation would be short. But now I find it will be eternal.”
“You are in error, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, sternly. “You will neither be separated from your husband in this world, nor the next, if you are equally conformable.”
“Am I to understand, then, that his apostacy, for I can give it no milder term, has been purchased by an offer of pardon?” demanded Jane.
“I said not so, daughter,” replied Feckenham; “but I now tell you that his hopes of grace rest with yourself.”
“With me?” cried Jane, with a look of agony.
“With you, daughter,” repeated the confessor. “Much as it rejoices our pious queen to win over one soul like that of Lord Guilford Dudley to the true faith, gladly as she will receive his recantation, she will pledge herself to mercy only on one condition.”
“And that is—”
“Your conversion.”
“A safe promise, for her clemency will never be exhibited,” replied Jane. “Not even to purchase my husband’s life would I consent. I would willingly die to bring him back to the paths from which he has strayed. But I will not surrender myself to Rome and her abominations.”
“Your firmness, in a good cause, daughter, would elicit my approbation,” replied Feckenham. “As it is, it only excites my compassion. I am deeply concerned to see one so richly gifted so miserably benighted; one so fair so foully spotted with heresy. I should esteem it a glorious victory over Satan to rescue your soul from perdition, and will spare no pains to do so.”
“It is in vain, sir,” replied Jane; “and if I have hitherto repressed my anger at these solicitations, it is because feeling firm in myself, I look upon them merely as an annoyance, to which it is my duty to submit with patience. But when I perceive the mischief they have done to others, I can no longer contain my indignation. Yours is a pernicious and idolatrous religion, a religion founded on the traditions of men, not on the word of God, a religion detracting from the merits of our Saviour, substituting mummery for the simple offices of prayer; and though I will not be uncharitable enough to assert that its sincere professors will not be saved, yet I am satisfied, that no one to whom the true light of heaven has once been vouchsafed, can believe in it, or be saved by it.”
“Since you are thus obstinate, daughter,” replied Feckenham, “let us dispute point by point, and dogma by dogma, of our creeds, and I think I can convince you of the error in which you rest. Do not fear wearying me. I cannot be better employed.”
“Pardon me, then, sir, if I reply, than I can be far better employed,” returned Jane; “and, though I would not shrink from such a discussion—were it useful—and do not fear its result, yet, as no good can arise from it, I must decline it.”
“As you please, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham. “But I must own that your refusal to accept my challenge seems a tacit admission of the weakness of your cause.”
“Put what construction you please upon it, sir, so you leave me in peace,” replied Jane. “I will fight the good fight when called upon to do so. But I will not waste the little time that remains to me in fruitless disputation.”
“Before I depart, however, daughter,” rejoined Feckenham, “let me deliver your husband’s message to you.”
“What is it?” inquired Jane, eagerly, “and yet, I almost dread to ask.”
“He implored you not to be his executioner,” answered Feckenham.
“His executioner!—my husband’s executioner!—oh, no!—no! that I can never be!” cried Jane, bursting into tears.
“That you will be, unless you consent,” replied the priest, coldly.
“I beseech you, sir, urge me no further,” rejoined Jane. “I would lay down my life for my husband a thousand times, but I cannot save him thus. Tell him that I will pray for him night and day—and oh! tell him that his swerving from his faith has wounded me more severely than the axe will ever do.”