CHAPTER XV

IN HEVER CASTLE

HE sound of a horn rang through the clear country air, and Anne, flying to the casement, glimpsed on the top of Hever Hill, a gallant

figure on horseback against the summer sky. A moment he remained poised there, then dashed down the hillside and entered the cover of the adjoining woods. Anne lingered at the casement till she saw a little group of outridden retainers appear in turn upon the hilltop, and then she darted to her mirror in a pell-mell of excitement. She had not seen Henry since her illness, for in spite of his lover's anxiety, his terror of sickness had kept him away, and she had not expected him for a full ten days yet. Now in another minute he would be knocking at the gates!

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"I look a fright—my hair is all undone," she told herself in dismay, struggling out of her brown dress into one of a soft rose-color. Bet Bet where art thou? Come here, no, run and tell my father that the king is come I saw him from the casement. Bid him receive him below I will be down. No, I will not be down - I will be in the library. Let him have his drinks ere he come up . . . that will give me the more time. I am a fright.. And send me Mary Wyatt to do Why must the fashion be that a woman must needs be an eel to hook her dress?

this gown

I am as

nervous as a witch before her stake," she laughed to

herself as her hands shook in brushing back the heavy hair that swept over her shoulders. "Will he think me changed? ... It seemeth a year since we have met."

A thunderous knocking at the gates put an end to her soliloquy. Laying down her hand glass with a little moue at the white face she saw therein, she slipped out from her room and down the passageway to the great library. It was a fine room, paneled in dark, rich oak. A small musicians' gallery ran across one end; a fireplace, overhung by a deer's head with branching horns, was at the other. Along the sides were some grim-faced portraits, mostly of Anne's own mother's family, the Howards, and a tapestry or two, while the books and manuscripts that gave the room its name were ranged in shelves and cupboards along the walls. Towards the east two double casements, their leaded panes medallioned with armorial bearings, filled the library with soft summer light. Anne sat down on the seat before one of them, listening to the uproar of voices before it sounded like an uproar in the stillness of the old castle then she heard the quick sound of feet taking the stairs three steps at a time. Henry had not lingered over his greetings and his drink.

She rose to meet him, her hands half stretched out, and the next instant he had dashed like a whirlwind into the room and caught her to his breast.

"Anne little Anne!" he whispered huskily. "Little Sweeting my pretty rose. It hath been a year" He released her only to have her face where he might cover it with kisses. Then he held her off to gaze at her and in the gazing realized again the menace of her illness. She was so slight, so fragile! It seemed as if a breath could blow her away. Her dark eyes

looked tremendous in her thin face. He caught her to him again with a sigh that was half a groan.

“If you had died—before you were mine!" he cried. "When I am yours you will then be ready to part with me?" the girl gave quickly back, with an attempt to release herself.

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Nay you are too keen -" he kissed her lips to silence. She felt his tremble on hers and realized afresh with a sense of happy power the strength of his passion for her. She pressed her cheek against his great arm with a thrill of proud possession. Her big Henry! Her king and lover!

He drew her to the casement, and with his arm about her and her head against his shoulder, they sat in that indescribable content, that oblivion of time and the world, that is peculiar to the state of lovers.

Through the open casement floated the warm breath of July, rich with unthrifty sweets; the birds from the forest sang shrilly clear. The castle was very still. The bark of a dog and his splashings in the moat, and the hollow stamp of a horse in the stables, sounded remote and far away. Idly they rested there, now regarding each other, now the square of sky and wood that the casement framed. Their talk was desultory. Now he told her of the progress he was making with his book, which he was writing in favor of the divorce, now he enumerated the remedies and precautions he had taken against the infection eventually abating,- but mostly the talk ran of his love for her and of the pain her absence had been.

"You will always love me so?" Anne murmured — 'twas perhaps the dozenth time and for the dozenth time her lover answered, his kiss on her lips,"Till death take all loving from me."

This time she did not content herself with the vow.

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'Tis

I grow

'Nay," she persisted, "will you always look on me with such kind eyes? Shall I be worth the trouble and vexation you incur in making me your queen? . . . a very high estate to which you are raising me. dizzy when even my thoughts reach it. At times I think it cannot really be. . . . Will you ne'er regret ne'er look back ne'er wish you had chosen to crown a more regal brow than poor Anne Boleyn's?"

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He kissed the brow. There is none more regal none more fair."

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But when I am no longer fair?" In her eyes rested a sudden shadow-a thought of Catherine's lot - but only as fleetly and lightly as a cloud shadow on a brook. He had never loved Catherine! He had sworn it to her. "Thou wilt always be fair."

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"So I think myself," she owned with her soft laugh, for I cannot think of myself-or of thyself

as ever

old and gray. Just as those who sat in this room before us, I dare say, could never think of themselves as growing old and going forth. Poor souls! . . . But some some day, even I

day

anyone else?"

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And thou wilt never love

How can I, when I have given all to you?"

Nay, but bethink thee, Henry, will you ever and forever love me so? I have been wondering much since I have been ill and alone. Speak me true, for if thou wilt change, if thou art not sure, then were it better to end all now. We will not try to live our dream." "While I have breath left to kiss thee, darling, God, He knoweth how I shall cherish thee. Never a lady was loved as thou art, Anne. . . . Why, Sweet, what aileth thee to question so coldly?"

...

“I know not — I never was so happy before, and yet

I fear I know not what. How will this end? will all hate me when you make me queen."

They

"Ah, they will be jealous of me, under all their flattery to me, and many hands will reach up to pull me down. And if I lose thy love women have warned me that thou art a fickle lover, my king!"

“I have never loved thee before.”

She lifted her lips for him to kiss, in marvelous content.

Presently, "How little we know," she murmured, her eyes roving idly about the great hall, already filling with the shadows of the declining day, "How little I dreamed, as I roamed a child about this place, that here I should some day sit with my king!"

"God had his destiny for thee," said Henry piously. Her upturning eyes found no answering twinkle in his

own.

It was one of those moments that tickled her with his lack of humor. . . . She wondered, half quizzical, half mutinous, whether God had had His destiny for her sister Mary also, and concluded that her own individual wits had more to do with the assurance of her prospects than Providence.

Aloud she acquiesced, in vast gravity," Sure He works wonders," and then, with her irrepressible laugh, “but oh, that it would please Him to perform with greater speed."

Henry stirred restively.

"If He would but incline the pope now to see His hand in this, and the queen to bow to Heaven's will!"

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The devil's in the woman to thwart me thus," Henry growled under his breath.

"If she would but submit as she makes such outward protestation of doing!-to your Grace's will for her,