rustle of her bulky draperies Catherine seated herself opposite. Abruptly he began.

"Thou canst not be ignorant of what brings me here."

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Nay, I have too long known thy kindness of heart to be ignorant of it," his wife returned with celerity. "I have known thou wouldst not leave me too long without thy favor."

This was not the opening that Henry desired and he cast about for another.

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I see," with a nod at the ebony rosary dangling at her girdle," thou art ever at thy devotions."

"My prayers for your Grace's welfare rise continually," she replied, her fingers nervously entwining in the rosary.

He eyed her a moment contemplatively. His look was mild.

"I, too, have been oft at prayer of late," he continued, "and it hath come over me that my conscience is not clear toward Heaven. I have felt a strong conviction of sin."

For one incredible instant of sparkling hope she believed that he was in earnest and that he referred to Anne. Ah, that was over then! She had known it would not endure. But coming so suddenly . .

after such reports

"Your Grace!" she murmured in a trembling voice. "And in this scruple I have not been alone. It may have come to your ears that my archbishops

Her hope was over. She saw in an instant the part he had come to play. She set her lips, the muscles of her mouth twitching.

"I know not to what scruple your Highness refers." "Then is thy conscience duller than mine, for I have long felt that in our union there was mortal sin."

“Long felt —?" she uttered quiveringly.

He had come prepared for some reproaches and swept promptly over them. thou and I have contracted no true wedlock."

"Aye.

"Thou sayest this to me, to me, my lord?" she interrupted harshly. He saw her beetling brows stiffen and contract and the sharp ridge between them deepen. He noticed with distaste how thick and fat her features were become and what hairs her moles carried. Truly, it was effrontery in the woman to consider herself now a mate for him!

"I have heard rumors of this this thing," she went on riding over his beginnings of another speech, "but I would not insult your royal self by crediting them. . . . And now thou sayest this to me!" Her voice shook. It was evident that in spite of what preparation she had she was exceedingly upset. Recovering herself, she went on in a firmer tone, I think your Highness cannot be in earnest."

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My good Catherine," said Henry, leaning forward, his eyes keenly on hers, "I am very much in earnest.

I am grieved to grieve thee, but we have come to a parting of our ways. We have offended against Heaven and Heaven hath sent such a sense of its displeasure upon my soul that I can no more endure it. And knowing thy religious mind, I cannot but feel that something of the kind hath come to thee in secret which thou hast

hidden for fear of paining me. But let us now be open. Let us own our sin and separate —

For an in

She made a choking sound in her throat. stant it was impossible for her to get a word out, then they came with a rush.

"For eighteen years," she gasped, "I have been loyal wife and true to your Highness and is there now talk of

questioning my honor as a wife and my title as a queen? Truly, I think your Grace raves, you cannot mean this thing! Bethink yourself! I have been your wife these eighteen years. I have borne thy children-"

"But no sons have lived. Therein hath Heaven punished us," put in Henry calmly.

Her features stiffened. “I do think that my conscience lives so near Heaven as your Grace's and I find in that grief no punishment for sin, but only a trial for us to undergo. And it may indeed be a mercy in disguise. For where would your Highness find a fairer heir than in the Princess Mary? And indeed your Grace was not wont to look upon our old griefs in such cruel wise. It was not always so. Hast thou forgot those

The composed, slightly bored face of the man opposite her told her that he had indeed forgotten those years. All that had been husband in him had vanished utterly. It was incredible to her to think that she had once been his bride, that they had once mingled their tears over a dead son. He sat there, exuberant in youth and strength, wrapt in a world of his own, eager with its desires. She felt herself suddenly forlorn and old and helpless, unable to sway him in the slightest fashion. A terrible sob shook her; she forced it back but the hot tears filled her eyes and ran slowly down her cheeks. It seemed to Henry that she was weakening.

"You excite yourself-come, Catherine. Look at this thing in reason," he said persuasively. “It is not so terrible as thou thinkest. What to thee are the cares of court? Thy mind is on higher things; thou art for reflection and meditation and pious deeds. Choose thou some other residence and thou canst spend thy days as thou wilt - aye, and be happier so than now. Thou hast

always been loving and careful of my conscience's welfare and it should not plague thee now to yield thy place when thou canst no longer minister to my happiness. . ." seemed to him as he spoke that he was uttering only the most reasonable truths. The years have come between us. Thou hast but six more than I but with thy Southern nature 'tis twice six. Thou hast come to the time when retirement is but natural

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More and more her emotion had been mastering her during the course of this singular speech and at that last reference to her age she burst into wild sobbing, her face in her hands, her bulky body rocking piteously to and fro.

Henry got up and took a restless turn or two about the room. He spoke to her but his voice was lost in her sobs. When she seemed quieter he began again insistently on his arguments, pressing her to name a place of retirement, and her distress broke out afresh.

"No-no-no!" she iterated convulsively, shaking her head violently.

Beyond that, he presently decided, there was nothing to be got out of her. He caught up his cap, which he had tossed on a table over her open breviary, turned it about a moment or so, irresolutely in his hand, eyeing her bent head half pugnaciously, half discomfited.

Then he clapped on his cap and bade her farewell. "There is no need to take this so hard," he pointed out. "It is all being done for the best. Have no uneasiness. ... And Catherine, look to it that thou keepest this to thyself - wilt thou not?"

Only her convulsive weeping answered that last bland request.

I

CHAPTER XIII

THE CARDINAL'S ENLIGHTENMENT

T was the last day of September, 1527. The country was still green with the abundance of

a lush summer but there was autumn in the chill air and the tug of the wind and the streamers of long gray cloud in the sky.

Cardinal Wolsey, fresh from the milder airs and brighter sun of France, found the crispness too penetrating and drew his mantle closer and wrapped his sables more tightly about his throat, as, at the head of a long train of retainers, he rode along the highway, on the last stage of his journey from Dover to London. His thoughts, that had been running backwards more often than forwards, dwelling in agreeable retrospect upon the pleasant honors shown him in France, forsook their musings, as he neared the town and concentrated upon the conditions that he might expect to find there.

Anne was still in favor. That he knew from his last messages from Henry, and it gave his reflections a tinge of uneasiness now as he recalled that in discussing Henry's prospective freedom with King Francis he had somewhat too assuredly hinted at a French alliance, mentioned in fact, the king's sister, the Duchess of Alençon. Francis had certainly understood that he was Henry's mouthpiece. . . . However, it would be months before the divorce could be obtained and by then Anne's star would be set. It was probably now on the wane.