And for the next--a
man who is shrewdly suspected of being a papist, while he is attached by
gravest vows to the Church of England, must needs hold heaven's rewards and
hell's torments lightly."
"But Queen Catherine, sir--does not she favour you? My aunt says she is a
good woman."
"Yes, a good woman, and the nearest approach to a cypher to be found at
Hampton Court or Whitehall. Young Lord Rochester has written a poem upon
'Nothing.' He might have taken Queen Catherine's name as a synonym. She is
nothing; she counts for nothing. Her love can benefit nobody; her hatred,
were the poor soul capable of hating persistently, can do no one harm."
"And the King--is he so unkind to her?"
"Unkind! No. He allows her to live. Nay, when for a few days--the brief
felicity of her poor life--she seemed on the point of dying, he was
stricken with remorse for all that he had not been to her, and was kind,
and begged her to live for his sake. The polite gentleman meant it for
a compliment--one of those pious falsehoods that men murmur in dying
ears--but she took him at his word and recovered; and she is there still,
a little dark lady in a fine gown, of whom nobody takes any notice, beyond
the emptiest formality of bent knees and backward steps.
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