“His conduct towards me leaves no doubt as to his intentions,” rejoined Mary. “On our first meeting he vowed he loved me, but his vows were false. I am not blind to my defects. I know that I have few charms of person to attract him—that I have neither youth nor beauty. But I gave him a deep, true love. Moreover, I gave him a kingdom. How has he requited me?—by neglect, by harshness, by infidelity.” “Oh! Madam, I would willingly discredit what I hear,” cried Pole. “If it be as you represent, I pity you from the bottom of my heart.” “My sainted mother, Queen Katharine of Aragon, was most unhappy,” pursued Mary; “but I am little less unhappy. Neglected, injured, scorned as I am by my husband, I cannot, despite the efforts I make, shake off the love I bear him. I summon pride to my aid, but in vain. My heart is wrung with jealousy, but I hide my torments. What shall I do if I lose him?” “You will not lose him, gracious Madam—fear it not,” exclaimed Pole. “I will remonstrate with him. I will convince him of the wickedness of his conduct.” “Proceed with caution, or you will only make matters worse,” said Mary. “Were I to lose him, I should die.” “Do not distress yourself thus, Madam,” said Pole. “Exalted as is your station, it does not exempt you from the ordinary sufferings of humanity—nay, it exposes you to greater ills than fall to the lot of those less loftily placed. The King is unworthy of your love, I grant, but I counsel you not to resent his neglect, nor to reproach him. Bear yourself ever gently towards him, ever maintaining your own dignity, and if you win not back his love, you are certain to gain his esteem.” “Perchance I have reproached him overmuch,” cried Mary. “But, as I have already said, my heart has been wrung by jealousy.” “Crush all such feelings, at whatever cost,” rejoined Pole. “Give him no grounds of complaint.” “But his unkindness makes me wretched,” cried Mary. “Would I could hate him—despise him!” “It is sad that love like yours should meet so poor a return,” sighed Pole; “and the King is blind to his own happiness that he does not estimate the treasure he casts away, to set up worthless baubles in its place. Pray constantly and fervently to Heaven to bless you with a son, and if your prayers are granted, you will be happy.” “But if Heaven should deny me the blessing?” “Heaven will compassionate you,” said the Cardinal. “It will not be deaf to prayers like yours.” “Yet my mother’s prayers were unheard, though her wrongs and sufferings were greater than mine. She died neglected, heart-broken. Such may be my fate.” “The indulgence of these thoughts is like to bring about the very calamity you would avert, Madam,” said Pole. “You know and feel how much depends upon the event we so much desire, and your physician will tell you that to a favourable issue freedom from agitation and anxiety are essential. You will undo all the good if you harass yourself thus unnecessarily.”