After taking a tender farewell of the cloaked stranger, more touching and affectionate, if possible, than her greeting, Mary Carmichael fled back to the palace like a lapwing. There was no time to lose in securing James Geddes, if she would not have the length of her absence remarked, and she found him, as she expected, drinking a warm posset in the buttery. Like the rest of his class, the fool could at times be sufficiently self-willed and captious, rating his own society at no trifling value, more especially if he saw that it was sought after; and it required no small amount of management to wheedle him into merriment if not so disposed. On the present occasion he refused point-blank to stir from the chimney corner, and it was only by dint of much coaxing, and the promised bribe of a box of French comfits, that Mary Carmichael prevailed on him to accompany her, and bore him off in triumph to the turret-chamber, there to make sport for the Queen’s maids-of-honour.
His entrance was greeted by acclamations, which he received with complete indifference. He brightened up, however, when the comfits were produced, and sat down to munch them with an expression of the most perfect satisfaction and vacuity.
He was a stout, middle-sized man, with a long, heavy face, a large mouth, and hanging under-jaw. When he lolled his tongue out, and half-shut his meaningless gray eyes, he looked a being devoid of the slightest spark of intellect; at such times, nevertheless, he was most apt to produce those simple witticisms which served to amuse the court.
Not a word was to be got from him till he had finished the comfits. At length, the last and largest disappeared down that capacious maw; then he yawned, stretched himself, and condescended to observe—
‘He would have to bid the ladies farewell, as to-morrow he should take his leave of Holyrood.’
‘What shall we do without you?’ exclaimed Mary Seton, who took James Geddes under her special protection, and vowed, in her pert way, that he was infinitely more sane than half the Queen’s advisers. ‘We cannot let you go—you are the only amusement we have!’
‘There’ll be no lack of fules the morn,’ answered James, with a look of comical disgust; ‘’deed they may call it Follyrood now, with gude cause. Have ye no heard tell of the braw doings in the Queen’s Park? Troth, ye’ll be able to wale your Joes the morn! Every lass her lad! And they riding mother-naked every man o’ them. Na, na; they’re no wanting fules at court i’ the noo, an’ I’ll just tak’ my foot in my hand, an’ turn wise-like mysel’.’
‘Why, the masque will only be six against six as usual,’ answered Mary Beton, characteristically disposed to take a matter-of-fact view of the proceedings, ‘six savages and six amazons. I have seen the dresses; and very complete they are. What is there in that to displease you, James? I thought you dearly loved a festival or a frolic.’
‘I’ll no gang till I’ve had my denner,’ answered James; ‘but I’ll no bide at Holyrood, once the trade is overstocked, as it is like to be. I’ll just gang my ways to the Border, an’ take up with stout Earl Bothwell and muckle Dick. He’ll like fine to get word o’ Mistress Seton. Troth, if they measure fules by the foot, ye’ve gotten a grand yane, my bonny doo, to your share; for ye’ve clean bewitched Dick.’
That young lady laughed and blushed, then frowned and looked cross, lastly peeped into the box of comfits for something to stop James’s mouth withal. The latter put on his densest look, and proceeded—
‘Ay, the time’s no what it was. I mind when me and Jenny Colquhoun was the only fules in Holyrood; forbye the French lassie, that was no worth speaking of, and Robin Hamilton the porter. Set him up! to shut the wicket in my very face last St Andrew’s day, and swear he would break my sconce across, if it wasna as toom as a borderer’s bonnet. Awbody kens he’s a Hamilton, an’ the Hamiltons have aye mair hide than horns. Nae offence to the bonny leddy here, that’s no mindin’ the like o’ me. Aweel, there’s mair fules than three at Holyrood i’ the noo; an’ it’s time for James Geddes to be packing, when he’s the only wise-like body about the place.’
‘Then you think we are all losing our wits,’ remarked Mary Carmichael, as she made up the wood-fire, lit the silver lamp that stood on the table, and set the room in order, according to her wont.
‘Ye’ll no find yours in the Abbey garden, I’m thinkin’,’ replied James, whereat the questioner looked extremely angry and confused. ‘I mind a bonny sang that plays—
I’ll no tell ye the wager, Mistress Carmichael; I’m only a fule, ye ken; but “I’ll wager, I’ll wager, I’ll wager wi’ you,” that ye dinna gang oot like a ghaist in the gloamin’ just to pu’ an apple frae a tree. There’s a canny lad wad like ill to jalouse ye kept tryst wi’ anither; that’s just one mair to the count. I doubt I maun be flittin’ frae Holyrood, or we a’ gang daft thegither.’
‘What does he mean?’ exclaimed Mary Beton, all the duenna aroused within her as she marked the fool’s cunning looks, and her comrade’s obvious discomfiture.
‘Hooly an’ fairly, Mistress Beton!’ exclaimed Geddes, with whom the Queen’s principal lady was no great favourite. ‘Keep your ain breath to cool your ain brose. Will you grudge the lasses their bit ploy, an’ keep back all the Joes to yersel’?
They’ll no threep that on you, Mistress Beton. Na, na; ye’re a true Scotchwoman; an’ it’s just a spoilin’ o’ the Egyptians, as godly John Knox wad call it. Troth, ye’ve made a fule o’ a wiser body than yoursel’, I’m thinkin’. I’ll no grudge Maister Randolph the cap an’ bells, but he’ll get the fee an’ bountith a’ gate the like o’ him gangs, I ken fine. Aweel! ten fingers an’ ten taes, I canna number the fules at Holyrood; for I’m no gude at the countin’, and I canna tell mair than a score; but I’ll gang my ways to the border the morn, for the trade is just over-stockit.’
‘You give your tongue too much liberty,’ said Mary Beton, who was considerably displeased at James Geddes’s indiscreet allusions, and not disposed to conceal her disapproval. ‘You presume on the Queen’s good nature. Have a care; if I mention your conduct to the master of the household, you will be taken to the porter’s lodge to taste of Robin Hamilton’s discipline once again!’
The fool’s face grew livid, and an ugly gleam shot from his heavy eye. There was evidently some rancour brooding in his heart against the tall porter, who, it may be, in virtue of his office, had been ordered ere now to inflict corporal punishment on the jester. He fell to cursing the Hamiltons with the unmeaning malevolence of insanity. From the proud duke and his unfortunate son, whose state of mind should indeed have obtained immunity from a fellow-sufferer, to the stalwart gate-keeper, he called down upon all who owned the name every evil that madness could imagine, or hatred suggest, and then, stopping suddenly in his curses, he moved awkwardly across the room to where Mary Hamilton, buried in thought, sat somewhat apart from the rest, and seizing the hem of her garment, began mouthing and kissing it, and wetting it with his tears, in a reaction of feeling which, sustained by one so imbecile, it was pitiful to behold.
As they are given to unaccountable and deep-rooted aversions, to gratify which they have been known to display incredible sagacity and cunning, so these unfortunates are capable of strong attachments, cherished with a morbid vehemence peculiar to their malady. A madman’s affection and a madman’s hatred are alike to be avoided, since the former is as inconvenient as the latter is dangerous.
James Geddes entertained a devotion for Mary Hamilton which amounted to idolatry, and was never so well satisfied with himself, or so nearly rational, as when employed in some trifling commission for the beautiful maid-of-honour. Also he watched her as you may see a dumb animal watch every look of its owner, and was especially jealous and irritated if he fancied she bestowed too much notice or favour on any one else.
‘What is he driving at?’ exclaimed Mary Seton, observing that the fool, although with an expression of deep contrition, was now indulging in a series of mysterious winks and signs. ‘Ask him, Mary Hamilton. He seems to have some secret understanding with you. Ask him, for pity’s sake, my dear; he’ll have a fit if he goes on like that.’
But her curiosity was not destined to be satisfied; for at this juncture a page entered the apartment with a summons for Mistress Hamilton to attend the Queen; and that lady departed accordingly, leaving her half-witted adorer in a state of woeful penitence and discomfiture. Crouching among the embers in the hearth, he hid his face in his hands, rocking himself to and fro, and ‘crooning,’ in a sing-song voice, a succession of broken unintelligible sentences. From these fits of dejection the ladies knew it was impossible to arouse him.
The Queen was seated at a massive oaken writing-table, on which she was heaping together a quantity of letters and papers when Mary Hamilton entered. A single lamp shed its light upon her fair brow, which seemed to-night heavy with an unusual load of care. Her features wore the languor of mental fatigue, and even her attitude denoted the listlessness of one who is wearied by too much thought and study. She had been writing to her cousin of England; and if it was a difficult matter to be well with Elizabeth at best, how much more so now when her suspicions were excited and her jealousy kept continually awake by the question of succession! The maiden Queen was not without that strange weakness of humanity, which so disquiets itself as to what shall become of its earthly possessions when it is gone—an anxiety no stronger in the monarch who has a kingdom to bequeath than in the old woman who has hoarded her forty shillings in a stocking. Will it affect them so much in that spirit-world, even if they learn it, to know that the dynasty has been changed, or the funded property squandered, or the entail cut off?
There is many a man now living who would rather lose an arm or a leg than think that the old avenue will be cut down when he is gone to a land where the trees of life and knowledge flourish in perennial verdure, and all the while young Graceless, his heir, is scanning their girth and substance with a wistful consciousness that the Jews must be paid at last. Horace has told us something about those ‘dreaded cypresses,’ which we would fain ignore. They will wave over our dwelling when the oaks in the park have been disposed of at so much per foot, and the family tree itself is withered and forgotten. Do you think it matters much to Smith deceased, the tenth of his illustrious line, that Brown should have succeeded to his place and property, or that B. should cede in turn to Jones and Robinson? ‘A plague o’ both your houses!’ All this, however, has nothing to do with the house of Tudor.
Independent of the natural aversion entertained by every right-minded woman for another of her own sex who is sought after by a multitude of suitors, Elizabeth had a variety of excellent reasons for disliking the Queen of Scots. The latter was considerably her junior, unquestionably more beautiful and accomplished, gifted with that mysterious fascination which makes women angry and men foolish, and in addition, to these offences was indubitably the next heir to the English crown. Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that the maiden Queen should have delighted in heaping difficulties across the path of her widowed cousin, and this was done the more effectually by keeping well with her to all outward appearance, and interchanging a constant succession of rings, precious stones, letters of courtesy, and the like insidious compliments.
Nor was Mary deceived by these artifices. It is probable that she clearly perceived the hollow nature of her kinswoman’s friendship, and returned it in kind, so far as her open generous character would permit. But it was not in this Queen’s nature to cherish lasting feelings of ill-will, and she had also doubtless the good sense to see that in her precarious position Elizabeth’s favour was essential to her security and support. So she corresponded with her regularly in a vein of cordial affection, amounting even to familiarity, and it is no wonder that Mary rose from the composition of one of these letters with an air of unusual exhaustion on her lovely face.
‘Help me to seal these packets, my dear,’ said she to the maid-of-honour, as the latter approached her table; ‘my fingers are perfectly stiff with holding a pen. No wonder my forefathers esteemed the art of writing a disgrace, and swore that the grasp of a noble hand should never close on anything lighter than a lance. I often wish I was a man, to wear steel on my breast and at my side!’ While she spoke she stretched her beautiful fingers, which did indeed look far too delicate to wield any weapon heavier than a needle, and pushing the state seal across to her maid-of-honour, threw herself back in her chair, as if thoroughly tired with her day’s work.
Mary Hamilton occupied herself at once about her task, affixing the seal of Scotland, with its lion rampant and its crown-royal, to document after document, in a graceful, womanly way that attracted the Queen’s notice, and caused her to regard her favourite maid-of-honour with more attention than common.
The latter was always pale, and unusually quiet in her demeanour, but of late she had become paler than ever, and her customary repose of manner had subsided into dejection. Without obvious ailment, she looked listless and out of spirits, languid in her movements, and far too grave for one so young.
Herself wearied and harassed, it struck the Queen particularly to-night, and she could not forbear noticing it.
‘You are ill, Mary,’ said she, ‘and worse than that, you are unhappy. What is it? there is something the matter!’
‘Nothing, madam,’ answered the other, looking up with a transparent effort at cheerfulness. ‘How can I be unhappy when I am at Holyrood, and near your Majesty?’
She did not say it in the complacent tone of a courtier, but with a warmth and sincerity that could not have been assumed, her large dark eyes moistening and shining in the lamplight. She thought she loved the Queen better than anything on earth, and so she did—save one.
‘I know you are fond of me, child,’ answered the Queen affectionately; ‘that does not make me the less anxious about you. I think of all my Maries you are the most dependent upon me. Have a care, my dear! there seems to be a fatality about Mary Stuart. Those who love me best seem ever to be the most unfortunate.’
She spoke mournfully, and in an abstracted tone. Was she thinking of her dead bridegroom who had worshipped her? of the mother who had doated on her? of the loyal and brave and the true already proscribed, banished, or disgraced? was it memory or foreboding, the sorrows of the past or fears for the future, that thus so often cast a gloom over her spirit, and damped her royal courage at her need?
‘Do you think that would not make me love you ten times more?’ exclaimed the other with a flash from her glorious eyes that lighted up her whole face. ‘Can there be love without sacrifice, madam? Nay,’ she added in a sadder voice, ‘can there even be love without suffering?’
‘You are very young to say so,’ answered the Queen, ‘two years younger than I am; and I remember how I used to think that sorrow was the especial heritage of the old. I have learnt otherwise now; but you, Mary Hamilton, you whom I have always watched and sheltered as a bird shelters its nestling under its wing, what can you know of suffering?’
The maid-of-honour looked wistfully at her mistress while she replied—
‘I never can know real sorrow, madam,’ she said, ‘nor real suffering; because I have a refuge more secure than even a queen’s favours, and to that refuge I betake me whenever grief becomes too heavy to endure. Ah! madam, they may take everything from us here, but they cannot rob us of that; this world is sometimes very dark and sad, but the light is always shining just the same, far away at home.’
The Queen looked at her with concern and surprise. What could it be, this engrossing sorrow which cast its shadow over a young life that ought to have shone so hopeful and so bright? The girl must be very unhappy, she argued, to be so devout. Alas! that it should be so; that religion, instead of the pride of the strong, should so often prove but the refuge for the weak. And yet it is but one more instance of that mercy which knows no limit. The happy and the pious, too, enjoy indeed a favoured lot, but human nature is so warped, that in the majority continuous prosperity produces hardness of heart, and for these it ‘is good to be in trouble.’ When they have lost all (it matters not what constitutes it, fame, wealth, or affection) they run for consolation, like a child in distress to a parent, where it never is denied; and which of us is there who does not know how unspeakably precious is the balm of kindness to a bruised and empty heart? A few there are on whom adversity has a contrary effect—rebellious spirits, not without force of character and capacities for happiness, who become froward and desperate under the rod. Woe be to them! What shall bring such as these back to the fold? Human forbearance would say ‘let them go in their wilfulness to destruction!’ but it is well for us that it is not with human forbearance we have to do.
The Queen of Scots herself was of a gay and hopeful disposition, one which perhaps it required many reverses to steady and sober down. Plenty of them she sustained ere all was done! In the meantime her kind heart was moved to think that her maid-of-honour should have some secret grief she herself could not alleviate.
‘Tell me, dear,’ said she, ‘what it is that thus weighs upon your spirits, and takes the colour out of your cheek. I have seen it for long. Confide in me, not as your Queen, Mary Hamilton, but as your mother or your elder sister. I too am a woman, a failing, weak-hearted woman like the rest. I can only imagine one cause for such deep-rooted sorrow, and yet I cannot think my beautiful Hamilton should be in such a plight. Is it,’ and the Queen too looked confused while she asked the question, ‘is it some unfortunate—some unrequited attachment?’
The maid-of-honour blushed to her very temples, and the lustrous eyes that had been gazing fondly into the Queen’s face were lowered for an instant; but she raised them with an effort, and drawing herself up, with her colour deepening every moment, answered proudly—
‘Nay, madam; we Hamiltons have your own princely blood in our veins, and do not give our love unasked or unreturned. The Maries, too, follow their Queen’s example, and would deem it worse than unmaidenly to entertain a secret or unacknowledged preference. We hold our heads high, you know, madam, like our mistress.’
The Queen looked as if she did not quite agree with her, and was about to answer, when a soft strain of music rose from the Abbey garden, and arrested the attention of each lady as if by a charm. The casement was thrown open, and the night wind stole in, bearing with it the melodious tones of a lute struck by no unpractised hand, and the notes of a rich voice that each seemed to recognise simultaneously with mingled embarrassment and delight.
There was then a proverb current in Scotland, which the poet seemed to have embodied in the verses he now poured forth on a flood of harmony:—
Mary Stuart and Mary Hamilton looked at each other in amazement. The former laughed sweetly.
‘It is our minstrel come back again,’ said she, ‘and as welcome as he is unexpected. He has not forgotten the art in his absence from the inspiration.’
While she spoke she shifted the lamp from the writing table to the window shelf, where its flame was sheltered from the breeze by the unopened half of the casement.
The maid-of-honour answered nothing; but the Queen could not help remarking she became very restless and preoccupied, accepting her dismissal for the night in silence, but with more alacrity than usual.
Chastelâr in the garden saw the light shifted from its place in the Queen’s apartment, and interpreted it into an encouragement of his own wild hopes. His heart leaped, his brain glowed, his blood ran fire. Long absence, rational considerations, obvious impossibility, had not quenched his folly. He had left d’Amville, had wandered to and fro, had returned to Scotland with no definite object but to look on the face that haunted him night and day. He was love-mad; it mattered not what became of him: to live or die he cared not; but it must be at the Queen of Scotland’s feet.
And Mary Hamilton, in her solitary chamber, fell on her knees and thanked Heaven that she should see him once again.
CHAPTER XV.
Though it was mid-winter, the sun shone brightly as in June. The bold outline of Arthur’s Seat cut against a cloudless sky; and a light air from the opposite coast of Fife cleared the Firth of its accustomed vapours, and brought out in fair relief the smiling bays and noble headlands of its romantic shores. Far to the eastward, where a white sail glistened in the sun, loomed the bluff island of the Bass, poised, as it seemed, in mid-air by the magician’s art, so imperceptibly were sea and sky blended together in the distant horizon; while beyond it, North-Berwick Law reared its cone above the undulating line of coast that stretched away to the southward till it faded from the sight. To the west, the wooded shores, the jutting promontories, and the sparkling water, combined to form a scene such as men imagine in their dreams, shut in by the dark glades of Hopetoun and Dalmeny, dim, rich, and beautiful, like a glimpse of fairy-land. With the castle of her strength crowning her comely brow, the old town sunned her terraced streets and high fantastic buildings in the warmth of noon, looking down, as it were, with proud protection on the smooth lawns and dainty gardens that adorned the palace of her kings. Like some rare jewel, carved, rich, and massive, resting on a velvet cushion, lay the square edifice of Holyrood on its green and level site. Though the stately towers and delicate pinnacles of the Abbey were in deep shadow, the sun shone gaily on the Queen’s Park beyond, crowded as it was with masses of spectators and glittering with the brightest and fairest of the Scottish nobility.
Barriers had been placed in this well-selected spot, lists for the exercise of chivalry carefully laid out, and galleries erected for the fairer portion of the assembly, whose applause was destined to encourage the competitors and reward the successful.
The Queen and her maidens occupied the most prominent of these stages; but Mary Stuart, true to the warlike predilections of her blood, descended from her position of advantage, and, followed by her train, proceeded in person to examine the arrangements for the pastimes, and the dress and horses of those engaged.
Loud acclamations greeted her as she passed through the crowd. Though habited in mourning, as was her custom, that bewitching face did not fail to produce its usual effect, even on the strictest of the Reformers. Here and there, indeed, some severer dame might shake her head and purse up her lips in obvious disapproval of her sovereign, but such demonstrations were confined to the female sex, and only to the oldest and ugliest of them.
The tournament of the Middle Ages had ere this period fallen into disuse. Gunpowder had already taught the warrior that his cumbersome array of mail and plate was no secure defence, and although he had not yet discarded corslet and head-piece, he was already beginning to learn the lesson of modern warfare—that sagacity is as important a gift as courage, and agility a more effective quality than strength. Perhaps also the untoward accident that, within a few years, had deprived France of her monarch, served to bring the tournament into disrepute; and the Scotch, who, beside their tendency to imitate French manners, were then, as now, somewhat of utilitarians, need not have been long in arriving at the conclusion that such conflicts were a waste of strength, courage, and mettle, both in man and horse.
Riding at the ring, however—an exercise requiring perfect horsemanship and great dexterity in the use of the lance—long remained a favourite amusement amongst the young Scotch lords. It was no easy task to carry off, on the point of a spear, a ring scarce two inches in diameter, suspended from a slackened cord, whilst moving at a gallop; and the cavalier whose hand, eye, and seat were alike perfect enough to accomplish this feat, would have been a formidable antagonist in the crash of a real encounter—man to man and horse to horse, armed cap-à-pie in steel.
On the present occasion the amusement partook somewhat of the character of a masque. The two Lords Stuart, in defiance of Mistress Alison Craig’s prophecy, had not found themselves so tamed and spirit-broken by marriage as to give up their favourite occupations, and had been instrumental in setting on foot the pageant which had now collected so motley a concourse in the Queen’s Park. Six gallants disguised as amazons, had resolved to hold the lists against other six disguised as savages, the victory to be decided by success in carrying off the ring. The Queen herself had given the prize to be contended for—a gold heart of exquisite workmanship, and a purse filled with broad pieces. To add to the interest, a dozen of ladies chosen by lot, amongst whom were the Queen and the Maries, had been entreated to select each one a champion, and it was partly for this purpose that the train of female beauty, with Mary Stuart at its head, now wound in and out amongst the barriers which enclosed the lists, together with the domestics and horses of those who were about to ride.
As she approached one of the savages, who was already in the saddle, and poising his lance in his hand, the Queen started and turned pale in obvious distress. She would have passed him without notice, but the rider, whose wandering eye and excited gestures denoted that he ought not to be at large, reined his horse across Her Majesty so as to oppose her progress, and casting his lance at her feet, demanded to be chosen her champion and her true knight.
The Queen drew herself up and looked really angry.
‘This is too much!’ said she. ‘How far has the Earl of Arran’s loyalty and good conduct been so pre-eminent that he can dare to claim this proud distinction? By the laws of chivalry every lady has the right to her own choice, and here is mine.’
The Queen pointed to the nearest horseman as she spoke. He was richly dressed as an amazon, and his glowing complexion and regular features would have done no discredit even to one of those female warriors. She had selected him at random as a proper rebuke to Arran’s insane presumption, but, like many another act of her life, it was as untoward as it was hasty. Chastelâr, for it was none other, sprang from his horse, and knelt in acknowledgment at the Queen’s feet, laying his lance down at the same time before her in an attitude expressive of humility and adoration.
‘To the death!’ exclaimed the poet, literally kissing the hem of the Queen’s garment ere he sprang once more into the saddle and forced his horse in a series of managed bounds to the farther extremity of the enclosure.
One of the maids-of-honour looked disappointed and distressed. Mary Hamilton would fain have selected the Frenchman for her champion during the day, a distinction which would probably make him her partner also in the ball at night.
As the ladies passed on, the Queen’s half-brothers, both habited as amazons, approached Her Majesty, dragging between them, with shouts and laughter, a lad of some sixteen summers, whose fair, beardless face was indeed blushing like a girl’s.
‘Choose him, madam!’ exclaimed the merry lords, in a breath, while the younger, with a comical affectation of womanly reserve, spread his gilded buckler before the lad’s crimson cheeks. ‘George Douglas has never lifted spear before; he is indeed a redoubtable champion for a queen.’
Tears of shame and vexation started to the boy’s eyes, yet he looked pleadingly at his sovereign, as if with a confused hope that the great ambition of his life might be realised.
Mary was always gentle and considerate. She smiled on him encouragingly.
‘It is mettle that makes the man-at-arms,’ said she. ‘I would have chosen you, indeed, young sir, had these merry gossips of yours brought you to me sooner. Never mind, you shall ride to-day for Mary Hamilton.’
The young eyes glistened with pride and happiness; the young heart swelled. Those few kind words had riveted it for ever to the cause of Queen Mary.
The English Ambassador, who, in compliance with the directions of his Court, mingled in all the amusements at Holyrood, and who was as skilled in arms as in policy, now presented himself before the ladies. Mr Randolph’s costume, as one of the six savages, was remarkably well-chosen and appropriate. A bear-skin hung from his shoulders, and he had decked himself and his horse with wreaths of holly, of which the red berries were strung and looped together as savages wear their beads. He dropped on one knee to Mistress Beton, craving permission to carry her good wishes with him in the ensuing courses; and Alexander Ogilvy, in the dress of the opposite party, looked on and wished he was an ambassador too, or at least might woo that haughty dame so frankly without fear of a rebuff.
The lace on Mary Beton’s collar vibrated with pleasure as she bowed a gracious affirmative. In truth the stately lady was insensibly beginning to take no small pleasure in the attentions of her diplomatic admirer.
Mary Seton, in the meantime, had been inspecting with sarcastic scrutiny the persons and accoutrements of all the competitors. With a stinging jest or biting retort she had refused to accept the homage of one after another, and finally took as her knight one John Sempill, an Englishman, who had sought refuge at the Court of Holyrood, a plain, silent man, who appeared somewhat surprised to find himself in a scene of merry-making, and whose only recommendation in the eyes of the maid-of-honour must have been that he was the direct opposite of herself.
There was yet one of the Maries who had not chosen her champion. All unconscious that there could have been a witness to her rendezvous in the Abbey garden, Mary Carmichael rejected candidate after candidate, in hopes the right one would apply at last. With a brighter eye and a deeper colour than usual she followed in the train of her mistress, and more than one gallant observed that he had never seen Mistress Carmichael to such advantage, and were it not for the Queen, she would carry off the palm of beauty from all upon the ground.
But the eye grew dim by degrees and the colour faded, as Walter Maxwell, habited like a savage, remained aloof, standing apart, busy with the caparison of his horse, and obviously anxious to avoid notice and conversation. A sleepless night had somewhat paled his cheek, but otherwise his look was as composed and reserved as usual. A manly nature is as much ashamed of disclosing mental suffering as physical pain.
The girl was puzzled; she could not understand him: yesterday, so kind and loyal and frank; to-day, so distant and calm and cold. Had he been the most experienced carpet-knight that ever made war upon the sex, instead of an honest, true-hearted soldier, he could not have adopted a better method of aggression. She had never felt so much engrossed with him in her life. It is hardly fair to fight a woman with her own weapons; but we imagine it discomfits them exceedingly, the more so that they are well aware a man’s coldness, unlike their own, is the result of real displeasure, and the forerunner of a rupture.
Eventually all the ladies had chosen but Mary Carmichael; all the horsemen were selected but Walter Maxwell. She detached herself from the rest, and walked to where he was standing apart, still fastening his bridle and caressing his good horse.
She tried to speak in an easy, off-hand manner; but a duller ear than his might have detected the forced tone of her voice.
‘They are mounting,’ said she; ‘you will be left out. Will you not be my knight?’
‘For to-day,’ he answered, bowing low, and with a strained courtesy more galling than actual rudeness.
Then he too sprang into the saddle and galloped off to join his comrades. The girl bit her lip till the blood came; tears of shame and vexation rose to her eyes; and yet she had never liked him so well as at this moment.
The Queen with her ladies now returned to the gallery, from whence she could have a good view of the sports, dispensing once more amongst the crowd that good-humoured notice which is so fascinating from a sovereign. Many a reflective Scotch face smoothed its rugged brows as she passed; many a stern Protestant who followed weekly the vigorous discourses of John Knox with approval in proportion to the strength of their doctrine, and attention never diverted for a moment from the profound casuistry of their arguments, looked after her with a wistful, pitying admiration, as though loth to believe such a creature of light could be a chosen tool of the arch-enemy, and a vessel of wrath doomed to everlasting perdition. The younger members of the crowd blessed her audibly, while here and there some godless jackman, ruffling it in all the audacious freedom of inebriety, swore loudly that it was his profession and his pastime to die for the Queen.
The Earl of Moray and his bride occupied the next seats to the royal household. Matrimony had not altered the composure of the deep-scheming earl. His own attire and that of his lady were of the gravest and most sombre, rebuking by their austere simplicity the bravery of the Queen’s immediate attendants.
Moray, while he kept well with the Court, was careful not to offend the prejudices of the strict Protestant party, in whose ranks he felt lay his chief strength, and while he smiled with a melancholy forbearance on the gaieties of his brothers and his royal half-sister, he never forgot for an instant the character he had assumed, of the rigid guardian and upholder of religion; the man in whom the ‘country might have confidence,’ the prop and stay of ‘the godly’ through the length and breadth of Scotland. His bride, a comely, laughing lass when she married him, was obviously taming down, day by day, to the required pattern of decorum. Like some flower denied the sunlight, she was fading from her youthful colour and brightness, into that premature old age which is so pitiful to witness—the waning of the heart and feelings before the face is wrinkled or the locks are gray.
And now the crowd are driven from the enclosure by a score of men-at-arms wearing the royal livery. As these push their well-trained horses amongst the foot-people, much elbowing and squeezing is the result. The lads, as Scotchmen are termed up to the most advanced period of life, bear the jostling good-humouredly enough; the lasses laugh and shriek, and display extraordinary unsteadiness, and an unusual craving for protection and support. But the lists are cleared at last, and the troop of mounted masquers come down like a whirlwind, in line, till they reach the Queen’s gallery, when they wheel to right and left from their centre, and sweeping round at the same pace, take up their respective positions at either extremity of the lists.
In Her Majesty’s gallery eager eyes are watching their movements. The Queen and her ladies criticise both steeds and horsemanship pretty freely, wagering gloves and trinkets on the result, but Mary Carmichael sits pale and silent, and sees everything in a mist, because she cannot keep back her tears.
The ring is up, and borne off fairly by several of the cavaliers. All acquit themselves with knightly prowess, but some of the horses are unsteady, and Lord John Stuart shooting at a gallop past the object, of which he has only struck the outer edge, encounters amongst the spectators the laughing face of Mistress Alison Craig.
‘Fie on ye!’ exclaims that unabashed dame, loud enough for the discomfited nobleman to hear; ‘an’ ye ride no better than that, ye’ll never wear the orange and black in your bonnet again on Leith Sands!’
He cannot choose but laugh as he recalls his prowess the year before among the citizens while carrying the colours of the mercer’s daughter, and Mistress Alison with becoming modesty puts down her wimple to hide the cheek that has long since forgotten how to blush.
At last Mr Randolph, young George Douglas, Walter Maxwell, and Chastelâr, alone remain to contest the prize. One failure withdraws the competitor, and but these four have borne away the little circlet at each attempt with graceful skill. The excitement amongst the ladies increases visibly, and there is an obvious feeling in favour of the handsome child, for he is scarcely more, who wears on his amazonian helmet the Bleeding Heart of the House of Douglas.
The crowd, too, cheer the boy lustily. The people have alternately loved and feared the Douglas since the days of ‘Good Lord James,’ but their Scottish hearts warm to that grand old line, and the lad’s youth and beauty are sure to tell on such an assemblage as the present. He flushes to the eyes and casts a look at the Queen’s gallery, then couches his lance and drives his horse furiously to his course.
Hand and seat and eye, all are true enough, but he is going a little too fast, and the glittering object is missed by a hair’s-breadth. As he leaps from the saddle at the end of his career, the boy bursts into tears, and withdraws to hide his face amongst the crowd.
Mr Randolph also fails, but with a grace and dignity that in Mary Beton’s opinion are more creditable than success itself.
Chastelâr, who, to the natural dexterity of a Frenchman, has added the skill acquired by constant practice, once more carries off the ring, and glances proudly at the Queen as he brandishes it aloft on the point of his lance.
Again it is Maxwell’s turn to try his fortune. Mary Carmichael’s heart beats painfully. If he wins the prize, how will he act? By all the laws of chivalry he must lay the ring at her feet, and she must deliver him the costly trophy. Already she anticipates the moment of triumph. Shall she enjoy it coldly and with dignified displeasure, making him as unhappy as she has been herself? No; she longs to forgive him, and be friends. All these disquietudes are wholly unnecessary; as he arrives within a stride of the object, his horse falls, rolls over him, and both disappear in a cloud of dust. Mary Carmichael utters a faint shriek, and then sits cold and rigid like a statue. At this moment the Queen discovers the secret of her maid-of-honour.
Chastelâr then turns his horse round, carries off the ring once more, and lays it at the Queen’s feet, his dark eyes flashing with excitement.
With the graceful courtesy that becomes her so well, Mary presents the prize to the successful competitor.
‘One more trophy,’ says the Queen, ‘to the Troubadour, who wins all hearts by the sweetness of his songs, and who wields the lance as successfully as the pen.’
Chastelâr strives to speak in reply, but his voice fails him and he turns ashy white. Mary Hamilton watching him from behind her mistress almost expects him to fall from his horse. He recovers himself after a short interval, and mutters a few unintelligible sentences; then opening the purse, scatters its contents amongst the multitude, and dismounting, falls upon his knees, and replaces the heart in the Queen’s hands.
‘Will you not keep it, madam,’ says the poet, in a hoarse broken voice, ‘a tribute from the humblest and most devoted of your worshippers; fitting emblem of all Chastelâr has to give? A pure heart of sterling gold is the most appropriate offering that can be presented to the Queen of Grace and Beauty.’
Somewhat unprepared for the compliment, Mary accepts it with a little confusion, and the crowd, shouting loudly, testify their approval of the generosity as well as the prowess displayed by the Frenchman.
Some discontent has indeed been manifested at the success of a foreigner, but the freedom with which the broad pieces have been scattered about has rapidly converted all invidious demonstrations into cordial applause. On such terms they would gladly see him win hearts and purses every day.
Though stunned and shaken for the moment, Maxwell was not seriously hurt. After changing his costume for his ordinary attire, he rejoined the party of gallants and ladies that had congregated round the Queen. A fall with a horse is no very serious affair to an accomplished cavalier in the pride of youth and strength; his bearing was as composed as usual, and save a mischievous glance from Mary Seton, and a little short speech of condolence in which good-nature and sarcasm were strangely mingled, little notice was taken of his mishap. While the Queen, however, whose French education had not destroyed her predilection for pedestrian exercise, made her way back to the palace on foot, followed by her train, Mistress Carmichael lingered behind the others till she found herself next to the fallen cavalier, and as he walked on for a time without speaking, she summoned up courage at last to take the initiative.
‘I must condole with my knight,’ said she; ‘he did his part well, and had his horse not failed him I think we should have carried off the prize.’
She spoke with a constrained effort at playfulness, and was conscious that her heart beat very fast the while. Whence came this new feeling of subjection? She never used to be afraid of him like this.
‘I should like to have won it for your sake,’ he answered, but very coldly and gravely. ‘You and I will have but little in common, Mistress Carmichael, after to-day.’
‘What do you mean?’ she gasped, thoroughly frightened now, and too anxious to be indignant; but ere he could reply the train of courtiers had already dropped back to them, and Mary Carmichael was compelled to join her companions with a weight of grievous apprehension at her heart.
Another sentence might perhaps have cleared up everything, or at least put an end to doubts and misgivings; but how could he speak it with a score of the sharpest ears at Court ready to catch every syllable as it fell? Perhaps an explanation might never arrive, or if it did would come too late; perhaps pride might rise up to prevent it, or the opportunity never occur at all. And thus originate half the misunderstandings and estrangements that embitter the whole existence of those who, could they but speak three words to each other alone, would never doubt or mistrust in their lives again.