herself and him from the deep enthusiastic passion of this youth; but
her feelings as a woman, grateful at once and compassionate, prevented
her assuming the dignity of a Queen, and she endeavoured to continue the
conversation in an indifferent tone.
“Methought,” she said, “I heard that, at the division of my spoils,
Rosabelle had become the property of Lord Morton's paramour and
ladye-love Alice.”
“The noble palfrey had indeed been destined to so base a lot,” answered
Douglas; “she was kept under four keys, and under the charge of a
numerous crew of grooms and domestics--but Queen Mary needed Rosabelle,
and Rosabelle is here.”
“And was it well, Douglas,” said Queen Mary, “when such fearful risks of
various kinds must needs be encountered, that you should augment their
perils to yourself for a subject of so little moment as a palfrey?”
“Do you call that of little moment,” answered Douglas, “which has
afforded you a moment's pleasure?--Did you not start with joy when I
first said you were mounted on Rosabelle?--And to purchase you that
pleasure, though it were to last no longer than the flash of lightning
doth, would not Douglas have risked his life a thousand times?”
“Oh, peace, Douglas, peace,” said the Queen, “this is unfitting
language; and, besides, I would speak,” said she, recollecting herself,
“with the Abbot of Saint Mary's--Nay, Douglas, I will not let you quit
my rein in displeasure.”
“Displeasure, lady!” answered Douglas: “alas! sorrow is all that I can
feel for your well-warranted contempt--I should be as soon displeased
with Heaven for refusing the wildest wish which mortal can form.”
“Abide by my rein, however,” said Mary, “there is room for my Lord Abbot
on the other side; and, besides, I doubt if his assistance would be
so useful to Rosabelle and me as yours has been, should the road again
require it.”
The Abbot came up on the other side, and she immediately opened a
conversation with him on the topic of the state of parties, and the
plan fittest for her to pursue inconsequence of her deliverance. In
this conversation Douglas took little share, and never but when directly
applied to by the Queen, while, as before, his attention seemed entirely
engrossed by the care of Mary's personal safety. She learned, however,
she had a new obligation to him, since, by his contrivance, the Abbot,
whom he had furnished with the family pass-word, was introduced into the
castle as one of the garrison.
Long before daybreak they ended their hasty and perilous journey before
the gates of Niddrie, a castle in West Lothian, belonging to Lord
Seyton. When the Queen was about to alight, Henry Seyton, preventing
Douglas, received her in his arms, and, kneeling down, prayed her
Majesty to enter the house of his father, her faithful servant.
“Your Grace,” he added, “may repose yourself here in perfect safety--it
is already garrisoned with good men for your protection; and I have sent
a post to my father, whose instant arrival, at the head of five hundred
men, may be looked for. Do not dismay yourself, therefore, should your
sleep be broken by the trampling of horse; but only think that here are
some scores more of the saucy Seytons come to attend you.”
“And by better friends than the Saucy Seytons, a Scottish Queen cannot
be guarded,” replied Mary. “Rosabelle went fleet as the summer breeze,
and well-nigh as easy; but it is long since I have been a traveller, and
I feel that repose will be welcome.--Catherine, _ma mignone_, you
must sleep in my apartment to-night, and bid me welcome to your noble
father's castle.--Thanks, thanks to all my kind deliverers--thanks, and
a good night is all I can now offer; but if I climb once more to the
upper side of Fortune's wheel, I will not have her bandage. Mary Stewart
will keep her eyes open, and distinguish her friends.--Seyton, I need
scarcely recommend the venerable Abbot, the Douglas, and my page, to
your honour able care and hospitality.”
Henry Seyton bowed, and Catherine and Lady Fleming attended the Queen to
her apartment; where, acknowledging to them that she should have found
it difficult in that moment to keep her promise of holding her eyes
open, she resigned herself to repose, and awakened not till the morning
was advanced.
Mary's first feeling when she awoke, was the doubt of her freedom; and
the impulse prompted her to start from bed, and hastily throwing her
mantle over her shoulders, to look out at the casement of her apartment.
Oh, sight of joy! instead of the crystal sheet of Lochleven, unaltered
save by the influence of the wind, a landscape of wood and moorland lay
before her, and the park around the castle was occupied by the troops of
her most faithful and most favourite nobles.
“Rise, rise, Catherine,” cried the enraptured Princess; “arise and come
hither!--here are swords and spears in true hands, and glittering armour
on loyal breasts. Here are banners, my girl, floating in the wind, as
lightly as summer clouds--Great God! what pleasure to my weary eyes
to trace their devices--thine own brave father's--the princely
Hamilton's--the faithful Fleming's--See--see--they have caught a glimpse
of me, and throng towards the window!”
She flung the casement open, and with her bare head, from which the
tresses flew back loose and dishevelled, her fair arm slenderly veiled
by her mantle, returned by motion and sign the exulting shouts of the
warriors, which echoed for many a furlong around. When the first burst
of ecstatic joy was over, she recollected how lightly she was dressed,
and, putting her hands to her face, which was covered with blushes at
the recollection, withdrew abruptly from the window. The cause of her
retreat was easily conjectured, and increased the general enthusiasm for
a Princess, who had forgotten her rank in her haste to acknowledge the
services of her subjects. The unadorned beauties of the lovely woman,
too, moved the military spectators more than the highest display of her
regal state might; and what might have seemed too free in her mode of
appearing before them, was more than atoned for by the enthusiasm of the
moment and by the delicacy evinced in her hasty retreat. Often as the
shouts died away, as often were they renewed, till wood and hill rung
again; and many a deep path was made that morning on the cross of the
sword, that the hand should not part with the weapon, till Mary Stewart
was restored to her rights. But what are promises, what the hopes of
mortals? In ten days, these gallant and devoted votaries were slain,
were captives, or had fled.
Mary flung herself into the nearest seat, and still blushing, yet half
smiling, exclaimed, “_Ma mignone_, what will they think of me?--to show
myself to them with my bare feet hastily thrust into the slippers--only
this loose mantle about me--my hair loose on my shoulders--my arms and
neck so bare--Oh, the best they can suppose is, that her abode in yonder
dungeon has turned their Queen's brain! But my rebel subjects saw me
exposed when I was in the depth of affliction, why should I hold colder
ceremony with these faithful and loyal men?--Call Fleming, however--I
trust she has not forgotten the little mail with my apparel--We must be
as brave as we can, _mignóne_.”
“Nay, madam, our good Lady Fleming was in no case to remember any
thing.”
“You jest, Catherine,” said the Queen, somewhat offended; “it is not in
her nature surely, to forget her duty so far as to leave us without a
change of apparel?”
“Roland Graeme, madam, took care of that,” answered Catherine; “for he
threw the mail, with your highness's clothes and jewels, into the boat,
ere he ran back to lock the gate--I never saw so awkward a page as that
youth--the packet well-nigh fell on my head.”
“He shall make thy heart amends, my girl,” said Queen Mary, laughing,
“for that and all other offences given. But call Fleming, and let us put
ourselves into apparel to meet our faithful lords.”
Such had been the preparations, and such was the skill of Lady Fleming,
that the Queen appeared before her assembled nobles in such attire as
became, though it could not enhance, her natural dignity. With the most
winning courtesy, she expressed to each individual her grateful thanks,
and dignified not only every noble, but many of the lesser barons by her
particular attention.
“And whither now, my lords?” she said; “what way do your counsels
determine for us?”
“To Draphane Castle,” replied Lord Arbroath, “if your Majesty is so
pleased; and thence to Dunbarton, to place your Grace's person in
safety, after which we long to prove if these traitors will abide us in
the field.”
“And when do we journey?”
“We propose,” said Lord Seyton, “if your Grace's fatigue will permit, to
take horse after the morning's meal.”
“Your pleasure, my Lords, is mine,” replied the Queen; “we will rule our
journey by your wisdom now, and hope hereafter to have the advantage of
governing by it our kingdom.--You will permit my ladies and me, my
good lords, to break our fasts along with you--We must be half soldiers
ourselves, and set state apart.”
Low bowed many a helmeted head at this gracious proffer, when the Queen,
glancing her eyes through the assembled leaders, missed both Douglas and
Roland Graeme, and inquired for them in a whisper to Catherine Seyton.
“They are in yonder oratory, madam, sad enough,” replied Catherine; and
the Queen observed that her favourite's eyes were red with weeping.
“This must not be,” said the Queen. “Keep the company amused--I will
seek them, and introduce them myself.”
She went into the oratory, where the first she met was George Douglas,
standing, or rather reclining, in the recess of a window, his back
rested against the wall, and his arms folded on his breast. At the sight
of the Queen he started, and his countenance showed, for an instant,
an expression of intense delight, which was instantly exchanged for his
usual deep melancholy.
“What means this?” she said; “Douglas, why does the first deviser and
bold executor of the happy scheme for our freedom, shun the company of
his fellow-nobles, and of the Sovereign whom he has obliged?”
“Madam,” replied Douglas, “those whom you grace with your presence bring
followers to aid your cause, wealth to support your state,--can offer
you halls in which to feast, and impregnable castles for your defence.
I am a houseless and landless man--disinherited by my mother, and
laid under her malediction--disowned by my name and kindred--who bring
nothing to your standard but a single sword, and the poor life of its
owner.”
“Do you mean to upbraid me, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “by showing
what you have lost for my sake?”
“God forbid, madam!” interrupted the young man, eagerly; “were it to do
again, and had I ten times as much rank and wealth, and twenty times as
many friends to lose, my losses would be overpaid by the first step you
made, as a free princess, upon the soil of your native kingdom.”
“And what then ails you, that you will not rejoice with those who
rejoice upon the same joyful occasion?” said the Queen.
“Madam,” replied the youth,” though exheridated and disowned, I am yet
a Douglas: with most of yonder nobles my family have been in feud for
ages--a cold reception amongst them, were an insult, and a kind one yet
more humiliating.”
“For shame, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “shake off this unmanly
gloom!--I can make thee match for the best of them in title and fortune,
and, believe me, I will.--Go then amongst them, I command you.”
“That word,” said Douglas, “is enough--I go. This only let me say, that
not for wealth or title would I have done that which I have done--Mary
Stewart will not, and the Queen cannot, reward me.”
So saying, he left the oratory, mingled with the nobles, and placed
himself at the bottom of the table. The Queen looked after him, and put
her kerchief to her eyes.
“Now, Our Lady pity me,” she said, “for no sooner are my prison cares
ended, than those which beset me as a woman and a Queen again thicken
around me.--Happy Elizabeth! to whom political interest is every thing,
and whose heart never betrays thy head.--And now must I seek this
other boy, if I would prevent daggers-drawing betwixt him and the young
Seyton.”
Roland Graeme was in the same oratory, but at such a distance from
Douglas, that he could not overhear what passed betwixt the Queen and
him. He also was moody and thoughtful, but cleared his brow at the
Queen's question, “How now, Roland? you are negligent in your attendance
this morning. Are you so much overcome with your night's ride?”
“Not so, gracious madam,” answered Graeme; “but I am told the page of
Lochleven is not the page of Niddrie Castle; and so Master Henry Seyton
hath in a manner been pleased to supersede my attendance.”
“Now, Heaven forgive me,” said the Queen, “how soon these cock-chickens
begin to spar!--with children and boys, at least, I may be a queen.--I
will have you friends.--Some one send me Henry Seyton hither.” As she
spoke the last words aloud, the youth whom she had named entered the
apartment. “Come hither,” she said, “Henry Seyton--I will have you give
your hand to this youth, who so well aided in the plan of my escape.”
“Willingly, madam,” answered Seyton, “so that the youth will grant me,
as a boon, that he touch not the hand of another Seyton whom he knows
of. My hand has passed current for hers with him before now--and to win
my friendship, he must give up thoughts of my sister's love.”
“Henry Seyton,” said the Queen, “does it become you to add any condition
to my command?”
“Madam,” said Henry, “I am the servant of your Grace's throne, son to
the most loyal man in Scotland. Our goods, our castles, our blood, are
yours: Our honour is in our own keeping. I could say more, but--”
“Nay, speak on, rude boy,” said the Queen; “what avails it that I am
released from Lochleven, if I am thus enthralled under the yoke of my
pretended deliverers, and prevented from doing justice to one who has
deserved as well of me as yourself?”
“Be not in this distemperature for me, sovereign Lady,” said Roland;
“this young gentleman, being the faithful servant of your Grace, and the
brother of Catherine Seyton, bears that about him which will charm down
my passion at the hottest.”
“I warn thee once more,” said Henry Seyton, haughtily, “that you make no
speech which may infer that the daughter of Lord Seyton can be aught to
thee beyond what she is to every churl's blood in Scotland.”
The Queen was again about to interfere, for Roland's complexion rose,
and it became somewhat questionable how long his love for Catherine
would suppress the natural fire of his temper. But the interposition of
another person, hitherto unseen, prevented Mary's interference, There
was in the oratory a separate shrine, enclosed with a high screen
of pierced oak, within which was placed an image of Saint Bennet, of
peculiar sanctity. From this recess, in which she had been probably
engaged in her devotions, issued suddenly Magdalen Graeme, and addressed
Henry Seyton, in reply to his last offensive expressions,--“And of
what clay, then, are they moulded these Seytons, that the blood of the
Graemes may not aspire to mingle with theirs? Know, proud boy, that when
I call this youth my daughter's child, I affirm his descent from Malise
Earl of Strathern, called Malise with the Bright Brand; and I trow the
blood of your house springs from no higher source.”
“Good mother,” said Seyton, “methinks your sanctity should make you
superior to these worldly vanities; and indeed it seems to have rendered
you somewhat oblivious touching them, since, to be of gentle descent,
the father's name and lineage must be as well qualified as the
mother's.”
“And if I say he comes of the blood of Avenel by the father's side,”
replied Magdalen Graeme, “name I not blood as richly coloured as thine
own?”
“Of Avenel?” said the Queen; “is my page descended of Avenel?”
“Ay, gracious Princess, and the last male heir of that ancient
house--Julian Avenel was his father, who fell in battle against the
Southron.”
“I have heard the tale of sorrow,” said the Queen; “it was thy daughter,
then, who followed that unfortunate baron to the field, and died on his
body? Alas! how many ways does woman's affection find to work out her
own misery! The tale has oft been told and sung in hall and bower--And
thou, Roland, art that child of misfortune, who was left among the dead
and dying? Henry Seyton, he is thine equal in blood and birth.”
“Scarcely so,” said Henry Seyton, “even were he legitimate; but if the
tale be told and sung aright, Julian Avenel was a false knight, and his
leman a frail and credulous maiden.”
“Now, by Heaven, thou liest!” said Roland Graeme, and laid his hand on
his sword. The entrance of Lord Seyton, however, prevented violence.
“Save me, my lord,” said the Queen, “and separate these wild and untamed
spirits.”
“How, Henry,” said the Baron, “are my castle, and the Queen's presence,
no checks on thine insolence and impetuosity?--And with whom art thou
brawling?--unless my eyes spell that token false, it is with the very
youth who aided me so gallantly in the skirmish with the Leslies--Let me
look, fair youth, at the medal which thou wearest in thy cap. By Saint
Bennet, it is the same!--Henry, I command thee to forbear him, as thou
lovest my blessing----”
“And as you honour my command,” said the Queen; “good service hath he
done me.”
“Ay, madam,” replied young Seyton, “as when he carried the billet
enclosed in the sword-sheath to Lochleven--marry, the good youth knew no
more than a pack-horse what he was carrying.”
“But I who dedicated him to this great work,” said Magdalen Graeme--“I,
by whose advice and agency this just heir hath been unloosed from her
thraldom--I, who spared not the last remaining hope of a falling house
in this great action--I, at least, knew and counselled; and what merit
may be mine, let the reward, most gracious Queen, descend upon this
youth. My ministry here is ended; you are free--a sovereign Princess,
at the head of a gallant army, surrounded by valiant barons--My service
could avail you no farther, but might well prejudice you; your fortune
now rests upon men's hearts and men's swords. May they prove as trusty
as the faith of women!”
“You will not leave us, mother,” said the Queen--“you whose practices in
our favour were so powerful, who dared so many dangers, and wore so many
disguises, to blind our enemies and to confirm our friends--you will not
leave us in the dawn of our reviving fortunes, ere we have time to know
and to thank you?”
“You cannot know her,” answered Magdalen Graeme, “who knows not
herself--there are times, when, in this woman's frame of mine, there is
the strength of him of Gath--in this overtoiled brain, the wisdom of the
most sage counsellor--and again the mist is on me, and my strength
is weakness, my wisdom folly. I have spoken before princes and
cardinals--ay, noble Princess, even before the princes of thine own
house of Lorraine; and I know not whence the words of persuasion came
which flowed from my lips, and were drunk in by their ears.--And now,
even when I most need words of persuasion, there is something which
chokes my voice, and robs me of utterance.”
“If there be aught in my power to do thee pleasure,” said the Queen,
“the barely naming it shall avail as well as all thine eloquence.”
“Sovereign Lady,” replied the enthusiast, “it shames me that at this
high moment something of human frailty should cling to one, whose vows
the saints have heard, whose labours in the rightful cause Heaven has
prospered. But it will be thus while the living spirit is shrined in the
clay of mortality--I will yield to the folly,” she said, weeping as she
spoke, “and it shall be the last.” Then seizing Roland's hand, she led
him to the Queen's feet, kneeling herself upon one knee, and causing him
to kneel on both. “Mighty Princess,” she said, “look on this flower--it
was found by a kindly stranger on a bloody field of battle, and long it
was ere my anxious eyes saw, and my arms pressed, all that was left of
my only daughter. For your sake, and for that of the holy faith we
both profess, I could leave this plant, while it was yet tender, to
the nurture of strangers--ay, of enemies, by whom, perchance, his blood
would have been poured forth as wine, had the heretic Glendinning known
that he had in his house the heir of Julian Avenel. Since then I have
seen him only in a few hours of doubt and dread, and now I part with the
child of my love--for ever--for ever!--Oh, for every weary step I
have made in your rightful cause, in this and in foreign lands, give
protection to the child whom I must no more call mine!”
“I swear to you, mother,” said the Queen, deeply affected, “that, for
your sake and his own, his happiness and fortunes shall be our charge!”
“I thank you, daughter of princes,” said Magdalen, and pressed her lips,
first to the Queen's hand, then to the brow of her grandson. “And now,”
she said, drying her tears, and rising with dignity, “Earth has had
its own, and Heaven claims the rest.--Lioness of Scotland, go forth and
conquer! and if the prayers of a devoted votaress can avail thee, they
will rise in many a land, and from many a distant shrine. I will glide
like a ghost from land to land, from temple to temple; and where the
very name of my country is unknown, the priests shall ask who is the
Queen of that distant northern land, for whom the aged pilgrim was so
fervent in prayer. Farewell! Honour be thine, and earthly prosperity, if
it be the will of God--if not, may the penance thou shalt do here ensure
thee happiness hereafter!--Let no one speak or follow me--my resolution
is taken--my vow cannot be cancelled.”
She glided from their presence as she spoke, and her last look was upon
her beloved grandchild. He would have risen and followed, but the Queen
and Lord Seyton interfered.
“Press not on her now,” said Lord Seyton, “if you would not lose her for
ever. Many a time have we seen the sainted mother, and often at the most
needful moment; but to press on her privacy, or to thwart her purpose,
is a crime which she cannot pardon. I trust we shall yet see her at her
need--a holy woman she is for certain, and dedicated wholly to prayer
and penance; and hence the heretics hold her as one distracted, while
true Catholics deem her a saint.”
“Let me then hope,” said the Queen, “that you, my lord, will aid me in
the execution of her last request.”
“What! in the protection of my young second?--cheerfully--that is, in
all that your majesty can think it fitting to ask of me.--Henry, give
thy hand upon the instant to Roland Avenel, for so I presume he must now
be called.”
“And shall be Lord of the Barony,” said the Queen, “if God prosper our
rightful arms.”
“It can only be to restore it to my kind protectress, who now holds it,”
said young Avenel. “I would rather be landless, all my life, than she
lost a rood of ground by me.”
“Nay,” said the Queen, looking to Lord Seyton, “his mind matches his
birth--Henry, thou hast not yet given thy hand.”
“It is his,” said Henry, giving it with some appearance of courtesy,
but whispering Roland at the same time,--“For all this, thou hast not my
sister's.”
“May it please your Grace,” said Lord Seyton, “now that these passages
are over, to honour our poor meal. Time it were that our banners were
reflected in the Clyde. We must to horse with as little delay as may
be.”
Chapter the Thirty-Seventh.
Ay, sir--our ancient crown, in these wild times,
Oft stood upon a cast--the gamester's ducat,
So often staked, and lost, and then regain'd,
Scarce knew so many hazards.
THE SPANISH FATHER.