THE DIVORCE OF MARY LIVINGSTONE
(_To an Italian Air_)
The ranging eye of the Muse, sweeping up the little with the big,
rediscerns Monsieur de Châtelard, like a derelict ladybird, tide-swept
into Scotland once more. It is true, unfortunately, that you have not yet
done with this poet, though the time is at hand.
He came warily pricking back in October; and, nosing here and there,
found a friend in a certain portly Italian gentleman, by name Signior
David, who professed to be deeply attached to him on very short notice,
and whose further employment was, discoverably, that of foreign
secretary to her Majesty. Needing alliances—for his venture was most
perilous—Monsieur de Châtelard had sought him out; and found him writing
in a garret, wrapped in ample fur. A cup of spiced wine stood by him, a
sword and toothpick lay to hand: no Italian needs more. He was a fine,
pink, fleshy man, with a red beard, fluff of red hair in his ears, light
eyelashes, blue eyes. His hair, darker than his beard, was strenuous and
tossed.
He was not very clean, but his teeth were admirable. Monsieur de
Châtelard, coming in with great ceremony, credentials in hand, hoped that
he might have the satisfaction of making Signior David a present.
The Italian was franchise itself. ‘Per la Madonna, my lord, you may
make me many presents. I will tire you out at that pastime.’ He ran his
eye over the Marquis D’Elbœuf’s letter. ‘Aha, we have here Monsieur
de Châtelard, poet, and companion of princes! Sir,’ said he, ‘let two
adventurous explorers salute each other. If I were not a brave man I
should not be here; still less would your honour. A salute seems little
testimony between two such champions. You are Amadis, I am Splandian. We
should embrace, Monsieur de Châtelard.’
They did; the poet was much affected. ‘I come with my life in my hands,
Signior David.’
‘Say, rather, on the tips of your fingers, dear sir!’
‘You see in me,’ continued the Frenchman, ‘a brave man. You said as much,
and I thank you. But you see more. You see a poet.’
‘Aha!’ cries the other, tapping his chest with one finger; ‘and here is
the little fellow who will sing your verses as merrily as you make them.’
‘Allow me to perorate,’ says Monsieur de Châtelard. ‘You see also,
signore, a disgraced lover of the Queen, who nevertheless returns to kiss
the hand that smote him.’
‘_Sanguinaccio!_ my good friend,’ Signior David replied: ‘I hope I don’t
see a fool.’
Monsieur de Châtelard considered this aspiration with that gravity it
deserved. He hesitated before he made answer. ‘I hope not, Signior
David,’ he said wistfully; ‘but, as a lover, I am in some doubt. For a
lover, as you very well know, is not (by the nature of his case) many
removes from a fool. He may be—he is—a divine fool. Fire has touched his
lips, to make him mad. He speaks—but what? Noble folly! He does—but what?
Glorious rashness!’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said the Italian. ‘But does he not know—when a Queen is in
the case—that he has a neck to be wrung?’
‘He knows nothing of such things. This is the sum of his knowledge—I
love! I love! I love!’
The Italian looked at him with calmness. ‘I speak for my nation,’ he
said, ‘when I assure you that an Italian lover knows more than that. He
considers means, and ends too. Hungry he may be; but how shall he be
filled if you slit open his belly? He may be thirsty; but if you cut his
throat? However, I am speaking into the air. Let us be reasonable. How
can I serve you, dear sir?’
‘Signior David,’ says the poet, ‘I shall speak openly to you. Howsoever
brave a man may be, howsoever dedicated to impossible adventure, there
is one wind which, blowing through the forest, must chill him to the
heart. It is the wind of Indifference. By heaven, sir, can you sing
before mutes, or men maimed of their hands? And how are you and I to do
admirable things, if no one admires, or cares whether we do them or not?
The thought is absurd. Here, in this grey Scotland, which is Broceliande,
the enchanted forest hiding my princess, I suffer acutely from my
solitude. Formerly I had friends; now I have none. Sir, I offer you my
friendship, and ask yours again. Be my friend. Thus you may serve me, if
you will.’
The Italian took up the fringe of his beard and brushed his nose with it.
‘I must know one little thing first. What do you want with your enchanted
princess in the middle of your forest? Everything?’
Monsieur de Châtelard opened wide his arms, strained them forward,
clasped them over his bosom, and hugged himself with them.
‘Everything,’ he said; and the Italian nodded, and sank into thought.
‘If I assist you to that, good sir,’ says he presently, looking at his
client, ‘it will be a very friendly act on my part.’
‘Sir,’ replied the Frenchman, ‘I require a friendly act.’
Signior David looked down, ever so lightly, at the jewel in his hand,
which the poet had put there. ‘But!’ and he raised his eyebrows over
it, ‘it will be impossible for future rhapsodists to devise an act more
friendly than this! It might be—I do not say that it will be, for I am a
simple scribe, as you see—it might be a partaking which Achilles would
never have allowed to Patroclus.’
‘But you, signore, are not Achilles,’ urged Monsieur de Châtelard.
The Italian shrugged. ‘I have not yet found Achilles in this country; but
many have offered themselves to be Patroclus. ‘Come,’ he added, with
a pleasant grin, ‘Come, I will serve you. We will be friends. For the
moment I recommend discretion. Her Majesty returned but two days ago,
and is already in the midst of affairs. This annoys her extremely. She
thought she had done with business and might begin her dancing. But I
cannot think that she will dance very long, the way matters are tending.’
Monsieur de Châtelard went away, to brace himself for the opening scene
of a new act. He came often back again to see his friend, to submit to
his judgment such and such a theory. How should the lover encounter his
mistress, against whose person he had dared, but not dared enough, the
storming of the sweet citadel? Here was the gist of all his inquiry.
‘Show yourself, dear sir, show yourself!’ was his friend’s advice, whose
own tactics consisted in never showing himself and in making his absence
felt.
The Frenchman, finally, did show himself, with very little result one way
or the other. The Queen, occupied as she had been with Huntly’s ruin,
and now with the patching up of a comfortable fragment out of it, hardly
knew that he was there. This was the way of it. A lightly-built young man
with a bush of crimped hair sprang out of the press in hall at the hour
of the _coucher_, and fell upon his knees. ‘Ha, Monsieur de Châtelard,
you return?’ If she smiled upon him, it was because she smiled on all the
world when the world allowed it.
‘Sovereign, the poor minstrel returns!’
‘I hope he will sing more tunefully. I hope he will follow the notes.’
‘All the notes of the gamut, Princess; faithfully and to the utterance.’
She nods and goes her way, to think no more about him.
From this unsubstantial colloquy, the infatuated gentleman drew the
highest significance. Why, what are the notes of the chant which a lover
must follow? There is but one note; the air is a wailing monotone:
_Hardiesse, Hardiesse, Hardiesse!_ O Queen, potent in Cyprus, give your
vassal effrontery!
_Amantium iræ!_ She had hopes that the piping times were come, with an
air cleaner for the late storms. She had won back young Adam Gordon, as
you know, and sealed him to her by kisses and tears. She had hopes of his
elder brother, now a faithful prisoner at Dunbar. James Earl of Moray
proved a kinder brother than Lord James Stuart had ever been; Ruthven
was gorged, somnolent now, like a sated eagle, above the picked bones of
Huntly. Morton was at Dalkeith, out of sight, out of mind; Mr. Secretary
wrote daily to England, where Sir James Melvill haggled with bridegrooms;
Mr. Knox reported his commission faithfully done. He had laboured, he
said, and not in vain. Her Majesty knew that the two lords, Bothwell
and Arran, had been reconciled. He took leave to say that, since her
expedition to the North, he had rarely seen a closer band of friendship
between two men, seeming dissimilar, than had been declared to every eye
between the Earls Arran and Bothwell.
The news was good, as far as it went; it made for the peace which every
sovereign lady must desire. So much she could tell Mr. Knox, with truth
and without trouble. But—but—the Earl of Bothwell came not to the Court.
He had been seen in town, in September, when she was fast in the hills;
he was now supposed to be at Hailes; had been at Hamilton, at Dumbarton,
at Bothwell in Clydesdale. Why should he absent himself? If by staying
away he hoped to be the more present, he had his desire. The Queen grew
very restless, and complained of pains in the back. What he could have
had to do with these is not clear; but the day came very soon when she
had a pain in the side—his work.
That was a day when there was clamour in the quadrangle, sudden rumour:
the raving of a man, confused comment, starting of horses, grounding
of arms; the guard turned out. The Queen was at prayers—which is more
than can be said for the priest who should have lifted up her suffrages;
for if she prayed the mass through, he did not. The poor wretch thought
the Genevans were after him, and his last office a-saying. Whatever she
thought, Queen Mary never moved, even though (as the fact was) she heard
quick voices at the chapel doors, and the shout, ‘Hold back those men!’
She found Lethington waiting in the antechapel when she entered it. He
was perturbed.
‘Well, Mr. Secretary, what have my loving subjects now on hand?’
He laughed his dismay. ‘Madam, here is come, with foam on his lips, my
Lord of Arran, the Duke’s son.’
‘Doth he foam so early?’ says she. ‘Give him a napkin, and I will see him
clean.’
Presently they admitted the disordered man, frowning and muttering, much
out of breath, and his hair all over his face. Kirkcaldy of Grange held
his arm; the Secretary and Lord Lindsay hovered about him; through the
half-open door there spied the anxious face of Des-Essars.
‘Speak, my Lord Arran,’ says the Queen.
‘God save us all, I must, I must!’ spluttered Arran, and plunged afresh
upon his nightmare.
If that can be called speech which comes in gouts of words, like tin
gobbling of water from a neck too narrow, then Lord Arran spoke. He wept
also and slapped his head, he raved, he adjured high God—all this from
his two knees. Mystery! He had wicked lips to unlock. He must reveal
horrid fact, devilish machination, misprision of treason! God knew the
secret of his heart; God knew he would meet that bloody man half-way. In
that he was a sinner, let him die the death. Oh, robber, curious robber!
To dare that sacred person, to encompass it with greedy hands—robbery!
God is not to be robbed—and who shall dare rob the King, anointed of God?
Such a man would steal the Host from the altar. Sorcery! sorcery! sorcery!
When he stopped to gasp and roll his eyeballs in their sockets, the
Queen had her opportunity. She was already fatigued, and hated noises at
any time. ‘Hold your words, my lord, I beg of you. Who is your bloody
man? Who steals from a king, and from what king steals he? Who is your
sorcerer, and whom has he bewitched? Yourself, by chance?’
Arran turned her the whites of his eyes—a dreadful apparition. ‘The Earl
of Bothwell’—he spoke it in a whisper—‘the Earl of Bothwell did beguile
me.’
‘Then I think he did very idly,’ said the Queen. ‘He has been profuse of
his sorcery. Tell your tale to the Lord of Lethington, and spare me.’
And away she went in a pet. Let the Earl of Bothwell come to her or not,
she did not choose to get news of him through a fool.
Yet the fool had had seed for his folly. He was examined, produced
witnesses; and his story bore so black a look that the council confined
him on their own discretion until the Queen’s pleasure could be known.
Then her brother, Mr. Secretary and others came stately into her cabinet
with their facts. Mr. Knox, said they, had waited upon the Earl of
Bothwell to urge a reconciliation with Lord Arran. The Hepburn had
been very willing, had laughed a good deal over the cause of enmity—a
kiss to a pretty woman, etc.—in a friendly manner. The two lords had
met, certain overtures were made and accepted. Very well; her Majesty
had observed with what success Mr. Knox had done his part. But wait a
little! Friendship grew apace, until at last it seemed that the one Earl
cared not to lose sight of the other. Incongruous partnership! but there
were reasons. A few weeks later my Lord of Bothwell invites his friend
to supper, and then and there proposes the ravishment of the Queen’s
person—no less a thing!
At this point of the recital her hand, which had been very fidgety, went
up to her lip, pinched and held it.
‘Continue, my lord,’ she said, ‘but—continue!’
‘I am slow to name what I have been slow to believe,’ says my lord of
Moray, conscious of his new earldom, ‘and yet I can show your Majesty the
witness.’
The plan had been to surprise her on her way from Perth to the South,
take her to Hamilton, and marry her there by force to the Earl of Arran.
Bothwell was to have been made Chancellor for his share. He had asked no
greater reward. The Queen looked down to her lap when she heard this.
What more? My lord of Arran concealed his alarms for the moment, and told
no one; but the secrecy, the weight of the burden, worked upon him until
he could not bear himself. Before the plot was ripe he had confessed it
to half-a-dozen persons. Bothwell threatened him ravenously; his mind
gave way—hence his frantic penance. Here was a budget of treason for
the Queen to take in her hands, and ponder, wildly and alone. Alone she
pondered it, in spite of all the shocked elders about her.
If he had done it! If he had—if he had! Ah, the adventure of it, the
rush of air, the pounding horse, and the safe, fierce arms! Marry her
to Arran, forsooth, and possess her at his magnificent leisure: for of
course that was the meaning of it. Arran and his Hamiltons were dust
in the eyes of Scotland, but necessary dust. He could not have moved
without them. Thus, then, it was planned—and oh! if he had done it! So
well had she learned to school her face that not a man of them, watching
for it, expecting it, could be sure for what it was that her heart beat
the tattoo, and that the royal colours ran up the staff on the citadel,
and flew there, straining to the gale. Was it maiden alarm, was it
queenly rage, that made her cheeks so flamy-hot? It was neither: she knew
perfectly well what it was. And what was she going to do in requital of
this scandalous scheme? None of them knew that either; but she again knew
perfectly well what she was about. She was about to give herself the
most exquisite pleasure in life—to deal freely, openly, and as of right,
with her secret joy; to handle in the face of all men the forbidden
thing, and to read into every stroke she dealt her darling desire. None
would understand her pleasure, none could forbid it her; for none could
under-read her masked words. And her face, as glacial-keen as Athena’s,
like Antigone’s rapt for sacrifice; her thoughtful, reluctant eyes, her
patient smile, clasped hands, considered words—a mask, a mask! Hear the
sentences as they fell, like slow, soft rain, and listen beneath for the
exulting burthen: ‘If he had! Oh, if he had!’
‘My lords, this is a fond and foolish adventure, proceeding from a
glorious heart to a distempered head. My dignity may suffer by too
serious care for it. But as I may not permit any subject of mine to
handle my person, to deal familiarly with my person, even in thought, I
must take as much notice of it as the fact deserves. Let the Lords Arran
and Bothwell be committed to ward during pleasure. Prepare such writs as
are needful. They shall see my sign-manual upon them.’
She rose, they with her, and went across to the curtain of the private
rooms; she held the curtain as she stayed to look back.
‘Be secret, Mr. Secretary, and swift.’
‘I shall obey your Majesty in all things.’
Sitting alone and very still, she wrought her hardest to be offended
at this tale, as became a sovereign lady. She bit her red lip over it,
frowned, covered her eyes—acting a horror which she could not feel.
Resolutely then she uncovered them again, to look it in the face and
see it at its worst. But what she saw, and exulted to see, was a Man.
And the face of the man was broad-jowled, flushed, and had a jutting
under-jaw; its mouth snarled as it laughed, its eyes were bloodshot and
hardily wicked, it was bearded from the throat. Wicked, daring, laughing
Bothwell—hey, yes, but a Man!
His plot—how could she but admire it as a plot? It was a chain of fine
links. Arran was heir-presumptive, and would hold the South; Arran’s
sister married to Huntly’s son—there’s for the North. In the midst,
Bothwell with the wittold’s wife—herself. Now, if that were the plan,
then Bothwell was her lover. Observe the plain word: her lover, not her
adoring slave. Also, if that were the plan, and Arran a catspaw, then
Bothwell would be her master. Another plain word for a plain proposal,
with which no woman, be she chaste or frail, is altogether offended.
Certainly this young woman was not offended, as she dallied with each
thought in turn—weighing, affecting to choose. Lover! Master! This saucy,
merry robber. How should she be offended? It was only a thought. Lancelot
had loved his queen, and Tristram his. Let the plot be put before these
two to judge, Lancelot would have laughed and Tristram grieved. Arran had
been like Tristram, and she curled her lip to think of him, and laughed
aloud as she chose for Lancelot. Ah, how can you be offended with Love
and his masterful ways? Or with the blithe lover, who laughs while he
spoils you? It is _son naturel_; and must we not follow our nature?
Love, which made George Gordon glum, made Bothwell merry. He would go,
humming the same southern air, to battle or to bride-bed, to midnight
robbery or the strife of love. He was a man, do you see? They had such in
France, a plenty; but in Scotland what had they but pedlars, hagglers,
cattle-drovers, field-preachers? What other in Scotland would have shaped
such a plan as this, and gaily opened it to a fool? The Earl of Morton,
do you suppose—that thick schemer? Her brother Moray, the new Earl, sour,
careful merchant of his store? Dead old Huntly, John of Findlater, wordy,
bickering hillmen? Or George Gordon, chastened and contrite at Dunbar?
Not one of them, not one. Gordon was her lover—accorded. But Gordon made
eyes,—and this other, plans to carry her off. Oh, here is the difference
between a boy’s kisses and a man’s. The one sort implies itself, the
other all the furious empery of love.
The slim, pale, wise young witch that she looked—sitting here alone,
spelling out her schemes, glancing sidelong from her hazel eyes! _Tenez_,
she was playing with thoughts, like a girl hot upon a girl’s affair.
Not thus meditates a prince upon his policy! She began to walk about,
looked out of window, fingered the arras; and all the while was urging
herself to princely courses. As a prince, she would certainly make a high
alliance; as a prince, she must show disorderly subjects that she was
not to be touched too familiarly. The man must be reminded; prison walls
would cool his fevers. Let him think of her in confinement. When he came
out she would be affianced, perhaps wedded—safe in either case. Then it
would be lawful to see him again, and—and—oh, what a laughing Lancelot
went there!
* * * * *
She kept her own counsel, having made up her own mind, and contrived to
seem severe without being so. The Earl of Arran was sent to Dumbarton, a
nominal confinement; but Bothwell was warded in Edinburgh Castle, the
length of a street away. ‘He is more dangerous, it seems, the farther
off he is lodged,’ she gave as her reason. It was easy to learn that he
made good cheer, kept a generous table, saw his friends and had all the
Court news; not quite so easy to pretend not to learn it. Yet, I suppose,
she knew by the next day everything that he had said or done overnight.
Des-Essars was go-between, not officially, of course, but as by accident.
Few beside Mary Livingstone remarked that this discreet and demure youth
was off duty for half the day at a time. Then Bishop Hepburn, my lord’s
reprobate, chuckling uncle, came to Edinburgh, and sauntered up and down
the hill as he chose; an old hand at a game as old as Troy town. Playing
a round at cards with the Queen, he treated the late escapade as a family
failing. But this was a false step of his: the Queen was not to be caught.
‘When you say that the thing was folly, you are more cruel than I have
been. I have punished your nephew for presumption and crime, but have
never accused him of being a fool. However, since you are in a position
to judge, I am willing to take it from you.’
He stood corrected, but did not cease to observe. The Queen’s
circumspection filled him with wonder, and at the same time taught him,
by its accuracy, all he wanted to know. His lesson pat, he went up to the
Castle again.
‘Nephew,’ he said, ‘the cage-door is not set open, but I believe you have
only to turn the handle when you please.’
‘I shall not turn it just yet awhile, my good lord bishop,’ said
the Earl, playing a tune upon his knee; ‘I find this a fine post of
observation.’
It was Mary Livingstone who first found out the truth of matters, and
by plunging into the fire to save her mistress succeeded in nothing but
burning herself. When, after a sharp examination, she learned where
Des-Essars had spent his free days, she could not contain herself. ‘Fine
use for pages! Fine use!’
This provoked a quarrel. The Queen stamped her foot, flung up and down,
shed tears. ‘You are too masterful, my girl, too much the husband. You
mistake a game and play for a bout-at-issue. I do not choose to be
mistressed by a maid of honour. There must be an end of this.’
Livingstone listened gravely. ‘Do with me as you will, madam. Put me in
my place. What is your pleasure?’
‘To rule my people, child.’
‘Rule, madam, rule. Command me in anything. Forbid me everything, but one
thing.’
‘I shall forbid you what is unwholesome for you, and for me also.’
‘You shall not forbid me to love you,’ said the maid, very white.
‘Nay, that I cannot do!’ cried the Queen, laughing and weeping at once.
So they kissed.
But, for all that, she removed Livingstone from her side, and chose
Fleming. Mr. Secretary, acceptable widower in that lady’s sight, rubbed
his hands over the choice; and Fleming herself was so sweetly gratified
that nobody could grudge her her promotion. She was a gentle-natured,
low-voiced, modest girl, with the meek beauty of an angel in a Milanese
picture. Older than the Queen, she looked younger; whereas Livingstone
was younger and looked older. No doubt this one felt her fall; but, being
as good as gold and as proud as iron, she held her head the higher for
her lower degree, and smiled benevolently at the raptures of the new
favourite.
‘My dear,’ she said to Fleming, ‘do not think that I grudge thee. In
truth, I do not. What I said was done advisedly. I knew what must come
of it; I sought it, and shall put up with it. I have a deal to think on,
these days, and my thoughts will be my night-company.’
‘She will never love me as she loves thee,’ says Fleming; and was
answered:
‘I care not greatly if she do or no; nor will I measure loves with any
one. Our affair the now is to get her fast wedded.’
‘So saith Mr. Secretary at all hours,’ said Fleming.
But Livingstone tossed her head. ‘Fine he knows the heart of a lass, your
Lethington body!’
Fleming looked serious. ‘He hath spoken to me of my Lord of Lennox,’ she
said, in a lower tone. ‘This lord is near akin to our mistress; nearer,
if the truth were known, than the Duke. He hath a likely son in England,
a noble young man—my Lord of Darnley. The Queen of England holds him
dear, and (they say) looketh to him to be her heir.’
Livingstone made an outcry. ‘Then she looketh askew! It is well known to
her and hers who the heir of England is. Who should it be but our own
lady?’
But Fleming persisted in her quiet way. ‘Mr. Secretary speaks of him as
a hopeful prince—having seen and had speech with him. I do but use his
own words. Sir James Melvill writes of him. Mr. Randolph owns him to be
something, though unwillingly. And, says Mr. Secretary, we may depend
upon it that when Mr. Randolph admits some grace in a Scots lord, there
is much grace.’
Livingstone’s open eyes showed that the thing had to be considered.
‘There may be some promise in all of this,’ says she. ‘What you tell me
of Mr. Randolph gives me thoughts. Had he nothing more to own? Has Mary
Beaton got nothing from him?’ English Mr. Randolph, you must know, was
apt to open his heart to Mary Beaton when that brown siren called for it.
‘He told Mary Beaton,’ Fleming replied, ‘that the Queen of England valued
one lord no more than other, until—until—I know not how to put it. In
fine, he said, that if any lord of her court was sought after by another,
then his Queen would need that lord more than any other. Do you follow?’
‘Ay,’ says Livingstone, ‘I follow thee now. My lord of Darnley, he is
called? Why, let him come up then: we can but look at him.’
‘Oh, my dear chuck,’ Fleming protested, ‘princes are not wed by the eyes’
favour.’
‘They have the right to be,’ said her mate; ‘and it is only thus, let
me tell you, that our Queen will be well wedded.’ She grew exceedingly
serious. ‘Look you, Fleming, she is in danger, she is dangerous. I know
very well what is passing up and down between this and the Castle rock.
Ask me not—seek not to learn. It is not enough for her that she contract
with this man or that. I tell you, _she must want him_.’
Fleming blushed painfully, but there was no gainsaying the truth. ‘It is
true, she hath a great spirit.’
‘Ay,’ muttered Livingstone grimly, ‘and needeth a greater.’
‘They say,’ Fleming continued, ‘that the Lord Darnley’s is a royal soul.’
And Livingstone ended the council. ‘Let the young man come up. We can but
look at him.’
* * * * *
Mary Livingstone, the divorced, had a secret of her own, but made very
light of it. The Master of Sempill demanded her person; said he could not
be denied. Her father was willing, and his father more than willing; yet
she laughed it all away. ‘I am husband of the Queen of Scots,’ she said,
‘or was so yesterday. What should I do with the Master?’
The old lord, her father, tapped his teeth. ‘You speak pleasantly,
daughter, of a pleasant privilege of yours. But the Master is a proper
man, who must have a better answer.’
‘Let him bide till I am ready,’ says the good Livingstone.
‘I doubt he will do it, my lass. He may spoil.’
‘Then he is not worth the having, my lord,’ replied the maid. ‘What use
have I for perishable goods?’
The Master chose to wait; and when the Court moved to Saint Andrews he
waited in Fife.
The Court went thither with various great affairs in train, whose conduct
throve in that shrill air. The Queen would work all the forenoon with
Lethington and her useful Italian, play all the rest of the day, and to
bed early. She played at housewifery: bib and tucker, gown pinned back,
all her hair close in a clean coif. The life was simple, the air of
homely keenness, the weather wintry; but the great fire was kind. All
about her made for healthy tastes; inspired the hale beauty of a life
within the allotted fence, a taskwork smoothly done, and God well pleased
in His heaven. Lethington, a pliant man, lent himself to the Queen’s
humour; Signior David was never known to be moody; there were Adam Gordon
and Des-Essars to give their tinge of harmless romance—a thin wash, as it
were, of water-colour over the grey walls. Sir James Melvill, too, who
had been to England upon the high marriage question, and returned, and
was now to go again, arrived, full of importance, for last words. It had
come to this, that the Queen was now to choose a husband.
Sir James was struck by her modest air, that of a tutored maid who knows
that she is called to matronhood. ‘_Ecce ancilla Domini!_’ In truth she
was listening to those very words.
‘I shall strive in all things, Sir James Melvill, to please my good
sister. Whether it be my Lord Robert[1] or my cousin Darnley, I trust I
shall satisfy my well-wishers.’
Soft voice, lowly eyes, timid fingers! ‘Who has been pouring oil upon
this beading wine?’ asked himself Sir James. Who indeed, but Saint
Andrew, with his frosty sea-salt breath?
It was just at this time, as things fell out, that the Earl of Lennox,
father to that ‘hopeful prince’ of Mary Fleming’s report, came to
Scotland, as he said, upon a lawsuit concerning his western lands. But
some suspected another kind of suit altogether; among whom, for the best
of reasons, were the Queen’s brother James, and the Lord of Lethington
the Secretary. Another was Signior David, dæmonic familiar of Monsieur de
Châtelard.
[1] Lord Robert Dudley, later the too-famous Lord of Leicester.