‘Farewell! Farewell! How soon ’tis said!
The wind is off the bay,
The sweeps are out, the sail is spread,
The galley gathers way.
‘Farewell! Farewell! The words, how light!
Yet what can words say more?
Sad hearts are on the sea to-night,
And sadder on the shore.’
Twenty-four hours had elapsed since Chastelâr sang his farewell song in
the little _auberge_ at Calais.
He now stood on the deck of a large galley, manned by a sturdy crew
of rowers, whose efforts, however, were but little assisted by the
light airs that blew off the shore. The ample sail would fill at
intervals, and then flap idly against the mast. The measured stroke
of the oars seemed on that wide expanse of water to have but little
effect in propelling the labouring craft, and the companionship of a
corresponding vessel at some quarter of a mile distance proceeding at
the same rate, and in the same direction, neutralised all appearance
of locomotion. A bright moon shone down upon the Channel; and the
coast of France, still at no great distance, was distinctly visible in
her light. Comparatively little way had been made since the galley’s
departure, nor did her course bear her in a direct line from the
shore. The rowers also had flagged somewhat in their usual efforts.
Rank upon rank, these brawny ruffians chained to their heavy oars were
accustomed to labour doggedly, yet effectually, under the stimulus
of the whip. To-night, however, a gentle voice had interceded even
for the rude galley-slaves, and while they enjoyed this rare respite
from over-exertion, many a foul lip, that had long forgotten to form
anything but curses, writhed itself into an unaccustomed blessing for
the fair widowed Queen of France. Yes, what a strange companionship
in that dark hull, having indeed nothing in common but the thin plank
that was equally the hope of all! Down below, forcing her through the
water, men who had almost lost the outward semblance of humanity, whose
hearts were as black with crime as their bodies were disfigured with
the hardships of their lot; men whom their fellows had been forced to
hunt like wild beasts out of the society of their kind, and to keep
chained and guarded at an enforced labour worse than death; and seated
on deck within ten paces of these convicts, a bevy of the fairest and
gentlest of the human race, a knot of lovely maidens chosen for their
birth, and beauty, and womanly accomplishments, to surround a mistress
who was herself the most fascinating of them all, the very pearl of her
sex, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.
Chastelâr, leaning against the mast, gazed aft upon the deck, and
listened to the talk of Mary and her maidens as they chatted together
in the freedom of that unrestrained intercourse which the Stuarts
have ever encouraged with their household. It was pleasant to hear
the women’s soft tones mingling with the plash of the water, and the
flap of the empty sail; but there was one voice of which every note
thrilled, even painfully, to the poet’s heart.
Mary was reclining on a couch that had been prepared for her against
the taffrail of the vessel. Though the tears were still wet upon her
cheek, and a fresh burst was imminent every time she looked upon the
coast, she could yet force herself to speak gaily, and strove to keep
up the spirits of her maidens with that charm of manner which never
failed her at the very worst.
‘And where is our Duenna?’ said the Queen, archly; ‘I have scarce seen
her since the hour we embarked, when she walked the deck with her head
up and the port of an admiral. D’Amville yonder, studying his charts as
if he were in unknown seas, instead of the ditch that divides France
from Britain, could scarce have looked more seaman-like.’
The young lady she addressed, a provoking specimen of the saucy
style of beauty, with mischievous eyes, the whitest of teeth, and
an exquisite little foot that was always conspicuous, laughed most
unfeelingly in reply.
‘Your Majesty should see her now,’ she said. ‘I shall never call her
proud Mary Beton again. She is below, in the darkest corner of the
cabin. She has buried her head in the cushions. She is ill. She is
frightened, and her velvet dress is creased and tumbled, and stained
all over with sea-water!’
‘You cruel child,’ said the Queen, good-humouredly. ‘Mary Seton, you
are incorrigible. But we must send down to succour her, poor thing!
Ah! it is only a heart-ache like mine that makes one insensible to all
other sufferings. Mary Hamilton is too susceptible--she will be ill
also; but you, Mary Carmichael, you have a kind disposition and a ready
hand. You will not laugh in her face like this saucy girl here; go
down and succour poor Beton. Give her our love--tell her she will yet
be well enough to come and look her last with us on the dear land of
France.’
The young lady whom she addressed rose at once from her occupation,
which, like that of her mistress, seemed to consist in gazing
steadfastly at the French coast, and with a graceful reverence to the
Queen, departed on her errand of consolation.
As she passed Mary Seton, the latter’s quick eye detected a few drops,
it might be of spray, upon her cheek. The Maries could sympathise
with their Queen’s regret in leaving a country that had been to
them a pleasant home; and a woman’s sorrow, as we all know, while it
is more easily cured, is also more easily excited, than that of the
sterner sex. Mary Carmichael’s was not a disposition to give way to
unavailing grief; above all, was one in which the instinct to conceal
strong emotion predominated. With much kindliness of heart and real
good-nature, she was yet somewhat intolerant of weakness in herself
and others. Brave and self-reliant, she could make small allowance for
timidity or vacillation even in her own sex; and had either mental
or bodily pain been able to extort one exclamation of suffering
from her lips, she would have been bitterly ashamed of it a moment
afterwards. To look on her clear blue eyes, her finely-cut and regular
features, her smooth brow, and determined mouth and chin, determined
and uncompromising, despite of red lips, white teeth, and dimples, you
would have decided that the one drawback to her attractions was the
want of that yielding softness which is a woman’s greatest charm. ‘_On
aime ce qu’on protège_;’ and the haughty beauty who humbles while she
conquers, little guesses how a man’s rude heart warms to the gentler
suppliant, who clings to him, and trusts in him, and seems to say
she has but ‘_him_ in the world.’ Masses of soft brown hair, and a
rounded outline of form, feminine and symmetrical, somewhat redeemed
Mary Carmichael’s appearance from the charge of _hardness_. Altogether
she gave the gallants of the French court the impression of a woman
whom it would be difficult to like a _little_, and hazardous to like
_much_. So what with the danger of her charms, and her own dignified
and reserved demeanour, she had received less admiration than was due
to the undoubted beauty of her face and figure.
While she goes below to succour her friend, who is suffering from
sea-sickness, we will give some account of the four ladies of honour,
commonly called the Maries, who waited on the Queen of Scots.
Mary Stuart herself, with all her predilections in favour of France,
a country in which she spent the few tranquil years of her disturbed
and sorrowful life, never suffered her connexion with Scotland to
be weakened or neglected. She kept up an active correspondence with
her mother, Mary of Guise, who held the reins of government with no
inefficient hand in that country, till her death. Many of her household
were Scotch. She showed especial favour to the archer-guard, all of
whom were of Scotch extraction,--favour which, over-estimated and
misunderstood by their captain, the heir of the house of Hamilton, was,
perhaps, the original cause that ‘turned weak Arran’s brain.’ She gave
such appointments in her household, as were nearest her person, to
the Scotch nobility; and she chose for her own immediate attendants,
four young ladies of ancient Scottish families, whose qualifications
were birth, beauty, and the possession of her own Christian name.
‘The Maries,’ as they were called, accordingly occupy a prominent
position in the court-history of the time; and as their number was
always kept up to four, several of the oldest families in Scotland,
such as the Setons, the Flemings, the Livingstones, &c., had the honour
of furnishing recruits to the lovely body-guard. At the time of her
embarkation for Leith, the Queen was accompanied by a very devoted
_quartette_, as conspicuous for their personal attractions as for their
loyalty to their sovereign. It was even rumoured that the faithful
maidens had bound themselves by a vow not to marry till their Queen
did. Be this, however, as it may, not one of them but might have chosen
from the flower of the French Court, had she been so disposed. Nay,
gossips were found to affirm that many a warlike count and stately
marquis would have been happy to take any one of the four; only too
blest in the possession of a Mary, be she Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary
Carmichael, or Mary Hamilton.
A short sketch of each, at the commencement of our narrative, may
serve, perhaps, to prevent confusion, and to elucidate the actions of
some of the humbler characters in our drama. We are of honest Bottom’s
opinion that it is best ‘to call forth the actors generally according
to the scrip. First say what the play treats on; then read the names of
the actors; and so grow to a point.’
We will begin, then, with the eldest of the four--the lady who, with
her head buried in cushions, was groaning afresh at every lurch of
the creaking galley, and who suffered despondently, refusing to be
comforted.
To-day it is scarcely fair to bring her before the public. Yesterday
she might have been seen to the greatest advantage, for Mary Beton was
one of those people who seem to have been placed in the world for the
express purpose of wearing full dress. The most romantic imagination
could not have associated her with homely duties, _déshabille_, or
dishevelled hair; and the Queen used to observe, laughingly, that he
must be a bold man who could venture to ask her hand for a galliard,
and contemplate the possibility of disarranging a fold of her robe,
even in that stateliest of measures.
And yet she was handsome, too, in a cold, unfeeling, haughty style.
She had large handsome eyes, and a large handsome figure, and large
handsome hands, which she loved to display. She was perfect in all
matters of court _étiquette_, in which it was impossible to find her
tripping, and would have died rather than ’bate one of the accustomed
ceremonies with which she delighted to glorify her mistress and
herself. When she stood behind the throne with the Queen’s gloves in
her hand, she was the admiration of all chamberlains, grand carvers,
seneschals, and such court officials, so unmoved and dignified was
her bearing, so scrupulously rigid her demeanour, so completely
did she sink the woman in the maid-of-honour. And her disposition
corresponded with her lofty manners, and her fine, well-dressed form.
Less unfeeling than careless of all matters that did not appertain
directly or indirectly to the court, she neither seemed to seek nor to
afford sympathy for the petty vexations and annoyances which a little
_coterie_ of women is pretty sure to find or create for itself. None
of the Maries ever went to her for advice and assistance, only for
instructions and commands. Though but little their senior, she was
always considered and treated as a kind of lady-superior by the other
three, and even the Queen used to call her jestingly ‘The Duenna,’
and vowed that she never felt so unlike a Stuart as, when after some
trifling breach of court _étiquette_, she encountered the tacit rebuke
of Mary Beton’s grave, cold eye.
If she _had_ a weakness, it was ambition. If there was any one road
that led to her heart, it must have been through the portals of a
palace, along tapestried passages, between lines of bowing lackeys,
with a gentleman-usher at each turning to point out the way. She
wrapped herself in the folds of a majestic decorum, and paced along
the journey of life gravely and disposedly, as if it were a minuet.
What a contrast to laughing, roguish, Mary Seton, that Will-o’-the-wisp
in petticoats, who flitted hither and thither amongst the courtiers,
and pervaded every apartment of the palace with the air of a spoiled
child whom nobody ventured to thwart or to chide. White-headed
statesmen, grave ambassadors, ponderous in the double weight of
their sovereign’s dignity and their personal appearance, iron-handed
warriors, and haughty cardinals, all acknowledged the influence of the
bewitching little maid-of-honour; and it seemed that the most devoted
of her slaves were those whose years and station afforded the strongest
contrast to her own.
The constable himself, the famous Montmorency, from whom the faintest
gesture of approval could have lured every brave man in France
willingly to death, would follow her about like a tame dog, and
Cardinal Lorraine, churchmen though he were, would have entrusted
her with state secrets that he scarcely ventured to whisper to
his own pillow. She might have done a deal of mischief if she had
chosen, that lively, laughing, little maiden. Fortunately she was
thoroughly good-natured--so heedless that she forgot in the afternoon
everything that was told her in the morning, and had, moreover, not
the slightest taste for mystery or political intrigue. It would be
difficult to say what was the especial charm people found in Mary
Seton. Her features were irregular, and her figure, though exquisitely
shaped, of the smallest. Dark eyes and eyelashes, with a profusion
of light hair, gave a singular expression to the upper part of her
face, whilst a mischievous smile, disclosing the pearliest of teeth,
completed all the personal attractions of which she could boast. It
was, indeed, one of those _haunting_ faces, which, once seen, make
an unaccountable impression, and which, if ever permitted to engrave
themselves on the heart, do so in lines that are not to be obliterated
without considerable pain. There was something _piquante_, too, in her
continual restlessness. Even here, on shipboard, she could not be still
for five minutes together. She had already pervaded the whole vessel
from stem to stern, above and below, nor was her curiosity satisfied
till she had personally inspected the poor galley-slaves, returning to
the Queen, brimful of the private history of the two or three greatest
criminals amongst them, with which, according to custom, she had made
herself familiar, ere she had been an hour on board. Her mistress,
though in no merry mood, could not forbear being amused.
‘I believe,’ said she, ‘that you would rather work, chained to an oar,
like these poor wretches, than sit still.’
And Mary Seton replied, demurely--
‘Indeed, madam, idleness is the parent of evil; and, doubtless, even at
the galleys, my good behaviour would soon raise me to be captain of the
gang.’
A pair of dark eyes, that had hitherto been fixed on some object
amidships, were raised in wonder to the laughing speaker, reproachful,
as it were, of her levity at such a time; and Mary Hamilton’s beautiful
face, paler and more beautiful than ever in the moonlight, seemed
to take a deeper shade of sadness as she resumed the occupation in
which she had been interrupted with an unconscious sigh. Sitting at
the Queen’s feet, she was ready, as usual, at the shortest notice, to
fulfil her mistress’s wishes; but the latter remarked, with concern,
that her favourite maid-of-honour had been silent for hours, and
that the novelties incidental to their situation had failed to rouse
her from the abstraction in which, of late, she had been habitually
plunged. It grieved the Queen’s kind heart, for, though she loved the
others dearly, perhaps she loved Mary Hamilton the best of all; and it
was no wonder. Beautiful as she was, with her large solemn eyes and her
black hair, framing the oval of a perfect face, pale and serene like
an autumn evening, with her tall graceful figure and womanly gestures,
there was yet an undefinable charm about Mary Hamilton that seemed
independent of all outward advantages; as though she must still have
been lovable, had she been old, ugly, and deformed.
It is a melancholy, nay, a morbid sentiment which bids us feel in all
exceeding beauty something akin to sorrow--and yet, who will deny
the uncomfortable fact? Perhaps it arises from the longing after
perfection which appertains to our immortality. Perhaps it is but
the hopeless consciousness that our ideal can never be attained. At
least the feeling exists; and in Mary Hamilton’s beauty, doubtless,
the melancholy element predominated. It did not make her the less
beloved, we may be sure; and the black-eyed maid-of-honour was worthy
of the attachments she kindled wherever she was known. A kinder heart
than hers never beat beneath a bodice. Wherever she heard of a sorrow,
however trivial the cause, she was there to soothe. Utterly unselfish,
she was ever ready to sacrifice her own will, her own amusements, her
own advantage, to the lightest wish of another. And although the very
sentinels at the palace-gate blessed her for her beauty, as she passed
through, she seemed the only person about the Court who was insensible
to her own attractions. Gentle, yielding, trusting, and enthusiastic,
here was a woman ready prepared and bound, as it were, for the
sacrifice. Need we say the victim could not fail to be offered up?
Meanwhile, the galley strained and laboured on. The dripping oars fell
with measured cadence on the water; but the land-breeze, dying away
towards midnight, refused to second the efforts of the rowers, so that
the distance from the French seaboard appeared scarcely to increase.
The Queen evinced no intention of going to rest. Reclining on deck, she
kept her eyes fixed on the cherished land she was so loth to leave,
and inwardly longed for a storm, or any other contingency, that should
drive them back into port, and give her a few more days’ respite from
her banishment.
Probably so unwilling a journey was never taken to claim a crown; and
yet Mary was accompanied by many good friends, and true affectionate
relatives, and loyal subjects, all anxious to see her securely
established on the Scottish throne. Another galley of like tonnage
accompanied her with a portion of her household, whilst two ships of
war furnished an escort, by no means unnecessary, for Elizabeth’s
friendship was little to be relied on, and England, as usual, commanded
the Channel with her fleet.
On board the Queen’s own ship, d’Amville had taken the personal
command, and studiously refrained from indulgence in the society of
his charge, lest her fascinating conversation should have seduced him
from his seaman-like duties. D’Amville, too, had long since yielded to
the charm of that beautiful face, which only to look on was to love,
and worshipped the Queen of Scotland with a devotion as touching as it
was chivalrous in its hopeless generosity;--d’Amville, who sat now in
the small dimly-lighted cabin, with his charts before him, and pressed
to his bosom the Cyprus silk handkerchief of which we have already
heard--the one treasure prized by that loyal, manly heart--the guerdon
for which he gave up ambition, and comfort, and even hope. Truly there
are strange bargains driven in love, reminding us of our traffic in
beads, and brass, and tinsel, with naked savages--a few inches of silk,
a half-worn glove, a thread of soft hair, in exchange for the noblest
efforts of body and mind, the best years of life, perhaps the eternity
of an immortal soul! Not that the coveted prize is reserved for such
adoration. Alas! that it should be so. Rude hands pluck down the fruit
that fond eyes have gazed on for so many sunny hours in vain, and the
Sabine maiden loves her Roman bridegroom none the less that he carried
her off by sheer force of manhood, not, perhaps, entirely so reluctant
as she seemed.
Chastelâr had been standing motionless for a considerable period,
leaning against the mast, apparently wrapped in meditation. At a signal
from the Queen, however, his whole bearing altered, his face lighted
up, and in an instant he was at her side. Mary Hamilton changed her
position somewhat restlessly, and Mary Seton, rejoicing in the capture
of a fresh listener, immediately took upon herself to communicate the
commands of her mistress.
‘Fair sir,’ said the laughing maid-of-honour, ‘although you are
certainly an ornamental object, measuring your stature yonder against
the mast, you will be more useful here, at Her Majesty’s feet, to give
us some information as to the progress of our voyage. Doubtless you are
in Monsieur d’Amville’s confidence, who seems to think himself relieved
of all care of us, now he has got his unprotected charge fairly out to
sea.’
‘Hush! madcap,’ said the Queen. ‘And do you, Chastelâr, go below and
inquire of our courteous commander whether by to-morrow at daybreak
we shall, indeed, have lost sight of our beloved France. Already the
beacon off the harbour is low down on the horizon, and the weather
seems thickening to windward. Ah! the next lights we see will be on the
bleak shores of Scotland--a dark, sad voyage, indeed, with a dreary
termination!’
The poet bowed low and retired to fulfil the royal commands, whilst the
Queen, leaning her white arms upon the bulwark, gazed longingly towards
the shore. Tears coursed each other down her beautiful face, as she
murmured forth her unavailing sorrow in such broken sentences as these--
‘France! France! my own beloved France! I shall never see you again.
Country of my adoption! country of my love! Ah! it is sad to step at
once, like this, from youth to age; it is cruel to feel still young and
hopeful and capable of happiness, and to know that the bright days have
departed from us for evermore. Poor Dido! you too gazed, in your agony,
upon the sea, as I look ever towards the land; and your fond heart
ached as mine aches now, and broke at last, as mine, I feel, will break
ere long. My case is worse than yours; you had at least your home and
country left, though you lost your Trojan love that the sea gave you,
and the sea took back again!’
Whilst she spoke, she felt Mary Hamilton’s cold lips pressed against
her hand. The kind heart, alas! itself not wholly ignorant of sorrow,
could not bear to witness the sufferings of its mistress. Her other
maid-of-honour, however, took a livelier view of their position, and
was not slow to express her dissent.
‘Nay, madam,’ said she; ‘Dido gave up a throne for a bonfire, as I
have heard your Majesty relate, whereas you are but losing sight of
that faint beacon over yonder for the certainty of a crown. Besides,
are there not Trojans in plenty where we are bound? What say you, Mary
Hamilton? we need not look long for an Æneas a-piece, without counting
those we take across with us. Listen, there is one of them singing even
now.’
Mary Hamilton felt her face burning in the darkness, though none could
see her blush; and indeed, whilst her companion spoke, the Calais
light sank beneath the black line of the horizon. As it disappeared,
Chastelâr’s mellow voice was heard, rising above the rush and ripple of
the water and the jerk of the massive oars.
‘What need have we of beacon sheen
To warn us or to save,
With the star-bright eyes of our lovely Queen
Guiding us o’er the wave?
‘What need have we of a following tide?
What need of a smiling sky?
’Tis sunshine ever at Mary’s side,
And summer when she is by.
‘Her glances, like the day-god’s light,
On each and all are thrown;
Like him she shines, impartial, bright,
Unrivall’d, and alone.
‘Alone! alone! an ice-queen’s lot,
Though dazzling on a throne;
Ah! better to love in the lowliest cot
Than pine in a palace--alone!’
As he concluded, the singer approached Her Majesty with the information
she had sent him to seek.
Softened by her sorrows, influenced by the time, the scene, the
devotion of her follower, feeling now more than ever the value of such
kind adherents, what could Mary do but reach him graciously the white
hand that was not the least attractive of her peerless charms? And if
Chastelâr pressed it to his lips with a fervour that partook more of
the lover’s worship than the subject’s loyalty, what less was to be
expected from an overwrought imagination, and a susceptible heart,
thus brought in contact with the most fascinating woman of the age?
And the Queen drew away her hand hurriedly, rather than unkindly,
with a consciousness not wholly displeasing, and Mary Seton looked
discreetly into the far distance, as though there was something
unusually interesting in that dull expanse of sea. And Mary Hamilton,
clasping both hands tightly to her heart, leaned her head against the
bulwark, and said nothing; but rose, as if intensely relieved, when an
increasing bustle on board the galley, and a general movement amongst
its inmates, denoted some fresh alarm, and the necessity for increased
watchfulness and exertion.
It was even so. Their consort, holding a parallel course at no great
distance, had caught sight of the English cruisers, who, whatever might
be their orders from ‘good Queen Bess,’ were as much mistrusted by
d’Elbœuf in his command of the Scottish Queen’s little squadron, as by
d’Amville who took her own galley under his especial charge. In those
days the sea and land services were not so distinct as now.
Signals were exchanged between the two galleys to make all possible
speed, and the slaves, grateful for Mary’s interposition on their
behalf, laid to their oars with a will, in a manner that could never
have been extorted from them by the lash. As there was but little wind,
they soon increased their distance from the English men-of-war, who,
however, came up with and captured one of the French ships containing
the Earl of Eglinton and the Queen’s favourite saddle-horses. Mary
herself, nevertheless, escaped their vigilance, and an increasing fog
soon shrouded the little convoy from its pursuers.
Thus in darkness and danger, too ominous, alas! of her subsequent
career, Mary Stuart sped on towards the coast of Scotland, leaving
behind her the sunny plains of her beloved France, as she left behind
her the bright days of her youth,--days that she seemed instinctively
to feel were never to dawn for her again through the storms and clouds
that brooded over the destinies of her future kingdom.