‘Night by night must I pace the shore,
Longing, lingering, to and fro,
Questioning, “May I not see her once more,
Alice of Ormskirk?” answering--“No!”
‘And still the echoing sea-cave rings
With one unceasing pitiless strain;
And still the wild wave dashes and sings--
“Never again, love! never again.”’
The episode of idolatry and madness was fast drawing to a close. When
the Queen and her household went to establish themselves in the lodging
where they designed to pass the night, Chastelâr remained on the
beach, apparently unconscious of all about him, gazing out to seaward,
as a man does who is utterly lost to the interests and occupations of
the shore. Amongst the many mysterious sympathies that connect natural
objects so inexplicably with the mind, there is a strange affinity
between human sorrow and the watery element--be it the gentle ripple of
a running stream, or the dash and recoil of the mounting wave breaking
on the beach, or the dark-blue line of a sea-horizon clear against the
sky.
There is some morbid attraction to mortal grief in the contemplation of
each of these; there is something that takes man out of himself, and
though it speaks not of hope or consolation, seems to promise oblivion
and repose at last. Ay, we love to prate of the beauties of nature, to
enlarge upon the pleasures of smiling skies and gorgeous landscapes and
magnificent scenery. Are we quite honest about the effect produced by
such objects? and can we declare that they create sensations of unmixed
gratification? On the contrary, most of us, if sincere, will confess
that when we were happy, we took very little notice of them; and it was
but in some keen, hopeless sorrow we turned to nature for an anodyne,
and found she added sharpness to our pangs and mocked us with a smile
as she poured fresh venom into the wound. No; if we would be consoled,
we must look to where the running stream loses itself in the ocean that
we have never seen; we must carry our thoughts athwart the far horizon
in search of the eternal shore; we must strain our eyes to pierce the
smiling heaven, and catch if but a glimpse of the undying world beyond.
Chastelâr paced to and fro upon the sand with all the worst passions of
our nature tearing at a heart that yet seemed formed for better things.
Utterly undisciplined in his wild, imaginative character, he had never
prepared himself for such complete desolation as this. For many years,
more than he now dared count, the smiles of that beautiful Queen had
been to him dearer than the very air he breathed. A less enthusiastic
temperament would have asked itself long ago to what result this abject
service, this blind adoration, could eventually lead, and would, at
least, have prepared for the final shock, which it required little
sagacity to foresee must sooner or later tumble the magic edifice to
the ground; but Chastelâr’s was a character that never stops to count
the cost.
There was to him an unspeakable joy in the very abandonment of his
attachment, in the lavish devotion which only asked to be received
without return. Full of a generous fire kindled in his own ardent
imagination, and nourished by those seductive follies which constituted
the very essence of an age of chivalry, it seemed to him as rich a
happiness to cherish his hopeless attachment for the Queen, as it would
have seemed to a coarser and stronger mind to possess itself of Mary’s
heart and person. The poet never dreamed the time could come when he
should be told that even this self-sacrifice was unwelcome; that for
one unguarded word, wrung from him by the very depth and tenderness of
his feelings, he should be banished from her presence, and that she who
was the light of his eyes should herself determine that he must look
upon her no more.
Presently the devil got into his heart; the rebellious spirit, that
is never so strong as when men feel they have been virtuous and
self-denying in vain, rose tumultuous now, all the fiercer for having
been kept down so long, and urged the counsels of despair. Of what
availed his old and faithful service, his constancy, his loyalty, his
obedience, and truth? She flung them away as nothing, and less than
nothing; she could take his warm fresh heart from him when it suited
her, as a mere matter of pastime, and squeezing it, as one would
squeeze an orange, give it him back again when she had no further use
for it, all withered and empty, the very essence of its existence gone.
Queen though she were, she had no right to do this. She forbade him her
presence! He would see her whether she would or no! He had done with
obedience now, and discretion and consideration! He would speak to Mary
Stuart once more, if all the devils in hell rose to prevent it!
Turning on his steps he strode fiercely along the now solitary shore in
the direction of the hamlet of Burntisland, where the Queen was to pass
the night. Already the day was waning, and the evening mist, gathering
from the eastward, crept slowly up the margin of the Firth. A light
drizzling rain had also begun to fall, and the sea-gulls, no longer
floating in repose, were screaming and turning restlessly on the wing,
as they flitted to and fro in search of shelter for the night. Boatmen
and fishwives had betaken themselves to their homes, and none were left
to witness the gestures of anger and despair with which the unhappy
Chastelâr accompanied his racking, maddening thoughts. He wrapped his
cloak round him, and walked faster and faster as he began to shape his
resolve.
But within a short distance of the hamlet he met a figure approaching
him through the increasing gloom: a female figure cloaked and hooded,
walking swiftly, yet with smooth, majestic gait, and of a stature that
seemed unusually lofty in that uncertain light. For an instant the
blood gathered round his heart as a possibility flashed across him that
even in his madness he could scarcely dare believe. In that space of
time a thousand frantic surmises swept through his brain. Reaction,
remorse, a woman’s pity, and a woman’s tenderness, overriding all, even
the reserve and dignity of a Queen. But the foolish fancies died out
rapidly as they arose, for the figure stopped, handed him in silence a
small packet tied round with a morsel of silk (he could notice such a
trifle even then), and while she threw back her hood with a gesture of
relief, the clear, guileless eyes of Mary Hamilton looked him sadly and
inquiringly in the face.
She spoke not for a while; she seemed to stop and take breath; then she
said, very quietly and coldly--
‘The Queen bade me bring you this. She says it must be forwarded
without delay.’
He bowed courteously. He had recovered himself now, for he had a scheme
in view, and shaping it out rapidly in his working brain, he bethought
him that here was an unconscious instrument which he might turn to good
account.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked, forcing himself to smile.
A bright blush swept over the maid-of-honour’s forehead, but she paled
again almost immediately as she replied--
‘I saw you from our window walking on the shore. I knew it was you, and
I asked to bring the packet myself because they tell me you are going
away to-night, and I was anxious to bid you farewell.’
This was a great deal for Mary Hamilton to say. No successful gallant
could have wrung such an avowal from her lips; but the keen eye of
affection had told her that Chastelâr was dejected and unhappy; so she
longed to console him and speak kindly to him ere he went away.
Should he not have pitied her? He who knew what it was to love in vain?
Of all women on earth he should have spared _her_; but the devil had
entered into him and he saw in this pure, unselfish affection a way to
his own object; so she, too, must be sacrificed without remorse. What
did it matter? Was _he_ alone to suffer and be trampled under foot?
‘It was good of you, Mistress Hamilton,’ he replied, with a soft glance
from his dark eyes, that made her flush and tremble where she stood.
‘Few but yourself would have been so considerate, and I should have
valued the kindness as much from _none_. Shall I leave _one_ person at
Court to regret me when I am gone?’
‘More than that,’ she answered, hurriedly, and scarce knowing what she
said, ‘there will be no music for us now, at least none worth listening
to. The Queen said so herself--and--and--are you not coming back again?’
‘Never!’ he replied, darkly; and then, seeing her scared and troubled
face, adding, with a laugh, ‘Never is a long word, is it not? and who
can tell in such a country as this what a few months may bring? But I
shall be absent a weary while, Mistress Hamilton, and I cannot bear
unkindness from those I love. I would not willingly be forgotten and
supplanted by newer faces.’
Her eloquent eyes told him _that_ was impossible, but she dared not
trust herself to speak.
‘Will you think of me when I am gone?’ he proceeded, in a lower tone,
and pressing nearer his companion’s side. ‘When you are feasting
merrily at Holyrood, and enjoying dance and song and revelry, will you
not keep one little corner in your heart for the absent who used to do
all in his poor power to make your time pass pleasantly, who will be
thinking every hour so sadly and longingly of you?’
Even in the midst of her astonished happiness she experienced a shadowy
misgiving that it was too good to be real; but she could only reply--
‘You must think very poorly of us all, Chastelâr, if you imagine we
could ever forget you.’
‘It is not distance that can separate those who care for each other,’
resumed the poet, dreamily; ‘after all, it is thought that unites
soul to soul; that sea-bird’s wing would droop ere he had traversed a
thousand miles of ocean, and yet twice the distance separates the lover
from his mistress no more than a score of yards and a brick wall. He
can be with her in spirit, although his body may be at the uttermost
end of the earth. Nevertheless, for all this, Mistress Hamilton, it
grieves me sore to bid you farewell.’
She could have listened to him for an hour; she loved to hang on his
musical accents, and drink in the tones of his rich, southern voice;
above all, were such sentiments as these congenial to her own lofty
conceptions of an ideal, and her trusting, clinging heart.
He was pitiless; he went on speaking low and hurriedly--
‘We may not meet again for many, many months--perhaps never in this
world. Do you think I am a man of marble that I cannot feel? Do you
think _mine_ is a happy lot, thus to leave all I value or esteem and
take not even hope with me into exile? Mary Hamilton, you will not
refuse me what I ask you on such a day as this?’
‘I would give my life for yours,’ she answered, scarce above her
breath. ‘What is it you would have me do?’
‘Listen,’ he replied. ‘I must be in the saddle soon after nightfall.
For reasons I cannot explain to you, it must be supposed by the
household that I have departed at sun-down. My very life is in danger,
if I am known to have remained. I cannot tell you why. Do you trust me?’
She bowed her head.
‘I trust you,’ she answered, very quietly, and he needed only to look
in her face for confirmation of her words.
‘Then grant me my request,’ he resumed. ‘It is a foolish fancy of
mine, but _you_ at least cannot blame, though you may scoff at it.
There is one person whom I must see the very last before I depart.
One face of which I must take the picture with me, into banishment,
engraven on my heart, one hand of which the farewell pressure must
remain on mine till we meet again. An hour after supper I will be at
the door of the small garden into which your apartments open. You will
meet me there for the last, _last_ time?’
She looked a good deal frightened and discomposed.
‘But I shall not be dismissed so soon,’ she urged, ‘and if I am absent
they will come to look for me everywhere, and oh! I ought not! I ought
not!’
He was prepared for her objection--he knew the Queen’s habit so
well--this was exactly what he wanted.
‘Nay, then,’ he resumed, ‘I will ask you to risk nothing for my sake;
and yet, see the last of the dear face, I must and will. The days are
short now. It is already twilight, and it will be as dark as midnight
in an hour. I will go make my preparations for departure. Do you, as
you enter, unlock the garden-door and take the key with you; it cannot
then be fastened from the inside. I will conceal myself amongst the
shrubs and wait for you there. As soon as you are dismissed for the
night you can come out and bid me farewell.’
‘It is better not,’ she murmured, in sad perturbation. She could not
bear to refuse him, and yet all her womanly feelings revolted at
the clandestine nature of such a proceeding. ‘We are close at home
now. All good attend you, Chastelâr. I will pray for you night and
morning--farewell!’
She gave him her hand, as if to take her final leave, but she had not
the heart to withdraw it at once. It lingered long and lovingly in his
clasp.
‘Mary!’ said he, and the dear name came so tenderly off his lips.
‘Mary! you will not let me part from you thus?’
‘I will do as you wish,’ was all she answered, once more dropping the
hood over her face and hurrying away. They were within a stone’s throw
of the Queen’s lodging, and it was already time for her to resume her
duties. Her mind was in a sad tumult when she left him. She felt she
was going to do wrong, deliberately wrong; yet how could she refuse
him? She loved him so, and he was going away!
With a wicked smile, suggestive of anything but mirth or happiness,
engraven, as it were, on his countenance, Chastelâr strode up the
narrow street to the stable in which his trusty chestnut was disposed.
This animal was a gift from the Queen, and valued accordingly. We
would fain describe him from his velvet muzzle to his flinty hoofs,
for where shall we find so seductive a theme as the beauty of a horse?
but will only observe that he was in every respect a fitting present
from royalty. The Frenchman ordered his favourite to be saddled with
considerable parade, and spoke loudly of the journey before him. Then,
ostentatiously assuming his arms and valise, mounted and rode away in
the direction of Dunfermline, followed, as his figure disappeared in
the gloom, by the admiring glances of such ostlers and retainers as his
noisy departure had gathered to observe him.
For a mile or so he proceeded along the coast, and then, turning off
the horse-track into the recess of an old quarry, dismounted and
fastened his horse to the roots of a whin-bush, growing from the chinks
in the cold blue stone. For all his feverish excitement, he disposed
the animal in a nook sheltered from the chill east wind, and taking his
own cloak from about him cast it over the flanks of his dumb friend.
Then, with a farewell pat, he returned on foot the way he had come,
rapidly and breathlessly, never stopping till he reached the hamlet
of Burntisland, and saw the lights twinkling once more in the Queen’s
lodging.
He stole softly to the garden-gate, of which he had spoken to Mary
Hamilton. It opened noiselessly to his push. By this time it was
quite dark, and on entering the enclosure he found no necessity for
concealment amongst the scanty shrubs it contained. Here he drew off
his heavy horseman’s boots with extreme caution, and thus, with his
rapier at his side, and his pistols in his belt, took up his position
close against the door of the house, which opened outwards.
Here he waited, watched, and listened. A drizzling rain was falling,
and the wind was very keen, but, though stripped to his doublet and
hose, Chastelâr was unconscious of the weather. Had he been immersed in
snow, he could scarce have felt cold while that fever burned and raged
so fiercely at his heart.