‘For this is love, and this alone,
Not counting cost, nor grudging gain,
That builds its life into a throne,
And bids the idol reign;
‘That hopes and fears, yet seldom pleads,
And for a sorrow weakly borne
(Because it yields not words but deeds),
Can hide a gentle scorn;
‘In pride and pique that takes no part,
Of self and sin that bears no taint,
The homage of a knightly heart
For a woman and a saint.’
The four borderers rode up the High Street of Edinburgh in the warm
afternoon sun, and their leader, fortified doubtless by the sprig of
witch-elm in his head-piece, and inspirited by his arrival at the
Scotch capital, looked about him with the gleeful curiosity of a
schoolboy on a holiday.
On any other occasion, though troops of armed horsemen were by no means
a rare sight on the causeway, so well-mounted and stalwart a little
party would have received their share of admiration; but to-day no
man had eyes to spare for any other object than a brilliant group of
foot-passengers surrounding two commanding figures, which neither their
own nor any other country in Europe could have matched.
No more in widow’s weeds, but bright and beautiful in all the freshness
of her own charms, set off by the splendour of her dress, Mary Stuart
walked by her young husband, the _beau ideal_ of a monarch’s bride: her
husband _de facto_ if not _de jure_, for a private marriage some weeks
since in Riccio’s apartments had united the destinies of the lovers,
and paved the way for that public ceremony which should confer on the
fortunate young noble the crown-matrimonial of Scotland.
Alas for Mary Stuart! even in those happy days of courtship, which for
most women glow so brightly; immediately before and after the nuptial
tie she was doomed to many anxieties and misgivings, originating in
the ungovernable temper of the very man for whose sake she had braved
Elizabeth of England’s displeasure, affronted a large and powerful
party of her subjects, perhaps even stifled and eradicated certain deep
though unacknowledged memories in her own heart. Although with the
utmost haste Darnley had been created Earl of Ross, he was dissatisfied
that he had not been immediately raised to the Dukedom of Albany, and
vented his displeasure in no measured language even on her from whose
open hand he received all the benefits he enjoyed, and whose beauty
alone, bending so tenderly over himself, should have commanded his
entire allegiance.
Perhaps the Queen loved him none the worse for his petulance at first;
perhaps it was not till long afterwards, when unlimited indulgence
and increasing depravity had fostered the spoiled and wayward youth
into a reckless and unfeeling profligate, that she may have contrasted
Darnley’s open insults and avowed indifference with the devotion of
other worshippers, who, however faulty in many respects, had never
failed in faith and loyalty towards _her_.
Darnley’s exterior was indeed beautiful exceedingly, but it covered a
disposition in which there were no brilliant qualities of the head to
counterbalance the evil of the heart. The Earl of Ross was unfortunate
in the possession of dishonesty without craft, indecision without
foresight, and obstinacy without energy. Like a woman, he could not
restrain his tongue; unlike a woman, he never knew the exact range and
precision with which that organ is able to direct its shafts.
Even on his sick-bed at Stirling, when it was first obvious to him
that he had won his way into his Sovereign’s good graces, and that a
little time and care could not but make the game his own,--even then,
when it was essentially important to cement friendships and conciliate
differences in every direction, he contrived to affront the two most
formidable men in Scotland and purchase their enmity for life. To
the Duke of Chatelhêrault, simply because he heard that nobleman was
opposed to Her Majesty’s immediate marriage, he sent his defiance from
his sick-bed, not couched in the language of knightly courtesy, which
shows a gracious respect even for a mortal foe, but threatening to
‘knock his old pate as soon as he should be well enough.’
We may imagine how such a message would be received by one who boasted
he was the proudest peer in Europe. But an observation he made
concerning the Earl Moray, and which did not fail to reach the latter’s
ears, was even more ill-advised in its tendency and unfortunate in its
results.
Scanning a map of Scotland, some one pointed out to him the vast
estates of the Queen’s half-brother, and the inconsiderate youth
exclaimed hastily--
‘This is too much by half!’
So untoward a remark was of course repeated to Moray, who received the
information with his usual grave smile, and never made further allusion
to it. So much the worse. He had forgotten it none the less for that,
and it may be those half-dozen words one day cost Mary Stuart a husband
and Scotland a king.
Meantime, who so brave in apparel or so _débonnaire_ in demeanour as
the young Lord Darnley? The eyes of all Edinburgh are upon him as he
paces along so proudly by the side of their ‘bonny Queen.’ His dress,
as it is fit, is one blaze of splendour; the materials indeed are
unpaid for, and the jewels are mostly love-gifts from his Sovereign,
yet they set off none the worse his lofty stature and his graceful
form. The women look after him admiringly; the men’s gaze is as usual
riveted on the beautiful being who walks by his side. Mary Stuart has
never shown to more advantage than to-day. It is not the stately folds
of the damask dress, nor the delicate edging of scalloped lace, nor
the rich mantle of glowing _cramoisie_ that enthral the eyes in an
irresistible spell; nor needs it that massive bracelet hanging from
her shapely arm, which men say dark Lord Ruthven fabricated for a
love-charm, with Satan standing over him while he worked, to account
for Mary’s influence; they need but to look on the bright smile and the
deep, loving eyes turned in pride and tenderness upon her husband, and
they feel in their inmost hearts that there is no witchery in all the
lore of gramarye to equal the resistless power that lurks in a fond and
trusting woman’s face.
Darnley has turned back for an instant to exchange some light jest
with one of the maids-of-honour; it must be of a strangely confusing
nature to account for the vivid blush that has come over Mary Seton,
dyeing her fair skin perfectly crimson from the roots of her hair to
the hem of her bodice. ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ riding up the street and
watching intently the motions of the royal party, does not perceive it
for the simple and somewhat paradoxical reason that, although he has
been hoping to see her the whole way from Hermitage, no sooner has he
caught her eye than his own glance is immediately withdrawn. He turns
deadly pale, too, and the hand which guides his charger’s rein trembles
in every fibre; the good horse bends his neck and collects himself,
expectant of some further indication after this unusual touch.
Perhaps, poor Dick, with all his courage, might have ridden on into
Fife without more parley, so helpless and abashed had he suddenly
become, but that the Queen’s quick glance observed the cognisance of
the Hepburn as he rode by, even recognised the tall retainer’s face,
and could have accosted him by name. There was a faint flush on Mary’s
brow as she stopped her company and bade the borderer approach. Dick
was off his horse in an instant, and the courtiers could not but admire
his magnificent form as he strode up to them in his clanging armour,
manning himself for the effort, now he was in for it, with his natural
audacity. Mary Seton did not fail to remark, with no displeased eye,
that even Darnley, tall as he was, stood half a hand’s-breadth lower
than the henchman.
‘What news from Hermitage, good fellow?’ said the Queen, accepting
Dick’s awkward homage with gracious courtesy. ‘How fares it with our
Lord Warden yonder on the Marches? Mayhap he is coming northward with
the main body, of which you are but the vanguard?’
She spoke with something of flutter and hurry that was scarce natural
to her. Perhaps she wished the retainer to know that she bore his
sullen lord no ill-will; perhaps she even expected her vassal to return
to her feet in penitence and contrition; perhaps in her woman’s heart,
even now she could not but revert to the old times, when Bothwell’s
haste regarded neither pace nor horseflesh to gallop on far ahead of
his following, only to be the first to kneel at his Queen’s feet and
touch the hem of her garment.
Dick answered stoutly, though in some confusion--
‘The Laird’s no ailing in body, Your Grace, though he wad be nane the
waur to be whiles in the saddle a wee thing. The Hepburns’ feet aye
become steel stirrups better than velvet mules.[12] He’s less wise-like
than ordinar’,’ added Dick, with a shrewd glance in Her Majesty’s face;
‘but I’m thinkin’ he’ll bide in Liddesdale a whiley yet.’
[12] Slippers.
Mary laughed good-humouredly. It did not seem to displease her that
Bothwell should be sullen and dispirited. Yet she bore him no grudge
for it, obviously; rather the contrary.
‘The Liddesdale lads are aye welcome at Holyrood,’ said she frankly,
and with the Scottish accent she knew how to assume so gracefully.
‘Take a Stuart’s word for it,’ she added, giving him at the same time
her hand to kiss, ‘both for yourself and your chief.’
‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ kissed the beautiful hand with the devotion of a
worshipper to a saint; but his eyes wandered beyond the royal form and
sought that of a lady in her train.
At this moment Darnley came up from behind and accosted the henchman
with his usual overbearing assumption of manner.
‘How now, whom have we here, my fair cousin?’ said the young noble,
flinging a contemptuous glance at the borderer. ‘An ambassador from
Limbo Castle, sometimes called Hermitage, by his crest! Accredited
messenger from all the thieves and sorners in the Debateable Land. How
ranges the price of good nags on the Border, knave? The nights are
moonless just now, though they be something short; the droves should be
coming in pretty fast from Cumberland.’
The moss-trooper’s eye brightened.
‘If it was Her Grace’s wish,’ said he, looking respectfully towards the
Queen, ‘we could bring the wale[13] o’ the countryside up to Holyrood
in a fortnight from this day. Lord Scrope rides a soar gelding,’ he
added, warming with the congenial subject, ‘that steps as daintily
as a bird lights on a bough. Forbye the colour would become rarely
Her Grace’s housings and foot-mantle. If I might make so bold, I wad
engage he should be in Her Majesty’s stable or he was weel missed at
Warkworth. I wad send ain o’ my lads back for him this very night!’
[13] Pick.
Darnley burst into a loud mocking laugh.
‘A thorough moss-trooper,’ he exclaimed, ‘rider, jackman, plunderer,
thief; call them what you will, they are all alike; fit followers of
such a chief. Were I king of Scotland I would have the halters off the
horses and put them on the men, and string them up in rows with this
tall knave at their head, not forgetting his worthy master, the leader
of the gang.’
The young man spoke in laughing boisterous accents that might be taken
either for jest or earnest, but the borderer’s face flushed dark-red,
and the fingers of his left hand closed like a vice upon his sheathed
sword.
‘If ever you _are_ king of Scotland,’ said he, ‘may ye die no less
noble a death than him who lay by the Till, yon summer’s evening, with
the proudest an’ the bauldest an’ the best down about him like trees
felled in a rank; and wha but the borderers sleepin’, man by man, at
gentle King James’s feet! It sets a Scottish lord ill to speak again’
them that keeps the Scottish line, an’ warst of all a limber lad like
your honour (no offence to ye), that’s got soldier written on his brow,
and swordsman marked on every yane o’ his lang limbs.’
The compliment to his personal appearance, always an acceptable
offering to Darnley, modified whatever he might have considered
offensive in the henchman’s plain-speaking. The Queen, too, who had
listened to the colloquy with obvious displeasure and some uneasiness,
now laid her hand on the arm of her consort and motioned him to proceed
with their walk. The latter felt in his girdle for a couple of gold
pieces, which were not, however, forthcoming, then with a careless
laugh and a whisper in Riccio’s ear, nodded insolently to the borderer,
and passed on with Mary and her train.
One of these, however, lingered a few paces in the rear. Dick’s face
grew very pale once more when Mistress Seton turned back and accosted
him with her own bright glance and her own merry smile.
‘You are slow of speech,’ said she, ‘I know of old, though prompt in
deed, and as true as the steel in your belt. Is it not so?’
His lips were white and dry. He could not answer in words, but his
affirmative gesture was more convincing than a hundred oaths.
She laid her hand on his. Through the steel gauntlet that light touch
thrilled in every vein and fibre of the giant.
‘You will tell me the truth,’ she proceeded. ‘What of Walter Maxwell?
We have had no tidings of him since the morning he rode away from
Holyrood, weeks and months ago!’
It speaks well for Mary Seton’s good nature that the subject uppermost
in her mind was one which she believed so vitally affected the welfare
of her friend. It was as much kindliness of disposition as female
curiosity that riveted her attention on the borderer’s reply.
Dick’s face became a study of self-reproach and embarrassment while
he related the treachery of which Walter had been the victim; neither
concealing nor palliating his own share in the business, which seemed
to himself the less black that it was taken in compliance with his
chief’s orders, and for which his listener either forgot or neglected
to reprove him. It is impossible to take the same interest in other
people’s matters that we do in our own, and what a world of confusion
we should have if the confidants and go-betweens in a love-affair were
as much agitated as the principals.
Mary Seton heard him calmly enough, and then proceeded to interrogate
him about Bothwell. The henchman’s answers concerning his chief seemed
to afford her matter both of surprise and gratification. The earl
was evidently in a state of discomfort and restlessness that must be
reported at once to the Queen, who had always betrayed extraordinary
interest in everything connected with Hermitage or the Borders, and his
rude follower seemed to have observed and analysed his feelings with a
sagacity that must have been strangely sharpened by some influence from
without.
If there was a more triumphant sparkle in Mary Seton’s eye, a tinge
of deeper colour on her cheek, as she reflected on the nature of that
influence, who shall blame her? Was she not a woman; and is it not a
woman’s instinct, like a cat’s, to tease and tantalise her prey to the
utmost? Though the mouse be as big as an elephant, it is such fun to
tempt him with the prospect of indulgence, or even liberty, and then
sweep him irresistibly back again with one stroke of the cruel velvet
paw.
Mary Seton smiled within herself, and felt twice as big as the great
borderer trembling there before her. With a whole budget of news gained
for her Sovereign, she reverted to the topic most interesting to her
comrade.
‘You think, then, that he is alive, though in close ward?’ she asked.
‘They are cruel folk, I have heard say, the “lightsome Leslies.” I
would poor Walter were safe out of their hands!’
Dick had found his voice at last:
‘And safe he shall be!’ was his reply, ‘before another week has passed
over his head. It may tak’ time, an’ it may tak’ skill, an’ it may
tak’ twa or three men’s lives, but we’ll ha’ Maister Maxwell oot ’gin
we ding doon Lesly itsel’, an’ mak’ a low[14] that’ll light up the twa
Lommonds and the tae half o’ the kingdom of Fife! That’s what I’m here
for now.’
[14] Flame.
She looked at him archly:
‘Was that all that brought you to Edinburgh?’ said she.
Again something seemed to choke the man-at-arms and prevent his reply.
At last he spoke in a hoarse whisper--
‘I was fain to see the Court once more--and the
Queen-and--and--yersel’, Mistress Seton! I’ll no win back to
Liddesdale, I’m thinkin’; but I’ll tak’ the brunt o’ it bra’ an’ easy
the noo, sin I’ve seen ye to wish ye farewell.’
Something in his tone so tender, so hopeless, and so respectful,
touched the girl to the heart. She laid her hand once more in his, and
he wrung it hard in his own strong fingers, but did not even presume
to put it to his lips. Only as she turned away to join the Queen, a
low stifled sob smote upon her ear, and looking back she beheld the
borderer standing as if spell-bound on the spot where she had left him.
The next moment he was in the saddle, and as he passed her moving up
the street after the others, he detached the sprig of witch-elm from
his morion and cast it at her feet ere he galloped off.
Mary Seton’s eyes filled with tears while she picked it up, and
Dick’s honest heart would have leapt with joy, notwithstanding his
forebodings, could he have seen her hide it away carefully and tenderly
in her bosom. When she rejoined the royal party, Riccio’s sharp
countenance wore a look of curiosity, for his quick eye detected that
she had been weeping; but the Queen called her to her side, and soothed
and caressed her, speaking in gentle, loving tones, like a mother to a
child.