‘For though her smiles were sad and faint,
And though her voice was low,
She never murmured a complaint,
Nor hinted at her woe,
Nor harboured in her gentle breast
The lightest thought of ill;
Giving all, forgiving all,
Pure and perfect still,
‘Confiding when the world was hard,
And kind when it was cold,
What wealth of Love was stored and barred
Within that Heart of Gold!
Exulting every grief to share,
And every task fulfil;
Giving all, forgiving all,
Fond and faithful still.
‘And when upon that patient brow
The storm had broke at last,
And all her pride was shatter’d now,
And all her power was past,
She meekly kissed the hand that smote,
And yielded to its will;
Giving all, forgiving all,
True and tender still.’
‘Happy’s the wooing that’s not long of doing,’ says a hopeful Scottish
proverb. ‘Marry in haste, and repent at leisure,’ is a wholesome
English warning, that may be considered the converse of the above.
‘Some, by construction, deem these words misplaced,
At leisure marry, and repent in haste,’
quoth Congreve, or one of the old dramatists. We may take our choice
of maxims on the important topic of wedlock, satisfied that, ponder on
it as we may, it is a matter in which blind fortune concerns herself
more than in any other of our human affairs. Yes, ‘your marriage goes
by destiny,’ no doubt, and sometimes the fates draw you off nectar, and
sometimes wholesome bitters, and sometimes weak, insipid, flat, and
stale small beer. Under any circumstances it is better not to pull a
wry face at the draught. If the fairest woman the earth ever saw could
not make sure of conjugal happiness, who has a right to complain?
Darnley was now Duke of Albany--the handsomest Duke in Christendom--and
on the evening before her nuptials his affianced bride had somewhat
prematurely caused him to be proclaimed King of Scotland. Two religions
had prepared to consecrate the tie; the Pope’s dispensation, inasmuch
as the lovers were blood relations, had been obtained from Rome, and
the banns by which, according to the Reformed Persuasion ‘Harry Duke of
Albany and Earl of Ross should be united to Mary, by the grace of God,
Queen of Scots, and Sovereign of the Realm,’ had been proclaimed in the
Parish Church of the Canongate.
The Queen had escaped the plot laid against her by her enemies at
Leslie House, and, it is needless to say, how royal favour and ladies’
smiles were showered upon the daring rider who foundered ‘Wanton
Willie’ for ever by the speed with which he brought his timely
intelligence to Perth, a speed that enabled the Queen to sweep down
to her capital with a strong, well-mounted escort, in advance of all
the preparations made for her capture. She had quelled an insurrection
at St Leonard’s Craigs since then; she had strengthened her party by
all the means at her disposal, and even striven hard to listen without
anger to the ill-timed remonstrances of Elizabeth, forwarded through
Randolph, who, somewhat to his dismay, and much, to his disgust, found
his importance waning, hour by hour, at the Scottish Court.
Everything a woman _could_ do by persuasion, by policy, by forbearance,
by her own intrinsic fascination, Mary had done to attain, if possible,
a few months or even weeks of repose for the enjoyment of the present;
happy, as she fancied herself, in her love, and willing to be at peace
with all the world.
And while the young Queen looked about her for friends and partisans
in every direction, was it likely that she would forget her stout
champion on the border, the warlike Earl of Bothwell? It may be that
she had long sought an excuse to pardon him; it may be that, like the
rest of her sex, though prone to commit it in haste, her heart smote
her sore, after awhile, for an act of injustice. She recalled him, she
forgave him, she brought him back to her dangerous presence, and the
flame that was consuming this wild and tameless heart, only burned all
the fiercer that he must stifle it for awhile.
Moray kept aloof from the sister whom he had deceived, and the Queen
against whom he had conspired. Accustomed as Mary had been for so long
to depend upon her brother whenever she needed counsel or assistance,
no doubt she felt his estrangement very keenly; but even Moray,
notwithstanding all his offences, she would have received once more
with open arms, had he abjured his devotion to the interests of the
astute Elizabeth, and returned to his natural duty and allegiance.
The fairest daughter of the Stuarts was always, alas! more of the woman
than the Queen. Had she been less frank, less trusting, less kindly,
less affectionate, above all, less beautiful, the crown of Scotland
would have sat more firm upon her head, the head itself would not at
last have been severed by the cruel axe at Fotheringay.
But that dainty head never looked more nobly than to-day. With the
glory of love and happiness shining round it; with the royal diadem
resting on the white and gentle brow; with the soft rich hair gathered
into such a coronet of splendour as no other princess, as no other
_woman_ in Europe, could boast; with a majestic form set off by the
sweeping robes of _black_ in which, as a royal widow, _étiquette_
bade her approach the altar; above all with the atmosphere of beauty
that surrounded Mary as with a charm, Old Thomas the Rhymer had never
such a vision of the Fairy Queen herself as burst upon the sight of
loyal Lennox and devoted Athol, when she emerged from her chamber
and suffered them to conduct her to the Chapel Royal of Holyrood, at
six of the clock on the summer Sabbath morning that smiled with such
well-omened brilliancy upon the bride.
Could black fate be hovering over that gay and sparkling throng,
marking them out, as it were, one by one, for her future shafts? There
they stood--so many of them; the brave, the beautiful, the loyal, the
gentle and the true, glowing in youth and health, towering in the pride
of manhood and the pride of place; radiant in silks and velvets,
blazing with gold and gems; and the red mark scored in the book of
destiny against two out of every three illustrious names, and the
little cloud, though still below the horizon, yet waiting none the less
surely to break in fatal tempest over the proud unconscious brows, and
shatter the guilty and the innocent in one indiscriminate ruin to the
dust.
Even crook-backed Riccio could not forbear an exultant song of
rejoicing when the ceremony was concluded, that gave his indulgent
mistress to the handsome, petulant boy she had chosen for her lord.
‘Glory to God!’ exclaimed the secretary, in his deep, rich tones, as
the rites were finished with a burst of chanted thanksgiving. How
long was it ere those same lips, writhing in their death-pang, were
gasping for mercy in hoarse, gurgling whispers choked in blood? In the
meantime, the Queen is conducted back from the Chapel to the Palace,
and the ceremony takes place of unrobing Her Majesty, who is now no
longer a widow, but a bride, with all the established jests and noisy
glee such an occasion is calculated to call forth.
First Darnley takes out a pin, then Athol, then Lennox, then each of
the gentlemen of the household as he can approach the royal person,
while her ladies like a guard of Amazons close round her more and
more as the spoliation proceeds. The process, as is natural, soon
degenerates into something like a romp, and Walter Maxwell, with a
heavy heart, finds himself, to his own dismay, mixed up with such merry
fooleries.
While Her Majesty proceeds with a few of her tiring-women into another
chamber, whence she will presently reappear in dazzling apparel suited
to the occasion, we will return to the humbler personages of the scene,
who may now, like the supernumeraries in a theatre, come up to the
foot-lights and display their antics, whilst their betters are off the
stage.
To begin with the Maries, whom we have too much neglected whilst taken
up with ruder and less engaging natures.
Those young ladies, by the very act to which they have even now been
lending their assistance, have become freed from their self-imposed
obligations of celibacy, and might marry, if it so pleased them, one
and all to-morrow. To the philosopher who fancies he understands the
nature of the sex, it will not appear surprising that at this juncture
none of them should show the slightest disposition for entering that
holy state, from which it has hitherto been considered such an extreme
hardship they should be debarred. Hilarious, as it was their duty to
appear during the performance of Her Majesty’s nuptials--hilarious,
of course, be it understood, with the proper admixture of tears--for
ladies esteem a wedding to be essentially an April performance of
showers and sunshine--yet no sooner was the principal excitement over,
no sooner were the four young beauties released from their respective
attitudes of attention, and at liberty to receive the compliments and
reply to the bantering congratulations of the courtiers, than a cloud
seemed to come over each of them, and they looked far less inclined to
laugh than to cry.
Mary Beton, perhaps, kept her spirits up with more determination and
a greater show of indifference than either of her sisters in sorrow;
nevertheless, Mary Beton, while she certainly enjoyed an advantage over
the others, was in an uncomfortable state of uncertainty and transition.
Although it is doubtless a wise and wholesome precaution for a lady
to have two strings to her bow, yet the instrument is apt to get
somewhat warped and out of order in the process of taking off the
old and fitting on the new. There is something softening as well as
soothing in the attentions of the recent capture, and they remind us
rather touchingly at times of those other looks and tones which made
such fools of us not so long ago. We cannot do the same things, say
the same words, go through the same exercises (and in truth there
is, we believe, but little variety in the drill by which the human
heart is disciplined), without experiencing very much the same kind
of sensations as heretofore, and it is not always easy to distinguish
between the old feelings and the new. The former come over us with an
overwhelming rush when we least expect them, and our only chance is to
credit the fresh account with as much of the balance as we can. That
same tenant-right is a very difficult matter to get rid of when once it
has been firmly established in the breast.
Mary Beton had broken with her old lover for good and all. She had
convicted him of treason to her Queen; and although this offence she
might possibly have forgiven, she had found him out in treachery to
herself. It is needless to say that she would have nothing more to do
with Randolph, and was prepared to listen with no unwilling ear to
the suit of Alexander Ogilvy. But the latter was distant and offended
still. He had not forgotten certain rebuffs, certain black looks and
cold answers, that had piqued and irritated him long ago. He loved her
indeed very dearly, therefore he did not mean to hold out for any great
length of time, but still it was _his_ turn now, and he could not be
expected to forego his share of advantage in the merciless game. It is
an old saying that ‘many a heart is caught on the rebound,’ and perhaps
he was sure of his prey, and content to wait a little and enjoy the
excitement of the capture.
Proud Mistress Beton, too, had become far more docile and womanly of
late. Pained and humbled by the treatment she had experienced from
Randolph, it would have been inexpressibly soothing and delightful to
encourage and return an attachment she could trust, and on which she
could lean, so to speak, without fear of mortification. Great liberties
are sometimes taken, great risks run, in these affairs. Tempers that
are imperturbable on all other topics, blaze up with reckless violence
against the nearest and dearest. When the wild bird has ruffled her
plumes in anger, and broken her jesses in pique, the observant fowler,
who watches his opportunity, finds every facility afforded for his
lure. There is no time at which the human heart is so susceptible to
kindness as when writhing under a sense of injustice and ill-treatment
which it has not deserved.
So Mary Beton was less haughty, less overbearing, and consequently
looked ten times lovelier than usual on her mistress’s wedding-day.
She stands now nearest the door, waiting for the Queen, and whispers
gently and lovingly to Mary Seton, who seems to cling to her senior as
to an elder sister, and whose fair face has of late assumed a sad and
thoughtful expression very different from that which it used to wear.
The arch looks are downcast now, and the merry voice is hushed and low.
The girl is not unhappy, only grave and saddened perhaps a little by
her experiences. She has bid Walter tell her over and over again how
poor Dick Rutherford laid him down to die in the moonlight and spoke of
her--of _her_, the vain, frivolous girl!--with the last breath he ever
drew. What had she done to win so entirely the devotion of that great
honest heart? Had she suspected it? Had she triumphed in it? Had she
prized it? Ah! never so much as now, when all the wishing in the world
would fail to bring the trusting kindly nature back to her feet.
She was a noble damsel, and Dick but the mere retainer of a warlike
lord, ranking scarce above a man-at-arms. And yet it was something,
surely, to have been so loved by any one human heart: to have taken
everything and given nothing in return. She could weep now to think
that never--never would she be able to make him amends.
Ay, he was a _man_ that was brave and strong and single-minded, daring,
patient, resolute, fearing nothing under heaven, humble and child-like
only with _her_. How often might she unwittingly have wrung the gentle,
uncomplaining heart; how often purposely, just to essay and feel her
power! She could hate herself to think of a hundred trifles now! Ah!
too late--too late! He was gone where neither foeman’s lance nor lady’s
look could reach; where cold words and bare steel were alike powerless
to wound. Gone--gone altogether, and she would _never_ see him more.
It seemed to Mary Seton, as she stood there and looked at her comrades,
that she alone would fulfil that vow of celibacy from which to-day’s
festival had enfranchised the Queen’s Maries. Where could she expect
to find hereafter such an affection as she had neglected and lost?
No; henceforth she would devote herself heart and hand to the service
of her mistress; cling to the Queen through rain and shine, calm and
storm, good and evil. If prosperity blessed her dear mistress, she
would rejoice; if adversity frowned, she would console her; if danger
or calamity came, she would share it. Let the others marry, an’ they
must; for her, she would belong to her Queen! And nobly, in after
years, Mary Seton redeemed her vow.
But there was one of the maids-of-honour whose wedding was indeed to
succeed Her Majesty’s, who looked forward to its arrival with more than
maidenly longing; who hoped for it, and relied on it with more than a
woman’s trust. Mary Hamilton, with her pale face and wasted form, had
continued her service with the Queen, silent and uncomplaining, never
unbosoming herself to her companions, not even confiding her sorrows to
her mistress until now. To-morrow she would be free; to-morrow would
be the day of her espousals, and the poor weary head would lay itself
to rest, the poor sore heart find comfort and relief at last. It was
for this she had been waiting so patiently, for this she had borne
her burden so uncomplainingly. To-morrow she would become the Bride
of Heaven, and the veil she would then put on must never be taken off
again this side the grave!
In her cell (so her religion taught her, hopeful even in death), in her
cell she could pray for the soul of him she had loved so fondly; could
believe, when his fiery sufferings and her own prayers and tears had
obliterated his crimes, she would meet him, never again to part, on the
shining hills beyond the dark shadowy valley that she feared no whit,
nay, that she only longed to tread.
Mary Hamilton took the vows on the day subsequent to the Queen’s
marriage, at the bright midsummer season, when the blooming world
should have looked fairest and most captivating to her who turned her
back upon it so willingly for evermore. During a twelvemonth, so the
Romish Church enforced, she must make trial of her new profession, and
at the expiration of that period, should she continue in the same mind,
the novice was to become a nun.
There is little doubt she would have fulfilled her intention had the
occasion ever arrived.
It was an early harvest that year in Scotland, but ere the barley
was white, Mary Hamilton had done with nuns and nunneries, vows and
ceremonies, withered hopes and mortal sorrows, and had gone to that
place where the weary heart can alone find the rest it had so longed
for at last.
There is but one more of the Maries with whom we have to do: Mistress
Carmichael must speak for herself in another chapter.