‘For love will wear through shine and shower,
And love can bear to bide its time;
Unwearied at the vesper hour,
As when the matins chime.
‘And love can strive against a host,
Can watch and wait and suffer long;
Still daring more when fearing most,
In very weakness strong.
‘Though bruised and sore, it never dies,
Though faint and weary, standing fast;
It never fails, and thus the prize
Is won by _love_ at last.’
Perhaps of the four young ladies who had thus devoted themselves to
the service of the Queen, Mary Carmichael was the least changed in
demeanour and outward appearance at the auspicious period which gave
them their freedom, and entitled them to assume that temporary dominion
over the other sex which is a woman’s birthright. She was still
beautiful as ever; her sorrows, if she had any, did not veil an atom
of brilliancy in her eye, or take a shade of colour from her cheek;
her figure was no less rounded and symmetrical in its full flowing
lines, her step no less firm and haughty, her manner, if anything,
colder and more self-reliant. If there was any change observable in
Mary Carmichael, it was that she seemed to become harder, prouder, less
sympathising and less womanly day by day.
On some natures anxiety and distress produce a bracing, and as it were
a petrifying effect; they will not have it thought that they can be
affected by such morbid influences as the feelings. There are women of
ice and women of fire, women of wax and women of marble. It is possible
that, if the truth were known, these strong beauties suffer as much as
their more impressionable sisters, and yet the proud face never falls,
the hard eyes never soften. Try her with words that ought to stab,
each of them, to the quick; if she winces you never know it, for the
white bosom heaves no higher, the colour neither fades nor deepens on
the fair, provoking cheek. It is maddening to the assailant; perhaps
also the one attacked is not quite so comfortable as she looks; perhaps
if you were to alter your tactics, to change your mood, and take up
the cool, indifferent line yourself, she might be goaded out of this
unnatural calm into a tempest that, if it did break out, would probably
be very terrible. It is better not to try. ‘Touch not the cat but a
glove,’ says the motto of a noble Scottish family; ‘Never drive a woman
into a corner,’ is the maxim of every philosopher who would escape
scaithless from those contests in which the rougher and honester nature
is almost sure to come by the worst.
Walter Maxwell was not the man to persevere in a wooing that he once
had reason to believe was unwelcome; he, too, could hide a warm, loving
heart, under a grave, impenetrable brow--could bear the pain of seeing
the idol of his fancy day by day more and more estranged, yet never
wince nor writhe under the torture, far less upbraid or complain. For
weeks he had been habitually in her society, himself the hero of the
hour, the man whom the Queen favoured as her deliverer, whom lords and
ladies greeted as her champion, yet never hazarded a word nor look
that could lead Mary Carmichael to believe he still cared for her, far
less sought an interview, as doubtless she often hoped he would, that
should bring about reproaches, tears, a quarrel, an explanation, and a
reconciliation.
These two proud dispositions were like the parallel lines which,
similar in all their properties, are for that reason incapable of
meeting. How the woman’s heart swelled and ached when she watched him
always so calm, so courteous, so impassible, so indifferent; how she
longed for him to be rude, fierce, angry, even unjust and unreasonable!
she would rather he had _struck_ her than thus passed her by with that
studiously gentle manner, that hateful iron smile. Oh! it was hard to
bear--hard to bear; and yet she _must_ bear it, and none must know her
weakness or her sufferings.
And he, too, longing only to forgive everything in which he felt
himself aggrieved, believing he could be quite content now if they were
but _friends_ and nothing more, thirsting for one kind look from her
eyes, one cordial word from her lips, felt bound perforce to treat her
with the calm, courteous, defiant bearing of those who are enemies to
the death.
Ludicrous as it might have been to the bystanders, it was an
uncomfortable state of things to the performers themselves in the
little drama,--tragedy, comedy, farce, call it what you will, and your
nomenclature will probably depend upon your time of life: lovers’
quarrels look so different as the decades roll by. An uncomfortable
state of things, doubtless, and it might have gone on for a lifetime
but for one of those accidents to which such sufferers are peculiarly
susceptible.
Accidents, like the fresh breeze that springs up on a sultry summer’s
day. The heavens are dark and lowering, there is an oppressive weight
in the atmosphere, the very birds sit hushed and sullen behind the
motionless leaves, and the earth looks saddened and weary, mourning
as if she had made up her mind that the sun was never to shine again.
Suddenly the breeze wakes up and comes laughing out of the west; the
clouds fly scattered before him, the young leaves flicker in the
golden sunshine, the birds burst forth in those joyous strains which,
to do them justice, they are ever ready to strike up on the slightest
provocation, and the whole landscape shines and smiles and quivers in
life and light once more.
When the Queen emerged from her tiring-room in the magnificent apparel
best befitting such a bride, another courtier, in addition to the party
that had thronged the Chapel, entered the royal circle to tender his
homage as in duty bound, and congratulate Her Majesty on her nuptials.
This new arrival was a tall, handsome man of middle age, perhaps a
little past that delusive epoch, yet still bearing the traces of
considerable beauty of feature, and distinguished for peculiar
fascination of manner and grace of bearing. He was dressed, too, with
the utmost splendour, and obviously in the very latest fashion of the
French Court. Several of the Queen’s immediate attendants seemed to
know him well, and greeted him with a warm assumption of cordiality and
interest, although in the outer circle, so to speak, inquiring glances
were shot at the welcome stranger, and whispers of ‘Who is he? who is
he?’ passed unanswered from mouth to mouth.
It was chiefly among the younger courtiers and those whose rank did
not entitle them to share the secret councils of Her Majesty that
this curiosity was observed to manifest itself. Two or three of the
seniors accosted him with obviously suppressed warmth and mirthful
looks that denoted a world of intelligence only known to themselves,
but Mary Carmichael’s eyes rested on the distinguished stranger with
an expression of the utmost love and confidence those very expressive
eyes could convey. Had it not been for this, Maxwell might never have
remarked the late addition to the royal circle, so absent was he
and preoccupied, truth to say, so utterly weary and sick at heart.
Watching, however, as he had accustomed himself to do, by stealth, the
direction of his mistress’s glances, he could not but be aware of the
stranger’s presence, and it needed no second look to satisfy him that
this was the identical cavalier whom he had seen that starlight night
in the Abbey-garden, whose face and figure he was not likely to forget
should he live for a hundred years. On that memorable occasion he
remembered to have experienced a vague and puzzling sensation that he
had met his rival before. To-day, in the Queen’s presence-chamber, it
came back again; but he was in no mood now to speculate on such random
fancies and probabilities.
No, in five seconds of time he had made up his mind to the worst, and
had resolved upon the line of conduct he should adopt.
Of course it was all over at last. Never till this moment, when it
crumbled and fell to ashes, had he been aware how much of hope there
was mingled with his suspicions and his pique. Hope! the word itself
seemed an absurdity now. Nevertheless, there is no such utter composure
as a brave mind borrows from the total annihilation of all it has loved
and cherished most. Men _can_ have no anxieties when there is nothing
left to lose, and even a coward will sometimes die gracefully enough if
there be an obvious impossibility of escape.
The most accomplished gallant of the French Court could not have moved
through the circle of ladies that crowded the Queen’s ante-room with a
more assured air than did Walter Maxwell; the most consummate fop could
not have shown less agitation than was betrayed in the few words he
addressed then and there to Mistress Carmichael.
‘We were old friends once,’ said he, ‘though now we seldom even speak.
Shall I find you in the gallery before the banquet. I should like to be
friends again once for all.’
He might have been criticising the pattern of her dress, so cold and
quiet were his tones. The lady did not show quite so much self-command.
She turned very pale, and her lip trembled so that she did not dare
trust her voice; but she bowed her head in the affirmative, and was
glad to screen herself from observation meanwhile amongst the ample
dresses of her companions.
You see she had by no means made up her mind that all _was_ over;
perhaps, too, a horrible misgiving came across her that she might have
driven him too far.
While the rest of the household were preparing for the banquet, they
had the gallery to themselves. Strange to say, the lady reached the
trysting-place first. Though the colour deepened on her cheek when she
heard his step, she never turned her head till he came close to her,
and by that time she had recovered her self-command. They were standing
on the very spot where she had dropped the roses long ago. If this
coincidence occurred to her, be sure she did not think it worth while
to mention it.
He spoke first, very gravely and kindly, in the tone of a man who feels
he has a reparation to make.
‘Mistress Carmichael,’ said he, ‘I have treated you unfairly and unlike
a friend. I may have thought I had a right to be angry with you; now I
know for certain that is all over. I am no longer angry. I ask you to
forgive me, and to shake hands before we part.’
She scarcely dared look at him, standing there tall and manly before
her, with his kind eyes, and bold, frank brow. No fopling lover to be
given up lightly and at a moment’s notice, forsooth? Over, was it?
Perhaps she did not see it at all in that light!
‘What do you mean?’ she gasped, trying hard not to tremble, nor to
laugh, nor indeed to cry.
‘I am reconciled to it all,’ was his answer, ‘because I see you love
him, and that you are happy. It is but a selfish affection that cannot
rejoice in the welfare of its object. To-day,’ he added, with rather
a sad smile, ‘the maiden’s vow is at an end. Never mind what follies
may have once crossed my brain. Prove to me that you forgive them by
confiding in me as if I was your brother.’
She looked up at him with a quick, searching glance.
‘You mean you think I am going to be married?’ said she, ‘and you are
wishing me joy?’
‘I am indeed,’ he replied, with another smile yet sadder than the last.
‘Somewhat awkwardly, I fear, yet none the less honestly for that.
Listen! I shall never tell you so again. I loved you as dearly as it is
possible for man to love woman; so dearly that even now I can rejoice
that you are happy. I can give you up to one you love. I can ask you
now at this moment, when everything is at an end between us except
friendship, the purest and most loyal, to let me serve you all my life;
though it will be years before I shall have courage to look on your
face again.’
The last sentence came out in spite of him. It spoke volumes to a
woman’s perceptions. Perhaps she liked that involuntary confession
of weakness better than all the strength and self-denial she had so
admired a while ago.
‘You do _really_ love me,’ said she, trembling indeed still, but
pale no longer, ‘so well, that for my happiness you would give up
everything, even myself?’
‘Had it not been so,’ he answered, ‘do you think I should have been so
angry with you for what I saw in the Abbey-garden? Well, he may claim
you now before them all. God bless you and _him_! Farewell! Will you
not give me your hand once more for the last time?’
She must have been a strangely unfeeling lady, Mistress Mary
Carmichael, to resist such an appeal, and yet the tears were brimming
in her eyes despite of a roguish, happy smile on her red lips. She
withheld her hand, however. Perhaps she did not wish to part quite so
abruptly.
‘You are generous,’ said she, between tears and laughter, ‘and you
used to be obedient--at least sometimes. Wilful always, you know, or I
should not have had to chide you so often. Will you shake my--my future
husband by the hand, and assure him of your good-will?’
He thought she might have spared him this, but he assented cordially.
What mattered it, a little suffering, more or less? At least it would
put off the parting for a few minutes.
‘Wait here an instant while I bring him!’ said she, and darted off,
leaving Walter in that frame of mind which is best described by the
metaphor of ‘not knowing whether he stood on his head or his heels.’
He had not long to wait, though in truth he kept no account of time.
A light hurrying footstep trod the gallery once more, followed by a
heavier and manlier stride. Maxwell turned round to confront his lost
love, closely followed by the individual she had promised to bring.
’Tis strange how a vague, misty idea, that has puzzled us for long,
will sometimes shine out on a sudden as clear as day. There was
a frank, joyous expression on the stranger’s brow, a sparkle of
excitement in his eye, that brought back to Maxwell’s recollection for
the first time where he had seen him before the well-remembered night
in the Abbey-garden. It was the same tall cavalier who had spurred
his horse so gallantly into the skirmish near Hermitage, shouting his
war-cry the while. It was a kinsman, then, whom she was going to marry
after all.
Mary Carmichael stood silent for an instant looking from one to the
other. Then she spoke out very quick, as if anxious to tell her story
while she could.
‘Farewell, Master Maxwell! farewell, if indeed you mean to leave us
all at such short notice. You shall not go, however without knowing
my father, my dear father, who has never dared show himself openly in
Scotland till to-day. And none of you ever found him out--not even
you, with your sharp, suspicious eyes,’ here she began to laugh;
‘and--and--_Walter_, if I have seemed unkind to you, I am sorry for it
now,’ here she began to cry, ‘and I hope you will forgive me, and love
my father as well as I do. My dear, dear father, who has got home safe
at last!’
And then she flung herself on the paternal breast and hid her face
there, laughing and crying together, in a strange, wild mood, very
unlike the proud, self-reliant Mary Carmichael whose tears Walter
had so often wished he had the power to call forth, if only for the
pleasure of drying them; but then these natures, like frozen streams
melting in the sun, are proof against everything but the warmth of a
great happiness.
Sir Patrick Carmichael, for such was the name of Mary’s adventurous
father, had probably some inkling of how matters stood. Whether she
had explained to him that she had a slight regard for this loyal
servant of the Queen, or whether, as is more likely, she had confined
herself to talking of him on all occasions, and constantly finding
fault with him most unjustly rather than not mention his name, is
matter for conjecture; but Sir Patrick, grasping Maxwell warmly by the
hand, assured him of his own good feelings towards him, and his sincere
respect for so brave and devoted an adherent of their Sovereign.
It was this latter quality that had won its way so triumphantly into
Sir Patrick’s heart. A staunch Catholic himself, Walter Maxwell
was probably the only Protestant in Scotland to whom he would have
intrusted the happiness of his daughter, but the stout Queen’s-man was
only bigoted in his loyalty, and he could have refused nothing to the
man who saved Mary Stuart from the treachery of her intriguing brother,
and the violence of her own subjects.
He had himself been carrying on a secret correspondence with the Guises
on the part of his Sovereign for years, a correspondence that involved
continual disguises and many hair-breadth ’scapes from the emissaries
of those unscrupulous statesmen, who would not have hesitated for
an instant to take his life. Such an exploit as the attempt to rob
Randolph of his dispatches was but an amusing interlude in a career
like his, but it was seldom indeed Sir Patrick could enjoy a ride,
either for sport or strife, in the society of his own countrymen.
His daily existence was one of imminent peril, only warded off by
constant vigilance and acuteness: his only pleasures, and even these
were subservient to political purposes, the stolen visits to his
daughter, which had so excited Maxwell’s jealousy and distrust. He was
a bold, nay, a reckless man enough, but he loved that daughter in the
corner of his fearless heart better than anything on earth, _except_
the cause of his Queen; also, Sir Patrick was a person of delicacy and
kind feeling withal, owning that sympathy for a love affair which those
cannot but entertain who have themselves passed, more or less scorched,
through the fire.
So he left his daughter and Maxwell together in the gallery, and when
they all met at the Queen’s table an hour afterwards, he observed that
the pair never exchanged a word, but looked as if they had some mutual
understanding nevertheless, and were so happy they could neither eat,
nor drink, nor converse rationally, nor sit still.