“I would know your story. How came you and yours to this pass? Where
were you born? Of what degree are you? And this Michel de la Foret, when
came he to your feet--or you to his arms? I would know all. Begin where
life began; end where you sit here at the feet of Elizabeth. This other
cushion to your knees. There--now speak. We are alone.”
Elizabeth pushed a velvet cushion towards Angele, where she half-knelt,
half-sat on the rush-strewn floor of the great chamber. The warm light
of the afternoon sun glowed through the thick-tinted glass high up, and,
in the gleam, the heavy tapestries sent by an archduke, once suitor for
Elizabeth’s hand, emerged with dramatic distinctness, and peopled the
room with silent watchers of the great Queen and the nobly-born but poor
and fugitive Huguenot. A splendid piece of sculpture--Eleanor, wife of
Edward--given Elizabeth by another royal suitor, who had sought to be
her consort through many years, caught the warm bath of gold and crimson
from the clerestory and seemed alive and breathing. Against the pedestal
the Queen had placed her visitor, the red cushions making vivid contrast
to her white gown and black hair. In the half-kneeling, half-sitting
posture, with her hands clasped before her, so to steady herself
to composure, Angele looked a suppliant--and a saint. Her pure,
straightforward gaze, her smooth, urbane forehead, the guilelessness
that spoke in every feature, were not made worldly by the intelligence
and humour reposing in the brown depths of her eyes. Not a line vexed
her face or forehead. Her countenance was of a singular and almost
polished smoothness, and though her gown was severely simple by
comparison with silks and velvets, furs and ruffles of a gorgeous Court
at its most gorgeous period, yet in it here and there were touches of
exquisite fineness. The black velvet ribbon slashing her sleeves, the
slight cloud-like gathering of lace at the back of her head, gave a
distinguished softness to her appearance.
She was in curious contrast to the Queen, who sat upon heaped-up
cushions, her rich buff and black gown a blaze of jewels, her yellow
hair, now streaked with grey, roped with pearls, her hands heavy with
rings, her face past its youth, past its hopefulness, however noble and
impressive, past its vivid beauty. Her eyes wore ever a determined look,
were persistent and vigilant, with a lurking trouble, yet flooded, too,
by a quiet melancholy, like a low, insistent note that floats through
an opera of passion, romance, and tragedy; like a tone of pathos
giving deep character to some splendid pageant, which praises whilst it
commemorates, proclaiming conquest while the grass has not yet grown on
quiet houses of the children of the sword who no more wield the sword.
Evasive, cautious, secretive, creator of her own policy, she had
sacrificed her womanhood to the power she held and the State she served.
Vain, passionate, and faithful, her heart all England and Elizabeth, the
hunger for glimpses of what she had never known, and was never to know,
thrust itself into her famished life; and she was wont to indulge, as
now, in fancies and follow some emotional whim with a determination very
like to eccentricity.
That, at this time, when great national events were forward, when
conspiracies abounded, when Parliament was grimly gathering strength
to compel her to marry; and her Council were as sternly pursuing their
policy for the destruction of Leicester; while that very day had come
news of a rising in the North and of fresh Popish plots hatched in
France--that in such case, this day she should set aside all business,
refuse ambassadors and envoys admission, and occupy herself with two
Huguenot refugees seemed incredible to the younger courtiers. To such
as Cecil, however, there was clear understanding. He knew that when
she seemed most inert, most impassive to turbulent occurrences, most
careless of consequences, she was but waiting till, in her own mind, her
plans were grown; so that she should see her end clearly ere she spoke
or moved. Now, as the great minister showed himself at the door of
the chamber and saw Elizabeth seated with Angele, he drew back
instinctively, expectant of the upraised hand which told him he must
wait. And, in truth, he was nothing loth to do so, for his news he
cared little to deliver, important though it was that she should have it
promptly and act upon it soon. He turned away with a feeling of relief,
however, for this gossip with the Huguenot maid would no doubt interest
her, give new direction to her warm sympathies, which if roused in one
thing were ever more easily roused in others. He knew that a crisis was
nearing in the royal relations with Leicester. In a life of devotion to
her service he had seen her before in this strange mood, and he could
feel that she was ready for an outburst. As he thought of De la Foret
and the favour with which she had looked at him he smiled grimly, for if
it meant aught it meant that it would drive Leicester to some act which
would hasten his own doom; though, indeed, it might also make another
path more difficult for himself, for the Parliament, for the people.
Little as Elizabeth could endure tales of love and news of marriage;
little as she believed in any vows, save those made to herself; little
as she was inclined to adjust the rough courses of true love, she was
the surgeon to this particular business, and she had the surgeon’s love
of laying bare even to her own cynicism the hurt of the poor patient
under her knife. Indeed, so had Angele impressed her that for once she
thought she might hear the truth. Because she saw the awe in the
other’s face and a worshipping admiration of the great protectress of
Protestantism, who had by large gifts of men and money in times past
helped the Cause, she looked upon her here with kindness.
“Speak now, mistress fugitive, and I will listen,” she added, as Cecil
withdrew; and she made a motion to musicians in a distant gallery.
Angele’s heart fluttered to her mouth, but the soft, simple music helped
her, and she began with eyes bent upon the ground, her linked fingers
clasping and unclasping slowly.
“I was born at Rouen, your high Majesty,” she said. “My mother was a
cousin of the Prince of Passy, the great Protestant--”
“Of Passy--ah!” said Elizabeth amazed. “Then you are Protestants indeed;
and your face is no invention, but cometh honestly. No, no, ‘tis no
accident--God rest his soul, great Passy!”
“She died--my mother--when I was a little child. I can but just remember
her--so brightly quiet, so quick, so beautiful. In Rouen life had little
motion; but now and then came stir and turmoil, for war sent its message
into the old streets, and our captains and our peasants poured forth to
fight for the King. Once came the King and Queen--Francis and Mary--”
Elizabeth drew herself upright with an exclamation. “Ah, you have seen
her--Mary of Scots,” she said sharply. “You have seen her?”
“As near as I might touch her with my hand, as near as is your high
Majesty. She spoke to me--my mother’s father was in her train;--as yet
we had not become Huguenots, nor did we know her Majesty as now the
world knows. They came, the King and Queen--and that was the beginning.”
She paused, and looked shyly at Elizabeth, as though she found it hard
to tell her story.
“And the beginning, it was--?” said Elizabeth, impatient and intent.
“We went to Court. The Queen called my mother into her train. But it was
in no wise for our good. At Court my mother pined away--and so she died
in durance.”
“Wherefore in durance?”
“To what she saw she would not shut her eyes; to what she heard she
would not close her soul; what was required of her she would not do.”
“She would not obey the Queen?”
“She could not obey those whom the Queen favoured. Then the tyranny that
broke her heart--”
The Queen interrupted her.
“In very truth, but ‘tis not in France alone that Queen’s favourites
grasp the sceptre and speak the word. Hath a Queen a thousand eyes--can
she know truth where most dissemble?”
“There was a man--he could not know there was one true woman there, who
for her daughter’s sake, for her desired advancement, and because she
was cousin of Passy, who urged it, lived that starved life; this man,
this prince, drew round her feet snares, set pit-falls for her while my
father was sent upon a mission. Steadfast she kept her soul unspotted;
but it wore away her life. The Queen would not permit return to
Rouen--who can tell what tale was told her by one whom she foiled? And
so she stayed. In this slow, savage persecution, when she was like
a bird that, thinking it is free, flieth against the window-pane and
falleth back beaten, so did she stay, and none could save her. To cry
out, to throw herself upon the spears, would have been ruin of herself,
her husband and her child; and for these she lived.”
Elizabeth’s eyes had kindled. Perhaps never in her life had the life at
Court been so exposed to her. The simple words, meant but to convey the
story, and with no thought behind, had thrown a light on her own Court,
on her own position. Adept in weaving a sinuous course in her policy, in
making mazes for others to tread, the mazes which they in turn prepared
had never before been traced beneath her eyes to the same vivid and
ultimate effect.
“Help me, ye saints, but things are not at such a pass in this place!”
she said abruptly, but with weariness in her voice. “Yet sometimes I
know not. The Court is a city by itself, walled and moated, and hath a
life all its own. ‘If there be found ten honest men within the city yet
will I save it,’ saith the Lord. By my father’s head, I would not risk
a finger on the hazard if this city, this Court of Elizabeth were set
‘twixt the fire from Heaven and eternal peace. In truth, child, I would
lay me down and die in black disgust were it not that one might come
hereafter would make a very Sodom or Gomorrah of this land: and out
yonder--out in all my counties, where the truth of England is among my
poor burgesses, who die for the great causes which my nobles profess but
risk not their lives--out yonder all that they have won, and for which
I have striven, would be lost.... Speak on. I have not heard so plain a
tongue and so little guile these twenty years.”
Angele continued, more courage in her voice. “In the midst of it all
came the wave of the new faith upon my mother. And before ill could fall
upon her from her foes, she died and was at rest. Then we returned
to Rouen, my father and I, and there we lived in peril, but in great
happiness of soul until the day of massacre. That night in Paris we were
given greatly of the mercy of God.”
“You were there--you were in the massacre at Paris?”
“In the house of the Duke of Langon, with whom was resting after a
hazardous enterprise, Michel de la Foret.”
“And here beginneth the second lesson,” said the Queen with a smile on
her lips; but there was a look of scrutiny in her eyes, and something
like irony in her tone. “And I will swear by all the stars of Heaven
that this Michel saved ye both. Is it not so?”
“It is even so. By his skill and bravery we found our way to safety, and
in a hiding-place near to our loved Rouen watched him return from the
gates of death.”
“He was wounded then?”
“Seven times wounded, and with as little blood left in him as would fill
a cup. But it was summer, and we were in the hills, and they brought us,
our friends of Rouen, all that we had need of; and so God was with us.
“But did he save thy life, except by skill, by indirect and fortunate
wisdom? Was there deadly danger upon thee? Did he beat down the sword of
death?”
“He saved my life thrice directly. The wounds he carried were got by
interposing his own sword ‘twixt death and me.”
“And that hath need of recompense?”
“My life was little worth the wounds he suffered; but I waited not until
he saved it to owe it unto him. All that it is was his before he drew
the sword.”
“And ‘tis this ye would call love betwixt ye--sweet givings and takings
of looks, and soft sayings, and unchangeable and devouring faith. Is’t
this--and is this all?”
The girl had spoken out of an innocent heart, but the challenge in
the Queen’s voice worked upon her, and though she shrank a little, the
fulness of her soul welled up and strengthened her. She spoke again,
and now in her need and in her will to save the man she loved, by making
this majesty of England his protector, her words had eloquence.
“It is not all, noble Queen. Love is more than that. It is the waking in
the poorest minds, in the most barren souls, of something greater than
themselves--as a chemist should find a substance that would give all
other things by touching of them a new and higher value; as light and
sun draw from the earth the tendrils of the seed that else had lain
unproducing. ‘Tis not alone soft words and touch of hand or lip. This
caring wholly for one outside one’s self kills that self which else
would make the world blind and deaf and dumb. None hath loved greatly
but hath helped to love in others. Ah, most sweet Majesty, for great
souls like thine, souls born great, this medicine is not needful, for
already hath the love of a nation inspired and enlarged it; but for
souls like mine and of so many, none better and none worse than me, to
love one other soul deeply and abidingly lifts us higher than ourselves.
Your Majesty hath been loved by a whole people, by princes and great
men in a different sort--is it not the world’s talk that none that ever
reigned hath drawn such slavery of princes, and of great nobles who have
courted death for hopeless love of one beyond their star? And is it not
written in the world’s book also that the Queen of England hath loved
no man, but hath poured out her heart to a people; and hath served great
causes in all the earth because of that love which hath still enlarged
her soul, dowered at birth beyond reckoning?” Tears filled her eyes.
“Ah, your supreme Majesty, to you whose heart is universal, the love
of one poor mortal seemeth a small thing, but to those of little
consequence it is the cable by which they unsteadily hold over the chasm
‘twixt life and immortality. To thee, oh greatest monarch of the world,
it is a staff on which thou need’st not lean, which thou hast never
grasped; to me it is my all; without it I fail and fall and die.”
She had spoken as she felt, yet, because she was a woman and guessed the
mind of another woman, she had touched Elizabeth where her armour
was weakest. She had suggested that the Queen had been the object of
adoration, but had never given her heart to any man; that hers was
the virgin heart and life; and that she had never stooped to conquer.
Without realising it, and only dimly moving with that end in view, she
had whetted Elizabeth’s vanity. She had indeed soothed a pride wounded
of late beyond endurance, suspecting, as she did, that Leicester had
played his long part for his own sordid purposes, that his devotion was
more alloy than precious metal. No note of praise could be pitched too
high for Elizabeth, and if only policy did not intervene, if but no
political advantage was lost by saving De la Foret, that safety seemed
now secure.
“You tell a tale and adorn it with good grace,” she said, and held out
her hand. Angele kissed it. “And you have said to Elizabeth what none
else dared to say since I was Queen here. He who hath never seen the
lightning hath no dread of it. I had not thought there was in the world
so much artlessness, with all the power of perfect art. But we live to
be wiser. Thou shalt continue in thy tale. Thou hast seen Mary, once
Queen of France, now Queen of Scots--answer me fairly; without if, or
though, or any sort of doubt, the questions I shall put. Which of us
twain, this ruin-starred queen or I, is of higher stature?”
“She hath advantage in little of your Majesty,” bravely answered Angele.
“Then,” answered Elizabeth sourly, “she is too high, for I myself
am neither too high nor too low.... And of complexion, which is the
fairer?”
“Her complexion is the fairer, but your Majesty’s countenance hath truer
beauty, and sweeter majesty.” Elizabeth frowned slightly, then said:
“What exercises did she take when you were at the Court?”
“Sometimes she hunted, your Majesty, and sometimes she played upon the
virginals.”
“Did she play to effect?”
“Reasonably, your noble Majesty.”
“You shall hear me play, and then speak truth upon us, for I have known
none with so true a tongue since my father died.”
Thereon she called to a lady who waited near in a little room to bring
an instrument; but at that moment Cecil appeared again at the door, and
his face seeming to show anxiety, Elizabeth, with a sigh, beckoned him
to enter.
“Your face, Cecil, is as long as a Lenten collect. What raven croaks in
England on May Day eve?” Cecil knelt before her, and gave into her hand
a paper.
“What record runs here?” she asked querulously. “A prayer of your
faithful Lords and Commons that your Majesty will grant speech with
their chosen deputies to lay before your Majesty a cause they have at
heart.”
“Touching of--?” darkly asked the Queen.
“The deputies wait even now--will not your Majesty receive them? They
have come humbly, and will go hence as humbly on the instant, if the
hour is ill chosen.”
Immediately Elizabeth’s humour changed. A look of passion swept across
her face, but her eyes lighted, and her lips smiled proudly. She avoided
troubles by every means, fought off by subtleties the issues which she
must meet; but when the inevitable hour came none knew so well to meet
it as though it were a dearest friend, no matter what the danger, how
great the stake.
“They are here at my door, these good servants of the State--shall they
be kept dangling?” she said loudly. “Though it were time for prayers and
God’s mercy yet should they speak with me, have my counsel, or my hand
upon the sacred parchment of the State. Bring them hither, Cecil. Now
we shall see--Now you shall see, Angele of Rouen, now you shall see how
queens shall have no hearts to call their own, but be head and heart and
soul and body at the will of every churl who thinks he serves the State
and knows the will of Heaven. Stand here at my left hand. Mark the
players and the play.”
Kneeling, the deputies presented a resolution from the Lords and
Commons that the Queen should, without more delay, in keeping with her
oft-expressed resolve and the promise of her Council, appoint one who
should succeed to the throne in case of her death “without posterity.”
Her faithful people pleaded with her gracious Majesty to forego
unwillingness to marry and seek a consort worthy of her supreme
consideration, to be raised to a place beside her near that throne which
she had made the greatest in the world.
Gravely, solemnly, the chief members of the Lords and Commons spoke, and
with as weighty pauses and devoted protestations as though this were the
first time their plea had been urged, this obvious duty had been set out
before her. Long ago in the flush and pride of her extreme youth and the
full assurance of the fruits of marriage, they had spoken with the
same sober responsibility; and though her youth had gone and the old
certainty had for ever disappeared, they spoke of her marriage and its
consequences as though it were still that far-off yesterday. Well for
them that they did so, for though time had flown and royal suitors
without number had become figures dim in the people’s mind, Elizabeth,
fed upon adulation, invoked, admired, besieged by young courtiers,
flattered by maids who praised her beauty, had never seen the hands
of the clock pass high noon, and still remained under the dearest and
saddest illusion which can rest in a woman’s mind. Long after the hands
of life’s clock had moved into afternoon, the ancient prayer was still
gravely presented that she should marry and give an heir to England’s
crown; and she as solemnly listened and dropped her eyes, and strove to
hide her virgin modesty behind a high demeanour which must needs sink
self in royal duty.
“These be the dear desires of your supreme Majesty’s faithful Lords and
Commons and the people of the shires whose wills they represent. Your
Majesty’s life, God grant it last beyond that of the youngest of your
people so greatly blessed in your rule! But accidents of time be many;
and while the world is full of guile, none can tell what peril may beset
the crown, if your Majesty’s wisdom sets not apart, gives not to her
country, one whom the nation can surround with its care, encompass
lovingly by its duty.”
The talk with Angele had had a curious influence upon the Queen. It
was plain that now she was moved by real feeling, and that, though she
deceived herself, or pretended so to do, shutting her eyes to sober
facts, and dreaming old dreams--as it were, in a world where never was
a mirror nor a timepiece--yet there was working in her a fresher spirit,
urging her to a fairer course than she had shaped for many a day.
“My lords and gentlemen and my beloved subjects,” she answered
presently, and for an instant set her eyes upon Angele, then turned to
them again, “I pray you stand and hear me.... Ye have spoken fair words
to my face, and of my face, and of the person of this daughter of great
Henry, from whom I got whatever grace or manner or favour is to me; and
by all your reasoning you do flatter the heart of the Queen of England,
whose mind indeed sleeps not in deed or desire for this realm. Ye have
drawn a fair picture of this mortal me, and though from the grace of
the picture the colours may fade by time, may give by weather, may be
spoiled by chance, yet my loyal mind, nor time with her swift wings
shall overtake, nor the misty clouds may darken, nor chance with her
slippery foot may overthrow. It sets its course by the heart of England,
and when it passeth there shall be found that one shall be left behind
who shall be surety of all that hath been lying in the dim warehouse
of fate for England’s high future. Be sure that in this thing I have
entered into the weigh-house, and I hold the balance, and ye shall be
well satisfied. Ye have been fruitful in counsel, ye have been long
knitting a knot never tied, ye shall have comfort soon. But know ye
beyond peradventure that I have bided my time with good reason. If our
loom be framed with rotten hurdles, when our web is well-ny done, our
work is yet to begin. Against mischance and dark discoveries my mind,
with knowledge hidden from you, hath been firmly arrayed. If it be in
your thought that I am set against a marriage which shall serve the
nation, purge yourselves, friends, of that sort of heresy, for the
belief is awry. Though I think that to be one and always one, neither
mated nor mothering, be good for a private woman, for a prince it is not
meet. Therefore, say to my Lords and Commons that I am more concerned
for what shall chance to England when I am gone than to linger out my
living thread. I hope, my lords and gentlemen, to die with a good Nunc
Dimittis, which could not be if I did not give surety for the nation
after my graved bones. Ye shall hear soon--ye shall hear and be
satisfied, and so I give you to the care of Almighty God.”
Once more they knelt, and then slowly withdrew, with faces downcast and
troubled. They had secret knowledge which she did not yet possess, but
which at any moment she must know, and her ambiguous speech carried
no conviction to their minds. Yet their conference with her was most
opportune, for the news she must presently receive, brought by a
messenger from Scotland who had outstripped all others, would no doubt
move her to action which should set the minds of the people at rest, and
go far to stem the tide of conspiracy flowing through the kingdom.
Elizabeth stood watching them, and remained gazing after they had
disappeared; then rousing herself, she turned to leave the room, and
beckoned to Angele to follow.