As twilight was giving place to night Angèle was roused from the
revery into which she had fallen, by the Duke’s Daughter, who
whispered to her that if she would have a pleasure given to but few,
she would come quickly. Taking her hand, the Duke’s Daughter--as
bright and true and whimsical a spirit as ever lived in troubled days
and under the ægis of the sword--led her swiftly to the Queen’s
chamber. They did not enter, but waited in a quiet gallery.
“The Queen is playing upon the virginals, and she playeth best when
alone; so stand you here by this tapestry, and you shall have reward
beyond payment,” said the Duke’s Daughter.
Angèle had no thought that the Queen of her vanity had commanded
that she be placed there as though secretly, and she listened
dutifully at first; but presently her ears were ravished; and even
the Duke’s Daughter showed some surprise, for never had she heard the
Queen play with such grace and feeling. The countenance of the
musician was towards them, and, at last, as if by accident, Elizabeth
looked up and saw the face of her lady.
“Spy! spy!” she cried; “come hither--come hither, all of you!”
When they had descended and knelt to her, she made as if she would
punish the Duke’s Daughter by striking her with a scarf that lay at
her hand, but to Angèle she said:
“How think you, then, hath that other greater skill--Darnley’s wife,
I mean?”
“Not she or any other hath so delighted me,” said Angèle, with
worship in her eyes--so doth talent to majesty become lifted beyond
its measure.
The Queen’s eyes lighted. “We shall have dancing, then,” she said.
“The dance hath charms for me. We shall not deny our youth. The
heart shall keep as young as the body.”
An instant later the room was full of dancers, and Elizabeth gave her
hand to Leicester, who bent every faculty to pleasing her. His face
had darkened as he had seen Angèle beside her, but the Queen’s
graciousness, whether assumed or real, had returned, and her face
carried a look of triumph and spirit and delight. Again and again she
glanced towards Angèle, and what she saw evidently gave her pleasure,
for she laughed and disported herself with grace and an agreeable
temper, and Leicester lent himself to her spirit with adroit wit and
humility. He had seen his mistake of the morning, and was now intent
to restore himself to favor.
He succeeded well, for the emotions roused in Elizabeth during the
day, now heightened by vanity and emulation, found in him a centre
upon which they could converge; and, in her mind, Angèle, for the
nonce, was disassociated from any thought of De la Forêt. Leicester’s
undoubted gifts were well and cautiously directed, and his gift of
assumed passion--his heart was facile, and his gallantry knew no
bounds--was put to dexterous use, convincing for the moment. The
Queen seemed all complaisance again. Presently she had Angèle brought
to her.
“How doth her dance compare--she who hath wedded Darnley?”
“She danceth not so high nor disposedly, with no such joyous
lightness as your high Majesty, but yet she moveth with
circumspection.”
“Circumspection--circumspection--that is no gift in dancing, which
should be wilful yet airily composed, thoughtless yet inducing.
Circumspection!--in nothing else hath Mary shown it where she should.
’Tis like this Queen perversely to make a psalm of dancing, and then
pirouette with sacred duty. But you have spoken the truth, and I am
well content. So get you to your rest.”
She tapped Angèle’s cheek. “You shall remain here to-night, ’tis too
late for you to be sent abroad.”
She was about to dismiss her, when there was a sudden stir. Cecil
had entered and was making his way to the Queen, followed by two
strangers. Elizabeth waited their approach.
“Your gracious Majesty,” said Cecil, in a voice none heard save
Elizabeth, for all had fallen back at a wave of her hand, “the Queen
of Scots is the mother of a fair son.”
Elizabeth’s face flushed, then became pale, and she struck her knee
with her clinched hand. “Who bringeth the news?” she inquired, in a
sharp voice.
“Sir Andrew Melvill here.”
“Who is with him yonder?”
“One who hath been attached to the Queen of Scots.”
“He hath the ill look of such an one,” she answered, and then said
below her breath, bitterly: “She hath a son--and I am but a barren
stock.”
Rising, she added, hurriedly, “We will speak to the people at the May
Day sports to-morrow. Let there be great feasting.”
She motioned to Sir Andrew Melvill to come forward, and with a
gesture of welcome and a promise of speech with him on the morrow she
dismissed them.
Since the two strangers had entered, Angèle’s eyes had been fastened
on the gentleman who accompanied Sir Andrew Melvill. Her first glance
at him had sent a chill through her, and she remained confused and
disturbed. In vain her memory strove to find where the man was set in
her past. The time, the place, the event eluded her, but a sense of
foreboding possessed her; and her eyes followed him with strained
anxiety as he retired from the presence.