for her, of becoming his wife, which upon the whole was possible, the
family of Mar, from which she was descended, being the equal of the most
ancient and the noblest families in Scotland. But, unluckily, perhaps
slanderously, certain talk which was circulating among the young
noblemen of the time came to James’s ears; it was said that together
with her royal lover the beautiful favourite had another, whom she had
chosen, no doubt from curiosity, from the very lowest class. It was
added that this Porterfeld, or Porterfield, was the real father of the
child who had already received the name of James Stuart, and whom the
king was educating as his son at the monastery of St. Andrews. These
rumours, well founded or not, had therefore stopped James V at the
moment when, in gratitude to her who had given him a son, he was on the
point of raising her to the rank of queen; so that, instead of marrying
her himself, he had invited her to choose among the nobles at court; and
as she was very handsome, and the king’s favour went with the marriage,
this choice, which fell on Lord William Douglas of Lochleven, did not
meet with any resistance on his part. However, in spite of this direct
protection, that James V preserved for her all his life, Lady Douglas
could never forget that she had fingered higher fortune; moreover, she
had a hatred for the one who, according to herself, had usurped her
place, and poor Mary had naturally inherited the profound animosity that
Lady Douglas bore to her mother, which had already come to light in the
few words that the two women had exchanged. Besides, in ageing, whether
from repentance for her errors or from hypocrisy, Lady Douglas had
become a prude and a puritan; so that at this time she united with the
natural acrimony of her character all the stiffness of the new religion
she had adopted.
William Douglas, who was the eldest son of Lord Lochleven, on his
mother’s side half-brother of Murray, was a man of from thirty-five to
thirty-six years of age, athletic, with hard and strongly pronounced
features, red-haired like all the younger branch, and who had inherited
that paternal hatred that for a century the Douglases cherished against
the Stuarts, and which was shown by so many plots, rebellions, and
assassinations. According as fortune had favoured or deserted Murray,
William Douglas had seen the rays of the fraternal star draw near or
away from him; he had then felt that he was living in another’s life,
and was devoted, body and soul, to him who was his cause of greatness or
of abasement. Mary’s fall, which must necessarily raise Murray, was thus
a source of joy for him, and the Confederate lords could not have chosen
better than in confiding the safe-keeping of their prisoner to the
instinctive spite of Lady Douglas and to the intelligent hatred of her
son.
As to Little Douglas, he was, as we have said, a child of twelve, for
some months an orphan, whom the Lochlevens had taken charge of, and whom
they made buy the bread they gave him by all sorts of harshness. The
result was that the child, proud and spiteful as a Douglas, and knowing,
although his fortune was inferior, that his birth was equal to his proud
relatives, had little by little changed his early gratitude into lasting
and profound hatred: for one used to say that among the Douglases there
was an age for loving, but that there was none for hating. It results
that, feeling his weakness and isolation, the child was self-contained
with strength beyond his years, and, humble and submissive in
appearance, only awaited the moment when, a grown-up young man, he could
leave Lochleven, and perhaps avenge himself for the proud protection of
those who dwelt there. But the feelings that we have just expressed did
not extend to all the members of the family: as much as from the bottom
of his heart the little Douglas detested William and his mother, so much
he loved George, the second of Lady Lochleven’s sons, of whom we have
not yet spoken, because, being away from the castle when the queen
arrived, we have not yet found an opportunity to present him to our
readers.
George, who at this time might have been about twenty-five or twenty-six
years old, was the second son of Lord Lochleven; but by a singular
chance, that his mother’s adventurous youth had caused Sir William to
interpret amiss, this second son had none of the characteristic features
of the Douglases’ full cheeks, high colour, large ears, and red hair.
The result was that poor George, who, on the contrary, had been given by
nature pale cheeks, dark blue eyes, and black hair, had been since
coming into the world an object of indifference to his father and of
dislike to his elder brother. As to his mother, whether she were indeed
in good faith surprised like Lord Douglas at this difference in race,
whether she knew the cause and inwardly reproached herself, George had
never been, ostensibly at least, the object of a very lively maternal
affection; so the young man, followed from his childhood by a fatality
that he could not explain, had sprung up like a wild shrub, full of sap
and strength, but uncultivated and solitary. Besides, from the time when
he was fifteen, one was accustomed to his motiveless absences, which the
indifference that everyone bore him made moreover perfectly explicable;
from time to time, however, he was seen to reappear at the castle, like
those migratory birds which always return to the same place but only
stay a moment, then take their way again without one’s knowing towards
what spot in the world they are directing their flight.
An instinct of misfortune in common had drawn Little Douglas to George.
George, seeing the child ill-treated by everyone, had conceived an
affection for him, and Little Douglas, feeling himself loved amid the
atmosphere of indifference around him, turned with open arms and heart
to George: it resulted from this mutual liking that one day, when the
child had committed I do not know what fault, and that William Douglas
raised the whip he beat his dogs with to strike him, that George, who
was sitting on a stone, sad and thoughtful, had immediately sprung up,
snatched the whip from his brother’s hands and had thrown it far from
him. At this insult William had drawn his sword, and George his, so that
these two brothers, who had hated one another for twenty years like two
enemies, were going to cut one another’s throats, when Little Douglas,
who had picked up the whip, coming back and kneeling before William,
offered him the ignominious weapon, saying,
"Strike, cousin; I have deserved it."
This behaviour of the child had caused some minutes’ reflection to the
two young men, who, terrified at the crime they were about to commit,
had returned their swords to their scabbards and had each gone away in
silence. Since this incident the friendship of George and Little Douglas
had acquired new strength, and on the child’s side it had become
veneration.
We dwell upon all these details somewhat at length, perhaps, but no
doubt our readers will pardon us when they see the use to be made of
them.
This is the family, less George, who, as we have said, was absent at the
time of her arrival, into the midst of which the queen had fallen,
passing in a moment from the summit of power to the position of a
prisoner; for from the day following her arrival Mary saw that it was by
such a title she was an inmate of Lochleven Castle. In fact, Lady
Douglas presented herself before her as soon as it was morning, and with
an embarrassment and dislike ill disguised beneath an appearance of
respectful indifference, invited Mary to follow her and take stock of
the several parts of the fortress which had been chosen beforehand for
her private use. She then made her go through three rooms, of which one
was to serve as her bedroom, the second as sitting-room, and the third
as ante-chamber; afterwards, leading the way down a spiral staircase,
which looked into the great hall of the castle, its only outlet, she had
crossed this hall, and had taken Mary into the garden whose trees the
queen had seen topping the high walls on her arrival: it was a little
square of ground, forming a flower-bed in the midst of which was an
artificial fountain. It was entered by a very low door, repeated in the
opposite wall; this second door looked on to the lake and, like all the
castle doors, whose keys, however, never left the belt or the pillow of
William Douglas, it was guarded night and day by a sentinel. This was
now the whole domain of her who had possessed the palaces, the plains,
and the mountains of an entire kingdom.
Mary, on returning to her room, found breakfast ready, and William
Douglas standing near the table he was going to fulfil about the queen
the duties of carver and taster.
In spite of their hatred for Mary, the Douglases would have considered
it an eternal blemish on their honour if any accident should have
befallen the queen while she was dwelling in their castle; and it was in
order that the queen herself should not entertain any fear in this
respect that William Douglas, in his quality of lord of the manor, had
not only desired to carve before the queen, but even to taste first in
her presence, all the dishes served to her, as well as the water and the
several wines to be brought her. This precaution saddened Mary more than
it reassured her; for she understood that, while she stayed in the
castle, this ceremony would prevent any intimacy at table. However, it
proceeded from too noble an intention for her to impute it as a crime to
her hosts: she resigned herself, then, to this company, insupportable as
it was to her; only, from that day forward, she so cut short her meals
that all the time she was at Lochleven her longest dinners barely lasted
more than a quarter of an hour.
Two days after her arrival, Mary, on sitting down to table for
breakfast, found on her plate a letter addressed to her which had been
put there by William Douglas. Mary recognised Murray’s handwriting, and
her first feeling was one of joy; for if a ray of hope remained to her,
it came from her brother, to whom she had always been perfectly kind,
whom from Prior of St. Andrew’s she had made an earl in bestowing on him
the splendid estates which formed part of the old earldom of Murray, and
to whom, which was of more importance, she had since pardoned, or
pretended to pardon, the part he had taken in Rizzio’s assassination.
Her astonishment was great, then, when, having opened the letter, she
found in it bitter reproaches for her conduct, an exhortation to do
penance, and an assurance several times repeated that she should never
leave her prison. He ended his letter in announcing to her that, in
spite of his distaste for public affairs, he had been obliged to accept
the regency, which he had done less for his country than for his sister,
seeing that it was the sole means he had of standing in the way of the
ignominious trial to which the nobles wished to bring her, as author, or
at least as chief accomplice, of Darnley’s death. This imprisonment was
then clearly a great good fortune for her, and she ought to thank Heaven
for it, as an alleviation of the fate awaiting her if he had not
interceded for her.
This letter was a lightning stroke for Mary: only, as she did not wish
to give her enemies the delight of seeing her suffer, she contained her
grief, and, turning to William Douglas—
"My lord," said she, "this letter contains news that you doubtless know
already, for although we are not children by the same mother, he who
writes to me is related to us in the same degree, and will not have
desired to write to his sister without writing to his brother at the
same time; besides, as a good son, he will have desired to acquaint his
mother with the unlooked-for greatness that has befallen him."
"Yes, madam," replied William, "we know since yesterday that, for the
welfare of Scotland, my brother has been named regent; and as he is a
son as respectful to his mother as he is devoted to his country, we hope
that he will repair the evil that for five years favourites of every
sort and kind have done to both."
"It is like a good son, and at the same time like a courteous host, to
go back no farther into the history of Scotland," replied Mary Stuart,
"and not to make the daughter blush for the father’s errors; for I have
heard say that the evil which your lordship laments was prior to the
time to which you assign it, and that King James V. also had formerly
favourites, both male and female. It is true that they add that the ones
as ill rewarded his friendship as the others his love. In this, if you
are ignorant of it, my lord, you can be instructed, if he is still
living, by a certain. Porterfeld or Porterfield, I don’t know which,
understanding these names of the lower classes too ill to retain and
pronounce them, but about which, in my stead, your noble mother could
give you information."
With these words, Mary Stuart rose, and, leaving William Douglas crimson
with rage, she returned into her bedroom, and bolted the door behind
her.
All that day Mary did not come down, remaining at her window, from which
she at least enjoyed a splendid view over the plains and village of
Kinross; but this vast extent only contracted her heart the more, when,
bringing her gaze back from the horizon to the castle, she beheld its
walls surrounded on all sides by the deep waters of the lake, on whose
wide surface a single boat, where Little Douglas was fishing, was
rocking like a speck. For some moments Mary’s eyes mechanically rested
on this child, whom she had already seen upon her arrival, when suddenly
a horn sounded from the Kinross side. At the same moment Little Douglas
threw away his line, and began to row towards the shore whence the
signal had come with skill and strength beyond his years. Mary, who had
let her gaze rest on him absently, continued to follow him with her
eyes, and saw him make for a spot on the shore so distant that the boat
seemed to her at length but an imperceptible speck; but soon it
reappeared, growing larger as it approached, and Mary could then observe
that it was bringing back to the castle a new passenger, who, having in
his turn taken the oars, made the little skiff fly over the tranquil
water of the lake, where it left a furrow gleaming in the last rays of
the sun. Very soon, flying on with the swiftness of a bird, it was near
enough for Mary to see that the skilful and vigorous oarsman was a young
man from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, with long black hair,
clad in a close coat of green cloth, and wearing a Highlander’s cap,
adorned with an eagle’s feather; then, as with his back turned to the
window he drew nearer, Little Douglas, who was leaning on his shoulder,
said a few words which made him turn round towards the queen:
immediately Mary, with an instinctive movement rather than with the
dread of being an object of idle curiosity, drew back, but not so
quickly, however, but that she had been able to see the handsome pale
face of the unknown, who, when she returned to the window, had
disappeared behind one of the corners of the castle.
Everything is a cause of conjecture to a prisoner: it seemed to Mary
that this young man’s face was not unknown to her, and that he had seen
her already; but though great the care with which she questioned her
memory, she could not recall any distinct remembrance, so much so that
the queen ended in thinking it the play of her imagination, or that some
vague and distinct resemblance had deceived her.
However, in spite of Mary, this idea had taken an important place in her
mind: she incessantly saw this little boat skimming the water, and the
young man and the child who were in it drawing near her, as if to bring
her help. It followed that, although there had been nothing real in all
these captive’s dreams, she slept that night a calmer sleep than she had
yet done since she had been in Lochleven Castle.
Next day, on rising, Mary ran to her window: the weather was fine, and
everything seemed to smile on her, the water, the heavens and the earth.
But, without being able to account for the restraining motive, she did
not want to go down into the garden before breakfast. When the door
opened, ’she turned quickly round: it was, as on the day before, William
Douglas, who came to fulfil his duty as taster.
The breakfast was a short and silent one; then, as soon as Douglas had
withdrawn, Mary descended in her turn: in crossing the courtyard she saw
two horses ready saddled, which pointed to the near departure of a
master and a squire. Was it the young man with the black hair already
setting out again? This is what Mary did not dare or did not wish to
ask. She consequently went her way, and entered the garden: at the first
glance she took it in in its full extent; it was deserted.
Mary walked there a moment; then, soon tiring of the promenade, she went
up again to her room: in passing back through the courtyard she had
noticed that the horses were no longer there. Directly she returned into
her apartment, she went then to the window to see if she could discover
anything upon the lake to guide her in her conjectures: a boat was in
fact receding, and in this boat were the two horses and the two
horsemen; one was William Douglas, the other a simple squire from the
house.
Mary continued watching the boat until it had touched the shore. Arrived
there, the two horsemen got out, disembarked their horses, and went away
at full gallop, taking the same road by which the queen had come; so
that, as the horses were prepared for a long journey, Mary thought that
William Douglas was going to Edinburgh. As to the boat, scarcely had it
landed its two passengers on the opposite shore than it returned towards
the castle.
At that moment Mary Seyton announced to the queen that Lady Douglas was
asking permission to visit her.
It was the second time, after long hatred on Lady Douglas’s part and
contemptuous indifference on the queen’s, that the two women were face
to face; therefore the queen, with that instinctive impulse of coquetry
which urges women, in whatever situation they find themselves, to desire
to be beautiful, above all for women, made a sign to Mary Seyton, and,
going to a little mirror fastened to the wall in a heavy Gothic frame,
she arranged her curls, and readjusted the lace of her collar; then;
having seated herself in the pose most favourable to her, in a great
arm-chair, the only one in her sitting-room, she said smilingly to Mary
Seyton that she might admit Lady Douglas, who was immediately
introduced.
Mary’s expectation was not disappointed: Lady Douglas, in spite of her
hatred for James Vs daughter, and mistress of herself as she thought she
was, could not prevent herself from showing by a movement of surprise the
impression that this marvelous beauty was making on her: she thought she
should find Mary crushed by her unhappiness, pallid from her fatigues,
humbled by captivity, and she saw her calm, lovely, and haughty as
usual. Mary perceived the effect that she was producing, and addressing
herself with an ironical smile partly to Mary Seyton, who was leaning on
the back of her chair, and partly to her who was paying her this
unforeseen visit.
"We are fortunate to-day," said she, "for we are going as it seems to
enjoy the society of our good hostess, whom we thank besides for having
kindly maintained with us the empty ceremony of announcing herself—a
ceremony with which, having the keys of our apartment, she could have
dispensed."
"If my presence is inconvenient to your grace," replied Lady Lochleven,
"I am all the more sorry for it, as circumstances will oblige me to
impose it twice daily, at least during the absence of my son, who is
summoned to Edinburgh by the regent; this is of what I came to inform
your grace, not with the empty ceremonial of the court, but with the
consideration which Lady Lochleven owes to everyone who has received
hospitality in her castle."
"Our good hostess mistakes our intention," Mary answered, with affected
good-nature; "and the regent himself can bear witness to the pleasure we
have always had in bringing nearer to us the persons who can recall to
us, even indirectly, our well-beloved father, James V. It will be
therefore unjustly that Lady Douglas will interpret in a manner
disagreeable to herself our surprise at seeing her; and the hospitality
that she offers us so obligingly does not promise us, in spite of her
goodwill, sufficient distractions that we should deprive ourselves of
those that her visits cannot fail to procure us."
"Unfortunately, madam," replied Lady Lochleven, whom Mary was keeping
standing before her, "whatever pleasure I myself derive from these
visits, I shall be obliged to deprive myself of, except at the times I
have mentioned. I am now too old to bear fatigue, and I have, always
been too proud to endure sarcasms."
"Really, Seyton," cried Mary, seeming to recollect herself, "we had not
dreamed that Lady Lochleven, having won her right to a stool at the
court of the king my father, would have need to preserve it in the
prison of the queen his daughter. Bring forward a seat, Seyton, that we
be not deprived so soon, and by a failure of memory on our part, of our
gracious hostess’s company; or even," went on Mary, rising and pointing
out her own seat to Lady Lochleven, who was making a motion to withdraw,
"if a stool does not suit you, my lady, take this easy-chair: you will
not be the first member of your family to sit in my place."
At this last allusion, which recalled to her Murray’s usurpation, Lady
Lochleven was no doubt about to make some exceedingly bitter reply, when
the young man with the dark hair appeared on the threshold, without
being announced, and, advancing towards Lady Lochleven, without saluting
Mary—
"Madam," said he, bowing to the former, "the boat which took my brother
has just returned, and one of the men in it is charged with a pressing
charge that Lord William forgot to make to you himself."
Then, saluting the old lady with the same respect, he immediately went
out of the room, without even glancing at the queen, who, hurt by this
impertinence, turned round to Mary Seyton, and, with her usual calm—
"What have they told us, Seyton, of injurious rumours which were spread
about our worthy hostess apropos of a child with a pale face and dark
hair? If this child, as I have every reason to believe, has become the
young man who just went out of the room, I am ready to affirm to all the
incredulous that he is a true Douglas, if not for courage, of which we
cannot judge, then for insolence, of which he has just given us proofs.
Let us return, darling," continued the queen, leaning on Mary Seyton’s
arm; "for our good hostess, out of courtesy, might think herself obliged
to keep us company longer, while we know that she is impatiently awaited
elsewhere."
With these words, Mary went into her bedroom; while the old lady, still
quite stunned with the shower of sarcasms that the queen had rained on
her, withdrew, murmuring, "Yes, yes, he is a Douglas, and with God’s
help he will prove it, I hope."
The queen had had strength as long as she was sustained by her enemy’s
presence, but scarcely was she alone than she sank into a chair, and no
longer having any witness of her weakness than Mary Seyton, burst into
tears. Indeed, she had just been cruelly wounded: till then no man had
come near her who had not paid homage either to the majesty of her rank
or to the beauty of her countenance. But precisely he, on whom she had
reckoned, without knowing why, with instinctive hopes, insulted her at
one and the same time in her double pride of queen and woman: thus she
remained shut up till evening.
At dinner-time, just as Lady Lochleven had informed Mary, she ascended
to the queen’s apartment, in her dress of honour, and preceding four
servants who were carrying the several dishes composing the prisoner’s
repast, and who, in their turn, were followed by the old castle steward,
having, as on days of great ceremony, his gold chain round his neck and
his ivory stick in his hand. The servants’ placed the dishes on the
table, and waited in silence for the moment when it should please the
queen to come out of her room; but at this moment the door opened, and
in place of the queen Mary Seyton appeared.
"Madam," said she on entering, "her grace was indisposed during the day,
and will take nothing this evening; it will be useless, then, for you to
wait longer."
"Permit me to hope," replied Lady Lochleven, "that she will change her
decision; in any case, see me perform my office."
At these words, a servant handed Lady Lochleven bread and salt on a
silver salver, while the old steward, who, in the absence of William
Douglas, fulfilled the duties of carver, served to her on a plate of the
same metal a morsel from each of the dishes that had been brought; then,
this transaction ended.
"So the queen will not appear to-day?" Lady Lochleven inquired.
"It is her Majesty’s resolve," replied Mary Seyton.
"Our presence is then needless," said the old lady; "but in any case the
table is served, and if her grace should have need of anything else, she
would have but to name it."
With these words, Lady Lochleven, with the same stiffness and the same
dignity with which she had come, withdrew, followed by her four servants
and her steward.
As Lady Lochleven had foreseen, the queen, yielding to the entreaties of
Mary Seyton, came out of her room at last, towards eight o’clock in the
evening, sat down to table, and, served by the only maid of honour left
her, ate a little; then, getting up, she went to the window.
It was one of those magnificent summer evenings on which the whole of
nature seems making holiday: the sky was studded with stars, which were
reflected in the lake, and in their midst, like a more fiery star, the
flame of the chafing-dish shone, burning at the stern of a little boat:
the queen, by the gleam of the light it shed, perceived George Douglas
and Little Douglas, who were fishing. However great her wish to profit
by this fine evening to breathe the pure night air, the sight of this
young man who had so grossly insulted her this very day made such a keen
impression on her that she shut her window directly, and, retiring into
her room, went to bed, and made her companion in captivity read several
prayers aloud; then, not being able to sleep, so greatly was she
agitated, she rose, and throwing on a mantle went again to the window
the boat had disappeared.
Mary spent part of the night gazing into the immensity of the heavens,
or into the depths of the lake; but in spite of the nature of the
thoughts agitating her, she none the less found very great physical
alleviation in contact with this pure air and in contemplation of this
peaceful and silent night: thus she awoke next day calmer and more
resigned. Unfortunately, the sight of Lady Lochleven, who presented
herself at breakfast-time, to fulfil her duties as taster, brought back
her irritability. Perhaps, however, things would have gone on smoothly
if Lady Lochleven, instead of remaining standing by the sideboard, had
withdrawn after having tasted the various dishes of the courses; but
this insisting on remaining throughout the meal, which was at bottom a
mark of respect, seemed to the queen unbearable tyranny.
"Darling," said she, speaking to Mary Seyton, "have you already
forgotten that our good hostess complained yesterday of the fatigue she
felt in standing? Bring her, then, one of the two stools which compose
our royal furniture, and take care that it is not the one with the leg
broken". "If the furniture of Lochleven Castle is in such bad condition,
madam," the old lady replied, "it is the fault of the kings of Scotland:
the poor Douglases for nearly a century have had such a small part of
their sovereigns’ favour, that they have not been able to keep up the
splendour of their ancestors to the level of that of private
individuals, and because there was in Scotland a certain musician, as I
am informed, who spent their income for a whole year in one month."
"Those who know how to take so well, my lady," the queen answered, "have
no need of being given to: it seems to me the Douglases have lost
nothing by waiting, and there is not a younger son of this noble family
who might not aspire to the highest alliances; it is truly vexatious
that our sister the queen of England has taken a vow of virginity; as is
stated."
"Or rather," interrupted Lady Lochleven, "that the Queen of Scotland is
not a widow by her third husband. But," continued the old lady,
pretending to recollect herself, "I do not say that to reproach your
grace. Catholics look upon marriage as a sacrament, and on this head
receive it as often as they can."
"This, then," returned Mary, "is the difference between them and the
Huguenots; for they, not having the same respect for it, think it is
allowed them to dispense with it in certain circumstances."
At this terrible sarcasm Lady Lochleven took a step towards Mary Stuart,
holding in her hand the knife which she had just been using to cut off a
piece of meat brought her to taste; but the queen rose up with so great
a calm and with such majesty, that either from involuntary respect or
shame of her first impulse, she let fall the weapon she was holding, and
not finding anything sufficiently strong in reply to express her
feelings, she signed to the servants to follow her, and went out of the
apartment with all the dignity that anger permitted her to summon to her
aid.
Scarcely had Lady Lochleven left the room than the queen sat down again,
joyful and triumphant at the victory she had just gained, and ate with a
better appetite than she had yet done since she was a prisoner, while
Mary Seyton deplored in a low tone and with all possible respect this
fatal gift of repartee that Mary had received, and which, with her
beauty, was one of the causes of all her misfortunes; but the queen did
nothing but laugh at all her observations, saying she was curious to see
the figure her good hostess would cut at dinnertime.
After breakfast, the queen went down into the garden: her satisfied
pride had restored some of her cheerfulness, so much so that, seeing,
while crossing the hall, a mandolin lying forgotten on a chair, she told
Mary Seyton to take it, to see, she said, if she could recall her old
talent. In reality the queen was one of the best musicians of the time,
and played admirably, says Brantome, on the lute and viol d’amour, an
instrument much resembling the mandolin.
Mary Seyton obeyed.
Arrived in the garden, the queen sat down in the deepest shade, and
there, having tuned her instrument, she at first drew from it lively and
light tones, which soon darkened little by little, at the same time that
her countenance assumed a hue of deep melancholy. Mary Seyton looked at
her with uneasiness, although for a long time she had been used to these
sudden changes in her mistress’s humour, and she was about to ask the
reason of this gloomy veil suddenly spread over her face, when,
regulating her harmonies, Mary began to sing in a low voice, and as if
for herself alone, the following verses:
"Caverns, meadows, plains and mounts,
Lands of tree and stone,
Rivers, rivulets and founts,
By which I stray alone,
Bewailing as I go,
With tears that overflow,
Sing will I
The miserable woe
That bids me grieve and sigh.
Ay, but what is here to lend
Ear to my lament?
What is here can comprehend
My dull discontent?
Neither grass nor reed,
Nor the ripples heed,
Flowing by,
While the stream with speed
Hastens from my eye.
Vainly does my wounded heart
Hope, alas, to heal;
Seeking, to allay its smart,
Things that cannot feel.
Better should my pain
Bitterly complain,
Crying shrill,
To thee who dost constrain
My spirit to such ill.
Goddess, who shalt never die,
List to what I say;
Thou who makest me to lie
Weak beneath thy sway,
If my life must know
Ending at thy blow,
Cruellest!
Own it perished so
But at thy behest.
Lo! my face may all men see
Slowly pine and fade,
E'en as ice doth melt and flee
Near a furnace laid.
Yet the burning ray
Wasting me away
Passion's glow,
Wakens no display
Of pity for my woe.
Yet does every neighbour tree,
Every rocky wall,
This my sorrow know and see;
So, in brief, doth all
Nature know aright
This my sorry plight;
Thou alone
Takest thy delight
To hear me cry and moan.
But if it be thy will,
To see tormented still
Wretched me,
Then let my woful ill
Immortal be."
This last verse died away as if the queen were exhausted, and at the
same time the mandolin slipped from her hands, and would have fallen to
the ground had not Mary Seyton thrown herself on her knees and prevented
it. The young girl remained thus at her mistress’s feet for some time,
gazing at her silently, and as she saw that she was losing herself more
and more in gloomy reverie—
"Have those lines brought back to your Majesty some sad remembrance?"
she asked hesitatingly.
"Oh, yes," answered the queen; "they reminded me of the unfortunate
being who composed them."
"And may I, without indiscretion, inquire of your grace who is their
author?"
"Alas! he was a noble, brave, and handsome young man, with a faithful
heart and a hot head, who would defend me to-day, if I had defended him
then; but his boldness seemed to me rashness, and his fault a crime.
What was to be done? I did not love him. Poor Chatelard! I was very
cruel to him."
"But you did not prosecute him, it was your brother; you did not condemn
him, the judges did."
"Yes, yes; I know that he too was Murray’s victim, and that is no doubt
the reason that I am calling him to mind just now. But I was able to
pardon him, Mary, and I was inflexible; I let ascend the scaffold a man
whose only crime was in loving me too well; and now I am astonished and
complain of being abandoned by everyone. Listen, darling, there is one
thing that terrifies me: it is, that when I search within myself I find
that I have not only deserved my fate, but even that God did not punish
me severely enough."
"What strange thoughts for your grace!" cried Mary; "and see where those
unlucky lines which returned to your mind have led you, the very day
when you were beginning to recover a little of your cheerfulness."
"Alas!" replied the queen, shaking her head and uttering a deep sigh,
"for six years very few days have passed that I have not repeated those
lines to myself, although it may be for the first time to-day that I
repeat them aloud. He was a Frenchman too, Mary: they have exiled from
me, taken or killed all who came to me from France. Do you remember that
vessel which was swallowed up before our eyes when we came out of Calais
harbour? I exclaimed then that it was a sad omen: you all wanted to
reassure me. Well, who was right, now, you or I?"
The queen was in one of those fits of sadness for which tears are the
sole remedy; so Mary Seyton, perceiving that not only would every
consolation be vain, but also unreasonable, far from continuing to react
against her mistress’s melancholy, fully agreed with her: it followed
that the queen, who was suffocating, began to weep, and that her tears
brought her comfort; then little by little she regained self-control,
and this crisis passed as usual, leaving her firmer and more resolute
than ever, so that when she went up to her room again it was impossible
to read the slightest alteration in her countenance.
The dinner-hour was approaching, and Mary, who in the morning was
looking forward impatiently to the enjoyment of her triumph over Lady
Lochleven, now saw her advance with uneasiness: the mere idea of again
facing this woman, whose pride one was always obliged to oppose with
insolence, was, after the moral fatigues of the day, a fresh weariness.
So she decided not to appear for dinner, as on the day before: she was
all the more glad she had taken this resolution, that this time it was
not Lady Lochleven who came to fulfil the duties enjoined on a member of
the family to make the queen easy, but George Douglas, whom his mother
in her displeasure at the morning scene sent to replace her. Thus, when
Mary Seyton told the queen that she saw the young man with dark hair
cross the courtyard on his way to her, Mary still further congratulated
herself on her decision; for this young man’s insolence had wounded her
more deeply than all his mother’s haughty insults. The queen was not a
little astonished, then, when in a few minutes Mary Seyton returned and
informed her that George Douglas, having sent away the servants, desired
the honour of speaking to her on a matter of importance. At first the
queen refused; but Mary Seyton told her that the young man’s air and
manner this time were so different from what she had seen two days
before, that she thought her mistress would be wrong to refuse his
request.
The queen rose then, and with the pride and majesty habitual to her,
entered the adjoining room, and, having taken three steps, stopped with
a disdainful air, waiting for George to address her.
Mary Seyton had spoken truly: George Douglas was now another man. To-day
he seemed to be as respectful and timid as the preceding day he had
seemed haughty and proud. He, in his turn, made a step towards the
queen; but seeing Mary Seyton standing behind her—
"Madam," said he, "I wished to speak with your Majesty alone: shall I
not obtain this favour?"
"Mary Seyton is not a stranger to me, Sir: she is my sister, my friend;
she is more than all that, she is my companion in captivity."
"And by all these claims, madam, I have the utmost veneration for her;
but what I have to tell you cannot be heard by other ears than yours.
Thus, madam, as the opportunity furnished now may perhaps never present
itself again, in the name of what is dearest to you, grant me what I
ask."
There was such a tone of respectful prayer in George’s voice that Mary
turned to the young girl, and, making her a friendly sign with her hand—
"Go, then, darling," said she; "but be easy, you will lose nothing by
not hearing. Go."
Mary Seyton withdrew; the queen smilingly looked after her, till the
door was shut; then, turning to George—
"Now, sir," said she, "we are alone, speak."
But George, instead of replying, advanced to the queen, and, kneeling on
one knee, drew from his breast a paper which he presented to her. Mary
took it with amazement, unfolded it, glancing at Douglas, who remained
in the same posture, and read as follows:
We, earls, lords, and barons, in consideration that our queen is
detained at Lochleven, and that her faithful subjects cannot have access
to her person; seeing, on the other hand, that our duty pledges us to
provide for her safety, promise and swear to employ all reasonable means
which will depend on us to set her at liberty again on conditions
compatible with the honour of her Majesty, the welfare of the kingdom,
and even with the safety of those who keep her in prison, provided that
they consent to give her up; that if they refuse, we declare that we are
prepared to make use of ourselves, our children, our friends, our
servants, our vassals, our goods, our persons, and our lives, to restore
her to liberty, to procure the safety of the prince, and to co-operate
in punishing the late king’s murderers. If we are assailed for this
intent, whether as a body or in private, we promise to defend ourselves,
and to aid one another, under pain of infamy and perjury. So may God
help us.
"Given with our own hands at Dumbarton,
"St. Andrews, Argyll, Huntly, Arbroath, Galloway, Ross, Fleming,
Herries, Stirling, Kilwinning, Hamilton, and Saint-Clair, Knight."
"And Seyton!" cried Mary, "among all these signatures, I do not see that
of my faithful Seyton."
Douglas, still kneeling, drew from his breast a second paper, and
presented it to the queen with the same marks of respect. It contained
only these few words:
"Trust George Douglas; for your Majesty has no more devoted friend in
the entire kingdom. "SEYTON."
Mary lowered her eyes to Douglas with an expression which was hers only;
then, giving him her hand to raise him—
"Ah!" said she, with a sigh more of joy than of sadness, "now I see that
God, in spite of my faults, has not yet abandoned me. But how is it, in
this castle, that you, a Douglas.... oh! it is incredible!"
"Madam," replied George, "seven years have passed since I saw you in
France for the first time, and for seven years I have loved you". Mary
moved; but Douglas put forth his hand and shook his head with an air of
such profound sadness, that she understood that she might hear what the
young man had to say. He continued: "Reassure yourself, madam; I should
never have made this confession if, while explaining my conduct to you,
this confession would not have given you greater confidence in me. Yes,
for seven years I have loved you, but as one loves a star that one can
never reach, a madonna to whom one can only pray; for seven years I have
followed you everywhere without you ever having paid attention to me,
without my saying a word or making a gesture to attract your notice. I
was on the knight of Mevillon’s galley when you crossed to Scotland; I
was among the regent’s soldiers when you beat Huntly; I was in the
escort which accompanied you when you went to see the sick king at
Glasgow; I reached Edinburgh an hour after you had left it for
Lochleven; and then it seemed to me that my mission was revealed to me
for the first time, and that this love for which till then, I had
reproached myself as a crime, was on the contrary a favour from God. I
learned that the lords were assembled at Dumbarton: I flew thither. I
pledged my name, I pledged my honour, I pledged my life; and I obtained
from them, thanks to the facility I had for coming into this fortress,
the happiness of bringing you the paper they have just signed. Now,
madam, forget all I have told you, except the assurance of my devotion
and respect: forget that I am near you; I am used to not being seen:
only, if you have need of my life, make a sign; for seven years my life
has been yours."
"Alas!" replied Mary, "I was complaining this morning of no longer being
loved, and I ought to complain, on the contrary, that I am still loved;
for the love that I inspire is fatal and mortal. Look back, Douglas, and
count the tombs that, young as I am, I have already left on my
path—Francis II, Chatelard, Rizzio, Darnley.... Oh to attach one’s self
to my fortunes more than love is needed now heroism and devotion are
requisite so much the more that, as you have said, Douglas, it is love
without any possible reward. Do you understand?"
"Oh, madam, madam," answered Douglas, "is it not reward beyond my
deserts to see you daily, to cherish the hope that liberty will be
restored to you through me, and to have at least, if I do not give it
you, the certainty of dying in your sight?"
"Poor young man!" murmured Mary, her eyes raised to heaven, as if she
were reading there beforehand the fate awaiting her new defender.
"Happy Douglas, on the contrary," cried George, seizing the queen’s hand
and kissing it with perhaps still more respect than love, "happy
Douglas! for in obtaining a sigh from your Majesty he has already
obtained more than he hoped."
"And upon what have you decided with my friends?" said the queen,
raising Douglas, who till then had remained on his knees before her.
"Nothing yet," George replied; "for we scarcely had time to see one
another. Your escape, impossible without me, is difficult even with me;
and your Majesty has seen that I was obliged publicly to fail in
respect, to obtain from my mother the confidence which gives me the good
fortune of seeing you to-day: if this confidence on my mother’s or my
brother’s part ever extends to giving up to me the castle keys, then you
are saved! Let your Majesty not be surprised at anything, then: in the
presence of others, I shall ever be always a Douglas, that is an enemy;
and except your life be in danger, madam, I shall not utter a word, I
shall not make a gesture which might betray the faith that I have sworn
you; but, on your side, let your grace know well, that present or
absent, whether I am silent or speak, whether I act or remain inert, all
will be in appearance only, save my devotion. Only," continued Douglas,
approaching the window and showing to the queen a little house on
Kinross hill,—"only, look every evening in that direction, madam, and so
long as you see a light shine there, your friends will be keeping watch
for you, and you need not lose hope."
"Thanks, Douglas, thanks," said the queen; "it does one good to meet
with a heart like yours from time to time—oh! thanks."
"And now, madam," replied the young man, "I must leave your Majesty; to
remain longer with you would be to raise suspicions, and a single doubt
of me, think of it well, madam, and that light which is your sole beacon
is extinguished, and all returns into night."
With these words, Douglas bowed more respectfully than he had yet done,
and withdrew, leaving Mary full of hope, and still more full of pride;
for this time the homage that she had just received was certainly for
the woman and not for the queen.
As the queen had told him, Mary Seyton was informed of everything, even
the love of Douglas, and, the two women impatiently awaited the evening
to see if the promised star would shine on the horizon. Their hope was
not in vain: at the appointed time the beacon was lit. The queen
trembled with joy, for it was the confirmation of her hopes, and her
companion could not tear her from the window, where she remained with
her gaze fastened on the little house in Kinross. At last she yielded to
Mary Seyton’s prayers, and consented to go to bed; but twice in the
night she rose noiselessly to go to the window: the light was always
shining, and was not extinguished till dawn, with its sisters the stars.
Next day, at breakfast, George announced to the queen the return of his
brother, William Douglas: he arrived the same evening; as to himself,
George, he had to leave Lochleven next morning, to confer with the
nobles who had signed the declaration, and who had immediately separated
to raise troops in their several counties. The queen could not attempt
to good purpose any escape but at a time when she would be sure of
gathering round her an army strong enough to hold the country; as to
him, Douglas, one was so used to his silent disappearances and to his
unexpected returns, that there was no reason to fear that his departure
would inspire any suspicion.
All passed as George had said: in the evening the sound of a bugle
announced the arrival of William Douglas; he had with him Lord Ruthven,
the son of him who had assassinated Rizzio, and who, exiled with Morton
after the murder, died in England of the sickness with which he was
already attacked the day of the terrible catastrophe in which we have
seen him take such a large share. He preceded by one day Lord Lindsay of
Byres and Sir Robert Melville, brother of Mary’s former ambassador to
Elizabeth: all three were charged with a mission from the regent to the
queen.
On the following day everything fell back into the usual routine, and
William Douglas reassumed his duties as carver. Breakfast passed without
Mary’s having learned anything of George’s departure or Ruthven’s
arrival. On rising from the table she went to her window: scarcely was
she there than she heard the sound of a horn echoing on the shores of
the lake, and saw a little troop of horsemen halt, while waiting for the
boat to came and take those who were going to the castle.
The distance was too great for Mary to recognise any of the visitors;
but it was clear, from the signs of intelligence exchanged between the
little troop and the inhabitants of the fortress, that the newcomers
were her enemies. This was a reason why the queen, in her uneasiness,
should not lose sight for a moment of the boat which was going to fetch
them. She saw only two men get into it; and immediately it put off again
for the castle.
As the boat drew nearer, Mary’s presentiments changed to real fears, for
in one of the men coming towards her she thought she made out Lord
Lindsay of Byres, the same who, a week before, had brought her to her
prison. It was indeed he himself, as usual in a steel helmet without a
visor, which allowed one to see his coarse face designed to express
strong passions, and his long black beard with grey hairs here and
there, which covered his chest: his person was protected, as if it were
in time of war, with his faithful suit of armour, formerly polished and
well gilded, but which, exposed without ceasing to rain and mist, was
now eaten up with rust; he had slung on his back, much as one slings a
quiver, a broadsword, so heavy that it took two hands to manage it, and
so long that while the hilt reached the left shoulder the point reached
the right spur: in a word, he was still the same soldier, brave to
rashness but brutal to insolence, recognising nothing but right and
force, and always ready to use force when he believed himself in the
right.
The queen was so much taken up with the sight of Lord Lindsay of Byres,
that it was only just as the boat reached the shore that she glanced at
his companion and recognised Robert Melville: this was some consolation,
for, whatever might happen, she knew that she should find in him if not
ostensible at least secret sympathy. Besides, his dress, by which one
could have judged him equally with Lord Lindsay, was a perfect contrast
to his companion’s. It consisted of a black velvet doublet, with a cap
and a feather of the same hue fastened to it with a gold clasp; his only
weapon, offensive or defensive, was a little sword, which he seemed to
wear rather as a sign of his rank than for attack or defence. As to his
features and his manners, they were in harmony with this peaceful
appearance: his pale countenance expressed both acuteness and
intelligence; his quick eye was mild, and his voice insinuating; his
figure slight and a little bent by habit rather than by years, since he
was but forty-five at this time, indicated an easy and conciliatory
character.
However, the presence of this man of peace, who seemed entrusted with
watching over the demon of war, could not reassure the queen, and as to
get to the landing-place, in front of the great door of the castle, the
boat had just disappeared behind the corner of a tower, she told Mary
Seyton to go down that she might try to learn what cause brought Lord
Lindsay to Lochleven, well knowing that with the force of character with
which she was endowed, she need know this cause but a few minutes
beforehand, whatever it might be, to give her countenance that calm and
that majesty which she had always found to influence her enemies.
Left alone, Mary let her glance stray back to the little house in
Kinross, her sole hope; but the distance was too great to distinguish
anything; besides, its shutters remained closed all day, and seemed to
open only in the evening, like the clouds, which, having covered the sky
for a whole morning, scatter at last to reveal to the lost sailor a
solitary star. She had remained no less motionless, her gaze always
fixed on the same object, when she was drawn from this mute
contemplation by the step of Mary Seyton.
"Well, darling?" asked the queen, turning round.
"Your Majesty is not mistaken," replied the messenger: "it really was
Sir Robert Melville and Lord Lindsay; but there came yesterday with Sir
William Douglas a third ambassador, whose name, I am afraid, will be
still more odious to your Majesty than either of the two I have just
pronounced."
"You deceive yourself, Mary," the queen answered: "neither the name of
Melville nor that of Lindsay is odious to me. Melville’s, on the
contrary, is, in my present circumstances, one of those which I have
most pleasure in hearing; as to Lord Lindsay’s, it is doubtless not
agreeable to me, but it is none the less an honourable name, always
borne by men rough and wild, it is true, but incapable of treachery.
Tell me, then, what is this name, Mary; for you see I am calm and
prepared."
"Alas! madam," returned Mary, "calm and prepared as you may be, collect
all your strength, not merely to hear this name uttered, but also to
receive in a few minutes the man who bears it; for this name is that of
Lord Ruthven."
Mary Seyton had spoken truly, and this name had a terrible influence
upon the queen; for scarcely had it escaped the young girl’s lips than
Mary Stuart uttered a cry, and turning pale, as if she were about to
faint, caught hold of the window-ledge.
Mary Seyton, frightened at the effect produced by this fatal name,
immediately sprang to support the queen; but she, stretching one hand
towards her, while she laid the other on her heart—
"It is nothing," said she; "I shall be better in a moment. Yes, Mary,
yes, as you said, it is a fatal name and mingled with one of my most
bloody memories. What such men are coming to ask of me must be dreadful
indeed. But no matter, I shall soon be ready to receive my brother’s
ambassadors, for doubtless they are sent in his name. You, darling,
prevent their entering, for I must have some minutes to myself: you know
me; it will not take me long."
With these words the queen withdrew with a firm step to her bedchamber.
Mary Seyton was left alone, admiring that strength of character which
made of Mary Stuart, in all other respects so completely woman-like, a
man in the hour of danger. She immediately went to the door to close it
with the wooden bar that one passed between two iron rings, but the bar
had been taken away, so that there was no means of fastening the door
from within. In a moment she heard someone coming up the stairs, and
guessing from the heavy, echoing step that this must be Lord Lindsay,
she looked round her once again to see if she could find something to
replace the bar, and finding nothing within reach, she passed her arm
through the rings, resolved to let it be broken rather than allow anyone
to approach her mistress before it suited her. Indeed, hardly had those
who were coming up reached the landing than someone knocked violently,
and a harsh voice cried:
"Come, come, open the door; open directly."
"And by what right," said Mary Seyton, "am I ordered thus insolently to
open the Queen of Scotland’s door?"
"By the right of the ambassador of the regent to enter everywhere in his
name. I am Lord Lindsay, and I am come to speak to Lady Mary Stuart."
"To be an ambassador," answered Mary Seyton, "is not to be exempted from
having oneself announced in visiting a woman, and much more a queen; and
if this ambassador is, as he says, Lord Lindsay, he will await his
sovereign’s leisure, as every Scottish noble would do in his place."
"By St. Andrew!" cried Lord Lindsay, "open, or I will break in the
door."
"Do nothing to it, my lord, I entreat you," said another voice, which
Mary recognised as Meville’s. "Let us rather wait for Lord Ruthven, who
is not yet ready."
"Upon my soul," cried Lindsay, shaking the door, "I shall not wait a
second". Then, seeing that it resisted, "Why did you tell me, then, you
scamp," Lindsay went on, speaking to the steward, "that the bar had been
removed?
"It is true," replied he.
"Then," returned Lindsay, "with what is this silly wench securing the
door?"
"With my arm, my lord, which I have passed through the rings, as a
Douglas did for King James I, at a time when Douglases had dark hair
instead of red, and were faithful instead of being traitors."
"Since you know your history so well," replied Lindsay, in a rage," you
should remember that that weak barrier did not hinder Graham, that
Catherine Douglas’s arm was broken like a willow wand, and that James I
was killed like a dog."
"But you, my lord," responded the courageous young girl, "ought also to
know the ballad that is still sung in our time—
"’Now, on Robert Gra’am, The king’s destroyer, shame! To Robert Graham
cling Shame, who destroyed our king.’"
"Mary," cried the queen, who had overheard this altercation from her
bedroom,—"Mary, I command you to open the door directly: do you hear?"
Mary obeyed, and Lord Lindsay entered, followed by Melville, who walked
behind him, with slow steps and bent head. Arrived in the middle of the
second room, Lord Lindsay stopped, and, looking round him—
"Well, where is she, then?" he asked; "and has she not already kept us
waiting long enough outside, without making us wait again inside? Or
does she imagine that, despite these walls and these bars, she is always
queen?"
"Patience, my lord," murmured Sir Robert: "you see that Lord Ruthven has
not come yet, and since we can do nothing without him, let us wait."
"Let wait who will," replied Lindsay, inflamed with anger; "but it will
not be I, and wherever she may be, I shall go and seek her."
With these words, he made some steps towards Mary Stuart’s bedroom; but
at the same moment the queen opened the door, without seeming moved
either at the visit or at the insolence of the visitors, and so lovely
and so full of majesty, that each, even Lindsay himself, was silent at
her appearance, and, as if in obedience to a higher power, bowed
respectfully before her.
"I fear I have kept you waiting, my lord," said the queen, without
replying to the ambassador’s salutation otherwise than by a slight
inclination of the head; "but a woman does not like to receive even
enemies without having spent a few minutes over her toilet. It is true
that men are less tenacious of ceremony," added she, throwing a
significant glance at Lord Lindsay’s rusty armour and soiled and pierced
doublet. "Good day, Melville," she continued, without paying attention
to some words of excuse stammered by Lindsay; "be welcome in my prison,
as you were in my palace; for I believe you as devoted to the one as to
the other".
Then, turning to Lindsay, who was looking interrogatively at the door,
impatient as he was for Ruthven to come—
"You have there, my lord," said she, pointing to the sword he carried
over his shoulder, "a faithful companion, though it is a little heavy:
did you expect, in coming here, to find enemies against whom to employ
it? In the contrary case, it is a strange ornament for a lady’s
presence. But no matter, my lord, I, am too much of a Stuart to fear the
sight of a sword, even if it were naked, I warn you."
"It is not out of place here, madam," replied Lindsay, bringing it
forward and leaning his elbow on its cross hilt, "for it is an old
acquaintance of your family."
"Your ancestors, my lord, were brave and loyal enough for me not to
refuse to believe what you tell me. Besides, such a good blade must have
rendered them good service."
"Yes, madam, yes, surely it has done so, but that kind of service that
kings do not forgive. He for whom it was made was Archibald
Bell-the-Cat, and he girded himself with it the day when, to justify his
name, he went to seize in the very tent of King James III, your
grandfather, his un worthy favourites, Cochran, Hummel, Leonard, and
Torpichen, whom he hanged on Louder Bridge with the halters of his
soldiers’ horses. It was also with this sword that he slew at one blow,
in the lists, Spens of Kilspindie, who had insulted him in the presence
of King James IV, counting on the protection his master accorded him,
and which did not guard him against it any more than his shield, which
it split in two. At his master’s death, which took place two years after
the defeat of Flodden, on whose battlefield he left his two sons and two
hundred warriors of the name of Douglas, it passed into the hands of the
Earl of Angus, who drew it from the scabbard when he drove the Hamiltons
out of Edinburgh, and that so quickly and completely that the affair was
called the ’sweeping of the streets.’ Finally, your father James V saw
it glisten in the fight of the bridge over the Tweed, when Buccleuch,
stirred up by him, wanted to snatch him from the guardianship of the
Douglases, and when eighty warriors of the name of Scott remained on the
battlefield."
"But," said the queen, "how is it that this weapon, after such exploits,
has not remained as a trophy in the Douglas family? No doubt the Earl of
Angus required a great occasion to decide him to-renounce in your favour
this modern Excalibur". [History of Scotland, by Sir Walter Scott.—"The
Abbott": historical part.]
"Yes, no doubt, madam, it was upon a great occasion," replied Lindsay,
in spite of the imploring signs made by Melville, "and this will have at
least the advantage of the others, in being sufficiently recent for you
to remember. It was ten days ago, on the battlefield of Carberry Hill,
madam, when the infamous Bothwell had the audacity to make a public
challenge in which he defied to single combat whomsoever would dare to
maintain that he was not innocent of the murder of the king your
husband. I made him answer then, I the third, that he was an assassin.
And as he refused to fight with the two others under the pretext that
they were only barons, I presented myself in my turn, I who am earl and
lord. It was on that occasion that the noble Earl of Morton gave me this
good sword to fight him to the death. So that, if he had been a little
more presumptuous or a little less cowardly, dogs and vultures would be
eating at this moment the pieces that, with the help of this good sword,
I should have carved for them from that traitor’s carcass."
At these words, Mary Seyton and Robert Melville looked at each other in
terror, for the events that they recalled were so recent that they were,
so to speak, still living in the queen’s heart; but the queen, with
incredible impassibility and a smile of contempt on her lips—
"It is easy, my lord," said she, "to vanquish an enemy who does not
appear in the lists; however, believe me, if Mary had inherited the
Stuarts’ sword as she has inherited their sceptre, your sword, long as
it is, would yet have seemed to you too short. But as you have only to
relate to us now, my lord, what you intended doing, and not what you
have done, think it fit that I bring you back to something of more
reality; for I do not suppose you have given yourself the trouble to
come here purely and simply to add a chapter to the little treatise Des
Rodomontades Espagnolles by M. de Brantome."
"You are right, madam," replied Lindsay, reddening with anger, "and you
would already know the object of our mission if Lord Ruthven did not so
ridiculously keep us waiting. But," added he, "have patience; the matter
will not be long now, for here he is."
Indeed, at that moment they heard steps mounting the staircase and
approaching the room, and at the sound of these steps, the queen, who
had borne with such firmness Lindsay’s insults, grew so perceptibly
paler, that Melville, who did not take his eyes off her,—put out his
hand towards the arm-chair as if to push it towards her; but the queen
made a sign that she had no need of it, and gazed at the door with
apparent calm. Lord Ruthven appeared; it was the first time that she had
seen the son since Rizzio had been assassinated by the father.
Lord Ruthven was both a warrior and a statesman, and at this moment his
dress savoured of the two professions: it consisted of a close coat of
embroidered buff leather, elegant enough to be worn as a court undress,
and on which, if need were, one could buckle a cuirass, for battle: like
his father, he was pale; like his father, he was to die young, and, even
more than his father, his countenance wore that ill-omened melancholy by
which fortune-tellers recognise those who are to die a violent death.
Lord Ruthven united in himself the polished dignity of a courtier and
the inflexible character of a minister; but quite resolved as he was to
obtain from Mary Stuart, even if it were by violence, what he had come
to demand in the regent’s name, he none the less made her, on entering,
a cold but respectful greeting, to which the queen responded with a
courtesy; then the steward drew up to the empty arm-chair a heavy table
on which had been prepared everything necessary for writing, and at a
sign from the two lords he went out, leaving the queen and her companion
alone with the three ambassadors. Then the queen, seeing that this table
and this arm-chair were put ready for her, sat down; and after a moment,
herself breaking this silence more gloomy than any word could have been—
"My lords," said she, "you see that I wait: can it be that this message
which you have to communicate to me is so terrible that two soldiers as
renowned as Lord Lindsay and Lord Ruthven hesitate at the moment of
transmitting it?"
"Madam," answered Ruthven, "I am not of a family, as you know, which
ever hesitates to perform a duty, painful as it may be; besides, we hope
that your captivity has prepared you to hear what we have to tell you on
the part of the Secret Council."
"The Secret Council!" said the queen. "Instituted by me, by what right
does it act without me? No matter, I am waiting for this message: I
suppose it is a petition to implore my mercy for the men who have dared
to reach to a power that I hold only from God."
"Madam," replied Ruthven, who appeared to have undertaken the painful
role of spokesman, while Lindsay, mute and impatient, fidgeted with the
hilt of his long sword, "it is distressing to me to have to undeceive
you on this point: it is not your mercy that I come to ask; it is, on
the contrary, the pardon of the Secret Council that I come to offer
you."
"To me, my lord, to me!" cried Mary: "subjects offer pardon to their
queen! Oh! it is such a new and wonderful thing, that my amazement
outweighs my indignation, and that I beg you to continue, instead of
stopping you there, as perhaps I ought to do."
"And I obey you so much the more willingly, madam," went on Ruthven
imperturbably, "that this pardon is only granted on certain conditions,
stated in these documents, destined to re-establish the tranquillity of
the State, so cruelly compromised by the errors that they are going to
repair."
"And shall I be permitted, my lord, to read these documents, or must I,
allured by my confidence in those who present them to me, sign them with
my eyes shut?"
"No, madam," Ruthven returned; "the Secret Council desire, on the
contrary, that you acquaint yourself with them, for you must sign them
freely."
"Read me these documents, my lord; for such a reading is, I think,
included in the strange duties you have accepted."
Lord Ruthven took one of the two papers that he had in his hand, and
read with the impassiveness of his usual voice the following:
"Summoned from my tenderest youth to the government of the kingdom and
to the crown of Scotland, I have carefully attended to the
administration; but I have experienced so much fatigue and trouble that
I no longer find my mind free enough nor my strength great enough to
support the burden of affairs of State: accordingly, and as Divine
favour has granted us a son whom we desire to see during our lifetime
bear the crown which he has acquired by right of birth, we have resolved
to abdicate, and we abdicate in his favour, by these presents, freely
and voluntarily, all our rights to the crown and to the government of
Scotland, desiring that he may immediately ascend the throne, as if he
were called to it by our natural death, and not as the effect of our own
will; and that our present abdication may have a more complete and
solemn effect, and that no one should put forward the claim of
ignorance, we give full powers to our trusty and faithful cousins, the
lords Lindsay of Byres and William Ruthven, to appear in our name before
the nobility, the clergy, and the burgesses of Scotland, of whom they
will convoke an assembly at Stirling, and to there renounce, publicly
and solemnly, on our part, all our claims to the crown and to the
government of Scotland.
"Signed freely and as the testimony of one of our last royal wishes, in
our castle of Lochleven, the ___ June 1567". (The date was left blank.)
There was a moment’s silence after this reading, then
"Did you hear, madam?" asked Ruthven.
"Yes," replied Mary Stuart,—"yes, I have heard rebellious words that I
have not understood, and I thought that my ears, that one has tried to
accustom for some time to a strange language, still deceived me, and
that I have thought for your honour, my lord William Ruthven, and my
lord Lindsay of Byres."
"Madam," answered Lindsay, out of patience at having kept silence so
long, "our honour has nothing to do with the opinion of a woman who has
so ill known how to watch over her own."
"My lord!" said Melville, risking a word.
"Let him speak, Robert," returned the queen. "We have in our conscience
armour as well tempered as that with which Lord Lindsay is so prudently
covered, although, to the shame of justice, we no longer have a sword.
Continue, my lord," the queen went on, turning to Lord Ruthven: "is this
all that my subjects require of me? A date and a signature? Ah!
doubtless it is too little; and this second paper, which you have kept
in order to proceed by degrees, probably contains some demand more
difficult to grant than that of yielding to a child scarcely a year old
a crown which belongs to me by birthright, and to abandon my sceptre to
take a distaff."
"This other paper," replied Ruthven, without letting himself be
intimidated by the tone of bitter irony adopted by the queen, "is the
deed by which your Grace confirms the decision of the Secret Council
which has named your beloved brother, the Earl of Murray, regent of the
kingdom."
"Indeed!" said Mary. "The Secret Council thinks it needs my confirmation
to an act of such slight importance? And my beloved brother, to bear it
without remorse, needs that it should be I who add a fresh title to
those of Earl of Mar and of Murray that I have already bestowed upon
him? But one cannot desire anything more respectful and touching than
all this, and I should be very wrong to complain. My lords," continued
the queen, rising and changing her tone, "return to those who have sent
you, and tell them that to such demands Mary Stuart has no answer to
give."
"Take care, madam," responded Ruthven; "for I have told you it is only
on these conditions that your pardon can be granted you."
"And if I refuse this generous pardon," asked Mary, "what will happen?"
"I cannot pronounce beforehand, madam; but your Grace has enough
knowledge of the laws, and above all of the history of Scotland and
England, to know that murder and adultery are crimes for which more than
one queen has been punished with death."
"And upon what proofs could such a charge be founded, my lord? Pardon my
persistence, which takes up your precious time; but I am sufficiently
interested in the matter to be permitted such a question."
"The proof, madam?" returned Ruthven. "There is but one, I know; but
that one is unexceptionable: it is the precipitate marriage of the widow
of the assassinated with the chief assassin, and the letters which have
been handed over to us by James Balfour, which prove that the guilty
persons had united their adulterous hearts before it was permitted them
to unite their bloody hands."
"My lord," cried the queen, "do you forget a certain repast given in an
Edinburgh tavern, by this same Bothwell, to those same noblemen who
treat him to-day as an adulterer and a murderer; do you forget that at
the end of that meal, and on the same table at which it had been given,
a paper was signed to invite that same woman, to whom to-day you make
the haste of her new wedding a crime, to leave off a widow’s mourning to
reassume a marriage robe? for if you have forgotten it, my lords, which
would do no more honour to your sobriety than to your memory, I
undertake to show it to you, I who have preserved it; and perhaps if we
search well we shall find among the signatures the names of Lindsay of
Byres and William Ruthven. O noble Lord Herries," cried Mary, "loyal
James Melville, you alone were right then, when you threw yourselves at
my feet, entreating me not to conclude this marriage, which, I see it
clearly to-day, was only a trap set for an ignorant woman by perfidious
advisers or disloyal lords."
"Madam," cried Ruthven, in spite of his cold impassivity beginning to
lose command of himself, while Lindsay was giving still more noisy and
less equivocal signs of impatience, "madam, all these discussions are
beside our aim: I beg you to return to it, then, and inform us if, your
life and honour guaranteed, you consent to abdicate the crown of
Scotland."
"And what safeguard should I have that the promises you here make me
will be kept?"
"Our word, madam," proudly replied Ruthven.
"Your word, my lord, is a very feeble pledge to offer, when one so
quickly forgets one’s signature: have you not some trifle to add to it,
to make me a little easier than I should be with it alone?"
"Enough, Ruthven, enough," cried Lindsay. "Do you not see that for an
hour this woman answers our proposals only by insults?"
"Yes, let us go," said Ruthven; "and thank yourself only, madam, for the
day when the thread breaks which holds the sword suspended over your
head."
"My lords," cried Melville, "my lords, in Heaven’s name, a little
patience, and forgive something to her who, accustomed to command, is
today forced to obey."
"Very well," said Lindsay, turning round, "stay with her, then, and try
to obtain by your smooth words what is refused to our frank and loyal
demand. In a quarter of an hour we shall return: let the answer be ready
in a quarter of an hour!"
With these words, the two noblemen went out, leaving Melville with the
queen; and one could count their footsteps, from the noise that
Lindsay’s great sword made, in resounding on each step of the staircase.
Scarcely were they alone than Melville threw himself at the queen’s
feet.
"Madam," said he, "you remarked just now that Lord Herries and my
brother had given your Majesty advice that you repented not having
followed; well, madam, reflect on that I in my turn give you; for it is
more important than the other, for you will regret with still more
bitterness not having listened to it. Ah! you do not know what may
happen, you are ignorant of what your brother is capable."
"It seems to me, however," returned the queen, "that he has just
instructed me on that head: what more will he do than he has done
already? A public trial! Oh! it is all I ask: let me only plead my
cause, and we shall see what judges will dare to condemn me."
"But that is what they will take good care not to do, madam; for they
would be mad to do it when they keep you here in this isolated castle,
in the care of your enemies, having no witness but God, who avenges
crime, but who does not prevent it. Recollect, madam, what Machiavelli
has said, ’A king’s tomb is never far from his prison.’ You come of a
family in which one dies young, madam, and almost always of a sudden
death: two of your ancestors perished by steel, and one by poison."
"Oh, if my death were sudden and easy," cried Mary, "yes, I should
accept it as an expiation for my faults; for if I am proud when I
compare myself with others, Melville, I am humble when I judge myself. I
am unjustly accused of being an accomplice of Darnley’s death, but I am
justly condemned for having married Bothwell."
"Time presses, madam; time presses," cried Melville, looking at the
sand, which, placed on the table, was marking the time. "They are coming
back, they will be here in a minute; and this time you must give them an
answer. Listen, madam, and at least profit by your situation as much as
you can. You are alone here with one woman, without friends, without
protection, without power: an abdication signed at such a juncture will
never appear to your people to have been freely given, but will always
pass as having been torn from you by force; and if need be, madam, if
the day comes when such a solemn declaration is worth something, well,
then you will have two witnesses of the violence done you: the one will
be Mary Seyton, and the other," he added in a low voice and looking
uneasily about him,—"the other will be Robert Melville."
Hardly had he finished speaking when the footsteps of the two nobles
were again heard on the staircase, returning even before the quarter of
an hour had elapsed; a moment afterwards the door opened, and Ruthven
appeared, while over his shoulder was seen Lindsay’s head.
"Madam," said Ruthven, "we have returned. Has your Grace decided? We
come for your answer."
"Yes," said Lindsay, pushing aside Ruthven, who stood in his way, and
advancing to the table,—"yes, an answer, clear, precise, positive, and
without dissimulation."
"You are exacting, my lord," said the queen: "you would scarcely have
the right to expect that from me if I were in full liberty on the other
side of the lake and surrounded with a faithful escort; but between
these walls, behind these bars, in the depths of this fortress, I shall
not tell you that I sign voluntarily, lest you should not believe it.
But no matter, you want my signature; well, I am going to give it to
you. Melville, pass me the pen."
"But I hope," said Lord Ruthven, "that your Grace is not counting on
using your present position one day in argument to protest against what
you are going to do?"
The queen had already stooped to write, she had already set her hand to
the paper, when Ruthven spoke to her. But scarcely had he done so, than
she rose up proudly, and letting fall the pen, "My lord," said she,
"what you asked of me just now was but an abdication pure and simple,
and I was going to sign it. But if to this abdication is joined this
marginal note, then I renounce of my own accord, and as judging myself
unworthy, the throne of Scotland. I would not do it for the three united
crowns that I have been robbed of in turn."
"Take care, madam," cried Lord Lindsay, seizing the queen’s wrist with
his steel gauntlet and squeezing it with all his angry strength—"take
care, for our patience is at an end, and we could easily end by breaking
what would not bend."
The queen remained standing, and although a violent flush had passed
like a flame over her countenance, she did not utter a word, and did not
move: her eyes only were fixed with such a great expression of contempt
on those of the rough baron, that he, ashamed of the passion that had
carried him away, let go the hand he had seized and took a step back.
Then raising her sleeve and showing the violet marks made on her arm by
Lord Lindsay’s steel gauntlet.
"This is what I expected, my lords," said she, "and nothing prevents me
any longer from signing; yes, I freely abdicate the throne and crown of
Scotland, and there is the proof that my will has not been forced."
With these words, she took the pen and rapidly signed the two documents,
held them out to Lord Ruthven, and bowing with great dignity, withdrew
slowly into her room, accompanied by Mary Seyton. Ruthven looked after
her, and when she had disappeared, "It doesn’t matter," he said; "she
has signed, and although the means you employed, Lindsay, may be
obsolete enough in diplomacy, it is not the less efficacious, it seems."
"No joking, Ruthven," said Lindsay; "for she is a noble creature, and if
I had dared, I should have thrown myself at her feet to ask her
forgiveness."
"There is still time," replied Ruthven, "and Mary, in her present
situation, will not be severe upon you: perhaps she has resolved to
appeal to the judgment of God to prove her innocence, and in that case a
champion such as you might well change the face of things."
"Do not joke, Ruthven," Lindsay answered a second time, with more
violence than the first; "for if I were as well convinced of her
innocence as I am of her crime, I tell you that no one should touch a
hair of her head, not even the regent."
"The devil! my lord," said Ruthven. "I did not know you were so
sensitive to a gentle voice and a tearful eye; you know the story of
Achilles’ lance, which healed with its rust the wounds it made with its
edge: do likewise my lord, do likewise."
"Enough, Ruthven, enough," replied Lindsay; "you are like a corselet of
Milan steel, which is three times as bright as the steel armour of
Glasgow, but which is at the same time thrice as hard: we know one
another, Ruthven, so an end to railleries or threats; enough, believe
me, enough."
And after these words, Lord Lindsay went out first, followed by Ruthven
and Melville, the first with his head high and affecting an air of
insolent indifference, and the second, sad, his brow bent, and not even
trying to disguise the painful impression which this scene had made on
him.’ ["History of Scotland, by Sir Walter Scott.—’The Abbott":
historical part.]
CHAPTER VI
The queen came out of her room only in the evening, to take her place at
the window which looked over the lake: at the usual time she saw the
light which was henceforth her sole hope shine in the little house in
Kinross; for a whole long month she had no other consolation than seeing
it, every night, fixed and faithful.
At last, at the end of this time, and as she was beginning to despair of
seeing George Douglas again, one morning, on opening the window, she
uttered a cry. Mary Seyton ran to her, and the queen, without having
strength to speak, showed her in the middle of the lake the tiny boat at
anchor, and in the boat Little Douglas and George, who were absorbed in
fishing, their favourite amusement. The young man had arrived the day
before, and as everyone was accustomed to his unexpected returns, the
sentinel had not even blown the horn, and the queen had not known that
at last a friend had come.
However, she was three days yet without seeing this friend otherwise
than she had just done-that is, on the lake. It is true that from
morning till evening he did not leave that spot, from which he could
view the queen’s windows and the queen herself, when, to gaze at a wider
horizon, she leaned her face against the bars. At last, on the morning
of the fourth day, the queen was awakened by a great noise of dogs and
horns: she immediately ran to the window, for to a prisoner everything
is an event, and she saw William Douglas, who was embarking with a pack
of hounds and some huntsmen. In fact, making a truce, for a day, with
his gaoler’s duties, to enjoy a pleasure more in harmony with his rank
and birth, he was going to hunt in the woods which cover the last ridge
of Ben Lomond, and which, ever sinking, die down on the banks of the
lake.
The queen trembled with delight, for she hoped that Lady Lochleven would
maintain her ill-will, and that then George would replace his brother:
this hope was not disappointed. At the usual time the queen heard the
footsteps of those who were bringing her her breakfast; the door opened,
and she saw George Douglas enter, preceded by the servants who were
carrying the dishes. George barely bowed; but the queen, warned by him
not to be surprised at anything, returned him his greeting with a
disdainful air; then the servants performed their task and went out, as
they were accustomed.
"At last," said the queen, "you are back again, then."
George motioned with his finger, went to the door to listen if all the
servants had really gone away, and if no one had remained to spy. Then,
returning more at ease, and bowing respectfully—
"Yes, madam," returned he; "and, Heaven be thanked, I bring good news."
"Oh, tell me quickly!" cried the queen; "for staying in this castle is
hell. You knew that they came, did you not, and that they made me sign
an abdication?"
"Yes, madam," replied Douglas; "but we also knew that your signature had
been obtained from you by violence alone, and our devotion to your
Majesty is increased thereby, if possible."
"But, after all, what have you done?"
"The Seytons and the Hamiltons, who are, as your Majesty knows, your
most faithful servants,"—Mary turned round, smiling, and put out her
hand to Mary Seyton,—"have already," continued George, "assembled their
troops, who keep themselves in readiness for the first signal; but as
they alone would not be sufficiently numerous to hold the country, we
shall make our way directly to Dumbarton, whose governor is ours, and
which by its position and its strength can hold out long enough against
all the regent’s troops to give to the faithful hearts remaining to you
time to come and join us."
"Yes, yes," said the queen; "I see clearly what we shall do once we get
out of this; but how are we to get out?"
"That is the occasion, madam," replied Douglas, "for which your Majesty
must call to your aid that courage of which you have given such great
proofs."
"If I have need only of courage and coolness," replied the queen, "be
easy; neither the one nor the other will fail me."
"Here is a file," said George, giving Mary Seyton that instrument which
he judged unworthy to touch the queen’s hands, "and this evening I shall
bring your Majesty cords to construct a ladder. You will cut through one
of the bars of this window, it is only at a height of twenty feet; I
shall come up to you, as much to try it as to support you; one of the
garrison is in my pay, he will give us passage by the door it is his
duty to guard, and you will be free."
"And when will that be?" cried the queen.
"We must wait for two things, madam," replied Douglas: "the first, to
collect at Kinross an escort sufficient for your Majesty’s safety; the
second, that the turn for night watch of Thomas Warden should happen to
be at an isolated door that we can reach without being seen."
"And how will you know that? Do you stay at the castle, then?"
"Alas! no, madam," replied George; "at the castle I am a useless and
even a dangerous friend for you, while once beyond the lake I can serve
you in an effectual manner."
"And how will you know when Warden’s turn to mount guard has come?"
"The weathercock in the north tower, instead of turning in the wind with
the others, will remain fixed against it."
"But I, how shall I be warned?"
"Everything is already provided for on that side: the light which shines
each night in the little house in Kinross incessantly tells you that
your friends keep watch for you; but when you would like to know if the
hour of your deliverance approaches or recedes, in your turn place a
light in this window. The other will immediately disappear; then,
placing your hand on your breast, count your heartbeats: if you reach
the number twenty without the light reappearing, nothing is yet settled;
if you only reach ten, the moment approaches; if the light does not
leave you time to count beyond five, your escape is fixed for the
following night; if it reappears no more, it is fixed for the same
evening; then the owl’s cry, repeated thrice in the courtyard, will be
the signal; let down the ladder when you hear it".
"Oh, Douglas," cried the queen, "you alone could foresee and calculate
everything thus. Thank you, thank you a hundred times!" And she gave him
her hand to kiss.
A vivid red flushed the young man’s cheeks; but almost directly
mastering his emotion, he kneeled down, and, restraining the expression
of that love of which he had once spoken to the queen, while promising
her never more to speak of it, he took the hand that Mary extended, and
kissed it with such respect that no one could have seen in this action
anything but the homage of devotion and fidelity.
Then, having bowed to the queen, he went out, that a longer stay with
her should not give rise to any suspicions.
At the dinner-hour Douglas brought, as he had said, a parcel of cord. It
was not enough, but when evening came Mary Seyton was to unroll it and
let fall the end from the window, and George would fasten the remainder
to it: the thing was done as arranged, and without any mishap, an hour
after the hunters had returned.
The following day George left the castle.
The queen and Mary Seyton lost no time in setting about the rope ladder,
and it was finished on the third day. The same evening, the queen in her
impatience, and rather to assure herself of her partisans’ vigilance
than in the hope that the time of her deliverance was so near, brought
her lamp to the window: immediately, and as George Douglas had told her,
the light in the little house at Kinross disappeared: the queen then
laid her hand on her heart and counted up to twenty-two; then the light
reappeared; they were ready for everything, but nothing was yet settled.
For a week the queen thus questioned the light and her heart-beats
without their number changing; at last, on the eighth day, she counted
only as far as ten; at the eleventh the light reappeared.
The queen believed herself mistaken: she did not dare to hope what this
announced. She withdrew the lamp; then, at the end of a quarter of an
hour, showed it again: her unknown correspondent understood with his
usual intelligence that a fresh trial was required of him, and the light
in the little house disappeared in its turn. Mary again questioned the
pulsations of her heart, and, fast as it leaped, before the twelfth beat
the propitious star was shining on the horizon: there was no longer any
doubt; everything was settled.
Mary could not sleep all night: this persistency of her partisans
inspired her with gratitude to the point of tears. The day came, and the
queen several times questioned her companion to assure herself that it
was not all a dream; at every sound it seemed to her that the scheme on
which her liberty hung was discovered, and when, at breakfast and at
dinner time, William Douglas entered as usual, she hardly dared look at
him, for fear of reading on his face the announcement that all was lost.
In the evening the queen again questioned the light: it made the same
answer; nothing had altered; the beacon was always one of hope.
For four days it thus continued to indicate that the moment of escape
was at hand; on the evening of the fifth, before the queen had counted
five beats, the light reappeared: the queen leaned upon Mary Seyton; she
was nearly fainting, between dread and ’delight. Her escape was fixed
for the next evening.
The queen tried once more, and obtained the same reply: there was no
longer a doubt; everything was ready except the prisoner’s courage, for
it failed her for a moment, and if Mary Seyton had not drawn up a seat
in time, she would have fallen prone; but, the first moment over, she
collected herself as usual, and was stronger and more resolute than
ever.
Till midnight the queen remained at the window, her eyes fixed on that
star of good omen: at last Mary Seyton persuaded her to go to bed,
offering, if she had no wish to sleep, to read her some verses by M.
Ronsard, or some chapters from the Mer des Histoires; but Mary had no
desire now for any profane reading, and had her Hours read, making the
responses as she would have done if she had been present at a mass said
by a Catholic priest: towards dawn, however, she grew drowsy, and as
Mary Seyton, for her part, was dropping with fatigue, she fell asleep
directly in the arm-chair at the head of the queen’s bed.
Next day she awoke, feeling that someone was tapping her on the
shoulder: it was the queen, who had already arisen.
"Come and see, darling," said she,—"come and see the fine day that God
is giving us. Oh! how alive is Nature! How happy I shall be to be once
more free among those plains and mountains! Decidedly, Heaven is on our
side."
"Madam," replied Mary, "I would rather see the weather less fine: it
would promise us a darker night; and consider, what we need is darkness,
not light."
"Listen," said the queen; "it is by this we are going to see if God is
indeed for us; if the weather remains as it is, yes, you are right, He
abandons us; but if it clouds over, oh! then, darling, this will be a
certain proof of His protection, will it not?"
Mary Seyton smiled, nodding that she adopted her mistress’s
superstition; then the queen, incapable of remaining idle in her great
preoccupation of mind, collected the few jewels that she had preserved,
enclosed them in a casket, got ready for the evening a black dress, in
order to be still better hidden in the darkness: and, these preparations
made, she sat down again at the window, ceaselessly carrying her eyes
from the lake to the little house in Kinross, shut up and dumb as usual.
The dinner-hour arrived: the queen was so happy that she received
William Douglas with more goodwill than was her wont, and it was with
difficulty she remained seated during the time the meal lasted; but she
restrained herself, and William Douglas withdrew, without seeming to
have noticed her agitation.
Scarcely had he gone than Mary ran to the window; she had need of air,
and her gaze devoured in advance those wide horizons which she was about
to cross anew; it seemed to her that once at liberty she would never
shut herself up in a palace again, but would wander about the
countryside continually: then, amid all these tremors of delight, from
time to time she felt unexpectedly heavy at heart. She then turned round
to Mary Seyton, trying to fortify her strength with hers, and the young
girl kept up her hopes, but rather from duty than from conviction.
But slow as they seemed to the queen, the hours yet passed: towards the
afternoon some clouds floated across the blue sky; the queen remarked
upon them joyfully to her companion; Mary Seyton congratulated her upon
them, not on account of the imaginary omen that the queen sought in
them, but because of the real importance that the weather should be
cloudy, that darkness might aid them in their flight. While the two
prisoners were watching the billowy, moving vapours, the hour of dinner
arrived; but it was half an hour of constraint and dissimulation, the
more painful that, no doubt in return for the sort of goodwill shown him
by the queen in the morning, William Douglas thought himself obliged, in
his turn, to accompany his duties with fitting compliments, which
compelled the queen to take a more active part in the conversation than
her preoccupation allowed her; but William Douglas did not seem in any
way to observe this absence of mind, and all passed as at breakfast.
Directly he had gone the queen ran to the window: the few clouds which
were chasing one another in the sky an hour before had thickened and
spread, and—all the blue was blotted out, to give place to a hue dull
and leaden as pewter. Mary Stuart’s presentiments were thus realised: as
to the little house in Kinross, which one could still make out in the
dusk, it remained shut up, and seemed deserted.
Night fell: the light shone as usual; the queen signalled, it
disappeared. Mary Stuart waited in vain; everything remained in
darkness: the escape was for the same evening. The queen heard eight
o’clock, nine o’clock, and ten o’clock strike successively. At ten
o’clock the sentinels were relieved; Mary Stuart heard the patrols pass
beneath her windows, the steps of the watch recede: then all returned to
silence. Half an hour passed away thus; suddenly the owl’s cry resounded
thrice, the queen recognised George Douglas’s signal: the supreme moment
had come.
In these circumstances the queen found all her strength revive: she
signed to Mary Seyton to take away the bar and to fix the rope ladder,
while, putting out the lamp, she felt her way into the bedroom to seek
the casket which contained her few remaining jewels. When she came back,
George Douglas was already in the room.
"All goes well, madam," said he. "Your friends await you on the other
side of the lake, Thomas Warden watches at the postern, and God has sent
us a dark night."
The queen, without replying, gave him her hand. George bent his knee and
carried this hand to his lips; but on touching it, he felt it cold and
trembling.
"Madam," said he, "in Heaven’s name summon all your courage, and do not
let yourself be downcast at such a moment."
"Our Lady-of-Good-Help," murmured Seyton, "come to our aid!"
"Summon to you the spirit of the kings your ancestors," responded
George, "for at this moment it is not the resignation of a Christian
that you require, but the strength and resolution of a queen"
"Oh, Douglas! Douglas," cried Mary mournfully, "a fortune-teller
predicted to me that I should die in prison and by a violent death: has
not the hour of the prediction arrived?"
"Perhaps," George said, "but it is better to die as a queen than to live
in this ancient castle calumniated and a prisoner."
"You are right, George," the queen answered; "but for a woman the first
step is everything: forgive me". Then, after a moment’s pause, "Come,"
said she; "I am ready."
George immediately went to the window, secured the ladder again and more
firmly, then getting up on to the sill and holding to the bars with one
hand, he stretched out the other to the queen, who, as resolute as she
had been timid a moment before, mounted on a stool, and had already set
one foot on the window-ledge, when suddenly the cry, "Who goes there?"
rang out at the foot of the tower. The queen sprang quickly back, partly
instinctively and partly pushed by George, who, on the contrary, leaned
out of the window to see whence came this cry, which, twice again
renewed, remained twice unanswered, and was immediately followed by a
report and the flash of a firearm: at the same moment the sentinel on
duty on the tower blew his bugle, another set going the alarm bell, and
the cries, "To arms, to arms!" and "Treason, treason!" resounded
throughout the castle.
"Yes, yes, treason, treason!" cried George Douglas, leaping down into
the room. "Yes, the infamous Warden has betrayed us!" Then, advancing to
Mary, cold and motionless as a statue, "Courage, madam," said he,
"courage! Whatever happens, a friend yet remains for you in the castle;
it is Little Douglas."
Scarcely had he finished speaking when the door of the queen’s apartment
opened, and William Douglas and Lady Lochleven, preceded by servants
carrying torches and armed soldiers, appeared on the threshold: the room
was immediately filled with people and light.
"Mother," said William Douglas, pointing to his brother standing before
Mary Stuart and protecting her with his body, "do you believe me now?
Look!"
The old lady was for a moment speechless; then finding a word at last,
and taking a step forward—
"Speak, George Douglas," cried she, "speak, and clear yourself at once
of the charge which weighs on your honour; say but these words, ’A
Douglas was never faithless to his trust,’ and I believe you".
"Yes, mother," answered William, "a Douglas!... but he—he is not a
Douglas."
"May God grant my old age the strength needed to bear on the part of one
of my sons such a misfortune, and on the part of the other such an
injury!" exclaimed Lady Lochleven. "O woman born under a fatal star,"
she went on, addressing the queen, "when will you cease to be, in the
Devil’s hands, an instrument of perdition and death to all who approach
you? O ancient house of Lochleven, cursed be the hour when this
enchantress crossed thy threshold!"
"Do not say that, mother, do not say that," cried George; "blessed be,
on the contrary, the moment which proves that, if there are Douglases
who no longer remember what they owe to their sovereigns, there are
others who have never forgotten it."
"Douglas! Douglas!" murmured Mary Stuart, "did I not tell you?"
"And I, madam," said George, "what did I reply then? That it was an
honour and a duty to every faithful subject of your Majesty to die for
you."
"Well, die, then!" cried William Douglas, springing on his brother with
raised sword, while he, leaping back, drew his, and with a movement
quick as thought and eager as hatred defended himself. But at the same
moment Mary Stuart darted between the two young people.
"Not another step, Lord Douglas," said she. "Sheathe your sword, George,
or if you use it, let be to go hence, and against everyone but your
brother. I still have need of your life; take care of it."
"My life, like my arm and my honour, is at your service, madam, and from
the moment you command it I shall preserve it for you."
With these words, rushing to the door with a violence and resolve which
prevented anyone’s stopping him—
"Back!" cried he to the domestics who were barring the passage; "make
way for the young master of Douglas, or woe to you!".
"Stop him!" cried William. "Seize him, dead or alive! Fire upon him!
Kill him like a dog!"
Two or three soldiers, not daring to disobey William, pretended to
pursue his brother. Then some gunshots were heard, and a voice crying
that George Douglas had just thrown himself into the lake.
"And has he then escaped?" cried William.
Mary Stuart breathed again; the old lady raised her hands to Heaven.
"Yes, yes," murmured William,—"yes, thank Heaven for your son’s flight;
for his flight covers our entire house with shame; counting from this
hour, we shall be looked upon as the accomplices of his treason."
"Have pity on me, William!" cried Lady Lochleven, wringing her hands.
"Have compassion on your old mother! See you not that I am dying?"
With these words, she fell backwards, pale and tottering; the steward
and a servant supported her in their arms.
"I believe, my lord," said Mary Seyton, coming forward, "that your
mother has as much need of attention just now as the queen has need of
repose: do you not consider it is time for you to withdraw?"
"Yes, yes," said William, "to give you time to spin fresh webs, I
suppose, and to seek what fresh flies you can take in them? It is well,
go on with your work; but you have just seen that it is not easy to
deceive William Douglas. Play your game, I shall play mine". Then
turning to the servants, "Go out, all of you," said he; "and you,
mother, come."
The servants and the soldiers obeyed; then William Douglas went out
last, supporting Lady Lochleven, and the queen heard him shut behind him
and double-lock the two doors of her prison.
Scarcely was Mary alone, and certain that she was no longer seen or
heard, than all her strength deserted her, and, sinking into an
arm-chair, she burst out sobbing.
Indeed, all her courage had been needed to sustain her so far, and the
sight of her enemies alone had given her this courage; but hardly had
they gone than her situation appeared before her in all its fatal
hardship. Dethroned, a prisoner, without another fiend in this
impregnable castle than a child to whom she had scarce given attention,
and who was the sole and last thread attaching her past hopes to her
hopes for the future, what remained to Mary Stuart of her two thrones
and her double power? Her name, that was all; her, name with which,
free, she had doubtless stirred Scotland, but which little by little was
about to be effaced in the hearts of her adherents, and which during her
lifetime oblivion was to cover perhaps as with a shroud. Such an idea
was insupportable to a soul as lofty as Mary Stuart’s, and to an
organisation which, like that of the flowers, has need, before
everything, of air, light, and sun.
Fortunately there remained to her the best beloved of her four Marys,
who, always devoted and consoling, hastened to succour and comfort her;
but this time it was no easy matter, and the queen let her act and speak
without answering her otherwise than with sobs and tears; when suddenly,
looking through the window to which she had drawn up her mistress’s
armchair—
"The light!" cried she, "madam, the light!"
At the same time she raised the queen, and with arm outstretched from
the window, she showed her the beacon, the eternal symbol of hope,
relighted in the midst of this dark night on Kinross hill: there was no
mistake possible, not a star was shining in the sky.
"Lord God, I give Thee thanks," said the queen, falling on her knees and
raising her arms to heaven with a gesture of gratitude: "Douglas has
escaped, and my friends still keep watch."
Then, after a fervent prayer, which restored to her a little strength,
the queen re-entered her room, and, tired out by her varied successive
emotions, she slept an uneasy, agitated sleep, over which the
indefatigable Mary Seyton kept watch till daybreak.
As William Douglas had said, from this time forward the queen was a
prisoner indeed, and permission to go down into the garden was no longer
granted but under the surveillance of two soldiers; but this annoyance
seemed to her so unbearable that she preferred to give up the
recreation, which, surrounded with such conditions, became a torture. So
she shut herself up in her apartments, finding a certain bitter and
haughty pleasure in the very excess of her misfortune.
CHAPTER VII
A week after the events we have related, as nine o’clock in the evening
had just sounded from the castle bell, and the queen and Mary Seyton
were sitting at a table where they were working at their tapestry, a
stone thrown from the courtyard passed through the window bars, broke a
pane of glass, and fell into the room. The queen’s first idea was to
believe it accidental or an insult; but Mary Seyton, turning round,
noticed that the stone was wrapped up in a paper: she immediately picked
it up. The paper was a letter from George Douglas, conceived in these
terms:
"You have commanded me to live, madam: I have obeyed, and your Majesty
has been able to tell, from the Kinross light, that your servants
continue to watch over you. However, not to raise suspicion, the
soldiers collected for that fatal night dispersed at dawn, and will not
gather again till a fresh attempt makes their presence necessary. But,
alas! to renew this attempt now, when your Majesty’s gaolers are on
their guard, would be your ruin. Let them take every precaution, then,
madam; let them sleep in security, while we, we, in our devotion, shall
go on watching.
"Patience and courage!"
"Brave and loyal heart!" cried Mary, "more constantly devoted to
misfortune than others are to prosperity! Yes, I shall have patience and
courage, and so long as that light shines I shall still believe in
liberty."
This letter restored to the queen all her former courage: she had means
of communication with George through Little Douglas; for no doubt it was
he who had thrown that stone. She hastened, in her turn, to write a
letter to George, in which she both charged him to express her gratitude
to all the lords who had signed the protestation; and begged them, in
the name of the fidelity they had sworn to her, not to cool in their
devotion, promising them, for her part, to await the result with that
patience and courage they asked of her.
The queen was not mistaken: next day, as she was at her window, Little
Douglas came to play at the foot of the tower, and, without raising his
head, stopped just beneath her to dig a trap to catch birds. The queen
looked to see if she were observed, and assured that that part of the
courtyard was deserted, she let fall the stone wrapped in her letter: at
first she feared to have made a serious error; for Little Douglas did
not even turn at the noise, and it was only after a moment, during which
the prisoner’s heart was torn with frightful anxiety, that
indifferently, and as if he were looking for something else, the child
laid his hand on the stone, and without hurrying, without raising his
head, without indeed giving any sign of intelligence to her who had
thrown it, he put the letter in his pocket, finishing the work he had
begun with the greatest calm, and showing the queen, by this coolness
beyond his years, what reliance she could place in him.
From that moment the queen regained fresh hope; but days, weeks, months
passed without bringing any change in her situation: winter came; the
prisoner saw snow spread over the plains and mountains, and the lake
afforded her, if she had only been able to pass the door, a firm road to
gain the other bank; but no letter came during all this time to bring
her the consoling news that they were busy about her deliverance; the
faithful light alone announced to her every evening that a friend was
keeping watch.
Soon nature awoke from her death-sleep: some forward sun-rays broke
through the clouds of this sombre sky of Scotland; the snow melted, the
lake broke its ice-crust, the first buds opened, the green turf
reappeared; everything came out of its prison at the joyous approach of
spring, and it was a great grief to Mary to see that she alone was
condemned to an eternal winter.
At last; one evening, she thought she observed in the motions of the
light that something fresh was happening: she had so often questioned
this poor flickering star, and she had so often let it count her
heart-beats more than twenty times, that to spare herself the pain of
disappointment, for a long time she had no longer interrogated it;
however, she resolved to make one last attempt, and, almost hopeless,
she put her light near the window, and immediately took it away; still,
faithful to the signal, the other disappeared at the same moment, and
reappeared at the eleventh heart-beat of the queen. At the same time, by
a strange coincidence, a stone passing through the window fell at Mary
Seyton’s feet. It was, like the first, wrapped in a letter from George:
the queen took it from her companion’s hands, opened it, and read:
"The moment draws near; your adherents are assembled; summon all your
courage."
"To-morrow, at eleven o’clock in the evening, drop a cord from your
window, and draw up the packet that will be fastened to it."
There remained in the queen’s apartments the rope over and above what
had served for the ladder taken away by the guards the evening of the
frustrated escape: next day, at the appointed hour, the two prisoners
shut up the lamp in the bedroom, so that no light should betray them,
and Mary Seyton, approaching the window, let down the cord. After a
minute, she felt from its movements that something was being attached to
it. Mary Seyton pulled, and a rather bulky parcel appeared at the bars,
which it could not pass on account of its size. Then the queen came to
her companion’s aid. The parcel was untied, and its contents,
separately, got through easily. The two prisoners carried them into the
bedroom, and, barricaded within, commenced an inventory. There were two
complete suits of men’s clothes in the Douglas livery. The queen was at
a loss, when she saw a letter fastened to the collar of one of the two
coats. Eager to know the meaning of this enigma, she immediately opened
it, and read as follows:
"It is only by dint of audacity that her Majesty can recover her
liberty: let her Majesty read this letter, then, and punctually follow,
if she deign to adopt them, the instructions she will find therein.
"In the daytime the keys of the castle do not leave the belt of the old
steward; when curfew is rung and he has made his rounds to make sure
that all the doors are fast shut, he gives them up to William Douglas,
who, if he stays up, fastens them to his sword-belt, or, if he sleeps,
puts them under his pillow. For five months, Little Douglas, whom
everyone is accustomed to see working at the armourer’s forge of the
castle, has been employed in making some keys like enough to the others,
once they are substituted for them, for William to be deceived.
Yesterday Little Douglas finished the last.
"On the first favourable opportunity that her Majesty will know to be
about to present itself, by carefully questioning the light each day,
Little Douglas will exchange the false keys for the true, will enter the
queen’s room, and will find her dressed, as well as Miss Mary Seyton, in
their men’s clothing, and he will go before them to lead them, by the
way which offers the best chances for their escape; a boat will be
prepared and will await them.
"Till then, every evening, as much to accustom themselves to these new
costumes as to give them an appearance of having been worn, her Majesty
and Miss Mary Seyton will dress themselves in the suits, which they must
keep on from nine o’clock till midnight. Besides, it is possible that,
without having had time to warn them, their young guide may suddenly
come to seek them: it is urgent, then, that he find them ready.
"The garments ought to fit perfectly her Majesty and her companion, the
measure having been taken on Miss Mary Fleming and Miss Mary Livingston,
who are exactly their size.
"One cannot too strongly recommend her Majesty to summon to her aid on
the supreme occasion the coolness and courage of which she has given
such frequent proofs at other times."
The two prisoners were astounded at the boldness of this plan: at first
they looked at one another in consternation, for success seemed
impossible. They none the less made trial of their disguise: as George
had said, it fitted each of them as if they had been measured for it.
Every evening the queen questioned the light, as George had urged, and
that for a whole long month, during which each evening the queen and
Mary Seyton, although the light gave no fresh tidings, arrayed
themselves in their men’s clothes, as had been arranged, so that they
both acquired such practice that they became as familiar to them as
those of their own sex.