The Queen's Maries: A Romance of Holyrood

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

‘There is none that I can think of,’ replied Maitland, with an air of such exceeding candour that the other felt convinced he was telling him a lie—‘unless it be young Lord Darnley; and there are so many objections to his claim, that although it has often been considered, it has never been entertained for a moment. Is it possible that it would meet with your Court’s approval?’

‘I cannot answer without instructions,’ said Randolph, laughing: and wishing each other ‘good night,’ the well-matched pair separated, without either having gained a decided advantage in the encounter of their wits.

The Laird of Lethington, indeed, who had been acting on the defensive, was satisfied with his own reticence, although his suspicions were aroused, and the eternal question, ‘What is he aiming at?’ that haunts the diplomatist, followed him to his pillow; but Mr Randolph was puzzled and discomfited. He could not piece his information together as he liked into one of those perfect specimens of workmanship which he delighted to forward to Secretary Cecil for the inspection of his Queen. Nevertheless he sat up far into the night, writing a state-paper to the English grand vizier, and when it was finished, such is the inconsistency of man, dwelt with considerable complacency on the handsome stately image of the lady who had suggested it. The road to power is not often strewed with flowers. Mr Randolph had no objection to gather them when he could do so without going out of his way, though he was the last man to keep them when withered, or indeed care for them one jot after the first freshness was off their bloom.

But what were the musings of a weary courtier, or even the misgivings of a baffled diplomatist, to the tide of anxiety and anguish that surged through the overwrought brain of Chastelâr, till the poet felt as if he must go mad? Alas! for the gift, dangerous as it is brilliant, of a vivid imagination acting on a deep and tender heart. There are certain insects in the tropics, with which, unconscious of the cruelty, ladies are wont to trim their dresses, that sparkle like diamonds, when thus impaled in torture: while they suffer they glow, and when they cease to glow they die. So it is with certain temperaments, and those not the dullest nor the least amiable of their kind. Their very lustre arises from the pain that is goading them within. The flash that sets the table in a roar springs often from an aching heart: the glowing words that clothe immortal thoughts in godlike imagery rise to lips wet with the bitterest draught of all. Who can describe happiness so vividly as he who feels that it can never be his own? Who yearns for beauty with the thirst of him to whom all that is fairest in earth and heaven but mocks the impotence of his despair? If such temperaments enjoy keenly, and indeed it would be hard if they did not, they suffer with an intensity of pain that goads them nearly to madness, and causes them to rush into follies and extravagances such as less ardent natures are never tempted to commit.

Chastelâr left the hall tortured with shame and doubt and fear. Sometimes he wondered at his own recklessness, that could thus risk his very existence on a word; for he felt that if Mary were really offended, and he were banished from the Court, he had better die. Then he taxed the Queen with perfidy, injustice, hardness of heart. Anon, a softer feeling argued that his offence was not of so grievous a nature after all, that the Sovereign might pardon and look kindly on a confession of such devotion to the woman, nay, that it might have been welcome to her and expected long ago. But Mary’s image, rising from her chair in offended majesty, dispelled this brighter vision; and though his very heart was flooded with the remembrance of her beauty, the sense of hopelessness that had chilled it so often, seemed to creep over him and paralyse him as of old. At least he felt he could not bear her displeasure. She had turned away from him when he had sought her eye after the dance. Perhaps she was mortally offended, and would never speak to him again. Like all others under the same spell, he was totally incapable of judging his own case, and saw everything in a false light. He was even himself aware that he could no longer rely upon his faculties, and yet he felt an irresistible impulse goading him to action, no matter what. There is method in every phase of madness save one, and that is the madness of a man in love.

He paced his room in an agony of irresolution. At last he made up his mind to ask the Queen’s forgiveness. He could not sleep without it. He must have it this very night before she retired. He bethought him of the book that she had consented to accept. It was a happy idea: that unconscious little volume should befriend him. He would present it to her on his knees, and would read his sentence in the looks with which she received the token. He was more composed now, and felt as if he were about the most rational proceeding in the world.

Acting on this suggestion, Chastelâr, with his offering in his hand, stole softly through the gallery and up the staircase that led to the Queen’s private apartments. The lights were already extinguished, and none were moving in the palace, save one or two tired domestics, loitering drowsily to bed. With a beating heart and noiseless tread he reached the door of an ante-room that led to the Queen’s chamber, and paused for an instant to listen. The latch of the door clanked loudly as he opened it, but all was dark within.

Whilst deliberating whether to enter or not, a light shone along the passage, and a measured step, accompanied by the rustle of a lady’s dress, made his heart leap to his mouth. At this juncture, his presence of mind, which had so strangely abandoned him all night, came back in a moment. Without looking to identify the intruder, he laid his book upon the door-sill, and stooping down imprinted a kiss on the threshold, as one who takes his last leave of the shrine that guards his idol ere he retires. In rising he encountered the Queen herself, still in her robes of ceremony and alone. She was proceeding from the Countess of Argyle’s chamber to her own, and had dismissed all her attendants save the two that were even now waiting for her in her bedroom. She started when she saw Chastelâr, and the blood came to her cheek. Was it the light that shone round her like a glory in the poet’s heated imagination that produced the semblance, or was it his own fancy, or could it be reality? He thought her eyes looked wet with tears.

This was too much for his overwrought feelings. He flung himself at Mary’s feet, and taking the skirt of her robe in his hands, literally kissed the hem of her garment again and again.

‘Forgive me, madam, forgive me!’ he exclaimed, in broken accents, and weeping like a woman or a child. ‘I could not bear it; I could not rest; I felt I had offended you—I who would die to give you a moment’s pleasure. I was mad! I knew not what I did; but I crept here to lay my offering at your feet, and to pray for your forgiveness; although you would not know it, would never hear or heed me. Pardon! oh! pardon me, my Queen!’