Both by precept and example Randolph encouraged his guest to do justice to his hospitality, and led the conversation as he well knew how, to such topics as he thought would most interest a man of his companion’s age and habits. Horses, hawks, and hounds, wine, women, the latest gossip at Holyrood, the newest jest from the French Court, and the recent improvements in warlike arms and tactics, such were the subjects lightly touched upon in turn, and each was made the reason or the excuse for a fresh bumper; but all the while the diplomatist’s attention was never taken off the object he had in view. Like some skilful chemist, he watched the gradual fusion of his materials, and waited patiently for the moment of projection. It did not escape him, however, that Maxwell was preoccupied and out of spirits; that though he bore his share in the dialogue courteously enough, it was with an obvious effort, and that every fresh cup he emptied seemed rather to drown than to cherish the few sparks of hilarity which he had shown at the commencement of the entertainment.
At a sign from his master, Jenkin set a flask of rich Cyprus wine on the table, and Randolph, dismissing the domestic, heaped fresh logs upon the fire, and drew his chair towards his guest, as if he were growing exceedingly confidential and communicative.
‘Are you for the revels at the Palace to-night?’ said he, with a meaning look at the bravery of Walter’s attire. ‘We may as well go together. In the meantime (we are old friends, good Master Maxwell), I have something to say to you,—of course, in the strictest confidence.’
‘Of course,’ replied Maxwell, with rather a disturbed expression of countenance, which subsided, however, almost immediately into his usual steady composure.
The ambassador filled his guest’s cup and his own.
‘You and I are interested in the same matter,’ said he, not entirely repressing his habitual cynicism, ‘and such a community forms the strongest bond of friendship. If I can prove to you that by helping me you benefit yourself, can I count upon your assistance?’
‘You must explain your meaning more clearly,’ replied the other, with something of contempt in his tone. ‘Remember, I am a soldier, and no diplomatist.’
‘You are a soldier, I know,’ rejoined Randolph, ‘and a brave one. You are loyal and generous and true. Mr Maxwell, I will be frank with you. There is an evil influence at work here, which I think you have the power to crush. Listen. Would you stand by and see your Queen deceived and trifled with by a political cabal, of which the principal emissary is blackening and destroying a reputation that I believe is dearer to you than your own?’
‘What mean you?’ exclaimed Maxwell, with forced composure, but putting so strong a constraint upon himself that the silver goblet he grasped was dinted by the pressure of his fingers.
‘It is no secret now,’ answered the other gravely. ‘Courtiers’ tongues wag freely enough on such subjects, and you must not be wroth with me for repeating in your own behalf simply what I hear. It is well known that Mistress Carmichael, beautiful Mistress Carmichael, cold Mistress Carmichael, proud Mistress Carmichael’ (he watched the effect of each epithet in succession on his irritated listener), ‘has taken to herself a friend, an admirer, a lover, call it what you will, with whom she holds clandestine interviews in the Abbey garden at night. As I live, ’tis the common talk of the palace; and people laugh and whisper and sneer about the spotless Maries, and wonder why the Queen takes no notice of it. Nay, chafe not with me. In good faith, man, I do but tell you this as a friend. I have little enough to do with ladies, you know.’