‘What is he driving at?’ exclaimed Mary Seton, observing that the fool, although with an expression of deep contrition, was now indulging in a series of mysterious winks and signs. ‘Ask him, Mary Hamilton. He seems to have some secret understanding with you. Ask him, for pity’s sake, my dear; he’ll have a fit if he goes on like that.’
But her curiosity was not destined to be satisfied; for at this juncture a page entered the apartment with a summons for Mistress Hamilton to attend the Queen; and that lady departed accordingly, leaving her half-witted adorer in a state of woeful penitence and discomfiture. Crouching among the embers in the hearth, he hid his face in his hands, rocking himself to and fro, and ‘crooning,’ in a sing-song voice, a succession of broken unintelligible sentences. From these fits of dejection the ladies knew it was impossible to arouse him.
The Queen was seated at a massive oaken writing-table, on which she was heaping together a quantity of letters and papers when Mary Hamilton entered. A single lamp shed its light upon her fair brow, which seemed to-night heavy with an unusual load of care. Her features wore the languor of mental fatigue, and even her attitude denoted the listlessness of one who is wearied by too much thought and study. She had been writing to her cousin of England; and if it was a difficult matter to be well with Elizabeth at best, how much more so now when her suspicions were excited and her jealousy kept continually awake by the question of succession! The maiden Queen was not without that strange weakness of humanity, which so disquiets itself as to what shall become of its earthly possessions when it is gone—an anxiety no stronger in the monarch who has a kingdom to bequeath than in the old woman who has hoarded her forty shillings in a stocking. Will it affect them so much in that spirit-world, even if they learn it, to know that the dynasty has been changed, or the funded property squandered, or the entail cut off?
There is many a man now living who would rather lose an arm or a leg than think that the old avenue will be cut down when he is gone to a land where the trees of life and knowledge flourish in perennial verdure, and all the while young Graceless, his heir, is scanning their girth and substance with a wistful consciousness that the Jews must be paid at last. Horace has told us something about those ‘dreaded cypresses,’ which we would fain ignore. They will wave over our dwelling when the oaks in the park have been disposed of at so much per foot, and the family tree itself is withered and forgotten. Do you think it matters much to Smith deceased, the tenth of his illustrious line, that Brown should have succeeded to his place and property, or that B. should cede in turn to Jones and Robinson? ‘A plague o’ both your houses!’ All this, however, has nothing to do with the house of Tudor.
Independent of the natural aversion entertained by every right-minded woman for another of her own sex who is sought after by a multitude of suitors, Elizabeth had a variety of excellent reasons for disliking the Queen of Scots. The latter was considerably her junior, unquestionably more beautiful and accomplished, gifted with that mysterious fascination which makes women angry and men foolish, and in addition, to these offences was indubitably the next heir to the English crown. Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that the maiden Queen should have delighted in heaping difficulties across the path of her widowed cousin, and this was done the more effectually by keeping well with her to all outward appearance, and interchanging a constant succession of rings, precious stones, letters of courtesy, and the like insidious compliments.
Nor was Mary deceived by these artifices. It is probable that she clearly perceived the hollow nature of her kinswoman’s friendship, and returned it in kind, so far as her open generous character would permit. But it was not in this Queen’s nature to cherish lasting feelings of ill-will, and she had also doubtless the good sense to see that in her precarious position Elizabeth’s favour was essential to her security and support. So she corresponded with her regularly in a vein of cordial affection, amounting even to familiarity, and it is no wonder that Mary rose from the composition of one of these letters with an air of unusual exhaustion on her lovely face.
‘Help me to seal these packets, my dear,’ said she to the maid-of-honour, as the latter approached her table; ‘my fingers are perfectly stiff with holding a pen. No wonder my forefathers esteemed the art of writing a disgrace, and swore that the grasp of a noble hand should never close on anything lighter than a lance. I often wish I was a man, to wear steel on my breast and at my side!’ While she spoke she stretched her beautiful fingers, which did indeed look far too delicate to wield any weapon heavier than a needle, and pushing the state seal across to her maid-of-honour, threw herself back in her chair, as if thoroughly tired with her day’s work.
Mary Hamilton occupied herself at once about her task, affixing the seal of Scotland, with its lion rampant and its crown-royal, to document after document, in a graceful, womanly way that attracted the Queen’s notice, and caused her to regard her favourite maid-of-honour with more attention than common.
The latter was always pale, and unusually quiet in her demeanour, but of late she had become paler than ever, and her customary repose of manner had subsided into dejection. Without obvious ailment, she looked listless and out of spirits, languid in her movements, and far too grave for one so young.
Herself wearied and harassed, it struck the Queen particularly to-night, and she could not forbear noticing it.