Alexander Ruthven cast himself down in the seat again, with an air in which a certain affectation of scornful merriment overlaid, but could not conceal altogether, an expression of irritable mortification. "Well," he said, "here I am. Pray to what do your sage counsels tend, sister of mine?"
"They tend to your happiness, your safety, your honour, Alex," answered the Lady Beatrice, a little sharply, for though she had come with the kindest as well as highest purposes, her brother's tone hurt her.
"Now, gad's my life!" replied Alexander Ruthven, "I do believe that no man upon earth would suppose this to be the gay, bird-hearted Beatrice Ruthven."
"If so, what must be the brother's conduct which has so changed me, which has made the gay, grave, the light-hearted, heavy?" demanded Beatrice.
Her words now seemed to strike him more than those which she had previously uttered, for there was a deep melancholy in her tone, which gave their meaning additional point. "Well, Beatrice," he said, laying his hand on hers, "you are a dear good girl, I believe, and love me truly. Tell me what it is in my conduct that you object to?"
Beatrice instantly threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. "This is like my own dear brother," she said; "and now I'll be Beatrice again. But to the point. Do you know, Alex Ruthven--do you know that you are flirting with a queen till it is remarked by many?"
The youth's cheek turned fiery red. "Pooh, pooh!" he cried, "this is all folly! Can I not, in common courteous gallantry, profess my devotion to my sovereign's wife without any evil construction? Surely the difference between our stations is so great as to leave no ground either for danger or suspicion."
"The difference of station is so great as to free her from all danger of evil," replied Beatrice; "and I trust there are higher and holier principles too which would keep you, Alex, from the same; but neither those principles nor that difference will free either of you from suspicion, nor will it free you from danger even of your life, if you and she go on as you have been doing."
"Why, what have I done, and what ought I to have done?" demanded the young man, almost sullenly.
"I can tell you better what you ought not to have done," answered his sister. "You ought not to take private moments for stooping over the queen's chair, and whispering words into her ear with low tones and sweet smiles. You ought not, in any mask or pageant at the court, to seek her out, and find her instantly, as if you had some secret way of discovering which she is, amongst a hundred different disguises. You should not have pages coming to you with billets to be delivered secretly. I could tell you a dozen more things you should not do; but methinks this is enough."