“If she means to save him, why does she not save him now? Why not end the business in a day—not stretch it over these long midsummer weeks?”
“I do not think it strange,” she answered. “He is a political prisoner. Messages must come and go between England and France. Besides, who calleth for haste? Is it I who have most at stake? It is not the first time I have been at court, my lord. In these high places things are orderly”—a touch of sarcasm came into her tone—“life is not a mighty rushing wind save to those whom vexing passion drives to hasty deeds.”
She made to move on once more, but paused, still not certain of her way.
“Permit me to show you,” he said, with a laugh and a gesture towards a path. “Not that—this is the shorter. I will take you to a turning which leads straight to your durance—and another which leads elsewhere!”
She could not say no, because she had, in very truth, lost her way, and she might wander far and be in danger. Also, she had no fear of him. Steeled to danger in the past, she was not timid; but, more than all, the game of words between them had had its fascination. The man himself, by virtue of what he was, had his fascination also. The thing inherent in all her sex, to peep over the hedge, to skirt dangerous fires lightly, to feel the warmth distantly and not be scorched—that was in her, too, and she lived according to her race and the long predisposition of the ages. Most women like her—as good as she—have peeped and stretched out hands to the alluring fire and come safely through, wiser and no better. But many, too, bewildered and confused by what they see—as light from a mirror flashed into the eye half blinds—have peeped over the hedge and, miscalculating their power of self-control, have entered in, and returned no more into the quiet garden of unstraying love.
Leicester quickly put on an air of gravity. “I warn you that danger lies before you. If you cross the Queen—and you will cross the Queen when you know the truth, as I know it—you will pay a heavy price for refusing Leicester as your friend.”
She made a protesting motion and seemed about to speak, but suddenly, with a passionate gesture, Leicester added: “Let them go their way. Monsieur de la Forêt will be tossed aside before another winter comes. Do you think he can abide here in the midst of plot and intrigue and hated by the people of the court? He is doomed. But more, he is unworthy of you; while I can serve you well, and I can love you well.” She shrank away from him. “No, do not turn from me, for, in very truth, Leicester’s heart has been pierced by the inevitable arrow. You think I mean you evil?”
He paused as though uncertain how to proceed, then with a sudden impulse continued: “No! no! And if there be a saving grace in marriage, marriage it shall be, if you will but hear me. You shall be my wife—Leicester’s wife. As I have mounted to power, so I will hold power with you—with you, the brightest spirit that ever England saw. Worthy of a kingdom with you beside me, I shall win to greater, happier days; and at Kenilworth, where kings and queens have lodged, you shall be ruler. We will leave this court until Elizabeth, betrayed by those who know not how to serve her, shall send for me again. Here—the power behind the throne—you and I will sway this realm through the aging, sentimental Queen. Listen, and look at me in the eyes—I speak the truth, you read my heart. You think I hated you and hated De la Forêt. By all the gods! it’s true I hated him, because I saw that he would come between me and the Queen. A man must have one great passion. Life itself must be a passion. Power was my passion—power, not the Queen. You have broken all that down. I yield it all to you—for your sake and my own. I would steal from life yet before my sun goes to its setting a few years of truth and honesty and clear design. At heart I am a patriot—a loyal Englishman. Your cause—the cause of Protestantism—did I not fight for it at Rochelle? Have I not ever urged the Queen to spend her revenue for your cause, to send her captains and her men to fight for it?”
She raised her head in interest, and her lips murmured, “Ah, yes, I know you did that.”
He saw his advantage and pursued it. “See, I will be honest with you—honest at last, as I have wished in vain to be, for honesty was misunderstood. It is not so with you—you understand. Ah, light of womanhood, I speak the truth now. I have been evil in my day—I admit it—evil because I was in the midst of evil. I betrayed because I was betrayed; I slew else I should have been slain. We have had dark days in England, privy conspiracy and rebellion; and I have had to thread my way through dreadful courses by a thousand blind paths. Would it be no joy to you if I, through your influence, recast my life—remade my policy, renewed my youth—pursuing principle where I have pursued opportunity? Angèle, come to Kenilworth with me. Leave De la Forêt to his fate. The way to happiness is with me. Will you come?”