‘Harshly, harshly, my girl?’ the Queen snapped at Fleming. ‘I am water heaving against that rock—torn ragged by its fret, and scattered to the wind—to drop down as tears—as salt tears, Mary Fleming! Ah, the sea will drink up my tears, and the sea have me at last, and lap me to soft sleep, and soothe me that I forget!’ She changed her mood, looked proudly at the kneeling girl. ‘You, that will not kiss my hand—nor shall not—you are to forget what you choose and remember what you choose; but of me you expect—what, O heaven! My memory is to lie in your lap and obey you. Oh, it is very well! I am to forget that your father was a traitor——’
The girl’s eyes met hers directly.
‘He was none, madam.’
‘I say I am to forget that, and remember that I dealt sternly with an old man.’
Jean grew fiercely white. ‘Barbarously, madam!’ she said; ‘when you dragged a dead old man from the grave and spat upon his winding-sheet.’
‘Hush, hush!’ said Mary Fleming; and Jean looked at her, but said no more. The Queen was very pale, lying on her side, crouched among the cushions.
‘He defied me,’ she said, ‘but I forgave him that. He tampered with my enemies, he boasted and lied and cheated. He died in arms against his prince, and I shed tears in pity of myself. For then I was new in Scotland, and thought that the love of a man was something worth, and shivered when I lost it, as one left bare to the gales. Now I know wiselier concerning mannish love; and I know how to draw it since I hold it cheap. I would as soon draw that of dogs and apes, I think.’ She looked over her shoulder, then quickly pillowed her cheek again, but held up her hand. Mary Fleming took it. ‘Dogs, and apes, and tigers are men, Mary Fleming!’ the complaining voice resumed; ‘and I Dame Circe at her spells! And here before me, look you, poor faithful, chaste Penelope, that will not touch my hand!’
She gave a little moan, and sat up, shaking her head. ‘No, no, no, my girl, you have the wrong of me. I weave no spells, I want no dogs and apes—no man’s desire. Love!’ she clasped her hands at the stretch of her arms, ‘Love! I want love—and have it from all women but you. I am the queen of women’s hearts, and you are my only rebel. Love me, Jean! Forgiveness, ma mie!’
There was no answer. The Queen started forward, almost frenzied, and threw herself upon the girl—encircled her, clung, and began to kiss her. She kissed her lips, cheeks, eyes, and hair; she stroked her face, she begged and prayed. ‘Love me, Jeannie: I have done you no wrong. I had no hand in it—I could not move alone. I cried, but could not move. They would have it so. Oh, love me, my dear, for the sake of what I have bought and paid for!’
A flint-stone would have thawed under such a lava-stream. Jean Gordon took a softer tinge, but tried to free herself.