‘The Queen smiled in a sweet, tired way, as if she was sorry for this woman. “Do you so hate me, Jeannie?”
‘And the Countess answered her: “Ay, worse than hell-fire for my dead father’s sake, and for my brother John’s, whom you slew. And so I am well content to be here, that you should see me unashamed, owner without asking of what you long for but can never have; and that I should see you at my feet, deeply abased.”
‘If her tongue had been a blade and her will behind it as the hand of one who lived for cruelty, she could not have got her dear desire more utterly than by these slow-stabbing words. Content to be here! Yea, lascivious devil that she was, I could see that she was rolling in her filthy comfort. But, by heaven, she was redeemed by the fading breath of the most unhappy lady that ever moaned about the world.
‘The Queen, I tell you, went directly to her—went close to her, without thought of fear or sickening of disgust. And she took the wicked white face between her hands and kissed the poisonous lips. And she said: “Hate me no more, Jeannie Gordon, for now I know that we are sisters in great sorrow, you and I. If we are not loved we must needs be unhappy; but in that we have loved, and do still love, we are not without recompense. So we must never rend each other; but you, poor lover, must kiss me, your sister, as now I do you.”
‘I ask myself here—and others have asked me—was this sudden alteration in her Majesty that old sweet guile of hers, inveterate still and at work? Was it possible that, even now, she could stay and stoop to cajole this indurate woman, to woo her with kisses, kill her with kindness? I like not to consider: many there be, I know, who do believe it, Mistress Sempill being one. Who am I to judge that deep, working heart more narrowly than by what appears? Such questions are too nice; they are not for my answering. Candour compels me to record them; but I can only report what I saw and heard.
‘I heard the Countess give a throttled cry, as she struggled like one caught in a fire; but the Queen kissed her again before she could free herself. When at last she had flung away, with crying and a blenched face—she who had been so hard before was now in a state of wild alarm, warning off our lady with her fighting hands. “No, no, no! Touch me not—defile not yourself. Oh, never that—I dare not suffer you!”
‘“What, am I so vile?” says the poor Queen, misunderstanding her in this new mood. The Countess burst out into passionate weeping, which hurt her so much (for she was no tearful woman by nature) that she writhed under the affliction as if the grief within was tearing at her vitals. She shrieked, “Ah, no! Not you—not you—but I. Oh, you torture me, brand me with fire!” I could not guess what she meant, save that she was beaten, and her wicked passion with her.
‘She sat up and stared at our Mistress, her face all writhen with grief. “Listen, listen—this is the truth as God knows it. That man who stands between us two and Heaven is your ruin and mine. For I love him not at all, and have consented to him now, degrading myself for hatred’s sake. And for you, who have loved him so well, he has no care at all—but only for your crown and royal seat; for he loves me only—and so it has always been.”
‘The Queen could only nod her head. Mary Sempill said sternly: “Woman, you do well to lash yourself at last; for none can hurt you beside yourself. Now, may God forgive you, for I never will.”
‘“Oh, Mary,” says the Queen, “what have you or I to do with forgiveness of sins? Alas, we need it for ourselves. And she is in as bad a case as I am.” Then, “Come to me now, Jeannie,” she said; and most humbly that wicked, beaten woman crept up to her late enemy. The Queen embraced and comforted her. “Farewell, Jeannie,” said she, “and think as well of me as you can. For I go on to I know not what—only I do think it will be unhappiness—and we shall never meet again.” With sublime calm she turned to us, weeping behind her. “Come, my children, let us go our ways.”