This provoked a quarrel. The Queen stamped her foot, flung up and down, shed tears. ‘You are too masterful, my girl, too much the husband. You mistake a game and play for a bout-at-issue. I do not choose to be mistressed by a maid of honour. There must be an end of this.’
Livingstone listened gravely. ‘Do with me as you will, madam. Put me in my place. What is your pleasure?’
‘To rule my people, child.’
‘Rule, madam, rule. Command me in anything. Forbid me everything, but one thing.’
‘I shall forbid you what is unwholesome for you, and for me also.’
‘You shall not forbid me to love you,’ said the maid, very white.
‘Nay, that I cannot do!’ cried the Queen, laughing and weeping at once. So they kissed.
But, for all that, she removed Livingstone from her side, and chose Fleming. Mr. Secretary, acceptable widower in that lady’s sight, rubbed his hands over the choice; and Fleming herself was so sweetly gratified that nobody could grudge her her promotion. She was a gentle-natured, low-voiced, modest girl, with the meek beauty of an angel in a Milanese picture. Older than the Queen, she looked younger; whereas Livingstone was younger and looked older. No doubt this one felt her fall; but, being as good as gold and as proud as iron, she held her head the higher for her lower degree, and smiled benevolently at the raptures of the new favourite.
‘My dear,’ she said to Fleming, ‘do not think that I grudge thee. In truth, I do not. What I said was done advisedly. I knew what must come of it; I sought it, and shall put up with it. I have a deal to think on, these days, and my thoughts will be my night-company.’
‘She will never love me as she loves thee,’ says Fleming; and was answered: