The tragedies of the stage compress themselves into a few hours, but the tragedies of real life are of slow and heavy march, and the heart-sickness of delay and hope and dread alike deferred is one of their chief trials.
Humfrey's hurt was quite well, but as he was at once trusted by his superiors, and acceptable to the captive, he was employed in many of those lesser communications between her and her keepers, for which the two knights did not feel it necessary to harass her with their presence. His post, for half the twenty-four hours, was on guard in the gallery outside her anteroom door; but he often knocked and was admitted as bearer of some message to her or her household; and equally often was called in to hear her requests, and sometimes he could not help believing because it pleased her to see him, even if there were nothing to tell her.
Nor was there anything known until the 19th of November, when the sound of horses' feet in large numbers, and the blast of bugles, announced the arrival of a numerous party. When marshalled into the ordinary dining-hall, they proved to be Lord Buckhurst, a dignified-looking nobleman, who bore a sad and grave countenance full of presage, with Mr. Beale, the Clerk of the Council, and two or three other officials and secretaries, among whom Humfrey perceived the inevitable Will Cavendish.
The two old comrades quickly sought each other out, Will observing, "So here you are still, Humfrey. We are like to see the end of a long story."
"How so?" asked Humfrey, with a thrill of horror, "is she sentenced?"
"By the Commissioners, all excepting my Lord Zouch, and by both houses of Parliament! We are come down to announce it to her. I'll have you into the presence-chamber if I can prevail. It will be a noteworthy thing to see how the daughter of a hundred kings brooks such a sentence."
"Hath no one spoken for her?" asked Humfrey, thinking at least as much of Cicely as of the victim.
"The King of Scots hath sent an ambassage," returned Cavendish, "but when I say 'tis the Master of Gray, you know what that means. King James may be urgent to save his mother—nay, he hath written more sharply and shrewishly than ever he did before; but as for this Gray, whatever he may say openly, we know that he has whispered to the Queen, 'The dead don't bite.'"
"The villain!"
"That may be, so far as he himself is concerned, but the counsel is canny, like the false Scot himself. What's this I hear, Humfrey, that you have been playing the champion, and getting wounded in the defence?"
"A mere nothing," said Humfrey, opening his hand, however, to show the mark. "I did but get my palm scored in hindering a villainous man-at-arms from slaying the poor lady."
"Yea, well are thy race named Talbot!" said Cavendish. "Sturdy watch-dogs are ye all, with never a notion that sometimes it may be for the good of all parties to look the other way."
"If you mean that I am to stand by and see a helpless woman—"
"Hush! my good friend," said Will, holding up his hand. "I know thy breed far too well to mean any such thing. Moreover, thy precisian governor, old Paulett there, hath repelled, like instigations of Satan, more hints than one that pain might be saved to one queen and publicity to the other, if he would have taken a leaf from Don Philip's book, and permitted the lady to be dealt with secretly. Had he given an ear to the matter six months back, it would have spared poor Antony."
"Speak not thus, Will," said Humfrey, "or thou wilt make me believe thee a worse man than thou art, only for the sake of showing me how thou art versed in state policy. Tell me, instead, if thou hast seen my father."
"Thy father? yea, verily, and I have a packet for thee from him. It is in my mails, and I will give it thee anon. He is come on a bootless errand! As long as my mother and my sister Mall are both living, he might as well try to bring two catamounts together without hisses and scratches."
"Where is he lying?" asked Humfrey.
"In Shrewsbury House, after the family wont, and Gilbert makes him welcome enough, but Mall is angered with him for not lodging his daughter there likewise! I tell her he is afraid lest she should get hold of the wench, and work up a fresh web of tales against this lady, like those which did so much damage before. 'Twould be rare if she made out that Gravity himself, in the person of old Paulett, had been entranced by her."
"Peace with thy gibes," said Humfrey impatiently, "and tell me where my sister is."
"Where thinkest thou? Of all strange places in the world, he hath bestowed her with Madame de Salmonnet, the wife of one of the French Ambassador's following, to perfect her French, as he saith. Canst thou conceive wherefore he doth it? Hath he any marriage in view for her? Mall tried to find out, but he is secret. Tell me, Numps, what is it?"
"If he be secret, must not I be the same?" said Humfrey, laughing.
"Nay, thou owest me some return for all that I have told thee."
"Marry, Will, that is more like a maiden than a statesman! But be content, comrade, I know no more than thou what purposes there may be anent my sister's marriage," he added. "Only if thou canst give me my father's letter, I should be beholden to thee."
They were interrupted, however, by a summons to Humfrey, who was to go to the apartments of the Queen of Scots, to bear the information that in the space of half an hour the Lord Buckhurst and Master Beale would do themselves the honour of speaking with her.
"So," muttered Cavendish to himself as Humfrey went up the stairs, "thereisthen some secret. I marvel what it bodes! Did not that crafty villain Langston utter some sort of warning which I spurned, knowing the Bridgefield trustiness and good faith? This wench hath been mightily favoured by the lady. I must see to it."
Meantime Humfrey had been admitted to Queen Mary's room, where she sat as usual at her needlework. "You bring me tidings, my friend," she said, as he bent his knee before her. "Methought I heard a fresh stir in the Castle; who is arrived?"
"The Lord Buckhurst, so please your Grace, and Master Beale. They crave an audience of your Grace in half an hour's time."
"Yea, and I can well guess wherefore," said the Queen. "Well, Fiat voluntas tua! Buckhurst? he is kinsman of Elizabeth on the Boleyn side, methinks! She would do me grace, you see, my masters, by sending me such tidings by her cousin. They cannot hurt me! I am far past that! So let us have no tears, my lassies, but receive them right royally, as befits a message from one sovereign to another! Remember, it is not before my Lord Buckhurst and Master Beale that we sit, but before all posterities for evermore, who will hear of Mary Stewart and her wrongs. Tell them I am ready, sir. Nay but, my son," she added, with a very different tone of the tender woman instead of the outraged sovereign, "I see thou hast news for me. Is it of the child?"
"Even so, madam. I wot little yet, but what I know is hopeful. She is with Madame de Salmonnet, wife of one of the suite of the French Ambassador."
"Ah! that speaketh much," said Mary, smiling, "more than you know, young man. Salmonnet is sprung of a Scottish archer, Jockie of the salmon net, whereof they made in France M. de Salmonnet. Chateauneuf must have owned her, and put her under the protection of the Embassy. Hast thou had a letter from thy father?"
"I am told that one is among Will Cavendish's mails, madam, and I hope to have it anon."
"These men have all unawares brought with them that which may well bear me up through whatever may be coming."
A second message arrived from Lord Buckhurst himself, to say how grieved he was to be the bearer of heavy tidings, and to say that he would not presume to intrude on her Majesty's presence until she would notify to him that she was ready to receive him.
"They have become courteous," said Mary. "But why should we dally? The sooner this is over, the better."
The gentlemen were then admitted: Lord Buckhurst grave, sad, stately, and courteous; Sir Annas Paulett, as usual, grim and wooden in his puritanical stiffness; Sir Drew Drury keeping in the background as one grieved; and Mr. Beale, who had already often harassed the Queen before, eager, forward, and peremptory, as one whose exultation could hardly be repressed by respect for his superior, Lord Buckhurst.
Bending low before her, this nobleman craved her pardon for that which it was his duty to execute; and having kissed her hand, in token of her personal forgiveness, he bade Mr. Beale read the papers.
The Clerk of the Council stood forth almost without obeisance, till it was absolutely compelled from him by Buckhurst. He read aloud the details of the judgment, that Mary had been found guilty by the Commission, of conspiracy against the kingdom, and the life of the Queen, with the sentence from the High Court of Parliament that she was to die by being beheaded.
Mary listened with unmoved countenance, only she stood up and made solemn protest against the authority and power of the Commission either to try or condemn her. Beale was about to reply, but Lord Buckhurst checked him, telling him it was simply his business to record the protest; and then adding that he was charged to warn her to put away all hopes of mercy, and to prepare for death. This, he said, was on behalf of his Queen, who implored her to disburthen her conscience by a full confession. "It is not her work," added Buckhurst; "the sentence is not hers, but this thing is required by her people, inasmuch as her life can never be safe while your Grace lives, nor can her religion remain in any security."
Mary's demeanour had hitherto been resolute. Here a brightness and look of thankful joy came over her, as she raised her eyes to Heaven and joined her hands, saying, "I thank you, my lord; you have made it all gladness to me, by declaring me to be an instrument in the cause of my religion, for which, unworthy as I am, I shall rejoice to shed my blood."
"Saint and martyr, indeed!" broke out Paulett. "That is fine! when you are dying for plotting treason and murder!"
"Nay, sir," gently returned Mary, "I am not so presumptuous as to call myself saint or martyr; but though you have power over my body, you have none over my soul, nor can you prevent me from hoping that by the mercy of Him who died for me, my blood and life may be accepted by Him, as offerings freely made for His Church."
She then begged for the restoration of her Almoner De Preaux. She was told that the request would be referred to the Queen, but that she should have the attendance of an English Bishop and Dean. Paulett was so angered at the manner in which she had met the doom, that he began to threaten her that she would be denied all that could serve to her idolatries.
"Yea, verily," said she calmly, "I am aware that the English have never been noted for mercy."
Lord Buckhurst succeeded in getting the knight away without any more bitter replies. Humfrey and Cavendish had, of course, to leave the room in their train, and as it was the hour of guard for the former, he had to take up his station and wait with what patience he could until it should please Master William to carry him the packet. He opened it eagerly, standing close beneath the little lamp that illuminated his post, to read it: but after all, it was somewhat disappointing, for Mr. Talbot did not feel that absolute confidence in the consciences of gentlemen-in-place which would make him certain of that of Master Cavendish, supposing any notion should arise that Cicely's presence in London could have any purpose connected with the prisoner.
"To my dear son Humfrey, greeting—
"I do you to wit that we are here safely arrived in London, though we were forced by stress of weather to tarry seven days in Hull, at the house of good Master Heatherthwayte, where we received good and hospitable entertainment. The voyage was a fair one, and the old Mastiff is as brave a little vessel as ever she was wont to be; but thy poor sister lay abed all the time, and was right glad when we came into smooth water. We have presented the letters to those whom we came to seek, and so far matters have gone with us more towardly than I had expected. There are those who knew Cicely's mother at her years who say there is a strange likeness between them, and who therefore received her the more favourably. I am lying at present at Shrewsbury House, where my young Lord makes me welcome, but it hath been judged meet that thy sister should lodge with the good Madame de Salmonnet, a lady of Scottish birth, who is wife to one of the secretaries of M. de Chateauneuf, the French Ambassador, but who was bred in the convent of Soissons. She is a virtuous and honourable lady, and hath taken charge of thy sister while we remain in London. For the purpose for which we came, it goeth forward, and those who should know assure me that we do not lose time here. Diccon commendeth himself to thee; he is well in health, and hath much improved in all his exercises. Mistress Curll is lodging nigh unto the Strand, in hopes of being permitted to see her husband; but that hath not yet been granted to her, although she is assured that he is well in health, and like ere long to be set free, as well as Monsieur Nau.
"We came to London the day after the Parliament had pronounced sentence upon the Lady at Fotheringhay. I promise you there was ringing of bells and firing of cannon, and lighting of bonfires, so that we deemed that there must have been some great defeat of the Spaniards in the Low Countries; and when we were told it was for joy that the Parliament had declared the Queen of Scots guilty of death, my poor Cicely had well-nigh swooned to think that there could be such joy for the doom of one poor sick lady. There hath been a petition to the Queen that the sentence may be carried out, and she hath answered in a dubious and uncertain manner, which leaves ground for hope; and the King of Scots hath written pressingly and sent the Master of Gray to speak in his mother's behalf; also M. de Chateauneuf hath both urged mercy on the Queen, and so written to France that King Henry is sending an Ambassador Extraordinary, M. de Bellievre, to intercede for her.
"I send these presents by favour of Master Cavendish, who will tell thee more than I have here space to set down, and can assure thee that nothing hasty is like to be done in the business on which he hath come down with these gentlemen. And so no more at present from thy loving father,
"Richard Talbot."
Humfrey had to gather what he could from this letter, but he had no opportunity of speech with the prisoner on the remainder of that day, nor on the next, until after Lord Buckhurst and his followers had left Fotheringhay, bearing with them a long and most touching letter from the prisoner to Queen Elizabeth.
On that day, Paulett worked himself up to the strange idea that it was for the good of the unfortunate prisoner's soul, and an act of duty to his own sovereign, to march into the prison chamber and announce to Queen Mary that being a dead woman in the eye of the law, no royal state could be permitted her, in token of which he commanded her servants to remove the canopy over her chair. They all flatly refused to touch it, and the women began to cry "Out upon him," for being cowardly enough to insult their mistress, and she calmly said, "Sir, you may do as you please. My royal state comes from God, and is not yours to give or take away. I shall die a Queen, whatever you may do by such law as robbers in a forest might use with a righteous judge."
Intensely angered, Sir Amias came, hobbling and stumbling out to the door, pale with rage, and called on Talbot to come and bring his men to tear down the rag of vanity in which this contumacious woman put her trust.
"The men are your servants, sir," said Humfrey, with a flush on his cheek and his teeth set; "I am here to guard the Queen of Scots, not to insult her."
"How, sirrah? Do you know to whom you speak? Have you not sworn obedience to me?"
"In all things within my commission, sir; but this is as much beyond it, as I believe it to be beyond yours."
"Insolent, disloyal varlet! You are under ward till I can account with and discharge you. To your chamber!"
Humfrey could but walk away, grieved that his power of bearing intelligence or alleviation to the prisoner had been forfeited, and that he should probably not even take leave of her. Was she to be left to all the insults that the malice of her persecutor could devise? Yet it was not exactly malice. Paulett would have guarded her life from assassination with his own, though chiefly for his own sake, and, as he said, for that of "saving his poor posterity from so foul a blot;" but he could not bear, as he told Sir Drew Drury, to see the Popish, bloodthirsty woman sit queening it so calmly; and when he tore down her cloth of state, and sat down in her presence with his hat on, he did not so much intend to pain the woman, Mary, as to express the triumph of Elizabeth and of her religion. Humfrey believed his service over, and began to occupy himself with putting his clothes together, while considering whether to seek his father in London or to go home. After about an hour, he was summoned to the hall, where he expected to have found Sir Amias Paulett ready to give him his discharge. He found, however, only Sir Drew Drury, who thus accosted him—"Young man, you had better return to your duty. Sir Amias is willing to overlook what passed this morning."
"I thank you, sir, but I am not aware of having done aught to need forgiveness," said Humfrey.
"Come, come, my fair youth, stand not on these points. 'Tis true my good colleague hath an excess of zeal, and I could wish he could have found it in his heart to leave the poor lady these marks of dignity that hurt no one. I would have no hand in it, and I am glad thou wouldst not. He knoweth that he had no power to require such service of thee. He will say no more, and I trust that neither wilt thou; for it would not be well to change warders at this time. Another might not be so acceptable to the poor lady, and I would fain save her all that I can."
Humfrey bowed, and thanked "him of milder mood," nor was any further notice taken of this hasty dismissal.
When next he had to enter the Queen's apartments, the absence of all the tokens of her royal rank was to him truly a shock, accustomed as he had been, from his earliest childhood, to connect them with her, and knowing what their removal signified.
Mary, who was writing, looked up as, with cap in hand, he presented himself on one knee, his head bowed lower than ever before, perhaps to hide the tear that had sprung to his eye at sight of her pale, patient countenance.
"How now, sir?" she said. "This obeisance is out of place to one already dead in law. Don your bonnet. There is no queen here for an Englishman."
"Ah! madam, suffer me. My reverence cannot but be greater than ever," faltered Humfrey from his very heart, his words lost in the kiss he printed on the hand she granted him.
Mary bent "her gray discrowned head," crowned in his eyes as the Queen of Sorrows, and said to Marie de Courcelles, who stood behind her, "Is it not true, ma mie, that our griefs have this make-weight, namely, that they prove to us whose are the souls whose generosity is above all price! And what saith thy good father, my Humfrey?"
He had not ventured on bringing the letter into the apartments, but he repeated most of the substance of it, without, however, greatly raising the hopes of the Queen, though she was gratified that her cause was not neglected either by her son or by her brother-in-law.
"They, and above all my poor maid, will be comforted to have done their utmost," she said; "but I scarcely care that they should prevail. As I have written to my cousin Elizabeth, I am beholden to her for ending my long captivity, and above all for conferring on me the blessings and glories of one who dies for her faith, all unworthy as I am!" and she clasped her hands, while a rapt expression came upon her countenance.
Her chief desire seemed to be that neither Cicely nor her foster-father should run into danger on her account, and she much regretted that she had not been able to impress upon Humfrey messages to that effect before he wrote in answer to his father, sending his letter by Cavendish.
"Thou wilt not write again?" she asked.
"I doubt its being safe," said Humfrey. "I durst not speak openly even in the scroll I sent yesterday."
Then Mary recurred to the power which he possessed of visiting Sir Andrew Melville and the Almoner, the Abbe de Preaux, who were shut up in the Fetterlock tower and court, and requested him to take a billet which she had written to the latter. The request came like a blow to the young man. "With permission—" he began.
"I tell thee," said Mary, "this concerns naught but mine own soul. It is nothing to the State, but all and everything to me, a dying woman."
"Ah, madam! Let me but obtain consent."
"What! go to Paulett that he may have occasion to blaspheme my faith and insult me!" said the Queen, offended.
"I should go to Sir Drew Drury, who is of another mould," said Humfrey—
"But who dares not lift a finger to cross his fellow," said Mary, leaning back resignedly.
"And this is the young gentleman's love for your Grace!" exclaimed Jean Kennedy.
"Nay, madam," said Humfrey, stung to the quick, "but I am sworn!"
"Let him alone, Nurse Jeanie!" said Mary. "He is like the rest of the English. They know not how to distinguish between the spirit and the letter! I understand it all, though I had thought for a moment that in him there was a love for me and mine that would perceive that I could ask nothing that could damage his honour or his good faith. I—who had almost a mother's love and trust in him."
"Madam," cried Humfrey, "you know I would lay down my life for you, but I cannot break my trust."
"Your trust, fule laddie!" exclaimed Mrs. Kennedy. "Ane wad think the Queen speired of ye to carry a letter to Mendoza to burn and slay, instead of a bit scart of the pen to ask the good father for his prayers, or the like! But you are all alike; ye will not stir a hand to aid her poor soul."
"Pardon me, madam," entreated Humfrey. "The matter is, not what the letter may bear, but how my oath binds me! I may not be the bearer of aught in writing from this chamber. 'Twas the very reason I would not bring in my father's letter. Madam, say but you pardon me."
"Of course I pardon you," returned Mary coldly. "I have so much to pardon that I can well forgive the lukewarmness and precision that are so bred in your nature that you cannot help them. I pardon injuries, and I may well try to pardon disappointments. Fare you well, Mr. Talbot; may your fidelity have its reward from Sir Amias Paulett."
Humfrey was obliged to quit the apartment, cruelly wounded, sometimes wondering whether he had really acted on a harsh selfish punctilio in cutting off the dying woman from the consolations of religion, and thus taking part with the persecutors, while his heart bled for her. Sometimes it seemed to him as if he had been on the point of earning her consent to his marriage with her daughter, and had thrown it away, and at other moments a horror came over him lest he was being beguiled as poor Antony had been before him. And if he let his faith slip, how should he meet his father again? Yet his affection for the Queen repelled this idea like a cruel injury, while, day by day, it was renewed pain and grief to be treated by her with the gentlest and most studied courtesy, but no longer as almost one of her own inner circle of friends and confidants.
And as Sir Andrew Melville was in a few days more restored to her service, he was far less often required to bear messages, or do little services in the prison apartments, and he felt himself excluded, and cut off from the intimacy that had been very sweet, and even a little hopeful to him.
Cicely had been living in almost as much suspense in London as her mother at Fotheringhay. For greater security Mr. Talbot had kept her on board the Mastiff till he had seen M. d'Aubepine Chateauneuf, and presented to him Queen Mary's letter. The Ambassador, an exceedingly polished and graceful Frenchman, was greatly astonished, and at first incredulous; but he could not but accept the Queen's letter as genuine, and he called into his counsels his Secretary De Salmonnet, an elderly man, whose wife, a Scotswoman by birth, preferred her husband's society to the delights of Paris. She was a Hamilton who had been a pensionnaire in the convent at Soissons, and she knew that it had been expected that an infant from Lochleven might be sent to the Abbess, but that it had never come, and that after many months of waiting, tidings had arrived that the vessel which carried the babe had been lost at sea.
M. de Chateauneuf thereupon committed the investigation to her and her husband. Richard Talbot took them first to the rooms where Mrs. Barbara Curll had taken up her abode, so as to be near her husband, who was still a prisoner in Walsingham's house. She fully confirmed all that Mr. Talbot said of the Queen's complete acceptance of Cis as her daughter, and moreover consented to come with the Salmonnets and Mr. Talbot, to visit the young lady on board the Mastiff.
Accordingly they went down the river together in Mr. Talbot's boat, and found Cicely, well cloaked and muffled, sitting under an awning, under the care of old Goatley, who treated her like a little queen, and was busy explaining to her all the different craft which filled the river.
She sprang up with the utmost delight at the sight of Mrs. Curll, and threw herself into her arms. There was an interchange of inquiries and comments that—unpremeditated as they were—could not but convince the auditor of the terms on which the young lady had stood with Queen Mary and her suite.
Afterwards Cicely took the two ladies to her cabin, a tiny box, but not uncomfortable according to her habits, and there, on Barbara's persuasion, she permitted Madame de Salmonnet to see the monograms on her shoulders. The lady went home convinced of her identity, and came again the next day with a gentleman in slouched hat, mask, and cloak.
As Cicely rose to receive him he uttered an exclamation of irrepressible astonishment, then added, "Your Highness will pardon me. Exactly thus did her royal mother stand when I took leave of her at Calais."
The Ambassador had thus been taken by storm, although the resemblance was more in figure and gesture than feature, but Mrs. Curll could aver that those who had seen Bothwell were at no loss to trace the derivation of the dark brows and somewhat homely features, in which the girl differed from the royal race of Scotland.
What was to be done? Queen Mary's letter to him begged him so far as was possible to give her French protection, and avoid compromising "that excellent Talbot," and he thought it would be wisest for her to await the coming of the Envoy Extraordinary, M. de Pomponne Bellievre, and be presented by him. In the meantime her remaining on board ship in this winter weather would be miserably uncomfortable, and Richmond and Greenwich were so near that any intercourse with her would be dangerous, especially if Langston was still in England. Lodgings or inns where a young lady from the country could safely be bestowed were not easily to be procured without greater familiarity with the place than Mr. Talbot possessed, and he could as little think of placing her with Lady Talbot, whose gossiping tongue and shrewish temper were not for a moment to be trusted. Therefore M de Chateauneuf's proposal that the young lady should become Madame de Salmonnet's guest at the embassy was not unwelcome. The lady was elderly, Scottish, and, as M. de Chateauneuf with something of a shudder assured Mr. Talbot, "most respectable." And it was hoped that it would not be for long. So, having seen her safely made over to the lady's care, Richard ventured for the first time to make his presence in London known to his son, and to his kindred; and he was the more glad to have her in these quarters because Diccon told him that there was no doubt that Langston was lurking about the town, and indeed he was convinced that he had recognised that spy entering Walsingham's house in the dress of a scrivener. He would not alarm Cicely, but he bade her keep all her goods in a state ready for immediate departure, in case it should be needful to leave London at once after seeing the Queen.
The French Ambassador's abode was an old conventual building on the river-side, consisting of a number of sets of separate chambers, like those of a college, opening on a quadrangle in the centre, and with one side occupied by the state apartments and chapel. This arrangement eminently suited the French suite, every one of whom liked to have his own little arrangements of cookery, and to look after his own marmite in his own way, all being alike horrified at the gross English diet and lack of vegetables. Many tried experiments in the way of growing salads in little gardens of their own, with little heed to the once beautiful green grass-plot which they broke up.
Inside that gate it was like a new country, and as all the shrill thin intonations of the French rang in her ears, Cicely could hardly believe that she had—she said—only a brick wall between her and old England.
M. de Salmonnet was unmistakably a Scot by descent, though he had never seen the land of his ancestors. His grandfather bad been ennobled, but only belonged to the lesser order of the noblesse, being exempted from imposts, but not being above employment, especially in diplomacy. He had acted as secretary, interpreter, and general factotum, to a whole succession of ambassadors, and thus his little loge, as he called it, had become something of a home. His wife had once or twice before had to take charge of young ladies, French or English, who were confided to the embassy, and she had a guest chamber for them, a small room, but with an oriel window overhanging the Thames and letting in the southern sun, so as almost to compensate for the bareness of the rest, where there was nothing but a square box-bed, a chest, and a few toilette essentials, to break upon the dulness of the dark wainscoted walls. Madame herself came to sleep with her guest, for lonely nights were regarded with dread in those times, and indeed she seemed to regard it as her duty never to lose sight of her charge for a moment.
Madame de Salmonnet's proper bed-chamber was the only approach to this little room, but that mattered the less as it was also the parlour! The bed, likewise a box, was in the far-off recesses, and the family were up and astir long before the November sun. Dressed Madame could scarcely be called—the costume in which she assisted Babette and queer wizened old Pierrot in doing the morning's work, horrified Cicely, used as she was to Mistress Susan's scrupulous neatness. Downstairs there was a sort of office room of Monsieur's, where the family meals were taken, and behind it an exceedingly small kitchen, where Madame and Pierrot performed marvels of cookery, surpassing those of Queen Mary's five cooks.
Cicely longed to assist in them, and after a slight demur, she was permitted to do so, chiefly because her duenna could not otherwise watch her and the confections at the same time. Cis could never make out whether it was as princess or simply as maiden that she was so closely watched, for Madame bristled and swelled like a mother cat about to spring at a strange dog, if any gentleman of the suite showed symptoms of accosting her. Nay, when Mr. Talbot once brought Diccon in with him, and there was a greeting, which to Cicely's mind was dismally cold and dry, the lady was so scandalised that Cicely was obliged formally to tell her that she would answer for it to the Queen. On Sunday, Mr. Talbot always came to take her to church, and this was a terrible grievance to Madame, though it was to Cicely the one refreshment of the week. If it had been only the being out of hearing of her hostess's incessant tongue, the walk would have been a refreshment. Madame de Salmonnet had been transported from home so young that she was far more French than Scottish; she was a small woman full of activity and zeal of all kinds, though perhaps most of all for her pot au feu. She was busied about her domestic affairs morning, noon, and night, and never ceased chattering the whole time, till Cicely began to regard the sound like the clack of the mill at Bridgefield. Yet, talker as she was, she was a safe woman, and never had been known to betray secrets. Indeed, much more of her conversation consisted of speculations on the tenderness of the poultry, or the freshness of the fish, than of anything that went much deeper. She did, however, spend much time in describing the habits and customs of the pensioners at Soissons; the maigre food they had to eat; their tricks upon the elder and graver nuns, and a good deal besides that was amusing at first, but which became rather wearisome, and made Cicely wonder what either of her mothers would have thought of it.
The excuse for all this was to enable the maiden to make her appearance before Queen Elizabeth as freshly brought from Soissons by her mother's danger. Mary herself had suggested this, as removing all danger from the Talbots, and as making it easier for the French Embassy to claim and protect Cis herself; and M. de Chateauneuf had so far acquiesced as to desire Madame de Salmonnet to see whether the young lady could be prepared to assume the character before eyes that would not be over qualified to judge. Cis, however, had always been passive when the proposal was made, and the more she heard from Madame de Salmonnet, the more averse she was to it. The only consideration that seemed to her in its favour was the avoidance of implicating her foster-father, but a Sunday morning spent with him removed the scruple.
"I know I cannot feign," she said. "They all used to laugh at me at Chartley for being too much of the downright mastiff to act a part."
"I am right glad to hear it," said Richard.
"Moreover," added Cicely, "if I did try to turn my words with the Scottish or French ring, I wot that the sight of the Queen's Majesty and my anxiety would drive out from me all I should strive to remember, and I should falter and utter mere folly; and if she saw I was deceiving her, there would be no hope at all. Nay, how could I ask God Almighty to bless my doing with a lie in my mouth?"
"There spake my Susan's own maid," said Richard. "'Tis the joy of my heart that they have not been able to teach thee to lie with a good grace. Trust my word, my wench, truth is the only wisdom, and one would have thought they might have learnt it by this time."
"I only doubted, lest it should be to your damage, dear father. Can they call it treason?"
"I trow not, my child. The worst that could hap would be that I might be lodged in prison a while, or have to pay a fine; and liefer, far liefer, would I undergo the like than that those lips of thine should learn guile. I say not that there is safety for any of us, least of all for thee, my poor maid, but the danger is tenfold increased by trying to deceive; and, moreover, it cannot be met with a good conscience."
"Moreover," said Cicely, "I have pleadings and promises to make on my mother-queen's behalf that would come strangely amiss if I had to feign that I had never seen her! May I not seek the Queen at once, without waiting for this French gentleman? Then would this weary, weary time be at an end! Each time I hear a bell, or a cannon shot, I start and think, Oh! has she signed the warrant? Is it too late?"
"There is no fear of that," said Richard; "I shall know from Will Cavendish the instant aught is done, and through Diccon I could get thee brought to the Queen's very chamber in time to plead. Meantime, the Queen is in many minds. She cannot bear to give up her kinswoman; she sits apart and mutters, 'Aut fer aut feri,' and 'Ne feriare feri.' Her ladies say she tosses and sighs all night, and hath once or twice awoke shrieking that she was covered with blood. It is Burghley and Walsingham who are forcing this on, and not her free will. Strengthen but her better will, and let her feel herself secure, and she will spare, and gladly."
"That do I hope to do," said Cicely, encouraged. The poor girl had to endure many a vicissitude and heart-sinking before M. de Bellievre appeared; and when he did come, he was a disappointment.
He was a most magnificent specimen of the mignons of Henri's court. The Embassy rang with stories of the number of mails he had brought, of the milk baths he sent for, the gloves he slept in, the valets who tweaked out superfluous hairs from his eyebrows, the delicacies required for his little dogs.
M. de Salmonnet reported that on hearing the story of "Mademoiselle," as Cicely was called in the Embassy, he had twirled the waxed ends of his moustaches into a satirical twist, and observed, "That is well found, and may serve as a last resource."
He never would say that he disbelieved what he was told of her; and when presented to her, he behaved with an exaggerated deference which angered her intensely, for it seemed to her mockery of her pretensions. No doubt his desire was that Mary's life should be granted to the intercession of his king rather than to any other consideration; and therefore once, twice, thrice, he had interviews with Elizabeth, and still he would not take the anxious suppliant, who was in an agony at each disappointment, as she watched the gay barge float down the river, and who began to devise setting forth alone, to seek the Queen at Richmond and end it all! She would have done so, but that Diccon told her that since the alarm caused by Barnwell, it had become so much more difficult to approach the Queen that she would have no hope.
But she was in a restless state that made Madame de Salmonnet's chatter almost distracting, when at last, far on in January, M. de Salmonnet came in.
"Well, mademoiselle, the moment is come. The passports are granted, but Monsieur the Ambassador Extraordinary has asked for a last private audience, and he prays your Highness to be ready to accompany him at nine of the clock to-morrow morning."
Cicely's first thought was to send tidings to Mr. Talbot, and in this M. de Salmonnet assisted her, though his wife thought it very superfluous to drag in the great, dull, heavy, English sailor. The girl longed for a sight and speech of him all that evening in vain, though she was sure she saw the Mastiff's boat pass down the river, and most earnestly did she wish she could have had her chamber to herself for the prayers and preparations, on which Madame's tongue broke so intolerably that she felt as if she should ere long be wild and senseless, and unable to recollect anything.
She had only a little peace when Madame rose early in the morning and left her, thinking her asleep, for a brief interval, which gave her time to rally her thoughts and commend herself to her only Guide.
She let Madame dress her, as had been determined, in perfectly plain black, with a cap that would have suited "a novice out of convent shade." It was certainly the most suitable garb for a petitioner for her mother's life. In her hand she took the Queen's letter, and the most essential proofs of her birth. She was cloaked and hooded over all as warmly as possible to encounter the cold of the river: and Madame de Salmonnet, sighing deeply at the cold, arranged herself to chaperon her, and tried to make her fortify herself with food, but she was too tremulous to swallow anything but a little bread and wine. Poor child! She felt frightfully alone amongst all those foreign tongues, above all when the two ambassadors crossed the court to M. de Salmonnet's little door. Bellievre, rolled up in splendid sables from head to foot, bowed down to the ground before her, almost sweeping the pavement with his plume, and asked in his deferential voice of mockery if her Royal Highness would do him the honour of accepting his escort.
Cicely bent her head and said in French, "I thank you, sir," giving him her hand; and there was a grave dignity in the action that repressed him, so that he did not speak again as he led her to the barge, which was covered in at the stern so as to afford a shelter from the wind.
Her quick eye detected the Mastiff's boat as she was handed down the stairs, and this was some relief, while she was placed in the seat of honour, with an ambassador on each side of her.
"May I ask," demanded Bellievre, waving a scented handkerchief, "what her Highness is prepared to say, in case I have to confirm it?"
"I thank your Excellency," replied Cicely, "but I mean to tell the simple truth; and as your Excellency has had no previous knowledge of me, I do not see how you can confirm it."
The two gentlemen looked at one another, and Chateauneuf said, "Do I understand her Royal Highness that she does not come as the pensionnaire from Soissons, as the Queen had recommended?"
"No, sir," said Cicely; "I have considered the matter, and I could not support the character. All that I ask of your Excellencies is to bring me into the presence of Queen Elizabeth. I will do the rest myself, with the help of God."
"Perhaps she is right," said the one ambassador to the other. "These English are incomprehensible!"
In due time the boat drew up at the stairs leading to the palace of Richmond. Cicely, in the midst of her trepidation, perceived that Diccon was among the gentlemen pensioners who made a lane from the landing to receive them, as she was handed along by M. de Bellievre. In the hall there was a pause, during which the mufflings were thrown off, and Cicely appeared in her simple black, a great contrast to her cavalier, who was clad from neck to knee in pale pink satin, quilted, and with a pearl at each intersection, earrings in his ears, perfumed and long-fringed gloves in his hand—a perfect specimen of the foppery of the Court of France. However, he might have been in hodden gray without her perceiving it. She had the sensation of having plunged into deep, unknown waters, without rope or plank, and being absolutely forced to strike out for herself; yet the very urgency of the moment, acting on her high blood and recent training, made her, outwardly, perfectly self-possessed and calm. She walked along, holding her head in the regal manner that was her inheritance, and was so utterly absorbed in the situation that she saw nothing, and thought only of the Queen.
This was to be a private audience, and after a minute's demur with the clerk of the chamber, when Chateauneuf made some explanation, a door was opened, a curtain withdrawn, and the two ambassadors and the young lady were admitted to Elizabeth's closet, where she sat alone, in an arm-chair with a table before her. Cicely's first glance at the Queen reminded her of the Countess, though the face was older, and had an intellect and a grandeur latent in it, such as Bess of Hardwicke had never possessed; but it was haggard and worn, the eyelids red, either with weeping, or with sleeplessness, and there was an anxious look about the keen light hazel eyes which was sometimes almost pathetic, and gave Cicely hope. To the end of her days she never could recollect how the Queen was arrayed; she saw nothing but the expression in those falcon eyes, and the strangely sensitive mouth, which bewrayed the shrewish nose and chin, and the equally inconsistent firmness of the jaw.
The first glance Cicely encountered was one of utter amazement and wrath, as the Queen exclaimed, "Whom have you brought hither, Messieurs?"
Before either could reply, she, whom they had thought a raw, helpless girl, moved forward, and kneeling before Elizabeth said, "It is I, so please your Majesty, I, who have availed myself of the introduction of their Excellencies to lay before your Majesty a letter from my mother, the Queen of Scots."
Queen Elizabeth made so vehement and incredulous an exclamation of amazement that Cicely was the more reminded of the Countess, and this perhaps made her task the easier, and besides, she was not an untrained rustic, but had really been accustomed to familiar intercourse with a queen, who, captive as she was, maintained full state and etiquette.
She therefore made answer with dignity, "If it will please your Majesty to look at this letter, you will see the proofs of what I say, and that I am indeed Bride Hepburn, the daughter of Queen Mary's last marriage. I was born at Lochleven on the 20th of February of the year of grace 1567," (footnote—1568 according to our calendar) "and thence secretly sent in the Bride of Dunbar to be bred up in France. The ship was wrecked, and all lost on board, but I was, by the grace of God, picked up by a good and gallant gentleman of my Lord of Shrewsbury's following, Master Richard Talbot of Bridgefield, who brought me up as his own daughter, all unknowing whence I came or who I was, until three years ago, when one of the secret agents who had knowledge of the affairs of the Queen of Scots made known to her that I was the babe who had been embarked in the Bride of Dunbar."
"Verily, thou must be a bold wench to expect me to believe such a mere minstrel's tale," said Elizabeth.
"Nevertheless, madam, it is the simple truth, as you will see if you deign to open this packet."
"And who or where is this same honourable gentleman who brought you up—Richard Talbot? I have heard that name before!"
"He is here, madam. He will confirm all I say."
The Queen touched a little bell, and ordered Master Talbot of Bridgefield to be brought to her, while, hastily casting her eyes on the credentials, she demanded of Chateauneuf, "Knew you aught of this, sir?"
"I know only what the Queen of Scotland has written and what this Monsieur Talbot has told me, madam," said Chateauneuf. "There can be no doubt that the Queen of Scotland has treated her as a daughter, and owns her for such in her letter to me, as well as to your Majesty."
"And the letters are no forgery?"
"Mine is assuredly not, madam; I know the private hand of the Queen of Scots too well to be deceived. Moreover, Madame Curll, the wife of the Secretary, and others, can speak to the manner in which this young lady was treated."
"Openly treated as a daughter! That passes, sir. My faithful subjects would never have left me uninformed!"
"So please your Majesty," here the maiden ventured, "I have always borne the name of Cicely Talbot, and no one knows what is my real birth save those who were with my mother at Lochleven, excepting Mrs. Curll. The rest even of her own attendants only understood me to be a Scottish orphan. My true lineage should never have been known, were it not a daughter's duty to plead for her mother."
By this time Mr. Talbot was at the door, and he was received by the Queen with, "So ho! Master Talbot, how is this? You, that have been vaunted to us as the very pink of fidelity, working up a tale that smacks mightily of treason and leasing!"
"The truth is oft stranger than any playwright can devise," said Richard, as he knelt.
"If it be truth, the worse for you, sir," said the Queen, hotly. "What colour can you give to thus hiding one who might, forsooth, claim royal blood, tainted though it be?"
"Pardon me, your Grace. For many years I knew not who the babe was whom I had taken from the wreck, and when the secret of her birth was discovered, I deemed it not mine own but that of the Queen of Scots."
"A captive's secrets are not her own, and are only kept by traitors," said Elizabeth, severely.
At this Cicely threw herself forward with glowing cheeks. "Madam, madam, traitor never was named in the same breath with Master Talbot's name before. If he kept the secret, it was out of pity, and knowing no hurt could come to your Majesty by it."
"Thou hast a tongue, wench, be thou who thou mayst," said Elizabeth sharply. "Stand back, and let him tell his own tale."
Richard very briefly related the history of the rescue of the infant, which he said he could confirm by the testimony of Goatley and of Heatherthwayte. He then explained how Langston had been present when she was brought home, and had afterwards made communications to the Queen of Scots that led to the girl, already in attendance on her, being claimed and recognised; after which he confessed that he had not the heart to do what might separate the mother and daughter by declaring their relationship. Elizabeth meanwhile was evidently comparing his narrative with the letters of the Queen of Scots, asking searching questions here and there.
She made a sound of perplexity and annoyance at the end, and said, "This must be further inquired into."
Here Cicely, fearing an instant dismissal, clasped her hands, and on her knees exclaimed, "Madam! it will not matter. No trouble shall ever be caused by my drop of royal blood; no one shall ever even know that Bride of Scotland exists, save the few who now know it, and have kept the secret most faithfully. I seek no state; all I ask is my mother's life. O madam, would you but see her, and speak with her, you would know how far from her thoughts is any evil to your royal person!"
"Tush, wench! we know better. Is this thy lesson?"
"None hath taught me any lesson, madam. I know what my mother's enemies have, as they say, proved against her, and I know they say that while she lives your Grace cannot be in security."
"That is what moves my people to demand her death," said Elizabeth.
"It is not of your own free will, madam, nor of your own kind heart," cried Cicely. "That I well know! And, madam, I will show you the way. Let but my mother be escorted to some convent abroad, in France or Austria, or anywhere beyond the reach of Spain, and her name should be hidden from everyone! None should know where to seek her. Not even the Abbess should know her name. She would be prisoned in a cell, but she would be happy, for she would have life and the free exercise of her religion. No English Papist, no Leaguer, none should ever trace her, and she would disquiet you no more."
"And who is to answer that, when once beyond English bounds, she should not stir up more trouble than ever?" demanded Elizabeth.
"That do I," said the girl. "Here am I, Bride Hepburn, ready to live in your Majesty's hands as a hostage, whom you might put to death at the first stirring on her behalf."
"Silly maid, we have no love of putting folk to death," said Elizabeth, rather hurt. "That is only for traitors, when they forfeit our mercy."
"Then, O madam, madam, what has been done in her name cannot forfeit mercy for her! She was shut up in prison; I was with her day and night, and I know she had naught to do with any evil purpose towards your Majesty. Ah! you do not believe me! I know they have found her guilty, and that is not what I came to say," she continued, getting bewildered in her earnestness for a moment. "No. But, gracious Queen, you have spared her often; I have heard her say that you had again and again saved her life from those who would fain have her blood."
"It is true," said Elizabeth, half softened.
"Save her then now, madam," entreated the girl. "Let her go beyond their reach, yet where none shall find her to use her name against you. Let me go to her at Fotheringhay with these terms. She will consent and bless and pray for you for ever; and here am I, ready to do what you will with me!"
"To hang about Court, and be found secretly wedded to some base groom!"
"No, madam. I give you my solemn word as a Queen's daughter that I will never wed, save by your consent, if my mother's life be granted. The King of Scots knows not that there is such a being. He need never know it. I will thank and bless you whether you throw me into the Tower, or let me abide as the humblest of your serving-women, under the name I have always borne, Cicely Talbot."
"Foolish maid, thou mayest purpose as thou sayest, but I know what wenches are made of too well to trust thee."
"Ah madam, pardon me, but you know not how strong a maiden's heart can be for a mother's sake. Madam! you have never seen my mother. If you but knew her patience and her tenderness, you would know how not only I, but every man or woman in her train, would gladly lay down life and liberty for her, could we but break her bonds, and win her a shelter among those of her own faith."
"Art a Papist?" asked the Queen, observing the pronoun.
"Not so, an't please your Majesty. This gentleman bred me up in our own Church, nor would I leave it."
"Strange—strange matters," muttered Elizabeth, "and they need to be duly considered."
"I will then abide your Majesty's pleasure," said Cicely, "craving license that it may be at Fotheringhay with my mother. Then can I bear her the tidings, and she will write in full her consent to these terms. O madam, I see mercy in your looks. Receive a daughter's blessing and thanks!"
"Over fast, over fast, maiden. Who told thee that I had consented?"
"Your Majesty's own countenance," replied Cicely readily. "I see pity in it, and the recollection that all posterity for evermore will speak of the clemency of Elizabeth as the crown of all her glories!"
"Child, child," said the Queen, really moved, "Heaven knows that I would gladly practise clemency if my people would suffer it, but they fear for my life, and still more for themselves, were I removed, nor can I blame them."
"Your Majesty, I know that. But my mother would be dead to the world, leaving her rights solemnly made over to her son. None would know where to find her, and she would leave in your hands, and those of the Parliament, a resignation of all her claims."
"And would she do this? Am I to take it on thy word, girl?"
"Your Majesty knows this ring, sent to her at Lochleven," said Cicely, holding it up. "It is the pledge that she binds herself to these conditions. Oh! let me but bear them to her, and you shall have them signed and sealed, and your Majesty will know the sweet bliss of pardoning. May I carry the tidings to her? I can go with this gentleman as Cis Talbot returning to her service."
Elizabeth bent her head as though assenting thoughtfully.
"How shall I thank you, gracious Queen?" cried Cicely, joining hands in a transport, but Elizabeth sharply cut her short.
"What means the wench? I have promised nothing. I have only said I will look into this strange story of thine, and consider this proposal—that is, if thy mother, as thou callest her, truly intend it—ay, and will keep to it."
"That is all I could ask of your Majesty," said Cicely. "The next messenger after my return shall carry her full consent to these conditions, and there will I abide your pleasure until the time comes for her to be conducted to her convent, if not to see your face, which would be best of all. O madam, what thanks will be worthy of such a grace?"
"Wait to see whether it is a grace, little cousin," said Elizabeth, but with a kiss to the young round cheek, and a friendliness of tone that surprised all. "Messieurs," she added to the ambassadors, "you came, if I mistake not, to bring me this young demoiselle."
"Who has, I hope, pleaded more effectually than I," returned Bellievre.
"I have made no promises, sir," said the Queen, drawing herself up proudly.
"Still your Majesty forbids us not to hope," said Chateauneuf.
Wherewith they found themselves dismissed. There was a great increase of genuine respect in the manner in which Bellievre handed the young lady from the Queen's chamber through the gallery and hall, and finally to the boat. No one spoke, for there were many standing around, but Cicely could read in a glance that passed between the Frenchmen that they were astonished at her success. Her own brain was in a whirl, her heart beating high; she could hardly realise what had passed, but when again placed in the barge the first words she heard were from Bellievre.
"Your Royal Highness will permit me to congratulate you." At the same time she saw, to her great joy, that M. de Chateauneuf had caused her foster-father to enter the barge with them. "If the Queen of Scotland were close at hand, the game would be won," said Bellievre.
"Ah! Milord Treasurer and M. le Secretaire are far too cunning to have let her be within reach," said Chateauneuf.
"Could we but have bound the Queen to anything," added Bellievre.
"That she always knows how to avoid," said the resident ambassador.
"At least," said Cicely, "she has permitted that I should bear the terms to my mother at Fotheringhay."
"That is true," said Chateauneuf, "and in my opinion no time should be lost in so doing. I doubt," he added, looking at Richard, "whether, now that her Highness's exalted rank is known, the embassy will be permitted to remain a shelter to her, in case the Queen should demand her of me."
"Your Excellency speaks my thought," said Richard. "I am even disposed to believe that it would be wiser to begin our journey this very day."
"I grieve for the apparent inhospitality and disrespect to one whom I honour so highly," said Chateauneuf, "but I verily believe it would be the wiser plan. Look you, sir, the enemies of the unfortunate Queen of Scotland have done all in their power to hinder my colleague from seeing the Queen, but to-day the Lord Treasurer is occupied at Westminster, and Monsieur le Secretaire is sick. She sent for us in one of those wilful moods in which she chooses to assert herself without their knowledge, and she remains, as it were, stunned by the surprise, and touched by her Royal Highness's pleading. But let these gentlemen discover what has passed, or let her recover and send for them, and bah! they will inquire, and messengers will go forth at once to stop her Highness and yourself. All will be lost. But if you can actually be on the way to this castle before they hear of it—and it is possible you may have a full day in advance—they will be unable to hinder the conditions from being laid before the Queen of Scots, and we are witnesses of what they were."
"Oh, let us go! let us go at once, dear sir," entreated Cicely. "I burn to carry my mother this hope."
It was not yet noon, so early had been the audience, and dark and short as were the days, it was quite possible to make some progress on the journey before night. Cicely had kept the necessaries for her journey ready, and so had Mr. Talbot, even to the purchase of horses, which were in the Shrewsbury House stables.
The rest of the mails could be fetched by the Mastiff's crew, and brought to Hull under charge of Goatley. Madame de Salmonnet was a good deal scandalised at Son Altesse Royale going off with only a male escort, and to Cicely's surprise, wept over her, and prayed aloud that she might have good success, and bring safety and deliverance to the good and persecuted Queen for whom she had attempted so much.
"Sir," said Chateauneuf, as he stood beside Richard, waiting till the girl's preparations were over, "if there could have been any doubts of the royal lineage of your charge, her demeanour to-day would have disproved them. She stood there speaking as an equal, all undaunted before that Queen before whom all tremble, save when they can cajole her."
"She stood there in the strength of truth and innocence," said Richard.
Whereat the Frenchman again looked perplexed at these incomprehensible English.
Cicely presently appeared. It was wonderful to see how that one effort had given her dignity and womanhood. She thanked the two ambassadors for the countenance they had given to her, and begged them to continue their exertions in her mother's cause. "And," she added, "I believe my mother has already requested of you to keep this matter a secret."
They bowed, and she added, "You perceive, gentlemen, that the very conditions I have offered involve secrecy both as to my mother's future abode and my existence. Therefore, I trust that you will not consider it inconsistent with your duty to the King of France to send no word of this."
Again they assured her of their secrecy, and the promise was so far kept that the story was reserved for the private ear of Henri III. on Bellievre's return, and never put into the despatches.
Two days later, Cicely enjoyed some of the happiest hours of her life. She stood by the bed where her mother was lying, and was greeted with the cry, "My child, my child! I thought I never should see thee more. Domine, nunc dimittis!"
"Nay, dearest mother, but I trust she will show mercy. I bring you conditions."
Mary laid her head on her daughter's shoulder and listened. It might be that she had too much experience of Elizabeth's vacillations to entertain much hope of her being allowed to retire beyond her grasp into a foreign convent, and she declared that she could not endure that her beloved, devoted child should wear away her life under Elizabeth's jealous eye, but Cis put this aside, saying with a smile, "I think she will not be hard with me. She will be no worse than my Lady Countess, and I shall have a secret of joy within me in thinking of you resting among the good nuns."
And Mary caught hope from the anticipations she would not damp, and gave herself to the description of the peaceful cloister life, reviewing in turn the nunneries she had heard described, and talking over their rules. There would indeed be as little liberty as here, but she would live in the midst of prayer and praise, and be at rest from the plots and plans, the hopes and fears, of her long captivity, and be at leisure for penitence. "For, ah! my child, guiltless though I be of much that is laid to my charge, thy mother is a sinful woman, all unworthy of what her brave and innocent daughter has dared and done for her."
Almost equally precious with that mother's greeting was the grave congratulating look of approval which Cicely met in Humfrey's eyes when he had heard all from his father. He could exult in her, even while he thought sadly of the future which she had so bravely risked, watching over her from a distance in his silent, self-restrained, unselfish devotion.
The Queen's coldness towards Humfrey had meantime diminished daily, though he could not guess whether she really viewed his course as the right one, or whether she forgave this as well as all other injuries in the calm gentle state into which she had come, not greatly moved by hope or fear, content alike to live or die.
Richard, in much anxiety, was to remain another day or two at Fotheringhay, on the plea of his wearied horses and of the Sunday rest.
Meantime Mary diligently wrote the conditions, but perhaps more to satisfy her daughter than with much hope of their acceptance.