Thomas Carlyle - "History of Friedrich II of Prussia V 4"

William Shakespeare - "The Tragedy of King Lear"

The Rev. Alfred J. Church - "The Story Of The Odyssey"

Thomas Bulfinch - "The Age of Fable"

Unknown to History

C >> Charlotte M Yonge >> Unknown to History




Moreover, in her two years' intercourse with the elder Countess of
Lennox, who was a gentle-tempered but commonplace woman, she had
adopted to the full that unfortunate princess's entire belief in the
guilt of Queen Mary, and entertained no doubt that she had been the
murderer of Darnley. Old Lady Lennox had seen no real evidence, and
merely believed what she was told by her lord, whose impeachment of
Bothwell had been baffled by the Queen in a most suspicious manner.
Conversations with this lady had entirely changed Lady Shrewsbury
from the friendly hostess of her illustrious captive, to be her enemy
and persecutor, partly as being convinced of her guilt, partly as
regarding her as an obstacle in the path of little Arbell to the
throne. So she not only refused to pay her respects as usual to
"that murtheress," but she insisted that her husband should tighten
the bonds of restraint, and cut off all indulgences.

The Countess was one of the women to whom argument and reason are
impossible, and who was entirely swayed by her predilections, as well
as of so imperious a nature as to brook no opposition, and to be
almost always able to sweep every one along with her.

Her own sons always were of her mind, and her daughters might fret
and chafe, but were sure to take part with her against every one else
outside the Cavendish family. The idea of being kinsfolk to the
future Queen excited them all, and even Mary forgot her offence about
the cradle, and her jealousy of Bess, and ranked herself against her
stepfather, influencing her husband, Gilbert, on whom the unfortunate
Earl had hitherto leant. On his refusal to persecute his unfortunate
captive beyond the orders from the Court, Bess of Hardwicke,
emboldened by the support she had gathered from her children,
passionately declared that it could only be because he was himself in
love with the murtheress. Lord Shrewsbury could not help laughing a
little at the absurdity of the idea, whereupon my lady rose up in
virtuous indignation, calling her sons and daughters to follow her.

All that night, lights might have been seen flitting about at the
Manor-house, and early in the morning bugles sounded to horse. A
huge procession, consisting of the Countess herself, and all her sons
and daughters then at Sheffield, little Lady Arbell, and the whole of
their attendants, swept out of the gates of the park on the way to
Hardwicke. When Richard Talbot went up to fulfil his duties as
gentleman porter at the lodge the courts seemed well-nigh deserted,
and a messenger summoned him at once to the Earl, whom he found in
his bed-chamber in his morning gown terribly perturbed.

"For Heaven's sake send for your wife, Richard Talbot!" he said. "It
is her Majesty's charge that some of mine household, or I myself, see
this unhappy Queen of Scots each day for not less than two hours, as
you well know. My lady has broken away, and all her daughters, on
this accursed fancy--yea, and Gilbert too, Gilbert whom I always
looked to to stand by me; I have no one to send. If I go and attend
upon her alone, as I have done a thousand times to my sorrow, it will
but give colour to the monstrous tale; but if your good wife, an
honourable lady of the Hardwicke kin, against whom none ever breathed
a word, will go and give the daily attendance, then can not the Queen
herself find fault, and my wife's heated fancy can coin nothing
suspicious. You must all come up, and lodge here in the Manor-house
till this tempest be overpast. Oh, Richard, Richard! will it last
out my life? My very children are turned against me. Go you down
and fetch your good Susan, and take order for bringing up your
children and gear. Benthall shall take your turn at the lodge. What
are you tarrying for? Do you doubt whether your wife have rank
enough to wait on the Queen? She should have been a knight's lady
long ago, but that I deemed you would be glad to be quit of herald's
fees; your service and estate have merited it, and I will crave
license by to-day's courier from her Majesty to lay knighthood on
your shoulder."

"That was not what I thought of, my Lord, though I humbly thank you,
and would be whatever was best for your Lordship's service, though,
if it would serve you as well, I would rather be squire than knight;
but I was bethinking me how we should bestow our small family. We
have a young damsel at an age not to be left to herself."

"The black-browed maid--I recollect her. Let her e'en follow her
mother. Queen Mary likes a young face, and is kindly disposed to
little maids. She taught Bess Pierrepoint to speak French and work
with her needle, and I cannot see that she did the lass any harm,
nay, she is the only one of them all that can rule her tongue to give
a soft answer if things go not after her will, and a maid might learn
worse things. Besides, your wife will be there to look after the
maiden, so you need have no fears. And for your sons, they will be
at school, and can eat with us."

Richard's doubts being thus silenced he could not but bring his wife
to his lord's rescue, though he well knew that Susan would be greatly
disturbed on all accounts, and indeed he found her deep in the
ironing that followed the great spring wash, and her housewifely mind
was as much exercised as to the effects of her desertion, as was her
maternal prudence at the plunge which her unconscious adopted child
was about to make. However, there was no denying the request, backed
as it was by her husband, looking at her proudly, and declaring she
was by general consent the only discreet woman in Sheffield. She was
very sorry for the Earl's perplexity, and had a loyal pity for the
Countess's vexation and folly, and she was consoled by the assurance
that she would have a free time between dinner and supper to go home
and attend to her wash, and finish her preparations. Cis, who had
been left in a state of great curiosity, to continue compounding
pickle while the mother was called away, was summoned, to don her
holiday kirtle, for she was to join in attendance on the Queen of
Scots while Lady Shrewsbury and her daughters were absent.

It was unmixed delight to the girl, and she was not long in fresh-
binding up her hair--black with a little rust-coloured tinge--under
her stiff little cap, smoothing down the front, which was alone
visible, putting on the well-stiffened ruff with the dainty little
lace edge and close-fitting tucker, and then the gray home-spun
kirtle, with the puffs at the top of the tight sleeves, and the
slashes into which she had persuaded mother to insert some old pink
satin, for was not she sixteen now, and almost a woman? There was a
pink breast-knot to match, and Humfrey's owch just above it, gray
stockings, home-spun and worked with elaborate pink clocks, but
knitted by Cis herself; and a pair of shoes with pink roses to match
were put into a bag, to be assumed when she arrived at the lodge.
Out of this simple finery beamed a face, bright in spite of the
straight, almost bushy, black brows. There was a light of youth,
joy, and intelligence, about her gray eyes which made them sparkle
all the more under their dark setting, and though her complexion had
no brilliancy, only the clearness of health, and her features would
not endure criticism, there was a wonderful lively sweetness about
her fresh, innocent young mouth; and she had a tall lithe figure,
surpassing that of her stepmother. She would have been a sonsie
Border lass in appearance but for the remarkable carriage of her
small head and shoulders, which was assuredly derived from her royal
ancestry, and indeed her air and manner of walking were such that
Diccon had more than once accused her of sailing about ambling like
the Queen of Scots, an accusation which she hotly denied. Her hands
bad likewise a slender form and fine texture, such as none of the
ladies of the houses of Talbot or Hardwicke could rival, but she was
on the whole viewed as far from being a beauty. The taste of the day
was altogether for light, sandy-haired, small-featured women, like
Queen Elizabeth or her namesake of Hardwicke, so that Cis was looked
on as a sort of crow, and her supposed parents were pitied for having
so ill-favoured a daughter, so unlike all their families, except one
black-a-vised Talbot grandmother, whose portrait had been discovered
on a pedigree.

Much did Susan marvel what impression the daughter would make on the
true mother as they jogged up on their sober ponies through the long
avenues, whose branches were beginning to wear the purple shades of
coming spring.

Lord Shrewsbury himself met them in front of the lodge, where, in
spite of all his dignity, he had evidently been impatiently awaiting
them. He thanked Susan for coming, as if he had not had a right to
order, gave her his ungloved hand when she had dismounted, then at
the single doorway of the lodge caused his gentleman to go through
the form of requesting admission for himself and Mistress Talbot, his
dear kinswoman, to the presence of the Queen. It was a ceremony
daily observed as an acknowledgment of Mary's royalty, and the Earl
was far too courteous ever to omit it.

Queen Mary's willingness to admit him was notified by Sir Andrew
Melville, a tall, worn man, with the typical Scottish countenance and
a keen steadfast gray eye. He marshalled the trio up a circular
staircase, made as easy as possible, but necessarily narrow, since it
wound up through a brick turret at the corner, to the third and
uppermost story of the lodge.

There, however, was a very handsome anteroom, with tapestry hangings,
a richly moulded ceiling, and wide carved stone chimneypiece, where a
bright fire was burning, around which sat several Scottish and French
gentlemen, who rose at the Earl's entrance. Another wide doorway
with a tapestry curtain over the folding leaves led to the presence
chamber, and Sir Andrew announced in as full style as if he had been
marshalling an English ambassador to the Court of Holyrood, the most
high and mighty Earl of Shrewsbury. The room was full of March
sunshine, and a great wood fire blazed on the hearth. Part of the
floor was carpeted, and overhung with a canopy, proceeding from the
tapestried wall, and here was a cross-legged velvet chair on which
sat Queen Mary. This was all that Cis saw at first, while the Earl
advanced, knelt on one step of the dais, with bared head, exchanging
greetings with the Queen. He then added, that his wife, the
Countess, and her daughter, having been called away from Sheffield,
he would entreat her Grace to accept for a few days in their stead
the attendance of his good kinswoman, Mrs. Talbot, and her daughter,
Mistress Cicely.

Mary graciously intimated her consent, and extended her hand for each
to kiss as they knelt in turn on the step; Susan either fancied, or
really saw a wonderful likeness in that taper hand to the little one
whose stitches she had so often guided. Cis, on her part, felt the
thrill of girlhood in the actual touch of the subject of her dreams.
She stood, scarcely hearing what passed, but taking in, from under
her black brows, all the surroundings, and recognising the persons
from her former glimpses, and from Antony Babington's descriptions.
The presence chamber was ample for the suite of the Queen, which had
been reduced on every fresh suspicion. There was in it, besides the
Queen's four ladies, an elderly one, with a close black silk hood--
Jean Kennedy, or Mrs. Kennett as the English called her; another, a
thin slight figure, with a worn face, as if a great sorrow had passed
over her, making her look older than her mistress, was the Queen's
last remaining Mary, otherwise Mrs. Seaton. The gossip of Sheffield
had not failed to tell how the chamberlain, Beatoun, had been her
suitor, and she had half consented to accept him when he was sent on
a mission to France, and there died. The dark-complexioned bright-
eyed little lady, on a smaller scale than the rest, was Marie de
Courcelles, who, like the two others, had been the Queen's companion
in all her adventures; and the fourth, younger and prettier than the
rest, was already known to Cis and her mother, since she was the
Barbara Mowbray who was affianced to Gilbert Curll, the Queen's
Scottish secretary, recently taken into her service. Both these were
Protestants, and, like the Bridgefield family, attended service in
the castle chapel. They were all at work, as was likewise their
royal lady, to whom the girl, with the youthful coyness that halts in
the fulfilment of its dreams, did not at first raise her eyes, having
first taken in all the ladies, the several portions of one great
coverlet which they were all embroidering in separate pieces, and the
gentleman who was reading aloud to them from a large book placed on a
desk at which he was standing.

When she did look up, as the Queen was graciously requesting her
mother to be seated, and the Earl excusing himself from remaining
longer, her first impression was one of disappointment. Either the
Queen of Scots was less lovely seen leisurely close at hand than
Antony Babington and Cis's own fancy had painted her, or the last two
or three years had lessened her charms, as well they might, for she
had struggled and suffered much in the interval, had undergone many
bitter disappointments, and had besides endured much from rheumatism
every winter, indeed, even now she could not ride, and could only go
out in a carriage in the park on the finest days, looking forward to
her annual visit to Buxton to set her up for the summer. Her face
was longer and more pointed than in former days, her complexion had
faded, or perhaps in these private moments it had not been worth
while to enhance it; though there was no carelessness in the general
attire, the black velvet gown, and delicate lace of the cap, and open
ruff always characteristic of her. The small curls of hair at her
temples had their auburn tint softened by far more white than suited
one who was only just over forty, but the delicate pencilling of the
eyebrows was as marked as ever; and the eyes, on whose colour no one
ever agreed, melted and sparkled as of old. Cis had heard debates as
to their hue, and furtively tried to form her own opinion, but could
not decide on anything but that they had a dark effect, and a
wonderful power of expression, seeming to look at every one at once,
and to rebuke, encourage, plead, or smile, from moment to moment.
The slight cast in one of them really added to their force of
expression rather than detracted from their beauty, and the delicate
lips were ready to second the glances with wondrous smiles. Cis had
not felt the magic of her mere presence five minutes without being
convinced that Antony Babington was right; the Lord Treasurer and all
the rest utterly wrong, and that she beheld the most innocent and
persecuted of princesses.

Meantime, all due formalities having been gone through, Lord
Shrewsbury bowed himself out backwards with a dexterity that Cis
breathlessly admired in one so stately and so stiff, forgetting that
he had daily practice in the art. Then Queen Mary courteously
entreated her visitors to be seated, near herself, asking with a
smile if this were not the little maiden who had queened it so
prettily in the brake some few years since. Cis blushed and drew
back her head with a pretty gesture of dignified shyness as Susan
made answer for her that she was the same.

"I should have known it," said the Queen, smiling, "by the port of
her head alone. 'Tis strange," she said, musing, "that maiden hath
the bearing of head and neck that I have never seen save in my own
mother, the saints rest her soul, and in her sisters, and which we
always held to be their inheritance from the blood of Charlemagne."

"Your grace does her too much honour," Susan contrived to say,
thankful that no less remote resemblance had been detected.

"It was a sad farce when they tried to repeat your pretty comedy with
the chief performer omitted," proceeded the Queen, directing her
words to the girl, but the mother replied for her.

"Your Grace will pardon me, I could not permit her to play in public,
before all the menie of the castle."

"Madame is a discreet and prudent mother," said the Queen. "The
mistake was in repeating the representation at all, not in abstaining
from appearing in it. I should be very sorry that this young lady
should have been concerned in a spectacle a la comtesse."

There was something in the intonation of "this young lady" that won
Cis's heart on the spot, something in the concluding words that hurt
Susan's faithful loyalty towards her kinswoman, in spite of the
compliment to herself. However Mary did not pursue the subject,
perceiving with ready tact that it was distasteful, and proceeded to
ask Dame Susan's opinion of her work, which was intended as a gift to
her good aunt, the Abbess of Soissons. How strangely the name fell
upon Susan's ear. It was a pale blue satin coverlet, worked in large
separate squares, innumerable shields and heraldic devices of
Lorraine, Bourbon, France, Scotland, etc., round the border, and
beautiful meandering patterns of branches, with natural flowers and
leaves growing from them covering the whole with a fascinating
regular irregularity. Cis could not repress an exclamation of
delight, which brought the most charming glance of the winning eyes
upon her. There was stitchery here that she did not understand, but
when she looked at some of the flowers, she could not help uttering
the sentiment that the eyes of the daisies were not as mother could
make them.

So, as a great favour, Queen Mary entreated to be shown Mrs. Talbot's
mode of dealing with the eyes of the daisies. No, her good Seaton
would not learn so well as she should; Madame must come and sit by
her and show her. Meantime here was her poor little Bijou whimpering
to be taken on her lap. Would not he find a comforter in sweet
Mistress--ah, what was her name?

"We named her Cicely, so please your Grace," said Susan, unable to
help blushing.

"Cecile, a fair name. Ah! so the poor Antoine called her. I see my
Bijou has found a friend in you, Mistress Cecile--as the girl's idle
hands were only too happy to caress the pretty little shivering
Italian greyhound rather than to be busy with a needle. "Do you ever
hear of that young Babington, your playfellow?" she added.

"No, madam," said Cis, looking up, "he hath never been here!"

"I thought not," said Queen Mary, sighing. "Take heed to manifest no
pity for me, maiden, if you should ever chance to be inspired with it
for a poor worn-out old prisoner. It is the sure sentence of
misfortune and banishment."

"In his sex, madam," here put in Marie de Courcelles. "If it were so
in ours, woe to some of us."

"That is true, my dear friends," said Mary, her eyes glistening with
dew. "It is the women who are the most fearless, the most faithful,
and whom the saints therefore shield."

"Alas, there are some who are faithful but who are not shielded!"

It was merely a soft low murmur, but the tender-hearted Queen had
caught it, and rising impulsively, crossed the room and gathered Mary
Seaton's hands into hers, no longer the queen but the loving friend
of equal years, soothing her in a low fond voice, and presently
sending her to the inner chamber to compose herself. Then as the
Queen returned slowly to her seat it would be seen how lame she was
from rheumatism. Mrs. Kennedy hurried to assist her, with a nurse-
like word of remonstrance, to which she replied with a bewitching
look of sweetness that she could not but forget her aches and pains
when she saw her dear Mary Seaton in trouble.

Most politely she then asked whether her visitors would object to
listening to the conclusion of her day's portion of reading. There
was no refusing, of course, though, as Susan glanced at the reader
and knew him to be strongly suspected of being in Holy Orders
conferred abroad, she had her fears for her child's Protestant
principles. The book, however, proved to be a translation of St.
Austin on the Psalms, and, of course, she could detect nothing that
she disapproved, even if Cis had not been far too much absorbed by
the little dog and its mistress to have any comprehending ears for
theology. Queen Mary confidentially observed as much to her after
the reading, having, no doubt, detected her uneasy glance.

"You need not fear for your child, madam," she said; "St. Augustine
is respected by your own Queen and her Bishops. At the readings with
which my good Mr. Belton favours me, I take care to have nothing you
Protestants dispute when I know it." She added, smiling, "Heaven
knows that I have endeavoured to understand your faith, and many a
minister has argued with me. I have done my best to comprehend them,
but they agreed in nothing but in their abuse of the Pope. At least
so it seemed to my poor weak mind. But you are satisfied, madam, I
see it in your calm eyes and gentle voice. If I see much of you, I
shall learn to think well of your religion."

Susan made an obeisance without answering. She had heard Sir Gilbert
Talbot say, "If she tries to persuade you that you can convert her,
be sure that she means mischief," but she could not bear to believe
it anything but a libel while the sweet sad face was gazing into
hers.

Queen Mary changed the subject by asking a few questions about the
Countess's sudden departure. There was a sort of guarded irony
suppressed in her tone--she was evidently feeling her way with the
stranger, and when she found that Susan would only own to causes Lord
Shrewsbury had adduced on the spur of the moment, she was much too
wary to continue the examination, though Susan could not help
thinking that she knew full well the disturbance which had taken
place.

A short walk on the roof above followed. The sun was shining
brilliantly, and lame as she was, the Queen's strong craving for free
air led her to climb her stairs and creep to and fro on Sir Andrew
Melville's arm, gazing out over the noble prospect of the park close
below, divided by the winding vales of the three rivers, which could
be traced up into the woods and the moors beyond, purple with spring
freshness and glory. Mary made her visitors point out Bridgefield,
and asked questions about all that could be seen of the house and
pleasance, which, in truth, was little enough, but she contrived to
set Cis off into a girl's chatter about her home occupations, and
would not let her be hushed.

"You little know the good it does a captive to take part, only in
fancy, in a free harmless life," returned Mary, with the wistful look
that made her eyes so pathetic. "There is no refreshment to me like
a child's prattle."

Susan's heart smote her as she thought of the true relations in which
these two stood to one another, and she forbore from further
interference; but she greatly rejoiced when the great bell of the
castle gave notice of noon, and of her own release. When Queen
Mary's dinner was served, the Talbot ladies in attendance left her
and repaired to the general family meal in the hall.




CHAPTER XII. A FURIOUS LETTER.



A period now began of daily penance to Mrs. Talbot, of daily
excitement and delight to Cis. Two hours or more had to be spent in
attendance on Queen Mary. Even on Sundays there was no exemption,
the visit only took place later in the day, so as not to interfere
with going to church.

Nothing could be more courteous or more friendly than the manner in
which the elder lady was always received. She was always made
welcome by the Queen herself, who generally entered into conversation
with her almost as with an equal. Or when Mary herself was engaged
in her privy chamber in dictating to her secretaries, the ladies of
the suite showed themselves equally friendly, and told her of their
mistress's satisfaction in having a companion free from all the rude
and unaccountable humours and caprices of my Lady Countess and her
daughters. And if Susan was favoured, Cis was petted. Queen Mary
always liked to have young girls about her. Their fresh,
spontaneous, enthusiastic homage was pleasant to one who loved above
all to attract, and it was a pleasure to a prisoner to have a fresh
face about her.

Was it only this, or was it the maternal instinct that made her face
light up when the young girl entered the room and return the shy
reverential kiss of the hand with a tender kiss on the forehead, that
made her encourage the chatter, give little touches to the
deportment, and present little keepsakes, which increased in value
till Sir Richard began to look grave, and to say there must be no
more jewels of price brought from the lodge? And as his wife uttered
a word that sounded like remonstrance, he added, "Not while she
passes for my daughter."

Cis, who had begun by putting on a pouting face, burst into tears.
Her adopted parents had always been more tolerant and indulgent to
her than if she had been a child over whom they felt entire rights,
and instead of rewarding her petulance with such a blow as would have
fallen to the lot of a veritable Talbot, Richard shrugged his
shoulders and left the room--the chamber which had been allotted to
Dame Susan at the Manor-house, while Susan endeavoured to cheer the
girl by telling her not to grieve, for her father was not angry with
her.

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