After taking a tender farewell of the cloaked stranger, more touching and affectionate, if possible, than her greeting, Mary Carmichael fled back to the palace like a lapwing. There was no time to lose in securing James Geddes, if she would not have the length of her absence remarked, and she found him, as she expected, drinking a warm posset in the buttery. Like the rest of his class, the fool could at times be sufficiently self-willed and captious, rating his own society at no trifling value, more especially if he saw that it was sought after; and it required no small amount of management to wheedle him into merriment if not so disposed. On the present occasion he refused point-blank to stir from the chimney corner, and it was only by dint of much coaxing, and the promised bribe of a box of French comfits, that Mary Carmichael prevailed on him to accompany her, and bore him off in triumph to the turret-chamber, there to make sport for the Queen’s maids-of-honour.

His entrance was greeted by acclamations, which he received with complete indifference. He brightened up, however, when the comfits were produced, and sat down to munch them with an expression of the most perfect satisfaction and vacuity.

He was a stout, middle-sized man, with a long, heavy face, a large mouth, and hanging under-jaw. When he lolled his tongue out, and half-shut his meaningless gray eyes, he looked a being devoid of the slightest spark of intellect; at such times, nevertheless, he was most apt to produce those simple witticisms which served to amuse the court.

Not a word was to be got from him till he had finished the comfits. At length, the last and largest disappeared down that capacious maw; then he yawned, stretched himself, and condescended to observe—

‘He would have to bid the ladies farewell, as to-morrow he should take his leave of Holyrood.’

‘What shall we do without you?’ exclaimed Mary Seton, who took James Geddes under her special protection, and vowed, in her pert way, that he was infinitely more sane than half the Queen’s advisers. ‘We cannot let you go—you are the only amusement we have!’

‘There’ll be no lack of fules the morn,’ answered James, with a look of comical disgust; ‘’deed they may call it Follyrood now, with gude cause. Have ye no heard tell of the braw doings in the Queen’s Park? Troth, ye’ll be able to wale your Joes the morn! Every lass her lad! And they riding mother-naked every man o’ them. Na, na; they’re no wanting fules at court i’ the noo, an’ I’ll just tak’ my foot in my hand, an’ turn wise-like mysel’.’

‘Why, the masque will only be six against six as usual,’ answered Mary Beton, characteristically disposed to take a matter-of-fact view of the proceedings, ‘six savages and six amazons. I have seen the dresses; and very complete they are. What is there in that to displease you, James? I thought you dearly loved a festival or a frolic.’

‘I’ll no gang till I’ve had my denner,’ answered James; ‘but I’ll no bide at Holyrood, once the trade is overstocked, as it is like to be. I’ll just gang my ways to the Border, an’ take up with stout Earl Bothwell and muckle Dick. He’ll like fine to get word o’ Mistress Seton. Troth, if they measure fules by the foot, ye’ve gotten a grand yane, my bonny doo, to your share; for ye’ve clean bewitched Dick.’

That young lady laughed and blushed, then frowned and looked cross, lastly peeped into the box of comfits for something to stop James’s mouth withal. The latter put on his densest look, and proceeded—

‘Ay, the time’s no what it was. I mind when me and Jenny Colquhoun was the only fules in Holyrood; forbye the French lassie, that was no worth speaking of, and Robin Hamilton the porter. Set him up! to shut the wicket in my very face last St Andrew’s day, and swear he would break my sconce across, if it wasna as toom as a borderer’s bonnet. Awbody kens he’s a Hamilton, an’ the Hamiltons have aye mair hide than horns. Nae offence to the bonny leddy here, that’s no mindin’ the like o’ me. Aweel, there’s mair fules than three at Holyrood i’ the noo; an’ it’s time for James Geddes to be packing, when he’s the only wise-like body about the place.’

‘Then you think we are all losing our wits,’ remarked Mary Carmichael, as she made up the wood-fire, lit the silver lamp that stood on the table, and set the room in order, according to her wont.

‘Ye’ll no find yours in the Abbey garden, I’m thinkin’,’ replied James, whereat the questioner looked extremely angry and confused. ‘I mind a bonny sang that plays—

I’ll no tell ye the wager, Mistress Carmichael; I’m only a fule, ye ken; but “I’ll wager, I’ll wager, I’ll wager wi’ you,” that ye dinna gang oot like a ghaist in the gloamin’ just to pu’ an apple frae a tree. There’s a canny lad wad like ill to jalouse ye kept tryst wi’ anither; that’s just one mair to the count. I doubt I maun be flittin’ frae Holyrood, or we a’ gang daft thegither.’

‘What does he mean?’ exclaimed Mary Beton, all the duenna aroused within her as she marked the fool’s cunning looks, and her comrade’s obvious discomfiture.

‘Hooly an’ fairly, Mistress Beton!’ exclaimed Geddes, with whom the Queen’s principal lady was no great favourite. ‘Keep your ain breath to cool your ain brose. Will you grudge the lasses their bit ploy, an’ keep back all the Joes to yersel’?

They’ll no threep that on you, Mistress Beton. Na, na; ye’re a true Scotchwoman; an’ it’s just a spoilin’ o’ the Egyptians, as godly John Knox wad call it. Troth, ye’ve made a fule o’ a wiser body than yoursel’, I’m thinkin’. I’ll no grudge Maister Randolph the cap an’ bells, but he’ll get the fee an’ bountith a’ gate the like o’ him gangs, I ken fine. Aweel! ten fingers an’ ten taes, I canna number the fules at Holyrood; for I’m no gude at the countin’, and I canna tell mair than a score; but I’ll gang my ways to the border the morn, for the trade is just over-stockit.’

‘You give your tongue too much liberty,’ said Mary Beton, who was considerably displeased at James Geddes’s indiscreet allusions, and not disposed to conceal her disapproval. ‘You presume on the Queen’s good nature. Have a care; if I mention your conduct to the master of the household, you will be taken to the porter’s lodge to taste of Robin Hamilton’s discipline once again!’

The fool’s face grew livid, and an ugly gleam shot from his heavy eye. There was evidently some rancour brooding in his heart against the tall porter, who, it may be, in virtue of his office, had been ordered ere now to inflict corporal punishment on the jester. He fell to cursing the Hamiltons with the unmeaning malevolence of insanity. From the proud duke and his unfortunate son, whose state of mind should indeed have obtained immunity from a fellow-sufferer, to the stalwart gate-keeper, he called down upon all who owned the name every evil that madness could imagine, or hatred suggest, and then, stopping suddenly in his curses, he moved awkwardly across the room to where Mary Hamilton, buried in thought, sat somewhat apart from the rest, and seizing the hem of her garment, began mouthing and kissing it, and wetting it with his tears, in a reaction of feeling which, sustained by one so imbecile, it was pitiful to behold.

As they are given to unaccountable and deep-rooted aversions, to gratify which they have been known to display incredible sagacity and cunning, so these unfortunates are capable of strong attachments, cherished with a morbid vehemence peculiar to their malady. A madman’s affection and a madman’s hatred are alike to be avoided, since the former is as inconvenient as the latter is dangerous.

James Geddes entertained a devotion for Mary Hamilton which amounted to idolatry, and was never so well satisfied with himself, or so nearly rational, as when employed in some trifling commission for the beautiful maid-of-honour. Also he watched her as you may see a dumb animal watch every look of its owner, and was especially jealous and irritated if he fancied she bestowed too much notice or favour on any one else.

‘What is he driving at?’ exclaimed Mary Seton, observing that the fool, although with an expression of deep contrition, was now indulging in a series of mysterious winks and signs. ‘Ask him, Mary Hamilton. He seems to have some secret understanding with you. Ask him, for pity’s sake, my dear; he’ll have a fit if he goes on like that.’

But her curiosity was not destined to be satisfied; for at this juncture a page entered the apartment with a summons for Mistress Hamilton to attend the Queen; and that lady departed accordingly, leaving her half-witted adorer in a state of woeful penitence and discomfiture. Crouching among the embers in the hearth, he hid his face in his hands, rocking himself to and fro, and ‘crooning,’ in a sing-song voice, a succession of broken unintelligible sentences. From these fits of dejection the ladies knew it was impossible to arouse him.

The Queen was seated at a massive oaken writing-table, on which she was heaping together a quantity of letters and papers when Mary Hamilton entered. A single lamp shed its light upon her fair brow, which seemed to-night heavy with an unusual load of care. Her features wore the languor of mental fatigue, and even her attitude denoted the listlessness of one who is wearied by too much thought and study. She had been writing to her cousin of England; and if it was a difficult matter to be well with Elizabeth at best, how much more so now when her suspicions were excited and her jealousy kept continually awake by the question of succession! The maiden Queen was not without that strange weakness of humanity, which so disquiets itself as to what shall become of its earthly possessions when it is gone—an anxiety no stronger in the monarch who has a kingdom to bequeath than in the old woman who has hoarded her forty shillings in a stocking. Will it affect them so much in that spirit-world, even if they learn it, to know that the dynasty has been changed, or the funded property squandered, or the entail cut off?

There is many a man now living who would rather lose an arm or a leg than think that the old avenue will be cut down when he is gone to a land where the trees of life and knowledge flourish in perennial verdure, and all the while young Graceless, his heir, is scanning their girth and substance with a wistful consciousness that the Jews must be paid at last. Horace has told us something about those ‘dreaded cypresses,’ which we would fain ignore. They will wave over our dwelling when the oaks in the park have been disposed of at so much per foot, and the family tree itself is withered and forgotten. Do you think it matters much to Smith deceased, the tenth of his illustrious line, that Brown should have succeeded to his place and property, or that B. should cede in turn to Jones and Robinson? ‘A plague o’ both your houses!’ All this, however, has nothing to do with the house of Tudor.

Independent of the natural aversion entertained by every right-minded woman for another of her own sex who is sought after by a multitude of suitors, Elizabeth had a variety of excellent reasons for disliking the Queen of Scots. The latter was considerably her junior, unquestionably more beautiful and accomplished, gifted with that mysterious fascination which makes women angry and men foolish, and in addition, to these offences was indubitably the next heir to the English crown. Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that the maiden Queen should have delighted in heaping difficulties across the path of her widowed cousin, and this was done the more effectually by keeping well with her to all outward appearance, and interchanging a constant succession of rings, precious stones, letters of courtesy, and the like insidious compliments.

Nor was Mary deceived by these artifices. It is probable that she clearly perceived the hollow nature of her kinswoman’s friendship, and returned it in kind, so far as her open generous character would permit. But it was not in this Queen’s nature to cherish lasting feelings of ill-will, and she had also doubtless the good sense to see that in her precarious position Elizabeth’s favour was essential to her security and support. So she corresponded with her regularly in a vein of cordial affection, amounting even to familiarity, and it is no wonder that Mary rose from the composition of one of these letters with an air of unusual exhaustion on her lovely face.

‘Help me to seal these packets, my dear,’ said she to the maid-of-honour, as the latter approached her table; ‘my fingers are perfectly stiff with holding a pen. No wonder my forefathers esteemed the art of writing a disgrace, and swore that the grasp of a noble hand should never close on anything lighter than a lance. I often wish I was a man, to wear steel on my breast and at my side!’ While she spoke she stretched her beautiful fingers, which did indeed look far too delicate to wield any weapon heavier than a needle, and pushing the state seal across to her maid-of-honour, threw herself back in her chair, as if thoroughly tired with her day’s work.

Mary Hamilton occupied herself at once about her task, affixing the seal of Scotland, with its lion rampant and its crown-royal, to document after document, in a graceful, womanly way that attracted the Queen’s notice, and caused her to regard her favourite maid-of-honour with more attention than common.

The latter was always pale, and unusually quiet in her demeanour, but of late she had become paler than ever, and her customary repose of manner had subsided into dejection. Without obvious ailment, she looked listless and out of spirits, languid in her movements, and far too grave for one so young.

Herself wearied and harassed, it struck the Queen particularly to-night, and she could not forbear noticing it.

‘You are ill, Mary,’ said she, ‘and worse than that, you are unhappy. What is it? there is something the matter!’

‘Nothing, madam,’ answered the other, looking up with a transparent effort at cheerfulness. ‘How can I be unhappy when I am at Holyrood, and near your Majesty?’

She did not say it in the complacent tone of a courtier, but with a warmth and sincerity that could not have been assumed, her large dark eyes moistening and shining in the lamplight. She thought she loved the Queen better than anything on earth, and so she did—save one.

‘I know you are fond of me, child,’ answered the Queen affectionately; ‘that does not make me the less anxious about you. I think of all my Maries you are the most dependent upon me. Have a care, my dear! there seems to be a fatality about Mary Stuart. Those who love me best seem ever to be the most unfortunate.’

She spoke mournfully, and in an abstracted tone. Was she thinking of her dead bridegroom who had worshipped her? of the mother who had doated on her? of the loyal and brave and the true already proscribed, banished, or disgraced? was it memory or foreboding, the sorrows of the past or fears for the future, that thus so often cast a gloom over her spirit, and damped her royal courage at her need?

‘Do you think that would not make me love you ten times more?’ exclaimed the other with a flash from her glorious eyes that lighted up her whole face. ‘Can there be love without sacrifice, madam? Nay,’ she added in a sadder voice, ‘can there even be love without suffering?’

‘You are very young to say so,’ answered the Queen, ‘two years younger than I am; and I remember how I used to think that sorrow was the especial heritage of the old. I have learnt otherwise now; but you, Mary Hamilton, you whom I have always watched and sheltered as a bird shelters its nestling under its wing, what can you know of suffering?’

The maid-of-honour looked wistfully at her mistress while she replied—

‘I never can know real sorrow, madam,’ she said, ‘nor real suffering; because I have a refuge more secure than even a queen’s favours, and to that refuge I betake me whenever grief becomes too heavy to endure. Ah! madam, they may take everything from us here, but they cannot rob us of that; this world is sometimes very dark and sad, but the light is always shining just the same, far away at home.’

The Queen looked at her with concern and surprise. What could it be, this engrossing sorrow which cast its shadow over a young life that ought to have shone so hopeful and so bright? The girl must be very unhappy, she argued, to be so devout. Alas! that it should be so; that religion, instead of the pride of the strong, should so often prove but the refuge for the weak. And yet it is but one more instance of that mercy which knows no limit. The happy and the pious, too, enjoy indeed a favoured lot, but human nature is so warped, that in the majority continuous prosperity produces hardness of heart, and for these it ‘is good to be in trouble.’ When they have lost all (it matters not what constitutes it, fame, wealth, or affection) they run for consolation, like a child in distress to a parent, where it never is denied; and which of us is there who does not know how unspeakably precious is the balm of kindness to a bruised and empty heart? A few there are on whom adversity has a contrary effect—rebellious spirits, not without force of character and capacities for happiness, who become froward and desperate under the rod. Woe be to them! What shall bring such as these back to the fold? Human forbearance would say ‘let them go in their wilfulness to destruction!’ but it is well for us that it is not with human forbearance we have to do.

The Queen of Scots herself was of a gay and hopeful disposition, one which perhaps it required many reverses to steady and sober down. Plenty of them she sustained ere all was done! In the meantime her kind heart was moved to think that her maid-of-honour should have some secret grief she herself could not alleviate.

‘Tell me, dear,’ said she, ‘what it is that thus weighs upon your spirits, and takes the colour out of your cheek. I have seen it for long. Confide in me, not as your Queen, Mary Hamilton, but as your mother or your elder sister. I too am a woman, a failing, weak-hearted woman like the rest. I can only imagine one cause for such deep-rooted sorrow, and yet I cannot think my beautiful Hamilton should be in such a plight. Is it,’ and the Queen too looked confused while she asked the question, ‘is it some unfortunate—some unrequited attachment?’

The maid-of-honour blushed to her very temples, and the lustrous eyes that had been gazing fondly into the Queen’s face were lowered for an instant; but she raised them with an effort, and drawing herself up, with her colour deepening every moment, answered proudly—

‘Nay, madam; we Hamiltons have your own princely blood in our veins, and do not give our love unasked or unreturned. The Maries, too, follow their Queen’s example, and would deem it worse than unmaidenly to entertain a secret or unacknowledged preference. We hold our heads high, you know, madam, like our mistress.’

The Queen looked as if she did not quite agree with her, and was about to answer, when a soft strain of music rose from the Abbey garden, and arrested the attention of each lady as if by a charm. The casement was thrown open, and the night wind stole in, bearing with it the melodious tones of a lute struck by no unpractised hand, and the notes of a rich voice that each seemed to recognise simultaneously with mingled embarrassment and delight.

There was then a proverb current in Scotland, which the poet seemed to have embodied in the verses he now poured forth on a flood of harmony:—

Mary Stuart and Mary Hamilton looked at each other in amazement. The former laughed sweetly.

‘It is our minstrel come back again,’ said she, ‘and as welcome as he is unexpected. He has not forgotten the art in his absence from the inspiration.’

While she spoke she shifted the lamp from the writing table to the window shelf, where its flame was sheltered from the breeze by the unopened half of the casement.

The maid-of-honour answered nothing; but the Queen could not help remarking she became very restless and preoccupied, accepting her dismissal for the night in silence, but with more alacrity than usual.

ChastelÂr in the garden saw the light shifted from its place in the Queen’s apartment, and interpreted it into an encouragement of his own wild hopes. His heart leaped, his brain glowed, his blood ran fire. Long absence, rational considerations, obvious impossibility, had not quenched his folly. He had left d’Amville, had wandered to and fro, had returned to Scotland with no definite object but to look on the face that haunted him night and day. He was love-mad; it mattered not what became of him: to live or die he cared not; but it must be at the Queen of Scotland’s feet.

And Mary Hamilton, in her solitary chamber, fell on her knees and thanked Heaven that she should see him once again.