Part 22 (1/2)
THE PEAK CAVERN.
It was quite true that at this period Queen Mary had good hope of liberation in the most satisfactory manner possible-short of being hailed as English Queen. Negotiations were actually on foot with James VI. and Elizabeth for her release. James had written to her with his own hand, and she had for the first time consented to give him the t.i.tle of King of Scotland. The project of her reigning jointly with him had been mooted, and each party was showing how enormous a condescension it would be in his or her eyes! Thus there was no great unlikelihood that there would be a recognition of the Lady Bride, and that she would take her position as the daughter of a queen. Therefore, when Mary contrived to speak to Master Richard Talbot and his wife in private, she was able to thank them with gracious condescension for the care they had bestowed in rearing her daughter, much as if she had voluntarily entrusted the maiden to them, saying she trusted to be in condition to reward them.
Mistress Susan's heart swelled high with pain, as though she had been thanked for her care of Humfrey or Diccon, and her husband answered. ”We seek no reward, madam. The damsel herself, while she was ours, was reward enough.”
”And I must still entreat, that of your goodness you will let her remain yours for a little longer,” said Mary, with a touch of imperious grace, ”until this treaty is over, and I am free, it is better that she continues to pa.s.s for your daughter. The child herself has sworn to me by her great G.o.ds,” said Mary, smiling with complimentary grace, ”that you will preserve her secret-nay, she becomes a little fury when I express my fears lest you should have scruples.”
”No, madam, this is no state secret; such as I might not with honour conceal,” returned Richard.
”There is true English sense!” exclaimed Mary. ”I may then count on your giving my daughter the protection of your name and your home until I can reclaim her and place her in her true position. Yea, and if your concealment should give offence, and bring you under any displeasure of my good sister, those who have so saved and tended my daughter will have the first claim to whatever I can give when restored to my kingdom.”
”We are much beholden for your Grace's favour,” said Richard, somewhat stiffly, ”but I trust never to serve any land save mine own.”
”Ah! there is your fierete,” cried Mary. ”Happy is my sister to have subjects with such a point of honour. Happy is my child to have been bred up by such parents!”
Richard bowed. It was all a man could do at such a speech, and Mary further added, ”She has told me to what bounds went your goodness to her. It is well that you acted so prudently that the children's hearts were not engaged; for, as we all know but too well royal blood should have no heart.”
”I am quite aware of it, madam,” returned Richard, and there for the time the conversation ended. The Queen had been most charming, full of grat.i.tude, and perfectly reasonable in her requests, and yet there was some flaw in the gratification of both, even while neither thought the disappointment would go very hard with their son. Richard could never divest himself of the instinctive prejudice with which soft words inspire men of his nature, and Susan's maternal heart was all in revolt against the inevitable, not merely grieving over the wrench to her affections, but full of forebodings and misgivings as to the future welfare of her adopted child. Even if the brightest hopes should be fulfilled; the destiny of a Scottish princess did not seem to Southern eyes very brilliant at the best, and whether poor Bride Hepburn might be owned as a princess at all was a doubtful matter, since, if her father lived (and he had certainly been living in 1577 in Norway), both the Queen and the Scottish people would be agreed in repudiating the marriage. Any way, Susan saw every reason to fear for the happiness and the religion alike of the child to whom she had given a mother's love. Under her grave, self-contained placid demeanour, perhaps Dame Susan was the most dejected of those at Buxton. The captive Queen had her hopes of freedom and her newly found daughter, who was as yet only a pleasure, and not an enc.u.mbrance to her, the Earl had been a.s.sured that his wife's slanders had been forgotten. He was secure of his sovereign's favour, and permitted to see the term of his weary jailors.h.i.+p, and thus there was an unusual liveliness and cheerfulness about the whole sojourn at Buxton, where, indeed, there was always more or less of a holiday time.
To Cis herself, her nights were like a perpetual fairy tale, and so indeed were all times when she was alone with the initiated, who were indeed all those original members of her mother's suite who had known of her birth at Lochleven, people who had kept too many perilous secrets not to be safely entrusted with this one, and whose finished habits of caution, in a moment, on the approach of a stranger, would change their manner from the deferential courtesy due to their princess, to the good-natured civility of court ladies to little Cicely Talbot.
Dame Susan had been gratified at first by the young girl's sincere a.s.surances of unchanging affection and allegiance, and, in truth, Cis had clung the most to her with the confidence of a whole life's danghterhood, but as the days went on, and every caress and token of affection imaginable was lavished upon the maiden, every splendid augury held out to her of the future, and every story of the past detailed the charms of Mary's court life in France, seen through the vista of nearly twenty sadly contrasted years, it was in the very nature of things that Cis should regard the time spent perforce with Mistress Talbot much as a petted child views its return to the strict nurse or governess from the delights of the drawing-room. She liked to dazzle the homely housewife with the wonderful tales of French gaieties, or the splendid castles in the air she had heard in the Queen's rooms, but she resented the doubt and disapproval they sometimes excited; she was petulant and fractious at any exercise of authority from her foster-mother, and once or twice went near to betray herself by lapsing into a tone towards her which would have brought down severe personal chastis.e.m.e.nt on any real daughter even of seventeen. It was well that the Countess and her sharp-eyed daughter Mary were out of sight, as the sight of such ”c.o.c.kering of a malapert maiden” would have led to interference that might have brought matters to extremity. Yet, with all the forbearance thus exercised, Susan could not but feel that the girl's love was being weaned from her; and, after all, how could she complain, since it was by the true mother? If only she could have hoped it was for the dear child's good, it would not have been so hard! But the trial was a bitter one, and not even her husband guessed how bitter it was.
The Queen meantime improved daily in health and vigour in the splendid summer weather. The rheumatism had quitted her, and she daily rode and played at Trowle Madame for hours after supper in the long bright July evenings. Cis, whose shoulder was quite well, played with great delight on the greensward, where one evening she made acquaintance with a young esquire and his sisters from the neighbourhood, who had come with their father to pay their respects to my Lord Earl, as the head of all Hallams.h.i.+re. The Earl, though it was not quite according to the recent stricter rules, ventured to invite them to stay to sup with the household, and afterwards they came out with the rest upon the lawn.
Cis was walking between the young lad and his sister, laughing and talking with much animation, for she had not for some time enjoyed the pleasure of free intercourse with any of her fellow-denizens in the happy land of youth.
Dame Susan watched her with some uneasiness, and presently saw her taking them where she herself was privileged to go, but strangers were never permitted to approach, on the Trowle Madame sward reserved for the Queen, on which she was even now entering.
”Cicely!” she called, but the young lady either did not or would not hear, and she was obliged to walk hastily forward, meet the party, and with courteous excuses turn them back from the forbidden ground. They submitted at once, apologising, but Cis, with a red spot on her cheek, cried, ”The Queen would take no offence.”
”That is not the matter in point, Cicely,” said Dame Susan gravely. ”Master and Mistress Eyre understand that we are bound to obedience to the Earl.”
Master Eyre, a well-bred young gentleman, made reply that he well knew that no discourtesy was intended, but Cis pouted and muttered, evidently to the extreme amazement of Mistress Alice Eyre; and Dame Susan, to divert her attention, began to ask about the length of their ride, and the way to their home.
Cis's ill humour never lasted long, and she suddenly broke in, ”O mother, Master Eyre saith there is a marvellous cavern near his father's house, all full of pendants from the roof like a minster, and great sheeted tables and statues standing up, all grand and ghostly on the floor, far better than in this Pool's Hole. He says his father will have it lighted up if we will ride over and see it.”
”We are much beholden to Master Eyre,” said Susan, but Cis read refusal in her tone, and began to urge her to consent.
”It must be as my husband wills,” was the grave answer, and at the same time, courteously, but very decidedly, she bade the strangers farewell, and made her daughter do the same, though Cis was inclined to resistance, and in a somewhat defiant tone added, ”I shall not forget your promise, sir. I long to see the cave.”
”Child, child,” entreated Susan, as soon as they were out of hearing, ”be on thy guard. Thou wilt betray thyself by such conduct towards me.”
”But, mother, they did so long to see the Queen, and there would have been no harm in it. They are well affected, and the young gentleman is a friend of poor Master Babington.”
”Nay, Cis, that is further cause that I should not let them pa.s.s onward. I marvel not at thee, my maid, but thou and thy mother queen must bear in mind that while thou pa.s.sest for our daughter, and hast trust placed in thee, thou must do nothing to forfeit it or bring thy fa-, Master Richard I mean, into trouble.”
”I meant no harm,” said Cis; rather crossly.
”Thou didst not, but harm may be done by such as mean it the least.”