Part 57 (2/2)

”Could we but have bound the Queen to anything,” added Bellievre.

”That she always knows how to avoid,” said the resident amba.s.sador.

”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 emba.s.sy 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 a.s.sert 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 pa.s.sed, 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 amba.s.sadors 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 a.s.sured 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 antic.i.p.ations 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.

CHAPTER XLIII.

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