Thy voice—oh, sweet to me it seems,
And charms my raptured breast;
Like music on the moonlit sea,
When waves are lull'd to rest.
The wealth of worlds were vain to give,
Thy sinless heart to buy;
Oh, I will bless thee while I live,
And love thee till I die.
Delta.
The young man was pale, mortified, and sick at heart; for the sudden discovery of the exalted rank of one whom he had learned to think his friend, and of the other whom he fondly believed to love him, made him lose all hope at once. He stood silent and embarrassed; but he remembered the opal ring, and gathering courage with that memory, he turned his eyes on the beautiful donor.
They filled with the soft light of love and tenderness as he gazed upon her. She caught, perhaps, the magnetic infection from his glance, for her long lashes drooped and a flush crossed her cheek; so from her confusion he gathered courage.
"Lady—Lady Madeline,—you see I have learned your name," began Florence, who knew not what to say.
"Well, sir, I am glad you have spoken; for our pause, to say the least of it, was very embarrassing," replied the young lady, playing with the point lace which edged the sleeve of her dress.
"If you will permit me, I have a question to ask."
"Say on," said she, laughing.
"What was the origin, or whence the purpose, of that strange mystery in which you enveloped me when I had lost the happiness of being here? Why did you conceal from me your rank—your name? and why was I conducted hence blindfold, like a spy from an enemy's camp?"
"Fair sir," said the countess, smiling, "I gave you permission to ask but one question; you have already run over four."
"And I implore you to answer me."
"All was done by order of her majesty the queen."
"But wherefore such foolish mystery?" asked Florence almost impetuously.
"Foolish!" reiterated the other, holding up a taper finger. "Oh, fie!—Said I not it was the queen's desire?"
"Pardon me; but I cannot resist emotions of mortification and deep sorrow."
"The queen-mother has many enemies in Scotland," said the countess, with a pretty little blush,—"Lollard preachers and disaffected peers, men who live by trafficking in court scandal and the circulation of wicked rumours: thus seeking to undermine her influence and to do her evil among the people. Do you understand me?"
"Under favour, I do not."
"Had these men, or such as these, known that a gentleman of your age and appearance was wounded or slain under her windows, all Scotland had declared him to be a lover, attacked by a rival or by the queen's guard; and, believe me, the spies of Somerset and the adherents of Bothwell and Lennox would readily multiply the fatal rumour. Had they learned that a poor wounded youth whom she had rescued from destruction was concealed in her chamber for many days, then still more had he been reputed a lover, and a man devoted to die a cruel death. Do you understand me now?"
"Oh, yes; and feel deeply her most generous clemency, which perilled her reputation for me."
"Mary of Guise and Lorraine was not reared at the court of Catharine de Medicis, nor was she wife of Louis de Longueville, without acquiring the virtues of patience and prudence," said the lady, smiling.
"But you, lady—you, at least, had no such reason for concealment."
"My secret involved that of my mistress; moreover, I had most serious reasons for greater secrecy."
"A jealous husband, perhaps?"
"Nay," said she, laughing, and showing the most beautiful little teeth in the world; "thank Heaven, I have no husband."
Florence began to breathe a little more freely.
"A lover, perhaps?" said he, affecting to smile.
"Nay, nor even a lover."
"St. Giles!—in what did your secrecy originate?"
"In yourself."
"You are a beautiful enigma," faltered Florence, taking her hands in his, while his heart trembled; "but—but whatever be the result of such an avowal, believe me from my soul when I say, that I had not been here three days before I learned to love you, Lady Madeline—love you dearly, fondly, truly!" he continued, in an almost breathless voice.
She grew very pale, abruptly withdrew her hands, and averted her face; for she felt that the voice of Fawside, like the voices of all who have a sincere and impassioned heart, had a powerful effect upon her.
"Speak to me—speak!" he urged; "do not, for pity's sake, look so coldly, or turn from me."
"I do not look coldly; but spare me the pain of hearing this avowal," she replied, while trembling.
"Spare you the pain—oh, Madeline! my love for you——"
"Is futile," she replied, with her eyes full of tears.
"Futile!"
"Yes."
"Why—oh, what mean you, Madeline? Who are you, that it should be so?"
"I am—I am——"
"Who—who?"
"One whom you must ever know for your deadly enemy," she replied, in a voice half-stifled by emotion.
Had a bomb exploded at the feet of Florence, he could not have been more astounded than by this strange relation.
"She is a kinswoman of Glencairn or Kilmaurs," thought he; "well, I can forgive her even that."
For a minute he was silent, as if overwhelmed by sadness and astonishment. At last he said,—
"My enemy—you?"
"By the solemn truth which I tell you, by the words I have said, we are separated for ever!"
"For the love of pity, say not so, I implore you!"
"What I say can matter little," she replied in a low broken voice; "I do love you, dear Florence; but our fate is in the hands of others."
"Others!" he exclaimed impetuously.
"Yes."
"What can control us, who are free agents?"
"Fatality. Thus our paths in life, like our graves in death, must lie far apart. But never, while breath remains, shall I forget you, Florence!"
"Oh, 'tis insanity or a dream this!" he exclaimed, and struck his forehead with a bewildered air; and, after bowing his face upon her hand, had barely time, to withdraw, when the heavy folds of the arras parted again, and the queen-mother stood before him, with a letter in her hand, and a smile almost of drollery on her beautiful lip; for she saw plainly, in the confusion of both, that a scene had taken place.
"You will convey this to my lord regent. It tells that I will meet him at the Convention of Estates in Stirling."
"Thanks for this high honour, madam," said Florence, kneeling for the double purpose of kissing the seal of the missive and veiling the deep colour which he felt was too evident in his face.
"And now, sir, ere you go, I shall have the pleasure of presenting you to the Queen of Scotland. I trust her majesty's noonday nap is over by this time."
The young man felt his eyes and heart fill at these words, for the loyalty of the olden time was a passion, strong and enthusiastic as that of a lover for his love.
Mary of Lorraine, with her white hand, drew back the tapestry, and revealed the inner apartment, the walls of which were hung with yellow Spanish leather stamped with crowns and thistles, and the oak floor of which was covered by what was then a very unusual luxury—a Persian carpet. Passing in, Florence found himself in the royal nursery.
In a cradle of oak, profusely carved, and having a little canopy surmounted by a crown, lay a child—a little white-skinned and golden-haired girl, in her fifth year, asleep, with her dark lashes reposing on a cheek that bore the pink tint we see at times in a white rose-leaf.
This child was Mary Queen of Scots!
The nurse, Janet Sinclair, wife of John Kemp, a burgess of Haddington, arose at their entrance.
The young man knelt down, and, with reverence and affection, pressed his lips to the child's dimpled hands, which were folded together above its little lace coverlet. The emotions of his heart would be difficult alike to analyze or portray.
How little could those four persons who stood by the cradle of that beloved and beautiful little one, foresee the dark shadows which enveloped her future!
"The little bride of the son of France!" said Mary of Lorraine; "she sleeps, alike oblivious of crowns and kingdoms."
At that moment the child opened her dark-grey eyes, and smiled to her mother.
"If this should be, how strange shall be her destiny!" said the countess thoughtfully.
"How?" reiterated the queen-mother anxiously.
"Yes—for what said True Thomas of Ercildoun more than three hundred years ago?"
"What said he?"
Then the countess replied,—
"A queen of France shall bear a son,
Britain to brook from sea to sea;
And she of Bruce's blood shall come,
As near as to the ninth degree."
"I pray that Heaven may so shape out the future that your verse shall prove better than an idle rhyme," said Mary of Lorraine, clasping her delicate hands; "for the royal child of my dead husband is the ninth in descent from the hero of Bannockburn."
Future events, in the birth of James VI., fulfilled this old prophecy, which, in the days of our story, was in the mouths of all the people.
"And now, until I have the honour of again paying my devotion to your majesty, perhaps at Stirling, farewell," said Fawside.
"Adieu, monsieur—may God keep you!"
A glance full of sad meaning from the countess was all the adieu he received from her; and next moment he found himself in the narrow alley, where a soldier in the livery of the queen's guard held his grey horse by its bridle.