tate a retreat from his charge: but, if his sickness were real, and such as the vigour of his duty and affection to his sovereign could not at once dismiss, he must dispatch a summons without delay to Sir Francis Knollys, who understood her Majesty’s pleasure in regard to her Grace of Scotland; and Sir Francis Knollys, neglecting all other affairs, would act as her Grace’s host till such time as Lord Shrewsbury should be able to renew his unremitting attendance.
It was a bitter pill: but the Earl had got over his grievances, and recovered a composed countenance before his wife reappeared.
“When did this letter arrive, Bess?”
“No matter when. Sick men should not count the hours.”
“No trifling, Bess!” And he stretched his hand to the bell. She would not compel him to question his page, but acknowledged that the royal messenger had arrived thirty hours before. She declared that if her husband was chafed, so was she. Sir Francis Knollys knew the duty of the Queen’s gaoler; and he would assuredly step into the Earl’s shoes, and win the Queen’s confidence. His idea of the proper treatment of such a prisoner was sensible,—was, in fact, the same as her own, and—
“Yes,” the Earl observed: “and between you, you will chafe the bird to burst its cage, or, failing that, her own heart: and then what am I to say to the Queen? Knollys drove her Grace hard at Carlisle with reasons why she ought to be deposed—”
“And good reasons they were,” the Countess observed.
“Good or bad, will she not remember them when his name is announced? It is enough to make her dare any way of escape rather than meet him.”
“That is the reason why I have not sent for him,” said Bess, complacently.
“By which wilfulness you have adventured the more fatal displeasure of our own Queen. Bess, these caprices of yours must have an end. I must rule my own affairs, and keep my own honour.”
“You must not be ill, then,” the Countess decided.
Now, however, she sate by in silence while her husband summoned his page, gave orders to the chief gentleman in attendance about finding Sir Francis Knollys, and wrote a line in a trembling hand, as credentials for the bearer of his message, Sir Henry Bayes, whom he charged to bring Sir Francis Knollys hither, without excuse or delay.
“I suppose I must not speak,” the Countess observed.
“To what purpose?”
“To advise that Knollys, who is probably still at York, should rather repair to Sheffield Park, to meet her Grace, whom I would myself conduct thither by the time he could arrive.” Seeing her husband’s perplexed look, she added: “There are reasons, as Sir Henry is aware, for such a course.”
After a moment’s reflection, the Earl repeated his former directions to his envoy, and dismissed him with a compliment on his ability to ride fast.
“Stay, Bess,” he said, as she was about to leave the room,—perhaps to impose her own orders on Sir Henry. “Bess!” And his tone was irresistible: “sit down here, and tell me these reasons of yours. I will answer to the Doctor. I must hear these reasons,—all of them, and this moment.”
His wife remarked on his being quite strong enough for business, after all; and he did not inform her that he chose to do it now, because his senses might fail him before the morning.
“First, where is her Grace, now?”
“‘Where is her Grace now?’ For the fifth time this day, I tell you her Grace is safe. Stay! would you like to see her? Nay, I did not say that she should see you, untrimmed and uncomely as at this moment. But let us try.” And she so arranged a mirror, fixed outside the window, as that the Earl could command a portion of one of the garden walks, on which Mary of Scotland presently appeared, pacing slowly, and followed by two of her ladies. The Earl observed that she looked not otherwise than in health, but very thoughtful.
“That is because she supposes herself unseen,” said the Countess. “When I am present, she assumes an air of carelessness quite unnecessary in the widow of two or three husbands. She is in surprising spirits just now.”
“And she an exiled mother, and a deprived queen!” observed the Earl, as his eyes were fixed on the mirror. As the group passed out of sight, he desired his wife to raise the frame a little, that he might catch another glimpse. She did so, but too quickly and too far, so that a gleam of reflected sunshine caught the attention of the group below. Her Grace looked up, to see herself watched from the window by her hostess. She stopped in her walk, and inquired after the Earl. Her voice was musical as ever; but there was something in her tone which jarred on his feelings.
“I know what that tone of ceremony means,” he said. “She feels that she must wear a mask everywhere but in her bed.”
“And at confession,” said the Countess. “Pray do not forget the comfort she has in her priests and her parasites: and they may not be very few. My opinion is, that any man or woman who lives a life of plots, should think it no hardship to wear a mask every day and all day long. O, yes! she is plotting again. The Queen must have reason for saying what that letter says: and if she were herself as suspicious as we hear she has grown, we have cause enough for doubts of this dreary guest of ours. She ought to be removed from this place at once. I care not whether to Chartley, or Wingfield, or Tutbury,—no, not to Tutbury, yet—or to Sheffield Park. I said Sheffield Park, because it is nearest to Knollys,—if you will put him into your own place. ‘What has gone wrong here at Buxton?’ It is difficult to say exactly what: but the universal remark is that the baths were never so frequented before.”
“It would be strange if it were otherwise, with a captive queen drinking the waters,” the Earl observed.
“She drinks them at home here of necessity,” the Countess answered. “I am thankful that