made his duty very hard.—After this, Henrietta had no courage to use the opportunity she had once longed for, and relate the spectacles of the journey from Cornwall.
He had said enough: by the Queen’s looks, directed towards him, it seemed that she thought he was saying too much. He rose with a gesture of farewell, and left Henrietta, but not till he saw that the Queen invited her to her side.
The Queen did not detain her long. She intimated that His Majesty was willing to go great lengths to clear up misunderstandings. He had no reserves. “We mean well,” she said; “whatever the presumption and malice of meddlers may say. When the King has established his principle, and made the Crown respected, the world will learn what we have suffered to preserve the monarchy from insult and degradation. The King will be the first to forgive; but he can never yield.”
Henrietta curtseyed deeply, and would have drawn back: but the Queen assumed a lighter air, and smiled as she said, in an arch way, that these were strange times when pretty damsels were obliged to listen to grave politics, instead of the affairs which ought to engage them. Her advice to such young ladies was to dismiss all these tiresome matters, and love and marry as they ought, and leave it to sober statesmen and sour patriots to manage the business of the nation. Did not Lady Carlisle think so?
Lady Carlisle did, of course, think so; and she covered Henrietta’s retreat very good-naturedly.
Their Majesties’ attendants made much of Henrietta after she had been made so much of by their Majesties; and she was glad when the evening was over. She and Lady Carlisle sat late in their own apartment, pouring out their enthusiasm about the gracious and injured King, and the devoted and spirited Queen, and the blessing of their having so glorious a champion and servant as the Lord Deputy. The last was the theme which made Lady Carlisle insensible to Henrietta’s fatigue as well as her own; and the poor girl was fairly worn out with the excitements of the day before she reached her bed.
She slept at once,—probably because the least interesting topic—the Lord Deputy,—had come last: but throughout her sleep the mournful and beautiful face of the King was before her, and his deep and pathetic voice thrilled her heartstrings. How willingly she would die for these misunderstood and insulted Majesties!
She had said so to Lady Carlisle; and Lady Carlisle had laughed, and asked whether it would not be better,—more feasible and happier,—to marry than to die in their service?
CHAPTER IX. A STRANGE WEDDING IN MERRY ENGLAND.
The return journey the next day passed for the most part in silence. Sir Oliver was probably occupied with the private discussions of the preceding day, which were no doubt of an important and secret character, as he did not say one word about them to Henrietta. He also regarded her with a deference which it had never before entered his head to feel for her. He had never been so proud of any member of his old house as he had been of this girl the evening before, when she seemed to have engaged more of their Majesties’ attention than he had ever done, after a long life of loyalty to the crown and its wearers. The sacredness of the royal favour hung about her to-day; and it was the more impressive from there being no childish elation in her spirits,—no girlish vanity in her looks, nor in what she said. Perhaps, too, Sir Oliver was wearied with the gravity of mind and manners imposed by the occasion; for he slept through stage after stage, and up to within a short distance of home. Henrietta was thankful for the silence of the day. She went over in her mind, again and again, every word that the King had said, that she might report it faithfully to her father, as she was persuaded was the intention of its having been said to her at all. Then, there was the new view of her own duty which had been opened to her. Not only was it Lady Carlisle’s clear opinion that she ought to be Harry’s wife after all (and her belief also that it might not be too late), but it was scarcely possible to doubt that the Queen was interested in the matter, and was far from desiring that she should sacrifice her happiness to her loyalty. It was true,—but how could she explain it to the Queen?—that it was not to her loyalty that she was sacrificing herself, but to Harry: and this brought up all that Lady Carlisle had said about the weakness of character of a woman whose love and duty could not restrain her temper, and enable her to live with people of opinions and feelings on one subject unlike her own. In the mood of exaltation in which she now was, she felt as if she could forbear and endure to any extent, in the character of missionary among the King’s enemies. She was confident that the occasion would never arise. She certainly never could recall Harry: to him the whole matter must have long seemed over: and it was perhaps wrong to have dwelt as she had this day done upon a dream of what might have been. She had acted for the best; and if she had been wrong, it could not be helped now. She must forget herself entirely, and watch for other ways of serving the King’s cause. Lady Carlisle had engaged her to a close correspondence: this would be a very great support and guidance to her,—besides the pleasure of it. Lady Carlisle knew how thankful she would be to receive any commands. She wondered how soon the first letter would come. She seemed to have an immense deal to write to Lady Carlisle.
Even this May night was dark when the coach drew up outside the moat at Biggin House. The Fen fogs thickened the air, so that when the entrance door was opened, the dark figures on the steps showed large against the light in the hall. There were several figures,—three or four: and when the coach steps were let down, and Sir Oliver was fully awake, he observed that there were some visitors.
“Philip is there; I fear—I hope there is nothing amiss!” said Henrietta, in a trembling voice.
“What brings you here, Mr. Philip Hampden?”