Melville could not realize how he had served her; he had in fact, on receiving her thanks, sent her another box containing more of her clothes and her working materials.
There was yet another joy. Now that he had achieved his end Moray, anxious to appear her friend and to make her believe he had no wish that her term of confinement should be one of rigorous imprisonment, ordered that she should have more servants. She should have her own cook in her suite of rooms and two domestic servants whose duties should be to wait on her alone.
The greatest delight of all was when Jane arrived in Mary’s apartments, to tell her that a visitor had called at the castle to see her and was asking permission to present herself.
“Herself!” cried Mary. “Then it is a woman!”
“See for yourself, Your Majesty!” said Jane; and the newcomer was ushered into the apartment.
Mary gave a cry of great joy when she recognized her dearest friend, Mary Seton, the only unmarried one of the four Marys who had shared their childhood with her, and the one who had been most dear to her.
For some moments they could do nothing but cling to each other. Mary was laughing and crying at the same time and Mary Seton, who had always been the most restrained of the four Marys, was near to tears.
“Oh how happy I am to see you, dear Seton!” cried Mary, using the name by which she had called this friend of her childhood, for as there had been four Marys as well as herself it had been impracticable to call them all by their common Christian name. “I can bear my trials so much more easily with you as my companion.”
“I have been imploring the Confederate Lords to let me come, ever since they brought you here.”
“My dear, dear Seton!”
“They were very suspicious of my intentions. I had to assure them that I was quite incapable of arranging your escape. They would not believe that I only wished to share your imprisonment.”
“They would never understand friendship such as ours,” murmured Mary.
So there was the joy of showing Seton the castle, of hearing news of the other Marys, of Seton’s family’s devotion to their Queen, of recalling other days when they had been together.
The happiest thing which had happened to the Queen since she had come to Lochleven was reunion with Mary Seton.
THERE WERE TIMES when Mary longed to escape from watching eyes; she knew she never did. Although she was allowed to wander at her will about the island, she was aware that, from the windows and turrets of the castle, vigilant eyes were fixed upon her. There was no escape.
One day as she sat alone by the lake she saw a boat being rowed across from the mainland, and as it came nearer she realized that its occupant was George Douglas.
He saw her and to her astonishment gave no sign of recognition and as he brought the boat near to that spot where she was he shipped his oars and said in a voice which was scarcely audible: “Your Majesty, please forgive my remaining seated. It is the best way. If I come ashore it will be seen that we are speaking together. I shall pretend to be occupied with the boat while I talk to you.”
“Yes, George,” she answered.
“I have sought an opportunity to speak to Your Majesty for some days. It has not been possible. I have met Lord Seton who is not far away from Lochleven. He is trying to find a means of releasing you. He is enlisting the help of the Hamiltons. John Beaton is with him. They hope to bring in Huntley and Argyle.”
“Your words fill me with hope.”
“Your Majesty, you may entrust me with any message you wish to be sent to them. It will give me the utmost pleasure if you will look upon me as your messenger to take your orders to your subjects and to bring their plans to your notice.”
“This is the best news I have heard for a long time,” she told him.
“I must pass on now. It must not be noticed that we converse together.”
“Thank you. Thank you, George.”
She sat watching the boat skim lightly over the water. She felt elated by the adoration of this earnest young man. Ruthven’s burning gaze met hers from time to time. He was contrite, and was trying to convey that he was deeply ashamed of his outburst and was now ready to serve her . . . and hope.
She began to feel that her situation was not without advantages.
THE SUMMER was passing and the damp of autumn was in the air. Each day the memories of that terrible June seemed a little fainter. Mary was glad of the passing time but she was saddened by the arrival of autumn; summer was the time for escape. Mist rose from the lake and penetrated the castle; the cry of wild fowl sounded melancholy during the dull days, which all seemed so much alike. The Queen walked a little, dined, supped, prayed for her deliverance, sat at her tapestry, gazed longingly across to the mainland and wondered when her friends would come to deliver her.
She invited members of the Douglas family to her apartment, sometimes to supper, sometimes after the meal. Lindsay was not staying on the island although he paid periodical visits to the castle; Ruthven was often present at the gatherings, when his smoldering gaze would fix itself upon her and he would seek to converse with her. She avoided him; he might appear more docile but she was aware of the burning passion behind his eyes. He would be ready to help her but he would expect to be paid for his services. He might be curbing his tongue, but his motives were the same as they had been on that night when he had come unbidden to her apartment.
What a pleasure it was to turn to George Douglas. Dear George, being so young and earnest, was quite unable to hide his devotion, which was a pity; and yet she was moved by it, knowing that there was no motive behind George’s actions but to serve her.
So she would single George out for her attention, and he often sat beside her while his mother watched them, as did others present.
Ought she to warn George? wondered Lady Douglas. Ought she to tell Moray that George was so much in love with the Queen that he was clearly prepared to do something foolish for her?
Lady Douglas studied her young son. He was such a charming boy. Not like his half-brother Moray of course—not even like William. George was gentle; he would need someone to help him if he were to make his way in the world.
She would ask Moray to take him into his service . . . not yet . . . later. Lady Douglas liked to keep the members of her family about her as long as possible. But suppose the crown was restored to the Queen; dear Moray would perhaps not be so influential then. And the Queen would not forget George, her devoted admirer in adversity.
How an ambitious mother’s thoughts would run on! Mary was an impetuous woman. She had married Bothwell, who was no royal Prince. As she had married Bothwell, why should she not marry a Douglas?
So dreams ran on, sweeping aside all obstacles. Bothwell could either be killed or divorced from the Queen to make way for Lady Douglas’s handsome son.
Therefore if those two did talk dangerously, Lady Douglas could look on blithely. Mary could not escape from Lochleven until Moray was ready to let her go, but that was no reason why she should not enjoy her pleasant game of make-believe with Lady Douglas’s bonny son Geordie.
Mary Seton played the lute and there was dancing. Trust the Queen, thought Lady Douglas, to bring gaiety even into her prison. There she was, her chestnut hair escaping most becomingly from her coif, dressed in a gown of blue velvet trimmed with miniver, which Melville had sent to her, looking at young George as they danced together. She is making a Little France in Lochleven, thought Lady Douglas. And in the Little France of Holyrood House Mary had taken Rizzio as her favorite, had married Darnley, had loved Bothwell. Why should she not love George Douglas in the keep of Lochleven?