Horses in the meanwhile neighed and champed the bits with impatience in
the base-court; hounds yelled in their couples; and yeomen, rangers, and
prickers lamented the exhaling of the dew, which would prevent the scent
from lying. But Leicester had another chase in view--or, to speak more
justly towards him, had become engaged in it without premeditation, as
the high-spirited hunter which follows the cry of the hounds that have
crossed his path by accident. The Queen, an accomplished and handsome
woman, the pride of England, the hope of France and Holland, and the
dread of Spain, had probably listened with more than usual favour to
that mixture of romantic gallantry with which she always loved to be
addressed; and the Earl had, in vanity, in ambition, or in both, thrown
in more and more of that delicious ingredient, until his importunity
became the language of love itself.
"No, Dudley," said Elizabeth, yet it was with broken accents--"no, I
must be the mother of my people. Other ties, that make the lowly maiden
happy, are denied to her Sovereign. No, Leicester, urge it no more.
Were I as others, free to seek my own happiness, then, indeed--but it
cannot--cannot be. Delay the chase--delay it for half an hour--and leave
me, my lord."
"How! leave you, madam?" said Leicester,--"has my madness offended you?"
"No, Leicester, not so!" answered the Queen hastily; "but it is madness,
and must not be repeated. Go--but go not far from hence; and meantime
let no one intrude on my privacy."
While she spoke thus, Dudley bowed deeply, and retired with a slow
and melancholy air. The Queen stood gazing after him, and murmured to
herself, "Were it possible--were it BUT possible!--but no--no; Elizabeth
must be the wife and mother of England alone."
As she spoke thus, and in order to avoid some one whose step she heard
approaching, the Queen turned into the grotto in which her hapless, and
yet but too successful, rival lay concealed.
The mind of England's Elizabeth, if somewhat shaken by the agitating
interview to which she had just put a period, was of that firm and
decided character which soon recovers its natural tone. It was like one
of those ancient Druidical monuments called Rocking-stones. The finger
of Cupid, boy as he is painted, could put her feelings in motion; but
the power of Hercules could not have destroyed their equilibrium. As she
advanced with a slow pace towards the inmost extremity of the grotto,
her countenance, ere she had proceeded half the length, had recovered
its dignity of look, and her mien its air of command.