momentary effect, even upon those who most rebelled against it. Poor little Cis, a sturdy girl of twelve or thirteen, playing at ball with little Ned on the terrace, and coming with tardy steps to her daily task of spinning, had little of the princess about her; and yet when she sat down, and the management of distaff and thread threw her shoulders back, there was something in the poise of her small head and the gesture of her hand that forcibly recalled the Queen. Moreover, all the boys around were at her beck and call, not only Humfrey and poor Antony Babington, but Cavendishes, Pierrepoints, all the young pages and grandsons who dwelt at castle or lodge, and attended Master Sniggius's school. Nay, the dominie himself, though owning that Mistress Cicely promoted idleness and inattention among his pupils, had actually volunteered to come down to Bridgefield twice a week himself to prevent her from forgetting her Lilly's grammar and her Caesar's Commentaries, an attention with which this young lady would willingly have dispensed.
Stewart, Lorraine, Hepburn, the blood of all combined was a perilous inheritance, and good Susan Talbot's instinct was that the young girl whom she loved truly like her own daughter would need all the more careful and tender watchfulness and training to overcome any tendencies that might descend to her. Pity increased her affection, and even while in ordinary household life it was easy to forget who and what the girl really was, yet Cis was conscious that she was admitted to the intimacy and privileges of an elder daughter, and made a companion and friend, while her contemporaries at the Manor- house were treated as children, and rated roundly, their fingers tapped with fans, their shoulders even whipped, whenever they transgressed. Cis did indeed live under equal restraint, but it was the wise and gentle restraint of firm influence and constant watchfulness, which took from her the wish to resist.
CHAPTER IX. UNQUIET.
Bridgefield was a peaceable household, and the castle and manor beyond might envy its calm.
From the time of the marriage of Elizabeth Cavendish with the young Earl of Lennox all the shreds of comfort which had remained to the unfortunate Earl had vanished. First he had to clear himself before Queen Elizabeth from having been a consenting party, and then he found his wife furious with him at his displeasure at her daughter's aggrandisement. Moreover, whereas she had formerly been on terms of friendly gossiphood with the Scottish Queen, she now went over to the Lennox side because her favourite daughter had married among them; and it was evident that from that moment all amity between her and the prisoner was at an end.
She was enraged that her husband would not at once change his whole treatment of the Queen, and treat her as such guilt deserved; and with the illogical dulness of a passionate woman, she utterly scouted and failed to comprehend the argument that the unhappy Mary was, to say the least of it, no more guilty now than when she came into their keeping, and that to alter their demeanour towards her would be unjust and unreasonable.
'My Lady is altogether beyond reason,' said Captain Talbot, returning one evening to his wife; 'neither my Lord nor her daughter can do ought with her; so puffed up is she with this marriage! Moreover, she is hotly angered that young Babington should have been sent away from her retinue without notice to her, and demands our Humfrey in his stead as a page.'
'He is surely too old for a page!' said his mother, thinking of her tall well-grown son of fifteen.
'So said I,' returned Richard. 'I had sooner it were Diccon, and so I told his lordship.'
Before Richard could speak for them, the two boys came in, eager and breathless. 'Father!' cried Humfrey, 'who think you is at Hull? Why, none other than your old friend and shipmate, Captain Frobisher!'
'Ha! Martin Frobisher! Who told thee, Humfrey?'
'Faithful Ekins, sir, who had it from the Doncaster carrier, who saw Captain Frobisher himself, and was asked by him if you, sir, were not somewhere in Yorkshire, and if so, to let you know that he will be in Hull till May-day, getting men together for a voyage to the northwards, where there is gold to be had for the picking-and if you had a likely son or two, now was the time to make their fortunes, and show them the world. He said, any way you might ride to see an old comrade.'
'A long message for two carriers,' said Richard Talbot, smiling, 'but Martin never was a scribe!'
'But, sir, you will let me go,' cried Humfrey, eagerly. 'I mean, I pray you to let me go. Dear mother, say nought against it,' entreated the youth. 'Cis, think of my bringing thee home a gold bracelet like mother's.'
'What,' said his father, 'when my Lady has just craved thee for a page.'
'A page!' said Humfrey, with infinite contempt-'to hear all their tales and bickerings, hold skeins of silk, amble mincingly along galleries, be begged to bear messages that may have more in them than one knows, and be noted for a bear if one refuses.'
The father and Cis laughed, the mother looked unhappy.
'So Martin is at Hull, is he ?' said Richard, musingly. 'If my Lord can give me leave for a week or fortnight, methinks I must ride to see the stout old knave.'
'And oh, sweet father! prithee take me with you,' entreated Humfrey, 'if it be only to come back again. I have not seen the sea since we came here, and yet the sound is in my ears as I fall asleep. I entreat of you to let me come, good my father.'
'And, good father, let me come,' exclaimed Diccon; 'I have never even seen the sea!'
'And dear, sweet father, take me,' entreated little Ned.
'Nay,' cried Cis, 'what should I do? Here is Antony Babington borne off to Cambridge, and you all wanting to leave me.'
'I'll come home better worth than he!' muttered Humfrey, who thought he saw consent on his father's brow, and drew her aside into the deep window.
'You'll come back a rude sailor, smelling of pitch and tar, and Antony will be a well-bred, point-device scholar, who will know how to give a lady his hand,' said the teasing girl.
And so the playful war was carried on, while the father, having silenced and dismissed the two younger lads, expressed his intention of obtaining leave of absence, if possible, from the Earl.'
'Yea,' he added to his wife, 'I shall even let Humfrey go with me. It is time he looked beyond the walls of this place, which is little better than a prison.'
'And will you let him go on this strange voyage?' she asked wistfully, 'he, our first-born, and our heir.'
'For that, dame, remember his namesake, my poor brother, was the one who stayed at home, I the one to go forth, and here am I now!' The lad's words may have set before thee weightier perils in yonder park than he is like to meet among seals and bears under honest old Martin.'
'Yet here he has your guidance,' said Susan.
'Who knows how they might play on his honour as to talebearing? Nay, good wife, when thou hast thought it over, thou wilt see that far fouler shoals and straits lie up yonder, than in the free open sea that God Almighty made. Martin is a devout and godly man, who hath matins and evensong on board each day when the weather is not too foul, and looks well that there be no ill-doings in his ship; and if he have a berth for thy lad, it will be a better school for him than where two-thirds of the household are raging against one another, and the third ever striving to corrupt and outwit the rest. I am weary of it all! Would that I could once get into blue water again, and leave it all behind!'
'You will not! Oh! you will not!' implored Susan. 'Remember, my dear, good lord, how you said all your duties lay at home.'
'I remember, my good housewife. Thou needst not fear for me. But there is little time to spare. If I am to see mine old friend, I must get speech of my Lord to-night, so as to be on horseback to- morrow. Saddle me Brown Dumpling, boys.'
And as the boys went off, persuading Cis, who went coyly protesting that the paddock was damp, yet still following after them, he added, 'Yea, Sue, considering all, it is better those two were apart for a year or so, till we see better what is this strange nestling that we have reared. Ay, thou art like the mother sparrow that hath bred up a cuckoo and doteth on it, yet it mateth not with her brood.'
'It casteth them out,' said Susan, 'as thou art doing now, by your leave, husband.'
'Only for a flight, gentle mother,' he answered, 'only for a flight, to prove meanwhile whether there be the making of a simple household bird, or of a hawk that might tear her mate to pieces, in yonder nestling.'
Susan was too dutiful a wife to say more, though her motherly heart was wrung almost as much at the implied distrust of her adopted daughter as by the sudden parting with her first-born to the dangers of the northern seas. She could better enter into her husband's fears of the temptations of page life at Sheffield, and being altogether a
