"Now the heavens forfend!" said the Queen; "we have already suffered
from the misconstructions and broils which seem to follow this poor
brain-sick lady wherever she comes.--Think you not so, my lord?" she
added, appealing to Leicester with something in her look that indicated
regret, even tenderly expressed, for their disagreement of that morning.
Leicester compelled himself to bow low. The utmost force he could
exert was inadequate to the further effort of expressing in words his
acquiescence in the Queen's sentiment.
"You are vindictive," she said, "my lord; but we will find time and
place to punish you. But once more to this same trouble-mirth, this Lady
Varney. What of her health, Masters?"
"She is sullen, madam, as I already said," replied Masters, "and refuses
to answer interrogatories, or be amenable to the authority of the
mediciner. I conceive her to be possessed with a delirium, which I
incline to term rather HYPOCHONDRIA than PHRENESIS; and I think she were
best cared for by her husband in his own house, and removed from all
this bustle of pageants, which disturbs her weak brain with the most
fantastic phantoms. She drops hints as if she were some great person in
disguise--some Countess or Princess perchance. God help them, such are
often the hallucinations of these infirm persons!"
"Nay, then," said the Queen, "away with her with all speed. Let Varney
care for her with fitting humanity; but let them rid the Castle of her
forthwith she will think herself lady of all, I warrant you. It is pity
so fair a form, however, should have an infirm understanding.--What
think you, my lord?"
"It is pity indeed," said the Earl, repeating the words like a task
which was set him.
"But, perhaps," said Elizabeth, "you do not join with us in our opinion
of her beauty; and indeed we have known men prefer a statelier and more
Juno-like form to that drooping fragile one that hung its head like a
broken lily. Ay, men are tyrants, my lord, who esteem the animation
of the strife above the triumph of an unresisting conquest, and, like
sturdy champions, love best those women who can wage contest with
them.--I could think with you, Rutland, that give my Lord of Leicester
such a piece of painted wax for a bride, he would have wished her dead
ere the end of the honeymoon."
As she said this, she looked on Leicester so expressively that, while
his heart revolted against the egregious falsehood, he did himself so
much violence as to reply in a whisper that Leicester's love was more
lowly than her Majesty deemed, since it was settled where he could never
command, but must ever obey.