At a sign from his master, Jenkin set a flask of rich Cyprus wine on the table, and Randolph, dismissing the domestic, heaped fresh logs upon the fire, and drew his chair towards his guest, as if he were growing exceedingly confidential and communicative.
‘Are you for the revels at the Palace to-night?’ said he, with a meaning look at the bravery of Walter’s attire. ‘We may as well go together. In the meantime (we are old friends, good Master Maxwell), I have something to say to you,--of course, in the strictest confidence.’
‘Of course,’ replied Maxwell, with rather a disturbed expression of countenance, which subsided, however, almost immediately into his usual steady composure.
The ambassador filled his guest’s cup and his own.
‘You and I are interested in the same matter,’ said he, not entirely repressing his habitual cynicism, ‘and such a community forms the strongest bond of friendship. If I can prove to you that by helping me you benefit yourself, can I count upon your assistance?’
‘You must explain your meaning more clearly,’ replied the other, with something of contempt in his tone. ‘Remember, I am a soldier, and no diplomatist.’
‘You are a soldier, I know,’ rejoined Randolph, ‘and a brave one. You are loyal and generous and true. Mr Maxwell, I will be frank with you. There is an evil influence at work here, which I think you have the power to crush. Listen. Would you stand by and see your Queen deceived and trifled with by a political cabal, of which the principal emissary is blackening and destroying a reputation that I believe is dearer to you than your own?’
‘What mean you?’ exclaimed Maxwell, with forced composure, but putting so strong a constraint upon himself that the silver goblet he grasped was dinted by the pressure of his fingers.
‘It is no secret now,’ answered the other gravely. ‘Courtiers’ tongues wag freely enough on such subjects, and you must not be wroth with me for repeating in your own behalf simply what I hear. It is well known that Mistress Carmichael, beautiful Mistress Carmichael, cold Mistress Carmichael, proud Mistress Carmichael’ (he watched the effect of each epithet in succession on his irritated listener), ‘has taken to herself a friend, an admirer, a lover, call it what you will, with whom she holds clandestine interviews in the Abbey garden at night. As I live, ’tis the common talk of the palace; and people laugh and whisper and sneer about the spotless Maries, and wonder why the Queen takes no notice of it. Nay, chafe not with _me_. In good faith, man, I do but tell you this as a friend. I have little enough to do with ladies, you know.’