Pen and ink had been expressly forbidden, the only book in the house was a thumbed and torn primer, but Dame Joan, after much grumbling at fine ladies’ whims, vouchsafed to send up a distaff, some wool, a piece of unbleached linen, and a skein of white thread.

Queen Mary executed therewith an exquisite piece of embroidery, which having escaped Dame Joan’s first impulse to burn it on the spot, remained for many years the show and the wonder of Tixall.  Save for this employment, she said she should have gone mad in her utter uncertainty about her own fate, or that of those involved with her.  To ask questions of Ashton was like asking them of a post.  He would give her no notion whether her servants were at Chartley or not, whether they were at large or in confinement, far less as to who was accused of the plot, and what had been discovered.  All that could be said for him was that his churlishness was passive and according to his ideas of duty.  He was a very reluctant and uncomfortable jailer, but he never insulted, nor wilfully ill-used his unfortunate captive.

Thus Mary was left to dwell on the little she knew, namely, that Babington and his fellows were arrested, and that she was supposed to be implicated; but there her knowledge ceased, except that Humfrey’s warning convinced her that Cuthbert Langston had been at least one of the traitors.  He had no doubt been offended and disappointed at that meeting during the hawking at Tutbury.

“Yet I need scarcely seek the why or the wherefore,” she said.  “I have spent my life in a world of treachery.  No sooner do I take a step on ground that seems ever so firm, than it proves a quicksand.  They will swallow me at last.”

Daily—­more than daily—­did she and Cicely go over together that hurried conversation on the moor, and try to guess whether Langston intended to hint at Cicely’s real birth.  He had certainly not disclosed her secret as yet, or Paulett would never have selected her as sprung of a loyal house, but he might guess at the truth, and be waiting for an opportunity to sell it dearly to those who would regard her as possessed of dangerous pretensions.

And far more anxiously did the Queen recur to examining Cicely on what she had gathered from Humfrey.  This was in fact nothing, for he had been on his guard against either telling or hearing anything inconsistent with loyalty to the English Queen, and thus had avoided conversation on these subjects.

Nor did the Queen communicate much.  Cicely never understood clearly what she dreaded, what she expected to be found among her papers, or what had been in the packet thrown into the well.  The girl did not dare to ask direct questions, and the Queen always turned off indirect inquiries, or else assured her that she was still a simple happy child, and that it was better for her own sake that she should know nothing, then caressed her, and fondly pitied her for not being admitted to her mother’s confidence, but said piteously that she knew not what the secrets of Queens and captives were, not like those of Mistress Susan about the goose to be dressed, or the crimson hose to be knitted for a surprise to her good husband.