On the confines of Hampshire and Wiltshire, at the distance of about twenty miles from Salisbury, was a good house belonging formerly to the Dowager Countess of Lennox, surrounded by a park of nearly a thousand acres, paled in from the neighbouring country on account of some very fine deer which it contained. The hand of nature had done far more for it than art, and nothing could be more beautiful than the variety of hill and dale, of forest, fell and mead, which it displayed. It is true no mountains were there, no bold and rocky scenery; but it was full of rich old woods, deep ferny dells, and constant heights and falls of ground, which compelled a considerable stream swarming with fine trout to wander in a thousand turns and bends, so that its course through the park, if traced along its meanderings, could not extend to less than many miles in length.
The woodpecker and the squirrel found there a home to their utmost satisfaction; multitudes of hares, whose possession was only disputed by the herds of deer, might be found sleeping in their forms on the sunny sides of the hill, or seen galloping along when disturbed, ever and anon standing raised upon their hind feet, and listening with erected ear for any sound of pursuit; while towards the close of evening, the rabbits, in a part especially called the Warren, came out to play in thousands, like schoolboys issuing forth for sport after the tasks of the day are ended.
In this park, in the month of June, and towards the hour of nine in the morning, a lady was sitting on the grass under the trees, at a considerable distance from the house. The spot she had chosen was the side of one of the little hills, which was crowned by a clump of old oaks, and looking down over a considerable extent of scene, both in front and on either hand. It was, in fact a sort of spur or promontory from the high ground to the westward of the park, on which ran the paling, bounding a high road. The distance between the hill and the public way, however, was at least four hundred yards; and the intervening space was filled with wide-spreading trees, devoid of underwood, so that it was from that side alone that any one could approach the spot chosen by the lady for her seat without being perceived by her, even at a considerable distance.
The sun was rising bright over the fair landscape beneath her eyes, the wanderings of the stream were in every direction seen, like the beneficent hand of the Almighty in all his works, to the eye of the thoughtful believer giving light and brightness to the whole; and while the long shadows of the trees moved slowly as the morning sun got up in heaven, like the tardy progress of the world's affairs, the deep blue shadow of some passing clouds floated rapidly over the bright scene, resembling the free thoughts of man when his heart is at rest.
For several minutes the lady sat and gazed around her, leaning lightly on her rounded arm, and fixing her soft and thoughtful eyes, from time to time, upon each fair spot in the glowing landscape. Was she merely drinking in the flood of beauty that poured upon the eye, contemplating the magnificence of nature, feeling with delight and awe the perfection of God's works? Or were her thoughts turned inward to her own fate and circumstances, and her eye roving inattentive over things familiar to her? Neither was exactly the case; she felt the loveliness of the scene, she marked with pleasure many a fair object in the view, she looked "through Nature up to Nature's God," but still her own hopes and wishes, her own fears and anxieties intruded themselves, whether she would or not, upon her attention with importunate appeal, and connected her own fate with all her contemplations, deriving from the objects before her eyes, sometimes fanciful illustrations, sometimes consolations higher and holier than any that man can give.
Thus she sat for several minutes, and why or wherefore matters not much, nor can we indeed tell--for who can trace the wanderings of a quick and imaginative mind?--but that fit of her reverie ended with a bright drop upon her eyelids. The next moment, however, sweet Arabella Stuart roused herself, though with a sigh, to other thoughts. Oh, how hard it is when the mind, like a young bird, has soared forth at liberty, into the face of heaven, and tried its wing at large, amongst all the joyous things of nature, to be called back to the close cage of the dull world's doings, the strifes, the cares, the meannesses, which form the bars that prison in the heart. Such was her fate, however, continually through life.
As if to make the transition more easy, however, she repeated--we may call it sung, for she preserved, though her voice rose scarcely above a murmur, the air of the song--the lines of some long-forgotten poet, which were but too applicable to herself.
"I must not love where I would love,I must not dwell where I would stay."
"I must not love where I would love,I must not dwell where I would stay."
"Alas, it is all in vain," she added. "And now to the letter."
Thus saying, she drew forth from her bosom a note, the seal of which had been broken, but of the contents of which she had, as yet, only read the first words. Unfolding it, her eye ran over the lines it contained, and her cheek grew very pale; a look of anxiety and apprehension rose in her countenance; and at length, clasping her hands together, she exclaimed, "The King and all the Court live in daily dread of the plague; but if these rash men did but know how much more I dread the plague of their ambitious designs, they would not surely try to communicate the infection to me by such letters as this. What is to be done with this thing now? If I reveal it, I bring the poor wretch to the block. If I conceal it, I make myself a sharer of their treasons."
She paused and meditated for a moment or two, and then exclaimed aloud, "Oh, that I had some one to advise me!"
The words were scarcely uttered, when there was a step amongst the trees behind; and starting up with a look of alarm, she turned round. The blood rose in her cheek, her eye sparkled, though she would fain have quenched its light, and her voice faltered with emotion, as she exclaimed, "Oh, Seymour! rash, rash young man, your imprudence will be the ruin of yourself and me!"
"Nay, dearest Arabella," he replied, with a gay smile, "neither rash nor imprudent--bold, perhaps, to watch you as you sat here musing; but I claim but the privilege of the sun, who looks at you through the green leaves, even whilst you fancy yourself hidden from his bright eye."
"Nay, but youarerash, William," she answered, "rash to come hither at all."
"I could not help it, Arabella," he said in reply, kissing her hand. "You would not have me a traitor or a rebel?"
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Arabella, her imagination immediately connecting his words with the letter she had just been reading. "Oh, William, of all things, if you would not break my heart, avoid all dealings with the many dangerous men who are striving for things impossible. But you are laughing--I have mistaken you. Nay, if you smile so, I shall call back again all my old careless gaiety, which, to say truth, has been somewhat disturbed. If you could not help coming, tell me what brings you?"
"The King's commands," replied William Seymour. "The King's commands, to bid you to Wilton on Wednesday next."
"Oh, then, the King's commands shall be obeyed," said Arabella, "and his messenger is right welcome. But how got you in? You could not come hither from the house without my seeing you."
"I sent on horses and servants," answered William Seymour, "letter and all--for there is an epistle, brightest Arabella, writ by the King's own hand, in very choice Latin, as I understand, judging you a learned lady."
"Heaven help the mark!" interrupted Arabella. "But still, how got you in, William Seymour? 'Tis very rude of you to take me so by surprise." But her smiles, as the reader has already supposed, contradicted her words.
"Nay," said Seymour, "'tis worse than that, for I did so on purpose. Dismounting on the road, I sent my men and horses on, and leaped the paling, telling them that I would fain take a walk through the park; but, in truth, having an intimation from a good enchanter that I should find Arabella beneath these trees."
"Fie, fie!" cried Arabella, "you are an impostor, Seymour, and would have me think that love can work miracles, in order to cheat me into the belief that ours can be happy. How was it, in sober truth, you knew that I was here?"
"Well, then, in sober truth," replied Seymour, pointing to the country beyond the park, which was seen over a break in the trees--"Well, then, in sober truth, beloved, as I rode along yonder bridle-way which you perceive crossing the country beyond the fence, I turned my eyes hither. Now, love is an enchanter, whatever you may think, who strangely lengthens men's sight, ay, better than the best perspective glass; and by his aid, I saw something beautiful walk slowly through the park up to this spot, and knew it was Arabella. Then, riding on till I came near, I parted with my company, as I have told you, and, like a deer-stealer, leaped the paling; then, creeping quietly through the trees, I stood and watched you as you lay, wishing that I were a sculptor, and had power to carry away an image of that lovely form in all its thoughtful grace."
"Hush, flatterer! hush!" cried Arabella; "I would only have my image in the heart of those who love me. But it was not fair."
"Oh, yes," answered Seymour; "for whatever I saw or heard would be to me as sacred as my conscience."
"Heard!" exclaimed Arabella. "What! did I speak?"
"Yes, in truth," replied her lover; "first you sat musing; then took out a letter--this which you have dropped;" and, lifting it from the ground, he gave it to her, while she turned somewhat pale to see how nearly she had lost it. "Then you murmured something indistinctly, and then you cried, 'Oh, that I had some one to advise me!'--But you turn pale, Arabella!"
"Not at what you think," she answered, with a smile. "Now would Seymour give a purse of gold to know what is in this epistle, and has jealous thoughts of rivals, and half doubts that Arabella plays him false. Is it not so?"
"No, on my life," replied William Seymour; "I might as well be jealous of the sun for shining on other lands than mine. Why should Arabella give me one smile, but from her pure bounty? I have no claim, I have no right, and 'twere a needless policy to let me think you love me, if you did not. One frown, one word, one cold look, were enough to crush out all the hopes you have raised, and snatch the blessing from me. Why should you deceive me? Oh, no--I am as confident of you as Heaven, and nothing shall ever make me doubt."
Arabella put her hand in his, and gazed upon him with a look of melancholy tenderness that, had there been a doubt, would have banished it for ever.
"Oh, no!" she said; "though I may never be yours, I shall never love but you; and whom should I trust but him I love? Yet before I do trust you fully, Seymour, and ask for your advice, you must promise me--for you men are sad, headstrong creatures, and we must ever bind you with some chain--that you will never reveal what I have told, or shown, or asked you--nay, even if I follow not your counsel."
"That promise is soon made, Arabella," he replied; "indeed, I should feel the engagement binding on me were no promise given; and, as to advice, you shall have the best my mind will afford, though in times so difficult as these, it is sometimes hard to say what is the wisest course."
"Well, then, read that," said the lady, "and tell me how I should act."
Seymour took the letter which she placed in his hand, opened it, and read. The effect upon him was scarcely less strong than it had been upon Arabella. His brow contracted, his lip quivered, his eye took an eager and anxious expression; and, at the end, he turned back again and read it through once more. Then gazing in the lady's face, he exclaimed, "Oh, Arabella! Have you ever given encouragement to such designs as these?"
"Never, never!" cried Arabella, "not even in my most secret thoughts."
"There may be men," continued Seymour, in a musing tone, "who think that in offering you a crown they would increase your happiness; and had I one to bestow, out of all the world I would choose you to wear it. But far, far rather, did I possess one myself, would I lay it down to share with you a humbler and a happier lot than raise you to the golden misery which ever rests upon a throne. Your virtues may deserve the highest station, Arabella; but believe me, dearest, power is not happiness."
"Except the power of blessing those we love," she answered, laying her hand on his arm.
"But were you England's queen to-morrow," he continued, "you never could be mine. Remember Elizabeth herself, despotic as ever eastern sovereign was, ventured not to raise a subject to the throne, though no one doubts her wishes; and, besides, see what these men propose, that you should give pledges to a foreign potentate to be guided by him in the disposal of your hand. Here is evidently a bar to your free choice. Even if their schemes were feasible, or had a probability of success, which they have not, what would you become? A slave of a foreign prince, and not a queen. But why smile you, Arabella?"
"To see William Seymour argue," she replied, "as if such vain schemes and treasonable folly could wake in my breast one idle thought in favour of that which you justly call a golden misery. Besides, Seymour, I am neither unjust, a traitor, nor a fool. I would not be a usurper for the diadem of the whole world. James's is the right; he is next in blood to the last monarch, and I have no claim at all. As to what Lord Cobham says regarding exclusion of aliens from the throne, 'tis but a pretence as empty as the wind. I never can hold that man to be an alien who is born within these isles. Nature made them one, marked them out for one empire, and rolled the barrier of the sea around them to separate them from all the rest of the earth, as the habitation of one people under one monarch. It is vain to struggle against the plans of God. Men may mark out frontiers, and draw lines, and strive for a mile or two of barren border land this way or that; but the limits fixed by nature will stand fast, and ultimately be recognised by all. No, no; James is no alien; and though, to say sooth, I never was more disappointed in the aspect of a man, yet he is King of England, and, for me, shall ever remain so. Besides," she continued, "do you suppose that I would give up my humble freedom for the gemmed thraldom of a throne; to have no privacy; to live with the thousand eyes of policy upon me; to have my very thoughts watched; to make my very mind a slave to others; my heart, with all its affections, a bondman to the petty policies of state. Oh, no, Seymour, no!--if they were here before me, with the crown at my feet, ay, and could add France to England, and take in Spain, with all the golden Indies and their mines, I would not, if a choice were left me, give them another look.--It was not that on which I asked advice."
"What then?" said Seymour, who had been gazing on her with love and admiration in his eyes.
"It is what I am to do with this treasonable paper, that I seek to know," she answered, taking it from his hand, and gazing vacantly upon it. "It is, I fear, my duty to send it to the King; and yet I would not for all the world bring on my head the blood of those who sought to serve me even wrongfully; and yet----"
"If you do not," replied Seymour, "you peril your own life. Nay, more; should any attempt be made in consequence of this scheme--should they, notwithstanding a cold and reproving answer from you, seize on the King, put him to death, involve the land in civil war, and cause all the bloodshed and confusion which little more than a century ago stained all our fair fields and desolated our happy homes, what would Arabella feel, when she remembered that, from the fear of bringing bad men to punishment, she suffered all these things to arise, when she could have averted them? Shut our eyes how we will, he who conceals treason is a traitor. Besides, my beloved, you must not think that it is love for you that moves these men. It is their own selfish interests, their own passions, their own ambition. 'Tis that the King has slighted Cobham, done some wrong to Raleigh, offended this man, disappointed that, hurt the pride of another--'tis this that moves them--no deep devotion to Arabella Stuart."
"Say no more, say no more," said the lady; "I fear it is my duty; and, however grievous, I must perform it. What you urge is true; did I conceal this, and the plot take effect, even so far as bringing civil war into the land, I should never know peace again. But tell me, Seymour--counsel me, how I may treat the matter so as to move the indignation of the King as little as possible against these misguided men. It is not long since I had to tell him of other overtures, not so distinct in truth as these, but still evidently treasonable in their kind. He then took little heed; and perhaps, if I manage rightly, he may deal with this scheme as lightly."
"I fear he will not," answered Seymour; "yet it is but wise to calculate how you may follow the voice of duty, and yet excite as little wrath as may be against those who have certainly deserved it."
He paused, and thought for several moments, adding at length, with a faint smile, "Were I you, I would treat it lightly, Arabella. We often by the tone and manner in which we speak of things, give them, in the first impressions, such importance that they can never after be dealt with as trifles. But if we speak of them as matters of small moment in the beginning, they are sure, if they be really of weight, to find their proper estimation in the end.--I would treat it lightly. My Arabella has a custom, with a gay and laughing humour, to cover from the eyes of most men the deeper treasures of her heart, like those bright streams I have seen in another land, which, under the sparkling ripple of their waters, conceal their sands of gold. This art which you have used----"
"Have you found out that?" she asked. "Love must, indeed, be a diviner, then; for never, even to the companions of my youth, have I shown, by word or hint, that my gaiety was more upon the lip than in the heart."
"But you have shown me the heart, too," replied Seymour; "and as I was saying, this art, which you have used to cover your feelings on many subjects, may well be employed now, to hide what you think of this. Treat the matter as an idle jest--a thing of no importance--too foolish to be judged seriously; and thus, perhaps, the King--especially if Cecil be not near him, which he was not when I came away--may take measures to avert all danger, and yet not think the subject so important as to require the sword of justice. He is of a light and trifling disposition, given to the discussion of fine subtleties, full of learned importance and self-satisfaction, but, I should think, not cruel."
"I do not know," said Arabella, thoughtfully. "Placed amidst perilous rocks, the pilot watches narrowly each ripple on the surface of the sea. Thus, in the dangers of a position too high for safety, and too low for power, I have scanned narrowly the actions and demeanours of men, and I have always remarked, that those who are the fondest of trifles, and give little weight to things of real importance, are generally cruel, treating human suffering as a trifle also. ButthatI must not think of; the only way for myself and them is, as you say, to give the whole a laughing air. But come, Seymour, let us go--they will think that we stay long."
"Nay, nay, dear Arabella," replied her lover; "the consciousness of our own happiness makes us often think that others see through the disguises we assume to conceal it. Let us not even lose a minute of the time during which we may be to each other Arabella Stuart and William Seymour. The time will come soon enough to be Madam and Sir again. They who know not when or how we met, will not look at the clock to see how long we have been together."
Arabella smiled. "Love's sophistry, Seymour!" she said: "but my good aunt of Shrewsbury is at the house; and, let me tell you, her eyes are quick, her thoughts keen, although she be kind and noble, and I do not know that she would frown upon our affection, even were she aware of it."
"I do not think she would," replied Seymour, eagerly; "she has ever been a kind friend to me, and, though of as lofty a spirit as any woman now on earth, yet she does not forget that there are human passions in all hearts, and that they will be listened to."
"Yet we must confide in no one," answered Arabella, with a serious air; "our secret is but safe in our own breasts. She has lately caught me somewhat in a sighing mood; and but last night, vowing I was in love, she reckoned over on her fingers some ten men of the court; but happily your name was not amongst them, or perhaps the unruly colour in my cheek might have betrayed the truth. Nay, let us go, we shall soon meet again; and as we walk soberly towards the house, we can speak all our thoughts to each other with whatever kind words we will, looking all the while demure and grave as if we were solving some deep problem of lines and angles. In good truth, William," she continued, as they went on, "were it not as well to set up some apparent lover at the court, to hide my rash friend's somewhat real suit?"
"Nay, I should be jealous, then, indeed," said Seymour.
"That would be pleasant," answered Arabella, laughing; "nothing but jealousy is wanting, I think, to make your love perfect. But I fear that he of whom I thought, is not capable of raising the sweet yellow passion in your breast. What would you say to Fowler, the queen's secretary?"
Seymour smiled. "Oh! the crack-brained fool," he cried, "he surely would never raise his eyes so high."
"Nay, nay, you know not," answered Arabella; "I have had delicate speeches about bright eyes and coral lips, and verses over and above full of sighing swains and dying swans, and all the ammunition of pastoral love. 'Tis a perilous case, I assure you."
Seymour laughed lightly. "In truth," he exclaimed, "this is a rival to be feared. I shall go distracted, Arabella, if you give him but a glance too much."
But the lady had fallen into thought again, and, looking up, she said, "This letter, and the duty that it enforces on me, weigh down my heart, Seymour. Lord Cobham, too, has ever been kind and courteous to me--I cannot think that this treason is of his designing."
"Oh, no!" cried William Seymour, "he is but the tool, dear girl; and I trust that so it will appear; in which case it will be easy for his friends to gain his pardon. But here comes some one from the house; and now for all due reverence."
Arabella cast down her eyes with a look of painful anxiety; and the moment after they filled with tears.
"With all due reverence!" she repeated. "Alas! William, when and how will this end?"
He gazed upon her with a look of deep and tender affection, but did not reply; for a servant, evidently in search of the lady, was now rapidly approaching. As the man's step came near, Arabella looked up and said, "I suppose my aunt has sent you, Ralph, to tell me that there are messengers from the King; but I have met this gentleman in the park, and am returning to receive his Majesty's commands."
"Yes, madam," replied the man; "but I had charge to tell you also that Sir Harry West is here; and I saw Master George Brooke ride up as I came away."
Arabella turned a quick glance upon William Seymour, and seemed to catch from his look what he would have her do.
"If he wants me," she replied, "tell him I must decline to see him."
The man looked surprised, and she repeated, "Exactly so--tell him I must decline to see him. He will understand the reason--Mr. George Brooke, I mean. Sir Harry West I shall be right happy to receive; and as I do not wish to meet with any one displeasing to me, go forward, good Ralph, and open the door into my aunt's cabinet. I will there receive the King's letter, Mr. Seymour, and write my humble answer to his Majesty."
The man obeyed, hurrying on with a quick footstep, while Arabella raised her eyes to Seymour's face, inquiring in a low but eager voice, "Have I done right?"
"Perfectly," replied her lover; "it were madness to receive him, my Arabella. Whatever you might say, it would be proved that you had held conference with one of these conspirators, and, if I judge right, with the most dangerous of them all. But see, there is Lady Shrewsbury herself upon the terrace--let us go forward straight towards her."
They did so accordingly; but, whatever were their intentions, that high but kindly dame was not easily deceived; and while she held out her fair hand to William Seymour, who pressed his lips upon it with respectful gallantry, she turned a keen glance from his face to that of Arabella.
"Welcome, Sir Truant, welcome," she said. "So you leaped the paling, I find from your men, to take a walk in the park; but I doubt me, poacher, that it was not without good expectation of meeting with a deer."
William Seymour was not discomposed, however, though Arabella was; and he replied, "If it was so, fair lady, you see I was not disappointed. If I had sought for ahart, I might have been so."
Many a grave thing in those days was covered by an idle play upon words; but the shrewd Countess shook her head, and a moment or two after took an opportunity to whisper in her niece's ear, "I fear, Arabel, I must reduce the list of lovers down to one;" and thus saying, she led the way towards the house.
"Let us go in by your cabinet, dear aunt," said Arabella, whose cheek was now glowing like a rose. "There is some one at the other side I would fain not meet."
"Whatever course you please, fair maiden," answered the Countess; "I will not thwart you;" and she turned across the terrace to the left.
"Not see me?" exclaimed George Brooke, with a flushed cheek and a flashing eye. "Not see me, for reasons I will know! Body of Satan! but the lady is courteous. Pray tell her, master lackey, that I know no reason why any lady in the land should so forget that which is civil as to send so rough a message by such a messenger. Now for my horses and my people!--Ha! there she comes across the terrace; but I were wanting as much as herself in courtesy, were I to force the audience she refuses to request. My horses, sir, I say!"
"They are coming round, sir," replied the servant.
"What!" cried George Brooke, in the same angry tone, "you ordered them round as you came? See how meanness can mimic the arrogance of its masters. The cobbler's cur flies at the beggar to whom his master refuses a farthing. But every dog has its day, sirrah, and I forgive thee. There's a crown for thee, to buy thee better manners, if thou canst find them--though, by my faith, I think they are all exported."
"No, sir," replied the man, putting away the crown piece with the back of his hand; "I take not money and hard words together. Neither must you say more against my lady, as sweet a one and gentle as any in the land, who never said or did an unkind thing, nor refused her presence to any who deserved it. There's not a man in this house, but will break the pate of any one who dares say aught against her, be he gentle or simple."
Brooke gave him a look of contempt, and put his foot into the stirrup, his horses having by this time been brought round; and swinging himself into the saddle, he rode slowly and sullenly away. His thoughts were all on fire, however, and his heart filled with anything but the dull sulkiness that he displayed upon the surface.
"What is to be done?" he asked himself; "the matter is clear; she has betrayed us to the King. Cobham is an idiot, to write her a letter under his own hand, when I had promised to speak to her by word of mouth. See what it is to trust fools; and yet we could not well go forward without him. Still what is to be done now? That is the question. If Grey were ready, we might act at once, seize upon James at Wilton, and complete the affair at a blow. If not, it were better for all of us to fly. But I must show no haste, so long as there are other eyes upon me. Once past the park gates, then spur on to London, and let them know our misfortune. There is time yet; for this fatal letter could but reach her late last night, or early this morning.--Here, Jones!"
A servant rode up; and his master, after musing for a moment, continued, "As soon as we are out of the gates, ride to Salisbury with all speed; find out Dr. Watson, who is at the third house from the gate near the city wall. Tell him to come to London with all speed; say, that this being summer time, the swallows are beginning to fly; then follow me to Cobham House. Baldock, you away to Wilton, and offer my humble duty to Sir Robert Cecil, my good brother-in-law.--'A little more than kin, and less than kind,' as the player has it. Ask after his health; and tell my good sister that the gloves have come from France, and I would send them if I feared not the infection; but they have lain in London for some days. This done, come both of you and join me at Cobham House. Let each use well his eyes, and tell me what you see. You, Baldock, mark shrewdly Sir Robert's face, when you compliment him on my part. I would fain know," he added, in a careless tone, "whether I should have a good reception at the Court, were I to venture thither. You are quick and keen, remark all things, and let me know the result. You may, if you make haste, overtake me before I reach London, as I shall go but slowly."
At the park gates, the men took leave of their master, and rode on in the direction of Salisbury; while he pursued a narrow lane which joined the high London road after winding through the country for about five miles. The moment his servants were out of sight, he set spurs to his horse, which was a powerful charger, and galloped on over the sandy ground for about three miles without drawing a rein. Suddenly, however, the animal showed symptoms of going lame, and on dismounting to see what was the matter, he found that it had cast a shoe.
"Now out upon fortune!" he cried; "if I could reach London ere to-morrow morning, the affair might yet go forward; if I be delayed another day, there's nothing for it but flight."
He had to blame his own folly, however, rather than the fortune that awaited him; and had the delay which took place been no greater than that which was necessary to repair the little accident that had happened, all might have gone well with him. But small vices have more frequently ruined vast enterprises than even great crimes. Ere he had proceeded half a mile, leading his horse by the bridle, he came to a little open spot, where an object attracted his attention, of which we must give some account. On the left hand side of the road was a high bank of sandstone, retiring about thirty yards from the path, and topped with some feathery trees, which were waving their green branches in the sunshine. The foot of the cliff was covered with soft turf; and, hollowed out of the stone, was a little niche lined with masonry, having a shallow basin at the bottom to receive the clear, bright water of a spring, which issued from the bank, and, welling over the edge, formed a little rivulet running at the side of the lane.
Close to this well, which some kind hand had erected for the solace of the thirsty traveller, was seated a young girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, dressed in a quaint and singular costume, very different from that of the English peasantry. She had a tall pointed hat upon her head, adorned with bugles, a black bodice and red petticoat, bordered with a tinsel lace, a snowy apron of fine lawn, and some gay bracelets on her arms. She was lightly but beautifully made; and, though her complexion was somewhat dark, her skin seemed smooth and soft, her features fine, her hair rich and luxuriant, and her hands and feet small and delicate. The attitude in which she had cast herself down was full of grace, but the whole expression of her figure, as well as her face, was that of deep sorrow, and the tears were running rapidly from her large dark eyes.
The attention of George Brooke was instantly, as we have said, attracted towards her; and, although it is scarcely possible to conceive that the sight of sorrow in a woman could fail to awaken compassion in the breast of anything deserving the name of man, certain it is that less than holy feelings mingled in the sensations of him who now paused to regard her.
"Well," he thought, "I suppose Dame Fortune has determined that I shall have to fly my country, and has sent me a fair companion to cheer the hours of exile. By my life! she is a pretty creature, and as enticing as a royal banquet.--What is the matter, I wonder? A quarrel with a lover?--if so, I may help her to a better--or a lost pigeon?--if so, I'll be her dove.--Why, pretty one, what ails thee?" he continued, advancing towards her.
"I am very unhappy," sobbed the girl, with a strong foreign accent.
"I see that," replied George Brooke; "and I grieve that those bright eyes should run over. But what is the cause?"
"I know not where to go to," exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands together, and addressing her words rather to Heaven than him.
"Go to?" cried her companion, gazing at her with his wild and reckless spirit ready for any folly or for any crime. "Why, come with me, sweet one.--I will take good care of thee."
The girl looked up in his face with an inquiring glance; but there was in it no look of that deep feeling, that kindhearted benevolence, which gives confidence and hope. There was the light, half-serious, half-jesting smile, which mocks at all things, even while they are felt most weighty; the sort of scoffing carelessness with which the wicked strive to alleviate the burden of their own conscience. There was, moreover, that expression of habitual dissipation which always soon marks the man who gives himself up to vice.
The girl shook her head mournfully, and made no answer.
"Nay, nay," continued George Brooke, assuming a more serious and more feeling tone; "if any evil have really befallen you, tell me what it is, and I will help you if I can."
"You cannot," said the girl, "you cannot. I have left a very wicked old man, who brought me over to this country two years ago, to sing before the gentry and play upon the lute; and I know not where to go to."
"But why did you leave him?" asked George Brooke.
"Because he wanted me to do what is wrong," replied the girl, the colour mounting in her face and temples; and again she burst into tears. Alas! she spoke to one who had no respect for, scarcely any belief in, virtue; and his evil purposes were but confirmed by what he saw and heard.
"Nay," he said, "you shall tell me the whole story, and if it is as I think, I will bring you to a place where you shall be well taken care of and kindly treated. My horse has gone lame, so I will tie him to a tree, and sit down by you to hear your little history."
The girl offered no opposition; and he did as he said, fully resolved to take her with him to London, under the pretence of providing for her, and then using his opportunities as he might think fit.
All the first part of her tale she told without hesitation, that she was a Milanese by birth, and had been brought over--purchased, in fact, from her parents, by an English perfumer and charlatan, who had visited Italy in search of rare drugs and essences. For some time his expectations of making money by her little talents had not been disappointed. She had sung and played upon the lute, she said, before the Lord Southampton, and even the Queen; but the state of agitation at the English Court during the illness of Elizabeth put a stop to his gains; and he had taken her from place to place through the country, obtaining but little repayment for his trouble. Of the causes which induced her suddenly to quit him, however, he could obtain no farther account than that which she had already given, "that he wished her to do what was wrong." But George Brooke put his own construction on her words, and as she had described the charlatan as old and ugly, expressing great personal disgust towards him, he fancied that she might entertain very different feelings towards a younger and a handsomer man. What farther took place may not require detail. Notwithstanding the urgent necessity for his presence in London, he sat talking with her for nearly an hour, and whither passion hurried him on, matters not; but at the end of that time a loud scream and cry for help rang along the lane, and reached the ears of a party of horsemen coming slowly from the side of Salisbury.
"Ha! there is some violence going forward," cried Sir Harry West, putting his horse into a gallop. "Come on, come on!--Why, how now, Master Brooke?" he continued, as he rode up to the little well, beside which the girl was standing, all trembling and in tears. "Offering violence to a woman? Fie, sir, fie!"
"Ride on your way, Sir Harry West," replied Brooke, fiercely, "and mind your own affairs." But even while he spoke, two or three men on foot came down the lane, from the other side, exclaiming, "Ah, here she is, here she is, and here's the fellow who has lured her away.--Have them both before the justice; he will put the rogue in the stocks, I warrant you, and give the wench an exhortation."
George Brooke would now have given his right hand that he had not been tempted to lose time which was but too precious in his circumstances; for he easily comprehended that he might now be detained somewhat longer than would be pleasant to him. Indeed, the manner in which the men approached him, and the words which they used, showed him clearly that he himself was one of the objects of their constabular indignation; and, if anything had been wanting, one of the rural Dogberries exclaimed, running up to lay his hand upon the gentleman's collar, "I comprehend you, sir, in the King's name, and charge you go along with me."
At the same time, two of his companions took hold of the girl by the arm, saying, "Come along, pretty mistress, come along to Justice Scully."
George Brooke, however, grasped the hilt of his sword, exclaiming, "Stand back, fellow--put a finger on me if you dare! You are a fool, and know not what you are about. I am a gentleman, the brother of Lord Cobham."
"Gentle or not gentle," replied the constable, "lord or no lord, I am sent to comprehend you, and, please God, so I will, for enticing the girl away from her master. Draw your sword against the law, if you dare. All you standers-by, I charge you in the King's name, give me help. You see he has got his sword out, and may do me a damage."
"You had better go quietly," said Sir Harry West; "it is your duty not to resist the civil power."
"I have no time, Sir Harry, to spend upon such fooleries," said George Brooke; "I am in haste for London, sir."
"You had plenty of time," replied Sir Harry West, "to offer violence to an undefended girl. You were in no haste but now."
"Pshaw!" cried George Brooke, who saw that he had placed himself in an unpleasant predicament, "my horse had cast a shoe, and it takes no long time to snatch a kiss from a pair of ruddy lips by the roadside."
"Nor to do any other bad action," said Sir Harry West; "but you had better go quietly, sir; for if the man requires us in the King's name, we must give him aid to make you."
"I had thought," replied the other, thrusting his sword angrily into the sheath, "that gentlemen were bound to aid gentlemen."
"When their deeds are those of gentlemen," replied Sir Harry West; "if yours be such, you have nothing to fear; if they be not, you have no right to apply to me for assistance: I will go with you, however, and vouch for who you are. Do you intend to resist?"
"Not unless he puts his hand upon me," replied George Brooke; "if he do, I will as surely send my sword through him as I live. Let him lead on; there is no fear of my escaping, with Sir Harry West at the head of the watch."
"You cannot make me angry, sir," replied the old knight. "Constable, do not touch him, he will go quietly.--What is it, Lakyn?" he continued, speaking to his worthy servant, who had dismounted, and, after conversing for a minute or two with the girl, had approached his master and pulled his sleeve.
"The poor thing would fain speak to your worship," said Matthew Lakyn, in a low voice; "she seems even more afraid of this master they talk of than of Mister Brooke, though she says he used her ill enough."
"Well, hold my horse then," replied the old knight; and dismounting, he approached the girl, as she stood trembling between the two constables, who continued to hold her tight by either graceful arm, as if they had to do with some furious criminal.
"Nay, nay, good fellows," said Sir Harry West; "take off your hands, she will go quietly enough. Now, what would you with me, my poor thing?"
"Oh, don't give me back to that wicked old man," cried the girl. "You must not; indeed, you must not."
"Are you an Italian?" asked Sir Harry West, remarking her accent. "If so, I can speak your language; and you can tell me more of this affair in your own tongue."
The joy of the poor girl at hearing this intelligence sparkled brightly in her eyes; and she poured forth upon the old knight a torrent of Italian, accompanied by a thousand wild but graceful gestures, which made the sober constables of ungesticulating England begin to fancy she was crazed. In five minutes, Sir Harry West was acquainted with her whole history, and had learned that her name was Ida Mara; that her father was a carver in Milan; her mother dead, a step-mother acting towards her the step-mother's part; and her only surviving parent careless and unfeeling enough to sell her for a sum of ready money to the charlatan who had brought her to England. Not even to the old knight, whose manner was certainly well calculated to encourage confidence, would she enter into particulars of the conduct of her master, as she called him. But Sir Harry West had no curiosity on the subject; she assured him, with tears, that the man had wanted her to do what was very wrong; and he easily conceived that she had received just cause to quit him.
When her tale was ended, and she looked up in the old knight's face with an appealing glance, he replied, with a kindly smile, "Do not be alarmed. If it is all exactly as you say, this man can have no power over you in England. We do not recognise here such purchases of our fellow Christians. The case will be different, indeed, if you have yourself signed any paper obliging you to serve him as an apprentice; but even then the law will protect you against wrong."
"I have signed nothing!--I have signed nothing!" cried the girl, vehemently; "it was all my father's doing, and I do not think he signed anything either."
"Well, we shall soon see," said Sir Harry West; "the only difficulty is, what is to become of you if you are taken from this man?"
The girl looked down thoughtfully and sadly; and then replied, raising her eyes with a beam of hope in them, "I can knit, I can sew, I can work all kind of things--I hate singing and playing on the lute--I used to love it once; and it was my only comfort when my mother died; but I hate it, now that I am obliged to do it for strange men to stare at me."
"I dare say thou dost," replied the knight, with feelings of deep interest growing upon him. "I will see what may be done for you, my poor girl; so take comfort, for this is a land where it seldom happens that those who are really good and in distress, do not find some one to help them."
While they had been thus conversing, the whole party had proceeded on their way, George Brooke walking first, with the constable keeping a respectable distance, holding the gentleman's sword, it must be confessed, in great reverence, after he had seen how readily it sprang out of its sheath. The way was somewhat long, and quitting the lane in which they were, they turned into another on the left, before they reached the high road, upon which--as it led him in an opposite direction to that in which he wished to go--George Brooke burst forth with one of the blasphemous oaths so common in those days, adding to the constable, "In the name of Satan, and all the devils, is this never to come to an end? Why, you are taking me quite out of my way!"
"'Tis but a short mile farther to Browbury House, master," replied the constable; "and there Justice Scully will soon settle your affair, I warrant ye."
"Warrant!" exclaimed George Brooke; "I wish you and your warrants were at the devil. If I have any say in the world to come, you shall be kept sitting in a pair of red-hot stocks till the marrow fries in your ankle bones."
"Where will you be then yourself?" asked the constable; and there dropped the pleasant conversation.
At length they approached the house of the justice, which was a good old country mansion, with a village round about it. All parties seemed glad to see it, except poor Ida Mara, who, terrified at the thought of meeting her tyrant, crept up to the side of the old knight's horse, which he had remounted at the close of their conversation.
"Do not be afraid, my dear," he said; "I will see that justice is done to you. Here, Lakyn, you look to her; and take care that she be well treated. I will go in and speak to worshipful Master Scully."
"And so will I," cried George Brooke; "I am not to be kept like a lackey waiting in a hall."
The knight's name soon procured admission, but Lord Cobham's brother was kept for several minutes in the antechamber with the constables and Ida Mara. At first he expressed some haughty indignation; but, becoming calmer and more thoughtful by degrees, he turned to one of the constables, saying, "Hark ye, good fellow, there's a crown for you, tell some of the servants to have my horse shod, while I am kept waiting."
The man took the crown readily enough, the sight of the well-filled purse from which it came making a considerable difference in his estimation of the prisoner's culpability.
"The smith lives two miles off, sir," he answered; "at the corner of the high road; but they can run up with the beast in a minute."
"Let them do so, let them do so," replied the gentleman; "it will save time, at all events."
He then approached the side of the poor girl, and spoke a few words to her in a low tone.
"No," she cried, aloud; "no, I will die first!"
George Brooke bit his lip, murmuring, "You are an idiot;" and the moment after the whole party were summoned before the justice.
He was a fat, good-humoured-looking man, who seemed to reckon his years by barrels of ale, but on whose brow sat a slight frown of habitual self-importance. Sir Harry West was seated beside him, with a clerk at the end of the table; and standing on his right hand was a tall, thin man, apparently about sixty years of age, of a very unprepossessing countenance. His white hair was thrust back from his forehead, which was narrow and low, but prominent over the eyes, which were shaded by bushy grey brows. The eyes themselves were keen and fiery; his lips were thin and in continual movement, even when he was not speaking; and his ears unnaturally large, with a gold ring in one of them, and a topaz in the other. His nose was aquiline, and depressed at the point, his complexion sallow, but his teeth brilliantly white and perfect, for a man of his age. He was dressed more richly than his condition warranted, and with a degree of extravagance in the colour and form of his habiliments which made their costliness the more remarkable. His ruff was of the finest lace, his coat of Genoa velvet; and his hands were covered with innumerable rings.
"That is the girl," he cried, as soon as Ida Mara appeared; "that is the girl; and I claim her as my property."
"Silence!" exclaimed worshipful Master Scully; "and let nobody speak till they are spoken to. What were you saying, Sir Harry?"
"Merely that I thought it would be best," replied the knight, "to enter into the charge against Mr. Brooke in the first instance, as I understand that he is in haste."
"I am in haste," rejoined George Brooke; "and as to a charge, there is none that I know of against me. Methinks I must have got into the kingdom of jackasses, to be thus brought by one fool before another, for no reason whatsoever but to gratify their mutual stupidity."
Mr. Justice Scully looked perfectly thunder-struck at the insolence of this speech; and the clerk, who, having lost one of his fore-teeth, whistled somewhat in the utterance, strongly recommended that the gentleman should be committed. Sir Harry West, however, interposed; and the regular course of proceeding was commenced.
"Now, sir, what is your name?" asked the justice, turning to the old man on his right.
"My name is Jonas Weston," was the reply; "by trade a perfumer and druggist."
"Well, Master Jonas," said the justice, "if you ever do get into the whale's belly, you are just the man to give him an emetic."
The clerk and the constables laughed, but Sir Harry West looked grave, though such jests were then not uncommon, even on serious occasions; and the court proceeded to ask the perfumer what was his charge against Master George Brooke.
"None that I know of," replied the perfumer; "I never saw the gentleman before in my life, that I know of."
"Yes thou hast, thou imp of evil!" cried George Brooke, "when thou wert playing deputy devil to Mrs. Turner, of Shore Lane. But if he has no charge against me, why am I brought hither?"
"Why, your worship," said the chief constable, advancing, "that man with the earrings swore he thought the girl had gone off with some young man from the inn at Hadleigh, so as we found him with her, we brought them both."
"You did right," said the magistrate, "there was just cause for suspicion; and constables have a right to apprehend all suspicious persons."
George Brooke burst into a loud laugh. "I have heard of Hampshire hogs," he cried, "and this seems to be hog law. Sir Harry West, I wish you joy of your company, and unto the whole court a very good morning. As there is no charge against me, I shall go." Thus saying, he stuck his beaver on his head, and walked towards the door.
"Shall I stop him?" cried the constable; but Mr. Justice Scully seemed to be decidedly of the opinion of Dogberry, "The watch ought to offend no man! and it is an offence to stay a man against his will;" so that George Brooke was suffered to depart in peace, though not without having lost nearly three hours of time, which to him and his fellows was invaluable.
"Now then," cried the justice, as soon as he was gone, "Master Jonas Weston, if you have nothing to say against the man, what have you to say against the woman?"
"That she ran away without my consent," answered the perfumer.
"That is a very grave offence," said Master Scully; "is it not, clerk?"
"That will depend upon the particulars of the case," replied the clerk, with a grave look.
"How are we to proceed?" inquired the justice; and he turned his eyes towards Sir Harry West.
"I do not presume to interfere," said the old knight; "but I think, Master Scully, I have had some cases similar to this brought before me, and if you will permit me to ask a few questions----"
"Pray do, pray do," cried the justice, delighted to be delivered from an inquiry which he knew not how to conduct; "I always think it a proper compliment, Sir Harry West, to a brother magistrate, when he does me the honour to visit me, to let him do just as he likes in my court."
"You are extremely polite and courteous, Master Scully," answered the old knight. "Now, sir, upon your oath, what right have you to this girl's services?"
"Why, I bought and paid for her with my own money," replied the man, boldly.
"In this country?" asked Sir Harry.
"No," answered Weston, "in Italy."
"Lucky for yourself it is so," said the old knight; "otherwise, it would have been a misdemeanour, for which you must have been instantly committed."
"Please your worship," rejoined Weston, who was not one easily to lose his hold, "the girl is my apprentice."
"Show me her indentures," said Sir Harry West; "we may have cause to cancel them before we have done."
"I have them not here with me," answered the man, with a sullen look.
"Well, 'tis no great matter," replied Sir Harry West; "for, according to your own statement, they are null in themselves, if they do exist. You paid for her, you say, instead of receiving with her an apprentice fee--the law of England recognises no such transactions."
"Well," said the man, "she is my servant, at least, and has no right to quit me without due notice, that I might provide myself with another. A runaway servant is punishable by all laws!"
"If they run away without due cause," answered Sir Harry West; "but if there be cause, I think, Master Scully, we have no law to punish them."
"Certainly not," replied his worship. "If any master requires his servant to do what is against the law of God or man, the servant has a right to run away. When you brought her to my house last night to play on the lute, she seemed very well contented."
"No, she was not," answered Weston; "she told me a month ago that she would leave me."
"But what made me tell you so?" cried Ida Mara, bursting forth; "why don't you tell what you said to me? Will you tell what you wanted me to do?"
"Nothing, you fool," cried Weston, with his sharp eyes flashing fire; "you mistook what I said; but if ever I catch you, I'll take the skin off your back."
"That you shall never do," said Sir Harry West. "I think your worship," he continued, turning to the justice, "that the case is very clear."
"So I think too, Sir Harry," replied the magistrate; "the girl must be discharged--the girl must be discharged; and if he attempts to molest her, we will punish him."
"I have some doubts whether he does not deserve punishment already," said Sir Harry West. "However, as we have no charge against him, I suppose he must be suffered to depart for the present."
"I should think, your worships," observed the clerk, in a sweet tone, while the perfumer took two or three steps towards the door, and then paused, as if unwilling to depart without making another effort--"I should think he might be put in the stocks, as a vagabond going about from place to place, not in his lawful calling."
"He is a vagrant certainly, your worships," said the constable, "that I can certify, for he does go from place to place."
Master Jonas Weston, seeing that he was in sufficiently distressed circumstances to have an ill word from everybody, determined not to provoke further hostility by his presence, and consequently made his way out without loss of time, while Sir Harry West and the justice consulted together for a moment, as to whether he should be suffered to depart.
"It is better, perhaps," said the knight, "to let him go. I think I have seen the man's face somewhere before; but as no one has made a charge against him of which you can take cognizance, I do not know how we could proceed with him--and now, my poor girl, what is to be done with you, I wonder?"
"Oh, sir," cried Ida Mara, clasping her hands, and speaking in Italian, "you said you would protect me. Do not, do not abandon me. You think because I am in this strange dress, that I am a wild light girl, and can do nothing but sing songs and play upon the lute; but I can do a great many things, and will do anything to show how grateful I am, if you but protect me. Think what I am to do, if you send me out into the world, without money, without friends, without a home. Oh, let me go with you, I am sure you are good and kind. I see it in your face, I hear it in your voice. Let me be the lowest of your servants-- anything, rather than cast me out upon the world again. For the love of God, have pity upon me!"
"I fear, my poor child," said the knight, "that in my sober and homely house, we could find no occupation for hands like yours. On my life, I believe that you are as good a girl as ever lived, and something I will certainly do for you; but the only question is, what,--I am very much perplexed, worshipful Master Scully," he continued, turning to the magistrate, who was sitting with his eyes very wide open at hearing such a torrent of a foreign language, which had never met his ear before--"I am very much perplexed as to what is to be done with this poor girl. I evidently saw she had been ill-treated as I came along, and promised she should have protection."
"Oh, let her find her way back to her own country," replied Master Scully; "I dare say she's a slut."
"I think not," replied Sir Harry West. "All I have seen of her, though it is not much, to be sure, makes me think her a good and virtuous girl; and at near sixty years, sir, after much mingling with the world, one is not easily deceived in such things. At all events, to turn her out and let her find her way back to Italy, will not be the means to keep her good, if she be so."
"Oh, if she is a virtuous maiden," replied the justice, "that's another thing. Come nearer to me, mistress, and let me look at you."
The girl approached timidly; but Sir Harry West, who had no great confidence in the delicacy of the justice, determined to cut the matter short, and take her away with him for the time. "Come," he said, "Ida Mara; for the present, you shall go with me; and I will put you under the care of the good landlady where I lodge, in the small town of Andover. Methinks I recollect hearing a high lady say, that one of her maids is going to leave her to be married. Now, if you be really what you seem, I will tell her your history, and see whether she will like to take you."
Ida Mara clasped her hands together, and gave a low cry of joy; but the old knight continued, raising his finger--"Mark me, however, Ida Mara. Before recommending you, I shall make the strictest inquiries at every place where you say you have been; and if your conduct has not been what it should be, in every respect, I can do nothing of the kind for you."
The girl caught his hand and kissed it eagerly, saying, "Ask, ask! I desire no better. If you can find I have ever done what is wrong, upon good witness, cast me off altogether. But do not take that man's word," she added, suddenly, "for he will tell you that I am headstrong, and passionate, and disobedient, though I never refused to do anything he told me that was right."
"Well," answered Sir Harry West, "so shall it be, then; but in the meanwhile, I do not know well how to convey you to Andover, my poor girl."
"Why, Sir Harry," said his servant Lakyn, who had been watching the whole course of proceedings with some interest, looking upon Ida Mara as a sort of protegée of his own, "why, Sir Harry, if we could get a pillion, she could ride behind me, or one of the other men to Andover--'tis but seven miles, and the horses are quite fresh."
"Oh, my worshipful friend," cried Mr. Justice Scully, "we can lend you a pillion. Having a house full of women here, I am always ample provided in that sort. You can send it back to me by the carrier who passes to Winchester."
"Many thanks, many thanks," replied Sir Harry West. "I will gladly accept your offer. Take her behind thee, thyself, Lakyn, for thou art older, and more sedate than the other fellows; and make as much haste as you can, for we have intruded too long upon Master Scully."
"Not at all, not at all," exclaimed the justice. "I count boldly that you will stay and take your noon-meal with me; your people and the girl shall be cared for in the buttery.--What, shaking your head? No time, I'll warrant; your courtiers are always as busy as a merchant.--Well, you must come in at least, and let me introduce you to the ladies. You must break bread and taste a cup of wine; to that there is no denial."
Feeling that, in courtesy, he could not refuse, Sir Harry West accompanied the worthy justice to another part of the house, while the servants and Ida Mara were taken to the buttery, and treated with true old English hospitality. In about half an hour, however, the whole party were once more on horseback, and riding slowly away towards