With a pale check, and a faint heart, and limbs from which all strength seemed gone, Arabella followed the Queen when she rose, and with slow steps accompanied Anne of Denmark to the door of her own apartments. There, with a low reverence, she left her, and hurried back to her own chamber, where, sinking on her knees by the side of the bed, she gave way to a violent burst of tears.
She did not perceive that any one was in the room, but the moment after, she heard something move, and a voice say, "Oh, lady!" and looking round she saw the girl Ida Mara, whom she had consented to receive at the entreaty of Sir Harry West.
Arabella instantly started up and tried to wipe away the tears; but the girl looked down, as if she wished not to see them flow, and said in a quiet but sad tone, "Shall I leave you, madam? I know too well that, when one is sorrowful, it is better to be alone."
"No," replied Arabella, "no, you may stay. It is but that I have been agitated by the quarrel you saw this morning between those two gentlemen, and by hearing just now that they have fought since their arrival."
"Fought?" cried the girl, eagerly; "I hope he has punished him, them."
"Which do you mean?" asked Arabella, with a sad smile.
"Oh, the tall one, with the clear open brow and gentle look," replied the girl. "The other was so insolent and rude, I could have struck him on the spot, if I had been a man."
Arabella shook her head sadly. "All do not judge as you do, Ida Mara," she replied. "Would that they did; the one who gave the offence has escaped with a wound, which perhaps may be but a scratch; the other is banished from the realm."
Ida clasped her hands vehemently over her eyes, exclaiming, "This is man's justice!--When will it come to an end?"
Arabella cast herself into a chair, and mused for a minute or two. Her tears flowed as she thought; but at length wiping them away, she said, "Perhaps it is better. God knows how it would have ended.--Come, Ida Mara, sit down here upon this stool beside me, and let me hear your tale from your own lips. Sir Harry West has told me something of it; but I would hear more."
The girl obeyed; and sitting down at her mistress's feet, and raising her large Italian eyes to the lady's countenance, she told her little history in plain and simple language, which carried the conviction of truth along with it.
To that tale, as the reader knows it, we have little if anything to add. She recounted how miserable she had been in her own home after her mother's death, and her father's marriage to another wife; how she felt even a sort of relief when he sold her to the old English traveller; how she thought it would be a happy and a tranquil life merely to sing as she had been accustomed, and to play upon her lute; and how she soon found that it was full of sorrow, and insult, and discomfort. She told the lady, too, that when her wanderings began, the man Weston was accompanied by his wife, a very shrew, who ruled him with a rod of iron, and whenever he proved the least refractory, threatened to disclose some secrets of which she seemed to have gained possession. This always had the effect of cowing him completely; but his wife had died in London, the girl said, some two months before. After this woman's death, whom Ida Mara represented as little less wicked than her husband, he sought to take advantage of the poor girl's unprotected state, not only for the gratification of his own passions, but for the purposes of gain.
"I must not say," continued Ida Mara, "all that I think he wanted me to do, for his words were dark and doubtful; but this I know, lady, that, unless the misery of life was so great that I wished it speedily to end, I would not eat of food which his hand had come near, nor drink of a cup that had been within his reach, for the world."
Arabella smiled incredulously. "Those are your Italian notions," she said; "we never hear of such things in England, Ida Mara. But now you are safe from him, and may banish fear; and if you show yourself a good girl, and are faithful to me, you shall never want a friend and a protector as long as I live."
"I will love you to my last hour," replied Ida Mara, kissing her hand, "and that good old knight too. He is the first man who ever showed me kindness in the world,--real kindness, I mean,--kindness without guile; and I would give my life to prove to him how grateful the poor Italian girl can be."
"I am sure you would," replied Arabella; "but now leave me, Ida Mara; and if you wish to behold the splendour of a Court, go down and stand in the vestibule. You see, the King and Queen are going forth. There stand the King's horses and her Majesty's coach, for their evening airing. I am calmer now, Ida Mara; and I would fain have time to think."
The girl accordingly left her; and Arabella continued leaning her head upon her hand and gazing out of the window, without giving much note to the objects which were passing before her eyes. The expression of her countenance was sad, and yet it varied continually, without, however, becoming, even for a moment, cheerful. A smile indeed crossed it more than once; but that smile was so tinged with melancholy, that it afforded no indication of the rise of one hope, of the existence of one joy. The changes that passed over her beautiful face were merely signs of the rapid movement of thought and fancy; but all her ideas were gloomy, all her imaginations sad.
In the meanwhile, the Queen entered her carriage and drove away, the King mounted his horse, and rode out, with almost all the gentlemen of the Court. Arabella gazed upon the train as it departed, and murmured to herself what she would not, knowingly, have spoken to the ears of any one, "What a sad thing it is to be a tyrant! And yet it is less dangerous to oneself, to one's realm, and to one's children, to be a fierce tyrant like Harry the Eighth, than a weak and vain one like this man.--They are very late this evening. It will be dark in an hour;" and again she fell into thought.
The course of her meditations seemed now more sad than before, for the tears rose in her bright eyes, and trembled amidst the dark lashes as if they would run over. But just as she was wiping them away, there was a slight noise at her chamber door; and, thinking it was one of her maids, she said, "Come in," without turning her head.
The next instant she started up and looked round; for she knew the step, and it was not that which she expected. She could not restrain her feelings, however, in that hour of bitter sorrow; and in another moment she was in Seymour's arms.
"Oh, William!" she cried, "how could you think of coming here?--Suppose you were discovered, what would they think? what would they say?"
"Nothing, nothing, my beloved," he replied; "you do not yet know all the changes that our good Queen has brought into the court. She has banished all those idle ceremonies and vain restraints with which every movement was formerly shackled, and declares that she will have all Italians sent out of England, lest they should introduce those fanciful doubts and jealousies of the ladies of the land, which they entertain towards their own women.[2]However, sweet Arabel, if there had been lions and dragons at the door, I must have come. Do you think that I could quit my native country, and leave you for months--perhaps for years, without the sad solace of a farewell."
"Oh! but we shall have time," cried Arabella; "surely it will not be so soon."
William Seymour shook his head. "Cecil is against me," he said, "though I know not what offence I have given; and before he rode out with the King, he came to me with a smooth face, telling me, that to mitigate the expression of his Majesty's anger, and not to let it seem that I was sent from my own country in disgrace, he had obtained the King's consent to my being appointed to the nominal embassy at one of the small Italian Courts, that of Parma, but only on condition that I set out immediately. I am to leave Wilton this very night."
"This is cruel, indeed!" cried Arabella; and the tears ran rapidly from her eyes, while William Seymour held both her hands in his, and gazed upon that fair but sorrowful face with looks of love and deep emotion.
"It is, indeed, cruel," he said, "and no less cruel than unjust. But what can I do, Arabella?--I have no power to resist. If I refuse to go, a thousand to one, I find my way into the Tower. Pretences are never wanting in these days, and the liberty of Englishmen seems but to have become an idle name. I care not, indeed, for quitting England. Although it be the country of my birth, and of my love, it loses all its charms for me, when I see security and right trampled under foot, and the vain name of prerogative raised above law and justice. I care not for quitting England; but to quit Arabella is anguish indeed. My enemies do not know all that they inflict upon me, or they would rejoice, even more than they do."
"Is there no way to prevent it?" exclaimed Arabella. "Will not your grandfather interfere?"
"The King has not yet received him at the court," replied Seymour; "and it was thought a great mark of grace that I was permitted to attend upon him here at Wilton.--No, no, Arabella; there is but one way of preventing our separation."
"Is there one?" cried Arabella, eagerly. "Oh! take it then, Seymour, take it."
"Nay, it is you must take it, sweetest," he replied. "'Tis that Arabella goes with me--that she flies with him she loves, from this hated court. Nay, turn not pale, beloved, or I shall fear to urge all the arguments which love has ready to persuade you. Here, seat you here, dear Arabella, and listen. I know all that it is I ask of you. I know the sacrifice, the great sacrifice that is required."
"It is not that, Seymour," she said, earnestly; "what sacrifice should I think too great to make you happy, and to free myself from the state of bondage in which I live?--But how, Seymour, how can we fly?" continued Arabella, "the moment the Queen returns, most likely she will send for me. Nothing is prepared. We should be caught, and brought back again with shame."
"Oh! not to-night, dear one," replied William Seymour, "but if you consent, the matter is quite easy. You will, you will, Arabella! The joy of that hope nearly turns my brain. Say, say you will!"
Arabella bent down her glowing face upon his shoulder, but gave no reply except by silence; and Seymour, drawing her closer to him, strove to banish the doubts and fears which he knew would arise before her imagination, at the thought of the rash enterprise he proposed.
"Listen, dearest, listen," he said, "and you will see it is all fair and feasible. The Court goes to London in three days for the ceremony of the coronation. As many persons will be left out of the procession, on account of the plague, you must feign great apprehensions. They will easily let you go back into Cambridgeshire to your aunt Emily's. I, in the meantime, must hasten to London, where I will make preparations; for I cannot go upon an embassy without some sort of splendour. When all is ready, I will let you know; and sailing away from London, will anchor my ship in the Thames' mouth, opposite the small town of Leigh. An easy journey by Chelmsford will bring you near the shore, where a boat shall be waiting for you night and day. Then sailing away together, long ere any one knows that you have departed, we shall be safe, beyond pursuit, and linked together for life by that sweet and blessed bond which confirms and sanctifies the contract of two hearts that love. Is not this easy, Arabella? Where is the difficulty? Long ere the news can reach the capital, we shall be across the sea; and my going from London alone will render it weeks, perhaps months, a matter of doubt what has become of you. See you any obstacle, dearest? Is there any danger?"
"I know not," answered Arabella, "I know not; and yet I doubt and fear. But hark! They are come back again. There comes the Queen's coach. Leave me, Seymour, leave me--oh, in pity, leave me!"
"Will you, then, dearest--will you?" he cried, hastily; "I cannot leave you till you say you will."
"Yes, yes," she answered; "I will do anything to make you happy;" and catching her to his bosom for a moment, he took one embrace, and left her.
The agony of parting is with those that remain. The changing scene, the hurry of preparation, the bustle of the journey, the incidents on the road, the very excitement of action, are all causes of diversion from sadder thoughts; and though every hour, nay, every moment, Seymour's mind reverted to Arabella, the difference was, that through the live-long day, she sat and dwelt upon no other image but his. Yet her fancies were as chequered as the light and shade of the grim foliage in the sunshine; and for many an hour, her thoughts wandered first to dark pictures of danger, and difficulty, discovery, and disappointment; and then, with trembling hope, glanced towards the brighter scene, and she drew for herself airy sketches of escape, and freedom, and love, and joy. But in all that her imagination called up, Seymour was by her side, sharing the peril, and so rendering it doubly terrible, or partaking the happiness, and making it more intensely bright.
It may be doubted whether Arabella Stuart would have played her part well, in feigning apprehensions that she did not experience, regarding the plague which was then raging in London; for by nature she was not a dissembler, and the very quickness of her feelings and of her imagination would have made her fearful at every turn lest the deceit should be discovered. But luckily she was saved the trouble of assuming anything. The agitation and apprehensions that she felt whenever her mind turned to the fulfilment of her promise to Mr. Seymour; the emotion, the anxiety, the fear, could not be concealed from the eyes of those who surrounded her; but, as she had shared her secret with no one, the principal persons of the Court, as well as the Queen herself, attributed the whole to terror at the idea of the plague, and Anne of Denmark was the first to propose that she should take no part at the coronation.
Arabella gladly caught at the offer, and asked the royal permission to cross the country into Cambridgeshire, and to take up her residence at the house where she had lately spent much of her time, till the coronation was over, and the Court once more in an uninfected place. Permission was readily given; and, as it was evident to the Queen that her young cousin's health had somewhat suffered, one of the royal coaches was appointed to convey her to the place of her destination. All these arrangements were made on the day preceding the removal of the Court to London; and Arabella retired to her chamber to meditate upon her future plans.
"In whom shall I confide?" she thought; "my girl Marian, though faithful and true, is herself about to wed the man of her choice; doubtless she would go with me if I asked her, but it were cruel to put her attachment towards me to such a test. Ida Mara?" she continued; "I think the girl is honest and good--I am sure she is; there is something in her manner, and even in her look, that cannot deceive one. Yet I have known her but a short time. She has no tie to me, and perhaps it were rash to trust her. Nevertheless, I must either tell Marian my secret, or send her home. She is jealous of the Italian girl, that is clear; and perhaps it were better to leave her by the way, at her own parents' house, as she is to become a wife, it seems, in three weeks. Then I must see what can be done. I will watch Ida Mara keenly. My old and faithful servant Adams I can trust, at all events--he will go with me to the death. But I must conceal my plans from Emily Cavendish--she is too light and giddy to be confided in, though she would not injure me for the world."
The morning was somewhat dull and showery when the Lady Arabella, with her two maids, entered the coach which was to convey them into Cambridgeshire. To Marian she had already communicated her purpose of leaving her at her father's house as they passed, and had, according to the good old custom, added to the girl's dower as large a marriage present as her own somewhat scantily furnished purse could afford.
"As we go, Ida Mara," she said, "we will stop for one night at good Sir Harry West's, if he be yet returned, so that you may see your friend and benefactor; and if he be not returned as yet, he will doubtless soon come over to see us when he does come back."
As Arabella expected, the poor girl's eyes were instantly lighted up with joy; and, in her eager Italian manner, she declared that she would go down upon her knees to him, and kiss his hand a thousand times, for having befriended her in the hour of need, and placed her with a lady whom she could love so well. The girl Marian listened with somewhat of a curling lip; and, though she did not venture to make any comment aloud, in her heart she called the poor Italian's warm expressions of gratitude and attachment "nothing but flattery and servility."
It was about five o'clock on the evening of the following day that, after having deposited the girl Marian safely at her father's house, the carriage containing Arabella wound up the little road which led to the mansion of Sir Harry West. Passing by the garden gate, it proceeded to the great doors; and there the bell was rung; but for some minutes no one came to answer its summons. At length old Lakyn and another man appeared, and if Arabella had remarked their faces, she would have seen that both were somewhat grave. But she took no heed to their looks, and merely said, "Sir Harry has returned, I suppose. Is he within?"
"Yes, lady," replied Lakyn, "he is within. He has not been out all day; for he feels somewhat unwell."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Arabella, in a grieved tone. "Is he in bed?"
"No, my lady, he is in the hall," answered Lakyn.
"Oh, then, I will go and try to cheer him," replied the lady. "Come, Ida Mara, it will do him good to hear that you are happy with me;" and stepping out of the carriage, followed by the girl, with a light step, she walked quickly along the passage before the servants, and opened the door of the old hall.
Though it was the month of July, a large fire was blazing in the chimney; and seated beside it, with his head resting on his hand, appeared Sir Harry West, wrapped in a large cloak of sables. His face was very pale, and his eyes bright and fiery, with a dark line beneath them. The heaviness of severe sickness was evidently upon him; but the moment the Lady Arabella appeared, he started up and took a step or two towards her, then paused and said, "Lakyn, you should not have done this. Dear lady, I am ill!--Do not come too near. It may be infectious."
"Oh, I am not afraid," replied Arabella, advancing and taking his hand, which felt dry and burning. "What is the matter, dear Sir Harry?" she continued; "we have come to comfort and console you."
"Nay, nay," cried the knight, drawing his hand quickly away, and retreating a step: "I cannot have you stay here, dear lady. Through a long life I have never felt as I feel now; and I fear that this may be even worse than it seems. You must go on with all speed; and stop not at the village; the landlord of the inn is lying sick--of the plague, they tell me. I saw him the day before yesterday, and he was then past hope."
"He is dead, sir," said Lakyn, who had lingered at the door; "I wish to Heaven you would take some antidote!"
"I will, I will," replied Sir Harry West; "but you must hurry away, lady. I will not have you stay a minute longer. They say the disease is not so infectious till the spots appear. Of that, I am still free, thank God, for your sake; but you must away at once. I beseech you, not another word."
Arabella turned towards the door; but ere she reached it, Ida Mara caught her hand and kissed it, saying, "I must stay with him, lady!--He was the first that ever befriended me on earth.--I cannot, I cannot leave him!"
"Good girl!" cried Arabella.
"She must not stay--she shall not!" exclaimed Sir Harry West. "I beseech you, madam, take her with you."
But Ida Mara darted back, and kneeling before him, cast her arms round him, exclaiming, "Here I will stay! Now send me with her if you will, to carry the infection with me."
"Ah! my poor girl," exclaimed the old man, putting his hand upon her head, while the tears rose in his eyes, "you know not what you do."
"I do--I do!" cried Ida Mara, kissing his hand; "for whom could I give my life so well as you?--But God will protect me, never fear; and I will save you, too."
"Well, lady," said Sir Harry West, sinking into his chair again, "I suppose, if you will consent, shemuststay now; but I do beseech you go yourself as quickly as may be--God send it be not too late already. Go, pray go----"
"I will," said Arabella; "and may Heaven protect and restore you, Sir Harry. I will go, though I do feel that this poor girl's devotion is almost a reproach to me. However, fare you well; I fear I ought not to risk my life, although Heaven knows I wish it were at an end."
Thus saying, she retired and re-entered the carriage, which was soon turned, and on its way to the house of the Lady Emily Cavendish. After driving on for an hour or two, night fell, and Arabella, alone in the vehicle, gave herself up to melancholy thoughts.
"This is a dreadful disease," she said to herself--"a dreadful disease, indeed; so fierce in its nature, that few who approach the sick escape the contagion, and few who are once stricken ever cast off the malady. It is so easily conveyed too--I wonder if Emily will receive me. It is hardly right to carry the danger to her house,--with all her children too,--and I know she dreads it terribly. I may have it upon me at this moment;" and she asked herself, what if it were so? Her frame was weakened, her spirits depressed by all the grief and anxiety she had lately gone through; and care, and apprehension took possession of her entirely, as the carriage rolled slowly on, through the darkness of the night. The horses were tired, the coachman somewhat sullen at being disappointed of his expected place of repose, so that the journey was rendered longer in point of time than it needed to have been, by the dulness of both man and beast. Arabella grew impatient, anxious, heated, her head began to ache violently, her lips grew dry; and again she asked herself, "What, if I have caught the disease?"
At length, at the little village of St. Neot's, the coachman stopped at the door of a clean looking little inn, saying that he must water his horses, though the mansion towards which their steps were directed, was now within five miles. Arabella, descending from the vehicle, entered the house; and being known to the people of the place, she was received with all the reverence due to her station.
"Bless me, madam," said the landlady, as she led her to her chamber up stairs, "you do not look well!"
"I am fatigued," replied Arabella, "and have so violent a headache, that I think I shall stay here for the night. Pray call my servant, Adams, to me, and bid him bring the paper-case which lies upon the seat of the carriage."
As soon as the man appeared, Arabella told him, that she had determined to remain there the night, but that he must ride on with a note to Lady Emily, and bring her back an answer. She then, in a few brief lines, explained to her cousin that she had been in a house where she feared there was a case of plague, and that not feeling well, she had stopped at the inn at St. Neot's to see what would be the result. She begged her, moreover, to send her back by the messenger any letters that might be waiting for her, and then gave the note to the man, telling him to use all speed and return.
When he was gone, the landlady, with officious care, bustled about to provide for the comfort of her distinguished guest; but Arabella sat silent at the table, with her temples throbbing, and her heart faint. All she asked for was citron juice and water to quench her thirst; and at length the good hostess, beginning to feel alarmed, ran down to her husband, to tell him that the young lady looked very ill, and that she should not wonder if she had got the plague.
At the end of as short a space of time as it was possible to make the journey and return in, Arabella's servant came back, and, entering the room, gazed anxiously upon his fair mistress's countenance, while he said, "Here is this letter from the Lady Emily, madam, but I found a messenger waiting at the house, who would deliver his packet to none but yourself. He has come hither with me; but I fear you are not well enough to see him."
"Let him come up--let him come up," cried Arabella, eagerly, and before she had finished reading the few wild and apprehensive lines of her cousin, the stranger was in the room.
"I have charge to deliver this letter, madam, into your own hands," he said, "and to receive your answer."
Arabella took the packet and looked at the address. It was in the handwriting of William Seymour, and eagerly tearing it open, she read,
"I am driven to set out from London," he wrote, "two days before I intended; for if I stay even till Wednesday, I shall have the company of Sir George Carew forced upon me, and all our hopes are at an end. The ship will lie off Leigh all day to-morrow, and all the following night. Come then, my beloved, come with all speed, and give me back the happiness that I have not known since I left you."
Arabella pressed her hand tightly upon her brow, and gazed wildly into vacancy. Every wish of her heart induced her to fly to him. The very despairing feeling of being alone, sick, and perhaps stricken by the pestilence, made her heart yearn to seek the arms of him who loved her, and find shelter, and comfort, and gentle tendance there. "But," she asked herself, "shall I take it to him I love? Shall I carry disease and death to one for whom I would willingly sacrifice my own life? Shall any selfish longing for the blessing of his presence, induce me to destroy him? Oh, no, no!"
"If you will wait below for a moment," she said, addressing the messenger, as soon as she could collect her thoughts, "I will write an answer;" and, seating herself at the table, she drew the writing materials towards her. Her brain whirled, her heart felt faint, she feared that she would never be able to accomplish the task; but dipping the pen in the ink, she proceeded with a hurried and unsteady hand.
"I cannot come," she said; "otherwise nothing should induce me to break my promise, however rash that promise might be. But I cannot come, for I am ill, and unequal to the journey. Even did I feel strength enough to undertake it, I could not bear to join you; for I have been in a house infected by the plague; and, although I will not deny that to see you would be the greatest blessing on earth, yet I would not purchase even that blessing, at the risk of carrying the pestilence to you. Go on your way then, William, and may God bless and prosper you. I will not tell you to forget me; I will not tell you to remember me. Do as your heart dictates; but believe me, in life or in death, yours, Arabella."
After she had done, she gazed at the letter for a moment, and then said to herself,
"It will alarm him--perhaps it will make him come here, and that would be his ruin;" and, taking the pen again, she added, "Though I feel very ill, I do not think it is the plague. I am sure, indeed, it is not--there has not yet been time. Heaven bless you. Adieu!" and bending her head over the letter, she let the tears which were in her eyes drop upon the page. Then folding and sealing it, she called the man who had brought it, and putting some money into his hand, bid him make all speed.
Without delay, he set off upon his errand, and, riding all night, reached, early the next morning, the little port of Leigh, off which the ship that bore William Seymour had been moored on the preceding evening. The ship's boat was at the shore, and the messenger, entering it without delay, was soon rowed to the vessel, where, in the cabin, waiting for him alone, he found his young master.
"The lady is very ill, sir," he said, in a low voice; "she looked very ill, indeed."
"Ill!" exclaimed her lover, with a look full of grief and disappointment. "Good Heaven, how unfortunate!" and taking the letter, he opened it and read it. The colour left his cheek, as he did so, and his hand shook with agitation. "I cannot go," he cried, "I cannot go and leave her.--Hark you, Williams, hark you! Quick, pack up some things in the saddlebags.--Can I get a horse at Leigh?"
"None but the one that brought me, sir," replied the man; "and that is well nigh knocked up.--We have no saddle-bags with us, sir."
"Row on shore, then," said his master. "Do the best you can to refresh your horse, and send back the boat for me. I will join you in a couple of hours. By that time he will be able to go on."
The man shook his head. "Part of the way, at least, till I can get another," added the young gentleman; "he must--he shall."
The man knew it was useless to argue, and retiring from the cabin, mounted the ladder to the deck.
William Seymour pressed his lips upon the letter again and again. "She was weeping when she wrote it," he said, gazing at the blotted page. "Dear girl, I will see thee, if it be for an hour."
But scarcely had the words passed his lips, when, through the little window in the stern, he saw one of the gilded barges of the day come rushing along with full wind and tide; and the next moment a good deal of shouting and noise was heard above. An instant after, his servant ran down, and closing the door behind him, said, "Sir George Carew is alongside, sir, asking if this is your vessel."
"Curses upon him!" cried Seymour, striking the table. "But it is not his fault, either.--It is impossible now;" and folding up the letter, he placed it in his bosom, while a number of voices were heard talking upon deck, and some steps descending the ladder.
"Stay, Williams, stay," he said; "I must write an answer to this, which you must bear back again. If you can see the lady, tell her what has happened. Tell her I was coming to see her, but,"--the door opened as he spoke, and he added, in an altered tone,--"then join me at Brussels with all speed.--Ah, Carew! so you have caught me."
"Yes, Seymour," replied Sir George, shaking him by the hand; "it was very kind of you to lay to for me all night."
"Nay," answered the young gentleman, "I cannot take credit for such courtesy. I wished much to have news of a friend who is very ill."
"Some fair lady, I will swear," replied Sir George Carew. "God send her better, Seymour; and now, as soon as my packages are in, I am ready to sail; for the King's commands are strict upon both you and me to lose no time."
"I must write a letter first," said William Seymour; "then I am yours."
The letter was written, and the servant having received it, returned to Leigh, well furnished with money for his journey. As soon as his horse was in condition to travel, he once more set out for St. Neot's, which he reached about ten o'clock on the following morning. It was not without some apprehensions, to say the truth, that he asked for the Lady Arabella, for the suspicions which had been entertained regarding the plague had reached his ears on his former visit. The countenance of the hostess, however, was more cheerful, and the usual bustle of the inn was going on in full activity.
"She has got the doctors from Cambridge with her," replied the landlady, "and I doubt that she will see you, master, for she is to be kept very quiet they say."
"But how goes it with her?" asked the man. "Is it as you fancied?"
"No, no, God forbid!" cried the landlady, "they say she has had poison, but not enough to kill, and she is somewhat better already."
Weeks, months, and years passed away like a tale that is told; and on their passing we shall not pause, dear reader, for to say truth we should have little to relate, which in a work such as this would be pleasing to your ear. What satisfaction could you derive from pictures of a court full of venality and corruption?--What satisfaction would it be either to the writer or the reader to look into the pruriences of the most disgusting monarch that ever sat upon the English throne? We will not, therefore, attempt to paint him to you, either in his villanous efforts to crush the liberties of his people, and to establish the tyranny of prerogative upon the ruins of the English constitution; or, in his pitiful pedantry, erecting himself into an ecclesiastical judge, and setting himself up as the Pope of Great Britain. We will not represent him in his unjust and illiberal prodigality, stripping the crown of its wealth, robbing his subjects of their property, and despoiling the best servants of the state of their just reward, to bestow with a lavish and a thoughtless hand the plunder of the people upon the unworthy heads of base and ill-deserving favourites. We will not display him in his cold, fanatical cruelties, more horrible than the wildest excesses of passionate tyranny; we will not show him dangling with his upstart minions, in those sickening scenes which have caused not unreasonable suspicions of the most horrible crimes.
We will leave the course of James I. to the page of history, where it remains a foul blot, which not all the blood and horrors of the great rebellion--of which it was the origin and cause--have been able to efface. If ever the sins of the fathers were, according to the unshakeable decree of the Almighty, visited upon the children, such was most strikingly the case in the destiny of the unhappy race which sprang from his loins.
We must, however, touch upon some points affecting the fate of several of those whom we have brought upon the scene; and first we must conclude the sad tale of the conspirators. We shall do so, however, as briefly as possible; for this, too, is a matter of mere history, and only one or two of those personages lived to take part in the succeeding events.
As the plague still raged in London, the judges met at Maidenhead to inquire into the case against the prisoners, and examinations were entered into of a very irregular character, which were succeeded by a special commission, the chief end and object of which seemed to be, to set every principle of law and justice at defiance, to trample out the last sparks of liberty and security, and to show the British people that they were quite at the mercy of a vain and vicious king.
At the head of this special commission were Cecil and the Earl of Suffolk, with two chief justices; but two other judges sat in the court. The trials took place at Winchester, and George Brooke, Sir Griffin Markham, with several of the inferior conspirators, were first put to the bar. They were all found guilty, principally upon their own confessions, which were probably made in the hope of obtaining pardon; and upon all the severe sentence of high treason was pronounced. The two priests, Watson and Clarke, were also condemned; and then Cobham, Grey, and Raleigh were severally brought to trial.
The demeanour of these three gentlemen in court excited not a little attention at the time, the deportment of each being very different from that of the others, and each marked with strong characteristic traits. Lord Cobham displayed nothing but weakness, imbecility, and fear; he trembled violently during the reading of the indictment, endeavoured to excuse himself by casting the blame upon his friends, made a confession more ample, it is generally supposed, than even truth warranted, and ended by begging hard for life, when sentence of death was pronounced upon him.
A very different scene was displayed at the trial of Lord Grey de Wilton. He defended himself with courage, vigour, and eloquence, without the slightest sign of fear or anxiety; showed himself learned in the law of the land, and by his gallant bearing and skilful reasoning both won the favour, and shook the opinion, of many of his judges. Nevertheless, the confessions of George Brooke and Sir Griffin Markham, in which his name was mentioned, were received as conclusive evidence against him, and he likewise was pronounced guilty of high treason. When asked if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him, he replied at first, "Nothing!" but then added, "Non eadem omnibus decora. The house of the Wiltons have spent many lives in their princes' service, and Grey cannot beg his."
Raleigh was the next to undergo the torture of a public trial, and against him there was arrayed the envy of inferior minds, the hatred of a king, the malice of private enemies, the prepossession of his judges, and all the virulence of legal insolence. The conduct of the attorney-general, Sir Edward Coke, stamped him for posterity as one of the greatest villains, as well as one of the greatest lawyers, that ever lived; and his speech against the illustrious prisoner offers a model, too frequently imitated in France, of all that the counsel for the prosecution should not say.
Raleigh displayed upon this terrible occasion all those powers of mind which distinguished him through life; and he also showed much temper and moderation in reply to the virulent abuse of Coke. The evidence upon which he was condemned--namely, a vague and unsatisfactory confession of Lord Cobham, unsigned, taken down from word of mouth, and recanted in the most solemn manner by a letter to Raleigh himself, and the testimony of a man named Dyer, who swore that a stranger in Lisbon had said to him, that the King would never be crowned, for Don Raleigh and Don Cobham would first cut his throat--would of course never be even heard in a court of justice, in the present day; and yet this was all that could be brought against him. But it was found sufficient in the minds of the judges; and, although Raleigh demanded that Lord Cobham should be confronted with him, and urged that no man could be condemned upon the written testimony of only one witness, he was found guilty of high treason, and condemned to death. All that the prisoner required, after the verdict was given, was, that the King should be requested that his death might be an honourable and not an ignominious one. He hinted, however, a desire that his execution should be delayed till after Cobham's, probably in the hope that on the scaffold itself his former friend would do him justice, and declare his innocence with his dying breath.
After the trials, the Court and the country were all eager to know, what would be the conduct of the King, with whom alone the fate of the prisoners now remained; but James, following the usual principles of his kingcraft, kept his determinations to his own bosom, suffering not even his most favourite counsellors to know whether he would show lenity or severity. The crimes proved against George Brooke, and his general bad reputation, decided his fate, and he suffered the full penalties of high treason in the month of November, 1603. He died in the same bold and careless manner in which he had lived, apparently without either fear or regret; and the whole country seems to have approved of the firmness of the King in carrying his sentence into execution.
Different feelings, however, were entertained in regard to the two priests, Watson and Clarke, who suffered nearly at the same time. Neither of them showed the slightest want of courage, and Clarke boldly proclaimed on the scaffold, that he was a martyr to his religious faith. The Roman Catholics of course exalted their virtues and their devotion, and cried out against the severity with which they were treated by a monarch who had flattered the Papists with false hopes of toleration.
These three executions, however, created great alarm amongst the friends of the other prisoners; and various efforts were made to avert their fate by petition and solicitation. Still James remained silent and unmoved, the day appointed for the punishment of Cobham, Grey, and Markham approached rapidly, and at length the death-warrant was sent down to Winchester, and another was signed for the execution of Raleigh on the Monday following, three days after the period appointed for the fate of his fellow-prisoners. Markham received some reason to hope, from private friends at the Court, that his life would be spared, but the two peers and Raleigh were directed to prepare themselves for certain death. The Bishop of Chichester and the Bishop of Winchester remained constantly with Lord Cobham and Sir Walter Raleigh, having been instructed by the King not only to give them religious consolation, but to induce them to make a full confession, with a view, it would appear, of reconciling the discrepancy of their statements.
If this was the monarch's object, however, no success was obtained; for while the weak and imbecile Lord Cobham once more varied in his statements, and re-asserted all that he had previously laid to the charge of Raleigh, the knight firmly maintained his innocence, and varied not in the least from his former account.
At length, on the Friday appointed for the execution, Markham was brought out of the castle, at ten o'clock in the morning, to the scaffold erected on the green. Finding all the preparations for the work of death ready, he complained bitterly of having been deluded with false hopes, admitted that he had listened but little to the exhortations of the priests, having been always assured that he would receive a pardon, and added that he was in no degree prepared to die.
Nevertheless, he displayed no want of courage, but calmly took leave of some of his friends who stood near the scaffold; but one of them having given him a handkerchief to cover his eyes, he threw it indignantly from him, saying that he could look death in the face without blushing. He then crossed himself, knelt, and prayed; after which he stripped off his doublet, and turned back the collar of his shirt, that his neck might receive the blow of the axe unimpeded. Whilst he was performing this last sad ceremony, a Scotch gentleman, of the name of John Gibb, groom of the bedchamber to the king, approached the scaffold from the side of the castle, and called the sheriff down to speak with him. Their conversation seemed long to the spectators, and probably not less so to the unfortunate Markham, who remained with his neck and shoulders bare, waiting for the order to lay his head upon the block. At length Sir Benjamin Tichborne, the sheriff, returned, and addressing the prisoner, said, "Sir, since you tell me that you are so ill-prepared for death, having been led by false hopes that your life would be spared, I take upon me, after consultation with a gentleman attached to the king, to grant you two hours' respite, that you may reconcile yourself, if possible, to God before you die.--Follow me."
Hastily covering his throat, and resuming his garments, with his whole brain whirling and his heart full of doubt and uncertainty, Markham followed the sheriff from the scaffold, and was conducted to the wide old stone chamber known in those days as Prince Arthur's Hall, where, the door being locked, he was left to meditate in solitude, without even the presence of a priest to afford him consolation, or encourage him to hope.
In the meanwhile, Lord Grey de Wilton was led to the scaffold, accompanied by a Puritan minister of the name of Field, and a large troop of noble friends. His countenance was gay and smiling, his whole demeanour easy and unaffected; and after Field had prayed for some time, the young lord addressed the people in an eloquent speech, full of deep religious feeling, and confidence in the mercy of God. He looked, says one of the authors of that day, more like a bridegroom than a condemned criminal.
In the midst of his speech, however, he was interrupted by the sheriff, who informed him that he had the king's command to stay the order of the execution, and to behead Lord Cobham first. With much surprise, and with no expression of satisfaction, Lord Grey, whose mind was perfectly made up to his fate, suffered himself to be led back to the castle, where he also was locked up in Prince Arthur's Hall, to converse with Sir Griffin Markham upon their strange situation. Lord Cobham was next brought upon the scene, and he also went through the same ceremony of prayer and preparation for the block. He showed none of that timidity and want of resolution, now that his fate was decided, which he had displayed while it seemed doubtful, but maintained that what he had said of Sir Walter Raleigh was true, though, as some writers have justly observed, no one could tell what he did really wish to impute and what he did not, as, amongst his various confessions and retractions, there was no one part that did not contradict another.
As he was about to kneel down to receive the stroke of the axe, the sheriff stopped him, saying, that he had orders to confront him, even at that last hour, with some of the other conspirators; and a message having been sent into the castle, Lord Grey and Sir Griffin Markham were brought back to the scaffold, where Sir Benjamin Tichborne addressed them in a long speech, inquiring whether they did not confess they were justly condemned, and merited death.
To this they assented, without reserve, and the sheriff announced to them that the king, in his great mercy, had determined to spare their lives. A full pardon, however, was not given; and Lords Cobham and Grey were destined to endure a long and painful imprisonment, terminated in the case of the first by his escape being connived at, and he himself allowed to drag out a few years in the most abject poverty and misery, till a wretched death, hastened by actual want, filth, and wretchedness, terminated the sorrows of a man who not long before had been one of the most wealthy peers of the realm. The proud and eager spirit of Lord Grey brought his career to an earlier close; and that most common of all diseases, which has obtained--why or wherefore I know not--the name of a broken heart, terminated his sufferings a few years after. Markham and several of the inferior conspirators were banished from the realm; and of one of them, at least, we shall have to speak hereafter. Raleigh, as all the world knows, was suffered to languish in prison for many years, with a capital sentence hanging over his head, and destined in the end to be one of the most illustrious victims to the tyranny and injustice of a base and low-minded king.
Thus did James contrive even with mercy to mingle tyranny, to deprive apparent clemency of all real lenity, and to display the pitiful frivolity of his nature in the solemn exercise of his holiest and his highest prerogative. There were not one of those, except Markham, whom he reprieved at Winchester, to whom immediate death would not have been pity, compared with the fate for which he reserved them; and yet the country rang with applause even while the spirit of historic truth stamped the act with the infamous brand it deserves.