It is a strange and terrible ordination that the vices and passions, the follies and prejudices, the wickedness and the iniquity of man, which run in threads through the whole web of society, spoiling a fair and otherwise beautiful fabric, should chequer the fate of the most virtuous and good with the dark lines of sorrow and misfortune, and that in this strangely constituted world, the best feelings of the best hearts, operated upon by the baseness of others, should be very frequently the causes of disaster and distress to those who, if this earth were the soul's abiding-place, might claim the brightest lot that falls to the portion of humanity.
After leaving the mouth of the river, and rounding the North Foreland, the Lady Arabella, somewhat recovered from the first effects of disappointment, came upon deck, and stood for a few minutes gazing over the world of waters. The wind, which had not been very favourable for their course down the river, was now all that could be desired; but Arabella, anxious for Seymour's safety, first expressed a wish, and then entreated eagerly, that the captain would lay-to for a short time, to afford a chance of the arrival of her husband.
The master, now free from the river, was willing to accede to her wishes; and even her attendants, who had recovered from their apprehensions, did not offer any opposition. Towards evening, however, as the expected boat did not appear, it was determined once more to sail on towards Calais; and the execution of this resolution was carried on more eagerly, as a ship, then called a pinnace, but which would now be called a sloop, was seen drawing towards them, with the royal flag displayed. Scarcely were they under sail, however, when the pinnace fired a shot across their bows, as a signal to bring-to.
"Ay, I thought so," cried the Captain, with a loud oath, in his native tongue; "this comes of losing time. Go down below, lady--go down below; your presence only cumbers us here. We shall reach Calais before them yet."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, make all sail," replied Arabella.
"Be you sure I will do that," replied the man; "she shall stick out every inch of canvas she can carry. But go you down, and don't be afraid;" and he turned to give orders to his crew.
The ship sailed on with all the speed that she could command; but, though by no means a slow vessel, the pinnace gained perceptibly upon her, and the only hope was, that they might be enabled to reach the French coast before the English vessel actually came up with them.
In the meantime, Arabella went down into the cabin, and leaning her head upon her hand, gave herself up to every sort of melancholy anticipation. The women-servants, who had been sent to accompany her, were well nigh strangers to her; and she had no one to whom she could venture to display all the sorrowful feelings of her heart. The only comfort that she felt was the rippling sound of the waves, as the ship passed through them; but the hope of escape was faint, even though she felt that they were going with tremendous speed. Her spirit was one that had never through life indulged in sanguine expectations; and with her brightest and most cheerful feelings there had always mingled a shade of melancholy, as if she were forewarned by some internal voice of the sad fate before her.
The rapid rate at which the vessel went, the eager cries of the persons in command, the plunging of the ship, as she passed wave after wave, for several minutes did, indeed, afford to the unfortunate lady some hope of reaching the coast which she had seen in the faint distance from the deck. But she was not permitted long to indulge in such anticipations.
The report of a cannon soon reached her ear; another and another followed. Still, however, the ship sailed on, and no sounds from above, but the mere word of command, gave notice that the danger was increased. A pause ensued; and then again the cannon were heard, she thought, more distinctly. Still no unusual bustle displayed itself on deck; and one of her women, looking through the small window in the stern, remarked, in a low voice, that the pinnace seemed more distant.
A moment after a single gun was fired, and though there had been some noise above previously, deep silence instantly succeeded. Immediately after a rattling sound and a heavy fall upon the deck were heard, followed by cries, and shouts, and exclamations, but the ship continued on her course, and one of the servants coming in, informed Arabella that a shot from the pinnace had struck the boat upon the deck, but had done no farther mischief.
"It would be better for them to strike," she murmured. "What should I feel if any of them were killed on my account? Better linger out my life in prison, than be the cause of bloodshed."
"The captain says we shall get to Calais yet, lady," replied the man.
"God send it," she answered; and as she spoke, the guns of the pinnace were again heard.
The next instant the little vessel shook, as something struck her; and, tearing through the wood-work of the cabin, and casting splinters far and wide, came a ball, which passed within a few feet of the lady, and entered a beam beyond her. Arabella did not start or shrink, for she had no fears for herself; but it seemed evident that the pursuers were drawing nearer, and she was terrified for her companions. Rapid steps now came down the ladder, and the captain of the ship ran in and gazed around.
"Go forward, lady," he said; "go forward into that little room; you will be safer there. Come, every one lend a hand, and pile up some hammocks round the side."
"Do you think you can outsail them?" asked Arabella.
"I hope so, lady," he replied. "At all events, I will try."
"Strike when you like," said Arabella, "without considering me. I would not have you risk yourself and your men on my account."
"Thank you, lady, thank you," answered the seaman. "We will risk ourselves none the less for what you say, and strike I will not till I am compelled. They have no right to fire at a ship of a friendly country, and our King will have vengeance for such conduct."
Thus saying, he left her; and though the guns of the pinnace were fired from time to time, no other event occurred for near a quarter of an hour, when a tremendous crash was heard. The little vessel heeled suddenly; and a rattling sound of falling timber and cordage showed that some of the masts or yards had been carried away. Three or four minutes elapsed, while all eyes in the cabin were fixed anxiously upon the door, and the rate of the ship visibly diminished.
At length the captain of the vessel entered, with a sad and gloomy countenance: "It is no use, lady, to try it any longer," he said; "they have carried away our topmast; and we have no chance now. I have done the best for you that I could, but it is vain. Have I your consent to heave-to?"
"At once," answered Arabella; "do not let them fire at you again. Make them some signal, my good friend. Now for my prison again," she murmured, as the captain left her. "I have never yet known hope, but to be disappointed;" and, bending down her head, she pressed her handkerchief upon her eyes, while a low struggling sob or two told that she was weeping, but strove to restrain her tears.
In a few minutes she had overcome her emotion, and, wiping her eyes, sat calmly, till the sound of many voices speaking on the deck, and at the side of the vessel, showed her that a boat from the pinnace was alongside. After a short pause, steps were again heard coming down, and an English gentleman appeared, completely armed, as was the custom of that age.
"The Lady Arabella Stuart?" he said, advancing into the cabin, and gazing around.
"My name is Arabella Seymour, sir," answered the lady; "but I suppose you mean myself."
"I do, madam," he replied; "and I regret to say, that my orders are to land you and convey you to London, as a prisoner. But before I do so, I must beg you to answer me truly, whether Mr. Seymour be on board?"
Arabella started, and looked up, with an expression of joy.
"He has escaped, then!" she cried; "he has escaped. Thank God, thank God! Pardon me, Lord, for murmuring at thy will! He has escaped, and I am happy."
"Then I am to conclude, madam," said the officer, "that he is not on board this ship?"
"Most assuredly he is not," replied Arabella; "of that I pledge you my word. I trust that by this time he is safe in France."
"No one can tell, madam," was the answer; "he had escaped from the Tower; but to escape from the country is another affair."
The only bitter thing that Arabella probably ever said in her life, now rose to her lips. "I know it is," she replied; "it seems as if England had become one great prison." And the chill which the officer's words cast upon the hopes that she had entertained of her husband's escape, depressed her more even than her own re-capture.
The ship was immediately taken into port, but all things seemed now indifferent to her. Her mind, agitated by the past, uncertain at the present, apprehensive of the future, became bewildered and confused. She suffered those who were around her to do with her what they would; and, during that evening and the following day, she appeared to be in a dream, painful and terrible, but indistinct and misty. Nor was it till she found herself passing the gloomy portals of the Tower, that she awakened to all the stern reality of her fate. Then she burst into tears again, and a cold shudder passed over her frame, as she gazed around upon the grey walls which had witnessed the sorrows and the death of so many of her race.
The next morning early, she was hurried before the Council, and subjected to all the anguish of public examination and reproof, which not even her gentleness could mitigate. But as she left the council-chamber, to return to her sad captivity in the Tower, some friendly heart afforded her the greatest alleviation that her grief could receive. In passing through the mixed crowd that filled the corridor, one of the persons present, she could not distinguish whom, whispered in haste, "Mr. Seymour has arrived safe in France!"
Arabella started, and turned round; but, hurried on by those who guarded her, she was unable to see any familiar face among the crowd; and, uttering the words "Thank God!" she proceeded on her way.
On that one thought she pondered during the rest of the day, speaking little to any one, and taking little nourishment, but often repeating to herself, "He is safe!--Thank God, he is safe!"
Towards nightfall she was visited by the Lieutenant of the Tower, who came to inform her that the two servants who had been captured with her were to be removed--three others, a gentlewoman, a chambermaid, and a man, having been sent to attend upon her by the King.
Arabella smiled sadly. "He need not envy me, Lieutenant," she said, "the poor comfort of seeing faces that I know. I shall have few consolations within these walls--but one, indeed; and that he cannot take from me."
"And what is that, lady, may I ask?" said the Lieutenant.
"My trust in God, sir," replied Arabella; "there are justice and mercy above, if not below. But pray let me see these people whom the King has sent; I must welcome my fellow-prisoners."
"The man, madam," answered the Lieutenant, "tells me that he was in your service at Highgate; but as it has been proved that he had no hand in your escape, the King has restored him to you."
"Oh, poor Cobham!" exclaimed Arabella; "I shall be glad to see him, though it is selfish, too, for he will have a dull life here."
"I trust, lady," replied the Lieutenant, "that neither he nor you will be long within these walls. The King will, I hope, be satisfied with submission, and set you at liberty ere long."
"I must not doubt it, Lieutenant," said Arabella; "for that were to accuse him of injustice. I will try to make myself as cheerful under the infliction as may be. I have heard that you are kind to your prisoners, Lieutenant, and have to thank you for your treatment of one whom I love better than myself."
"I owe a large debt of gratitude to that gentleman's house," answered the officer; "and would gladly repay it, madam, by any courtesy to you, but I shall not have the opportunity, I fear. To-morrow I am to be removed from my office, to make way for another; but he is a gentleman of good repute, and will, I trust, deal kindly with all under his care. I will now send these people to you, lady, and take my leave, wishing you happier with all my heart."
Thus saying, he quitted the room; and, in a few minutes, the door again opened. Arabella raised her eyes, with as well-contented a smile as she could assume, to welcome her old servant Cobham; but by the faint light that streamed through the high window, she saw another well-known form; and, starting up, with a look of joy she cast herself upon Ida Mara's neck; and then, overwhelmed with various emotions, burst into tears.
"Oh, Ida, Ida," she cried; "this is relief indeed."
"Hush, dear lady," whispered Ida Mara; "do not seem too glad to see me. Speak to Cobham and the girl. I will explain all when they are gone."
Arabella raised her head, and then saw that two of the King's officers had followed the rest of the party.
"Ah, Cobham," she said, turning to her old servant; "I am right glad to see you all once more;" and she held out her hand to him.
The man took and kissed it respectfully, saying aloud, "I would gladly see you anywhere but here, madam; and if you had told me what you were going to do, I would have taken care you should not be here at all."
"No rebellious words, sirrah," said one of the officers; "I will report them to the King."
"You may report what you like," replied the man, bluntly.
But Arabella interposed, exclaiming, "Hush! hush! I beseech you, sir, refrain; if you have any of the feelings of a gentleman, you will not think of repeating, where it may do harm, the expression of a faithful servant's attachment to his unhappy mistress. Jane, I am glad to see you."
The girl replied with a discontented look, merely saying that she hoped her mistress was well, and then retired with Cobham and the King's officers to the rooms appropriated to the servants of the Lady Arabella, which were contiguous to her own.
"Alas! dear lady," said Ida Mara, as soon as they were gone. "Alas! to find you here! How eagerly did I watch and inquire for any tidings respecting you; and then, when I heard that you were taken, I trembled lest they should debar me from seeing you."
"But how came they to send you?" asked Arabella; "it is indeed an act of favour which I did not expect."
"Why, lady, the King has deceived himself entirely respecting me," replied the fair Italian. "It is his own doing; for I said not one word to mislead him, though I took good care not to contradict him."
"You were wise," said Arabella; "he is not one to bear opposition. But how came it about, my Ida?"
Ida then related to the lady all that the reader already knows, concerning the events which happened to her after quitting Mr. Conyers' house at Highgate.
"What was their object," she said, "in taking me away I have no precise means of knowing; but I am sore I saw that dreadful man's face for a moment; and having once vowed revenge against me, I am certain that he will not fail to seek it whenever the opportunity occurs. I believed he was dead, till within the last week; for I had not seen him before for several years. But I do not think I can deceive myself now, and though the hair and beard are black instead of grey, the features are the same. But I will not dwell upon that, dear lady; the King cheated himself, as I have told you. He thought I had been carried away by order of your friends, because you could not place confidence in me; and to-day he sent for me, to ask if I would return to attend upon you while you are a prisoner in the Tower. I took care not to seem too ready, saying that I did not like imprisonment, nor the Tower for a residence; but that if it were his majesty's wish, I was ready to obey him implicitly. Thereupon he praised my submission, and assured me that I should have as much liberty as possible while here. He knew not how gladly my heart beat to have permission to come. If he had, I think he would have forbidden it."
"And can you really find joy, Ida?" asked the lady, "in sharing a prison with me?--Who can tell, my poor girl, how long it may last? Who can tell that I may not here end my days?"
"Oh, Heaven forbid," cried Ida Mara; "we will soften these stones first with our tears."
"Alas!" replied Arabella, "I fear that we shall not ever be able to soften the heart of the King by any tears that we may shed. But at all events, your being with me will be an alleviation of my sorrow."
"Perhaps you may be able to escape, lady," rejoined Ida Mara.
"No, Ida, no;" answered Arabella; "I will not try. The net is around me, and it is of no use to flap my wings. On the contrary, I will make a voluntary promise not to escape, if they will give me the full range of my cage; and then, like many another poor bird, I will sit and sing my life away between the bars. I only grieve to think that, for my sake, you should be doomed to the same hard fate."
Ida Mara kissed the lady's hand, and gazed in her face, with a look of deep sadness; but she only replied, "You forget, madam, that imprisonment to me is not what it is to you. I have nothing in the world without to sigh for. Oh, that they would but keep me and let you go!"
Arabella answered her by tears.
Never did human being, in a world of woe, strive with more patient perseverance for contentment with his lot than did poor Arabella Seymour. She called to her aid all the resources of a humble and a faithful spirit. She trusted in God, she resigned herself to his will, she tried to bear the chastening hand with cheerfulness; but it was in vain she did so. Hours, days, weeks passed,--the heavy hours, days, weeks of imprisonment, without one hope coming to lighten the burden or assuage the pangs.
At first, she consoled herself with the knowledge that Seymour was safe beyond the power of the vain tyrant who kept her within those walls; but she soon found that even that consolation, when she indulged in it, produced an evil effect upon her mind. The thought that he was secure and free, brought with it the eager yearnings of a warm and affectionate heart to be with him, to rest upon the bosom of him she loved, to hear the music of his voice, to see his eyes beaming upon her with tenderness and devotion.
She dared not trust herself with such meditations, for they were dangerous to her tranquillity, and were sure to end in long and bitter weeping. Then she strove to extract hope from some fruitless effort to soften the cold and obdurate heart of the King,--as the alchymists of the day attempted to draw gold from lead or iron. But yet, even in the act, she knew it to be idle. She would gaze upon the letter she had written, beseeching this person or that, who was supposed to have influence over James, to intercede for her; and with a sad smile, shake her head and sigh, exclaiming, "Vain, vain! it is all in vain!"
Then she would wander round the walls of the Tower, gaze on the busy multitudes swarming freely without, picture to herself their thoughts, feelings, and occupations; trace them, in her imagination, through their daily labour, and follow them back again to the home of domestic love; and the tears would rise in her eyes, as she thought that no such home was ever to be hers.
Or, at other times, she would turn towards the river with its shipping, and mark the light boats gliding over the waters, and long--oh, with what a thirsty longing!--to pursue the course of that stream once more, and over the wide sea, to find the free happiness denied her there; and when she looked around on bars, and gates, and guards, her heart would feel chilled and crushed; and again her tears would rise, and drop upon the stones of the wall.
Often, when such was the case, some words which had been used by Ida Mara came back to her mind; and she would ponder on them, and turn them in her imagination a thousand ways; for sadness ever will sport with fancy, and misery often dances in her chains.
One day, as she was sitting in her chamber, with the fair Italian beside her singing to her, she wrote from time to time a word or two on some paper which lay upon the table; and when the girl's song was done, she said, "Give me your instrument, Ida; I will sing you a song now;" and placing the paper upright before her, she proceeded to pour forth, to a simple air of the time, the lines she had just written.
SONG."Ye gloomy walls, that circling round,Oppress this form of clay,When shall my spirit spurn the boundHarsh men around it lay?Oh! were there power in tears,Shed through unnumbered years,To soften the hard stone,Long ere this weary day,Melting like snow away,Ye to the dust had gone."Lo! wreathing round your hoary towers,Those who lie cold beneath,Entwine a coronal of flowersAnd honour you in death.Though were there power in tears,Dropp'd through unnumbered years,To soften the hard stone,The torrents that the deadWithin these walls have shed,Had of those towers left none!"But all in vain, my heart would fly,Wide o'er the land and wave,To scenes of life and libertyFrom this, its prison grave.No! there's no power in tears,Shed through unnumbered years,To soften the hard stone.Else would I weep all day,And cease only to pray,Till ye to dust were gone."But colder than these iron walls,Hardest of earthly things,Is that which dwells in courtly hallsWithin the breast of kings.Though there were power in tears,Shed through unnumbered years,To soften the hard stone,There, fruitless would they prove!Grief has no power to moveThe heart of man alone."
"Ye gloomy walls, that circling round,
Oppress this form of clay,
When shall my spirit spurn the bound
Harsh men around it lay?
Oh! were there power in tears,
Shed through unnumbered years,
To soften the hard stone,
Long ere this weary day,
Melting like snow away,
Ye to the dust had gone.
"Lo! wreathing round your hoary towers,
Those who lie cold beneath,
Entwine a coronal of flowers
And honour you in death.
Though were there power in tears,
Dropp'd through unnumbered years,
To soften the hard stone,
The torrents that the dead
Within these walls have shed,
Had of those towers left none!
"But all in vain, my heart would fly,
Wide o'er the land and wave,
To scenes of life and liberty
From this, its prison grave.
No! there's no power in tears,
Shed through unnumbered years,
To soften the hard stone.
Else would I weep all day,
And cease only to pray,
Till ye to dust were gone.
"But colder than these iron walls,
Hardest of earthly things,
Is that which dwells in courtly halls
Within the breast of kings.
Though there were power in tears,
Shed through unnumbered years,
To soften the hard stone,
There, fruitless would they prove!
Grief has no power to move
The heart of man alone."
"Now run away, Ida, and fetch me a book," said Arabella; "I must not let such thoughts stir within me any more; they render me discontented, dear girl; and, they say, a contented heart makes a garden of a wilderness."
"Ay, dear lady," answered Ida Mara, with a sigh; "but it is hard work first plucking up the thorns. You have no books but those you have read often;--which shall I bring you?"
"Run to Sir Gervase Elways," said Arabella, "and ask him to lend me something new. He is a learned man, and very complaisant, and I know amuses the tediousness of his charge with much reading. A blessing on those who write for us! How many a heavy heart is lightened by reading the tales of other men's endurance; how many a sick bed is smoothed by the light hand of gentle poetry! Good faith, Ida--as it must be for one or the other--I would rather weep for the gone-by sorrows of other people than for my own, too truly present."
Ida Mara left her mistress to obey; but, in a moment after, she came back pale and trembling.
"What is the matter, Ida? what is the matter?" cried the lady, starting up.
"Ah, madam!" answered the girl, "I have just seen that terrible man, Weston, tripping across to the Bell-tower, where poor Sir Thomas Overbury is confined, and I shall now live in constant dread."
"Did he see you?" asked Arabella.
"I think not--I hope not," replied Ida Mara. "I was under the arch below, and he was going the other way, dressed in black velvet, with soft steps, like a cat creeping up to a bird."
Arabella mused. "Call Jane hither," she said. And when the girl appeared, she added, "Go to the warder opposite there, and ask him the name of the gentleman dressed in black velvet, who just now crossed to the Bell-tower."
The girl retired without any answer; for she was of a somewhat sullen disposition, and discontented at being kept so long in the Tower. She returned in a few minutes, saying, "His name is Doctor Foreman, my lady; and he has gone, by the King's order, to visit Sir Thomas Overbury, who is sick."
Ida cast down her eyes thoughtfully on the ground; and Arabella, after giving the maid a sign that she might retire, murmured, "Doctor Foreman!--why, that is the man of whom there was so much talk at the Court, a sort of wizard, a conjurer, and a cheat,--suspected, too, of dealing in poisons. I heard the Queen say, his majesty would have him hanged.--Can he be sent to Sir Thomas Overbury by the King?"
"Oh, lady, lady," cried Ida Mara, "it is the same man. Whatever name he may now call himself by, that is Weston. And I will tell you," she added, kneeling on the cushion at the lady's feet, "I will tell you now what it was he wished me to do, that made me fly from him in such terror, which I have never told you before. He wished me to go to a young nobleman of the Court, who had been pleased with my music, to live with him for a time in sin," and then she paused, and sunk her voice to a whisper, adding, "and then--to put poison in his drink."
Arabella shuddered: "Good heaven!" she cried, "is it possible that such iniquity should live and prosper?--But why did you not accuse him, and bring him to punishment, Ida?"
"Because I had no proof," replied the girl: "at first I fled from him in terror and consternation, knowing that if I did not do as he required, after he had put his secret in my power, he would poison me; and then, when good Sir Harry West delivered me from him, I reflected, and saw that to bring such a charge might but call down destruction on my own head. I was but a poor Italian girl--an alien, a stranger, with no one to speak for me, nothing to corroborate what I said. He had taken care to give me no proof against him; there was but my word against his; and I knew he was supported by many great men, who were more or less in his power, from secrets that they dared not see divulged.--What could I do, lady?"
"You did right, you did right, dear Ida," answered Arabella: "but I fear much that, even now, he goes to Sir Thomas Overbury for no good. I will not believe that the King has sent him; or, if so, the King is but a tool in the hands of others. This poor Knight has many enemies, I fear. Are there no means of warning him against so dangerous a physician?"
"Perhaps there may be," answered Ida Mara; "for though there is a guard at each end of the walk on the top of the wall, to prevent his passing farther on either side than for mere air and exercise, yet they have never stopped me as I have passed that way; and one day I saw his door open."
"Did you ever meet him?" asked Arabella.
"No, never," replied Ida Mara; "but I hear he is ill now, and confined to his bed."
"Alas!" said Arabella, "who can tell how that illness has been brought about? There were suspicions abroad from the very first. Men discovered that Rochester, instead of being his friend, was his enemy; and there is not such a rancorous hatred on this earth, Ida, as that which dwells in the breast of the ungrateful. This poor man's imprisonment is a living reproach to the King's favourite; and I have many, many doubts."
"I shall not dare to turn my steps that way again," said Ida Mara, "lest I should meet that dreadful man. The very sight of him seems to curdle my whole blood, and makes my heart labour as if it would not beat."
Arabella remained in thought for a few minutes, and then said, "I will go myself, Ida; he must be warned, if possible."
"Nay, lady, nay," answered Ida Mara; "I meant not to say that; I will go. We shall soon see him pass back, and then it will be safe." As she spoke, she approached the window and looked out, keeping herself, however, behind the stonework of the wall.
Arabella followed her, standing somewhat more forward, and gazing down into the open space below. They remained thus, however, for nearly a quarter of an hour, without seeing any one but an occasional labourer, and a party of the guard, proceeding towards the outer gates.
At length Arabella cried, "Here is some one now, Ida;" and the girl, leaning her head a little forward, exclaimed, "That is he, that is he!" drawing back instantly from the window with a shudder.
Arabella watched him as he crossed towards the gate. "'Tis strange," she said, "I can discover in his appearance none of those deadly signs you speak of. To me, he would seem but that pitiful thing, a vain old coxcomb, affecting the air and step of youth, dressed in the butterfly finery of early thoughtlessness, and banishing the comely gravity of years. He trips along like some Court dancing master, fancying himself a treasury of graces, which he bestows as a bounty on less gifted men. But he is gone, Ida. Now we will set out together. Nay, I will go with you; for if you are afraid of his company, I am afraid of my solitude. Sometimes, when I am alone, I think I shall go mad."
In execution of their design, the lady and her attendant went out and walked slowly along the wall, towards the tower in which the unhappy Overbury was confined. But the orders of the guard were by this time changed; and the man at the angle nearest to the Knight's prison dropped his partizan, saying, "You cannot pass here, ladies, unless you give the countersign."
"That we are not able to do," answered Arabella, pausing; "we are not soldiers, my good sir, to take the fortress by surprise; and I think they never furnish us poor women with signs or countersigns."
"You cannot pass here, madam, without," replied the man, bluffly; "there are new orders given for the custody of the close prisoners; so you must take your walk another way."
Arabella turned sadly back towards her room. But while she did so, we must pursue, for a short time, the course of the dark and infamous villain who had just left the chamber of Sir Thomas Overbury. Although his step was as light as air, and debonair as ever, Doctor Foreman did not feel altogether well satisfied and at ease.
"The man suspects something," he said, speaking evidently of Overbury; "and I doubt this new Lieutenant does his duty well."
What the duty was which he spoke of would not be difficult to say, for the most corrupt hearts apply to their own purposes, however dark and horrible they may be, the highest and the holiest terms; and the reluctant apprehension which, it would seem, Sir Gervase always felt in yielding himself to the criminal designs of his patrons, was construed by their less scrupulous accomplice into a lack of due devotion to their cause.
"That girl, too," continued the charlatan to himself, pursuing his way; "she must be provided for. She would make a cruel witness against one, if anything were to come out. Weston's the man, however.--My boy Dick has no scruples; he can settle both affairs at once; but he must have full power, and not be always hampered by this knave of a Lieutenant. I must see my Lord of Rochester, and get his authority, otherwise we shall make no progress. To-morrow, I hear, is to be his wedding-day with our fair Countess, so he will be in good humour."
Such reveries brought him to the water side, and calling one of the wherries, which were, perhaps, more plentiful upon the Thames in those days than in our own, he made the boatman conduct him at once to Whitehall.
On his visit to Rochester, however, we will not pause, reluctant to dwell upon scenes of such depravity one moment more than is absolutely necessary to the history that we tell. It is well known that strict orders were given to the Lieutenant of the Tower to admit, without restriction, the persons selected for the execution of the designs against the unhappy prisoner. Armed with these, Foreman returned to hold a conference, in which he expected to encounter no obstacles; but on that point he was somewhat disappointed.
The door of his house was opened for him by the little page, whom we have seen on a former occasion carrying his sword; and in his ante-room above he found the man, Weston, who had been engaged in carrying off Ida Mara from Highgate. He was dressed as a servant, though in somewhat gay attire; but his face was sullen and downcast; and, when his worthy master told him to follow him into an inner chamber, he obeyed slowly, and without reply.
"Now, Weston," cried Doctor Foreman, seating himself, "I have got a great and important affair for you."
"I won't undertake it," replied the man.
"Won't undertake it?" repeated Foreman, with every mark of surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said; "that I will not undertake any great affair, unless I am to be better rewarded than I was for the last."
"But you were not successful," said the doctor; "all people are paid according to their success."
"I won't be paid so," rejoined Weston; "I run the same risk whether I am successful or not, and so I have a right to the same recompence; and I will have it before-hand too. I will trust to no man."
"There you are right," replied Weston; "and you shall have it before-hand; nor will it be a trifle, I can tell you; for what you have to do will make a great man of you. To set out with, the gentleman who employs me will give you a hundred nobles."
"Come, this is speaking reason," cried Weston, rubbing his hands; "let us hear what is to be done. For a hundred nobles I will go a good way."
"The affair is very easy," answered Foreman, well pleased to bring him so easily to compliance. "I am about to place you in the service of poor Sir Thomas Overbury, who is a close prisoner in the Tower, you know. No one will be admitted to him but yourself; and, as he is very ill, you must be careful of him. Particularly, you must remark that, as I am his physician, he is to take nothing but what I send him. You must even, perhaps, cook his food for him; for there are sick people, you know, who will eat things that are hurtful to them."
"I understand, I understand," said Weston, with a nod of the head; "is there anything more?"
"Nothing," answered Foreman; "unless you like, by way of amusing yourself, to be very civil to the pretty lady you carried off from Highgate, who is there in the Tower, attending upon the Lady Arabella. You may ask her to take a glass of wine with you; and I will give you some glasses with twisted stalks, very beautiful to see, which I brought from Venice."
"Anything more?" asked the man, in a tone that Dr. Foreman did not altogether like.
"No," he replied; "no; you will have quite enough to do to effect this properly, though my Lord of Rochester will furnish you with sufficient powers, to prevent much trouble about it."
"Well," replied Weston; "I understand you, then, completely; but to be sure that I make no mistake, in consequence of delicate phrases, I had better repeat the whole in plain English."
"It may be as well," said Doctor Foreman, with a nod.
"Thus it is, then," answered Weston; "I am to go into the service of Sir Thomas Overbury in the Tower, to have him quite in my own hands, and to give him the poison that you give me for him?" (Doctor Foreman nodded.) "Then am to make friends with the girl, and poison her too?" (Doctor Foreman nodded again.) And Weston proceeded: "And for all this I am to have a hundred nobles.--Come, come, dear doctor, it's time we should understand each other. Very likely, if I were but a common servant, such pay might be considered handsome. But people tell me you are my papa."
"There may be some truth in that," said Foreman, with a grin.
"Well, then," rejoined Weston; "you would not have your dear son put his neck in jeopardy for a hundred nobles?"
"I have often put mine in jeopardy for a less sum," answered Foreman, "before I made the large fortune that I have made, and which I have left to you at my death, if you behave well, Dick. I wish you to work your way up, as I have worked mine: and as you are a shrewd youth, with all the money that you will have from me, you may go much farther than I have gone."
"I may go to the gallows, perhaps," replied Weston.
"Pooh, nonsense," answered his worthy father, "if you go to the gallows, the Lord Rochester and the Countess of Essex must go first; and the King would sooner go himself."
"Ay, that is a different affair," cried Weston. "But have you really left me all you have got? for of course that must be a consideration."
"You shall see the will yourself," replied the learned doctor; and, opening a strong box, he took out a parchment from amongst several others, and placed it in the hands of his worshipful son.
The younger man ran his eyes over it with a look of vast satisfaction. "That's enough," he said; "that's enough. I'll do anything you like. Give me the powders."
"Nay," answered Foreman, taking down a bottle from one of the shelves, and pouring a small quantity of the liquor it contained into a phial, "you must give this to Sir Thomas Overbury, by a spoonful at a time. Then, as for the girl, here is this powder. If you can ever get her to eat or drink in your presence, you have nothing to do, but to hold the contents between your finger and thumb--so--and drop it upon her food, or into her cup. It will dissolve instantly; and in half an hour she will be in Heaven.--Sudden deaths will happen; who can help it?"
"Nobody, to be sure," answered the young man, laughing; "but I don't see why you should wish her out of the way."
"Oh, I have good reasons; I have good reasons," said Foreman, nodding his head significantly.
"Ah, well; it's no business of mine," cried Weston. "I'll do the business! Give me the drugs."
Foreman delivered them into his hands; then added several directions as to his conduct, and furnished him with a letter from Lord Rochester to the Lieutenant of the Tower.
To secure all, the hundred nobles were bestowed at once; and Weston departed from the room to make ready for his expedition. But the first thought that crossed his mind was, "No, no! Overbury, if you like; but the girl is safe. This powder I'll keep for another occasion; and if you play me false, old gentleman, look to yourself."
With this hint of his very filial intentions, he secured the drugs in the heart of a bundle of clothes, and set out upon his errand with as much alacrity as if he was going to a wedding feast.
There had been a good deal of bustle and confusion in the Tower during the morning, three days after the events which we have related in the last chapter. Two persons, bearing the appearance of physicians, had crossed from the gate to the tower in which Overbury was imprisoned, and visited him, in company with the Lieutenant, while, from the window of the Lady Arabella's chamber, might be seen a group, consisting of the notorious Doctor Foreman, Weston, and another man, conversing together eagerly, and evidently waiting till the personages who had been admitted to their victim returned.
The physicians soon passed by the spot where they stood, without taking any other notice of them than by a contemptuous look, which the younger of the two bestowed upon Foreman; and immediately after, Sir Gervase Elways joined their evil council, and remained in conversation with them nearly half an hour.
After the consultation was concluded, Foreman quitted the Tower; and the rest of the party separated. Silence and solitude then took possession of the walls and courts around; and during the rest of the day, it was remarked that an unusual degree of stillness prevailed in that part of the fortress, few, if any persons, being seen moving about, and the only noises heard being those which rose from Tower Hill and the streets adjacent.
In the meanwhile, since the day that we last spoke of, Arabella had fallen into a state of deeper despondency than ever. Her efforts for cheerfulness were all vain; and she sat for hours gazing listlessly out of the window, with the tears rising from time to time in her eyes, indicating the sad thoughts that were busy at her heart. It was to no purpose that Ida Mara strove, by every means in her power, to engage her mind with other things than her own hard fate. Books had lost their charm for her; music seemed but to increase her grief; and, though once or twice she tried to converse, she soon lost herself in reveries again, from which it was difficult to rouse her.
"Leave me, Ida, leave me," she said, at length, as evening was beginning to fall; "my heart is very heavy, and it is vain to try to lighten it. You have stayed within with me all day, dear girl; go out and breathe the fresh air now. A walk round the walls will do you good."
"I do not like to leave you so sad," replied Ida Mara; "I wish you would come with me. I am sure it were better for you than sitting here alone."
"I will, I will presently," replied Arabella. "Come back in half-an-hour, dear Ida, and I will go with you.--But leave me now."
Ida Mara saw that it was in vain to press her farther at that moment, and leaving her, rambled through the vacant courts, and round the wide wall of the Tower, meeting with few of its inhabitants; till, on her return, in one of the narrow passages, she suddenly found herself face to face with one of the men who had carried her off from Highgate. He had evidently been drinking largely, and she made an effort to pass him at once, hoping that he might not notice her.
He stopped her, however, though not uncivilly, saying, "Ah, pretty lady, is that you? I am glad to see you here; for I once did you some wrong; and I don't intend to do so any more, whatsoever they may say.--You forgive me, pretty lady, don't you?"
The man, though not drunk, was not quite sober, and Ida Mara was somewhat alarmed.
"Oh yes, I forgive you freely," she replied; "but I must go on; for the Lady Arabella expects me."
"Nay, stop a bit," said Weston; "we are old acquaintances, you know. I am Sir Thomas Overbury's servant now; but I shan't be long, I think."
Ida listened eagerly. "Poor man, he is very ill, I hear," she replied.
"Ay, that he is," answered Weston, "but he is a devilish long time about it. He's too cunning to give up life easily; and so he makes a hard struggle against death."
"Who would not?" said Ida Mara, with a shudder, for she put her own interpretation on the man's words. "Pray what is his complaint?"
"Nay, I know not," answered Weston; "a multitude, I believe. He makes nothing but complaints from morning till night. He'll be more at ease when he's gone."
"As many others will," answered Ida Mara.
"Ay, ay," rejoined Weston, with a stupid look, "but you need not be afraid.--I'll keep that for myself. I may have need of it."
Ida Mara did not comprehend what he meant; but she was interested in the fate of Sir Thomas Overbury; and, knowing that her lady would entertain the same feelings, she said, as the man seemed rather loquacious in his wine, "Poor Sir Thomas is very strictly confined, I believe. The guards will let no one pass even near his door?"
"Oh, the guards are gone now," replied Weston. "They are not much wanted. Nobody sees him but myself and Franklyn; and we have admission at all hours."
"Then he is so weak, I suppose," observed Ida Mara, "that he cannot stir from his bed, so that escape is impossible?"
"He might as well try to escape from his grave," rejoined the other; "and yet he lingers long."
"Well, I must go on now," said Ida. "Good night, sir, good night."
"Good night," answered Weston. "I don't suppose I shall see you in the Tower again, pretty lady; for at nine I bring his supper to him, and that is the last meal he will eat, I fancy."
Thus saying, he suffered the fair Italian to pass, and walked on his own way.
Arabella was sitting in the same spot where Ida Mara left her, with the last faint rays of day streaming in from the window upon that face, once so beautiful, but now faded and worn with the anguish of the heart, so that those who had loved her best would hardly have known her. Her eyes were red with weeping; but the tears had been wiped away; and when Ida entered, she turned round and tried to smile.
"Well," she said, "what hast thou seen, dear friend? Come, sit you down beside me, Ida. I shall not go out to night, though the moon, peeping up there, seems to ask me to come forth under her melancholy light, which is but too like the complexion of my own thoughts, where the only brightness is the reflection from a star that has set."
"I have met with something worth telling, lady," replied Ida Mara; "it is not often one does so within these walls." And taking a seat beside Arabella, according to her orders, she began, and in a low voice recounted all that had occurred. Her tone was soft and quiet; but there was an earnest sadness in her manner, which seemed to imply, that she attached more importance to the conversation she recapitulated, than the mere words would justify. When she had told all, she dropped her voice still further, and added, "He is dying, lady, that is clear; and I fear much, by poison!"
"Alas! alas!" said Arabella, "this is a terrible fate; and if he had faults, as doubtless he had, they have been punished direfully. Oh, Ida, Ida! what a horrible thing! To die in a gloomy prison, debarred the support of kindred faces round one, or the comfort of the voices that we love, or the touch of the hand of affection, or the consolation of a good man's prayer--with assassins to tend our bed of death, and the eyes that hate us gazing on our agony. Oh, Ida! it is too terrible;--I will go to him,--a woman, a Christian, I cannot stay here, and leave him to expire without any one to pity, or any one to help. I must go to him, Ida. You say that the guards are gone; perhaps the doors may be locked; but still I can speak to him through the window. I can tell him that I grieve for him. I can bid him look to God--to his Saviour, to atonement, to redemption--to a world where the sorrows of this earth shall find compensation at last."
Her words were somewhat wild, and her manner unusually vehement; but though Ida feared that Arabella might witness a scene which would only tend to agitate and depress her still farther, she did not like to remonstrate.
"I am ready, lady," she replied; "what shall I bring you?"
"Nothing but a veil," answered Arabella; "my temples burn, the cool air will refresh me. Put on the black mantle, Ida, and draw the hood over your head, then no one will see us as we glide along the walls; or, if they do, they will take us for the spectres of some who have been here murdered. How many! Oh, God, how many!"
Ida obeyed her directions, and then, issuing forth, but without passing through the room in which the servants sat, they walked with slow and silent steps towards the tower, in which Sir Thomas Overbury was lingering out the last few hours of his miserable captivity. All was silent and still. The sun was now fully set; the gibbous moon, a few days short of her full, just shone over the parapet; the night was cool, but clear, without a breath of air stirring in the heaven; the murmur of the great city rose up around, like the sound of distant waters rolling over a pebbly bed; and a red star, shining near the earth's bright satellite, looked rather like an angry rival of the Queen of Night, than her soft attendant train-bearer.
Stealing quietly on, Arabella and her companion reached the tower where the poor captive lay, entered the open gateway which led to the stairs, and tried the door on the right hand, which they knew to be that of the sick man's chamber. It was locked, however.
"We must go to the window," said Arabella, in a low voice; and issuing forth again, she walked round to a small loop-hole, at the height of about four feet from the ground, the casement of which she found open.
"Keep where you can see if any one comes, Ida," said Arabella; and, approaching close to the window, she looked in.
A lamp was standing on the table, shedding its faint and sickly light around the narrow chamber in the tower; and a pale, emaciated form lay stretched upon a pallet close beneath the lady's eyes, as she looked through the loophole. Beside him, on a stool, was a cup containing some liquid, and a book; but the fluid had not been tasted, and he seemed but little in a condition to read. Every feature of the sick man's face betokened pain; his eyes were turned towards the rafters over head, his knees drawn up, his right arm under his head, and the thin fingers of his hand grasping the pillow, as if in bitter agony. A moan burst from his lips as Arabella watched him, and, without farther pause, she said, in a low but distinct voice, "Sir Thomas--Sir Thomas Overbury!"
The unhappy man started up, and looked round the room with faint and weary eyes, but could see no one.
"Who is that?" he asked, turning his face at length towards the window. "Some one called me. Whose face is that? I cannot see the features."
"It is I," answered the lady--"it is I--a friend, Sir Thomas."
"A friend?" said Overbury, with a woful shake of the head. "God help us!--Is there such a thing?"
"It is Arabella Seymour," replied the lady--"once Arabella Stuart, and she comes to comfort you, as far as a weak fellow captive can."
"Ah, lady, lady," exclaimed Overbury, "does one whose misery I myself have wrought, come now to comfort me, and generously call herself my friend?"
"Yes, Sir Thomas," answered Arabella; "and I beseech you remember, that not only a poor fallible creature like yourself, but the God whom we have offended, the Saviour whom we crucified, comes likewise to the sick bed of every sinner, calls himself his friend, and offers comfort, hope, and consolation, if we will but accept it."
"Lady, I have been trying to think of such things," replied the dying man; "I have been trying to turn my thoughts to my Saviour; but I am tormented by fiends in human shape, that give me no rest. Lady, I am dying of poison. For weeks I have taken nothing that is not drugged. My food, my drink, the very salt,[9]which, once given by the wild Arab, secures his bitterest enemy from his vengeance, is mingled with deadly minerals."
"Alas, alas!" cried Arabella, with the tears rising in her eyes, "how can I help you.
"No way," he replied. "God has withdrawn his countenance from me, perhaps to restore it when purified hereafter; but in this world there is no more hope. Would it were over; for I am in torture. Not a limb, not a muscle, is sound; and yet I will not make myself their instrument,--I will not take more of anything they give me, than is absolutely needful for the bare support of life."
"I can bring you food," exclaimed Arabella, eagerly; "the guards are now away. Through this window I can supply you every night."
"Oh, blessings on you," cried the wretched man. "You are an angel indeed."
Just as he spoke, Ida Mara ran up to Arabella, exclaiming, "Crouch down, crouch down, lady! Here are two men coming with a light. They will not see us in that corner."
Bending down in the angle of the wall, and covered by the deep shadow that it cast, Arabella and the fair Italian waited, in the belief that the men would pass. But though their steps were soon heard coming, the sound ceased when they reached the gate of the tower, and the moment after voices were distinguished speaking in the chamber of Sir Thomas Overbury.
The first words did not clearly reach the ear of those without; but Arabella crept somewhat nearer to the window, and then she heard the unfortunate man reply, "I will not take anything. I do not want it."
"Ay, but you must take some supper, or a little wine at least," said a rough voice.
"No, I will not," he answered, shortly. "I know your horrible devices. I will take no more from your hands; I would rather die of starvation. Put the supper down there; and when you are gone, I will cut from the heart of the meat, which you cannot poison, sufficient to support life. I have an antidote, too, that you know not of, which will make what I do eat sure. But I will take nothing while you are here. The very sight of such fiends destroys me."
"Come, come," said another voice, "this is all nonsense, Sir Thomas. Take some wine, or I will pour it down your throat. You will die of hunger; and then men will say that we have poisoned you."
"They will speak but too truly," cried Overbury. "Get you hence, get you hence! I will drink nothing."
After these words came a low murmuring for several minutes, as if two persons were speaking together in an under tone; and, unable to refrain any longer, Arabella raised her head and looked in.
The two men, Weston and Franklyn, who had been appointed to attend upon Sir Thomas Overbury in prison, were standing together near the table, apparently in consultation, with their heads close together, and far too eager in the dreadful occupation which they had undertaken, to notice, at the dark window, the face gazing at them from without. At length, the former approached the bedside of the prisoner, while the other went round towards the head of the couch, saying, in a civil tone, "I wish you would take something, Sir Thomas."
"I will not," cried the unhappy man. "What are you doing there?" he added.
"Only smoothing your bolster," replied the villain; but at the same instant he snatched the pillow from beneath the dying man's head, and cast it upon his face. The other murderer threw himself upon it, while Weston held it tightly down; and, with a loud and piercing scream, Arabella clasped her hands together, and darted away along the wall, crying, "Murder, Murder!"
Ida Mara followed her as fast as possible, but she was not yet concealed by the buildings, when one of the men looked out. He instantly ran back, pale and trembling, and whispered to his companion, who was still holding the pillow tightly down over the face of their victim, "He is gone; you may take it off--I have seen his spirit!"
Weston gazed at him with wild and haggard eyes for a moment, and then removed the pillow. A slight convulsion passed across Overbury's countenance, and then all was still.