Ida Mara sat by the bedside of Arabella during the whole of that night, and a sad and terrible night it was. Her mind, agitated and worn with her own cares, had given way at the terrible sight which she had witnessed. The dark deed haunted her imagination; the forms of the murderers still appeared before her eyes; she heard their voices ringing in her ears; the last look of their wretched victim, before they extinguished the lingering spark of life for ever, remained present to her remembrance, hanging like a terrible picture before her, and her thoughts and words were all confused and wild.
Ida Mara hoped and trusted that time would remove such horrible images, and restore the sweet being she so dearly loved to tranquillity and reason. But day went by after day, and although some slight amendment was perceptible, Arabella's mind never recovered its tone. At times, indeed, she would be quite collected and calm; would speak, and reason, and lament, and weep over her fate, as she had been accustomed to do before. But often, even in the midst of her most quiet conversation, when no subject of a painful or exciting nature engaged her thoughts, she would suddenly seem to lose herself; her words would become rambling and unconnected; and she would pause and put her hand to her head, as if she felt that all was not right there, ending with a long deep fit of silence, afraid to speak, lest what she uttered should be incoherent.
At other times, again, her mind would be quite astray; she would fancy she saw strange faces, and heard dying groans; she would think that she herself was to be murdered, and would cling to Ida in terror, grievous to behold.
Then she would talk of former days; of him she loved; of their first hours of affection; she would fancy that he was gone upon some embassy to a foreign Court, and would return speedily; and she would sit and sing the songs of peace and joy, till Ida wept at the contrast between such wild but happy dreams of a disordered intellect, and the sad and stern realities of that sweet lady's fate. All these various changes, however, exhausted her strength and wore her frame; and even in the lucid intervals, when her mind was completely itself, the gloomy sense of her wretchedness undermined her health, and wrought a sad change in her appearance.
At these times, she would often talk of the events of that dark and terrible night when the designs against Overbury's life were consummated; and though, at first, Ida strove to direct her attention to some less horrible subject, she soon found it was in vain, and, on the contrary, endeavoured to lead Arabella to discuss it quietly and reasonably, in the hope that, by regulating her thoughts upon that point, her mind might be restored to its tone.
Some indulgence was now shown to the poor captive; and though she was only permitted to see her fellow-prisoner and kinswoman, Lady Shrewsbury, upon one or two occasions, yet other friends from without were frequently admitted to visit her, and two of the King's physicians were instructed to watch over her health.
The greatest comfort, however, that Arabella received, was when some post from France brought her messages from her husband, full of that deep and tender affection which he never ceased to entertain for her to the last hour of his life. She found that he generally hovered about in the neighbourhood of the coast, still hoping, still praying, that he might be permitted to rejoin her, and pass the rest of his days in wiping the tears from her eyes, and blotting out sorrow in happiness.
Those hopes and prayers were daily disappointed; but still they were a comfort to his mind; and once or twice, when a letter, in his own hand, was secretly introduced into the Tower, by some of those who visited the lady, it would produce a great and manifest change. Though it generally made her weep at first, she would become more cheerful and more resigned, and often sitting down, would write an eloquent appeal to the King, or to his ministers, trying to excite in them some sense of justice and of compassion.
Sometimes, when news from Seymour had been delayed for a longer period than usual, she would send Ida Mara forth--for which permission could generally be obtained from the Lieutenant--to seek for intelligence at the house of any one who was likely to receive communications from France.
Generally these visits were to the Court of England, or to persons in the city of London; but occasionally Ida was sent to different members of the lady's own family, or of Seymour's, in order to obtain some tidings, even though the persons she sought lived at some distance from London. When this was the case, Arabella, who never forgot, even when her intellect wandered most wildly, to think of the comfort and safety of others, sent her old and faithful servant Cobham with her fair companion; but still the most frequent channel of communication between Seymour and his unhappy wife was our good old friend, Sir Harry West, from whom she was generally sure to receive some news every week, or at least some comforting assurance that nothing but accidents had delayed the arrival of intelligence from across the channel. While Ida was gone upon any of these errands, Arabella would remain sad and gloomy, and often would take no nourishment for a whole day, if she was absent so long; and the faithful girl always reluctantly left her, even for a few hours, seeing that she invariably became worse during her absence; but when the lady was once possessed with the idea that news had been long delayed, that something must have gone wrong with her husband, that he must be ill, or dead--fancies which frequently assailed her--Ida, as the lesser of two evils, was fain to go wherever there was any chance of obtaining information.
Such had been the case one morning, when, for several days, they had been without any communication with the Court or the City. A greater degree of bustle and activity had been observable in the Tower than usual; but, occupied with their own sad thoughts, neither Arabella nor Ida Mara had given any attention to that which was passing around them, although the servant Cobham had mentioned something of fresh prisoners, of a high rank, being added to the number already within the walls. When Ida Mara, however, returned from the house of the Earl of Shrewsbury, to which she had been sent, she entered the lady's chamber in a state of greater agitation than she generally displayed. She strove, indeed, with anxious care for Arabella, to render her own tone and manner as quiet as possible, while, sitting down beside her, she proceeded to tell all she had gathered in her morning's walk.
The first news was, that contrary winds had prevented any vessels arriving from France for nearly a week, but that intelligence was expected every day. Arabella looked sadly disappointed, and Ida hastened to turn her attention to another theme.
"The whole town is in a commotion, dear lady," she said, "with events which, though terrible and painful, I cannot and will not regret. I told you some days ago that the Lieutenant, Sir Gervase Elways, had been removed and arrested, but I did not know the cause."
"And what may it be?" said Arabella, in an indifferent tone; "it matters not to me who is my gaoler, Ida."
"No, lady," answered the young Italian; "but dark deeds have at length been brought to light; and justice has been done upon the wicked."
"Then there has been a sad clearing of the streets of London, and of the Court too," replied Arabella.
"Indeed there has," said Ida Mara; "and some who I cannot help thinking were your worst enemies, are now close prisoners within these walls."
"God have mercy on them!" rejoined the lady, without even inquiring who they were; "for they will find none from man, unless they be very wicked indeed."
"I hope they may not," answered Ida Mara; "for it is but fitting that such crimes should be punished. The murderers of Sir Thomas Overbury, lady----"
"Ha, what of them?" exclaimed Arabella, eagerly.
"They have been brought to justice, Madam," answered Ida Mara. "Weston, the principal assassin, was tried some days ago, and executed the day before yesterday, though he, it seems, was only a tool, though a willing one. That dark and terrible man, who called himself Foreman, but whom I knew long ago by the same name of Weston, was, it would appear, the chief agent of the higher fiends who moved the whole."
"And what has become of him?" asked Arabella. "Has he escaped?"
"The vengeance of man he has, but not that of God," replied Ida Mara; "he died suddenly at Lambeth about a fortnight ago, and there is strong suspicion that some of his own poisons, administered to him by the hand of his own son, for the purpose of sooner obtaining possession of his wealth, saved him from public trial and execution. But there are multitudes more involved in this terrible affair. A woman, of the name of Turner, has been hanged this morning at Tyburn. A number of people, I understand,--ay, ladies of high rank--went to see her die; and Sir Gervase Elways himself was tried yesterday, and condemned to death for murder.
"Heaven help us!" cried Arabella, "that men of station and education, from amongst the once famed gentlemen of England, should dip their hands in such foul and horrible things!"
"Ay, lady," continued Ida Mara, "but there are higher heads still against which the charge is levelled. He who was lately my Lord of Rochester, now Earl of Somerset, with his fair but wicked Countess, are both imprisoned here, as those who set the others on to commit the terrible deed. Their trial is expected every day, and the King vows they shall have no mercy, though men think it somewhat strange that Sir Thomas Monson, the chief agent of the Countess, was yesterday, in the midst of his trial, carried from the bar by the yeomen of the Tower, and the whole proceedings against him stopped."
"Indeed!" cried Arabella; "indeed! that is very strange. But when the innocent are punished, as I have been, for no offence, we need not wonder that the guilty escape. So will it be with Somerset, Ida," she continued; "the King will not dare, I fear, to strike at one who may possess more secrets than either you or I ever dreamed of."
"At all events, dear lady," answered Ida, "his favour at the Court is gone; and, as I cannot but think that to him you owe much of the persecution you have endured, your appeals to the King for justice may have more attention, now that his influence is at an end."
"True, true," cried Arabella, starting up with a look of joy: "I never thought of that. Oh, God of Heaven, grant it!--Quick, bring me paper, dear girl. I will write to the King at once. Perhaps he will listen to me now;" and she sat down and composed one of those touching epistles to James, which have more than once brought tears into the eyes of those who read them, even in these far-removed times.
For several days the events which we have mentioned gave her hope; but the heartless tyrant whom she addressed paid no attention to her petition. Days, hours, weeks slipped away without the slightest change. The guilty Somerset and his beautiful fiend were brought to trial, judged, and condemned; and then the favour of their vicious sovereign stepped in, and saved them from the death they merited! But poor Arabella derived no benefit from the fall of two beings, who, if there had been justice in the land, should have expiated on the scaffold the manifold crimes too clearly proved against them.
A more terrible fate than death, indeed, awaited them. Sent from the Court to an estate in the country, to which they were bound to confine themselves, their dark and criminal love was soon turned to the most deadly hatred. The intense impression of each other's guilt rendered their mutual abhorrence, and its consequences, almost as horrible as their passion and the events which it produced. Living in the same house, seeing each other daily, they dwelt together as strangers, and when the one crossed the path of the other, looks of enmity and scorn came upon those two fair countenances, where once had shone the eager fire of vicious love. Thus passed many a year of painful existence, with the awful prospect of death and retribution before them, till a strange and terrible disease swept the woman from the earth, and her husband fell lingering into the grave.
With Arabella the last hope faded away, when she found that no change in the Court and councils of the King produced any favourable result to her; and with it the powers of life seemed gradually to sink. Slowly, but sadly, the last hour approached, with all the terrible concomitants of weary sickness and wandering intellect; and the two or three faithful friends, who now almost daily visited her, saw, with mingled grief and relief, that the period of her sufferings would not be long protracted.
One of the most constant of these was good Sir Harry West, in whose conversation she seemed to find more consolation and comfort than in that of any one else, except Ida Mara. With him she was always tranquil, and generally collected. Their conversation was constantly about her husband; and the good old Knight, though he did not strive to buoy her up with those earthly hopes which he knew would prove false, dwelt upon those higher and less frail assurances of happiness at some future period, which suited well his years and character, and harmonized also with Arabella's feelings.
On the subject of religion, which was her greatest blessing and comfort now in the hour of her dark adversity, her mind was always as clear and bright, as in those days when, in intellect and virtue, she stood in the midst of a Court, superior to the allurements of the idle vanity and pitiful ambition that characterized it; but on every other subject, reason often failed.
To Sir Harry West she would frequently speak of that painful wandering of thought, that want of control over her own mind, which now too often came upon her.
"In those moments," she said one day, "when there is, as it were, a cloud upon me, and all my ideas seem misty and indistinct, the weight of my sorrow is the most burdensome. I cannot refrain from wishing for death; and a voice, like that of a fiend, appears to urge me on to seek the calm and tranquil resting-place, where no tyrant's hand can reach, no persecution trouble my repose. I have only, however, to open the page of this Holy Book, to look into the promises there given, to remember how the only pure and holy One that ever lived and died, suffered without a murmur, and the evil spirit flies, overmatched, and my mind acquires its faculties again. I hope not for life, Sir Harry. I long for death; and have only one wish that I venture to indulge, which is, that I might see once more him whose love has cost me so much misery, though I would not lose that love, if I might win a long life of happiness in exchange."
Sir Harry West made her no reply, but turned the conversation to another theme; and, aided by Ida Mara, who now never left Arabella night nor day, he contrived to wile away another hour of the poor captive's time, without any return of that sad wandering, which she dreaded more herself than even the approach of death. Nevertheless, the old Knight, as he turned him home again, pondered deeply over what she had said, and that night visited several of the most influential personages of the Court, with whom his own high character gave him considerable influence.
Ten days passed afterwards, during which he visited the lady several times, but spoke less of William Seymour than before. Perhaps it was that he saw her strength was now rapidly failing, and feared to touch upon a subject that moved and agitated her much.
The last time he came she was stretched upon a couch, which had been brought into the chamber where she usually sat; and, holding out her hand to him, with a faint smile, she said, "It is coming rapidly, Sir Harry; and this unhappy heart will soon be at peace. I am sure of it, for during the two last days my mind has been quite itself again. The memories of past happiness have come around me sweetly and tenderly, like children round a parent's death-bed; and I am quite prepared to go where they will follow me, and nothing ever take them from me again. Nay, I have made you weep, my friend, and poor Ida, too. I have cost that dear girl many tears, but when I am gone I am sure you will be a father to her.--Is it not so?"
"I will, indeed," answered Sir Harry West; "I owe her far more than that, were it possible to repay the debt."
"There is something more," said Arabella. "When I am dead, Sir Harry, tell my dear husband that I loved him to the last; cut off a lock of my hair with your own hand, and give it to him. It is all that poor Arabella has to send. Tell him that we shall meet hereafter, that I wait for him; and then none shall separate us.--And now, farewell, kind friend, I must not have you stay. I do believe that we shall never meet again; for the impression rests upon my mind, that the sun which sinks to-night will not rise again for me."
On the morning of a rough and stormy day, a fishing boat, of a large and heavy build, and filled principally with Frenchmen, touched the low beach of the Kentish coast, at the distance of about a mile from Folkstone, near the spot where now stands the pleasant little village of Sandgate. The moment that the boat took ground, a tall and powerful man, habited in dark, but well-fashioned garments, sprang at once in the water, and waded to the shore; then paused for a moment, while one of the fishermen followed him, carrying a small valise, counted out a number of pieces of gold into the man's hand, took the valise from him, and without another word, but "Remember," turned his steps towards the Hythe. Striding on at a rapid pace, he soon reached that place, and paused to look round for an inn. When he found one, he asked for no refreshment, but inquired eagerly, if he could hire or buy a horse. One was without difficulty procured to purchase; an old saddle and bridle were added; and mounting, without exchanging one word more than was necessary with any one, the stranger rode on at a quick pace upon the road to London.
The people of the inn gazed after him, commenting as usual on his demeanour; but whatever were their remarks, he troubled not his mind; and at the fullest speed the beast could put forth, he urged the horse on towards the capital. His eyes, as he rode, were generally bent down upon the ground; and no change in the gloomy expression of his countenance displayed itself, except when the horse slackened his pace, and then he started, as if from a deep reverie, to urge it on as quickly as before. Twice he stopped to give it water, and once to let it feed; but, while he did so, he stood beside it, uttering not a syllable to any one; and the moment the measure of corn was consumed, he sprang upon its back again, and resumed his journey. On Wrotham Heath, the animal's strength began to fail; and, at the village beyond, the traveller inquired if he could buy another horse. But none was to be found till he reached Farningham, where, at a little inn which then stood by the roadside, he obtained a wretched beast, for which he paid whatever was demanded, caused the saddle instantly to be placed upon it, and leaving the other behind, with orders to feed it well till the next day, he again rode on, and pursued his way to London, without having tasted food since he touched the English shore, though nearly twelve hours had elapsed, and the sun had long set. Through the dark and gloomy streets of the capital he took his way without pause or inquiry, till he stopped at the gate of a large house, just beyond the city wall, where he sprang to the ground, and rang the bell.
A man with a light opened the doors, and gazed upon the visitor's face as on that of a stranger. But suddenly a gleam of recognition lighted up the old servant's face, and exclaiming, "Ah! is that you, sir?" he took the rein, threw it over a hook fixed into the wall for that purpose, and lighted the new comer into the house.
It was towards eleven o'clock on the same night that two gentlemen stood at the great western gate of the Tower, demanding admission.
"That cannot be, Sir Harry," said the warder on duty; "and though I wish to show you all respect, it is against the rule."
"I know it," said Sir Harry West; "but here is an order from the Constable, which supersedes all rule. You will perceive that it is for any hour of the night or day."
"Ay, sir, that is a different affair," replied the man. "Follow me, and I will pass you through the wards. 'Tis well I was not asleep; you might have knocked long enough if I had been."
"Lead on, lead on, my good fellow," said the companion of Sir Harry West, a tall man, wrapped in a large dark mantle.
The warder turned and looked at him; for there is nothing which irritates a slow and deliberate person so much as impatience in another; and perhaps the man might not have quickened his step in the slightest degree, had there not been that look of stern, anxious grief in the handsome countenance of the stranger, which almost always exercises a certain degree of power, even over the cold and indifferent.
Moving on without reply, then, he led the two late visitors through the several doors and gates, till Sir Harry said, "Now I can pass on, warder."
"Not without the word, sir," replied the soldier: and giving it, he suffered the gentlemen to proceed alone.
They bent their way straight towards the apartments of Arabella Seymour, and mounting the stairs, knocked at the door. No one answered, and the taller of the two, though it seemed that his hand trembled sadly, lifted the latch at once, and went in. It was a small ante-room that he entered, which was tenanted by only one person, the maid Jane, who was sitting in a chair so sound asleep by the fire, that she had heard no noise. The stranger gave her a look almost fierce; but Sir Harry put his hand upon his arm, saying, "This way, William. We can enter this room, and most likely shall find Ida here."
Without uttering a word, the stranger strode on, and opened the door; but, to the surprise of Sir Harry West, who had imagined that at that late hour Arabella must have retired to her bed-chamber, they found lights and several people there.
Stretched upon the same couch where she had been lying when the old Knight visited her in the morning, was the pale form of the once beautiful Arabella Stuart. Ida Mara was kneeling near her head, supporting her, while an old man, dressed as a clergyman, was placing a silver cup to her lips, and pronouncing the solemn words with which the Sacramental wine is offered us in the Communion. At the lady's feet knelt her good servant Cobham; and every one was so intently occupied with the rite which was taking place, that the opening of the door passed unnoticed.
Seymour paused, till the last prayer had been uttered by the chaplain, and Arabella, placing her hand over her eyes, had murmured a few words, which were not heard distinctly. The young gentleman then advanced slowly, and as silently as possible; but the sound of his footfall caught his poor wife's ear; and turning on the couch, she exclaimed, "Whose step is that?--It is he! It is he--I am sure!--Oh, Seymour!" and she stretched out her arms towards him.
Seymour rushed forward, and caught her to his heart.
"This is a blessing! This is a blessing!" cried Arabella; "now I am ready to die. Speak to me, Seymour! Speak to your Arabella!"
But Seymour could not; for he had buried his eyes upon her bosom, and tears drowned all utterance.
"Nay," she continued, "nay, Seymour, do not grieve so bitterly! I am happy and contented now I have seen you once more! God has heard my anxious prayer. I have nothing more to look for in life; I am ready to obey His summons."
"Oh, live, live! my Arabella!" cried Seymour, raising his head and kissing her eagerly; "live yet for happiness! The connivance which has been given to my return, the order for my admission here, all make me hope that the King will yet relent."
"He knows that I am dying, Seymour," replied Arabella; "otherwise he had not consented. But still, William, I will live for happiness, and happiness with you, in a world where real happiness only is known. We may be parted once more for a brief space of time. To you, indeed, it may seem long; for you will have to struggle with the cares and sorrows of earth; but, when you arrive at the end, and look back, it will seem but an hour. I know it by experience. But let me look at you," she continued; "I thought I should never see that dear face again. You are changed, my love, and worn; but I know that your heart is unaltered. How much have I to be thankful for, that the hands I love best will close my eyes, the lips I love best receive my parting breath, and that soon I shall be gone from a world of misery, to wait for you where misery is at an end!"
It was in vain that she sought to give him consolation; the very resignation she displayed, the gentleness, the tenderness, but added poignancy to his regret; and while the weak and dying girl was calm, collected, and content, the strong man was overwhelmed with sorrow, agony, and repining, terrible to witness.
For about half an hour, the unexpected arrival of her husband seemed to have given Arabella new life; her voice had become strong and clear; the dimness which had spread over her eyes was removed; even the grey shade which coming dissolution had cast over the face, fled for a short time, and during a few minutes a pale pink glow, like the last which tinges the evening sky, arose in her cheek.
To Seymour those signs gave no hope, for the terrible change which had taken place in her since last he had held her in his arms, had come upon him suddenly, and spoke too plainly of speedy death for him to entertain a doubt.
To Ida Mara, however, the alteration which had taken place, during the last two or three years, in that sweet lady's appearance had been so gradual, that she knew not how great it was; and the signs that she saw of reviving life did give a faint and trembling hope, that the fiat of the Almighty had not gone forth irrevocably.
It was soon extinguished, however; the effects of joy speedily passed away; and, only the more rapidly for the temporary relief, the great enemy of life made progress in his conquest. The voice sank low again, the film came over the eyes, the colour faded from the cheek, the brow and temples grew awfully pale, the greyness of the tomb once more spread over the whole countenance.
"She is departing," said the chaplain, in a low voice.
Arabella's eyes sought her husband's face; but it seemed as if she did not see him.
"William," she said; "William, keep close to me!--It is coming, my beloved, it is coming! do not leave me!"
"I am here, dear one, I am here," replied Seymour, gazing in agony upon her countenance. "My arms are round thee, Arabella. I will not leave thee; would I could go with thee!"
"I am very cold, William," she said. "William,--William----"
Her voice ceased, and, with a slight shudder, the fair, pure spirit passed from its earthly prison and a tyrant's will, to freedom, and the presence of the King of kings.
"She is gone!" said Sir Harry West; "she is gone! God receive your soul, sweet girl!"
But Seymour still held her in his arms, and bending down his eyes upon the inanimate form of her he loved, wept long and bitterly. When he raised them at length, and gazed upon her face, he was surprised to see a smile upon her lips. He almost fancied that he had deceived himself,--that she still lived. But it was fixed and immovable, only to be changed by the slow decay of the tomb.
"How sweet she looks," said Sir Harry West, in a whisper, to the chaplain. "I have often heard, that the look we bore in infancy comes back upon us after death."
"With those who have lived a good life," replied the clergyman, in the same tone; "and one has but to gaze upon that face, to see that she has departed to peace and rest.--Be comforted, sir," he said, advancing and taking William Seymour's hand; "be comforted. If ever there was one for whose release from a life of care and sorrow, those she has left behind should rejoice rather than mourn, it was this sweet lady. Here on earth, she had nothing to expect but misery. Where she is gone, she has nothing to meet with but joy and glory. Pure and blameless in her life, full of faith and truth, relying on the atonement of her Saviour to wipe out the only stain upon her--the stain of Adam's fault, we cannot, we dare not doubt, that joy will be her portion for evermore."
"It were worse than blasphemy!" said Sir Harry West.
"True, true," answered Seymour; "I know it is so; I know these tears are selfish; but tell me, can a man lose the brightest possession that God has given him, and remain to linger on through years, destitute of that which made life valuable, and yet not mourn?--Bless thee, my sweet wife!" he continued, bending down and kissing her cold brow. "May I soon join thee! for did the Almighty's will give me back all that I have lost but thee, ay, and add state and station, wealth and high command, friends, honours, glory, all that earth can afford, I still have lost the jewel of my soul, which nothing but another world can restore.--I dare not, sir," he added, turning to the chaplain, "in the presence of my departed saint, call down upon the heads of those that wronged her, the vengeance which is their due; but sure I am that the retributive hand of Heaven will not be idle; and that for such deeds as these, when Almighty forbearance is exhausted, due payment will be given.--Ay, I am sure of it, on him and on his race shall descend the awful curse that plagues the wicked from generation to generation. From father unto son it shall extend, and one shall lay the foundation of the other's downfall. Blood and destruction, sorrow and dishonour, defeat, disgrace and desolation, shall haunt them to remote posterity; and the life and sufferings of Arabella Stuart shall stand upon the page of history, to justify, even in the eyes of men, the terrible vengeance of a righteous God."
"Hush, I beseech you, hush!" exclaimed the chaplain. "Remember, such words repeated----"
"I fear him not," replied William Seymour, vehemently; "he has taken from me the life of my life; and he can but send me to join her somewhat sooner. Oh, that he would--the crime were his then, not mine; and were it not for the fatal promise I have sealed with honour, to stay but four and twenty hours within these realms, I would beard him on his throne, and tell him of all his infamy.--Nay, my kind friend," he added, speaking to Sir Harry West, who advanced and took his hand, "I will keep my word; but, had I not poured forth the indignation of my heart, I think that it would have broken.--Now leave me here for a short time; I would fain spend an hour in sad and solemn thought beside her I so dearly loved. I shall be calmer then; for I will try to pray, and seek submission to the will of God.--If you will wait for me that time, Sir Harry, I will take my last leave of all I loved on earth, and gladly quitting these hated shores, will seek in other lands for some tranquillity."
No one opposed his request; but leaving him alone with the dead body of Arabella, Sir Harry West and Ida Mara remained in the ante-room till the clock struck one.
That sound seemed to rouse William Seymour; for a few minutes after he came forth, with a countenance sad and stern, but calmer than before.
Advancing at once to Ida Mara, he took her hand, and gazed in her face, for a moment or two, without being able to speak. At length, however, he said, "How can I ever thank you? God will reward your long-devoted love for her whom he has smitten. Leave her not, Ida; leave her not, I beseech you, till she is committed to the earth; and then remember, that I shall always believe whatsoever I can do to protect and make you happy, is done for her. Sir Harry West, I know, will watch over your fate; but there is nothing which you can require, and he can ask on your behalf, that will not give me consolation to perform.--Now, good friends, I am ready; my last adieu is said."
The funeral of Arabella was over; and her grave was made, amongst the mighty of the land, in the Abbey of Westminster. Two months had passed; and Ida Mara, in deep mourning, sat in the hall of Sir Harry West's house, occupied in the usual task of embroidery. The good Knight had left her about half an hour before.--Mr. Crompton, who, as the reader may remember, had aided in the escape from Highgate, and was a frequent visitor at the house, having desired to speak with him alone.
Ida was still busily engaged upon her task, with her mind occupied with sad and serious thoughts--though the deep grief which she felt for the loss of her, to whom she had been so sincerely attached, had naturally subsided, in some degree, under the balmy power of time--when Sir Harry returned, with a grave and somewhat agitated air.
"Put down your needle, my dear Ida," said the old Knight, "and listen to me. I have something to tell you of importance."
"What is the matter, dear Sir Harry?" she exclaimed, gazing at him eagerly. "You are moved. Something has grieved you."
"No, indeed, Ida," replied Sir Harry West, "it is not exactly grief, though, perhaps, I am going to lose you; but if it is for your happiness, my dear child, I shall be content."
"To lose me?" cried Ida Mara, turning deadly pale. "Are you going to send me away from you?"
"No, not to send you," replied Sir Harry; "but, perhaps, you may think fit to go, when you hear what I have to say. You know Mr. Crompton; he is a gentleman of good family, of honour, and high principles--kind and generous in heart, and, though not very wealthy, has sufficient for happiness. Often having seen you with the Lady Arabella, and deeply touched with those high qualities which you have displayed towards her, and, indeed, towards every one, he asks your hand."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Ida Mara, with all her Italian eagerness; "tell him, I beseech you, Sir Harry, I am unworthy of the honour he intends me. Explain to him that I spring from another class. Tell my origin--tell him how you first found me, a poor Italian girl, homeless, friendless, destitute."
"I have told him all," replied Sir Harry West. "I judged it right to do so; and he thinks as I do, Ida, that such virtues, graces, and goodness, as you possess, form a better inheritance than stored-up gold, or even a noble name. The only question is, Ida, do you--can you love him?"
Ida paused; and Sir Harry felt her hand, which he had taken, tremble violently.
"No," she said, at length; "no, I cannot."
"But why," asked the old Knight. "He is handsome in person, gentle and kind in demeanour."
She shook her head sorrowfully. "I cannot love him," she answered. "You will think me wrong, I fear, Sir Harry, to wish rather to remain dependent on your bounty, than change it for any other fate on earth."
"I do not think you wrong, my dear child," replied Sir Harry; "all I have is yours; for to you I owe whatever remains to me of life. But you must give me a decided answer; for I must deal plainly with this gentleman."
"My answer is plain, my benefactor," replied Ida. "I cannot love him--I cannot wed him."
"Good faith, then, dear Ida," said the old Knight, with a smile, "if you will not wed any one else, I shall be fain to marry you myself."
"What is that you said!" exclaimed Ida, with the light coming into her eyes. "What is that you said?"
"I was but jesting, Ida," answered the Knight; and immediately the blood rushed up into her cheek, and spread rosy over her forehead. "I was but jesting," repeated Sir Harry West; but Ida was very much agitated, and thinking he had pained her, he added, "I am well aware, my dear child, that however great may be the comfort and happiness to me, to have you with me during my latter years--however deeply and tenderly I may love you, I must not, and ought not, to desire that you should sacrifice all for me."
"I would sacrifice all, everything for you," cried Ida Mara, eagerly. "I never, never wish to quit you."
"Hear me, Ida, hear me," said Sir Harry West; "your sense of duty and gratitude I know is unbounded, but the time may come when you will find some one to love----"
"No," answered Ida; "no, I shall never love any one but you. If you send me from you, I shall die;" and sinking down into a chair, with a pale cheek and a quivering lip, she covered her eyes with her hand.
"What is the matter, dear Ida?" said the Knight, tenderly. "You seem ill; what is it that you feel?"
"I do not know--I do not know," she answered. "Oh, leave me, Sir Harry, and tell this gentleman that I grieve I cannot return his affection."
"He is gone, Ida," answered the Knight; "but I have promised to write to him. If I merely say that you cannot return his affection, he will ask to be permitted to pursue his suit."
"Oh no, no!" cried Ida, clasping her hands, "he must not,--I cannot,--tell him--tell him----"
"Tell him what?" asked Sir Harry West, not a little agitated himself. "Shall I tell him that you love another?" he added, in a low and serious voice.
The crimson again rushed into her face, and she paused for a moment, casting down her eyes. Then, raising them suddenly, she exclaimed, in Italian, with all the wild vehemence which, derived from her nation and the climate of her birth, had characterized her demeanour, before she had passed through so many scenes of sad and wearing anxiety.
"Yes, yes!--Tell him I love another!"
"Indeed?" cried Sir Harry West, with a cheek somewhat pale:--for, strange to say, he could more readily have borne to hear her say that she was ready to give her hand with indifference, than to listen to an acknowledgment that she loved. "Ida must tell me whom it is she loves; and I promise her, that nothing on earth shall be wanting on my part to promote her happiness. Tell me, Ida, tell me," he continued, seeing that she stood silent; "tell me, I adjure you. If you have any consideration, regard, affection for me, keep me not in suspense, but tell me who is this. Nay, Ida, I beseech, I entreat."
Ida gazed at him for a moment, with her trembling lips apart, then cast herself into his arms, and with streaming eyes hid her glowing face upon his shoulder.
"Who?" said the Knight.
She answered in a whisper. It was only one word; but Sir Harry West's eyes brightened.
"Indeed, indeed, my Ida!" he cried, still holding her to his heart; "and you willingly sacrifice all the bright and sunny part of life, to be an old man's darling?"
"I would rather," answered the girl, looking up, "I would rather be an old man's darling, than a young man's neglected wife. All I ask is, to remain with you for ever; never to quit you; to see you always, hear you always, and to give up my life to him who first protected me, first was kind to me, whom I have ever loved, and ever shall love, better than any one on earth. Call me what you will--your child, your servant, anything!--But send me not from you."
"No, no, Ida," answered Sir Harry West, with a smile lighting up his fine, though somewhat worn countenance; "you have chosen your part; you have made up your mind. If you stay at all, it is as my wife."
"Oh, with what joy!" she cried. "But I forget.--Am I fit to be your wife? What will your relations, your high friends, say, at your marrying the poor Italian girl?"
"Let them say what they will," replied Sir Harry. "There will be gibes and scoffs enow at the old man marrying a girl young enough to be his daughter--ay, his granddaughter. They will say he is in his dotage, Ida, and predict all sorts of evil results."
"They will speak false," she cried, vehemently: "and if they did but know all that I owe to you----"
"And all I owe to you, Ida," rejoined the knight, "they might comprehend the feelings that actuate us both. I look to you, dear one, whatever be their prophecies, to give them the lie."
"I will do it," replied Ida Mara; and she kept her word, leaving on record, that, for once, the marriage of a man of more than sixty with a girl of two-and-twenty produced happiness to both.
Footnote 1: A similar mantelpiece is still to be seen in the house of J. Wood, Esq., of Sandwich, in which Queen Elizabeth resided during her visit to that ancient town.
Footnote 2: She made use of very nearly the same expressions herself to Cardinal Bentivoglio.
Footnote 3: I need only cite the instance of Lady Rich, who was one of the public and favourite companions of Anne of Denmark, while undergoing the ordeal of the ecclesiastical courts on the charge of notorious adultery, fully established against her.
Footnote 4: The perfumer of the Count de Taxis is mentioned by Arabella Stuart herself, in one of her letters to her uncle, the Earl of Shrewsbury.
Footnote 5: Such acts were not at all uncommon in the reign of James I.
Footnote 6: It is proved incontrovertibly by Mr. Lodge, from papers amongst the Harleian manuscripts, that such a permission had been obtained from the King, and that upon it the Lady Arabella acted.
Footnote 7: The Countess was deceived in her expectations; for the Judges confirmed the dictum, that a refusal to answer questions proposed by the Privy Council in affairs of state is a contempt of the King's prerogative. The best authority upon the law of evidence that we possess, Mr. S. M. Phillips, does not even except cases in which the person by his answer might criminate himself; although it is remarked, in his notes upon the State Trials, that in such a case the council would, probably, in the present day, allow the general principle of the law to maintain, that no person is compellable to criminate himself, or supply any information which would have that tendency. I need hardly tell the reader that the accounts of this celebrated scene vary in many particulars; but all agree that the Countess refused to answer in private, appealing to a public court.
Footnote 8: Let it be remembered that this act of intolerable tyranny was actually committede and this, with the rest of James's conduct towards Overbury, led men reasonably to suspect that the prisoner was in possession of some horrible secret affecting the King himself.]
Footnote 9: It was discovered afterwards that his salt was mingled daily with white precipitate.