The reader does not require to be informed, that the aspect of London in those days was very different from that which it shows at present. The great fire had not yet swept away that foul nest of narrow streets and tall houses, in which the plague lingered, almost as pertinaciously as in the lanes of an Oriental city; nor had the increasing population yet spread itself over the fields, or swallowed up the villages, by which the great metropolis of England was surrounded in former times, but which have been gradually covered with the mansions of succeeding races of the fashionable world, and fringed by the snug villas of commercial men, till the town is so gradually blended with the country, that it is scarcely possible to say where the one ends and the other begins.
Those large squares which have retained, in some instances to the present day, the name of fields, were then fields indeed. Boys and girls went a-Maying where balls and suppers are now held; and within about a quarter of a mile of Lincoln's Inn, a small, tall-chimneyed house, four stories high on one side, and two on another, with a round tower of brick-work added to contain the staircase, which seemed to have been forgotten in the original construction, rose in the midst of a garden, very near the spot where gentlemen in curious wigs and black gowns now hurry about to plead the cause of the rich, but not in general of the poor, if they can help it.
At the garden gate of this house, in the beginning of August, a coach stopped one day about three of the clock, and two ladies with the usual masks on their faces descended, and walked with a quick pace towards the door in the round tower. Before they reached it, however, that door was opened by the small page whom we have seen accompanying Master Weston, otherwise Doctor Foreman, and who, when at home, had the office, which he performed most acutely, of looking through a small loophole in the tower, to examine strictly all the personages who approached the Doctor's house.
Without any question, the two ladies walked straight up stairs, and, tapping at the door on the second floor, were answered by a voice from within which bade them enter. The shorter and stouter immediately lifted the latch, and then drew back, to suffer her taller and more graceful companion to pass. The other lady did so, and, advancing straight to the table, touched the worthy Doctor Foreman on the shoulder, without, however, prevailing upon him to raise his head from some strange and extraordinary figures, which he was tracing with a pen upon a slip of parchment. His gay and glittering attire, as a foreign cavalier, had now been cast aside, and he was robed in a black gown trimmed with fur, having a small velvet cap upon his head. So profoundly busy did he seem, that all he replied, when the Countess of Essex touched him, was "Enter--enter, why do you not come in?"
"The man's mad," cried the Countess.
"No, no," replied Mrs. Turner; "does not your Ladyship see that he is abstracted? You must let him finish what he is about; your own fate may depend upon it, for aught you know."
With this warning the Countess stood silent; but her impatient spirit still moved her to keep beating the ground with her small foot, till at length Doctor Foreman exclaimed, as he drew two more new figures at the bottom of the vellum--"Gimmel, Alsaneth;" and then looked round, as if in surprise to see any one in the room but himself. As soon as he perceived--or appeared to perceive--the Countess, he started up, exclaiming, "Bless me, beautiful Lady! I beg your Ladyship's pardon. Pray be seated. What is the news with you? 'Tis long since I have had the honour of seeing you. Has all gone according to your wish?"
"Good faith, no: much to the contrary," replied the Countess, seating herself, and taking off her mask;--and here it is to be remarked that a great change had come over her, in her demeanour to the respectable Doctor Foreman, since first she was introduced to that worthy and scientific person. She had now seen him several times; all shame and reserve had been cast off; her criminal love and its object were fully avowed; and, entangled in the snares of the impostor and his unprincipled associate, she was ready to engage in any rash act, however disgraceful, to accomplish her dark and vicious purposes. Nor let the reader for one moment doubt the truth of these assertions; let him not, filled with the notions and enlightened by the knowledge of the present day, ask himself if it be possible that a lady, of the highest rank and education of the time, could be the dupe of such a charlatan, and so low and infamous a woman? Let him not suppose that the tale is invented or embellished by the writer; for it is absolutely true, and stands based upon the evidence given before a court of justice. There may be, indeed, particulars still more gross than any here detailed--views still more wicked--follies still more flagrant--for much must be suppressed that would offend a pure and delicate mind--but let it be remembered that all these scenes are rather undercoloured than overcharged.
"I thought at one time, indeed," continued the Countess, "that your art was having its effect, for I met him at Theobalds, and, for the first time, saw something like the light of love in his eyes. But all has gone wrong since I returned to London. My father insists that I shall go home to that hateful wretch, to whom I am tied by such cruel bonds; and, if I do so, I shall die of grief and despair."
"Madam," said the Doctor, "I grieve for you deeply, but it is not in my power to control destiny. All that I told you was, that by the use of certain powders and drugs, such as William Shakespeare speaks of in the Midsummer Night's Dream, where he says--
'The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,Will make a man or woman madly doatUpon the next live creature that it sees;'
'The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,Will make a man or woman madly doatUpon the next live creature that it sees;'
I can change hate or indifference into love, and love into hate, so that he who now cares nought for you, may soon be at your feet; and he who now loves you, may soon be as cold as ice."
"Then give me some--give me some of the latter," she cried, eagerly, "that I may mix it with all the food of this half-husband of mine, that he may learn to detest me as I detest him. Would he but consent, the iron bond between us might soon be broken; but I cannot take the ways that other women would to win my purpose. If I persuade and soothe, it will but waken his love the more."
"No, no," said Foreman, "you must not do that!--You must repel him coldly--show your dislike--look as if you loathed his sight."
"That were no great effort," cried the Countess; "it is my daily food to hate him.--But hark! there is a noise. Look out, Turner, look out."
"Half-a-dozen gentlemen, as I live," exclaimed Mrs. Turner, "coming straight along the path towards the house too.--I do believe they are gentlemen of my Lord of Suffolk, your noble father, lady.--Yes, there is Sir John Walters, as I live! Have you no hiding place, Doctor?"
"'Twere useless--'twere useless," answered the Countess, with a look of disdain; "the coach is at the gate; and I am not a baby, to be frightened at the look of my father's gentlemen. Come, quick, sirrah, give me some of that powder of hate you talk of."
"We weigh it, madam," said Foreman, hesitating, "at the rate of one gold noble per grain, but a small portion goes a great way."
"There, give me plenty," she cried, throwing a purse upon the table; and Foreman, taking it up, hurried to a little cabinet at the side, and took out several small packets.
At the same instant, the impostor's boy knocked at the door of the room; and the Countess exclaimed boldly, "Come in."
"There be six gentlemen at the door," he said, "inquiring if the Countess of Essex be here?"
"Tell them she is," replied the Countess, "and if they want her, they must wait her pleasure below.--Come, sir, is that ready?"
"It is, madam," said the Doctor, giving her the powders.
"Ha!" exclaimed she, gazing at them with a triumphant smile, "if these will make him hate me, he shall soon have them all, though it drove him well nigh to murder me. Oh! if I could but make him strike me! Now, sir, to you I must leave the task of working upon Lord Rochester; he is now in London, and you can easily find means----"
"Fear not, madam, fear not," replied the impostor, who heard a heavy step upon the stairs; and, to say the truth, was anxious to get rid of his fair guest, for fear of inquiries not the most profitable to him. "Fear not, madam; I will so manage it, that----"
"The gentlemen will come up!" cried the boy, thrusting in his head. The moment after, he was pushed aside; and a stout middle-aged man entered, on whom the bright eyes of the Countess flashed living fire.
"How dare you, Sir John Walters," she exclaimed, "intrude upon me in this manner?"
"I have your father's orders, my Lady," replied Sir John, "to bring you to him directly. He has something of importance to communicate."
"Well, sir," said the Countess, "I suppose I must obey; but be you sure that I will soon break through this tutelage;" and, passing him with a look of angry disdain, she descended the stairs, walked through the midst of the gentlemen at the door, without noticing any of them, and entered her coach.
The vehicle was driven immediately to the house of the Earl of Suffolk; and an angry spot was still upon the cheek of the fair Countess when she entered her father's gates. Fear and timidity were not in her nature; and she walked at once to the room where she expected to find him. She was surprised, however, and somewhat dismayed, it must be confessed, not only to behold her two parents, but her sister and the Earl of Essex. Her mother was in tears, and her father's brow stern and dark, while her husband stood with his arms folded on his chest, looking sad, rather than out of temper.
Passing him by, without the slightest notice, Lady Essex advanced straight towards her father, saying, "You sent for me, sir?"
"I did, Frances," he replied; "it was to let you know my will. Here stands your husband, madam, to whose house you have refused to go, on one pretence or another, ever since he returned to England to claim you as his bride. I beseech you, my child, in courteous decency, to give your hand to this noble gentleman, and let him lead you home;--for this is your home no longer."
"I dare say, my Lord," replied the Countess, unabashed, "that I could find another without troubling him."
"You see," cried her father,--"bear witness all, that no remonstrance or parental solicitation has any effect! Now, madam, hear! The coach, which is to convey you with your husband to his seat of Chartley, is at the door: your wardrobe is packed up to follow. From this room you go to that conveyance.--Nay, not a word; for if you walk not soberly, you shall be compelled; and down to Chartley with what grace you may. I trust that, ere I see your face again, a change will be wrought in your heart, and that I shall be enabled to welcome back the daughter gladly, whom I now part with in displeasure."
Lady Essex made a great effort to speak; but it was in vain; and she burst into a passionate flood of tears.
"Come, lady," said Lord Essex, in a gentle tone, taking her hand, "believe me, I will do all that man can do to win your love, and to secure your happiness."
"You can do neither, sir!" replied the Countess; "but I am your slave, it seems. Have you no chains ready? Let us go!" and, without bidding adieu to any one, she walked straight to the door.
We will pass over the journey to Chartley, the cold hatred with which she repelled her husband's love by the way, and the first week of their sojourn at that beautiful seat.
It was on the evening of a bright day in the same month, while the whole world was looking gay and cheerful without, that the Earl entered his wife's drawing-room, where all was dark and gloomy. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn; for she had never suffered them to be opened since her arrival. A single lamp stood upon the table; and by its faint light the Countess sat and wept. She raised neither her head nor her eyes when the step of her husband sounded in the chamber, but continued fixed and motionless, like a beautiful statue representing angry grief. Lord Essex drew a seat to the other side of the table, and, sitting down, gazed at her for a moment or two in silence.
"Dry your tears, madam," he said at length.
"That is at least a privilege you cannot take from me, sir," she replied. "When in my childhood, now six years ago, I took a vow I did not understand, I never promised not to weep."
"Dry your tears, I say, madam!" he rejoined, in a tone both of sternness and sadness; "for the cause of their flowing is about to be removed."
The Countess started, and looked up.
"I will claim your attention for a moment," he continued; "and you shall hear the result of some consideration. You and I were married at an early age, as the custom is----"
"It is a bad one," said the Countess. "Go on."
"But if you were not capable," continued her husband, "of loving and esteeming at that age, I was; and I returned to England to claim you, full of affection, which, as you may suppose, was not diminished when I saw your beauty. I have now been here nearly two months; and I have tried, by every means within man's power, to win you to return the attachment I have felt. The effort has proved vain. I have learned to know that you are unworthy of my love; that, instead of that fair form containing a heart and mind as soft and beautiful as your looks, there is nothing within but a proud, angry spirit--selfish, and cold, and fierce;--a loathsome thing, that makes the glittering casket in which it is enshrined all poor and valueless. I therefore cast you off, madam; or, as you will term it, set you free to go whithersoever you will--to do whatsoever you please. Your uncle, of Northampton, will receive you, for my good Lord, your father, will not. From me you shall enjoy such an income as may befit the Countess of Essex. I give it in honour of my own name, and trust--but faintly--that you will never disgrace it. To-morrow, at daybreak, your equipage will be at the door to convey you back to London. You came down hither with me against your will; but, if I were to go back again with you, it would be against my own."
"Oh, joy, joy!" cried the Countess, starting up and clasping her hands. "I am a slave no longer!"
Her husband gave her one look of scorn and reprobation, and quitted the room.
Shakespeare assured his hearers, in the age of which we are now writing, "the course of true love never did run smooth," and the assertion is certainly as true as a proverb. When Arabella Stuart retired to her chamber for the night, her heart was relieved of part of the load which her lover's apparently strange conduct had brought upon it; yet sufficient anxiety and grief remained in her mind, to give her ample subject for thought and sorrowful meditation. She was still a little angry, it must be confessed, that Seymour should even have doubted her--her, whose whole thoughts and affections had been with him during his absence. But yet, perhaps, there might be a certain sort of gratification, too, in her bosom, to see that his love for her still remained so powerful, that the least apprehension of losing her should change his whole nature, and render one, so uniformly kind, tender, and ardent,--cold, discourteous, and repulsive. It was a little triumph of its sort, which even Arabella's heart could not but be pleased with.
Hers, however, was not a character either to retain such anger, or enjoy such triumph long; and the whole was soon swallowed up in joy at his return, and grief for the uneasiness he had suffered. The more painful part of her contemplations referred to the rumours which he had heard; and she asked herself with fear,--what if the King should have given encouragement to his favourite to pursue the suit for her hand?--what would be her fate if James, won to the views of Rochester, should insist upon her accepting him as her husband? How could such rumours get abroad? she inquired likewise, unless some much more marked approbation of Rochester's ambition than any of her own acts had given, had been received from a quarter where will and authority went together?
Women, however, have generally a happy art of putting aside the consideration of painful probabilities. They have much greater faith in the influence of time and accident in removing obstacles and averting dangers than men; and Arabella consoled herself with the hope of seeing William Seymour on the following morning, and enjoying an interview, however short, during which all clouds would be swept away, and their whole hearts opened to each other as before.
Such expectations were strengthened ere she retired to rest. Ida Mara, who had not been in her chamber when she first returned, appeared not long after, while one of the maids was combing their lady's beautiful long hair, and, standing beside her, as was her wont when she was at her toilet, talked gaily of all the pageants which Lord Salisbury's mansion had presented during the day, and described the hall, through which she had just passed, as displaying a lamentable, yet ludicrous scene of drunkenness and folly.
When the lady was undressed, she told her attendants to leave her as usual to her prayers; but the pretty Italian girl begged leave to remain a moment, saying that she had something to tell her mistress; and the moment the two maids were gone, she took a note from her bosom, and put it into Arabella's hand.
"Dear lady," she cried at the same time, "do you know that the gentleman who, with Sir Lewis Lewkenor, escorted you to Wilton long, long ago, has come back again? I found him standing at the bottom of the stairs just now; and, the moment he saw me, he asked if my name was not Ida Mara, and then gave me that note, with directions to deliver it when you were alone. Oh, you will be so glad to see him!"
"How know you that, Ida Mara?" exclaimed Arabella, with a smile.
"Because you wept when he went away," replied the girl, archly, "and have sighed ever since, when I talked to you of Italy."
"Well, Ida Mara," answered her mistress, "you must tell no one that I wept when he went away, for it might be dangerous to him and to me."
"Then I would die first," cried the girl; and Arabella, opening the note, read a few hasty lines from William Seymour, beseeching her to walk early in the park on the following morning, before the rest of the Court was stirring. "I have a thousand things to say," continued Seymour, "a thousand things to tell, a thousand things to ask forgiveness for."
Arabella's heart fluttered; for, although she had no hesitation,--though she looked upon herself as bound to him by every tie, and believed that she had no right to refuse any reasonable request, yet there was something in the idea of purposely going out to meet him, which agitated, if it did not alarm her.
Telling Ida Mara to wake her early, she retired to rest; but little sleep did poor Arabella gain that night, and by daybreak on the following morning she was up and at her toilet. Scarcely had she commenced, however, when Ida Mara entered, informing her that the whole Court was on foot, the King having been ill in the night, and about to set out immediately for London.
The lady finished dressing herself in haste, and, descending the stairs, went out by the small postern door opening upon the terrace. Leaving that exposed spot as soon as she could, she proceeded by a flight of steps into the gardens below, and thence, by a long straight walk, towards a long avenue, which, though now long cut down, was in those days one of the greatest ornaments of the place. A step behind her soon caught her ear; and the next instant Seymour was by her side. But she had only time to learn that, there being no room in the house, he was lodged in one of the villages near, and to tell him that all were in the hurry of departure at the Court, when two Scotch gentlemen, named Ramsay and Morton, appeared in the avenue, and Arabella exclaimed eagerly, "We must part, Seymour, for the present. Call often at Shrewsbury House; for if I have anything to tell, I will leave a letter there for you. My aunt is all kindness, and in part knows what is between us."
"Then I can communicate with you, there," cried Seymour.
"Yes, yes," replied Arabella. "Farewell, farewell," and she left him.
Had they been wise and practised in such meetings, instead of parting and each turning back by a separate path--a proceeding which might plainly indicate to any who watched them, that they had come thither by agreement, and returned as soon as they had said what they wished to communicate--William Seymour would have walked on towards the house, and Arabella would have pursued her ramble, leaving those who saw them to suppose that they had met accidentally.
They did not follow this plan, however, and their meeting was accordingly marked and reported afterwards; for there was nothing in which James found greater delight, than in learning all the secrets, and investigating the private affairs, of those by whom he was surrounded; and his courtiers took ample care to feed his appetite for this sort of information with all the gossip of the Court.
From Theobalds to London, and from London to Hampton Court, Arabella accompanied the Queen, with the interval of but one day; and during the whole of the following week, she had no opportunity of seeing her lover; for, without any apparent cause, events always took such a turn as to prevent her from visiting London, even for an hour, as she had proposed. She knew not how or why, but it seemed to her that she was watched; nay, more, that her actions were overruled, without any apparent stretch of authority. Wherever she proposed to go during the day, a message from the Queen called her in another direction; and if she walked out alone, she was sure to see some one at a distance, walking step by step within view.
She tried to persuade herself that all this was accidental, and that it was but the consciousness of her own wishes which made her suspect other people had remarked them. But she was not allowed to remain long in such a belief; for one morning, before she joined the Queen, Ida Mara came into her chamber with her cheek glowing, and her bright eyes full of light; and, sinking down on her knees beside her mistress, she cried; "Oh, lady, lady dear, they wish me to betray you--to be a spy upon you. That Sir Lewis Lewkenor sent for me this morning, and commanded me, in the name of the King, to give him information daily of all that you do."
Arabella turned somewhat pale;--"And what did you say, Ida Mara?" she asked.
"I said at first, like a fool," replied the girl, "that I was your servant, and not the King's. But I was sorry for it afterwards; for I thought that if I showed them that they would get no tidings from me, they might apply to some one else; so then I said as quietly as I could, that I knew not there was anything to tell."
"What answered he to that?" demanded Arabella.
"Why he asked," replied the girl, "if Mr. Seymour had been to visit you since he returned. I said boldly, No, as well I might; and he then repeated that I must bring him intelligence every day; and, having by this time bethought myself of what was best to do, I made him a low courtesy, saying, that I trusted if I were to have such an office, I should have some wages for it, otherwise I could not undertake it. He replied that I should be well paid; and I answered that it must not be like the officers of State who get their money when and how they can: that I was too poor to wait. Whereupon he gave me a rose noble, which I have got here."
Arabella shook her head. "I fear, Ida Mara," she said, "by taking the man's money, you have committed yourself to give him information."
"Oh, he shall have it, he shall have it," cried Ida Mara, "as much as he can desire. He shall know every gown you have put on, and how many times you change your shoes, and what you say to your tailor when he brings home your new suit. There shall not be a trifle of such a kind that he shall not know."
"But if he questions you of other things?" asked Arabella.
"Oh, leave me to answer him, dear lady," cried the girl, "and be you assured, that not one thing which you would keep secret shall he ever discover from my lips. I will guard yours better than my own; and, as he talks to me in villanous Italian, I shall have no difficulty in leading his wit astray. But hark! there is some one knocks at the door."
"See who it is," replied Arabella, in some agitation; "it is terrible to be thus spied upon."
Ida Mara rose and went to the door of the chamber, which was in a deep recess, leading from one of the towers, in which the room was situated, to the main body of the building. The Italian girl opened the door, and looked out upon the stairs, when, drawing back for a moment, she turned an inquiring glance towards her mistress, to which Arabella could make no reply, as she knew not who was there.
The girl then, acting upon her own judgment, opened the door wide, without uttering a word; and with a light step, William Seymour entered the room, Ida Mara quitting it at the same moment.
Arabella rose and sprang towards him; but before he could hold her to his heart for a moment, she exclaimed, "Seymour, dear Seymour, you must not stay--nay, not an instant! We are watched; suspicion is aroused; and we may be both ruined if you remain.--I can bear this no longer. I will find means to quit the Court within a few days. In the meanwhile, I will write to you, and tell you all that has happened. But now, you must leave me. Indeed, indeed you must!--Nay, surely you have no jealousy of Arabella, now?"
"None, none, dearest," he cried, "but all I fear is, that they may persecute you to wed this man."
"They would not succeed," answered Arabella; "besides, he seems to have quitted the pursuit. I have seen nothing of him since we were here. We have not exchanged a word for the last week.--But leave me, Seymour, leave me, in pity.--You may frustrate your own hopes."
"I must at least give you this letter from my Lord of Shrewsbury," said Seymour. "Hearing that I was coming hither, he charged me with it; but I know not what it contains."
"Well, well, I will read it afterwards," answered the lady. "Now, Seymour, now you must go; but as you have been seen here, you had better present yourself at the Court."
"I will," he answered, "I will. Adieu, then, dearest, if it must be so;" and he left her.
Scarcely had he quitted the room, however, when some one again knocked at the door, and, without much ceremony, entered, before the lady had broken the seal of her uncle's letter. She was not a little surprised, as she looked up, to see one of the keepers of the Council Chamber, who advanced towards her with a low bow.
"What would you with me, sir?" she asked.
"The King, madam," he replied, "requires your Ladyship's presence before the Council."
Arabella turned pale; but there was no means of avoiding whatever was before her; and she replied at once, "I am ready to accompany you, sir. Pray call my gentlewoman from that room on the left."
The keeper obeyed; and Arabella, after covering her head with a veil, put her arm through that of Ida Mara, and followed the keeper to the royal apartments.
In the ante-room to the council-chamber, her guide asked her to wait for a moment, and opening the door, went in. As he did so, she heard her lover's voice, answering aloud, "I carried her a letter from the Earl of Shrewsbury, your Majesty."
The next moment the keeper again appeared, and ushered her into the presence of the King. James was seated at the head of the table, with a black velvet hat, looped with a large emerald, on his head, and three or four noblemen, bare headed, on his right hand and on his left. The moment he beheld Arabella, he said, with the broad Scottish accent which he never lost, "Put the lady a chair, sirrah.--Now, young gentleman, answer me again--and mind that you tell me the truth, for there were eyes upon you, sir,--there were eyes upon you. How long did you stay upon this visit?"
"I have no desire, your Majesty," replied Seymour, with some haughtiness in his tone, "to speak aught but the truth; it is not my custom. I might have stayed with the Lady Arabella some two minutes and a half, or three minutes."
"The man says five, sir," cried the King.
"About five, your Majesty," said one of the councillors; "he is not precise."
"It may have been five, sire," answered Seymour, slightly smiling; "pleasant society makes the time pass quick, and unpleasant things will make it seem tardy--methinks I have been here an hour."
"As bold as ever, I see," cried the King; "you will make yourself a hot nest of it, sir, if you go on at this rate. When did you visit the Lady Arabella before?"
"Some years ago, sir," replied William Seymour, "and then by your Majesty's command."
"Do you mean to say, sir," asked the King, "that you have not seen her since you had our gracious permission to return?"'
"Seen her I have, your Majesty," replied Seymour, "at Theobalds, the night of the masque; and on the following morning I met her as she was walking in the park. She is herself witness, however, that I did not then detain her long; and I protest, upon my honour, that I have never visited her since my return, except on this one occasion, when I carried her the letter of my Lord Shrewsbury. Then I stayed not longer than any gentleman might be expected to do in common courtesy--not knowing," he added, bitterly, "that there was a spy at my heels;" and he went on in a murmur to himself, "I would have cut off his ears, if I had."
"Sir, you speak rashly and unadvisedly," replied the King: "spies are necessary in all civilized states, and not to be lightlied by such gallants as you. It is in some sort, sir, an holy ordinance. Did not Joshua the prophet send out spies, who were received by that excellent woman Rahab, the harlot, who let them down secretly from the wall? and it is right that Kings and Judges should be informed, by discreet and dutiful subjects, of all that is taking place around them, especially in what concerns their near relations, sirrah. You hear, madam, what this gentleman says; and I charge you, upon your allegiance, to tell me if it be true?"
"Perfectly, sire," said Arabella, in a low voice, "as far as I have heard it.--He brought me a letter from my uncle of Shrewsbury."
"Ay, is it even so?" cried the King; "you both sing the same song; but I would fain see this letter."
Arabella hesitated. She knew not what her uncle might have said. Besides the risk of his alluding to the messenger in such a way as might excite suspicion, there was many a jest current upon the manners of the Court which might not be very well fitted for the King's eye; and, holding the letter in her hand, she replied, "This was not written, sir, to be made public. I should think the letter of an uncle to his niece might be----"
"Hout, nonsense!" cried James. "Is not a King God's Vicegerent upon earth, and above all uncles or fathers either? Is he not Pater Patriæ? I command you, madam, lay the letter on the board."
Arabella did so with a trembling hand; and one of the Councillors handed it to the King, who took it and examined it closely.
"It cannot have been falsified," he said, "for the seal is not broken."
He then, without ceremony, opened it, and read aloud, making his usual comments as he did so.
"'My sweet niece,'" it proceeded, "'your good aunt and I are about soon to go to our place called Malvoisy, in Buckinghamshire; and we would fain have you with us, if you can get the King's permission to come, not as much for our own sakes, to have the company of an idle girl, whom we do not love, as for yours, to get you out of the foul and unsavoury atmosphere of a court, where, from all we hear, you are likely to be quite corrupted by bad example."
"Heard you ever the like of that?" cried the King, laughing till the tears ran over his cheeks.
"'I do not know,'" he proceeded, reading Lord Shrewsbury's letter, "'whether you, too, my niece, were as drunk as the rest at Theobalds. I hope not; for if you were, your head must have ached the next morning; but I do hear that his Majesty of Denmark emptied two pottles and a half of heavy Burgundy after the repast, and our great King the same.'
"The false loon!" cried the King, with a tremendous oath, "I declare, he's like a dishonest tapster, and put down three gills too much to my score. But we will see farther," and he went on to read,--"'and our great King the same. But happily for the State, his brains are too good to swim with any quantity of wine; and so he 'scaped falling, though I hear, in the contest, Burgundy overthrew Denmark. However, if you would come with us, and live in quiet for a time, seeing none but your aunt and me, wheedle his Majesty, as you know how, and join us here to-morrow or the next day. I shall send this by Sir John Harrington--that merry soul. Yours, as you shall behave yourself, 'SHREWSBURY.'
"'Postscriptum. William Seymour has just come in; and he goes down to Hampton Court to-morrow;--I give him charge of this letter.'
"Ha!" cried the King, "by my soul, though he puts his fingers somewhat too near Majesty, he knows how to do so with distinctions, this good Earl of Shrewsbury; and a wise and sapient man he is, if he had but a little knowledge of the Greek tongue, in respect of which he is illiterate, as I once proved. But of that more hereafter. I cannot but say, lady, that it might be as well for you to accept your uncle's invitation."
"I shall do so most willingly, your Majesty," replied Arabella, "and the more, from the perfect solitude he promises me. The Court has been so thronged of late, that I feel as if I had been living in a crowd, and shall be glad to see the air thinner of human beings."
"Well, so shall it be then," said James; "and you shall have our full leave and royal permission to spend a fortnight, or perchance a month, with your good uncle at his manor at Malvoisy. But before either of you depart, remember, for the future, that we will have no love passages.--Ay, madam, you may redden, but we may know more than perhaps we choose to say. We have our own views with regard to the disposal of your hand, which shall be announced to you in due time; and we shall expect to find you duly obedient and complying. You, sir, too, will understand us; and if you proceed farther with any follies you may have gotten into your head, you will incur our heavy displeasure, which is not a light matter for any man to bear. So be wise, if wisdom can enter into so young a pate. Now you may retire, sir."
Seymour bowed, and withdrew; and, to say the truth, had not the matter so much affected his happiness, he might have inclined to laugh at the reprimand of the King. James's broad Scottish accent, which sounded uncouth enough in his moments of uproarious jocularity, became even more ludicrous when delivering any of his solemn harangues, especially as he had an inveterate habit of interlarding, even his most studied sentences, with the peculiar idioms and phraseology of his own nation, and with illustrations often the most homely and absurd--and often the most profane, not to say blasphemous. To these we cannot attempt to do justice; but it is well known that the sudden utterance of such words and figures, in the midst of an oration delivered with mock majesty and solemnity, has overset the gravity, even of an indignant House of Commons, and caused the members to shrink behind each other, lest their laughter should be too apparent.
Arabella remained before the Council, in anxious expectation of what was to come next; but, much to her gratification, as the King was commencing a long admonition, he was drawn away by some word which he himself made use of--we believe it wascallant--to enter into a tedious discussion upon the derivation thereof, which occupied him for the space of nearly twenty minutes, at the end of which time he dismissed her, without returning to the original subject.
Retiring gladly to her own chamber, the lady gave way to the feelings she had feared to display before the eyes of the heartless monarch and his cold councillors. The storm had passed away for the time, but it left clouds behind it; and though she felt relieved, there was enough of agitation and apprehension remaining to bring the tears into her eyes.
As with the ancient walls of palaces and halls, as with the dungeon and the court of law--so with the old hawthorn tree of the wide chase, the yew tree of the churchyard, or the broad oak of the park:--many a tale could be told by the silent witnesses of man's passions, joys, and sufferings, had they but a voice to speak that which they have seen; and how instructive might the homily be, if, as we have reason to believe, vice seldom goes without its punishment on earth, though virtue may have to look to Heaven for its reward!
In the wildest part of that tract of ground called Bushy Park, which, in the days we speak of, showed far less trace of man's handywork than at present, amidst fern, and whitethorn, and starting deer, walked along a lady and gentleman, both exquisitely beautiful in person, whatever they might be in heart. With her two fair hands clasped together, she hung upon his arm, gazing up through her mask at his face, while he looked down at her with admiration, of a kind to which it would be almost profane to give the name of love.
"Nay," she said, in a laughing tone, "I did not send it. You do not suppose that I need to court any man."
"Nay, sweetest lady," replied Rochester, "I do not suppose you do; but I thought that fortune and yourself might have so favoured me, to let me know the right track to follow."
"Not I," answered the Countess; "and in good truth, if I had the other night thought, when you first talked of love, that you but did so because you thought it would please me, I would have been as cruel as a step-dame, to cure you of such vanity. If I knew the writer of the letter, too, methinks I would have him punished for a scandal."
"Not so," answered Rochester, labouring to frame some graceful speech, at which he was not dexterous. "You surely would not punish him for giving me the first hope of happiness, which I scarcely ventured to dream of."
"In truth I would," replied the lady; "how dare he stand sponsor for my affections, and promise and vow so many things in my name? I declare there is not a word of truth in it, whatsoever you may think. I love you not at all, and never shall. 'Tis but your vanity that makes you believe so."
"Nay, I call all these trees to witness," cried Rochester, "of what you acknowledged half an hour ago."
"Oh, women will say what they do not mean," replied the Countess. "I hope no one but the trees did hear me; for I would not have too many witnesses to such a falsehood.--And so you showed the letter to Sir Thomas Overbury, and he it was, I suppose, who said I had written it?"
"No," replied Rochester, "he divined that you were the person spoken of; but he said that it was a man's hand."
"I wish it were burnt off!" cried the Countess, in a tone of affected anger. "I don't like this Sir Thomas Overbury."
"And why not?" asked Carr. "He says that you are by far the most beautiful woman in the Court, perhaps in the world."
"In that he is wise," answered the Countess, with a laugh; "but I hate him because you love him. I shall hate all that you love now."
"That is kind," said Carr; "I thought the proverb ran, 'Love me, love my dog.'"
"Ay," said the Countess, still in the same jesting tone; "if you will treat him as a dog. But I can tell you, henceforth and for ever, I will have you love nobody but me, or I will have nought to do with your love. I will have you all mine; you shall not give one grain of your affection to aught else on earth, whether the breath of life be warm in it, or it be but the cold production of art or nature; I will not have thee stand and gaze at a picture of Rubens, or of Titian; thou shalt not stand upon Richmond Hill, and high over the fair prospect before thee; thou shalt not listen to a bird singing in a spray, and praise its melody. Thine eyes, thine ears, thy heart, shall be all mine, or I will be jealous. There can be no partnership in love."
"You must not bring a bill into Parliament for all this," replied Carr, "or it will be called monopoly, and we shall have a petition and remonstrance."
"No," cried the Countess; "these are but my rights over mine own--these are the royalties of my estate; every rich metal beneath the surface is mine, as well as the soil above; and no one shall trespass on my right."
In such conversation they walked on, idle enough, it is true, and vicious enough, considering the situation of the parties; but yet it seemed necessary to display before the reader's eyes this scene, which may save us farther details into which we would fain not enter; and doubtless it has suggested, as we desired, a question to the mind,--almost a charge against our veracity. "Can this be the Countess of Essex?" the reader may well ask;--"the same harsh, repulsive, fiery, passionate being, who has been already exhibited in scenes with her father and her husband, which make the pure and honest heart glow with indignation and contempt?--this soft, playful jesting creature, the same bold impetuous being whom we have seen casting from her the most sacred obligations?"
Yes, reader, it is the same, only under another aspect; the same spoiled child--all remorseless fire when contradicted, now sporting, in her unwise hours of gratification, with the same carelessness of right which distinguished her in her darker moments. Have you not seen a tiger in its cage, unmoved by hunger or by rage, gambolling like a kitten, smoothing its glossy fur, and stretching out, in graceful sport, its limbs, both beautiful and strong? Who would suppose that it is the same fierce, devouring beast that rends the unhappy traveller in its fury, and gorges itself in blood and carnage?--Unrestrained passion is still the tiger--sportful when gratified, but terrible when thwarted.
They had turned back towards the palace from which they had wandered forth, Rochester thinking that, during his long absence, the King might have required his presence, and the Countess knowing well that her ultimate objects could not be attained, unless her lover cultivated assiduously the favour of the Monarch. She could not refrain from saying, however, "Why do you not tell your dog,"--for so she henceforth called Overbury,--"to go and fawn in your place?"
Though there was something sarcastic in her tone, Rochester was not offended, for he was now completely the slave of her charms. Weak and unprincipled himself, the same personal beauty which at first raised him to distinction, was all that he thought valuable in others. The heart, the mind, virtue, even talent,--so often esteemed where goodness is neglected,--he cared little for, he thought little of, indeed; and in Frances Howard he certainly had found all that he sought for most in woman,--resplendent beauty, eager passions, and deep and vehement attachment to himself. That loveliness and that love had, for the first time, kindled within him the eager fire of which his own nature was susceptible. It seemed as if the insane passion with which she was possessed were in its nature infectious, and had seized upon him also. For her he was ready to dare anything,--to sacrifice anything, however sacred or however good; and it but wanted occasion to call forth all the power of the evil spirit, which had slumbered for want of object.
They had reached an alley leading back towards the palace, when suddenly they perceived the figure of a man advancing towards them, with his head bent down, and his arms folded upon his chest. He was tall, stately, and commanding in air, but seemed absorbed in a deep reverie; and Rochester paused, looking forward and saying, "Who can that be?"
"Do you not know?" asked the Countess, in a stern tone. "No," he replied; "do you?"
"Right well," she answered; "it is that very noble gentleman, the Earl of Essex----"
Rochester's left hand fell upon the hilt of his sword; but the Countess proceeded,--"Do you think that, at any distance, I should not know that form, the hateful shadow of which has haunted me, waking and sleeping, for so long a time?"
"Shall we avoid him?" said Rochester, who, though as ready as any one to draw the sword, was not, to do him but justice, inclined to wrangle in the presence of a woman.
"No," answered the Countess, calmly, "I have no wish to shun him. Methinks I will take off my mask."
"No, no!" cried Rochester, "not so,--give him the opportunity of not seeming to know thee, if he will;" and, with a deliberate step, they proceeded along the alley, up which the Earl of Essex advanced in the same thoughtful mood.
When he was within a few steps of them he raised his head. His brow contracted, but that was the only sign of emotion he displayed. With a firm, steady look, he gazed at Rochester from head to foot, and then turned his eyes upon the Countess, fixing them upon her masked face sternly and sadly. It was evident that he knew her; and, indeed, the beauty of her form, and the queenly grace of her step, were not to be mistaken.
Not the slightest quivering of her hand, nor any clinging to the arm of Rochester, indicated agitation or alarm on her part. She trod, as she passed the man whose happiness she had wrecked, with a foot as bold and unwavering as if her path were one of virtue and honour. It seemed as if she wished him to see and know, how completely she had cast off all sense of right and decency; and perhaps it was indeed so, for her object was to drive him to have their incomplete marriage annulled, and set her free to wed the man for whom she had disgraced herself.
"I shall cut that man's throat some day," said Rochester, after they had passed; "saw you the glance he gave me? That cannot be long borne."
"I beseech you do nothing of the kind," replied the Countess, the few better points in whose character require to be displayed as well as the darker ones. "'Tis not that I am afraid for you, Rochester; but you must not spill his blood. I hate, abhor, loathe him; but still I have brought upon him much misery, and I wish not to do more. Did he stand in my way, did he still persist in his claims upon me, I know not what I might not do to free myself from him. Anything, anything, I believe. But such is not the case; thank God, he hates me as much as I hate him, and therefore I would injure him no further. Were he even to lash me with his tongue, instead of trying to look me down with his eyes, I could forgive him. No; you must do nothing against him. But now we are coming near the palace, and I must leave you; you can follow in a few minutes. I shall be with the Queen all night."
From these last words, the reader will learn that the Countess still strove to conceal her conduct from the eyes of the Court in general; but in this, as might be expected, she was unsuccessful. Fond of scandal and of gossip, King James showed no reprobation of the gross immorality and vice that reigned in his Court, and seemed, indeed, to tolerate it, for the sake of the amusement which it afforded him to hear of all the intrigues that were going on around him. But the encouragement he gave to every one of his confidential attendants, to pry into and report to him all the secrets of the ladies and gentlemen attached to the Queen and to himself, ensured that nothing should be concealed which the cunning and acuteness of low-minded and unscrupulous men could discover.
When Rochester entered the palace and passed through the antechamber, where some five or six gentlemen were sitting, he found them all laughing at something which one of their companions, who was Kneeling on the window seat and gazing out, reported to them from time to time.
"You seem gay, gentlemen," he said, walking onward, unconscious, perhaps, that he himself might have been the subject of their merriment.
"Yes, my Lord," replied one of the jokers, "we are just laughing at Bradshaw's observations from the window. You would think he was the alderman's wife, who has a corner house in the market-place of a country town, so cleverly does he settle the affairs of every one he sees go in and out of the palace."
The King's favourite did not venture to ask any more questions; but, replying, "I give him joy, both of his fine employment and your pleasant comparison," he walked on, and passed through the opposite door.
In a small cabinet to the right of the chamber beyond, he found Sir Thomas Overbury, who looked not particularly well satisfied; and Rochester felt an inclination to avoid any long discussion with him.
"Has the King asked for me?" he inquired.
"Oh, no," replied Overbury; "he has been well enough entertained during your absence."
"What with?" demanded Rochester.
"Gossip," answered Overbury, "gossip, as usual."
"Well, then," rejoined Rochester, "I will go and knock at the old lady's door."
"No, no," cried the Knight, "Lord Northampton is with him now, having driven away Maxwell, who has been entertaining him with this affair between you and Lady Essex. I wish to Heaven, my Lord----"
"Hush," cried Rochester, laughing, and taking him by the collar, "not a word, or I will strangle you. She is the most charming creature in the whole world; beauty, wit, grace, everything--I can no more give her up than I can fly."
"I do not ask you to give her up, my Lord;" replied Sir Thomas Overbury, whose morality was not very nice. "I only wish you to be more careful. For a light love affair like this, you will never think of marring your whole fortunes; and if you do not mend the rashness of your passion, you will do so. Surely there was no need boldly to walk out with her in the chase, when you have so many other opportunities of being together."
"Oh, she longed for a walk with me, she said," replied Rochester, "and how could I refuse her? Besides, nobody could see us. You knew where I was gone; but we went out and came back separate, so that none of the rest of the Court could----"
"Could do anything," interrupted Overbury, "but sit in the ante-room, and make epigrams upon you by the hour. The last thing I heard Bradshaw say was foolish enough; but it will show you the talk: