"We soon shall see the Dane driven home,And Saxon knights in Wessex.Essex to Middlesex is come,And Rochester joins Essex."
"We soon shall see the Dane driven home,
And Saxon knights in Wessex.
Essex to Middlesex is come,
And Rochester joins Essex."
"His bad lines," replied Rochester, angrily, "shall cost him his place, or his ears."
"Ah, that's the way," cried Overbury, "that one rash act brings on another. You must needs parade yourself in public with this lady, and then you make an enemy of a man who has many powerful friends. But hark!--There goes Lord Northampton from the King's closet. You had better go now, and laugh off this affair."
"I will, I will," replied Rochester, and gladly left Sir Thomas Overbury, whose friendly counsels, to say the truth, were no longer so palatable to him as once they had been.
Those who direct us with skill towards the gratification of our passions or our wishes are loved for their complaisance, and admired for their ability, by the weak and unprincipled, by the ordinary and the selfish--and, too often, by the wise and the great; for that twofold exertion of reason is extraordinary indeed, which, when misled by inclination, enables us to appreciate the wisdom which sees that we are wrong, and to be grateful for the love that would guide us back to right.
It was a bright and beautiful day upon the whole; though, from time to time, over the deep blue sky, and through the sunshiny air, came some large pelting drops of rain, though nothing worthy of the name of a cloud was seen, and the shower lasted but a minute, fleeting away with a rainbow on its wings, like some gay child tossing up a many-coloured scarf into the wind. There was a bright party, too, upon the banks of the Thames, in Buckinghamshire, fit for the pencil of a Landseer. It consisted of a fine tall man, of noble presence, about fifty years of age, mounted on a stout black horse, with a broad hat and feathers on his head, and dressed in dark green, with a pair of tan-coloured boots and red tops. Over his shoulder he wore a pouch of velvet, slung by a broad band of leather, embroidered with gold, and reaching to the hilt of his short sword. His hands were covered with large gloves of buckskin, the flaps of which extended nearly to his elbow; and over the first finger of the left were thrown some silken strings and little globular bells. He had, too, a whistle of silver, suspended round his neck by a green cord, with a tassel; and, as he sat there, with his grey moustache and flowing grey hair, his bright and merry brown eye, and easy seat upon his horse, one might judge him to be an experienced sportsman, well satisfied with the success of the day.
On his right hand was a lady--a few years younger than himself, perhaps, but not many--mounted upon a round, short-legged, but powerful galloway, not deficient in fire or breeding, but chosen apparently for its strength and courage. Its bright eye glanced, and its ear quivered, while, held in by the rein, it seemed eager to go on, and pawed the ground with its small delicate foot. The lady herself was dressed in a rich riding suit; and the hooded hawk, which she held upon one hand, and smoothed down from time to time with the other, sufficiently announced her occupation. The expression of her countenance was high and dignified; but, at the same time, there was a certain degree of quickness of temper in the glance of her eye, somewhat softened by a pleasant and good-humoured smile upon her lip.
On the other side of the gentleman we have mentioned appeared a younger lady, with her beautiful brown hair escaping in rich curls from a small black velvet cap, ornamented with a single black feather, and her face glowing with exercise. She was mounted on a light grey jennet, full of blood and spirit, but apparently well-trained and good-tempered, who, with head down and extended neck, snuffed at a low-legged spaniel dog, which, with open mouth and dropping tongue, lay looking in the face of its master.
Near this group of falconers was seen a strong middle-aged man, kneeling down beside a dead heron, which lay upon the grassy bank, and fastening on a hood upon the head of a hawk, which he seemed to be caressing and scolding at the same time.
"Ah, the haggard!" he cried, "ah, the haggard! thou art not half reclaimed, art thou? My Lord, she will be a magnificent bird next spring. Did you see that point she made at the pitch? and such a stoop!--There is not a bird in the mew could do better. I told you, sir, with her first feather.--Come, lady, come, no rustling.--Where's the other glove, boy?" he continued, addressing a young man, who, with two others, habited as falconers, stood near, with long poles in their hands, "There's another bird not far off, my Lord."
"Ay, but here comes a boat," answered his master, "and they will put him up.--I thought so; there he goes--there he goes!--Slip Margery, my love!--Whoop! Sir Long Legs, whoop!--Off with her, off with her. Calm, good Margery, calm! She has him, now she has him." And off flew the falcon from the lady's hand; while the heron, apparently unwilling to tower, flapped its heavy wings along over the water, rippling it for some way with its feet.
"After her, after her!" cried the gentleman; "the brute will show us no sport. As I live she will let Margery strike her in the water. No, no, there she goes up!--After her, after her;" and away he galloped, accompanied by the lady on the galloway, and the three lads with their poles.
The younger lady paused, however, and reined in her jennet, notwithstanding all its struggles to follow the rest. Her eyes were fixed upon the boat, which, rowed by two stout men with the full current of the stream, now rapidly approached the spot where she was. The next minute she slipped from the saddle, her eyes bright, and her whole face glowing; and with the bridle over her left arm, approached the very brink of the water, holding out her hand, which in another instant was clasped in that of William Seymour.
He sprang at once on shore; and, while Arabella strove to conceal from the eyes of the boatmen the joy that was in her heart, there was quite enough in her countenance to sweep away all jealousy for ever from the heart of her lover, if ever he entertained it.
"Is this accident or design?" asked Arabella, in a low tone.--"It is very pleasant, Seymour, whatever it is.--But where have you been since?"
"Three days I was kept at Hampton Court," answered Seymour; "then took my departure for Cambridge, cut across thence to Oxford, and then, knowing well that I should have a welcome from the Countess, came down the river with my two men in the boat.--Run her into the first creek you can find," he continued, turning to the boatmen, "and come up to Lord Shrewsbury's house at Malvoisie. Where can these men find a creek, falconer, in which the boat will be in safety?"
"Not a quarter of a mile down, sir," replied a man, who was settling the falcon, which had previously struck a heron, upon a perch formed of four rollers of wood, in the shape of a square, which hung from the neck of a boy, placed in the centre thereof, much like the pails of a London milkwoman:--"they will find a creek, and a boat-house belonging to my Lord too. There will be room enough for your boat beside the Earl's barge. Then, if they follow the path, it will take them to the house.--But I must run after the hawk, my Lady; 'twere a shame if she struck the quarry, and I not there.--There they go over Lawson's lea."
"Go, go, Harry," cried Arabella; "and tell my uncle I am following."
The man and the boy hurried away; and after pausing to speak a word or two more, Seymour replaced Arabella in her saddle; and then, with his hand resting on the croup, walked slowly on beside her, gazing up into her face, and drinking in sweet draughts of pure, and high, and holy affection. It was a beautiful contrast to the dark scene of strong but evil passion, which it has been lately our unpleasing task to paint.
"I am sure they will receive you kindly," said Arabella, after a short pause, in answer to something Seymour had said; "but I doubt, William, indeed I doubt, that either will approve of your staying long."
"Doubt not--doubt nothing, dearest Arabella," replied Seymour. "I saw the Countess in London before I went down to Hampton Court. She taxed me with my love; and I did not deny it; and she owned that such constancy, on your part and on mine, deserved its reward. I have had a letter from her, too, since she heard of that scene before the Council, which she pronounces scandalous and wicked, and says it is high time you should be freed from the thraldom in which you are kept, and your heart suffered to have its liberty. 'Tis by her invitation, indeed, that I came."
"But my uncle," said Arabella, "I fear my uncle; I do not think he will countenance----"
She paused, and William Seymour asked, "What, my beloved?"
"What I believe you wish," replied Arabella, with her cheek glowing, "our marriage in secret."
"My wishes go farther still, dear one," replied William Seymour; "I could not be content--not half content, to see my Arabella only by stealth, with long and frequent intervals. I must be able to pass the whole livelong day with her, to sun myself in her smiles whenever I will, to hear the music of her voice continually, to watch her eyes, and trace every varying thought from day to day."
"Oh, that can never be here," answered Arabella, sadly.
"No, not here," replied William Seymour, "but in another land, where this King's power will not reach us. In any of the Spanish territories, in Flanders, in Italy, in Spain itself, we shall be quite secure; and where thou art, is my country, Arabella. That climate will be brightest where thy looks beam upon me--that scene the fairest where thou art by my side."
A bright drop rose in Arabella's eye as he spoke, but she answered, almost sadly, "You know, William, that I desire nothing but you; and yet it seems to me hardly right that my love should banish you from the land of your birth. You have many friends, good men and noble, wise and honourable; and I should be proud to see the husband that I love surrounded and admired by those he himself esteems. I would enlarge all your sphere of enjoyment, Seymour, not diminish it. I would not have you for me, if I could help it, give up one friend--abandon one virtuous pleasure. Oh no, love is not a selfish passion. On the contrary, it is a self-denying one; for I feel that all I could desire to make me happy, would be the happiness of him I love."
"Dear, noble girl," cried Seymour, bending down his head, and kissing the hand that rested on her bridle rein, "I say so too; and therefore is it that I give not one thought to the abandonment of everything else, for the bright hope of making you happy in some distant country. But still, my beloved, you need not think that we shall be condemned to everlasting banishment. A few short years may pass, till the King sees that he cannot break our union; and then he must perceive, that it is for his own interest, as well as his honour, that we should return, and enjoy our rights in our own land."
"I do not know," answered Arabella, in a doubtful tone; "he is hard and resolute in his resentments. Do not you know how he treated the Palatine who urged him, with continual prayers and entreaties, to set free the unfortunate Lord Grey? All that the king replied was, 'When I come to your dominions, son-in-law, I will ask for none of your prisoners.'"
"Well, then, we will set him at defiance," replied Seymour; "we will fix our happiness in our mutual love; we will form our high fortunes in contentment, and leave him to rule, with his sceptre of parchment, those whose fate hangs upon his smile. I would rather be the husband of Arabella Stuart, in any land in all the world, where I may boldly hold her to my heart, and call her mine, however poor be the pittance that I have to share with her, than live in riches in my native country, with the dread of an unjust monarch's frown darkening each moment that I spent in her sweet company. But there stands my Lord of Shrewsbury; his bird has brought the heron down, I see; so he will be in good humour, and we must take the brightest moment we can find."
Thus saying, he advanced with Arabella to a little knoll, on which the group of falconers had re-assembled. The Earl had by this time dismounted from his horse, and was standing beside his wife, who was bending her head, as if talking to him rapidly, but in an under tone; and the bright yellow sky behind them showed clearly the fine commanding features of the Countess of Shrewsbury, full of animation and eagerness. The Earl shrugged his shoulders, with a laugh; and then, advancing cordially towards William Seymour, he held out his hand, saying,
"Welcome, welcome, thou man of wanderings! You have missed a rare day's sport by not coming three hours sooner, and well nigh spoiled our sport, too, by stirring this grey-coated gentleman from the reeds with your boat. However, as Margery has avenged herself, and brought him down from the skies with a fall--as should be the case with all ambitious spirits when they soar too high--we will forgive you. Come, we will back towards the house."
"I did not see what you were about, till it was too late, my Lord," replied William Seymour, grasping his hand. "Dear lady, how goes it with you?" he continued, advancing to the Countess; and adding, in a low tone, as he bent down to kiss her glove, "thanks for your comfortable letter."
"You shall have more to thank me for than that," replied Lady Shrewsbury. "Well, my pretty cousin," she continued, turning to Arabella, with a smile, "we have struck our bird to-day, methinks."
"Not I," answered Arabella, innocently. "I had no hawk to fly, and therefore have got no quarry."
"Ay, but you have," answered the Countess; "and the goodliest, it seems. Come, Shrewsbury, deliver me of these jesses. I will have no more birds upon my hand to-day."
"Take care, lady mine," replied the Earl, approaching, "that you do not get more upon your hands than you can manage."
The Countess took him by the moustachio, saying, "Wilt thou be silent?"
"See how she treats me!" cried the Earl, laughing; "and I have borne this for twenty long years. Let no man say, that there is not meekness amongst husbands! Come, I will walk back. Bring my horse, boy. You are too fat to walk, good wife, and this poor thing is too delicate, so we men will trudge a-foot, while the women keep the saddle. 'Twas not so in the Queen's time, Seymour. With a woman on the throne, men ruled; now the coif and the petticoat govern all."
The Countess and Arabella rode on, and Seymour and the Earl followed on foot, leaving the hawks to the care of the falconers. Lord Shrewsbury was gay and good-humoured, perfectly cordial in his manner towards his young friend, and repeated, more than once, that he was most happy to see him; but he touched not at all upon the subject nearest to Seymour's thoughts, although the words he had let fall in speaking to the Countess, induced his companion to believe that he was not unaware of his love for Arabella.
The house of Malvoisie, which has long since disappeared from the face of the earth, had been built in the last year of the reign of Henry VIII., and, consequently, might be considered in those days a modern erection. But our somewhat weeping climate soon stamps the mark of age upon man's works; and, in the space of sixty years, the red brick had become brown, and lichens had gathered here and there upon the walls. The immense quantity of beech trees, from which Buckinghamshire takes its name, and which there came close up to the house on three sides, might have contributed to this effect; but, however that might be, the house had already a very venerable appearance; and the four terraces, one below the other, with their low walls and ornamented coping, gave it likewise a magnificent air, although it was not of very great extent.
Servants were waiting at the door to give admission to the lord of the mansion and his guest; and the Earl conducted his young friend at once into the Countess's drawing-room, which was furnished in a manner that any one may see described, if they choose to look into Lady Compton's letter to her husband after his recovery.
Lady Shrewsbury and Arabella, still in their riding dress, were standing talking together eagerly; and Arabella's face was glowing, while her eyes were cast down, so that Seymour easily conceived what had been the nature of their conversation.
"Now, then, close the door, Shrewsbury," said the Countess, "and let us hold a council together."
"Nonsense," replied the Earl; "suffer the poor youth to recover and refresh himself a little, before you attack him. Besides, I tell you fairly, I will have nothing to do with your plots and conspiracies, even if their object be but the robbery of a wren's nest. You may do what you like, lady mine. I never was powerful in my life in marital rule; and my sway has waxed slenderer every year."
"Because you knew very well," answered the Countess, laughing, "that you had got somebody who could manage her own affairs, and yours, too, better than you could yourself; so, like a wise man as you are, you proved yourself a most obedient husband."
"Well, well," said the Earl, good-humouredly, "I will have nothing to do with your councils; but I do insist that it is better to let this poor youth eat his supper, and not hear his fate fasting. So come along to your chamber, Seymour, and wash your hands. When once my good housewife gets hold of you, you may give yourself up; you will have no power over your own actions afterwards, that I can tell you."
"After supper be it, then," answered the Countess. "Come, Bella, we may as well put off these weeds, too," and thus saying, she led the way from the room.
The Earl accompanied his young guest to his chamber, where he found all the goods and chattels which his men had brought up from the boat; and Lord Shrewsbury, closing the door, took his young friend's hand kindly, saying, in a graver tone than he had hitherto used, "William, I wish you well, believe me, and no man would do more to serve you, or to see you happy. But let me advise you to think well what you are about. A man, it is true, may well risk much for the sweetest lady in all the land; but let not passion blind you, and induce you to take any step of great importance without due consideration. Recollect that this dear girl's fate is implicated as well as your own. Having said this, my boy, I shall add no more; but, whatever you do, be sure that I will stand by you when it is done, as the son of my old dear friend, and the grandson of one of the noblest gentlemen in Europe. Now, farewell for the present."
William Seymour sat down and meditated. What the Earl of Shrewsbury had said, had the effect which words of good, plain, common sense, mingled with frank and feeling kindness, is almost sure to have, on the hearts of all but the vicious and the hardened. It made him think deeply--intensely, of that which he was about to do. It did more--it made him even doubt his own motives, and his own judgment; it made him try, by every test that the powers of a strong mind could bring to bear upon the subject, the course he was about to pursue, and to ask himself, for Arabella's sake, whether his eyes were not blinded by passion; whether he was really seeking that which was most likely to conduce to her happiness; or whether he was risking her peace for his own gratification.
Eagerly did he debate the question with himself; and he strove resolutely to act as an impartial judge between desire and self-denial; but love is the most eloquent of advocates; and it is not to be wondered at, that, with so good a cause as that which he had to plead, he overpowered all the arguments on the opposite side. To a mind not very sensible to fear, or alive to danger, the risks and inconveniences seemed small--the probabilities of success great; and happiness, if their escape could be effected, certain. He recollected all that Arabella herself had said; the frank confession of her love, the deep devotion which she showed towards him, her readiness to abandon everything for him. He asked himself, if his whole happiness for life was staked upon his union with her, could he doubt that hers was equally dependent upon it also. And then he went on to think of what would be her fate, if, neglecting the opportunity--if, abandoning the chance of uniting themselves together for ever, she were left still in the same situation at the Court of England, in which she had lived for the last two or three years. The argument which that question called forth was conclusive. Could he, for any consideration, leave her to wither under the cold and icy tyranny of a monarch like James I.,--the sport of all his caprices, the victim of whatever a harsh policy, or a weak complacence with the views of his vicious favourites, might require. He pictured her, day after day, suffering from unjust severity, or chilling neglect; he thought of her, forced to mingle in scenes of vicious excess with those whom her pure heart contemned and abhorred; he saw her urged, commanded, forced to give her hand to some base minion of an unprincipled king; living a short life of misery and gloom; and dying with blighted hope and disappointed love. Could he suffer this? Ought he to suffer it? For her sake, as well as his own, if there were but a bare chance of delivering her, could he stand coldly by, and abandon her to such a fate as this?
Love, as may well be supposed, easily won the day, and proved, to his conviction, that the only hope of happiness for himself, and her he loved, was in speedy flight; and, after a few moments given to the arrangement of his dress, he again sought Arabella and the Countess, determined to persevere.
He found them both with the Earl; and, by common consent, nothing was said upon the subject, which occupied all thoughts, for about an hour and a half, over which space of time we will pass, as the conversation of persons, whose minds are filled with one engrossing theme, upon every day topics in which they feel no interest, would be as tedious to the reader as to themselves.
The supper was over; the windows were closed; the lights were lighted; and the party had once more assembled in the Countess's drawing-room. The Earl, however, stood beside one of the tables, and, taking up a light, he said, "I am going to the book room. When this plot is hatched, you can come and tell me, sweetheart; and then you shall play me an air on the virginals, or sing me a song to the lute."
"Dear uncle," said Arabella, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking up in his face, as if she wished him to stay. But Lord Shrewsbury merely bent down his head and kissed her cheek, saying, "God protect thee, in all circumstances, my dear girl!" and, without waiting for farther reply, quitted the room.
Arabella leaned her arm upon the table, and placed her hand over her eyes, while the Countess demanded, as soon as the door was closed, "Well, Seymour, what are your plans? It is high time that all this should come to some conclusion; or you two, unable to restrain your love from appearing, and not having taken care to shelter it against storms, will get into misery, from which we shall not be able to rescue you."
"I think so too, dear lady," replied Seymour; "and I have come hither, certain of your kind support and assistance, to arrange what is to be done."
"You are both agreed I suppose?" said the Countess; "you love each other dearly, I know.--Is it not so, Bella?"
Arabella looked up with a smile, but made no answer, and the Countess proceeded.
"That will do," she said; "and I do not see why your affection should be barred by the swine King we have now upon the throne. Seymour, you have got some plan in your head, I am sure. Let us hear what it is."
"That this dear girl should fly with me," replied her lover; "that is the plain truth, Countess. I care not much to what country we go, provided it be one that will keep us free, for a time, from the persecution of the King, so long as his anger lasts."
"I thought so," said Lady Shrewsbury; "and I suppose that must be the event. But I cannot consent, Seymour, to let her go without being first your wife."
"But how can that be accomplished, dear lady?" asked William Seymour. "You know, if we were to apply to any of the bishops, they would carry the tidings forthwith to the King; and if we have the banns published, the fact will be soon all over the Court. We can be married the moment we are across the Channel."
"No, no," answered the Countess, in her usual decided tone; "she goes with you as your wife, or not at all. Do not suppose I think you would wrong her, Seymour; for I am sure you would lose your own life first; but if diamonds are valuable because they are rare--I am sure, so in these days is a good name; and she must not lose hers--no, not for love itself. Nor is the matter difficult, as I shall manage it. We have got a parson here who, though he looks upon us all as what he calls Papists, is my very humble and good servant; and would be a Catholic too, if it was not for fear of losing his living, God wot. Thanks be to heaven, he mumbles like an old woman chewing a crust; and I never yet could discover the person who, when he publishes what he calls the bands of matrimony, could find out who were the people he was going to tie in them. Thus, then, I will have it. You shall stay here three nights, and speed away again on the third morning. You shall show yourself at the Court, and in other places; and after the third Sunday you shall come down hither, where, in this quiet little church, perched up amongst the woods, without a house but the parson's for a mile round, you may take each other for better for worse, without any one knowing aught about it. In the meantime, Seymour, you make all your preparations for departure. Have your ship ready, and your money prepared. My Lord of Hertford will not love you the less for marrying secretly a lady of the Blood Royal; and he is never unwilling to open his purse, for any generous purpose. Shrewsbury and I will give you some help, such as it is, though the times are hard ones; and as, doubtless, the little that our poor Arabella has will be lost for love of you, it must be made up by your love for her. Let there be no writing, in the meantime, till you come again; for we know well enough there are spies abroad."
Seymour kissed the Countess's hand, with many thanks, acknowledging that her plan was the wisest and the best. "But, dear lady," he added, "I almost fear that, if this takes place in your house, it may draw upon you and my good Lord of Shrewsbury the indignation of the King."
"Good faith," answered the Countess, "his Majesty had better not meddle with me. 'Tis such poor timid things as this that he can intimidate and overawe. But, even if he should try, I have a hold upon him which will keep him silent--at least, I think so. 'Tis not many months ago that he said to me, when the marriage proposed with the Duke of Gueldres was refused, that Arabella might choose one of his own subjects if she liked; he consented to it freely."
Arabella started up, and gazed upon her aunt with doubt and surprise. "Oh, why did you not tell me?" she exclaimed.
"Because I did not think fit, poor bird," replied the Countess; "and something more.--I assured the King that you had no thought of marriage then--that you were indisposed to give your hand to any but a man of princely birth.--I knew right well," she added, abruptly, "that he was wishing to tie you to his minion, Carr, and I was resolved to shield you from such degradation. In wedding this youth here, you wed one of princely birth; for in his veins is flowing the blood of our Seventh Harry; and though you, sweet maid, may be nearest akin to this present King, I am not sure that he is not nearest to the throne of England. But so it is, Bella, the King did give this consent; and I see not why we may not use it now as well as then."
"Oh, this is indeed joyful!" exclaimed Arabella; "he cannot--he dare not treat us ill after this."
"Trust him not, trust him not," replied the Countess; "his word is as unstable as a quicksand; and, if you think to rest upon it, you will be swallowed up alive. The course I have laid before you, is the only one you can pursue; though this consent that he has given may perhaps shame him into moderation, and enable you to return sooner to your native land. Now I shall leave you together, pretty birds, in your cage, to talk over your plans; and then you shall sing your uncle a song, if you have any voice left. While you are here, Seymour, we must keep you somewhat close. Our woods, and parks, and fields, may give you space enough; but you must avoid the towns and villages, lest our secret be carried to the court."
One half the world does not know how the other half live, is an old English proverb, and a true one; but there is something more to be said upon the subject than even that,--not one-millionth part of the world know what the rest are doing. Happy were it for them if they did; for how many a base and criminal design would be frustrated; how many an anxious and careful thought would be avoided; how many a wise and prudent scheme would find success; how many a good man, struggling with poverty, would meet relief and honour; how many a great man, crushed under the cold obstruction of circumstances, would be taken by the hand, and led up to the high places of the world, if the actions of all were open to the eyes of all!
The days passed sweetly with Arabella Stuart and William Seymour, for the time during which the Countess of Shrewsbury permitted him to stay. They laid out their plans; they made their arrangements; they talked over the future; and imagination, that pleasant painter, represented the coming days in all the glittering colours of hope and light. Even when he had left Malvoisie, and was deprived of the society of her he loved, still the sweet recollection and the bright expectation gladdened the present, and cheered him while he made all the preparations which were necessary for the execution of his scheme. But, in the meantime, the views and designs of others, with little, if any reference to himself, were proceeding on a course calculated to frustrate all his hopes for a time, if not for ever; and while he, in total ignorance that such things were taking place, was rejoicing at the near approach of happiness, a hand was stretched out to snatch it from him, just as the cup was being raised to his lip. Oh! could he but have seen the events that were occurring at the Court of England; could he have heard the words that were spoken, and divined the plans that were formed, he might have found matter for anxiety and apprehension, it is true, but love would certainly have found some stratagem to frustrate those purposes, which now marched calmly on to their accomplishment.
We nave said that the designs and views of which we have spoken had little direct reference to Seymour, and to the schemes for his escape with Arabella. The eyes of the King and his courtiers had been completely blinded by the precautions he had taken; his visit to Malvoisie had not been even whispered amongst the scandal-mongers of the Court; and although the preparations which he had been making after his return to London were not altogether unnoticed, the tongue of calumny had assigned to them a very different motive from the real one, and most unintentionally favoured his purposes, by screening the truth under a falsehood. The suspicion which had been so strongly entertained of the attachment existing between Arabella and himself had almost altogether died away; and rumour had falsely attributed to him some tender connexion in the native land of intrigue--Italy, which was supposed to be once more leading him away from the shores of his own country.
In the meantime, the King's favourite, Rochester, was pursuing, with all the vehemence of strong and overpowering passion, the guilty course which he had entered upon with the beautiful fiend who had got him in her toils. His criminal intimacy with Lady Essex was no longer whispered with a smile, or pointed at in an epigram. It was the open talk of the whole Court, the subject of grave and painful reprehension to the few good and wise who were admitted to the royal circle, and of laughter and merriment to the gay, the unthinking, and vicious multitude which thronged the palaces of James I.
To one of those, however, who could not be classed amongst the most strict in their notions of morality, his open and daring violation of even common decency was a subject of bitter and anxious thought. Sir Thomas Overbury could not shut out the conviction, that this disgraceful connexion might prove a serious obstacle in the way of his favourite project, of allying his patron to the Blood Royal of England by a marriage with Arabella Stuart; and every jest he heard upon the subject came painfully to his ear. Sometimes he thanked heaven that Arabella was absent, and hoped that Rochester's passion would be as short-lived as it was fierce; but when he saw that, on the contrary, it became every day more and more ardent and outrageous, he asked himself if it might not be better to hurry on the marriage with Arabella without any farther delay; and, by engaging the King to exercise his full authority, to carry it through as rapidly as possible, in order to bind her for ever to Rochester, before she had such good cause to allege for refusing him her hand.
Doubts and perplexities, indeed, surrounded him; for although Carr still talked to him on the subject of his marriage, and, in order to blind his friends to the designs which he knew Overbury would oppose, affected to look upon his union with Arabella, whether he loved her or not, as a thing absolutely necessary to his security and advancement, yet he showed himself occasionally cold and captious, reserved and insincere, towards one who, for a long period, had possessed his fullest confidence, and guided him at will.
Many a deep and anxious fit of thought did all these considerations cause Sir Thomas Overbury; and he resolved, after a long deliberation, to try whether, by art, he could not establish a new hold upon the favourite, more firm and tenacious than that of mere gratitude.
"I must have some power over him," he said; "I must have something in my hands to give, in order that I may demand that in return which might be otherwise denied, notwithstanding all the services I have rendered him."
Such were his thoughts and feelings at the period when the Court removed from Hampton; and we shall now proceed to show the manner in which he endeavoured to effect his object, premising that for some months he had been labouring to bring the King's mind to the particular tone he wanted.
It was in the King's closet at the palace of Greenwich. The Monarch was dressed in hunting costume; and, as the season was rapidly approaching when he could no longer venture to hunt the hart, he was somewhat eager and impatient to set out upon his sport.
Something, however, had gone wrong in the stables; his horse had not been brought to the door at which he was to mount; and he had sent one after another, first a page, then a gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and then Lord Rochester himself, to see what had become of the grooms and huntsmen, upon whose heads he bestowed a torrent of condemnation, in very profane and unkingly language.
To ordinary observers it would have appeared that a more unpropitious moment could not have been selected for pressing a suit or asking a favour; but Sir Thomas Overbury knew King James as well as any one who was about him, and was aware that requests, which he would have denied flatly and resolutely when he had time for consideration, might often be wrung from him by importunity, in a moment of impatience and haste. The moment, then, that he saw Lord Rochester pass through the antechamber, he hurried to the King,--whom he knew to be now alone,--with a small slip of paper in hand half covered with writing.
"Well, sir, well, where are the horses?" cried James, as soon as he saw him. "Those heathen fellows will let the fresh of the morning go by; and the sun's peeping out as hot as a kitchen fire, to drink up all the dew off the grass."
"I think they mistook the hour your Majesty named," replied Overbury, "and, instead of a quarter before, made ready for a quarter after nine."
"Body o' sin! did you ever hear the like of that?" cried James; "did they never go out to track a stag in the early morning? What have you got there? But if that's a supplication, man, you may as well spare your pains.--I'll have nothing to do with it.--Take it away."
"It is not a supplication, may it please your Majesty," replied Overbury, "but a paper which your Majesty was pleased to say you would sign. You may remember the matter in which I moved you, sire, regarding my Lord Rochester and my Lady Arabella."
"I'll not sign it, sir, I'll not sign it," cried the King, "I told you so before. She's got a hankering, sir, after that fellow Seymour, and I'll not sign it. If I was sure she would use it only to marry Carro, I don't say but that I might. But I will not have the other! Now look ye, young gentleman," he added, falling, imperceptibly to himself, into a disquisitional tone, "you are not without sense, and good parts, and judgment; and, while we have a minute to spare, we will condescend to instruct you as to our motives, which with kings--who are bound to exercise their sagacity upon fine points, that altogether escape the attention of ordinary men--are very different from the common motives of the people, or even of councillors, and men accustomed to broad and general state affairs."
"I hear your Majesty with reverence and gratitude," replied Sir Thomas Overbury, in the fulsome style then used towards the Monarch, "and will lay to heart every word that falls from your lips, as the most precious guide to wisdom."
"Well, sir, that's right," rejoined James. "Now listen, then. Ordinary men will think--and, most like, you amongst them--that it is a strange thing that I should let this lady wed Rochester, and refuse her to the fellow Seymour. The vulgar people will think that it is because Rochester is, what they call, with their profane tongues, the King's favourite. I know their gabble right well. Others will think that it is because I judge ill of this lad Seymour, or well of Rochester, as the case may be; and in this they will be reverent, though not altogether wise. You yourself may think that you have had a finger in the pie, and brought the matter about by smooth words and representations; but these opinions are altogether wrong. As my Lord Rochester is now a man of great estate, the match may be a suitable one. As his fortunes depend upon us, we shall always have the staff in our own hands: and it is not unexpedient that she should be married to some one over whom we have the greatest authority, to prevent her from wedding another who might cause confusion. But these are all collateral or subsidiary considerations, and go no farther than to affect her marriage with Lord Rochester. But there are reasons why we will not have her marry the fellow Seymour, which are these:--that he, failing his elder brother, who is but a puny lad, is the immediate representative of that Lady Catharine Grey, descended from King Henry VII., by Mary, Queen Dowager of France; and the lady, as you well know, being of the Blood Royal of England, and next to the throne, after ourself and our children, has been the object, as you well know, of many dark conspiracies and treacherous designings, both amongst the subjects of our crown and foreign princes. Now were the two lines blended more by her marriage with this Seymour, there is no knowing what might come of it--wars, and rumours of wars, tumults, and confusion, sir. If they two were to lay their heads together, and take up either with the Papists or the Puritans, they might blow up a flame in a minute that would be difficult to put out again."
"I see your Majesty's wisdom," replied Overbury, with a low bow, and a well-assorted face; "and it shows clearly that her marriage with Lord Rochester should be brought about as soon as possible. If you will sign this permission, sir, for her to marry any of your Majesty's subjects, it will doubtless greatly facilitate the affair."
"Well, then, put in his name," said the King; "why should he not be the person expressed?"
"Because your Majesty is well aware," answered Overbury, "the lady has always shown herself coy and captious, never willing to give her hand where she supposed it was wished. At all events, sir, the paper could only be used according to your Majesty's directions;--and as to Mr. Seymour," he continued, "he is now paying not the slightest attention to the lady, since your Majesty so severely reprimanded him."
"It was due and merciful severity," answered the King, "like that of----"
But we cannot venture to go on with the blasphemous parallel which he drew between himself and the Almighty. He ended, however, by asking, "Where is the lad now?"
"He is at the house of his father, the Lord Beauchamp, in London," replied Overbury. "He spent a week at Cambridge, sire, then came back direct, and has been in town ever since, preparing, they say, for another journey to Italy, where, it is rumoured, he has some love amongst the Italian ladies."
The King began to chuckle at what he called, "the fule boy going a thousand miles for a woman;" and he laid his commands strongly on Overbury to find out all about it, and give him information.
The Knight promised diligent compliance, and then added, "If your Majesty is gracious enough to sign this paper, it will give my Lord of Rochester the strongest possible claim to the lady's gratitude and regard; and it will not be necessary to present it to her, but merely to intimate that it exists; so that all danger of a misuse of it will be avoided."
"Foul fall thee, man!" exclaimed the King, hesitating, and taking him by the ear; "what a pertinacious hound thou art!"
"I know your Majesty is fond of a staunch dog," answered Overbury; "and you will never blame me for hunting upon the right track."
"Well, well," cried the King, "I'll not sign it, man.--That's to say, not just at present."
"Well then, sire," replied Overbury, determined to make one more effort, "I had better tell my Lord of Rochester at once, not to keep him any longer in suspense. I hear his foot upon the stairs."
"No, no," cried the King, hesitating; "let's see, let's see. Give me the paper."
Overbury gave him the paper, repeating, "I had better let him know your Majesty's resolution at once."
Rochester's step was now distinctly heard coming along the corridor, and James looked round with a sort of nervous glance, exclaiming,--
"Where's the pen? where's the pen?"
"There, your Majesty," answered Overbury, putting one into his hand.
James wrote his name rapidly at the bottom of the paper, and gave it to Overbury, saying, "There, there, let him have it. But do not stop him now; and hark ye, you need not say that we refused to do it."
"I shall tell him, sire," replied Overbury, "that nothing but your Majesty's great regard for him induced you to consent."
"Well, well, that will do--but do not stop him now," answered James, hastily; and then exclaimed, as Rochester entered the closet, "The horses, man! the horses!"
"Are at the door, your Majesty," replied the favourite; "and the hounds and huntsmen gone to the north gate."
"Foul fall the loons," cried James; "I'll make them mind words another time. Come away, Bobby, come away! We have lost much time already;" and thus saying, he shuffled out of the closet, followed by Rochester; while Overbury paused, gazing with a look of thoughtful satisfaction at the paper he held in his hand.
"Ay," now he cried, "the way to fortune is open before him, and the road to power open before me. And yet," he added, thoughtfully, "Rochester has become somewhat cold, even when I am serving him the most zealously. Such is the usual course of the world. I wonder how far he will push his ingratitude?"
Thus is it ever with men blindfolded by their own selfishness. Overbury fancied that he was entitled to deep gratitude from Rochester, because he schemed and laboured to serve him; but he forgot to ask himself, whether all that he did was not with a view to the gratification of his own ambition.
The man who, purely for the sake of another, sacrifices his own peace, his own repose, his own purposes, may well be entitled to thankfulness. Nay, he who at no sacrifice does a kindly act, may have merit likewise; but the man who, in labouring for another, has his own interests, immediate or remote, still before his eyes, can claim but little gratitude from him whom he may benefit in reaching his own objects.
Had anything been wanting to show what were the principles upon which Sir Thomas Overbury acted, his next thoughts would have displayed them: "I will guard against ingratitude," he said; "I will keep this paper in my own hands. His fortune will be then in my power, and hers too will be of my making.--It will be better to have her recalled to the Court at once. There is no fear of this Seymour now. He thinks not of her. As far as I can hear from Maxwell, he has neither been to see her since she went, nor even deigned to write.--No, no; 'twas but a common visit of courtesy; and these tale-bearers have magnified it into a matter of importance.--It is not there I have my fear; but I doubt that daring, impassioned, unprincipled Countess of Essex. I must break through that folly, or Rochester is lost; and yet it must be done skilfully, for it is no light thing to bring down upon one's head the anger of a fierce and ruthless woman. Still it must be done; and though Rochester be bound hand and foot in the chains of this Delilah, we will see whether ambition will not give him strength to break them. It was but an allegory, that tale of Samson. Pleasure was the fair Philistine; ambition the strength-giving hair of the Nazarite, which might be cut off for a time, but grew again in the lap of satiety; and though they blinded him, he slew them all.--He plucked ruin on his own head, it is true; and such may be the case with this man.--Well, we shall see!"