Sir Thomas Overbury proceeded from the presence of the King, to give those orders which were to make two happy hearts cold, two noble and amiable beings wretched. Perhaps he felt some repugnance to the task, some slight touch of remorse at an act which he could not reconcile to his own conscience; for he had not been so seared and hardened in the fire of worldly pursuits, as to be callous to the reproach of the internal monitor.
Ambition, however, is a Moloch, which requires the sacrifice of the sweetest children of the heart; and he went on to seek Lord Rochester, thinking that he had swept a great obstacle from his path. How little did he know--how little does man ever learn to know--that there is an element always wanting in our calculations, one that we seldom think of, and to which we never give weight enough--the will of God! That which overrules the wise, conquers the mighty, frustrates the persevering, and leaves human schemes and purposes but as bubbles glittering in the sunshine, to break when they have had their hour.
He found Lord Rochester sitting in a rich dressing-gown of brocade, with slippers on his feet, and a small purple cap upon his head, partaking of a rich and luxurious breakfast, at an hour which was then considered very late. Wine was before him; for the reader must remember that those were days when the use of tea or coffee was unknown; and the only difference between the refined man of pleasure and the robust man of labour was, that the one seasoned his meal with wine or mead, the other with ale or beer.
Of the potent contents of the flagon, the King's favourite had partaken once or twice--not so deeply, indeed, as to have any effect upon his understanding, but largely enough to give him a certain feeling of decision and determination, which was in general wanting in his character. There were matters which he had long wished to communicate to Overbury; but in regard to which he had felt that sort of timidity that a lad, lately emancipated from school, experiences in the presence of his old preceptor; and now, feeling himself in the mood to open his mind to his friend, he received him with greater willingness and cordiality than he had displayed towards him for some weeks.
"Well, Sir Thomas," he said, shaking his hand without rising, "have you had breakfast? Come, sit down and take some."
"I broke my fast three hours ago," replied Overbury; "but I will sit down and talk to you, my good Lord, while you go on with your meal, for I have much to say to you."
"And I to you, Tom," rejoined the Peer; "I have hardly seen you for this last week, and secrets accumulate, you know. First for your business, however; for yours is always more important than mine;" and he helped himself to another cup of wine.
"Mine is very important indeed," said Overbury; "I wish to speak to you about the Lady Arabella."
"And I to you, too," interrupted Rochester; "that was the very subject in my thoughts; and so perhaps I had better begin at once. As to that marriage, Tom, we must hear no more of it."
Overbury started, and his brow contracted. "You are jesting, Rochester!" he exclaimed. "Not hear any more of it?--Why not?"
"Faith, I am not jesting in the least," replied Lord Rochester; "and as for the why not, I will tell you in a few words. I am going to marry another woman; and this confounded English law does not permit polygamy, you know."
"I have heard so," replied Sir Thomas Overbury, mastering his indignation for the time; "but I am no great lawyer. We certainly see a great deal of polygamy at the Court. May I ask who is the fair object whom you intend to make Viscountess Rochester?"
The tone of indifference which he assumed delivered his friend from the fear of opposition, and he replied at once, "My fair Countess of Essex, good Knight."
"What, another man's wife!" exclaimed Overbury; "why that is polygamy the wrong way. Nay, Rochester, now you are certainly jesting with me; but I am not to be taken in."
"I am as serious as the dead," answered the favourite; "and let me tell you, Overbury, she is not his wife, and very soon will be so no longer even in name. The marriage is about to be dissolved, and then her hand is mine. We have the consent and aid of Lord Northampton, the fullest approbation and assistance of Lady Suffolk, and her father's acquiescence. I will answer for the King's cordial co-operation. So that the matter is settled and secured."
"Rochester! Rochester!" exclaimed Sir Thomas Overbury, giving way at length to the feelings of his heart; "think, I beseech you; think what you are about!"
"Oh, I have thought very well," replied the Viscount; "so there is no use of saying a word about it, Tom."
"Nay, but you must hear me," said his friend, "and I do entreat you, remember that I speak but from affection and devotion to yourself. I say again, think, Rochester, what you are doing. Remember, this woman's conduct is the common scandal of the Court and the City. Recollect that she is but a ----" and he used a word which I dare not write upon this page. "Her uncle and her mother are but panders to her vices; and infamous must he become who dares to wed that woman, who has without excuse broken through every sacred tie, and made herself the impudent gazing-stock of Europe. I say, Rochester, think of the disgrace, think of the shame that will fall upon you, when men point to your wife, and tell her history. Remember how an act not half so gross stained and degraded one of the noblest men that lived within these seas,--I mean Charles Blount,--who raised himself by high and daring actions against the enemy in the field, to the Earldom of Devonshire; the conqueror of Tyrone, the pacificator of Ireland--I say, recollect the disgrace that fell upon him, in consequence of a marriage with the aunt of this very woman's husband, and do not forget that in his case there were excuses that do not exist in yours. That he was the lover of her youth, the man to whom her hand had been promised, before she was compelled against her will to bestow it on another; that she never from the first concealed her love towards him, or promised aught but cold obedience to the man who was forced upon her; and yet, from the hour that he so disgraced himself as to wed Rich's divorced wife, he withered away, with shame, sorrow, and despair, and died in his prime, leaving a blighted name, which, but for that one act, would have lived for ever in renown. Oh, Rochester, consider all this; consider the daily, hourly misery of knowing that your wife is looked on as a harlot, when you might, were you so minded, place yourself upon the topmost pinnacle of fortune, rise to the highest rank that the state admits under royalty, and found a family which might go on, and bear your name with honour to posterity."
"I have considered all," answered Rochester, coldly; "and I am quite determined. As to the marriage with the Lady Arabella, you are deceiving yourself. I heard last night a whisper that she is already married to William Seymour."
"Nonsense!" cried Overbury. "Your open love for this Dame of Essex may have made her show some favour to another, but to pique you. But as to her marriage, that is some idle report of the poor fools of the ante-chamber. She is not married--she cannot be married."
"Pique me!" exclaimed Rochester, with a laugh; "that were vain sport, Overbury; I am cased in proof. However, to marry another man would be carrying the joke somewhat far; and she is married, depend upon it. It is no court gossip; I had it from those who have sharp eyes, and sharper ears. She is married to William Seymour, as sure as my name is Rochester."
"Well, choose some one else, then," cried Sir Thomas; "choose any one but this woman--choose anything but disgrace."
"But I do not see the disgrace," exclaimed Rochester, who had heard him throughout with a heated cheek and contracted brow; "there is a great difference between Lady Rich and Lady Frances Howard, whom they call Lady Essex. I tell you, though some ceremony was performed in their childhood, she is not his wife; and the pretended marriage may be dissolved. Then, too, she has never loved any one but me; she has never pretended to love this man; she abhors, she detests him; she has always told him so. For me she is ready to sacrifice everything----"
"She has sacrificed too much already," answered Overbury. But seeing by Rochester's angry look that he had gone much farther than was politic, and that nothing he could say would change his resolution, he added, after a moment's pause, "Well, Rochester, do me justice, and remember that I have but spoken for your good, as I believe it to be. I may be mistaken; probably am; but your happiness I wish sincerely."
"No man's happiness can be secured, but in his own way," replied Rochester.
"True," rejoined Overbury; "but his fortunes may. To those, this sad passion is the greatest bar; and you have yourself owned that, in seeking them, I have always counselled you aright. It shall be my task still, to do the best I can to promote them; and if this be, as I imagine, a false step which you are about to take, nothing shall be wanting on my part to avert all evil consequences."
"I dare say not," replied Rochester, drily; "and now to talk of some more pleasant subject. What does the King propose for the day's amusement?"
"A Privy Council," replied Overbury, forcing himself to speak in a tone of raillery, which was but too evidently assumed; "and after that to commit William Seymour to the Tower. Perhaps he may burn a heretic in the afternoon by way of fireworks, and end by writing a disquisition for the bishops upon the royal supremacy. You see the bill of fare is various."
"Yes," answered Rochester, "but none of the dishes much to my taste. But, good faith, I must get on my new suit of amber silk, and visit his Majesty before the Council."
"Then I will leave you, my good Lord," replied Overbury, "and still beg you to believe that anything I have said this day has been spoken in duty, not in opposition; and so I take my leave."
From the apartments of Rochester he hurried back to his own; and then, having closed the door, he gave himself up to the feelings of anger and indignation which possessed him. He struck his hand upon his brow: he walked vehemently up and down the room; he cursed the folly of Rochester; he upbraided himself for taking any part in the rise of such a man.
"And for this," he cried, "for this I have destroyed the peace, and broken through the happiness of two good and noble people. To be laughed at, to be made a fool of, to have my best schemes thwarted--all for a base, licentious woman! And this sweet lady on whom I have brought misery--can she be really married to William Seymour? It is not improbable; the very conduct of this man may have driven her on to give her hand clandestinely to another--and I have gone and destroyed them! Would to God I had not been so hasty!" and he sat down and meditated over the act with regret.
But the past--the irremediable past, the only one thing certain to man's limited view, was set as a seal upon the deed, which nothing could tear off; and yet he--as many other men would have done in his circumstances--turned his thoughts to the retrieval of that which could not be retrieved.
"What can be done?" he thought. "It may not yet be too late. If they are prepared to fly, as the King suspected, and as is probably the case, they may have time yet, if they have warning. I can delay the warrants. Then the Council will have to assemble; there will be a long and tiresome harangue of an hour--discussions, perhaps. The water is near--the wind fair. She shall have warning at least;" and sitting down, he wrote, in a feigned hand, the following few words to Arabella Seymour.
"Lady, a friend gives you intimation that danger hangs over your head. If you have the means to fly, and have aught that fears discovery in this Court, go at once. You may count upon one hour, but not more."
He folded, sealed it, and hurried through the court towards the apartments of the lady. Within a few steps of the door, he met one of her inferior maids, not Ida Mara, apparently coming from her mistress's room; and recognising her at once, he said, "Take this back to your Lady directly, my good girl. I had it from a gentleman this moment, who said that it was of urgent importance."
The girl took the billet, and saying that she would carry it to Arabella at once, returned towards her mistresss chamber, while Overbury bent his steps to the council-room, where he had left a young clerk making out the warrants.
"Well, are they done?" said the Knight.
"One is ready, sir," replied the clerk, "and the other wants but a few words."
Overbury took up the paper which was completed, and read it slowly through.
"Good Heaven!" he exclaimed. "This will never do. Why, it is a warrant against the Lady Arabella, as if she were a common felon. Recollect, sir, that she is the King's cousin. It ought to have been a simple summons to appear before the Council."
"You said two warrants, Sir Thomas," replied the clerk.
"Well, at all events," exclaimed the Knight, sharply, "this will not do;" and he tore the paper, throwing the fragments under the table. "There, leave that, leave that! and make out a summons. The Lady Arabella's case is the most important. Remember you give her her proper style, sir."
"I am sure I do not know what that is," answered the clerk.
"If you look in that book, sir, you will find it," rejoined the Knight; "it is not very difficult to discover. You can finish the warrant against Mr. Seymour afterwards; I will return for the summons in half an hour;" and away he went to inform the King that there had been a mistake in drawing out the papers, but that they would be ready shortly.
He found James I. still in a high state of perturbation, which was increased by the tidings that the warrants were not yet ready.
"The de'ils in the clerks!" he exclaimed. "The lazy loons are getting daily more slow, though not more circumspect. Why, the lassie may take wing, and be away afore the warrants are ready. Go your ways and hasten him, Sir Thomas. You can write a good hand yourself, and need not mind holding a pen at the King's command."
"I shall do so, as in duty bound, sire," replied Overbury, "and I can make out that against Mr. Seymour, while the clerk finishes the one against the Lady Arabella;" and he accordingly retired, mentally resolving that the assistance which he was about to lend should not greatly accelerate the drawing up of the papers.
When he was gone, the King continued for a minute or two to move about in his cabinet, with the sort of irritable activity which has acquired the name of fidgetting. Changing the place of this article and that, pulling the points of his hose, buttoning and unbuttoning his pourpoint, sitting down and then rising up, and displaying many signs and symptoms of that state of ennui in which impatience is blended with listlessness.
At the end of that time, however, there was a gentle tap at the door of the cabinet, and, exclaiming pettishly, "Come in, come in!" the King fixed his eyes upon the entrance, at which immediately appeared the stout, raw-boned person, and broad, but somewhat coarse face, of one of his Scotch attendants.
"Ah, Maxwell!" cried James, "why, where ha'e you been, man? I thought all the world had forgotten their loyalty, and left their King, without respect and decency. Here was Rochester came in and whiffled me a jest, and out again, to put on a ruby he had forgotten. So he said; but methinks it was to other purpose that he went; and no one has been here but Sir Thomas Overbury, who seems to be the only man that thinks his King's service worth attending to."
The querulous tone in which James spoke, indicated a mood ready to receive evil impressions of any one; and as Maxwell was not particularly well-inclined, any more than other courtiers, to make favourable reports of his rivals in the King's power, he seized the opportunity to damage the reputation of one who was rising too high over the heads of the minor aspirants to escape jealousy.
"Oh, your Majesty has not a more faithful servant, I am sure, than Sir Thomas Overbury," he said; "he is only a little dull in believing that others will rebel against your will, or thwart your sagacious views. Your Majesty recollects the business about Mr. Seymour and the Lady Arabella."
"Hout tout! Maxwell," cried the King, interrupting him before he could go further; "you're a jealous beast. But you've missed your fire, my man. Your match has burnt out, and will not light the powder. Why, Overbury has, this very morning, laid open to me all their doings; and is now drawing up the warrants for their arrest."
"The warrants will take a long time drawing, then, your Majesty," replied Maxwell. "If I were a king, or you, sire, a poor Scotch gentleman like myself, I'd bet you a stoup of wine that there will be one mistake or another about drawing up the warrants, till a full hour be lost; and then the messengers may whistle for the lady or her lover."
"Ha, what's that?--what's that?" cried the King. "Why, there has been one mistake already.--You're either a warlock, Maxwell, or you know more about the affair than you tell. Speak plain, man! speak plain! What have you seen?--what have you heard?"
"Why, if your Majesty really wishes to know," replied Maxwell, "and will condescend to promise not to tell my Lord of Rochester, I will relate all that has just happened; and you will soon see how faithful a servant is this Sir Thomas Overbury, who must needs contradict what I told you, sire, of Mr. Seymour and the Lady Arabella meeting in the grounds at Theobalds."
"Speak, man, speak!" cried the King, "I'll keep counsel as close as a wilk. You have our commands, sir; so you will be harmless."
"Well, then, sire, just now as I was walking along the cloister----" answered Maxwell.
"Call it the arcade," said the King; "cloister is a popish word."
"Well, sire, as I was walking along the arcade," continued Maxwell, "I saw a maid belonging to the Lady Arabella, carrying a note in her hand. Now, I had just passed good Sir Thomas Overbury; and a fancy struck me, I do not know why, that all was not right;--for all the Court, you know, say he is playing double with your Majesty. So I asked the girl to let me see the note; and, after much ado, I got her to consent. Well, there, sire, I saw Sir Thomas's own writing, somewhat twisted and turned to disguise it, but clear enough for all that; and, in the inside, was written a warning to the lady to fly from the Court with all speed. He engaged she should have an hour clear; and therefore it was I said there would be mistakes enough, and delays enough, before the warrants are ready."
"The false loon," cried the King, "the whelp of a traitor!--But we'll circumvent him. Run, Maxwell, run! Put a guard at the foot of each staircase that leads from her rooms and the Lady Shrewsbury's.--Fegs! they might have put out the 'bury,' and left the 'Shrew.'--Tell the guard to let no one pass out.--Run, man! run!--Speak not, but away!"
Maxwell obeyed the King's command, and hurried out of the cabinet; and James, casting himself into a chair, gave way to a fit of laughter, in the first place, at the thought of having circumvented Overbury. He soon returned, however, to the thought of the Knight's offences; and he rolled himself about, with much of that awkward air of indignation which the accounts of African travellers ascribe to the angry hippopotamus.
"The deceitful pagan!" he cried; "the treacherous dog! I'll punish him for forgetting his duty to God's anointed.--But softly, softly! He has too many secrets. We will deal gently with him.--Those cunning Romans, when they were about to punish a great malefactor, took him up to a high place, before they hurled him headlong down, that he might break his neck by the fall; which is a wise and good example to modern Kings, who may make such men's ambition the Tarpeian rock, from the highest point of which, they may get a fall when they least look for it."
With a pale face, and trembling limbs, Arabella entered the apartments of the Countess of Shrewsbury, and, unable to speak, in her alarm she laid Sir Thomas Overbury's note upon a small round table before her, and pointed to it with her finger.
"What is the matter, child?" asked the Countess, taking it up.
The moment she saw the contents, however, she became agitated.
"Good faith!" she cried, "this is wise advice, Arabella; you had better take it. Who brought this note?"
"One of my girls," faltered Arabella.
"Well, well," said Lady Shrewsbury, "a morning's sail upon the Thames will do you no harm; and no one can say you have not a right to amuse yourself with a water-party for an hour or two. Quick, girl; do not tremble, but get some few clothes together. Let your gentlewoman go down to the stairs with them. You and I will follow; and a barge in two or three hours will carry you to your husband's ship."
"But Seymour--Seymour!" cried Arabella; "I fear more for him than for myself."
"Leave that to me!" answered the Countess. "I will send off a messenger instantly to warn him.--You get ready,--quick!"
In a few minutes Lady Shrewsbury joined her niece in her own room. Ida Mara, with one small box in her hand, was already at the door when the Countess entered.
"Where are the two maids, Ida?" asked Lady Shrewsbury.
"In the waiting-room, madam," replied Ida Mara.
"And the door shut?" said the Countess. "Quick, then, go down; and we will follow you in two minutes."
Without reply, the girl quitted the chamber; and Lady Shrewsbury, turning to her niece, kissed her cheek, whispering, "Take courage, take courage, Arabel. I trust all will go well. 'Tis but a little hurry."
The next instant, however, Ida Mara returned, with a pale cheek, and the tears in her eyes.
"There is a guard at the foot of the stairs," she said, "who would not let me pass. He has orders, he told me, to stop every one, and turn them back."
Arabella sank into a seat, and covered her eyes with her hands, while the Countess gazed down stedfastly upon the ground, in deep thought. At length she exclaimed,--
"Call the girl hither, Ida, who came in a few minutes ago."
The fair Italian obeyed at once, and in a moment or two a pretty-looking maid, somewhat vain and coquettish in her dress and appearance, presented herself before the Countess.
"Now, answer me truly, girl," said Lady Shrewsbury. "To whom did you show the note that was given to you a few minutes ago for your mistress?"
The girl's cheek turned crimson, and she was silent.
"Answer me," exclaimed the Countess, sternly; "answer me. Your face betrays you!"
The girl burst into tears. "He took it out of my hand," she said. "I stopped a minute to speak with him; and he took it out of my hand."
"What is his name?" demanded the Countess, in the same tone.
"Maxwell," faltered the girl.
"From whom did you receive the note?" asked the Countess.
"From Sir Thomas Overbury," was the reply.
"Get thee gone, trait'ress," cried Lady Shrewsbury; "get thee gone! and pray to God to pardon thee, for thou hast done much evil. Now, Arabel," she continued, "take off your walking-dress, as I will mine, and let us consider how we must act. You will soon be summoned before the Council, be you sure. I will go with you, as is befitting. Were I you, I would not deny the marriage; but, if they charge you with it as a crime, be bold, dear girl, refuse to plead before any such tribunal. Say, if you have offended, you have a right to public trial by your country, and boldly declare that the laws of the land do not justify a King in punishing, without the sentence of a jury."
"It will but make him furious," replied Arabella.
As she spoke, the door opened unceremoniously, and a keeper of the council-chamber appeared.
"Madam," he said; but no sooner had he uttered the word, than he broke off, and, turning to some one who was behind him, exclaimed, "You need not go on, the Countess is here."
"Well, sir," said Lady Shrewsbury, "what now?"
"I am sent, madam," replied the keeper, "to summon you and the Lady Arabella to appear before his Majesty in council, which I do by virtue of these presents, under his Majesty's hand."
"Well--on, then! we are quite ready to accompany you," answered the Countess, unmoved. "Come, Arabella, put on something to guard you from the wind, as we have to go all along these courts and passages. His Majesty, I presume, does not intend to make privy councillors of us; if he did, I might give him some good advice. Give me that mantle, Ida. Now, sweet niece, put your arm through mine. You are a timid creature; and it is well that you should have something stronger beside you."
Thus saying, she led the way to the royal apartments, followed by the officers who had been sent to summon them.
In the ante-room of the council-room, however, they were detained; and, at the end of a few minutes, Arabella was called in alone. During nearly half an hour, Lady Shrewsbury remained alone; and when, at the end of that time, the door opened, and Arabella came out, with her fair face deluged in tears, the door-keeper pronounced aloud, "The Countess of Shrewsbury!" That lady, however, paused to speak for a moment to her niece.
"I have acknowledged all," said Arabella, sobbing, "and am ordered back to my own chamber, and thence into custody of some persons to be appointed by the King."
"The Countess of Shrewsbury!" exclaimed the doorkeeper again, and, kissing her niece's cheek, Lady Shrewsbury advanced, and presented herself at the end of the council-table.
There was a very full attendance at the board, and every countenance was grave, and even sad, while that of the King was stern and heated. Sitting on one side of his chair, he leaned over to the other, lolling his tongue out of his mouth, as he was much accustomed to do when excited.
"Now, madam," he said; "now, madam, answer my questions. Soul of my body! we shall have nothing but rebellion in the land. Answer my questions, I say."
"Anything that your Majesty asks in reason," replied the Countess, "I am willing to answer."
"Well, then," said the King, "tell me, have you been conniving at the marriage of your niece, a lady of the Blood Royal, with one William Seymour, the second son of a pitiful family?"
"As good as your own, sire," replied Lady Shrewsbury, calmly, "only not quite the head of the house."
"Heard ever man the like of that?" exclaimed the King. "As I am a crowned King, I will commit her to the Tower."
"For telling the truth, sire?" asked Lady Shrewsbury; "that is a new offence; I have not seen the proclamation to that effect."
"Madam, madam," said Lord Salisbury, "be careful what you do. Think what a thing it is to incense his Majesty, who in a moment can commit you, if you show him a contempt."
"If I show any contempt of a legally appointed court," replied the Countess, "I know in what danger I stand, my Lord; but his Majesty himself told me to answer his questions, and then asked if I had connived at the marriage of my niece with the second son of a pitiful family? I reply, No; the family into which she has married is as good as his own, being descended from a long line of English nobles, and a Princess of that blood, which alone gives him a title to the throne."
"Then you acknowledge conniving at the marriage?" said the Earl, quickly, in order to stop the vehement and probably indecent torrent that was hanging upon the King's lips.
"I acknowledge nothing, sir," replied the Countess. "That my niece may be married to Mr. Seymour, I do not deny; but I am to learn if that be a crime in her."
"We will soon teach you that it is a crime, woman!" exclaimed the King. "Did you, or did you not connive at it, I say?"
"I will decline to answer that question," answered the Countess.
"Take care, Lady," said Lord Ellesmere, the Chancellor. "To refuse, unreasonably, to answer interrogatories of the Privy Council, is a contempt."
"I do not refuse unreasonably, my Lord Chancellor," replied the Countess. "I have strong reasons for not answering."
"Speak them, speak them," said the King; "there can be no just reason for not answering the King in Council."
"I have two reasons," replied the Countess, with a look of scorn; "both of which are good and valid in the English law, whatever they may be in Scotland. First, that being told by his Majesty the marriage of my niece is a crime, I am then asked whether I connived at it. Now the common law of England requires no man to criminate himself."
"Hout, tout," cried the King, "away with her and her common law. How should we ever have got to the bottom of the frightful and diabolical Papist plot, if the prisoners had not criminated themselves?"
"More fools they," replied the Countess of Shrewsbury. "But next I have to say, that I will answer no questions in private. If I am accused of a public crime, I will have a public trial, where my guilt or innocence may appear. There I will answer all questions, and perhaps tell more than those who sit in high places may like to hear. I claim a public trial, I say. I appeal to my country, and claim my privilege as a peeress, to plead my cause before my equals in an open court. I will have no private interrogatories, which are but tricks and entanglements unknown to the law of England."
"Lady, lady," cried one of the Councillors, "you are very rash. It is a well-established principle, that a refusal to answer questions before the Privy Council, touching matters wherein the interest of the state is concerned, is a contempt of the King's prerogative."
"Show me a case," exclaimed the Countess. "You say it is well established--produce an instance where it has been so adjudged; then do with me as you will."
"If there be not a precedent," cried the King, while the Lord Chancellor spoke to some of the Councillors near him, "if there be not a precedent, it is high time we should make one; and you shall be the first, my bonnie Dame."
"If your Majesty be fond of making precedents," said the Countess, still undismayed, "I hope your successors may be found to reverse them; for the dearest inheritance of an Englishman is the equal protection of the law; and I would lose lands and honours, rather than give up that right to any monarch that ever sat upon a throne."
"It is the opinion, sire, of all the Councillors here present," said Lord Ellesmere, "that to refuse to answer is a distinct contempt of your royal prerogative; and although your Majesty, in your sense of clemency and justice, may be inclined to refer the question to the Judges for their decision, yet in the meantime it is perfectly competent for the Council to commit the lady, for safe custody, to the Tower till such decision be pronounced."
"Will you answer, Lady?" asked the King; "once more I ask you, will you answer, that you may not have occasion to accuse our royal mercy?"
"I will not, sir," answered Lady Shrewsbury. "Your Majesty's mercy will stand upon its own foundation, and God grant it has a good one."
"Then commit her," exclaimed James, addressing the Clerk of the Council; "draw out the warrant, sir!"
"And mark, Master Secretary," said Lady Shrewsbury, "let it be put down on the record of this day that I claim my privilege of Peerage, demanding open trial if I be culpable; and that, professing myself willing to answer all lawful questions in a public court, I decline to reply to secret interrogatories, unaided by any counsel or advice. And now God be my defence!"
"Away with her, away with her!" cried the King. "Take her away in safe custody to her own chamber, till the warrant is ready. Let her have time to prepare what is needful, and then send her with a guard to the Tower. We have not often been so bearded in our Council, and 'tis fit that she should be made an example."
"Many such examples would do the Court some service," replied the lady; "and with that I humbly take my leave of your Majesty."[7]
Thus saying, she withdrew, escorted to her own apartment by two of the ushers, who treated her with all respect, but stationed themselves at the door till a formal order for her removal to the Tower arrived.
There is something very curious in the great difference of feeling with which we contemplate scenes of sorrow and those of vice. It might be naturally supposed, that in the grief of the good, the wise, and the noble, we should find matter only for sympathy and regret--that pain alone would be elicited in beholding it, and that their anguish would communicate nothing but a share of their suffering to ourselves; while the contempt that we feel for vice, by depriving us of all feeling for the vicious, would leave us sorrowless, though abhorrent of their faults.
Such is not the case, however; and to hear tales of the great and generous touched by the hand of undeserved adversity, excites, as is the case in deep tragedy, a certain degree of strange and almost unaccountable pleasure, even while we grieve for their fate, and take part in their sufferings. It is, perhaps, in some degree, that sympathy is in itself a pleasurable emotion; but I do believe that a great part of that which gives sweetness to the tears which we shed over the history of the afflicted good, is the inherent conviction in the mind of man, that there is a state of being, yet to come, where all shall have its compensation,--where woes undeserved, and unmerited pangs, received with resignation and borne with fortitude, shall be repaid by infinite joy and eternal happiness.
On the contrary, when we gaze upon the progress of the vicious and the criminal, however successful and prosperous in their brief space of action, to contempt and indignation, to disgust and horror, are added the same consciousness of a hereafter, and the certainty of an awful retribution. Thus, in these instances, all our feelings are dark and sad; there is nothing to alleviate; there is nothing to give light.
Nevertheless we must turn for a short space to the more criminal personages of our tale, and trace them in that rapid down-hill road where vice treads upon the steps of vice, and iniquity upon iniquity, till they are hurried on into the yawning gulf of destruction and despair.
It was in a splendid room, at the princely mansion then called Northampton House, but which has since assumed the name of other possessors, of a purer fame than his who built it, that the Countess of Essex, who had left the Court at Greenwich the day before, sat alone with Lord Rochester--her relation, the Earl of Northampton, being then absent. Her face was all smiles and happiness. It seemed as if fortune and success lived in her eyes; and she was laughing gaily, with her weak and criminal lover, over the misfortunes of others more virtuous than herself.
"And so," she said, "he wanted thee to wed this moon-sick girl, and, I dare say, would have made thee a sonnetteer to match her."
"Faith, he must have written the sonnets himself, then," answered Rochester; "for, I thank my stars, I never could jingle two rhymes together in my life; and, to say truth, I hate the whole race of these beggarly poets and authors. I have never liked Francis Bacon since he wrote a book."
"I never liked him at all," replied the Countess, "and that would certainly not make me like him more. One never knows how soon one may be put into one of these volumes, which is what makes all great statesmen hold aloof from authors, and keep them down."
"They are not all wise enough to do so," answered Rochester; "but Salisbury himself is beginning to see the folly of giving him any encouragement, though he be such a friend of Sir John Harrington's. I was telling him, the other day, what a fool I thought Bacon for degrading himself by composing that book; and he replied, that it was well to be able to write it, but foolish to write it."
"But poems are even worse than that," said the Countess. "I dare say this friend of thine is a poet, if one knew the truth."
"No, I think not," replied Rochester; "with all his faults, he has not that vice."
"Well, and what did you say to him?" continued the Countess, bringing the conversation back to a subject on which her curiosity was excited--"What did you say when he pressed you so vehemently to this fine alliance?"
"I said I would none of it," answered Rochester; "for the best of all reasons, because I was going to marry you."
"Did you tell him so?" asked the Countess, eagerly.
"Yes, sweet one," replied her lover; "I wished him to know it. 'Tis too fair a fortune, my love, to be concealed."
"Now," cried the Countess, "I will wager this diamond against a flint stone that he strove to dissuade you. Was it not so, Rochester?"
"Yes, good sooth," answered her lover, laughing.
"Ay, but eagerly," said the Countess,--"vehemently?"
"Even so," rejoined Rochester; "but he might have spared his eloquence, my fair Frances; for he moved me no more than a gust of wind."
"Nay, but what did he say?" demanded Lady Essex.
"Oh, that matters not," answered the favourite; "a great deal I have forgotten."
"But I will hear," exclaimed his mistress. "I will never love you more, Rochester, if you do not tell me. Now, do not smile and look deceitful; for I will hear, word for word, all that he said."
"Nay, nay," cried Rochester, "that is hardly fair. What two men will say to one another often bears no repeating."
"The man that cannot confide in me, does not love me," rejoined the Countess, withdrawing her hand, and moving further from him.
"Well, but you know I love you," answered Rochester.
"Then prove it, by telling me what he said," cried the Countess. "If you do not, I shall think you are false and forsworn, and are inclined to follow his counsel and marry some one else.--Yes, yes, I see it very well.--He has succeeded with thee, Rochester, and thou art inclined to seek another bride.--Well, it matters not; I should soon learn to forget the man who would not trust me."
"Nonsense, nonsense, sweet girl!" he replied; "you are jealous without cause. I am all your own--your slave--your captive."
"Then tell me what he said," exclaimed the Countess, suffering a portion of her natural vehemence to appear, even to him.
"But you will be angry," rejoined Rochester. "Why should I tell you what will only pain, grieve, and offend you, and which had no more effect upon me than the idle wind?"
"Because I wish to know," she exclaimed. "Because I must know, if I am to have peace or rest. I will not be angry; and I will try to be as little grieved as possible; for if I find men speak ill of me, and bark at me with their foul tongue, I will recollect that it is all for Rochester, and that shall be my consolation."
"Well, then," said Rochester, "if you will not be angry, he did oppose my marriage with you in vehement and rough terms,"--and her lover went on weakly to tell her almost all that his friend had said.
He strove to soften it, 'tis true--to put it in general terms, and to conceal the harsh epithets that Overbury had used; but the Countess would hear all, and with instant perception discovered whenever he tried to deceive her in a word. She kept her temper, too, to the end, sometimes urging him playfully, and affecting to laugh at the rude terms which Overbury had used towards her--sometimes pressing him gravely to deal fairly by her, and to speak the truth--sometimes suggesting the words herself in a gay tone, as if she were sure that those were the epithets he had given her, and cared little for them. But when the whole story was told, her fierce indignation burst forth.
"The villain!" she exclaimed--"the base villain! Can you consider this man as your friend, Rochester, after such words as those to your affianced wife? Can you believe that he sought to serve you? Can you suppose that anything but his own interest injured, and his schemes for his own benefit defeated, could have induced him to speak thus of a lady whom you love?--No, no, the man betrays himself!--It is evident that he spoke with the rage of disappointment. It was for his own advancement that he sought to marry you to the Lady Arabella, not for your benefit. If it had been merely out of regard for you, would he have thus abused her who has sacrificed all for you? If he really loved you, would he have thus condemned her love? For whom have I made myself all that he calls me?--for whom have I risked everything, resigned everything? Did I ever give a thought to any other man on earth? With all his hatred and malice, he dare not say that; and had he possessed towards you one particle of true attachment, he would have learned to estimate that, which flings every other consideration but its love away,"--and, bursting into tears, she cast herself, sobbing passionately, upon Rochester's bosom.
He had gazed at her with admiration, not unmixed with wonder, as he beheld her lustrous eyes flashing, and all her beautiful features lighted up with indignation; and when the shower followed the thunder, he held her tenderly to his heart, and tried to soothe her with words of love and promises of everlasting affection.
"No, Rochester, no!" she cried, at length, raising herself, and wiping away the drops from her cheeks; "it is not for myself I care. Of me he may say what he likes, but he must not deceive and betray you any longer. He seeks but to make a tool of you for his own advancement; and to it he will not fail to sacrifice you as soon as the opportunity occurs. Your fortune and high favour, your noble qualities and distinction, have, as they always do, created many enemies, all eager to pull you down; and, in such circumstances, it needs but a faithless friend to bring about a man's destruction."
"I do not think he would betray me," replied Rochester.
"Not, perhaps, exactly betray you," replied the Countess, "for traitors are always despised even by those they serve; and he is too cunning for that. But, step by step, he will undermine you with the King, if he be not removed. He will first begin by opposing our marriage----"
"If he do that, I will cut his throat," cried Rochester.
"Perhaps he will not do so openly," continued the Countess, "but he will speak of me to James as he has to you, and will beseech him all the time not to betray his words. He will teach the King to think you weak, foolish, and intemperate, because you persevere in loving one who has devoted herself to you. Let this Overbury,--let him, if he can, or if he dare, make such sacrifices for you as I have made; and then I will believe he is your friend. As it is, he must be removed.--Yes, if you love me, if you would wed me, if you would be safe yourself, if you would consult my peace, he must be removed."
"Not slain," said Rochester, in a low tone, "not slain--that I cannot consent to."
"Nay," answered the Countess, with one of her bright and beaming smiles again, at seeing that his apprehension of her meaning had so far outrun the reality, that any minor act of vengeance or precaution would seem moderate, "I meant not to slay him. You men are so vehement and violent in all your passions, that the death of your adversary is the only thing you think of. I am not so bloodthirsty, nor do I speak from anger, Rochester. I could pardon him all that he has said of me, did it not show me that he is dangerous to you, and that, if he be not removed, his presence near the King will be the great stumbling-block which will throw down our hopes and wishes. He must be sent to the Tower, or into banishment."
"But there must be some pretext," said Rochester. "He cannot be punished without a cause."
"Oh! fear not," cried the Countess; "a reason will not be wanting. Shrewd must that man be, and virtuous beyond this earth, who, in the courts of kings, can walk so scrupulously as not to give, each day, pretexts for accusation. The wise and the good have fallen beneath the axe, and the best that ever lived was crucified; there is no fear that fair Sir Thomas Overbury has not abundance of such vices in his composition as may well move a monarch's indignation, with a good word to help."
"No," said Rochester, who had been thinking deeply, and was not yet brought fully to that utter shamelessness at which his partner in evil had arrived--"No, a means may be devised for attaining our object, without bringing on my own head the charge of ingratitude. Let us give him the embassy to some foreign court, where he may wear out his days in peace and honour, neither obstructing our views, nor lost altogether to his own."
"But I will not have him sent," exclaimed the Countess, "to some high and honourable mission, which the best nobles of the land might strive for. I will not have him so honoured, that men may say, 'See, what is the reward of calumniating Frances Howard; the man who called her harlot to her promised husband, makes that husband's favour the stepping-stone to his own advancement. Lo! he is ambassador to France, or to the great Spaniards, and goes to carry the tales of her love for Rochester to the gay Court of France, or the graver one of Spain.'--Stay, Rochester, you shall send him to Russia! Let him freeze amongst the Muscovites, since his cold blood can never comprehend the fire that burns in ours."
"He will refuse to go," said Rochester; "'tis but another name for banishment."
"Let him refuse!" exclaimed Lady Essex; "and send him to the Tower. The King will be ready enough so to deal with one who rejects his offers.--Nay, Rochester, I will have it so," she continued, in a caressing tone. "You must not refuse me, if you love me. I vow you shall not see me more unless you consent. This shall be the price of our next interview. I might well ask you, as a gallant knight and true, to put that man to death who spoke against your lady's name; but I forbear, you see; and in this you must obey my behest. Offer him Russia. If he refuses, the offence is to the King, not to you, and leave the King to deal with him. But be sure, unless he be far removed from the English Court, he will so machinate as to separate you and me, as he has parted those two unhappy lovers."
"It was, in truth, all his doing, I find," answered Rochester. "He never left the affair alone, till he had discovered their marriage; and he then incensed the King, against them."
"And they are really married?" said the Countess, in a tenderer tone than she had used; "then they are happy; for though they may be separate, they can yet think that there is that sweet bond between them which no King's word can break.--That is a blessing that nothing can take from them. Do you not hate the man who could step in, and blast their happiness, Rochester?"
"I certainly do not love him for so doing," replied the Viscount, "and thank him but little for mingling my name in the affair."
"As he has done by them, so will he do by you and me," said Lady Essex, in a grave and sad tone, "unless you stop him, Rochester. We stand in his way; our marriage is the obstacle to his ambitious views; he will not cease till he has frustrated our hopes, or ruined us both. There can be no terms with such an enemy; and till I hear that he is gone, I shall never see you without apprehension."
"Well," answered Rochester; "well, it shall be done. I will ask the King for the embassy to Russia on his behalf. I know he aims at much higher things, indeed; and nothing less than a seat in the Council, with some high office in the state or household, would satisfy his ambition. But he shall be offered this embassy. If he refuse it, the consequences be on his own head.
"What! then you do see he is ambitious?" cried the Countess. "I wronged my Rochester's good judgment. I thought he had deceived you, and that you did not perceive the tool that he would make of you."
"Oh, I have known his ambition long," replied Rochester, "and was prepared to give it a check in due time. Perhaps as well now as hereafter."
"Better, better far," replied the Countess. "Those who defend a breach, fire on the men who begin to climb the ladder, lest when they are at the top it be too late. Away then, Rochester, away! see that thing done; and, when you can tell me that the embassy is offered him, you may come back, and shall have smiles for your reward."
After those words they parted, Rochester hurrying to take that new step in the wrong course which was to carry him forward to many others; and the Countess of Essex remaining to brood over her hatred and vengeance, till she worked herself into regret that she had not exacted more of her weak and guilty paramour.