In the times of our Sovereign Lord, His Sacred Majesty King James I., of happy memory, that peculiar district of the world called Lambeth was in a very different state and condition from that in which it is beheld now-a-days. It was not then a close, thronged, noisy, and somewhat turbulent parish, a borough in itself, sending members to Parliament, and having vast objections to church-rates; but it was actually almost a rural district, with an Archbishop's palace and church, a few houses gathered in the episcopal neighbourhood, and several fine old mansions, with their gardens extending down to the water, occupying the whole bank of the river opposite to Westminster and the Strand. Where now stand patent shot manufactories, and wharfs and warehouses, were then smooth, green, shaven lawns, and tall trees, and wildernesses, and terraces,--and the aspect of the whole place, as far as the different style of architecture and gardening would permit, was much more like Richmond, without its hill, than the famous borough of Lambeth.
One of these houses, at a considerable distance from the archbishop's palace, was remarkable for its beautiful gardens, and for its broad terrace, edging the river, and overhung by tall trees. A flint wall, with a lane on one side, and the grounds of another house on the other, surrounded these gardens and shut them out from the vulgar, leaving them only open to the view of those who passed upon the water, on which side it was not more than three feet high. To the river, there was a private stair for boats to land visitors; defended, however, from intrusion by an iron gate as high as the terrace-wall; and possessing a large bell, which, from time to time, gave notice of applications for admission.
About five o'clock in the evening of a day towards the end of September, a wherry, rowed by a single man, and containing no freight but himself, glided close under the embankment of the terrace, it being then high water; and there the rower paused for a moment or two on his oars, looking into the grounds above, as if very much admiring their trim propriety. After that short pause he rowed on again, and his inquisitiveness passed unnoticed by any one, as the gardens were vacant.
In about a quarter of an hour, however, the same boat and the same man re-appeared; but this time he did not pause, for there were three persons upon the terrace; a young lady of graceful and noble mien, walking a step in advance; an elderly, stately dame, talking to her at her shoulder; and a fair girl, with large bright eyes, and dark black hair, dressed in the simple, but lady-like apparel, which, in those days of splendid costume, generally denoted the waiting gentlewoman, coming a pace or two behind, with an air of sadness, and her look bent down upon the ground.
The rower, as we have said, pulled on; and about ten minutes after he was gone, the young lady whom we have mentioned turned towards the house, saying, "I shall go in, madam. Dear Ida," she continued, "you can stay if you like; for you have been kept in all the morning and want air."
"Not if I can help' you, dear Lady," replied Ida Mara, "or sing to you, or amuse you. The best air I can have is your own looks, when you are happy."
"That cannot be now," replied the Lady Arabella; "but I am going to write to the King; so that I shall not want you for the next hour."
The girl bent her head, and remained upon the terrace; and the two ladies returned through the trees to the house.
Ida Mara took one or two turns, pausing from time to time to gaze upon the different boats, which, with sails or oars, as the wind favoured them, skimmed fast over the shining surface of the water. In a minute or two, the wherry we have mentioned cut across from the stairs at Westminster, and passed close under the terrace, the man who was in it raising his head as far as possible, and examining the fair Italian with apparently curious eyes.
He went on some hundred yards beyond the garden wall, but then turned, and suffered his boat to drop slowly down, the tide just beginning to ebb, till it came opposite the centre of the gardens, where he stopped, turning the head of the boat to the stream, and, like a trout at the tail of a ripple, keeping himself from being carried further on by a scarcely perceptible stroke of the oars.
In a minute after, Ida passed the spot in her walk; and the boatman exclaimed, "Hist! hist!"
She started, and looked down upon him; but he was a man of middle age, with his hair somewhat grey; and though he was dressed as a common waterman, there was something distinguished in his appearance which belied his apparel.
"What are your wishes, sir?' said Ida Mara, approaching the edge of the terrace.
"Is this Sir Alexander Marchmont's house?" asked the man.
"No," replied Ida Mara; "it is Sir Thomas Parry's."
"Then this is where the Lady Arabella Stuart is confined," rejoined the waterman.
"The Lady Arabella Seymour is here," replied Ida Mara. "Not exactly as a prisoner, though by the King's order."
"You have a foreign accent," said the man; "methinks it sounds like Italian."
"It may well do so," replied the girl; and was about to turn away; but the rower asked immediately, "Is your name Ida Mara?"
She started, and replied "Yes; who are you?"
"A most unfortunate man," he answered; "but one devoted to your Lady, who has never forgot an act of generosity by which she saved his life. Tell her I have seen her husband, in the Tower, that he is well, and as happy as he can be, absent from her. Add that he is under scarce any restraint, can even go out within certain limits; and that I have promised him to bring her a letter from him tomorrow, if she will be here at his hour."
"Stay, stay," said Ida; "I will go tell the lady, if you will wait but a moment."
"Nay, I will return in a quarter of an hour," replied the man. "I may be discovered if I stay too long."
"What name shall I give the Lady Arabella," asked Ida Mara, "in case she should wish to trust you with a billet?"
The man paused and seemed to hesitate, but then replied, "My name is Markham, once Sir Griffin Markham. But tell her I have no schemes or conspiracies on foot. I have done with those things for ever, and only wish to serve her, and show her my gratitude before I die."
In about ten minutes after, Ida Mara was again walking on the terrace; and before long, the boat once more shot over from the other side.
"Here is a note," she said; "here is a note. The lady gives you her best thanks. Will you be back to-morrow?"
"I will," replied the man, bringing his boat as close up to the terrace as he could. "Now, throw it over."
Ida, with a slight wave of her hand, tossed the note into the wherry; and Markham then said, "It might be, that even if your lady or yourself were here to-morrow when I come, it would be dangerous to throw you the letter. You must give me some sign, if there be any watchful eyes upon you. What shall it be?"
"If there be any risk," replied Ida Mara at once, "you will find me singing. Whenever you find us silent, you may speak in safety.
"Enough, enough!" replied Markham, and rowed away.
Without landing at Westminster, as before, he directed his boat straight towards the Tower Stairs; and leaving it with the waterman from whom it had been hired, he hurried on through several lanes and turnings, to a small lodging, amongst the manifold alleys by which that part of London was intersected. He there put on a livery coat, with the badge of the House of Seymour upon it, and making a small bundle of three or four books and some writing materials, he once more set out, and approached the Tower.
No opposition was made to his entrance, and he was permitted to proceed to the very foot of the Tower where Seymour was lodged--for we can scarcely call it confined, as, at this period of his imprisonment, the restraint to which he was subjected was very slight. There, however, he met the Deputy of the Lieutenant, who stopped him, asking, "What have you got there?"
"Some books and paper, sir," replied Markham, "for Mr. Seymour."
"Let me see, let me see," said the officer; and the pretended servant instantly untied, the handkerchief, and displayed the contents for inspection.
The Deputy examined each article one by one, and finding nothing to excite suspicion, he said, "You may go on."
When Markham entered the apartments of the prisoner, however, Seymour was not alone. A gentleman in a clerical habit was sitting with him, but rose almost immediately to take his leave.
"We may feel for each other, reverend sir," said William Seymour, "though the cause of our imprisonment is so different. It is in both cases most unjust."
"Nay," answered Melvin, the famous Nonconformist minister, with a melancholy smile, "the cause is not so different as it seems." And taking a pen, he wrote upon a slip of paper, which lay upon the table the following quaint lines:--
"Communis tecum mihi causa est carceris.Arabella tibi causa est; araque sacra mihi."
"Communis tecum mihi causa est carceris.
Arabella tibi causa est; araque sacra mihi."
Seymour smiled, and shook his hand, saying, "May we both be able to defend the altar that we love!" And bidding him adieu, Melvin left the room.
"Have you seen her?" demanded William Seymour, eagerly, grasping Markham's hand, as soon as his companion in captivity was gone.
"I have seen her," replied the other, "but have not been able to speak with her. The woman Parry was with her. I afterwards saw her Italian gentlewoman," he added, marking a look of disappointment that came over Seymour's countenance, "and have brought you comfort, at all events."
Thus saying, he took the note which he had received out of his pocket, and placed it in the prisoner's hands. Seymour read it twice, and pressed his lips upon it eagerly. "This is comfort indeed," he said. "Stay, Markham, I will add a word or two to the letter I have written. How can I ever thank you for what you have done for us?"
"How can I ever thank her," replied Markham, "for having refrained, when a word from her lips would have sent me to the scaffold? My life trembled in the balance! As it was, a grain more would have weighed down the scale."
Seymour did as he proposed, and then handed the letter to his companion. "Stay," he said, thoughtfully; "stay--were it not well for you to tell that good girl, Ida Mara, who is truth and devotion itself, where you are to be found, in case of need? The King may not always leave my Arabella where she now is. In his caprices, he may remove her suddenly to some other abode; and if Ida knew where to find you, she might give you such intimations as are most needful."
"I will tell her," answered Markham, "if you think she can be fully trusted.--But remember, Mr. Seymour, my own life is at stake if I am found here. I came but to collect some small means together, and return to the continent with all speed."
"You must not do for me anything you think rash," replied Seymour; "but, for my own part, the dearest thing I had on earth I would trust to that girl without a fear."
"So be it, then," answered Markham; and the next day, at the hour appointed, he carried the letter to the terrace below Sir Thomas Parry's house.
Arabella and Ida Mara were there alone, and as he approached they were perfectly silent; but he had remarked a boat which followed him all the way up the river, at the distance of some two or three hundred yards; and merely saying, in a voice loud enough for them to hear, "In an hour I will be back," he tossed the letter lightly on the terrace and rowed on.
When he returned, he found the fair Italian there alone; and it being by this time twilight, he paused to hold some conversation with her, informing her where and how she was to find him, in case of need, under his assumed name. On this occasion, as the night before, Ida threw a note for her lady's husband into the boat; and during ten days a constant communication between Seymour and Arabella was kept up by the same means.
At length, one evening, the moment he came near, Ida Mara, who was sitting beside her mistress, on one of the benches with which the terrace was furnished, raised her rich melodious voice and began to sing.
SONG."Row on, row on! Another dayMay shine with brighter light;Ply, ply the oars, and pull away,Thou must not come to-nigh.Clouds are upon the summer sky,There's thunder on the wind;Pull on, pull on, and homeward hie;Nor give one look behind!Bear where thou go'st the words of love;Say all that words can say,Changeless affection's strength to prove;But speed upon the way.Oh! like yon river could I glide,To where my heart would be,My bark should soon outsail the tide,That hurries to the sea.But yet a star shines constant still,Through yonder cloudy sky,And hopes as bright my bosom fill,From faith that cannot die!Row on, then, row! God speed thy way!Thou must not linger here;Storms hang about the closing day;To-morrow may be clear."
"Row on, row on! Another day
May shine with brighter light;
Ply, ply the oars, and pull away,
Thou must not come to-nigh.
Clouds are upon the summer sky,
There's thunder on the wind;
Pull on, pull on, and homeward hie;
Nor give one look behind!
Bear where thou go'st the words of love;
Say all that words can say,
Changeless affection's strength to prove;
But speed upon the way.
Oh! like yon river could I glide,
To where my heart would be,
My bark should soon outsail the tide,
That hurries to the sea.
But yet a star shines constant still,
Through yonder cloudy sky,
And hopes as bright my bosom fill,
From faith that cannot die!
Row on, then, row! God speed thy way!
Thou must not linger here;
Storms hang about the closing day;
To-morrow may be clear."
The boat glided on; and that day Markham had no good news to carry back to William Seymour; for though he rowed more than once past the gardens, neither Arabella nor Ida Mara were on the terrace. When he returned to the Tower, some difficulty was made in admitting him; and the moment he entered the prisoner's room, when he had obtained permission to see his master, as he called him, Seymour exclaimed, "You have bad tidings, Markham; I am prepared to hear them."
"I have no tidings at all," was the reply. "The lady and the pretty Italian were both upon the terrace, but they gave me the sign agreed upon, to show that danger was near; and when I returned there was no one there.
"Something has been discovered," said Seymour, "for I have had my liberty, such as it was, abridged. I am now forbidden to pass the gates. Something has been discovered, depend upon it."
"Perhaps not," answered Markham; "for, as I rowed down just now, I saw a boat with a guard, evidently conveying a prisoner hither; and as to the affair at Sir Thomas Parry's house, a thousand accidents might have made them wish me to keep off. His stately old lady herself might be walking in the garden; there might be some of the King's officers there, or expected; but I will hie me home with all speed, and if there be anything to communicate, depend upon it I shall either have a message or a visit from Ida Mara. I know not how it is, that girl seems to win the confidence of every one. I saw good Sir Harry West yesterday, as I promised you. He said he had seen and conversed with you, and so would say no more; but he spoke of that girl as if she were an angel."
"Well he may so speak," replied William Seymour; "for she nursed him through the plague, at a time when fathers fled from their children, and children abandoned their parents. But I did see Sir Harry; and the good old knight--though, heaven knows, in former times he tried to dissuade me from what he called my rash love, as if he could have foreseen all the wretchedness it has produced now--urges me strongly to make my escape with Arabella at any risk, rather than linger here; where, as he truly says, I may be shut up for years,--perhaps for life, like Raleigh or Grey."
"He is right, too," said Markham; "and the sooner it is done, depend upon it, the better. You have committed no offence against the law; you are unjustly detained by the mere will of the King; and, if I had been with Sir Harry, I should have joined my voice to his."
"But I showed him it was impossible even to attempt it," replied Seymour; "for I had then pledged my word not to go beyond certain limits, and that could not be broken. Now, however, I am free from that bond; for they have taken from me the degree of freedom for which I made the engagement; and, with whatever other fetters they may think to enthral me, I may yet find means to cast them off when they least expect it. However, my kind and devoted friend, do you return home, and, if possible, see this excellent Italian girl. Let her tell her mistress that, whatever happens, I am determined to attempt an escape. Arabella must hold herself prepared to go with me, or to follow me; and I will beseech all my friends, and you in particular, Markham, to bend every thought and energy to secure her flight. Think not of me, I will take care of myself; and free myself from this tyranny by some means. Watch you over Arabella! I would fain, too, free the Countess of Shrewsbury, who is, I find, imprisoned in the apartments next to those of Raleigh; but they will not suffer me to hold the least communication with her, which I grieve for deeply, as it is by favouring me that she has brought this misfortune on her head."
"Think of yourself--think of yourself, good friend," said Markham; "they will not keep the Countess long when you are gone. As for your lady-wife, be sure, that to her safety I will sacrifice my own. She once risked hers for me; and all the life I have is hers, to do with me as she likes. I will ensure that, let them guard her how they will, she shall be safely put on board a ship bound for some foreign country. I am not new to stratagems; and, alas!--though for some years now they have had meaner things to do with than monarchs' crowns, as formerly,--in seeking a bare subsistence as a banished man, I have been in constant practice, I assure you. Sir Harry West will help me, too; and I think my good Lord Hertford will furnish us with means."
"That he will," replied Seymour, "to the utmost of his power. But, I am not without some wealth myself, Markham; and, as you may be called upon to act more suddenly than you expect, you had better take a part of what I have here. There are two hundred nobles in this bag. Take it, take it. I have more than I shall need; and now away, for I fear every minute, lest Ida should seek you at your lodgings, and find you absent."
Without further delay, Sir Griffin Markham left the prisoner and hurried on towards his obscure lodging in the lanes not far off. But ere we relate what occurred by the way, we must turn once more to the courtly scenes of the palace, and, as is our custom occasionally, retrograde for a few hours in point of time.
"Now shall you see Sir Thomas Overbury, with pink roses in his shoes, a rapier fit for a Castilian Don, mustachios curling to the moon, and a beard of the most approved cut!" exclaimed Bradshaw, addressing Graham. "The barber has been labouring upon him for an hour and a half this morning. Sixteen new pairs of Spanish leather gloves, with pumps of Cordova, and a new velvet jerkin, reached his lodging last night. His ruff has broken the heart of the laundress; and his hose--Heaven help us! saw ever man the like of his hose? One would suppose his nether man a jewel of rare price, to be thrust into such an elaborate casket. I will warrant you, he will trip by upon the tips of his toes, with a 'Give you good den, dear Master Bradshaw! Good den, Master Graham!--the King favours you both--you are likely young men;'" and he mimicked the affected tone of some of the superfine courtiers of the day.
"But what is the cause of all this?" asked Graham, who took him literally. "What has happened to him?"
"Oh! sir; he is in the high way to fortune," answered Bradshaw. "As a sconce in a corner of a room reflects suddenly the light of a candle which the housemaid brings in her hand, and another sconce over the chimney catches a gleam from it, so shines the King's favour upon Rochester, and is reflected from Rochester to Overbury; and you may argue from the premises, that they are both to be lighted up anon, as far as the oil and wick will go; though, to say sooth, the reel and cruse are both somewhat low in the royal closet. The people must be pinched, sir; the people must be pinched. What is the nation but a great gold sponge, to yield its juices under the King's pressure? However, my mother whips me, and I whip my top; Rochester smiles upon Overbury, and the King smiles upon Rochester. Did you not see how the favourite took his favourite by the ear just now, led him to the royal door, then thrust him in, so that he well nigh fell at the King's feet, to thank him for his bounties before he knew what they were?"
"I thought Overbury was somewhat out of favour," replied Graham; "there was a report of a quarrel between him and Rochester about the Lady Essex; and don't you remember, when we were at Greenwich, people said, the King suspected him of giving poor Lady Arabella a hint to run away?"
"Bless your ignorance, Graham!" cried Bradshaw; "he is a carpenter--a joiner, who saws things in two, and glues them together again with a dexterity quite marvellous. No sooner is a hole made than it is patched up again; and, for darning on new favours to old ones, he is better than any tailor in the land. Have you not seen how Rochester hangs upon him, and calls him Tom? and, moreover, the King gave his good lordship five thousand pounds upon a hint from Overbury. No, no; you will see him a great man soon; but whether it will be secretary, or lord keeper, or lord mayor, who can tell?"
While such conversation was going on in the ante-room, the object of it was in the king's closet with James, alone. He had been suddenly called from his own chamber by Rochester, and hurried, without information of what was the matter in hand, into the presence of the King. Rochester then immediately closed the door, and left him there, having previously brought the monarch to the exact pitch he desired.
The description of Overbury's entrance had, indeed, been somewhat caricatured by Bradshaw; but though he did not exactly fall at the King's feet, he made a profound obeisance; for James loved the semblance of the most devoted respect, even while he was doing everything in his power to root out the reality from the hearts of his subjects; and we learn from Sully, that in the early part of his reign, at least, he caused himself, upon all public occasions, to be served at table on the knee.
The King's face was evidently made up for a speech; and Sir Thomas Overbury, with his eyes cast down, waited in silence for what was to come next.
"Sir Thomas," said the monarch, after a brief pause, "you are well aware of the high estimation in which we hold your abilities; and we now intend to give you a proof of the confidence which we have both in your honesty and judgment, by placing you in a situation of high trust and confidence, where you may have some matters of great difficulty to handle, and some acts of great importance to perform. In the conduct of these proceedings you will always have to bear in mind your duty to God, which is best displayed in the service of the King. To that, sir, you are bound to sacrifice every other consideration, and to show yourself worthy of heaven and your sovereign, by diligence, devotion, and faithfulness. Upon these three heads of diligence, devotion, and faithfulness, we shall expatiate for a moment." And the King went on to show what he considered to be the duty of a subject employed by a monarch, which certainly left the poor instrument nothing but the state and condition of a slave.
"You are not, sir, to undertake the ruling or governing of any matter without my especial commands," continued James; "that is a part of my craft, to which long experience, as well as the blessing of God, which endows kings with qualities to fit them for the station of his vice-regents on earth, has suited me especially. You may indeed suggest, reverently, anything that may strike your own senses, submitting your opinion wholly to the King for his decision and judgment, and remembering that to do his will, is to do your duty, without doubts, surmisings, and questionings, any farther than may be necessary to assure yourself of his purposes."
We need not proceed farther with James's harangue; it was very similar to many others upon record; but perhaps more strongly than on most occasions, it enforced his claims to passive obedience from his subjects; for which purpose he tortured several texts of Scripture in such a manner as would have justified the purest despotism that ever disgraced the earth. Five times he called himself the Lord's Anointed; and there can be little doubt that, at that moment, his mind hesitated as to which of the two famous monarchs he was, David or Solomon. He inclined, perhaps, to the latter; but yet he had a strong hankering to be David too, only that he knew himself not to be a man of valour, mighty in war.
Sir Thomas Overbury heard him with every appearance of the most profound devotion and respect; and although he knew that the most pompous speeches did not always precede the most magnificent actions, he had little doubt that the least honour the King was about to bestow upon him, was that of raising him to the rank of Privy Councillor. The monarch ended, however, without informing him what was the dignity with which he was to be invested; but, raising a sealed packet from the table, he placed it in his hands, saying,
"There, sir! there! go your way, and meditate upon what we have addressed to you."
Sir Thomas bowed, kissed the King's hand; and expressing his deep sense of James's goodness, though very little divining in what it consisted, retired with the packet. The Knight hurried at once to his own apartment, where he instantly broke the seal, and read. But though the countenance with which he had passed through the ante-room had been as full of buoyant satisfaction as Bradshaw had anticipated, the expression now suddenly changed to one of mortification, disappointment, and rage; and casting the paper violently down upon the floor, he exclaimed--
"Curses upon the traitor! This is his machination. When I have devoted my whole life to serve him, he goes about to ruin me. Russia!--Russia!--Banishment!--Banishment to the farthest part of the earth! cut off from all communication, from all chance or hope of advancement; with no trust to execute, no negotiation to carry on, no opportunity of distinction!--A nation of northern savages. Why not send me to the Cham of Tartary, or to Prester John? Does he think that I will accept such a mission?--Let him go himself, if he likes it; his abilities are well fitted for the task:" and he laughed with bitter and contemptuous merriment.
"Stay, I will write my answer," he continued; and he seated himself at a table; but scarcely had he taken the pen in hand, when one of his servants entered, announcing the Lord Rochester. A spasm of repressed rage passed over Overbury's countenance, but instantly vanished; and he received the favourite with a forced smile.
"Why, what are you about, Tom?" cried Rochester, entering, and casting his well-dressed and graceful limbs into a chair. "I expected to find you capering about the room, in joy at some gracious favour bestowed upon you by his Majesty."
"Oh, no!" answered Overbury. "I am a grave and serious man, my Lord; and, as to what I am about, I am writing to his most gracious Majesty, to thank him for the honour conferred upon me, but begging to decline it."
"Decline it?" exclaimed Rochester, with every appearance of surprise and consternation: "pause and think a moment, Overbury. What, in the name of fortune, can the king have offered, that any of his subjects should dare to decline?"
"Nay, my lord, you know right well," replied Sir Thomas Overbury, "that this is a thing I cannot accept."
"Really," replied Rochester, "the king has not told me what he was going to offer you."
The reader already knows that this was false, but will not be surprised that in this case, as in all others, one vice brought on a second, or that lying should be consequent upon treachery.
Overbury gazed in his face for a single instant, and then replied, "I am happy to hear it, my good lord; for the man who counselled this did no friendly act to one who has ever striven to serve you."
"'Tis most likely the king's own act," replied Rochester. "You know how often he determines on such things himself. But what is it, Overbury? It cannot be so bad as you seem to think."
"As bad as may be, my good lord," answered the knight; "it is a sentence of banishment--ay, and worse than the banishment of any ordinary criminal. He who conspires against the good of the state, and is yet cunning enough, as so many are, to go within an inch of treason, yet not overstep the iron limit of the law, is exiled reasonably to other lands, that his turbulence may no more disturb the peace of England. But the whole world is left him to choose where he will make his refuge. He may suit his whim, his tastes, or his complexion, as best suits him; he may range from the damp pools of Holland and the misty Rhine, to the far boundaries of Italy; may cross the Adriatic or the Hellespont, and become pilgrim to the Sepulchre. He is as free as the air to sweep over the whole world, except this island, and may make himself a country where he pleases. But in my case, I am shackled and tied down; my place of banishment is fixed in the most sickly and unfriendly region of the earth, among cold barbarians, unlettered, rough, and fierce, and all for the crime of----"
"Of what?" asked Rochester, seeing him pause.
"Of serving my Lord of Rochester, I suppose," replied Sir Thomas Overbury; "for I know of none other to charge myself withal."
"Nay, nay," answered Rochester; "you must be jesting, my good friend. Speak in plain English. Remember, I never could make out a riddle in my life."
"Well, then, the case stands thus," said Overbury. "His most gracious majesty, from his particular favour to myself and you, proposes to send me to the court of Russia as his ambassador in ordinary, there to remain till in his good pleasure he recalls me. Now, I foresee, that the day, as well as the distance, will be some what long. I love not travelling; at least have had enough to cure me for all fondness for such journeys, and, therefore, am even now sitting down to write to his majesty, declining the cold honour thus intended for me."
"I fear you will offend the king," said Rochester.
"Better offend the king than destroy myself," replied Sir Thomas Overbury; "but, in a word, I will not not go--I love not bears and wolves--am somewhat chilly in my nature, too--and, though fur cloaks are comfortable things, I had rather wear them for show than for necessity. Let him turn Muscovite or Turk who will. I will have none of such an embassy. So, if you will permit me, as this requires a speedy decision, I will even finish my letter, that his majesty may not say I made him wait."
"Well, well, if you are so headstrongly inclined," answered the favourite, "write out the letter, and I will carry it to the king myself, beseeching him to take your refusal in good part."
"Not so, indeed," cried Overbury; "I cannot think of making your lordship my errand-boy."
"But I must insist on doing it," answered Rochester. "You have done the same for me ere now; and no one can move the king in the matter with such probable success as myself. Do you doubt me, Overbury?"
"Oh, not at all, my lord," replied the knight. "I doubt no man, much less one to whom I have been so devoted;" and, seeing that he could not avoid intrusting the letter to his former friend, he proceeded to write an answer to the king.
"Pray make it humble and submissive," said Rochester.
"As a slave!" replied the knight, and wrote on.
When the letter was concluded, he folded it, called for wax, and sealed it with his signet. Then, giving it to Rochester, he said, "I really am ashamed of using you as a messenger; but I trust that, in memory of the past, my good Lord,--from many friendly passages between us,--and from my zeal and fidelity in your service,--which might have been somewhat rude, but never wanting,---you will use your best endeavours to obtain for me his Majesty's permission to decline the honour he intended me."
"I will do the best I can," answered Rochester; "but you must not attribute the bad success to me, if I fail. I fear, at best, you will greatly injure yourself; but that is not my fault;" and away he went, saying to himself, as he walked along the passages of the palace, "That man must be disposed of somehow. He suspects me, and will find some opportunity for revenge. I cannot trust him longer, and yet I would not injure him, if I could help it. His own unruliness will be his ruin."
In the meantime, Overbury sat with his head leaning upon his hand, in meditation bitter enough.
"He goes to complete his treachery," he thought. "On my life, this feeble-minded favourite is as base as shrewder men. 'Tis safer by far to serve a sensible villain than a weak fool. One is sure of the former, so long as his interest goes with ours: there is no security with a creature like that. He will ruin himself; so 'tis no wonder that he begins by ruining others."
With such reflections, the knight remained for about twenty minutes; at the end of which time Lord Rochester returned, with a grave face, accompanied by Sir Charles Blount. Overbury received them with politeness somewhat too ceremonious; but Rochester immediately said, "I have made no way with your petition--the King insists upon obedience."
"He shall not have it!" exclaimed Overbury, hastily. "I have yet to learn that an Englishman can be banished from the land, at a King's will, without any crime committed. I will not go, my Lord; and methinks, in his high favour, my Lord of Rochester, if right willing, might have obtained a higher grace of the Sovereign than merely that his poor friend should have leave to remain in his native land, rather than to carry his bones to Russia but to leave them there."
"You do me wrong, sir," replied Rochester. "I have brought Sir Charles Blount with me, who was present all the time, to inform you that I urged his Majesty, as much as was decent, to grant your request."
"He did, in truth, Sir Thomas," said Blount.
"Then he has fallen, indeed!" cried Overbury. "I have known the time, Sir Charles, when, if this noble gentleman had asked the King to give him half a province, he would have had it, in land or money."
"That is a different thing," said Sir Charles Blount, drily, "from asking a monarch to permit his subjects to disobey him. I doubt not his Majesty would rather give half his kingdom, than bate a jot of his prerogative."
Rochester had sat, while these few words were exchanged, with his eyes fixed upon the ground; but at length raising them, he said, in an earnest tone, "I do beseech you, Overbury, for your own sake, obey the King; and be assured that I will do my best to shorten the period of your absence, and to obtain your recal as speedily as may be."
This time he was sincere; for his heart somewhat smote him, and a dread of the reproach of men, when it should be known that he had dealt with such ingratitude to one by whose counsels and assistance he had prospered, affected him not a little.
There is something that all great men feel, and even meaner persons too, when raised to high station by accident or fortune, in the stamp which history is to affix upon their name, which overawes many a bad action rising up in their heart, and gives energy and vigour to nobler purposes. Vague it is, and undefined, like all remote objects, like fate--like death--like the judgment after death; but still it casts its shadow over the present, and quells the dazzling brilliancy of pettier objects near.
Weak and short-sighted as he was, Rochester experienced its influence at that moment. To be branded with the stain of foul ingratitude for coming times--to be marked out in the annals of the age as one who had betrayed and ruined his friend--to be held up for scorn and reprobation as a base and thankless villain, in the eyes of his children and his children's children, somewhat appalled him; and he wished that he had not taken the first step in a course so full of shame.
But Overbury answered fiercely, with indignation and disappointment, and the rage of a strong ambitious spirit mastering common prudence.
"It is vain--it is vain!" he said. "I am a freeborn Englishman! I will not go! Let him make me if he can!"
"These words are unpleasant," cried Sir Charles Blount. "Sir Thomas, I will take my leave. My Lord of Rochester, I must go."
"And so must I." rejoined Rochester. "It is useless to argue longer with him."
"Good-bye, gentlemen both," said Overbury. "Rochester," he added, in a meaning tone, "Rochester--take care!"
The favourite turned, and looked at him with a glance of anger and contempt; and saying, in a low voice, "I will!" he quitted the room.
In about half an hour--it could not be more--a royal barge, containing a gentleman, with his arms folded on his chest, his head bent down, and his brow frowning, together with a small party of the guard, and a messenger, was seen upon the Thames, close to the stairs; and as the waterman pushed off towards the middle of the stream, the officer in command said aloud, "To the Tower!"
The gentleman which that boat conveyed to the gloomy abode of captivity and sorrow, was Sir Thomas Overbury!
We must now return to pursue the homeward course of Sir Griffin Markham, as he proceeded from the Tower of London to his little lodgings, in one of the streets at the back of Petty Wales.
When he had walked about two-thirds of the way, he perceived a female figure hurrying on before him, with a man carrying sword and buckler a step behind him. She was wrapped in a large cloak; but there was something about her light figure and easy walk which made Markham instantly suppose that she was Ida Mara, and on passing by and looking at her face, he saw that the supposition was correct.
He instantly stopped to speak to her; but the girl, who recognised him, notwithstanding his change of dress, made him a sign to forbear and go forward; and at the same moment, the servant with buckler and broadsword told him in a sharp tone to walk on, and not stare into the gentlewoman's face.
At length, at the shop of a silk merchant in a small way, Ida Mara paused, while Markham hurried on to his own lodging. After a few inquiries, and the purchase of some insignificant articles, Ida Mara herself proceeded on her way, telling the man who accompanied her, to wait where he was till her return, or till she called him. She was soon in the entrance of Markham's lodging, the door of the passage standing open; but just as she had passed the threshold, a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, "Ida!"
The fair Italian instantly turned round, and beheld Sir Harry West.
"In the name of fortune, my dear child, what are you doing here?" and, perhaps, in the circumstances of those depraved times, the good old Knight might have suspected any other of the attendants of the Court of imprudent, if not criminal purposes, in coming thus, with some degree of disguise, to such a part of the City.
But Ida Mara was not to be suspected; and, if a shade of doubt or apprehension had crossed Sir Harry's mind, which it did not, the beaming satisfaction which lighted up her face the moment she saw him, would have dispelled it at once.
"Oh, I am so glad to see you, Sir Harry!" she cried; "I was coming to seek you after I had been here. I have much to tell you; and if you will wait one moment, I will be down directly."
"But where are you going to, my dear child?" asked the old Knight. "Are you aware that this is not the most reputable part of London?"
"I did not know it," answered the girl, simply; "but at all events I must go; for it is about our dear Lady's business, and I am to see a person called Grey."
"I am going to visit the same man," replied Sir Harry, "so I will go with you, if you have not any private conversation for his ear, my fair Ida."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed the girl; "you may hear it all; for I have just the same tidings to carry to you; and perhaps it may be better that you should hear them together, for then you may devise some means of remedying the new disasters which have befallen us."
"Stay a minute, Ida," said Sir Harry, seeing her about to mount the stairs; "do you know the man you are about to visit? Do you really know who he is?"
"He has carried several letters," replied Ida Mara, dropping her voice, "from my lady to her husband, and from him to her. I know, too," she added, in a still lower tone, "that his name is not Grey."
"That is enough--that is enough!" said Sir Harry. "Go on, my dear."
The girl then ascended the steps, and knocked at a door on the first landing. Markham instantly opened it himself and admitted them--somewhat surprised, indeed, to see Sir Harry with the fair Italian--into a small, low-roofed chamber, scantily furnished, but strewed in all parts with various anomalous pieces of dress, from those of a high-bred cavalier to those of an inferior artizan. Swords, daggers, one or two curious articles ofvirtù, ten or fifteen volumes of books in rich old bindings, two masks, a pair of fencing foils, and the head-piece and breast-plate of a horse-arquebusier, gave it the air of a second-hand warehouse, and left scarcely a chair vacant for the knight and his beautiful companion to rest themselves upon.
"I am glad you are come," cried Markham, addressing Ida Mara, after a few words exchanged with Sir Harry West. "They have straitened Mr. Seymour's captivity; and I fear something has gone wrong at your house, too. What is your news, sweet Mistress Ida? Bad, I fear!"
"As bad as it can be," answered Ida Mara: "they have discovered that letters are given and received; an angry message has been sent by the King to my Lady; and tomorrow morning she is to be removed to Highgate, to the house of one Mr. Conyers, there to remain till a lodging is prepared for her at a place called Durham."
"Durham!" exclaimed Markham; "that is destruction indeed. She must not go to Durham, if we can prevent it, Sir Harry."
"How is that to be done?" demanded Sir Harry West.
"Faith, if need be," replied Markham, "she must feign illness."
"There is no need of feigning," answered Ida Mara, in a sad tone; "for, from the moment she heard that news, she drooped her head like a gathered flower, and if they bear her to Highgate, it will be all that they can do."
"Give me three days, and I will undertake for her escape," exclaimed Markham. "I am wiser now than I was some years ago, Sir Harry; and know how to make use of my time. Will you aid me, noble Sir?"
"With my heart, hand, and means," said Sir Harry West; "for this cruel tyranny of the King, towards so sweet and unoffending a lady, justifies what would be otherwise unjustifiable, to thwart him. What is to be done, my good friend?"
"Much," answered Markham, "very much; and we must divide the labour. I dare not show myself amongst the great of the land; so you, Sir Harry, must see Lord Beauchamp, and the Earls of Hertford and Shrewsbury; they must furnish us with men, horses, and money. Let them collect as many servants and beasts as they can round about Highgate, suffering no three of the knaves to know where the others are, but with orders to obey you or me implicitly. I will provide the ship, and the disguises; and if we can but delay her journey till such a time as suspicion and vigilance be somewhat laid asleep, we are all safe. Tell me, Mistress Ida, is there any man about the lady who may be trusted? How many servants has she allowed her?"
"Three men," replied Ida; "but the only one to be trusted is Cobham, who has been with her long. He is prudent, and would sacrifice his life for her, I am sure."
"Then you must let him into our secret," said Markham; "first speaking with the lady, and asking her consent. You must tell her, too, to be prepared at any moment to put our scheme in execution; let nothing take her by surprise; and, above all, give her some hint that it may be needful she should put on man's attire. If I know her rightly, that will be the greatest stumbling-block."
"It will not please her," answered Ida Mara; "but still, for her own sake and her husband's, I am sure she will consent."
"Were it not better," asked Sir Harry, "that the one escaped first, and the other followed?"
"No, no," replied Markham; "I have thought of that; but I am very sure, that the durance of the other would be rendered ten times as severe, the moment one was gone. Let them both go together, Sir Harry, then there is but one risk for all."
"But there is a difficulty," said Sir Harry West, "which you have not foreseen, good sir. Mr. Seymour has pledged himself not to go beyond----"
"That is at an end," exclaimed Markham; "they have taken from him the limits they allowed; and, consequently, he is freed from his promise. He is willing enough now to escape, and, moreover, feels sure of effecting it with little, if any, need of help: we shall but have to let him know where the ship lies, and he will undertake the rest. I will see you to-morrow at Highgate, lady fair, and tell you more when all is arranged. Now, hie you home; for it is growing dark, and you are too pretty a flower to bear the night air."
"I will go with you, Ida," said the old Knight.
"I have one of the men with me," answered Ida Mara; "and have but to go down to the water-side. Have I anything else to tell the lady?"
"Nothing at present," replied Markham; "to-morrow I will visit you, as I have said, in some shape or other; and if you should have occasion to write, let it be in your native tongue; I shall understand you. We will see you safe, till you have rejoined your companion. Go on, and we will follow."
Thus saying, he opened the door of his room; and Ida Mara, descending the stairs, with a quick pace, walked on to the spot where Arabella's servant stood near the shop at which she had left him; Sir Harry West and Markham keeping at the distance of a step or two behind. The old Knight, however, was not satisfied, even when he saw her under the protection of a single attendant; and still, accompanied by Markham, continued to follow her.
At the end of the second street, he had occasion to be glad that he did so, for by the small portion of light that was remaining, he saw a very extravagantly dressed personage, with black hair and beard, take hold of Ida Mara by the arm, while a stout man, who was with him, thrust himself in between her and her attendant, seemingly inclined to pick a quarrel with the latter.
"Ah! my dear; have I found you at last?" cried the man with the black beard.
"What, in Satan's name, are you running over me for?" said his companion, taking Arabella's servant by the throat.
"I will soon show you," answered the man, drawing his sword; while Ida Mara struggled to disengage herself from the grasp of the other, who only laughed, and exclaimed, "Ah! you cannot get away now!"
But just at that moment, Markham ran up to take part with Arabella's servant, and Sir Harry West, who was still a powerful man for his time of life, seized the fellow by the collar, who had got hold of his fair protegée, and by one pull, with a kick against the bend of the knees behind, laid him upon his back on the pavement. The man hallooed piteously; but the Knight merely spurned him with his foot, saying, "Get up, impostor, and be gone. I know thee."
It is probable that the old Knight would not have suffered him to escape without further chastisement, had he not been afraid of bringing a crowd about the party, which might have proved inconvenient; and worthy Doctor Foreman, for he it was who had been thus overthrown, scrambled upon his feet again, showing but little inclination to bluster.
"Come away, come away," he cried, to the man who was with him, and then took two or three steps towards the corner of another street. Before he reached it, however, he turned, and exclaimed, with a significant gesture of the hand, "I will have my day!"
"To be hanged," replied Sir Harry West; and seeing that the other man was beating his retreat also, the old Knight took Ida Mara by the arm, saying, "Come, my dear, I will see you safe to the boat." He accordingly led her on to the water-side, and did not leave her till she was safely embarked upon the Thames. Sir Harry then returned with Markham to his lodging, more completely to define their plan of operations, and to commence the carrying of them into effect at once.
In the meanwhile, Ida Mara returned to the house of Sir Thomas Parry, from which her absence had passed unobserved, and bore with her some hope of consolation to poor Arabella, who had given herself up to despair at the prospect of being removed to such a distance from her husband. She still remained so ill and weak, however, that the worthy Knight who held her in his custody, judged it expedient to intimate to the King, that it would be dangerous to force a long journey upon her in her situation at the time.
The reply of the King was as cold and unfeeling as might be. He believed she was feigning, he said; but that, at all events, she must be removed to Highgate, where his physician should visit her.
Accordingly, on the following morning, she was placed in a litter, and carried to a house pleasantly situated at a short distance from the village, where she was received with much kindness by the master and mistress of the mansion. Two of the King's physicians were already in waiting, and Mr. Conyers, into whose charge she was now given, in energetic language, pointed out to them the absolute necessity of allowing the lady time to recover, before it was attempted to remove her farther.
"If you suffer her, gentlemen," he said, "to undertake a journey in her present state, and before she has completely regained her health, her death be upon your heads; for you must see that she is totally incapable of supporting it."
The physicians agreed to the justice of his remarks, and drew up their report accordingly; assuring her, that she should be suffered to remain for a week, at least, where she then was. As soon as they were gone, Arabella thanked her host gently and sweetly for the kindness he had shown her.
"Nay, dear lady," he answered, kissing her hand; "I and my good wife are interested in the matter, for we shall thus retain you longer with us; and we propose to ourselves the pleasure of comforting and soothing you, which we do not estimate as a slight grace. For a few days, perhaps, we shall be obliged to have the appearance of strict gaolers; but, as we are not such by nature, we shall, I doubt not, obtain permission to relax, especially if you would, when visited by any of the King's officers, assume the appearance of being somewhat reconciled to your situation, and submissive to the will of the King."
The brutal and ungentlemanly reply of James, when the physicians made their report, is well known; but they adhered honestly to their remonstrance against any attempt to move the lady to Durham for some time; and when, on the following day, one of them visited her, he brought her the glad tidings, that she was to remain at Highgate for a month.
We must notice, however, before we proceed, an event which took place on the day of Arabella's arrival at the house of Mr. Conyers.
After the hint which had been given by Markham, it may easily be supposed Ida Mara was frequently on the watch during the day for his promised visit; but the situation of the mansion, which was one surrounded on all sides by extensive grounds, enclosed within high brick walls, rendered any communication with those without extremely difficult. At length, however, towards evening, she perceived, from the window of her mistress's chamber, a man bearing a bundle on his shoulder. He was apparently a porter, and seemed considerably advanced in life, walking with slow steps, and bending under his load. When half way along the gravel walk, which ran from the gates to the house, he paused, laid down the packet, and wiped his brow.
"Lady, lady!" cried Ida Mara, addressing her mistress, who was lying down to take some repose, "here is somebody coming whom I think I know--I will run down and meet him."
"Be careful, be careful, Ida!" said Arabella; "if they were to discover you, and drive you from me, what should I do?"
"Something must be risked, dear lady," answered her attendant. "I am sure that is our friend." And away she went, with a light step, down the stairs, and out by a side door. Knowing that she might be seen from the windows, she walked slowly and deliberately along the path, till she reached the spot where Markham stood with his bundle.
"What news?" she said, pausing beside him. "All is going on right," he replied; "a ship is hired, and will be ready in a few days. 'Tis a French vessel taking in a cargo, and may be known by the flag. It will be at Leigh; but, in the meantime, let the lady know that friends, with horses ready for her service, are always to be found at a small inn, called the 'Rose,' on the road from this place to Newington."
"What have you got there?" asked Ida Mara. "Some woman's apparel at the top," answered Markham, "sent by the Countess of Hertford; but, underneath, there is a disguise for the lady, in case of need."
"Will they not open it at the house?" inquired Ida.
"No, no!" replied Markham; "the man's dress is so folded up that they cannot see it, without cutting open the cloth it is wrapped in. But here comes somebody from the house; have you any tidings to give me?"
"Not as yet," rejoined the pretty Italian, in haste; "when I have, I will send it to the Rose."
"That will do, that will do," replied Markham. "Now, remember, I have asked you if the Lady Arabella is here? That I have come with these things from Sir Thomas Parry's, where they have been left by mistake. You may pay me something for my labour if you will, for I am to be a porter, you know."
"How much do you charge?" asked Ida Mara, with a smile, taking out her purse.
"Not less than half-a-crown, Madam," answered her companion, as Mr. Conyers approached; "remember, it is a long way."
"Oh, that is too much," said Ida, "for carrying such a package as this--it is very light;" and she lifted it with her hand.
"Not so light, to bring seven miles, mistress," rejoined Markham, acting his part with skill, acquired by long practice. "Ask this gentleman if I charge too much."
"What is the matter?" demanded Mr. Conyers, coming up.
"He asks half-a-crown, sir," said Ida Mara, turning round, "for carrying this parcel hither from Lambeth, where it was forgotten this morning."
"You had better give it him," replied Mr. Conyers, smiling; "it is a long way."
The fair Italian put the half-crown into Markham's hand, saying, "Well, take it up to the house, then. I will come after you, and carry it up to the lady's room."
"Stay a moment," said Mr. Conyers, as she was about to follow the seeming porter, who took up the package and walked on; "a word with you, pretty one. Remember, when you wish to speak with any of your friends, it must be outside the wall. I have no orders to keep you within--but nobody, except persons to myself, must for the future pass the gates."
His tone, though not unkind, was grave and significant; and Ida Mara, thinking it better to make no reply, merely bowed her head and withdrew, following her confederate quickly, and taking his burden from him at the door.
She watched him as he returned towards the gates, to which the master of the mansion had bent his steps after leaving her, and from which he was now coming back.
Mr. Conyers, however, passed the pretended porter without stopping, and Ida Mara hurried with the packet up to her mistress's chamber. As soon as she was there, she opened it, and, from the bottom, drew forth a bundle sewed up in a linen cloth, which she instantly deposited in a closet, and locked the door.
"What have you there, Ida?" asked Arabella. "A disguise for you, dear lady," replied the faithful girl, in a whisper, approaching close to her mistress's bedside. "I know not what it is, but we will not open it to-night."
She had scarcely done speaking, when an elderly woman, an attendant of Mrs. Conyers, tapped at the door and entered, asking if she could be of any assistance.
"Yes, Mrs. Maude," replied Ida; "if you will help me to lay out these things, which seem to have been somewhat tumbled in coming, I will thank you;" and, aided by the maid, she took all the articles of apparel sent by Lady Hertford out of the package, one by one, spreading them forth with great care, though Arabella, who had never employed her in any menial capacity since her act of devotion in nursing Sir Harry West through the plague, told her it would be better for her to send for the maid, Helen, to perform that office.
The servant of Mrs. Conyers, however, was for the time completely deceived; and, on retiring, informed her mistress, who had sent her to the lady's chamber, that there was nothing in the package which she had seen brought to the house but ordinary clothing.
Good Mrs. Conyers was not a harsh or unkind personage, but she was one who possessed few very gentle feelings; and those that she did possess were so well sheltered by a considerable share of selfishness, that it was somewhat difficult to get at them. She was of a prying disposition, too; but it fortunately happened that, as is frequently the case with persons of her character, the mind was as obtuse as the feelings; and with every inclination to act the gaoler and the spy upon the fair prisoner, she had not the wit to execute the task effectually.