"All as we could wish, all as we could wish!" cried Rochester, entering a room in Northampton House, in which the Countess of Essex sat with her mother, Lady Suffolk. "We have the great majority of the judges, delegates. In a few days the decree of nullity will be pronounced, and we need not care a pin for that rank puritan, Abbot, or the Bishop of London. They are the only two who hold out, for Ely and Coventry have yielded to the King's arguments."
Lady Essex cast herself into his arms, with her face radiant with joy; and the shameless Countess of Suffolk rose and congratulated the lover of her criminal daughter, with as many expressions of satisfaction as if he were about to raise her to a station of honour and fame.
"Get them to sign the decree quickly, Rochester," she said; "Abbott is a powerful man, and the see of Canterbury has no light authority. He may bring some of the rest over again; and it is as well to have as many on our side as possible."
"There is no fear, there is no fear," replied Rochester. "They have pledged themselves to the King, and cannot go back. Nevertheless, be you assured, dear lady, I will lose no time. What I most fear is from that villain, Overbury. He has written me this day a most insolent and threatening letter; and he may make mischief."
"I wonder," said Lady Suffolk, in a jesting tone, "if there be no butts of Malmsey now in that same Tower of London? But come, I will go and tell Northampton of your good news. He is as eager in the business as any of us."
"Not as I am," answered Rochester, casting himself into a seat by the side of his paramour. "There I defy him."
"But what says your dear good friend, Sir Thomas Overbury?" asked Lady Essex. "My mother is right, Rochester: we want Malmsey butt!"
"It were not safe," answered her lover, looking down; "the man may drive me to punish him as he deserves; but how, is the question?"
"Oh, by a thousand means," answered the Countess.
"But what does he say, what does he say, Robert? let me see. Have you got the letter with you?"
"Yes, here it is," answered Rochester; "a sweet composition, in truth, and one which shows that he and I are henceforth sworn enemies. One or the other must perish, that is clear."
"Let it be him, sweet Rochester, let it be him," said the Countess, taking the letter, and running her eye over the contents.
"What says the villain?" she exclaimed, at length, with her face burning as she read aloud some portions of Overbury's letter. "--'You and I will come to public trial before all the friends I have?--They shall know what words have passed betwixt us heretofore?--I have wrote the story betwixt you and me from the first hour to this day!'--Rochester, there is no time to be lost! He brings it on his own head.--Let him take the consequences."
"But how? but how?" cried Rochester.
"How?" asked the Countess. "Is he not in the Tower?--Is not my father Lord High Chamberlain?--Are you not a Privy Councillor?--Will the King refuse you anything you ask in reason?--Rochester, Rochester! means are not difficult if you will be firm. But place a secure man as Lieutenant of the Tower, and leave the rest to me. What! would you have yourself overthrown by a worm--by a viper?--Will you leave a snake to sting you, when, by one stroke of your heel, you can tread it into nothing? You have done all you have done, more than could be expected, to avoid the necessity he forces on you. You offered him rank, station, and high employment! He refused them all, and his own obstinacy sent him to the Tower. Now he would charge and calumniate you, knowing right well, that slander always leaves part of its venom behind, whatever antidote we apply. He gives you no choice, he forces you to declare that he or you must perish."
"It is but too true," replied Rochester, gazing on the ground somewhat gloomily; "and yet I would to Heaven he did not force me to deal with him harshly."
"Ay, but he does," exclaimed the Countess. "Tell me, if two men are in a sinking boat that will but bear one, has not the strongest every right to cast the other into the sea, and save himself?"
She paused for an answer, and her lover replied, "I think he has; but still he may regret to do it."
"True," said Lady Essex, "true; and so do I, and so do you. But if that man were an enemy, who had brought him there only to take his life? He who weakly stands in fear of a man he can destroy, deserves the fate that he spares the other. Had he been content to bear, even for some short time, with meekness and forbearance, the punishment he has called down on his own head, he might have lived on in peace, for aught you would have said or I have done against him. But now, Rochester," she added, laying her fair and beautiful hand upon his arm, and speaking in a low but emphatic tone, "but now, he must die! Do you mark me?--He must die! It is not hate that makes me speak; we could have afforded to hate him, and yet let him live. I practise nought against the life of Essex, though Heaven knows I have hated him enough. But to dread is different--to live in continual fear of what a fellow being may say--to know that our secrets are at the mercy of an enemy--to see him strive to curb us at his will, like a groom upon a managed horse, because he has got the bridle of fear between our jaws, is not an existence to be tolerated for an hour. Fling me, I say, such a rider to the dust and break his neck, or you are not half a man. This letter, this base and insolent letter, is his death-warrant!" And she struck it with the back of her fingers, with all the passion and vehemence of her nature. "He has signed it with his own hand," she added. "It is his own deed! and as he has planted the tree, so let him eat the fruit."
"But the means! but the means!" cried Rochester. "Where shall we find the means?--Remember, such deeds leave marks behind them that may condemn us. Cold judges will not weigh the provocation, but only the act; will not think of how he drove us to destroy him, but punish us for his destruction. The King himself will suffer no private revenge; remember the case of Sanquhar, where no prayers or entreaties would move him."
"Ay, but remember, also," said the Countess, "that he was hated--you are loved. James smiled when he signed Sanquhar's warrant. Know you not why he looked so pleased? Was not Sanquhar a friend of that famous King of France, who so eclipsed the pale light of the Scottish Star, that he looked like Orion beside one of the little twinkling Pleiades? Did not Sanquhar stand by, unmoved by aught but laughter, when Henry vented a keen jest upon the birth of this British Solomon; and James paid him well. Him he detested; you he adores.--Who does not that knows you, Rochester?--And if this be so managed that no mighty hubbub is made about it, I will undertake the King shall aid you to conceal it, rather than punish you for an act most necessary. Besides, if I judge right, there may be things within the scope of your knowledge that this great monarch would not have told. I counsel you not to make him dread you; for that is too perilous. Show him all devotion, and there is no fear of his becoming an enemy to one who is so much his friend. Then, as for the rest, lend me your power, and I will give you the means. I will away, with all speed, to a certain serviceable woman whom I know, who will afford me good counsel as to what is to be done. But I must put off this gay apparel; and if you will be here to supper, I will have news for you. Hark! I hear my mother coming, with my good Lord Northampton. He shall lend me his barge; and I will away."
"Let me go with you," said Rochester.
"What, in these fine feathers?" cried the Countess, laughing as lightly as if her errand were but some pleasant scheme of momentary diversion. "No, no, most noble Lord, that would betray all. Another time you shall. Fair sir," she continued, turning to the Earl of Northampton, as he entered, "I beseech you, as your poor kinswoman and dependant, to lend me your lordship's barge for a short time. I have a secret expedition to the city, to visit a certain goldsmith, who must not know me, lest he charge his workmanship too dear. You will not deny me?"
She spoke in a gay and mocking tone, calculated to discover rather than to conceal the fact, that she had some more important scheme to execute than that which she gave out; and the Earl of Northampton replied at once: "It, as all else that I possess, fair lady, is at your devotion. Stay; I must order it."
"Nay, nay," said the Countess, "I will do so as I pass through the ante-room. Show him the letter, Rochester, and ask him simply what that man deserves who wrote it."
Thus saying, she left the room, and Rochester placed the letter of Sir Thomas Overbury in the hands of the Lord Northampton, who had by this time become his chief friend and adviser at the Court. The Earl read it twice, and then returning it, said, in a marked tone, "Death!--A man," he added, "who can betray the secrets confided to him is the worst sort of traitor; but he who can use them to intimidate another, is lower than the common cut-purse upon the highway. Were this man out of prison, I should say--call him into some quiet corner of the Park, and draw your sword. As it is, I cannot so well advise you."
The Countess of Suffolk made Rochester a sign not to continue the subject; and in; a few minutes more Lady Essex re-appeared, masked, and habited with great simplicity.
"Now," she exclaimed, addressing Rochester, "you may have the honour of handing me to the barge, or, if you like it better, may accompany me till I land near the bridge, and wait for me, like a humble slave, till I re-embark; for I will have no pert lover prying into where I go."
Thus saying, she gave him her hand, and the Earl of Northampton, smiling as benignly on their criminal attachment as the Countess of Suffolk had done, conducted them to a door leading into the gardens, where he left them to pursue their way to the private stairs, which were then attached to all the great houses that lined the bank of the Thames, from Whitehall to the City.
Rochester and the Countess proceeded through the gardens, toying and jesting as they went, and then seated themselves in the barge, which speedily bore them down nearly to London Bridge. There the lady left her lover, and, followed by two men, entered upon the narrow streets of the metropolis, which she threaded till she reached the well-known house of Mrs. Turner. She paused in the little court, and sent up one of the men to see if the respectable lady she came to visit was at home, and alone.
"Say, a lady wishes to see her," said the Countess. "Mind, sirrah, give no names--merely a lady."
"I know, my Lady," replied the man, who had accompanied his mistress more than once upon a similar errand; and entering the door, which stood open, he soon came back with tidings that good Mrs. Turner was within, and disengaged.
"Bless me, my Lady!" exclaimed Mrs. Turner, as soon as she saw the Countess, "I have not had the honour of a visit for I don't know how long; but I see that all has gone well with you. You could not look so fresh and so beautiful if you were not happy; though beautiful enough you were always, even, when you were in the state of misery from which I had some little share in relieving you."
"Thanks, thanks, Mrs. Turner," replied the Countess, "the relief is not quite complete; but I think it will be soon. However, I have another business on hand, perhaps more important still. See that there is no one in that room, and lock the door."
"Oh, there is no one, I am sure, my Lady," said Mrs. Turner. "I take good care against eaves-droppers; but you shall see." And opening the door, which led to an inner chamber, she displayed a bedroom fitted up in a style of luxury which would have shamed a palace.
She then locked a door which led from it to a back staircase; and tripping back on the tips of her toes, she sat down opposite to Lady Essex, saying, "Now, sweet lady, you see there is no one there; and, if there be anything in all the world that I can do to serve you, I am ready. I am sure, it is quite a pleasure to do anything for so great and generous a person."
"That is all nonsense, Turner," replied the Countess; "what I have to do now, cannot be a pleasure to any one concerned; but it is forced upon me. Tell me, you who have such skilful means of gratifying hearts that love, have you not means of satisfying hate, as well?"
"Really, my lady, I don't know what you mean," said Mrs. Turner. "You must speak clearly; and I will give you a clear answer."
"Pshaw," cried the Countess, impatiently; "half of your trade, woman, is to understand at a mere hint. Tell me, if you had an enemy, one that you dreaded, one that rendered it necessary for your safety that he should be removed, could you not find means--without much apparent dealing with him--to free yourself from your danger, and from his enmity?"
Mrs. Turner gazed silently in her face, for a moment, and then, in a voice sunk to a whisper, asked, "Is it my lord your husband?"
"He!" cried the Countess, with a scoff. "But I have no husband," she added, the moment after; "if you mean the Earl of Essex, poor creature, my hate ceased as soon as he ceased to trouble me. The idle bond between us will be soon snapped by the fingers of law; and henceforward I care no more about him than about any of the thousands who walk the streets of London, and whom I have never seen. No, no, it is another, a much less person; for you might fear to put your fingers in the peerage. But answer me my question. Were such your case, could you not find means, I say?"
"Perhaps I could, my Lady," answered Mrs. Turner, in a grave tone. "Perhaps I could."
"Then you must make my hatred yours," replied the Countess, "and work against my enemies as if they were your own."
"That I will, madam, I am sure, with all my heart," answered her worthy confederate. "But I must have help, my lady."
"You shall have such assistance as shall render all easy," replied the Countess.
"Ay," rejoined Mrs. Turner; "but what I mean is, I cannot undertake this thing alone. Good Doctor Foreman must give us assistance. I doubt you would not like bloodshed?"
"No, no, no!" answered the Countess; "there must be no blood; nothing to leave a trace of how the person died. Quietly and secretly, and yet as speedily as may be."
"It will be difficult, madam," said Mrs. Turner; "a very difficult thing indeed; for though one may get at their food so as to spice one dish to their taste for ever, yet if it is to be slow poison----"
The Countess started, and her warm cheek turned somewhat pale. "Is your Ladyship ill?" asked Mrs. Turner.
"No, no!" answered the Countess; "'twas the word poison. Often," she added, slowly and thoughtfully, "we must make use of means we like not to hear named, and the heart shrinks at a word that is most bold in action. But it matters not;--poison--ay, poison!--So let it be!--Why should the sound scare me?--Poison. Well, woman, what was it thou wert saying?"
"Why, please you, my Lady, that if slow poison is to be used, we must bribe some man who has constant access to the person, for it must be given daily."
"None shall have access but yourself and those you send," replied the Countess. "All food may pass through your hands--and yet I wish this were not to be done. Would that it could be accomplished boldly and openly, without such silent, secret dealings; but that is impossible in this case."
"Oh dear, my Lady!" replied Mrs. Turner, in a soothing tone,--"you need not distress yourself about it. You do not know how frequently such things happen."
"Ay? Is it often done?" exclaimed the Countess.
"Daily, madam," said Mrs. Turner. "Many a rich old miser finds the way to heaven by the tender love his heir bears to his money bags; many a jealous husband troubles his lady's peace no more, after she has learnt the secret of deliverance; many a wise man's secrets find a quiet deposit in the churchyard, which otherwise might have been noised abroad; many a poor girl, betrayed and wearied of, finds peace, by the same hand that took it from her. But that's a shame, I say, and such means should be only used against the strong and the dangerous."
The Countess smiled bitterly. "Yes!" she said, looking down, "there are gradations even in such things as these; and dire necessity still justifies the act that else were criminal. And so 'tis often done, good Mrs. Turner? I have heard of it, but knew not it was frequent."
"Oh yes, my Lady," answered the fiend; "scarce a day--I am sure not a week passes, without a stone being put up by mourning friends in memory of those whom they would fain forget; and once the earth is shovelled in, you know, it matters little how the dead man went. In truth, to most men, 'tis a charity to cut them off from a few years of sorrow. 'Tis a sad world, full of cares, my Lady; and I know that too, poor creature as I am. Here they are pressing me hard for the rent of my house; and where I am to get it I am sure I cannot tell."
"There!" said the Countess, throwing a purse upon the table; "and if you skilfully accomplish that which is needed, you shall be rich."
The woman seized her hand to kiss it; but the Countess drew it away, as if a serpent stung her. "Come, no foolery," she said. "You know I pay well for services; but they must be rendered duly. I have told you that this person shall be entirely in your power. You shall have every opportunity to practise on him your skill. He shall be altogether in your hands. Is there anything more you need?"
"Ha, ha, ha!" said Mrs. Turner, laughing with a low titter. "I thought first it was a woman, till your ladyship saidhe:for ladies have not, in general, such enmities to men."
"My friendships are the friendships of my friends," cried the Countess; "their hate my hate. 'Tis not that this man has injured me, but he is dangerous to one I love. He must die! See you to the means. I have heard that the late Queen Catherine, of France, was so well served in cases such as these, that those whom she dreaded or disliked, disappeared as if by magic. The smelling of a nosegay--a pair of scented gloves--a cup of fragrant wine--would clear her Court in a few hours of those who cumbered it."
"All tales! my Lady," replied Mrs. Turner; "except, perhaps, the wine. I doubt not that she did deliver herself of enemies by such means, and those the best, too, she could employ; but odours to kill, must be strong scents, indeed; and, 'tis more like, some friendly valet helped to season the soup of the good Monseigneur, than that he took the poison by the nose. However, there is one thing I can say, that there is no secret in the sciences with which my friend, good Doctor Foreman, is unfurnished; and, moreover, that he will employ them all to please your ladyship."
"Well, consult him, then," said Lady Essex; "let him know that his reward is sure. Think you he has ever practised in this sort before?"
"I must not say that, my Lady," replied Mrs. Turner, with a shrewd look; "but I know well, that in this country, and in many others, too, he has served great men in various ways. Ay, kings and princes; and, I suspect, their foes have had cause to know it, too. But he is as secret as the grave, and never babbles of the things he has done."
"That is the man we want," said the Countess; "speak to him about the matter, and let me know what he says."
"That I will, my Lady," answered Mrs. Turner. "But who is the gentleman we have to deal with?"
"You shall know hereafter," replied Lady Essex: "what I have said, is sufficient for the present."
"Nay, but dear lady," urged her infamous confederate, "I fear Dr. Foreman may not like to engage in the matter without knowing who the person is. I have no curiosity, for my part."
"Why should he hesitate?" demanded the Countess, sharply; "one man must, to him, be the same as another, if what you have said of him be true. The butcher asks not where the ox he slays was bred or fattened, what green meadows fed it, from what streams it drank. The blow that ends it is all he has to think of; and so let it be here."
"I doubt that will not satisfy him, my Lady," said Mrs. Turner; "there are some great men he might not like to deal with--any of his kind friends and patrons, would give him pain to injure. Perhaps this very gentleman may have been favourable to him--may have employed him in things of the same kind."
"'Tis not unlikely," answered the Countess, with a gloomy smile; "but, if he have, he will employ him no farther. The walls of a prison are round him, from which he will ne'er pass out alive. However, as your friend cannot penetrate into the Tower, to tell the secret to him who must die; and as he dare not, I think, betray it to any other, the man is Sir Thomas Overbury;" and she fixed her beautiful eyes steadfastly upon the countenance of Mrs. Turner, as if to read the effect which her words produced upon the woman's mind.
It was not such as she expected; for the passion in her own heart gave even her victim higher importance than he had possessed in the eyes of others. "What! Sir Thomas Overbury!" exclaimed Mrs. Turner, in some surprise; "the friend of my Lord of Rochester?"
"Hewashis friend," replied the Countess, with marked emphasis; "but now----"
She left the sentence unconcluded, and Mrs. Turner exclaimed, "Ah! I see how it is; I understand it all, now! Such friends may become dangerous, Lady. He may have secrets of my Lord of Rochester's, which must not be betrayed; perhaps, some of the King's, too."
"Perhaps so," answered the Countess; "all we know, however, is, that he lies a close prisoner in the Tower, by the King's own order; that no man--except such as have licence from his Majesty himself--is permitted to speak with him, on pain of high displeasure; and that it were better for all parties that such things were brought to an end. See to it, good Mrs. Turner, see to it! and come up to me at Northampton House to-night at supper time. The Earl will then be in the country; and you will find Lord Rochester and myself alone. If you have seen this Doctor Foreman, then, you may bring him with you; and so, farewell!"
Thus saying, the Countess left her, hurried to the barge, and seating herself by her lover's side, was rowed back to Northampton House. But, as she went, she vainly endeavoured to assume the light gaiety which she had displayed as they came; for the terrible conversation which she had just held with her instrument still cast its shadow upon her. While the act was merely a matter of vague contemplation, she had felt it but little; but, as with those who approach to climb a mountain, which at a distance looked soft and easy of ascent, she found the task more fearful than she had anticipated when she came to deal with the details. Even her bold and resolute spirit felt oppressed with the first steps to the terrible crime that was to be committed; the very lowness and pettiness of the means to be employed had something strangely horrible to her imagination which, she could not shake off. She sat silent and gloomy then as the boat glided over the water; and Rochester easily divined that preparations were already made for the dark act they meditated.
One wing of the old palace in the Tower, which has long since been swept away, was, at this time, when the King's general residence was at Whitehall, given up to those prisoners of state, who were not committed to that close custody which debarred them from a general communication with their fellow men. This was the habitation of William Seymour about a week after the period when the Lady Arabella was conveyed from Lambeth to Highgate. He had, in the first instance, been placed in the Beauchamp tower, but had been removed to make way for Sir Thomas Overbury; and he now had larger apartments and better accommodation than before, as well as the range of the whole extent of the Tower itself, though the liberty of passing the gates, which he had at one time enjoyed, was denied him.
From time to time he received the visits of various friends; and Markham was with him every day, bearing him tidings or short notes from his beloved wife, though their correspondence could not be so full as during the period of her confinement at the house of Sir Thomas Parry.
The intervals of solitude to which he was subjected during various parts of the day, were passed in writing, reading, and meditating schemes of escape; and often, in deep reflection, he paced the old halls and corridors of the palace, pausing from time to time, as the sunshine penetrated through the tall windows, and fell upon mementos of men and ages gone--to read the homily it afforded, of the transitory nature of all human things.
He was one day standing thus employed, gazing at a spot on the wall where some hand had carved the name of Edward Plantagenet, and wondering to which of all the many distinguished persons who had borne that appellation, the inscription referred, when a gentleman, whom he well knew, named Sir Robert Killigrew, approached with the sauntering and meditative step of a prisoner, and gave him the good morning.
"I was coming to seek you, sir," said Killigrew, "to pay you my respects as your fellow captive, which I have been since last night."
"May I ask on what cause, Sir Robert?" demanded Seymour.
"You would be long in divining," answered the Knight.
"That I may well be," replied Seymour; "for as things now go on in England, there is not an act in all the wide range of those which man can perform, that may not, by the elastic stretching of the law, the cunning of the bad, and the indifference of all the rest, be construed into some crime worthy of imprisonment."
"It is but too true," replied Killigrew. "My crime was but speaking a few words with poor Sir Thomas Overbury, who called to me when I passed his window, as I was returning from a visit to my poor friend Raleigh. For this mighty misdemeanour I was committed from the council-table, and here I am, your servant at command,[8]so far as services may be rendered within the walls of the Tower."
"I must not welcome you, Sir Robert," replied Seymour; "for it were no friendly act to see you gladly here. What news were stirring when you left the Court?"
"Good faith, but little," answered the Knight, "except that Rochester exceeds all bounds in favour, impudence, rapacity, and rashness. The functions of all offices of the state are now monopolized by him; there's not a privy-councillor can wag his beard, unless my Lord of Rochester give leave; and if a suitor have ever so just a claim, good faith his gold must flow into the favourite's purse, before he can obtain a hearing. He rules the Court and the State, and were it not for Abbott, would rule the church too, I believe. But the archbishop frowns upon him, and holds out against the nullity of his fair Countess's marriage with Lord Essex."
"What does he do for want of Overbury?" asked Seymour. "Good faith, when I heard that the knight was arrested, I fancied that the favourite's day was at an end."
"Heaven and the King forgive you," cried Killigrew. "Why, it was Rochester himself did it. That is known to all the world now-a-days; and as to how he does without him, he pins himself upon my Lord Northampton, that learned piece of Popish craft. He is with him daily, hourly, and by his advice rules all his actions, as he did by Overbury's."
"Poor Overbury!" said Seymour; "I have no cause to love him; but yet I cannot help pitying a man cast down by that bitterest stroke of adversity, the falsehood and ingratitude of a friend."
"I pity him too," replied Killigrew, "which was the cause why I stayed to speak to him. I know not what he has done to injure or offend you, sir, that you say you have no cause to love him, but he seems most anxious to see you, which, indeed, I was coming to tell you. Though I cannot advise you to give way to his request, for by so doing, perhaps, you may injure yourself with the Lieutenant of the Tower, who, it seems, already dreads he shall be dismissed for the short conversation I had with his prisoner."
"Oh, Wade is a good friend of mine," answered Seymour, "and is under some obligations to my house. What did Sir Thomas say?"
"As near as I can recollect," replied Sir Robert Killigrew, "that it would be a great consolation to him if he could speak with you or the Lady Arabella. But take care what you do; for I cannot but think that it is rash to make the attempt. The King's orders are most strict, that no one, not his nearest friends, not his own father, should have a moment's interview with him."
"I will see him, nevertheless, if it be possible," answered Seymour. "The man who could refuse consolation, however small, to a poor captive shut out from human intercourse, must have a cold heart indeed, let the risk be what it may. I am sure you do not regret your captivity for such a cause, Sir Robert?"
"I regret my captivity, whatever be the reason," replied the Knight; "but yet I would do the same to-morrow, I confess."
"Well, I will go watch my opportunity," replied Seymour; "no one can tell what changes may be made; but if they remove him to the Bell Tower, beneath the lantern, or to one of the dungeons, the occasion will be missed."
"Farewell, then, for the present," replied Sir Robert Killigrew; "I had better not accompany you."
"Perhaps not," said Seymour.
Bidding him adieu, and then taking his way towards the tower in which Sir Thomas Overbury was confined, he passed once or twice under the windows without looking up, seeing that there were several persons in the open space between the walls. At length, Overbury's window opened, but Seymour marked what he did not, that there was a workman wheeling a barrow round the other side of the tower, and, taking another turn, he came back again, and looked around.
"Hist, hist!" cried the prisoner; "speak to me for a moment, Mr. Seymour."
"I will be back in an instant," replied the other, "when I make sure that we are not observed."
In a few minutes, he again paused beneath the window, the sill of which was nearly level with his head, but a little above, and, looking up, he said, "Now, Sir Thomas, the workmen have gone to dinner; there is no one on the walls--what would you say?"
"Many things--many things," answered Overbury; "but the time is short, and I cannot say all. I have injured you, Mr. Seymour,--you and the Lady Arabella too. I would fain have your forgiveness, and beseech hers. I did it to serve a faithless man, who has placed me within these bars. I, it was, who informed the King of your meetings, and brought about your ruin. Had I known that you were married, I would have cut out my tongue ere I had uttered those words!"
"But did you not, likewise, Sir Thomas, write to warn her to escape?" asked Seymour. "I have heard so on good authority, and that such was one of your offences with the King."
"I did, I did," answered the Knight; "but it was too late."
"Well, then," rejoined Seymour, "the good act blots out the bad one. You have my forgiveness freely, Sir Thomas; and I may well assure you of my dear wife's also; for she it was who wrote to tell me you had done so, with words of kindness and gratitude."
"God's blessing upon her!" cried the captive; "but I would fain do more. You are aware, sir, doubtless, that a permission in due form, under the King's own hand, was given for the lady's marriage to a subject. Why not use it for a justification?"
"It has been urged already," replied Seymour; "but the King heeds it not. It was given to the Lady Arabella by the Countess of Shrewsbury; and we have demanded, all of us, if we have been guilty, that a public trial should take place. But the laws are now the common mockery of every idle fellow at the Court."
"It is so, indeed," replied Sir Thomas Overbury, in a sad tone; "I know it but too feelingly. So, that is vain," he added, after a moment's thought, "then, you have nothing left but flight."
"How can it be effected?" asked Seymour, in a doubtful tone.
"By you--as easily as the wind waves yonder flag," replied the Knight. "Oh, had I but your liberty to walk about unwatched, I would place the seas betwixt myself and England ere three days were over."
"But how--but how?" demanded Seymour. "If you show me how, I will thank you indeed."
"In a thousand ways," answered the captive. "Why not, in a workman's dress, at some unsuspected hour, take yonder barrow, and wheel it through the gates? Who would stop you--who would ask a question? I have seen it done a dozen times at least.--Why not, habited as a carter, follow some empty waggon that has brought billets or merchandize into the fortress?"
"The plan is not a bad one, in truth," said Seymour; "perhaps, if driven to it, I may execute it."
"Driven to it!" exclaimed Sir Thomas Overbury. "Is not every man, who is detained a captive here unjustly, driven to take measures for his own deliverance? Or do you expect that the King will be mollified, and give his kind consent to your re-union with your fair wife? Ah, my good sir! you do not know the man. Were you aware of all that I could tell, you would entertain no hope. Dark and dreadful, sir, dark and dreadful are the secrets of that palace at Whitehall. But, if they mind not what they do, and continue this persecution of an innocent man, those secrets shall be told, let them affect whom they may."
"I beseech you, Sir Thomas Overbury," said Seymour, "be careful. Remember, rash words may provoke revenge; and you are in the hands of men both powerful and unscrupulous. Threats, I fear, will avail but little."
"I have no other means!" exclaimed Sir Thomas, vehemently; "the hope of truth, kindness, or justice from them is vain. 'Tis but from their fears that I can entertain any expectations. But, hush!" he exclaimed, "hush!--walk on, walk on! I see the Lieutenant coming along the wall."
Seymour, who was himself hidden by the tower, instantly proceeded in the direction of another building, some way before him, with his arms folded on his chest, and his eyes bent down to the ground, in meditation on what he had just heard. He knew not that the Lieutenant was coming in the opposite direction; but after he had walked forward about a hundred yards, that officer came down by some steps from the wall, and joined him, saying, "Give you good morning, sir; I hope you are well to-day!"
"As well as one can be, Wade, in this place," replied Seymour, "and that is not too well."
"Faith, sir, I do not know," answered Wade; "I feel myself very well here, and do not wish to change."
"I am sure I hope you may remain, Wade," replied the prisoner; "as it satisfies yourself; and your loss would be a sad stroke on me."
"Yet, Mr. Seymour, I am afraid we must both make up our mind to my going," said the Lieutenant. "The crows of the Court are picking a hole in my coat, because a gentleman, passing through, spoke for a few moments with Sir Thomas Overbury, at his window, and I am to be dismissed, it seems. Sir Gervase Elways has given the Lord Rochester a thousand pounds, I hear, to have the post; so he is sure to get it. He may have more to give before he has done, however."
"To what amount do you think?" asked Seymour, with a smile. "The rapacity of these people is somewhat extensive."
"To the amount of his conscience and his soul, perhaps," replied the officer, in a meaning tone. "But these things do not do to talk of, Mr. Seymour, and if they drive me out so unjustly, I should much like to take some who are within these walls along with me."
"Would to heaven you would make me of the number!" replied Seymour.
The Lieutenant gazed at him with a smile, and then answered: "You know, sir, that there is not a man in the Tower whom I would sooner see out of it than yourself, from gratitude to my good Lord of Hertford. But in these matters, sir, every one must take care of himself, and I fear I must not do anything to help you out."
"Thanks for your good wishes, Wade, at all events," replied Seymour. "So poor Sir Thomas Overbury is kept a close prisoner?"
"Too close, sir," said the Lieutenant; "too close not to make men think that the offence charged against him is but a pretext, and that there is darker work below. I am not a man to serve their purposes, however; and I fancy my crime is more refusing to let some persons have access to him, than permitting others. My Lord of Rochester sent a man here yesterday morning to wait upon him, as he said--a fellow whose look I love not. So I told him that no one should wait upon a close prisoner in my custody but my own servants. For them I can be answerable, not for others. This is my true fault, sir. But you must be good enough, in your walks, not to approach the Beauchamp Tower, whatever you do, as, if any one is seen speaking with the poor man again, I must place him in a less convenient room, and I do not wish to deal harshly with one I so much pity."
"You are a good fellow, Wade," replied Seymour, shaking his hand; and, leaving the Lieutenant, he walked on, saying to himself, "this is something gained: Wade will shut his eyes as far as possible, that is clear.--Escape, then, will be easy; but it must be executed before he is removed."
The morning meal was over at the house of Mr. Conyers; and the Lady Arabella, rising from the table, approached one of the windows which stood open, and gazed out upon the green lawn and the fine old trees, while an expression of deep melancholy came over her face, which had before been cheerful. As she thus stood, the master of the mansion approached her, saying, "'Tis a beautiful day, lady; would you not like to walk forth?"
"Not yet," answered Arabella. "I was thinking, Mr. Conyers, how quietly life might pass in such a sweet place as this, without ever stirring beyond those walls; and I was asking myself what it was that made confinement within them so burdensome. Here I have almost all that heart could desire,--a kind host and hostess, every luxury that wealth can afford, fine sights before my eyes, sweet sounds for my ear, the gentle breath of summer fanning my brow, and space as large to roam through at my will as, to say sooth, a woman's feeble frame can well wander over untired. And yet, I cannot school my heart to content."
Mr. Conyers did not know well how to answer her. He was not willing to jar a thoughtful mind with a trite common-place, and therefore he only inquired, "Pray, how did you settle the question, dear lady?"
"I asked myself if liberty was all that I wanted," continued Arabella; "that bright spectre, the reality of which man can never know on earth; for, if we be not slaves to others, we are still slaves to our own infirmities; and this flesh is the true prison after all. But I have never sought much liberty. I have been right willing to bow my designs to those of others, to yield ready obedience where, perhaps, I had a right to resist, striving to make my own heart my world, where no one can forbid the spirit from wandering in the garden which itself has planted. I have sought little else but that. I will tell you what it is that makes even this sweet spot a prison. It is not that I cannot pass those gates; for, were I happier, I should never wish to pass them. I have no desire for the wide world. But it is, that those I love can never enter them,--that the friends who are dearest, the hearts that cherish me, the souls with which mine is linked, have no admission here. I will go weep," she cried, suddenly dashing a tear from her dark eye-lashes--"I will go weep, and I shall be better then."
Thus saying, she quitted the room, while Mr. Conyers stood in the window with a sad and thoughtful brow.
"I will be gaoler no longer," he said, after a long pause; "this sweet girl is shamefully ill-treated; and if an Englishman's rights and liberties be really valuable, they should be as dear to me in the person of another as of myself. I have served this King well enough, without having this task thrust upon me. I will be a gaoler no longer, and so I'll tell the King to-morrow when I see him."
"What are you muttering there, Conyers?" asked his wife, who was still sitting at the table.
"I was saying, Joan," replied Mr. Conyers, "that I have had enough of a bad and disgraceful task, which no one had a right to force upon me, without even asking my consent. Let the servants know, that the strict watch which I have seen kept up, without my orders, displeases me."
"But it was by the King's orders," replied the lady, "and you forget that you lose all chance of promotion, if you disobey."
"Out upon promotion at such a price!" replied her husband. "I have yielded to this too long. I am not a turnkey; my servants are not spies, or, if they are, they shall stay no longer here. If the King must have such vermin, let him keep them himself, I will not. What right had he to impose such a trade upon me? and as I have never promised to obey, I will do so no more. I even reproach myself that I have done it so long already. The grief of the sweet lady touches me. Were she harsh and vehement, proud and indignant under injustice, I might feel it less; but she bears her wrongs with such gentle meekness, even when she feels them most poignantly, that it were a base heart indeed which did not share her sorrow and take its part with her."
"Well, Conyers," answered the lady, "I grieve for her, too; but I see no cause why you should sacrifice yourself for others; and you must recollect that if she were anywhere else she might be treated still more harshly."
"That comforts me for the past," answered her husband, "If I had refused to receive her, others would have been found to undertake any base work that a king may require of a subject; but I can bear it no longer; and at all events none shall give orders in my house but myself.--Baldock," he continued, as a servant entered to clear the table, "call the men and women of the household hither. My own, I mean, not the Lady Arabella's people."
The servant retired, and Mr. Conyers walked with a hasty step up and down the room, still murmuring to himself, "It is too much."
In a few minutes the greater part of the household, which, as was the case in every gentleman's establishment of those days, was about five times as numerous as at present, was arrayed at the further end of the room, displaying a number of somewhat anxious faces; for their master's summons had been accompanied by an intimation from him who bore it, that Mr. Conyers seemed somewhat angry.
"Shut the door," said that gentleman. "Now mark me, men and maids. I have seen things that I dislike. No matter what. But a spy is a thing I dislike, a base unworthy animal, which I will drive forth from my house like mice or rats, or any other vermin. Let me have none of them, or if I catch them, beware their ears.--You all know me well. I love my people as my own family, while they are honest and true; but no person, not the highest in the land, has a right to give orders in this house but myself, and if those orders are disgraceful to a good man of an upright heart, I will find means to punish him who obeys them. You all understand me, so away without a word."
"Well, Conyers, you know best," replied his wife, as the servants withdrew, "but I cannot help thinking----"
"Do not think at all, good wife," replied her husband, "except about puddings and pies. In this matter I am determined, so take care that I have no meddling. Tomorrow I go to the King, and shall tell him what I think. He may send me to the Tower if he pleases; for it seems he may put an English gentleman in gaol at his will, but he has no power to make him a gaoler."
While these events were taking place below, Arabella retired to her room, and for some time gave way to tears. She had just wiped away the drops from her eyes, when Ida Mara entered and approached her in silence, gazing upon that fair face, on which the recent marks of grief were still evident.
"Dear lady, you are very sad," said Ida Mara, at length; "but nevertheless I am in great hopes that in a few days you will be free. I told you last night what I had heard, that the difficulties respecting the papers of the ship were all removed, and that this day she would be prepared to sail to whatever port you like."
"God send it," answered Arabella, "for though I am better in health, Ida, I am very gloomy. This long absence from my husband, the difficulties and dangers of this enterprise, the long, wide-spread, misty blank of the future, all rise up before my mind, and agitate and terrify me."
Ida Mara continued for some minutes in conversation with her mistress, trying to soothe and cheer her; and when she had in some degree succeeded, she added, "I hope I shall have more news for you in an hour; for I must now go forth to see some one who has written, asking me to come along the road to Hornsey. I do not know the hand, but it is in good Italian, and may be from some of your friends."
"Well, go, then; go, Ida," replied the lady, "but take care. I always fear for you, after that adventure you told me of in London; and what should I do without you, my dear girl?"
"I have often thought of that, lady," replied Ida Mara; "but I have less fear now. You have friends here, and there are fortunate circumstances more than you know of."
"Indeed!" said Arabella. "What may they be?"
"First," answered Ida Mara, "Mr. Conyers has just told the servants that he will have no spying into your actions, and is angry that you have been so watched. This is a great point gained, for servants soon learn to take the tone of their masters. But there is something more which I have thought, for these three days, to speak to you about. I often asked myself if the King's will, or anything else, were to take me away from you, what you would do for assistance? Your maid Jane is faithful enough, I believe; but she wants quickness, forethought, and skill. A day or two ago, however, I found that you have another friend in the house, the good woman Maude, who often comes in to see if she can help you."
"Indeed!" cried Arabella; "I should not have thought it, for she is somewhat rude and uncouth in speech."
"Ah, dearest lady!" replied Ida Mara, shaking her head, "they say, in my country, that the sweetest oranges have the roughest rinds. She came three days ago into my chamber, and talked long about you. The good soul wept when she spoke of all that you have suffered, and said such words of the King as would send her into prison, were they heard. She said she was born upon the lands of your grandfather, Sir William Cavendish, and I am sure, quite sure, from all she told me, that you may trust to her entirely. She was sent here, it seems, the day of your arrival, to see what was in the packet that Markham brought. She laughed when she told me, saying, that, as it was, there was nothing in it which might not be mentioned, but that if there had been, she would have lost her eyes for the time, at all events. She is clever, too, and shrewd, though in a homely way; but I am sure you might trust her, lady, if anything should take me from you."
"Ida, tell me the truth," said Arabella, with an anxious look; "have you heard anything that makes you suspect such a separation? Do you believe that it is about to take place?"
"No, lady; no, dear lady," replied the fair Italian girl. "I have heard nothing but what I have told you, in truth. I would not deceive you on any account: no, not for your own good; for it is not right, and I never saw anything but evil come of doing wrong. I know not how it was, but when I saw this note written in a hand I did not know, a foolish fancy came across my mind, I do not well know what,--a fear--no, scarcely a fear,--a doubt; and I determined, ere I went, to tell you what I thought of Maude."
"I wish you would not go, Ida," said the lady; "indeed, I wish you would not go."
"Nay, but I must," answered Ida Mara; "they may wish to see me about some point of vital consequence, on which your welfare would depend. I must go, indeed; and the sun is getting high, so that I ought not to tarry longer; I will be back again with all speed, dear lady. It was a foolish fancy of mine,--idle and groundless, I am sure."
Thus saying, she kissed Arabella's hand, and withdrew.
For several minutes the lady sat in sad and apprehensive meditation, with her eyes cast down towards the ground; but then she rose with a sigh, and, covering her head, walked out into the grounds, sauntering slowly along in the sunshine. After that, she sat herself down at the foot of an old oak, the wide contorted branches of which, with their thick covering of leaves, afforded a pleasant shade. Musing sadly, she there remained for near an hour, raising her eyes from time to time towards the gates, which she still kept within sight. Ida Mara, however, did not appear, and Arabella became anxious.
In about a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Conyers came out and joined her, trying to give her consolation, after her fashion; but she was not a person with whom the poor captive's heart could feel at ease. She knew her to be worldly and selfish; and though devoted to her husband, and obedient to his wishes, there was a great difference in the manners of the two, even when doing the same things, which Arabella felt with all the sensitiveness of misfortune. Her presence, then, under the anxiety which oppressed her, was a burden rather than a relief; and after remaining, out of courtesy, for about a quarter of an hour, she rose, and went back to her apartments.
Time passed, and Ida Mara did not come; and, at length, Arabella, giving way to the feelings she could not restrain, wept long and bitterly. Rousing herself, at length, she called her maid from a neighbouring room, "Tell Cobham," she said, "to come to me instantly. Ida has not returned?" she asked, with a last lingering hope.
"No, my lady," replied the maid; "Mistress Ida went out near three hours ago, but has not yet come back. I wonder what can have become of her."
"Send Cobham here," repeated Arabella, in a faint tone; and sitting down again, she leaned her head upon her hand, with a sickening feeling of desolation at her heart.
"Cobham," she said, as soon as the man appeared, "I am anxious about my poor Ida Mara. She went out three hours ago to take a short walk towards Hornsey, expecting to be back immediately, but she has never returned, and I fear some evil has befallen her. I wish you would take another man, and seek for her in that direction. Make inquiries of all the people that you see, and bring me word what they say. You know how dearly I love her."
"So does every body, madam," replied the man. "I would rather lose my hand than that any ill should befal her. I will leave nothing undone to find her, lady, and be back as soon as possible."
It was nearly evening when he returned, but he returned alone; and Arabella, when from the window she saw him coming, hastened out herself to meet him.
"Have you no news?" she cried; "have you no news?"
"Nothing satisfactory, lady," replied the man; "but I met a gentleman about half an hour ago, who, when I made inquiries of him, drew me aside from the other man, and asked me my name. I told him, and he then gave me this note for you, telling me to bear it to you with all speed, and to deliver it in secret. He said, moreover, that some of the King's people had been about all the morning, adding, he doubted not that they had taken the young gentlewoman--perhaps before the Council. I came back to bring you the note, leaving my companion to pursue the search; and now I will go back to help him, though I fear it will be in vain."
"Go, go, good Cobham," replied Arabella, concealing the note in her bosom with a trembling hand; "but be back at night, for I may need you. And yet, no," she added, "I will not be so selfish. Seek my poor Ida, wherever she is likely to be found. Bring me some tidings of her, at all events.
"But if they have taken her away to the Court," answered the servant, "they will never let me bring her back."
"It is not that I fear," said Arabella; "if she be at the Court, she is at least in safety. But there are other things I dread, good Cobham. She has enemies, as who has not? Seek for her, then, till dark; and if you find her not, set out by day-break to-morrow for the Court. To hear that she is there, will be a relief to me; but I fear--I much fear it is not so. You will there gain tidings, however, whether she has been brought before the King or not. If she have, I shall be satisfied;--but indeed, indeed, I must have tidings of her."
"You shall, madam, if human power can gain them," replied the man; and, while he proceeded to execute his task, Arabella returned to the house.