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Arabella Stuart

THE WORKS

OF

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR,

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE.

"D'autres auteurs l'ont encore plus avili, (le roman,) en y mêlant les tableaux dégoutant du vice; et tandis que le premier avantage des fictions est de rassembler autour de l'homme tout ce qui, dans la nature, peut lui servir de leçon ou de modèle, on a imaginé qu'on tirerait une utilité quelconque des peintures odieuses de mauvaises mœurs; comme si elles pouvaient jamais laisser le cœur qui les repousse, dans une situation aussi pure que le cœur qui les aurait toujours ignorées. Mais un roman tel qu'on peut le concevoir, tel que nous en avons quelques modèles, est une des plus belles productions de l'esprit humain, une des plus influentes sur la morale des individus, qui doit former ensuite les mœurs publiques."--Madame De Stael. Essai sur les Fictions.

"Poca favilla gran flamma seconda:
Forse diretro a me, con miglior voci
Si pregherà, perchè Cirra risponda."

Dante. Paradiso, Canto I.

VOL. XIX.

ARABELLA STUART.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.

STATIONERS' HALL COURT.

M DCCC XLIX.

ARABELLA STUART:

A Romance

FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.

STATIONERS' HALL COURT.

M DCCC XLIX.

CHAPTER
[Preface.]
[I.]
[II.]
[III.]
[IV.]
[V.]
[VI.]
[VII.]
[VIII.]
[IX.]
[X.]
[XI.]
[XII.]
[XIII.]
[XIV.]
[XV.]
[XVI.]
[XVII.]
[XVIII.]
[XIX.]
[XX.]
[XXI.]
[XXII.]
[XXIII.]
[XXIV.]
[XXV.]
[XXVI.]
[XXVII.]
[XXVIII.]
[XXIX.]
[XXX.]
[XXXI.]
[XXXII.]
[XXXIII.]
[XXXIV.]
[XXXV.]
[XXXVI.]
[XXXVII.]
[XXXVIII.]
[XXXIX.]
[XL.]
[XLI.]
[XLII.]
[XLIII.]
[XLIV.]
[XLV.]
[XLVI.]

[ TO REAR-ADMIRAL
SIR GEORGE F. SEYMOUR, C.B. G.C.H.
&c. &c. &c.]

My Dear Sir,

If the dedication of a work like the present could afford any adequate expression of high respect and regard, I should feel greater pleasure than I do in offering you these pages; but such things have become so common, that, though every one who knows you will understand the feelings which induce me to present you with this small tribute, yet I cannot but be aware that it is very little worthy of your acceptance. You will receive it, however, I know, with the same kindness which you have frequently displayed towards me, as a mark, however slight, of my gratitude for the interest you have always shown in myself and my works, and as a testimony of unfeigned esteem from one, who can fully appreciate in others higher qualities than he can pretend to himself.

Although I am inclined to believe that the public may judge this one of the most interesting tales I have written, I can take but little credit to myself on that account; for all the principal events are so strictly historical, that little was left to the author but to tell them as agreeably as he could. The story of the fair and unfortunate Arabella Stuart is well known to every one at all acquainted with English history; and has called forth more than one poem of considerable merit, though, I believe, as yet, has never been made the foundation of a romance. From that story, as it has been told by contemporaries, I have had but very little occasion to deviate, merely supplying a few occasional links to connect it with other events of the time.

In depicting the characters of the various persons who appear upon the scene, however, I have had a more difficult task to perform, being most anxious to represent them as they really were, and not on any account to distort and caricature them. The rudeness of the age,--the violent passions that were called into action,--the bold and erratic disregard which thus reigned of all those principles which have now been universally recognised for many years, rendered it not easy to give the appearance of truth and reality to events that did actually happen, and to personages who have indeed existed; for to the age of James I. may well be applied the often repeated maxim, that "Truth is stranger than Fiction."

Difficulties as great, and many others of a different description, have been overcome in the extraordinary romance called "Ferrers;" but it is not every one who possesses the powers of vigorous delineation which have been displayed by the Author of that remarkable work; and I have been obliged to trust to the reader's knowledge of history, to justify me in the representation which I have given of characters and scenes, which might seem overstrained and unnatural, to those who have been only accustomed to travel over the railroad level of modern civilization.

The character of James I. himself has been portrayed by Sir Walter Scott with skill to which I can in no degree pretend--but with a very lenient hand. He here appears under a more repulsive aspect, as a cold, brutal, vain, frivolous tyrant. Nevertheless, every act which I have attributed to him blackens the page of history, with many others, even more dark and foul, which I have not found necessary to introduce. Indeed, I would not even add one deed which appeared to me in the least degree doubtful; for I do believe that we have no right to charge the memory of the dead with anything that is not absolutely proved against them. We must remember, that we try them in a court where they cannot plead, before a jury chosen by ourselves, and pronounce a sentence against which they can make no appeal: and I should be as unwilling to add to the load of guilt which weighs down the reputation of a bad man, as to detract from the high fame and honour of a great and good one. My conviction, however, is unalterable, that James I. was at once one of the most cruel tyrants, and one of the most disgusting men, that ever sat upon a throne.

In the account I have given of Lady Essex, I shall probably be accused of having drawn an incarnate fiend; but I reply, that I have not done it. Her character is traced in the same colours by the hand of History. Fortunately, it so happens that few have ever been like her; for wickedness is generally a plant of slow growth, and we rarely find that extreme youth is totally devoid of virtues, though it may be stained with many vices. Such as I have found her, so have I painted her; suppressing, indeed, many traits and many actions which were unfit for the eye of a part, at least, of my readers. Dark as her character was, however, its introduction into this tale afforded me a great advantage, by the contrast it presented to that of Arabella Stuart herself; bringing out the brightness of that sweet lady's mind, and the gentleness of her heart, in high relief; and I hope and trust, tending to impress upon the minds of those who peruse these pages, the excellence of virtue and the deformity of vice.

Upon the character and fate of Sir Thomas Overbury there has always hung a degree of mystery. I do not know whether these pages may tend at all to dispel it; but, at all events, I have not written them without examining minutely into all the facts; and, probably, the conclusions at which I have arrived are as accurate as those of others. I must reserve, however, one statement, for which I find no authority, but which was necessary to the construction of my story, namely, that which refers to Overbury's proposal of a marriage between Rochester and the Lady Arabella.

I need not tell one so intimately acquainted with English History as yourself, that all the other characters here introduced, with one or two exceptions amongst the inferior personages, are historical; and I have endeavoured, to the best of my power, to represent them such as they really were.

Having said thus much, I shall add no more; for, in submitting the work to you, though I know I shall have an acute judge, yet I shall have a kind one; and trusting that you will, at all events, derive some amusement from these pages, I will only further beg you to believe me,

My dear Sir,

Your most faithful servant,

G. P. R. JAMES.

The Oaks, near Walmer, Kent,
1st December, 1843.

ARABELLA STUART.

[CHAPTER I.]

There was a small, old-fashioned, red brick house, situated just upon the verge of Cambridgeshire, not in the least peculiar in its aspect, and yet deserving a description. The reader shall know why, before we have done. As you came along the road from London you descended a gentle hill, not very long, and yet long enough to form, with an opposite rise, one of those sweet, calm valleys which are peculiarly characteristic of the greater part of this country. When you were at the top of the hill, in looking down over some hedge-rows and green fields, the first thing your eye lighted upon in the bottom of the dale was a quick-running stream, which seemed to have a peculiar art of catching the sunshine wherever it was to be found. Its course, though almost as rapid as if it had come down from a mountain,--having had, it is true, a pretty sharp descent about a mile to the westward,--was nevertheless, at this spot, directed through soft green meadows, and between flat and even banks. The water was of some depth also, not less in general than from five to six feet, though not in most places above four or five yards in width. Where it crossed the road, however, there being no bridge, and the highway somewhat raised, it spread itself out into a good broad shallow stream, which, in the deepest part, only washed your horse's feet a little above the pastern.

Having carried it thus far, reader, we will leave it, without pursuing its course on towards the sea, which it reached somehow, and somewhere, by ways and through channels with which we have nothing to do.

The eye of the traveller, however, on the London road, in tracing this stream farther up, came upon a clump of tall old trees disencumbered of all brushwood, spreading wide at the top, but ungarnished by boughs or green leaves below, and affording habitation to a multitude of busy rooks, whose inharmonious voices--when joined together in full chorus, and heard from a distance--formed a peculiar kind of melody, connecting itself with many memories in the hearts of almost every one, and rousing soft and pensive imaginations from its intimate connexion with those country scenes, and calm pleasures, amongst which must lie all man's sweetest associations. From the top of the hill on which we have placed ourselves, a number of chimney tops, somewhat quaint and fantastic in their forms, appeared to be actually rising from the very heart of the rookery; but if you stopped to let your horse drink at the stream in the bottom of the valley, and looked up its course to the left, you perceived that the house to which those chimneys belonged, lay at the distance of more than two hundred yards from the trees, and had a large garden with a long terrace, and a low wall between it and them.

The mansion was of no great extent, as we have already hinted, and might belong to a gentleman of limited means, though moving in the better ranks of life; the windows were principally of that peculiar form which was first introduced under the Tudors, as the pointed arch of a preceding epoch began to bow itself down towards the straight line in which it was extinguished not long after. The whole building might have risen from the ground somewhat more than half a century before the period of which we now speak, perhaps in the reign of Mary Tudor, perhaps in that of her brother Edward; and yet I will not take upon myself to say that the bloody and ferocious monster, their father, might not have seen it as he travelled down into Cambridgeshire. The colouring, indeed, was of that soiled and sombre hue, which bespoke long acquaintance with the weather; and though originally the glowing red bricks might have shown as rubicund a face as any newly painted Dutch house at the side of a canal, they were now sobered down with age, and grey with the cankering hand of time. Although the garden was neatly kept, and somewhat prim, according to the fashion of the day, and a bowling-green just within the terrace was as trim and neatly shaved as if the scythe passed over it every morning, nevertheless about the building itself were some signs and symptoms of decay, the work of neglect, rather than of time. Instead of neat and orderly pointing, the brickwork displayed, in various places, many an unstopped joint; and though, doubtless, weather-tight within, the stone coping was here and there broken, while one or two of the chimneys, which were gathered into groups of four set angularly, displayed the want of a brick in various places, which destroyed their fair proportions, without perhaps affecting their soundness.

It was in the year 1603, two hundred and forty years ago; reader, a long time for you and me to look back to, but yet the men and women of those days were the same creatures that we see moving round us at present, with this slight difference, that they had been less inured to restrain their passions, and conceal their feelings, than we are in a more polished and civilized state of society. Two hundred and forty years! What a lapse of time it seems; and yet to each of the many whose lives have filled up the intervening period, their own allotted portion, when they have looked back from the end of existence to the beginning, has seemed but a mere point--a moment out of the long eternity. To each, too, the changes which have taken place, and which to us in the aggregate appear vast and extraordinary, have been so slow and gradual, that he has scarcely perceived them, any more than we notice the alteration which fashion effects in our garments as we go on from year to year. Customs and manners, indeed, were very different in those days, though human beings were the same; but we must not stop to dwell upon minute particulars, or to detail forms and ceremonies, for it is not so much our object to depict the fashions and habits of that age, as to sketch a sad and extraordinary part of its history.

Between six and seven o'clock on an evening in the month of May, while the sky overhead was just beginning to be tinged with the hues of the declining sun, and the old trees of the rookery, covered with their young green leaves, looked almost autumnal in the various tints with which spring had decked them, a gentleman of fifty-eight or fifty-nine years of age walked slowly up and down upon the terrace which ran along before the building. He was upright in figure, well made though spare in form, rather below than above the middle height, calm and sedate in his step, thoughtful and perhaps sad in the expression of his countenance. His hair was quite white, soft, silky, and hanging, as was then customary, in curls upon his neck. His eyebrows, which like his hair and beard were colourless, were somewhat bushy and arched. His mustachios were neatly trimmed, and his beard pointed, not very long, but yet not cut round, as was the fashion with the younger men of the day. He was dressed in black velvet, with shoes bearing large black rosettes, a small hat with a single feather, and had no ornament whatsoever about his person, unless the buttons of jet which studded his doublet, and the clasp of the same material which fastened his short cloak, deserved that name.

He was, indeed, altogether a very grave and serious looking personage, with much mildness and benevolence as well as sagacity in his countenance; and yet there was a certain slight turn of the lip, an occasional twinkle of the eye, and a drawing up of the nostril, which seemed to indicate the slightest possible touch of a sarcastic spirit, which had, perhaps, at an earlier period been more unruly, though it was now chastened by the cares, the sorrows, the anxieties, and the experience of life.

He walked up and down, then, upon the terrace for some minutes, each time he turned, whether at the one end or the other, gazing down the course of the stream between the slopes of the hills towards the spot where the road from London crossed the valley, and then again bending his eyes upon the ground in meditation. Occasionally, however, he would look up to the sky, or down into the bowling-green; and, after one of the latter contemplations, he descended a flight of four stone steps which led down to the greensward, with the same calm and sedate step which had distinguished his promenade above; and taking up the large, round, wooden ball which lay on the grass, he held it in his hand for a moment, and then bowled it deliberately at a set of skittles which had remained standing at the other end of the green. The ball hit the pin at which it was aimed, which in its fall overthrew a number of others, while the gentleman whose hand had despatched the messenger of mischief on its errand, looked on with a grave smile. There was evidently something more in the expression of his countenance than mere amusement at seeing the heavy pieces of wood tumble over one another, and he murmured to himself as he turned away,----

"Thus it is with human projects--ay, the best intended and most firmly founded; some accidental stroke overthrows one of our moral ninepins, and down go the whole nine!"

So saying, he returned to the terrace, and raising his voice he cried, "Lakyn, Lakyn!" upon which a stout old serving-man, with a badge upon his arm, came out unbonneted to receive his master's commands.

"Take away those ninepins, Lakyn," said the gentleman, "they have no business on the bowling-green; and put the bowls, too, under shelter. It will rain before morning."

"God bless your worship," replied the servant, looking up to the sky, "you are as weatherwise as a conjuror."

"Or a shepherd," replied the gentleman, resuming his walk; and the old man proceeded to gather up the implements of the good old game of our ancestors, muttering to himself, "Who would have thought it would rain before morning with such a sky as that. He knows more than other men, that's certain."

While he was busy with the bowls, his master's eye, glancing down again as before to the spot where the road and the stream met, rested on the figure of a single horseman coming from the direction of London.

"There, Lakyn, Lakyn!" he exclaimed; "run in, and never mind the bowls. Tell Sharpe to go round and take Mr. Seymour's horse at the garden gate. I will meet him there."

The old man hastened to obey, and, with his usual composed step, Sir Harry West--for such was the gentleman's name--proceeded from the terrace, through the garden which we have mentioned, to the angle next to the rookery, where he waited, leaning upon a little gate, till the horseman he had seen on the road arrived at the spot. At the same moment another old servant dressed in grey ran down panting, and doffing his bonnet to the stranger with lowly reverence, held the bridle while he dismounted.

The horseman then at a quick pace advanced to the gate, which was by this time open to receive him, and with a look of glad and well satisfied reverence kissed the hand of the master of the house. Sir Harry West, however, threw his arm around him affectionately, and gazed in his face, saying, "Welcome, my dear William, welcome! So you are back from Flanders at length. 'Tis eighteen months since I have seen you."

"'Tis a long time indeed, sir," replied the visitor; "but time has made no change in you, I am glad to see."

"It has in you, William," answered Sir Harry West; "a great change, but a good one--though why in our boyhood we should desire man's estate I know not. 'Tis but a step to the grave. However, you are a man now both in years and appearance, though you left me but a youth;" and once more he gazed over the young gentleman's face and form, as we look at a country we have known in our early years on returning after a long absence, tracing the changes that have been made therein, and sometimes perhaps regretting even the improvements.

The countenance and the form that he looked upon were not indeed ill calculated to bear inspection, being those of an English gentleman of about one or two and twenty years of age, and of the best class and character. Now there can be little doubt to any one who has travelled far and wide over distant lands, that the English people are, on the whole--with the exception, perhaps, of some small tribes in the Tyrol, and of one or two districts in Spain, where the Moorish blood has been mixed with the Gothic--the handsomest race that this quarter of the world called Europe can produce; and the young stranger was certainly not inferior to any of his countrymen in personal appearance. He was tall and evidently powerful in form, though some of the slightness of youth was still there, and all its graces. His hair was dark brown and curling in large waves, and his features were as fine as those of any of the faces that poet, painter, or sculptor have ever dreamed or portrayed.

There was, moreover, a peculiar expression in his countenance which struck the eye more than even the beauty of the lines. It was an expression of depth, of intensity, which sometimes may be seen in very ugly faces, but which is sure to give them a charm which nothing can take away. His manner, too, harmonized with the expression, and gave it force. Before he spoke, especially when, as in the present case, he was intimate with the person with whom he conversed, he paused for a single moment, looking at him thoughtfully, as if seeking the spirit within and addressing himself to it; so that it seemed that there was a communication established between himself and those he loved distinct from that of speech.

These things, though they be slight, have a considerable influence on the intercourse of ordinary life; and as the sum of human existence is made up of small things, (the greater events being but the accidents,) all that affects their course has its importance.

Nor is dress, in general, altogether unworthy of attention. Somebody has called it the habitual expression of a man's mind; and, though I cannot agree to that definition in the full sense, yet, certainly, where there is no impediment to his following his own wishes, a man's dress affords strong indications of his tastes and habits of thought. That of William Seymour was not studied, but yet it was such as well became him; there was a certain degree of carelessness about the slashed doublet, of dark green cloth, showing the white satin with which it was lined here and there; but yet it fitted well. The cloak of the same colour, with its edging of gold, was thrown lightly on the shoulder, and the hat and plume not quite straight upon the head. As if fond of the same hues, no other colours were used in any part of his dress, even to the sheath of his sword and dagger, with the exception of the large riding boots of untanned leather, which were those commonly worn by all gentlemen in travelling. These of course bore their own russet hue, and displayed marks of a long ride. The rest of his dress also was somewhat dusty, for the day had been warm and dry; and the roads of England were in those times not of the same firm and solid consistence of which they may boast at present, so that the garments of the traveller were generally more powdered with sand in the summer, and more splashed with mud in the winter, though his horse might display less frequently a pair of broken knees, and his own head find a softer resting-place if he chanced to meet with a fall.

Of the conversation which ensued at the garden gate between Sir Harry West and William Seymour, I shall not stop to give the details. Suffice it that the words of the traveller merely evinced his satisfaction at seeing again one who had been the guide of his youth, under whom he had first tried his arms in Ireland against Tyrone, and who was, moreover, nearly related to him, being his mother's first cousin; while those of Sir Harry West displayed little less pleasure at seeing the boy whom he had educated in the way of honour, than if he had been his only child. Talking over the events of the last eighteen months, and mingling their conversation with many a reference to former years, they passed through the garden and over the terrace into the house.

There, over pleasant memories, amidst which there was but little to forget,--for even pains and anxieties, strifes and fatigues, which pass away, gain through the softening glass of memory a rosy hue, mellowed yet warm,--they enjoyed an hour of that sweet intercourse which can only be known to hearts conscious of high and upright purposes; for the things on which remembrance dare not rest, are only follies and vices. All accidental sorrows may be dwelt upon with calmness, or recollected with gratitude to him who sent them; the sorrows that spring from ourselves preserve their unmitigated bitterness. But here there were none such to recal; and, though they spoke of perils, ay, and disasters, of the loss of friends well loved, of bright expectations disappointed, and of aspirations for their country's good unfruitful, yet, in that old hall, no self-reproach mingled with the theme of their discourse; and it was pleasant and soothing both to the young man and the old.

There we will leave them for a certain time, to return to them ere long.

[CHAPTER II.]

There was a large fire blazing in the wide, open chimney of a little village inn, although it was, as we have said, the month of May, and the temperature during the day had been warm. Towards evening, however, it had grown colder, and small drops of rain had begun to descend, ending in a heavy shower as night fell. The fire, however, had not been piled up with the logs of which it was principally composed, altogether for the purpose of keeping out the chilly air of evening--though several of the neighbouring peasantry had taken advantage of the cheerful blaze to warm themselves while they drank their jug of ale; and mine host, with his fair white apron, took care to give them every encouragement to remain, and showed not the slightest disinclination to make as many journeys to the hogshead as his guests desired. His wife, however, and his daughter, both of whom were busily engaged in basting some provision, which turned upon two large spits before the cracking wood, seemed much less disposed to the society of the villagers, giving them many a hint that they interrupted them in the care of the capons, distracted their attention from the sirloin, and had well-nigh made them spoil "the dumplings and all" by letting the pot boil over. In the end, the elder dame, warm by nature, and heated still farther by the fire, gave one of the boors a push with her broad hand, which brought him from his stool to the floor, exclaiming,

"Get thee gone, Cobbler Hodge; 'tis time for thee to be home with thy wife. The gentry will be here anon, and we must have the place cumbered with the like of thee, must we!"

"Nay, nay, Maude," said her husband, "the great people ever say half-an-hour before they intend to come. Let the man remain, I tell thee; they wont be here for this hour."

"And we will stay till they come," cried Hodge, rising up, and resuming his seat a little farther from the fair virago of the inn. "We want to see who are these gentry that arrive so late at night. These are perilous times, Master Millpond, when the Queen is just dead, and the King's Majesty not arrived from the North."

"It may be the King himself, God bless his Grace!" said another of the boors; but even as he spoke, to prove the conjecture false, as well as the prognostications of the landlord, the sound of horses' feet, and persons speaking, was heard approaching the door; and, the moment after, a voice was added, calling loudly, and in a tone of great authority, for host, ostlers, and horseboys.

The landlord rushed out with all speed; his wife abused her humble neighbours in no very gentle and tender terms; the peasants themselves drew back in awe, the greater because the object of it was undefined; and, after a few moments of confusion, clatter, and talking without, mine host reappeared, bowing to the ground, as he ushered in his guests.

The first who entered--nearly a minute before any of the rest--was certainly not the sort of being the persons assembled within expected to see, for the door only gave admission to a beautiful girl of some nineteen or twenty years of age, with her rich, clustering hair, wet with the rain, falling from its bands about her face and shoulders, and with a look of laughing, yet half-rueful, satisfaction on her face as she turned to one of those behind, saying in a sweet, though jesting tone,

"Good faith, my friend, if thou art as wet as I am, the lowliness of the roof will not mar your joy in taking shelter under it."

"Lord love you, sweet lady!" cried the hostess, advancing. "Well, you are wet indeed! What a night for such a beautiful lady as you to be out in. Why, all the rich velvet and the gold lace is spoiled. Heart of grace! and your yellow riding-coat is all draggled with mud above your knees!"

"Ay! good truth," replied the lady, advancing toward the fire, "it is so, indeed, dame. Forty sterling marks cast away upon a miserable shower of rain, and a weary ride from Walden. But here seems the comfort of plentiful food, and a good fire to dry one."

"Oh, yes, lady; oh, yes," replied the hostess, "everything is quite ready; let me take out that buckle, lady.--Get you home to your beds, fellows! what do you stand staring at there, as if you never saw a young gentlewoman before?--It's all because you're so beautiful, ma'am, that puts them out of their manners. 'Tisn't every day they see a skin like that, I trow."

The lady tossed her head with a gay laugh. "I thought such words were the coin of courts," she said, "not current in the country; but I am overburdened with such small change, good dame, so tell me no more of my beauty, and do not drive these good people from the fire, where they have as much right as I have. Now, Maltby and Adams, bring in all the bags here, or they will soon be as wet as we are; and do not let the girl Marian stay out there all night to look after goods and chattels which will not melt as easily as herself, I warrant. We must stay here this night, that's clear. Why, what's the matter, Marian: you seemed scared?"

The girl whom she addressed, and who was evidently the maid of a person of quality, ran up to her mistress with somewhat frightened and mysterious looks, whispering something in her ear; while the hostess, on the other side, assailed her with assurances that everything was quite right and prepared "for her bedchamber, and guest-chamber, and all," muttering between whiles to herself, "Stay here?--To be sure! Marry, when all is made ready, why should she not?"

The lady might be somewhat embarrassed by the discourses of the two who addressed her at once; but, nevertheless, she seemed to catch the words of each, and replied to both.

"Four men?" she said, speaking to the maid. "Well, what of that, girl? They will do thee no harm, though they be on horseback. You say, my good dame, that all is made ready for me; but, in good truth, I fear there is some mistake, which, I trust, may not deprive me of my supper and a lodging. I intended to have gone farther to-night,--perhaps to Royston; and it was the rain that drove me hither. Mayhap thy good things are made ready for some other person."

"For me, madam," said a gentleman, advancing from the door, the threshold of which he had crossed the moment before. "But, right happy am I," he added, "that what was prepared for me may be used by you, whom all men are bound to honour and obey."

The lady had turned, with some surprise, at first sound of the speaker's voice, and, certainly, his words did not diminish her astonishment. He was a tall, thin, bony man, dark in complexion, somewhat sharp in features, with a cold, calm, steady eye, but a bland and a pleasant smile about the mouth. He was dressed in the style of a military man of some rank, and affected the bushy beard and long mustachios of the swaggering adventurers of the day. Nothing else, however, in his appearance or manner indicated that he belonged to that somewhat disagreeable and dangerous race of animals. But no line or feature in his face called up any recollection of him in the lady's mind; and, after a momentary pause to consider his countenance, she replied, "You seem to know me, sir, and yet may be mistaken. I am a very humble person, whom no one is bound to obey that I know of, but my good girl, Marian, here, and one or two trusty servants, who find the bond more in their affection than their duty."

"The Lady Arabella Stuart," answered the stranger, "is not to be mistaken; and surely one so near the crown of England may well command our duty."

"I am the king's most humble subject, though his kinswoman, sir," replied the Lady Arabella, coldly; for, young as she was, she had already been the object of ambitious designs on the part of some, and needless jealousy on the part of others. "I claim no duty from any one but my own people, and would fain make that as light as may be."

"Your ladyship is wise and right," said the stranger; "and love makes duty light to all men. What I would say is, madam, I rejoice that I yesterday commanded preparations in this poor inn, as all is ready for you, which it might not otherwise have done. Come, dame hostess, show the lady to a chamber where she may change her dress; and, in the meantime, good master, serve the supper, to be ready when she returns. Have you the vacant room prepared which I ordered? With her permission, I will be the Lady Arabella's humble carver."

The lady bowed her head, gave a quick glance round three or four other faces, which were now gathered together at the farther side of the room, and, accompanied by her maid, retired, with the landlady's daughter lighting her, and one of the two men-servants carrying a pair of ponderous leathern bags, such as were then commonly used for conveying the various articles of dress which a traveller might need upon his journey.

As soon as she was gone, the gentleman who had been speaking to her, turned to three other personages, who seemed to have arrived in his company, and held a low and earnest conversation with them for some minutes. The landlord's ears were sharp, and he had his own share of shrewdness; but although he manœuvred skilfully to come nearer to the strangers, and used his facility of hearing to the utmost, he could only catch two or three words.

One said, somewhat louder than the rest, "'Tis most fortunate;" another, "We should have passed them in the night, and missed our mark. Good luck to the rain!"

The landlord could gather no more; and seeing the eye of the principal visitor upon him, he thought it best to apply himself seriously to carry in the supper into an adjoining chamber, which had been prepared according to directions received beforehand. When he returned from his first expedition with trenchers and drinking-cups, he found the stranger, who seemed the leader of the rest, standing before the fire, while the villagers, who had lingered till they received a very sharp and definite hint from the landlady, were no longer apparent.

As soon as the landlord came in, his guest made a slight and scarcely perceptible motion across his breast. The host instantly crossed himself, bowing his head low, and from that moment a sort of confidential intercourse was established between him and the stranger, which made them both understand each other perfectly, without a word of explanation being spoken.

In the meanwhile the lady had been shown into a room, low in the roof, with the large dark rafters protruding from the ceiling. It contained two beds, a small mirror, not much larger than one's hand, a table, some chairs, and a large brazen sconce against the wall, with lamps not lighted. While the serving-man laid the large leathern bags across a stool, and the landlady's daughter bustled about in setting things to rights, Arabella Stuart, seated before the table, had fallen into a deep reverie.

We must look into her thoughts: for she spoke not, though she was carrying on an argument with herself.

"I know not his face," she said; "I know not his face, and yet I must doubt the man--and that other face over his shoulder? Methinks I have seen it before--can it have been with the Jesuit, Parsons?--else why did it bring up that wicked, cunning man to my mind, who would fain have entangled me in things for my destruction? Well, well, I will treat it lightly--ay, lightly. The shaft that may hit the heavy-flying crow misses the light-winged swallow. Yet I will be upon my guard; and if I find new plotters, I will not house with them through the night--I will no plots, not I. If they will but let me live my little life in peace, and die with an innocent spirit, I ask no more. Marian, girl!" she added, aloud, and then whispered to the maid for a moment, who instantly quitted the room.

"Come hither, pretty maiden," continued the lady, addressing the landlord's daughter, "and help me to put off this dress. It seems a fair country this round your village, as well as I could judge through the rain. Now, there is many a gentleman's house in the neighbourhood, I'll warrant."

"Good heart, no," replied the girl; "we are but poorly off in such commodities."

"Why, faith, I thought I saw several large houses as I came along," rejoined the lady. "Who's was that large mansion on the top of the hill, about a mile hence?"

The girl laughed. "That's the great black barn," she said. "It does look like a castle by night, with the trees round it. No, madam: the only large house we have near is Sir Harry West's."

"I must have passed it as I came," answered the lady. "Undo this knot, good girl. I know Sir Harry West well. He showed himself a gallant gentleman in the Irish wars, though as mild as he is brave. Which was his house?"

"If you are journeying from London," said the girl, "you passed it two miles hence, on the left up the valley, by the side of the stream. But I doubt if you could see it by night."

The lady made no reply, and the moment after her maid re-entered the room, and took the place of the landlady's daughter in assisting the Lady Arabella at her toilet. The dress was soon changed--at least as far as she would suffer it to be; for the long riding-skirt, in which she had come thither, she retained over her other garments, though it was soiled, and somewhat wet. In this plight, however, she returned to the kitchen of the inn, where she found the strange cavalier ready to receive her, and was by him led, with courtier-like formality, into an adjoining chamber, where a table was placed, groaning under the abundant supper which had been prepared. But only one cover was laid upon the board, apparently intended for herself. To this place the stranger conducted her, and seemed literally about to take upon himself the office of carver, as he had proposed; but Arabella paused, without sitting down, saying,

"Nay, my good sir, I should surely be wanting in courtesy to let you stand and carve, while I, like the wild beast, which loves to feast without company, devour your supper. You have more gentlemen, too, I think, with you--though I know neither their name nor yours, to ask you to be seated."

"Oh, my followers, madam, will find supper without," replied the stranger; "and as to my name, lady, I am called the Baron de Mardyke,--a foreign name, as you will see, but having been born in England, in King Edward's time, I am more than half an Englishman."

"Pray, then, be seated," said the Lady Arabella; and the stranger, drawing a stool to the table, did as she bade him.

Before he took his place, however, he crossed himself reverently, in rather an ostentatious manner, very different from that which he had used in making the same sign before the landlord. The lady could not help noticing the gesture; but she took no notice, and, after a brief grace murmured to herself, sat down at table.

The gentleman, as in duty bound, carved for her; and, as she made no observation, the meal was silent for several minutes, while the landlord and one of the stranger's servants came in and out, and caused a bustle amongst the plates and trenchers.

"In Spain," said the stranger, breaking silence, with a smile, "the host of an inn so near the capital as this, would have been ashamed to send up capons of last year to a lady's table."

"You have been in Spain, then," said the Lady Arabella. "It is a fair country, is it not?--rich in song and romance?"

"Rich in everything," replied the baron; "beautiful to the eye, delicious in climate, full of splendid cities and courteous gentlemen--a land of princes, lady."

"Good truth, then, it must be but a dull place," exclaimed Arabella, with a gay laugh. "I have seen some princes since my birth, and I must say that they are the dullest specimens of mortal man I ever met with."

"You have known few Spanish princes, madam," said her companion, "or you would judge differently."

"No," answered the lady; "the only one I ever met with, who bore his dignity with modesty and elevated it by grace, was a German."

"True," rejoined the Baron, "some of the Royal and Electoral Houses have produced men not easily to be banished from a lady's memory--or her heart."

"Nay," said Arabella, with a careless smile, "my little heart is all too narrow to take in so great a thing as a prince."

Her companion cast a quick glance around the room to see that no one was near, and then replied in a low but emphatic tone, "I hope not--I hope not."

The blood came up into the lady's cheek, and after gazing in his face for an instant, she cast down her eyes again, and remained silent. Several of the dishes were removed, now others put upon the table; and then, as if accidentally, both the landlord and the serving-man quitted the room.

"How strange are the events of life," said the Baron de Mardyke.

"They are indeed," answered the Lady Arabella, "almost as strange as man's own heart."

"Here was I," continued her companion, not appearing to heed her words, "riding on an errand of much importance to visit a fair and noble lady, whom I should have missed seeing till it was too late, had it not been for a shower of rain."

"If you mean me, sir," said the fair girl beside him, "you must have made some mistake in your errand; for I am a being of so little consequence myself that nothing of importance can have reference to me."

"You may in a few weeks be of much more," replied the Baron.

"Nay, heaven forbid!" cried Arabella, resuming the gay and jesting tone which she had laid aside for a moment. "I can conceive no fate more perverse than that which would make me of any consequence at all. I never knew a bird that cared, so that his wings were tied, whether the threads that tied them were golden or hempen. Greatness is a snare from which one never escapes, once having fallen into it.--But, good truth, I am curious who you can be, sir," she continued, stopping him as he was about to speak; "I am shrewd at divining; but yet men take such disguises now-a-days, a poor woman can hardly discover them. Nay, tell me not, tell me not! I love to puzzle out a mystery, and I would fain guess for myself who and what you may be."

"Who think you, madam?" asked the stranger.

"Baron de Mardyke!" said Arabella, thoughtfully; "that may be some assumed title of a great man who would fain appear less than he is,--you may be one of those Spanish princes you talk of."

"Or his envoy," answered the other.

"Hush, hush!" cried the lady in the same tone of raillery, "let me see,--Baron de Mardyke! That, on the contrary, may be a name taken by some lesser man who wishes to seem greater than he is,--you may be a Jesuit in disguise, a disciple of Loyola, or Lainez," and she looked keenly at him as she spoke.

There was a slight contraction of the lips, and a passing shade upon the brow of the gentleman whom she addressed; but he replied in an unaltered tone, "You will guess right ere long, madam; for when you have exhausted conjecture, you will come back to simple truth, and leave the Baron de Mardyke just what he was before.--But ere we are interrupted, let me say that I have matter of much importance for your private ear after this meal be over,--secrets of great moment!"

"Trust them not to me then!" cried the young lady, "for I have a strange habit of dropping jewels by the way. I never could keep anything that was precious in my life--'tis but yesterday I lost a diamond; and as for secrets, I am so conscious of my carelessness, that I always give them to the next person I meet with, being quite sure that any one will preserve them better than myself."

The stranger bit his lip; but the host entering the moment after, stopped him in his reply. When the supper was over, however, he kept his eyes fixed upon the lady, while the host and the servant were clearing away all that encumbered the table: and it was evident that he was waiting impatiently for them to be gone. But just as the landlord was about to retire, Arabella addressed him in a quiet tone, saying, "Send my girl Marian hither, mine host; I wish to speak with her."

The Baron made him a quick and scarcely perceptible sign; and by some accident the landlord quite forgot to obey the lady's behest, taking the opportunity of scolding his daughter for something that had gone amiss, and then aiding the rest of the party who were assembled in the kitchen to consume the remains of the supper which he had brought out of the neighbouring room.

In that chamber the Lady Arabella and the Baron de Mardyke, as we must call him for the time, remained for nearly twenty minutes, while the host and the Baron's followers talked loud, and passed many a joke and many a cup of good strong ale round the table. The girl Marian and one of the Lady Arabella's servants were seated with the rest: but the other serving-man had remained at the stable tending the horses. At the end of the time we have mentioned, however, he made his appearance again; and the voices of the horse-boys of the inn were heard without the door. Marian started up as soon as she saw him; and the man, who was a bluff English servant of some forty-five, or fifty years of age, walked straight up to the chamber where his mistress was, and opening the door, said aloud, "The horses are waiting, lady!"

The cheek of Lady Arabella Stuart was somewhat flushed and her face grave; but she instantly resumed her sweet and playful smile, while her companion exclaimed, "You surely are not going on, in such a night as this, madam?"

"As surely as I live," replied the lady; "you know, good sir, I could not plunder you of your lodging as well as your supper; and so I will even wish you a fair good night, and take my leave, beseeching you to bear in mind what I have said, as on that score I change not, and it may be well to be careful. I thank you for your courtesy," she continued, "though, if I had known one part of my entertainment here, I should have found shelter elsewhere."

Thus saying, she adjusted her head-gear, while moving across the kitchen towards the door of the inn; and, taking a piece of gold from a silken purse which she carried in her bosom, she gave it to the host, saying, "That's for your fee, my friend; but remember, another time when I tell you to send my woman to me, do as you are directed."

The host made a thousand apologies, laying the blame upon a bad memory; and the Lady Arabella, without heeding him, issued forth into the night with her servants following, the landlady and her daughter curtseying, and the host holding a lantern snatched up in haste.

In the meantime, the personage who had borne her company at supper, was surrounded by his three companions, asking him questions in a low, but rapid voice.

"She is a fool," he replied, "and yet not a fool either,--keen enough as to what concerns her not, but blind to her own interest. She casts away a crown," he added, in a lower tone, "as a child does a long-used plaything."

"Will she betray us?" asked one of his companions.

"I think not," replied the other.

"Think not?" said a third, "we had better make sure of that!" But, at the same moment, the sound of horses' feet trotting away was heard; and the landlord and his family came back from the door.

[CHAPTER III.]

The old hall was warm and comfortable; the great, wide, open hearth displayed some half-dozen logs of blazing wood; and the fitful flame of the fire, outshining the two candles that stood upon the table, flickered round the whole room, glancing upon the quaint old carvings that surrounded the panels, prying into the deep bays of the windows, and catching here and there upon some well-polished casque, breastplate, or other piece of ancient armour, which, suspended by hooks and brackets, ornamented the walls. The ceiling, which was of old oak, like the wainscot, was lost in the obscurity above; but the rich mantelpiece was fully seen by the light of the candles near it, and was the pride of the room and that part of the country. It had been carved by a famous Flemish artist, and presented by him to good Sir Harry West for some kindly service rendered during the time of the Low Country wars. What was the deed that merited the gift we do not, indeed, know; but it is probable that the oaken sculpture had some reference to the cause of the sculptor's gratitude, as on either side of the chimney stood the figure of an armed knight, in full relief, bearing upon his shoulder a corner of the entablature, on which was represented, in a smaller size, the history of the good Samaritan.

Before the fire-place, at a convenient distance, stood a round table, covered with the relics of the evening-meal. Drinking-cups are there, and flagons, and it would seem that in that squat, flat-sided, long-necked bottle, there is some precious and much-esteemed liquor, from the tall glasses, gilt and bedizened, which stand by, and can never be destined for the conveyance of any unworthy fluid. Between the table and the fire, so near the former that the elbow could rest comfortably upon it, sat the good knight the master of the house, and his young kinsman; and between them, again, and the chimney, lay a large, shaggy hound, such as would have delighted the soul of a Landseer, or a Scott, and who may have been a remote connexion of one of those immortalized by Rubens. Stretched out like a trussed hare, with his paws before him, and his long muzzle gracefully leaning over the ankle next to the fire, the good dog seemed to be asleep; and, perhaps, had his head been in a position to accomplish such a feat, he might have nodded from time to time; but, nevertheless, he was evidently only in a state of pleasant drowsiness, for ever and anon he opened his keen eyes, and gazed into the fire, as if wondering what that extraordinary element could be, and twice lifted up his head, and looked in his master's face, to see that all was right, speedily settling himself down to his doze again.

It is a sweet and pleasant thing for two old, familiar friends to spend together a long hour after the sun has gone down, and when all the world is quiet, in a warm room, with a blazing fire, and with the moderate use of the pure juice of the grape to fill the intervals of conversation. No haste is upon them, no hurry, no hateful pressure of importunate business; there they can sit as long as they choose; it matters not whether they rise the next minute, or three hours hence. They are free--in short, free from the bondage of worldly affairs, and can do what they think fit with their little treasure of time. No liberty is more pleasant than the emancipation, from all the chains, and shackles, and bars, and bonds of business; and there, when Memory, sweet Memory, takes us by the hand, and leads us back into the flower garden of other years, and points out all the blossoming things that we loved, looking as fresh and beautiful as ever, how sweet are the sensations, how entrancing would they be, were it not for the subdued consciousness that it is all a part of the dream that is passing away.

Nor is the pleasure of such intercourse lessened when there exists some difference in age between the two companions. Youth brings its eager fancy, its bright expectations, its energetic rashness, to the mithridate; and Age its sober reason, its bright remembrances, its calm knowledge, and its tried powers. The party must never extend beyond two, however; a dog, indeed, you may admit, a friendly, faithful dog, the image of unbought attachment and unvarying love; but there must be no one else.

Thus had Sir Harry West and his young friend been passing the last hour--now turning their thoughts to the days when William Seymour was a mere boy, and, as the second son of a noble family, had been left greatly to the care of his maternal relations; now talking of those days of strange adventure, when, under the guardianship of the good knight, he had first mounted horse for the battle-field in that beautiful neighbouring island to which England has been "little more than kin, and less than kind"--when about half-past nine o'clock, which was, indeed, half an hour later than Sir Harry West's usual bed time in the country, the dog, who lay upon the hearth, gave signs of being awake by raising one ear perpendicularly from his head, without, however, moving from his place, or lifting his muzzle from his paw.

"He hears some sound without," observed his master, whose eyes had been fixed contemplative upon him.

"And yet," said William Seymour, who understood that he spoke of the dog, for he had been looking in the same direction, without any visible cause for his eyes being turned towards the animal, except that those of his friend were resting upon it, "and yet the rain is dropping so hard and heavily that I should suppose no sound from without but a very loud one, would drown its noise and the crackling of the fire, for ears that lie so near the blaze as his."

"They are quicker than our own even in youth," replied his friend; "it is wonderful how dogs will catch the lightest sound, and distinguish in a moment whether it is one they are accustomed to or not. They are learned in sounds, these triangular-headed gentry. See! he looks up; if it were a moonlight night, I should think some of the young neighbouring vagabonds had come to plunder the rookery or the dovecot."

As he spoke, the dog gazed in his master's face for a moment, as if for encouragement, and then gave a short growl.

"What is the matter, Mark'em?" asked the old knight, patting his head; and instantly the dog sprang forward into one of the bay-windows, with a loud, angry bark, which was repeated more fiercely still the next moment, when a thundering heavy blow upon the door of the house announced that some visitor sought admission.

"Down, Mark'em!--down!" cried Sir Harry West. "On my life, this is a stormy night for any one to venture out. Those blue-bottles of mine must not keep the man waiting, whoever he be;" and, advancing to the door of the room, he called loudly to several of the servants by name.

Before they could come, however, he himself had crossed to the hall-door, and opened it, saying, "Come in, whoever you are!--What is it you want, good fellow? I know your face. Whose servant are you?"

"The Lady Arabella's, Sir Harry," replied the man; "but we want help quickly. Her horse has fallen in this dark night; and, though she says she is not hurt, yet we all fear it is but to give us comfort."

"Bring lanterns! bring lanterns!" cried Sir Harry, vehemently. "Lakyn! Matthew! Dick! Here, William Seymour, come with me. Here is that dear, beautiful girl, with her horse down, and herself hurt. Patience and mercy! what made her ride out in such a night as this?"

But William Seymour was by this time at the hall-door.

"I will go, I will go!" he exclaimed. "Stay you, Sir Harry. Send down the lanterns. I will go."

And, without waiting to catch up cloak or hat, he ran out over the terrace and through the garden, passed the little gate, and hurried on down the narrow road which kept along the stream. He had not far to go, however; for about half way between the house and the London road, he came suddenly upon a group of three human beings and five horses standing together, with the rain pouring down upon them in as heavy a stream as our somewhat weeping and uncertain skies ever let flow upon a hapless traveller.

"Are you hurt?--are you hurt?" exclaimed the young gentleman, addressing the taller of the two women who formed parts of the group.

"No, indeed," replied the lady; "very little, if at all. I know your voice, sir, though I see you are not my old friend, Sir Harry West. Good heaven! can it be Mr. Seymour?"

"The same, lady, and ever the humblest of your servants," replied the young gentleman. "Pray, let me assist you to the house. There are people coming with lanterns directly. Let me support you."

Arabella gave him her hand without any sign of unwillingness; and he led her on with care, asking again, in a low voice, as soon as they were some ten or twenty steps from her attendants, "Are you hurt?"

The question was put in one of those tones that give peculiar value and meaning to words, otherwise of no import,--those tones that may be called a second language, an universal tongue, in which all the comments of the heart are written upon the colder and more abstruse dialect in which we carry on our conversation with the ordinary world. He had asked her before the same question, and received an answer. What was it, then, he now said? A vast deal more, though without using any other than the words he had first employed. He told her, then, with the thrilling anxiety of deep interest, that he feared she was more hurt than she would allow; that he was alarmed, grieved, pained by what had happened; that he was rejoiced to see her again; that the lightest injury to her was of deep importance to him. Yes, although he only used those few words, that brief question, like Lord Burleigh's famous shake of the head, meant all this. Luckily, it so happens that there is no instruction required to learn the language of which we speak; the key to the cipher is in the hearts of every one, but more especially in the breast of woman; and Arabella, whatever were her own feelings, easily translated the tone of William Seymour into express terms. Not that he had ever said one word to her which the most distant acquaintance might not justify; not that one phrase had ever passed between them which the ear of the whole world might not have heard, but he had often spoken as he now spoke, and the tones had often made her heart thrill. She was, however, accustomed to inspire interest and excite admiration; she could not but know it; and, though in many cases she cared little about it, perhaps William Seymour's was not the instance in which she valued it the least.

Arabella Stuart fancied herself in no degree ambitious. She had seen princes at her feet, without estimating them in the least by the crowns they offered, or the territories they possessed. She had willingly seen the proposals of some of the highest men in Europe rejected by those who ruled her fate; and yet she was perhaps the most ambitious person that it is possible to conceive; for she sought to obtain that which is the most difficult for any human being to gain--especially of royal blood. The object of her ambition was happiness! that glorious crown which all the jewels of the world cannot enrich, which, studded with the diamonds of the heart, can receive no additional lustre from such paltry things as power, or wealth, or station.

In reply, she assured her companion that she was not hurt, and in her tone she thanked him much more than by mere words. She even let him know in some degree that she understood the interest he felt towards her, and was grateful to him for it.

Not much time, however, was allowed them for conversation of any kind; for ere they had proceeded a hundred yards they were met by Sir Harry West, with his servants bearing lanterns; and the good knight, with William Seymour, accompanied her back to the house, while the attendants went on to give assistance to the party left behind.

The same question which she had already answered, was of course addressed to Arabella by her old friend, and he too showed almost as deep an interest as his companion had displayed, though it was of a different sort. Satisfied on that head, he put a number of other inquiries to her: whence she last came--whither she was going--how she happened to be riding forth at such a time of night, especially as it had been raining hard for several hours.

"Nay, nay, Sir Harry," cried the lady, gaily, "this is a catechism, and I will not answer you on all these heads now. You shall give me lodging in your castle for the night, if you be a gallant gentleman and true; and when I have once more cast off my wet garments, I will come and reply to all interrogatories as faithfully and discreetly as if I were before the Star Chamber."

"So shall it be, dear lady; so shall it be," replied Sir Harry West. "My good old housekeeper, Dame Cicely, has been called out of the still-room to tend upon you; and, thanks to this young gentleman's arrival this afternoon, the best chamber is ready prepared for your reception."

The lady, of course, said something apologetic for the trouble that she gave. "She was sorry, too," she said, "to deprive Mr. Seymour of his chamber." But the young gentleman assured her that he would sleep more sweetly for knowing that she was lodged in safety and in comfort; and Sir Harry answered laughingly, that he had taught the boy, in years long past, to put up with hard beds and scanty lodging.

Thus talking, they soon reached the house, where a good matronly old woman, in a long stiff bodice, serge petticoat, and flowered gown, whose years would have had to roll back again some way to reach the age of sixty, accompanied by a handmaiden, who prided herself upon being at least five years younger than Dame Cicely, were waiting in the hall to give whatever help and tendance might be needed by the Lady Arabella. To their hands her two male companions consigned her, and then returned into the chamber where they had been passing the evening, when their conversation had been interrupted by the events which we have described. Without sitting down, both took their places before the fire again; and William Seymour brushed the wet with his hand from the curls of his hair, murmuring to himself,

"I trust she will not suffer from this."

"It is, indeed, a terrible night," said his old friend, "for such frail creatures as womankind to be out. There is nothing, William, that I thank God for more, amongst all the blessings he has showered upon me, than for not making me a woman."

"And yet, my dear sir," replied William Seymour, "you were always a most devoted admirer and humble servant of the fair."

"At a respectful distance, William, at a respectful distance," said the old knight, smiling. "When I was of your age, it is true, I had some impulses of matrimony upon me, which, like other diseases of children, by a strong constitution and good management, I got over easily."

"Nay," cried William Seymour, "surely you do not call love a disease."

"Just as much the disease of youth," answered Sir Harry, with that slight touch of sarcasm in his look which we have already noticed--"just as much a disease of youth as measles, or chin-cough, or mumps amongst children, or the distemper amongst dogs. True, it sometimes attacks us in mature age, and even in later life; but the cases are rare, and then it goes hard with the patient. Take care of thyself, my dear boy. Thou art just about the age to catch it; but if ever you do, come to me, and I will be your physician. Ha! Lakyn. Bring them in, bring them in! Show that pretty maiden to her mistress's chamber. Is the horse much hurt?"

"Both his knees as full of holes as a beggar's coat, Sir Harry," replied the old man.

"That is bad, that is bad," said Sir Harry West. "Have them well bathed with hot water, Lakyn; then take a gill of Bordeaux wine, an ounce of salt, and a little sweet oil to anoint them with."

"I know, I know, Sir Harry," answered the man. "'Tis a marvellous receipt; but this horse is a mighty deal worse than the grey gelding."

Thus saying he withdrew, taking with him to the buttery the two servants of the Lady Arabella, with the hospitable design of comforting each with a cup of humming ale; and the conversation was renewed between Sir Harry West and his young friend, much in the same strain as before, till the lady herself made her appearance in the old hall.

She was somewhat paler than usual, and her step had less of its buoyant lightness, as she was led by her good host with ceremonious respect to a chair by the fire. She owned, too, that she felt somewhat bruised with her fall, and expressed her determination soon to retire to rest.

"I am afraid, Sir Harry," she said, "that I cannot say my catechism to-night; but, to satisfy you on one head before I go, I will tell you the cause of my journey. The king, you know, is already on his way from Scotland, and has crossed the border, I understand, some days. 'Twas only yesterday, however, that my aunt of Shrewsbury gave me notice that such was the case, and urged me strongly, by her letters, to hasten to meet his majesty, my royal cousin, and offer him my loyal duty. As she knew I was but poorly attended, she told me that some ten of her own people should meet me at Stamford, if I would come thither with all speed. Thus, you see, I set out but with two men and my girl, Marian; and, as the day was fine, I hoped to have a moonlight ride for an hour or two during the night."

"I fear, dear lady," answered the knight, "that the good Countess has led you to a needless, as well as unlucky, journey. She does not seem to know that the king has issued a proclamation, forbidding all persons resort to the court during its progress towards London. It were wise of you, ere you proceed, to send a messenger to his majesty, asking permission to wait upon him."

"Nay," exclaimed the Lady Arabella, "surely he will not refuse to receive his poor kinswoman?"

"Dear lady," replied her old counsellor, "you surely should know something of royal personages; and yet, methinks, you are ignorant of how small a thing with them may turn love into disliking. A light word spoken, an act of deference forgotten, the slightest disobedience, even when it springs from affection, may deprive one of favour, and never be forgiven. No after devotion, no penitence will wipe away the impression; and dark looks and a cloudy brow, whenever you appear, will be all that you can expect for life."

"Oh!" cried Arabella, "how differently would I act if I were a queen! Love should to me stand in place of duty, truth should well supply respect, honour should be the courtesy that I would prize, and merit have its reward, not fawning. I would be bountiful,--not only in deeds, but in words and looks,--would break no promise that I made, and never inflict upon hope the agony of delay. When I refused, it should be with gentleness; when I gave, it should be at once. I should be loath to punish, punishing my own heart at the same time. I would be careful of my lightest word, knowing that no words are light upon a monarch's lips."

"I am sure you would," exclaimed William Seymour, in a tone that made Arabella raise her eyes to his face, with a slight increase of colour in her cheek.

But good Sir Harry West did not seem to enter into the enthusiasm of his young friend.

"You would be a very sweet lady, then," he said; "but perhaps not a good queen. Royalty is a rough thing, lady; it has to deal with hard matters, and must be somewhat hard itself. True, sovereigns often think that they are exempt from the milder duties of mankind, and in that are wrong; for they require more qualities than other men, not less. They should want no kindly affections of the heart, but have the greater strength to rule them, from the greater need. The acts of ordinary men affect but a narrow circle; the acts of sovereigns spread round to every human being throughout their whole dominions. An individual may make any sacrifice he pleases of that which is his own property, without injuring any one; a monarch is the property of his people, and can make no sacrifice without affecting all. Stern facts, lady, stern facts; but no less true than stern."

"Thank God I am not a queen!" said Arabella, after a moment's pause. "But, to return," she continued; "what would you have me do, Sir Harry, in this business with the king? He may take offence if I go not forward to meet him, and think me wanting in duty; and, as you say, if I do approach the court, after the proclamation, I may be held as disobedient. What shall I do? I will be guided by your advice."

"Stay here, dear lady," replied Sir Harry West, "and send a messenger to ask permission of the king. You will thus show both obedience and duty. Here is our young friend, William Seymour, doubtless he will willingly perform your behest, and be back in a day or two."

William Seymour, however, did not look so well satisfied as the old knight expected; and Arabella Stuart paused for a few moments without reply, as if not quite willing to take advantage at once of the proposal.

"I could scarcely venture to ask Mr. Seymour," she said, at length, raising her soft eyes to his face; "and perhaps he may not be inclined to go."

William Seymour could not find in his heart so far to belie his own feelings as to say he was willing, and yet he dared not explain what those feelings were. Perhaps Arabella was not willing to send him; but of that we know nothing, although, if she was very anxious that he should be her messenger, she did not quite display a woman's skill in carrying her point. On the contrary, indeed, she was the first to furnish him with a fair excuse for declining the commission.

"On second thoughts," she continued, after the young gentleman had made a somewhat hesitating tender of his services,--"on second thoughts, I must not even ask Mr. Seymour; for, if disobedience to the proclamation might bring the king's anger upon me, the same act would, of course, affect him in the like manner. There is the royal blood," she added, with a smile, "flowing in his veins as well as mine; and, of course, our sovereign's indignation would fall more heavily upon a man than upon a poor girl like me."

"True," said the old man, "true; I had forgotten that; you must send some inferior person, lady. If you will write a letter to his majesty to-night, I will despatch it by a messenger to-morrow, who shall put into the hands of Sir Robert Cecil, to be laid before the King."

"I will do it at once," replied Arabella, "and then hie me to my bed; for, to speak truth, I am somewhat weary with my journey, with the rain, and with my fall."

The letter was accordingly written in all due form, beseeching the king to suffer his poor cousin to pay her duty to him, by meeting him on the road to London; and on the following morning, before Arabella had left her bed, a trusty messenger was bearing it towards the north.

Whether the fair writer slept well that night matters not to our history; William Seymour scarcely closed an eye, and for two long hours after he had sought his chamber, he sat almost in the same attitude, with his head resting on his hand, in deep thought. As his meditation ended, he murmured a few words to himself. "Now or never," he said. "Oh! golden opportunity! I will not suffer doubt or dismay to snatch thee from me."

[CHAPTER IV.]

Although duty and propriety, and a number of other considerations, should lead us to follow the messenger of Sir Harry West to the busy and bustling scene which was taking place at Newark-upon-Trent, on the occasion of King James's entrance into that very respectable city, yet, yielding to temptation like other men, we feel ourselves so well pleased in the company of Arabella Stuart and William Seymour in the old knight's house, that we cannot resist our inclination to remain a little longer with them, and to shun the noise and hurry of the court.

Oh, how sweetly, when we think of all that noise and hurry, do the calm and tranquil scenes of the country come upon the heart!--the sunshine slumbering upon the green field, the waving branches of the old trees, the free and dancing brightness of the rapid stream, the whispering of the soft-breathed wind, the singing of the joyous birds, how sweet they all fall upon the eye and ear--ay, even the cawing of the glossy rooks amongst the tall elms, heard through the open casement in which Seymour and Arabella now stand together, gazing out upon the bright aspect of the valley, as it glistens in the morning sunshine after the heavy rains of night.

The mild air of the May morning is wooing her soft cheek, the tender graces of the spring are saluting her bright eye, the music of the woodland songsters is thrilling on her ear, the harmony of all is sinking into her heart.

They are alone together; the old knight in his justice room, busy in reconciling differences, and in spreading peace, has left them to themselves; there is no ear to listen but that of nature; no eye to mark the emotions of their bosoms but His who made them to feel and to enjoy. Have a care, have a care, you two young and inexperienced beings! Have a care of the gulf that is before you, and stand no longer on the giddy brink! Oh, perilous hour! Why could it not be averted? Why could the words spoken never be blotted out from the record of things done? But it is all in vain to wish, or to regret. Fate was before them, and hand in hand they went upon the way that led them to destruction.

There had been a long, silent pause, after some words of common courtesy; a pause such as takes place when people feel and know that they are upon the eve of things which may affect their whole future life. Arabella was anxious to say something upon matters totally indifferent to them both; but, busy with deeper thoughts, could find no such indifferent topic. Seymour, on the contrary, longed to talk of thoughts and feelings which had rested in his heart unchanged since last he saw her, but hesitated how to begin, lest the very first word should alarm her.

At length, however, Arabella spoke, for she felt that such long silence might seem to have more meaning than any words.

"It is nearly two years, I think," she said, "since you went to Flanders?"

"Fully," he replied; "and a long, dull time it has been."

"Nay," answered the lady, "I think that, were I a young man, nothing I should like so much as seeing foreign lands and mingling with strange people. There must be a great delight in watching all their habits, and in the adventures one meets with amongst them."

"When the heart is at ease," replied William Seymour; "but mine was not so."

"Indeed!" said Arabella, fixing her eyes upon him. "I should have thought no heart more light."

"Truly, then, you have never seen it," rejoined the young gentleman, "for it is often heavy enough."

"I grieve to hear it," replied the lady, with a look of interest; and then in a gayer tone she added, with that attraction towards dangerous subjects which is to woman as the light to the moth, "Come, what is it weighs it down? Make me your father confessor. Woman's wit will often find a way to attain that which man's wisdom fails to reach."

"Well then, I will," said William Seymour. "I could not have a fairer confessor, nor one who has more right to assign the penance for my sins. Lady, my heart is heavy, from an hereditary disease, which has caused much mischief and much grief amongst my race already. You may probably have heard of it."

"Nay, never," answered Arabella, with real astonishment. "I always thought the very name of Seymour implied health and strength, and long life.--What is this sad malady?"

"That of loving above our station," replied William Seymour; and instantly her face became deadly pale, her frame trembled, and her eyes sought the ground.

He proceeded, however. "This sad ambition," he said, "cost my grandfather nine years' imprisonment, and well nigh his head; but he, as you well know, little cared or sorrowed for what he had suffered, though grieved deeply for the sweet lady on whom their mutual love had brought so severe a punishment."

"And she,"--replied Arabella, looking up, with the colour mounting in her cheek,--"and she grieved for him, not for herself. The Greys were an unfortunate race, however. How strange is the will of God, that of two so beautiful and excellent, Jane should perish on the scaffold, and Catherine waste her best days in prison! Yet methinks they must have been both happy even in their misfortunes, both suffering for those they loved."

"'Twas a sad trial and test of affection," said William Seymour.

"Yet one that any woman would take who truly loves," replied Arabella.

"Ay, that is the point," he answered, looking down. "Such love may, to her who feels it, compensate for all suffering, and, to him who possesses it, repay the sacrifice of all, even of life itself. But, what must be the fate, lady, of one who loves as deeply as man can love, yet sees the object far above his reach, without one cheering hope to lead him on, one cause to think the passion in his own heart has awakened any return in the being, for whom he could cast away his life, as a gambler does his coin?"

"It must be sad, indeed," said Arabella, in a low and hesitating tone,--"sad, indeed," she repeated. "But yet, perhaps--" and there she paused, leaving the sentence incomplete, while her colour varied like the morning sky as the sun rises in the east.

"Yet such is my fate," rejoined her companion; "such has been the weight upon my heart, which has crushed its energies, quelled its hopes, made the gay scenes of other lands all dull and empty, and even in the field deprived my arm of one-half its vigour. Oh! had the light of happy love been but before me, what deeds would I have done, what things accomplished--Arabella," he continued, taking her hand, and gazing in her face--"Arabella?"

She did not withdraw it; but she turned away her head, and with the fair fingers of the other hand chased away a bright drop from her dark eyelashes.

It was enough; his arm stole round her slight waist. She did not move. His lips pressed her soft cheek. A gasping sob was her only reply. "Arabella, Arabella! speak to me!" he said; "leave me not in doubt and misery!"

One moment more she remained still and silent; then, starting from his arms, she brushed her hair back from her forehead, with a sad and bewildered look, exclaiming, "Oh, Seymour, spare me!--This takes me by surprise--this is unkind;--think--think of all the risk, the danger, the sorrow----"

"I have thought, beloved," he replied, "through many a long and weary night, through many a heavy and irksome day. I have paused, and pondered, and doubted, and trembled, and accused myself of base selfishness, and asked if I could bring danger, and perhaps unhappiness, on her whom I love far, far before myself. Arabella, I have sought you not. I would never have sought you! But we have met; and in your presence, I am a poor, weak, irresolute creature, powerless against the mastery of the passion in my heart. Rebuke, revile, contemn, tread upon me, if you will; I am at your feet, to do with as it pleases you."

She shook her head with a sorrowful smile, murmuring, "It is for you I fear!" But, then, suddenly raising her eyes towards heaven, while her lips moved for a moment, she added, "No, Seymour, no; I will not plunge you in misery or danger. Your bright career shall not be cut off or stayed by me. No, no; it is better not to speak or think of such thing. My life may pass, cold and cheerless, in the hard bonds of a fate above my wishes; but you must cast off such feelings.--You must forget me, and in the end----"

"Forget you, Arabella?" he interrupted,--"forget you? You little know the man who loves you. Whether you be mine or another's, I will remember you till life's latest hour;" and he kept his word.

"I will never be another's," replied Arabella. "Fear not that, Seymour. Happily, all the interests, and all the jealousies of whatever monarch may sit upon the throne of this realm, are certain to combine in withholding my hand from any one. I have no sufficient dower to make me worthy of the suit of princes; the only attraction in their eyes might be some very distant and unreasonable claim to a crown I covet not; and I shall find it no difficult task to persuade the King to refuse this poor person to any one to whom it might convey a dangerous, though merely contingent right. I will live on," she continued, resuming her lighter tone--though there was ever a certain degree of melancholy ran through her gayest moods,--"I will live on in single freedom, with a heart, perhaps, not unsusceptible of affection, had fate blessed me with a humble station, but one which will never load itself with the guilt of bringing sorrow and destruction upon the head of another.--Nay, Seymour, nay, say no more! I esteem you highly, regard you much--perhaps if out of all the world----But let that pass! Why should I make you share regrets I myself may feel? It is in vain, it is impossible; so you must utter no farther words upon this matter, if you would have my company, for I must hear no more.--Come, let us walk out and talk of other things. We will go watch the rivulet that dances along, like the course of a happy life, sparkling as it goes, to find repose, at length, in the bosom of that vast, immeasurable ocean, where all streams end.--Nay, not a word more, if you love me!"

"I do! I do!" cried William Seymour, pressing his eager and burning lips upon her hand,--"I do! I do, Arabella! better than anything else on earth."

"Well, then, peace!" she said, "peace! for your sake and for mine; for nothing is so hopeless on earth as the love we feel."

We feel! The confession was made! the words were spoken; and, though Seymour feared to urge her farther then, they sunk into his heart, a sweet solace for the years to come.

Poor Arabella Stuart! If she thought, by the walk along that gentle stream, through those soft fields, amidst the old trees waving over head, listening to the voices of the birds, feeling the tender air of spring, talking over a thousand subjects, in which the ever-present impression of their love was only repressed in words to find utterance in vague and fanciful allusions,--if she thought by such means to cure her lover or herself of the disastrous passion which he had so boldly, she so timidly, acknowledged, alas! she was very, very much mistaken. Like the spirit of the Universal Deity of the Pagans, their love was all around them in everything they saw, or heard, or felt, in every word they uttered, unseen, but powerful, throughout the whole creation.

Yet she thought she was seeking safety; and her spirits rose in the unconsciousness of danger, and the certainty of present happiness. Thus, when, some time after, they were joined by the master of the mansion, there was nothing whatsoever in her manner to show that she had been agitated or alarmed; and when they returned to the early dinner of those days, her heart seemed so light, that one might have thought not a drop of royal blood was running in her veins.

"You are very gay," said William Seymour, in a tone almost reproachful, as they entered the hall.

"So gay," she answered, "that I could sit down and sing;--but I fancy cold Sir Harry West," she continued, turning playfully to the old knight, "whose heart no fair lady could ever bring into tune with her own, has not an instrument of music in all his house--no virginals, no lute?"

"Nay," replied the old knight, "you do me great injustice, fairest lady. I have all my life been the devoted servant of bright eyes. 'Tis but that I have loved them all so well, I never could be such a niggard of my heart as to bind myself to one; and, as to instruments of music--that sweetest of all the many modes of poetry--though virginals, God bless the mark! with their dull tinkling, I have none, yet I possess a lute in my own chamber, such as all the rest of England cannot boast, framed with great skill in Venice, by the famous Mallesini, who taught me how to use it, too, when I was in the City of the Sea, and used to serenade all the Venetian dames."

"All?" exclaimed Arabella, shaking her finger at him. "Fie upon such democracy in love! In that, at least, I would be a monarch, and reign alone, or not at all. But, pray send for this rare instrument, Sir Harry; I would fain try how it will sound under my weak fingers."

"Add but your voice, and the music will be sweet enough," said William Seymour, while the old knight went himself to bring the lute. But Arabella replied not; and a shade of deep sadness passed across her fair face for a moment.

"He is tuning it," she said, the instant after, bending her ear to listen to some sounds which came from a neighbouring chamber. "He is a kind and excellent man." When Sir Harry re-entered the room, she took the lute, and after running her hand for a moment over the strings, sang one of those little ballads which perhaps obtained for her a place in Evelyn's list of fair poets.

SONG.

"Who is the boy comes stealing here,

With looks demure and mild?

Keep off! keep off! Let him not near!

There's malice in that child.

"Yet, see, he plays amidst the flowers,

As innocent as they;

His smile as bright as summer hours,

His eyes as soft as May.

"Beauty and Grace his vestments are;

To sport seems all his joy.

Gaze if thou wilt, but keep him far,

There's danger in the boy.

"How various are his gladsome smiles,

His every look is bright;

Sure there can be no wicked wiles

Within that thing of light!

"Lo, he holds out a flower to me,

A rosebud like a gem!

Keep him afar! Dost thou not see

The thorns upon the stem?

"Vain was the warning given; the maid

Clasped to her heart the boy;

But could not pluck him thence. He stayed,

And stayed but to destroy.

"Sweet Love, let others be beguiled,

Thy treacherous arts I fear,

Keep afar off, thou dangerous child!

Thou shalt not come too near!"

She ended, and turned a gay look upon Sir Harry West, saying, "That is your history, noble friend, is it not?" and then, ere he could answer, fell into a deep fit of thought, which gave to William Seymour the assurance, and it was a sweet one, that her heart was not so free as she would fain have made it appear. The rest of the day went by in varied and pleasant conversation, though over the mind of William Seymour and the Lady Arabella deep fits of thought, not unmingled with anxiety, came shadowy from time to time, like the clouds of an autumnal sky. Sir Harry West quitted them no more that day; and Seymour began to imagine that he had some suspicion of all that was passing in their hearts. But on the following day, again, they were once more left alone together for some hours; another and another day succeeded; and words were spoken that nothing could recal.

[CHAPTER V.]

Neither good soldier nor good man was ever without love for his horse, if he had one; and the reader may have already divined, from certain words let fall by good Sir Harry West, that he was peculiarly careful and attentive to the four-hoofed creatures under his care. Every man on earth, probably, has his particular point of coxcombry, and Sir Harry West was not without his. It showed itself in his garden and his bowling green, in his old hall and in his old wine. In a slight degree it was apparent in the studious simplicity of his dress; but it was more evident than anywhere else in his stable, where six as fine horses as England could produce, two of them being old chargers who had borne him in battle, had as much care bestowed on their toilet and their meals as ever court-lady and reverend alderman.

Mounted on one of the stoutest of these well-fed animals, Matthew Lakyn, an old soldier, and an old servant, sped on towards the fair town of Newark-upon-Trent, intrusted by the knight, as his most confidential attendant, to carry the letter of the Lady Arabella to the Court of King James, which was then on its progress from the land of the monarch's birth towards the capital of his new kingdom. As usual in those days, the good old man bore upon his arm a badge to distinguish the family to which he belonged, representing, to use heraldic terms, on a field, argent, a fesse dancettée, sable. A buckler was on his shoulder, a stout sword by his side; and although, as we have said, he was not young, yet he was hale and hearty, and looked well capable of dealing a blow or biding a buffet.

His first day's journey went by quietly enough. For ten miles of his road he only saw one person whom he did not know, and that was a stout, dark-browed horseman, who passed him within five minutes after he had left his master's gate. They exchanged a word of salutation on the road, a courteous custom of those days, which, with many another, has gone by in our more civilized times; and then the stranger rode on, while old Lakyn pursued his course more slowly.

Towards three o'clock on the evening of the second day, the good knight's messenger turned into a small village-house of entertainment, in order to give his horse some food, and apply some of the good things of this life to his own support. The room which Lakyn entered, after seeing to his beast's accommodation, was not exactly like that in which we first introduced the reader to the Lady Arabella Stuart; but it was a small parlour, approached by two descending steps from the road side; and this he found tenanted by two men, sitting on either side of a small table, with a stoup of wine between them, and their heads close together, in earnest conversation.

One of these men we shall not describe, having done so on a former occasion, when he gave himself the name of Baron de Mardyke. The other was one of the personages who were with him at that time, whom he had then called his servants, and whom we did not honour with any particular remark. We must now, however, be more particular, and state that he was a tall, thin, black-bearded man, close-shaved, except a small mustachio, and a tuft of hair upon the chin, neither of which seemed to be the growth of many months. His dress, which was plain, consisted entirely of black and grey; but he wore sword and dagger, though there was a slouch in the shoulders, and an awkward disjointedness about the limbs, which spoke of no long military training. Both he and his companion were booted and spurred as if for a journey; and the moment that Lakyn entered the room they ceased their conversation abruptly, and looked round, as if not well pleased with his presence. The old man, however, was in no way disturbed by theirs; but, seating himself at another table, he stretched out his limbs, to rest them more conveniently, and waited patiently till the flagon was brought him. The strangers, in the meantime, sipped their wine together, and talked of the weather, of the appearance of the crops, and various other things, which were somewhat too evidently distant from their thoughts.

This had gone on some quarter of an hour, when suddenly the door of the room was again thrown open, and in strode the dark-browed horseman who had passed the old servant on the road. He cast a glance round the chamber as he entered, and his eye rested upon Lakyn for an instant; after which he passed on to the table where the other two were seated, and, bending over it, spoke with them for a few minutes in a low tone.

Sir Harry West's good servant was an old soldier, as we have said, and had many of the qualities of his class. He recognised his fellow-traveller immediately; but, seeing either that the other did not remember him, or affected not to do so, he gave not the slightest indication of having himself a better memory. He applied himself, on the contrary, diligently to his ale; and, though it must be confessed that he listened with all his ears, from a curious sort of mistrust or dislike which he felt towards the whole party, yet he heard nothing but the last words of their conversation, which were, "Find out!"

The moment these two monosyllables were pronounced by the Baron de Mardyke, the last-comer quitted the room. After being absent for about five minutes, he returned, and again spoke to the other two in as low a voice as before. Matthew Lakyn, however, thought that he caught the words, "Going on immediately;" and he said to himself, "If they are talking of me, they speak the truth. Neither shall I lose any time upon the road."

Thus thinking, he rose, quitted the room, paid his score, and, having tightened his horse's girths, and replaced the bit in his mouth, he rode on upon his way, at a more rapid pace than he had heretofore employed during his journey. He was now just entering Rutlandshire; and in those days a great quantity of common land, waste and dreary enough, lay between Stamford and Grantham, especially about Witham, where a large extent of dreary ground, some four miles across, according to the course of the high road, and spreading to five or six miles on either hand, presented not a single house, cottage, or hut, as far as the eye could reach. After riding on for about an hour and a half, Lakyn saw this wide heath extending before him, with nothing to relieve its bare monotony but a clump of tall trees, about two miles in advance.

Now, he was anything but a man of a faint heart; but still so many charges had been given him regarding the letter which he bore, that he had conceived that document to be of much greater importance than it really was; and, as the bearer thereof, he had risen to considerable importance in his own eyes. Those were somewhat lawless times, it must be remembered, when, notwithstanding the wisdom with which Elizabeth had ruled, the comparative thinness of the population, and the general state of society, left many opportunities for violent acts, of which there were not wanting persons to take advantage. Why or wherefore good Matthew Lakyn had taken a strong dislike to the party he had just left, we shall not attempt to explain to the reader, as, in truth, the good man could not explain it to himself; but certainly he had thought of them more than once as he rode along the highway; and, when he reached the edge of the common which we have mentioned, he turned in the saddle and gave a look behind him.

As he had been slightly ascending for some time, his view comprised nearly a mile of the road, and at about half that distance he perceived two horsemen following him at a very rapid rate. Recollecting a warning of his master, in times of old, to be always prepared for whatever might happen, the old man assured himself that his sword played easily in the sheath, and then spurred on, disdaining to quicken his pace to any great degree, but still keeping his horse at his very quickest trot, in the hopes of coming near some house before he was overtaken. Those who followed, however, whether out of sport or any more serious intention, did not spare the speed or wind of their beasts; and the moment they came upon the common ground, they quitted the sandy road for the turf at the side, and put their horses into a gallop. This pace soon brought them to the side of Sir Harry West's good servant, where they seemed inclined to pull up, giving him time to recognise the dark-browed gentleman whom he had twice before met with, and the tall, thin, ungainly man whom he had seen in the inn. The former now thought fit to give him a nod of recognition; and Lakyn, whose wit was upon the stretch, exclaimed, with a laugh,

"Ah! good evening, sir. If you are riding races, my masters, I'll beat you across the common for a stoup of wine;" and, without waiting for a reply, he struck his spurs into his good horse's sides, and was soon several lengths ahead. The others spurred after for some way, but did not succeed in catching him; and he was still going at the same rapid rate, when he approached the clump of oaks which we have already mentioned. There, however, he drew in his rein suddenly on the little knoll from which trees sprang, and which was covered with dry green turf. To his very great comfort and satisfaction, he had perceived as he approached a large party of men and women, in gay attire, seated with baskets and panniers in the shade, apparently resting their horses and asses--for several of both were there--and at the same time indulging their own appetites, at the expense of sundry pasties and cold joints of meat.

"Hallo!" cried one of the travellers, as the old servant approached, "are you riding for your life, or has your horse run away with you?"

"Neither, neither," cried Lakyn; "'tis but a race for a stoup of wine with those two gentlemen behind;" and with some difficulty he kept his horse from dashing forward, determined, now that he had met with company, not to lose sight of it again if he could help it.

"Why, you seem mighty happy, ladies and gentlemen," he continued. "May I ask which way your steps are bent?"

"We are going to meet the king as he comes from Newark," said a jolly-looking man. "We have got an address and petition from the town of Oakham, drawn up by our good clerk."

"Then, by your leave," cried Lakyn, springing to the ground, "I will go on with you. 'Tis not good riding alone in such days as these."

"Alone!" exclaimed the other. "Why, you have a queer notion of solitude, having two companions with you."

"One may have companions that are not comrades," answered Lakyn; "and, to say sooth, these are no friends of mine."

Arabella Stuart: A Romance from English History

THE WORKS

OF

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR,

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE.

VOL. XIX.

ARABELLA STUART.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.

STATIONERS' HALL COURT.

M DCCC XLIX.

ARABELLA STUART:

A Romance

FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.

STATIONERS' HALL COURT.

M DCCC XLIX.

CONTENTS

[ TO REAR-ADMIRAL
SIR GEORGE F. SEYMOUR, C.B. G.C.H.
&c. &c. &c.]

ARABELLA STUART.

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]

SONG.

[CHAPTER V.]

Arabella Stuart: A Romance from English History

THE WORKS

OF

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR,

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE.

VOL. XIX.

ARABELLA STUART.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.

STATIONERS' HALL COURT.

M DCCC XLIX.

ARABELLA STUART:

A Romance

FROM ENGLISH HISTORY.

BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

LONDON:

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.

STATIONERS' HALL COURT.

M DCCC XLIX.

CONTENTS

[ TO REAR-ADMIRALSIR GEORGE F. SEYMOUR, C.B. G.C.H.&c. &c. &c.]

ARABELLA STUART.

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]

SONG.

[CHAPTER V.]

[ TO REAR-ADMIRAL
SIR GEORGE F. SEYMOUR, C.B. G.C.H.
&c. &c. &c.]