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."