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.