On the confines of Hampshire and Wiltshire, at the distance of about
twenty miles from Salisbury, was a good house belonging formerly to
the Dowager Countess of Lennox, surrounded by a park of nearly a
thousand acres, paled in from the neighbouring country on account of
some very fine deer which it contained. The hand of nature had done
far more for it than art, and nothing could be more beautiful than the
variety of hill and dale, of forest, fell and mead, which it
displayed. It is true no mountains were there, no bold and rocky
scenery; but it was full of rich old woods, deep ferny dells, and
constant heights and falls of ground, which compelled a considerable
stream swarming with fine trout to wander in a thousand turns and
bends, so that its course through the park, if traced along its
meanderings, could not extend to less than many miles in length.
The woodpecker and the squirrel found there a home to their utmost
satisfaction; multitudes of hares, whose possession was only disputed
by the herds of deer, might be found sleeping in their forms on the
sunny sides of the hill, or seen galloping along when disturbed, ever
and anon standing raised upon their hind feet, and listening with
erected ear for any sound of pursuit; while towards the close of
evening, the rabbits, in a part especially called the Warren, came out
to play in thousands, like schoolboys issuing forth for sport after
the tasks of the day are ended.
In this park, in the month of June, and towards the hour of nine in
the morning, a lady was sitting on the grass under the trees, at a
considerable distance from the house. The spot she had chosen was the
side of one of the little hills, which was crowned by a clump of old
oaks, and looking down over a considerable extent of scene, both in
front and on either hand. It was, in fact a sort of spur or promontory
from the high ground to the westward of the park, on which ran the
paling, bounding a high road. The distance between the hill and the
public way, however, was at least four hundred yards; and the
intervening space was filled with wide-spreading trees, devoid of
underwood, so that it was from that side alone that any one could
approach the spot chosen by the lady for her seat without being
perceived by her, even at a considerable distance.
The sun was rising bright over the fair landscape beneath her eyes,
the wanderings of the stream were in every direction seen, like the
beneficent hand of the Almighty in all his works, to the eye of the
thoughtful believer giving light and brightness to the whole; and
while the long shadows of the trees moved slowly as the morning sun
got up in heaven, like the tardy progress of the world's affairs, the
deep blue shadow of some passing clouds floated rapidly over the
bright scene, resembling the free thoughts of man when his heart is at
rest.
For several minutes the lady sat and gazed around her, leaning lightly
on her rounded arm, and fixing her soft and thoughtful eyes, from time
to time, upon each fair spot in the glowing landscape. Was she merely
drinking in the flood of beauty that poured upon the eye,
contemplating the magnificence of nature, feeling with delight and awe
the perfection of God's works? Or were her thoughts turned inward to
her own fate and circumstances, and her eye roving inattentive over
things familiar to her? Neither was exactly the case; she felt the
loveliness of the scene, she marked with pleasure many a fair object
in the view, she looked "through Nature up to Nature's God," but still
her own hopes and wishes, her own fears and anxieties intruded
themselves, whether she would or not, upon her attention with
importunate appeal, and connected her own fate with all her
contemplations, deriving from the objects before her eyes, sometimes
fanciful illustrations, sometimes consolations higher and holier than
any that man can give.
Thus she sat for several minutes, and why or wherefore matters not
much, nor can we indeed tell--for who can trace the wanderings of a
quick and imaginative mind?--but that fit of her reverie ended with a
bright drop upon her eyelids. The next moment, however, sweet Arabella
Stuart roused herself, though with a sigh, to other thoughts. Oh, how
hard it is when the mind, like a young bird, has soared forth at
liberty, into the face of heaven, and tried its wing at large, amongst
all the joyous things of nature, to be called back to the close cage
of the dull world's doings, the strifes, the cares, the meannesses,
which form the bars that prison in the heart. Such was her fate,
however, continually through life.
As if to make the transition more easy, however, she repeated--we may
call it sung, for she preserved, though her voice rose scarcely above
a murmur, the air of the song--the lines of some long-forgotten poet,
which were but too applicable to herself.
"I must not love where I would love,
I must not dwell where I would stay."
"Alas, it is all in vain," she added. "And now to the letter."
Thus saying, she drew forth from her bosom a note, the seal of which
had been broken, but of the contents of which she had, as yet, only
read the first words. Unfolding it, her eye ran over the lines it
contained, and her cheek grew very pale; a look of anxiety and
apprehension rose in her countenance; and at length, clasping her
hands together, she exclaimed, "The King and all the Court live in
daily dread of the plague; but if these rash men did but know how much
more I dread the plague of their ambitious designs, they would not
surely try to communicate the infection to me by such letters as this.
What is to be done with this thing now? If I reveal it, I bring the
poor wretch to the block. If I conceal it, I make myself a sharer of
their treasons."
She paused and meditated for a moment or two, and then exclaimed
aloud, "Oh, that I had some one to advise me!"
The words were scarcely uttered, when there was a step amongst the
trees behind; and starting up with a look of alarm, she turned round.
The blood rose in her cheek, her eye sparkled, though she would fain
have quenched its light, and her voice faltered with emotion, as she
exclaimed, "Oh, Seymour! rash, rash young man, your imprudence will be
the ruin of yourself and me!"
"Nay, dearest Arabella," he replied, with a gay smile, "neither rash
nor imprudent--bold, perhaps, to watch you as you sat here musing; but
I claim but the privilege of the sun, who looks at you through the
green leaves, even whilst you fancy yourself hidden from his bright
eye."
"Nay, but you _are_ rash, William," she answered, "rash to come hither
at all."
"I could not help it, Arabella," he said in reply, kissing her hand.
"You would not have me a traitor or a rebel?"
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Arabella, her imagination immediately
connecting his words with the letter she had just been reading. "Oh,
William, of all things, if you would not break my heart, avoid all
dealings with the many dangerous men who are striving for things
impossible. But you are laughing--I have mistaken you. Nay, if you
smile so, I shall call back again all my old careless gaiety, which,
to say truth, has been somewhat disturbed. If you could not help
coming, tell me what brings you?"
"The King's commands," replied William Seymour. "The King's commands,
to bid you to Wilton on Wednesday next."
"Oh, then, the King's commands shall be obeyed," said Arabella, "and
his messenger is right welcome. But how got you in? You could not come
hither from the house without my seeing you."
"I sent on horses and servants," answered William Seymour, "letter and
all--for there is an epistle, brightest Arabella, writ by the King's
own hand, in very choice Latin, as I understand, judging you a learned
lady."
"Heaven help the mark!" interrupted Arabella. "But still, how got you
in, William Seymour? 'Tis very rude of you to take me so by surprise."
But her smiles, as the reader has already supposed, contradicted her
words.
"Nay," said Seymour, "'tis worse than that, for I did so on purpose.
Dismounting on the road, I sent my men and horses on, and leaped the
paling, telling them that I would fain take a walk through the park;
but, in truth, having an intimation from a good enchanter that I
should find Arabella beneath these trees."
"Fie, fie!" cried Arabella, "you are an impostor, Seymour, and would
have me think that love can work miracles, in order to cheat me into
the belief that ours can be happy. How was it, in sober truth, you
knew that I was here?"
"Well, then, in sober truth," replied Seymour, pointing to the country
beyond the park, which was seen over a break in the trees--"Well,
then, in sober truth, beloved, as I rode along yonder bridle-way which
you perceive crossing the country beyond the fence, I turned my eyes
hither. Now, love is an enchanter, whatever you may think, who
strangely lengthens men's sight, ay, better than the best perspective
glass; and by his aid, I saw something beautiful walk slowly through
the park up to this spot, and knew it was Arabella. Then, riding on
till I came near, I parted with my company, as I have told you, and,
like a deer-stealer, leaped the paling; then, creeping quietly through
the trees, I stood and watched you as you lay, wishing that I were a
sculptor, and had power to carry away an image of that lovely form in
all its thoughtful grace."
"Hush, flatterer! hush!" cried Arabella; "I would only have my image
in the heart of those who love me. But it was not fair."
"Oh, yes," answered Seymour; "for whatever I saw or heard would be to
me as sacred as my conscience."
"Heard!" exclaimed Arabella. "What! did I speak?"
"Yes, in truth," replied her lover; "first you sat musing; then took
out a letter--this which you have dropped;" and, lifting it from the
ground, he gave it to her, while she turned somewhat pale to see how
nearly she had lost it. "Then you murmured something indistinctly, and
then you cried, 'Oh, that I had some one to advise me!'--But you turn
pale, Arabella!"
"Not at what you think," she answered, with a smile. "Now would
Seymour give a purse of gold to know what is in this epistle, and has
jealous thoughts of rivals, and half doubts that Arabella plays him
false. Is it not so?"
"No, on my life," replied William Seymour; "I might as well be jealous
of the sun for shining on other lands than mine. Why should Arabella
give me one smile, but from her pure bounty? I have no claim, I have
no right, and 'twere a needless policy to let me think you love me, if
you did not. One frown, one word, one cold look, were enough to crush
out all the hopes you have raised, and snatch the blessing from me.
Why should you deceive me? Oh, no--I am as confident of you as Heaven,
and nothing shall ever make me doubt."
Arabella put her hand in his, and gazed upon him with a look of
melancholy tenderness that, had there been a doubt, would have
banished it for ever.
"Oh, no!" she said; "though I may never be yours, I shall never love
but you; and whom should I trust but him I love? Yet before I do trust
you fully, Seymour, and ask for your advice, you must promise me--for
you men are sad, headstrong creatures, and we must ever bind you with
some chain--that you will never reveal what I have told, or shown, or
asked you--nay, even if I follow not your counsel."
"That promise is soon made, Arabella," he replied; "indeed, I should
feel the engagement binding on me were no promise given; and, as to
advice, you shall have the best my mind will afford, though in times
so difficult as these, it is sometimes hard to say what is the wisest
course."
"Well, then, read that," said the lady, "and tell me how I should
act."
Seymour took the letter which she placed in his hand, opened it, and
read. The effect upon him was scarcely less strong than it had been
upon Arabella. His brow contracted, his lip quivered, his eye took an
eager and anxious expression; and, at the end, he turned back again
and read it through once more. Then gazing in the lady's face, he
exclaimed, "Oh, Arabella! Have you ever given encouragement to such
designs as these?"
"Never, never!" cried Arabella, "not even in my most secret thoughts."
"There may be men," continued Seymour, in a musing tone, "who think
that in offering you a crown they would increase your happiness; and
had I one to bestow, out of all the world I would choose you to wear
it. But far, far rather, did I possess one myself, would I lay it down
to share with you a humbler and a happier lot than raise you to the
golden misery which ever rests upon a throne. Your virtues may deserve
the highest station, Arabella; but believe me, dearest, power is not
happiness."
"Except the power of blessing those we love," she answered, laying her
hand on his arm.
"But were you England's queen to-morrow," he continued, "you never
could be mine. Remember Elizabeth herself, despotic as ever eastern
sovereign was, ventured not to raise a subject to the throne, though
no one doubts her wishes; and, besides, see what these men propose,
that you should give pledges to a foreign potentate to be guided by
him in the disposal of your hand. Here is evidently a bar to your free
choice. Even if their schemes were feasible, or had a probability of
success, which they have not, what would you become? A slave of a
foreign prince, and not a queen. But why smile you, Arabella?"
"To see William Seymour argue," she replied, "as if such vain schemes
and treasonable folly could wake in my breast one idle thought in
favour of that which you justly call a golden misery. Besides,
Seymour, I am neither unjust, a traitor, nor a fool. I would not be a
usurper for the diadem of the whole world. James's is the right; he is
next in blood to the last monarch, and I have no claim at all. As to
what Lord Cobham says regarding exclusion of aliens from the throne,
'tis but a pretence as empty as the wind. I never can hold that man to
be an alien who is born within these isles. Nature made them one,
marked them out for one empire, and rolled the barrier of the sea
around them to separate them from all the rest of the earth, as the
habitation of one people under one monarch. It is vain to struggle
against the plans of God. Men may mark out frontiers, and draw lines,
and strive for a mile or two of barren border land this way or that;
but the limits fixed by nature will stand fast, and ultimately be
recognised by all. No, no; James is no alien; and though, to say
sooth, I never was more disappointed in the aspect of a man, yet he is
King of England, and, for me, shall ever remain so. Besides," she
continued, "do you suppose that I would give up my humble freedom for
the gemmed thraldom of a throne; to have no privacy; to live with the
thousand eyes of policy upon me; to have my very thoughts watched; to
make my very mind a slave to others; my heart, with all its
affections, a bondman to the petty policies of state. Oh, no, Seymour,
no!--if they were here before me, with the crown at my feet, ay, and
could add France to England, and take in Spain, with all the golden
Indies and their mines, I would not, if a choice were left me, give
them another look.--It was not that on which I asked advice."
"What then?" said Seymour, who had been gazing on her with love and
admiration in his eyes.
"It is what I am to do with this treasonable paper, that I seek to
know," she answered, taking it from his hand, and gazing vacantly upon
it. "It is, I fear, my duty to send it to the King; and yet I would
not for all the world bring on my head the blood of those who sought
to serve me even wrongfully; and yet----"
"If you do not," replied Seymour, "you peril your own life. Nay, more;
should any attempt be made in consequence of this scheme--should they,
notwithstanding a cold and reproving answer from you, seize on the
King, put him to death, involve the land in civil war, and cause all
the bloodshed and confusion which little more than a century ago
stained all our fair fields and desolated our happy homes, what would
Arabella feel, when she remembered that, from the fear of bringing bad
men to punishment, she suffered all these things to arise, when she
could have averted them? Shut our eyes how we will, he who conceals
treason is a traitor. Besides, my beloved, you must not think that it
is love for you that moves these men. It is their own selfish
interests, their own passions, their own ambition. 'Tis that the King
has slighted Cobham, done some wrong to Raleigh, offended this man,
disappointed that, hurt the pride of another--'tis this that moves
them--no deep devotion to Arabella Stuart."
"Say no more, say no more," said the lady; "I fear it is my duty; and,
however grievous, I must perform it. What you urge is true; did I
conceal this, and the plot take effect, even so far as bringing civil
war into the land, I should never know peace again. But tell me,
Seymour--counsel me, how I may treat the matter so as to move the
indignation of the King as little as possible against these misguided
men. It is not long since I had to tell him of other overtures, not so
distinct in truth as these, but still evidently treasonable in their
kind. He then took little heed; and perhaps, if I manage rightly, he
may deal with this scheme as lightly."
"I fear he will not," answered Seymour; "yet it is but wise to
calculate how you may follow the voice of duty, and yet excite as
little wrath as may be against those who have certainly deserved it."
He paused, and thought for several moments, adding at length, with a
faint smile, "Were I you, I would treat it lightly, Arabella. We often
by the tone and manner in which we speak of things, give them, in the
first impressions, such importance that they can never after be dealt
with as trifles. But if we speak of them as matters of small moment in
the beginning, they are sure, if they be really of weight, to find
their proper estimation in the end.--I would treat it lightly. My
Arabella has a custom, with a gay and laughing humour, to cover from
the eyes of most men the deeper treasures of her heart, like those
bright streams I have seen in another land, which, under the sparkling
ripple of their waters, conceal their sands of gold. This art which
you have used----"
"Have you found out that?" she asked. "Love must, indeed, be a
diviner, then; for never, even to the companions of my youth, have I
shown, by word or hint, that my gaiety was more upon the lip than in
the heart."
"But you have shown me the heart, too," replied Seymour; "and as I was
saying, this art, which you have used to cover your feelings on many
subjects, may well be employed now, to hide what you think of this.
Treat the matter as an idle jest--a thing of no importance--too
foolish to be judged seriously; and thus, perhaps, the
King--especially if Cecil be not near him, which he was not when I
came away--may take measures to avert all danger, and yet not think
the subject so important as to require the sword of justice. He is of
a light and trifling disposition, given to the discussion of fine
subtleties, full of learned importance and self-satisfaction, but, I
should think, not cruel."
"I do not know," said Arabella, thoughtfully. "Placed amidst perilous
rocks, the pilot watches narrowly each ripple on the surface of the
sea. Thus, in the dangers of a position too high for safety, and too
low for power, I have scanned narrowly the actions and demeanours of
men, and I have always remarked, that those who are the fondest of
trifles, and give little weight to things of real importance, are
generally cruel, treating human suffering as a trifle also. But _that_
I must not think of; the only way for myself and them is, as you say,
to give the whole a laughing air. But come, Seymour, let us go--they
will think that we stay long."
"Nay, nay, dear Arabella," replied her lover; "the consciousness of
our own happiness makes us often think that others see through the
disguises we assume to conceal it. Let us not even lose a minute of
the time during which we may be to each other Arabella Stuart and
William Seymour. The time will come soon enough to be Madam and Sir
again. They who know not when or how we met, will not look at the
clock to see how long we have been together."
Arabella smiled. "Love's sophistry, Seymour!" she said: "but my good
aunt of Shrewsbury is at the house; and, let me tell you, her eyes are
quick, her thoughts keen, although she be kind and noble, and I do not
know that she would frown upon our affection, even were she aware of
it."
"I do not think she would," replied Seymour, eagerly; "she has ever
been a kind friend to me, and, though of as lofty a spirit as any
woman now on earth, yet she does not forget that there are human
passions in all hearts, and that they will be listened to."
"Yet we must confide in no one," answered Arabella, with a serious
air; "our secret is but safe in our own breasts. She has lately caught
me somewhat in a sighing mood; and but last night, vowing I was in
love, she reckoned over on her fingers some ten men of the court; but
happily your name was not amongst them, or perhaps the unruly colour
in my cheek might have betrayed the truth. Nay, let us go, we shall
soon meet again; and as we walk soberly towards the house, we can
speak all our thoughts to each other with whatever kind words we will,
looking all the while demure and grave as if we were solving some deep
problem of lines and angles. In good truth, William," she continued,
as they went on, "were it not as well to set up some apparent lover at
the court, to hide my rash friend's somewhat real suit?"
"Nay, I should be jealous, then, indeed," said Seymour.
"That would be pleasant," answered Arabella, laughing; "nothing but
jealousy is wanting, I think, to make your love perfect. But I fear
that he of whom I thought, is not capable of raising the sweet yellow
passion in your breast. What would you say to Fowler, the queen's
secretary?"
Seymour smiled. "Oh! the crack-brained fool," he cried, "he surely
would never raise his eyes so high."
"Nay, nay, you know not," answered Arabella; "I have had delicate
speeches about bright eyes and coral lips, and verses over and above
full of sighing swains and dying swans, and all the ammunition of
pastoral love. 'Tis a perilous case, I assure you."
Seymour laughed lightly. "In truth," he exclaimed, "this is a rival to
be feared. I shall go distracted, Arabella, if you give him but a
glance too much."
But the lady had fallen into thought again, and, looking up, she said,
"This letter, and the duty that it enforces on me, weigh down my
heart, Seymour. Lord Cobham, too, has ever been kind and courteous to
me--I cannot think that this treason is of his designing."
"Oh, no!" cried William Seymour, "he is but the tool, dear girl; and I
trust that so it will appear; in which case it will be easy for his
friends to gain his pardon. But here comes some one from the house;
and now for all due reverence."
Arabella cast down her eyes with a look of painful anxiety; and the
moment after they filled with tears.
"With all due reverence!" she repeated. "Alas! William, when and how
will this end?"
He gazed upon her with a look of deep and tender affection, but did
not reply; for a servant, evidently in search of the lady, was now
rapidly approaching. As the man's step came near, Arabella looked up
and said, "I suppose my aunt has sent you, Ralph, to tell me that
there are messengers from the King; but I have met this gentleman in
the park, and am returning to receive his Majesty's commands."
"Yes, madam," replied the man; "but I had charge to tell you also that
Sir Harry West is here; and I saw Master George Brooke ride up as I
came away."
Arabella turned a quick glance upon William Seymour, and seemed to
catch from his look what he would have her do.
"If he wants me," she replied, "tell him I must decline to see him."
The man looked surprised, and she repeated, "Exactly so--tell him I
must decline to see him. He will understand the reason--Mr. George
Brooke, I mean. Sir Harry West I shall be right happy to receive; and
as I do not wish to meet with any one displeasing to me, go forward,
good Ralph, and open the door into my aunt's cabinet. I will there
receive the King's letter, Mr. Seymour, and write my humble answer to
his Majesty."
The man obeyed, hurrying on with a quick footstep, while Arabella
raised her eyes to Seymour's face, inquiring in a low but eager voice,
"Have I done right?"
"Perfectly," replied her lover; "it were madness to receive him, my
Arabella. Whatever you might say, it would be proved that you had held
conference with one of these conspirators, and, if I judge right, with
the most dangerous of them all. But see, there is Lady Shrewsbury
herself upon the terrace--let us go forward straight towards her."
They did so accordingly; but, whatever were their intentions, that
high but kindly dame was not easily deceived; and while she held out
her fair hand to William Seymour, who pressed his lips upon it with
respectful gallantry, she turned a keen glance from his face to that
of Arabella.
"Welcome, Sir Truant, welcome," she said. "So you leaped the paling, I
find from your men, to take a walk in the park; but I doubt me,
poacher, that it was not without good expectation of meeting with a
deer."
William Seymour was not discomposed, however, though Arabella was; and
he replied, "If it was so, fair lady, you see I was not disappointed.
If I had sought for a _hart_, I might have been so."
Many a grave thing in those days was covered by an idle play upon
words; but the shrewd Countess shook her head, and a moment or two
after took an opportunity to whisper in her niece's ear, "I fear,
Arabel, I must reduce the list of lovers down to one;" and thus
saying, she led the way towards the house.
"Let us go in by your cabinet, dear aunt," said Arabella, whose cheek
was now glowing like a rose. "There is some one at the other side I
would fain not meet."
"Whatever course you please, fair maiden," answered the Countess; "I
will not thwart you;" and she turned across the terrace to the left.