With a pale check, and a faint heart, and limbs from which all
strength seemed gone, Arabella followed the Queen when she rose, and
with slow steps accompanied Anne of Denmark to the door of her own
apartments. There, with a low reverence, she left her, and hurried
back to her own chamber, where, sinking on her knees by the side of
the bed, she gave way to a violent burst of tears.
She did not perceive that any one was in the room, but the moment
after, she heard something move, and a voice say, "Oh, lady!" and
looking round she saw the girl Ida Mara, whom she had consented to
receive at the entreaty of Sir Harry West.
Arabella instantly started up and tried to wipe away the tears; but
the girl looked down, as if she wished not to see them flow, and said
in a quiet but sad tone, "Shall I leave you, madam? I know too well
that, when one is sorrowful, it is better to be alone."
"No," replied Arabella, "no, you may stay. It is but that I have been
agitated by the quarrel you saw this morning between those two
gentlemen, and by hearing just now that they have fought since their
arrival."
"Fought?" cried the girl, eagerly; "I hope he has punished him, them."
"Which do you mean?" asked Arabella, with a sad smile.
"Oh, the tall one, with the clear open brow and gentle look," replied
the girl. "The other was so insolent and rude, I could have struck him
on the spot, if I had been a man."
Arabella shook her head sadly. "All do not judge as you do, Ida Mara,"
she replied. "Would that they did; the one who gave the offence has
escaped with a wound, which perhaps may be but a scratch; the other is
banished from the realm."
Ida clasped her hands vehemently over her eyes, exclaiming, "This is
man's justice!--When will it come to an end?"
Arabella cast herself into a chair, and mused for a minute or two. Her
tears flowed as she thought; but at length wiping them away, she said,
"Perhaps it is better. God knows how it would have ended.--Come, Ida
Mara, sit down here upon this stool beside me, and let me hear your
tale from your own lips. Sir Harry West has told me something of it;
but I would hear more."
The girl obeyed; and sitting down at her mistress's feet, and raising
her large Italian eyes to the lady's countenance, she told her little
history in plain and simple language, which carried the conviction of
truth along with it.
To that tale, as the reader knows it, we have little if anything to
add. She recounted how miserable she had been in her own home after
her mother's death, and her father's marriage to another wife; how she
felt even a sort of relief when he sold her to the old English
traveller; how she thought it would be a happy and a tranquil life
merely to sing as she had been accustomed, and to play upon her lute;
and how she soon found that it was full of sorrow, and insult, and
discomfort. She told the lady, too, that when her wanderings began,
the man Weston was accompanied by his wife, a very shrew, who ruled
him with a rod of iron, and whenever he proved the least refractory,
threatened to disclose some secrets of which she seemed to have gained
possession. This always had the effect of cowing him completely; but
his wife had died in London, the girl said, some two months before.
After this woman's death, whom Ida Mara represented as little less
wicked than her husband, he sought to take advantage of the poor
girl's unprotected state, not only for the gratification of his own
passions, but for the purposes of gain.
"I must not say," continued Ida Mara, "all that I think he wanted me
to do, for his words were dark and doubtful; but this I know, lady,
that, unless the misery of life was so great that I wished it speedily
to end, I would not eat of food which his hand had come near, nor
drink of a cup that had been within his reach, for the world."
Arabella smiled incredulously. "Those are your Italian notions," she
said; "we never hear of such things in England, Ida Mara. But now you
are safe from him, and may banish fear; and if you show yourself a
good girl, and are faithful to me, you shall never want a friend and a
protector as long as I live."
"I will love you to my last hour," replied Ida Mara, kissing her hand,
"and that good old knight too. He is the first man who ever showed me
kindness in the world,--real kindness, I mean,--kindness without
guile; and I would give my life to prove to him how grateful the poor
Italian girl can be."
"I am sure you would," replied Arabella; "but now leave me, Ida Mara;
and if you wish to behold the splendour of a Court, go down and stand
in the vestibule. You see, the King and Queen are going forth. There
stand the King's horses and her Majesty's coach, for their evening
airing. I am calmer now, Ida Mara; and I would fain have time to
think."
The girl accordingly left her; and Arabella continued leaning her head
upon her hand and gazing out of the window, without giving much note
to the objects which were passing before her eyes. The expression of
her countenance was sad, and yet it varied continually, without,
however, becoming, even for a moment, cheerful. A smile indeed crossed
it more than once; but that smile was so tinged with melancholy, that
it afforded no indication of the rise of one hope, of the existence of
one joy. The changes that passed over her beautiful face were merely
signs of the rapid movement of thought and fancy; but all her ideas
were gloomy, all her imaginations sad.
In the meanwhile, the Queen entered her carriage and drove away, the
King mounted his horse, and rode out, with almost all the gentlemen of
the Court. Arabella gazed upon the train as it departed, and murmured
to herself what she would not, knowingly, have spoken to the ears of
any one, "What a sad thing it is to be a tyrant! And yet it is less
dangerous to oneself, to one's realm, and to one's children, to be a
fierce tyrant like Harry the Eighth, than a weak and vain one like
this man.--They are very late this evening. It will be dark in an
hour;" and again she fell into thought.
The course of her meditations seemed now more sad than before, for the
tears rose in her bright eyes, and trembled amidst the dark lashes as
if they would run over. But just as she was wiping them away, there
was a slight noise at her chamber door; and, thinking it was one of
her maids, she said, "Come in," without turning her head.
The next instant she started up and looked round; for she knew the
step, and it was not that which she expected. She could not restrain
her feelings, however, in that hour of bitter sorrow; and in another
moment she was in Seymour's arms.
"Oh, William!" she cried, "how could you think of coming
here?--Suppose you were discovered, what would they think? what would
they say?"
"Nothing, nothing, my beloved," he replied; "you do not yet know all
the changes that our good Queen has brought into the court. She has
banished all those idle ceremonies and vain restraints with which
every movement was formerly shackled, and declares that she will have
all Italians sent out of England, lest they should introduce those
fanciful doubts and jealousies of the ladies of the land, which they
entertain towards their own women.[2] However, sweet Arabel, if there
had been lions and dragons at the door, I must have come. Do you think
that I could quit my native country, and leave you for months--perhaps
for years, without the sad solace of a farewell."
----------
[Footnote 2: She made use of very nearly the same expressions herself
to Cardinal Bentivoglio.]
----------
"Oh! but we shall have time," cried Arabella; "surely it will not be
so soon."
William Seymour shook his head. "Cecil is against me," he said,
"though I know not what offence I have given; and before he rode out
with the King, he came to me with a smooth face, telling me, that to
mitigate the expression of his Majesty's anger, and not to let it seem
that I was sent from my own country in disgrace, he had obtained the
King's consent to my being appointed to the nominal embassy at one of
the small Italian Courts, that of Parma, but only on condition that I
set out immediately. I am to leave Wilton this very night."
"This is cruel, indeed!" cried Arabella; and the tears ran rapidly
from her eyes, while William Seymour held both her hands in his, and
gazed upon that fair but sorrowful face with looks of love and deep
emotion.
"It is, indeed, cruel," he said, "and no less cruel than unjust. But
what can I do, Arabella?--I have no power to resist. If I refuse to
go, a thousand to one, I find my way into the Tower. Pretences are
never wanting in these days, and the liberty of Englishmen seems but
to have become an idle name. I care not, indeed, for quitting England.
Although it be the country of my birth, and of my love, it loses all
its charms for me, when I see security and right trampled under foot,
and the vain name of prerogative raised above law and justice. I care
not for quitting England; but to quit Arabella is anguish indeed. My
enemies do not know all that they inflict upon me, or they would
rejoice, even more than they do."
"Is there no way to prevent it?" exclaimed Arabella. "Will not your
grandfather interfere?"
"The King has not yet received him at the court," replied Seymour;
"and it was thought a great mark of grace that I was permitted to
attend upon him here at Wilton.--No, no, Arabella; there is but one
way of preventing our separation."
"Is there one?" cried Arabella, eagerly. "Oh! take it then, Seymour,
take it."
"Nay, it is you must take it, sweetest," he replied. "'Tis that
Arabella goes with me--that she flies with him she loves, from this
hated court. Nay, turn not pale, beloved, or I shall fear to urge all
the arguments which love has ready to persuade you. Here, seat you
here, dear Arabella, and listen. I know all that it is I ask of you. I
know the sacrifice, the great sacrifice that is required."
"It is not that, Seymour," she said, earnestly; "what sacrifice should
I think too great to make you happy, and to free myself from the state
of bondage in which I live?--But how, Seymour, how can we fly?"
continued Arabella, "the moment the Queen returns, most likely she
will send for me. Nothing is prepared. We should be caught, and
brought back again with shame."
"Oh! not to-night, dear one," replied William Seymour, "but if you
consent, the matter is quite easy. You will, you will, Arabella! The
joy of that hope nearly turns my brain. Say, say you will!"
Arabella bent down her glowing face upon his shoulder, but gave no
reply except by silence; and Seymour, drawing her closer to him,
strove to banish the doubts and fears which he knew would arise before
her imagination, at the thought of the rash enterprise he proposed.
"Listen, dearest, listen," he said, "and you will see it is all fair
and feasible. The Court goes to London in three days for the ceremony
of the coronation. As many persons will be left out of the procession,
on account of the plague, you must feign great apprehensions. They
will easily let you go back into Cambridgeshire to your aunt Emily's.
I, in the meantime, must hasten to London, where I will make
preparations; for I cannot go upon an embassy without some sort of
splendour. When all is ready, I will let you know; and sailing away
from London, will anchor my ship in the Thames' mouth, opposite the
small town of Leigh. An easy journey by Chelmsford will bring you near
the shore, where a boat shall be waiting for you night and day. Then
sailing away together, long ere any one knows that you have departed,
we shall be safe, beyond pursuit, and linked together for life by that
sweet and blessed bond which confirms and sanctifies the contract of
two hearts that love. Is not this easy, Arabella? Where is the
difficulty? Long ere the news can reach the capital, we shall be
across the sea; and my going from London alone will render it weeks,
perhaps months, a matter of doubt what has become of you. See you any
obstacle, dearest? Is there any danger?"
"I know not," answered Arabella, "I know not; and yet I doubt and
fear. But hark! They are come back again. There comes the Queen's
coach. Leave me, Seymour, leave me--oh, in pity, leave me!"
"Will you, then, dearest--will you?" he cried, hastily; "I cannot
leave you till you say you will."
"Yes, yes," she answered; "I will do anything to make you happy;" and
catching her to his bosom for a moment, he took one embrace, and left
her.
The agony of parting is with those that remain. The changing scene,
the hurry of preparation, the bustle of the journey, the incidents on
the road, the very excitement of action, are all causes of diversion
from sadder thoughts; and though every hour, nay, every moment,
Seymour's mind reverted to Arabella, the difference was, that through
the live-long day, she sat and dwelt upon no other image but his. Yet
her fancies were as chequered as the light and shade of the grim
foliage in the sunshine; and for many an hour, her thoughts wandered
first to dark pictures of danger, and difficulty, discovery, and
disappointment; and then, with trembling hope, glanced towards the
brighter scene, and she drew for herself airy sketches of escape, and
freedom, and love, and joy. But in all that her imagination called up,
Seymour was by her side, sharing the peril, and so rendering it doubly
terrible, or partaking the happiness, and making it more intensely
bright.