It may be doubted whether Arabella Stuart would have played her part
well, in feigning apprehensions that she did not experience, regarding
the plague which was then raging in London; for by nature she was not
a dissembler, and the very quickness of her feelings and of her
imagination would have made her fearful at every turn lest the deceit
should be discovered. But luckily she was saved the trouble of
assuming anything. The agitation and apprehensions that she felt
whenever her mind turned to the fulfilment of her promise to Mr.
Seymour; the emotion, the anxiety, the fear, could not be concealed
from the eyes of those who surrounded her; but, as she had shared her
secret with no one, the principal persons of the Court, as well as the
Queen herself, attributed the whole to terror at the idea of the
plague, and Anne of Denmark was the first to propose that she should
take no part at the coronation.
Arabella gladly caught at the offer, and asked the royal permission to
cross the country into Cambridgeshire, and to take up her residence at
the house where she had lately spent much of her time, till the
coronation was over, and the Court once more in an uninfected place.
Permission was readily given; and, as it was evident to the Queen that
her young cousin's health had somewhat suffered, one of the royal
coaches was appointed to convey her to the place of her destination.
All these arrangements were made on the day preceding the removal of
the Court to London; and Arabella retired to her chamber to meditate
upon her future plans.
"In whom shall I confide?" she thought; "my girl Marian, though
faithful and true, is herself about to wed the man of her choice;
doubtless she would go with me if I asked her, but it were cruel to
put her attachment towards me to such a test. Ida Mara?" she
continued; "I think the girl is honest and good--I am sure she is;
there is something in her manner, and even in her look, that cannot
deceive one. Yet I have known her but a short time. She has no tie to
me, and perhaps it were rash to trust her. Nevertheless, I must either
tell Marian my secret, or send her home. She is jealous of the Italian
girl, that is clear; and perhaps it were better to leave her by the
way, at her own parents' house, as she is to become a wife, it seems,
in three weeks. Then I must see what can be done. I will watch Ida
Mara keenly. My old and faithful servant Adams I can trust, at all
events--he will go with me to the death. But I must conceal my plans
from Emily Cavendish--she is too light and giddy to be confided in,
though she would not injure me for the world."
The morning was somewhat dull and showery when the Lady Arabella, with
her two maids, entered the coach which was to convey them into
Cambridgeshire. To Marian she had already communicated her purpose of
leaving her at her father's house as they passed, and had, according
to the good old custom, added to the girl's dower as large a marriage
present as her own somewhat scantily furnished purse could afford.
"As we go, Ida Mara," she said, "we will stop for one night at good
Sir Harry West's, if he be yet returned, so that you may see your
friend and benefactor; and if he be not returned as yet, he will
doubtless soon come over to see us when he does come back."
As Arabella expected, the poor girl's eyes were instantly lighted up
with joy; and, in her eager Italian manner, she declared that she
would go down upon her knees to him, and kiss his hand a thousand
times, for having befriended her in the hour of need, and placed her
with a lady whom she could love so well. The girl Marian listened with
somewhat of a curling lip; and, though she did not venture to make any
comment aloud, in her heart she called the poor Italian's warm
expressions of gratitude and attachment "nothing but flattery and
servility."
It was about five o'clock on the evening of the following day that,
after having deposited the girl Marian safely at her father's house,
the carriage containing Arabella wound up the little road which led to
the mansion of Sir Harry West. Passing by the garden gate, it
proceeded to the great doors; and there the bell was rung; but for
some minutes no one came to answer its summons. At length old Lakyn
and another man appeared, and if Arabella had remarked their faces,
she would have seen that both were somewhat grave. But she took no
heed to their looks, and merely said, "Sir Harry has returned, I
suppose. Is he within?"
"Yes, lady," replied Lakyn, "he is within. He has not been out all
day; for he feels somewhat unwell."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Arabella, in a grieved tone. "Is he in bed?"
"No, my lady, he is in the hall," answered Lakyn.
"Oh, then, I will go and try to cheer him," replied the lady. "Come,
Ida Mara, it will do him good to hear that you are happy with me;" and
stepping out of the carriage, followed by the girl, with a light step,
she walked quickly along the passage before the servants, and opened
the door of the old hall.
Though it was the month of July, a large fire was blazing in the
chimney; and seated beside it, with his head resting on his hand,
appeared Sir Harry West, wrapped in a large cloak of sables. His face
was very pale, and his eyes bright and fiery, with a dark line beneath
them. The heaviness of severe sickness was evidently upon him; but the
moment the Lady Arabella appeared, he started up and took a step or
two towards her, then paused and said, "Lakyn, you should not have
done this. Dear lady, I am ill!--Do not come too near. It may be
infectious."
"Oh, I am not afraid," replied Arabella, advancing and taking his
hand, which felt dry and burning. "What is the matter, dear Sir
Harry?" she continued; "we have come to comfort and console you."
"Nay, nay," cried the knight, drawing his hand quickly away, and
retreating a step: "I cannot have you stay here, dear lady. Through a
long life I have never felt as I feel now; and I fear that this may be
even worse than it seems. You must go on with all speed; and stop not
at the village; the landlord of the inn is lying sick--of the plague,
they tell me. I saw him the day before yesterday, and he was then past
hope."
"He is dead, sir," said Lakyn, who had lingered at the door; "I wish
to Heaven you would take some antidote!"
"I will, I will," replied Sir Harry West; "but you must hurry away,
lady. I will not have you stay a minute longer. They say the disease
is not so infectious till the spots appear. Of that, I am still free,
thank God, for your sake; but you must away at once. I beseech you,
not another word."
Arabella turned towards the door; but ere she reached it, Ida Mara
caught her hand and kissed it, saying, "I must stay with him,
lady!--He was the first that ever befriended me on earth.--I cannot, I
cannot leave him!"
"Good girl!" cried Arabella.
"She must not stay--she shall not!" exclaimed Sir Harry West. "I
beseech you, madam, take her with you."
But Ida Mara darted back, and kneeling before him, cast her arms round
him, exclaiming, "Here I will stay! Now send me with her if you will,
to carry the infection with me."
"Ah! my poor girl," exclaimed the old man, putting his hand upon her
head, while the tears rose in his eyes, "you know not what you do."
"I do--I do!" cried Ida Mara, kissing his hand; "for whom could I give
my life so well as you?--But God will protect me, never fear; and I
will save you, too."
"Well, lady," said Sir Harry West, sinking into his chair again, "I
suppose, if you will consent, she _must_ stay now; but I do beseech
you go yourself as quickly as may be--God send it be not too late
already. Go, pray go----"
"I will," said Arabella; "and may Heaven protect and restore you, Sir
Harry. I will go, though I do feel that this poor girl's devotion is
almost a reproach to me. However, fare you well; I fear I ought not to
risk my life, although Heaven knows I wish it were at an end."
Thus saying, she retired and re-entered the carriage, which was soon
turned, and on its way to the house of the Lady Emily Cavendish. After
driving on for an hour or two, night fell, and Arabella, alone in the
vehicle, gave herself up to melancholy thoughts.
"This is a dreadful disease," she said to herself--"a dreadful
disease, indeed; so fierce in its nature, that few who approach the
sick escape the contagion, and few who are once stricken ever cast off
the malady. It is so easily conveyed too--I wonder if Emily will
receive me. It is hardly right to carry the danger to her house,--with
all her children too,--and I know she dreads it terribly. I may have
it upon me at this moment;" and she asked herself, what if it were so?
Her frame was weakened, her spirits depressed by all the grief and
anxiety she had lately gone through; and care, and apprehension took
possession of her entirely, as the carriage rolled slowly on, through
the darkness of the night. The horses were tired, the coachman
somewhat sullen at being disappointed of his expected place of repose,
so that the journey was rendered longer in point of time than it
needed to have been, by the dulness of both man and beast. Arabella
grew impatient, anxious, heated, her head began to ache violently, her
lips grew dry; and again she asked herself, "What, if I have caught
the disease?"
At length, at the little village of St. Neot's, the coachman stopped
at the door of a clean looking little inn, saying that he must water
his horses, though the mansion towards which their steps were
directed, was now within five miles. Arabella, descending from the
vehicle, entered the house; and being known to the people of the
place, she was received with all the reverence due to her station.
"Bless me, madam," said the landlady, as she led her to her chamber up
stairs, "you do not look well!"
"I am fatigued," replied Arabella, "and have so violent a headache,
that I think I shall stay here for the night. Pray call my servant,
Adams, to me, and bid him bring the paper-case which lies upon the
seat of the carriage."
As soon as the man appeared, Arabella told him, that she had
determined to remain there the night, but that he must ride on with a
note to Lady Emily, and bring her back an answer. She then, in a few
brief lines, explained to her cousin that she had been in a house
where she feared there was a case of plague, and that not feeling
well, she had stopped at the inn at St. Neot's to see what would be
the result. She begged her, moreover, to send her back by the
messenger any letters that might be waiting for her, and then gave the
note to the man, telling him to use all speed and return.
When he was gone, the landlady, with officious care, bustled about to
provide for the comfort of her distinguished guest; but Arabella sat
silent at the table, with her temples throbbing, and her heart faint.
All she asked for was citron juice and water to quench her thirst; and
at length the good hostess, beginning to feel alarmed, ran down to her
husband, to tell him that the young lady looked very ill, and that she
should not wonder if she had got the plague.
At the end of as short a space of time as it was possible to make the
journey and return in, Arabella's servant came back, and, entering the
room, gazed anxiously upon his fair mistress's countenance, while he
said, "Here is this letter from the Lady Emily, madam, but I found a
messenger waiting at the house, who would deliver his packet to none
but yourself. He has come hither with me; but I fear you are not well
enough to see him."
"Let him come up--let him come up," cried Arabella, eagerly, and
before she had finished reading the few wild and apprehensive lines of
her cousin, the stranger was in the room.
"I have charge to deliver this letter, madam, into your own hands," he
said, "and to receive your answer."
Arabella took the packet and looked at the address. It was in the
handwriting of William Seymour, and eagerly tearing it open, she read,
"I am driven to set out from London," he wrote, "two days before I
intended; for if I stay even till Wednesday, I shall have the company
of Sir George Carew forced upon me, and all our hopes are at an end.
The ship will lie off Leigh all day to-morrow, and all the following
night. Come then, my beloved, come with all speed, and give me back
the happiness that I have not known since I left you."
Arabella pressed her hand tightly upon her brow, and gazed wildly into
vacancy. Every wish of her heart induced her to fly to him. The very
despairing feeling of being alone, sick, and perhaps stricken by the
pestilence, made her heart yearn to seek the arms of him who loved
her, and find shelter, and comfort, and gentle tendance there. "But,"
she asked herself, "shall I take it to him I love? Shall I carry
disease and death to one for whom I would willingly sacrifice my own
life? Shall any selfish longing for the blessing of his presence,
induce me to destroy him? Oh, no, no!"
"If you will wait below for a moment," she said, addressing the
messenger, as soon as she could collect her thoughts, "I will write an
answer;" and, seating herself at the table, she drew the writing
materials towards her. Her brain whirled, her heart felt faint, she
feared that she would never be able to accomplish the task; but
dipping the pen in the ink, she proceeded with a hurried and unsteady
hand.
"I cannot come," she said; "otherwise nothing should induce me to
break my promise, however rash that promise might be. But I cannot
come, for I am ill, and unequal to the journey. Even did I feel
strength enough to undertake it, I could not bear to join you; for I
have been in a house infected by the plague; and, although I will not
deny that to see you would be the greatest blessing on earth, yet I
would not purchase even that blessing, at the risk of carrying the
pestilence to you. Go on your way then, William, and may God bless and
prosper you. I will not tell you to forget me; I will not tell you to
remember me. Do as your heart dictates; but believe me, in life or in
death, yours, Arabella."
After she had done, she gazed at the letter for a moment, and then
said to herself,
"It will alarm him--perhaps it will make him come here, and that would
be his ruin;" and, taking the pen again, she added, "Though I feel
very ill, I do not think it is the plague. I am sure, indeed, it is
not--there has not yet been time. Heaven bless you. Adieu!" and
bending her head over the letter, she let the tears which were in her
eyes drop upon the page. Then folding and sealing it, she called the
man who had brought it, and putting some money into his hand, bid him
make all speed.
Without delay, he set off upon his errand, and, riding all night,
reached, early the next morning, the little port of Leigh, off which
the ship that bore William Seymour had been moored on the preceding
evening. The ship's boat was at the shore, and the messenger, entering
it without delay, was soon rowed to the vessel, where, in the cabin,
waiting for him alone, he found his young master.
"The lady is very ill, sir," he said, in a low voice; "she looked very
ill, indeed."
"Ill!" exclaimed her lover, with a look full of grief and
disappointment. "Good Heaven, how unfortunate!" and taking the letter,
he opened it and read it. The colour left his cheek, as he did so, and
his hand shook with agitation. "I cannot go," he cried, "I cannot go
and leave her.--Hark you, Williams, hark you! Quick, pack up some
things in the saddlebags.--Can I get a horse at Leigh?"
"None but the one that brought me, sir," replied the man; "and that is
well nigh knocked up.--We have no saddle-bags with us, sir."
"Row on shore, then," said his master. "Do the best you can to refresh
your horse, and send back the boat for me. I will join you in a couple
of hours. By that time he will be able to go on."
The man shook his head. "Part of the way, at least, till I can get
another," added the young gentleman; "he must--he shall."
The man knew it was useless to argue, and retiring from the cabin,
mounted the ladder to the deck.
William Seymour pressed his lips upon the letter again and again. "She
was weeping when she wrote it," he said, gazing at the blotted page.
"Dear girl, I will see thee, if it be for an hour."
But scarcely had the words passed his lips, when, through the little
window in the stern, he saw one of the gilded barges of the day come
rushing along with full wind and tide; and the next moment a good deal
of shouting and noise was heard above. An instant after, his servant
ran down, and closing the door behind him, said, "Sir George Carew is
alongside, sir, asking if this is your vessel."
"Curses upon him!" cried Seymour, striking the table. "But it is not
his fault, either.--It is impossible now;" and folding up the letter,
he placed it in his bosom, while a number of voices were heard talking
upon deck, and some steps descending the ladder.
"Stay, Williams, stay," he said; "I must write an answer to this,
which you must bear back again. If you can see the lady, tell her what
has happened. Tell her I was coming to see her, but,"--the door opened
as he spoke, and he added, in an altered tone,--"then join me at
Brussels with all speed.--Ah, Carew! so you have caught me."
"Yes, Seymour," replied Sir George, shaking him by the hand; "it was
very kind of you to lay to for me all night."
"Nay," answered the young gentleman, "I cannot take credit for such
courtesy. I wished much to have news of a friend who is very ill."
"Some fair lady, I will swear," replied Sir George Carew. "God send
her better, Seymour; and now, as soon as my packages are in, I am
ready to sail; for the King's commands are strict upon both you and me
to lose no time."
"I must write a letter first," said William Seymour; "then I am
yours."
The letter was written, and the servant having received it, returned
to Leigh, well furnished with money for his journey. As soon as his
horse was in condition to travel, he once more set out for St. Neot's,
which he reached about ten o'clock on the following morning. It was
not without some apprehensions, to say the truth, that he asked for
the Lady Arabella, for the suspicions which had been entertained
regarding the plague had reached his ears on his former visit. The
countenance of the hostess, however, was more cheerful, and the usual
bustle of the inn was going on in full activity.
"She has got the doctors from Cambridge with her," replied the
landlady, "and I doubt that she will see you, master, for she is to be
kept very quiet they say."
"But how goes it with her?" asked the man. "Is it as you fancied?"
"No, no, God forbid!" cried the landlady, "they say she has had poison,
but not enough to kill, and she is somewhat better already."