The reader does not require to be informed, that the aspect of London
in those days was very different from that which it shows at present.
The great fire had not yet swept away that foul nest of narrow streets
and tall houses, in which the plague lingered, almost as
pertinaciously as in the lanes of an Oriental city; nor had the
increasing population yet spread itself over the fields, or swallowed
up the villages, by which the great metropolis of England was
surrounded in former times, but which have been gradually covered with
the mansions of succeeding races of the fashionable world, and fringed
by the snug villas of commercial men, till the town is so gradually
blended with the country, that it is scarcely possible to say where
the one ends and the other begins.
Those large squares which have retained, in some instances to the
present day, the name of fields, were then fields indeed. Boys and
girls went a-Maying where balls and suppers are now held; and within
about a quarter of a mile of Lincoln's Inn, a small, tall-chimneyed
house, four stories high on one side, and two on another, with a round
tower of brick-work added to contain the staircase, which seemed to
have been forgotten in the original construction, rose in the midst of
a garden, very near the spot where gentlemen in curious wigs and black
gowns now hurry about to plead the cause of the rich, but not in
general of the poor, if they can help it.
At the garden gate of this house, in the beginning of August, a coach
stopped one day about three of the clock, and two ladies with the
usual masks on their faces descended, and walked with a quick pace
towards the door in the round tower. Before they reached it, however,
that door was opened by the small page whom we have seen accompanying
Master Weston, otherwise Doctor Foreman, and who, when at home, had
the office, which he performed most acutely, of looking through a
small loophole in the tower, to examine strictly all the personages
who approached the Doctor's house.
Without any question, the two ladies walked straight up stairs, and,
tapping at the door on the second floor, were answered by a voice from
within which bade them enter. The shorter and stouter immediately
lifted the latch, and then drew back, to suffer her taller and more
graceful companion to pass. The other lady did so, and, advancing
straight to the table, touched the worthy Doctor Foreman on the
shoulder, without, however, prevailing upon him to raise his head from
some strange and extraordinary figures, which he was tracing with a
pen upon a slip of parchment. His gay and glittering attire, as a
foreign cavalier, had now been cast aside, and he was robed in a black
gown trimmed with fur, having a small velvet cap upon his head. So
profoundly busy did he seem, that all he replied, when the Countess of
Essex touched him, was "Enter--enter, why do you not come in?"
"The man's mad," cried the Countess.
"No, no," replied Mrs. Turner; "does not your Ladyship see that he is
abstracted? You must let him finish what he is about; your own fate
may depend upon it, for aught you know."
With this warning the Countess stood silent; but her impatient spirit
still moved her to keep beating the ground with her small foot, till
at length Doctor Foreman exclaimed, as he drew two more new figures at
the bottom of the vellum--"Gimmel, Alsaneth;" and then looked round,
as if in surprise to see any one in the room but himself. As soon as
he perceived--or appeared to perceive--the Countess, he started up,
exclaiming, "Bless me, beautiful Lady! I beg your Ladyship's pardon.
Pray be seated. What is the news with you? 'Tis long since I have had
the honour of seeing you. Has all gone according to your wish?"
"Good faith, no: much to the contrary," replied the Countess, seating
herself, and taking off her mask;--and here it is to be remarked that
a great change had come over her, in her demeanour to the respectable
Doctor Foreman, since first she was introduced to that worthy and
scientific person. She had now seen him several times; all shame and
reserve had been cast off; her criminal love and its object were fully
avowed; and, entangled in the snares of the impostor and his
unprincipled associate, she was ready to engage in any rash act,
however disgraceful, to accomplish her dark and vicious purposes. Nor
let the reader for one moment doubt the truth of these assertions; let
him not, filled with the notions and enlightened by the knowledge of
the present day, ask himself if it be possible that a lady, of the
highest rank and education of the time, could be the dupe of such a
charlatan, and so low and infamous a woman? Let him not suppose that
the tale is invented or embellished by the writer; for it is
absolutely true, and stands based upon the evidence given before a
court of justice. There may be, indeed, particulars still more gross
than any here detailed--views still more wicked--follies still more
flagrant--for much must be suppressed that would offend a pure and
delicate mind--but let it be remembered that all these scenes are
rather undercoloured than overcharged.
"I thought at one time, indeed," continued the Countess, "that your
art was having its effect, for I met him at Theobalds, and, for the
first time, saw something like the light of love in his eyes. But all
has gone wrong since I returned to London. My father insists that I
shall go home to that hateful wretch, to whom I am tied by such cruel
bonds; and, if I do so, I shall die of grief and despair."
"Madam," said the Doctor, "I grieve for you deeply, but it is not in
my power to control destiny. All that I told you was, that by the use
of certain powders and drugs, such as William Shakespeare speaks of in
the Midsummer Night's Dream, where he says--
'The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,
Will make a man or woman madly doat
Upon the next live creature that it sees;'
I can change hate or indifference into love, and love into hate, so
that he who now cares nought for you, may soon be at your feet; and he
who now loves you, may soon be as cold as ice."
"Then give me some--give me some of the latter," she cried, eagerly,
"that I may mix it with all the food of this half-husband of mine,
that he may learn to detest me as I detest him. Would he but consent,
the iron bond between us might soon be broken; but I cannot take the
ways that other women would to win my purpose. If I persuade and
soothe, it will but waken his love the more."
"No, no," said Foreman, "you must not do that!--You must repel him
coldly--show your dislike--look as if you loathed his sight."
"That were no great effort," cried the Countess; "it is my daily food
to hate him.--But hark! there is a noise. Look out, Turner, look out."
"Half-a-dozen gentlemen, as I live," exclaimed Mrs. Turner, "coming
straight along the path towards the house too.--I do believe they are
gentlemen of my Lord of Suffolk, your noble father, lady.--Yes, there
is Sir John Walters, as I live! Have you no hiding place, Doctor?"
"'Twere useless--'twere useless," answered the Countess, with a look
of disdain; "the coach is at the gate; and I am not a baby, to be
frightened at the look of my father's gentlemen. Come, quick, sirrah,
give me some of that powder of hate you talk of."
"We weigh it, madam," said Foreman, hesitating, "at the rate of one
gold noble per grain, but a small portion goes a great way."
"There, give me plenty," she cried, throwing a purse upon the table;
and Foreman, taking it up, hurried to a little cabinet at the side,
and took out several small packets.
At the same instant, the impostor's boy knocked at the door of the
room; and the Countess exclaimed boldly, "Come in."
"There be six gentlemen at the door," he said, "inquiring if the
Countess of Essex be here?"
"Tell them she is," replied the Countess, "and if they want her, they
must wait her pleasure below.--Come, sir, is that ready?"
"It is, madam," said the Doctor, giving her the powders.
"Ha!" exclaimed she, gazing at them with a triumphant smile, "if these
will make him hate me, he shall soon have them all, though it drove
him well nigh to murder me. Oh! if I could but make him strike me!
Now, sir, to you I must leave the task of working upon Lord Rochester;
he is now in London, and you can easily find means----"
"Fear not, madam, fear not," replied the impostor, who heard a heavy
step upon the stairs; and, to say the truth, was anxious to get rid of
his fair guest, for fear of inquiries not the most profitable to him.
"Fear not, madam; I will so manage it, that----"
"The gentlemen will come up!" cried the boy, thrusting in his head.
The moment after, he was pushed aside; and a stout middle-aged man
entered, on whom the bright eyes of the Countess flashed living fire.
"How dare you, Sir John Walters," she exclaimed, "intrude upon me in
this manner?"
"I have your father's orders, my Lady," replied Sir John, "to bring
you to him directly. He has something of importance to communicate."
"Well, sir," said the Countess, "I suppose I must obey; but be you
sure that I will soon break through this tutelage;" and, passing him
with a look of angry disdain, she descended the stairs, walked through
the midst of the gentlemen at the door, without noticing any of them,
and entered her coach.
The vehicle was driven immediately to the house of the Earl of
Suffolk; and an angry spot was still upon the cheek of the fair
Countess when she entered her father's gates. Fear and timidity were
not in her nature; and she walked at once to the room where she
expected to find him. She was surprised, however, and somewhat
dismayed, it must be confessed, not only to behold her two parents,
but her sister and the Earl of Essex. Her mother was in tears, and her
father's brow stern and dark, while her husband stood with his arms
folded on his chest, looking sad, rather than out of temper.
Passing him by, without the slightest notice, Lady Essex advanced
straight towards her father, saying, "You sent for me, sir?"
"I did, Frances," he replied; "it was to let you know my will. Here
stands your husband, madam, to whose house you have refused to go, on
one pretence or another, ever since he returned to England to claim
you as his bride. I beseech you, my child, in courteous decency, to
give your hand to this noble gentleman, and let him lead you
home;--for this is your home no longer."
"I dare say, my Lord," replied the Countess, unabashed, "that I could
find another without troubling him."
"You see," cried her father,--"bear witness all, that no remonstrance
or parental solicitation has any effect! Now, madam, hear! The coach,
which is to convey you with your husband to his seat of Chartley, is
at the door: your wardrobe is packed up to follow. From this room you
go to that conveyance.--Nay, not a word; for if you walk not soberly,
you shall be compelled; and down to Chartley with what grace you may.
I trust that, ere I see your face again, a change will be wrought in
your heart, and that I shall be enabled to welcome back the daughter
gladly, whom I now part with in displeasure."
Lady Essex made a great effort to speak; but it was in vain; and she
burst into a passionate flood of tears.
"Come, lady," said Lord Essex, in a gentle tone, taking her hand,
"believe me, I will do all that man can do to win your love, and to
secure your happiness."
"You can do neither, sir!" replied the Countess; "but I am your slave,
it seems. Have you no chains ready? Let us go!" and, without bidding
adieu to any one, she walked straight to the door.
We will pass over the journey to Chartley, the cold hatred with which
she repelled her husband's love by the way, and the first week of
their sojourn at that beautiful seat.
It was on the evening of a bright day in the same month, while the
whole world was looking gay and cheerful without, that the Earl
entered his wife's drawing-room, where all was dark and gloomy. The
windows were closed, the curtains drawn; for she had never suffered
them to be opened since her arrival. A single lamp stood upon the
table; and by its faint light the Countess sat and wept. She raised
neither her head nor her eyes when the step of her husband sounded in
the chamber, but continued fixed and motionless, like a beautiful
statue representing angry grief. Lord Essex drew a seat to the other
side of the table, and, sitting down, gazed at her for a moment or two
in silence.
"Dry your tears, madam," he said at length.
"That is at least a privilege you cannot take from me, sir," she
replied. "When in my childhood, now six years ago, I took a vow I did
not understand, I never promised not to weep."
"Dry your tears, I say, madam!" he rejoined, in a tone both of
sternness and sadness; "for the cause of their flowing is about to be
removed."
The Countess started, and looked up.
"I will claim your attention for a moment," he continued; "and you
shall hear the result of some consideration. You and I were married at
an early age, as the custom is----"
"It is a bad one," said the Countess. "Go on."
"But if you were not capable," continued her husband, "of loving and
esteeming at that age, I was; and I returned to England to claim you,
full of affection, which, as you may suppose, was not diminished when
I saw your beauty. I have now been here nearly two months; and I have
tried, by every means within man's power, to win you to return the
attachment I have felt. The effort has proved vain. I have learned to
know that you are unworthy of my love; that, instead of that fair form
containing a heart and mind as soft and beautiful as your looks, there
is nothing within but a proud, angry spirit--selfish, and cold, and
fierce;--a loathsome thing, that makes the glittering casket in which
it is enshrined all poor and valueless. I therefore cast you off,
madam; or, as you will term it, set you free to go whithersoever you
will--to do whatsoever you please. Your uncle, of Northampton, will
receive you, for my good Lord, your father, will not. From me you
shall enjoy such an income as may befit the Countess of Essex. I give
it in honour of my own name, and trust--but faintly--that you will
never disgrace it. To-morrow, at daybreak, your equipage will be at
the door to convey you back to London. You came down hither with me
against your will; but, if I were to go back again with you, it would
be against my own."
"Oh, joy, joy!" cried the Countess, starting up and clasping her
hands. "I am a slave no longer!"
Her husband gave her one look of scorn and reprobation, and quitted
the room.