In the times of our Sovereign Lord, His Sacred Majesty King James I.,
of happy memory, that peculiar district of the world called Lambeth
was in a very different state and condition from that in which it is
beheld now-a-days. It was not then a close, thronged, noisy, and
somewhat turbulent parish, a borough in itself, sending members to
Parliament, and having vast objections to church-rates; but it was
actually almost a rural district, with an Archbishop's palace and
church, a few houses gathered in the episcopal neighbourhood, and
several fine old mansions, with their gardens extending down to the
water, occupying the whole bank of the river opposite to Westminster
and the Strand. Where now stand patent shot manufactories, and wharfs
and warehouses, were then smooth, green, shaven lawns, and tall trees,
and wildernesses, and terraces,--and the aspect of the whole place, as
far as the different style of architecture and gardening would permit,
was much more like Richmond, without its hill, than the famous borough
of Lambeth.
One of these houses, at a considerable distance from the archbishop's
palace, was remarkable for its beautiful gardens, and for its broad
terrace, edging the river, and overhung by tall trees. A flint wall,
with a lane on one side, and the grounds of another house on the
other, surrounded these gardens and shut them out from the vulgar,
leaving them only open to the view of those who passed upon the water,
on which side it was not more than three feet high. To the river,
there was a private stair for boats to land visitors; defended,
however, from intrusion by an iron gate as high as the terrace-wall;
and possessing a large bell, which, from time to time, gave notice of
applications for admission.
About five o'clock in the evening of a day towards the end of
September, a wherry, rowed by a single man, and containing no freight
but himself, glided close under the embankment of the terrace, it
being then high water; and there the rower paused for a moment or two
on his oars, looking into the grounds above, as if very much admiring
their trim propriety. After that short pause he rowed on again, and
his inquisitiveness passed unnoticed by any one, as the gardens were
vacant.
In about a quarter of an hour, however, the same boat and the same man
re-appeared; but this time he did not pause, for there were three
persons upon the terrace; a young lady of graceful and noble mien,
walking a step in advance; an elderly, stately dame, talking to her at
her shoulder; and a fair girl, with large bright eyes, and dark black
hair, dressed in the simple, but lady-like apparel, which, in those
days of splendid costume, generally denoted the waiting gentlewoman,
coming a pace or two behind, with an air of sadness, and her look bent
down upon the ground.
The rower, as we have said, pulled on; and about ten minutes after he
was gone, the young lady whom we have mentioned turned towards the
house, saying, "I shall go in, madam. Dear Ida," she continued, "you
can stay if you like; for you have been kept in all the morning and
want air."
"Not if I can help' you, dear Lady," replied Ida Mara, "or sing to
you, or amuse you. The best air I can have is your own looks, when you
are happy."
"That cannot be now," replied the Lady Arabella; "but I am going to
write to the King; so that I shall not want you for the next hour."
The girl bent her head, and remained upon the terrace; and the two
ladies returned through the trees to the house.
Ida Mara took one or two turns, pausing from time to time to gaze upon
the different boats, which, with sails or oars, as the wind favoured
them, skimmed fast over the shining surface of the water. In a minute
or two, the wherry we have mentioned cut across from the stairs at
Westminster, and passed close under the terrace, the man who was in it
raising his head as far as possible, and examining the fair Italian
with apparently curious eyes.
He went on some hundred yards beyond the garden wall, but then turned,
and suffered his boat to drop slowly down, the tide just beginning to
ebb, till it came opposite the centre of the gardens, where he
stopped, turning the head of the boat to the stream, and, like a trout
at the tail of a ripple, keeping himself from being carried further on
by a scarcely perceptible stroke of the oars.
In a minute after, Ida passed the spot in her walk; and the boatman
exclaimed, "Hist! hist!"
She started, and looked down upon him; but he was a man of middle age,
with his hair somewhat grey; and though he was dressed as a common
waterman, there was something distinguished in his appearance which
belied his apparel.
"What are your wishes, sir?' said Ida Mara, approaching the edge of
the terrace.
"Is this Sir Alexander Marchmont's house?" asked the man.
"No," replied Ida Mara; "it is Sir Thomas Parry's."
"Then this is where the Lady Arabella Stuart is confined," rejoined
the waterman.
"The Lady Arabella Seymour is here," replied Ida Mara. "Not exactly as
a prisoner, though by the King's order."
"You have a foreign accent," said the man; "methinks it sounds like
Italian."
"It may well do so," replied the girl; and was about to turn away; but
the rower asked immediately, "Is your name Ida Mara?"
She started, and replied "Yes; who are you?"
"A most unfortunate man," he answered; "but one devoted to your Lady,
who has never forgot an act of generosity by which she saved his life.
Tell her I have seen her husband, in the Tower, that he is well, and
as happy as he can be, absent from her. Add that he is under scarce
any restraint, can even go out within certain limits; and that I have
promised him to bring her a letter from him tomorrow, if she will be
here at his hour."
"Stay, stay," said Ida; "I will go tell the lady, if you will wait but
a moment."
"Nay, I will return in a quarter of an hour," replied the man. "I may
be discovered if I stay too long."
"What name shall I give the Lady Arabella," asked Ida Mara, "in case
she should wish to trust you with a billet?"
The man paused and seemed to hesitate, but then replied, "My name is
Markham, once Sir Griffin Markham. But tell her I have no schemes or
conspiracies on foot. I have done with those things for ever, and only
wish to serve her, and show her my gratitude before I die."
In about ten minutes after, Ida Mara was again walking on the terrace;
and before long, the boat once more shot over from the other side.
"Here is a note," she said; "here is a note. The lady gives you her
best thanks. Will you be back to-morrow?"
"I will," replied the man, bringing his boat as close up to the
terrace as he could. "Now, throw it over."
Ida, with a slight wave of her hand, tossed the note into the wherry;
and Markham then said, "It might be, that even if your lady or
yourself were here to-morrow when I come, it would be dangerous to
throw you the letter. You must give me some sign, if there be any
watchful eyes upon you. What shall it be?"
"If there be any risk," replied Ida Mara at once, "you will find me
singing. Whenever you find us silent, you may speak in safety.
"Enough, enough!" replied Markham, and rowed away.
Without landing at Westminster, as before, he directed his boat
straight towards the Tower Stairs; and leaving it with the waterman
from whom it had been hired, he hurried on through several lanes and
turnings, to a small lodging, amongst the manifold alleys by which
that part of London was intersected. He there put on a livery coat,
with the badge of the House of Seymour upon it, and making a small
bundle of three or four books and some writing materials, he once more
set out, and approached the Tower.
No opposition was made to his entrance, and he was permitted to
proceed to the very foot of the Tower where Seymour was lodged--for we
can scarcely call it confined, as, at this period of his imprisonment,
the restraint to which he was subjected was very slight. There,
however, he met the Deputy of the Lieutenant, who stopped him, asking,
"What have you got there?"
"Some books and paper, sir," replied Markham, "for Mr. Seymour."
"Let me see, let me see," said the officer; and the pretended servant
instantly untied, the handkerchief, and displayed the contents for
inspection.
The Deputy examined each article one by one, and finding nothing to
excite suspicion, he said, "You may go on."
When Markham entered the apartments of the prisoner, however, Seymour
was not alone. A gentleman in a clerical habit was sitting with him,
but rose almost immediately to take his leave.
"We may feel for each other, reverend sir," said William Seymour,
"though the cause of our imprisonment is so different. It is in both
cases most unjust."
"Nay," answered Melvin, the famous Nonconformist minister, with a
melancholy smile, "the cause is not so different as it seems." And
taking a pen, he wrote upon a slip of paper, which lay upon the table
the following quaint lines:--
"Communis tecum mihi causa est carceris.
Arabella tibi causa est; araque sacra mihi."
Seymour smiled, and shook his hand, saying, "May we both be able to
defend the altar that we love!" And bidding him adieu, Melvin left the
room.
"Have you seen her?" demanded William Seymour, eagerly, grasping
Markham's hand, as soon as his companion in captivity was gone.
"I have seen her," replied the other, "but have not been able to speak
with her. The woman Parry was with her. I afterwards saw her Italian
gentlewoman," he added, marking a look of disappointment that came
over Seymour's countenance, "and have brought you comfort, at all
events."
Thus saying, he took the note which he had received out of his pocket,
and placed it in the prisoner's hands. Seymour read it twice, and
pressed his lips upon it eagerly. "This is comfort indeed," he said.
"Stay, Markham, I will add a word or two to the letter I have written.
How can I ever thank you for what you have done for us?"
"How can I ever thank her," replied Markham, "for having refrained,
when a word from her lips would have sent me to the scaffold? My life
trembled in the balance! As it was, a grain more would have weighed
down the scale."
Seymour did as he proposed, and then handed the letter to his
companion. "Stay," he said, thoughtfully; "stay--were it not well for
you to tell that good girl, Ida Mara, who is truth and devotion
itself, where you are to be found, in case of need? The King may not
always leave my Arabella where she now is. In his caprices, he may
remove her suddenly to some other abode; and if Ida knew where to find
you, she might give you such intimations as are most needful."
"I will tell her," answered Markham, "if you think she can be fully
trusted.--But remember, Mr. Seymour, my own life is at stake if I am
found here. I came but to collect some small means together, and
return to the continent with all speed."
"You must not do for me anything you think rash," replied Seymour;
"but, for my own part, the dearest thing I had on earth I would trust
to that girl without a fear."
"So be it, then," answered Markham; and the next day, at the hour
appointed, he carried the letter to the terrace below Sir Thomas
Parry's house.
Arabella and Ida Mara were there alone, and as he approached they were
perfectly silent; but he had remarked a boat which followed him all
the way up the river, at the distance of some two or three hundred
yards; and merely saying, in a voice loud enough for them to hear,
"In an hour I will be back," he tossed the letter lightly on the
terrace and rowed on.
When he returned, he found the fair Italian there alone; and it being
by this time twilight, he paused to hold some conversation with her,
informing her where and how she was to find him, in case of need,
under his assumed name. On this occasion, as the night before, Ida
threw a note for her lady's husband into the boat; and during ten days
a constant communication between Seymour and Arabella was kept up by
the same means.
At length, one evening, the moment he came near, Ida Mara, who was
sitting beside her mistress, on one of the benches with which the
terrace was furnished, raised her rich melodious voice and began to
sing.
SONG.
"Row on, row on! Another day
May shine with brighter light;
Ply, ply the oars, and pull away,
Thou must not come to-night.
Clouds are upon the summer sky,
There's thunder on the wind;
Pull on, pull on, and homeward hie;
Nor give one look behind!
Bear where thou go'st the words of love;
Say all that words can say,
Changeless affection's strength to prove;
But speed upon the way.
Oh! like yon river could I glide,
To where my heart would be,
My bark should soon outsail the tide,
That hurries to the sea.
But yet a star shines constant still,
Through yonder cloudy sky,
And hopes as bright my bosom fill,
From faith that cannot die!
Row on, then, row! God speed thy way!
Thou must not linger here;
Storms hang about the closing day;
To-morrow may be clear."
The boat glided on; and that day Markham had no good news to carry
back to William Seymour; for though he rowed more than once past the
gardens, neither Arabella nor Ida Mara were on the terrace. When he
returned to the Tower, some difficulty was made in admitting him; and
the moment he entered the prisoner's room, when he had obtained
permission to see his master, as he called him, Seymour exclaimed,
"You have bad tidings, Markham; I am prepared to hear them."
"I have no tidings at all," was the reply. "The lady and the pretty
Italian were both upon the terrace, but they gave me the sign agreed
upon, to show that danger was near; and when I returned there was no
one there.
"Something has been discovered," said Seymour, "for I have had my
liberty, such as it was, abridged. I am now forbidden to pass the
gates. Something has been discovered, depend upon it."
"Perhaps not," answered Markham; "for, as I rowed down just now, I saw
a boat with a guard, evidently conveying a prisoner hither; and as to
the affair at Sir Thomas Parry's house, a thousand accidents might
have made them wish me to keep off. His stately old lady herself might
be walking in the garden; there might be some of the King's officers
there, or expected; but I will hie me home with all speed, and if
there be anything to communicate, depend upon it I shall either have a
message or a visit from Ida Mara. I know not how it is, that girl
seems to win the confidence of every one. I saw good Sir Harry West
yesterday, as I promised you. He said he had seen and conversed with
you, and so would say no more; but he spoke of that girl as if she
were an angel."
"Well he may so speak," replied William Seymour; "for she nursed him
through the plague, at a time when fathers fled from their children,
and children abandoned their parents. But I did see Sir Harry; and the
good old knight--though, heaven knows, in former times he tried to
dissuade me from what he called my rash love, as if he could have
foreseen all the wretchedness it has produced now--urges me strongly
to make my escape with Arabella at any risk, rather than linger here;
where, as he truly says, I may be shut up for years,--perhaps for
life, like Raleigh or Grey."
"He is right, too," said Markham; "and the sooner it is done, depend
upon it, the better. You have committed no offence against the law;
you are unjustly detained by the mere will of the King; and, if I had
been with Sir Harry, I should have joined my voice to his."
"But I showed him it was impossible even to attempt it," replied
Seymour; "for I had then pledged my word not to go beyond certain
limits, and that could not be broken. Now, however, I am free from
that bond; for they have taken from me the degree of freedom for which
I made the engagement; and, with whatever other fetters they may think
to enthral me, I may yet find means to cast them off when they least
expect it. However, my kind and devoted friend, do you return home,
and, if possible, see this excellent Italian girl. Let her tell her
mistress that, whatever happens, I am determined to attempt an escape.
Arabella must hold herself prepared to go with me, or to follow me;
and I will beseech all my friends, and you in particular, Markham, to
bend every thought and energy to secure her flight. Think not of me, I
will take care of myself; and free myself from this tyranny by some
means. Watch you over Arabella! I would fain, too, free the Countess
of Shrewsbury, who is, I find, imprisoned in the apartments next to
those of Raleigh; but they will not suffer me to hold the least
communication with her, which I grieve for deeply, as it is by
favouring me that she has brought this misfortune on her head."
"Think of yourself--think of yourself, good friend," said Markham;
"they will not keep the Countess long when you are gone. As for your
lady-wife, be sure, that to her safety I will sacrifice my own. She
once risked hers for me; and all the life I have is hers, to do with
me as she likes. I will ensure that, let them guard her how they will,
she shall be safely put on board a ship bound for some foreign
country. I am not new to stratagems; and, alas!--though for some years
now they have had meaner things to do with than monarchs' crowns, as
formerly,--in seeking a bare subsistence as a banished man, I have
been in constant practice, I assure you. Sir Harry West will help me,
too; and I think my good Lord Hertford will furnish us with means."
"That he will," replied Seymour, "to the utmost of his power. But, I
am not without some wealth myself, Markham; and, as you may be called
upon to act more suddenly than you expect, you had better take a part
of what I have here. There are two hundred nobles in this bag. Take
it, take it. I have more than I shall need; and now away, for I fear
every minute, lest Ida should seek you at your lodgings, and find you
absent."
Without further delay, Sir Griffin Markham left the prisoner and
hurried on towards his obscure lodging in the lanes not far off. But
ere we relate what occurred by the way, we must turn once more to the
courtly scenes of the palace, and, as is our custom occasionally,
retrograde for a few hours in point of time.