The morning meal was over at the house of Mr. Conyers; and the Lady
Arabella, rising from the table, approached one of the windows which
stood open, and gazed out upon the green lawn and the fine old trees,
while an expression of deep melancholy came over her face, which had
before been cheerful. As she thus stood, the master of the mansion
approached her, saying, "'Tis a beautiful day, lady; would you not
like to walk forth?"
"Not yet," answered Arabella. "I was thinking, Mr. Conyers, how
quietly life might pass in such a sweet place as this, without ever
stirring beyond those walls; and I was asking myself what it was that
made confinement within them so burdensome. Here I have almost all
that heart could desire,--a kind host and hostess, every luxury that
wealth can afford, fine sights before my eyes, sweet sounds for my
ear, the gentle breath of summer fanning my brow, and space as large
to roam through at my will as, to say sooth, a woman's feeble frame
can well wander over untired. And yet, I cannot school my heart to
content."
Mr. Conyers did not know well how to answer her. He was not willing to
jar a thoughtful mind with a trite common-place, and therefore he only
inquired, "Pray, how did you settle the question, dear lady?"
"I asked myself if liberty was all that I wanted," continued Arabella;
"that bright spectre, the reality of which man can never know on
earth; for, if we be not slaves to others, we are still slaves to our
own infirmities; and this flesh is the true prison after all. But I
have never sought much liberty. I have been right willing to bow my
designs to those of others, to yield ready obedience where, perhaps, I
had a right to resist, striving to make my own heart my world, where
no one can forbid the spirit from wandering in the garden which itself
has planted. I have sought little else but that. I will tell you what
it is that makes even this sweet spot a prison. It is not that I
cannot pass those gates; for, were I happier, I should never wish to
pass them. I have no desire for the wide world. But it is, that those
I love can never enter them,--that the friends who are dearest, the
hearts that cherish me, the souls with which mine is linked, have no
admission here. I will go weep," she cried, suddenly dashing a tear
from her dark eye-lashes--"I will go weep, and I shall be better
then."
Thus saying, she quitted the room, while Mr. Conyers stood in the
window with a sad and thoughtful brow.
"I will be gaoler no longer," he said, after a long pause; "this sweet
girl is shamefully ill-treated; and if an Englishman's rights and
liberties be really valuable, they should be as dear to me in the
person of another as of myself. I have served this King well enough,
without having this task thrust upon me. I will be a gaoler no longer,
and so I'll tell the King to-morrow when I see him."
"What are you muttering there, Conyers?" asked his wife, who was still
sitting at the table.
"I was saying, Joan," replied Mr. Conyers, "that I have had enough of
a bad and disgraceful task, which no one had a right to force upon me,
without even asking my consent. Let the servants know, that the strict
watch which I have seen kept up, without my orders, displeases me."
"But it was by the King's orders," replied the lady, "and you forget
that you lose all chance of promotion, if you disobey."
"Out upon promotion at such a price!" replied her husband. "I have
yielded to this too long. I am not a turnkey; my servants are not
spies, or, if they are, they shall stay no longer here. If the King
must have such vermin, let him keep them himself, I will not. What
right had he to impose such a trade upon me? and as I have never
promised to obey, I will do so no more. I even reproach myself that I
have done it so long already. The grief of the sweet lady touches me.
Were she harsh and vehement, proud and indignant under injustice, I
might feel it less; but she bears her wrongs with such gentle
meekness, even when she feels them most poignantly, that it were a
base heart indeed which did not share her sorrow and take its part
with her."
"Well, Conyers," answered the lady, "I grieve for her, too; but I see
no cause why you should sacrifice yourself for others; and you must
recollect that if she were anywhere else she might be treated still
more harshly."
"That comforts me for the past," answered her husband, "If I had
refused to receive her, others would have been found to undertake any
base work that a king may require of a subject; but I can bear it no
longer; and at all events none shall give orders in my house but
myself.--Baldock," he continued, as a servant entered to clear the
table, "call the men and women of the household hither. My own, I
mean, not the Lady Arabella's people."
The servant retired, and Mr. Conyers walked with a hasty step up and
down the room, still murmuring to himself, "It is too much."
In a few minutes the greater part of the household, which, as was the
case in every gentleman's establishment of those days, was about five
times as numerous as at present, was arrayed at the further end of the
room, displaying a number of somewhat anxious faces; for their
master's summons had been accompanied by an intimation from him who
bore it, that Mr. Conyers seemed somewhat angry.
"Shut the door," said that gentleman. "Now mark me, men and maids. I
have seen things that I dislike. No matter what. But a spy is a thing
I dislike, a base unworthy animal, which I will drive forth from my
house like mice or rats, or any other vermin. Let me have none of
them, or if I catch them, beware their ears.--You all know me well. I
love my people as my own family, while they are honest and true; but
no person, not the highest in the land, has a right to give orders in
this house but myself, and if those orders are disgraceful to a good
man of an upright heart, I will find means to punish him who obeys
them. You all understand me, so away without a word."
"Well, Conyers, you know best," replied his wife, as the servants
withdrew, "but I cannot help thinking----"
"Do not think at all, good wife," replied her husband, "except about
puddings and pies. In this matter I am determined, so take care that I
have no meddling. Tomorrow I go to the King, and shall tell him what I
think. He may send me to the Tower if he pleases; for it seems he may
put an English gentleman in gaol at his will, but he has no power to
make him a gaoler."
While these events were taking place below, Arabella retired to her
room, and for some time gave way to tears. She had just wiped away the
drops from her eyes, when Ida Mara entered and approached her in
silence, gazing upon that fair face, on which the recent marks of
grief were still evident.
"Dear lady, you are very sad," said Ida Mara, at length; "but
nevertheless I am in great hopes that in a few days you will be free.
I told you last night what I had heard, that the difficulties
respecting the papers of the ship were all removed, and that this day
she would be prepared to sail to whatever port you like."
"God send it," answered Arabella, "for though I am better in health,
Ida, I am very gloomy. This long absence from my husband, the
difficulties and dangers of this enterprise, the long, wide-spread,
misty blank of the future, all rise up before my mind, and agitate and
terrify me."
Ida Mara continued for some minutes in conversation with her mistress,
trying to soothe and cheer her; and when she had in some degree
succeeded, she added, "I hope I shall have more news for you in an
hour; for I must now go forth to see some one who has written, asking
me to come along the road to Hornsey. I do not know the hand, but it
is in good Italian, and may be from some of your friends."
"Well, go, then; go, Ida," replied the lady, "but take care. I always
fear for you, after that adventure you told me of in London; and what
should I do without you, my dear girl?"
"I have often thought of that, lady," replied Ida Mara; "but I have
less fear now. You have friends here, and there are fortunate
circumstances more than you know of."
"Indeed!" said Arabella. "What may they be?"
"First," answered Ida Mara, "Mr. Conyers has just told the servants
that he will have no spying into your actions, and is angry that you
have been so watched. This is a great point gained, for servants soon
learn to take the tone of their masters. But there is something more
which I have thought, for these three days, to speak to you about. I
often asked myself if the King's will, or anything else, were to take
me away from you, what you would do for assistance? Your maid Jane is
faithful enough, I believe; but she wants quickness, forethought, and
skill. A day or two ago, however, I found that you have another friend
in the house, the good woman Maude, who often comes in to see if she
can help you."
"Indeed!" cried Arabella; "I should not have thought it, for she is
somewhat rude and uncouth in speech."
"Ah, dearest lady!" replied Ida Mara, shaking her head, "they say, in
my country, that the sweetest oranges have the roughest rinds. She
came three days ago into my chamber, and talked long about you. The
good soul wept when she spoke of all that you have suffered, and said
such words of the King as would send her into prison, were they heard.
She said she was born upon the lands of your grandfather, Sir William
Cavendish, and I am sure, quite sure, from all she told me, that you
may trust to her entirely. She was sent here, it seems, the day of
your arrival, to see what was in the packet that Markham brought. She
laughed when she told me, saying, that, as it was, there was nothing
in it which might not be mentioned, but that if there had been, she
would have lost her eyes for the time, at all events. She is clever,
too, and shrewd, though in a homely way; but I am sure you might trust
her, lady, if anything should take me from you."
"Ida, tell me the truth," said Arabella, with an anxious look; "have
you heard anything that makes you suspect such a separation? Do you
believe that it is about to take place?"
"No, lady; no, dear lady," replied the fair Italian girl. "I have
heard nothing but what I have told you, in truth. I would not deceive
you on any account: no, not for your own good; for it is not right,
and I never saw anything but evil come of doing wrong. I know not how
it was, but when I saw this note written in a hand I did not know, a
foolish fancy came across my mind, I do not well know what,--a
fear--no, scarcely a fear,--a doubt; and I determined, ere I went, to
tell you what I thought of Maude."
"I wish you would not go, Ida," said the lady; "indeed, I wish you
would not go."
"Nay, but I must," answered Ida Mara; "they may wish to see me about
some point of vital consequence, on which your welfare would depend. I
must go, indeed; and the sun is getting high, so that I ought not to
tarry longer; I will be back again with all speed, dear lady. It was a
foolish fancy of mine,--idle and groundless, I am sure."
Thus saying, she kissed Arabella's hand, and withdrew.
For several minutes the lady sat in sad and apprehensive meditation,
with her eyes cast down towards the ground; but then she rose with a
sigh, and, covering her head, walked out into the grounds, sauntering
slowly along in the sunshine. After that, she sat herself down at the
foot of an old oak, the wide contorted branches of which, with their
thick covering of leaves, afforded a pleasant shade. Musing sadly, she
there remained for near an hour, raising her eyes from time to time
towards the gates, which she still kept within sight. Ida Mara,
however, did not appear, and Arabella became anxious.
In about a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Conyers came out and joined her,
trying to give her consolation, after her fashion; but she was not a
person with whom the poor captive's heart could feel at ease. She knew
her to be worldly and selfish; and though devoted to her husband, and
obedient to his wishes, there was a great difference in the manners of
the two, even when doing the same things, which Arabella felt with all
the sensitiveness of misfortune. Her presence, then, under the anxiety
which oppressed her, was a burden rather than a relief; and after
remaining, out of courtesy, for about a quarter of an hour, she rose,
and went back to her apartments.
Time passed, and Ida Mara did not come; and, at length, Arabella,
giving way to the feelings she could not restrain, wept long and
bitterly. Rousing herself, at length, she called her maid from a
neighbouring room, "Tell Cobham," she said, "to come to me instantly.
Ida has not returned?" she asked, with a last lingering hope.
"No, my lady," replied the maid; "Mistress Ida went out near three
hours ago, but has not yet come back. I wonder what can have become of
her."
"Send Cobham here," repeated Arabella, in a faint tone; and sitting
down again, she leaned her head upon her hand, with a sickening
feeling of desolation at her heart.
"Cobham," she said, as soon as the man appeared, "I am anxious about
my poor Ida Mara. She went out three hours ago to take a short walk
towards Hornsey, expecting to be back immediately, but she has never
returned, and I fear some evil has befallen her. I wish you would take
another man, and seek for her in that direction. Make inquiries of all
the people that you see, and bring me word what they say. You know how
dearly I love her."
"So does every body, madam," replied the man. "I would rather lose my
hand than that any ill should befal her. I will leave nothing undone
to find her, lady, and be back as soon as possible."
It was nearly evening when he returned, but he returned alone; and
Arabella, when from the window she saw him coming, hastened out
herself to meet him.
"Have you no news?" she cried; "have you no news?"
"Nothing satisfactory, lady," replied the man; "but I met a gentleman
about half an hour ago, who, when I made inquiries of him, drew me
aside from the other man, and asked me my name. I told him, and he
then gave me this note for you, telling me to bear it to you with all
speed, and to deliver it in secret. He said, moreover, that some of
the King's people had been about all the morning, adding, he doubted
not that they had taken the young gentlewoman--perhaps before the
Council. I came back to bring you the note, leaving my companion to
pursue the search; and now I will go back to help him, though I fear
it will be in vain."
"Go, go, good Cobham," replied Arabella, concealing the note in her
bosom with a trembling hand; "but be back at night, for I may need
you. And yet, no," she added, "I will not be so selfish. Seek my poor
Ida, wherever she is likely to be found. Bring me some tidings of her,
at all events.
"But if they have taken her away to the Court," answered the servant,
"they will never let me bring her back."
"It is not that I fear," said Arabella; "if she be at the Court, she
is at least in safety. But there are other things I dread, good
Cobham. She has enemies, as who has not? Seek for her, then, till
dark; and if you find her not, set out by day-break to-morrow for the
Court. To hear that she is there, will be a relief to me; but I
fear--I much fear it is not so. You will there gain tidings, however,
whether she has been brought before the King or not. If she have, I
shall be satisfied;--but indeed, indeed, I must have tidings of her."
"You shall, madam, if human power can gain them," replied the man;
and, while he proceeded to execute his task, Arabella returned to the
house.