Ida Mara sat by the bedside of Arabella during the whole of that
night, and a sad and terrible night it was. Her mind, agitated and
worn with her own cares, had given way at the terrible sight which she
had witnessed. The dark deed haunted her imagination; the forms of the
murderers still appeared before her eyes; she heard their voices
ringing in her ears; the last look of their wretched victim, before
they extinguished the lingering spark of life for ever, remained
present to her remembrance, hanging like a terrible picture before
her, and her thoughts and words were all confused and wild.
Ida Mara hoped and trusted that time would remove such horrible
images, and restore the sweet being she so dearly loved to
tranquillity and reason. But day went by after day, and although some
slight amendment was perceptible, Arabella's mind never recovered its
tone. At times, indeed, she would be quite collected and calm; would
speak, and reason, and lament, and weep over her fate, as she had been
accustomed to do before. But often, even in the midst of her most
quiet conversation, when no subject of a painful or exciting nature
engaged her thoughts, she would suddenly seem to lose herself; her
words would become rambling and unconnected; and she would pause and
put her hand to her head, as if she felt that all was not right there,
ending with a long deep fit of silence, afraid to speak, lest what she
uttered should be incoherent.
At other times, again, her mind would be quite astray; she would fancy
she saw strange faces, and heard dying groans; she would think that
she herself was to be murdered, and would cling to Ida in terror,
grievous to behold.
Then she would talk of former days; of him she loved; of their first
hours of affection; she would fancy that he was gone upon some embassy
to a foreign Court, and would return speedily; and she would sit and
sing the songs of peace and joy, till Ida wept at the contrast between
such wild but happy dreams of a disordered intellect, and the sad and
stern realities of that sweet lady's fate. All these various changes,
however, exhausted her strength and wore her frame; and even in the
lucid intervals, when her mind was completely itself, the gloomy sense
of her wretchedness undermined her health, and wrought a sad change in
her appearance.
At these times, she would often talk of the events of that dark and
terrible night when the designs against Overbury's life were
consummated; and though, at first, Ida strove to direct her attention
to some less horrible subject, she soon found it was in vain, and, on
the contrary, endeavoured to lead Arabella to discuss it quietly and
reasonably, in the hope that, by regulating her thoughts upon that
point, her mind might be restored to its tone.
Some indulgence was now shown to the poor captive; and though she was
only permitted to see her fellow-prisoner and kinswoman, Lady
Shrewsbury, upon one or two occasions, yet other friends from without
were frequently admitted to visit her, and two of the King's
physicians were instructed to watch over her health.
The greatest comfort, however, that Arabella received, was when some
post from France brought her messages from her husband, full of that
deep and tender affection which he never ceased to entertain for her
to the last hour of his life. She found that he generally hovered
about in the neighbourhood of the coast, still hoping, still praying,
that he might be permitted to rejoin her, and pass the rest of his
days in wiping the tears from her eyes, and blotting out sorrow in
happiness.
Those hopes and prayers were daily disappointed; but still they were a
comfort to his mind; and once or twice, when a letter, in his own
hand, was secretly introduced into the Tower, by some of those who
visited the lady, it would produce a great and manifest change. Though
it generally made her weep at first, she would become more cheerful
and more resigned, and often sitting down, would write an eloquent
appeal to the King, or to his ministers, trying to excite in them some
sense of justice and of compassion.
Sometimes, when news from Seymour had been delayed for a longer period
than usual, she would send Ida Mara forth--for which permission could
generally be obtained from the Lieutenant--to seek for intelligence at
the house of any one who was likely to receive communications from
France.
Generally these visits were to the Court of England, or to persons in
the city of London; but occasionally Ida was sent to different members
of the lady's own family, or of Seymour's, in order to obtain some
tidings, even though the persons she sought lived at some distance
from London. When this was the case, Arabella, who never forgot, even
when her intellect wandered most wildly, to think of the comfort and
safety of others, sent her old and faithful servant Cobham with her
fair companion; but still the most frequent channel of communication
between Seymour and his unhappy wife was our good old friend, Sir
Harry West, from whom she was generally sure to receive some news
every week, or at least some comforting assurance that nothing but
accidents had delayed the arrival of intelligence from across the
channel. While Ida was gone upon any of these errands, Arabella would
remain sad and gloomy, and often would take no nourishment for a whole
day, if she was absent so long; and the faithful girl always
reluctantly left her, even for a few hours, seeing that she invariably
became worse during her absence; but when the lady was once possessed
with the idea that news had been long delayed, that something
must have gone wrong with her husband, that he must be ill, or
dead--fancies which frequently assailed her--Ida, as the lesser of two
evils, was fain to go wherever there was any chance of obtaining
information.
Such had been the case one morning, when, for several days, they had
been without any communication with the Court or the City. A greater
degree of bustle and activity had been observable in the Tower than
usual; but, occupied with their own sad thoughts, neither Arabella nor
Ida Mara had given any attention to that which was passing around
them, although the servant Cobham had mentioned something of fresh
prisoners, of a high rank, being added to the number already within
the walls. When Ida Mara, however, returned from the house of the Earl
of Shrewsbury, to which she had been sent, she entered the lady's
chamber in a state of greater agitation than she generally displayed.
She strove, indeed, with anxious care for Arabella, to render her own
tone and manner as quiet as possible, while, sitting down beside her,
she proceeded to tell all she had gathered in her morning's walk.
The first news was, that contrary winds had prevented any vessels
arriving from France for nearly a week, but that intelligence was
expected every day. Arabella looked sadly disappointed, and Ida
hastened to turn her attention to another theme.
"The whole town is in a commotion, dear lady," she said, "with events
which, though terrible and painful, I cannot and will not regret. I
told you some days ago that the Lieutenant, Sir Gervase Elways, had
been removed and arrested, but I did not know the cause."
"And what may it be?" said Arabella, in an indifferent tone; "it
matters not to me who is my gaoler, Ida."
"No, lady," answered the young Italian; "but dark deeds have at length
been brought to light; and justice has been done upon the wicked."
"Then there has been a sad clearing of the streets of London, and of
the Court too," replied Arabella.
"Indeed there has," said Ida Mara; "and some who I cannot help
thinking were your worst enemies, are now close prisoners within these
walls."
"God have mercy on them!" rejoined the lady, without even inquiring
who they were; "for they will find none from man, unless they be very
wicked indeed."
"I hope they may not," answered Ida Mara; "for it is but fitting that
such crimes should be punished. The murderers of Sir Thomas Overbury,
lady----"
"Ha, what of them?" exclaimed Arabella, eagerly.
"They have been brought to justice, Madam," answered Ida Mara.
"Weston, the principal assassin, was tried some days ago, and executed
the day before yesterday, though he, it seems, was only a tool, though
a willing one. That dark and terrible man, who called himself Foreman,
but whom I knew long ago by the same name of Weston, was, it would
appear, the chief agent of the higher fiends who moved the whole."
"And what has become of him?" asked Arabella. "Has he escaped?"
"The vengeance of man he has, but not that of God," replied Ida Mara;
"he died suddenly at Lambeth about a fortnight ago, and there is
strong suspicion that some of his own poisons, administered to him by
the hand of his own son, for the purpose of sooner obtaining
possession of his wealth, saved him from public trial and execution.
But there are multitudes more involved in this terrible affair. A
woman, of the name of Turner, has been hanged this morning at Tyburn.
A number of people, I understand,--ay, ladies of high rank--went to
see her die; and Sir Gervase Elways himself was tried yesterday, and
condemned to death for murder.
"Heaven help us!" cried Arabella, "that men of station and education,
from amongst the once famed gentlemen of England, should dip their
hands in such foul and horrible things!"
"Ay, lady," continued Ida Mara, "but there are higher heads still
against which the charge is levelled. He who was lately my Lord of
Rochester, now Earl of Somerset, with his fair but wicked Countess,
are both imprisoned here, as those who set the others on to commit the
terrible deed. Their trial is expected every day, and the King vows
they shall have no mercy, though men think it somewhat strange that
Sir Thomas Monson, the chief agent of the Countess, was yesterday, in
the midst of his trial, carried from the bar by the yeomen of the
Tower, and the whole proceedings against him stopped."
"Indeed!" cried Arabella; "indeed! that is very strange. But when the
innocent are punished, as I have been, for no offence, we need not
wonder that the guilty escape. So will it be with Somerset, Ida," she
continued; "the King will not dare, I fear, to strike at one who may
possess more secrets than either you or I ever dreamed of."
"At all events, dear lady," answered Ida, "his favour at the Court is
gone; and, as I cannot but think that to him you owe much of the
persecution you have endured, your appeals to the King for justice may
have more attention, now that his influence is at an end."
"True, true," cried Arabella, starting up with a look of joy: "I never
thought of that. Oh, God of Heaven, grant it!--Quick, bring me paper,
dear girl. I will write to the King at once. Perhaps he will listen to
me now;" and she sat down and composed one of those touching epistles
to James, which have more than once brought tears into the eyes of
those who read them, even in these far-removed times.
For several days the events which we have mentioned gave her hope; but
the heartless tyrant whom she addressed paid no attention to her
petition. Days, hours, weeks slipped away without the slightest
change. The guilty Somerset and his beautiful fiend were brought to
trial, judged, and condemned; and then the favour of their vicious
sovereign stepped in, and saved them from the death they merited! But
poor Arabella derived no benefit from the fall of two beings, who, if
there had been justice in the land, should have expiated on the
scaffold the manifold crimes too clearly proved against them.
A more terrible fate than death, indeed, awaited them. Sent from the
Court to an estate in the country, to which they were bound to confine
themselves, their dark and criminal love was soon turned to the most
deadly hatred. The intense impression of each other's guilt rendered
their mutual abhorrence, and its consequences, almost as horrible as
their passion and the events which it produced. Living in the same
house, seeing each other daily, they dwelt together as strangers, and
when the one crossed the path of the other, looks of enmity and scorn
came upon those two fair countenances, where once had shone the eager
fire of vicious love. Thus passed many a year of painful existence,
with the awful prospect of death and retribution before them, till a
strange and terrible disease swept the woman from the earth, and her
husband fell lingering into the grave.
With Arabella the last hope faded away, when she found that no change
in the Court and councils of the King produced any favourable result
to her; and with it the powers of life seemed gradually to sink.
Slowly, but sadly, the last hour approached, with all the terrible
concomitants of weary sickness and wandering intellect; and the two or
three faithful friends, who now almost daily visited her, saw, with
mingled grief and relief, that the period of her sufferings would not
be long protracted.
One of the most constant of these was good Sir Harry West, in whose
conversation she seemed to find more consolation and comfort than in
that of any one else, except Ida Mara. With him she was always
tranquil, and generally collected. Their conversation was constantly
about her husband; and the good old Knight, though he did not strive
to buoy her up with those earthly hopes which he knew would prove
false, dwelt upon those higher and less frail assurances of happiness
at some future period, which suited well his years and character, and
harmonized also with Arabella's feelings.
On the subject of religion, which was her greatest blessing and
comfort now in the hour of her dark adversity, her mind was always as
clear and bright, as in those days when, in intellect and virtue, she
stood in the midst of a Court, superior to the allurements of the idle
vanity and pitiful ambition that characterized it; but on every other
subject, reason often failed.
To Sir Harry West she would frequently speak of that painful wandering
of thought, that want of control over her own mind, which now too
often came upon her.
"In those moments," she said one day, "when there is, as it were, a
cloud upon me, and all my ideas seem misty and indistinct, the weight
of my sorrow is the most burdensome. I cannot refrain from wishing for
death; and a voice, like that of a fiend, appears to urge me on to
seek the calm and tranquil resting-place, where no tyrant's hand can
reach, no persecution trouble my repose. I have only, however, to open
the page of this Holy Book, to look into the promises there given, to
remember how the only pure and holy One that ever lived and died,
suffered without a murmur, and the evil spirit flies, overmatched, and
my mind acquires its faculties again. I hope not for life, Sir Harry.
I long for death; and have only one wish that I venture to indulge,
which is, that I might see once more him whose love has cost me so
much misery, though I would not lose that love, if I might win a long
life of happiness in exchange."
Sir Harry West made her no reply, but turned the conversation to
another theme; and, aided by Ida Mara, who now never left Arabella
night nor day, he contrived to wile away another hour of the poor
captive's time, without any return of that sad wandering, which she
dreaded more herself than even the approach of death. Nevertheless,
the old Knight, as he turned him home again, pondered deeply over what
she had said, and that night visited several of the most influential
personages of the Court, with whom his own high character gave him
considerable influence.
Ten days passed afterwards, during which he visited the lady several
times, but spoke less of William Seymour than before. Perhaps it was
that he saw her strength was now rapidly failing, and feared to touch
upon a subject that moved and agitated her much.
The last time he came she was stretched upon a couch, which had been
brought into the chamber where she usually sat; and, holding out her
hand to him, with a faint smile, she said, "It is coming rapidly, Sir
Harry; and this unhappy heart will soon be at peace. I am sure of it,
for during the two last days my mind has been quite itself again. The
memories of past happiness have come around me sweetly and tenderly,
like children round a parent's death-bed; and I am quite prepared to
go where they will follow me, and nothing ever take them from me
again. Nay, I have made you weep, my friend, and poor Ida, too. I have
cost that dear girl many tears, but when I am gone I am sure you will
be a father to her.--Is it not so?"
"I will, indeed," answered Sir Harry West; "I owe her far more than
that, were it possible to repay the debt."
"There is something more," said Arabella. "When I am dead, Sir Harry,
tell my dear husband that I loved him to the last; cut off a lock of
my hair with your own hand, and give it to him. It is all that poor
Arabella has to send. Tell him that we shall meet hereafter, that I
wait for him; and then none shall separate us.--And now, farewell,
kind friend, I must not have you stay. I do believe that we shall
never meet again; for the impression rests upon my mind, that the sun
which sinks to-night will not rise again for me."