On the morning of a rough and stormy day, a fishing boat, of a large
and heavy build, and filled principally with Frenchmen, touched the
low beach of the Kentish coast, at the distance of about a mile from
Folkstone, near the spot where now stands the pleasant little village
of Sandgate. The moment that the boat took ground, a tall and powerful
man, habited in dark, but well-fashioned garments, sprang at once in
the water, and waded to the shore; then paused for a moment, while one
of the fishermen followed him, carrying a small valise, counted out a
number of pieces of gold into the man's hand, took the valise from
him, and without another word, but "Remember," turned his steps
towards the Hythe. Striding on at a rapid pace, he soon reached that
place, and paused to look round for an inn. When he found one, he
asked for no refreshment, but inquired eagerly, if he could hire or
buy a horse. One was without difficulty procured to purchase; an old
saddle and bridle were added; and mounting, without exchanging one
word more than was necessary with any one, the stranger rode on at a
quick pace upon the road to London.
The people of the inn gazed after him, commenting as usual on his
demeanour; but whatever were their remarks, he troubled not his mind;
and at the fullest speed the beast could put forth, he urged the horse
on towards the capital. His eyes, as he rode, were generally bent down
upon the ground; and no change in the gloomy expression of his
countenance displayed itself, except when the horse slackened his
pace, and then he started, as if from a deep reverie, to urge it on as
quickly as before. Twice he stopped to give it water, and once to let
it feed; but, while he did so, he stood beside it, uttering not a
syllable to any one; and the moment the measure of corn was consumed,
he sprang upon its back again, and resumed his journey. On Wrotham
Heath, the animal's strength began to fail; and, at the village
beyond, the traveller inquired if he could buy another horse. But none
was to be found till he reached Farningham, where, at a little inn
which then stood by the roadside, he obtained a wretched beast, for
which he paid whatever was demanded, caused the saddle instantly to be
placed upon it, and leaving the other behind, with orders to feed it
well till the next day, he again rode on, and pursued his way to
London, without having tasted food since he touched the English shore,
though nearly twelve hours had elapsed, and the sun had long set.
Through the dark and gloomy streets of the capital he took his way
without pause or inquiry, till he stopped at the gate of a large
house, just beyond the city wall, where he sprang to the ground, and
rang the bell.
A man with a light opened the doors, and gazed upon the visitor's face
as on that of a stranger. But suddenly a gleam of recognition lighted
up the old servant's face, and exclaiming, "Ah! is that you, sir?" he
took the rein, threw it over a hook fixed into the wall for that
purpose, and lighted the new comer into the house.
It was towards eleven o'clock on the same night that two gentlemen
stood at the great western gate of the Tower, demanding admission.
"That cannot be, Sir Harry," said the warder on duty; "and though I
wish to show you all respect, it is against the rule."
"I know it," said Sir Harry West; "but here is an order from the
Constable, which supersedes all rule. You will perceive that it is for
any hour of the night or day."
"Ay, sir, that is a different affair," replied the man. "Follow me,
and I will pass you through the wards. 'Tis well I was not asleep; you
might have knocked long enough if I had been."
"Lead on, lead on, my good fellow," said the companion of Sir Harry
West, a tall man, wrapped in a large dark mantle.
The warder turned and looked at him; for there is nothing which
irritates a slow and deliberate person so much as impatience in
another; and perhaps the man might not have quickened his step in the
slightest degree, had there not been that look of stern, anxious grief
in the handsome countenance of the stranger, which almost always
exercises a certain degree of power, even over the cold and
indifferent.
Moving on without reply, then, he led the two late visitors through
the several doors and gates, till Sir Harry said, "Now I can pass on,
warder."
"Not without the word, sir," replied the soldier: and giving it, he
suffered the gentlemen to proceed alone.
They bent their way straight towards the apartments of Arabella
Seymour, and mounting the stairs, knocked at the door. No one
answered, and the taller of the two, though it seemed that his hand
trembled sadly, lifted the latch at once, and went in. It was a small
ante-room that he entered, which was tenanted by only one person, the
maid Jane, who was sitting in a chair so sound asleep by the fire,
that she had heard no noise. The stranger gave her a look almost
fierce; but Sir Harry put his hand upon his arm, saying, "This way,
William. We can enter this room, and most likely shall find Ida here."
Without uttering a word, the stranger strode on, and opened the door;
but, to the surprise of Sir Harry West, who had imagined that at that
late hour Arabella must have retired to her bed-chamber, they found
lights and several people there.
Stretched upon the same couch where she had been lying when the old
Knight visited her in the morning, was the pale form of the once
beautiful Arabella Stuart. Ida Mara was kneeling near her head,
supporting her, while an old man, dressed as a clergyman, was placing
a silver cup to her lips, and pronouncing the solemn words with which
the Sacramental wine is offered us in the Communion. At the lady's
feet knelt her good servant Cobham; and every one was so intently
occupied with the rite which was taking place, that the opening of the
door passed unnoticed.
Seymour paused, till the last prayer had been uttered by the chaplain,
and Arabella, placing her hand over her eyes, had murmured a few
words, which were not heard distinctly. The young gentleman then
advanced slowly, and as silently as possible; but the sound of his
footfall caught his poor wife's ear; and turning on the couch, she
exclaimed, "Whose step is that?--It is he! It is he--I am sure!--Oh,
Seymour!" and she stretched out her arms towards him.
Seymour rushed forward, and caught her to his heart.
"This is a blessing! This is a blessing!" cried Arabella; "now I am
ready to die. Speak to me, Seymour! Speak to your Arabella!"
But Seymour could not; for he had buried his eyes upon her bosom, and
tears drowned all utterance.
"Nay," she continued, "nay, Seymour, do not grieve so bitterly! I am
happy and contented now I have seen you once more! God has heard my
anxious prayer. I have nothing more to look for in life; I am ready to
obey His summons."
"Oh, live, live! my Arabella!" cried Seymour, raising his head and
kissing her eagerly; "live yet for happiness! The connivance which has
been given to my return, the order for my admission here, all make me
hope that the King will yet relent."
"He knows that I am dying, Seymour," replied Arabella; "otherwise he
had not consented. But still, William, I will live for happiness, and
happiness with you, in a world where real happiness only is known. We
may be parted once more for a brief space of time. To you, indeed, it
may seem long; for you will have to struggle with the cares and
sorrows of earth; but, when you arrive at the end, and look back, it
will seem but an hour. I know it by experience. But let me look at
you," she continued; "I thought I should never see that dear face
again. You are changed, my love, and worn; but I know that your heart
is unaltered. How much have I to be thankful for, that the hands I
love best will close my eyes, the lips I love best receive my parting
breath, and that soon I shall be gone from a world of misery, to wait
for you where misery is at an end!"
It was in vain that she sought to give him consolation; the very
resignation she displayed, the gentleness, the tenderness, but added
poignancy to his regret; and while the weak and dying girl was calm,
collected, and content, the strong man was overwhelmed with sorrow,
agony, and repining, terrible to witness.
For about half an hour, the unexpected arrival of her husband seemed
to have given Arabella new life; her voice had become strong and
clear; the dimness which had spread over her eyes was removed; even
the grey shade which coming dissolution had cast over the face, fled
for a short time, and during a few minutes a pale pink glow, like the
last which tinges the evening sky, arose in her cheek.
To Seymour those signs gave no hope, for the terrible change which had
taken place in her since last he had held her in his arms, had come
upon him suddenly, and spoke too plainly of speedy death for him to
entertain a doubt.
To Ida Mara, however, the alteration which had taken place, during the
last two or three years, in that sweet lady's appearance had been so
gradual, that she knew not how great it was; and the signs that she
saw of reviving life did give a faint and trembling hope, that the
fiat of the Almighty had not gone forth irrevocably.
It was soon extinguished, however; the effects of joy speedily passed
away; and, only the more rapidly for the temporary relief, the great
enemy of life made progress in his conquest. The voice sank low again,
the film came over the eyes, the colour faded from the cheek, the brow
and temples grew awfully pale, the greyness of the tomb once more
spread over the whole countenance.
"She is departing," said the chaplain, in a low voice.
Arabella's eyes sought her husband's face; but it seemed as if she did
not see him.
"William," she said; "William, keep close to me!--It is coming, my
beloved, it is coming! do not leave me!"
"I am here, dear one, I am here," replied Seymour, gazing in agony
upon her countenance. "My arms are round thee, Arabella. I will not
leave thee; would I could go with thee!"
"I am very cold, William," she said. "William,--William----"
Her voice ceased, and, with a slight shudder, the fair, pure spirit
passed from its earthly prison and a tyrant's will, to freedom, and
the presence of the King of kings.
"She is gone!" said Sir Harry West; "she is gone! God receive your
soul, sweet girl!"
But Seymour still held her in his arms, and bending down his eyes upon
the inanimate form of her he loved, wept long and bitterly. When he
raised them at length, and gazed upon her face, he was surprised to
see a smile upon her lips. He almost fancied that he had deceived
himself,--that she still lived. But it was fixed and immovable, only
to be changed by the slow decay of the tomb.
"How sweet she looks," said Sir Harry West, in a whisper, to the
chaplain. "I have often heard, that the look we bore in infancy comes
back upon us after death."
"With those who have lived a good life," replied the clergyman, in the
same tone; "and one has but to gaze upon that face, to see that she
has departed to peace and rest.--Be comforted, sir," he said,
advancing and taking William Seymour's hand; "be comforted. If ever
there was one for whose release from a life of care and sorrow, those
she has left behind should rejoice rather than mourn, it was this
sweet lady. Here on earth, she had nothing to expect but misery. Where
she is gone, she has nothing to meet with but joy and glory. Pure and
blameless in her life, full of faith and truth, relying on the
atonement of her Saviour to wipe out the only stain upon her--the
stain of Adam's fault, we cannot, we dare not doubt, that joy will be
her portion for evermore."
"It were worse than blasphemy!" said Sir Harry West.
"True, true," answered Seymour; "I know it is so; I know these tears
are selfish; but tell me, can a man lose the brightest possession that
God has given him, and remain to linger on through years, destitute of
that which made life valuable, and yet not mourn?--Bless thee, my
sweet wife!" he continued, bending down and kissing her cold brow.
"May I soon join thee! for did the Almighty's will give me back all
that I have lost but thee, ay, and add state and station, wealth and
high command, friends, honours, glory, all that earth can afford, I
still have lost the jewel of my soul, which nothing but another world
can restore.--I dare not, sir," he added, turning to the chaplain, "in
the presence of my departed saint, call down upon the heads of those
that wronged her, the vengeance which is their due; but sure I am that
the retributive hand of Heaven will not be idle; and that for such
deeds as these, when Almighty forbearance is exhausted, due payment
will be given.--Ay, I am sure of it, on him and on his race shall
descend the awful curse that plagues the wicked from generation to
generation. From father unto son it shall extend, and one shall lay
the foundation of the other's downfall. Blood and destruction, sorrow
and dishonour, defeat, disgrace and desolation, shall haunt them to
remote posterity; and the life and sufferings of Arabella Stuart shall
stand upon the page of history, to justify, even in the eyes of men,
the terrible vengeance of a righteous God."
"Hush, I beseech you, hush!" exclaimed the chaplain. "Remember, such
words repeated----"
"I fear him not," replied William Seymour, vehemently; "he has taken
from me the life of my life; and he can but send me to join her
somewhat sooner. Oh, that he would--the crime were his then, not mine;
and were it not for the fatal promise I have sealed with honour, to
stay but four and twenty hours within these realms, I would beard him
on his throne, and tell him of all his infamy.--Nay, my kind friend,"
he added, speaking to Sir Harry West, who advanced and took his hand,
"I will keep my word; but, had I not poured forth the indignation of
my heart, I think that it would have broken.--Now leave me here for a
short time; I would fain spend an hour in sad and solemn thought
beside her I so dearly loved. I shall be calmer then; for I will try
to pray, and seek submission to the will of God.--If you will wait for
me that time, Sir Harry, I will take my last leave of all I loved on
earth, and gladly quitting these hated shores, will seek in other
lands for some tranquillity."
No one opposed his request; but leaving him alone with the dead body
of Arabella, Sir Harry West and Ida Mara remained in the ante-room
till the clock struck one.
That sound seemed to rouse William Seymour; for a few minutes after he
came forth, with a countenance sad and stern, but calmer than before.
Advancing at once to Ida Mara, he took her hand, and gazed in her
face, for a moment or two, without being able to speak. At length,
however, he said, "How can I ever thank you? God will reward your
long-devoted love for her whom he has smitten. Leave her not, Ida;
leave her not, I beseech you, till she is committed to the earth; and
then remember, that I shall always believe whatsoever I can do to
protect and make you happy, is done for her. Sir Harry West, I know,
will watch over your fate; but there is nothing which you can require,
and he can ask on your behalf, that will not give me consolation to
perform.--Now, good friends, I am ready; my last adieu is said."