With a pale check, and a faint heart, and limbs from which all strength seemed gone, Arabella followed the Queen when she rose, and with slow steps accompanied Anne of Denmark to the door of her own apartments. There, with a low reverence, she left her, and hurried back to her own chamber, where, sinking on her knees by the side of the bed, she gave way to a violent burst of tears.

She did not perceive that any one was in the room, but the moment after, she heard something move, and a voice say, "Oh, lady!" and looking round she saw the girl Ida Mara, whom she had consented to receive at the entreaty of Sir Harry West.

Arabella instantly started up and tried to wipe away the tears; but the girl looked down, as if she wished not to see them flow, and said in a quiet but sad tone, "Shall I leave you, madam? I know too well that, when one is sorrowful, it is better to be alone."

"No," replied Arabella, "no, you may stay. It is but that I have been agitated by the quarrel you saw this morning between those two gentlemen, and by hearing just now that they have fought since their arrival."

"Fought?" cried the girl, eagerly; "I hope he has punished him, them."

"Which do you mean?" asked Arabella, with a sad smile.

"Oh, the tall one, with the clear open brow and gentle look," replied the girl. "The other was so insolent and rude, I could have struck him on the spot, if I had been a man."

Arabella shook her head sadly. "All do not judge as you do, Ida Mara," she replied. "Would that they did; the one who gave the offence has escaped with a wound, which perhaps may be but a scratch; the other is banished from the realm."

Ida clasped her hands vehemently over her eyes, exclaiming, "This is man's justice!--When will it come to an end?"

Arabella cast herself into a chair, and mused for a minute or two. Her tears flowed as she thought; but at length wiping them away, she said, "Perhaps it is better. God knows how it would have ended.--Come, Ida Mara, sit down here upon this stool beside me, and let me hear your tale from your own lips. Sir Harry West has told me something of it; but I would hear more."

The girl obeyed; and sitting down at her mistress's feet, and raising her large Italian eyes to the lady's countenance, she told her little history in plain and simple language, which carried the conviction of truth along with it.

To that tale, as the reader knows it, we have little if anything to add. She recounted how miserable she had been in her own home after her mother's death, and her father's marriage to another wife; how she felt even a sort of relief when he sold her to the old English traveller; how she thought it would be a happy and a tranquil life merely to sing as she had been accustomed, and to play upon her lute; and how she soon found that it was full of sorrow, and insult, and discomfort. She told the lady, too, that when her wanderings began, the man Weston was accompanied by his wife, a very shrew, who ruled him with a rod of iron, and whenever he proved the least refractory, threatened to disclose some secrets of which she seemed to have gained possession. This always had the effect of cowing him completely; but his wife had died in London, the girl said, some two months before. After this woman's death, whom Ida Mara represented as little less wicked than her husband, he sought to take advantage of the poor girl's unprotected state, not only for the gratification of his own passions, but for the purposes of gain.

"I must not say," continued Ida Mara, "all that I think he wanted me to do, for his words were dark and doubtful; but this I know, lady, that, unless the misery of life was so great that I wished it speedily to end, I would not eat of food which his hand had come near, nor drink of a cup that had been within his reach, for the world."

Arabella smiled incredulously. "Those are your Italian notions," she said; "we never hear of such things in England, Ida Mara. But now you are safe from him, and may banish fear; and if you show yourself a good girl, and are faithful to me, you shall never want a friend and a protector as long as I live."

"I will love you to my last hour," replied Ida Mara, kissing her hand, "and that good old knight too. He is the first man who ever showed me kindness in the world,--real kindness, I mean,--kindness without guile; and I would give my life to prove to him how grateful the poor Italian girl can be."

"I am sure you would," replied Arabella; "but now leave me, Ida Mara; and if you wish to behold the splendour of a Court, go down and stand in the vestibule. You see, the King and Queen are going forth. There stand the King's horses and her Majesty's coach, for their evening airing. I am calmer now, Ida Mara; and I would fain have time to think."

The girl accordingly left her; and Arabella continued leaning her head upon her hand and gazing out of the window, without giving much note to the objects which were passing before her eyes. The expression of her countenance was sad, and yet it varied continually, without, however, becoming, even for a moment, cheerful. A smile indeed crossed it more than once; but that smile was so tinged with melancholy, that it afforded no indication of the rise of one hope, of the existence of one joy. The changes that passed over her beautiful face were merely signs of the rapid movement of thought and fancy; but all her ideas were gloomy, all her imaginations sad.

In the meanwhile, the Queen entered her carriage and drove away, the King mounted his horse, and rode out, with almost all the gentlemen of the Court. Arabella gazed upon the train as it departed, and murmured to herself what she would not, knowingly, have spoken to the ears of any one, "What a sad thing it is to be a tyrant! And yet it is less dangerous to oneself, to one's realm, and to one's children, to be a fierce tyrant like Harry the Eighth, than a weak and vain one like this man.--They are very late this evening. It will be dark in an hour;" and again she fell into thought.

The course of her meditations seemed now more sad than before, for the tears rose in her bright eyes, and trembled amidst the dark lashes as if they would run over. But just as she was wiping them away, there was a slight noise at her chamber door; and, thinking it was one of her maids, she said, "Come in," without turning her head.

The next instant she started up and looked round; for she knew the step, and it was not that which she expected. She could not restrain her feelings, however, in that hour of bitter sorrow; and in another moment she was in Seymour's arms.

"Oh, William!" she cried, "how could you think of coming here?--Suppose you were discovered, what would they think? what would they say?"

"Nothing, nothing, my beloved," he replied; "you do not yet know all the changes that our good Queen has brought into the court. She has banished all those idle ceremonies and vain restraints with which every movement was formerly shackled, and declares that she will have all Italians sent out of England, lest they should introduce those fanciful doubts and jealousies of the ladies of the land, which they entertain towards their own women.^[2] However, sweet Arabel, if there had been lions and dragons at the door, I must have come. Do you think that I could quit my native country, and leave you for months--perhaps for years, without the sad solace of a farewell."

"Oh! but we shall have time," cried Arabella; "surely it will not be so soon."

William Seymour shook his head. "Cecil is against me," he said, "though I know not what offence I have given; and before he rode out with the King, he came to me with a smooth face, telling me, that to mitigate the expression of his Majesty's anger, and not to let it seem that I was sent from my own country in disgrace, he had obtained the King's consent to my being appointed to the nominal embassy at one of the small Italian Courts, that of Parma, but only on condition that I set out immediately. I am to leave Wilton this very night."

"This is cruel, indeed!" cried Arabella; and the tears ran rapidly from her eyes, while William Seymour held both her hands in his, and gazed upon that fair but sorrowful face with looks of love and deep emotion.

"It is, indeed, cruel," he said, "and no less cruel than unjust. But what can I do, Arabella?--I have no power to resist. If I refuse to go, a thousand to one, I find my way into the Tower. Pretences are never wanting in these days, and the liberty of Englishmen seems but to have become an idle name. I care not, indeed, for quitting England. Although it be the country of my birth, and of my love, it loses all its charms for me, when I see security and right trampled under foot, and the vain name of prerogative raised above law and justice. I care not for quitting England; but to quit Arabella is anguish indeed. My enemies do not know all that they inflict upon me, or they would rejoice, even more than they do."

"Is there no way to prevent it?" exclaimed Arabella. "Will not your grandfather interfere?"

"The King has not yet received him at the court," replied Seymour; "and it was thought a great mark of grace that I was permitted to attend upon him here at Wilton.--No, no, Arabella; there is but one way of preventing our separation."

"Is there one?" cried Arabella, eagerly. "Oh! take it then, Seymour, take it."

"Nay, it is you must take it, sweetest," he replied. "'Tis that Arabella goes with me--that she flies with him she loves, from this hated court. Nay, turn not pale, beloved, or I shall fear to urge all the arguments which love has ready to persuade you. Here, seat you here, dear Arabella, and listen. I know all that it is I ask of you. I know the sacrifice, the great sacrifice that is required."

"It is not that, Seymour," she said, earnestly; "what sacrifice should I think too great to make you happy, and to free myself from the state of bondage in which I live?--But how, Seymour, how can we fly?" continued Arabella, "the moment the Queen returns, most likely she will send for me. Nothing is prepared. We should be caught, and brought back again with shame."

"Oh! not to-night, dear one," replied William Seymour, "but if you consent, the matter is quite easy. You will, you will, Arabella! The joy of that hope nearly turns my brain. Say, say you will!"

Arabella bent down her glowing face upon his shoulder, but gave no reply except by silence; and Seymour, drawing her closer to him, strove to banish the doubts and fears which he knew would arise before her imagination, at the thought of the rash enterprise he proposed.

"Listen, dearest, listen," he said, "and you will see it is all fair and feasible. The Court goes to London in three days for the ceremony of the coronation. As many persons will be left out of the procession, on account of the plague, you must feign great apprehensions. They will easily let you go back into Cambridgeshire to your aunt Emily's. I, in the meantime, must hasten to London, where I will make preparations; for I cannot go upon an embassy without some sort of splendour. When all is ready, I will let you know; and sailing away from London, will anchor my ship in the Thames' mouth, opposite the small town of Leigh. An easy journey by Chelmsford will bring you near the shore, where a boat shall be waiting for you night and day. Then sailing away together, long ere any one knows that you have departed, we shall be safe, beyond pursuit, and linked together for life by that sweet and blessed bond which confirms and sanctifies the contract of two hearts that love. Is not this easy, Arabella? Where is the difficulty? Long ere the news can reach the capital, we shall be across the sea; and my going from London alone will render it weeks, perhaps months, a matter of doubt what has become of you. See you any obstacle, dearest? Is there any danger?"

"I know not," answered Arabella, "I know not; and yet I doubt and fear. But hark! They are come back again. There comes the Queen's coach. Leave me, Seymour, leave me--oh, in pity, leave me!"

"Will you, then, dearest--will you?" he cried, hastily; "I cannot leave you till you say you will."

"Yes, yes," she answered; "I will do anything to make you happy;" and catching her to his bosom for a moment, he took one embrace, and left her.

The agony of parting is with those that remain. The changing scene, the hurry of preparation, the bustle of the journey, the incidents on the road, the very excitement of action, are all causes of diversion from sadder thoughts; and though every hour, nay, every moment, Seymour's mind reverted to Arabella, the difference was, that through the live-long day, she sat and dwelt upon no other image but his. Yet her fancies were as chequered as the light and shade of the grim foliage in the sunshine; and for many an hour, her thoughts wandered first to dark pictures of danger, and difficulty, discovery, and disappointment; and then, with trembling hope, glanced towards the brighter scene, and she drew for herself airy sketches of escape, and freedom, and love, and joy. But in all that her imagination called up, Seymour was by her side, sharing the peril, and so rendering it doubly terrible, or partaking the happiness, and making it more intensely bright.