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."