G. P. R. James

The reader does not require to be informed, that the aspect of London in those days was very different from that which it shows at present. The great fire had not yet swept away that foul nest of narrow streets and tall houses, in which the plague lingered, almost as pertinaciously as in the lanes of an Oriental city; nor had the increasing population yet spread itself over the fields, or swallowed up the villages, by which the great metropolis of England was surrounded in former times, but which have been gradually covered with the mansions of succeeding races of the fashionable world, and fringed by the snug villas of commercial men, till the town is so gradually blended with the country, that it is scarcely possible to say where the one ends and the other begins.

Those large squares which have retained, in some instances to the present day, the name of fields, were then fields indeed. Boys and girls went a-Maying where balls and suppers are now held; and within about a quarter of a mile of Lincoln's Inn, a small, tall-chimneyed house, four stories high on one side, and two on another, with a round tower of brick-work added to contain the staircase, which seemed to have been forgotten in the original construction, rose in the midst of a garden, very near the spot where gentlemen in curious wigs and black gowns now hurry about to plead the cause of the rich, but not in general of the poor, if they can help it.

At the garden gate of this house, in the beginning of August, a coach stopped one day about three of the clock, and two ladies with the usual masks on their faces descended, and walked with a quick pace towards the door in the round tower. Before they reached it, however, that door was opened by the small page whom we have seen accompanying Master Weston, otherwise Doctor Foreman, and who, when at home, had the office, which he performed most acutely, of looking through a small loophole in the tower, to examine strictly all the personages who approached the Doctor's house.

Without any question, the two ladies walked straight up stairs, and, tapping at the door on the second floor, were answered by a voice from within which bade them enter. The shorter and stouter immediately lifted the latch, and then drew back, to suffer her taller and more graceful companion to pass. The other lady did so, and, advancing straight to the table, touched the worthy Doctor Foreman on the shoulder, without, however, prevailing upon him to raise his head from some strange and extraordinary figures, which he was tracing with a pen upon a slip of parchment. His gay and glittering attire, as a foreign cavalier, had now been cast aside, and he was robed in a black gown trimmed with fur, having a small velvet cap upon his head. So profoundly busy did he seem, that all he replied, when the Countess of Essex touched him, was "Enter--enter, why do you not come in?"

"The man's mad," cried the Countess.

"No, no," replied Mrs. Turner; "does not your Ladyship see that he is abstracted? You must let him finish what he is about; your own fate may depend upon it, for aught you know."

With this warning the Countess stood silent; but her impatient spirit still moved her to keep beating the ground with her small foot, till at length Doctor Foreman exclaimed, as he drew two more new figures at the bottom of the vellum--"Gimmel, Alsaneth;" and then looked round, as if in surprise to see any one in the room but himself. As soon as he perceived--or appeared to perceive--the Countess, he started up, exclaiming, "Bless me, beautiful Lady! I beg your Ladyship's pardon. Pray be seated. What is the news with you? 'Tis long since I have had the honour of seeing you. Has all gone according to your wish?"

"Good faith, no: much to the contrary," replied the Countess, seating herself, and taking off her mask;--and here it is to be remarked that a great change had come over her, in her demeanour to the respectable Doctor Foreman, since first she was introduced to that worthy and scientific person. She had now seen him several times; all shame and reserve had been cast off; her criminal love and its object were fully avowed; and, entangled in the snares of the impostor and his unprincipled associate, she was ready to engage in any rash act, however disgraceful, to accomplish her dark and vicious purposes. Nor let the reader for one moment doubt the truth of these assertions; let him not, filled with the notions and enlightened by the knowledge of the present day, ask himself if it be possible that a lady, of the highest rank and education of the time, could be the dupe of such a charlatan, and so low and infamous a woman? Let him not suppose that the tale is invented or embellished by the writer; for it is absolutely true, and stands based upon the evidence given before a court of justice. There may be, indeed, particulars still more gross than any here detailed--views still more wicked--follies still more flagrant--for much must be suppressed that would offend a pure and delicate mind--but let it be remembered that all these scenes are rather undercoloured than overcharged.

"I thought at one time, indeed," continued the Countess, "that your art was having its effect, for I met him at Theobalds, and, for the first time, saw something like the light of love in his eyes. But all has gone wrong since I returned to London. My father insists that I shall go home to that hateful wretch, to whom I am tied by such cruel bonds; and, if I do so, I shall die of grief and despair."

"Madam," said the Doctor, "I grieve for you deeply, but it is not in my power to control destiny. All that I told you was, that by the use of certain powders and drugs, such as William Shakespeare speaks of in the Midsummer Night's Dream, where he says--

'The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,
Will make a man or woman madly doat
Upon the next live creature that it sees;'

I can change hate or indifference into love, and love into hate, so that he who now cares nought for you, may soon be at your feet; and he who now loves you, may soon be as cold as ice."

"Then give me some--give me some of the latter," she cried, eagerly, "that I may mix it with all the food of this half-husband of mine, that he may learn to detest me as I detest him. Would he but consent, the iron bond between us might soon be broken; but I cannot take the ways that other women would to win my purpose. If I persuade and soothe, it will but waken his love the more."

"No, no," said Foreman, "you must not do that!--You must repel him coldly--show your dislike--look as if you loathed his sight."

"That were no great effort," cried the Countess; "it is my daily food to hate him.--But hark! there is a noise. Look out, Turner, look out."

"Half-a-dozen gentlemen, as I live," exclaimed Mrs. Turner, "coming straight along the path towards the house too.--I do believe they are gentlemen of my Lord of Suffolk, your noble father, lady.--Yes, there is Sir John Walters, as I live! Have you no hiding place, Doctor?"

"'Twere useless--'twere useless," answered the Countess, with a look of disdain; "the coach is at the gate; and I am not a baby, to be frightened at the look of my father's gentlemen. Come, quick, sirrah, give me some of that powder of hate you talk of."

"We weigh it, madam," said Foreman, hesitating, "at the rate of one gold noble per grain, but a small portion goes a great way."

"There, give me plenty," she cried, throwing a purse upon the table; and Foreman, taking it up, hurried to a little cabinet at the side, and took out several small packets.

At the same instant, the impostor's boy knocked at the door of the room; and the Countess exclaimed boldly, "Come in."

"There be six gentlemen at the door," he said, "inquiring if the Countess of Essex be here?"

"Tell them she is," replied the Countess, "and if they want her, they must wait her pleasure below.--Come, sir, is that ready?"

"It is, madam," said the Doctor, giving her the powders.

"Ha!" exclaimed she, gazing at them with a triumphant smile, "if these will make him hate me, he shall soon have them all, though it drove him well nigh to murder me. Oh! if I could but make him strike me! Now, sir, to you I must leave the task of working upon Lord Rochester; he is now in London, and you can easily find means----"

"Fear not, madam, fear not," replied the impostor, who heard a heavy step upon the stairs; and, to say the truth, was anxious to get rid of his fair guest, for fear of inquiries not the most profitable to him. "Fear not, madam; I will so manage it, that----"

"The gentlemen will come up!" cried the boy, thrusting in his head. The moment after, he was pushed aside; and a stout middle-aged man entered, on whom the bright eyes of the Countess flashed living fire.

"How dare you, Sir John Walters," she exclaimed, "intrude upon me in this manner?"

"I have your father's orders, my Lady," replied Sir John, "to bring you to him directly. He has something of importance to communicate."

"Well, sir," said the Countess, "I suppose I must obey; but be you sure that I will soon break through this tutelage;" and, passing him with a look of angry disdain, she descended the stairs, walked through the midst of the gentlemen at the door, without noticing any of them, and entered her coach.

The vehicle was driven immediately to the house of the Earl of Suffolk; and an angry spot was still upon the cheek of the fair Countess when she entered her father's gates. Fear and timidity were not in her nature; and she walked at once to the room where she expected to find him. She was surprised, however, and somewhat dismayed, it must be confessed, not only to behold her two parents, but her sister and the Earl of Essex. Her mother was in tears, and her father's brow stern and dark, while her husband stood with his arms folded on his chest, looking sad, rather than out of temper.

Passing him by, without the slightest notice, Lady Essex advanced straight towards her father, saying, "You sent for me, sir?"

"I did, Frances," he replied; "it was to let you know my will. Here stands your husband, madam, to whose house you have refused to go, on one pretence or another, ever since he returned to England to claim you as his bride. I beseech you, my child, in courteous decency, to give your hand to this noble gentleman, and let him lead you home;--for this is your home no longer."

"I dare say, my Lord," replied the Countess, unabashed, "that I could find another without troubling him."

"You see," cried her father,--"bear witness all, that no remonstrance or parental solicitation has any effect! Now, madam, hear! The coach, which is to convey you with your husband to his seat of Chartley, is at the door: your wardrobe is packed up to follow. From this room you go to that conveyance.--Nay, not a word; for if you walk not soberly, you shall be compelled; and down to Chartley with what grace you may. I trust that, ere I see your face again, a change will be wrought in your heart, and that I shall be enabled to welcome back the daughter gladly, whom I now part with in displeasure."

Lady Essex made a great effort to speak; but it was in vain; and she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

"Come, lady," said Lord Essex, in a gentle tone, taking her hand, "believe me, I will do all that man can do to win your love, and to secure your happiness."

"You can do neither, sir!" replied the Countess; "but I am your slave, it seems. Have you no chains ready? Let us go!" and, without bidding adieu to any one, she walked straight to the door.

We will pass over the journey to Chartley, the cold hatred with which she repelled her husband's love by the way, and the first week of their sojourn at that beautiful seat.

It was on the evening of a bright day in the same month, while the whole world was looking gay and cheerful without, that the Earl entered his wife's drawing-room, where all was dark and gloomy. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn; for she had never suffered them to be opened since her arrival. A single lamp stood upon the table; and by its faint light the Countess sat and wept. She raised neither her head nor her eyes when the step of her husband sounded in the chamber, but continued fixed and motionless, like a beautiful statue representing angry grief. Lord Essex drew a seat to the other side of the table, and, sitting down, gazed at her for a moment or two in silence.

"Dry your tears, madam," he said at length.

"That is at least a privilege you cannot take from me, sir," she replied. "When in my childhood, now six years ago, I took a vow I did not understand, I never promised not to weep."

"Dry your tears, I say, madam!" he rejoined, in a tone both of sternness and sadness; "for the cause of their flowing is about to be removed."

The Countess started, and looked up.

"I will claim your attention for a moment," he continued; "and you shall hear the result of some consideration. You and I were married at an early age, as the custom is----"

"It is a bad one," said the Countess. "Go on."

"But if you were not capable," continued her husband, "of loving and esteeming at that age, I was; and I returned to England to claim you, full of affection, which, as you may suppose, was not diminished when I saw your beauty. I have now been here nearly two months; and I have tried, by every means within man's power, to win you to return the attachment I have felt. The effort has proved vain. I have learned to know that you are unworthy of my love; that, instead of that fair form containing a heart and mind as soft and beautiful as your looks, there is nothing within but a proud, angry spirit--selfish, and cold, and fierce;--a loathsome thing, that makes the glittering casket in which it is enshrined all poor and valueless. I therefore cast you off, madam; or, as you will term it, set you free to go whithersoever you will--to do whatsoever you please. Your uncle, of Northampton, will receive you, for my good Lord, your father, will not. From me you shall enjoy such an income as may befit the Countess of Essex. I give it in honour of my own name, and trust--but faintly--that you will never disgrace it. To-morrow, at daybreak, your equipage will be at the door to convey you back to London. You came down hither with me against your will; but, if I were to go back again with you, it would be against my own."

"Oh, joy, joy!" cried the Countess, starting up and clasping her hands. "I am a slave no longer!"

Her husband gave her one look of scorn and reprobation, and quitted the room.