In the times of our Sovereign Lord, His Sacred Majesty King James I., of happy memory, that peculiar district of the world called Lambeth was in a very different state and condition from that in which it is beheld now-a-days. It was not then a close, thronged, noisy, and somewhat turbulent parish, a borough in itself, sending members to Parliament, and having vast objections to church-rates; but it was actually almost a rural district, with an Archbishop's palace and church, a few houses gathered in the episcopal neighbourhood, and several fine old mansions, with their gardens extending down to the water, occupying the whole bank of the river opposite to Westminster and the Strand. Where now stand patent shot manufactories, and wharfs and warehouses, were then smooth, green, shaven lawns, and tall trees, and wildernesses, and terraces,--and the aspect of the whole place, as far as the different style of architecture and gardening would permit, was much more like Richmond, without its hill, than the famous borough of Lambeth.

One of these houses, at a considerable distance from the archbishop's palace, was remarkable for its beautiful gardens, and for its broad terrace, edging the river, and overhung by tall trees. A flint wall, with a lane on one side, and the grounds of another house on the other, surrounded these gardens and shut them out from the vulgar, leaving them only open to the view of those who passed upon the water, on which side it was not more than three feet high. To the river, there was a private stair for boats to land visitors; defended, however, from intrusion by an iron gate as high as the terrace-wall; and possessing a large bell, which, from time to time, gave notice of applications for admission.

About five o'clock in the evening of a day towards the end of September, a wherry, rowed by a single man, and containing no freight but himself, glided close under the embankment of the terrace, it being then high water; and there the rower paused for a moment or two on his oars, looking into the grounds above, as if very much admiring their trim propriety. After that short pause he rowed on again, and his inquisitiveness passed unnoticed by any one, as the gardens were vacant.

In about a quarter of an hour, however, the same boat and the same man re-appeared; but this time he did not pause, for there were three persons upon the terrace; a young lady of graceful and noble mien, walking a step in advance; an elderly, stately dame, talking to her at her shoulder; and a fair girl, with large bright eyes, and dark black hair, dressed in the simple, but lady-like apparel, which, in those days of splendid costume, generally denoted the waiting gentlewoman, coming a pace or two behind, with an air of sadness, and her look bent down upon the ground.

The rower, as we have said, pulled on; and about ten minutes after he was gone, the young lady whom we have mentioned turned towards the house, saying, "I shall go in, madam. Dear Ida," she continued, "you can stay if you like; for you have been kept in all the morning and want air."

"Not if I can help' you, dear Lady," replied Ida Mara, "or sing to you, or amuse you. The best air I can have is your own looks, when you are happy."

"That cannot be now," replied the Lady Arabella; "but I am going to write to the King; so that I shall not want you for the next hour."

The girl bent her head, and remained upon the terrace; and the two ladies returned through the trees to the house.

Ida Mara took one or two turns, pausing from time to time to gaze upon the different boats, which, with sails or oars, as the wind favoured them, skimmed fast over the shining surface of the water. In a minute or two, the wherry we have mentioned cut across from the stairs at Westminster, and passed close under the terrace, the man who was in it raising his head as far as possible, and examining the fair Italian with apparently curious eyes.

He went on some hundred yards beyond the garden wall, but then turned, and suffered his boat to drop slowly down, the tide just beginning to ebb, till it came opposite the centre of the gardens, where he stopped, turning the head of the boat to the stream, and, like a trout at the tail of a ripple, keeping himself from being carried further on by a scarcely perceptible stroke of the oars.

In a minute after, Ida passed the spot in her walk; and the boatman exclaimed, "Hist! hist!"

She started, and looked down upon him; but he was a man of middle age, with his hair somewhat grey; and though he was dressed as a common waterman, there was something distinguished in his appearance which belied his apparel.

"What are your wishes, sir?' said Ida Mara, approaching the edge of the terrace.

"Is this Sir Alexander Marchmont's house?" asked the man.

"No," replied Ida Mara; "it is Sir Thomas Parry's."

"Then this is where the Lady Arabella Stuart is confined," rejoined the waterman.

"The Lady Arabella Seymour is here," replied Ida Mara. "Not exactly as a prisoner, though by the King's order."

"You have a foreign accent," said the man; "methinks it sounds like Italian."

"It may well do so," replied the girl; and was about to turn away; but the rower asked immediately, "Is your name Ida Mara?"

She started, and replied "Yes; who are you?"

"A most unfortunate man," he answered; "but one devoted to your Lady, who has never forgot an act of generosity by which she saved his life. Tell her I have seen her husband, in the Tower, that he is well, and as happy as he can be, absent from her. Add that he is under scarce any restraint, can even go out within certain limits; and that I have promised him to bring her a letter from him tomorrow, if she will be here at his hour."

"Stay, stay," said Ida; "I will go tell the lady, if you will wait but a moment."

"Nay, I will return in a quarter of an hour," replied the man. "I may be discovered if I stay too long."

"What name shall I give the Lady Arabella," asked Ida Mara, "in case she should wish to trust you with a billet?"

The man paused and seemed to hesitate, but then replied, "My name is Markham, once Sir Griffin Markham. But tell her I have no schemes or conspiracies on foot. I have done with those things for ever, and only wish to serve her, and show her my gratitude before I die."

In about ten minutes after, Ida Mara was again walking on the terrace; and before long, the boat once more shot over from the other side.

"Here is a note," she said; "here is a note. The lady gives you her best thanks. Will you be back to-morrow?"

"I will," replied the man, bringing his boat as close up to the terrace as he could. "Now, throw it over."

Ida, with a slight wave of her hand, tossed the note into the wherry; and Markham then said, "It might be, that even if your lady or yourself were here to-morrow when I come, it would be dangerous to throw you the letter. You must give me some sign, if there be any watchful eyes upon you. What shall it be?"

"If there be any risk," replied Ida Mara at once, "you will find me singing. Whenever you find us silent, you may speak in safety.

"Enough, enough!" replied Markham, and rowed away.

Without landing at Westminster, as before, he directed his boat straight towards the Tower Stairs; and leaving it with the waterman from whom it had been hired, he hurried on through several lanes and turnings, to a small lodging, amongst the manifold alleys by which that part of London was intersected. He there put on a livery coat, with the badge of the House of Seymour upon it, and making a small bundle of three or four books and some writing materials, he once more set out, and approached the Tower.

No opposition was made to his entrance, and he was permitted to proceed to the very foot of the Tower where Seymour was lodged--for we can scarcely call it confined, as, at this period of his imprisonment, the restraint to which he was subjected was very slight. There, however, he met the Deputy of the Lieutenant, who stopped him, asking, "What have you got there?"

"Some books and paper, sir," replied Markham, "for Mr. Seymour."

"Let me see, let me see," said the officer; and the pretended servant instantly untied, the handkerchief, and displayed the contents for inspection.

The Deputy examined each article one by one, and finding nothing to excite suspicion, he said, "You may go on."

When Markham entered the apartments of the prisoner, however, Seymour was not alone. A gentleman in a clerical habit was sitting with him, but rose almost immediately to take his leave.

"We may feel for each other, reverend sir," said William Seymour, "though the cause of our imprisonment is so different. It is in both cases most unjust."

"Nay," answered Melvin, the famous Nonconformist minister, with a melancholy smile, "the cause is not so different as it seems." And taking a pen, he wrote upon a slip of paper, which lay upon the table the following quaint lines:--

Seymour smiled, and shook his hand, saying, "May we both be able to defend the altar that we love!" And bidding him adieu, Melvin left the room.

"Have you seen her?" demanded William Seymour, eagerly, grasping Markham's hand, as soon as his companion in captivity was gone.

"I have seen her," replied the other, "but have not been able to speak with her. The woman Parry was with her. I afterwards saw her Italian gentlewoman," he added, marking a look of disappointment that came over Seymour's countenance, "and have brought you comfort, at all events."

Thus saying, he took the note which he had received out of his pocket, and placed it in the prisoner's hands. Seymour read it twice, and pressed his lips upon it eagerly. "This is comfort indeed," he said. "Stay, Markham, I will add a word or two to the letter I have written. How can I ever thank you for what you have done for us?"

"How can I ever thank her," replied Markham, "for having refrained, when a word from her lips would have sent me to the scaffold? My life trembled in the balance! As it was, a grain more would have weighed down the scale."

Seymour did as he proposed, and then handed the letter to his companion. "Stay," he said, thoughtfully; "stay--were it not well for you to tell that good girl, Ida Mara, who is truth and devotion itself, where you are to be found, in case of need? The King may not always leave my Arabella where she now is. In his caprices, he may remove her suddenly to some other abode; and if Ida knew where to find you, she might give you such intimations as are most needful."

"I will tell her," answered Markham, "if you think she can be fully trusted.--But remember, Mr. Seymour, my own life is at stake if I am found here. I came but to collect some small means together, and return to the continent with all speed."

"You must not do for me anything you think rash," replied Seymour; "but, for my own part, the dearest thing I had on earth I would trust to that girl without a fear."

"So be it, then," answered Markham; and the next day, at the hour appointed, he carried the letter to the terrace below Sir Thomas Parry's house.

Arabella and Ida Mara were there alone, and as he approached they were perfectly silent; but he had remarked a boat which followed him all the way up the river, at the distance of some two or three hundred yards; and merely saying, in a voice loud enough for them to hear, "In an hour I will be back," he tossed the letter lightly on the terrace and rowed on.

When he returned, he found the fair Italian there alone; and it being by this time twilight, he paused to hold some conversation with her, informing her where and how she was to find him, in case of need, under his assumed name. On this occasion, as the night before, Ida threw a note for her lady's husband into the boat; and during ten days a constant communication between Seymour and Arabella was kept up by the same means.

At length, one evening, the moment he came near, Ida Mara, who was sitting beside her mistress, on one of the benches with which the terrace was furnished, raised her rich melodious voice and began to sing.

"Row on, row on! Another day

May shine with brighter light;

Ply, ply the oars, and pull away,

Thou must not come to-nigh.

Clouds are upon the summer sky,

There's thunder on the wind;

Pull on, pull on, and homeward hie;

Nor give one look behind!

Bear where thou go'st the words of love;

Say all that words can say,

Changeless affection's strength to prove;

But speed upon the way.

Oh! like yon river could I glide,

To where my heart would be,

My bark should soon outsail the tide,

That hurries to the sea.

But yet a star shines constant still,

Through yonder cloudy sky,

And hopes as bright my bosom fill,

From faith that cannot die!

Row on, then, row! God speed thy way!

Thou must not linger here;

Storms hang about the closing day;

To-morrow may be clear."