Arabella Stuart. G. P. R. James

      Although duty and propriety, and a number of other considerations, should lead us to follow the messenger of Sir Harry West to the busy and bustling scene which was taking place at Newark-upon-Trent, on the occasion of King James's entrance into that very respectable city, yet, yielding to temptation like other men, we feel ourselves so well pleased in the company of Arabella Stuart and William Seymour in the old knight's house, that we cannot resist our inclination to remain a little longer with them, and to shun the noise and hurry of the court.

      Oh, how sweetly, when we think of all that noise and hurry, do the calm and tranquil scenes of the country come upon the heart!--the sunshine slumbering upon the green field, the waving branches of the old trees, the free and dancing brightness of the rapid stream, the whispering of the soft-breathed wind, the singing of the joyous birds, how sweet they all fall upon the eye and ear--ay, even the cawing of the glossy rooks amongst the tall elms, heard through the open casement in which Seymour and Arabella now stand together, gazing out upon the bright aspect of the valley, as it glistens in the morning sunshine after the heavy rains of night.

      The mild air of the May morning is wooing her soft cheek, the tender graces of the spring are saluting her bright eye, the music of the woodland songsters is thrilling on her ear, the harmony of all is sinking into her heart.

      They are alone together; the old knight in his justice room, busy in reconciling differences, and in spreading peace, has left them to themselves; there is no ear to listen but that of nature; no eye to mark the emotions of their bosoms but His who made them to feel and to enjoy. Have a care, have a care, you two young and inexperienced beings! Have a care of the gulf that is before you, and stand no longer on the giddy brink! Oh, perilous hour! Why could it not be averted? Why could the words spoken never be blotted out from the record of things done? But it is all in vain to wish, or to regret. Fate was before them, and hand in hand they went upon the way that led them to destruction.

      There had been a long, silent pause, after some words of common courtesy; a pause such as takes place when people feel and know that they are upon the eve of things which may affect their whole future life. Arabella was anxious to say something upon matters totally indifferent to them both; but, busy with deeper thoughts, could find no such indifferent topic. Seymour, on the contrary, longed to talk of thoughts and feelings which had rested in his heart unchanged since last he saw her, but hesitated how to begin, lest the very first word should alarm her.

      At length, however, Arabella spoke, for she felt that such long silence might seem to have more meaning than any words.

      "It is nearly two years, I think," she said, "since you went to Flanders?"

      "Fully," he replied; "and a long, dull time it has been."

      "Nay," answered the lady, "I think that, were I a young man, nothing I should like so much as seeing foreign lands and mingling with strange people. There must be a great delight in watching all their habits, and in the adventures one meets with amongst them."

      "When the heart is at ease," replied William Seymour; "but mine was not so."

      "Indeed!" said Arabella, fixing her eyes upon him. "I should have thought no heart more light."

      "Truly, then, you have never seen it," rejoined the young gentleman, "for it is often heavy enough."

      "I grieve to hear it," replied the lady, with a look of interest; and then in a gayer tone she added, with that attraction towards dangerous subjects which is to woman as the light to the moth, "Come, what is it weighs it down? Make me your father confessor. Woman's wit will often find a way to attain that which man's wisdom fails to reach."

      "Well then, I will," said William Seymour. "I could not have a fairer confessor, nor one who has more right to assign the penance for my sins. Lady, my heart is heavy, from an hereditary disease, which has caused much mischief and much grief amongst my race already. You may probably have heard of it."

      "Nay, never," answered Arabella, with real astonishment. "I always thought the very name of Seymour implied health and strength, and long life.--What is this sad malady?"

      "That of loving above our station," replied William Seymour; and instantly her face became deadly pale, her frame trembled, and her eyes sought the ground.

      He proceeded, however. "This sad ambition," he said, "cost my grandfather nine years' imprisonment, and well nigh his head; but he, as you well know, little cared or sorrowed for what he had suffered, though grieved deeply for the sweet lady on whom their mutual love had brought so severe a punishment."

      "And she,"--replied Arabella, looking up, with the colour mounting in her cheek,--"and she grieved for him, not for herself. The Greys were an unfortunate race, however. How strange is the will of God, that of two so beautiful and excellent, Jane should perish on the scaffold, and Catherine waste her best days in prison! Yet methinks they must have been both happy even in their misfortunes, both suffering for those they loved."

      "'Twas a sad trial and test of affection," said William Seymour.

      "Yet one that any woman would take who truly loves," replied Arabella.

      "Ay, that is the point," he answered, looking down. "Such love may, to her who feels it, compensate for all suffering, and, to him who possesses it, repay the sacrifice of all, even of life itself. But, what must be the fate, lady, of one who loves as deeply as man can love, yet sees the object far above his reach, without one cheering hope to lead him on, one cause to think the passion in his own heart has awakened any return in the being, for whom he could cast away his life, as a gambler does his coin?"

      "It must be sad, indeed," said Arabella, in a low and hesitating tone,--"sad, indeed," she repeated. "But yet, perhaps--" and there she paused, leaving the sentence incomplete, while her colour varied like the morning sky as the sun rises in the east.

      "Yet such is my fate," rejoined her companion; "such has been the weight upon my heart, which has crushed its energies, quelled its hopes, made the gay scenes of other lands all dull and empty, and even in the field deprived my arm of one-half its vigour. Oh! had the light of happy love been but before me, what deeds would I have done, what things accomplished--Arabella," he continued, taking her hand, and gazing in her face--"Arabella?"

      She did not withdraw it; but she turned away her head, and with the fair fingers of the other hand chased away a bright drop from her dark eyelashes.

      It was enough; his arm stole round her slight waist. She did not move. His lips pressed her soft cheek. A gasping sob was her only reply. "Arabella, Arabella! speak to me!" he said; "leave me not in doubt and misery!"

      One moment more she remained still and silent; then, starting from his arms, she brushed her hair back from her forehead, with a sad and bewildered look, exclaiming, "Oh, Seymour, spare me!--This takes me by surprise--this is unkind;--think--think of all the risk, the danger, the sorrow----"

      "I have thought, beloved," he replied, "through many a long and weary night, through many a heavy and irksome day. I have paused, and pondered, and doubted, and trembled, and accused myself of base selfishness, and asked if I could bring danger, and perhaps unhappiness, on her whom I love far, far before myself. Arabella, I have sought you not. I would never have sought you! But we have met; and in your presence, I am a poor, weak, irresolute creature, powerless against the mastery of the passion in my heart. Rebuke, revile, contemn, tread upon me, if you will; I am at your feet, to do with as it pleases you."

      She shook her head with a sorrowful smile, murmuring, "It is for you I fear!" But, then, suddenly raising her eyes towards heaven, while her lips moved for a moment, she added, "No, Seymour, no; I will not plunge you in misery or danger. Your bright career shall not be cut off or stayed by me. No, no; it is better not to speak or think of such thing. My life may pass, cold and cheerless, in the hard bonds of a fate above my wishes; but you must cast off such feelings.--You must forget me, and in the end----"

      "Forget you, Arabella?" he interrupted,--"forget you? You little know the man who loves you. Whether you be mine or another's, I will remember you till life's latest hour;" and he kept his word.

      "I