Arabella Stuart. G. P. R. James

by this time been brought round; and swinging himself into the saddle, he rode slowly and sullenly away. His thoughts were all on fire, however, and his heart filled with anything but the dull sulkiness that he displayed upon the surface.

      "What is to be done?" he asked himself; "the matter is clear; she has betrayed us to the King. Cobham is an idiot, to write her a letter under his own hand, when I had promised to speak to her by word of mouth. See what it is to trust fools; and yet we could not well go forward without him. Still what is to be done now? That is the question. If Grey were ready, we might act at once, seize upon James at Wilton, and complete the affair at a blow. If not, it were better for all of us to fly. But I must show no haste, so long as there are other eyes upon me. Once past the park gates, then spur on to London, and let them know our misfortune. There is time yet; for this fatal letter could but reach her late last night, or early this morning.--Here, Jones!"

      A servant rode up; and his master, after musing for a moment, continued, "As soon as we are out of the gates, ride to Salisbury with all speed; find out Dr. Watson, who is at the third house from the gate near the city wall. Tell him to come to London with all speed; say, that this being summer time, the swallows are beginning to fly; then follow me to Cobham House. Baldock, you away to Wilton, and offer my humble duty to Sir Robert Cecil, my good brother-in-law.--'A little more than kin, and less than kind,' as the player has it. Ask after his health; and tell my good sister that the gloves have come from France, and I would send them if I feared not the infection; but they have lain in London for some days. This done, come both of you and join me at Cobham House. Let each use well his eyes, and tell me what you see. You, Baldock, mark shrewdly Sir Robert's face, when you compliment him on my part. I would fain know," he added, in a careless tone, "whether I should have a good reception at the Court, were I to venture thither. You are quick and keen, remark all things, and let me know the result. You may, if you make haste, overtake me before I reach London, as I shall go but slowly."

      At the park gates, the men took leave of their master, and rode on in the direction of Salisbury; while he pursued a narrow lane which joined the high London road after winding through the country for about five miles. The moment his servants were out of sight, he set spurs to his horse, which was a powerful charger, and galloped on over the sandy ground for about three miles without drawing a rein. Suddenly, however, the animal showed symptoms of going lame, and on dismounting to see what was the matter, he found that it had cast a shoe.

      "Now out upon fortune!" he cried; "if I could reach London ere to-morrow morning, the affair might yet go forward; if I be delayed another day, there's nothing for it but flight."

      He had to blame his own folly, however, rather than the fortune that awaited him; and had the delay which took place been no greater than that which was necessary to repair the little accident that had happened, all might have gone well with him. But small vices have more frequently ruined vast enterprises than even great crimes. Ere he had proceeded half a mile, leading his horse by the bridle, he came to a little open spot, where an object attracted his attention, of which we must give some account. On the left hand side of the road was a high bank of sandstone, retiring about thirty yards from the path, and topped with some feathery trees, which were waving their green branches in the sunshine. The foot of the cliff was covered with soft turf; and, hollowed out of the stone, was a little niche lined with masonry, having a shallow basin at the bottom to receive the clear, bright water of a spring, which issued from the bank, and, welling over the edge, formed a little rivulet running at the side of the lane.

      Close to this well, which some kind hand had erected for the solace of the thirsty traveller, was seated a young girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, dressed in a quaint and singular costume, very different from that of the English peasantry. She had a tall pointed hat upon her head, adorned with bugles, a black bodice and red petticoat, bordered with a tinsel lace, a snowy apron of fine lawn, and some gay bracelets on her arms. She was lightly but beautifully made; and, though her complexion was somewhat dark, her skin seemed smooth and soft, her features fine, her hair rich and luxuriant, and her hands and feet small and delicate. The attitude in which she had cast herself down was full of grace, but the whole expression of her figure, as well as her face, was that of deep sorrow, and the tears were running rapidly from her large dark eyes.

      The attention of George Brooke was instantly, as we have said, attracted towards her; and, although it is scarcely possible to conceive that the sight of sorrow in a woman could fail to awaken compassion in the breast of anything deserving the name of man, certain it is that less than holy feelings mingled in the sensations of him who now paused to regard her.

      "Well," he thought, "I suppose Dame Fortune has determined that I shall have to fly my country, and has sent me a fair companion to cheer the hours of exile. By my life! she is a pretty creature, and as enticing as a royal banquet.--What is the matter, I wonder? A quarrel with a lover?--if so, I may help her to a better--or a lost pigeon?--if so, I'll be her dove.--Why, pretty one, what ails thee?" he continued, advancing towards her.

      "I am very unhappy," sobbed the girl, with a strong foreign accent.

      "I see that," replied George Brooke; "and I grieve that those bright eyes should run over. But what is the cause?"

      "I know not where to go to," exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands together, and addressing her words rather to Heaven than him.

      "Go to?" cried her companion, gazing at her with his wild and reckless spirit ready for any folly or for any crime. "Why, come with me, sweet one.--I will take good care of thee."

      The girl looked up in his face with an inquiring glance; but there was in it no look of that deep feeling, that kindhearted benevolence, which gives confidence and hope. There was the light, half-serious, half-jesting smile, which mocks at all things, even while they are felt most weighty; the sort of scoffing carelessness with which the wicked strive to alleviate the burden of their own conscience. There was, moreover, that expression of habitual dissipation which always soon marks the man who gives himself up to vice.

      The girl shook her head mournfully, and made no answer.

      "Nay, nay," continued George Brooke, assuming a more serious and more feeling tone; "if any evil have really befallen you, tell me what it is, and I will help you if I can."

      "You cannot," said the girl, "you cannot. I have left a very wicked old man, who brought me over to this country two years ago, to sing before the gentry and play upon the lute; and I know not where to go to."

      "But why did you leave him?" asked George Brooke.

      "Because he wanted me to do what is wrong," replied the girl, the colour mounting in her face and temples; and again she burst into tears. Alas! she spoke to one who had no respect for, scarcely any belief in, virtue; and his evil purposes were but confirmed by what he saw and heard.

      "Nay," he said, "you shall tell me the whole story, and if it is as I think, I will bring you to a place where you shall be well taken care of and kindly treated. My horse has gone lame, so I will tie him to a tree, and sit down by you to hear your little history."

      The girl offered no opposition; and he did as he said, fully resolved to take her with him to London, under the pretence of providing for her, and then using his opportunities as he might think fit.

      All the first part of her tale she told without hesitation, that she was a Milanese by birth, and had been brought over--purchased, in fact, from her parents, by an English perfumer and charlatan, who had visited Italy in search of rare drugs and essences. For some time his expectations of making money by her little talents had not been disappointed. She had sung and played upon the lute, she said, before the Lord Southampton, and even the Queen; but the state of agitation at the English Court during the illness of Elizabeth put a stop to his gains; and he had taken her from place to place through the country, obtaining but little repayment for his trouble. Of the causes which induced her suddenly to quit him, however, he could obtain no farther account than that which she had already given, "that he wished her to do what was wrong." But George Brooke put his own construction on her words, and as she had described the charlatan as old and ugly, expressing great personal disgust towards him, he fancied that she might entertain very different feelings towards a younger and a