Arabella Stuart. G. P. R. James

the matter, Mark'em?" asked the old knight, patting his head; and instantly the dog sprang forward into one of the bay-windows, with a loud, angry bark, which was repeated more fiercely still the next moment, when a thundering heavy blow upon the door of the house announced that some visitor sought admission.

      "Down, Mark'em!--down!" cried Sir Harry West. "On my life, this is a stormy night for any one to venture out. Those blue-bottles of mine must not keep the man waiting, whoever he be;" and, advancing to the door of the room, he called loudly to several of the servants by name.

      Before they could come, however, he himself had crossed to the hall-door, and opened it, saying, "Come in, whoever you are!--What is it you want, good fellow? I know your face. Whose servant are you?"

      "The Lady Arabella's, Sir Harry," replied the man; "but we want help quickly. Her horse has fallen in this dark night; and, though she says she is not hurt, yet we all fear it is but to give us comfort."

      "Bring lanterns! bring lanterns!" cried Sir Harry, vehemently. "Lakyn! Matthew! Dick! Here, William Seymour, come with me. Here is that dear, beautiful girl, with her horse down, and herself hurt. Patience and mercy! what made her ride out in such a night as this?"

      But William Seymour was by this time at the hall-door.

      "I will go, I will go!" he exclaimed. "Stay you, Sir Harry. Send down the lanterns. I will go."

      And, without waiting to catch up cloak or hat, he ran out over the terrace and through the garden, passed the little gate, and hurried on down the narrow road which kept along the stream. He had not far to go, however; for about half way between the house and the London road, he came suddenly upon a group of three human beings and five horses standing together, with the rain pouring down upon them in as heavy a stream as our somewhat weeping and uncertain skies ever let flow upon a hapless traveller.

      "Are you hurt?--are you hurt?" exclaimed the young gentleman, addressing the taller of the two women who formed parts of the group.

      "No, indeed," replied the lady; "very little, if at all. I know your voice, sir, though I see you are not my old friend, Sir Harry West. Good heaven! can it be Mr. Seymour?"

      "The same, lady, and ever the humblest of your servants," replied the young gentleman. "Pray, let me assist you to the house. There are people coming with lanterns directly. Let me support you."

      Arabella gave him her hand without any sign of unwillingness; and he led her on with care, asking again, in a low voice, as soon as they were some ten or twenty steps from her attendants, "Are you hurt?"

      The question was put in one of those tones that give peculiar value and meaning to words, otherwise of no import,--those tones that may be called a second language, an universal tongue, in which all the comments of the heart are written upon the colder and more abstruse dialect in which we carry on our conversation with the ordinary world. He had asked her before the same question, and received an answer. What was it, then, he now said? A vast deal more, though without using any other than the words he had first employed. He told her, then, with the thrilling anxiety of deep interest, that he feared she was more hurt than she would allow; that he was alarmed, grieved, pained by what had happened; that he was rejoiced to see her again; that the lightest injury to her was of deep importance to him. Yes, although he only used those few words, that brief question, like Lord Burleigh's famous shake of the head, meant all this. Luckily, it so happens that there is no instruction required to learn the language of which we speak; the key to the cipher is in the hearts of every one, but more especially in the breast of woman; and Arabella, whatever were her own feelings, easily translated the tone of William Seymour into express terms. Not that he had ever said one word to her which the most distant acquaintance might not justify; not that one phrase had ever passed between them which the ear of the whole world might not have heard, but he had often spoken as he now spoke, and the tones had often made her heart thrill. She was, however, accustomed to inspire interest and excite admiration; she could not but know it; and, though in many cases she cared little about it, perhaps William Seymour's was not the instance in which she valued it the least.

      Arabella Stuart fancied herself in no degree ambitious. She had seen princes at her feet, without estimating them in the least by the crowns they offered, or the territories they possessed. She had willingly seen the proposals of some of the highest men in Europe rejected by those who ruled her fate; and yet she was perhaps the most ambitious person that it is possible to conceive; for she sought to obtain that which is the most difficult for any human being to gain--especially of royal blood. The object of her ambition was happiness! that glorious crown which all the jewels of the world cannot enrich, which, studded with the diamonds of the heart, can receive no additional lustre from such paltry things as power, or wealth, or station.

      In reply, she assured her companion that she was not hurt, and in her tone she thanked him much more than by mere words. She even let him know in some degree that she understood the interest he felt towards her, and was grateful to him for it.

      Not much time, however, was allowed them for conversation of any kind; for ere they had proceeded a hundred yards they were met by Sir Harry West, with his servants bearing lanterns; and the good knight, with William Seymour, accompanied her back to the house, while the attendants went on to give assistance to the party left behind.

      The same question which she had already answered, was of course addressed to Arabella by her old friend, and he too showed almost as deep an interest as his companion had displayed, though it was of a different sort. Satisfied on that head, he put a number of other inquiries to her: whence she last came--whither she was going--how she happened to be riding forth at such a time of night, especially as it had been raining hard for several hours.

      "Nay, nay, Sir Harry," cried the lady, gaily, "this is a catechism, and I will not answer you on all these heads now. You shall give me lodging in your castle for the night, if you be a gallant gentleman and true; and when I have once more cast off my wet garments, I will come and reply to all interrogatories as faithfully and discreetly as if I were before the Star Chamber."

      "So shall it be, dear lady; so shall it be," replied Sir Harry West. "My good old housekeeper, Dame Cicely, has been called out of the still-room to tend upon you; and, thanks to this young gentleman's arrival this afternoon, the best chamber is ready prepared for your reception."

      The lady, of course, said something apologetic for the trouble that she gave. "She was sorry, too," she said, "to deprive Mr. Seymour of his chamber." But the young gentleman assured her that he would sleep more sweetly for knowing that she was lodged in safety and in comfort; and Sir Harry answered laughingly, that he had taught the boy, in years long past, to put up with hard beds and scanty lodging.

      Thus talking, they soon reached the house, where a good matronly old woman, in a long stiff bodice, serge petticoat, and flowered gown, whose years would have had to roll back again some way to reach the age of sixty, accompanied by a handmaiden, who prided herself upon being at least five years younger than Dame Cicely, were waiting in the hall to give whatever help and tendance might be needed by the Lady Arabella. To their hands her two male companions consigned her, and then returned into the chamber where they had been passing the evening, when their conversation had been interrupted by the events which we have described. Without sitting down, both took their places before the fire again; and William Seymour brushed the wet with his hand from the curls of his hair, murmuring to himself,

      "I trust she will not suffer from this."

      "It is, indeed, a terrible night," said his old friend, "for such frail creatures as womankind to be out. There is nothing, William, that I thank God for more, amongst all the blessings he has showered upon me, than for not making me a woman."

      "And yet, my dear sir," replied William Seymour, "you were always a most devoted admirer and humble servant of the fair."

      "At a respectful distance, William, at a respectful distance," said the old knight, smiling. "When I was of your age, it is true, I had some impulses of matrimony upon me, which, like other diseases of children, by a strong constitution and good management, I got over easily."

      "Nay,"