The Lieutenant gazed at him with a smile, and then answered: "You know, sir, that there is not a man in the Tower whom I would sooner see out of it than yourself, from gratitude to my good Lord of Hertford. But in these matters, sir, every one must take care of himself, and I fear I must not do anything to help you out."
"Thanks for your good wishes, Wade, at all events," replied Seymour. "So poor Sir Thomas Overbury is kept a close prisoner?"
"Too close, sir," said the Lieutenant; "too close not to make men think that the offence charged against him is but a pretext, and that there is darker work below. I am not a man to serve their purposes, however; and I fancy my crime is more refusing to let some persons have access to him, than permitting others. My Lord of Rochester sent a man here yesterday morning to wait upon him, as he said--a fellow whose look I love not. So I told him that no one should wait upon a close prisoner in my custody but my own servants. For them I can be answerable, not for others. This is my true fault, sir. But you must be good enough, in your walks, not to approach the Beauchamp Tower, whatever you do, as, if any one is seen speaking with the poor man again, I must place him in a less convenient room, and I do not wish to deal harshly with one I so much pity."
"You are a good fellow, Wade," replied Seymour, shaking his hand; and, leaving the Lieutenant, he walked on, saying to himself, "this is something gained: Wade will shut his eyes as far as possible, that is clear.--Escape, then, will be easy; but it must be executed before he is removed."
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
The morning meal was over at the house of Mr. Conyers; and the Lady Arabella, rising from the table, approached one of the windows which stood open, and gazed out upon the green lawn and the fine old trees, while an expression of deep melancholy came over her face, which had before been cheerful. As she thus stood, the master of the mansion approached her, saying, "'Tis a beautiful day, lady; would you not like to walk forth?"
"Not yet," answered Arabella. "I was thinking, Mr. Conyers, how quietly life might pass in such a sweet place as this, without ever stirring beyond those walls; and I was asking myself what it was that made confinement within them so burdensome. Here I have almost all that heart could desire,--a kind host and hostess, every luxury that wealth can afford, fine sights before my eyes, sweet sounds for my ear, the gentle breath of summer fanning my brow, and space as large to roam through at my will as, to say sooth, a woman's feeble frame can well wander over untired. And yet, I cannot school my heart to content."
Mr. Conyers did not know well how to answer her. He was not willing to jar a thoughtful mind with a trite common-place, and therefore he only inquired, "Pray, how did you settle the question, dear lady?"
"I asked myself if liberty was all that I wanted," continued Arabella; "that bright spectre, the reality of which man can never know on earth; for, if we be not slaves to others, we are still slaves to our own infirmities; and this flesh is the true prison after all. But I have never sought much liberty. I have been right willing to bow my designs to those of others, to yield ready obedience where, perhaps, I had a right to resist, striving to make my own heart my world, where no one can forbid the spirit from wandering in the garden which itself has planted. I have sought little else but that. I will tell you what it is that makes even this sweet spot a prison. It is not that I cannot pass those gates; for, were I happier, I should never wish to pass them. I have no desire for the wide world. But it is, that those I love can never enter them,--that the friends who are dearest, the hearts that cherish me, the souls with which mine is linked, have no admission here. I will go weep," she cried, suddenly dashing a tear from her dark eye-lashes--"I will go weep, and I shall be better then."
Thus saying, she quitted the room, while Mr. Conyers stood in the window with a sad and thoughtful brow.