Who has not heard of the masque at Theobalds--perhaps the most disgraceful scene that ever took place in an English court? and yet it is into the midst of that extraordinary spectacle of disgusting excess that we must lead the reader for a short time, together with some of the fairest and the best of the personages in our tale.

Not long after those conversations took place which we have in the last chapter detailed, the King, the Queen, and the whole Court were invited to spend a few days at the princely mansion of the Earl of Salisbury, to revel with the King of Denmark, who was then visiting England, and had just returned to the capital from a short tour through some of our rural districts.

The presence of this monarch in England had tended to anything but to improve the morality or decency of the people. A coarse-minded barbarian, with some of the virtues, but almost all the vices of a half-savage state, could not, indeed, be expected to aid the progress of civilization in a court where he was courted, flattered, and looked up to as the brother of a Queen, whose affability of manners, in default of higher qualities, had rendered her undeservedly popular.

It must not be supposed, however, that the higher classes in Great Britain were universally polished, or free from gross faults, at the time he came. There were many, it is true, in England, as probably will always be the case, who, in point of demeanour, as well as virtue--of genius, as well as goodness, excelled any others on the earth. But there was a great mass, as there is still and ever will be, noble by birth, but not in heart; high by station, but not in principle. The rude insolence which the Scottish courtiers had brought to the English capital, filled it with feuds and bloodshed; the example of some of the most distinguished women of the court spread immorality abroad like a pestilence; and the Ordinary, so admirably depicted by Sir Walter Scott, finished the education of the young courtiers in gaming, and the excesses of the table. But it was not alone the house of Monsieur de Beaujeu which was open for such orgies, nor were they persons of high rank who alone frequented such abodes; for, at the time I speak of, there were hundreds of these dens of iniquity held in different parts of the town, where every man chose his own scale of vice and indulgence, and ruined himself or his neighbours, cut his own throat, or run his best friend though the body, according as skill and inclination might combine.

It was to the King of Denmark, however, that the Court owed the gross habit of intoxication, which now became general, and which lasted from that time to a period not long before the present day. He first revived the barbarous notion in the land, that excess of drinking can be honourable; and it spread with extraordinary rapidity through all classes, affecting not alone the men, but the women of the higher ranks. Many lamentable scenes produced by this vice are to be found depicted in the papers of Winwood, and other contemporaries, but perhaps the most celebrated of all, from the disgusting excess to which the beastly sin was carried, took place at Theobalds, on the occasion to which we now refer.

Hospitality reigned in the mansion, even to profusion; the cellar was free to any one who might choose to use it; the door of the buttery stood open day and night; and the royal table actually flowed with wine.

For the entertainments of the second day of the royal visit, a masque had been prepared by the owner of the mansion; but it was unfortunately appointed to succeed a grand banquet, at which all the Court was present. As what was then considered a delicate compliment to the King, who continued to affect, notwithstanding the bitter sarcasm of Henry IV. of France, the title of the English Solomon, the masque was intended to represent the visit of the Queen of Sheba to the wise Sovereign of the Jews. The great hall, next to the banqueting-room, was fitted up as the Temple of Jerusalem; and at the upper end a dais and canopy were raised for the two Monarchs, the Queen, and the principal ladies of the court.

The banquet I will not describe. Suffice it to say, it was over; and with unsteady steps the Kings proceeded to take their seats with the Queen, and all the principal ladies in attendance upon her. The Princess Elizabeth was not present, and Arabella Stuart, from her royal blood, was seated next to Anne of Denmark. Many of the followers of the old court who had received but little encouragement from James, had, with laudable feeling, been invited by the Earl of Salisbury; and amongst the rest, was our good friend Sir Harry West. Though the King took no notice of him, and many of the young courtiers thought fit to wonder how such an antiquated specimen of the Elizabethan days had come thither, the sweet lady whose tale we tell had stopped to speak to him as she passed onward to her seat, giving him her hand, and calling him cousin, from his distant relationship to the family of Cavendish.

"I beseech you, Sir Harry," she said, in a low voice, after a few words of courtesy, "stand behind me on the dais, and leave me not if you can help it, It will be doing me a great service to let me converse with you, rather than with one who, I fear, may be too near."

"I will be there," replied Sir Harry; and though there is always some difficulty in making such arrangements in a crowded court, the old knight, proceeding with his usual calm self-possession and firm experience, had reached the back of Arabella's chair by the time she was seated.

The moment after, the Viscount Rochester approached; and, though he was not one to attempt to displace a gentleman of Sir Harry West's years and reputation, he looked a little mortified, and took a position on the other side of the lady, nearer to the Queen. Arabella looked round to see if her old friend was there; and Rochester, who, to his credit be it spoken, was quite sober, seized the opportunity to bend over her, expressing in courteous terms, though somewhat unpolished language, a hope that she did not suffer from the heat.

The lady replied with all due civility, but briefly; and, as she did so, her eyes were brought to the opposite side of the circle, where sat some other ladies of the court; and there, to her surprise, she beheld the lovely countenance of the Countess of Essex gazing upon her with an expression of fierce anger, which she could not at all comprehend. Without much care to discover what was the cause, however, and merely following her own plan, she turned instantly to the other side, where Sir Harry West stood a step behind her, and said a few words to him in a low tone. The knight answered, and Arabella rejoined, but their conversation was speedily interrupted by the commencement of the masque.

The gilded and painted pillars, intended for the columns of Solomon's Temple, were suddenly illuminated by girandoles of lights round the capitals, and a flourish of trumpets was heard without, when, followed by numerous attendants, a masked lady, carrying a casket in her hand, and representing the Queen of Sheba, entered the hall, and advanced towards the two Kings. The casket was loaded with a variety of shining things made in sugar, by the art of an Italian confectioner, which, though assuming the form of jewels and precious stones, contained within jellies, and syrups, and perfumes. It was remarked by those persons in the court, who had not themselves paid their devotions too deeply to the god of the grape, that the step of the Queen of Sheba was quite as unsteady as that of her prototype might be supposed to have been upon the sea of glass. She contrived, notwithstanding, to reach the dais; but there, whether her feet failed her, or whether she stumbled over the step does not appear, but she fell head foremost into the lap of the King of Denmark, bespattering him with her confectionery in a most unseemly manner. Confused and ashamed, she started up, though not without assistance; and her mask falling off, displayed the face of one of the first ladies of the court, with a heightened colour, and eyes somewhat void of expression.

The Danish monarch himself, who was good-humoured in his cups, instantly started up to console the overthrown lady; and calling loudly to the musicians to begin an air which he named, he declared he would dance a measure with the Queen of Sheba. Unfortunately, however, he did not well calculate his own powers, and in the very first effort, after reeling for a moment from side to side, he fell prone at her feet, well nigh bringing her to the ground along with him.

A scene of confusion ensued, such as is happily seldom witnessed at a court; in the midst of which, the Eastern Queen very wisely effected her retreat, and his Danish Majesty was taken up by four stout ushers, and carried into a neighbouring bed-chamber, dripping with the jellies and syrups which his fair partner had so unceremoniously bestowed upon his garments.

It is probable that the scene would have ended there, had not James, who never chose to be disappointed in his amusements, insisted upon the spectacle proceeding; and three ladies were introduced as Faith, Hope and Charity, gorgeously dressed, though with no very light or heavenly vestments.

The farther proceedings of the masque we shall describe in the words of an eye-witness, in order to win the reader's belief for things scarcely credible.

"Hope," says Sir John Harrington in his NugÆ, "did essay to speak; but wine rendered her endeavours so feeble, that she withdrew, and hoped the King would excuse her brevity. Faith was then alone, for I am certain she was not joined with Good Works, and left the Court in a staggering condition. Charity came to the King's feet, and seemed to cover the multitude of sins her sisters had committed. In some sort she made obeisance and brought gifts, but said she would return home again, as there was no gift which heaven has not already given his Majesty. She then returned to Faith and Hope, who were both sick in the lower hall. Next came Victory in bright armour, and, by a strange medley of versification, did endeavour to make suit to the King; but Victory did not triumph long, for, after much lamentable utterance, she was led away like a silly captive, and laid to sleep in the outer steps of the antechamber. Now Peace did make her entry, and strive to get foremost to the King; but I grieve to tell now great wrath she did discover unto those of her attendants, and much contrary to her semblance, most rudely made war with her olive branch, and laid on the pates of those who did oppose her coming."

Thus ended an exhibition, disgraceful to all concerned, and painful to those who witnessed it. To Arabella Stuart it had, as the reader may suppose, caused not a little grief and annoyance. She felt ashamed of her sex, of her class, of her society; and during the last act of this strange scene, she had turned her eyes away, suffering them to wander over the crowd of persons who lined the hall on either side, and occupied a considerable space at the end.

In the meanwhile, Lord Rochester, who, though not constantly maintaining his position near her, always returned to it, had endeavoured more than once to engage her in conversation, but, to say truth, without much success. At last, however, he perceived that her voice, in answering some question he addressed to her, suddenly faltered, and her reply stopped abruptly.

"Is anything the matter, lady?" asked Sir Harry West, who saw her cheek turn deadly pale.

"I am faint," replied Arabella, "--the heat, I think----"

"Will you go out into the air?" asked the old knight; but, at the same time, his eyes followed hers to a spot at the farther extremity of the hall, towards which they were turned, and an involuntary exclamation of "Ha!" broke from his lips.

It was just at this moment, however, that the group representing Peace and Abundance entered the hall; and the noise and confusion which prevailed drew attention in another direction.

"Would you like to retire?" again asked the old knight.

"No," replied Arabella, "no, I shall be better in a moment--this cannot last long. Would to Heaven it had never taken place!"

"It is, indeed, a disgusting affair," replied Sir Harry West. "My Lord, I wonder if his Majesty would object to that window being opened, for the lady is faint with the heat, and the King himself looks over warm."

"Oh no," exclaimed Lord Rochester, "I will open it in a minute, and give Solomon some air. Would your Majesty be pleased to let in a little of the breath of heaven," he continued, moving to the King's chair, "for it seems we have too much of the breath of earth here."

"Well flavoured with sack and canary," answered the King, "but we'll soon get out of the hotter. Don't you see, Peace and Plenty are retreating in confusion? and, methinks, it will be wise to go out upon the terrace, and refresh ourselves in the evening air. The moon is shining, is it not? Give me your arm, Carro. I-fegs, though our head be as strong as that of most folk, the good wine of my Lord of Salisbury is well nigh as much as we can carry."

The King and Queen then rose; and, according to the proposal of James, the whole party issued forth into the wide ornamented grounds--with one exception. Arabella Stuart, whispering to Anne of Denmark that she was somewhat faint, but would rejoin her in a few minutes, darted away to her own room, where, casting herself on her knees beside her bed, she hid her face upon her hands, and prayed. Her prayers were not unmingled with tears, however; and when she rose, her eyes were red.

"They may see that I have been weeping," she said to herself, "and I may as well put a mask upon my face as upon my heart. There will be others in similar guise;" and taking up the rarely-used black velvet mask which lay upon her dressing table, she hurried down by the small staircase, which led from her apartments, to rejoin the Queen on the terrace. At the foot of the stairs, close to the doorway by which she was going out, stood a tall and graceful figure leaning against the pillar. He drew a step back as she approached, with a cold and respectful air. But Arabella suddenly stopped, exclaiming, "Seymour! Do you not know me?" and she put up her hand to remove her mask.

"Nay, nay," he said, stopping her; "I know you right well, sweet lady,--no mask can hide Arabella from William Seymour."

"Then what is the matter?" she asked, in surprise; "why did you not let me know that you were returned from exile?"

"Better, perhaps, not have returned at all," replied Seymour, in a grave tone.

"Oh, Seymour!" exclaimed Arabella. But at that moment, a door on the other side of the passage opened, giving admission to some servants carrying plates and dishes from the banqueting room; and Arabella, fearful of being recognised, hurried forward, and joined the Queen upon the terrace.

She found that almost every lady had resumed her mask, on the pretence, common in that day, of guarding her complexion from the air. The company had broken up into various groups, and were scattered over the grounds in the moonlight, with the liberty which Anne of Denmark encouraged in the court; and as soon as the Queen saw Arabella, she exclaimed, "Away, away, my pretty cousin! Find thee a mate for the evening. We have cast off royal restraints, and for the next hour are as free as the wind."

Arabella looked round, but the mate whom her heart would have fondly sought for that hour, or for the whole of life, was not near; and, fixing hastily upon good Sir Harry West, she advanced to the place where he stood, saying, "Come, my dear good friend, the Queen wills that I choose a partner for the evening's gossip, and so I will inflict myself on you."

"Alas, lady," replied the old knight, walking on by her side; "you might have chosen a younger and a gayer heart."

"A younger, but not a gayer," replied Arabella, in a cheerful tone; "for we will be as merry as skylarks together. What is there in the world worth being sad about?--When one has found out that love sooner or later waxes cold; that hope goes out at last like an exhausted lamp; that courtesy has its changes, like every other fashion; that temperance and soberness can give up their place among the virtues to drunkenness and excess--what is there in the world sufficiently valuable to make us give it a sigh when we see it passing away?"

"Right gloomy merriment, dear lady!" answered the knight, with a shake of the head; "but yet not of the sort that falls upon old age. The shade upon you, is but that cast by some passing cloud, not the grey twilight of declining day.--What has happened? Has your bird got out of the cage, and flown away?

"No," replied Arabella, quickly, "he has come back again and pecked my hand.--But here hurries Lord Rochester.--In pity leave me not.--Ha! who is that sweet lady joins him now, and hangs upon his arm?" she continued, speaking to herself "Many thanks, fair dame!--many thanks for keeping him from me.--I pray thee hold him fast--and she does too! Who can that be, Sir Harry?"

"The Countess of Essex, I think," answered the knight.

"Oh no," replied Arabella, "she had on a robe of amber and silver--that is dark blue or green, I think."

"She has had time to change it," said the knight, "and she it certainly is. That queenly, yet impetuous step is not to be mistaken, nor that glorious form, harbouring--what?"

"I know not," replied Arabella; "we are but little acquainted."

"Ay, who shall say?" rejoined Sir Harry West, "at eighteen, who shall say, whether it be angel or devil? for the fallen Morning Star shone once as bright as the best in heaven."

"Fie, fie, Sir Harry!" cried Arabella. "I thought that beauty now-a-days was the great good, the pledge and warrant of celestial excellence--who ever speaks of aught but beauty? If a lover would please me, he fixes on my fine points, as a jockey describing his horse. My eyes are certain to put out the stars. It is my lip that makes the roses blush with envy. Pearls have quite lost their price, since my teeth came to court; and sculptors are quite ruined in alabaster, trying to imitate my skin. Fie, fie, Sir Harry! If she be beautiful, she must be an angel."

"She has not made her husband think so," replied Sir Harry West. "But here comes another to join us--my young friend, William Seymour. Will you fly from him, too, lady? or shall I leave you to his care?"

"Nay, stay," cried Arabella, eagerly--too eagerly; "stay, I beseech you."

Was it her heart spoke? Yes, reader; or rather the agitation that was in it. She feared herself at that moment--she feared to be left alone with him she loved the best, at a time when her thoughts were all in confusion--when her bosom was full of emotion, lest she should say or do something rashly that could never be recalled. In another instant, however, Seymour was by her side; but he, too, was agitated; and though she had hidden, under her gay speeches to Sir Harry West, the struggling sensation within her, she could do so no longer, with her lover by her side. Thus, the few sentences first spoken on both parts were incoherent--almost unintelligible.

The old knight came to their aid, however, asking his young friend, in a quiet, conversational tone, when he had returned.

"But yesterday," replied William Seymour. "One fortnight ago, I received the King's permission to come back; and, setting off next morning, I have since ridden post through France and part of Italy, taking not much time, as you may suppose, to admire the beauties of the road."

"No, good faith, my young friend," replied Sir Harry West, "nor to give yourself much repose either."

"True," answered Seymour, with a sigh; "I sought no repose. I was winged with hope and expectation--going back to my native land, to all I loved the best, in the full confidence of finding hearts unchanged, and affections the same. But it was a boy-like error, Sir Harry. The first rumour that met me showed that time, as well as fortune, changes favour; and all that I have seen this night, makes me think that everything on earth is, as the Jewish King has said, lighter than vanity."

"Something like your own complaint, sweet lady," said Sir Harry West; "a moment ago you were painting the world in the same gloomy colours."

"I said," replied Arabella, "that there is nothing on earth worth sighing for--and, in truth, I think so still; for the events we long for most eagerly, generally end in disappointment or anguish."

"Well, then, you are both agreed, it seems," said Sir Harry West. "'Tis strange that you should come to the same conclusion on the same night."

"Sir Harry, Sir Harry!" cried a voice from the terrace above; "his Majesty wishes to speak with you. You must give judgment between him and the Ambassador from Florence, on a passage in Dante, which his Excellency pretends he can translate into English better than his Majesty."

"Now, heaven defend me!" exclaimed the old knight. "Would that the moon had not lighted them to look for me. But I must leave the lady under your charge, Seymour," and away he sped, while Arabella stood hesitating for a moment, whether to accompany him or not.

But woman's heart is always willing to leave a door open for reconciliation, and though she said, "I think we had better follow to the terrace," she took no step that way.

"As you please, lady," replied Seymour, without moving in that direction.

Arabella turned round to go; but love conquered, and pausing suddenly, she said, "No! The opportunity may never come again, and it shall not be said, that I resented the first unkindness of a rash man. We will go the other way."

"Unkindness, Arabella!" cried Seymour. "'Tis not I am unkind."

"Then you would say, it is I?" exclaimed Arabella.

"Nay," replied Seymour, in a sad tone, "I do not say so. I have no title to charge you with unkindness. What right have I to expect that you should remember me through several long years; that you should neglect happier men with fairer fortunes, for the sake of one whom you once condescended--may I say it now-a-days?--to love."

"What right?" said Arabella. "Oh, Seymour, do you ask me what right? I might as well inquire of my own heart what right I have to feel this anguish, when I see him to whom all my thoughts have been given for years--for whose return I have looked with anxious hope and longing, till delay did, indeed, make the heart sick, come back at length cold and indifferent as if we had scarcely ever met. But I make no such foolish inquiries. I have a right, the right of true affection, the right of pledged and plighted faith, the right, if you will, of sorrow and suffering--and by that right, I ask you, William Seymour, what is it that has changed you thus?"

"Nay, Arabella," he replied, "'tis not I am changed--'tis you."

"Hush," she said, "here are people coming near;" but the other group passed without noticing them; and she then added, "I will be coarse with you, Seymour, and speak boldly, what no man, I think, would dare to say, that you tell a falsehood. I am not changed."

"Oh, prove it to me!" cried Seymour, "and I will say it is the sweetest insult ever I received. Is it not true, then, that you encourage this minion of the King, this raw untutored Scot, whose woman face and glittering apparel has turned all heads, it seems, and perverted all hearts.

"I!" exclaimed Arabella, "I encourage him! Is it possible that that mad-headed passion, jealousy, should so far take possession of a sober-minded man, as to make him forget everything he has known of one, whose heart he once pretended to think the most valuable thing he could possess on earth? Oh, if that heart could be so hollow and so false, what an empty, valueless gewgaw it would be! Come, I forgive thee, Seymour; if the yellow fiend has got thee in his hands, he has tormented thee too much already for me to add one punishment more. But I will have full confession by whom, by what, where, and how, came this outrageous fancy in thy head, my friend."

"That is told at once," exclaimed her lover. "I heard it last night in London, from my brother. I saw the man this night beside you with my eyes."

"Ay," replied the lady, "and might have seen, too, if you had used them well, poor Arabella nearly fainting, when she caught the face of an ungrateful man gazing at her from the far end of the hall. I will not tell you it was with joy--it might be with fear, you know. Your wife, your pledged and plighted wife, might well tremble and turn pale, and nearly sink upon the ground, when you detected her listening to sweet words from the king's fluttering favourite. Think so, Seymour--think so, if you can! But hark! here are steps coming--Sir Harry West--we must break off."

"But how--tell me how," cried Seymour, "I can see you again--how write to you?"

"See me?" replied Arabella, hastily; "I know not; chance and fortune must favour us. But as to writing, you may trust Ida Mara with anything."

"Ida Mara!--who is she?" asked her lover.

"One of my gentlewomen," replied Arabella, in a gay tone; "the only one, indeed, except two little maids that wait on her and me. But here is Sir Harry West," she continued, turning towards the old knight as he approached, "he will tell you more about her, for on my truth I think the girl is in love with him, and he with her. Is it not so, Sir Harry?--we speak of Ida Mara."

Good Sir Harry West made no denial of the fact, but told the lady that the Queen was about to retire; and Arabella followed him towards the terrace; but, as she went, she took care that Seymour should have so full a description of the fair Italian, that he could find no difficulty in distinguishing her from the other attendants at the Court. Walking by her side, he crossed the terrace with her towards the Queen, but took his leave before she joined the royal circle, and was soon lost to her sight amongst the various groups that were scattered over the ground.

The Court and the courtiers still, for several hours, prolonged their revels in the halls of Theobalds; and cups of wine were drunk, and scenes of folly enacted, which I will not pause to enumerate or describe. Laughter, and song, and gaming, and many a vice, and many an absurdity, had there to take place before morning; but for Arabella Stuart, the day ended with the walk in the gardens.