As with the ancient walls of palaces and halls, as with the dungeon and the court of law--so with the old hawthorn tree of the wide chase, the yew tree of the churchyard, or the broad oak of the park:--many a tale could be told by the silent witnesses of man's passions, joys, and sufferings, had they but a voice to speak that which they have seen; and how instructive might the homily be, if, as we have reason to believe, vice seldom goes without its punishment on earth, though virtue may have to look to Heaven for its reward!

In the wildest part of that tract of ground called Bushy Park, which, in the days we speak of, showed far less trace of man's handywork than at present, amidst fern, and whitethorn, and starting deer, walked along a lady and gentleman, both exquisitely beautiful in person, whatever they might be in heart. With her two fair hands clasped together, she hung upon his arm, gazing up through her mask at his face, while he looked down at her with admiration, of a kind to which it would be almost profane to give the name of love.

"Nay," she said, in a laughing tone, "I did not send it. You do not suppose that I need to court any man."

"Nay, sweetest lady," replied Rochester, "I do not suppose you do; but I thought that fortune and yourself might have so favoured me, to let me know the right track to follow."

"Not I," answered the Countess; "and in good truth, if I had the other night thought, when you first talked of love, that you but did so because you thought it would please me, I would have been as cruel as a step-dame, to cure you of such vanity. If I knew the writer of the letter, too, methinks I would have him punished for a scandal."

"Not so," answered Rochester, labouring to frame some graceful speech, at which he was not dexterous. "You surely would not punish him for giving me the first hope of happiness, which I scarcely ventured to dream of."

"In truth I would," replied the lady; "how dare he stand sponsor for my affections, and promise and vow so many things in my name? I declare there is not a word of truth in it, whatsoever you may think. I love you not at all, and never shall. 'Tis but your vanity that makes you believe so."

"Nay, I call all these trees to witness," cried Rochester, "of what you acknowledged half an hour ago."

"Oh, women will say what they do not mean," replied the Countess. "I hope no one but the trees did hear me; for I would not have too many witnesses to such a falsehood.--And so you showed the letter to Sir Thomas Overbury, and he it was, I suppose, who said I had written it?"

"No," replied Rochester, "he divined that you were the person spoken of; but he said that it was a man's hand."

"I wish it were burnt off!" cried the Countess, in a tone of affected anger. "I don't like this Sir Thomas Overbury."

"And why not?" asked Carr. "He says that you are by far the most beautiful woman in the Court, perhaps in the world."

"In that he is wise," answered the Countess, with a laugh; "but I hate him because you love him. I shall hate all that you love now."

"That is kind," said Carr; "I thought the proverb ran, 'Love me, love my dog.'"

"Ay," said the Countess, still in the same jesting tone; "if you will treat him as a dog. But I can tell you, henceforth and for ever, I will have you love nobody but me, or I will have nought to do with your love. I will have you all mine; you shall not give one grain of your affection to aught else on earth, whether the breath of life be warm in it, or it be but the cold production of art or nature; I will not have thee stand and gaze at a picture of Rubens, or of Titian; thou shalt not stand upon Richmond Hill, and high over the fair prospect before thee; thou shalt not listen to a bird singing in a spray, and praise its melody. Thine eyes, thine ears, thy heart, shall be all mine, or I will be jealous. There can be no partnership in love."

"You must not bring a bill into Parliament for all this," replied Carr, "or it will be called monopoly, and we shall have a petition and remonstrance."

"No," cried the Countess; "these are but my rights over mine own--these are the royalties of my estate; every rich metal beneath the surface is mine, as well as the soil above; and no one shall trespass on my right."

In such conversation they walked on, idle enough, it is true, and vicious enough, considering the situation of the parties; but yet it seemed necessary to display before the reader's eyes this scene, which may save us farther details into which we would fain not enter; and doubtless it has suggested, as we desired, a question to the mind,--almost a charge against our veracity. "Can this be the Countess of Essex?" the reader may well ask;--"the same harsh, repulsive, fiery, passionate being, who has been already exhibited in scenes with her father and her husband, which make the pure and honest heart glow with indignation and contempt?--this soft, playful jesting creature, the same bold impetuous being whom we have seen casting from her the most sacred obligations?"

Yes, reader, it is the same, only under another aspect; the same spoiled child--all remorseless fire when contradicted, now sporting, in her unwise hours of gratification, with the same carelessness of right which distinguished her in her darker moments. Have you not seen a tiger in its cage, unmoved by hunger or by rage, gambolling like a kitten, smoothing its glossy fur, and stretching out, in graceful sport, its limbs, both beautiful and strong? Who would suppose that it is the same fierce, devouring beast that rends the unhappy traveller in its fury, and gorges itself in blood and carnage?--Unrestrained passion is still the tiger--sportful when gratified, but terrible when thwarted.

They had turned back towards the palace from which they had wandered forth, Rochester thinking that, during his long absence, the King might have required his presence, and the Countess knowing well that her ultimate objects could not be attained, unless her lover cultivated assiduously the favour of the Monarch. She could not refrain from saying, however, "Why do you not tell your dog,"--for so she henceforth called Overbury,--"to go and fawn in your place?"

Though there was something sarcastic in her tone, Rochester was not offended, for he was now completely the slave of her charms. Weak and unprincipled himself, the same personal beauty which at first raised him to distinction, was all that he thought valuable in others. The heart, the mind, virtue, even talent,--so often esteemed where goodness is neglected,--he cared little for, he thought little of, indeed; and in Frances Howard he certainly had found all that he sought for most in woman,--resplendent beauty, eager passions, and deep and vehement attachment to himself. That loveliness and that love had, for the first time, kindled within him the eager fire of which his own nature was susceptible. It seemed as if the insane passion with which she was possessed were in its nature infectious, and had seized upon him also. For her he was ready to dare anything,--to sacrifice anything, however sacred or however good; and it but wanted occasion to call forth all the power of the evil spirit, which had slumbered for want of object.

They had reached an alley leading back towards the palace, when suddenly they perceived the figure of a man advancing towards them, with his head bent down, and his arms folded upon his chest. He was tall, stately, and commanding in air, but seemed absorbed in a deep reverie; and Rochester paused, looking forward and saying, "Who can that be?"

"Do you not know?" asked the Countess, in a stern tone. "No," he replied; "do you?"

"Right well," she answered; "it is that very noble gentleman, the Earl of Essex----"

Rochester's left hand fell upon the hilt of his sword; but the Countess proceeded,--"Do you think that, at any distance, I should not know that form, the hateful shadow of which has haunted me, waking and sleeping, for so long a time?"

"Shall we avoid him?" said Rochester, who, though as ready as any one to draw the sword, was not, to do him but justice, inclined to wrangle in the presence of a woman.

"No," answered the Countess, calmly, "I have no wish to shun him. Methinks I will take off my mask."

"No, no!" cried Rochester, "not so,--give him the opportunity of not seeming to know thee, if he will;" and, with a deliberate step, they proceeded along the alley, up which the Earl of Essex advanced in the same thoughtful mood.

When he was within a few steps of them he raised his head. His brow contracted, but that was the only sign of emotion he displayed. With a firm, steady look, he gazed at Rochester from head to foot, and then turned his eyes upon the Countess, fixing them upon her masked face sternly and sadly. It was evident that he knew her; and, indeed, the beauty of her form, and the queenly grace of her step, were not to be mistaken.

Not the slightest quivering of her hand, nor any clinging to the arm of Rochester, indicated agitation or alarm on her part. She trod, as she passed the man whose happiness she had wrecked, with a foot as bold and unwavering as if her path were one of virtue and honour. It seemed as if she wished him to see and know, how completely she had cast off all sense of right and decency; and perhaps it was indeed so, for her object was to drive him to have their incomplete marriage annulled, and set her free to wed the man for whom she had disgraced herself.

"I shall cut that man's throat some day," said Rochester, after they had passed; "saw you the glance he gave me? That cannot be long borne."

"I beseech you do nothing of the kind," replied the Countess, the few better points in whose character require to be displayed as well as the darker ones. "'Tis not that I am afraid for you, Rochester; but you must not spill his blood. I hate, abhor, loathe him; but still I have brought upon him much misery, and I wish not to do more. Did he stand in my way, did he still persist in his claims upon me, I know not what I might not do to free myself from him. Anything, anything, I believe. But such is not the case; thank God, he hates me as much as I hate him, and therefore I would injure him no further. Were he even to lash me with his tongue, instead of trying to look me down with his eyes, I could forgive him. No; you must do nothing against him. But now we are coming near the palace, and I must leave you; you can follow in a few minutes. I shall be with the Queen all night."

From these last words, the reader will learn that the Countess still strove to conceal her conduct from the eyes of the Court in general; but in this, as might be expected, she was unsuccessful. Fond of scandal and of gossip, King James showed no reprobation of the gross immorality and vice that reigned in his Court, and seemed, indeed, to tolerate it, for the sake of the amusement which it afforded him to hear of all the intrigues that were going on around him. But the encouragement he gave to every one of his confidential attendants, to pry into and report to him all the secrets of the ladies and gentlemen attached to the Queen and to himself, ensured that nothing should be concealed which the cunning and acuteness of low-minded and unscrupulous men could discover.

When Rochester entered the palace and passed through the antechamber, where some five or six gentlemen were sitting, he found them all laughing at something which one of their companions, who was Kneeling on the window seat and gazing out, reported to them from time to time.

"You seem gay, gentlemen," he said, walking onward, unconscious, perhaps, that he himself might have been the subject of their merriment.

"Yes, my Lord," replied one of the jokers, "we are just laughing at Bradshaw's observations from the window. You would think he was the alderman's wife, who has a corner house in the market-place of a country town, so cleverly does he settle the affairs of every one he sees go in and out of the palace."

The King's favourite did not venture to ask any more questions; but, replying, "I give him joy, both of his fine employment and your pleasant comparison," he walked on, and passed through the opposite door.

In a small cabinet to the right of the chamber beyond, he found Sir Thomas Overbury, who looked not particularly well satisfied; and Rochester felt an inclination to avoid any long discussion with him.

"Has the King asked for me?" he inquired.

"Oh, no," replied Overbury; "he has been well enough entertained during your absence."

"What with?" demanded Rochester.

"Gossip," answered Overbury, "gossip, as usual."

"Well, then," rejoined Rochester, "I will go and knock at the old lady's door."

"No, no," cried the Knight, "Lord Northampton is with him now, having driven away Maxwell, who has been entertaining him with this affair between you and Lady Essex. I wish to Heaven, my Lord----"

"Hush," cried Rochester, laughing, and taking him by the collar, "not a word, or I will strangle you. She is the most charming creature in the whole world; beauty, wit, grace, everything--I can no more give her up than I can fly."

"I do not ask you to give her up, my Lord;" replied Sir Thomas Overbury, whose morality was not very nice. "I only wish you to be more careful. For a light love affair like this, you will never think of marring your whole fortunes; and if you do not mend the rashness of your passion, you will do so. Surely there was no need boldly to walk out with her in the chase, when you have so many other opportunities of being together."

"Oh, she longed for a walk with me, she said," replied Rochester, "and how could I refuse her? Besides, nobody could see us. You knew where I was gone; but we went out and came back separate, so that none of the rest of the Court could----"

"Could do anything," interrupted Overbury, "but sit in the ante-room, and make epigrams upon you by the hour. The last thing I heard Bradshaw say was foolish enough; but it will show you the talk:

"We soon shall see the Dane driven home,

And Saxon knights in Wessex.

Essex to Middlesex is come,

And Rochester joins Essex."