Tressilian crossed accordingly by the passage betwixt the immense range
of kitchens and the great hall, and ascended to the third story of
Mervyn's Tower, and applying himself to the door of the small apartment
which had been allotted to him, was surprised to find it was locked. He
then recollected that the deputy-chamberlain had given him a master-key,
advising him, in the present confused state of the Castle, to keep his
door as much shut as possible. He applied this key to the lock, the bolt
revolved, he entered, and in the same instant saw a female form seated
in the apartment, and recognized that form to be, Amy Robsart. His first
idea was that a heated imagination had raised the image on which it
doted into visible existence; his second, that he beheld an apparition;
the third and abiding conviction, that it was Amy herself, paler,
indeed, and thinner, than in the days of heedless happiness, when
she possessed the form and hue of a wood-nymph, with the beauty of a
sylph--but still Amy, unequalled in loveliness by aught which had ever
visited his eyes.
The astonishment of the Countess was scarce less than that of
Tressilian, although it was of shorter duration, because she had heard
from Wayland that he was in the Castle. She had started up at his first
entrance, and now stood facing him, the paleness of her cheeks having
given way to a deep blush.
"Tressilian," she said, at length, "why come you here?"
"Nay, why come you here, Amy," returned Tressilian, "unless it be at
length to claim that aid, which, as far as one man's heart and arm can
extend, shall instantly be rendered to you?"
She was silent a moment, and then answered in a sorrowful rather than an
angry tone, "I require no aid, Tressilian, and would rather be injured
than benefited by any which your kindness can offer me. Believe me, I am
near one whom law and love oblige to protect me."
"The villain, then, hath done you the poor justice which remained in his
power," said Tressilian, "and I behold before me the wife of Varney!"
"The wife of Varney!" she replied, with all the emphasis of scorn. "With
what base name, sir, does your boldness stigmatize the--the--the--" She
hesitated, dropped her tone of scorn, looked down, and was confused and
silent; for she recollected what fatal consequences might attend her
completing the sentence with "the Countess of Leicester," which were
the words that had naturally suggested themselves. It would have been
a betrayal of the secret, on which her husband had assured her that his
fortunes depended, to Tressilian, to Sussex, to the Queen, and to the
whole assembled court. "Never," she thought, "will I break my promised
silence. I will submit to every suspicion rather than that."