"Peace, Varney," said Leicester; "by Heaven I will strike my dagger into

thee if again thou namest Tressilian as a partner of my counsels!"

"And wherefore not!" said the Countess; "unless they be counsels fitter

for such as Varney, than for a man of stainless honour and integrity. My

lord, my lord, bend no angry brows on me; it is the truth, and it is I

who speak it. I once did Tressilian wrong for your sake; I will not do

him the further injustice of being silent when his honour is brought in

question. I can forbear," she said, looking at Varney, "to pull the

mask off hypocrisy, but I will not permit virtue to be slandered in my

hearing."

There was a dead pause. Leicester stood displeased, yet undetermined,

and too conscious of the weakness of his cause; while Varney, with a

deep and hypocritical affectation of sorrow, mingled with humility, bent

his eyes on the ground.

It was then that the Countess Amy displayed, in the midst of distress

and difficulty, the natural energy of character which would have

rendered her, had fate allowed, a distinguished ornament of the rank

which she held. She walked up to Leicester with a composed step, a

dignified air, and looks in which strong affection essayed in vain to

shake the firmness of conscious, truth and rectitude of principle. "You

have spoken your mind, my lord," she said, "in these difficulties,

with which, unhappily, I have found myself unable to comply. This

gentleman--this person I would say--has hinted at another scheme, to

which I object not but as it displeases you. Will your lordship be

pleased to hear what a young and timid woman, but your most affectionate

wife, can suggest in the present extremity?"

Leicester was silent, but bent his head towards the Countess, as an

intimation that she was at liberty to proceed.

"There hath been but one cause for all these evils, my lord," she

proceeded, "and it resolves itself into the mysterious duplicity with

which you, have been induced to surround yourself. Extricate yourself at

once, my lord, from the tyranny of these disgraceful trammels. Be like

a true English gentleman, knight, and earl, who holds that truth is the

foundation of honour, and that honour is dear to him as the breath of

his nostrils. Take your ill-fated wife by the hand, lead her to the

footstool of Elizabeth's throne--say that in a moment of infatuation,

moved by supposed beauty, of which none perhaps can now trace even the

remains, I gave my hand to this Amy Robsart. You will then have done

justice to me, my lord, and to your own honour and should law or power

require you to part from me, I will oppose no objection, since I may

then with honour hide a grieved and broken heart in those shades from

which your love withdrew me. Then--have but a little patience, and Amy's

life will not long darken your brighter prospects."




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