"You see," cried her father,--"bear witness all, that no remonstrance or parental solicitation has any effect! Now, madam, hear! The coach, which is to convey you with your husband to his seat of Chartley, is at the door: your wardrobe is packed up to follow. From this room you go to that conveyance.--Nay, not a word; for if you walk not soberly, you shall be compelled; and down to Chartley with what grace you may. I trust that, ere I see your face again, a change will be wrought in your heart, and that I shall be enabled to welcome back the daughter gladly, whom I now part with in displeasure."
Lady Essex made a great effort to speak; but it was in vain; and she burst into a passionate flood of tears.
"Come, lady," said Lord Essex, in a gentle tone, taking her hand, "believe me, I will do all that man can do to win your love, and to secure your happiness."
"You can do neither, sir!" replied the Countess; "but I am your slave, it seems. Have you no chains ready? Let us go!" and, without bidding adieu to any one, she walked straight to the door.
We will pass over the journey to Chartley, the cold hatred with which she repelled her husband's love by the way, and the first week of their sojourn at that beautiful seat.
It was on the evening of a bright day in the same month, while the whole world was looking gay and cheerful without, that the Earl entered his wife's drawing-room, where all was dark and gloomy. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn; for she had never suffered them to be opened since her arrival. A single lamp stood upon the table; and by its faint light the Countess sat and wept. She raised neither her head nor her eyes when the step of her husband sounded in the chamber, but continued fixed and motionless, like a beautiful statue representing angry grief. Lord Essex drew a seat to the other side of the table, and, sitting down, gazed at her for a moment or two in silence.
"Dry your tears, madam," he said at length.
"That is at least a privilege you cannot take from me, sir," she replied. "When in my childhood, now six years ago, I took a vow I did not understand, I never promised not to weep."
"Dry your tears, I say, madam!" he rejoined, in a tone both of sternness and sadness; "for the cause of their flowing is about to be removed."
The Countess started, and looked up.