“Let me see them, Janet,” said the Countess; “but let them not be of your own precise cast,—How is this, most righteous damsel?—'A PAIR OF SNUFFERS FOR THE GOLDEN CANDLESTICK'—'HANDFULL OF MYRRH AND HYSSOP TO PUT A SICK SOUL TO PURGATION'—'A DRAUGHT OF WATER FROM THE VALLEY OF BACA'—'FOXES AND FIREBRANDS'—what gear call you this, maiden?”
“Nay, madam,” said Janet, “it was but fitting and seemly to put grace in your ladyship's way; but an you will none of it, there are play-books, and poet-books, I trow.”
The Countess proceeded carelessly in her examination, turning over such rare volumes as would now make the fortune of twenty retail booksellers. Here was a “BOKE OF COOKERY, IMPRINTED BY RICHARD LANT,” and “SKELTON'S BOOKS”—“THE PASSTIME OF THE PEOPLE”—“THE CASTLE OF KNOWLEDGE,” etc. But neither to this lore did the Countess's heart incline, and joyfully did she start up from the listless task of turning over the leaves of the pamphlets, and hastily did she scatter them through the floor, when the hasty clatter of horses' feet, heard in the courtyard, called her to the window, exclaiming, “It is Leicester!—it is my noble Earl!—it is my Dudley!—every stroke of his horse's hoof sounds like a note of lordly music!”
There was a brief bustle in the mansion, and Foster, with his downward look and sullen manner, entered the apartment to say, “That Master Richard Varney was arrived from my lord, having ridden all night, and craved to speak with her ladyship instantly.”
“Varney?” said the disappointed Countess; “and to speak with me?—pshaw! But he comes with news from Leicester, so admit him instantly.”
Varney entered her dressing apartment, where she sat arrayed in her native loveliness, adorned with all that Janet's art and a rich and tasteful undress could bestow. But the most beautiful part of her attire was her profuse and luxuriant light-brown locks, which floated in such rich abundance around a neck that resembled a swan's, and over a bosom heaving with anxious expectation, which communicated a hurried tinge of red to her whole countenance.
Varney entered the room in the dress in which he had waited on his master that morning to court, the splendour of which made a strange contrast with the disorder arising from hasty riding during a dark night and foul ways. His brow bore an anxious and hurried expression, as one who has that to say of which he doubts the reception, and who hath yet posted on from the necessity of communicating his tidings. The Countess's anxious eye at once caught the alarm, as she exclaimed, “You bring news from my lord, Master Varney—Gracious Heaven! is he ill?”
“No, madam, thank Heaven!” said Varney. “Compose yourself, and permit me to take breath ere I communicate my tidings.”
“No breath, sir,” replied the lady impatiently; “I know your theatrical arts. Since your breath hath sufficed to bring you hither, it may suffice to tell your tale—at least briefly, and in the gross.”
“Madam,” answered Varney, “we are not alone, and my lord's message was for your ear only.”