"Far be it from me to traduce my noble patron," replied Varney; "yet
I am compelled to own that some deep, overwhelming, yet secret feeling
hath of late dwelt in my lord's mind, hath abstracted him from the
cares of the household which he was wont to govern with such religious
strictness, and hath left us opportunities to do follies, of which the
shame, as in this case, partly falls upon our patron. Without this, I
had not had means or leisure to commit the folly which has drawn on me
his displeasure--the heaviest to endure by me which I could by any means
incur, saving always the yet more dreaded resentment of your Grace."
"And in this sense, and no other, hath he been accessory to thy fault?"
said Elizabeth.
"Surely, madam, in no other," replied Varney; "but since somewhat hath
chanced to him, he can scarce be called his own man. Look at him,
madam, how pale and trembling he stands! how unlike his usual majesty of
manner!--yet what has he to fear from aught I can say to your Highness?
Ah! madam, since he received that fatal packet!"
"What packet, and from whence?" said the Queen eagerly.
"From whence, madam, I cannot guess; but I am so near to his person that
I know he has ever since worn, suspended around his neck and next to his
heart, that lock of hair which sustains a small golden jewel shaped
like a heart. He speaks to it when alone--he parts not from it when he
sleeps--no heathen ever worshipped an idol with such devotion."
"Thou art a prying knave to watch thy master so closely," said
Elizabeth, blushing, but not with anger; "and a tattling knave to tell
over again his fooleries.--What colour might the braid of hair be that
thou pratest of?"
Varney replied, "A poet, madam, might call it a thread from the golden
web wrought by Minerva; but to my thinking it was paler than even the
purest gold--more like the last parting sunbeam of the softest day of
spring."
"Why, you are a poet yourself, Master Varney," said the Queen, smiling.
"But I have not genius quick enough to follow your rare metaphors. Look
round these ladies--is there"--(she hesitated, and endeavoured to assume
an air of great indifference)--"is there here, in this presence, any
lady, the colour of whose hair reminds thee of that braid? Methinks,
without prying into my Lord of Leicester's amorous secrets, I would
fain know what kind of locks are like the thread of Minerva's web, or
the--what was it?--the last rays of the May-day sun."