"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."