"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."