“It doth not indeed, madam,” said her prudent attendant; “and verily you make me sometimes wish you would not speak of him so often, or so rashly.”

“It signifies nothing to warn me, Janet,” said the impatient and incorrigible Countess; “I was born free, though I am now mewed up like some fine foreign slave, rather than the wife of an English noble.  I bore it all with pleasure while I was sure he loved me; but now my tongue and heart shall be free, let them fetter these limbs as they will.  I tell thee, Janet, I love my husband—­I will love him till my latest breath—­I cannot cease to love him, even if I would, or if he—­which, God knows, may chance—­should cease to love me.  But I will say, and loudly, I would have been happier than I now am to have remained in Lidcote Hall, even although I must have married poor Tressilian, with his melancholy look and his head full of learning, which I cared not for.  He said, if I would read his favourite volumes, there would come a time that I should be glad of having done so.  I think it is come now.”

“I bought you some books, madam,” said Janet, “from a lame fellow who sold them in the Market-place—­and who stared something boldly, at me, I promise you.”

“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.”