“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.”

“Leave us, Janet, and Master Foster,” said the lady; “but remain in the next apartment, and within call.”

Foster and his daughter retired, agreeably to the Lady Leicester’s commands, into the next apartment, which was the withdrawing-room.  The door which led from the sleeping-chamber was then carefully shut and bolted, and the father and daughter remained both in a posture of anxious attention, the first with a stern, suspicious, anxious cast of countenance, and Janet with folded hands, and looks which seemed divided betwixt her desire to know the fortunes of her mistress, and her prayers to Heaven for her safety.  Anthony Foster seemed himself to have some idea of what was passing through his daughter’s mind, for he crossed the apartment and took her anxiously by the hand, saying, “That is right—­pray, Janet, pray; we have all need of prayers, and some of us more than others.  Pray, Janet—­I would pray myself, but I must listen to what goes on within—­evil has been brewing, love—­evil has been brewing.  God forgive our sins, but Varney’s sudden and strange arrival bodes us no good.”

Janet had never before heard her father excite or even permit her attention to anything which passed in their mysterious family; and now that he did so, his voice sounded in her ear—­she knew not why—­like that of a screech-owl denouncing some deed of terror and of woe.  She turned her eyes fearfully towards the door, almost as if she expected some sounds of horror to be heard, or some sight of fear to display itself.