“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.”

There was so much of dignity, so much of tenderness, in the Countess’s remonstrance, that it moved all that was noble and generous in the soul of her husband.  The scales seemed to fall from his eyes, and the duplicity and tergiversation of which he had been guilty stung him at once with remorse and shame.