Thou first of virtues2! let no mortal leave
Thy onward4 path, although the earth should gape5,
And from the gulf6 of hell destruction cry,
To take dissimulation’s winding7 way.
Douglas.
It was not till after a long and successful morning’s sport, and a prolonged repast which followed the return of the Queen to the Castle, that Leicester at length found himself alone with Varney, from whom he now learned the whole particulars of the Countess’s escape, as they had been brought to Kenilworth by Foster, who, in his terror for the consequences, had himself posted thither8 with the tidings. As Varney, in his narrative9, took especial care to be silent concerning those practices on the Countess’s health which had driven her to so desperate a resolution, Leicester, who could only suppose that she had adopted it out of jealous impatience10 to attain11 the avowed12 state and appearance belonging to her rank, was not a little offended at the levity13 with which his wife had broken his strict commands, and exposed him to the resentment14 of Elizabeth.
“I have given,” he said, “to this daughter of an obscure Devonshire gentleman the proudest name in England. I have made her sharer of my bed and of my fortunes. I ask but of her a little patience, ere she launches forth15 upon the full current of her grandeur16; and the infatuated woman will rather hazard her own shipwreck17 and mine — will rather involve me in a thousand whirlpools, shoals, and quicksands, and compel me to a thousand devices which shame me in mine own eyes — than tarry for a little space longer in the obscurity to which she was born. So lovely, so delicate, so fond, so faithful, yet to lack in so grave a matter the prudence18 which one might hope from the veriest fool — it puts me beyond my patience.”
“We may post it over yet well enough,” said Varney, “if my lady will be but ruled, and take on her the character which the time commands.”
“It is but too true, Sir Richard,” said Leicester; “there is indeed no other remedy. I have heard her termed thy wife in my presence, without contradiction. She must bear the title until she is far from Kenilworth.”
“And long afterwards, I trust,” said Varney; then instantly added, “For I cannot but hope it will be long after ere she bear the title of Lady Leicester — I fear me it may scarce be with safety during the life of this Queen. But your lordship is best judge, you alone knowing what passages have taken place betwixt Elizabeth and you.”
“You are right, Varney,” said Leicester. “I have this morning been both fool and villain19; and when Elizabeth hears of my unhappy marriage, she cannot but think herself treated with that premeditated slight which women never forgive. We have once this day stood upon terms little short of defiance20; and to those, I fear, we must again return.”
“Is her resentment, then, so implacable?” said Varney.
“Far from it,” replied the Earl; “for, being what she is in spirit and in station, she has even this day been but too condescending21, in giving me opportunities to repair what she thinks my faulty heat of temper.”
“Ay,” answered Varney; “the Italians say right — in lovers’ quarrels, the party that loves most is always most willing to acknowledge the greater fault. So then, my lord, if this union with the lady could be concealed22, you stand with Elizabeth as you did?”
Leicester sighed, and was silent for a moment, ere he replied.
“Varney, I think thou art true to me, and I will tell thee all. I do not stand where I did. I have spoken to Elizabeth — under what mad impulse I know not — on a theme which cannot be abandoned without touching24 every female feeling to the quick, and which yet I dare not and cannot prosecute25. She can never, never forgive me for having caused and witnessed those yieldings to human passion.”
“We must do something, my lord,” said Varney, “and that speedily.”
“There is nought26 to be done,” answered Leicester, despondingly. “I am like one that has long toiled27 up a dangerous precipice28, and when he is within one perilous29 stride of the top, finds his progress arrested when retreat has become impossible. I see above me the pinnacle30 which I cannot reach — beneath me the abyss into which I must fall, as soon as my relaxing grasp and dizzy brain join to hurl31 me from my present precarious32 stance.”
“Think better of your situation, my lord,” said Varney; “let us try the experiment in which you have but now acquiesced33. Keep we your marriage from Elizabeth’s knowledge, and all may yet be well. I will instantly go to the lady myself. She hates me, because I have been earnest with your lordship, as she truly suspects, in opposition34 to what she terms her rights. I care not for her prejudices — she shall listen to me; and I will show her such reasons for yielding to the pressure of the times that I doubt not to bring back her consent to whatever measures these exigencies35 may require.”
“No, Varney,” said Leicester; “I have thought upon what is to be done, and I will myself speak with Amy.”
It was now Varney’s turn to feel upon his own account the terrors which he affected36 to participate solely37 on account of his patron. “Your lordship will not yourself speak with the lady?”
“It is my fixed38 purpose,” said Leicester. “Fetch me one of the livery-cloaks; I will pass the sentinel as thy servant. Thou art to have free access to her.”
“But, my lord —”
“I will have no buts,” replied Leicester; “it shall be even thus, and not otherwise. Hunsdon sleeps, I think, in Saintlowe’s Tower. We can go thither from these apartments by the private passage, without risk of meeting any one. Or what if I do meet Hunsdon? he is more my friend than enemy, and thick-witted enough to adopt any belief that is thrust on him. Fetch me the cloak instantly.”
Varney had no alternative save obedience39. In a few minutes Leicester was muffled40 in the mantle41, pulled his bonnet42 over his brows, and followed Varney along the secret passage of the Castle which communicated with Hunsdon’s apartments, in which there was scarce a chance of meeting any inquisitive43 person, and hardly light enough for any such to have satisfied their curiosity. They emerged at a door where Lord Hunsdon had, with military precaution, placed a sentinel, one of his own northern retainers as it fortuned, who readily admitted Sir Richard Varney and his attendant, saying only, in his northern dialect, “I would, man, thou couldst make the mad lady be still yonder; for her moans do sae dirl through my head that I would rather keep watch on a snowdrift, in the wastes of Catlowdie.”
They hastily entered, and shut the door behind them.
“Now, good devil, if there be one,” said Varney, within himself, “for once help a votary44 at a dead pinch, for my boat is amongst the breakers!”
The Countess Amy, with her hair and her garments dishevelled, was seated upon a sort of couch, in an attitude of the deepest affliction, out of which she was startled by the opening of the door. Size turned hastily round, and fixing her eye on Varney, exclaimed, “Wretch! art thou come to frame some new plan of villainy?”
Leicester cut short her reproaches by stepping forward and dropping his cloak, while he said, in a voice rather of authority than of affection, “It is with me, madam, you have to commune, not with Sir Richard Varney.”
The change effected on the Countess’s look and manner was like magic. “Dudley!” she exclaimed, “Dudley! and art thou come at last?” And with the speed of lightning she flew to her husband, clung round his neck, and unheeding the presence of Varney, overwhelmed him with caresses45, while she bathed his face in a flood of tears, muttering, at the same time, but in broken and disjointed monosyllables, the fondest expressions which Love teaches his votaries46.
Leicester, as it seemed to him, had reason to be angry with his lady for transgressing47 his commands, and thus placing him in the perilous situation in which he had that morning stood. But what displeasure could keep its ground before these testimonies48 of affection from a being so lovely, that even the negligence49 of dress, and the withering50 effects of fear, grief, and fatigue51, which would have impaired52 the beauty of others, rendered hers but the more interesting. He received and repaid her caresses with fondness mingled53 with melancholy54, the last of which she seemed scarcely to observe, until the first transport of her own joy was over, when, looking anxiously in his face, she asked if he was ill.
“Not in my body, Amy,” was his answer.
“Then I will be well too. O Dudley! I have been ill!— very ill, since we last met!— for I call not this morning’s horrible vision a meeting. I have been in sickness, in grief, and in danger. But thou art come, and all is joy, and health, and safety!”
“Alas, Amy,” said Leicester, “thou hast undone55 me!”
“I, my lord?” said Amy, her cheek at once losing its transient flush of joy —“how could I injure that which I love better than myself?”
“I would not upbraid56 you, Amy,” replied the Earl; “but are you not here contrary to my express commands — and does not your presence here endanger both yourself and me?”
“Does it, does it indeed?” she exclaimed eagerly; “then why am I here a moment longer? Oh, if you knew by what fears I was urged to quit Cumnor Place! But I will say nothing of myself — only that if it might be otherwise, I would not willingly return thither; yet if it concern your safety —”
“We will think, Amy, of some other retreat,” said Leicester; “and you shall go to one of my northern castles, under the personage — it will be but needful, I trust, for a very few days — of Varney’s wife.”
“How, my Lord of Leicester!” said the lady, disengaging herself from his embraces; “is it to your wife you give the dishonourable counsel to acknowledge herself the bride of another — and of all men, the bride of that Varney?”
“Madam, I speak it in earnest — Varney is my true and faithful servant, trusted in my deepest secrets. I had better lose my right hand than his service at this moment. You have no cause to scorn him as you do.”
“I could assign one, my lord,” replied the Countess; “and I see he shakes even under that assured look of his. But he that is necessary as your right hand to your safety is free from any accusation58 of mine. May he be true to you; and that he may be true, trust him not too much or too far. But it is enough to say that I will not go with him unless by violence, nor would I acknowledge him as my husband were all —”
“It is a temporary deception59, madam,” said Leicester, irritated by her opposition, “necessary for both our safeties, endangered by you through female caprice, or the premature60 desire to seize on a rank to which I gave you title only under condition that our marriage, for a time, should continue secret. If my proposal disgust you, it is yourself has brought it on both of us. There is no other remedy — you must do what your own impatient folly61 hath rendered necessary — I command you.”
“I cannot put your commands, my lord,” said Amy, “in balance with those of honour and conscience. I will not, in this instance, obey you. You may achieve your own dishonour57, to which these crooked62 policies naturally tend, but I will do nought that can blemish63 mine. How could you again, my lord, acknowledge me as a pure and chaste64 matron, worthy65 to share your fortunes, when, holding that high character, I had strolled the country the acknowledged wife of such a profligate66 fellow as your servant Varney?”
“My lord,” said Varney interposing, “my lady is too much prejudiced against me, unhappily, to listen to what I can offer, yet it may please her better than what she proposes. She has good interest with Master Edmund Tressilian, and could doubtless prevail on him to consent to be her companion to Lidcote Hall, and there she might remain in safety until time permitted the development of this mystery.”
Leicester was silent, but stood looking eagerly on Amy, with eyes which seemed suddenly to glow as much with suspicion as displeasure.
The Countess only said, “Would to God I were in my father’s house! When I left it, I little thought I was leaving peace of mind and honour behind me.”
Varney proceeded with a tone of deliberation. “Doubtless this will make it necessary to take strangers into my lord’s counsels; but surely the Countess will be warrant for the honour of Master Tressilian, and such of her father’s family —”
“Peace, Varney,” said Leicester; “by Heaven I will strike my dagger67 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 stainless68 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 injustice69 of being silent when his honour is brought in question. I can forbear,” she said, looking at Varney, “to pull the mask off hypocrisy70, but I will not permit virtue3 to be slandered71 in my hearing.”
There was a dead pause. Leicester stood displeased72, yet undetermined, and too conscious of the weakness of his cause; while Varney, with a deep and hypocritical affectation of sorrow, mingled with humility73, bent74 his eyes on the ground.
It was then that the Countess Amy displayed, in the midst of distress75 and difficulty, the natural energy of character which would have rendered her, had fate allowed, a distinguished76 ornament77 of the rank which she held. She walked up to Leicester with a composed step, a dignified78 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 displeases79 you. Will your lordship be pleased to hear what a young and timid woman, but your most affectionate wife, can suggest in the present extremity80?”
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. Extricate81 yourself at once, my lord, from the tyranny of these disgraceful trammels. Be like a true English gentleman, knight82, and earl, who holds that truth is the foundation of honour, and that honour is dear to him as the breath of his nostrils83. 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 remains84, 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 prospects85.”
There was so much of dignity, so much of tenderness, in the Countess’s remonstrance86, 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 remorse87 and shame.
“I am not worthy of you, Amy,” he said, “that could weigh aught which ambition has to give against such a heart as thine. I have a bitter penance88 to perform, in disentangling, before sneering89 foes90 and astounded91 friends, all the meshes92 of my own deceitful policy. And the Queen — but let her take my head, as she has threatened.”
“Take your head, my lord!” said the Countess, “because you used the freedom and liberty of an English subject in choosing a wife? For shame! it is this distrust of the Queen’s justice, this apprehension93 of danger, which cannot but be imaginary, that, like scarecrows, have induced you to forsake94 the straightforward95 path, which, as it is the best, is also the safest.”
“Ah, Amy, thou little knowest!” said Dudley but instantly checking himself, he added, “Yet she shall not find in me a safe or easy victim of arbitrary vengeance96. I have friends — I have allies — I will not, like Norfolk, be dragged to the block as a victim to sacrifice. Fear not, Amy; thou shalt see Dudley bear himself worthy of his name. I must instantly communicate with some of those friends on whom I can best rely; for, as things stand, I may be made prisoner in my own Castle.”
“Oh, my good lord,” said Amy, “make no faction97 in a peaceful state! There is no friend can help us so well as our own candid98 truth and honour. Bring but these to our assistance, and you are safe amidst a whole army of the envious99 and malignant100. Leave these behind you, and all other defence will be fruitless. Truth, my noble lord, is well painted unarmed.”
“But Wisdom, Amy,” answered Leicester, is arrayed in panoply101 of proof. Argue not with me on the means I shall use to render my confession102 — since it must be called so — as safe as may be; it will be fraught103 with enough of danger, do what we will.— Varney, we must hence.— Farewell, Amy, whom I am to vindicate104 as mine own, at an expense and risk of which thou alone couldst be worthy. You shall soon hear further from me.”
He embraced her fervently105, muffled himself as before, and accompanied Varney from the apartment. The latter, as he left the room, bowed low, and as he raised his body, regarded Amy with a peculiar106 expression, as if he desired to know how far his own pardon was included in the reconciliation107 which had taken place betwixt her and her lord. The Countess looked upon him with a fixed eye, but seemed no more conscious of his presence than if there had been nothing but vacant air on the spot where he stood.
“She has brought me to the crisis,” he muttered —“she or I am lost. There was something — I wot not if it was fear or pity — that prompted me to avoid this fatal crisis. It is now decided108 — she or I must perish.”
While he thus spoke23, he observed, with surprise, that a boy, repulsed109 by the sentinel, made up to Leicester, and spoke with him. Varney was one of those politicians whom not the slightest appearances escape without inquiry110. He asked the sentinel what the lad wanted with him, and received for answer that the boy had wished him to transmit a parcel to the mad lady; but that he cared not to take charge of it, such communication being beyond his commission, His curiosity satisfied in that particular, he approached his patron, and heard him say, “Well, boy, the packet shall be delivered.”
“Thanks, good Master Serving-man,” said the boy, and was out of sight in an instant.
Leicester and Varney returned with hasty steps to the Earl’s private apartment, by the same passage which had conducted them to Saintlowe’s Tower.
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1
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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2
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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3
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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4
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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6
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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7
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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8
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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9
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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10
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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11
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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12
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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13
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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18
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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19
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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23
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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24
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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40
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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41
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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42
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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43
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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44
votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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45
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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46
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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47
transgressing
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| v.超越( transgress的现在分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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48
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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49
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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50
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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51
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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52
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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54
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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55
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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displeases
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| 冒犯，使生气，使不愉快( displease的第三人称单数 ) | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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