with her husband for her sake,
and that his soul might live because of her beauty."

"Now, so Heaven pardon me my useless anger," answered the Countess,
"thou art as daring a hypocrite as yonder fellow is an impudent
deceiver! Never will I believe that the noble Dudley gave countenance
to so dastardly, so dishonourable a plan. Thus I tread on his infamy, if
indeed it be, and thus destroy its remembrance for ever!"

So saying, she tore in pieces Leicester's letter, and stamped, in the
extremity of impatience, as if she would have annihilated the minute
fragments into which she had rent it.

"Bear witness," said Varney, collecting himself, "she hath torn my
lord's letter, in order to burden me with the scheme of his devising;
and although it promises nought but danger and trouble to me, she would
lay it to my charge, as if I had any purpose of mine own in it."

"Thou liest, thou treacherous slave!" said the Countess in spite of
Janet's attempts to keep her silent, in the sad foresight that her
vehemence might only furnish arms against herself--"thou liest," she
continued.--"Let me go, Janet--were it the last word I have to speak,
he lies. He had his own foul ends to seek; and broader he would have
displayed them had my passion permitted me to preserve the silence which
at first encouraged him to unfold his vile projects."

"Madam," said Varney, overwhelmed in spite of his effrontery, "I entreat
you to believe yourself mistaken."

"As soon will I believe light darkness," said the enraged Countess.
"Have I drunk of oblivion? Do I not remember former passages, which,
known to Leicester, had given thee the preferment of a gallows, instead
of the honour of his intimacy. I would I were a man but for five
minutes! It were space enough to make a craven like thee confess his
villainy. But go--begone! Tell thy master that when I take the foul
course to which such scandalous deceits as thou hast recommended on
his behalf must necessarily lead me, I will give him a rival something
worthy of the name. He shall not be supplanted by an ignominious lackey,
whose best fortune is to catch a gift of his master's last suit
of clothes ere it is threadbare, and who is only fit to seduce a
suburb-wench by the bravery of new roses in his master's old pantoufles.
Go, begone, sir! I scorn thee so much that I am ashamed to have been
angry with thee."

Varney left the room with a mute expression of rage, and was followed by
Foster, whose app