ting the lady with a respectful obeisance, which she returned with a careless mixture of negligence and of displeasure, “it is but Richard Varney; but even the first grey cloud should be acceptable, when it lightens in the east, because it announces the approach of the blessed sun.”
“How! comes my lord hither to-night?” said the lady, in joyful, yet startled agitation; and Anthony Foster caught up the word, and echoed the question. Varney replied to the lady, that his lord purposed to attend her, and would have proceeded with some compliment, when, running to the door of the parlour, she called aloud, “Janet—Janet—come to my tiring-room instantly.” Then returning to Varney, she asked if her lord sent any farther commendations to her.
“This letter, honoured madam,” said he, taking from his bosom a small parcel wrapt in scarlet silk, “and with it a token to the Queen of his Affections.” With eager speed the lady hastened to undo the silken string which surrounded the little packet, and failing to unloose readily the knot with which it was secured, she again called loudly on Janet, “Bring me a knife—scissors—aught that may undo this envious knot!”
“May not my poor poniard serve, honoured madam,” said Varney, presenting a small dagger of exquisite workmanship, which hung in his Turkey-leather sword-belt.
“No, sir,” replied the lady, rejecting the instrument which he offered—“Steel poniard shall cut no true-love knot of mine.”
