"You can do neither, sir!" replied the Countess; "but I am your slave, it seems. Have you no chains ready? Let us go!" and, without bidding adieu to any one, she walked straight to the door. We will pass over the journey to Chartley, the cold hatred with which she repelled her husband's love by the way, and the first week of their sojourn at that beautiful seat. It was on the evening of a bright day in the same month, while the whole world was looking gay and cheerful without, that the Earl entered his wife's drawing-room, where all was dark and gloomy. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn; for she had never suffered them to be opened since her arrival. A single lamp stood upon the table; and by its faint light the Countess sat and wept. She raised neither her head nor her eyes when the step of her husband sounded in the chamber, but continued fixed and motionless, like a beautiful statue representing angry grief. Lord Essex drew a seat to the other side of the table, and, sitting down, gazed at her for a moment or two in silence. "Dry your tears, madam," he said at length. "That is at least a privilege you cannot take from me, sir," she replied. "When in my childhood, now six years ago, I took a vow I did not understand, I never promised not to weep." "Dry your tears, I say, madam!" he rejoined, in a tone both of sternness and sadness; "for the cause of their flowing is about to be removed." The Countess started, and looked up. "I will claim your attention for a moment," he continued; "and you shall hear the result of some consideration. You and I were married at an early age, as the custom is----" "It is a bad one," said the Countess. "Go on."