Nought is there under heaven's wide hollownesse
That moves more dear compassion of mind,
Than beautie brought t'unworthie wretchednesse
Through envious snares or fortune's freaks unkinde.
* * * * * * *
To think how causeless of her own accord
This gentle damzell, whom I write upon,
Should plonged be in such affliction,
Without all hope of comfort or reliefe.
SPENSER.
"I am driven to it, I am driven to it!" repeated Sir Willmott Burrell, as he attired himself in his gayest robes, while his eyes wandered restlessly over the dial of a small clock that stood upon the dressing-table. "No one has seen her--and I have forced Constantia to wed at six, instead of seven. Once wed--why, there's an end of it; and if the worst should come, and Zillah persecutes me still, I can but swear her mad, and this will terminate her fitful fever." He placed a small pistol within his embroidered dress, and girded his jewelled sword more tightly than before. "The minutes linger more tardily than ever," he continued: "full fifteen to the time.--Would it were over! I am certain Cromwell would not interfere, if once she was my wife; he loves her honour better than the Jew's."
Again he drew forth the pistol and examined it, and then replaced it as before--again girded his sword; and having drunk copiously of some ardent spirit, a flask of which had been placed near him, he descended to the library.
The only person in the apartment was Sir Robert Cecil: he was leaning, in the very attitude in which we first met him, against the high and dark chimney-piece of marble; but, oh, how altered! His hand trembled with emotion as he held it to Sir Willmott, who took it with that air of easy politeness and cordiality of manner he could so well assume.
"The hour is nearly arrived," said the old man, "and you will become the husband of my only child. Treat her kindly--oh, as you ever hope to have children of your own, treat her kindly: be to her what I ought to have been--a protector! Sir Willmott, I cannot live very long; say only that you will treat her kindly. Whatever I have shall be yours: you will be kind, will you not?" And he looked at Sir Willmott with an air of such perfect childishness, that the knight imagined his mind had given way.
"Sit down, my good sir; compose yourself--you are much agitated--I pray you be composed."
"Broad lands are a great temptation," continued Sir Robert, with the same appearance of wavering intellect--"Broad lands and gold are great temptations, and yet they do not make one happy. Stoop your head--closer--closer--there:--now I will tell you a secret, but you must not tell it to Constantia, because it would give her pain--I have never been happy since I possessed them! Stop, I will tell you all, from beginning to end. My brother, Sir Herbert--I was not Sir Robert then--my brother, I say----"
"Some other time, my dear sir," interrupted Burrell, whose apprehension was confirmed; "you must cheer up, and not think of these matters: you must take some wine." He filled a goblet from a silver flagon that stood with refreshments on the table; but the baronet's hand was so unsteady, that Sir Willmott was obliged to hold the cup to his lips. "Now, my dear sir, collect your thoughts; you know all things are safe and secret: there is no possibility of your ever being otherwise than beloved and respected."
"Not by my child," said the unhappy man two or three times, twisting his hands convulsively--"Not by my child, my pride, my Constantia! Her kiss is as cold as ice upon my brow; and I thought--perhaps 'twas but a dream, for I have been sleeping a little--I thought she wiped her lips after she kissed me. Do you think she would destroy the taste of her father's kiss?"
"Most certainly not: she loves you as well and as dearly as ever."
"I cannot believe it, Sir Willmott, I cannot believe it;--besides, there's no safety for me till Hugh Dalton's pardon is granted."
"Damn him!" growled Burrell, and the curse grated through his closed teeth--"Damn him, deeply, doubly, everlastingly!"
"Ay, so he will be damned," replied Sir Robert, in a calm, quiet tone, "and we shall all be damned, except Constantia; but he must be pardoned--on earth I mean--for all that."
Burrell looked daggers at Sir Robert Cecil, but he heeded them not, saw them not. Sir Willmott's first suspicion was right--the injured were avenged! The unhappy man retained his memory, though his words and actions were no longer under the control of reason: his conscience lived on--his intellect had expired. "It is even so," thought Sir Willmott the next moment: "and now, Constantia, despite your scorn, your hatred, your contempt, I do pity you."
Burrell understood not how superior was Constance in every respect, either to his pity or his praise.
Exactly as the clock struck six, the doors at the bottom of the room were thrown open, and Lady Frances Cromwell entered with her friend; Barbara and the waiting-maidens of Lady Frances followed; but nothing could exceed Burrell's displeasure and mortification, when he perceived that his bride was habited in the deepest mourning. Her hair, braided from her brow, hung in long and luxuriant tresses down her back, and were only confined by a fillet of jet. Upon her head was a veil of black gauze, that fell over her entire figure; and her dress was of black Lucca silk, hemmed and bordered with crape. She advanced steadily to her father, without noticing her bridegroom, and, throwing up her veil, said, in a low voice,--
"Father, I am ready."
Burrell, who feared that even in the very brief space which now remained, Sir Robert would betray the weakness of his mind, stepped forward, and would have taken her hand; but she put him from her, with a single gesture, saying,--
"Not yet, sir, I am still all my father's.--Father, I am ready."
It was pitiable to see the vacant eye which Sir Robert fixed upon her pale, fine face, and most painful to observe the look of anxious inquiry with which she regarded him.
"Dear father," she exclaimed at length, sinking on her knees, "dear father, speak to me."
The gesture and the voice recalled him for a little to himself. He kissed her cheek affectionately, and, rising with much of the dignity of former years, pressed her to his bosom.
"Forgive me, child;--my Lady Frances, I crave your pardon--I am myself again--I was a trifle indisposed, but it is over. Fill me some wine," he commanded to the attendants, who gathered in the doorway--"Yes--up--full--more full; I drink--" he continued, with a gaiety of manner suiting ill with his grey hairs and pallid face--"I drink to the happiness and prosperity of my daughter and her bridegroom!" He quaffed to the bottom of the cup, then flung it from him.
"Now go we to the bridal," he said, leading Constantia forward, while Sir Willmott conducted Lady Frances, who hardly condescended to touch the hand he presented to her. As they passed an open court, leading to the little chapel, Sir Robert stopped abruptly, and addressing his daughter, said,--
"But I have not blessed you yet; you would not like to die without my blessing."
"Die, my father!" repeated Constance.
"I pray your pardon, child," he replied, in a half muttering, half speaking voice--"I was thinking of your mother: but now I quite remember me, this is a bridal," and he hurried her forward to the altar where the clergyman stood ready to receive them.
"Sir Willmott Burrell," said Constantia to the knight, as he placed himself at her side, "my father is ill, and I cannot think upon what his malady may be with any thing like calmness; if what I dread is true, you will not force me from him."
"Let the ceremony proceed, and, villain as I know you think me, I will not oppose any plan you may form for him," was Burrell's reply. Lady Frances stood close beside her friend; and Barbara, in her white robes and simple beauty, headed the group of servants who crowded round the steps.
The clergyman commenced the service according to the form of the Established Church, and concluded the opening address without any interruption. He then proceeded to the solemn and beautiful appeal made as to the liberty of those who present themselves at the altar.
"I require and charge you both, (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,) that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it?"
At this point Sir Robert Cecil, his enfeebled mind still more relaxed after the strong effort made at self-possession, and weakened and heated by the wine he had taken, exclaimed,--
"Those two joined together in matrimony! It is impossible--she has not on a wedding-garment! What does she here?" Then looking round, he left his daughter's side, and seizing Barbara's hand, dragged her to the altar, saying, "This must be our bride--our lady bride--no one would wed in sables."
It is impossible to describe the consternation which this circumstance occasioned; but the baronet had hardly uttered the words, when the window that Barbara had taken so much pains in adorning, was darkened by a figure springing into and standing on the open casement, and the shrill voice of the Jewess Zillah shouted, in a tone that was heard most audibly over the murmurs of the little crowd, and echoed fearfully along the chancel, "Justice--vengeance!" and, suiting the action to her words, she discharged a pistol with but too steady an aim at the innocent Barbara, whom on this occasion, as before, she had mistaken for her rival, Constantia Cecil.
