"Peace, Barbara! I mean to dress as well befits this bridal; so trouble
not thyself as to the tiring; but go, my gentle girl, go, go."
"And may I not crouch yonder, where so often I have read to you, and
sung the little ballads that you taught me for pastime?"
"Or those that poor Robin taught you? I wish that young man, Barbara,
had a more settled way of life; for, despite his awkward form, there is
much that is noble and elevated about him. However, make no haste to
wed, and, above all, guard well your heart; keep a keen watch over your
affections--ay, watch them, and pray, pray fervently, poor girl, that
they may go to him who may have your hand."
"They shall go," said Barbara, rising to follow Lady Frances, who had
abruptly left the chamber to conceal her tears; "I would not marry a
king--I mean, madam, a governor--if I did not love him! Why should I?"
"Why should you, indeed, my kind Barbara! There, go and tell your
master, tell also Sir Willmott, that I have much to do and much to think
upon; so that to-day they must excuse my absence. It is an awful thing
this marriage--an unknown, or at least uncharted course to enter on;--to
virgin minds," she murmured, as her faithful attendant left the room,
"at all times full of doubts, ay, even when love is pilot and the fond
soul brim-full of hope. I too, who had such dreams of happiness, of good
and holy happiness--the interchange of kindness, the mutual zeal, the
tender care--the look, so vigilant and gentle, so full of pure
blandishment--the outpouring of thoughts on thoughts--the words, so
musical because so rich with the heart's truth; and so I fancied love
and its fulfilment, marriage. Well knew I of the contract: yet still I
dreamed and hoped, yes, slept and dreamed; but to be awakened thus--to
such unutterable horror! Thank God, my mother is in heaven!--that is the
solitary drop of comfort in my life's poison-bowl.--My mother's death a
comfort! Alas, alas!"
She covered her face with her hands, and we draw the Grecian painter's
veil over the contending feelings it would be impossible adequately to
portray.
Sir Willmott Burrell bustled and chafed, and gave orders to his
serving-men, and to those now called tailors; visited the neighbouring
gentry, but spoke not of his approaching marriage, which he preferred
should take place as silently as might be. Nevertheless he had far too
much depending upon the succeeding hours to pass the day either in quiet
or composure. He had braved through his interview with the unhappy Sir
Robert Cecil, and urged, as an excuse for his conduct, the extremity to
which his love was driven by Constantia's decided rejection of his suit,
carefully, however, concealing from her unfortunate parent the fact that
she loved another.