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----"