“What mean I?” said Sir Geoffrey, in the same half-affectionate, half-sarcastic tone. “Why, that I have promised thee to the Lord Marnell, Lord of the Bedchamber to the King’s Grace, and Knight of the Garter—and thou wilt be a lady and dwell in London town, and hold up thine head with the highest! What sayest to that, child?” he added, proudly.
She sat a moment with her white lips parted,—cold, silent, stunned. Then the bitter cry of “Father, father!” awoke the echoes of the old hall.
Sir Geoffrey was evidently troubled. He had sought only his daughter’s grandeur, and had never so much as dreamed that he might be making her miserable.
“Why, child! dost not like it?” said he, in surprise.
She rose from her seat, and went to him, and kneeling down by him, laid her head, bowed on her clasped hands, upon his knee. “O father, father!” was all she said again.
“Truly, lass, I grieve much to see thee thus,” said her father, in a perplexed tone. “But thou wilt soon get over this, and be right glad, too, to be so grand a lady. What shall I say to comfort thee?”
Long, terrible, hysterical sobs were coming from the bowed frame—but no tears. At length, still without lifting up her head, she whispered—
“Is there no way to shun it, father? I love him not. O father, I love him not—I cannot love him!”
“Truly, my poor lass, I trow we cannot shun it,” said he. “I never thought to see thee grieve so sore. The Lord Marnell is a noble gentleman, and will find thee in silken tissues and golden cauls.”
Sir Geoffrey did not rightly understand his daughter’s sorrow. His “silken tissues and golden cauls” did not raise the bowed head one inch.