"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.
Sir Robert had sent several messages to his daughter, imploring her to see him, but in vain—she resolutely refused, wisely dreading the result of such an interview. "This day and to-morrow is all the time," she said, "I can call my own, until—for me—time has entered upon eternity. All I implore then is, that I may be alone, the mistress of myself during such brief space."
When the sun was set, Barbara entered her room with a slight evening meal. Her mistress was sitting, or rather lying on a low couch, opposite a table, upon which stood a small dial, mounted in chased silver, representing a garland of flowers.
"Lay it down, good girl; I cannot taste it at present. I have been watching the minute-hand pace round that dial.—Is it, indeed, near seven? It was an ill thought of the foreign craftsman to set Time amid roses; he should have placed it among thorns. Is the evening fine?"
"Fine, but yet sober, my lady; the sun has quite set, and the birds are silent and at roost, except the old blackbird, who whistles late, and the wakeful robin, who sometimes bandies music with the nightingale.—Would you like to hear them, madam?"
"Not just now, Barbara: but leave out my hood. Did my father again ask for me?"
"Not since, mistress. Mr. Fleetword is with him." Barbara left the room.
"I cannot tell why, my lady," she said earnestly to Lady Frances, whom she met in the vestibule—"I cannot divine the reason, but this bridal has to me the semblance of a funeral. God shield us all from evil! there is a cold deathlike chill throughout the house. I heard—(though, my lady, I do not believe in such superstitions,) but I heard the death-watch tick—tick—ticking, as plain as I hear the old clock now chime seven! And I saw—I was wide awake—yet I saw a thin misty countenance, formed as of the white spray of the salt-sea wave, so sparkling, so shadowy, yet so clear, come between me and the moonbeams, and raise its hand thus.—Oh, mercy—mercy—mercy!" she shrieked, so as to startle the Lady Frances, and then as hastily exclaimed, "La! madam, to think of the like! if it isn't that little muddy, nasty Crisp, who has found me out! I will tell you the rest by and by, madam, only I want to turn this little beast into the shrubbery, that he may find his master."