Shakspeare.
It is curious to note how differently persons known to each other, and, it may be, endeared by the ties of relationship, or the still stronger ones of friendship, are occupied at some precise moment, although separated but by a little distance, and for a brief space of time. Life is one great kaleidoscope, where it is difficult to look upon the same picture twice; so varied are its positions, and so numerous its contrasts, according to the will of those who move and govern its machinery. While the hand of the Buccaneer was dyed in blood, his child was sleeping calmly on her pillow;—Sir Robert Cecil pondering over the events of the day, and drawing conclusions as to the future, from which even hope was excluded;—Sir Willmott Burrell exulting in what he deemed the master-stroke of his genius;—and Constance Cecil, the fountain of whose tears was dried up, permitted Lady Frances Cromwell to sit up with her, while she assorted various letters, papers, and other matters, of real or imaginary value, of which she was possessed. Within that chamber one would have thought that Death was the expected bridegroom, so sadly and so solemnly did the bride of the morrow move and speak. She had ceased to discourse of the approaching change, and conversed with her friend only at intervals, upon topics of a trifling nature; but in such a tone, and with such a manner, as betrayed the aching heart; seldom waiting for, or hearing a reply, and sighing heavily, as every sentence obtained utterance. Her companion fell into her mood, with a kindness and gentleness hardly to be expected from one so light and mirthful.
"I am sure," she observed, "I have deeper cause for grief than you, Constantia; my father is so obstinate about Mr. Rich. He treats his family as he does the acts of his parliament, and tries to make use of both for the good of the country."
Constantia smiled a smile of bitterness; Lady Frances little knew the arrow, the poisoned arrow, that rankled in her bosom.
"Oh, I see you are preserving Mrs. Hutchinson's letters. How my sister Claypole esteems that woman! Do you think she really loves her husband as much as she says?"
"I am sure of it," was Constantia's reply, "because he is worthy of such love. I received one letter from her, lately; she knew that I was to be—to change my name—and kindly (for the virtuous are always kind) wrote to me on the subject; read over these passages."
Lady Frances was about to read them aloud, but Constantia prevented her.
"I have read it over and over, dearest, though wherefore I hardly know; my lot is cast in a way so different from that she imagines. The precepts are for the promotion of happiness, which I can never expect to enjoy—never to be cited as an example of connubial excellence. I shall leave no record that people in after years will point at, and say, Behold, how lovingly they lived together! But read it, Frances, read it: to you it may prove salutary, for you will be happy in your union, and with one whom you can love."
The Lady Frances took the letter with a trembling hand, and read as follows:—
"Richmond, 1657, the 2d day of June.