“Nor I,” she answered, “a mere puppet, to be driven to misery, and perchance to sin, for a father’s prejudice. Oh, hear me!” she cried the next moment, altering her tone, and throwing herself at his feet, “oh, hear me, beloved father! spare me, but spare me this one thing! force me not, for God’s sake, to be this odious varlet’s wife! bind me not to this life of anguish! and I will swear never to marry any one without your free consent; nay, I will swear never to ask for your consent; never to meet, or see, or speak to the only man on earth whom I can love. Oh, grant me, grant me, father, this one, this reasonable prayer. I adjure you, by your own gray hairs, by my dead mother’s soul, do not, do not drive me to madness and despair.”
“Margaret, listen. It is now Wednesday at evening. A ship sails from Bristol one week hence this day, for St. Maloes. At Rennes there is a nunnery of Ursulines, wherein my sister is the prioress. On Wednesday next, by that ship you sail, to take your vows in that nunnery, or you accept Sir Andrew Acton as your husband. Are you answered? I have spoken.”
“I am answered,” she replied, rising slowly to her feet. “And I, too, have spoken—I will die sooner. May God forgive you, father, you know not unto what you drive me.”
She moved away as if to leave the room, but ere she reached the door she turned again, and stretching out her arms, cried in a piteous voice, “One boon, at least, one boon, my father. On Tuesday night you shall have my answer; but, oh! for the love of God, let me not during this one week, be tormented by his hateful presence.”
“Be it so,” replied the old man, thinking that she was about to yield. “Whither go you now?”
“To bed, to bed. Would that I never might rise thence any more.”
But ere she laid her down, she took a large pair of scissors and clipped the circle of her ring asunder, unseen by her waiting-woman; and then giving it to her, bade her carry it to old Jeremy, the forester, and let him bear it to the goldsmith at Stratford the next morning.
Day after day lagged on—night after night crept on, in cloud or in starlight, over her sleepless couch; and she waxed paler every day, and thinner, and more ghost-like. She never spoke, or smiled, or left her chamber, except to go through the wretched semblance of partaking her father’s meals; but sat muttering inarticulate words, and sometimes wringing her hands, when she was alone; but when others were present, perfectly calm and tranquil, though very sad and silent.
The third day came, and she grew restless and eager. There was a hard, red spot on her cheek-bones, and an unnatural glitter in her clear, ghastly eye. Her hand trembled nervously; she was quick in her mood, and irritable to her attendants—a quenchless and insatiate thirst tormented her.
The fourth day came. It was the blessed Sabbath; but for the first time in her life she refused to accompany Sir Hugh to the village church, and kept her chamber during the noon-day meal. As sunset drew near she became more impatient; and as the early twilight settled down on the sere woods and silent waters, she donned her cloak, and sallied forth alone, and took her way up the accustomed path toward the tank, which still bears her name—Margaret’s Well.