I am not prone to weeping as our sex
Commonly are; the want of which vain dew
Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have
That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns
Worse than tears drown.
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."