"And think you," said Constance, in a voice struggling for composure,
"think you so poorly of me, that I can will to marry such as Burrell,
of my own free choice! Oh! Frances, Frances! would to Heaven the same
grave had closed over me that closed over my mother!" She clasped her
hands with an earnestness amounting to agony, and there came an
expression over her features which forbade all trifling. Frances
Cromwell was a warm, cheerful, and affectionate girl; but to her it was
not given to understand the depth or the refinement of minds such as
that of her friend. Her own home was not a peaceful one, for party
spirit, that hydra of disunion, raged and ravaged there, without regard
to years or sex. The Protector's most beloved child was known to be
faithfully attached to the Stuart cause; while his eldest daughter was
so staunch a republican, that she only blamed her father for accepting
power bordering so closely upon royalty. This difference occasioned sad
and terrible domestic trouble; and the man, feared, honoured, courted by
the whole world, ruling the dynasties of kingdoms, could not insure an
hour's tranquillity within his own palace walls! Frances, the youngest,
interfered the least in their most grievous feuds. She had so many
flirtations, both romantic and anti-romantic, to attend to, that, like
all women who flirt much, she thought little. The perfect misery so
fearfully, yet so strongly painted upon the countenance of Constance,
was to her utterly incomprehensible. Had it been the overboiling of
passion, the suppressed but determined rage, or the murmuring of
discontent, Frances could have understood it, because it would have
resembled what she had full often witnessed; but she had never before
beheld the struggles of a firm and elevated mind against a cruel and
oppressive destiny. Frances Cromwell looked upon her friend for some
moments, uncertain what course to pursue. She knelt down and took her
hands within her own; they were cold as death, rigid as marble. She bent
over her!-"Constance! Constance! speak! Merciful Providence!" she exclaimed aloud,
"What can I do? what shall I do? Barbara! Alas! alas! she hears me
not--Dear Constance! This is worse than faintness," she continued, as
exertions to restore her proved ineffectual; for Constantia, exhausted
by her efforts to appear tranquil, and to chime in with the temper of
her guest, until tortured at the very mention of Burrell's name,
remained still insensible.
"I must leave her and seek assistance from within," repeated Frances,
rapidly unclasping her jewelled mantle, throwing it over her friend, and
flying, rather than running, along the shaven path they had so recently
paced in gentle converse. No very long time elapsed before the lady
returned, followed by Barbara Iverk and another faithful attendant.