Sir Willmott Burrell, of Burrell, had managed to make himself acquainted
with many of Sir Robert Cecil's secrets; and even those he had not
heard, he guessed at, with that naturally acute knowledge which is
rarely in the wrong. He was too great a sensualist to be indifferent to
the beauty of Constance, which, like all sensualists, he considered the
sole excellence of woman; but he arraigned the wisdom of Nature in
endowing aught so fair with mind, or enriching it with soul; and the
dignity and purity of his destined bride, instead of making him proud,
made him angry and abashed.
Constance heard of Burrell's grace, of Burrell's wit, and
sometimes--though even amongst ladies it was a disputed point--of his
beauty, without ever being able to discover any thing approaching to
these qualities in her future husband; and certainly he never appeared
to so little advantage as when in her presence: her eye kept him under a
subjection, the force of which he was ashamed to acknowledge; and
although there could be no question that his chief desire for the
approaching alliance proceeded from a cherished affection for the broad
acres and dark woods of the heiress of Cecil, yet he bitterly regretted
that the only feeling the lady manifested towards him was one of decided
coldness--he almost feared of contempt. The day after her mother's
funeral, she had refused to see him, although he knew that she had been
abroad with Lady Frances in the gardens of the Place; and though Sir
Robert urged indisposition as the cause, yet his pride was deeply
mortified. A weighty communication from France, where he had been a
resident for some months, as an attaché to the English embassy,
appeared to have increased the discontent of his already ruffled temper.
He retired early to his chamber, and his moody and disturbed countenance
looked angered and mysterious by the light of an untrimmed lamp, as he
inspected various documents and papers that lay scattered before him on
a table of carved oak, inlaid with silver. One letter, which he read and
re-read with much attention, seemed to excite him more than all the
rest: he turned it over and over--examined the seal--laid it down--took
it up--put it aside again--folded his arms over his chest, and, with his
eyes fixed on the ceiling, appeared for a time absorbed in the
remembrance of past events. Finally, he committed the letter to the
flames, and then paced up and down the room with unequal steps, his head
bent forward, and his arms folded, as before, over his bosom. He was
evidently ill at ease with himself, and there gleamed "a lurking devil
in his eye," that augured peril to some one, and bespoke a man who was
neither "infirm of purpose," nor slow in the execution of whatever
mischief was designed. He did not retire to his bed until the lamp gave
token that its oil was expended, when, flinging himself on the coverlet
without removing any portion of his dress, he sought rest.