his marriage."

CHAPTER XV.

And them beside a ladie faire he saw,
Standing alone on foote in foule array;
To whom himself he hastily did draw,
To weet the cause of so uncomely fray,
And to depart them, if so be he may.

SPENSER.

The Lady Frances Cromwell was not likely to keep secret, grief or any
thing else she had the power of disclosing: forthwith she proceeded to
assail Constance Cecil with a torrent of exclamations and
expostulations, to support which no inconsiderable degree of philosophy
was requisite. The intention, however, sanctified the deed, and
Constance, for some time, only pressed her hand in reply: at length she
said,--

"You see me, dearest Frances, at present under much depression:--a dark
cloud is over me; but, I entreat you, heed it not. I am about to do what
is right, and not even the commands of his Highness, your father, could
prevent it, if indeed you were to act upon the hint you have given me,
and procure his interference. My fate is sealed, irrevocably sealed! And
do you wonder that I tremble at the change I am about to undergo, the
awful change, from maid to wife? Barbara, good maid, let me see no more
of tears, but smiles, as in past times. And now I entreat you both,
sweet friends, (for that humble girl has a heart formed by tenderness
for what is more exalted--friendship,) leave me. You, my dear Lady
Frances, will to-day, for my sake, and for his, be as much as possible
with my father; he must grieve at this parting--it is but natural;--and
you, girl--there, go to your embroidery."

Barbara looked into her lady's face, seized her hand, and pressed it
alternately to her heart and lips.

"I will sit in yonder nook, dear mistress; I will not turn towards you,
nor speak, nor breathe--you may fancy me a statue, so silent, so
immovable will rest your little Barbara. Blanche and Bright-eye, and
even that black wolf-hound, remain in the chamber, and why not I? Am I
less faithful, or less thoughtful, than a dog? and would you treat me
worse? Besides, dear lady, your wedding-clothes! There is not a satin or
a silver robe, nor farthingale, nor cardinal--not a lone ostrich-plume,
that is not of six fashions past! Good, my lady, if it is to be, you
must wed as of a right becomes your high descent. My Lady Frances can
well speak of this; and as there is no time to send to London now, her
tire-women would help me to arrange the robes necessary upon su