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Sir Robert was too ill, and too deeply afflicted to be present at the ceremony; and as he had no near relative, Sir Willmott Burrell of Burrell, the knight to whom his daughter's hand was plighted, was expected to take his station as chief mourner.
"Believe it not, Sir Willmott," said Constantia, at length disengaging her hand; "I can never love you." Men have been accustomed, in all ages, to hear simple truths, of such a description, declared in so simple a manner.
Wears friendship's mask for purposes of spite, Fawns in the day and butchers in the night. The dwelling of Sir Willmott Burrell was about eighteen or twenty miles from the island of Shepey, on the Kentish border.
"Tell her nothing, sweet, about me. In a little time I shall be able to take you to a proper home; only mark this, you must never go to the home of Sir Willmott Burrell." "Ah! he is very wicked, I have heard; and yet you see how wrong it is to believe evil of any one; but I know that he is evil, if ever man was," was the maid's reply, reverting almost unconsciously to her father's situation.
"I beg your pardon, I think you treated the subject very well." "Yes," said Willmott, "it is ungrateful material, but I think I made something fine of it." "No doubt, no doubt," said the stranger. "Do tell us," Mrs. Baldwin was heard to ask M. Faubourg across the table, "what the young generation are doing in France? Who are the young novelists?"
I thank God that I was brought here to unravel and wind up. As to yonder man devil I should rather call him he has, I suppose, no farther threats or terrors to win a lady's love. Sir Willmott Burrell, we will at least have the ceremony of your marriage repeated without delay: here is my friend's daughter this night ."
And then the Major he has been here two or three times, and they call him Wellmore although worthy Jabez Tippet, the boatman, swears no, not swears declares, that no such person ever crosses the ferry: yet is he dumb as a tortoise as to who does. Well, the Major and the young gentleman went off in a flash of lightning, or something of the sort; for Sir Willmott and my master could not find him.
"Some other time, my dear sir," interrupted Burrell, whose apprehension was confirmed; "you must cheer up, and not think of these matters: you must take some wine." He filled a goblet from a silver flagon that stood with refreshments on the table; but the baronet's hand was so unsteady, that Sir Willmott was obliged to hold the cup to his lips.
"I think Racine's boring," said Mrs. Lockton, "he's so artificial." "Oh! don't say that," said Giles, "Racine is the most exquisite of poets, so sensitive, so acute, and so harmonious." "I like Rostand better," said Mrs. Lockton. "Rostand!" exclaimed Miss Tring, in disgust, "he writes such bad verses du caoutchouc he's so vulgar." "It is true," said Willmott, "he's an amateur.
Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" growled Dalton, as he sat opposite the enfeebled baronet: his hands clenched, his brows knit, and his heart swelling in his bosom with contending feelings. "Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" he repeated. "And so, Sir Robert Cecil, you have sold your soul to the devil for a mess of pottage, a mess of poisoned pottage!
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