In this respect he offered marked
contrast to the gay apparel of the antiquated bridegroom, as well as by
the calmness of his deportment and the stern gravity of his looks.
Behind them stood Luke Hatton, bearing a heavy silver coffer, of antique
workmanship.
"What means this veil?" cried Sir Giles, gazing suspiciously at Gillian
as she emerged from the inner room, followed cautiously by Aveline, who
was wrapped in the muffler. "Why are the bride's features thus hidden?"
"A mere whim, Sir Giles--a pleasant fancy," replied the old usurer. "But
she must have her way. I mean to indulge her in everything."
"You are wrong," rejoined the extortioner. "Make her feel you will be
her master. Bid her take it off."
"On no account whatever, Sir Giles. I have only won her by submission,
and shall I spoil all at the last moment, by opposing her inclinations?
Of a truth not."
"Who is the maiden with her?" demanded Sir Giles, scrutinizing Aveline,
with a keen glance. "Why does she wear a muffler? Is that a whim,
likewise?"
"Perchance it is," replied Sir Francis; "but I have given no consent to
it. She is only the tire-woman."
"Come, mistress, unmuffle. Let us see your face," cried Sir Giles,
striding towards the terrified maiden, who thought discovery was now
inevitable.
But Luke Hatton interposed to save her.
"Prevent this rudeness," he whispered, plucking Sir Francis's cloak.
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