"Merciful powers!" interrupted Constance, wildly; "and is it really possible that you knew of his proposal? Ay, ay, you might have known _that_, but you could not know the awful, the horrid threat he held out to me, if I did not comply with his demand--ay, _demand_ for an immediate union?

"It was very imprudent, very useless, in fact," said the baronet, peevishly, his mind reverting to the proposals of the Buccaneer, which he believed Burrell had communicated to Constantia; "very absurd to trouble you with the knowledge he possesses of my affairs--that is strange wooing--but good will arise from it, for you will now, knowing the great, the overpowering motive that I have for seeing your union accomplished----"

The baronet's sentence remained unfinished, for the look and manner of his daughter terrified him. She had risen from her knees, and stood, her eyelids straining from her glaring eyes, that were fixed upon her father, while her hands were extended, as if to shut out the figure upon which she still gazed.

"It is all madness--moon-struck madness," she exclaimed, and her arms dropped at either side as she spoke; "some cruel witchery surrounds me; but I will speak and break the spell. Father, you are not a murderer?

you did not murder----" and she, too, whispered a name, as if it were one that the breath of heaven should not bear.

The baronet sprang from his seat, as if a musket ball had entered his heart.

"'T is false!" he exclaimed; "there is no blood upon my hand--look at it--look at it! Burrell has no proofs--unless that villain Dalton has betrayed me," he added, in a lower tone; "but I did not the act, the blood is on _his_ head, and not on mine. Constance, my child, the only thing on earth _now_ that can love me, do not curse--do not spurn me. I ask not your sacrifice, that I may be saved;--but do not curse me--do not curse your father."

The haughty baronet fell, humbled to the dust, at his daughter's feet, clasping her knees in awful emotion, but daring not to look upon the face of his own child.

It would be as vain to attempt, as it would be impossible to a.n.a.lyse, the feelings of that high-souled woman during moments of such intense misery. She neither spoke nor wept; nor did she a.s.sist her father, by any effort, to arise; but, without a sentence or a word, folding her mourning robe around her, she glided like a ghost forth from the chamber. When she returned, her step had lost its elasticity, and her eye its light; she moved as if in a heavy atmosphere, and her father did not dare to look upon her, as she seated herself by the chair he had resumed.

She took his hand, and put it, but did not press it, to her lips: he thought he felt a tear drop upon his burning fingers; but the long hair that fell over her brow concealed her face. He was the first to break the dreadful and oppressive stillness.

"I would speak with Burrell: there must have been treachery. Of himself, believe me, he knew nothing: but I was so taken by surprise, that I did not consider----"

"Stop, sir, I entreat you," interrupted Constance. "There is now no motive for consideration. I have just seen, and promised to be the wife of Sir Willmott Burrell within this week--and three of its days are already past:--_his_ silence, and _your honour_ are secured."

The unhappy man was powerless and subdued; he hid his face amid the pillows of the chair, and wept bitterly. Constance walked to the window: the beams of the silver moon dwelt with more than usual brightness on the tops and around the foliage of the trees that encircled the Fairy Ring, where, but an hour before, her footsteps had lingered with her friend. All around seemed buried in the most profound stillness; not the bay of a dog, nor the hum of an insect, disturbed the repose that slept on every plant and flower, and covered the earth as with a garment.

Suddenly a nightingale flew past the window, and resting its breast on the bough of an old thorn, poured forth a delicious strain of melody.

Constance leaned her throbbing forehead against the cold stained-gla.s.s, and the tenderness of the wild bird's untaught music penetrated her soul; large tears flowed down her cheeks, and her seared heart was relieved, for a little, of its overwhelming horrors. She then returned to her father's side; and again taking his hand in hers, said, in a calmer voice,

"Father, we have both need of consolation--let us read and pray together."

"It is too late to attempt deceiving you longer, Constance; yet I would fain explain----."

"Not now, father. We will pray."

"And you will be happy; or if not, you will not curse him who has wrought your misery?"

"I have too much need of blessing. Bless, bless you, my father!--Let us now seek consolation where only it is to be found."

"But may I not speak with Burrell? I want to know----"

"Father! I entreat you, peace. It is now useless; the die is cast--for me--for us--in this world--useless all, except the aid that, under any trials, we can ask and receive from Heaven."

"My child, call me your dear father, as you were wont; and let your soft lips press upon my hand as there were fondness in them. You said you would not curse me, Constance."

"Bless, bless you, my _dear_ father!" She kissed his hand; and having lighted the chamber lamp, read one of the penitential psalms of the King of Israel, when sin, and the wretchedness that follows sin, became too heavy for him to bear.

"And now let us pray," said Constantia, conceiving that her father's mind was more composed; "let us offer up pet.i.tions to the source of all mercy and forgiveness."

"I cannot pray," he said; "my lips may move, but my heart is hardened."

"We will learn of Him who softened the stony rock, that the children of promise might taste of the living waters in a strange land."

And her earnest and beautiful prayer floated to the Almighty's throne, from that dull and heavy chamber, a record of the faithful and self-sacrificing spirit whose purest earthly temple is a woman's heart.

CHAPTER XIV.

Yet, spite of all that Nature did To make his uncouth form forbid, This creature dared to love.

But virtue can itself advance To what the favourite fools of chance By fortune seem design'd.

PARNELL.

"Is your sweet lady out yet, pretty Barbara?" inquired Robin Hays of Barbara Iverk, as he met her in the flower-garden of Cecil Place, when it was nearly midday.

"My poor lady is, I am sure, very ill; or, what is still worse, ill at ease," replied the maiden. "She has not been in bed all night, I know, for the couch was undisturbed this morning, so I just came here to gather her some flowers: fresh flowers must always do one good, and I think I never saw so many in bloom so early."

"Barbara, did you ever hear tell of a country they call the East?"

"A country!" repeated Barbara, whose knowledge of geography was somewhat more extensive than that of Robin, although she had not travelled so much, "I believe there are many countries in the East."

"Well, I dare say there may be. Mistress Barbara: you are going to chop scholarship with me; but yet, I suppose, you do not know that they have in that country a new way of making love. It is not new to them, though it is new to us."

"Oh, dear Robin! what is it?"

"Why, suppose they wished you, a young pretty maiden as you are, to understand that I, a small deformed dragon, regarded you, only a little, like the beginning of love, they would--" Robin stooped as he spoke, and plucked a rose-bud that had antic.i.p.ated summer--"they would give you this bud. But, suppose they wanted you to believe I loved you very much indeed, they would choose you out a full-blown rose. Barbara, I cannot find a full-blown rose; but I do not love you the less for that."

"Give me the bud, Robin, whether or no; it is the first of the season:--my lady will be delighted with it--if, indeed, any thing can delight her!"

"I will give it you to keep; not to give away, even to your lady. Ah, Barbara! if I had any thing worth giving, you would not refuse it."

"And can any thing be better worth giving, or having, than sweet flowers?" said the simple girl. "Only it pains me to pull them--they die so soon--and then, every leaf that falls away from them, looks like a reproach!"

"Should you be sorry if I were to die one of these days, Barbara,"

inquired the Ranger, "like one of those flowers?"

"Sorry! have I ever appeared ungrateful, Robin? When first I came here, you used to be so kind me:--indeed, you are always kind--only I fear lately you are displeased with me about something or other. You have avoided me--are you angry, Robin?"

"Indeed I am not; nor do I forget how often you have driven away the 'shadows' that used to come over me."

"And do you--I mean, do you esteem me as much as ever?"

Robin looked earnestly into her face, and then taking her hand, gently replied:--

"I do esteem you, as you term it, more than ever; but I also love you.

When a little helpless thing, I took you from your father's arms: I loved you then as a parent would love a child. When Lady Cecil took you under her care, and I saw you but seldom, my heart leaned towards the daughter of my best friend with a brother's love. And when, as I have just said, the sunlight of your smile, and the gentleness of your young girlish voice, dispelled much melancholy from my mind, I thought--no matter what. But now the case is altered--you see in me a mere lump, a deformed creature, a being unseemly to look upon, a wretch----!"