But such it is: and though we may be taughtTo have in childhood life, ere love we know,Yet life is useless till by reason taught,And love and reason up together grow.Sir W. Davenant.
But such it is: and though we may be taughtTo have in childhood life, ere love we know,Yet life is useless till by reason taught,And love and reason up together grow.Sir W. Davenant.
But such it is: and though we may be taughtTo have in childhood life, ere love we know,Yet life is useless till by reason taught,And love and reason up together grow.
Sir W. Davenant.
"And, indeed, my grave Lady Constance plays with the poor fish in a very sportsmanlike manner; only, methinks, a little too shy, and a trifle too sensitive! Marry, girl! what a most yielding, docile, and affectionate wife you would make!—like one of the heroines in the ancient Spanish romances; or such a one as—Judith!—no—for you would never venture to chop off a man's head—Stay—did she so?—or—Barbara! you are well read in Scripture history; and, though you ply your needle so industriously, that will not prevent your calling to mind some of the holy women in the Bible, to whom your mistress may be compared."
Barbara Iverk, who had no other duty at Cecil Place than to wait upon the young heiress or assist in her embroidery, was considered and treated more as a humble companion than a menial; and Lady Frances Cromwell talked just as freely to Mistress Cecil in her presence as if they were perfectly alone. Nor was such confidence ever abused by the gentle girl. She moved within her small circle like an attendant satellite upon a brilliant star—silent and submissive—yet ever in her place, ever smiling, innocent, and happy,—
"A maid whom there were few to praise,And very few to love."
"A maid whom there were few to praise,And very few to love."
"A maid whom there were few to praise,And very few to love."
Simple and single-minded, her soul had never been contaminated by the idea, much less the utterance, of falsehood. Even to Constantia, the fulness of her worth and fidelity was unknown; although the bare contemplation of Barbara's ever parting from her was one of actual pain.
She replied to the lively question of the Lady Frances in her usual straightforward and unpresuming manner: a manner that afforded considerable amusement to the merry trifler, by whom the little Puritan was commonly spoken of, while absent, as "the fresh primrose."
"Indeed, my lady, I do not like mixing up profane and holy things together."
"Fie, Barbara! to call your mistress profane. Constance, do put down those heavy poems of Giles Fletcher, and listen to your bower-maiden, describing you as one of the profane."
Constance looked up and smiled; while poor Barbara endeavoured to free herself from the charge with earnestness and humility.
"My Lady Frances, I ask your pardon; but I can hardly, I fear, make you understand what I mean. I know that Mistress Cecil is always aiming at the excellence to which the holy women of Scripture attained—but——"
"Then she has not attained their holiness in your estimation? She is too earthly still?"
"She is my dear and noble lady, and to know her is to love her," replied Barbara, her brown, affectionate eyes swimming in tears at the wilful perversion of her words. "May I beg, Lady Frances, that you will condescend not to question so poor and simple a girl as myself on what I know so little of?"
"There you are again in error, Barbara," retorted her tormentor, who, like most wits, cherished a jest more than the feelings of those she jested with; "I condescend when questioning, not when silent."
Barbara made no reply, and Lady Frances, who was, at the same time, pulling to pieces a superb fan of ostrich feathers, proceeded to open her light battery against Constantia.
"How is Sir Robert this morning? I wish he were rid of the rheumatism, and with us again. I have hardly seen him since the valiant De Guerre made his appearance among us, except at dinner; and, indeed, he looks ill, though—heigh ho!—I wish all papas were as accommodating, and let their daughters flirt with whom they like."
"Flirt, Lady Frances?"
"Yes, flirt, Mistress Cecil! Is there any thing appalling in the word? though I believe it somewhat of the newest. Now, poor I have no skill in these matters! If I see a prettyfellow, I care not who knows it; I like a jest, a laugh, tempered with all rightful modesty. I do not prim my mouth, tutor my eyes into sobriety, nor say Amen, like old Will's Macbeth, to those who say 'God bless us!' I laugh my laugh, and look my look, and say my say, though I am youngest, and, by God's grace, wildest of his Highness the Protector's children."
"Where got you your gay spirit, Lady Frances?" said Constantia, rising and stepping towards her.
"My mother is a discreet matron as need be, but my father was not always one of the gloomy rulers of this gloomy land: he had his wild days, though it is treason to speak of them now; and, in sooth, he sometimes forgets that young blood runs swifter than old—How he lectures poor Richard!"
"The Lord Richard is not cast in his great father's mould; he is a gentler and a feebler spirit; one who loves to hear of, or to read of, great deeds, rather than to act them. Lady Fauconberg is more like your father."
"My sister Mary would certainly have made a fine man. It was one of nature's blunders to convert such coarse clay into a woman."
"She has a noble mind, Frances, though not so holy a one as the Lady Claypole."
"Well, dear Constance, you are very good to bear with me. Suppose, now, my father, instead of sending me here, had commanded that I should sojourn and mystify with that righteous Mrs. Lambert, whom he magnifies into a model of holiness; what a time I should have passed! Why, the nuns, whom the holy Sexburga placed up yonder, had not as much loneliness; don't you think the place was admirably adapted for an elopement? I am certain—nay, you need not smile—for I am quite certain, that every one of the seventy-seven maidens, of whom history tells us, including the charming Ermenilda herself, fully made up their minds to run off with the Danes before they came to the island. I wish, though, that your father could be persuaded to consider this only a summer residence, for it must be a little dreary, I think. Not that I feel it such, for you are so kind; and just as we were beginning to grow a little dull or so, a flourish—and enter Walter De Guerre, under the auspices of Major Wellmore! Ha! ha! ha! Well it has amused me so much. Hecertainly is a most charming person; and ifone, who is not here, were here, I should be inclined to tease him a little by my vast admiration of this gentleman. By the way, Sir Willmott Burrell has little reason to thank Major Wellmore for this new introduction; though it must be quite delightful to make either a lover or a husband jealous. Ah, I see you do not agree with me—I did not expect you would; but, do you know, I have taken it into my head that this De Guerre is not De Guerre."
"Indeed! who is he then?"
"That, Constantia, is exactly what I want to know—and I think you could unravel the mystery."
"My dear Frances, you are a very unaccountable person; always playing false yourself, you hardly ever give people credit for being true."
"You are vastly complimentary. Ah, Constance, when you come to Hampton, you must learn some court observances. When we were children together, we spoke truth."
"Were we not very happy then?"
"We were," said Frances, drawing a heavy sigh; "but how changed the times since then! Constance, those who walk along a precipice may well dread falling. Gay, giddy as I am, Cromwell has not a child who glories in him more than I do."
"And well you may," added Constance, whose dignity of soul led her to appreciate, with as much judgment as enthusiasm, the extraordinary man who commanded the admiration, not only of England, but of Europe. "Well may you be proud of the most successful statesman, the most resolute general, the most useful Christian that ever governed a state. By his power he holds our enemies in subjection; and guides our friends by his wisdom. I am but a poor politician, yet, methinks, I could almost worship your father for the spirit and humanity with which he succours those poor persecuted Vaudois, who have kept their faith pure as the breath of their native valleys: when I think of this, even the conqueror is forgotten in the man."
"You are a dear noble creature," exclaimed Frances, as she gazed with admiration upon the animated and expressive countenance of her companion; then encircling her neck, and kissing her cheek, with that delightful warmth of manner whichcan spring only from warmth of feeling, she continued, "I wish, my love, that flush were always on your cheek. You nourish some secret sorrow, Constance; nay, I am sure you do; and I will write and say so to my sister Claypole, who is worthy to be your confidant, as well as your godmother, though I am not. Nay, nay, I know it well: I admire, but do not quite understand you. The heavens are given us to hope for, and the sun to look upon, and—but dear me! that would be—a simile! I vow that sounded like rhyme; but here comes reason, in the shape of our new knight. Adieu! dear Constantia!—Barbara! that is surely Robin Hays, groping among the slopes like a huge hedgehog. Did you not want to consult him as to the management of the peewits' eggs?"
"In truth, yes, my lady," replied Barbara, rising from a half-finished carnation:—"May I go, mistress?"
Constance assented.
"MayIgo, mistress?" repeated Lady Frances, mimicking Barbara's tone and courtesy, in her light-hearted gaiety.
"Yes," replied Constantia firmly, "I would rather you did; for I have something particular to say to Major Wellmore's friend."
"Now, is not that just like Constance Cecil?" thought Lady Frances, as she left the room; "another would have said any thing rather than the truth—yet is truth a noble thing: something to venerate as well as love—the best of virtues, the wisest of counsellors, and the firmest of friends."
Constance rose from her seat as the Cavalier entered; but there was an expression of deep sorrow over his whole countenance, that was almost immediately communicated to hers. What an extraordinary and undefinable tie is that which binds souls and sympathies together—the voice, that is heard only by the ear of affection—the look, that only one can understand—the silent thrill of happiness or of anguish, communicated by a smile or by a sigh! The world may sneer at, or may condemn; yet most true it is, that they who love with the most purity and the most truth, draw nearest to that great Spirit who is the perfection of both!
"I am come," said De Guerre, "to bid for awhile farewell to Mistress Cecil; to thank her for the kindness I have received under this roof; and to assure her that it can never be forgotten."
"You have received but little attention—too little, indeed; yet, my father's health—our recent heavy affliction—will, I am sure, plead for us, and win an excuse. I was not, however, aware that your departure would come so suddenly. Is my father apprised of it?"
"He is not:—forgive me, lady; but I could not avoid saying how much and how truly I have felt the kind consideration you have bestowed upon one who, however worthy, I hope, in many respects, has nevertheless deceived you."
"De Guerre may deceive me," replied Constance, with considerable emotion, extending one hand as she spoke, and covering her face with the other, "De Guerre may deceive me, but Walter—dearWalter—never."
The young man took her offered hand, and pressed it affectionately to his lips. "Ah! how soon you saw in the Cavalier the companion and playmate of your childhood, though you believed him dead! Women have quick eyes, and warm hearts for old friends. Unrecognised by my nurse—by your father—yet discovered by you—by you only, Constance! I need not say, do not betray me; do not breathe, even to those walls, who it is that has entered within them; let it remain secret as the grave. But I need not urge you thus, for treachery is not in your nature; let me talk of other things, and ask by what token, Constance, did you trace me through the disguise that years, and the burning sun of many a parched land, have thrown over my features and my form?"
"It was your voice that struck me first—some tones and modulations, that I well remembered when you called my dog:—then the unforgotten locket which you placed in my hand, which, when I had seen you, I knew could have been placed there by no other:—then——" Constance paused and blushed; she ought to have felt angry at the liberty that had been taken with her tresses, but she gave no expression to such a feeling; and the pause was broken by the Cavalier, who drew from his bosom the beautiful braid of which the maiden had been robbed.
The colour on Constantia's cheek was succeeded by a deadly paleness.
"Ah! what a moment it was, by that old temple, the lily triumphing over the rose on your fair cheek, even more than now, yet with such mild and gentle triumph, one scarce couldwish it less; your eyes veiled by those soft lashes:—well, no more—I will say no more of this. I tried my poor skill to call you back to life, and, just as I succeeded, your companion and attendant came in sight. Since then, this dear memento has nestled near my heart, a shield against evil, and against evil thoughts. What! still so pale? you must be ill, my sweet friend," he inquired tenderly.
"No, Walter, not in body; but wherefore should you bear that braid so near you?"
"Sweet Constance, may I now call you by that dear name? Oh, how my heart rebelled against the sound 'Mistress Cecil!'—Truly is love a republican, for he does not recognise titles; though, perhaps, it were better to describe him as a despot, acknowledging none that are not of his own creation. Why should I not wear the braid? Though now an outlawed man, it may not be always thus; the time will come when my own arm shall win the way to glory and to fortune."
"I doubt it not—I doubt it not;—but—save that nothing can make your fortunes a matter of indifference to the friend and companion of your childhood—I can have no greater interest in you, nor you in me. But why prevent my saying to my father that the lost bird is found? Methinks I would gladly know with him the mysteries of your disappearance, and the still greater one of your concealment; suffer that I tell——" The Cavalier smiled a smile so moody, so full of sad expression, that she paused.
"Not so; I cannot explain any thing: perhaps (if your words be serious) the time may never come when I can explain. As to your father, if you ever valued Walter, I charge you, even as you now value his life, that you give hint to no human being of his existence. I am sure you will keep my secret; strange as may seem the request, still you will grant it."
"Yet surely, Walter, you may confide in one who sorrowed for her playmate, with a lengthened and deep grief; but—" she slowly added, observing the altered expression of his countenance, "remember, I can only be to you a friend."
The words were uttered in a tone not to be misconceived. The Cavalier understood and felt it.
"Better, then, that I had gone forth, as I was about to do, in ignorance that any here recognised the ruined and outcastWalter! Can there be truth in the rumour, that one so young, so beautiful, bearing the softened impress of a noble and immortal mind upon a brow so lofty, is a willing sacrifice to a coward and villain? Did I not hear you, with my own ears, protest to the Lady Frances Cromwell, that, of your own free will, you would never marry this Sir Willmott Burrell? and, if it be so, if you spoke truth then, who dare compel you, wealthy and high-born, to give your hand where your heart is not? Oh, you are not the free, true-hearted girl, that, twelve years ago, leaped upon your native hills to meet the sunshine and the breeze, and often—alas! alas! that it should only have been in mere sportiveness—declared that—but no matter—I see it all, and future Lady of Burrell, bid you farewell and for ever."
Constance replied with tears, yet calmly and firmly: "Walter, be not cruel; or, at least, be not unjust. You were ever impetuous, but also ever ready to repair the evil you had done. It is ill of you to use so harsh a word against one who has never wronged you. Alas! could you but read my heart, you would also judge of me otherwise; but think of me as your friend—your fervent and faithful friend—I will not prove unworthy."
The Cavalier was about to reply, when Robin Hays was ushered into the room by Barbara, who immediately withdrew. After bowing with due respect to Constance, he was about to whisper into the ear of the Cavalier, who, however, desired him to speak out, as he had nought to conceal from that lady. The Ranger seemed but little astonished at receiving such a command, and without further ceremony proceeded.
"I did hope, sir, that you would have left Cecil Place before this; SirWillmottBurrell will, I am certain, arrive within an hour; and you know it is the Skipper's earnest desire that you should not meet."
"Robin, you told me all this but a little time past; and I know not why I am to hear it again. I have nought to fear from this Burrell."
"It would be certainly unsafe, were there a possibility of his suspecting you, for his——" Again Constantia interrupted herself; she had been on the point of betraying her knowledge of Sir Willmott's jealous and impatient temper; and,after a pause, she added, "but there is little danger of that: as a boy, he never saw you; and he must respect the friend of Major Wellmore."
"Ah, madam!" observed Robin, "he is no respecter of persons; and I see no reason why two should meet again, who have already so roughly handled each other."
"Where did they meet?" inquired Constance eagerly.
"There is no time to tell the story now, lady," replied Robin impatiently. "As I see you know this gentleman, and knowing him, are too generous not to be interested in his favour, urge, I beseech you, his instant departure from Cecil Place. Surely I can explain every thing as well as he. It was Dalton's wish——"
"I bitterly grieve to hear that you have aught to do with so bold, so bad a man as Dalton," said Constance hastily; "his name brings to my remembrance feelings of undefined pain, for which I cannot account. It is long since I have heard of him; but something poor Barbara communicated to me in her innocence, made me suspect he had been here. Go then; and take my prayers, and (though nothing worth, it may be,) my blessing. And now, farewell—farewell—at least for a time!"
"We must meet again, Constance! say only that you will see me once more before——"
"By Heaven!" exclaimed Robin, "you stand dallying here, and there is Sir Willmott himself coming down the avenue at full speed! Lady, I entreat your pardon for my boldness—But go, lady go!—in God's name!—then, and not till then, will he depart."
Constance did not trust herself in the room a moment longer. After briefly collecting her thoughts, which had laboured unceasingly to unravel the mysteries that surrounded the Cavalier, she entered her father's chamber. He had been evidently suffering from illness, and was seated in a large easy chair, his feet resting upon cushions, while the Reverend Jonas Fleetword read from time to time out of sundry pious books that were placed on a table before him. The preacher paused as she approached, and signified his intention of walking forth "to meet the man Burrell," who, he understood from the wild youth called Robin Hays, was to arrive ere noon. It was a precious opportunity, one not tobe neglected, for cultivating the rich seed sown in that holy land.
When the worthy divine was fairly out of the room, Constance delivered a message from the Cavalier, stating that he had been obliged to leave Cecil Place without taking a personal leave of his kind host; and repeated his expressions of gratitude for the attentions he had experienced during his brief sojourn.
"Thank God, he is gone!" replied the baronet, drawing his breath freely, as if relieved from a painful oppression. "Introduced as he was, it was impossible not to treat him with respect, but he strangely disturbed me. Did you not think him a cold, suspicious youth?"
"I cannot say I did, sir."
"You are singularly unsuspicious, Constance, for one so wise: you ought to learn distrust; it is a dark, a dreadful, but a useful lesson."
"Methinks one has not need to study how to be wretched; suspicion has to me ever seemed the school of misery."
The baronet made no reply to this observation, but soon after abruptly exclaimed,—
"He will not come again, I suppose."
Constance did not know.
He then fancied he could walk a little; and, pressing to his side the arm on which he leaned, said,—
"Ah, my child! a willing arm is more delightful to a parent than a strong one. Wilt always love thy father, Constance?"
"My dear father, do you doubt it?"
"No, my child; but suppose that any circumstance should make me poor?"
"You will find what a nice waiting-maid your daughter is."
"Suppose I was dishonoured?"
"Public honour is given and taken by a breath, and is therefore of little worth; but the private and more noble honour is in our own keeping: my father keeps it safely."
"But suppose that Ideservedthe ill word of all mankind?"
"My dear father, why trouble yourself or me with such a thought?—if it so happened, you would still be my parent; but such an event is impossible."
The baronet sighed, as if in pain. Constance looked anxiously into his face, and noted that a cold and clammy perspiration stood thickly on his brow.
"You had better sit down, dear sir."
"No, my child, I shall be better for a little air; let us go into the library."
As they entered the room, a scene of solemn drollery presented itself, that a humorous painter might well desire to portray. Kneeling on a high-backed and curiously-carved chair, was seen the lean, lanky figure of Fleetword, placed within a foot of the sofa, on which, in the most uneasy manner and discontented attitude, sat the Master of Burrell. The preacher had so turned the chair that he leaned over it, pulpit-fashion; holding his small pocket Bible in his hand, he declaimed to his single auditor with as much zeal and energy as if he were addressing the Lord Protector and his court. The effect of the whole was heightened by the laughing face and animated figure of Lady Frances Cromwell, half-concealed behind an Indian skreen, from which she was, unperceived, enjoying the captivity of Burrell, whom, in her half-playful, half-serious moods, she invariably denominated "the false black knight." Fleetword, inwardly rejoicing at the increase of his congregation, of whose presence, however, he deemed it wisdom to appear ignorant, had just exclaimed,—
"Has not the word of the Lord come to me, as to Elisha in the third year? and shall I not do His bidding?"
"Thou art a wonder in Israel, doubtless," said Burrell, literally jumping from his seat, and that so rudely as nearly to overturn the pulpit arrangement of the unsparing minister; "but I must salute my worthy friend, whom I am sorry to see looking so ill."
"Perform thy salutations, for they are good," said the preacher, adjusting the chair still further to his satisfaction, "and after that I will continue; for it is pleasant repeating the things that lead unto salvation."
"You would not, surely, sir," said Lady Frances, coming forward and speaking in an under-tone, "continue to repeat poor Lady Cecil's funeral sermon before her husband and daughter?—they could not support it."
"You speak like the seven wise virgins," replied Fleetword, putting one of his long limbs to the ground, as if todescend; and then as suddenly drawing it back, he added, "But the Lord's servant is not straitened; there are many rivers in Judah, so the faithful may drink at another stream."
"I wish you would come with me," said Lady Frances, rightly interpreting the entreating look of Constantia: "or rather, come withus, for I am sure Mistress Cecil has much to say to, and I have much to hear from, you: we will leave Sir Robert and Sir Willmott to talk over the affairs of this great nation; temporal matters must be attended to, you know: and though"—she looked for a moment at Burrell, whose countenance had not yet regained its usual suavity—"I am sorry to be the means of depriving Sir Willmott of much necessary instruction—I have no doubt you will make up the deficiency to him at some future time."
The soote season that bud and blome forth brings,With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale,The nightingale with fethers new she sings,The turtle to her mate hath told the tale,Somer is come, for every spray now springs.* * * * * *And thus I see among these pleasant things,Eche care decay; and yet my sorrow springs.Surrey.
The soote season that bud and blome forth brings,With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale,The nightingale with fethers new she sings,The turtle to her mate hath told the tale,Somer is come, for every spray now springs.* * * * * *And thus I see among these pleasant things,Eche care decay; and yet my sorrow springs.Surrey.
The soote season that bud and blome forth brings,With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale,The nightingale with fethers new she sings,The turtle to her mate hath told the tale,Somer is come, for every spray now springs.* * * * * *And thus I see among these pleasant things,Eche care decay; and yet my sorrow springs.
Surrey.
It may be readily imagined that Burrell remained in a state of extreme perplexity after the receipt of Dalton's letter, and the departure of Ben Israel. He saw there was now but one course that could preserve him from destruction, and resolved to pursue it:—to cajole or compel Sir Robert Cecil to procure the immediate fulfilment of the marriage contract between himself and Constance. This was his only hope, the sheet-anchor to which he alone trusted; he felt assured that, if the Protector discovered his infamous seduction of the Jewess, Zillah, he would step in, from a twofold motive, and prevent his union: in that he esteemed both the Rabbi's wisdom and his wealth, and was most unlikely to suffer one on whom his favour had been bestowed so freely, to be injured and insulted with impunity; and next, inasmuch as he entertained a morethan ordinary regard for Constance Cecil, the child of an ancient friend, and the god-daughter of the Lady Claypole. Of this regard he had, within a few weeks, given a striking proof, in having selected Cecil Place above more splendid mansions, and the companionship of its youthful mistress, in preference to many more eager candidates for such an honour, when, for certain weighty reasons, he deemed a temporary absence from the court essential to the comfort and prosperity of the Lady Frances.
The friendship that had subsisted between the family of the Protector and that of Sir Robert Cecil was, as we have intimated, not of recent growth; the Lady Cromwell and Lady Cecil had been friends long before the husband of the former had been called to take upon him the high and palmy state that links his name so gloriously, so honourably—but, alas! in some respects, also, so unhappily—with the history of his country. When an humble and obscure individual at Ipswich, the visits of the Lady Cecil were considered as condescensions, upon her part, towards friends of a respectable, yet of a much inferior, rank. Times had changed; but he who was now a king in all but the name, and far beyond ordinary kings in the power to have his commands obeyed as widely as the winds of heaven could convey them—remembered the feelings that held sway in lowlier, yet, perhaps, in happier days; and, although rarely a guest at Cecil Place, he continued a stanch friend to the family, to whom he had, upon several occasions, extended the simple hospitalities of Hampton Court.
Towards the Lady Constance, his sentiments of respect and regard had been frequently and markedly expressed. When he beheld the fading beauty of the mother reviving with added graces and attraction in the fair form and expressive countenance of the daughter, it was with feelings of pride, unusual to him, that he remembered his wife had been among the first to cherish and estimate the promise which the youth had given, and which the coming womanhood of Constance was surely about to fulfil.
Moreover, two sons of Sir Robert had fought and died by the side of the Protector, having been schooled in arms under his own eye; and had there been no other motive for his interference, he was not a man to have looked on the dead features of his brave companions, and have felt no interest inthe relations who survived them. To the only remaining scion of a brave and honourable race, Cromwell, therefore, had many reasons for extending his protection and his regard. Sir Robert, perhaps, he considered more as an instrument than as a friend; for Cromwell, like every other great statesman, employed friends sometimes as tools, yet tools never as friends—a distinction that rulers in all countries would do well to observe. It is an old and a true saying, "that a place showeth the man;" few, at that time, could look upon the Protector, either in a moral or political point of view, without a blending of astonishment and admiration at his sudden elevation and extraordinary power; and, more especially, at his amazing influence over all who came within the magic circle of which he was the centre. Burrell of Burrell he regarded as a clever, but a dangerous man; and was not, perhaps, sorry to believe that his union with so true a friend to the Commonwealth as Constance Cecil would convert him from a doubtful adherent, into a confirmed partisan, and gain over to his cause many of the wavering, but powerful families of Kent and Sussex, with whom he was connected.
Burrell, however, had succeeded in satisfying Cromwell that the proposed union had the full consent and approbation, not only of Sir Robert Cecil, but of his daughter. The protracted illness of Lady Cecil had much estranged Constance from her friends; and, as the subject was never alluded to in any of the letters that passed between her and her godmother, it was considered that the marriage was not alone one of policy, but to which, if the heart of Constance were not a party, her mind was by no means averse. Of the Protector's views upon these several topics, Burrell was fully aware; and he dreaded the discovery, not only of his own conduct, but of the feelings that existed towards him on the part of his affianced bride; there were other topics that did not so readily occur to the mind of Burrell, but that would have been of themselves sufficiently weighty to have confirmed his worst fears for his own safety—the Protector's stern love of justice, and his especial loathing of that vice of which the villain had been guilty. Had the Jew, Ben Israel, and the maiden, Constance Cecil, been indifferent persons in his sight, the double treachery of Burrell would have been requited upon his head.
Next to Hugh Dalton, no man possessed so unbounded, and, so apparently, unaccountable, an influence over Sir Robert Cecil as Sir Willmott Burrell: he knew, as we have elsewhere stated, many of his secrets, and shrewdly guessed at others of more weighty import; while, with the ready sagacity of an accomplished knave, he contrived to appear well acquainted with matters of which he was altogether ignorant, but the existence of which he had abundant reasons for suspecting. The enfeebled health and growing infirmities of the baronet rendered him an easy prey to his wily acquaintance, who, driven to his last resource, resolved upon adopting any course that might save him from destruction, by inducing Sir Robert, not only to sanction, but command an immediate marriage with his daughter.
In commencing the conversation with Burrell, Sir Robert peevishly complained of the annoyance to which he had been subjected in receiving and accommodating the young friend of Major Wellmore, although he abstained from the indulgence of feelings similar to those he had exhibited in the presence of his daughter. He then murmured bitterly of sleepless nights—of restless days—of watchings and weariness—of hideous dreams—of the toils, turmoils, and unfaithfulness of the world—the usual theme of those who have done nothing to merit its fidelity; and, as Sir Willmott Burrell looked upon him, he marvelled at the change that but a few weeks had wrought in his appearance; his mind seemed so enfeebled, that he deemed it even more altered than his body. He was, moreover, much astonished to find that he dwelt so little upon his recent and most heavy loss; for the attachment between Sir Robert Cecil and his wife had been remarkable at a time when domestic happiness was even the court fashion. But here Burrell was at fault; he knew nothing of the position in which Sir Robert at present stood with regard to Hugh Dalton, and was therefore ignorant of the positive peril by which he was encompassed: a peril so great and so immediate, as to render him, in a degree, insensible to the affliction under which he had so recently and so painfully laboured. Often, in his dreary night watches, when sleep set no seal upon his aching lids, or when they closed for a little over the strained and worn eyeballs, and then opened in terror at frightful images that haunted his fevered fancy—often, at such timeshad he endeavoured to offer up a thanksgiving, that she was gone from the wrath, the avenging horrors—the approach of which he dreaded a thousand times more than death.
The application that had been made to the Protector for Dalton's pardon, had been treated as he expected; and his only chance of accomplishing the object of the Buccaneer, now rested on the possibility of his gaining over certain persons of the court, to exert their influence with Cromwell in the outlaw's behalf. Sir Robert's personal interest did not extend far, but the influence of his gold did. The Protector could free himself from outward sinners, but he could not rid himself of the more smooth, and consequently more dangerous, villains, generated by the peculiar forms and habits of the times. To some of these, Sir Robert had secretly offered temptation in every way: the stake was large, the danger certain; for he well knew the inflexibility of Dalton's character, and that he would not fail to perform that upon which he had resolved. It had occurred to him, more than once, to consult Burrell on the subject; but a dread of his future son-in-law, for which he could not account, had hitherto prevented his naming to him the Buccaneer's desire to be a legalised commander. His anxiety to carry his point now, however, overcame his timidity, and he resolved to speak to him on the matter, at the very time the knight had decided on addressing the baronet—under equal weighty circumstances—on the subject of his marriage. Unfortunately for Sir Robert Cecil, he was the first to unfold his plan; and thus gave the wily Burrell another and a firmer hold than he had yet possessed. After repinings over his health, and murmurs against mankind, had somewhat lessened that secret and consuming misery that enveloped him as with a winding sheet, he inquired if Burrell had lately encountered a man they must both remember,—Hugh Dalton,—a bold, but reckless fellow, who had played cavalier, buccaneer, and a thousand other characters in turn—all characters, in fact, save that of a coward. Burrell replied in the negative; but confessed he knew the man had been upon the coast; cunningly adding, that since his affections had been so entirely fixed upon Constantia, he had given up every connection, every idea, that might hereafter draw him from a home where all blessings would be united.
Sir Robert was never insensible to his daughter's praise,but it did not prevent his continuing the subject. He stated that Dalton was a clever, experienced seaman;—that his knowledge of foreign seas and foreign affairs in general might be made most useful to government, if government would avail itself of such advantages;—that the Buccaneer was a bitter thorn in the side of the Protector, as he had been known to convey malcontents to England, as well as to ship them off;—that his Fire-fly might be termed a meteor of the waters, now here, now there, shining like a blazing star—stealing like a moon-beam—in the Texel, in the Thames, in the Baltic, or the Black Sea—as occasion required; everywhere when mischief was doing, nowhere when it was to be remedied:—that all this evil might be avoided by giving Dalton a pardon and the command of a Commonwealth ship; that he would accept, indeed he (Sir Robert) was sure that he desired, such an employment, and that it would be a grievous thing for the state if an arrangement could not be made to purchase his future services and his good conduct at so small a price.
Burrell was astonished, but saw clearly enough that there must be some covert motive for such deep and unaccountable anxiety: he dexterously set forth the various arguments that might be urged by government against a man of Dalton's character; the ill example, the dangerous precedent of one so circumstanced taking his place amongst honourable men, and so forth; mooting a variety of points, in order that he might judge of Sir Robert's object by his manner of answering objections.
The baronet was caught in the toils; he betrayed so much anxiety, so much panting eagerness in the Buccaneer's behalf, as to satisfy Burrell that hardly any thing less than a cause of life and death could create such intense earnestness on such a subject in a person who seemed balancing between this world and the next. Various surmises and conjectures, which he had heard in former times, strengthened the opinion. Having assured himself upon this point, he ventured upon one of those daring falsehoods that had hitherto been the principal means of his success: he assured the baronet, in the most solemn manner, that he had a secret way, one which he could not explain, but it was a species of promise for service performed, of winning from Cromwell the desired pardon and appointment;—thathe had avoided asking such a favour until something particular occurred, something of deep value and importance;—that he was willing to sacrifice his own prospects to oblige his friend; and the only favour he asked in return was one that, though above all price in his estimation, could be easily bestowed by Sir Robert Cecil—the immediate gift of his daughter's hand. He did not wish her feelings to be wounded by a public ceremony so shortly after the loss they had all sustained; nay, he would prefer receiving her from her father in the ruined but beautiful little chapel that belonged to the house: all he requested, all he entreated, was that the marriage should be speedy. Then, with the power of one deeply skilled in deceitfulness, he wound up the whole by tender allusions to the weakness, the precariousness of Sir Robert's health, and the despair he might experience on his death-bed, if he expired with the knowledge that his beloved, and only child, had no earthly protector.
Sir Robert remembered his promise to his wife, that he would never urge his daughter's marriage with Burrell; and although he avoided noticing this as an apology to the knight, yet he firmly stated his dislike to press Constantia on the subject; and earnestly inquired if there were no other way by which he could show his gratitude than by interfering in the matter, at all events, until the year of mourning for Lady Cecil had expired.
Burrell feigned astonishment at this reply: the hand of Mistress Cecil, he said, had long been betrothed to him; he confessed that he did not think Sir Robert would for a moment have hesitated to comply with his most reasonable request: he urged various motives for hastening the union, and finally entreated the baronet's permission to address his daughter herself on the subject. To this Sir Robert offered no opposition; he was ignorant of the strength of Constantia's feelings with regard to Burrell. She had been affianced to him in her early girlhood, when much too young to have an opinion on the matter; and as the union had never been pressed upon her, she had not been called upon to state any objections to it. Her poor mother had seen, with the clearness of a mother's love, that the marriage would never tend to her child's happiness: she had observed both charactersnarrowly, and was perfectly convinced of Burrell's worthlessness. She couldnot impress this conviction on Sir Robert's mind; but in her last moments she extorted from him the promise that he would never urge the union. This was, as we have seen, all she could obtain; and Sir Robert was content to "keep the word of promise to the ear," without reference to the sense.
Burrell seemed perfectly satisfied with the permission he had obtained, and left Sir Robert in the library, expressing his determination to speak to Mistress Cecil on the subject that evening.
"And he will make her a very affectionate husband," mused Sir Robert, after his departure: "how can he do otherwise? But I do not interfere in it; I know she has no other attachment; and my Constantia's sense of duty will oblige her to love her husband. Oh, yes, she will be happy—happy—happy"—he said, as if the repetition of the word could give birth to the feeling.
It was the clear and balmy twilight; the sun had left the west in glory, and the delicious breeze of evening was mingling among the young leaves of the shrubs and trees; all appeared in contentment and at peace, when the Lady Frances Cromwell and Constance sat together upon a mossy bank, but a few yards distant from the house, yet so overshadowed by venerable trees, that not a turret nor a vestige of the building was to be seen. The spot they had chosen for their resting-place was known as "the Fairy Ring:" it was a circular mound, girdled by evergreens, which, in their turn, were belted by forest-trees, that spread in an opposite direction to the house, into what was called the Ash Copse. The dark green of our winter shrub, the spotted laurustinus, was relieved by the golden tassels of the laburnum, just opening into bloom; the hawthorn contended for beauty and perfume with the delicate blossoms of the purple lilac; while its modest sister, the white, sent forth her pale green leaves, and delicate buds, over a bed of double violets:—
"Where all the earth beneath—the heaven above,Teem'd with the earliest spring of joyous youth,Sunshine, and flowers, and vague, and virgin love."
"Where all the earth beneath—the heaven above,Teem'd with the earliest spring of joyous youth,Sunshine, and flowers, and vague, and virgin love."
"Where all the earth beneath—the heaven above,Teem'd with the earliest spring of joyous youth,Sunshine, and flowers, and vague, and virgin love."
The quiet and serenity of the evening communicated its tone and character to the buoyant mind of Lady Frances Cromwell.
"I am sober as the twilight, Constance, because I havebeen thinking of sober matters. Alas! alas! we have all our twilights.—Youth's twilight is soft and perfumed as that which hovers over us,—tranquil—but it is the tranquillity of hope. The twilight of middle life is, methinks, nearly allied to that of an autumn evening,—doubts hover and come upon us as the falling leaves; the wind whistles like the wailing of departing days; there is but little tranquillity then, because the hope that is left is enough to agitate by its vain dreams, but not to soothe. What shall I say of the twilight of age? I do not like to think of it—its tranquillity appears to me so closely linked with despair."
"No, Frances, not despair: it is only the moody and abstracted silence of guilt that claims such awful kindred. I think age more beautiful—more hope-giving, than youth; though its beauty is far different, and its hope sublime, instead of joyous. Ask the most prosperous—the most fortunate man in existence—one on whom the eyes of the whole world are turned in admiration and its attendant, envy—ask such a one if he would live over his life again, and he will answer, 'No!'"
"This speaks badly for the happiness of life," said Lady Frances.
"I do not think it does," replied Constantia; "every evil has either a remedy or an anodyne: but, unfortunately, we are more prone to dwell upon evils than upon blessings—yet this should make us less satisfied with earth, as we draw nearer heaven."
"Constance, are you a philosopher?"
"No; for I am a woman! and what is called philosophy is sadly at war with both our mental and our bodily endowments. I have heard there are lands in which certain persons think they confer honour upon our sex, by mixing us more up with the bustle and turmoil of the world—methinks they would strangely pervert our natures."
"I agree with you, Constance: let men have all the public, and women all the private business of life to manage, and my word on 't, the balance of power is with us. Our tongues have enough to do at home, without chattering in high places; and as to our arms! mine could ill wield battle-axe or broadsword. I suppose these people of whom you speak would invent a new sex to look after domestic matters, while weassist in the broil and the battle! We shall lose our influence, depend on 't, the moment we are taken out of our sphere—we shall lose caste as women, and be treated with contempt as men. WhatIlike, Constance, is to have my own dear little way, by my own pretty little manœuvres—behind the bush—thrust another into the breach, and then, if evil arise, the man gets the blame, while I retreat in safety."
"Then the Lady Frances would take one of the other sex as a shield?"
"Yes, Constance; they would do as well to be shot at as ourselves, you know."
"Ah, Frances, you are no true woman, unless, if there were real danger, you would thrust yourself between it and the life a thousand times more precious than your own. Suppose, for instance, that sudden danger menaced the life of——"
"Hush, dear Constantia; the idea of such an event is enough. It is easier to sacrifice life when the sacrifice is demanded by affection, than to resign one selfish indulgence."
"Ah! because, in the first case, we gratify ourselves; in the second, others."
"You are a mental chemist, Constance: but here comes the maid called Barbara, with hoods and cardinals, signifying that the dew is falling, though we feel it not."
"I sought you, mistress," said Barbara, "all over the house, for Sir Willmott Burrell advised me that he wished to speak with you in the oak parlour, if it so please you, or in the library; my honoured master was present."
"Did my father too want me?"
"No, madam; he said he would go to his chamber, for a little, before the evening meal."
The young ladies, followed by Barbara, entered the house, and, as Frances Cromwell pressed Constantia's hand, she felt it clammy and chilling cold: she would have spoken, but, while arranging the necessary words, her friend, with a more than usually dignified deportment, entered the parlour. It was a dark, dim room, the frettings and ornaments of black carved oak.
"Tell Sir Willmott Burrell I await him here," she said to Barbara, while passing the threshold.
Frances Cromwell, over whose mind a feeling of terror was imperceptibly stealing, would have remained, but Constance intimated that she would receive Burrell alone.