Having consigned the Lady Frances Cromwell to her perfumed couch, and the companionship of Waller's sweet and sonorous strains, we leave her to determine whether the high and mighty Lady Dorothea Sidney, the Poet's Saccharissa, or the gentle Lady Sophia Murray, the beauteous Amoret of his idolatry, were most worthy the affection he so generously bestowed on both. Waller, the most specious flatterer of flattering courts—the early worshipper of Charles the First—the pusillanimous betrayer of his friends—the adulator of Cromwell—the wit and the jester of the second Charles—the devotional whiner of the bigot James—had not, however, sufficient power to keep the lady from her slumbers long. She was soon in the refreshing sleep, known only to the light-hearted.

Constance Cecil was more wakeful. After Barbara's dismissal from the presence of Lady Frances, she crept with slow and stealthy space to the chamber of her dear mistress, and softly turning the bolt, displaced the curtains of silver damask with so light a touch, that her entrance was unnoticed. The girl perceived at once that her lady was not asleep. She had evidently been reading, for the holy volume was still open, and one hand rested amid its leaves: but even Barbara was astonished when she saw that her attention was spell-bound to the mysterious locket she held in the other hand. The excellent servant, with that true honesty of mind which no education can teach, knowing that her lady had not heard her enter, and feeling, rather than reasoning upon, the indelicacy of prying into what she believed was secret, purposely let fall a chalice, which effectually roused Constance, who, placing the trinket under the pillow, called upon her attendant for her night drink, and then pointed out a particular psalm she wished her to read aloud. It was a holy and a beautiful sight in that quiet chamber: the young and high born maiden, her head resting on pillows of the finest cambric; her arms crossed meekly on her bosom, whose gentle breathings moved, without disturbing the folds of her night-tire; her eyes elevated; her lips sufficiently apart to show the small, pearly teeth, glittering in whiteness within their coral nest;—then, as promises of hope and happiness beyond the control of mortality, found voice from Barbara's mouth, a tear would steal down her cheek, unbidden and unnoticed, but not unregistered by that God who knows our griefs, and whose balm is ever for the heavy at heart.

Barbara sat on a writing stool by the bed-side, supporting the Bible on her knees, while the beams of a golden lamp, placed on a lofty tripod near the foot of the bed, fell directly on the book: the light, however, was not sufficiently powerful to illume the farthermore parts of the chamber, whose walls were hung with figured tapestry, the gloom of which contrasted strongly with the bright blue and silver that canopied Constantia's bed.

The next chamber was occupied by her father: it was lofty, but not spacious. The inside of the door was guarded by many bolts; and at the moment his daughter was seeking commune with, and counsel from, the Almighty, he was employed in examining and securing them with evident anxiety. First one, and then another, was pushed to its rest; then he turned the key in the lock—once, twice. Having shaken, or rather attempted to shake, the massive door, to determine if it were really secure, Sir Robert Cecil proceeded to inspect the window fastenings; and being convinced they were in their places, he turned to the table where the light burnt brightly, examined a brace of pistols, which he placed under his pillow, and then, took down a huge heavy sword from a shelf where it lay concealed, pulled it forth from its scabbard, and applied his thumb along the edge, to be satisfied of its sharpness. Having laid the weapon by his bed-side, he commenced, unaided, to undress. This did not occupy him long, though he stopped occasionally, his eye glancing round the apartment, his ear bent, as if some unhallowed noise had struck upon it suddenly. As he moved to his lonely couch, he passed before an immense glass, in a heavy oaken frame: his own reflection met his eye; he started as if a spectre had crossed his path—his cheek blanched—his knees smote one against the other—his respiration was impeded. At last, waving his hand, as if to dispel the phantom his imagination had conjured up, he sprang into the bed, and buried his head under its pillows.

At the end of the corridor which led to the sleeping-chambers, was the apartment appropriated to Burrell of Burrell, whenever he was a guest at Cecil Place; his visits, however, were not so frequent, or of such long duration, as might have been expected in the lover of Lady Constance Cecil. He was fast approaching the meridian of life, and his youth had been spent chiefly at court:—at both courts, in fact, for he had been a partisan of the unhappy Charles, and afterwards, at heart, as complete a regicide as any who took a more active part in the terrible transactions of the times. He joined the army of the Parliament, nevertheless, but for a short time, pleading, as an excuse, the necessity there was for remaining amongst his own tenants and thralls to keep them in subjection. Sir Willmott Burrell may well be designated a man of two characters—one for public, one for private life. His manners to his superiors, and generally to his equals, were bland and insinuating; to his inferiors he was overbearing, haughty, and severe, except when he had some particular point to carry, and then he could cringe to and fawn upon the vilest. He had a peculiar method of entering into men's hearts, and worming from each whatever best suited his purpose; but the principle upon which he invariably acted, was, to extract the honey from the rose, and then scatter its leaves to the whirlwind and the blast. Devoid of every thing like moral or religious feeling, he used Puritanism as a cloak for selfishness and sin; and though he had often cursed his good character when it stood in the way of his pleasures, yet it was too needful to be cast off as a worthless garment. A plotting mind united to a graceful exterior, is as dangerous to the interests of society as a secret mine to a besieged city, inasmuch as it is impossible to calculate upon the evils that may suddenly arise either from the one or the other.

Sir Willmott Burrell, of Burrell, had managed to make himself acquainted with many of Sir Robert Cecil's secrets; and even those he had not heard, he guessed at, with that naturally acute knowledge which is rarely in the wrong. He was too great a sensualist to be indifferent to the beauty of Constance, which, like all sensualists, he considered the sole excellence of woman; but he arraigned the wisdom of Nature in endowing aught so fair with mind, or enriching it with soul; and the dignity and purity of his destined bride, instead of making him proud, made him angry and abashed.

Constance heard of Burrell's grace, of Burrell's wit, and sometimes—though even amongst ladies it was a disputed point—of his beauty, without ever being able to discover any thing approaching to these qualities in her future husband; and certainly he never appeared to so little advantage as when in her presence: her eye kept him under a subjection, the force of which he was ashamed to acknowledge; and although there could be no question that his chief desire for the approaching alliance proceeded from a cherished affection for the broad acres and dark woods of the heiress of Cecil, yet he bitterly regretted that the only feeling the lady manifested towards him was one of decided coldness—he almost feared of contempt. The day after her mother's funeral, she had refused to see him, although he knew that she had been abroad with Lady Frances in the gardens of the Place; and though Sir Robert urged indisposition as the cause, yet his pride was deeply mortified. A weighty communication from France, where he had been a resident for some months, as an attachÉ to the English embassy, appeared to have increased the discontent of his already ruffled temper. He retired early to his chamber, and his moody and disturbed countenance looked angered and mysterious by the light of an untrimmed lamp, as he inspected various documents and papers that lay scattered before him on a table of carved oak, inlaid with silver. One letter, which he read and re-read with much attention, seemed to excite him more than all the rest: he turned it over and over—examined the seal—laid it down—took it up—put it aside again—folded his arms over his chest, and, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, appeared for a time absorbed in the remembrance of past events. Finally, he committed the letter to the flames, and then paced up and down the room with unequal steps, his head bent forward, and his arms folded, as before, over his bosom. He was evidently ill at ease with himself, and there gleamed "a lurking devil in his eye," that augured peril to some one, and bespoke a man who was neither "infirm of purpose," nor slow in the execution of whatever mischief was designed. He did not retire to his bed until the lamp gave token that its oil was expended, when, flinging himself on the coverlet without removing any portion of his dress, he sought rest.

Nor were Sir Willmott's slumbers of long duration; before the sun had risen, he was up and a-foot. Having let himself down from his window and out at the postern-gate, he took the path that led in the direction of Gull's Nest Crag.

The night had been wild and stormy; the freshness and freedom of the air now compensated for the turmoil that had passed; but the ocean's wrathfulness was still unappeased, and Burrell listened to its roarings while it lashed the beach with its receding waves, like a war-horse pawing and foaming when the battle din has sunk into the silence that succeeds the shout of victory, as if eager again to meet the shock of death.

Suddenly he struck out of the usual track, across a portion of waste land, the utmost verge of which skirted the toppling cliffs; and making for himself a way through tangled fern, long grass, and prickly furze, he strode on in a more direct line towards the dwelling of Robin Hays, pursuing his course, heedless of the petty annoyances he encountered, although his feet were frequently entangled among the stunts and stubs that opposed his progress, with the air of one whose mind was evidently bent on the fulfilment of some hazardous but important purpose. It was so early that not a shepherd had unpenned his fold, nor a girl gone forth to the milking: such cattle as remained at liberty during the night, still slumbered on the sward; and the wily fox roamed with less caution than was his wont, under the knowledge that no enemy was by to watch his progress.

"I may reach Gull's Nest, and return," thought Burrell, "and that before any in the house are astir." But, at the moment, a tall, lank figure, moving with measured pace, yet nevertheless approaching rapidly, from the very point towards which his steps were bent, arrested his attention; and as it came nearer and nearer, he was much disconcerted at the discovery that no other than the Reverend Jonas Fleetword, from whom he anticipated a sharp rebuke for his absence from Lady Cecil's funeral, was about to cross his path. He would have gladly hailed the approach of Birnam wood, so it could have settled down between him and the reverend Jonas; but as no place of refuge was at hand, he bethought himself of the shield of patience, drew his cloak as closely as if he were about to encounter a fierce north wind, and finally returned with much courtesy the salutation of the preacher, whose apt and ready eloquence had obtained for him the significant appellation of Fleetword. The locks of the divine, according to the approved fashion, had been cropped closely round his head, and his thin sharp visage looked of most vinegar-like tinge and character, peering, as it now did, from beneath a steeple-crowned hat of formal cut. He wore a black cloth cloak and doublet, his Flemish breeches and hose were of the same sombre hue, and his square-toed shoes were surmounted by large crape roses. Contrary, as it would seem, to the custom of a disciple of the peace-loving Saviour, he also wore a basket-handled sword, girded round his loins by a broad strap of black leather. In truth, face, figure, and all included, he was as harsh and ill-favoured a person as could have been encountered even at that day,—one whose lips would have seemed to taint the blessing to which he might have given utterance; and graceless as Burrell undoubtedly was, there was excuse for the impatience he felt at such an unlucky rencontre.

"It augurs well to see one whom the Lord hath blessed with all the creature-comforts of life, thus early aroused from sluggish sloth, and abroad, doubtless, on business of the faithful-minded?"

Burrell made the best reply he could, without confirming or denying the inference drawn from his early rising.

"Why tarried ye from the gathering of God's people on account of the Lady Cecil's funeral? I pray that the fleshpots of Egypt may not lure ye to perdition; or fine gold from Ophir, or the vain glories of sinful men, pilot ye unto destruction!"

"It was business connected with the state—commands from his Highness's own lips, that detained me."

"All praise to the Providence that has given his chosen people into such keeping as the Lord Oliver's! Truly may he be likened to the chariots and horsemen of Israel—to the blessed Zerubbabel, who restored the true worship, which the Jews in their blindness had cast from them; to Joshua, whom the Lord appointed as a scourge to the wicked Canaanites; to Moses, who gave both spiritual help and carnal food to those that needed; to Gideon; to Elijah; to David; to Hezekiah; to the most wise Solomon; to all the holy of the earth!" and, exhausted by the rapidity with which he had uttered the names of the kings and prophets of old, the worthy Jonas made a full stop; not with any intention of concluding his harangue, but to take breath for its continuation. As time, however, was exceedingly precious to Burrell, he endeavoured to give such a turn to the conversation, as would enable him to escape from the preacher's companionship; and therefore expressed a very deep regret that he had not been edified by the discourse which Mr. Fleetword so ably delivered, and inquired when and where it was likely he would next give his holy lessons, so that he might be comforted by the oil and honey that flowed from his lips.

"Thou sayest truly," replied the energetic preacher; "truly sayest thou: oil and honey for the faithful, the holy, the just, in our New Jerusalem! But what, what for the unbelievers?—what for the wise in their own conceit?—what for the dwellers in Kedar? Even this—to them, my words signify bitterness, a scourge, a pestilence, an uprooting, and a scattering by the four winds of heaven! on them shall the seventh phial be poured out; for verily the Lord is weary of showing mercy to the backsliders from the congregation: they shall all perish—their limbs shall be broken asunder—yea, I will smite the uncircumcised Philistines—yea, I will smite——"

"Even as did Sampson of old," interrupted Burrell—"even as Sampson of old smote them—with the jawbone of an ass."

"Even so," replied Jonas, who, with all his bitterness, was nothing worse than a simple-minded enthusiast, and never imagined that Sir Willmott's words could convey aught than approbation of his zeal, and the right spirit that dwelt within him;—"even so; and it rejoiceth me to find thee apt and prompt in scriptural passages. Verily, I am glad of thy company; and as thou regrettest that the world's business prevented thy attendance on the lamented dead, I care not if I bestow this my present leisure unto thy edification, and repeat, nay, even enlarge upon, the words I then delivered; which exercise will be finished before mid-day—it is right that we labour unceasingly in the vineyard." So saying he drew from his bosom a clasped Bible, and, to Burrell's dismay, actually gave out the text, before he could resolve upon any plan to rid himself of the intruder, whom he heartily wished at Tophet, if not farther.

"My worthy friend, I would postpone the instruction you would give until a more convenient season; I have urgent business to attend, and must hasten its performance."

"Then will I gird up my loins, and accompany thee unto the very threshold of the house where thou wouldst enter; and as we walk, I can still convey the precious ointment of grace unto thy soul."

"The merciless old scoundrel!" muttered Burrell between his teeth; then adding aloud, "Not so; your words are too costly to be given unto the winds; and I cannot tarry so as to drink in the full draught of satisfaction; let be, I pray you, and come down to Cecil Place to-night, or on the morrow, and then many can worship with thee."

Fleetword paused, still holding the volume in his hand:—"Besides," continued Burrell, "what I have to accomplish is the Lord's work."

"The Lord's work—the Lord's work!" repeated Fleetword,—"then go forth; why didst thou not confirm me that before? and I would have hastened, not retarded thee; for, of a verity, my outward man warreth with the inward, and these supporters of the flesh," pointing with his forefinger to the thin and meagre limbs that scarcely merited the compliment, "grow weary in well doing."

Burrell needed not a second hint to hasten, but proceeded on his way, after receiving Fleetword's benediction with all due humility.

The preacher remained some time on the spot, and his thin upright figure, seen from a distance, its outline so strongly marked against the cold grey morning sky, had a singular effect. Burrell had plunged into a dell or hollow, so that he was no longer visible.

The bleak and unclothed landscape, from which the mist was slowly rolling; the few giant trees, that dwelling by the sea-side, and grown wise by experience, ventured not to put forth their leaves till the sun had chased the north wind to his caves; but, above all, the booming of the untranquillised ocean, might have chilled a heart within the warmest bosom;

and looked as if he deemed the rolling clouds his listeners. It was by no means unusual for the preachers in those days to exercise their voices over the hills and heaths of their native land: valuing, as they did, power and strength far more than melody and grace, they endeavoured to acquire them by every possible means—nor were they without hope that, (to use their own language,) "the Almighty might bless the seed thus sown, seeing that it was hard to know who might not be within hearing of the precious word."

Burrell soon gained the sea-shore, though he was still a considerable distance from Gull's Nest Crag. On arriving at a point that commanded an unbroken prospect of the far-spread sea, he shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked long and earnestly along the waste of waters. Apparently the scrutiny was unsuccessful, for he drew a telescope from beneath his cloak and gazed through it for some minutes, directing it towards several points. At length, with an impatience of manner in which, when with his inferiors or alone, he frequently indulged, he descended the cliff and pursued his way along the beach. As he drew near the little public-house, his ears were greeted by the sound of one of Waller's most popular songs, warbled in a voice so sweet, so pipe-like, that he paused, and looked round to ascertain from whence it proceeded. It ceased. Not even his keen eye could rest on aught resembling human form. He hallooed, but received no answer: yet had he not continued three steps on his way when the song was renewed, as he thought, directly over his head; notwithstanding the roaring of the waves, he even heard the words distinctly—

Again he shouted, and a loud and elfin laugh, that danced with the echoes from crag to crag and billow to billow, was sent forth in reply.

"Mermaid—Merman—or Demon! where be ye!" cried Burrell, loudly.

"Even here, master mine," answered Robin Hays, shaking his large head, over a midway and partly detached portion of the cliff.

"Come down, do, you will-o'-the-wisp! In Heaven's name what takes you into such breakneck places?"

"The same matter that brings you here, sir," replied Robin, skipping and crawling alternately, suiting his motions to the inequality of the place: "the very same matter that brings you here—a woman."

"How know you that, master prate-a-pace? At all events, you have no woman there."

"Why, master, seeing you were born under the planet Venus, your whole trouble must be of her making; and, as to there being no woman up here, that matters nothing, for woman's fancy mounts higher than e'er a cliff in England; and to gain their favours we must humour their fancy. A certain damsel that I know, had a curiosity to see a peewit's eggs; so I thought I'd find her some, and here they are." From a pouch made of untanned leather, which hung in front like an apron, he took two small eggs of a greenish hue, spotted with black.

"What a fool you are," exclaimed Burrell, "to risk your neck for such trumpery! It would be long ere you would risk it for your master."

"I have known many hazard theirs for a less cause—and, to say the truth, there's a deal to be learned from the wild sea-birds," replied Robin, as if he had not heard the latter portion of the sentence; "I have a regard for the creeturs, which are like kings in the air. Many an hour have I sat up yonder, listening to the noises of earth and the noises of heaven, while the shrill note of the gull, the chatter of the guillemot, the heron's bitter scream, the hoarse croaking of the cormorant, have been all around me: and, indeed, the birds know me well enough. There's a pair of old gulls——""Robin! I came not here to talk of cormorants and gulls; I want to ask you a question, and I expect an honest answer."

Robin made the nearest approach to a bow he was ever guilty of.

"Honesty, Robin, is a most valuable quality."

"So it is, sir—and, like all valuables, ought to fetch a good price."

"You should be a disciple of Manasseh Ben Israel! Why, you have hardly left my service two days, and then I had a right to your honesty. You are as bad as a Jew."

"If so, I have surely a right to extort money from a Christian."

"A truce to your jests, you ill-favoured loon: I want no man's labour for nothing—there are some broad pieces to stop your mouth; and now, when saw you Hugh Dalton?"

"Not since I had the honour to wait upon you, sir, to London."

"But he is off the coast."

"Under favour, sir, that accounts for my not seeing him on it."

"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Burrell fiercely; "no such mummery with me, or I'll soon put you upon salt-water rations. Dalton, I say, is off the coast; I would speak with him, I must speak with him; and as I have good reason to know you telegraph each other, manage so that he meet me under the cavern:—do you understand, you sprat-spawn? Under the cavern; to-morrow night, at eleven; we can serve each other." Burrell, when he had retraced his steps about five yards, turned round and added, "You owe me amends for your base desertion the night before last, which I have not forgotten."

Robin, cap in hand, watched his receding footsteps with an underlook; and then, attended by his faithful Crisp, repaired to the cottage, where a cannikin of porridge, seasoned by the hand of his mother with good spicery, and more than half composed of double-dub, awaited his arrival.