"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,—

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 pretty fellow, 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. He certainly is a most charming person; and if one, 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 which can 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.

"May I go, 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—dear Walter—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 could wish 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 outcast Walter! 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; Sir Willmott Burrell 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 to be 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 I deserved the 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 to descend; 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 with us, 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."