"My blood seems to curdle in my veins," murmured Constance, as she rubbed the palm of one hand against the back of the other; "my very blood seems to curdle in my veins, and a shadow, as of the vampire's wing, is over me. But why is this? Is God less present with me here than beneath the heavenly atmosphere I have just now breathed?" And then she uttered a few words of prayer, so earnestly, that Burrell had entered the room before she was aware of his presence.

"You are not well," he observed, seating himself in a chair beside that into which she had sunk: "I hope I do not disturb you unpleasantly. You keep watch too anxiously by your father's couch."

"I am better now," she replied; "but that of which you speak, my thought of the living and the dead, although it may have somewhat touched my health, has been my happiest duty."

"Perhaps you would rather hear what I have to say to-morrow," he observed, a momentary feeling of sympathy forcing itself upon his mind, as he noticed her white lip, and still whiter cheek.

"I pray you, sir," she replied proudly, "to proceed: I am as ready now as I can be on the morrow to listen to aught it may be your pleasure to advance. Your observations, if it please you, now."

"I have no 'observations' to offer, Mistress Cecil,—may I say Constance? for so I used to call you in the early days of our betrothment,—though I have much to request. I confess, I have felt hurt, and aggrieved, at the small show of courtesy you have vouchsafed me; but, as I believe that sorrow, and an habitual reserve, have wrought this manner, I do not blame, though I regret it deeply. The time, I hope, fair lady, is not far distant when you will ratify my claim to your hand; then the devotedness of my future life,—the entireness of my attachment,—the depth of my love——"

"Sir Willmott Burrell," interrupted Constantia, "the grass upon my mother's grave is not yet green; and would you talk of love?"

For a moment the knight was silent.

"Reasons—reasons that I will explain hereafter, make me exceedingly desire that the contract should be immediately fulfilled. Nay, lady, do not start, and shudder," he continued, taking her hand, that hung listlessly, and without motion, within his grasp; "even should you not love as I do, affection will make you all mine own, within a little time."

"Believe it not, Sir Willmott," said Constantia, at length disengaging her hand; "I can never love you."

Men have been accustomed, in all ages, to hear simple truths, of such a description, declared in so simple a manner. Ladies rant, and protest that they abhor and abominate,—or they weep, and shriek, and call the gentleman odious, or horrid, or some such gentle name; which the said gentleman perfectly understands to mean—any thing he pleases; but Constantia's perfect truth, the plain earnestness of that brief sentence, carried conviction with it; and the handsome Burrell paced three or four times the length of the oak parlour, before he could sufficiently bring his mortified feelings under necessary subjection: he then resumed his seat.

"I think otherwise; a woman can but require devoted affection, constant watchfulness, and tender solicitude. All, all this will be yours. Besides, a daughter of the house of Cecil would not break faith. I could command your hand—I only solicit it."

"Sir Willmott, you well know, that when the unhappy contract was entered into, I was of tender age; too young, indeed, to comprehend its nature. Ought you in honour to urge it on me, when I frankly tell you by word of mouth, what my demeanour must have informed you long, long since, that—I can never love you?"

"You have said it once, lady; and the sentence cannot be pleasant to the ears of your affianced husband. The turmoils of the times, and the service I so largely owed to the Protector, have called me much from home; and though my heart lingered here, I was forced away by duty to the state: surely you would not love me less because it was rigidly performed?"

"You would not wish me your wife," said Constance, in a faltering tone, resolving to make trial of Sir Willmott's generosity, while her strength seemed to rise with her honest purpose,—"you would not wish me your wife; for not only do I not love you, but—I love—another."

Now, Sir Willmott Burrell did not start from his chair, nor did he pace up and down the polished floor,—he fixed his eyes upon Constantia, as if he would have read within her soul who she loved; but the expression gradually changed, from a deep and perilous curiosity, to one of firm resolve, until, drawing his breath between his set teeth, he said, slowly and deliberately, but in a restrained tone, as if the voice came from the fiend within him,—

"I am sorry for it, Constantia Cecil; for it cannot prevent your being mine—mine—and, by the God that hears me, mine only, and for ever!"

Constantia rose slowly from her seat, and said, in a firm voice, "I did not come here to suffer insult, sir."

She walked across the room with so dignified a step, that she had nearly reached the door, before Burrell acquired sufficient courage to stay her departure. He laid his hand on her arm as she touched the lock, but she shook it off as coolly, yet as firmly, as the apostle threw from him the viper into the flames at Melita. Burrell, however, had too much at stake tamely to relinquish his purpose. He spoke in a constrained voice, and said,—

"I entreat you to remain; if it be not for your own good, it will be for your father's that you do so."

The mention of her father's name at once commanded her attention. She desired Burrell to speak on; without, however, resuming her seat. He paused for so considerable a time that she at length observed,—

"I wait, Sir Willmott, and will wait patiently, if it be necessary: but methinks your silence now is as uncourteous as your speech a brief while since."

"It is because I feel for you, Mistress Cecil,—feel for you acutely, that I thus hesitate. I would spare you the pain I know my words must inflict; and therefore, once more, calmly, but energetically, implore you to consent to the immediate fulfilment of the contract existing between us."

"This is trifling, sir. I desire that you suffer me to pass forth. I might have known you had nothing to say that concerned my father; and, as to myself, if you could be mean enough, under such circumstances, to accept my hand, I cannot be base enough to give it."

"A fine sentence!" exclaimed Burrell, sneeringly. "I make bold to tell you, lady, I care not so much as you may imagine for your affections, which I know you have sufficient principle to recall, and bestow upon the possessor of that fair hand, whoever he may be. Nay, look not so wrathful, for I know that which would make your proud look quail, and the heiress of Cecil rejoice that she could yet become the wife of Sir Willmott Burrell!"

Constantia trembled. She had never before listened to such language; and she felt there must be something appalling in the motive that could give it utterance. Although her hand rested on the massive lock of the door, she had not power to turn the handle. If looks could wither, the Master of Burrell would have shrunk before her gaze; yet he bore her indignant frown with more audacity than he could have believed he possessed.

"If your communication concerns my father, speak, sir; if not,"—she paused, and he took up the sentence—

"If not, Constantia casts me off for ever! Yet," he added, in a tone of insulting pity, "I would spare your feelings, for you have been a most affectionate child."

"Sir," interrupted Constance, "I hope I am too true a daughter to hear those taunts with patience: your insinuations I despise, and I defy you to utter an accusation against him that could summon a tint of crimson to my cheek!"

"But I could speak that which would make the red cheek pale, lady—what think you of—of—of MURDER?"

Constantia's eye gleamed for a moment, like a meteor, and then it became fixed and faded; her form assumed the rigidity of marble, and at each respiration her lips fell more and more apart. The villain became alarmed, and, taking her hand, would have led her to a seat; but his touch recalled her to herself: she darted from him to the centre of the room, and there, her arm extended, her fine head thrown back, every feature, as it were, bursting with indignation, she looked like a youthful priestess denouncing vengeance on a sinful world.

"If I could curse," she said, "you should feel it heavily; but the evil within you will do its own work, and my soul be saved from sin. Away! away! And you thought to fright me with that horrid sound! My dear, dear father!"

"I declare before Heaven," interrupted Burrell, "it is to save him I speak! The damning proofs of his guilt are within my hold. If you perform the contract, neither tortures nor death shall wring them from me; if you do not—mark me—I will be revenged!"

"Silly, wicked that I was," exclaimed Constance, "not to command you before him instantly, that the desperate lie might be sent back into your throat, and choke you with its venom! Come with me to my father!—Ah, foul coward! you shrink, but you shall not escape!—To my father instantly!"

Burrell would have restrained her, but it was impossible. Finding that he did not move, she was rushing past him, when he arrested her progress for an instant, saying,—

"Since you will thus dare the destruction of your only parent, it is fitting you know of whose murder he is accused." He drew nearer to her, so near that she felt his hateful breath upon her cheek, as, like the serpent in the garden of Eden, he distilled the deadly poison into her ear. A slight convulsion, succeeded by an awful paleness, passed over her countenance; but, rallying, she darted on him another look of defiance and scorn, and flew to her father's chamber.

The old man had been sleeping, but awoke as she entered, and probably refreshed by the short repose he had enjoyed, stretched forward his arms to his daughter with an expression of confiding fondness, which, in the then state of Constantia's feelings, but added to the agony she endured. She could not resist the mute appeal; falling on her knees, she buried her face amid the drapery of his robe. In this posture she continued for a few minutes: her lips uttered no word, but her bosom heaved as if in mortal struggle, and her hard breathings were almost groans. At length, still kneeling, she raised her head, her hands clasped, her swollen but tearless eyes fixed upon the pale, anxious, and alarmed countenance of her parent. He would have spoken, but she raised her finger in token that she entreated silence; a moment afterwards she addressed him in broken and disjointed sentences.

"I can hardly give it utterance—and when I think upon it, I know not why I should intrude so vile a falsehood on your ear, my father; but Burrell seemed so real, so fearfully real in what he said, that I tremble still, and my voice comes heavily to my lips." She paused for breath, and pressed her clasped hands on her bosom.

Sir Robert, imagining that she alluded to her marriage, which he knew Burrell must have been urging upon her, replied,—

"My dearest child knows that I have not pressed her union; but Sir Willmott is so anxious—so attached—and, I must say, that my grey hairs would go peacefully to the grave were I to see her his wife. I am almost inclined to think my Constance capricious and unjust upon this point; but I am sure her own good sense, her regard for her father——"

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

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

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

"It is all madness—moon-struck madness," she exclaimed, and her arms dropped at either side as she spoke; "some cruel witchery surrounds me; but I will speak and break the spell. Father, you are not a murderer? you did not murder——" and she, too, whispered a name, as if it were one that the breath of heaven should not bear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The unhappy man was powerless and subdued; he hid his face amid the pillows of the chair, and wept bitterly. Constance walked to the window: the beams of the silver moon dwelt with more than usual brightness on the tops and around the foliage of the trees that encircled the Fairy Ring, where, but an hour before, her footsteps had lingered with her friend. All around seemed buried in the most profound stillness; not the bay of a dog, nor the hum of an insect, disturbed the repose that slept on every plant and flower, and covered the earth as with a garment. Suddenly a nightingale flew past the window, and resting its breast on the bough of an old thorn, poured forth a delicious strain of melody. Constance leaned her throbbing forehead against the cold stained-glass, and the tenderness of the wild bird's untaught music penetrated her soul; large tears flowed down her cheeks, and her seared heart was relieved, for a little, of its overwhelming horrors. She then returned to her father's side; and again taking his hand in hers, said, in a calmer voice,

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

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

"Not now, father. We will pray."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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