"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!"




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