"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!"