The Buccaneer - A Tale

"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."