The Buccaneer - A Tale

I am not prone to weeping as our sex

Commonly are; the want of which vain dew

Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have

That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns

Worse than tears drown.

SHAKSPEARE

It is curious to note how differently persons known to each other, and,

it may be, endeared by the ties of relationship, or the still stronger

ones of friendship, are occupied at some precise moment, although

separated but by a little distance, and for a brief space of time. Life

is one great kaleidoscope, where it is difficult to look upon the same

picture twice; so varied are its positions, and so numerous its

contrasts, according to the will of those who move and govern its

machinery. While the hand of the Buccaneer was dyed in blood, his child

was sleeping calmly on her pillow;--Sir Robert Cecil pondering over the

events of the day, and drawing conclusions as to the future, from which

even hope was excluded;--Sir Willmott Burrell exulting in what he deemed

the master-stroke of his genius;--and Constance Cecil, the fountain of

whose tears was dried up, permitted Lady Frances Cromwell to sit up with

her, while she assorted various letters, papers, and other matters, of

real or imaginary value, of which she was possessed. Within that chamber

one would have thought that Death was the expected bridegroom, so sadly

and so solemnly did the bride of the morrow move and speak. She had

ceased to discourse of the approaching change, and conversed with her

friend only at intervals, upon topics of a trifling nature; but in such

a tone, and with such a manner, as betrayed the aching heart; seldom

waiting for, or hearing a reply, and sighing heavily, as every sentence

obtained utterance. Her companion fell into her mood, with a kindness

and gentleness hardly to be expected from one so light and mirthful.

"I am sure," she observed, "I have deeper cause for grief than you,

Constantia; my father is so obstinate about Mr. Rich. He treats his

family as he does the acts of his parliament, and tries to make use of

both for the good of the country."

Constantia smiled a smile of bitterness; Lady Frances little knew the

arrow, the poisoned arrow, that rankled in her bosom.

"Oh, I see you are preserving Mrs. Hutchinson's letters. How my sister

Claypole esteems that woman! Do you think she really loves her husband

as much as she says?"

"I am sure of it," was Constantia's reply, "because he is worthy of such

love. I received one letter from her, lately; she knew that I was to

be--to change my name--and kindly (for the virtuous are always kind)

wrote to me on the subject; read over these passages."