The Buccaneer - A Tale

"Some other time, my dear sir," interrupted Burrell, whose apprehension

was confirmed; "you must cheer up, and not think of these matters: you

must take some wine." He filled a goblet from a silver flagon that stood

with refreshments on the table; but the baronet's hand was so unsteady,

that Sir Willmott was obliged to hold the cup to his lips. "Now, my dear

sir, collect your thoughts; you know all things are safe and secret:

there is no possibility of your ever being otherwise than beloved and

respected."

"Not by my child," said the unhappy man two or three times, twisting his

hands convulsively--"Not by my child, my pride, my Constantia! Her kiss

is as cold as ice upon my brow; and I thought--perhaps 'twas but a

dream, for I have been sleeping a little--I thought she wiped her lips

after she kissed me. Do you think she would destroy the taste of her

father's kiss?"

"Most certainly not: she loves you as well and as dearly as ever."

"I cannot believe it, Sir Willmott, I cannot believe it;--besides,

there's no safety for me till Hugh Dalton's pardon is granted."

"Damn him!" growled Burrell, and the curse grated through his closed

teeth--"Damn him, deeply, doubly, everlastingly!"

"Ay, so he will be damned," replied Sir Robert, in a calm, quiet tone,

"and we shall all be damned, except Constantia; but he must be

pardoned--on earth I mean--for all that."

Burrell looked daggers at Sir Robert Cecil, but he heeded them not, saw

them not. Sir Willmott's first suspicion was right--the injured were

avenged! The unhappy man retained his memory, though his words and

actions were no longer under the control of reason: his conscience lived

on--his intellect had expired. "It is even so," thought Sir Willmott the

next moment: "and now, Constantia, despite your scorn, your hatred, your

contempt, I do pity you."

Burrell understood not how superior was Constance in every respect,

either to his pity or his praise.

Exactly as the clock struck six, the doors at the bottom of the room

were thrown open, and Lady Frances Cromwell entered with her friend;

Barbara and the waiting-maidens of Lady Frances followed; but nothing

could exceed Burrell's displeasure and mortification, when he perceived

that his bride was habited in the deepest mourning. Her hair, braided

from her brow, hung in long and luxuriant tresses down her back, and

were only confined by a fillet of jet. Upon her head was a veil of black

gauze, that fell over her entire figure; and her dress was of black

Lucca silk, hemmed and bordered with crape. She advanced steadily to her

father, without noticing her bridegroom, and, throwing up her veil,

said, in a low voice,-"Father, I am ready."