The Buccaneer - A Tale

Know then, my brethren, heaven is clear,

And all the clouds are gone;

The righteous now shall flourish, and

Good days are coming on:

Come then, my brethren, and be glad,

And eke rejoice with me.

FRANCIS QUARLES

Over the happy and the miserable, the guilty and the good, Time alike

passes; though his step may be light or heavy, according to the feelings

of those who watch his progress, still he pursues, with sure and certain

tread, a course upon which he never turns.

We are about to bid farewell to those who have been our companions

through a long but we trust not a weary path; and we delay them but for

a short space longer to learn how felt the household of Cecil Place,

after the events and excitements of a day which gave birth to so many

marvels, and unravelled so many mysteries.

We have, however, yet to deal out perfect justice,--and would fain tarry

a moment to remark how rarely it is that, even in the sober world of

Fact, the wicked finish their course--and vengeance has not overtaken.

Truly has it been said that "virtue is its own reward:" as truly has it

been added, that "vice brings its own punishment."

How lightly, and with how deep a blessing, did Constance Cecil, when the

day was breaking, offer up a fervent thanksgiving to God that her only

parent, though deeply sinful in intent, was free from blood, and,

though worn in body, was sleeping as quietly as a wearied child when its

task is ended. Her mother's spirit seemed to hover over and bless her,

and imagination pictured another by her side who came to share the

blessing--it was the companion of her childhood, the chosen, and loved,

and trusted of a long and happy and prosperous after-life.

Constantia pressed her couch; but, with the exception of the worn and

weary Sir Robert, whose existence quivered like the parting light of an

expiring lamp, no eyes slumbered in Cecil Place. The Lady Frances

Cromwell, upon that morning, took not up the lays of the foolish Waller,

but the precious volume that, in her vanity, she had too often

slighted--she read therein,-"Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give

you rest."

And as she so read, a more calm and settled expression spread over her

features; and after much musing and much thankfulness, she sought the

chamber of her friend. Constantia was not alone, for, pale and weak, and

trembling,--still like the aspen which every breeze may agitate,--the

little Puritan Barbara crouched on an old cushion by the side of her

lady's bed.