The Buccaneer - A Tale

"And think you," said Constance, in a voice struggling for composure,

"think you so poorly of me, that I can will to marry such as Burrell,

of my own free choice! Oh! Frances, Frances! would to Heaven the same

grave had closed over me that closed over my mother!" She clasped her

hands with an earnestness amounting to agony, and there came an

expression over her features which forbade all trifling. Frances

Cromwell was a warm, cheerful, and affectionate girl; but to her it was

not given to understand the depth or the refinement of minds such as

that of her friend. Her own home was not a peaceful one, for party

spirit, that hydra of disunion, raged and ravaged there, without regard

to years or sex. The Protector's most beloved child was known to be

faithfully attached to the Stuart cause; while his eldest daughter was

so staunch a republican, that she only blamed her father for accepting

power bordering so closely upon royalty. This difference occasioned sad

and terrible domestic trouble; and the man, feared, honoured, courted by

the whole world, ruling the dynasties of kingdoms, could not insure an

hour's tranquillity within his own palace walls! Frances, the youngest,

interfered the least in their most grievous feuds. She had so many

flirtations, both romantic and anti-romantic, to attend to, that, like

all women who flirt much, she thought little. The perfect misery so

fearfully, yet so strongly painted upon the countenance of Constance,

was to her utterly incomprehensible. Had it been the overboiling of

passion, the suppressed but determined rage, or the murmuring of

discontent, Frances could have understood it, because it would have

resembled what she had full often witnessed; but she had never before

beheld the struggles of a firm and elevated mind against a cruel and

oppressive destiny. Frances Cromwell looked upon her friend for some

moments, uncertain what course to pursue. She knelt down and took her

hands within her own; they were cold as death, rigid as marble. She bent

over her!-"Constance! Constance! speak! Merciful Providence!" she exclaimed aloud,

"What can I do? what shall I do? Barbara! Alas! alas! she hears me

not--Dear Constance! This is worse than faintness," she continued, as

exertions to restore her proved ineffectual; for Constantia, exhausted

by her efforts to appear tranquil, and to chime in with the temper of

her guest, until tortured at the very mention of Burrell's name,

remained still insensible.

"I must leave her and seek assistance from within," repeated Frances,

rapidly unclasping her jewelled mantle, throwing it over her friend, and

flying, rather than running, along the shaven path they had so recently

paced in gentle converse. No very long time elapsed before the lady

returned, followed by Barbara Iverk and another faithful attendant.