The Buccaneer - A Tale

"No, Walter, not in body; but wherefore should you bear that braid so

near you?"

"Sweet Constance, may I now call you by that dear name? Oh, how my heart

rebelled against the sound 'Mistress Cecil!'--Truly is love a

republican, for he does not recognise titles; though, perhaps, it were

better to describe him as a despot, acknowledging none that are not of

his own creation. Why should I not wear the braid? Though now an

outlawed man, it may not be always thus; the time will come when my own

arm shall win the way to glory and to fortune."

"I doubt it not--I doubt it not;--but--save that nothing can make your

fortunes a matter of indifference to the friend and companion of your

childhood--I can have no greater interest in you, nor you in me. But why

prevent my saying to my father that the lost bird is found? Methinks I

would gladly know with him the mysteries of your disappearance, and the

still greater one of your concealment; suffer that I tell----" The

Cavalier smiled a smile so moody, so full of sad expression, that she

paused.

"Not so; I cannot explain any thing: perhaps (if your words be serious)

the time may never come when I can explain. As to your father, if you

ever valued Walter, I charge you, even as you now value his life, that

you give hint to no human being of his existence. I am sure you will

keep my secret; strange as may seem the request, still you will grant

it."

"Yet surely, Walter, you may confide in one who sorrowed for her

playmate, with a lengthened and deep grief; but--" she slowly added,

observing the altered expression of his countenance, "remember, I can

only be to you a friend."

The words were uttered in a tone not to be misconceived. The Cavalier

understood and felt it.

"Better, then, that I had gone forth, as I was about to do, in ignorance

that any here recognised the ruined and outcast Walter! Can there be

truth in the rumour, that one so young, so beautiful, bearing the

softened impress of a noble and immortal mind upon a brow so lofty, is a

willing sacrifice to a coward and villain? Did I not hear you, with my

own ears, protest to the Lady Frances Cromwell, that, of your own free

will, you would never marry this Sir Willmott Burrell? and, if it be so,

if you spoke truth then, who dare compel you, wealthy and high-born, to

give your hand where your heart is not? Oh, you are not the free,

true-hearted girl, that, twelve years ago, leaped upon your native hills

to meet the sunshine and the breeze, and often--alas! alas! that it

should only have been in mere sportiveness--declared that--but no

matter--I see it all, and future Lady of Burrell, bid you farewell and

for ever."