CHAPTER I.

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THE BUCCANEER.

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET:

BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;

J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1840.

London:

Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE.

New-Street-Square.

* * * * *

STANDARD NOVELS.

N^{o} LXXIX.

"No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction.

Pictures of life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more

eagerly received by the many than graver productions, however

important these latter may be. Apuleius is better remembered by

his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by his abstruser Platonic

writings; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has outlived the Latin

Treatises, and other learned works of that author."

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BUCCANEER.

The Protector instantly exclaimed "Guards! what ho! without

there!" Five or six rushed into the room and laid hands upon

Robin.

_J. Cowse, pinxt. W. Greatbatch, sc._

London. Published by Richard Bentley. 1840.]

THE BUCCANEER,

A Tale

BY Mrs S. C. Hall.

[Illustration: _Kneeling on a high-backed and curiously carved

chair, which he leaned over pulpit-fashion, was seen the lean,

lanky figure of Fleetword._]

LONDON,

_RICHARD BENTLEY,_

_NEW BURLINGTON STREET,_

CUMMING, DUBLIN, BELL & BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH,

1840.

THE

BUCCANEER.

A TALE.

BY

MRS. S. C. HALL.

Stay! methinks I see

A person in yond cave. Who should that bee?

I know her ensignes now--'tis Chivalrie

Possess'd with sleepe, dead as a lethargie;

If any charme will wake her, 'tis the name

Of our Meliadus! I'll use his Fame.

BEN JONSON.

REVISED BY THE AUTHOR.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET:

BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;

J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1840.

THE BUCCANEER.

CHAPTER I.

With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength,

Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves,

Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length,

She seems a sea wasp flying on the waves.

DRYDEN.

It was between the hours of ten and twelve on a fine night of February,

in the year sixteen hundred and fifty-six, that three men moored a light

skiff in a small bay, overshadowed by the heavy and sombre rocks that

distinguish the Isle of Shepey from other parts along the coast of Kent,

the white cliffs of which present an aspect at once so cheerful and so

peculiar to the shores of Britain. The quiet sea seemed, in the murky

light, like a dense and motionless mass, save when the gathering clouds

passed from the brow of the waning moon, and permitted its beams to

repose in silver lines on its undulating bosom.

It was difficult to account for the motive that could have induced any

mariner to land upon so unpropitious a spot, hemmed in as it was on

every side, and apparently affording no outlet but that by which they

had entered--the trackless and illimitable ocean. Without a moment's

deliberation, however, the steersman, who had guided his boat into the

creek, sprang lightly to the shore: another followed; while the third,

folding himself in the capacious cloak his leader had thrown off,

resumed his place, as if resolved to take his rest, at least for a time.

"Little doubt of our having foul weather, master," observed the younger

of the two, in a half querulous, half positive tone, as standing on a

huge bank of sea-weed, he regarded first the heavens, and then the

earth, with the scrutinising gaze of one accustomed to pry into their

mysteries. His companion made no answer, but commenced unrolling a rich

silk scarf, that had enveloped his throat, and twisting it into loose

folds, passed it several times around his waist--having previously

withdrawn from a wide leathern belt that intervened between his jacket

and trousers a brace of curiously-fashioned pistols, which he now handed

to the young sailor, while he elevated the hilt of his dagger, so that,

without removing or disturbing the silken sash, he could use it in an

instant. Having fully ascertained this point, by drawing the weapon more

than once from its sheath, he again deposited the pistols in his belt,

and buttoned his vest nearly to the throat; then drew the ends of his

sash still more tightly, and placing a hand on either side, turned

towards the cliffs, measuring their altitude with an eye, which, though

deficient in dignity, was acute, and peculiarly fierce in expression.

The seaman, for such was his calling, was about five feet eight or nine

inches in height. His hair, as it appeared from beneath a cap singularly

at variance with the fashion of the time, curled darkly round a face,

the marked features of which were sufficiently prominent, even in that

uncertain light, to denote a person of no ordinary mind or character.

His figure was firm and well-proportioned, and, though he might have

numbered fifty years, it had lost neither strength nor elasticity. His

whole bearing was that of a man whom nothing could have turned from a

cherished purpose, were it for good or evil: though his eye was, as we

have described it, fierce and acute, it was also restless and impatient

as the waves upon which he had toiled from his earliest years.

Again he surveyed the cliff, and, stepping close to its base, applied

the point of a boat-spear to remove the sea-weed that spring and high

tides had heaped against it; he then summoned the youth to his

assistance: after a few moments' search, the lad exclaimed,--

"Here it is, master--here is one--here another--but, my eyes! are we to

trust our necks to such footing as this? I'd rather mount the

top-gallant of the good ship Providence in the fiercest Nor-wester that

ever blow'd, than follow such a lubberly tack."

"Then go back to the boat, sir," replied the elder, as he began, with

cautious yet steady daring, to ascend--a course attended with evident

danger, "Go back to the boat, sir--and, here, Jeromio! you have not

been taught your duty on board the Providence, and, I presume, have no

scruples, like our friend Oba Springall. Jeromio! I say, hither and up

with me!"

"I am ready, sir," replied the youth, whose momentary dread had been

dispelled by this attempt to promote a rival to the post of honour; "I

am ready, sir:" muttering, however, soon afterwards to himself, as the

difficulties of the way increased, "He thinks no more of his life than

if he were a sprat or a spawn." No other word was breathed by either of

the adventurers, as they threaded the giddy path, until about midway,

when the elder paused and exclaimed, "A-hoy there, boy! there are two

steps wanting; you had better indeed go back. To me, the track has been

long familiar; not so to you."

The youth thought of his master's taunt, and Jeromio, and resolved to

take his chance. "Ay, ay, sir, no danger when I follow you." But the

peril was, in truth, appalling, though its duration was brief. Below,

the sea that was now rapidly covering the small creek, rudely agitated

and opposed by a rising breeze, dashed and foamed against the rocks. To

fall from such a height was inevitable destruction. There was scarcely

sufficient light to mark the inequality of the ascending cliffs; and a

spectator, gazing on the scene, must have imagined that those who clung

to such a spot were supported by supernatural agency. The Skipper,

nothing daunted, struck the spear, that had served as a climbing-stick,

firmly into the surface of mingled clay and stone, and then, by a

violent effort, flung himself upwards, catching with his left hand at a

slight projection that was hardly visible; thus, hanging between earth

and heaven, he coolly disengaged the staff, and placed it under the

extended arm, so as to form another prop; and feeling, as it were, his

way, he burrowed with his foot a resting in the cliff, from which he

sprang on a narrow ledge, and was in safety. He then turned to look for

his young companion, to whom he extended the boat-spear that had been of

such service. Animated by his master's success and example, Springall's

self-possession was confirmed; and both soon stood on the brow of the

precipice.

"Sharp sailing that, boy," observed the elder, as the youth panted at

his side.

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Springall, wiping his face with the sleeve of his

jacket. "Take a drop, master," he continued, drawing a tin bottle from

his bosom, "'twill warm ye after such a cursed cruise."

The Skipper nodded as he accepted the flask, "I hope you are as well

armed on all points as on this; but don't take in too great a reef, or

it will make you a heavy sailor before your time: drop anchor now, and

keep watch here till further orders."

"Keep watch here, sir!" said Springall, in a mournful tone. "And did ye

bring me ashore, and up that devil's rope-ladder, to leave me to watch

here?"

The Captain looked upon him angrily for a moment. "I am rightly served

for taking man or boy out of the canting hulks that lag on the water.

Did ye ever chance to hear such a sound on board the ship Providence as

'Silence, and obey orders?' Let not your walk, youngster, extend beyond

that point, from which, at daybreak, you can catch a view of the court

tree, where, if ancient habits are not all put off, there will be

revelries ere long: the old church at Minster will be also within your

sight, while the sea between us and the Essex coast, and for miles along

the Northern ocean, can scarcely bear a sail that your young eyes will

not distinguish. Watch as if your life--as if a thousand lives hung upon

the caution of a moment; and remember, while the blue light revolves,

which you now see in the vessel's bow, all things abroad go on well. You

also know the pass-word for our friends, and the reception for our

enemies. If you should be at all afraid, three loud notes on your

whistle will summon Jeromio, and a single flash of your pistol will

bring the long-boat off, and into the creek in five minutes. You can

then tumble down the devil's rope-ladder, as you call it, and send the

less timid Italian to keep watch till my return--you understand me." So

saying he strode onwards, leaving the youth, who had not yet passed

eighteen summers, to his discontented solitude and ill-temper.

"Understand you! I wonder who does, ever did, or ever will; perched up

here like a sea-mew, and not having touched land for five weeks! 'Beyond

that point!' I'll be even with him, for I wo'n't walk to that point:

I'll just stay in the one spot." With this resolution, he flung himself

upon a bank of early wild thyme, that filled the air with its

refreshing odour. Long after his master was out of sight, he continued

pulling up tufts of the perfumed herb, and flinging them over the cliff.

"Now, by my faith," he mentally exclaimed, "I have a mind to pelt that

Jeromio with some of these clay lumps: he is enjoying a sound nap down

there, like an overgrown seal, as he is; and I am everlastingly taunted

with Jeromio! Jeromio! Jeromio! at every hand's turn. Here goes, to

rouse his slumbers." He drew himself gradually forward, and raised his

hand to fling a fragment of stone at his fellow-seaman: the arm was

seized in its uplifted position, by a figure enveloped in a dark cloak,

that, muffled closely round the face, and surmounted by a slouched hat,

worn at the time by both Cavalier and Roundhead, effectually concealed

the person from recognition. He held the youth in so iron a grasp, that

motion was almost impossible; and while the moon came forth and shone

upon them in all her majesty, the two who contended beneath her light

might have been aptly compared, in their strength and weakness, to the

mighty eagle overcoming the feeble leveret.

The stranger was the first to speak, as motioning with his disengaged

hand towards the revolving light that hung in the vessel's bow, he

inquired,--

"What colours does that ship carry?"

"Her master's, I suppose."

"And who is her master?"

"The man she belongs to."

"She's a free-trader then?"

"The sea is as free to a free ship, as the land to a free man, I take

it."

"Reptile! dare you barter words with me?--Your commander's name?"

The boy made no answer.

"Dost hear me? Your commander's name?" and as the question was repeated,

the mailed glove of the interrogator pressed painfully into Springall's

flesh, without, however, eliciting a reply.

"He has a name, I suppose?"

"That you, or any cowardly night-walker, would as soon not hear; for it

is the name of a brave man," replied the youth at last, struggling

violently, but ineffectually, to reach the whistle that was suspended

round his neck.

"Fool!" exclaimed the stranger, "dost bandy strength as well as words?

Learn that in an instant I could drop thee into the rolling ocean, like

the egg of the unwise bird." He raised the youth from the earth, and

held him over the precipice, whose base was now buried in the wild waste

of waters, that foamed and howled, as if demanding from the unyielding

rock a tribute or a sacrifice.

"Tell me thy master's name."

The heroic boy, though with certain death before him, made no reply. The

man held him for about the space of a minute and a half in the same

position: at first he struggled fiercely and silently, as a young wolf

caught in the hunter's toils; yet fear gradually palsied the body of the

unconquered mind, and his efforts became so feeble, that the stranger

placed him on his feet, saying,--

"I wish not to hurt thee, child!" adding, in a low and broken voice,

"Would that the Lord had given unto me sons endowed with the same

spirit! Wilt tell me thy own name?"

"No! If you are a friend, you know our pass-word; if a foe, you shall

not know it from me. You can go down the cliff, and ask our commander's

name from yon sleepy Orson; his tongue goes fast enough at all seasons."

The stranger entirely withdrew his hold from Springall, while he moved

towards the summit of the rock. Quick as lightning, the whistle was

applied to the youth's mouth, and three rapid, distinct notes cut

through the night air, and were echoed by the surrounding caverns.

"I thank thee, boy," said the mysterious being, calmly; "that tells of

Hugh Dalton and the Fire-fly."

And he disappeared so instantaneously from the spot, that Springall

rubbed first his eyes, and then his arm, to be assured whether the

events of the last few minutes were not the effects of a distempered

imagination. He had, however, more certain proof of its reality: for,

upon peering closely through the darkness into the thick wood that

skirted the east, he distinctly noted the glitter of steel in two or

three points at the same moment; and apprehensive that their landing

must have been witnessed by more than one person--the hostile intentions

of whom he could scarcely doubt--he examined the priming of his

pistols, called to Jeromio to look out, for that danger was at hand, and

resumed his watch, fearful, not for his own safety, but for that of his

absent commander.

In the mean time, the Skipper, who was known in the Isle of Shepey, and

upon other parts of the coast, by the name of Hugh Dalton, proceeded

uninterruptedly on his way, up and down the small luxuriant hills, and

along the fair valleys of as fertile and beautiful a district as any of

which our England can boast, until a sudden turn brought him close upon

a dwelling of large proportions and disjointed architecture, that

evidently belonged to two distinct eras. The portion of the house

fronting the place on which he stood was built of red brick, and

regularly elevated to three stories in height; the windows were long and

narrow; and the entire of that division was in strict accordance with

the taste of the times, as patronised and adopted by the rulers of the

Commonwealth. Behind, rose several square turrets, and straggling

buildings, the carved and many-paned windows of which were of very

remote date, and evidently formed from the relics of some monastery or

religious house. Here and there, the fancy or interest of the owner had

induced him to remodel the structure; and an ill-designed and ungraceful

mixture of the modern with the ancient gave to the whole somewhat of a

grotesque appearance, that was heightened by the noble trees, which had

once towered in majesty and beauty, being in many places lopped and

docked, as if even the exuberance of nature was a crime in the eyes of

the present lord of the mansion.

"Sir Robert," muttered Dalton, "may well change the name of his dwelling

from Cecil Abbey to Cecil Place. Why, the very trees are manufactured

into Roundheads. But there is something more than ordinary a-foot, for

the lights are floating through the house as if it were haunted. The

sooner I make harbour, the better."

He paced rapidly forward, and stood before a small building that was

then called a porter's lodge, but which had formerly been designated the

Abbey Gate, and which, perhaps in consideration of its simple, but

singular, beauty, had been spared all modern alteration. The ivy that

clustered and climbed to its loftiest pinnacles added a wild and

peculiar interest to this remnant of ancient architecture. It contained

a high carriage archway, and a lateral passage beneath it, both

decorated with numerous ornamental mouldings and columns, flanked at

the angles by octagonal turrets of surpassing elegance. An apartment

over the arch, which, during the reign of monastic power, had been used

as a small oratory, for the celebration of early mass to the servants

and labourers of the convent, was now appropriated to the accommodation

of the porter and his family.

The Skipper applied his hand to the bell, and rang long and loudly. For

some time no answer was returned. Again he rang, and after much delay,

an old man was seen approaching from the house, bearing a torch, which

he carefully shaded from the night wind.

"My good friend," inquired the sailor in no gentle tone, "is it Sir

Robert's wish that those who come on business should be thus kept

waiting?"

"You know little of the affliction with which it has pleased the Lord to

visit Sir Robert, or you would not have rung so loudly: our good lady is

dying!" and the old man's voice faltered as he spoke the tidings.

"Indeed!" was the only reply of Dalton, as he passed under the archway;

but the word was spoken in a tone that evinced strong feeling. The

porter requested him to walk into the lodge.

"The place is in confusion; and as to seeing my master, it is a clear

impossibility; he has not left our lady's bedside these three days, and

the doctor says she will be gathered to her kindred before morning."

"He will leave even her to attend to me; and therefore, my friend, on

your own head be the responsibility if you fail to deliver to him this

token. I tell you," added Dalton, "death could hardly keep him from me!"

The porter took the offered signet in silence, and only shook his head

in reply, as they passed together towards the house.

"You can tell me, I suppose, if Master Roland is still with his

Highness's army?"

"Alack and well-a-day! God is just and merciful; but, I take it, the

death of that noble boy has gone nigher to break my lady's heart than

any other sorrow: the flesh will war against the spirit. Had he died in

honourable combat at Marston or at Naseby, when first it was given him

to raise his arm in the Lord's cause!--but to fall in a drunken frolic,

not befitting a holy Christian to engage in--it was far more than my

poor lady could bear."

"Oliver promised to be a fine fellow."

"Do not talk of him, do not talk of him, I entreat you," replied the

domestic, placing his hand on his face to conceal his emotion; "he was,

indeed, my heart's darling. Long before Sir Robert succeeded to his

brother's property, and when we lived with my lady's father, I was the

old gentleman's huntsman, and that dear child was ever at my heels. The

Lord be praised! the Lord be praised! but I little thought the blue

waves would be his bier before he had seen his twentieth year. They are

all gone, sir: five such boys!--the girl, the lamb of the flock, only

left. You do not know her, do ye?" inquired the old man, peering with

much curiosity into the Skipper's face, as if recognising it as one he

had seen in former days.

The sailor made no answer.

They had now entered a small postern-door, which led to the hall by a

narrow passage; and the porter proceeded until they stood in one of

those vaulted entrances that usually convey an idea of the wealth and

power of the possessor.

"You can sit here till I return," observed the guide, again casting an

inquiring look upon the form and features of the guest.

"I sit in no man's hall," was the stern reply.

The porter withdrew, and the seaman, folding his arms, paced up and down

the paved vestibule, which showed evident tokens of the confusion that

sickness and death never fail to create. He paused occasionally before

the huge and gaping chimney, and extended his sinewy hands over the

flickering embers of the expiring fire: the lurid glare of the departing

flames only rendered the darkness of the farthermost portion of the hail

more deep and fearful. The clock chimed eleven: it was, as ever, the

voice of Time giving warning of eternity!

A light gleamed at the most distant end of the apartment, and a slight

but graceful girl approached the stranger. She was habited in a close

vest of grey cloth: her head covered with a linen cap, devoid of any

ornament; from under the plain border of which, a stream of hair

appeared, tightly drawn across a forehead of beautiful colour and

proportions.

"Will you please to follow, sir, to my master's study?"

Dalton turned suddenly round; the entire expression of his countenance

softened, and his firm-set lips opened, as if a word laboured to come

forth, and was retained only by an effort.

"Will you not follow, good sir?" repeated the girl, anxiously but

mildly. "My master is ill at ease, and wishes to return to my lady's

room: it may be----"

The sentence remained unfinished, and tears streamed afresh down cheeks

already swollen with weeping.

"Your name, girl?" inquired the stranger, eagerly.

"Barbara Iverk," she replied, evidently astonished at the question. He

seized her arm, and, while gazing earnestly in her face, murmured in a

tone of positive tenderness,--

"Are you happy?"

"I praise the Lord for his goodness! ever since I have been here, I have

been most happy; but my dear lady, who was so kind to me----" Again her

tears returned.

"You do not know me?--But you could not." Hugh Dalton gradually relaxed

his hold, and pulled from his bosom a purse heavy with Spanish

pieces--he presented it to the girl, but she drew back her hand and

shook her head.

"Take it, child, and buy thee a riding-hood, or a farthingale, or some

such trumpery, which thy vain sex delight in."

"I lack nothing, good sir, I thank ye; and, as to the coined silver, it

is only a tempter to the destruction of body and soul."

"As it may be used--as it may be used," repeated the sailor quickly;

"one so young would not abuse it."

"Wisdom might be needed in the expenditure; and I have heard that want

of knowledge is the forerunner of sin. Besides, I ask your pardon, good

sir, but strangers do not give to strangers, unless for charity; and I

lack nothing."

She dropped so modest a courtesy, and looked so perfectly and purely

innocent, that moisture, as unusual as it might be unwelcome, dimmed the

eyes of the stern man of ocean; and as he replaced the dollars, he

muttered something that sounded like, "I thank God she is

uncontaminated!" He then followed the gentle girl through many passages,

and up and down more than one flight of stairs: they both at length

stopped before a door that was thickly plated with iron.

"You need not wait," said Dalton, laying his hand on the latch. Barbara

paused a moment, to look on the wild being, so different from the staid

persons she was in the daily habit of seeing at the hall; and then her

light, even step, faded on the sailor's ear.

Sir Robert Cecil was standing, or rather leaning, with folded arms,

against a column of the dark marble chimney-piece, which, enriched by

various carvings and mouldings, rose nearly to the ceiling. The

Baronet's hair, of mingled grey and black, had been cropped according to

the approved fashion of the time; so that his features had not the

advantage of either shadow or relief from the most beautiful of nature's

ornaments. He might have been a few years older or younger than the

sailor who had just entered; but his figure seemed weak and bending as a

willow-wand, as he moved slowly round to receive his visiter. The

usually polite expression of his countenance deepened into the

insidious, and a faint smile rested for a moment on his lip. This

outward show of welcome contrasted strangely with the visible tremor

that agitated his frame: he did not speak; either from inability to coin

an appropriate sentence, or the more subtle motive of waiting until the

communication of the stranger was first made.

After a lengthened pause, during which Dalton slowly advanced, so as to

stand opposite Sir Robert Cecil, he commenced the conversation, without

any of that show of courtesy, which the consciousness of their relative

situations might have called for: even his cap was unremoved.

"I am sorry, Sir Robert, to have come at such a time; nor would I now

remain, were it not that my business----"

"I am not aware," interrupted the Baronet, "of any matters of

'_business_' pending between us. I imagine, on reflection, you will find

that all such have been long since concluded. If there is any way,

indeed, in which I can oblige you, for the sake of an old servant----"

"_Servant!_" in his turn interrupted Dalton, with emphasis, "we have

been companions, Sir Robert--_companions_ in more than one act; and, by

the dark heavens above us, will be so in another--if necessary."

The haughty Baronet writhed under this familiarity; yet was there an

expression of triumphant quietude in his eye, as if he despised the

insinuation of the seaman. "I think, considering all things, you have

been pretty well paid for such acts, Master Dalton; I have never taken

any man's labour for nothing."

"Labour!" again echoed the sailor, "labour may be paid for; but what can

stand in lieu of innocence, purity of heart, and rectitude of conduct?"

"Gold--which you have had, in all its gorgeous and glowing abundance."

"'Two'n't do," retorted the other, in a painfully subdued tone; "there

is much it cannot purchase. Am I not at this moment a banned and a

blighted man--scouted alike from the board of the profligate Cavalier,

and the psalm-singing Puritan of this most change-loving country? And

one day or another I may be hung up at the yard-arm of a

Commonwealth--Heaven bless the mark!--a Commonwealth cruiser!--or scare

crows from a gibbet off Sheerness or Queenborough, or be made an example

of for some act of piracy committed on the high seas!"

"But why commit such acts? You have wherewithal to live

respectably--quietly."

"Quietly!" repeated the Skipper; "look ye, Master--I crave your

pardon--_Sir_ Robert Cecil; as soon could one of Mother Carey's chickens

mount a hen-roost, or bring up a brood of lubberly turkies, as I, Hugh

Dalton, master and owner of the good brigantine, that sits the waters

like a swan, and cuts them like an arrow--live quietly, quietly, on

shore! Santa Maria! have I not panted under the hot sun off the

Caribbees? Have I not closed my ears to the cry of mercy? Have I not

sacked, and sunk, and burnt without acknowledging claim or country? Has

not the mother clasped her child more closely to her bosom at the

mention of my name? In one word, for years have I not been a BUCCANEER?

And yet you talk to me of quietness!--Sir, sir, the soul so steeped in

sin has but two resources--madness, or the grave; the last even I shrink

from; so give me war, war, and its insanity."

"Cannot you learn to fear the Lord, and trade as an honest man?"

Dalton cast a look of such mingled scorn and contempt on his companion,

that a deep red colour mounted to his cheek as he repeated, "Yes! I ask,

cannot you trade as an honest man?"

"No! a curse on trade: and I'm _not_ honest," he replied fiercely.

"May I beg you briefly to explain the object of your visit?" said the

Baronet at last, after a perplexing pause, during which the arms of the

Buccaneer were folded on his breast, and his restless and vigilant eyes

wandered round the apartment, flashing with an indefinable expression,

when they encountered the blue retreating orbs of Sir Robert.

"This, then: I require a free pardon from Old Noll, not not only for

myself, but for my crew. The brave men, who would have died, shall live,

with me. As a return for his Highness's civility, I will give up all

free trade, and take the command of a frigate, if it so please him."

"Or a revenue cutter, I presume," observed the Baronet, sarcastically.

"Curse me if I do!" replied Dalton, contemptuously--"the sharks! No, no,

I'm not come to that yet; nor would I ever think of hoisting any flag

but mine own, were it not for the sake of a small craft, as belonging

to--no matter what."

"You have seen but little of the girl."

"Too little: and why? Because I was _ashamed_ to see her--but now--not

ten minutes ago--I was glad she did not know me. Sir Robert, when your

own daughter hangs upon your arm, or looks with her innocent eyes into

your face, how do you feel?"

Sir Robert Cecil had been too well schooled in Puritanism to suffer the

emotions of his mind to affect his features. He did not reply to the

question, but skilfully turning the conversation, brought the intruder

back to his old subject.

"How do you purpose procuring this free pardon?"

"I! I know not how to procure it; I only wish it procured: the means are

in your power, not mine."

"In mine!" ejaculated the Baronet with well-feigned astonishment; "you

mistake, good Dalton, I have no interest at Whitehall; I would not ask a

favour for myself."

"That is likely; but you must ask one for me."

"_Must!_" repeated Sir Robert, "is a strange word to use to me, Dalton."

"I'm not scholar enough to find a better," replied the other insolently.

"I cannot if I would," persisted the Baronet.

"One word more, then. The Protector's plans render it impracticable for

me to continue, as I have done, on the seas: I know that I am a marked

man, and unless something be determined on, and speedily, I shall be

exposed to that ignominy which, for my child's sake, I would avoid.

Don't talk to me of impossibilities; you _can_ obtain the pardon I

desire, and, in one word, Sir Robert Cecil, you _must_!"

Sir Robert shook his head.

"At your pleasure, then, at your pleasure; but at your peril also. Mark

me! I am not one to be thrown overboard, and make no struggle--I am not

a baby to be strangled without crying! If I perish, facts shall arise

from my grave--ay, if I were sunk a thousand fathoms in my own blue

sea--facts that would---- You may well tremble and turn pale! The secret

is still in our keeping; only remember, I fall not singly!"

"Insulting villain!" said Sir Robert, regaining his self-command; "you

have now no facts, no proofs; the evidence is destroyed."

"It is _not_ destroyed, Robert Cecil," observed Dalton, calmly pulling a

bundle of papers from his vest: "look here--and here--and here--do you

not know your own hand-writing? you practised me first in deception: I

had not forgotten your kind lessons, when in your presence I committed

forged letters to the flames!"

The man laughed the laugh of contempt and bitter scorn as he held

forward the documents. For a few moments Sir Robert seemed petrified;

his eyes glared on the papers, as if their frozen lids had not the power

of shutting out the horrid proofs of his iniquity. Suddenly he made a

desperate effort to secure them; but the steady eye and muscular arm of

the smuggler prevented it.

"Hands off!" he exclaimed, whirling the Baronet from him, as if he had

been a thing of straw; "you know my power, and you know my terms: there

needs no more palaver about it."

"Will not gold serve your purpose?"

"No, I have enough of that: I want distinction and fame, a free pardon,

and the command of one of your registered and acknowledged plunderers;

or, mayhap, baptism for my own bright little Fire-fly, as the 'Babe of

Grace;' or--But, hang it, no--I'd sink the vessel first, and let her

die, as she has lived, free, free, free! _I_ belong to a civilised set

of beings, and must therefore be a slave, a slave to something or some

one. Noll knows my talents well, knows that I am as good a commander,

ay, and for the matter of that, would be as honest a one as the best."

He paused: the Baronet groaned audibly.

"We have one or two little jobs upon the coasts here of Kent and Essex,

trifles that must, nevertheless, be attended to; but this day month, Sir

Robert Cecil, we meet again. I will not longer keep you from your wife.

Gracious Heaven! where was I when mine expired! But farewell! I would

not detain you for her sweet and gentle sake: she will be rewarded for

her goodness to my child! Remember," he added, closing the door,

"remember--one month, and Hugh Dalton!"

CHAPTER II.

Death! be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor Death----

* * * * *

----Why swell'st thou, then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally';

And Death shall be no more:--Death! thou shalt die.

DR. DONNE.

When Sir Robert Cecil returned to his wife's chamber, all within was

silent as the grave. He approached the bed; his daughter rose from the

seat she had occupied by its side, and motioned him to be still,

pointing at the same time to her mother, and intimating that she slept.

"Thank God for that!" he murmured, and drew his hand across his brow,

while his chest heaved as if a heavy weight had been removed from it.

The attendants had left the room to obtain some necessary refreshment

and repose, and father and daughter were alone with the sleeper in the

chamber of death. The brow of Lady Cecil was calm, smooth, and

unclouded, white as alabaster, and rendered still more beautiful by the

few tresses of pale auburn hair that escaped from under the head-tire.

The features were of a noble yet softened character, although painfully

emaciated; and not a shadow of colour tinged her upturned lip. Her

sleep, though occasionally sound, was restless, and the long shadowy

fingers, that lay on the embroidered coverlet, were now and then

stirred, as if by bodily or mental suffering. There was an atmosphere of

silence, not of repose, within the apartment, at once awful and

oppressive; and Sir Robert breathed as if his breathings were but a

continuation of suppressed sobs.

Constance Cecil, never in earlier life, never in after years, gracious

and beautiful as she ever was, appeared half so interesting to her

unhappy father as at that moment. There was at all times about her a

majesty of mind and feeling that lent to her simplest word and action a

dignity and power, which, though universally felt, it would have been

impossible to define. If one could have procured for her a kingdom to

reign over, or have chosen from the galaxy of heaven a region worthy her

command, it must have been that pale and holy star, which, splendid and

alone in the firmament, heralds the approach of day; so unfitted might

she have been deemed to mingle with a world less pure, so completely

placed by nature above all the littleness of ordinary life. Her noble

and majestic form was the casket of a rich and holy treasure, and her

father's conscience had often quailed, when contemplating the severity

of her youthful virtue. Dearly as he loved his wife, he respected his

daughter more, and the bare idea that certain occurrences of former

years might be known to her was as a poisoned dagger in his heart. He

had been a daring, and was still an ambitious man--successful in all

that men aim to succeed in; wealthy, honoured, and powerful, and--what

is frequently more ardently sought for than all--feared; yet would he

rather have sacrificed every advantage he had gained--every desire for

which he had unhesitatingly bartered his own self-esteem--every

distinction he had considered cheaply purchased at the price of

conscience, than have lost the good opinion, the confiding love of his

only child. Even now he looked upon her with mingled feelings of dread

and affection, though her bearing was subdued and her lofty spirit bowed

by sorrow, as she stood before him, the thick folds of her dressing-gown

falling with classic elegance to her feet, her fine hair pushed back

from her forehead and carelessly twisted round her head, and her

countenance deepened into an expression of the most intense anxiety:

while, assured that the invalid slept on, she whispered into his ear

words of consolation, if not of hope.

Lady Cecil had existed for some days in a state of frightful delirium,

and, during that time, her ravings had been so loud and continued, that

her present repose was elysium to those who loved her. Constance bent

her knees, and prayed in silence, long and fervently, for support. Sir

Robert, leaning back in the richly-cushioned chair, covered his face

with his hands, withdrawing them only when the sleeper groaned or

breathed more heavily. At length both felt as if death had indeed

entered the chamber, so motionless lay the object of their love: they

continued gazing from each other to the couch, until the misty light of

morning streamed coldly through the open shutters. Another hour of sad

watching passed, and, with a long and deeply drawn sigh, the sufferer

opened her eyes: they were no longer wild and wandering, but rested with

calm intelligence on her husband and her child.

"It is long since I have seen you, except in strange dreams," she said,

or rather murmured; "and now I shall be with you but for a very little

time!"

Constance put to her lips a silver cup containing some refreshment,

while Sir Robert supported her head on his arm.

"Call no one in. Constance--Cecil--my moments now are numbered:--draw

back the curtains, that I may once more look upon the light of morning!"

Constance obeyed; and the full beams of day entered the room. "How

beautiful! how glorious!" repeated the dying woman, as her sight drank

in the reviving light; "it heralds me to immortality--where there is no

darkness--no disappointment--no evil! How pale are the rays of that

lamp, Cecil! How feeble man's inventions, contrasted with the works of

the Almighty!" Constance rose to extinguish it. "Let it be," she

continued, feebly; "let it be, dearest; it has illumined my last night,

and we will expire together." The affectionate daughter turned away to

hide her tears; but when did the emotion of a beloved child escape a

mother's notice?--"Alas! my noble Constance weeping! I thought she, at

all events, could have spared me this trial:--leave us for a few

moments; let me not see you weep, Constance--let me not see it--tears

enough have fallen in these halls;--do not mourn, my child, that your

mother will find rest at last."

How often did Constantia remember these words! How often, when the heart

that dictated such gentle chiding, had ceased to beat, did Constantia

Cecil, gazing into the depths of the blue and mysterious sky, think upon

her mother in heaven!

Lady Cecil had much to say to her husband during the remaining moments

of her existence; but her breathing became so feeble, that he was

obliged to lean over the couch to catch her words.

"We part, my own, and only beloved husband, for ever in this

world;--fain would I linger yet a little, to recount how much I have

loved you--in our more humble state--in this--oh! how falsely termed our

prosperity. My heart has shared your feelings. In our late bitter

trials, more than half my grief was, that you should suffer. Oh, Robert!

Robert! now, when I am about to leave you and all, for ever--how my

heart clings--I fear, sinfully clings--to the remembrance of our earlier

and purer happiness! My father's house! The noble oak, where the

ring-doves built, and under whose shadow we first met! The stream--where

you and Herbert--wild, but affectionate brother!--Oh! Robert, do not

blame me, nor start so at his name;--his only fault was his devotion to

a most kind master!--but who, that lived under the gentle influence of

Charles Stuart's virtues, could have been aught but devoted?--And yet

what deadly feuds came forth from this affection! Alas! his rich

heritage has brought no blessing with it. I never could look upon these

broad lands as ours--Would that his child had lived--and then--But they

are all gone now--all gone!--Alas! what had we to do with courts, or

courts with us?--Our domestic comforts have been blighted--our hearth

left desolate--the children for whom you toiled, and hoped, and planned,

have been removed from us--nipped in the bud, or the first

blossoming!--And oh, Cecil! take the words of a dying woman to heart,

when she tells you, that you will go down childless to your grave, if

you do not absolve our beloved Constance from her promise to him whom

she can neither respect nor love. She will complete the contract, though

it should be her death-warrant, rather than let it be said a daughter of

the house of Cecil acted dishonourably--she will complete it,

Robert--she will complete it--and then die!"

Lady Cecil, overcome by emotion and exertion, fell back fainting and

exhausted on her pillow. Recovering herself, however, after a brief

pause she added, in a broken whispering voice, "Forgive me, my dear,

dear husband;--my mind is wandering--my thoughts are unconnected--but my

affection for you--for Constance--is strong in death. I mean not to pain

you, but to warn--for the sake of our only child--of the only thing that

remains to tell you of your wife. My breath trembles on my lips--there

is a mist before mine eyes--call her in, that my spirit may depart--may

ascend heavenward on the wings of prayer!--"

Sir Robert was moving towards the door, when her hand motioned him back.

"Promise--promise that you will never force her to wed that

man!--more--that you yourself will break the contract!"

"Truly, and solemnly do I swear, that I will never force her to

fulfil--nay, that I will never even urge her to its fulfilment."

The dying lady looked unsatisfied, and some unpronounced words agitated

her lips, as Constance entered unbidden, but most welcome. She knelt by

her mother's side, and took the hand so feebly but affectionately

extended towards her. The fearful change that had occurred during her

short absence was but too visible. The breath that touched her cheek was

cold as the morning mist. The sufferer would have folded her hands in

prayer, but the strength had departed before the spirit was gone.

Constance, seeing that the fine expression of life with which her

upturned eyes had glittered was gradually passing away, clasped her

mother's hands within her own: suddenly they struggled for freedom, and

as her eye followed the pointing of her parent's finger, she saw the

lamp's last beam flicker for a moment, and then expire!--Her mother,

too, was dead!

* * * * *

It is ill to break upon the solitude of the dying, though it is good to

enter into the solemn temple of death; it is a sad but a useful lesson

to lift the pall; to raise the coffin-lid; to gaze upon all we loved,

upon all that was bright, and pure, and beautiful, changing with a slow

but certain change to decay and corruption. The most careless cannot

move along the chamber of death without being affected by the awful

presence of the King of Terrors. The holy quiet that ought to

characterise a funeral procession is too frequently destroyed by the

empty pomp and heartlessness which attend it; but in the death-chamber

there is nothing of this; the very atmosphere seems impregnated with the

stillness of the time when there was no life in the broad earth, and

when only "God moved on the face of the waters." Our breath comes slowly

and heavily to our lips, and we murmur forth our words as if the spirit

watched to record them in the unchanging book of immortality.

In due time, the funeral train of Lady Cecil prepared to escort the

corpse to its final home. Sir Robert was too ill, and too deeply

afflicted to be present at the ceremony; and as he had no near relative,

Sir Willmott Burrell of Burrell, the knight to whom his daughter's hand

was plighted, was expected to take his station as chief mourner. The

people waited for some hours with untiring patience; the old steward

paced backwards and forwards from the great gate, and at last took his

stand there, looking out from between its bars, hoping that, wild and

reckless as Burrell really was, he would not put so great an affront

upon the Cecil family, as to suffer its late mistress to go thus

unhonoured to the grave.

The day advanced, and as neither the gentleman, nor any one to show

cause for his absence, appeared, strange whisperings and surmises arose

amongst the crowd, which had assembled from all the villages on the

island, as to the probable motive of this most ill-advised delay. More

than one messenger was despatched to the top of Minster Church to look

out and see if any person like Sir Willmott was crossing the King's

Ferry, the only outlet in general use from the island to the main land:

but though the passage-boat, conducted (as it was termed) by Jabez

Tippet, was evidently employed as much as usual, there was no token to

justify farther waiting. The Rev. Jonas Fleetword, one of the soundest

of Puritan divines, stood like a statue of cast iron in the doorway, his

arms folded on his breast, and his brow contracting into a narrow and

fretted arch, as the minute-hand moved round and round the dial of the

old clock. At length assuming to himself the command, which in those

times was as willingly ceded to the Reformed minister as it had formerly

been to the not more arbitrary Catholic priest, he ordered the

procession "to tarry no longer the coming of him whose feet were shod

with heaviness, but to depart forthwith in the name of the Lord."

The place of interment was at East Church, a distance of about four

miles from Cecil Place; and as they paced it but slowly, the increasing

chill of the gathering clouds gave intimation that the prime of day was

sinking into the eventide before the spire was in sight. As they at

length ascended the hill, upon the summit of which was the vault of the

Cecils, a young gentleman, mounted on a grey and noble charger, met the

funeral train so suddenly, that those who preceded halted, and for a

moment it was rumoured, that Sir Willmott Burrell, though late and last,

had taken the lower road from King's Ferry, and so arrived in time to

behold the remains of her who was to have been his mother, deposited in

the tomb.

When the people observed, however, that the salutation of respect made

by the youth to the Rev. Jonas Fleetword was followed by no sign of

recognition, they moved silently onward, marvelling amongst themselves

at the young gentleman's keeping a little in advance of the clergyman,

so as to take the exact station which belonged to the chief mourner. He

was habited in a suit of the deepest black; and though the cloak which

fell in ample folds from his throat concealed his figure, yet his

movements indicated that it was slight and graceful. His broad hat

completely shaded his face, but the luxuriant curls of light air, which,

moistened by the misty atmosphere, fell negligently beneath its brim,

intimated that he was more akin to the Cavalier than the Roundhead.

By the time the ceremony was concluded, and the divine had finished one

of those energetic and powerful appeals to the feelings which so

effectually roused or subdued, as it pleased him to desire, darkness had

nearly shrouded the surrounding landscape; and the multitude, whom

respect or curiosity had assembled, retired from the churchyard, and

wended to their homes. The year was in its third month, and the weather,

which, when Hugh Dalton landed, had been clear and fine, was now foggy

and cold:--

"The dewy night had with her frosty shade

Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground

Sparkled in ice----"

Yet the steed of the youth, who had so unceremoniously joined Lady

Cecil's funeral, was cropping the withered grass from the churchyard

graves, while his master, apparently unconscious of the deepening night,

leaned against one of the richly ornamented stone slabs that marked the

entrance to the vault.

Suddenly the clatter of horses' hoofs sounded on the crisp road, the

cavalier involuntarily placed his hand on his sword, and his horse

lifted his head from the earth, bent back his ears, and whinnied in the

low and peculiar tone that serves to intimate the approach of strangers.

The travellers (for there were two) halted at the churchyard gate.

"What ho there!" exclaimed the foremost--"you, sir, who are pondering in

graveyards at this hour, canst tell me if Lady Cecil's funeral took

place this morning?"

"Her ladyship was buried this evening," replied the other, at the same

time fairly drawing his sword out of its scabbard, though the movement

was concealed by his cloak.

"They waited then?"

"They did, for one whose presence was not needed."

"And pray, how know you that? or knowing, think you it wisdom, Sir

Dolorous, to give forth such knowledge, when it might be him they

tarried for who questioneth?"

"It is because I know you, Sir Willmott Burrell, that I am so free of

speech," replied the youth, vaulting into his saddle; "and I repeat it,

your presence was not needed. The lady, as you truly know, loved you not

while living; it was well, therefore, that you profaned not her burial

by a show of false grief."

"Here's a ruffler!" exclaimed the other, turning to his follower. "And

pray who are you?"

"You shall know that, good sir, when you least desire it," answered he

of the black cloak, reining up his horse, that pawed and pranced

impatiently: he then loosened the bridle, and would have crossed Burrell

to pass into the highway; but the other shouted to his associate, "Hold,

stop him, Robin! stop him in the name of the Lord! 'tis doubtless one of

the fellows who have assailed his Highness's life--a leveller--a

leveller! a friend of Miles Syndercomb, or some such ruffian, who is

tarrying in this remote part of the island for some opportunity of

escape. If you are an innocent man, you will remain; if guilty, this

shall be my warrant."

He attempted to pull forth a pistol from his belt, but, before his

purpose could be accomplished, the point of his adversary's rapier

rested on his throat, which, at the same instant, was grasped with more

strength than so slight a person could be supposed to possess. Burrell

cried to his comrade for help, but he was already out of hearing, having

set spurs to his horse the moment he had seen the assault; he then

entreated for quarter in an altered and humbled tone.

"I am neither a robber nor a murderer," replied the youth; "but, not

having pistols, I hold my own safety of too much value to relax my

grasp, till you pledge your honour not to attack me but with the same

weapon I can use in my defence."

Burrell pledged his word "as a Christian and a soldier:" the stranger

withdrew his sword.

"And now," said he, fixing himself firmly in his seat, and rolling his

cloak around his left arm, "if you wish for honourable combat, I am at

your service; if not, sir, I take my way, and you can proceed on yours."

He drew up to his full height, and awaited Burrell's answer, who sat as

if undetermined what course to pursue. He did not long hesitate; the

villain's ready friend--treachery--was at his elbow; in an instant the

pistol was presented to the head of his confiding antagonist, who,

though unprepared for such an act, bent forward previous to the effort

of raising himself in the saddle to give more strength to his good

steel. At the very instant that he bowed himself the ruffian fired! The

ball passed over him--he swayed in his saddle; the next moment, reining

up his horse, he prepared to punish such dastardly conduct as it

deserved; but, as worthless purposes are sometimes accomplished by

worthy instruments, the fleet steed that Burrell rode was far on its way

towards Minster, its track marked by fire-sparks, which glittered in the

thickening darkness.

The youth remained on the same spot until the sound of the horse's hoofs

were lost in the distance, and then, setting spurs to his own gallant

grey, proceeded on his course.

CHAPTER III.

"Now is the time when rakes their revels keep;

Kindlers of riot, enemies of sleep."

GAY.

"A brewer may be like a fox or a cub,

And teach a lecture out of a tub,

And give the wicked world a rub,

Which nobody can deny.

A brewer may be as bold as Hector,

When he had drunk his cup of nectar;

And a brewer may be a Lord Protector,

Which nobody can deny.

But here remains the strangest thing,

How this brewer about his liquor did bring

To be an Emperor or King,

Which nobody can deny.

Then push the brewer's liquor about,

And loudly let each true man shout--

Shout--"

"Shout not, I pray you, but rather keep silence," exclaimed an old

woman, cautiously opening the door of a room in which the revellers were

assembled, and thus interrupting their rude, but animated harmony;

"shout not: you may hear a horse's tramp without; and Crisp grumbles so

hard, that sure I am 'tis no friend's footstep."

"Why, mother," cried one of the company, winking on the rest, "you say

it was a horse you heard?"

"Well! and I say so still, good Master Roupall."

"Sure you do not make friends of horses?"

"Better make them of horses than of asses," replied the crone, bitterly;

and the laugh was raised against Roupall, who, as with all jesters,

could ill brook the jest that was at his own expense.

"I hear no tramp, and see no reason why you should interrupt us thus

with your hooting, you ill-favoured owl," he exclaimed fiercely.

"Hush!" she replied, placing her finger on her lip, while the little

terrier that stood at her feet, as if comprehending the signal, crept

stealthily to the door, and laying his nose on the floor, drew in his

breath; and then erecting his ears, and stiffening his short tail,

uttered a low determined growl.

"There are strangers, and near us too," observed an older man, who had

hitherto remained silent; "there is little doubt of their being

unfriendly: we had therefore better, seeing it would be imprudent to

fight, retreat."

"Retreat! and why, I wonder?" inquired Roupall, the most reckless and

daring of the set; and whose efforts were invariably directed towards

meriting the soubriquet of "Jack the Rover," by which he was usually

designated among his associates; "what care we, whether they be friends

or foes! let them enter. Old Noll has too much to do abroad, to heed a

few noisy troopers in an obscure hostelry in the Isle of Shepey."

"You are always heedless," observed the other; "and would sell your soul

for an hour's mirth."

"My soul thanks you for the compliment, truly, Master Grimstone, and my

body would repay you for it, if there was time, which, I take it, there

lacks just now, for it is past eleven. Observe, gentlemen, Jack Roupall

retreats not--he only retires." As he spoke, he pushed from a corner of

the apartment, a huge settle of black oak, that apparently required the

strength of six men to displace, but which the trooper handled as easily

as if it had been a child's cradle. He then slid aside a panel, that

fitted most accurately into the wall, of which it appeared a part; and

in a few moments the party, consisting of some five or six, had entered

the aperture, carrying with them the remnants of their feast, at the

particular request of the old woman, who exhibited great alarm lest any

symptom of revelling should remain. The last had hardly made good his

retreat, when a loud knock at the door confirmed the dame in her

apprehensions.

"In the devil's name!" she growled, "how am I to shove this mountain

into its place? One of you must remain here; I might as well attempt to

throw Blackburn cliff into the sea."

"I'll stay then, if you'll wait a minute," replied Roupall; "I defy the

devil and all his works; and old Noll himself, the worst of them:--so

here goes."

Another and a louder noise testified the traveller's impatience; but the

summons was repeated a third time before the settle was replaced, and

the room restored to its usually desolate and inhospitable appearance.

Roupall ascended a narrow ladder, that led to the loft of the

cottage-like dwelling, carrying with him a pack resembling those used by

itinerant venders of goods; and Mother Hays (for such was her cognomen)

holding the flickering candle in one hand, unfastened the door with the

other, while Crisp crouched and snarled at her feet.

"You could not have been all asleep, dame," said the stranger, as he

threw off his horseman's cloak, and hung his rapier on the back of the

nearest seat, "for I distinctly saw lights. Is your son within?"

"No, marry, good sir; he is far away, in London, with his master, Sir

Willmott Burrell, who was looked for home to-day, but came not, as I

hear from some neighbours, belonging to East Church and Warden, who were

at Lady Cecil's funeral."

"Do you expect me to believe there is no one in the house but yourself?"

"One other kind gentleman, a pedlar-man, a simple body, who lies above;

he's weary travelling, and sleeps soundly."

The stranger took off his hat; and as he shook his head, throwing

completely back the hair that had in some degree overshadowed his face,

the old woman started, and an undefined expression of astonishment and

doubt burst from her lips. The gentleman either did not, or appeared not

to notice the effect he produced; but carefully drew from his bosom a

small book or tablet, and read in it for some minutes with much

attention, turning over and over the one or two leaves upon which his

eyes were fixed.

"And are you sure, good woman, that no other persons are in your house

save this same pedlar?" he inquired, now fixing his gaze steadily on the

withered countenance of Mother Hays.

"Alack! yes, sir, few travellers come to the lone widow's door, and it's

an out o' the way place: wouldn't your honour like some supper, or a

stoop of wine, or, mayhap, a glass of brandy?--it is useful these raw

nights; or a rasher and eggs?"

"Are you quite certain there is no other in the house, and that your son

is really not returned?" he again inquired, heedless of her invitation.

"Why should I deceive your honour?--am I not old, and would you that I

should so sin against the Lord?"

"You were not always thus piously given," replied the youth, smiling.

"Know you aught of this token?" and he united his hands after a

particular fashion: "heard you never the words----" and he whispered a

short sentence into her ear: upon which she dropped a reverential

courtesy, and, without reply, ascended, as quickly as her age and

infirmities permitted, the ladder that led to Roupall's place of

retreat. Ere she returned, however, accompanied by the trooper, another

person had entered the dwelling. It was no other than her son Robin, for

whom the gentleman had first inquired, and they were both engaged in

such deep and earnest conversation, that neither noticed the addition to

the party, until the old woman had thrown her arms around her son's

neck, so as almost to stifle him with her caresses, seeming to lose all

sense of the stranger's presence in the fulness of joy at the youth's

return.

"There, mother, that will do; why, you forget I have been in London

lately, and 'tis not the court fashion to rejoice and be glad. Besides,

I have seen his Highness, and his Highness's daughters, and his

Highness's sons, and drank, in moderation, with his Highness's servants:

so, stand off, good mother, stand off!----'honour to whom honour.'" And

Robin laid his finger on his nose, while a remarkable expression of

cunning and shrewdness passed along his sharp and peculiar features.

As he busied himself with preparations for the guest's supper, it was

impossible to avoid observing his quick and energetic movements, spare

body, dwarfish stature, and long apish arms, that appeared in greater

disproportion when viewed beside the now sedate and elevated carriage,

the muscular and finely-developed form of the bulky trooper. And, in

good sooth, it seemed that Roupall little relished the extraordinary

civility shown to the new comer, both by mother and son. Had the

stranger been disposed to hold any converse with him, matters might have

been different; but he neither asked nor required information--sitting,

after his return from the shed in which he had seen his horse sheltered,

with his legs stretched out in front of the warm fire, his arms folded

on his bosom, and his eyes fixed on the blazing wood that lent a

brilliant light to the surrounding objects--giving a simple, though not

uncourteous reply of "Yea," or "Nay," to the leading questions

occasionally put to him by his rough, yet inquisitive companion. At

length, when the rashers were dressed and deposited on the table,

flanked on either side with a flagon of Canary and of Gascoigne, and the

traveller had done ample justice to his cheer, he, with a conciliating

smile and bow, wished the widow and Roupall "Good night," and followed

Robin up the ladder, observing that his rest must be very brief, as he

had occasion to start early next morning, and begging the good widow and

her friend to finish the draught of her own excellent wine, to which he

feared to render farther justice. Some time elapsed ere Robin returned;

and when he did, he perceived that Roupall was in no gentle humour.

"Have you warmed the chicken's nest, and taken good and tender care of

the gentle bird, according to orders, Robin? Gadzooks! I see so many

cocks with hens' feathers now-a-days--sweet-scented Cavaliers, who could

no more draw a trigger than they could mount the moon, that I think Hugh

Dalton must line the Fire-fly with miniver to bring them safely over. A

murrain take such fellows! say I--close-mouthed, long-eared scoundrels.

D--n it! I love a frank heart----"

"And a bloody hand, Master Roupall."

"Stuff! stuff! Robin; few of either party can show clean hands these

times; but does yon gallant come from over sea?"

"It might be that he dropped from the sky, for that is over the sea, you

know."

"Faugh! you are as snappish as a cur whelp. I mean, what is he about?"

"Sleeping. Zooks! I'm sure he sleeps."

"Is he of good credit?"

"Faith, Roupall, I know not his banker."

"Good again, Master Robin; upon what grinding-stone were your wits

sharpened?"

"Right loyally, good trooper; even upon King Log," replied Robin,

grinning maliciously; and then, as if fearful that the gathering storm

would forthwith burst, he continued: "Come, let's have a carouse, and

wake the sleepers in that snug nest between walls; let's welcome in the

morning, like gay gallants, while I tell you the court news, and exhibit

the last court fashion, as it graces my own beautiful form!"

The man looked at him and smiled, soothed into something resembling

good-nature by the odd humour and appearance of his old companion, who

was tricked out, with much precision, in a blue doublet and yellow hose,

while a large bow of sad-coloured riband, with fringed ends, dangled

from either knee. He then glanced a look of complacency on his own

proper person, and replied,--

"No, let them sleep, Robin; they are better off than I. That maidenlike

friend of yours has taken possession of my bed, after your mother's

routing me up as if I had been a stoat or a dormouse. Of course he is a

Cavalier: I suppose he has a name; but is that, too, a secret?"

"Master Roupall," replied the other, with a look of great sagacity, "as

to the person, it's hard to say who's who, these times; and as to the

name, why, as you say, I suppose he has a name, and doubtless a good

one, though I cannot exactly now call to mind what it is; for at

court----"

"D--n court!" interrupted the other--"you're all court-smitten, I'm

thinking. In plain English, I want to know who this youngster is? When

Hugh is in one of his romances, he cares not who or what he sends us,

either here, or, what is of more consequence, on the main-land--and we

are to receive them and 'tend them, and all the time, mayhap, are

hazarding our own heads; for I'd bet an even wager that one of the

ferrymen is a spy in the pay of old red-nose; and it's little we get for

such hazards--it's many a day since even a keg of brandy has been run

ashore."

"You have sworn an oath, for which I should exact, I think, the sum of

three shillings and four-pence, Jack the Rover; but, I fear me, thou

hast not wherewithal to satisfy the law, even in a small thing, until

thou offerest thy neck unto the halter as a sacrifice. But did Hugh

Dalton ever bring you, or any man, into trouble yet?" continued Robin,

composing his comic features into a grave and quiet character.

"I can't say that he did."

"I am sure he has had opportunities enough."

"I'm not going to deny that Hugh's a fine fellow, Robin; but I remember,

long ago, ay, thirteen or fourteen years past, before he entered on the

regular buccaneering trade, there wasn't a firmer Cavalier amongst the

whole of us Kentish men. Blazes! how he fought at Marston! But a few

years' sunning off the hot Havannah either scorches the spirit out of a

man, or burns it in."

"And what reason have you to think that Hugh is not now a good

Cavalier?"

"Pshaw! he grows old, and it's no good trying to pull Oliver down. He's

charmed. Ay, you may laugh; but no one of us could have escaped the

bullet of Miles Syndercomb, to say nothing of dark John Talbot:--I tell

ye, he is spell-guarded. Hugh is a knowing one, and has some plan

a-foot, or he wouldn't keep beating about this coast as he does, after

being so long from it, and using every county but Sussex and Kent. I

wonder, too, what placed you, Master Robin, in Burrell of Burrell's

service: I thought you were a man of taste till then."

Robin again grinned; and, as his wide mouth literally extended from ear

to ear, his face looked, as it were, divided by some accident; so

separate did the chin appear from the upper portion of the countenance.

"If you wo'n't talk," growled out the trooper, "I hope you will pay

those who do so for your amusement."

"Thou wouldst have me believe, then, thou art no genuine disinterested

talker. Ah! Roupall, Roupall! acquaintance with courts has taught me,

that nature in the first place, and society in the second, have imposed

upon us mortals two most disagreeable necessities: the one is that of

eating; the other, that of talking. Now nature is a tyrant, and society

is a tyrant; and I, being a tyrant-hater----"

"'Slife, man--or mongrel--or whatever you choose to call your twisted

carcass," interrupted Roupall, angrily, "hold your jibber. I wonder Joan

Cromwell did not seize upon you, and keep you as her chief ape, while

you were making your courtly acquaintance. A pretty figure for courts,

truly!--ah! ah! ah!" As he laughed, he pointed his finger scornfully

towards Robin Hays, who, however little he might care to jest upon his

own deformity, was but ill inclined to tolerate those who even hinted at

his defects. As the trooper persevered, his victim grew pale and

trembled with suppressed rage. The man perceived the effect his cruel

mockery produced, and continued to revile and take to pieces the

mis-shapen portions of his body with most merciless anatomy. Robin

offered, in return, neither observation nor reproach;--at first

trembling and change of colour were the only indications of his

feelings--then he moved restlessly on his seat, and his bright and

deeply sunken eyes gleamed with untamable malignity; but, as Roupall

followed one jeer more brutal than the rest, with a still more

boisterous laugh, and, in the very rapture of his success, threw himself

back in his chair, the tiger spirit of Robin burst forth to its full

extent: he sprang upon the trooper so suddenly, that the Goliath was

perfectly conquered, and lay upon the floor helpless as an overgrown and

overfed Newfoundland dog, upon whose throat a sharp and bitter terrier

has fastened. At length, after much exertion, he succeeded in standing

erect against the wall of the apartment, though still unable to

disengage Robin's long arms and bony fingers from his throat, where he

hung like a mill-stone: it was some minutes ere the gigantic man had

power to throw from him the attenuated being whom, on ordinary

occasions, he could have lifted between his finger and thumb.

Robin gathered himself up on the spot to which Roupall had flung him;

his chin resting on his knees, round which his arms were clasped; his

narrow chest and shoulders heaving with the exertion of the conflict;

his eyes wild and glittering, yet fixed upon his adversary, like those

of some fierce animal eager to dart upon its prey. The trooper shook

himself, and passed his hand once or twice over his throat, as if to

ascertain whether or not he were really strangled; then returning

Robin's gaze as steadily, though with a far different expression, he

said,--

"Upon my soul, you are as strong a hand at a grapple as I would care to

meet; nor would I believe, did I not know it, that Roupall the Rover,

who has borne more blows upon his thick head than there are days in

February, and rises six feet two without boots, could be half choked by

little Robin the Ranger, who stands forty inches in his shoes;--but I

beg pardon for offending a man of your mettle. I warrant you safe from

any future jests of mine; I like not quarrelling with old friends--when

there is nothing to be got by it. Tut, man! leave off your moping, and

shake hands, like a Christian. You wo'n't! why you are not going to

convert your body into a nursery for bad blood, are you? What would

pretty Barbara Iverk say to that?"

Robin laughed a laugh so loud, so shrill, so unearthly, that it echoed

like a death-howl along the walls; then stretched out and looked on his

ill-formed limbs, extended his long and grappling fingers, and muttered

bitterly, "Curse!--curse!--curses on myself! I am a dainty morsel for a

fair girl's love! Ah! ah! ah! a dainty morsel!" he repeated, and covered

his face with his broad palms. Thus, shutting out the sight of his own

deformities, and rocking himself backwards and forwards, moaning and

jibbering like one distraught, he remained for several minutes. At

length poor Crisp, who had been a most anxious spectator of the scene,

ran timidly to his master, and, standing on his hind legs, began licking

his fingers with an affectionate earnestness, more soothing to his

agitated feelings than all the sincere apologies of the trooper, whose

rough good-nature was really moved at what had taken place. Slowly

uncovering his face, Robin pressed the little animal to his bosom,

bending his head over it, and muttering in a tone the dog seemed fully

to understand, by the low whine with which he returned the caress. After

a time his eyes met those of Roupall's, but their meaning was totally

changed: they no longer sparkled with fury, but were as quiet and

subdued as if nothing had occurred.

"You'll shake hands now," exclaimed the trooper, "and make the child's

bargain."

Robin, rising, extended his hand; and it was cordially taken by his

adversary, who soon after removed the settle, and entered the concealed

room to join his slumbering companions.

Whatever were Robin's plans, reflections, or feelings, time alone can

develope; for, laying himself before the yet burning embers of the fire,

he appropriated the stranger's cloak as a coverlet, in which to enshroud

himself and Crisp; and, if oral demonstrations are to be credited, was

soon in a profound sleep.

CHAPTER IV.

Yet not the more

Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt

Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,

Smit with the love of sacred song.

* * * * *

Great things, and full of wonder, in our ears,

Far differing from the world, thou hast revealed,

Divine Interpreter.

MILTON.

The morning that followed was rife with the sweet and balmy air and the

gay sunshine, so duly prized in our variable climate, because of the

rarity of their occurrence; more especially when the year is yet too

young to assist with vigour the energies of all-industrious nature. The

trees, in their faint greenery, looked cheerful as the face of

childhood: the merry birds were busied after their own gentle fashion

forming their dwellings in the covert and solitude of the wooded slopes

which effectually sheltered Cecil Place from the chill blast of the

neighbouring sea. The freshened breeze came so kindly through the thick

underwood, as to be scarcely felt by the early wanderers of the upland

hill or valley green. Even the rough trooper, Roupall, yielded to the

salutary influence of the morn; and as he toiled in his pedlar's guise

across the downs, which were mottled with many hundred sheep, and

pointed the pathway to King's Ferry, his heart softened within him.

Visions of his once happy home in Cumberland--of the aged parents who

fostered his infancy--of the companions of his youth, before he had

lived in sin, or dwelt with sorrow--of the innocent girl, who had loved,

though she had forsaken him--all passed before him; the retrospect

became the present; and his heart swelled painfully within him; for he

thought on what he had been, and on what he was, until, drawing his

coarse hand across his brows, he gave forth a dissolute song, seeking,

like many who ought to be wiser, to stifle conscience by tumultuous

noise.

About the same hour, our friend Robin Hays was more than usually active

in his mother's house, which we have already described, and which was

known by the name of the "Gull's Nest." The old woman had experienced

continued kindness from the few families of rank and wealth who at that

time resided in Shepey. With a good deal of tact, she managed outwardly

to steer clear of all party feuds; though people said she was by no

means so simple as she pretended; but the universal sympathy of her

neighbours was excited by her widowed and almost childless state--three

fine sons having been slain during the civil wars--and the fourth, our

acquaintance Robin, being singularly undervalued, on the ordinary

principle, we may presume, that "a prophet hath no honour in his own

country." This feeling of depreciation Robin certainly returned with

interest, indulging a most bitter, and, occasionally, biting contempt

for all the high and low in his vicinity, the family at Cecil Place

forming the only exception. Despite his defects natural and acquired, he

had, however, managed to gain the good opinion of Burrell of Burrell,

who, though, frequently on the island, possessed only a small portion of

land within its boundary. Into his service he entered for the purpose of

accompanying the knight to London as travelling-groom; and he had

rendered himself so useful while sojourning in the metropolis, that

Burrell would fain have retained him in his employ--a project, however,

to which Robin strenuously objected, the moment it was communicated to

him. "Nature," he said, "had doubtless made him a bond-slave; but he

liked her fetters so little, that he never would be slave to any one or

any thing beside." He therefore returned to the "Gull's Nest" on the

night his late master arrived at Cecil Place, from which his mother's

home was distant about three miles.

Never was there a dwelling more appropriately named than the cottage of

Mother Hays. It stood on either a real or artificial eminence between

Sheerness and Warden, facing what is called "The Cant," and very near

the small village of East Church. The clay and shingle of which it was

composed would have ill encountered the whirlwind that in tempestuous

weather fiercely yelled around the cliffs, had it not been for the firm

support afforded to it by the remains of an ancient watchtower, against

which the "Gull's Nest" leaned. Perched on this remarkable spot, and

nestling close to the mouldering but still sturdy walls, the very stones

of which disputed with the blast, the hut formed no inappropriate

dwelling for withered age, and, if we may be allowed the term,

picturesque deformity. Robin could run up and down every cliff in the

neighbourhood like a monkey--could lie on the waters, and sport amid

the breakers, with the activity of a cub-seal--dive like an otter; and,

as nature generally makes up in some way or other for defects similar to

those so conspicuous in the widow's son, she had gifted him with so

sweet a voice, that the fishermen frequently rested on their oars

beneath "Gull's Nest" crag, to listen to Robin's wild and mournful

ballads, which full often mingled with the murmur of the small waves as

they rippled on the strand. But the manikin, Robin, had higher and

better qualities than those we have endeavoured to describe--qualities

which Hugh Dalton, with the ready wisdom that discovers at once what is

excellent, and then moulds that excellence to its own purpose, had

assiduously cultivated. Many years before the period of which we treat,

Robin had accompanied the Buccaneer on one or two piratical cruises; and

though it cannot be denied that Hugh was a better sailor than scholar,

yet he generously sought to secure for little Robin the advantages he

did not himself possess; Robin, accordingly, received daily instruction

in penmanship from a run-away merchant's clerk, the clerk and

bookkeeper, the lubber and idler of the crew.

Robin laboured to reward this kindness by unshaken fidelity, unceasing

watchfulness, and a wild enthusiasm which endeared him to the rude

captain, as if he were something that belonged exclusively to himself.

The Buccaneer knew that secrets, where life and property were at stake,

were safe in his keeping; and as the renowned Dalton had often worked in

the service of both Cavaliers and Roundheads, a person of ready wit and

true heart was most invaluable as an auxiliary on the coast.

If the Buccaneer entertained any political creed, it was certainly in

favour of the exiled Charles: a bold and intrepid spirit like his felt

something most galling and repulsive in the stern and unyielding

government of the Protector. A ruler who not only framed acts, but saw

those acts enforced, whether they regarded a "Declaration for a day of

Publique Thanksgiving," or "A Licence for transporting Fish in Foreign

Bottoms," was not likely to be much after the taste of one who had the

essence of lawgiving only within himself, and who perceived clearly

enough that the royal but thoughtless Stuarts would be more easily

managed--more prone, if not from feeling, at all events from indolence,

to overlook the peccadilloes of such as Dalton, than the unflinching

Oliver, who felt that every evil he redressed was a fresh jewel in his

sceptre. Nevertheless, as we have seen, the Buccaneer had decided on

offering his services to the Commonwealth: he believed that Cromwell

knew his talents and valued his courage; but he also knew that the

Protector piqued himself upon consistency, and that, consequently, there

would be vast difficulties to overcome, as a price had more than once

been set upon his head.

We must, however, conduct our readers back into the fresh morning we

have instanced as one of the favourites of spring. Leaving Robin to his

preparations for the stranger's breakfast, and premising that he had

previously dismissed the midnight revellers on their respective errands,

we will roam for a while amid the sheltered walks of Cecil Place.

It was situated on the slope of the hill, leading to the old monastery

of Minster. Although nothing now exists except the church, a few broken

walls, and a modernised house, formed out of one of the principal

entrances to what was once an extensive range of monastic buildings; yet

at the time of which we treat, the ruins of the nunnery, founded by

Sexburga, the widow of Ercombert, King of Kent, extended down the rising

ground, presenting many picturesque points of view from the small but

highly-cultivated pleasure grounds of Cecil Place. Nothing could be more

beautiful than the prospect from a rude terrace which had been the

favourite walk of Lady Cecil. The small luxuriant hills, folding one

over the other, and terminating in the most exquisite valleys and bosky

glades the imagination can conceive--the rich mixture of pasture and

meadow land--the Downs, stretching to King's Ferry, whitened by

thousands of sheep, whose bleatings and whose bells made the isle

musical--while, beyond, the narrow Swale, widening into the open sea,

shone like a silver girdle in the rays of the glorious sun--were

objects, indeed, delicious to gaze upon.

Although, during the Protectorate, some pains had been taken to render

Sheerness, then a very inconsiderable village, a place of strength and

safety, and the ancient castle of Queenborough had been pulled down by

the Parliamentarians, as deficient in strength and utility, no one

visiting only the southern and western parts of the island could for a

moment imagine that the interior contained spots of such positive and

cultivated beauty.

It was yet early, when Constantia Cecil, accompanied by a female friend,

entered her favourite flower-garden by a private door, and strolled

towards a small Gothic temple overshadowed by wide-spreading oaks,

which, sheltered by the surrounding hills, had numbered more than a

century of unscathed and undiminished beauty, and had as yet escaped the

rude pruning of the woodman's axe. The morning habit of the noble

Constance fitted tightly to the throat, where it was terminated by a

full ruff of starched muslin, and the waist was encircled by a wide band

of black crape, from which the drapery descended in massive folds to her

feet. She pressed the soft green turf with a more measured step than was

her wont, as if the body shared the mind's sad heaviness. Her head was

uncovered, save that, as she passed into the garden, she had carelessly

thrown on a veil of black muslin, through which her bright hair shone

with the lustre and richness of the finest satin: her throat and

forehead appeared most dazzlingly white in contrast with her sable

dress.

The lady by whom she was accompanied was not so tall, and of a much

slighter form; her limbs delicately moulded, and her features more

attractive than beautiful. There was that about her whole demeanour

which is expressively termed coquetry, not the coquetry of action, but

of feeling: her eyes were dark and brilliant, her mouth full and

pouting; and the nose was only saved from vulgarity by that turn, to

describe which we are compelled to use a foreign term--it was _un peu

retrousse_: her complexion was of a clear olive, through which the blood

glowed warmly whenever called to her cheek by any particular emotion.

The dress she wore, without being gay, was costly: the full skirt of

crimson grogram descended not so low as to prevent her small and

beautifully-turned ankle from being distinctly seen, and the cardinal of

wrought purple velvet, which had been hastily flung over her shoulders,

was lined and bordered with the finest ermine. Nor did the contrast

between the ladies end here: the full and rich-toned voice of Constance

Cecil was the perfection of harmony, while the light and gay speech of

her companion might be called melody--the sweet playful melody of an

untaught bird.

"You must not mourn so unceasingly, my dear Constance," she said,

looking kindly into the sorrowing face of her friend: "I could give you

counsel--but counsel to the distressed is like chains thrown upon

troubled waters."

"Say not so, Frances; rather like oil upon a stormy sea is the sweet

counsel of a friend; and truly none but a friend would have turned from

the crowded and joyous court to sojourn in this lonely isle; and, above

all, in the house of mourning."

"I do not deny to you, Constance, that I love the gaiety, the pomp, and

the homage of our courts; that both Hampton and Whitehall have many

charms for me; but there are some things--some things I love far more. I

loved your mother," she continued, in a tone of deeper feeling than was

usual with so gay a spirit; "and I love the friend who, while she

reproves my follies, can estimate my virtues: for even my sombre sister

Elizabeth, your grave god-mother, admits that I have virtues, though she

denies them to be of an exalted nature."

"Were the Lady Claypole to judge of others according to the standard of

her own exceeding excellence, Frances, we should, indeed, fall far below

what we are disposed to believe is our real value; but, like the rose,

instead of robbing less worthy flowers of their fragrance, she imparts

to them a portion of her own."

"Now should I like to call that a most courtly compliment, but for my

life I cannot--it is so true."

"You pronounce a severe satire on your father's court, my friend; and

one that I hope it merits not."

"Merits! Perhaps not--for, though the youngest and least rational of my

father's children, I can perceive there are some about him who hit upon

truth occasionally, either by chance or intention. There's that rugged

bear, Sir Thomas Pride, whom, I have heard say, my father knighted with

a mopstick--he, I do believe, speaks truth, and of a truth follows one

scriptural virtue, being no respecter of persons. As to General George

Monk, my father trusts him--and so--yet have I observed, at any mention

of Charles Stuart's name, a cunning twinkling of the eye that may yet

kindle into loyalty.--I would as soon believe in his honesty as in his

lady's gentleness. Did you hear, by the way, what Jerry, my poor

disgraced beau, Jerry White, said of her? Why, that if her husband could

raise and command a regiment endowed with his wife's spirit, he might

storm the stronghold of sin, and make Satan a state prisoner. Then our

Irish Lord Chancellor--we call him the true Steele; and, indeed, any one

who ventures to tell my father he errs, deserves credit. Yes, Sir

William Steele may certainly be called a truth-teller. Not so our last

court novelty, Griffeth Williams of Carnarvon, Esq., who though he

affects to despise all modern titles, and boasts of his blood-ties with

the Princes of Wales, Kings of France, Arragon, Castile, and Man, with

the sovereigns of Englefield and Provence to boot, yet moves every

secret engine he can find to gain a paltry baronetcy! Even you, dear

Constance, would have smiled to see the grave and courtly salutations

that passed between him and the Earl of Warwick--the haughty Earl, who

refused to sit in the same house with Pride and Hewson--a circumstance,

by the way, that caused Jerry White to say, 'he had too much _Pride_ to

attend to the mending of his _soul_.' The jest is lost unless you

remember that Hewson had been a cobbler. As to John Milton----"

"Touch him not," interrupted Constance; "let not your thoughtless mirth

light upon John Milton; there is that about the poet, which made me feel

the very first time I saw him, that--

'Something holy lodges in that breast.'

I remember the day well, now more than three years ago, while staying at

Hampton Court, (whither your gracious mother had commanded me,) and

reading to the Lady Claypole, near the small window of her

dressing-room, which opened into the conservatory, one sultry July

evening, when the last rays of the golden sun disturbed the sober and to

me more touching beauty of the silver night--at last I could no longer

see, and closed the volume; your sister, in sweet and gentle voice,

stayed me to repeat some passages from the 'Masque of Comus.' How

accurately I can call to mind her every tone, as it mingled with the

perfume of the myrtle and orange trees, impregnating the air at once

with harmony and fragrance.

'So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity,

That, when a soul is found sincerely so,

A thousand liveried angels lackey her,

Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt;

And in clear dream and solemn vision

Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear,

Till oft converse with heavenly habitants

Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape,

The unpolluted temple of the mind.

And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence,

Till all be made immortal.'

I was so absorbed by the beauty of the poetry, and the exquisite grace

and feeling with which it was repeated, that my eyes were riveted on

your sister; nor could I withdraw them, even when she ceased to speak.

Thus abstracted, I was perfectly unconscious that a gentleman was

standing close to the great orange-tree, so that the rays of the full

moon rested on his uncovered head: his hair was parted in the centre,

and fell on his shoulders at either side, and his deportment was of

mingled dignity and sweetness. 'John Milton!' exclaimed Lady Claypole,

rising; 'I knew not,' she continued, 'that you had been so near

us.'--'The temptation was great, indeed, madam: a poet never feels that

he has true fame, until lips such as yours give utterance to his lines.'

He bowed low, and I thought coldly, over Lady Claypole's extended hand.

She walked into the conservatory, and called on me to follow. How my

heart throbbed! how I trembled! I felt in the almost divine presence of

one whose genius I had worshipped with a devotion which, enthusiastic as

it was, I am not even now ashamed of. I longed to fall at his feet, and

implore his blessing; to kiss the hem of his garment; and thought, in my

foolishness, that inspiration might be communicated by his touch. I

pushed back my hair, so that I might not lose a word he uttered, or the

least look he gave. 'His sight was so impaired,' he said, 'that the

light of day occasioned him much pain; and of late he had been so

useless to his Highness, that he feared to intrude too often into his

presence.' Lady Claypole made some remark, which in truth I little

heeded, for I longed again to hear the poet speak; nor did I remain

ungratified. In answer to some observation, he stated, 'he was well

aware that much of what he had written would not meet with the

indulgence she had graciously bestowed upon his verse; for, though they

both valued freedom, they widely differed as to the mode of its

attainment.' To this the Lady Claypole made no reply; and presently we

had issued from the conservatory, and stood for a few moments on the

terrace. 'How beautiful!' said your sister, as she raised her eyes to

the glorious heavens, sparkling with countless stars, whose brilliancy

was showered on the now sleeping earth--'Yes, beautiful!' repeated

Milton; and his voice, so musical, yet melancholy, thrilled to my inmost

soul: 'Beautiful!' he said again, as if the word was pleasant in his

ears; 'and yet the time is coming fast when I shall behold that beauty

no more--when I shall be more humbled than the poor insects upon which I

may now heedlessly tread--they creep, but see; I shall be a thing of

darkness in the midst of light--irrevocably dark!--total

eclipse!--without the hope of day! Your pardon, Lady; but is it not

strange, that life's chiefest blessing should be enthroned in such a

tender ball, when feeling is diffused all over us?'--'The Maker must be

the best judge,' replied your sister.--''Tis true,' he said; 'and the

same hand that wounds can heal. I will not sorrow, if I can refrain from

grief, though it is hard to bear; yet often, when I look upon my

daughters, I think how sad 'twill be when I no more can trace their

change of form and feature. And this deep affliction comes upon me in my

manhood's prime:--life in captivity--all around me grows darker each

fair day I live. A bunch of violets was given me this morning; their

fragrance was delicious, yet I could not discern the little yellow germ

that I knew dwelt within their dark blue petals, and I put them from me

because I could not see as well as smell:--'twas foolish, but 'twas

natural. The moon at this very moment looks so sallow--pale--and you,'

he bowed to us as he spoke, 'and you, even you, ladies, appear both dim

and cold!' I thought he laid more emphasis on the word _cold_ than on

the other words, perhaps in allusion to the political differences

between Lady Claypole and himself: your sister thought so too.--'You do

us wrong,' she observed warmly; 'never, never cold to John Milton!

never, indeed never! This sad affliction, if it should continue, (which

the Almighty in his mercy forbid!) will create for you new worlds; when

all its treasures are destroyed, you will but close your eyes on earth

that you may look through heaven.' What would I not have given for such

a rewarding smile as played upon without disturbing his features! Your

sister, surprised into an enthusiasm that was not in keeping with her

usually subdued deportment, turned aside, and taking me by the hand,

presented me to him, saying, 'Here, sir, is a little girl, who, though

she has only numbered sixteen summers, has learned to value Milton!'

What do you think I said, Frances? Nothing:--that might have

passed--but what do you think I did? I fell on my knees, and kissed his

hand! I am almost ashamed to repeat such frowardness, though done in all

the purity of truth;--not that I think he was displeased."

"Displeased!" interrupted the Lady Frances, who had kept silence

marvellously long; "oh! no, it is not in man to be displeased with the

devotedness, the love of woman----"

"I prithee, peace," interrupted Constance in her turn: for the word

'love' had called the flush into her pale cheek; "thou art ever placing

earth on a level with heaven."

"And thou, my saintly friend, wouldst bring heaven down to earth. I

remember my sister Claypole treating of this before, saying that Milton

laid his fingers on thy forehead, and that thou didst clip off the

particular ringlet pressed by them, and enshrine it in a jewelled

cross."

"I confess----"

"To the folly of despoiling thy tresses?"

"Dearest Frances, you are cruel in your gaiety. How I watched his

retreating footsteps as he passed under the archway, after bidding us

good night! His gait was measured, but, though his sight was so

impaired, I observed that his head was thrown upward, and that he walked

as one having no fear."

"Well, give me Milton in the morn, but the gay Lovelace when the

twilight shades come down. I know a fair gentleman who sings his ballads

most sweetly. You, too, had you heard him, would have listened a second

tune:--

'True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field,

And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword--a horse--a shield.

'Yet this inconstancy is such

As you, too, shall adore--

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honour more!'

But I forget, the theme is a forbidden one; and I see, Constance, you do

not like my poet, and I have a mind not to admire yours! Ah! poor

Lovelace! he might have been my laureate."

"I thought the Lady Frances sighed no longer for a thorny crown."

"I may surely love the poetry of a Cavalier without wishing to be the

bride of Prince Charlie. My father's fiat has gone forth against my

royal lover's offer, and so I shall be the wife of some staid sober

Covenanter, I suppose; that is, if I follow my father's wishes, and

marry Will Dulton."

"Better than be the wedded mistress of a dissolute man," said Constance,

firmly. "Believe me, Charles Stuart has all his father's weakness

without his father's virtues."

"Well, be it so," replied Frances Cromwell: "I did not care; but

methinks I should have liked the garniture of a crown and the grasp of a

sceptre. You should have been my first maid of honour.--But your pardon,

lady fair--you will be the first married, if I can judge from Sir

Willmott Burrell's earnestness of late." As she spoke, Constance Cecil

grew deadly pale; and, to conceal her emotion, sat upon the step of the

Gothic temple before which they had been standing for some minutes.

Frances did not observe the change, but heedlessly continued:--"Ah! it

is happy for those who can marry as they will, and him they love; to

whom the odious Sound of 'state necessity' is utterly unknown."

"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.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Frances, "she must be recovered, for her position

is changed." And so it was--the veil of black had entirely fallen off,

and her unconfined hair reposed in rich shadowy masses on her bosom and

shoulders: one arm rested on her knee, while the extended hand supported

her head; the other was open on her lap, and upon its small and

transparent palm lay a large locket of peculiar workmanship, set round

with brilliants. On this her eyes were fixed; and when her bower-maid,

Barbara, endeavoured to rouse her mistress's attention, the first

symptom of returning consciousness she gave, was to hide the jewel

within her bosom. She appeared like one waking from a long dream.

Frances spoke to her in a tone of gentle cheerfulness,--

"Come, dearest, it is cold; we will in: you must be better presently.

One moment; let me bind up this hair; it keeps back the cloak from

covering your throat, and you shiver like an aspen." Frances was

gathering the large tresses eagerly in her hand, when she stopped, and

letting them suddenly fall, exclaimed,--

"What's here to do! One of the finest of your lady's braids severed more

than mid-way, and by no scissors, truly; absolutely butchered! Do but

look, Barbara; I am sure 'twas not so this morning!"

The young tire-woman lifted up her hands in horror and amazement; for

she very properly regarded her mistress's beautiful hair as under her

own especial control, and was about to make some inquiry touching the

mysterious incident, when Constance drew the cardinal completely over

her head, and, leaning her arm on Barbara's shoulder, proceeded towards

the house.

Notwithstanding the great anxiety of Lady Frances on the score of her

friend's indisposition, and it is but justice to admit she loved her

with all the constancy of which her volatile nature was capable, her

affection was nearly overpowered by her curiosity--curiosity to discover

how Constance obtained the locket, and how she lost her most admired

tress. Yet, to neither of these perplexities had she the slightest clue.

Intimate as they had been from childhood; superior as was her rank to

that of Sir Robert Cecil's daughter; yet was there no one of her

acquaintance with whom she would not sooner have taken a liberty than

with Constance Cecil. In the course of the day she tried every little

art that female ingenuity could devise, short of saying, "How came you

by that locket?" to induce her to talk on the subject--and in vain.

Constance made no assertion--offered no explanation; but, when Frances

appeared to come too near the subject, she silenced all farther approach

to confidential communication, simply by raising her clear, calm, and

holy eye, letting it fall upon the animated, restless face of her

companion, and then shading its glory by the long silken lashes that

almost rested on the exquisitely moulded cheek. It was this peculiar

look that made her lively friend usually designate her "the awful

beauty."

Still curiosity, that most busy and feminine sprite, tortured the Lady

Frances with extraordinary perseverance; and, in the end, it suddenly

occurred to her that Barbara might know or conjecture something about

the matter: accordingly, at night, she dismissed her own women, under

some pretext or other, to their chambers, and summoned the pretty

Puritan to wait at her toilet. Poor Barbara was as neat and as docile a

maid as any country gentlewoman could desire; but, as she had never

accompanied her ladies to court, to which, because of Lady Cecil's

illness, they had been rare visiters of late, she felt somewhat nervous

on being called into active duty by so great a personage as the Lady

Frances Cromwell. With trembling hands she unlaced the velvet bodice,

released the tiny feet from their thraldom, set loose the diamond clasps

of the sparkling stomacher; and, after arraying the lady in a wrapping

robe of fringed linen, with point-lace collar, commenced the

disentangling of her raven hair: this was a task that required skill and

patience. Nature had been so bountiful to her own fair mistress, that

her hair needed no art to increase either its quality or quantity: the

simple Barbara consequently stood aghast when a vast portion of the

fabric fell to the ground the moment a little dark band had been

separated from the pretty head of the more courtly maiden. Frances

laughed as the girl's astonished features were reflected in the polished

mirror before which she sat: so evident was her dismay, as she held it

forth, exclaiming, "I did not pull it off, my lady----"

"Ah, wicked wench! so you would rob _my_ head as well as your lady's.

Now, Barbara, tell me truly, what didst do with that same lock I missed

this morning?"

"I, my lady?"

"Yes, you. No one else, I suppose, dresses your lady's hair."

"That may be; but I assure your ladyship I never cut off that curl:--it

is quite wonderful!"

"So it is, as you say, like a very sensible girl, 'quite wonderful;'

but, Barbara, do you think you could find out who did cut it off?"

"Not unless my lady would tell me."

"But is there no way?"

"Only by asking my lady, and that I could not presume to do."

"Nor I either," thought Lady Frances: "but, Barbara, you might

think--or--or--see perhaps----"

"Please you, my lady, I do think a great deal, and the Rev. Mr.

Fleetword said to me only this morning, that I grew in grace as much as

in stature. And, as to seeing, please your ladyship----"

"Pshaw, child! it is not that I mean. Could you not discover?

Besides--the locket! did you ever see that locket in your lady's

possession till this morning?"

"No, madam."

"Perhaps," continued Frances, blushing and stammering at her curiosity,

"it might be well to ascertain something about both mysteries, for your

lady's good."

"I am sure, my lady, I can't tell; but my mistress is very wise, and if

she wished me to know any thing of such like, would direct me herself.

Shall I put any of this ambergris in your ladyship's hair, or do you

better like the musk-rose?"--How perplexing to the cunning is

straightforward simplicity! "Now," thought Lady Frances, "one of the

court waiting-maids would have comprehended my meaning in a moment; and

this wench, with ten times their zeal and real sense, thinks it

downright wicked to pry into her lady's secrets. I wonder my women have

not taught her the court fashions.--You may go to bed, Barbara; light my

night lamp, and give me a book; I do not feel at all sleepy."

Barbara, with great _naivete_, presented to Lady Frances a small Bible

that lay on the dressing-table:--something resembling a smile passed

over the lady's face as she took the volume, but she only observed,

"Give me also that book with the golden clasps; I would fain peruse my

cousin Waller's last hymn.--What an utterly useless thing is that which

is called simplicity!" she said, half aloud, as Barbara closed the door.

"And yet I would sooner trust my life in the hands of that country

damsel, than with the fine ones, who, though arrayed in plain gowns,

flatter corrupt fancies at Whitehall or Hampton!"

CHAPTER V.

By holy Mary! Butts, there's knavery.

SHAKSPEARE.

Having consigned the Lady Frances Cromwell to her perfumed couch, and

the companionship of Waller's sweet and sonorous strains, we leave her

to determine whether the high and mighty Lady Dorothea Sidney, the

Poet's Saccharissa, or the gentle Lady Sophia Murray, the beauteous

Amoret of his idolatry, were most worthy the affection he so generously

bestowed on both. Waller, the most specious flatterer of flattering

courts--the early worshipper of Charles the First--the pusillanimous

betrayer of his friends--the adulator of Cromwell--the wit and the

jester of the second Charles--the devotional whiner of the bigot

James--had not, however, sufficient power to keep the lady from her

slumbers long. She was soon in the refreshing sleep, known only to the

light-hearted.

Constance Cecil was more wakeful. After Barbara's dismissal from the

presence of Lady Frances, she crept with slow and stealthy space to the

chamber of her dear mistress, and softly turning the bolt, displaced the

curtains of silver damask with so light a touch, that her entrance was

unnoticed. The girl perceived at once that her lady was not asleep. She

had evidently been reading, for the holy volume was still open, and one

hand rested amid its leaves: but even Barbara was astonished when she

saw that her attention was spell-bound to the mysterious locket she held

in the other hand. The excellent servant, with that true honesty of mind

which no education can teach, knowing that her lady had not heard her

enter, and feeling, rather than reasoning upon, the indelicacy of prying

into what she believed was secret, purposely let fall a chalice, which

effectually roused Constance, who, placing the trinket under the pillow,

called upon her attendant for her night drink, and then pointed out a

particular psalm she wished her to read aloud. It was a holy and a

beautiful sight in that quiet chamber: the young and high born maiden,

her head resting on pillows of the finest cambric; her arms crossed

meekly on her bosom, whose gentle breathings moved, without disturbing

the folds of her night-tire; her eyes elevated; her lips sufficiently

apart to show the small, pearly teeth, glittering in whiteness within

their coral nest;--then, as promises of hope and happiness beyond the

control of mortality, found voice from Barbara's mouth, a tear would

steal down her cheek, unbidden and unnoticed, but not unregistered by

that God who knows our griefs, and whose balm is ever for the heavy at

heart.

Barbara sat on a writing stool by the bed-side, supporting the Bible on

her knees, while the beams of a golden lamp, placed on a lofty tripod

near the foot of the bed, fell directly on the book: the light, however,

was not sufficiently powerful to illume the farthermore parts of the

chamber, whose walls were hung with figured tapestry, the gloom of which

contrasted strongly with the bright blue and silver that canopied

Constantia's bed.

The next chamber was occupied by her father: it was lofty, but not

spacious. The inside of the door was guarded by many bolts; and at the

moment his daughter was seeking commune with, and counsel from, the

Almighty, he was employed in examining and securing them with evident

anxiety. First one, and then another, was pushed to its rest; then he

turned the key in the lock--once, twice. Having shaken, or rather

attempted to shake, the massive door, to determine if it were really

secure, Sir Robert Cecil proceeded to inspect the window fastenings; and

being convinced they were in their places, he turned to the table where

the light burnt brightly, examined a brace of pistols, which he placed

under his pillow, and then, took down a huge heavy sword from a shelf

where it lay concealed, pulled it forth from its scabbard, and applied

his thumb along the edge, to be satisfied of its sharpness. Having laid

the weapon by his bed-side, he commenced, unaided, to undress. This did

not occupy him long, though he stopped occasionally, his eye glancing

round the apartment, his ear bent, as if some unhallowed noise had

struck upon it suddenly. As he moved to his lonely couch, he passed

before an immense glass, in a heavy oaken frame: his own reflection met

his eye; he started as if a spectre had crossed his path--his cheek

blanched--his knees smote one against the other--his respiration was

impeded. At last, waving his hand, as if to dispel the phantom his

imagination had conjured up, he sprang into the bed, and buried his head

under its pillows.

At the end of the corridor which led to the sleeping-chambers, was the

apartment appropriated to Burrell of Burrell, whenever he was a guest at

Cecil Place; his visits, however, were not so frequent, or of such long

duration, as might have been expected in the lover of Lady Constance

Cecil. He was fast approaching the meridian of life, and his youth had

been spent chiefly at court:--at both courts, in fact, for he had been a

partisan of the unhappy Charles, and afterwards, at heart, as complete

a regicide as any who took a more active part in the terrible

transactions of the times. He joined the army of the Parliament,

nevertheless, but for a short time, pleading, as an excuse, the

necessity there was for remaining amongst his own tenants and thralls to

keep them in subjection. Sir Willmott Burrell may well be designated a

man of two characters--one for public, one for private life. His manners

to his superiors, and generally to his equals, were bland and

insinuating; to his inferiors he was overbearing, haughty, and severe,

except when he had some particular point to carry, and then he could

cringe to and fawn upon the vilest. He had a peculiar method of entering

into men's hearts, and worming from each whatever best suited his

purpose; but the principle upon which he invariably acted, was, to

extract the honey from the rose, and then scatter its leaves to the

whirlwind and the blast. Devoid of every thing like moral or religious

feeling, he used Puritanism as a cloak for selfishness and sin; and

though he had often cursed his good character when it stood in the way

of his pleasures, yet it was too needful to be cast off as a worthless

garment. A plotting mind united to a graceful exterior, is as dangerous

to the interests of society as a secret mine to a besieged city,

inasmuch as it is impossible to calculate upon the evils that may

suddenly arise either from the one or the other.

Sir Willmott Burrell, of Burrell, had managed to make himself acquainted

with many of Sir Robert Cecil's secrets; and even those he had not

heard, he guessed at, with that naturally acute knowledge which is

rarely in the wrong. He was too great a sensualist to be indifferent to

the beauty of Constance, which, like all sensualists, he considered the

sole excellence of woman; but he arraigned the wisdom of Nature in

endowing aught so fair with mind, or enriching it with soul; and the

dignity and purity of his destined bride, instead of making him proud,

made him angry and abashed.

Constance heard of Burrell's grace, of Burrell's wit, and

sometimes--though even amongst ladies it was a disputed point--of his

beauty, without ever being able to discover any thing approaching to

these qualities in her future husband; and certainly he never appeared

to so little advantage as when in her presence: her eye kept him under a

subjection, the force of which he was ashamed to acknowledge; and

although there could be no question that his chief desire for the

approaching alliance proceeded from a cherished affection for the broad

acres and dark woods of the heiress of Cecil, yet he bitterly regretted

that the only feeling the lady manifested towards him was one of decided

coldness--he almost feared of contempt. The day after her mother's

funeral, she had refused to see him, although he knew that she had been

abroad with Lady Frances in the gardens of the Place; and though Sir

Robert urged indisposition as the cause, yet his pride was deeply

mortified. A weighty communication from France, where he had been a

resident for some months, as an _attache_ to the English embassy,

appeared to have increased the discontent of his already ruffled temper.

He retired early to his chamber, and his moody and disturbed countenance

looked angered and mysterious by the light of an untrimmed lamp, as he

inspected various documents and papers that lay scattered before him on

a table of carved oak, inlaid with silver. One letter, which he read and

re-read with much attention, seemed to excite him more than all the

rest: he turned it over and over--examined the seal--laid it down--took

it up--put it aside again--folded his arms over his chest, and, with his

eyes fixed on the ceiling, appeared for a time absorbed in the

remembrance of past events. Finally, he committed the letter to the

flames, and then paced up and down the room with unequal steps, his head

bent forward, and his arms folded, as before, over his bosom. He was

evidently ill at ease with himself, and there gleamed "a lurking devil

in his eye," that augured peril to some one, and bespoke a man who was

neither "infirm of purpose," nor slow in the execution of whatever

mischief was designed. He did not retire to his bed until the lamp gave

token that its oil was expended, when, flinging himself on the coverlet

without removing any portion of his dress, he sought rest.

Nor were Sir Willmott's slumbers of long duration; before the sun had

risen, he was up and a-foot. Having let himself down from his window and

out at the postern-gate, he took the path that led in the direction of

Gull's Nest Crag.

The night had been wild and stormy; the freshness and freedom of the air

now compensated for the turmoil that had passed; but the ocean's

wrathfulness was still unappeased, and Burrell listened to its roarings

while it lashed the beach with its receding waves, like a war-horse

pawing and foaming when the battle din has sunk into the silence that

succeeds the shout of victory, as if eager again to meet the shock of

death.

Suddenly he struck out of the usual track, across a portion of waste

land, the utmost verge of which skirted the toppling cliffs; and making

for himself a way through tangled fern, long grass, and prickly furze,

he strode on in a more direct line towards the dwelling of Robin Hays,

pursuing his course, heedless of the petty annoyances he encountered,

although his feet were frequently entangled among the stunts and stubs

that opposed his progress, with the air of one whose mind was evidently

bent on the fulfilment of some hazardous but important purpose. It was

so early that not a shepherd had unpenned his fold, nor a girl gone

forth to the milking: such cattle as remained at liberty during the

night, still slumbered on the sward; and the wily fox roamed with less

caution than was his wont, under the knowledge that no enemy was by to

watch his progress.

"I may reach Gull's Nest, and return," thought Burrell, "and that before

any in the house are astir." But, at the moment, a tall, lank figure,

moving with measured pace, yet nevertheless approaching rapidly, from

the very point towards which his steps were bent, arrested his

attention; and as it came nearer and nearer, he was much disconcerted at

the discovery that no other than the Reverend Jonas Fleetword, from whom

he anticipated a sharp rebuke for his absence from Lady Cecil's funeral,

was about to cross his path. He would have gladly hailed the approach of

Birnam wood, so it could have settled down between him and the reverend

Jonas; but as no place of refuge was at hand, he bethought himself of

the shield of patience, drew his cloak as closely as if he were about to

encounter a fierce north wind, and finally returned with much courtesy

the salutation of the preacher, whose apt and ready eloquence had

obtained for him the significant appellation of Fleetword. The locks of

the divine, according to the approved fashion, had been cropped closely

round his head, and his thin sharp visage looked of most vinegar-like

tinge and character, peering, as it now did, from beneath a

steeple-crowned hat of formal cut. He wore a black cloth cloak and

doublet, his Flemish breeches and hose were of the same sombre hue, and

his square-toed shoes were surmounted by large crape roses. Contrary,

as it would seem, to the custom of a disciple of the peace-loving

Saviour, he also wore a basket-handled sword, girded round his loins by

a broad strap of black leather. In truth, face, figure, and all

included, he was as harsh and ill-favoured a person as could have been

encountered even at that day,--one whose lips would have seemed to taint

the blessing to which he might have given utterance; and graceless as

Burrell undoubtedly was, there was excuse for the impatience he felt at

such an unlucky rencontre.

"It augurs well to see one whom the Lord hath blessed with all the

creature-comforts of life, thus early aroused from sluggish sloth, and

abroad, doubtless, on business of the faithful-minded?"

Burrell made the best reply he could, without confirming or denying the

inference drawn from his early rising.

"Why tarried ye from the gathering of God's people on account of the

Lady Cecil's funeral? I pray that the fleshpots of Egypt may not lure ye

to perdition; or fine gold from Ophir, or the vain glories of sinful

men, pilot ye unto destruction!"

"It was business connected with the state--commands from his Highness's

own lips, that detained me."

"All praise to the Providence that has given his chosen people into such

keeping as the Lord Oliver's! Truly may he be likened to the chariots

and horsemen of Israel--to the blessed Zerubbabel, who restored the true

worship, which the Jews in their blindness had cast from them; to

Joshua, whom the Lord appointed as a scourge to the wicked Canaanites;

to Moses, who gave both spiritual help and carnal food to those that

needed; to Gideon; to Elijah; to David; to Hezekiah; to the most wise

Solomon; to all the holy of the earth!" and, exhausted by the rapidity

with which he had uttered the names of the kings and prophets of old,

the worthy Jonas made a full stop; not with any intention of concluding

his harangue, but to take breath for its continuation. As time, however,

was exceedingly precious to Burrell, he endeavoured to give such a turn

to the conversation, as would enable him to escape from the preacher's

companionship; and therefore expressed a very deep regret that he had

not been edified by the discourse which Mr. Fleetword so ably

delivered, and inquired when and where it was likely he would next give

his holy lessons, so that he might be comforted by the oil and honey

that flowed from his lips.

"Thou sayest truly," replied the energetic preacher; "truly sayest thou:

oil and honey for the faithful, the holy, the just, in our New

Jerusalem! But what, what for the unbelievers?--what for the wise in

their own conceit?--what for the dwellers in Kedar? Even this--to them,

my words signify bitterness, a scourge, a pestilence, an uprooting, and

a scattering by the four winds of heaven! on them shall the seventh

phial be poured out; for verily the Lord is weary of showing mercy to

the backsliders from the congregation: they shall all perish--their

limbs shall be broken asunder--yea, I will smite the uncircumcised

Philistines--yea, I will smite----"

"Even as did Sampson of old," interrupted Burrell--"even as Sampson of

old smote them--with the jawbone of an ass."

"Even so," replied Jonas, who, with all his bitterness, was nothing

worse than a simple-minded enthusiast, and never imagined that Sir

Willmott's words could convey aught than approbation of his zeal, and

the right spirit that dwelt within him;--"even so; and it rejoiceth me

to find thee apt and prompt in scriptural passages. Verily, I am glad of

thy company; and as thou regrettest that the world's business prevented

thy attendance on the lamented dead, I care not if I bestow this my

present leisure unto thy edification, and repeat, nay, even enlarge

upon, the words I then delivered; which exercise will be finished before

mid-day--it is right that we labour unceasingly in the vineyard." So

saying he drew from his bosom a clasped Bible, and, to Burrell's dismay,

actually gave out the text, before he could resolve upon any plan to rid

himself of the intruder, whom he heartily wished at Tophet, if not

farther.

"My worthy friend, I would postpone the instruction you would give until

a more convenient season; I have urgent business to attend, and must

hasten its performance."

"Then will I gird up my loins, and accompany thee unto the very

threshold of the house where thou wouldst enter; and as we walk, I can

still convey the precious ointment of grace unto thy soul."

"The merciless old scoundrel!" muttered Burrell between his teeth; then

adding aloud, "Not so; your words are too costly to be given unto the

winds; and I cannot tarry so as to drink in the full draught of

satisfaction; let be, I pray you, and come down to Cecil Place to-night,

or on the morrow, and then many can worship with thee."

Fleetword paused, still holding the volume in his hand:--"Besides,"

continued Burrell, "what I have to accomplish is the Lord's work."

"The Lord's work--the Lord's work!" repeated Fleetword,--"then go forth;

why didst thou not confirm me that before? and I would have hastened,

not retarded thee; for, of a verity, my outward man warreth with the

inward, and these supporters of the flesh," pointing with his forefinger

to the thin and meagre limbs that scarcely merited the compliment, "grow

weary in well doing."

Burrell needed not a second hint to hasten, but proceeded on his way,

after receiving Fleetword's benediction with all due humility.

The preacher remained some time on the spot, and his thin upright

figure, seen from a distance, its outline so strongly marked against the

cold grey morning sky, had a singular effect. Burrell had plunged into a

dell or hollow, so that he was no longer visible.

The bleak and unclothed landscape, from which the mist was slowly

rolling; the few giant trees, that dwelling by the sea-side, and grown

wise by experience, ventured not to put forth their leaves till the sun

had chased the north wind to his caves; but, above all, the booming of

the untranquillised ocean, might have chilled a heart within the warmest

bosom;

"Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high,"

and looked as if he deemed the rolling clouds his listeners. It was by

no means unusual for the preachers in those days to exercise their

voices over the hills and heaths of their native land: valuing, as they

did, power and strength far more than melody and grace, they endeavoured

to acquire them by every possible means--nor were they without hope

that, (to use their own language,) "the Almighty might bless the seed

thus sown, seeing that it was hard to know who might not be within

hearing of the precious word."

Burrell soon gained the sea-shore, though he was still a considerable

distance from Gull's Nest Crag. On arriving at a point that commanded an

unbroken prospect of the far-spread sea, he shaded his eyes with his

hand, and looked long and earnestly along the waste of waters.

Apparently the scrutiny was unsuccessful, for he drew a telescope from

beneath his cloak and gazed through it for some minutes, directing it

towards several points. At length, with an impatience of manner in

which, when with his inferiors or alone, he frequently indulged, he

descended the cliff and pursued his way along the beach. As he drew near

the little public-house, his ears were greeted by the sound of one of

Waller's most popular songs, warbled in a voice so sweet, so pipe-like,

that he paused, and looked round to ascertain from whence it proceeded.

It ceased. Not even his keen eye could rest on aught resembling human

form. He hallooed, but received no answer: yet had he not continued

three steps on his way when the song was renewed, as he thought,

directly over his head; notwithstanding the roaring of the waves, he

even heard the words distinctly--

"Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired."

Again he shouted, and a loud and elfin laugh, that danced with the

echoes from crag to crag and billow to billow, was sent forth in reply.

"Mermaid--Merman--or Demon! where be ye!" cried Burrell, loudly.

"Even here, master mine," answered Robin Hays, shaking his large head,

over a midway and partly detached portion of the cliff.

"Come down, do, you will-o'-the-wisp! In Heaven's name what takes you

into such breakneck places?"

"The same matter that brings you here, sir," replied Robin, skipping and

crawling alternately, suiting his motions to the inequality of the

place: "the very same matter that brings you here--a woman."

"How know you that, master prate-a-pace? At all events, you have no

woman there."

"Why, master, seeing you were born under the planet Venus, your whole

trouble must be of her making; and, as to there being no woman up here,

that matters nothing, for woman's fancy mounts higher than e'er a cliff

in England; and to gain their favours we must humour their fancy. A

certain damsel that I know, had a curiosity to see a peewit's eggs; so I

thought I'd find her some, and here they are." From a pouch made of

untanned leather, which hung in front like an apron, he took two small

eggs of a greenish hue, spotted with black.

"What a fool you are," exclaimed Burrell, "to risk your neck for such

trumpery! It would be long ere you would risk it for your master."

"I have known many hazard theirs for a less cause--and, to say the

truth, there's a deal to be learned from the wild sea-birds," replied

Robin, as if he had not heard the latter portion of the sentence; "I

have a regard for the creeturs, which are like kings in the air. Many an

hour have I sat up yonder, listening to the noises of earth and the

noises of heaven, while the shrill note of the gull, the chatter of the

guillemot, the heron's bitter scream, the hoarse croaking of the

cormorant, have been all around me: and, indeed, the birds know me well

enough. There's a pair of old gulls----"

"Robin! I came not here to talk of cormorants and gulls; I want to ask

you a question, and I expect an honest answer."

Robin made the nearest approach to a bow he was ever guilty of.

"Honesty, Robin, is a most valuable quality."

"So it is, sir--and, like all valuables, ought to fetch a good price."

"You should be a disciple of Manasseh Ben Israel! Why, you have hardly

left my service two days, and then I had a right to your honesty. You

are as bad as a Jew."

"If so, I have surely a right to extort money from a Christian."

"A truce to your jests, you ill-favoured loon: I want no man's labour

for nothing--there are some broad pieces to stop your mouth; and now,

when saw you Hugh Dalton?"

"Not since I had the honour to wait upon you, sir, to London."

"But he is off the coast."

"Under favour, sir, that accounts for my not seeing him on it."

"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Burrell fiercely; "no such mummery with me, or

I'll soon put you upon salt-water rations. Dalton, I say, is off the

coast; I would speak with him, I _must_ speak with him; and as I have

good reason to know you telegraph each other, manage so that he meet me

under the cavern:--do you understand, you sprat-spawn? Under the cavern;

to-morrow night, at eleven; we can serve each other." Burrell, when he

had retraced his steps about five yards, turned round and added, "You

owe me amends for your base desertion the night before last, which I

have not forgotten."

Robin, cap in hand, watched his receding footsteps with an underlook;

and then, attended by his faithful Crisp, repaired to the cottage, where

a cannikin of porridge, seasoned by the hand of his mother with good

spicery, and more than half composed of double-dub, awaited his arrival.

CHAPTER VI.

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes.

SHAKSPEARE.

There is nothing in England so variable as its climate. Before the

succeeding night, the very remembrance of the storm seemed to have

passed away from the placid waters, which now slept in the moonbeams as

tranquilly as a cradled child; the sea-bird's scream no longer whistled

through the air, and the small waves murmured their gentle music along

the strand. Nature was hushed and happy; but the tranquillity of

external objects had little effect upon the mind of Burrell, as he

strode to his trysting with the bold Buccaneer. Yet were there no

outward tokens that he apprehended aught from the meeting; for,

excepting the sword, usually borne by persons of all ranks and

professions during the dynasty of Oliver, he was completely unarmed. The

place appointed was appropriately described as "Under the Cavern." It

was known to Dalton's more intimate associates, and the Cavaliers, who

had from time to time obtained security therein; but, if its bare, bleak

walls had been gifted with speech, they might have rehearsed such tales

of rapine and plunder as few writers would venture to record. The

cavern appeared, to those who might wander along the sea-shore, to be

but a deep and natural excavation into a huge rock, the western

extremity of which ran out into the ocean, and therefore compelled the

traveller to ascend a kind of artificial steps, in order to pass to the

other side: the beach was, consequently, but little frequented, as

leading to no necessary point, and as the inhabitants of the adjoining

cottage, with which our readers are already familiar, had taken especial

care to form several paths in various directions from its door, but none

leading down to this part of the neighbouring cliffs, it was but rarely

that the whiteness of the rocks was defaced by any foot save that of the

daring bird from whom it received its name, and by whom it was regarded

as his own natural and undisputed property.

Whether the cavern into which we are about to enter was originally

framed by some freak of Nature, or was the invention and subsequent

accomplishment of art, we are unable to determine. Like many a structure

better formed to endure for ages, it has been long swept away by the

encroachments of the sea, which, since the period we write of, has been

gradually gaining upon the land. Even at the present moment, there are

old men dwelling in the neighbourhood who can remember houses and

corn-fields where now a proud ship may ride at anchor. From time to

time, without the slightest warning, some immense rock falls, and

mingles with the ocean, which soon dashes aside every trace of its

existence, leaving merely a new surface, to vanish in its turn under the

influence of a power, silent and patient, but inevitable and

unconquerable.

Immediately as the moonlight was left behind, the cavern became high and

arched, as if either Nature, or some skilful workman under her

superintendence, had foreseen to what important purposes it might be

applied. Huge masses of flint, and still larger fragments of granite,

were scattered about as if by giant hands, yet without any seeming

attention to order or regularity. The initiated, however, well knew that

such was not the case. Burrell, immediately on entering, proceeded to

the farther extremity, and kneeling, placed his mouth to the ground, and

gave a loud sharp whistle: he then stood erect, at a little distance

from the spot on which he had knelt. Presently what appeared a lump of

grey stone, moved upwards, then aside, and the head and shoulders of a

man from beneath sprang into its place so suddenly as to have appeared

the work of magic. He leaned a little on one side, to permit Burrell to

descend; and the next minute the cavern seemed as if no human step had

ever disturbed its solitude. Six or eight rugged stairs brought the

knight into a low but spacious apartment, from which there was no

apparent exit except by an arched doorway, where the commencement of a

spiral ascent was visible, leading almost perpendicularly into the

secret room of the widow Hays' small hostelry, in which our acquaintance

Jack Roupall and his friends had been concealed, and which, it may be

here stated, served other purposes than to afford comfort and

entertainment to the wayfarer.

It may also be observed, that, if at any time the widow's house was

suspected of harbouring dangerous or outlawed persons, and consequent

search was made under its roof, those to whom concealment was either

convenient or necessary had a ready sanctuary in the cavern beneath,

where they might either tarry until assured of safety, or whence they

could easily escape on board one of the free traders which rarely passed

a week without a call of inquiry at some point along the coast. The

cavern was, therefore, known to many, for many were they to whom it had

been a shelter and a safeguard. Not so the inner temple (if we may so

apply the term), to which Burrell now sought admission through a door

with the nature of which only some half a dozen were acquainted. To them

the secret had necessarily been confided, but under the most awful oaths

of secrecy, and a terrible pledge that the life of him who might reveal

it, was to be at all times, and in all places, at the disposal of any

one of those who shared with him a knowledge so fearful.

The door before which Burrell paused, was, in its way, a masterpiece of

art: it consisted of a mass of clay and flint, so skilfully put together

that the most acute searcher, even though he possessed the certainty of

its existence somewhere, must have failed to discover it from among the

natural lining of the rude but extensive cave. A low and gentle whistle

was answered by a like signal, and the door was drawn gradually inwards,

until sufficient space was afforded to permit Burrell to pass into a

large space, but less raw and wild than that from which he had just

entered.

In one corner of this singular hall, rose a motley pile of musketry,

rifles, hand-grenades, basket and cross-hilted swords, steel cuirasses,

which, from their rude and sullied condition, appeared to have suffered

much and hard service; buff and other coloured doublets, breast-plates,

shoulder-belts with gilt and plain buckles; manacles, some rusty, others

of glittering brightness: the muzzle of a small brass swivel projected

from beneath a number of flags and emblems of various nations, rolled

together with a degree of amity to which their former owners had long

been strangers. Over these again were heaped cloaks, caps, feathers, and

trappings, enough to form the stock wardrobe of a theatre. Nor were

there wanting thumb-screws and other instruments of torture, often

unsparingly exercised upon those who hid their treasure or retained

secrets they were desired to betray. Near to this miscellaneous

assemblage rose another heap, the base of which appeared to consist of

some half score of elephants' teeth, rough hemp, fragments of huge

cable, cable-yarn, and all manner of cordage; rolls of lewxerns',

martrons', and leopard-skins; wolf-skins, "tawed and untawed;" girdles

of silk, velvet, and leather; and on pegs, immediately over, hung half a

dozen mantles of miniver, and some wide robings of the pure spotted

ermine. Upon a huge sea-chest were heaped bales of costly Brabant,

Overyssels, and other rare linens, mingled with French and Italian lawns

of the finest texture; Turkish camlets, satins of China and Luca, plain

and wrought, and many other expensive and highly-taxed articles.

Delicious odours were diffused through the chamber from various cases of

perfume, musk, ambergris, and the costly attar; while along the north

wall were ranged different sized casks of Nantz brandy, Hollands, and

Jamaica rum; giving to the whole the appearance of a vast storehouse. An

enormous chafing-dish, filled with burning charcoal, stood near the

centre, and in a deep iron pan was placed a keg of oil, a hole having

been driven into its head, through which a sort of hempen wick had been

introduced; it flared and blazed like an overgrown flambeau, throwing a

warm and glowing light over the entire of the wild yet well-filled

apartment.

But the most singular portion of the garniture of this most singular

cave consisted of a number of "Oliver's Acts," pinned or nailed against

the walls. If Dalton had been Lord Chief Justice, he could not have

displayed a more minute attention to the products of legal sittings

than distinguished his private chamber: here was set forth on goodly

parchment, "An Act for the Security of his Highness the Lord Protector,

his Person, and Continuance of the Nation in Peace and Safety;" there,

"An Act for Renouncing and Disannulling the pretended Title of Charles

Stuart, &c. at the Parliament begun at Westminster the 17th day of

September, anno Domini 1656," with the names "Henry Hills" and "John

Field, Printers to his Highness the Lord Protector," in large letters at

the bottom, together with divers others, chiefly however relating to the

excise.

Hugh Dalton rose from his seat, and laid his enormous pipe on a pile of

ebony logs that answered the purpose of a table, when Sir Willmott

Burrell saluted him with more civility than he usually bestowed upon

inferiors: but, despite his outlawry, and the wild course his life had

taken, there was a firm, bold, and manly bearing about the Buccaneer

which might have overawed far stouter hearts than the heart of the

master of Burrell. His vest was open, and his shirt-collar thrown back,

so as to display to advantage the fine proportions of his chest and

neck. His strongly-marked features had at all times an expression of

fierceness which was barely redeemed from utter ferocity by a pleasant

smile that usually played around a well-formed mouth; but when anger was

uppermost, or passion was subdued by contempt, those who came within

reach of his influence, more dreaded the rapid motion or the sarcastic

curl of his lip, than the terrible flashing of eyes that were

proverbial, even among the reckless and desperate men of whom he was the

chief, in name, in courage, and in skill. His forehead was unusually

broad: thick and bushy brows overhung the long lashes of his deeply-set

eyes, around which there was a dark line, apparently less the effect of

nature than of climate. The swarthy hue of his countenance was relieved

by a red tinge on either cheek; but a second glance might have served to

convince the gazer that it was the consequence of unchecked dissipation,

not a token of ruddy health. Indeed, notwithstanding the fine and manly

character of his form and countenance, both conveyed an idea of a mind

ill at ease, of a conscience smitten by the past and apprehensive of the

future, yet seeking consolation in the knowledge of good that had been

effected, and of more that remained to be done. Years of crime had not

altogether obliterated a natural kindness of heart; he appeared as one

who had outraged society and its customs in a thousand forms, yet who

knew there was that within him by which he was entitled to ask and

expect a shelter within her sanctuary; and when a deep flush would pass

over his features, and his blood grow chill at the recollection of

atrocities at which the sufferers in a score of lands had shuddered as

they talked, he endeavoured to still the voice that reproached him, by

placing to the credit of his fearful account some matters to which we

may hereafter more distinctly refer.

It was before such a man that Burrell of Burrell now stood, and by whom

he was addressed.

"My piping-bird, good sir, told me you wanted me; and though somewhat

inconvenient at this present time, here I am. Won't you sit? This is no

lady's lounging-room; yet we can find seats, and costly ones too," he

added, pushing a chest of spices towards his visitor.

"Then, you were not at sea, Captain?" observed Burrell, seating himself,

and unclasping his cloak.

"I did not say so," replied the other, bringing his bushy brows more

closely over his eyes, and glancing suspiciously upon the questioner.

"Oh, no; I only imagined it."

"Well, sir, I was not at sea, and I care not who knows it."

"But, my worthy friend, we have been acquainted too long for you to fear

my 'peaching aught concerning you or your doings."

"And did I talk of fear?" inquired the Buccaneer, with a droll and yet

bitter expression. "Well, if I did, I only follow, as Robin would say,

the example of my betters, by talking about what I don't understand."

"Vastly good, and true!--true as the----"

"Needle to the pole; the finest simile in nature, Sir Willmott Burrell:

you were fishing for a holy one, I saw, which is what these walls don't

often hear, for we've no laggers nor warpes among us."

"You've enlarged this room, and improved it much, Captain, since I last

saw it."

"Humph! ay, that was, I remember, when his Highness----"

"Hush!" interrupted Burrell, changing colour, and looking round the

room cautiously; "you must be very careful, Dalton, how you say any

thing about----"

"Ha! ha! ha! So you look for a troop of old Noll's Ironsides to bounce

from under these packages in this good Isle of Shepey; or, mayhap,

expect to see him start forth from behind his own Acts, which you

perceive garnish my walls--the walls of my secret palace, so splendidly;

but I may talk about his Highness, ay, and about the prisoners you

escorted here, despite the loyal men of Kent, for me to ship to the

Colonies--and--. But no matter, no matter; Noll knew I did it, for he

knows every thing. Well, sir, you seem so alarmed, that I'm dumb as a

sand-bank; only this, his Highness is far enough off to-night, and you

need fear no other Olivers, for England will never see but one."

"True, true--good Dalton!--but tell me, are you often on the French

coast now?"

"Yes, I'm grown old, and, though my little Fire-fly is still bright and

beautiful, and her ivories as biting, her guns, sir, as musical as ever,

yet I'm done with the Colonies; they ruin a man's morals and his health;

but I do a little, just by way of amusement, or practice, with Flanders

and France, and a run now and then to Lisbon."

"How long is it since you've been to St. Vallery?"

"Some time now; I was at Dieppe last month, and that is very near."

"Dalton, you must make St. Vallery before this moon is out, and execute

a little commission for me."

"Very good, sir; we have never disputed about terms. What is it? any

thing in the way of silks, or----"

"It is flesh, human flesh, Dalton."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Buccaneer, rising and recoiling from the knight.

"I've had enough of that, and I'll have no more. Sir Willmott Burrell,

you must seek out another man."

"Now, Dalton," said Burrell, in his most insinuating tone, "you have not

yet heard me, and I take it very unhandsome of an old friend like you to

start off in such a manner without knowing why or wherefore. The matter

is simply this--a girl, a silly girl, somehow or other got attached to

me while I was in France. I have received letter upon letter, talking of

her situation, and so forth, and threatening various things; amongst

others, to come over here, unless--the idiot!--I acknowledge her as my

wife. Now, you know, or perhaps you do not know, that I am betrothed to

the daughter of Sir Robert Cecil; and, if I must enter into the holy

state, why she is a maiden to be proud of. I have arranged it

thus--written to my fair Zillah to get to St. Vallery by a particular

day, the date of which I will give you, and told her that a vessel waits

to convey her to England. You, Dalton, must guide that vessel,

and----but you understand me; words between friends are needless."

"The cargo for exportation; Barbadoes perhaps----"

"Or----" And Burrell pointed with his finger downwards, though, when he

raised his eye to encounter that of the Buccaneer, it was quickly

withdrawn.

"God, Burrell!" exclaimed Dalton, in a tone of abhorrence, "you are a

greater villain than I took you for! Why can't you pay off the

girl--send her somewhere--gild the crime?"

"Gold is no object with her; she desires honour."

The sympathetic chord of the Buccaneer's heart was touched, for the

sentiment echoed his own.

"Then who is she?" he demanded; "I'll not stir in it unless I know all."

Burrell paused for a moment, and then said--

"You have heard of Manasseh Ben Israel, a rabbi, whom it hath pleased a

great personage to distinguish with much kindness: nay, his mercy has

gone so far as to contemplate receiving that unholy people into commune

with us, giving them the right-hand of fellowship, and suffering them to

taste of the waters----"

"Spritsail and rigging!" interrupted the Buccaneer, whose enraged spirit

sought some outlet, "No conventicle lingo here--you forget your company,

Sir Willmott. What of the Jew?"

"You know his highness has strangely favoured this man, and that he is

much thought of. It is now more than six months since I was entrusted

with a commission to Paris, and Ben Israel requested I would take charge

of some packages he desired to forward to his daughter. She resided with

a family whom I knew to be Polish Jews, but who conformed to the

Catholic faith, and quieted the conscience of a certain cardinal by

liberal offerings of silver and of gold. I discharged the commission in

person, and must confess that the little black-eyed maid, seated as I

first saw her, on crimson cushions of rich Genoa velvet, and nearly

enveloped in a veil starred with precious gems, looked more like a houri

than a woman. She pleased me mightily; and, as I had a good deal of time

on my hands, I trifled it with her. This might have done well; we might

have gone on pleasantly enough; but the creature was as jealous as a

she-tiger, and as revengeful too. I made acquaintance with a blue-eyed

Dane at the court, and--can you believe it?--she tracked my footsteps in

disguise, and would have stabbed me to the heart, had I not wrenched the

dagger from her little hand. She pretended to be sorry for it; and,

though I never trusted her, our intimacy was renewed, until I was

recalled. Particular necessities for money pressing upon me, I saw that

no time was to be lost in fulfilling my contract with Sir Robert Cecil's

daughter. My Jewess, however, thinks otherwise; declares she will follow

me here; that if I do her not justice she will brave her father's anger,

avow her intimacy with a Christian (which I believe they invariably

punish by death), and forward, what she calls, proofs of my guilt to the

Lord Protector. You perceive, Dalton, the creature is dangerous."

"But what _can_ she forward to Oliver?"

"Why, she was starch, and--you comprehend me--I was obliged to submit to

a species of marriage ceremony; and there was a certificate and some

letters. In short, Captain, knowing his highness's strictness--knowing

his wish to conciliate this Ben Israel, and feeling the expediency of my

immediate marriage--I tell you it would be certain destruction to suffer

her to appear now."

"Then I must ship her off, so that she may never return," observed the

Buccaneer, with a fierce knitting of his brows.

"Dalton, you know not what a devil she is: were she gentle, or a fond

idiot, she could be managed; but she has the spirit, the foresight of a

thousand women. Besides, I swore, when her hand was lifted against my

life, that I would be revenged, and I never yet swore in vain."

Dalton looked upon Burrell's really handsome features, contracted and

withered by the pestilence of a demoniac spirit, and loathed him from

his very soul.

"I can't, Sir Willmott, I can't; flesh and blood must rise against the

destruction of a loving woman. I won't, so help me God! and that's

enough."

"Very well--very well--but I'll have blood for blood, breach for breach,

master; the Ironsides, Cromwell's tender pets, would have nice picking

here. The Protector has already a scent of your whereabouts; he is one

who neither slumbers nor sleeps. Let the bold Buccaneer look to it, and

I'll straight seek some less _honest_ man to do my bidding."

"Heave over such jargon," replied Dalton, upon whom Burrell's threats

seemed to have made no impression. "Suppose you did betray me, how many

days' purchase would your life be worth? Think ye there are no true

hearts and brave, who would sacrifice their own lives to avenge the loss

of mine? Avast, Master of Burrell! you are old enough to know better."

"And you ought to know better than to sail against the wind. Why, man,

the little Jewess is freighted with jewels; a very queen of diamonds.

And I care not for them: you may keep them all--so----" The villain's

lip faltered; he feared to speak of the deed his heart had planned.

Dalton made no reply, but covered his face with his hand, leaning his

elbow on the table. Burrell took advantage of his silence to urge the

riches of the rabbi's daughter, the presents he himself would give, and

wound up the discourse with protests loud and earnest of everlasting

gratitude. Dalton let him speak on, but still maintained an inflexible

silence.

"'Sdeath, man!" exclaimed Burrell, hastily, after a pause of some

minutes; "art asleep, or stupid?"

"Neither," replied the Buccaneer. "But I will do your bidding. Now,

write your directions,--here are pens, ink, paper, all that you

require,--and my reward; write, sir, and then good night." Burrell did

so, while Dalton paced up and down his den, as if meditating and

arranging some action of importance. All matters being agreed upon,

apparently to the satisfaction of both, they were about to separate,

when Burrell inquired--

"Did you land any Cavaliers lately?"

"Not I; they are but a bad freight; broad pieces are a scarce commodity

with Charlie's friends."

"Very strange. I met a braggart the other night, but I dare say he was

one of the Syndercomb gang. His highness imagines you conveyed some of

them to their head-quarters."

"Does he?"

"Master Dalton, you are close."

"Master Burrell, I have agreed to do your business."

"Well!"

"I mean it to be well. Consequently, I have not agreed to tell you

mine."

Burrell looked daggers for a moment, and then turned off with a hasty

step and a forced laugh.

"Blasted be my hand for touching his in the way of amity!" exclaimed the

Buccaneer, striking the table with a violence that echoed through the

room. "The cold-blooded, remorseless villain! She is too good for such a

sacrifice--I must be at work. And so, one infamy at a time is not enough

for the sin-dealing land lubber; he wanted to worm out of me---- Robin!

ahoy! Robin!"

Dalton stepped to the outside of the still open door; and on the instant

descended from the communicating stair leading to the Gull's Nest, not

Robin, but him of the grey steed and black cloak, who was so near

falling a victim to Burrell's treachery on a recent occasion.

CHAPTER VII.

For guilty states do ever bear

The plagues about them which they have deserved;

And, till those plagues do get above

The mountain of our faults, and there do sit,

We see them not. Thus, still we love

The evil we do, until we suffer it.

BEN JONSON.

The Buccaneer welcomed the young man with greater warmth than is usually

displayed, except to near and dear connections. It must be remembered,

also, he had arrived at that period of life when feelings of affection

and friendship stagnate somewhat in the veins, and curdle into apathy.

Few are there who have numbered fifty winters without wondering what

could have set their blood boiling and their hearts beating so warmly

some few years before. A benison upon a smiling lip, a kindly eye, and a

cheerful voice!--whether they belong to the young or to the old--may all

such true graces be long preserved from the blight called "knowledge of

the world!" which, while bestowing information with the one hand, takes

away innocence and hope with the other.--But to the story.

The young Cavalier greeted his associate more as a friend than a

companion: there was evidently between them that good understanding

which, arising from acquaintance with the better points of character,

produces mutual esteem; and although there was a degree of deference

paid to Hugh Dalton by the youth, it seemed a compliment to his age and

experience, gracefully and naturally rendered, and kindly and thankfully

received. It was obvious that Dalton so considered it; receiving

attention far less as his due, than as a voluntary offering for which he

desired to show his gratitude.

There was, nevertheless, something of pity mingled with regard, which

the youth manifested towards his chafed companion, as he took the seat

that had been occupied by Burrell, and, laying his hand upon the

powerful arm of the Buccaneer, inquired, in a touching and anxious tone,

if aught had particularly disturbed him.

"Walter, no--nothing very particular; for knavery and villany are seldom

rare, and I have been long accustomed to treat with both; only it's too

bad to have more unclean spirits than one's own harpying and haunting a

man! God! I can breathe better now that fellow's gone. Ah, Master

Walter! there be two sorts of villains in the world: one with a broad,

bronzed face, a bold loud voice, a drinking look, and an unsheathed

dagger--and him men avoid and point at, and children cling to their

mother's skirts as he passes by:--the other is masked from top to

toe;--his step is slow, his voice harmonised, his eye vigilant, but

well-trained; he wears his dagger in his bosom, and crosses his hands

thereon as if in piety, but it is, in truth, that his hold may be firm

and his stab sure; yet the world know not that, and they trust him, and

he is singled out as a pattern-man for youth to follow; and so--but we

all play parts--all, all! And now for a stave of a song: Hurrah for the

free trade!--a shout for the brave Buccaneers!--a pottle of sack!--and

now, sir, I am myself again! The brimstone smell of that dark ruffian

nearly overpowered me!" So saying, he passed his hand frequently over

his brows, attempting at the same time to laugh away his visible

emotion.

"It will not do!" said the young man, whom Dalton had addressed by the

name of Walter; "something has disturbed you: surely, Captain, I may ask

what it is?"

"Some forty years ago I had a father," replied the Buccaneer, looking

earnestly in the youth's face; "he was an aged man then, for he did not

marry until he was old, and my mother was beautiful, and quitted his

side: but that does not matter; only it shows how, as my poor father had

nothing else to love, he loved me with the full tenderness of a most

affectionate nature. He was a clergyman too, and a firm royalist; one of

those devoted royalists, as regarded both God and king, who would

submit, for their sakes, to the stake or the block with rapture at being

thought worthy to make the sacrifice. Well, I was wild and wilful, and

even then would rather steal a thing than gain it by lawful means: not

that I would have stolen aught to keep it, for I was generous enough;

but I loved the danger and excitement of theft, and, on the occasion I

speak of, I had taken some apples from a neighbouring tree belonging to

a poor woman. It was evening when I took this unlucky fruit; and not

knowing a safe place in which to deposit it, I was restless and

disturbed all night. The next day, from a cause I could not guess at, my

father would not suffer me to go out, and was perpetually, on some

pretext or other, going to and from the cupboard where my treasure had

been placed. I was in agony; and as night again closed in, the agitation

and anxiety I had suffered made me ill and pale. My dear father drew

near him the little oak table that was set apart for the Bible, and,

opening it, said that he had that day composed a sermon for my especial

case. I dreaded that my apple-stealing had been discovered; and I was

right, though he did not say so. He enlarged in sweet and simple

language upon his text: it was this--'There is no peace, saith my God,

to the wicked.' Walter! Walter! the old man has been many years in his

grave, and I have been as many a reckless wanderer over the face of the

wild earth and still wilder sea; but I have never done a deed of blood

and plunder, that those words have not echoed--echoed in my ears, struck

upon my heart like the fiend's curse. Yet," he added in a subdued

accent, "it was no cursing lips pronounced them: I have been the curse

to the holy words, not they to me."

"I never before heard you speak of your father," observed the youth.

"I do not like to speak of him; I ran off to sea when I was about ten

years old, and when I came back he was dead. There was war enough in

England at that time to occupy my active nature: I first joined the

King's party, and had my share of wounds and glory at Gainsborough,

where I fought with and saw poor Cavendish killed by that devil

Cromwell. It was at that same battle his successes began: he had a brave

horse-regiment there of his countrymen, most of them freeholders and

freeholders' sons, who upon matter of conscience engaged in this quarrel

under him. It was there he ousted us with his canting. Gadsooks! they

went as regularly to their psalm-singing as they had been in a

conventicle; and thus, d'ye see, being armed after their own fanatical

fashion within, and without by the best iron armour, they stood as one

man, firmly, and charged as one man, desperately.--But we have other

things to talk of than him or me; so sit down, young gentleman, and

let's hear the news;--or, stay, Robin must first bring us some wine--my

warehouse is full of it; I must wash down the poison that fellow has

crammed into my throat. Ah! ah! ah! what chafes me is, that, from my

cursed reputation, greater villains than myself thrust me forward to do

their work, and think they have a right to storm and stare if I have

conscience in any thing. But I'll be even with them all yet--with one in

particular. That villain!--shall that far greater villain have peace?

'There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.'"

He summoned Robin, who placed on the table some meat and wine, and other

matters that supplied a pretty substantial supper: a ceremony, the

rendering justice to which affords us sufficient leisure to examine the

form and features of the young Cavalier, who, having laid aside his

enormous cloak, reclined on some piles of foreign cloths with an ease

and grace that belongs only to those of gentle blood. Amid the bustle

and occupation of life, it is a simple matter for people of ordinary

rank to assume the bearing of the well-bred; but repose is the true

criterion of a gentleman or lady, inasmuch as there is then no motion to

take off from an ungraceful attitude or an awkward mien. The features

of the Cavalier were almost too high for beauty; and had it not been for

a playful smile that frequently flitted across his countenance,

elongating his moustache, softening and blending the hard lines that

even at four-and-twenty had deepened into furrows, he would have been

pronounced of severe aspect. Bright golden hair clustered in rich curls

over his forehead, and fell a little on either cheek, giving a

picturesque character to the form of the head. His eyes appeared of a

dark grey; but they were so much sunk, so overshadowed by his forehead,

as to leave one in doubt as to their exact colour. His figure was

unusually tall and well-formed, and his whole bearing was more that of

an accomplished gentleman than of a cut-and-slash cavalier: his manner

was neither reckless nor daring, but it was firm and collected. His

dress was composed of the finest black cloth, with a black velvet

doublet; and his sword-hilt glittered with diamonds.

Robin did not attempt to place himself at the same table, but sat back

on a lower seat and at a little distance, sharing his repast with Crisp,

who had scrambled down the stairs after his master, and looked ugly

enough to be, what he certainly was, an extraordinary canine genius.

Dalton and Walter laboured under no restraint because of the presence of

Robin; on the contrary, he occasionally shared in the conversation, and

his opinion upon various topics was frequently asked; indeed, he was

fond of bestowing it gratuitously, and seemed highly pleased when called

upon to express it.

"Didst hear, Robin, when Blake was expected off Sheerness with the

Spanish prizes?"

"In a few days, it is said, he will either bring or send them; but my

own thought is, that it will be about a week, neither more nor less,

before any ship arrives."

"I must get off for the French coast in a day or two," said Dalton; "and

I do not care to return until Blake with his train go up the river a

bit; for it's foul sailing athwart the brave old boy: he's the only man

living I'd strike flag to."

"And who has the care of the Firefly now you're ashore?" inquired the

Cavalier.

"Why, Jeromio."

"I don't like him," said Robin bluntly: "foreigners are good slaves,

but bad masters to us English: I'd rather trust the ship to little

Spring."

"He is a mere boy, and too bad a sailor; besides, he is grown so

superstitious, swears the devil came to him one night I placed him a

watch on yon cliff. I must leave him ashore with you, Robin, and tell

you what to do with the scapegrace, if I am not back by a particular

day. I must also give you a letter to take to Sir Robert Cecil,

postponing an appointment I had made with him."

"You had better give the letter to that gentleman," exclaimed Robin,

pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to where the Cavalier sat; "he

would do an errand to Cecil Place, especially if it were to the Lady

Constance, right gladly."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Dalton, fixing his quick eye on the youth's

countenance, that betrayed uneasiness but not displeasure. "Sits the

wind in that quarter? But tell us, Robin, how was it?"

"There is nothing to tell, Captain," interrupted Walter, "except that

Robin accompanied me to the Place, as it is called, to show me some

alterations, and point out the excellent order in which the trees are

kept; and in the grounds we encountered Mistress Cecil, and, as I am

informed, the Lady Cromwell."

"I wish you would keep close here though," muttered Dalton; "you'll be

meeting the villain Burrell before----"

"I would fain encounter Sir Willmott Burrell once again, and make him

pay the traitor's forfeit."

"Peace--peace! give Burrell rope enough to hang himself. He'll swing as

high as Haman ere long. Robin told me of the coward's treachery."

"I wish Robin had not accompanied him to London," exclaimed Walter; "I

hate people to carry two faces. But my wonder is that Burrell would

trust him."

"Just because he could not help himself," retorted Robin. "He wanted a

clever lad who had understanding. His own valet was in France on some

business or another mighty mysterious; and a gentleman like him, who has

a good character and a foul conscience, a good head and a bad heart, has

need of a man of talent, not a loon, about his person. To do full

justice, however, to his discretion, he treated me to as few of his

secrets as he could, and I endeavoured to save him trouble by finding

them all out."

The Buccaneer laughed aloud, but the high-souled Cavalier looked

serious.

"Ah! ah!" said Dalton, "you never did relish machinations, and it is

well you are not left to yourself in this plan of mine: honour is not

the coin to take to a villain's market."

"'Tis the only coin I will ever deal in, Captain; and I told you before

I left Cologne, that on no other condition would I accompany you to

England, except that of being held clear of every act unbefitting a

gentleman or a soldier."

"Young sir," replied Dalton, "when you were indeed young, and long

before you took your degree in morality at the rambling court of the

second Charles, did I ever counsel you to do aught that your--that, in

short, you might not do with perfect honour? I know too well what it is

to sacrifice honour to interest ever to wish you to make the trial. As

for me, I am low enough in character----"

"My kind preserver! my brave friend!" interrupted Walter, touched at his

change of manner. "Forgive such unworthy, such unmerited suspicion. This

is not the first time I have had to learn your kindly care for me. But

for you----"

"Well, there, there boy--I love to call you boy still; I can bear my own

shame, but I could never bear yours."

Dalton paused, apparently with a view to change the subject: the

Cavalier observed--

"You quarrel with our young king's morality?"

"I'faith, I do!--though you will say it's ill coming from me to fault

any man's conduct; but I hate your little vices as much as your little

virtues: sickly, puny goods and evils, that are too weak for sun to

ripen, too low for blast to break, but which endure, the same withered,

sapless things, to the death-day--Augh! a bold villain, or a real

downright good man, for my money. How the devil can Charles Stuart do

any thing great, or think of any thing great, with his mistresses and

his dogs, his gaming and---- Why, it is hardly a year since I took off

from Dover that poor Lucy Barton and her brat, after the poor thing

suffering imprisonment in the Tower for his sake!"

"The child's a noble child," said Walter; "but the mother's a sad

reprobate, swears and drinks like a trooper."

"My mother is a woman," exclaimed little Robin, with great gravity,

poising a mutton-bone between his fingers, to arrive at which Crisp was

making extraordinary efforts,--"and I can't deny that I've a sort of

love, though it be a love without hope, for a very pretty girl, a woman

also: now this being the case, I'm not fond of hearing women reflected

on; for when they're young, they're the delight of our eyes; and when

they're old, they're useful, though a trifle crabbed, but still useful;

and a house without a woman would be like--like----"

"Robin at fault!" said Dalton: "you've given me many a comparison, and

now I'll lend you one--a bell without a clapper; won't that do, Robin?"

Robin shook his head.--"Ay, Robin! Robin! you're right, after all. If it

were not for a woman, I'd never set foot on shore again: but I'm proud

of my little Barbara; and all the fine things you tell me of her, Robin,

make me still prouder;--her mother all over. I often think how happy I

shall be to call her daughter, when she won't be ashamed to own me: God

help me!"--and be it noted that Dalton crossed himself as he spoke--"God

help me! I often think that if ever I gain salvation, it will be through

the prayers of that girl. Would that she had been brought up in her

mother's way!"

"What would old Noll say to that papistical sign, master?" inquired

Robin.

"A plague on you and old Noll too! I never get a bit up towards heaven,

that something doesn't pull me back again."

"I'll send you up in a moment," said Robin, in a kind voice. "Your

daughter, Barbara----"

"Ay, that it is, that it is," muttered the Buccaneer; "my own, own

child!--the child of one who, I bless God, never lived to know that she

wedded (for I wedded her in holy church, at Dominica) a wild and wicked

rover. Our love was sudden and hot, as the sun under which we lived; and

I never left her but once from the time we became one. I had arranged

all, given up my ship and cargo,--and it was indeed a cargo of

crimes--at least, I thought so then. It was before the civil wars; or I

had again returned to England, or traded, no matter how. I flew to her

dwelling, with a light heart and a light step. What there? My

wife,--she who had hung so fondly round my neck and implored me not to

leave her,--was stretched on a low bamboo bed--dead, sir--dead! I might

have known it before I entered, had I but remembered that she knew my

step on the smooth walk, fell it ever so lightly, and would have met

me--but for death! And there too sat a black she-devil, stuffing my

infant's mouth with their vile food. I believe the hag thought I was

mad; for I caught the child in my arms, held it to my heart while I bent

over my wife's body, and kissed her cold, unreturning--for the first

time unreturning--lips; then flung myself out of the accursed

place,--ran with my burden to the shipowners, who had parted with me

most grudgingly,--and was scudding before the wind in less than twelve

hours, more at war with my own species than ever, and panting for

something to wreak my hatred on. At first I wished the infant dead, for

I saw her pining away; but at last, when she came to know me, and lift

up her innocent hands to my face--I may confess it here--many and many a

night have I sat in my cabin looking on that sleeping child, till my

eyes swam in a more bitter brine than was ever brewed in the Atlantic.

Particular circumstances obliged me to part with her, and I have never

regretted her being with poor Lady Cecil--only I should have liked her

to pray as her mother did. Not that I suppose it will make any

difference at the wind-up,--if," he added, doubtingly, "there be indeed

any wind-up. Hugh Dalton will never be really himself till he can look

that angel girl straight in the face, and ask her to pray for him, as

her mother used." Dalton was too much affected to continue, and both his

auditors respected his feelings too much to speak. At length he said,

"But this gloom will never do. Come, Robin, give us a song, and let it

not be one of your sad ones."

Robin sung,--

"Now, while the night-wind loud and chill

Unheeded raves around the door,

Let us the wine-cup drain and fill,

And welcome social joys once more--

The joys that still remain to cheer

The gloomiest month of all the year,

By our own fire side.

"What need we care for frost and snow?

Thus meeting--what have we to fear

From frost and snow, or winds that blow?

Such guests can find no entrance here.

No coldness of the heart or air--

Our little world of twelve feet square,

And our own fire-side.

"I drink this pledge to thee and thine--

I fill this cup to thine and thee--

How long the summer sun might shine,

Nor fill our souls with half the glee

A merry winter's night can bring,

To warm our hearts, while thus we sing

By our own fire-side."

The song, however, produced a contrary effect to that the Ranger had

intended. It pictured a fancied scene--one to which both Walter and the

Buccaneer had long been strangers; and a lengthened and painful pause

succeeded to the brief moment of forced merriment. It was broken by the

Cavalier, who inquired--

"How long will it be before you return from this new trip? for remember,

my good friend, that suspense is a----"

"Hell!" interrupted Dalton, in his usual intemperate manner: "but I

cannot help it. It is not wise to pluck unripe fruit--do you understand

me?"

"Perfectly--and I dare say you are right; but tell me, Dalton, how is it

that, till lately, you so completely abandoned this island, and kept to

the Devon and Cornwall coasts? I should have thought this the most

convenient; your storehouse here is so well arranged."

"Ay, ay, sir; but this is over-near London, though it used to be a safe

place enough; but now that Sir Michael Livesey--regicide that he

is!--abides so continually at Little Shurland, what chance is there for

any good to such as I? I tell ye, Cromwell's nose is ever on the scent."

"A great advantage to him, and a disadvantage to his foes," said Robin:

"he has only to put the said nose to the touch-hole of the biggest

cannon, and off it goes; it never costs the army a farthing for matches

when he's with it."

"Pshaw, Robin! but is he indeed so red-nosed? You have often seen him,

Captain."

"Ay, dressed in a plain cloth suit, made by an ill country tailor;

his linen coarse and unclean; his band unfashionable, and often

spotted with blood; his hat without a band; his sword close to his

side; his countenance swollen and reddish; and, as to his nose,

it looked to me more purple than aught else. But, sir, to see

Cromwell, see him in battle--he is a right noble horseman; and

the beast (a black one especially he was once so fond of) seemed

to have been tutored by the evil one: its eye was as vigilant as

its rider's. Cromwell sits his saddle not gracefully, but firmly,

just as if he were part and portion of the animal; then, with a

sword in his right hand, and a pistol in his left---- Sir, it was

unlike any thing I ever saw! He must have managed the horse by the

pressure of his heel; for I never could make out, such was the decision

yet rapidity of hism movements, whether he held reins or not: now here,

now there--firing--preaching--shouting--praying--conquering--yet

everything done in its right place and time, never suffering the

excitement of the moment to bear down one of his resolves. Had

he been born a king----"

"He would never have been what he is," said the Cavalier; "for

contention is the school of greatness."

"It's mighty fine to see you two sit there," exclaimed Robin, "praising

up that man in the high place: pretty Cavaliers indeed! Well, my opinion

is, that--but indeed it is rude to give an opinion unasked, so I'll keep

mine to myself. You were talking of the conveniences of this place; why,

bless you, sir, it's nothing to fifty others along St. George's Channel.

'Twould do your heart good to see those our captain has among the

Cornish rocks; such comfortable dwellings, where you could stow away

twenty people, never to chirrup to the sun again; such hiding-holes,

with neat little trains of gunpowder, winding like snakes in summer, so

that, to prevent discovery, one crack of a good flint would send the

caverns and the cliffs high into the air, to tell stories to the stars

of the power of man's skill to destroy the most sublime as well as the

most beautiful works of nature."

"Robin, you ought to have been a preacher."

"No," said Robin mournfully, and shaking his head, as was his custom,

"for I know nothing of your book-holiness; only I can't bear anything

moulded and made by the hand of God to be ruined by that of man."

"What ails ye, lad?" inquired the Buccaneer; "I thought ye had got over

all your shadows, as ye used to call them."

"Not all of them; only they do not come upon me as often as they used,"

he replied gravely; for poor Robin had one time been subject to

periodical fits that bordered on insanity, and during such afflictions

wandered about the country, without seeking repose or speaking word to

any one. Constance Cecil, with her usual kindness, had him frequently

taken care of at Cecil Place; and Barbara's kind attention to him during

such fearful trials was the source of as strong, as unvarying, and

devoted an attachment as ever human being manifested towards another.

By degrees the conversation sunk into low confidential whispers, as if

caution, even there, was necessary. It was near four o'clock in the

morning before the Buccaneer departed for his ship, and then Robin

escorted the Cavalier to his usual chamber in the Gull's Nest.

CHAPTER VIII.

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

LOVELACE.

"A blessing and a salutation, reverend sir! and may the sun, moon, and

stars be sanctified unto you!"

"Ah! Solomon Grundy, would that the Lord had given thee sense to

understand, as he hath bestowed upon thee talent to speak according to

thy understanding! As it is, Solomon, I lament that thou art a fool,

Solomon, a very fool, except in what regardeth the creature-comforts;

and, of a verity, thou art worthy to send up a dinner even unto Hugh

Peters, after he hath delivered a soul-converting oration before the

chosen from among God's people."

"Which refection he would in nowise condemn," observed the cook of Cecil

Place, whose closely-cropped head of foxy hair seemed to throw a

proportionate quantity of glowing colour upon his rubicund countenance.

He had all the outward marks that indicate a _bon vivant_, and words of

piety came as awkwardly from his lips as sighs from the mouth of a seal

or a salmon. His little grey eyes twinkled with affection for the said

"creature-comforts;" and the leathern pouch he now carried over his

shoulder was stocked with sundry good things appropriated from the

larder for his own especial diet. He had received permission from

Mistress Cecil to accompany some of his neighbours to see the grand

company from London visit a first-rate man-of-war that had just arrived

off Sheerness, bringing in a train of prizes which the veteran Blake had

taken and sent home, himself proceeding to Vera Cruz, and which it was

rumoured the Lord Oliver was about to inspect in person. This

intelligence set the country in a ferment, and persons of all classes

hastened to the island to witness the sight. For the English _were_, as

they now _are_, a sight-loving people, who find pleasure in pageants;

and then, as at present, they demanded economy; but when economy came,

they designated it meanness.

The staunch Roundheads exulted at the idea of Cromwell's exhibiting

himself thus openly after the upsetting of the Syndercomb plot; and the

Royalists, depressed and disappointed, were content to let matters take

their course, at least until they saw some prospect of a change; while

the Levellers, the party most dreaded by the Protector, and which had

been most fatal to the Stuarts, remained in that dangerous state of

repose that is but the preparative for renewed activity.

The Reverend Jonas Fleetword had set forth from the sole desire of

"beholding him who was anointed with the oil of the Spirit, and whose

name among the nations was wonderful." Solomon Grundy, and such other of

the servants of Cecil Place as could be spared, were impelled forward by

the wish of hearing or of seeing something new; intelligence not

travelling upon wings of steam in the seventeenth century, and

newspapers being but rare visiters at Shepey. Occasionally, indeed,

there did descend from the breakfast-room of Sir Robert, unto the

servants' hall, a stray number or two of the "Mercurius Politicus," the

"Perfect Diurnal," or the "Parliament Scout;" the contents of which were

eagerly devoured by the several auditors, while one, more gifted than

his fellows, drawled forth, amid ejaculations and thanks unto the Lord,

the doings of the Commonwealth, and especially of him who was a master

in the new Israel. But the information of the underlings of the house

was generally gathered from the pious pedlars, who sought entrance at

the gate, well stocked with wares of every possible description, and

with "gifts" of which they were always abundantly lavish to those who

hungered or were athirst.

The ladies of the family remained at home; the Lady Frances feeling

assured that her father would not be present, as she had received no

intimation to such effect from Whitehall. Constance, however, had heard

too many tales of Oliver's sudden movements to feel satisfied as to the

certainty of any matter in which he was concerned. It was no secret

either that he had been displeased with his daughter for her obstinate

attachment to Mr. Rich; and that he desired her, for the present, to

remain in retirement and away from court.

We have said that Solomon Grundy had received permission to view the

sight; and for a time he proceeded on his way, accompanied by the other

domestics; but, under some sly pretext, he lingered behind them. The

worthy preacher had not left Cecil Place so early, but, notwithstanding

the ambling pace of his favourite jennet, he soon came up to Solomon,

who, seated under a spreading elm by the wayside, was rapidly

demolishing the contents of his wallet, freshened by frequent draughts

from a black bottle of vast rotundity.

"Master Solomon Grundy," he observed, reining up his steed, "could not

your stomach tarry, even for a short while? Ah! worthy cook, you have a

most professional longing after the flesh-pots."

Solomon grinned, and applied himself with renewed diligence to his

viands when the preacher had passed. He was now surrounded by a motley

party, who had crossed from the main land, all bearing towards the same

point. Puritans, whose cloaks were of the most formal cut, and whose

hats emulated the steeple of St. Paul's; Levellers, with firm steps,

wrinkled and over-hanging brows, and hard unchanging features, all

denoting inflexibility of purpose and decision of character; Cavaliers,

whose jaunty gait was sobered, and whose fashionable attire was

curtailed in consideration that such bravery would be noticed and

reproved by the powers that were; women attired in dark hoods and

sad-coloured kirtles; some of demure aspect, others with laughing eyes

and dimpled cheeks, who exchanged glances, and sometimes words, with

youths of serious apparel but joyous countenances; while here and there

might be recognised divines, whose iron physiognomies disdained to be

affected by any of the usual feelings that flesh is heir to; and ladies

on horseback, or in the lumbering heavy carriages, progressing from the

horse ferry, "with stealthy pace and slow," towards the centre of

attraction.

The English even now make a business of enjoyment; but in those days,

what we designate pleasure, was known by no such unholy term; it was

called "recreation," "the refreshment of the creature," "the repose of

the flesh,"--by any name, in fact, except the true one. But in the

particular instance to which we refer, it was considered a sacred duty

to uphold and applaud the Lord Protector whenever there occurred an

opportunity for so doing; and sound-hearted Puritans would make a

pilgrimage for the purpose with as much zeal as ever Roman Catholics

evinced in visiting the shrine of some holy saint. The ships rode

proudly in the harbour, and groups of the gentry were occasionally

conveyed on board by boats, that waited for the purpose both at

Queenborough and Sheerness. It was an animated scene, but the soul of

all was wanting, for neither Cromwell, nor any portion of the court,

made their appearance. When it was noon, the people hoped he would

arrive ere evening; but, as the evening advanced, and he failed to enter

upon the scene, there was a general manifestation of disappointment

throughout the crowd, although some few rejoiced at the occurrence,

holding it a sign of fear on his part, as if he dreaded to be seen among

them.

A party, consisting of ten or twelve persons, at Queenborough, had

gathered round the trunk of a withered and hollow oak, growing in front

of a public-house, that displayed the head of the Lord Protector--a

political lure, that was certain to attract all Commonwealth people to

the receipt of custom. The noble tree had been one of magnificent

growth, but age or accident had severed the trunk, and within its heart

decay had long been revelling. It was now perfectly hollow, and afforded

a free passage; two enormous props had been found necessary, to prevent

its making a last resting-place of the earth it had for ages

triumphantly protected. The cavity that time had created was

sufficiently extensive to afford shelter during a storm to three or

four persons; and it was not unfrequently resorted to by the people of

the inn, as a storehouse for fuel, or farming utensils, when a plentiful

harvest rewarded the toil of the husbandman. Its branches, which had so

often sheltered the wayfarer alike from the tempest and the hot summer's

sun, had been hewn away, to serve the purposes of strife in the shape of

spear-handles, or to the doom of the winter fire; one solitary arm of

the blighted tree alone remained, extending its scraggy and shattered

remnants to a considerable distance over the greensward which had been,

from time immemorial, trodden by the merry morrice dancers, and broken

by the curvetting of the hobby-horse and the Dragon of Wantley, sports

it was now deemed sinful but to name. From a fragment of this

dilapidated branch, hung the sign of mine host of the Oliver's Head; and

right glad would he have been, if rumour had lied with each returning

morn, so that the lie could but fill his dwelling with so many

profitable guests. Thrice had the party, by whom had been appropriated

the seat beneath the oak, emptied the black jack of its double-dub ale;

and the call for a fourth replenishing was speedily answered, as the sun

was setting over the ocean, and tinging the sails and masts of the

distant vessels with hues that might have shamed the ruby and the

sapphire.

"To have our day go for nothing, after a trudge of some twenty miles, to

this out-of-the-way place,--Adad, sirs, it's no joke!" exclaimed a

sturdy, bluff-looking man, to our friend little Robin Hays, who sat upon

the corner of the bench, one leg tucked under (doubtless for the purpose

of enabling him to sit higher than nature had intended,) while the other

swung methodically backward and forward: "Adad, sir, it's no joke!" he

repeated.

"No more it isn't, Master Grimstone; I never heard you joke yet," said

Robin.

"And I aver it is an open and avowed doubting of God's providence,"

chimed in the cook.

"What! what!" exclaimed six or eight voices: "what do you mean by such

blasphemy, Solomon Grundy? A forfeit and a fine!"

"Peace, silly brawlers!" returned he of the kitchen, who had discussed

the good things thereof, until he had no room for more, and who had

also quaffed largely of the forbidden beverage called 'strong

waters;'--"I say peace, silly brawlers! I repeat it _is_ an open and

avowed doubting of Providence, that we should come thus far, and see

nothing but a parcel of people--parcel of sky--parcel of water--parcel

of ships--parcel----"

"Of fools!" grinned little Robin, pointing at the same time towards the

oratorical cook, who so little relished the compliment, as to elevate

the polished remnant of a mutton shoulder-blade, and aim a well-directed

blow at the manikin, which he avoided only by springing with great

agility through the aperture in the tree, so as to alight at some

distance on the other side of the hollow trunk. This harlequinade

excited much boisterous laughter among the crowd; and no one joined in

it more mirthfully than young Springall, who, for some reason known best

to Hugh Dalton, yet sanctioned by Sir Robert Cecil, had spent the last

few days in the kitchens and buttery of Cecil Place. There was another

youth of the same party, who perchance enjoyed the merriment, but who

looked as if he could have still more enjoyed melancholy. He was seated

next to Springall, on the rude bench; and the boy-sailor treated him

with such marks of attention, as manifested that he regarded him more in

the light of a superior, than as an equal. The stranger, however,

remained with his hat so much slouched over his face, that his features

were in complete shadow, while his cloak was muffled over the lower part

of his countenance.

"I say, Robin," exclaimed Springall, "come out of your shell; you have

remained there long enough to tell over a dozen creeds or paters, were

they in fashion--Come out, are you bewitched? Robin the Ranger, I say,

come forth, and give us a taste of your calling--a melody--a melody! But

you should hear our Jeromio sing his lingo songs some night astern: and

though I do hate that cunning rascal, yet, my eyes! how he does sing!"

"Singing," observed Solomon Grundy, whose potations had wonderfully

increased his piety, "singing is an invention of the beast's, yea, of

the horned beast's, of him who knoweth not a turtle from a turtle-dove,

but would incontinently stew them in the same caldron, over brimstone

and pitch; therefore shall my voice bubble and boil over against such

iniquities--yea, and my tongue shall be uplifted against them, even in

the land of Ham!"

"Go to sleep, Solomon, and you, youngster, give us a song yourself,"

growled Grimstone, who had all the outward bearing of a savage; "the

evening is nigh closing, and the birds are gone to their nests.

Nevertheless, the song must be right proper: so tune up, tune up, my

boy!"

Springall, with due modesty, replied, "I could sing you sea songs, and

land songs, but these I leave to Robin Hays, who beats me hollow. The

clerk of our ship has translated one of Jeromio's lilts, so I'll tip you

a bit of sentiment.

"O'er the clear quiet waters

My gondola glides,

And gently it wakens

The slumbering tides.

All nature is smiling,

Beneath and above;

While earth and while heaven

Are breathing of love!

"In vain are they breathing

Earth, heaven--to me,

Though their beauty and calmness

Are whispers of thee:

For the bright sky must darken,

The earth must be grey,

Ere the deep gloom that saddens

My soul, pass away.

"But see, the last day-beam

Grows pale, ere it die;

And the dark clouds are passing

All over the sky.

I hear thy light footstep,

Thy fair form I see;

Ah! the twilight has told thee

Who watches for thee."

Towards the latter part of the ditty, which was but little relished by

the company, it was evident that Solomon had followed Grimstone's

advice, for his snoring formed a loud and most inharmonious bass to the

sweet boy-like melody of Springall's ballad.

Robin had rejoined the party, but his face and lips were of a livid

paleness, and he seemed labouring under evident distress.

"Art hurt, Robin?" inquired the stranger, who is known to us by the name

of Walter, now speaking for the first time. Robin shook his matted head

in reply.

"Something ails thee, man; something must ail thee--speak, good Robin."

"I'm neither sick, sad, nor sorry," he answered, affecting his usual

easy manner; "so here's a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull

altogether at the black jack, to the health--But pardon, I had forgotten

the wickedness of such profane customs." Yet Robin evidently did not

hold it profane to "swill the brown bowl" so eagerly, that but the lees

remained at the bottom, as he laid it down, refreshed and strengthened.

"So you won't give us a toast, Master Robin," said Springall; "well,

I'll not only give ye a toast, but I'll stand the price of a fresh jack

of double-dub for you all to drink it in; and I'll fight any man that

says it nay, besides."

"Hold your profaneness!" exclaimed Robin, with a solemnity so opposed to

his actual character as to be absolutely ludicrous: "Springall, thou

hast had too much already; let us depart in peace."

"A curse on me if I do--peace me no peace."

"I tell you what," interrupted Robin, with resolute spitefulness, "if

you swear, I'll lodge information against you."

"Ah! ah! ah!" shouted several of the party, "Robin Hays turned preacher!

Old Noll has sent the breath of holiness before him to supply his place,

and made a sudden convert of the Ranger!"

"I entreat you most meekly to be silent; if not for my sake, for your

own. My brethren, you know not----"

"That here comes the black jack," interrupted Springall; "and here's to

the health--But Cavaliers----"

"We are _not_ Cavaliers," interrupted Robin, in his turn; "as I hope for

mercy, we are not Cavaliers:--hard--honest--pains-taking Commonwealth

citizens are we; but not, I say not," and he elevated his voice to its

highest pitch, "not Cavaliers."

"The devil's in the cards, and knaves are trumps," exclaimed Springall;

"nevertheless I'll have my toast, and here it is.--Come, up

standing,--'The fairest maid in Shepey, Barbara Iverk! and may she soon

be a wife'----"

"To whom?" inquired Robin bitterly.

"To whoever can win and wear her," replied Springall. "Come, come,

Master Bob, you're mazed by some devilry or other; the wind's in your

teeth; you've been sailing against a norwester, or have met with a witch

on a broomstick the other side of this old oak: Serves an oak right to

wither up--why wasn't it made into a ship? But here's to Barbara Iverk,

the fair maid of Shepey!"

"The fair maid of Shepey!" repeated Grimstone, after drinking the toast.

"That title ought to be given to the mistress, not the maid; and I care

not if I wind up the evening with a cup of Canary to the health of Lady

Constance----"

"Peace, sir!" exclaimed the stranger, who had heretofore taken no note

of their rioting: "I shall offer chastisement to any man who profanes

that Lady's name at a vulgar revel."

"Adad! and adad, young sir, ye're a game one! What's in any woman, that

a man can't name her? Flesh is flesh! and as to distinctions--we are all

members of a Commonwealth! so I say a stoup of Canary to the Lady----"

"By holy Paul! if that Lady's name passes your unworthy lips, my good

rapier shall pass straight through your unhallowed carcase!" exclaimed

the Cavalier fiercely, at the same time throwing back his cloak, and

drawing his sword more than half out of his scabbard.

"Hey ho! two can play at that: I never eat my words; so, the sword in

one hand, and the Canary in the other--to the health of----"

His mouth was stopped by the application of the palm of Robin's broad

hand to his unclosed lips; while he whispered some words into his ear,

that had the magical effect of restoring the weapon to its sheath, and

of inducing the braggart to resume the seat he had so hastily abandoned,

grumbling, in an under tone, words that fell indistinctly upon the ear

of his opposer.

"Let us home; it is a long and a dreary road to Cecil Place, and the

night is upon us already! so up, good Solomon. Here, landlord! this

fatted calf is unable to move: give him house-room till to-morrow; and

mind you put him on his way in time for the dinner-hour," was Robin's

parting speech. He then exchanged rough, but kindly salutations, with

his boon companions; and soon the trio--Walter, Springall, and Robin had

taken a by-path, leading to the part of the island in which Cecil Place

was situated.

CHAPTER IX.

His rude assault, and rugged handeling

Straunge seemed to the knight, that aye with foe

In faire defence, and goodly menaging

Of arms, was wont to fight.--_The Faerie Queene._

The three young men pursued their way; at first laughing and chatting

merrily upon the events of the morning; but gradually becoming more and

more silent, as persons usually do when the first flush of revelling is

over. The taller of the three, who has of course been recognised as the

mysterious visiter at Lady Cecil's funeral and in the cave of the

Buccaneer, although he bore himself towards them with all the courtesy

of a true-born gentleman, received the deference of his more humble

associates only as his due, and in a manner that showed he had been

accustomed to more than merely respectful treatment. After traversing

much low and marshy ground, they suddenly reached a spot where the road

divided, the one path leading to Cecil Place, the other to Gull's Nest

crag.

"Come with me, Robin; unless, indeed, the master wishes your company. I

ask his pardon for not thinking of that afore," said Springall.

"Not I, good Springall," replied the gentleman. "I think you need a

guide, for you walk the quarter-deck better than the dry land; and, if I

mistake not, there are sundry pit-falls in the way to your present home.

I know my path; and, besides, am a regular land-lubber."

"Save and bless your honour!" exclaimed the young sailor, holding all

land-lubbers in thorough contempt: "that ye're not: land-lubber, indeed!

I'll be at the Nest to-morrow early--if----"

"Hush!" said the more careful Robin, "never speak words of secret,

openly--See ye yonder?"

"Yes," replied Springall, "two horsemen on the other road; too far off

to hear my words, unless they had the ears of a hare."

"I had better go with you, sir," observed Robin earnestly: "I will go

with you, that's the truth of it. Good night, Spring--steer to the left

till you come to the red gap; after that, along the stone fence, on the

right; it will lead you to the orchard, then you know your way."

"Why did you not go with him?" inquired the Cavalier, kindly; "it is a

dark night, poor boy, he has small skill in land-steering."

"He must learn, sir, as I do," answered Robin; "and my duty calls me to

attend on you, particularly when strange people are a-stir."

"You are to be my champion, Robin?"

"Your servant, sir. A servant who learned his duty before it was the

fashion for servants to forget what they owe their masters. Alack!

alack! service now, like liberty, is but a name, and servants do as they

please."

"Did you so with the Master of Burrell?"

"But indifferently, sir; I fled, in a very servant-like manner, as you

know, when he was in danger. But I had my reasons for it, as well as for

going with him to London; only I'd rather not talk of that to-night,

sir. It is a mortal pity that such a sweet lady as Mistress Constance

should be forced to marry such a brute; for my part, I never could

discover any wisdom in those contracts, as they call them. Ah, little

Barbara is a discreet girl. But I have heard some one say, that, for all

her fine lands, poor lady, her heart is breaking, and chipping away bit

by bit. 'Tis very fine to be rich, but, being rich, very hard to be

happy, because the troubles we make ourselves are less easy to be borne,

than those that come upon us in the course of nature. If I had my wish,

it is not gold I'd ask for."

"Indeed! What then, Robin?"

"Just enough of beauty to win one woman's heart; I think I have wit

enough to keep it."

"Pshaw, Robin! though you may not be very comely, there are many worse."

"Ay, sir, apes and baboons; but they are like their kind--while I am a

poor withered creature, that Nature, in spite, threw from her, coarse

and unfinished."

"I wonder a person of your sense, Robin, should fret at such trifles.

Remember, beauty is as summer fruits, easy to corrupt, and quick to

perish."

"But for all that we look for them in summer, sir, just as youth seeks

out beauty."

The stranger turned towards Robin, but made no reply; it is sometimes

given to the simple to disconcert the wise, and that alone by their

simplicity.

A long silence followed; each ruminating on his own prospects and

projects: it was at length broken by Walter, who abruptly asked if Robin

was sure he had taken the right path.

"Mercy, sir, am I sure of the sight of my eyes! Behind that tree runs

the road we must cross, and then on to Stony Gap! Ah, many's the signal

I've hung out for the Fire-fly from that same spot; but, if perilous

times are past, and we live in days--as Master Fleetword hath it--of

peace, poor Hugh's trade will be soon over. I wish he were back--the

coast looks lonesome without him."

"So it does, Robin; but canst tell me what it was that made you look so

dull, and astonishingly religious after the hop, step, and jump you took

through the hollow oak?"

"Ah, master!"

"Well, Robin----"

"Why, you see, when I sprang through, 'thinking of nothing at all,' as

the song says, I found myself on the opposite side of the tree,

close--as close as I am to you, or nearly so--to----" As Robin had

proceeded thus far with his recital, a sudden turn brought them to the

high road, which led into a kind of hollow, flanked on either side by

close brushwood. About a hundred yards from where they stood, three men

were engaged in violent feud. The scene, at such a moment, and in such a

place, seemed produced by the wave of a magician's wand. The Cavalier

rubbed his eyes, as if to be assured of its reality; while Robin stood

aghast, bewildered, and uncertain how to act:--the moon was shining in

all its brightness, so that they could see as clearly as at noon-day.

"By heaven, 'tis two to one!" exclaimed the youth, casting off his

cloak, and unsheathing his rapier with the rapidity of lightning.

"So it is!" gasped Robin; "but two to such a one! Save us, sir! you're

not going to draw sword for him--?" But ere the sentence was concluded,

his companion was in the thick of the fray. "Oh!" exclaimed Robin, as in

agony, "that I should live to see true blood stirred in such a

cause!--How he lays about him! Poor boy, he little knows who's who! What

a noble thrust! hand to hand--how their swords glitter!--A murrain on

my shrivelled carcase! they would but laugh to see me among them! O that

I could be even with Nature, and hate her as she has hated me! Yet, to

be thus without a weapon!--Ah! one murderer's down, and the arch-fiend

with him--now are they entwined as with the coil of deadly serpents.

Treacherous dog! the other would take advantage; but, ah! well done,

gallant young gentleman!--he holds him back with most wonderful

strength--And now--see, see--the combatants are separated--one stands

over the other! Oh God! oh God! how he stabs!--hold! hold! Now, could

the moon show through those deadly wounds, twenty at the least count;

and only one such would let the life from out Goliath, or the strongest

man in Gath.--But see, the other shows a fleet foot; and that silly boy

flies after him! Alack! that he will not learn discretion! There they

go, across the fields, and not towards the ferry."

When Robin arrived at this point in his comments, the man whose life had

most probably been saved by the young Cavalier's interposition, called

to him to come forward,--a summons the manikin obeyed at first but

slowly: a second call, however, urged his alacrity; and he stood before

one of whom he was evidently in much dread, with a bent head and a

tremulous frame.

"Canst tell aught of that vile clay, whom the Lord hath delivered into

my hand?" he said, pointing to the lifeless corpse, while his chest

still heaved from the violence of the exertion he had undergone,

although in other respects he appeared as composed as if he had gone

forth only to enjoy the sweet breath of evening, and a ruder breeze than

he anticipated had passed across his brow. Robin stooped to examine the

distorted features of the dead, smeared as they were by the warm blood

that issued from more than one mortal wound.

"He was one of thy party but three hours past," continued the stranger,

speaking with energy and rapidity, "and thou knew'st him; heard I not

his words beneath the oak? Ay, and if it had been left unto thee, verily

I might have been given over to the destroyer, even as Hoshea was given

unto Shalmaneser. Speak, thou deformity, lest, finding thy mind as base

as its casket, I let it forth from its vile dwelling, even as a thing of

nought."

"'Tis poor Grimstone," exclaimed Robin, rising from his scrutiny, and

evidently affected by the loss of his boon companion on more occasions

than one; "he was ever after some devilry--but his attack upon such as

you----"

"Silence, sir. Did I not before intimate my wishes?"

"Well, then," muttered Robin, "his attack must have been purely a matter

of plunder. Grim. was never ambitious--never looked beyond a purse of

broad pieces;" adding in a lower tone, "he was always a fool."

"The carrion hath fallen in a pleasant place--so let the next comer look

to it, and do thou fetch hither my horse. Had it not been that my

saddle-girth gave way, I could have mastered twenty such footpads."

This was said in the tone of one who, however grateful for assistance,

would have been much better pleased to have found it needless, and to

have worked out the victory by his own hands.

Robin hurried to secure the animal, a well-trained war-horse, which had

stood quietly in the centre of the road, calmly awaiting the issue of

the combat: he observed that the saddle was turned completely round, and

hung under the belly. The horseman adjusted his cloak, wiped his sword

with the square cape, and had just replaced it in the scabbard, when the

Cavalier returned from his fruitless chase. As he advanced towards the

person to whom he had rendered such signal service, he noted that he was

a hale, stout man, probably past the meridian of life, of a stern and

awe-striking presence; and an involuntary feeling of respect made him

lift his hat from his head, and even remain uncovered while expressing

hopes "that he had received no injury from the cowards who had thus

beset his path." The other gave no reply to the inquiry, but fixed a

shrewd and penetrating gaze upon the young man's countenance. Apparently

the scrutiny pleased him, for he extended his hand, and seizing that of

his preserver, held it firmly within his palm for about the space of a

minute, then pressed it within his mailed grasp so strenuously, that the

youth felt the blood tingle to his finger-ends.

"I owe thanks and gratitude, and would fain know to whom: your name,

young sir?"

The Cavalier paused for a moment, and then said,--

"You may call me De Guerre--Walter De Guerre."

"Walter De Guerre!--an English Christian wedded to a French

surname!--'tis strange, but let it pass, let it pass: you have been an

instrument in the gracious preserving of one who, though unworthy, is of

some account; and instruments in the Lord's hand must be regarded. My

companions had business in this neighbourhood, and had left me but a

little time, when I was set upon by these cowards; but God is merciful,

and inspired you with valour. And now, sir, whither wend ye? To Cecil

Place?"

"No, sir," replied De Guerre, pondering what he should answer, or how he

should designate his present abode.

"To the worshipful sheriff, Sir Michael Livesey, at Little Shurland? He

must look to his ferry-warden and boatmen to prevent such villainies as

have now occurred."

"To none of these, sir," replied Walter; "in fact, I am a humble

traveller, lodging at a humble hostelry not far from hence."

During this dialogue, Robin had adjusted the saddle-girth, and led the

horse to its master, who took the bridle from his hand, and held it,

examining the girth as he spoke. Robin glided imperceptibly round to De

Guerre's side, and standing behind him, pulled his sleeve, and

whispered,--

"Don't tell him where."

The intimation was, perhaps, not heard, certainly not heeded, for the

young man added,--

"At the widow Hays'."

"I bethink me; the house near East Church. It is called

Nest--Nest--Nest--ay, Gull's Nest. 'Tis but a poor abode for one who

bears a diamond-hilted sword, and bears it bravely too. An every-day

person, Master De Guerre, would sell the diamonds and get a gayer

lodging."

"Persons differ in this and all other matters, more or less," replied

the young man somewhat haughtily: "I wish you good night, sir."

"Hot!" said the stranger, at the same time laying his hand upon the arm

of De Guerre: "Hot and high! Well, it is an ill tree that needs no

pruning; but the preserver and the preserved must not part thus. Come

with me to Cecil Place, and though I have it not to offer golden

recompense, yet I can assure to you a glad welcome; for my friends all

love each other."

"Go with him, go with him; never say him nay: why should you not go when

he desires it?" whispered Robin.

"But you are mounted, and well too, and I a-foot, and cannot pace it

with you," replied De Guerre, hesitatingly.

"And your grey steed is too far away--even for that nimble squire to

bring in good time," retorted the other, a kind of smile distending the

rugged and untrimmed moustache that garnished his upper lip.

"My grey steed!" repeated Walter in astonishment.

"Yes, and a stout beast it is. But I will rein in my horse, and the

Place is not so distant but we may keep together."

"Thanks for your proffered hospitality," said De Guerre; "but must we

not do something with the fellow you have slain? His companion was too

swift o'foot for me."

"Let the tree lie even where it fell," replied the other, looking on the

body for an instant, and then mounting his horse with the greatest

composure; "some one will cover it with decent earth in the morning: let

us forward, my young friend."

De Guerre signified his consent, and walked, closely followed by Robin,

at the stranger's side.

"And so," observed the horseman, turning to the Ranger, "you are

accompanying us, uninvited, on our way. Wert thou ever engaged in any of

the mummeries of Satan, denominated stage plays? Of all the tricks

learned at courts, that of _tumbling_ is the most dangerous; and as thy

master, Sir Willmott Burrell, has not practised it yet, I am at a loss

to understand how thou couldst be so perfect."

"I have served many masters, sir, and am now out of employ," replied

Robin, whose ready wit appeared to have deserted him, and who kept as

near as possible to De Guerre.

"Thou sayest truly; and lest one of them may have a demand upon thee ere

morning, what say ye to wending onward to that unholy resort of

cavaliers and smugglers, called the Gull's Nest, and leaving us to

pursue our course unattended to Sir Robert Cecil?"

Robin bowed as respectfully as he could, and was about to whisper some

words to De Guerre, when the stranger added, in a stern voice,--

"On, on! no whispering."

Robin held up his hands, as if he would have said, "How can I help it?"

and sprang over the adjoining fence with his usual agility.

They proceeded some little time without speaking, De Guerre,

discontented with himself at the power his extraordinary companion so

strangely possessed over him, yet yielding to an influence against which

he felt it impossible to contend.

"And pray, sir," at length inquired the elder, "what news may be now

stirring in France? You have, I presume, but recently arrived from

thence?"

"I have been in France, but not lately."

"In the Netherlands, then? for I take it you are given to the carnal

follies of the times, and have been cherished in the heresies, religious

and political, propagated by a person or persons assuming a particular

rank, which the Almighty saw fitting to wrest from them now many days

past."

"I have not, as I think, been brought up in any heresy," replied the

youth, gently but firmly, "and I should be sorry so brave a gentleman

and so expert a swordsman thought so: though I do not feel myself bound

to give you any information touching my private opinions, which I hold

to be as distinctly my own property as my hat or sword----"

"And which," said the stranger, "is, perhaps, the only property you are

possessed of."

"Exactly so, sir; but persons of a lower estate than mine have lately

risen to high places,--ay, and carry themselves as loftily as if they

were born to lord it over not only empire, but empires."

"Ah! true: then, I suppose, you would fain seek service; and if so, I

think my poor word would be of use. I am somewhat esteemed by the

Protector and other props of this great Commonwealth, and would gladly

tender my aid to you, to whom I am already strongly bound."

"I thank you for your bounty, sir; but at present I feel inclined to

sheathe, not draw my sword."

"But why? A youth like you, gifted with courage, skill, and health,--the

state demands some activity at your hands; 'tis ill to be a laggard."

"Nor am I one. Frankly, I like not innovation, and this state has been

experimentalising lately:--in a word, I like it not."

"That is a candid confession, more candid than your former words would

have led me to expect. But, young gentleman, it is not safe to trust

such sentiments into a stranger's keeping: the Lord Protector has, it is

said, his spies in every house; nay, it is reported the highways grow

them as rife as blackberries."

"And you may be one, for aught I know or care," said the youth bluntly.

"But what of that?--they say Old Noll likes in others what he hath not

yet practised himself--a thing called honesty; and at worst, he could

but take my life, which, after all, is little worth in comparison to

those he has already taken."

A long silence followed this intemperate speech, which at last was

broken by the mounted traveller.

"You spoke of innovations, and I also believe it is ill to try

experiments in states, unless the need be urgent, and unless it be

the reformation that draweth on the change, and not the love of

change that urgeth the reformation. Is not time the greatest

innovator?--is he not always changing? It hath been said that, as

in nature things move violently to their place, and calmly _in_

their place; so virtue in ambition is violent, in authority settled

and calm. Steel sharpens steel; so one glory perfecteth another:

and I am of belief, that they who are glorious, must have been

factious. Yet are there degrees in honour, and amongst the first

of them I should rank founders of commonwealths, or even states,

such as we read of in history--Romulus----"

"And you would, I suppose, include the name of Cromwell in the list you

were about to make?" interrupted De Guerre.

"And why not?" retorted the other proudly; "why not Cromwell? Is the oak

to be despised because it was once an acorn? Remember what he suffers

for his state; if, like the stars above us, he is much venerated, even

like them he hath no rest."

"Nor doth he deserve it," said the youth.

"Ah! say'st so!" exclaimed the stranger, hastily, but instantly adding

in a settled voice--"Walter De Guerre, or whatever be your name, beware,

and use not such expressions when you know not your company. You said

but now, your opinions were your property; then give them not away

unasked where we are going. I know you to be brave, and generosity

follows bravery as truly as one star succeedeth another; but discretion

of speech is more valuable than eloquence. And, as to Cromwell, the

people's shepherd has need to keep good count and careful watch; for

wolves and foxes in sheep's clothing break into the pinfolds, kill and

devour. Did he not act the part of Epimetheus (according to the profane

but wise fable), who, when griefs and evils flew abroad, at last shut

down the lid, and kept Hope in the bottom of the vessel, verily, indeed,

his lot would be severe. We can know but little how hard it is to labour

through evil report and good report. Charity in judgment is befitting in

all, but most of all in the young."

They were now within sight of Cecil Place. De Guerre had to contend with

many painful feelings, and a provoking consciousness of the strange

ascendency his companion had acquired over him, so that he dared hardly

speak his own words, or think his own thoughts. Nor could he trace this

to any external influence: the man was plain almost to vulgarity; his

dress common; and though his sword-blade was strong, the handle was

perfectly devoid of ornament. His horse was the only thing in his

appointments that indicated the station of a gentleman; but the saddle

appeared so old and battered, and withal so ill-made, that De Guerre

marvelled so noble an animal would condescend to carry such a weight of

old leather and damaged flock. It is true, that towards the close of

their conversation he had uttered some sentiments that, for a moment,

startled the Cavalier; but then he had uttered them in so unskilled and

confused a manner, and with such an unmusical voice, that it reminded

him, not unaptly, of a blacksmith stringing pearls, so coarse was the

medium through which these fine things came. He ventured to console

himself, however, by the reflection, that a man of such cool and

determined bravery must be, despite external appearances, a person of

some consequence: an opinion confirmed by his being a guest, and

evidently a privileged guest, of Sir Robert Cecil. He arrived at this

conclusion as they passed the postern-gate; and, as the night was now

far gone, the old porter lighted his flambeaux to escort them to the

house.

As the old man walked some degree in advance, the elder took the

opportunity to inquire of his companion,--

"Have you ever seen Mistress Cecil?"

"Seen Mistress Cecil!" repeated De Guerre, in evident embarrassment: "I

have seen but few of the ladies of the country--have had few

opportunities of doing so."

"Yet you resented the profanation of her name this afternoon under the

oak--dost remember that?"

"I know not who you are, sir," retorted Walter, angrily, and at length

fully roused from the respectful silence he had so long maintained,

"that you should thus cross and question one who sought not your

acquaintance. By heavens, if I were a friend (which, thank God, I am

not) of him you call Protector, or King, or whatever it be, I would

advise him of such persons; for it is the duty of every honest subject

to watch over his ruler, as over his father, with the care and the

duty--the tenderness and affection of a child. I should like to know how

you knew I had a grey steed?"

"Or how I discovered your ruffle with Sir Willmott Burrell after the

funeral," interrupted the other; "but be not afraid of meeting him: he

left Cecil Place some days ago, to arrange some business. Nay, now, do

not crow loudly your defiance, because I mentioned the word _fear_. What

a game-cock it is! pity, that though there is no white feather, there

should be no right feather in so gallant a crest!--Methinks the old

porter is long in summoning the grooms, so I will enter in the name of

the Lord; and do thou mind, 'Old Thunder,'" he added, in a gentle tone,

at the same time patting the curved neck of the noble creature, who

turned round his head at the caress, as if in appreciation of its value.

De Guerre took the bridle almost mechanically in his hand, and at the

same time muttered, "Left here, like a groom, to hold his horse! By the

Lord! I'll groom it for no man--yet, 'tis no disgrace, even to

knighthood, to handle a good steed; though I'd bet my poor Jubilee

against him.--Ah! here they come--" and he was preparing to resign his

charge right gladly to two servants, who advanced from a side-door just

as the stranger had mounted the last of a series of broad and

platform-like steps leading to the principal entrance. No sooner,

however, had the first of the attendants caught sight of the horseman's

cloak and broad-brimmed hat of the stranger, than he sprang up the

steps, and seized the garment, as the wearer was entering the hall. He

turned fiercely round at the assault; but the aggressor, whom De Guerre

now recognised as Springall, hung upon him too firmly to be easily

shaken off:--he drew his sword half out of its scabbard, and kept his

eye fixed upon the youth.

"I was sure of it! I was sure of it!" shouted Springall; "the cloak, the

hat--all! Now will I be even with thee for hanging me over the cliff,

like a poor fish in a heron's claw, and all for nothing."

"Go to, Springall," said De Guerre, coming up, pleased at observing that

the wrathful glance of the stranger had changed into a smiling

good-humoured look at the boy's harmless impetuosity: "Go to, Springall;

the double-dub and the Canary are in thine eyes, and in thy

scatter-pate. What could you know of this strange gentleman?"

"I vow by the compass," replied the boy, suffering his grasp on the

cloak to relax, as he gazed in no less amazement on the Cavalier; "we

are bewitched! all bewitched! I left you, sir, on your way to Gull's

Nest with wee Robin; and here you are keeping company with this very

hey-ho sort of--But by the Law Harry! he's off again!" exclaimed

Springall, whose astonishment had got the better of his watchfulness,

and who perceived, on turning round, that the mysterious gentleman had

disappeared.

"You are not going to be mad enough to follow any one into Sir Robert

Cecil's hall!" argued De Guerre, at the same time seizing Springall's

arm.

"Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! that I should ever live to see you, sir, in league

with a bogle! Why, I vow I had the mark of that devil's hand on me in

black lumps, just as if I was burnt with what our scourer calls

_ague-fortys_. As I am a living man, he went from off the brow of the

cliff, just like a foam-wreath."

"Pshaw! Spring; how can you or any one else tell 'who's who,' on a dark

night?"

"Could I be deceived in the cut of his jib or mainsail, ye'r honour? to

say nothing of the figure-head!--Am I a fool?"

"You are not over wise, just now, my gay sailor; so off to your

hammock."

"And must I see no more of that old gentleman?"

"Not to-night, Spring; perhaps to-morrow he may give you satisfaction,"

added Walter, smiling at his own conceit.

The youth went off, not very steadily, to the little gate by which he

entered; and a servant immediately announced to De Guerre, that Sir

Robert Cecil waited for him in the supper-hall.

He followed the domestic through the great vestibule, which bore a more

cheerful aspect than on the sad but memorable night of Hugh Dalton's

most unwelcome visit. Although the spring was considerably advanced, the

fagot blazed up the huge chimney, and illumined every corner of the

overgrown apartment. The grim portraits which graced the walls looked

more repugnant than usual in the red light that was thrown upon them by

the glowing fire; while beneath hung the very suits of armour in which,

if their most approved chroniclers are to be believed, they had

performed feats of valour. Upon the table of massive marble were strewed

sundry hawk's hoods, bells and jesses; some fishing-tackle, and a

silver-mounted fowling-piece also appeared amid the melange; while a

little black spaniel, of the breed that was afterwards distinguished by

a royal name, was busily engaged in pulling the ears of a magnificent

hound of the wolf kind, who, shaggy and sleepy, seemed little disposed

to be roused from his lair by the caprioles of the diminutive creature

that hardly reached to the first joint of his fore-leg. The lesser

animal, in accordance with the general custom of his kind, ran yelping

and barking at the stranger as he advanced up the hall; while the more

sagacious and dangerous dog raised his head, shook his ears, stretched

forth his paws, and elevated his broad chest, then sniffed the air so as

to be able to remember De Guerre if ever he needed to do so; seeing that

he was escorted by the servant, and therefore, doubtless, a person of

respectability, he composed himself again to rest as De Guerre entered

the presence of Sir Robert Cecil.

A few weeks had wrought a fearful change upon his countenance and form:

the eyes were more hollow, the cheeks more pale, the hair ribanded with

white, where but a little before there had been few grey hairs, and the

shoulders were much rounded since his interview with the Buccaneer. He

proceeded courteously to meet his guest, bowing, and expressing the

honour he felt in being introduced (through the Lord's mercy) to the

preserver of his friend. The baronet had approached slowly towards De

Guerre during this salutation, but either his dim sight, or the

obscurity of the further end of the room, prevented his being at first

struck with his appearance. As the young man advanced, Sir Robert

Cecil's gaze was fastened on his countenance with a gasping earnestness,

that shook every fibre of his frame; his lips trembled, and remained

apart, and he seemed for a few moments unable to move to the seat he had

quitted.

The "friend" he had alluded to was seated in a carved chair near the

fire, his foot placed upon a cushioned stool, and his arms folded over

his bosom, his head rested on his chest, but his eyes were fixed on the

beautiful face of Constance Cecil, who had risen on the stranger's

entrance; nor did it escape the notice of so keen an observer, that the

lady's cheek was suddenly suffused by a deep hue of crimson, as suddenly

succeeded by a pallor and trembling, that made her cling to the arm of

Lady Frances Cromwell for support.

"I beg to present," he rose, and said, "to my worthy friend Sir Robert

Cecil, and to you, Lady Frances Cromwell, and to you also, Mistress

Cecil, this young gentleman, by the name of Walter de Guerre, who,

though of French extraction, hath doubtless had an English godfather,

who hath favoured him with an English Christian name. And now, most

worthy baronet, as master of this mansion, I pray you to present me to

him who hath a swift arm and a ready hand for the defence of an attacked

soldier."

"Major Wellmore, young gentleman; a tried and trusty friend to the

English Commonwealth and its Protector!" said Sir Robert at last;

adding, as if in apology for his emotion--"Constance! this strange

megrim in my head!" And Constance, with the watchful care of an

affectionate child, led him to his seat, presented him a glass of

cordial; and not till he had declared himself quite recovered, did she

return to her station on the low sofa, beside her friend Lady Frances

Cromwell.

De Guerre was particularly struck, during the brief repast that

followed, by the extraordinary change in the manner of his companion,

who, from being an animated and sensible speaker, upon matters connected

with the state, had become more like a mystified and mystifying

preacher than a soldier, but whose out-pourings were listened to with

reverence and attention by the company. The Cavalier felt himself ill at

ease in his presence, and but for a governing motive, hereafter to be

explained, would have withdrawn from the house when the supper was

concluded, despite the specious invitation, and much pressing to remain;

he, however, accepted the apartment provided for him by Sir Robert

Cecil. The ladies, attended by their women, withdrew immediately

afterwards, and, as Lady Frances kissed her friend's cheek, she

whispered,--

"Didst see how Major--plague upon me to forget his name--eyed both you

and the handsome stranger?" And then she whispered so as to be quite

inaudible, ending by saying--while Constantia affectionately pressed her

hand,--

"Ah! those holy eyes of blue, remaining so silent and so fixed, do more

mischief than my poor little brown ones, that are ever roaming about

seeking what they can devour, but securing no prey."

CHAPTER X.

With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance charms,

And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms;

Which to the lowest depths of guilt descends,

By vilest means pursues the vilest ends.

Wears friendship's mask for purposes of spite,

Fawns in the day and butchers in the night.

CHURCHILL.

The dwelling of Sir Willmott Burrell was about eighteen or twenty miles

from the island of Shepey, on the Kentish border. The mysterious

companion of De Guerre had correctly stated, that at the period of his

introduction to the Cecil family the youth had little chance of meeting

with his treacherous antagonist of the evening on which the remains of

Lady Cecil were consigned to the tomb; the knight having been, for some

days previous, occupied upon certain weighty affairs within his own

house. A bad landlord can never succeed in convincing his tenantry that

he is a good man. The presence of Sir Willmott was by no means desirable

to his poorer neighbours and dependents, by whom he was at once dreaded

and disliked. Rarely, indeed, was it that a blessing ever followed the

mention of his name; and, although his influence and authority were such

as to render it dangerous to murmur against the one, or oppose the

other, Sir Willmott had ample reason to know that he was nowhere

surrounded by so many secret enemies as when residing upon his

hereditary estate. The domestics who had served his progenitors had long

been dismissed, and their places supplied by more subservient creatures,

and more willing panders to the vices that had increased with his

increasing years. Although he had taken especial care to surround

himself with knaves of great apparent devotion, in order that his

character might not suffer in the estimation of the few really religious

personages by whom he was occasionally visited, it required considerable

care to prevent their exposing, by their own depravity, the gross and

iniquitous life which their master led. It is seldom that a uniform

hypocrite is found among the uneducated; a more than ordinary degree of

talent and prudence being necessary to sustain a character that is but

assumed. Nature may be suppressed by habitual caution; but the meaner,

though not the baser, villain, finds appetite too strong for even

interest to control. The household of Sir Willmott Burrell was

ill-governed, and the lessons which the master sometimes taught, but

never practised, the servants neglected or--despised. The butler, the

housekeeper, the steward, and the numerous insubordinate subordinates

were evermore in a state of riot and debauchery: the evil had at length

grown to such a pitch, that Burrell saw its danger, and more than once

resolved to adopt the only remedy, and discharge them altogether; but

upon such occasions, he overlooked one very important circumstance,

namely, that he was in their power, and was consequently any thing but a

free agent in his own house. Burrell knew himself in their toils, and at

their mercy. Large sums of money might, perhaps, have purchased their

silence, but such a mode of procuring safety was now beyond his reach;

and although deeply desirous to rid himself of them before his marriage

with Constantia Cecil, he scarcely conceived it possible to escape from

their trammels, without subtracting from the fortune that was to

accompany her hand. He dreaded the danger of confiding his difficulties

to Sir Robert Cecil, by whom they were unsuspected; and his fine

property was so considerably mortgaged, as to render an appeal to his

ancient friends, the usurers, a matter of much difficulty, if not

totally useless. Manasseh Ben Israel, indeed, he knew had an

inexhaustible store, and a not unready hand, as he had upon more than

one occasion, experienced; but, villain as he was, he shrank from the

idea of applying to him for assistance, at the very moment when he was

thrusting the iron into his soul.

Burrell was seated alone in his library, musing over the labyrinth from

which he saw no immediate prospect of escape; plan succeeding plan, as,

unnoticed by him, the twilight had deepened into the night. His doors

were ordered to be locked at an early hour--a command which, it is to be

supposed, the servants obeyed or disobeyed according to their own

pleasure.

The Lords' Commissioners, Fiennes and Lisle, who were travelling round

the country on special business, had been his visiters for three or four

days; and on the evening on which they took their departure, he was, as

we have described him, musing in his library, upon no very amicable

terms with himself, when his reverie was broken by a knock against the

glass of an oriel window that was sunk deep into an embrasure of the

wall. He started from his seat, and was so alarmed at perceiving the

face of a man close to the fretted frame-work, as to draw forth a

pistol, and present it towards the intruder. In an instant the shivered

fragments of an exquisitely tinted pane flew into the library, and a

voice exclaimed,--

"It's me!"

"And what is the motive of this destruction?" stormed forth the Master

of Burrell, in an angry tone, proceeding at the same time to open the

window; "were there not people enough below to bring up your message?

and are there not doors enough for you to enter, without clambering

twenty feet up a straight wall, and shattering this beautiful picture,

the Marriage of St. Catherine, in a thousand pieces?"

"As to the marriage of St. Catherine," observed his visiter, stepping

through the casement, "I wish I could break all marriages as easily; and

as to the motive, your honour, I did not like to wait quietly, and see a

pistol-ball walk towards my witless pate, to convince, by its effects

thereupon, the unbelieving world that Robin Hays had brains. As to the

domestics, the doors were locked, and they, I do believe, (craving your

pardon, sir,) too drunk to open them. As to the wall, it's somewhat

straight and slippery; but what signifies a wall to one who can be in

safety on a tow-line, and only that between him and eternity? Thank God!

there is nothing on my conscience to make my footing tremble--or----"

"Robin Hays," interrupted Burrell at last, "I have listened to you with

much patience, because I know you love to hear the sound of your own

voice; if you bear either message or letter from my worthy friend Sir

Robert Cecil, let me have it at once."

"You are in error, sir, under favour."

"Indeed!--then to whom am I indebted for this visit; for I suppose you

came not on your own account?"

"Ah, Sir Willmott!--you are always wise, Sir Willmott; truly it would be

ill coming on my own account, seeing that I had no business of my own to

bring me, therefore why should I come? and even if I had, Dapple

Dumpling travels so slowly."

"This trifling is impertinent," exclaimed the knight angrily: "to your

business."

"I hope it wo'n't end in smoke, as it begins in fire," replied Robin,

slily presenting a roll of the tobacco vulgarly called pig-tail.

"Mis-shapen wretch!" retorted Burrell in a towering passion, flinging

the roll directly in his face, "how dare you to trifle thus with your

superiors? art drunk, or mad?"

"Neither, an please ye, Sir Willmott," replied Robin, replacing the

tobacco in his bosom; "only since you wo'n't look into the pig-tail,

perhaps you will tell me what I am to say to Hugh Dalton."

"Hugh Dalton! There, give it me; why did you not tell me you came from

the Buccaneer? Robin, you are a million times worse than a fool! There,

sit, good Robin--But, no, light me yon lamp; the fire burns dimly. A

murrain on't, I can't see! There, that will do."

While Burrell read Dalton's communication, thus whimsically but

carefully conveyed, Robin had ample time to moralise on and observe all

around him.

"That table," thought the Ranger, "is just a type of the times. The

Bible, it can hardly be seen for the heap of foolish expositions, and

preachments, in the shape of pamphlets, that crowd upon it. O, Lord! O,

Lord! take from the Puritans their vain opinions, wild imaginations,

false valuations, and the like, which they hang over the book that

Barbara says has so much good in it (just as the Catholics at San

Eustatia trick out the Saviour's figure), and what poor shrunken minds

they'd have! Then the bottle and glass: that, I'm afraid, typifies the

Cavalier; the poor Cavalier! who clings so firmly to the worn, and lets

go the stronger, rope. But mark how the filthy liquor stands beside the

pure book!--even so are the just and the unjust mingled. Ah! he has been

praying with the Lords' Commissioners; then drinking, and so forth, the

instant their backs were turned! Yet, God hath made the double-faced

villain of good proportions, so that a woman can look on him with love,

though his heart--augh!--I wouldn't have his heart for his lands, no,

nor for his fine person either. Barbara can't abide him; she always says

he has a black look--and so he has. But hark! there's knocking at the

gate, and loud knocking too--Sir Willmott, as the servants can't hear,

so can't answer, shall I go down?"

Burrell was so much occupied with his letter, that he heard neither the

knocking nor Robin's question, but sat, his eyes staring on the paper,

as if the words were of fire. Nor was it a long epistle, though

sufficiently important to rivet his whole attention. The contents were

as follows:--

April the 6th, 1656.

"SIR,

"Agreeably to your instructions, I went to the house at St.

Vallery, where you told me I was to meet the lady of whom we

spoke; but she had left harbour a few hours before I entered.

With much trouble I succeeded in tracing her to a very odd sort

of dwelling, a little outside the town, yet not in time to

overtake her or her attendant. Some said one thing, and some

another; but I could gather no information to be depended on. I

remained nearly nine days in the neighbourhood, watching every

vessel that came in or went out; nevertheless, I am persuaded

that she has embarked for England: how, is still a mystery.

"Yours,

"FIRE-FLY."

"The fellow is careful enough: can it be possible he has played me

false? Yet, where the motive, or what?" mused Burrell aloud. The

knocking at the door was repeated, but was only answered by the loud

baying of a brace of hounds. "And are the rascals really drunk?"

inquired their master in a piteous tone, roused at last to a sense of

what was passing around him.

"Ay, faith, sir; had I not as well go down? for, though ill-apparelled

as a serving-man, methinks I could do the civilities better than the

night-wind that howls so cursedly round the entry."

"Ay, go, go! only see that I be not disturbed, unless, indeed, it be

some person I must see--some one of consequence."

"Ay," muttered Robin: "so much for modern hospitality!" and he hastened

to undo the fastening.

As the chains fell, a small bent figure, completely enveloped in a fur

cloak, entered the hall, closely followed by a swarthy attendant, whose

high features, quick sparkling eyes, and downcast look bespoke him one

of the tribe of Israel.

"Is Sir Willmott Burrell within?" inquired the stranger, letting fall

the cloak that had been closely muffled round his face: he spoke,

however, in so foreign an accent, that it was a moment or two before

Robin could reply.

"I demanded of thee if Sir Willmott Burrell of Burrell was within?"

repeated the old man; and as Robin observed him more attentively, he

perceived that he was dressed in the peculiar fashion of the high-born

Jews: his beard descended nearly to his girdle, and his head was

surmounted by a perpendicular cap of yellow silk.

"Sir Willmott Burrell is not well," replied Robin; "but I will take your

name, if it please ye, and return speedily with his commands."

"Manasseh Ben Israel demands instant parley with the Master of Burrell."

Robin did not bow, because, as a humble Cavalier and a proud Christian,

he held it a point of duty to hate and avoid the despised race to which

the stranger belonged; but he made a respectful answer, for the riches

of the Rabbi and the favour of Cromwell were not to be contemned. He

then proceeded along the hall, and up some narrow stairs, called

private, as they led only to the library, and was crossing the

apartment for the purpose of announcing Ben Israel, when the Jew, who

had closely and unobservedly followed his footsteps with so light a

tread as even to escape Robin's ears, passed him suddenly, and as

suddenly Burrell of Burrell sprang from his seat, as if struck by a

musket-ball. The old man stood before him, his features working, his

lips moving, but no articulate sound coming forth--his entire frame

agitated, almost convulsed; while Burrell, exerting every power of his

mind to the contest, was the first to move. He stepped towards the Jew,

extending his hand in token of amity. Ben Israel touched it not, but

raised his arm, pointing his skinny and shrivelled finger towards

Burrell, until it came on a level with his countenance; then, by a

desperate exertion, the cracked, strained voice forced a passage through

his parched throat, and he exclaimed,--

"My child!--my only one!--Zillah!--my beloved, my only, only child! Do

ye remember your own mother, who travailed for ye, brought ye forth in

pain, and carried ye, and nourished ye in her bosom? Do ye ever hope to

have a child, who will tend, and serve, and watch over you, as mine once

did over me? If so, tell, tell me where mine is!--I will bless you for

the knowledge! I, an old man, whose beard is white, implore you, who

have ruined her, to tell me where she is!"

The Jew flung his cap on the floor, and prostrated himself before

Burrell, who immediately raised him, and in his most persuasive tone

sought to soothe and assure the Rabbi he had been in every respect

misled and misinformed.

"Sit, good Ben Israel, and comfort yourself; you have, I swear to you,

been grossly imposed upon by some malignants whom I must---- Robin! hunt

out the knaves, and bring some wine--the best in the old bin, for my

good friend. How could you, sir, suppose me capable of betraying the

confidence you reposed when you introduced me to the abode in which your

fair daughter dwelt? But, granting I had the ascendency over her, which

from your speech you seem to infer, how----"

"Sir Christian, stop!" interrupted Ben Israel, who, now his feelings had

found vent, had composed himself, so as to meet his wily adversary with

tolerable fortitude: "Sir Christian, stop! There are two classes of

human kind your sect deceive without regret--betray without

compunction--and destroy, body and soul, without remorse--women and

Jews. It is nought, sir, nought--mere pastime--women's hearts and

reputations, and old men's grey hairs! Alas! alas! and is such the

religion of England!" The old man bent his head, and moaned heavily;

then, after a little space of time, raised himself, and said, "In the

name of the God of Jacob, I will take you point by point! Reply unto my

questioning; and, if thou canst, acquit thyself."--A ray of hope darted

over his expressive features, like a beam of light athwart a

thunder-cloud. "But no," he continued, his countenance again darkening,

"it cannot be--it cannot be."

"Worthy Ben Israel! excellent Rabbi!" replied Burrell; "dissect me as

you will; and if I answer not thy expectation----"

"Too truly wilt thou answer my expectation," said the Jew. "The Lord of

Hosts be praised that these iniquities are unpractised by the children

of my people! The innocent lamb torn from the fold; or, what is worse,

decoyed from the tents of her fathers! Had she been dead, I could have

said, 'The Lord's will be done,' He hath taken the child back into her

mother's bosom. But answer unto me these points--Didst often see

Zillah?"

"I certainly did see your daughter at times, during my stay in Paris."

"And why, having delivered my messages? Of what importance ought thy

visits to have been to one of the despised race?"

"You surely would not impute evil to my inquiring if your daughter

wished to write to her father when I forwarded despatches to England?"

"Strange, then, she should never have availed herself of such kindness.

Did she give no reason for this neglect of her parent?"

"I saw so little of her," replied Burrell carelessly, "that I really

forget."

The Rabbi shook his head.

"Perhaps, then, Sir Willmott Burrell, you can remember this trinket, and

inform me how it came into my daughter's hands: it was forced from her

previous to her flight."

Burrell started, for it was a miniature of himself, which he had given

her in the bud of his affection. At last he brazened out an assurance

that, however like, it was not his; that he could not tell how young

ladies obtained miniature pictures; that, if the Rabbi would look, he

would observe the hair and eyes to be much lighter.

"Man!" exclaimed the Rabbi, fixing his keen black eye upon Burrell,

"away from before me! Guilt and falsehood are on your lip. Your eye, the

eye of the proud Christian, quails before the gaze of the despoiled and

despised Jew; were you innocent, you would stand firm as I do now, erect

in your Maker's image. Do you not tremble lest God's own lightnings

blast you? Did you ever read, and reading believe, the Christian story

of Ananias and Sapphira!"

If Burrell had possessed an atom of human feeling, he would have sunk

abashed to the earth, and entreated the forgiveness of the Rabbi, whose

flashing eyes and extended features glared and swelled with indignation;

but the only two emotions that at the time contended within him were

cowardice and pride. Had he the power, gladly would he have struck the

Jew to death, as a punishment for what he deemed his insolence; but he

feared the protecting and avenging hand of Cromwell, who never resigned

a cherished purpose or a cherished person, and whose esteem for the

learned Rabbi was perfectly known, and much talked of about the court.

"You cannot avoid crediting me for meekness, Ben Israel," he said,

without, however, raising his eyes from the ground (for his blood boiled

in his veins, though he spoke in a gentle tone); "you have come into my

house, rated me upon a foul charge, and will not permit me to speak in

my own defence. Take a cup of this wine, and then I will hear, if you

can adduce it, further proof than that false portrait."

The Rabbi touched not the proffered beverage, but withdrew from his vest

sundry letters, which he unfolded with a trembling hand: they were the

communications he had received from the Polish Jew, with whose family at

Paris his daughter had remained. He stated Burrell's extraordinary

attention to Zillah, during his residence abroad--the frequent letters

that passed between them under pretence of a correspondence with her

father--her having received others from England since Burrell's

return--her total change of manner--and, finally, her having quitted his

house, and his being unable to discover where she had gone. Strong

suspicions were added that she had followed Burrell to, and was now in,

England; and there was a long and formal expression of regret from the

Polish Jew that he had ever admitted the Christian beyond the threshold

of his door.

The villain breathed more freely when he ascertained that the fugitive

had not been traced from St. Vallery; and he felt he could have braved

the affair with perfect ease and indifference, but for the information

conveyed by Dalton's letter, and the consequent dread of Zillah's

appearing before him, perhaps at the very moment that the

often-asserted, and sworn to, lie passed his lips. It was now more

difficult to dissemble than he had ever yet found it; he saw clearly

that his oaths and protestations made but little impression upon the

mind of Ben Israel, who filled up every pause either by lamentations for

his daughter, execrations on her seducer, or touching appeals to one

whose feelings were centred in self, and who therefore had little

sympathy for sorrow that would have moved a heart of stone. Burrell was

so thoroughly overpowered by the events of the evening, that the only

point of exertion on which his mind rallied was a strong wish to rid

himself of the Jew as speedily as possible, so that he might find

opportunity to collect and arrange his thoughts--it therefore occurred

to him to assume the bearing of injured innocence, as protestations had

been of no avail; he accordingly said, in a tone and with a manner so

earnest, that at the moment it almost destroyed the suspicions of the

Rabbi:--

"Sir, I have over and over again asserted enough to convince any

rational person that I know nothing of the crime you impute to me;

having, in my own estimation, performed all that could be required, I

must now withdraw. If you please to lay your statement before his

Highness, I will defend myself, as I have now done, and let him judge

between thee and me."

"I have not been yet able to gain speech with the chosen in Israel,"

replied Manasseh: "he hath been much from home on secret service for the

good of his people."

Burrell exulted at this knowledge, and again protested his innocence in

the strongest terms. Manasseh rose to depart. Burrell pressed him to

remain; but the old man resolutely refused.

"I am about to go forth from your dwelling. If you have not been the

seducer of my child, I crave your pardon in deep humility, and will do

penance in sackcloth and ashes for having wrongfully accused you; but,"

he added, bitterly, "if you have wronged me, and devoted her soul to

destruction, may the curse of the old Jew enter into your veins, and

curdle the red blood to a hot and destroying poison!--may the flowers of

the spring be to you scentless and revolting!--may the grass wither

under your footsteps!--may the waters of the valley be even as molten

lead unto your parched lips!--may----"

"Dog of an unbeliever!" exclaimed Burrell, whose temper could no longer

brook the taunting curses of the old man, and whose coward spirit

quailed beneath them, "hold thy foul tongue, lest I pluck it from

between thy teeth. Had I been a circumcised Jew, and thou a Christian, I

could not have listened with more humility; and this is the reward of my

forbearance--curses deep and bitter as the waters of the Dead Sea."

"They cannot harm if thou art innocent. I have neither broken bread nor

tasted salt within thy walls; and now I shake the dust from off my feet

upon thy threshold. Thy words at first were of honey and the honey-comb,

but now are they as gall. Others must deal with thee. The prayer of the

bereaved father was as a tinkling cymbal in thine ears; but the

curse--the curse knocked at thy heart, and it trembled. Others must deal

with thee."

Manasseh Ben Israel repeated the curse with terrible energy; then

shaking the dust from his sandals, he passed, and entered, with his

attendant, the carriage that awaited him at the gate.

Burrell was convinced, and humbled by the conviction, that an

irresistible impulse had compelled him to desert his sophistry, and

stand forth in his real character before one who had the ear of the

Protector, and whose religious persuasion had not prevented his

advancement, or his being regarded as a man of extraordinary mental

attainments, even in a country, the prejudices of which, always

deeply-rooted, were at that time peculiarly directed against the Jews.

This people were devoted in their attachment to Cromwell; and it was

believed that they would not have scrupled to declare him the Messiah

could they have traced his descent in any degree, however remote, to the

dwellers in Judah. Manasseh had mixed so much with Christians, and had

been treated by the Protector so completely as an equal, that he

retained but little of the servility of tone or manner, and less of the

cringing and submissive demeanour, that characterised his tribe; he

therefore spoke boldly to Sir Willmott Burrell, after a burst of strong

and bitter feeling. He knew himself protected by the ruler of England,

and felt undaunted in the presence of one he could easily destroy; but

then he was a father, and as such impelled by nature to adopt every

expedient that might promote the disclosure of a secret on which almost

his life depended, and which, he doubted not, was, in some shape or

other, in the keeping of his wily opponent.

"A pretty scrape my villanies have brought me into!" thought Burrell, as

he returned to his chamber: "the girl will come over--that stops a

wedding. Suppose I were to take Zillah to wife--the old rascal would not

give me a maravedi. Suppose, before I have secured Constance, Cromwell

listens to the Rabbi's tale, he will forbid my marriage to please the

accursed Jew, and I--may blow my brains out. Suppose I marry at

once--But how? Lady Cecil not many weeks dead! I must manage it,

however," he continued, pacing the apartment, while Robin, who had

ascertained the impossibility of rousing the ill-governed menials from

their state of hopeless debauchery, amused himself by counting the

number of times the Master of Burrell walked up and down the room. At

length, finding such dull watching wearisome, he ventured to enter, and

inquire if he were to remain at Burrell House, or return to the Gull's

Nest.

"Well thought on, Robin Hays," said the knight, as if roused, and not

unpleasantly, from himself and his thoughts; "you will rest here

to-night, and accompany me to Cecil Place on the morrow. See to these

rioters, of whom I must rid my house."

"You had better do it, then, immediately," retorted Robin, "or they will

save you trouble by ridding you of your house."

"True, good Robin; you are ready-witted."

"And, to keep up my character, I'll back to Cecil Place this very

hour," muttered Robin, as he closed the door; "there is one there who

must not tarry the coming of Sir Willmott Burrell."

CHAPTER XI.

But such it is: and though we may be taught

To have in childhood life, ere love we know,

Yet life is useless till by reason taught,

And love and reason up together grow.

SIR W. DAVENANT.

"And, indeed, my grave Lady Constance plays with the poor fish in a very

sportsmanlike manner; only, methinks, a little too shy, and a trifle too

sensitive! Marry, girl! what a most yielding, docile, and affectionate

wife you would make!--like one of the heroines in the ancient Spanish

romances; or such a one as--Judith!--no--for you would never venture to

chop off a man's head--Stay--did she so?--or--Barbara! you are well read

in Scripture history; and, though you ply your needle so industriously,

that will not prevent your calling to mind some of the holy women in the

Bible, to whom your mistress may be compared."

Barbara Iverk, who had no other duty at Cecil Place than to wait upon

the young heiress or assist in her embroidery, was considered and

treated more as a humble companion than a menial; and Lady Frances

Cromwell talked just as freely to Mistress Cecil in her presence as if

they were perfectly alone. Nor was such confidence ever abused by the

gentle girl. She moved within her small circle like an attendant

satellite upon a brilliant star--silent and submissive--yet ever in her

place, ever smiling, innocent, and happy,--

"A maid whom there were few to praise,

And very few to love."

Simple and single-minded, her soul had never been contaminated by the

idea, much less the utterance, of falsehood. Even to Constantia, the

fulness of her worth and fidelity was unknown; although the bare

contemplation of Barbara's ever parting from her was one of actual

pain.

She replied to the lively question of the Lady Frances in her usual

straightforward and unpresuming manner: a manner that afforded

considerable amusement to the merry trifler, by whom the little Puritan

was commonly spoken of, while absent, as "the fresh primrose."

"Indeed, my lady, I do not like mixing up profane and holy things

together."

"Fie, Barbara! to call your mistress profane. Constance, do put down

those heavy poems of Giles Fletcher, and listen to your bower-maiden,

describing you as one of the profane."

Constance looked up and smiled; while poor Barbara endeavoured to free

herself from the charge with earnestness and humility.

"My Lady Frances, I ask your pardon; but I can hardly, I fear, make you

understand what I mean. I know that Mistress Cecil is always aiming at

the excellence to which the holy women of Scripture attained--but----"

"Then she has not attained their holiness in your estimation? She is too

earthly still?"

"She is my dear and noble lady, and to know her is to love her," replied

Barbara, her brown, affectionate eyes swimming in tears at the wilful

perversion of her words. "May I beg, Lady Frances, that you will

condescend not to question so poor and simple a girl as myself on what I

know so little of?"

"There you are again in error, Barbara," retorted her tormentor, who,

like most wits, cherished a jest more than the feelings of those she

jested with; "I condescend when questioning, not when silent."

Barbara made no reply, and Lady Frances, who was, at the same time,

pulling to pieces a superb fan of ostrich feathers, proceeded to open

her light battery against Constantia.

"How is Sir Robert this morning? I wish he were rid of the rheumatism,

and with us again. I have hardly seen him since the valiant De Guerre

made his appearance among us, except at dinner; and, indeed, he looks

ill, though--heigh ho!--I wish all papas were as accommodating, and let

their daughters flirt with whom they like."

"Flirt, Lady Frances?"

"Yes, flirt, Mistress Cecil! Is there any thing appalling in the word?

though I believe it somewhat of the newest. Now, poor I have no skill in

these matters! If I see a pretty fellow, I care not who knows it; I

like a jest, a laugh, tempered with all rightful modesty. I do not prim

my mouth, tutor my eyes into sobriety, nor say Amen, like old Will's

Macbeth, to those who say 'God bless us!' I laugh my laugh, and look my

look, and say my say, though I am youngest, and, by God's grace, wildest

of his Highness the Protector's children."

"Where got you your gay spirit, Lady Frances?" said Constantia, rising

and stepping towards her.

"My mother is a discreet matron as need be, but my father was not always

one of the gloomy rulers of this gloomy land: he had his wild days,

though it is treason to speak of them now; and, in sooth, he sometimes

forgets that young blood runs swifter than old--How he lectures poor

Richard!"

"The Lord Richard is not cast in his great father's mould; he is a

gentler and a feebler spirit; one who loves to hear of, or to read of,

great deeds, rather than to act them. Lady Fauconberg is more like your

father."

"My sister Mary would certainly have made a fine man. It was one of

nature's blunders to convert such coarse clay into a woman."

"She has a noble mind, Frances, though not so holy a one as the Lady

Claypole."

"Well, dear Constance, you are very good to bear with me. Suppose, now,

my father, instead of sending me here, had commanded that I should

sojourn and mystify with that righteous Mrs. Lambert, whom he magnifies

into a model of holiness; what a time I should have passed! Why, the

nuns, whom the holy Sexburga placed up yonder, had not as much

loneliness; don't you think the place was admirably adapted for an

elopement? I am certain--nay, you need not smile--for I am quite

certain, that every one of the seventy-seven maidens, of whom history

tells us, including the charming Ermenilda herself, fully made up their

minds to run off with the Danes before they came to the island. I wish,

though, that your father could be persuaded to consider this only a

summer residence, for it must be a little dreary, I think. Not that I

feel it such, for you are so kind; and just as we were beginning to grow

a little dull or so, a flourish--and enter Walter De Guerre, under the

auspices of Major Wellmore! Ha! ha! ha! Well it has amused me so much.

He certainly is a most charming person; and if _one_, who is not here,

were here, I should be inclined to tease him a little by my vast

admiration of this gentleman. By the way, Sir Willmott Burrell has

little reason to thank Major Wellmore for this new introduction; though

it must be quite delightful to make either a lover or a husband jealous.

Ah, I see you do not agree with me--I did not expect you would; but, do

you know, I have taken it into my head that this De Guerre is not De

Guerre."

"Indeed! who is he then?"

"That, Constantia, is exactly what I want to know--and I think you could

unravel the mystery."

"My dear Frances, you are a very unaccountable person; always playing

false yourself, you hardly ever give people credit for being true."

"You are vastly complimentary. Ah, Constance, when you come to Hampton,

you must learn some court observances. When we were children together,

we spoke truth."

"Were we not very happy then?"

"We were," said Frances, drawing a heavy sigh; "but how changed the

times since then! Constance, those who walk along a precipice may well

dread falling. Gay, giddy as I am, Cromwell has not a child who glories

in him more than I do."

"And well you may," added Constance, whose dignity of soul led her to

appreciate, with as much judgment as enthusiasm, the extraordinary man

who commanded the admiration, not only of England, but of Europe. "Well

may you be proud of the most successful statesman, the most resolute

general, the most useful Christian that ever governed a state. By his

power he holds our enemies in subjection; and guides our friends by his

wisdom. I am but a poor politician, yet, methinks, I could almost

worship your father for the spirit and humanity with which he succours

those poor persecuted Vaudois, who have kept their faith pure as the

breath of their native valleys: when I think of this, even the conqueror

is forgotten in the man."

"You are a dear noble creature," exclaimed Frances, as she gazed with

admiration upon the animated and expressive countenance of her

companion; then encircling her neck, and kissing her cheek, with that

delightful warmth of manner which can spring only from warmth of

feeling, she continued, "I wish, my love, that flush were always on

your cheek. You nourish some secret sorrow, Constance; nay, I am sure

you do; and I will write and say so to my sister Claypole, who is

worthy to be your confidant, as well as your godmother, though I am

not. Nay, nay, I know it well: I admire, but do not quite understand

you. The heavens are given us to hope for, and the sun to look upon,

and--but dear me! that would be--a simile! I vow that sounded like rhyme;

but here comes reason, in the shape of our new knight. Adieu! dear

Constantia!--Barbara! that is surely Robin Hays, groping among the

slopes like a huge hedgehog. Did you not want to consult him as to the

management of the peewits' eggs?"

"In truth, yes, my lady," replied Barbara, rising from a half-finished

carnation:--"May I go, mistress?"

Constance assented.

"May _I_ go, mistress?" repeated Lady Frances, mimicking Barbara's tone

and courtesy, in her light-hearted gaiety.

"Yes," replied Constantia firmly, "I would rather you did; for I have

something particular to say to Major Wellmore's friend."

"Now, is not that just like Constance Cecil?" thought Lady Frances, as

she left the room; "another would have said any thing rather than the

truth--yet is truth a noble thing: something to venerate as well as

love--the best of virtues, the wisest of counsellors, and the firmest of

friends."

Constance rose from her seat as the Cavalier entered; but there was an

expression of deep sorrow over his whole countenance, that was almost

immediately communicated to hers. What an extraordinary and undefinable

tie is that which binds souls and sympathies together--the voice, that

is heard only by the ear of affection--the look, that only one can

understand--the silent thrill of happiness or of anguish, communicated

by a smile or by a sigh! The world may sneer at, or may condemn; yet

most true it is, that they who love with the most purity and the most

truth, draw nearest to that great Spirit who is the perfection of both!

"I am come," said De Guerre, "to bid for awhile farewell to Mistress

Cecil; to thank her for the kindness I have received under this roof;

and to assure her that it can never be forgotten."

"You have received but little attention--too little, indeed; yet, my

father's health--our recent heavy affliction--will, I am sure, plead for

us, and win an excuse. I was not, however, aware that your departure

would come so suddenly. Is my father apprised of it?"

"He is not:--forgive me, lady; but I could not avoid saying how much and

how truly I have felt the kind consideration you have bestowed upon one

who, however worthy, I hope, in many respects, has nevertheless deceived

you."

"De Guerre may deceive me," replied Constance, with considerable

emotion, extending one hand as she spoke, and covering her face with the

other, "De Guerre may deceive me, but Walter--_dear_ Walter--never."

The young man took her offered hand, and pressed it affectionately to

his lips. "Ah! how soon you saw in the Cavalier the companion and

playmate of your childhood, though you believed him dead! Women have

quick eyes, and warm hearts for old friends. Unrecognised by my

nurse--by your father--yet discovered by you--by you only, Constance! I

need not say, do not betray me; do not breathe, even to those walls, who

it is that has entered within them; let it remain secret as the grave.

But I need not urge you thus, for treachery is not in your nature; let

me talk of other things, and ask by what token, Constance, did you trace

me through the disguise that years, and the burning sun of many a

parched land, have thrown over my features and my form?"

"It was your voice that struck me first--some tones and modulations,

that I well remembered when you called my dog:--then the unforgotten

locket which you placed in my hand, which, when I had seen you, I knew

could have been placed there by no other:--then----" Constance paused

and blushed; she ought to have felt angry at the liberty that had been

taken with her tresses, but she gave no expression to such a feeling;

and the pause was broken by the Cavalier, who drew from his bosom the

beautiful braid of which the maiden had been robbed.

The colour on Constantia's cheek was succeeded by a deadly paleness.

"Ah! what a moment it was, by that old temple, the lily triumphing over

the rose on your fair cheek, even more than now, yet with such mild and

gentle triumph, one scarce could wish it less; your eyes veiled by

those soft lashes:--well, no more--I will say no more of this. I tried

my poor skill to call you back to life, and, just as I succeeded, your

companion and attendant came in sight. Since then, this dear memento has

nestled near my heart, a shield against evil, and against evil thoughts.

What! still so pale? you must be ill, my sweet friend," he inquired

tenderly.

"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."

Constance replied with tears, yet calmly and firmly: "Walter, be not

cruel; or, at least, be not unjust. You were ever impetuous, but also

ever ready to repair the evil you had done. It is ill of you to use so

harsh a word against one who has never wronged you. Alas! could you but

read my heart, you would also judge of me otherwise; but think of me as

your friend--your fervent and faithful friend--I will not prove

unworthy."

The Cavalier was about to reply, when Robin Hays was ushered into the

room by Barbara, who immediately withdrew. After bowing with due respect

to Constance, he was about to whisper into the ear of the Cavalier, who,

however, desired him to speak out, as he had nought to conceal from that

lady. The Ranger seemed but little astonished at receiving such a

command, and without further ceremony proceeded.

"I did hope, sir, that you would have left Cecil Place before this; Sir

Willmott Burrell will, I am certain, arrive within an hour; and you know

it is the Skipper's earnest desire that you should not meet."

"Robin, you told me all this but a little time past; and I know not why

I am to hear it again. I have nought to fear from this Burrell."

"It would be certainly unsafe, were there a possibility of his

suspecting you, for his----" Again Constantia interrupted herself; she

had been on the point of betraying her knowledge of Sir Willmott's

jealous and impatient temper; and, after a pause, she added, "but there

is little danger of that: as a boy, he never saw you; and he must

respect the friend of Major Wellmore."

"Ah, madam!" observed Robin, "he is no respecter of persons; and I see

no reason why two should meet again, who have already so roughly handled

each other."

"Where did they meet?" inquired Constance eagerly.

"There is no time to tell the story now, lady," replied Robin

impatiently. "As I see you know this gentleman, and knowing him, are too

generous not to be interested in his favour, urge, I beseech you, his

instant departure from Cecil Place. Surely I can explain every thing as

well as he. It was Dalton's wish----"

"I bitterly grieve to hear that you have aught to do with so bold, so

bad a man as Dalton," said Constance hastily; "his name brings to my

remembrance feelings of undefined pain, for which I cannot account. It

is long since I have heard of him; but something poor Barbara

communicated to me in her innocence, made me suspect he had been here.

Go then; and take my prayers, and (though nothing worth, it may be,) my

blessing. And now, farewell--farewell--at least for a time!"

"We must meet again, Constance! say only that you will see me once more

before----"

"By Heaven!" exclaimed Robin, "you stand dallying here, and there is Sir

Willmott himself coming down the avenue at full speed! Lady, I entreat

your pardon for my boldness--But go, lady go!--in God's name!--then, and

not till then, will he depart."

Constance did not trust herself in the room a moment longer. After

briefly collecting her thoughts, which had laboured unceasingly to

unravel the mysteries that surrounded the Cavalier, she entered her

father's chamber. He had been evidently suffering from illness, and was

seated in a large easy chair, his feet resting upon cushions, while the

Reverend Jonas Fleetword read from time to time out of sundry pious

books that were placed on a table before him. The preacher paused as she

approached, and signified his intention of walking forth "to meet the

man Burrell," who, he understood from the wild youth called Robin Hays,

was to arrive ere noon. It was a precious opportunity, one not to be

neglected, for cultivating the rich seed sown in that holy land.

When the worthy divine was fairly out of the room, Constance delivered a

message from the Cavalier, stating that he had been obliged to leave

Cecil Place without taking a personal leave of his kind host; and

repeated his expressions of gratitude for the attentions he had

experienced during his brief sojourn.

"Thank God, he is gone!" replied the baronet, drawing his breath freely,

as if relieved from a painful oppression. "Introduced as he was, it was

impossible not to treat him with respect, but he strangely disturbed me.

Did you not think him a cold, suspicious youth?"

"I cannot say I did, sir."

"You are singularly unsuspicious, Constance, for one so wise: you ought

to learn distrust; it is a dark, a dreadful, but a useful lesson."

"Methinks one has not need to study how to be wretched; suspicion has to

me ever seemed the school of misery."

The baronet made no reply to this observation, but soon after abruptly

exclaimed,--

"He will not come again, I suppose."

Constance did not know.

He then fancied he could walk a little; and, pressing to his side the

arm on which he leaned, said,--

"Ah, my child! a willing arm is more delightful to a parent than a

strong one. Wilt always love thy father, Constance?"

"My dear father, do you doubt it?"

"No, my child; but suppose that any circumstance should make me poor?"

"You will find what a nice waiting-maid your daughter is."

"Suppose I was dishonoured?"

"Public honour is given and taken by a breath, and is therefore of

little worth; but the private and more noble honour is in our own

keeping: my father keeps it safely."

"But suppose that I _deserved_ the ill word of all mankind?"

"My dear father, why trouble yourself or me with such a thought?--if it

so happened, you would still be my parent; but such an event is

impossible."

The baronet sighed, as if in pain. Constance looked anxiously into his

face, and noted that a cold and clammy perspiration stood thickly on his

brow.

"You had better sit down, dear sir."

"No, my child, I shall be better for a little air; let us go into the

library."

As they entered the room, a scene of solemn drollery presented itself,

that a humorous painter might well desire to portray. Kneeling on a

high-backed and curiously-carved chair, was seen the lean, lanky figure

of Fleetword, placed within a foot of the sofa, on which, in the most

uneasy manner and discontented attitude, sat the Master of Burrell. The

preacher had so turned the chair that he leaned over it, pulpit-fashion;

holding his small pocket Bible in his hand, he declaimed to his single

auditor with as much zeal and energy as if he were addressing the Lord

Protector and his court. The effect of the whole was heightened by the

laughing face and animated figure of Lady Frances Cromwell,

half-concealed behind an Indian skreen, from which she was, unperceived,

enjoying the captivity of Burrell, whom, in her half-playful,

half-serious moods, she invariably denominated "the false black knight."

Fleetword, inwardly rejoicing at the increase of his congregation, of

whose presence, however, he deemed it wisdom to appear ignorant, had

just exclaimed,--

"Has not the word of the Lord come to me, as to Elisha in the third

year? and shall I not do His bidding?"

"Thou art a wonder in Israel, doubtless," said Burrell, literally

jumping from his seat, and that so rudely as nearly to overturn the

pulpit arrangement of the unsparing minister; "but I must salute my

worthy friend, whom I am sorry to see looking so ill."

"Perform thy salutations, for they are good," said the preacher,

adjusting the chair still further to his satisfaction, "and after that I

will continue; for it is pleasant repeating the things that lead unto

salvation."

"You would not, surely, sir," said Lady Frances, coming forward and

speaking in an under-tone, "continue to repeat poor Lady Cecil's funeral

sermon before her husband and daughter?--they could not support it."

"You speak like the seven wise virgins," replied Fleetword, putting one

of his long limbs to the ground, as if to descend; and then as suddenly

drawing it back, he added, "But the Lord's servant is not straitened;

there are many rivers in Judah, so the faithful may drink at another

stream."

"I wish you would come with me," said Lady Frances, rightly interpreting

the entreating look of Constantia: "or rather, come with _us_, for I am

sure Mistress Cecil has much to say to, and I have much to hear from,

you: we will leave Sir Robert and Sir Willmott to talk over the affairs

of this great nation; temporal matters must be attended to, you know:

and though"--she looked for a moment at Burrell, whose countenance had

not yet regained its usual suavity--"I am sorry to be the means of

depriving Sir Willmott of much necessary instruction--I have no doubt

you will make up the deficiency to him at some future time."

CHAPTER XII.

The soote season that bud and blome forth brings,

With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale,

The nightingale with fethers new she sings,

The turtle to her mate hath told the tale,

Somer is come, for every spray now springs.

* * * * * * *

And thus I see among these pleasant things,

Eche care decay; and yet my sorrow springs.

SURREY.

It may be readily imagined that Burrell remained in a state of extreme

perplexity after the receipt of Dalton's letter, and the departure of

Ben Israel. He saw there was now but one course that could preserve him

from destruction, and resolved to pursue it:--to cajole or compel Sir

Robert Cecil to procure the immediate fulfilment of the marriage

contract between himself and Constance. This was his only hope, the

sheet-anchor to which he alone trusted; he felt assured that, if the

Protector discovered his infamous seduction of the Jewess, Zillah, he

would step in, from a twofold motive, and prevent his union: in that he

esteemed both the Rabbi's wisdom and his wealth, and was most unlikely

to suffer one on whom his favour had been bestowed so freely, to be

injured and insulted with impunity; and next, inasmuch as he entertained

a more than ordinary regard for Constance Cecil, the child of an

ancient friend, and the god-daughter of the Lady Claypole. Of this

regard he had, within a few weeks, given a striking proof, in having

selected Cecil Place above more splendid mansions, and the companionship

of its youthful mistress, in preference to many more eager candidates

for such an honour, when, for certain weighty reasons, he deemed a

temporary absence from the court essential to the comfort and prosperity

of the Lady Frances.

The friendship that had subsisted between the family of the Protector

and that of Sir Robert Cecil was, as we have intimated, not of recent

growth; the Lady Cromwell and Lady Cecil had been friends long before

the husband of the former had been called to take upon him the high and

palmy state that links his name so gloriously, so honourably--but, alas!

in some respects, also, so unhappily--with the history of his country.

When an humble and obscure individual at Ipswich, the visits of the Lady

Cecil were considered as condescensions, upon her part, towards friends

of a respectable, yet of a much inferior, rank. Times had changed; but

he who was now a king in all but the name, and far beyond ordinary kings

in the power to have his commands obeyed as widely as the winds of

heaven could convey them--remembered the feelings that held sway in

lowlier, yet, perhaps, in happier days; and, although rarely a guest at

Cecil Place, he continued a stanch friend to the family, to whom he had,

upon several occasions, extended the simple hospitalities of Hampton

Court.

Towards the Lady Constance, his sentiments of respect and regard had

been frequently and markedly expressed. When he beheld the fading beauty

of the mother reviving with added graces and attraction in the fair form

and expressive countenance of the daughter, it was with feelings of

pride, unusual to him, that he remembered his wife had been among the

first to cherish and estimate the promise which the youth had given, and

which the coming womanhood of Constance was surely about to fulfil.

Moreover, two sons of Sir Robert had fought and died by the side of the

Protector, having been schooled in arms under his own eye; and had there

been no other motive for his interference, he was not a man to have

looked on the dead features of his brave companions, and have felt no

interest in the relations who survived them. To the only remaining

scion of a brave and honourable race, Cromwell, therefore, had many

reasons for extending his protection and his regard. Sir Robert,

perhaps, he considered more as an instrument than as a friend; for

Cromwell, like every other great statesman, employed friends sometimes

as tools, yet tools never as friends--a distinction that rulers in all

countries would do well to observe. It is an old and a true saying,

"that a place showeth the man;" few, at that time, could look upon the

Protector, either in a moral or political point of view, without a

blending of astonishment and admiration at his sudden elevation and

extraordinary power; and, more especially, at his amazing influence over

all who came within the magic circle of which he was the centre. Burrell

of Burrell he regarded as a clever, but a dangerous man; and was not,

perhaps, sorry to believe that his union with so true a friend to the

Commonwealth as Constance Cecil would convert him from a doubtful

adherent, into a confirmed partisan, and gain over to his cause many of

the wavering, but powerful families of Kent and Sussex, with whom he was

connected.

Burrell, however, had succeeded in satisfying Cromwell that the proposed

union had the full consent and approbation, not only of Sir Robert

Cecil, but of his daughter. The protracted illness of Lady Cecil had

much estranged Constance from her friends; and, as the subject was never

alluded to in any of the letters that passed between her and her

godmother, it was considered that the marriage was not alone one of

policy, but to which, if the heart of Constance were not a party, her

mind was by no means averse. Of the Protector's views upon these several

topics, Burrell was fully aware; and he dreaded the discovery, not only

of his own conduct, but of the feelings that existed towards him on the

part of his affianced bride; there were other topics that did not so

readily occur to the mind of Burrell, but that would have been of

themselves sufficiently weighty to have confirmed his worst fears for

his own safety--the Protector's stern love of justice, and his especial

loathing of that vice of which the villain had been guilty. Had the Jew,

Ben Israel, and the maiden, Constance Cecil, been indifferent persons in

his sight, the double treachery of Burrell would have been requited upon

his head.

Next to Hugh Dalton, no man possessed so unbounded, and, so apparently,

unaccountable, an influence over Sir Robert Cecil as Sir Willmott

Burrell: he knew, as we have elsewhere stated, many of his secrets, and

shrewdly guessed at others of more weighty import; while, with the ready

sagacity of an accomplished knave, he contrived to appear well

acquainted with matters of which he was altogether ignorant, but the

existence of which he had abundant reasons for suspecting. The enfeebled

health and growing infirmities of the baronet rendered him an easy prey

to his wily acquaintance, who, driven to his last resource, resolved

upon adopting any course that might save him from destruction, by

inducing Sir Robert, not only to sanction, but command an immediate

marriage with his daughter.

In commencing the conversation with Burrell, Sir Robert peevishly

complained of the annoyance to which he had been subjected in receiving

and accommodating the young friend of Major Wellmore, although he

abstained from the indulgence of feelings similar to those he had

exhibited in the presence of his daughter. He then murmured bitterly of

sleepless nights--of restless days--of watchings and weariness--of

hideous dreams--of the toils, turmoils, and unfaithfulness of the

world--the usual theme of those who have done nothing to merit its

fidelity; and, as Sir Willmott Burrell looked upon him, he marvelled at

the change that but a few weeks had wrought in his appearance; his mind

seemed so enfeebled, that he deemed it even more altered than his body.

He was, moreover, much astonished to find that he dwelt so little upon

his recent and most heavy loss; for the attachment between Sir Robert

Cecil and his wife had been remarkable at a time when domestic happiness

was even the court fashion. But here Burrell was at fault; he knew

nothing of the position in which Sir Robert at present stood with regard

to Hugh Dalton, and was therefore ignorant of the positive peril by

which he was encompassed: a peril so great and so immediate, as to

render him, in a degree, insensible to the affliction under which he had

so recently and so painfully laboured. Often, in his dreary night

watches, when sleep set no seal upon his aching lids, or when they

closed for a little over the strained and worn eyeballs, and then opened

in terror at frightful images that haunted his fevered fancy--often, at

such times had he endeavoured to offer up a thanksgiving, that she was

gone from the wrath, the avenging horrors--the approach of which he

dreaded a thousand times more than death.

The application that had been made to the Protector for Dalton's pardon,

had been treated as he expected; and his only chance of accomplishing

the object of the Buccaneer, now rested on the possibility of his

gaining over certain persons of the court, to exert their influence with

Cromwell in the outlaw's behalf. Sir Robert's personal interest did not

extend far, but the influence of his gold did. The Protector could free

himself from outward sinners, but he could not rid himself of the more

smooth, and consequently more dangerous, villains, generated by the

peculiar forms and habits of the times. To some of these, Sir Robert had

secretly offered temptation in every way: the stake was large, the

danger certain; for he well knew the inflexibility of Dalton's

character, and that he would not fail to perform that upon which he had

resolved. It had occurred to him, more than once, to consult Burrell on

the subject; but a dread of his future son-in-law, for which he could

not account, had hitherto prevented his naming to him the Buccaneer's

desire to be a legalised commander. His anxiety to carry his point now,

however, overcame his timidity, and he resolved to speak to him on the

matter, at the very time the knight had decided on addressing the

baronet--under equal weighty circumstances--on the subject of his

marriage. Unfortunately for Sir Robert Cecil, he was the first to unfold

his plan; and thus gave the wily Burrell another and a firmer hold than

he had yet possessed. After repinings over his health, and murmurs

against mankind, had somewhat lessened that secret and consuming misery

that enveloped him as with a winding sheet, he inquired if Burrell had

lately encountered a man they must both remember,--Hugh Dalton,--a bold,

but reckless fellow, who had played cavalier, buccaneer, and a thousand

other characters in turn--all characters, in fact, save that of a

coward. Burrell replied in the negative; but confessed he knew the man

had been upon the coast; cunningly adding, that since his affections had

been so entirely fixed upon Constantia, he had given up every

connection, every idea, that might hereafter draw him from a home where

all blessings would be united.

Sir Robert was never insensible to his daughter's praise, but it did

not prevent his continuing the subject. He stated that Dalton was a

clever, experienced seaman;--that his knowledge of foreign seas and

foreign affairs in general might be made most useful to government, if

government would avail itself of such advantages;--that the Buccaneer

was a bitter thorn in the side of the Protector, as he had been known to

convey malcontents to England, as well as to ship them off;--that his

Fire-fly might be termed a meteor of the waters, now here, now there,

shining like a blazing star--stealing like a moon-beam--in the Texel, in

the Thames, in the Baltic, or the Black Sea--as occasion required;

everywhere when mischief was doing, nowhere when it was to be

remedied:--that all this evil might be avoided by giving Dalton a pardon

and the command of a Commonwealth ship; that he would accept, indeed he

(Sir Robert) was sure that he desired, such an employment, and that it

would be a grievous thing for the state if an arrangement could not be

made to purchase his future services and his good conduct at so small a

price.

Burrell was astonished, but saw clearly enough that there must be some

covert motive for such deep and unaccountable anxiety: he dexterously

set forth the various arguments that might be urged by government

against a man of Dalton's character; the ill example, the dangerous

precedent of one so circumstanced taking his place amongst honourable

men, and so forth; mooting a variety of points, in order that he might

judge of Sir Robert's object by his manner of answering objections.

The baronet was caught in the toils; he betrayed so much anxiety, so

much panting eagerness in the Buccaneer's behalf, as to satisfy Burrell

that hardly any thing less than a cause of life and death could create

such intense earnestness on such a subject in a person who seemed

balancing between this world and the next. Various surmises and

conjectures, which he had heard in former times, strengthened the

opinion. Having assured himself upon this point, he ventured upon one of

those daring falsehoods that had hitherto been the principal means of

his success: he assured the baronet, in the most solemn manner, that he

had a secret way, one which he could not explain, but it was a species

of promise for service performed, of winning from Cromwell the desired

pardon and appointment;--that he had avoided asking such a favour until

something particular occurred, something of deep value and

importance;--that he was willing to sacrifice his own prospects to

oblige his friend; and the only favour he asked in return was one that,

though above all price in his estimation, could be easily bestowed by

Sir Robert Cecil--the immediate gift of his daughter's hand. He did not

wish her feelings to be wounded by a public ceremony so shortly after

the loss they had all sustained; nay, he would prefer receiving her from

her father in the ruined but beautiful little chapel that belonged to

the house: all he requested, all he entreated, was that the marriage

should be speedy. Then, with the power of one deeply skilled in

deceitfulness, he wound up the whole by tender allusions to the

weakness, the precariousness of Sir Robert's health, and the despair he

might experience on his death-bed, if he expired with the knowledge that

his beloved, and only child, had no earthly protector.

Sir Robert remembered his promise to his wife, that he would never urge

his daughter's marriage with Burrell; and although he avoided noticing

this as an apology to the knight, yet he firmly stated his dislike to

press Constantia on the subject; and earnestly inquired if there were no

other way by which he could show his gratitude than by interfering in

the matter, at all events, until the year of mourning for Lady Cecil had

expired.

Burrell feigned astonishment at this reply: the hand of Mistress Cecil,

he said, had long been betrothed to him; he confessed that he did not

think Sir Robert would for a moment have hesitated to comply with his

most reasonable request: he urged various motives for hastening the

union, and finally entreated the baronet's permission to address his

daughter herself on the subject. To this Sir Robert offered no

opposition; he was ignorant of the strength of Constantia's feelings

with regard to Burrell. She had been affianced to him in her early

girlhood, when much too young to have an opinion on the matter; and as

the union had never been pressed upon her, she had not been called upon

to state any objections to it. Her poor mother had seen, with the

clearness of a mother's love, that the marriage would never tend to her

child's happiness: she had observed both characters narrowly, and was

perfectly convinced of Burrell's worthlessness. She could not impress

this conviction on Sir Robert's mind; but in her last moments she

extorted from him the promise that he would never urge the union. This

was, as we have seen, all she could obtain; and Sir Robert was content

to "keep the word of promise to the ear," without reference to the

sense.

Burrell seemed perfectly satisfied with the permission he had obtained,

and left Sir Robert in the library, expressing his determination to

speak to Mistress Cecil on the subject that evening.

"And he will make her a very affectionate husband," mused Sir Robert,

after his departure: "how can he do otherwise? But I do not interfere in

it; I know she has no other attachment; and my Constantia's sense of

duty will oblige her to love her husband. Oh, yes, she will be

happy--happy--happy"--he said, as if the repetition of the word could

give birth to the feeling.

It was the clear and balmy twilight; the sun had left the west in glory,

and the delicious breeze of evening was mingling among the young leaves

of the shrubs and trees; all appeared in contentment and at peace, when

the Lady Frances Cromwell and Constance sat together upon a mossy bank,

but a few yards distant from the house, yet so overshadowed by venerable

trees, that not a turret nor a vestige of the building was to be seen.

The spot they had chosen for their resting-place was known as "the Fairy

Ring:" it was a circular mound, girdled by evergreens, which, in their

turn, were belted by forest-trees, that spread in an opposite direction

to the house, into what was called the Ash Copse. The dark green of our

winter shrub, the spotted laurustinus, was relieved by the golden

tassels of the laburnum, just opening into bloom; the hawthorn contended

for beauty and perfume with the delicate blossoms of the purple lilac;

while its modest sister, the white, sent forth her pale green leaves,

and delicate buds, over a bed of double violets:--

"Where all the earth beneath--the heaven above,

Teem'd with the earliest spring of joyous youth,

Sunshine, and flowers, and vague, and virgin love."

The quiet and serenity of the evening communicated its tone and

character to the buoyant mind of Lady Frances Cromwell.

"I am sober as the twilight, Constance, because I have been thinking of

sober matters. Alas! alas! we have all our twilights.--Youth's twilight

is soft and perfumed as that which hovers over us,--tranquil--but it is

the tranquillity of hope. The twilight of middle life is, methinks,

nearly allied to that of an autumn evening,--doubts hover and come upon

us as the falling leaves; the wind whistles like the wailing of

departing days; there is but little tranquillity then, because the hope

that is left is enough to agitate by its vain dreams, but not to soothe.

What shall I say of the twilight of age? I do not like to think of

it--its tranquillity appears to me so closely linked with despair."

"No, Frances, not despair: it is only the moody and abstracted silence

of guilt that claims such awful kindred. I think age more

beautiful--more hope-giving, than youth; though its beauty is far

different, and its hope sublime, instead of joyous. Ask the most

prosperous--the most fortunate man in existence--one on whom the eyes of

the whole world are turned in admiration and its attendant, envy--ask

such a one if he would live over his life again, and he will answer,

'No!'"

"This speaks badly for the happiness of life," said Lady Frances.

"I do not think it does," replied Constantia; "every evil has either a

remedy or an anodyne: but, unfortunately, we are more prone to dwell

upon evils than upon blessings--yet this should make us less satisfied

with earth, as we draw nearer heaven."

"Constance, are you a philosopher?"

"No; for I am a woman! and what is called philosophy is sadly at war

with both our mental and our bodily endowments. I have heard there are

lands in which certain persons think they confer honour upon our sex, by

mixing us more up with the bustle and turmoil of the world--methinks

they would strangely pervert our natures."

"I agree with you, Constance: let men have all the public, and women all

the private business of life to manage, and my word on 't, the balance

of power is with us. Our tongues have enough to do at home, without

chattering in high places; and as to our arms! mine could ill wield

battle-axe or broadsword. I suppose these people of whom you speak would

invent a new sex to look after domestic matters, while we assist in the

broil and the battle! We shall lose our influence, depend on 't, the

moment we are taken out of our sphere--we shall lose caste as women, and

be treated with contempt as men. What _I_ like, Constance, is to have my

own dear little way, by my own pretty little manoeuvres--behind the

bush--thrust another into the breach, and then, if evil arise, the man

gets the blame, while I retreat in safety."

"Then the Lady Frances would take one of the other sex as a shield?"

"Yes, Constance; they would do as well to be shot at as ourselves, you

know."

"Ah, Frances, you are no true woman, unless, if there were real danger,

you would thrust yourself between it and the life a thousand times more

precious than your own. Suppose, for instance, that sudden danger

menaced the life of----"

"Hush, dear Constantia; the idea of such an event is enough. It is

easier to sacrifice life when the sacrifice is demanded by affection,

than to resign one selfish indulgence."

"Ah! because, in the first case, we gratify ourselves; in the second,

others."

"You are a mental chemist, Constance: but here comes the maid called

Barbara, with hoods and cardinals, signifying that the dew is falling,

though we feel it not."

"I sought you, mistress," said Barbara, "all over the house, for Sir

Willmott Burrell advised me that he wished to speak with you in the oak

parlour, if it so please you, or in the library; my honoured master was

present."

"Did my father too want me?"

"No, madam; he said he would go to his chamber, for a little, before the

evening meal."

The young ladies, followed by Barbara, entered the house, and, as

Frances Cromwell pressed Constantia's hand, she felt it clammy and

chilling cold: she would have spoken, but, while arranging the necessary

words, her friend, with a more than usually dignified deportment,

entered the parlour. It was a dark, dim room, the frettings and

ornaments of black carved oak.

"Tell Sir Willmott Burrell I await him here," she said to Barbara, while

passing the threshold.

Frances Cromwell, over whose mind a feeling of terror was imperceptibly

stealing, would have remained, but Constance intimated that she would

receive Burrell alone.

CHAPTER XIII.

----I am sworn brother now

To grim Necessity; and he and I

Will keep a league till death.

SHAKSPEARE.

"My blood seems to curdle in my veins," murmured Constance, as she

rubbed the palm of one hand against the back of the other; "my very

blood seems to curdle in my veins, and a shadow, as of the vampire's

wing, is over me. But why is this? Is God less present with me here than

beneath the heavenly atmosphere I have just now breathed?" And then she

uttered a few words of prayer, so earnestly, that Burrell had entered

the room before she was aware of his presence.

"You are not well," he observed, seating himself in a chair beside that

into which she had sunk: "I hope I do not disturb you unpleasantly. You

keep watch too anxiously by your father's couch."

"I am better now," she replied; "but that of which you speak, my thought

of the living and the dead, although it may have somewhat touched my

health, has been my happiest duty."

"Perhaps you would rather hear what I have to say to-morrow," he

observed, a momentary feeling of sympathy forcing itself upon his mind,

as he noticed her white lip, and still whiter cheek.

"I pray you, sir," she replied proudly, "to proceed: I am as ready now

as I can be on the morrow to listen to aught it may be your pleasure to

advance. Your observations, if it please you, now."

"I have no 'observations' to offer, Mistress Cecil,--may I say

Constance? for so I used to call you in the early days of our

betrothment,--though I have much to request. I confess, I have felt

hurt, and aggrieved, at the small show of courtesy you have vouchsafed

me; but, as I believe that sorrow, and an habitual reserve, have wrought

this manner, I do not blame, though I regret it deeply. The time, I

hope, fair lady, is not far distant when you will ratify my claim to

your hand; then the devotedness of my future life,--the entireness of

my attachment,--the depth of my love----"

"Sir Willmott Burrell," interrupted Constantia, "_the grass upon my

mother's grave is not yet green; and would you talk of love?_"

For a moment the knight was silent.

"Reasons--reasons that I will explain hereafter, make me exceedingly

desire that the contract should be immediately fulfilled. Nay, lady, do

not start, and shudder," he continued, taking her hand, that hung

listlessly, and without motion, within his grasp; "even should you not

love as I do, affection will make you all mine own, within a little

time."

"Believe it not, Sir Willmott," said Constantia, at length disengaging

her hand; "I can never love you."

Men have been accustomed, in all ages, to hear simple truths, of such a

description, declared in so simple a manner. Ladies rant, and protest

that they abhor and abominate,--or they weep, and shriek, and call the

gentleman odious, or horrid, or some such gentle name; which the said

gentleman perfectly understands to mean--any thing he pleases; but

Constantia's perfect truth, the plain earnestness of that brief

sentence, carried conviction with it; and the handsome Burrell paced

three or four times the length of the oak parlour, before he could

sufficiently bring his mortified feelings under necessary subjection: he

then resumed his seat.

"I think otherwise; a woman can but require devoted affection, constant

watchfulness, and tender solicitude. All, all this will be yours.

Besides, a daughter of the house of Cecil would not break faith. I could

_command_ your hand--I only solicit it."

"Sir Willmott, you well know, that when the unhappy contract was entered

into, I was of tender age; too young, indeed, to comprehend its nature.

Ought you in honour to urge it on me, when I frankly tell you by word of

mouth, what my demeanour must have informed you long, long since,

that--I can never love you?"

"You have said it once, lady; and the sentence cannot be pleasant to the

ears of your affianced husband. The turmoils of the times, and the

service I so largely owed to the Protector, have called me much from

home; and though my heart lingered here, I was forced away by duty to

the state: surely you would not love me less because it was rigidly

performed?"

"You would not wish me your wife," said Constance, in a faltering tone,

resolving to make trial of Sir Willmott's generosity, while her strength

seemed to rise with her honest purpose,--"you would not wish me your

wife; for not only do I not love you, but--I love--another."

Now, Sir Willmott Burrell did not start from his chair, nor did he pace

up and down the polished floor,--he fixed his eyes upon Constantia, as

if he would have read within her soul _who_ she loved; but the

expression gradually changed, from a deep and perilous curiosity, to one

of firm resolve, until, drawing his breath between his set teeth, he

said, slowly and deliberately, but in a restrained tone, as if the voice

came from the fiend within him,--

"I am sorry for it, Constantia Cecil; for it cannot prevent your being

mine--mine--and, by the God that hears me, mine only, and for ever!"

Constantia rose slowly from her seat, and said, in a firm voice, "I did

not come here to suffer insult, sir."

She walked across the room with so dignified a step, that she had nearly

reached the door, before Burrell acquired sufficient courage to stay her

departure. He laid his hand on her arm as she touched the lock, but she

shook it off as coolly, yet as firmly, as the apostle threw from him the

viper into the flames at Melita. Burrell, however, had too much at stake

tamely to relinquish his purpose. He spoke in a constrained voice, and

said,--

"I entreat you to remain; if it be not for your own good, it will be for

your father's that you do so."

The mention of her father's name at once commanded her attention. She

desired Burrell to speak on; without, however, resuming her seat. He

paused for so considerable a time that she at length observed,--

"I wait, Sir Willmott, and will wait patiently, if it be necessary: but

methinks your silence now is as uncourteous as your speech a brief while

since."

"It is because I feel for you, Mistress Cecil,--feel for you acutely,

that I thus hesitate. I would spare you the pain I know my words must

inflict; and therefore, once more, calmly, but energetically, implore

you to consent to the immediate fulfilment of the contract existing

between us."

"This is trifling, sir. I desire that you suffer me to pass forth. I

might have known you had nothing to say that concerned my father; and,

as to myself, if you could be mean enough, under such circumstances, to

accept my hand, I cannot be base enough to give it."

"A fine sentence!" exclaimed Burrell, sneeringly. "I make bold to tell

you, lady, I care not so much as you may imagine for your affections,

which I know you have sufficient principle to recall, and bestow upon

the possessor of that fair hand, whoever he may be. Nay, look not so

wrathful, for I know _that_ which would make your proud look quail, and

the heiress of Cecil rejoice that she could yet become the wife of Sir

Willmott Burrell!"

Constantia trembled. She had never before listened to such language; and

she felt there must be something appalling in the motive that could give

it utterance. Although her hand rested on the massive lock of the door,

she had not power to turn the handle. If looks could wither, the Master

of Burrell would have shrunk before her gaze; yet he bore her indignant

frown with more audacity than he could have believed he possessed.

"If your communication concerns my father, speak, sir; if not,"--she

paused, and he took up the sentence--

"If not, Constantia casts me off for ever! Yet," he added, in a tone of

insulting pity, "I would spare your feelings, for you have been a most

affectionate child."

"Sir," interrupted Constance, "I hope I am too true a daughter to hear

those taunts with patience: your insinuations I despise, and I _defy_

you to utter an accusation against him that could summon a tint of

crimson to my cheek!"

"But I could speak _that_ which would make the red cheek pale,

lady--what think you of--of--of MURDER?"

Constantia's eye gleamed for a moment, like a meteor, and then it became

fixed and faded; her form assumed the rigidity of marble, and at each

respiration her lips fell more and more apart. The villain became

alarmed, and, taking her hand, would have led her to a seat; but his

touch recalled her to herself: she darted from him to the centre of the

room, and there, her arm extended, her fine head thrown back, every

feature, as it were, bursting with indignation, she looked like a

youthful priestess denouncing vengeance on a sinful world.

"If I could curse," she said, "you should feel it heavily; but the evil

within you will do its own work, and my soul be saved from sin. Away!

away! And you thought to fright me with that horrid sound! My dear, dear

father!"

"I declare before Heaven," interrupted Burrell, "it is to save him I

speak! The damning proofs of his guilt are within my hold. If you

perform the contract, neither tortures nor death shall wring them from

me; if you do not--mark me--I will be revenged!"

"Silly, wicked that I was," exclaimed Constance, "not to command you

before him instantly, that the desperate lie might be sent back into

your throat, and choke you with its venom! Come with me to my

father!--Ah, foul coward! you shrink, but you shall not escape!--To my

father instantly!"

Burrell would have restrained her, but it was impossible. Finding that

he did not move, she was rushing past him, when he arrested her progress

for an instant, saying,--

"Since you will thus dare the destruction of your only parent, it is

fitting you know of whose murder he is accused." He drew nearer to her,

so near that she felt his hateful breath upon her cheek, as, like the

serpent in the garden of Eden, he distilled the deadly poison into her

ear. A slight convulsion, succeeded by an awful paleness, passed over

her countenance; but, rallying, she darted on him another look of

defiance and scorn, and flew to her father's chamber.

The old man had been sleeping, but awoke as she entered, and probably

refreshed by the short repose he had enjoyed, stretched forward his arms

to his daughter with an expression of confiding fondness, which, in the

then state of Constantia's feelings, but added to the agony she endured.

She could not resist the mute appeal; falling on her knees, she buried

her face amid the drapery of his robe. In this posture she continued for

a few minutes: her lips uttered no word, but her bosom heaved as if in

mortal struggle, and her hard breathings were almost groans. At length,

still kneeling, she raised her head, her hands clasped, her swollen but

tearless eyes fixed upon the pale, anxious, and alarmed countenance of

her parent. He would have spoken, but she raised her finger in token

that she entreated silence; a moment afterwards she addressed him in

broken and disjointed sentences.

"I can hardly give it utterance--and when I think upon it, I know not

why I should intrude so vile a falsehood on your ear, my father; but

Burrell seemed so real, so fearfully real in what he said, that I

tremble still, and my voice comes heavily to my lips." She paused for

breath, and pressed her clasped hands on her bosom.

Sir Robert, imagining that she alluded to her marriage, which he knew

Burrell must have been urging upon her, replied,--

"My dearest child knows that I have not pressed her union; but Sir

Willmott is so anxious--so attached--and, I must say, that my grey hairs

would go peacefully to the grave were I to see her his wife. I am almost

inclined to think my Constance capricious and unjust upon this point;

but I am sure her own good sense, her regard for her father----"

"Merciful powers!" interrupted Constance, wildly; "and is it really

possible that you knew of his proposal? Ay, ay, you might have known

_that_, but you could not know the awful, the horrid threat he held out

to me, if I did not comply with his demand--ay, _demand_ for an

immediate union?

"It was very imprudent, very useless, in fact," said the baronet,

peevishly, his mind reverting to the proposals of the Buccaneer, which

he believed Burrell had communicated to Constantia; "very absurd to

trouble you with the knowledge he possesses of my affairs--that is

strange wooing--but good will arise from it, for you will now, knowing

the great, the overpowering motive that I have for seeing your union

accomplished----"

The baronet's sentence remained unfinished, for the look and manner of

his daughter terrified him. She had risen from her knees, and stood, her

eyelids straining from her glaring eyes, that were fixed upon her

father, while her hands were extended, as if to shut out the figure upon

which she still gazed.

"It is all madness--moon-struck madness," she exclaimed, and her arms

dropped at either side as she spoke; "some cruel witchery surrounds me;

but I will speak and break the spell. Father, you are not a murderer?

you did not murder----" and she, too, whispered a name, as if it were

one that the breath of heaven should not bear.

The baronet sprang from his seat, as if a musket ball had entered his

heart.

"'T is false!" he exclaimed; "there is no blood upon my hand--look at

it--look at it! Burrell has no proofs--unless that villain Dalton has

betrayed me," he added, in a lower tone; "but I did not the act, the

blood is on _his_ head, and not on mine. Constance, my child, the only

thing on earth _now_ that can love me, do not curse--do not spurn me. I

ask not your sacrifice, that I may be saved;--but do not curse me--do

not curse your father."

The haughty baronet fell, humbled to the dust, at his daughter's feet,

clasping her knees in awful emotion, but daring not to look upon the

face of his own child.

It would be as vain to attempt, as it would be impossible to analyse,

the feelings of that high-souled woman during moments of such intense

misery. She neither spoke nor wept; nor did she assist her father, by

any effort, to arise; but, without a sentence or a word, folding her

mourning robe around her, she glided like a ghost forth from the

chamber. When she returned, her step had lost its elasticity, and her

eye its light; she moved as if in a heavy atmosphere, and her father did

not dare to look upon her, as she seated herself by the chair he had

resumed.

She took his hand, and put it, but did not press it, to her lips: he

thought he felt a tear drop upon his burning fingers; but the long hair

that fell over her brow concealed her face. He was the first to break

the dreadful and oppressive stillness.

"I would speak with Burrell: there must have been treachery. Of himself,

believe me, he knew nothing: but I was so taken by surprise, that I did

not consider----"

"Stop, sir, I entreat you," interrupted Constance. "There is now no

motive for consideration. I have just seen, and promised to be the wife

of Sir Willmott Burrell within this week--and three of its days are

already past:--_his_ silence, and _your honour_ are secured."

The unhappy man was powerless and subdued; he hid his face amid the

pillows of the chair, and wept bitterly. Constance walked to the window:

the beams of the silver moon dwelt with more than usual brightness on

the tops and around the foliage of the trees that encircled the Fairy

Ring, where, but an hour before, her footsteps had lingered with her

friend. All around seemed buried in the most profound stillness; not the

bay of a dog, nor the hum of an insect, disturbed the repose that slept

on every plant and flower, and covered the earth as with a garment.

Suddenly a nightingale flew past the window, and resting its breast on

the bough of an old thorn, poured forth a delicious strain of melody.

Constance leaned her throbbing forehead against the cold stained-glass,

and the tenderness of the wild bird's untaught music penetrated her

soul; large tears flowed down her cheeks, and her seared heart was

relieved, for a little, of its overwhelming horrors. She then returned

to her father's side; and again taking his hand in hers, said, in a

calmer voice,

"Father, we have both need of consolation--let us read and pray

together."

"It is too late to attempt deceiving you longer, Constance; yet I would

fain explain----."

"Not now, father. We will pray."

"And you will be happy; or if not, you will not curse him who has

wrought your misery?"

"I have too much need of blessing. Bless, bless you, my father!--Let us

now seek consolation where only it is to be found."

"But may I not speak with Burrell? I want to know----"

"Father! I entreat you, peace. It is now useless; the die is cast--for

me--for us--in this world--useless all, except the aid that, under any

trials, we can ask and receive from Heaven."

"My child, call me your dear father, as you were wont; and let your soft

lips press upon my hand as there were fondness in them. You said you

would not curse me, Constance."

"Bless, bless you, my _dear_ father!" She kissed his hand; and having

lighted the chamber lamp, read one of the penitential psalms of the King

of Israel, when sin, and the wretchedness that follows sin, became too

heavy for him to bear.

"And now let us pray," said Constantia, conceiving that her father's

mind was more composed; "let us offer up petitions to the source of all

mercy and forgiveness."

"I cannot pray," he said; "my lips may move, but my heart is hardened."

"We will learn of Him who softened the stony rock, that the children of

promise might taste of the living waters in a strange land."

And her earnest and beautiful prayer floated to the Almighty's throne,

from that dull and heavy chamber, a record of the faithful and

self-sacrificing spirit whose purest earthly temple is a woman's heart.

CHAPTER XIV.

Yet, spite of all that Nature did

To make his uncouth form forbid,

This creature dared to love.

* * * * * *

But virtue can itself advance

To what the favourite fools of chance

By fortune seem design'd.

PARNELL.

"Is your sweet lady out yet, pretty Barbara?" inquired Robin Hays of

Barbara Iverk, as he met her in the flower-garden of Cecil Place, when

it was nearly midday.

"My poor lady is, I am sure, very ill; or, what is still worse, ill at

ease," replied the maiden. "She has not been in bed all night, I know,

for the couch was undisturbed this morning, so I just came here to

gather her some flowers: fresh flowers must always do one good, and I

think I never saw so many in bloom so early."

"Barbara, did you ever hear tell of a country they call the East?"

"A country!" repeated Barbara, whose knowledge of geography was somewhat

more extensive than that of Robin, although she had not travelled so

much, "I believe there are many countries in the East."

"Well, I dare say there may be. Mistress Barbara: you are going to chop

scholarship with me; but yet, I suppose, you do not know that they have

in that country a new way of making love. It is not new to them, though

it is new to us."

"Oh, dear Robin! what is it?"

"Why, suppose they wished you, a young pretty maiden as you are, to

understand that I, a small deformed dragon, regarded you, only a little,

like the beginning of love, they would--" Robin stooped as he spoke, and

plucked a rose-bud that had anticipated summer--"they would give you

this bud. But, suppose they wanted you to believe I loved you very much

indeed, they would choose you out a full-blown rose. Barbara, I cannot

find a full-blown rose; but I do not love you the less for that."

"Give me the bud, Robin, whether or no; it is the first of the

season:--my lady will be delighted with it--if, indeed, any thing can

delight her!"

"I will give it you to keep; not to give away, even to your lady. Ah,

Barbara! if I had any thing worth giving, you would not refuse it."

"And can any thing be better worth giving, or having, than sweet

flowers?" said the simple girl. "Only it pains me to pull them--they die

so soon--and then, every leaf that falls away from them, looks like a

reproach!"

"Should you be sorry if I were to die one of these days, Barbara,"

inquired the Ranger, "like one of those flowers?"

"Sorry! have I ever appeared ungrateful, Robin? When first I came here,

you used to be so kind me:--indeed, you are always kind--only I fear

lately you are displeased with me about something or other. You have

avoided me--are you angry, Robin?"

"Indeed I am not; nor do I forget how often you have driven away the

'shadows' that used to come over me."

"And do you--I mean, do you esteem me as much as ever?"

Robin looked earnestly into her face, and then taking her hand, gently

replied:--

"I do esteem you, as you term it, more than ever; but I also love you.

When a little helpless thing, I took you from your father's arms: I

loved you then as a parent would love a child. When Lady Cecil took you

under her care, and I saw you but seldom, my heart leaned towards the

daughter of my best friend with a brother's love. And when, as I have

just said, the sunlight of your smile, and the gentleness of your young

girlish voice, dispelled much melancholy from my mind, I thought--no

matter what. But now the case is altered--you see in me a mere lump, a

deformed creature, a being unseemly to look upon, a wretch----!"

"Robin Hays, you wrong yourself," interrupted Barbara; "I do not see you

thus, nor think you thus. The raven is not a beautiful bird, nor hath it

a sweet voice, yet it was welcomed and beloved of the prophet Elijah."

"So it was, Barbara; but why?--because it was _useful_ to him in his

hour of need. Think you that, in the time of his triumph and prosperity,

he would have taken it to his bosom, as if it had been a dove?"

"I do not see why he should not," she said: "God is so good, that he

never takes away one beauty without bestowing another; and the raven's

glossy wing might be, to some, even more beautiful than the purple

plumage of the dove: at all events, so excellent a man would not be

chained by mere eye-beauty, which, after all, passeth quickly. Though I

think it was very uncourteous of Mr. Fleetword to say, in my hearing,

Robin, that the time would come when Mistress Constance would be as

plain-favoured as old Dame Compton, whose countenance looks like the

worm-eaten cover of Solomon Grundy's Bible."

"Ah, Barbara! you are a good girl: but suppose I was as rich as I ought

to be before thinking of marrying--and supposing you came to the

knowledge of your father, and he agreed--and supposing Mistress Cecil

did not say nay--supposing all this----?"

Robin paused, and Barbara, with her eyes fixed on the ground, commenced

pulling to pieces the rose-bud he had given her.

"Supposing all this, Barbara----?"

"Well, Robin?"

"Do you think, Barbara, you would then--marry me?"

"I never thought of marriage, seeing that I am too young, and, withal,

too inexperienced; but there is one thing, Robin----"

"I knew it," interrupted the Ranger, in one of his sudden bursts of

bitterness; "I might easily have known it--Beauty and ugliness!--Fool!

fool! to imagine that a girl could look on me without loathing!

There--go to your mistress, go to your mistress, and make gay sport of

Robin Hays!"

The soft eyes of Barbara filled with tears; she made no reply, but

prosecuted her attack on the rose-bud so vigorously, that nought but the

stem remained in her fingers.

"You need not have torn that rose to bits before my face! Ay, trample on

its leaves as you do on my heart!--Why do you not go to your mistress?"

"You are very wayward, Robin; one time smooth, at other times, and

without cause, rugged as a path through a thorny common: I can only pray

that the Lord may teach you better than to misinterpret my words, and

mock a poor girl who never entertained a thought to your disadvantage."

She could say no more, for the large round tears forced their way down

her cheeks, as she turned towards the house with a bowed head and a

feeble step. But Robin's mood had again changed.

"I beg your pardon, Barbara: forgive me; and think, that if my mind

sometimes takes a crooked turn, it is the fault of my damnable body!"

"Do not swear; it is the profaneness of your words, and, I fear me too

truly, of your life also, that hurts me. Oh, Robin! do tell me who my

father is, that I may find him, and have some heart to lean upon that

will not always cause me tears. My lady is ever sad, and you are ever

wayward and uncertain: I am a double orphan; and were it not for the

consolation afforded me by better thoughts, should be most miserable."

"Forgive me, girl, forgive me; but every one alludes to this cursed

deformity, and it is ill to bear--" said Robin, walking by her side.

"I never alluded to it, never even thought of it," replied Barbara,

sobbing: "if the voice and the eye is kind, and, above all, if the face

become familiar, it is one, all one, whether the features be formed

according to beauty or otherwise. I never thought of looking into little

Crisp's face, when he licked my hand but now; I only felt that the

creature loved me."

"Crisp is no more a beauty than his master," observed Robin, patting the

dog, who leaped to the caress: "but you cannot like him as well as black

Blanche, or Bright-eye, your mistress's silken favourites, who show

their teeth at the poor fellow whenever he approaches the entrance?"

"Bright-eye is a trifle conceited, I grant; but Blanche is like a lamb,

only what can she do? Crisp comes gammocking up, wagging his tail,

seeming in the best of good humours; poor Blanche receives him kindly,

and sometimes walks before him to the buttery; then, all of a sudden,

just as she is thinking how very glad she is to meet Crisp--thinking,

too, that notwithstanding his shaggy coat and crooked legs, he is a

thousand times more to be esteemed and liked than the fine and conceited

Bright-eye--at that very time, and just as suddenly as you fly into your

passions, Crisp stops, grins, twirls his tail, and will neither return

her civility nor accept her invitation. What can poor Blanche do,

Robin?"

This statement was made by the pretty Puritan with a mingling of

simplicity and shrewdness, for which, to have looked in her innocent

face, one would scarcely have given her credit. The tears of youth dry

as quickly as the dews in summer; and the young heart rebounds from

grief as swiftly as the arrow from the bow. Robin looked upon her with

doubting, but with strong affection. He knew, though he struggled with

hope against the conviction, that Dalton's friendship would hardly

induce him to bestow his daughter upon such an unpropitious personage as

himself; and he felt assured--or, at least, believed, in his more gloomy

moments, that so it must be--no woman could, by any possibility, feel

affection for him. He was also, at times, under the full assurance that

Barbara only laughed at his addresses; and though she had more than once

given him all reasonable encouragement, he most industriously placed it

to the account of the universality of female coquetry, a theory in which

he most conscientiously believed.

Without, therefore, any notice of her little fable, or the visible

inference so easily drawn from the comparison between Crisp and himself,

he started off from the subject nearest his heart, with an abrupt

inquiry as to whether her mistress would be likely to go abroad that

evening.

"I dare say she will come out in the twilight," replied Barbara, who had

sufficient of the sensitiveness of her sex to feel deeply mortified at

Robin's heedlessness of her delicate allusion, adding, "Good day; I

cannot stay any longer with you; so give you good day;" and she added in

a lower tone, "a more gentle humour when next we meet." Woman's pride

impelled her footsteps with extraordinary alacrity; woman's affection,

or curiosity, both of which are oftentimes at war with her reason,

obliged her to look back as she entered the postern, and then she

enjoyed the little triumph of observing that Robin remained on the same

spot gazing after her.

"I don't think I said any thing very unkind to him," she thought while

passing along the gallery. "I have a great mind to go back and ask him

if he wanted to send any message to my lady; I did not give the poor

fellow time to speak--I ought not to serve anyone so. What would good

Mr. Fleetword say, if he knew I spoke so snappishly to any

fellow-christian?--Keep your cold nose away from my hand, Master

Bright-eye; you forget how you behaved to my friend Crisp yesterday."

Just as she arrived at this point of her soliloquy, she stood before a

window, overlooking the part of the garden where she had left Robin.--He

was no longer there! and the fond heart of little Barbara, at once

forgetful of the harshness and waywardness of her early friend, was only

aroused from profound reasoning upon her own unworthiness, by a smart

tap on the shoulder from the fair hand of Lady Frances Cromwell.

"Pretty Barbara in meditation!" she exclaimed;--"but this is no time to

ask upon what or why. What is the meaning of your lady's sudden

resolve?"

"What resolve, madam?"

"Why, a resolve to marry Sir Willmott Burrell within this week."

Barbara was panic-struck: she remained silent for a few minutes, and

then clasping her hands, implored Lady Frances to do--she knew not what.

"Ah! she will die, my lady, she will die! for who could live married to

such a man? He is, indeed, a fearful husband for such a one. My lady, I

know she does not love him--she never did--never could. I have heard her

say in her sleep----"

"What, good maid?" asked Lady Frances eagerly, and with her usual

curiosity. But the habitual integrity of Barbara's mind was awakened:

with tears and sobs she replied,--

"What I must not, as a true girl, repeat. I crave your pardon, my lady,

but it would ill become me to speak of what is said in sleep: only,

dear, dear lady, if you love my dear mistress--if her life be dear to

you--prevent, if possible, this marriage."

CHAPTER XV.

And them beside a ladie faire he saw,

Standing alone on foote in foule array;

To whom himself he hastily did draw,

To weet the cause of so uncomely fray,

And to depart them, if so be he may.

SPENSER.

The Lady Frances Cromwell was not likely to keep secret, grief or any

thing else she had the power of disclosing: forthwith she proceeded to

assail Constance Cecil with a torrent of exclamations and

expostulations, to support which no inconsiderable degree of philosophy

was requisite. The intention, however, sanctified the deed, and

Constance, for some time, only pressed her hand in reply: at length she

said,--

"You see me, dearest Frances, at present under much depression:--a dark

cloud is over me; but, I entreat you, heed it not. I am about to do what

is right, and not even the commands of his Highness, your father, could

prevent it, if indeed you were to act upon the hint you have given me,

and procure his interference. My fate is sealed, irrevocably sealed! And

do you wonder that I tremble at the change I am about to undergo, the

awful change, from maid to wife? Barbara, good maid, let me see no more

of tears, but smiles, as in past times. And now I entreat you both,

sweet friends, (for that humble girl has a heart formed by tenderness

for what is more exalted--friendship,) leave me. You, my dear Lady

Frances, will to-day, for my sake, and for his, be as much as possible

with my father; he must grieve at this parting--it is but natural;--and

you, girl--there, go to your embroidery."

Barbara looked into her lady's face, seized her hand, and pressed it

alternately to her heart and lips.

"I will sit in yonder nook, dear mistress; I will not turn towards you,

nor speak, nor breathe--you may fancy me a statue, so silent, so

immovable will rest your little Barbara. Blanche and Bright-eye, and

even that black wolf-hound, remain in the chamber, and why not I? Am I

less faithful, or less thoughtful, than a dog? and would you treat me

worse? Besides, dear lady, your wedding-clothes! There is not a satin or

a silver robe, nor farthingale, nor cardinal--not a lone ostrich-plume,

that is not of six fashions past! Good, my lady, if it is to be, you

must wed as of a right becomes your high descent. My Lady Frances can

well speak of this; and as there is no time to send to London now, her

tire-women would help me to arrange the robes necessary upon such

occasions."

"Peace, Barbara! I mean to dress as well befits this bridal; so trouble

not thyself as to the tiring; but go, my gentle girl, go, go."

"And may I not crouch yonder, where so often I have read to you, and

sung the little ballads that you taught me for pastime?"

"Or those that poor Robin taught you? I wish that young man, Barbara,

had a more settled way of life; for, despite his awkward form, there is

much that is noble and elevated about him. However, make no haste to

wed, and, above all, guard well your heart; keep a keen watch over your

affections--ay, watch them, and pray, pray fervently, poor girl, that

they may go to him who may have your hand."

"They _shall_ go," said Barbara, rising to follow Lady Frances, who had

abruptly left the chamber to conceal her tears; "I would not marry a

king--I mean, madam, a governor--if I did not love him! Why should I?"

"Why should you, indeed, my kind Barbara! There, go and tell your

master, tell also Sir Willmott, that I have much to do and much to think

upon; so that to-day they must excuse my absence. It is an awful thing

this marriage--an unknown, or at least uncharted course to enter on;--to

virgin minds," she murmured, as her faithful attendant left the room,

"at all times full of doubts, ay, even when love is pilot and the fond

soul brim-full of hope. I too, who had such dreams of happiness, of good

and holy happiness--the interchange of kindness, the mutual zeal, the

tender care--the look, so vigilant and gentle, so full of pure

blandishment--the outpouring of thoughts on thoughts--the words, so

musical because so rich with the heart's truth; and so I fancied love

and its fulfilment, marriage. Well knew I of the contract: yet still I

dreamed and hoped, yes, slept and dreamed; but to be awakened thus--to

such unutterable horror! Thank God, my mother is in heaven!--that is the

solitary drop of comfort in my life's poison-bowl.--My mother's death a

comfort! Alas, alas!"

She covered her face with her hands, and we draw the Grecian painter's

veil over the contending feelings it would be impossible adequately to

portray.

Sir Willmott Burrell bustled and chafed, and gave orders to his

serving-men, and to those now called tailors; visited the neighbouring

gentry, but spoke not of his approaching marriage, which he preferred

should take place as silently as might be. Nevertheless he had far too

much depending upon the succeeding hours to pass the day either in quiet

or composure. He had braved through his interview with the unhappy Sir

Robert Cecil, and urged, as an excuse for his conduct, the extremity to

which his love was driven by Constantia's decided rejection of his suit,

carefully, however, concealing from her unfortunate parent the fact that

she loved another.

Sir Robert had sent several messages to his daughter, imploring her to

see him, but in vain--she resolutely refused, wisely dreading the result

of such an interview. "This day and to-morrow is all the time," she

said, "I can call my own, until--for me--time has entered upon eternity.

All I implore then is, that I may be alone, the mistress of myself

during such brief space."

When the sun was set, Barbara entered her room with a slight evening

meal. Her mistress was sitting, or rather lying on a low couch, opposite

a table, upon which stood a small dial, mounted in chased silver,

representing a garland of flowers.

"Lay it down, good girl; I cannot taste it at present. I have been

watching the minute-hand pace round that dial.--Is it, indeed, near

seven? It was an ill thought of the foreign craftsman to set Time amid

roses; he should have placed it among thorns. Is the evening fine?"

"Fine, but yet sober, my lady; the sun has quite set, and the birds are

silent and at roost, except the old blackbird, who whistles late, and

the wakeful robin, who sometimes bandies music with the

nightingale.--Would you like to hear them, madam?"

"Not just now, Barbara: but leave out my hood. Did my father again ask

for me?"

"Not since, mistress. Mr. Fleetword is with him." Barbara left the room.

"I cannot tell why, my lady," she said earnestly to Lady Frances, whom

she met in the vestibule--"I cannot divine the reason, but this bridal

has to me the semblance of a funeral. God shield us all from evil! there

is a cold deathlike chill throughout the house. I heard--(though, my

lady, I do not believe in such superstitions,) but I heard the

death-watch tick--tick--ticking, as plain as I hear the old clock now

chime seven! And I saw--I was wide awake--yet I saw a thin misty

countenance, formed as of the white spray of the salt-sea wave, so

sparkling, so shadowy, yet so clear, come between me and the moonbeams,

and raise its hand thus.--Oh, mercy--mercy--mercy!" she shrieked, so as

to startle the Lady Frances, and then as hastily exclaimed, "La! madam,

to think of the like! if it isn't that little muddy, nasty Crisp, who

has found me out! I will tell you the rest by and by, madam, only I want

to turn this little beast into the shrubbery, that he may find his

master."

At another time Lady Frances would have rallied her for accompanying,

instead of dismissing Crisp to the garden; but a weight of sorrow seemed

also to oppress her. Her usually high spirits were gone, and she made no

observation, but retreated to the library.

A few moments after the occurrence of this little incident, Constance

was seated on the bank in "the Fairy Ring," pondering the dread change

that had taken place since the previous night.

The evening, as Barbara had expressed it, was fine but sober. The lilac

and the laburnum were in full blossom, but they appeared faded to

Constantia's eyes; so completely are even our senses under the control

of circumstances. Sorrow is a sad mystifier, turning the green leaf

yellow and steeping young roses in tears. She had not been long seated,

when a step, a separating of the branches, and Walter De Guerre was at

her feet. Constance recoiled from what at heart she loved, as it had

been a thing she hated; and the look and motion could not have been

unnoticed by her lover.

"I have heard, Mistress Cecil--heard all!--that you are about to be

married--married to a man you despise--about to sacrifice yourself for

some ambitious view--some mad resolve--some to me incomprehensible

determination! And I swore to seek you out--to see you before the fatal

act, had it been in your own halls; and to tell you that you will never

again feel what happiness is----"

"I know it!" interrupted Constance, in a voice whose music was solemn

and heavy as her thoughts: "Walter, I know it well. I never shall feel

happy--never expect it--and it would have been but humanity to have

spared me this meeting, unwished for as it now is. You, of all creatures

in this wide, wide world, I would avoid.--Yes, Walter, avoid for ever!

Besides," she continued with energy, "what do you here? This place--this

spot, is no more safe from _his_ intrusion than from yours. If you

loved, if you ever loved me, away! And oh, Walter! if the knowledge--the

most true, most sad knowledge, that I am miserable--more miserable than

ever you can be--be any soothing to your spirit, take it with you! only

away, away--put the broad sea between us, now and for ever! If Sir

Willmott Burrell slept with his fathers the sleep of a thousand dead, I

could never be yours. You seem astonished, and so was I yesternight; but

it is true--true--true--so put the broad sea between us quickly,

Walter--now, and for ever!"

The Cavalier looked as if he understood her not, or thought her senses

wandered: at last he said, "But why need you, with a fortune to command,

and a spirit to enjoy whatever is bright, or beautiful, or glorious--why

should you fetter your free-born will? There is a cunning mystery about

it, Constance" (Constance shuddered, and hid her face, lest its

expression should betray something of her secret); "a mystery I cannot

solve: confide it to me, and solemnly I swear, not only never to

divulge, but to peril, with my good sword, my heart's richest and

warmest blood, in any cause that can free you from this bad man. Nor do

I expect aught of you in return, nor any thing ask, save that you may be

happy, with any, any but this---- I cannot speak his hated name."

Constance was too agitated to reply. Under present circumstances, she

would have given worlds not to have seen Walter; and, having seen him,

she knew not what to say, or how to think or act: the painful struggle

she endured deprived her of the power of utterance.

"It is not for myself I speak, Constantia; though now I need not tell

you that the love of boyhood has never been banished from my bosom. The

remembrance of the hours we spent together, before a knowledge of the

world, before a change in the constitution of our country, shed its

malign influence, not over our hearts, but over our destinies--the

remembrance of those hours has been the blessing, the solitary blessing,

of my exile; it has been the green oasis in the desert of my existence:

amid the turmoil of battle, it has led me on to victory; amid the

dissipation of the royal court, it has preserved me from taint. The

remembrance of Constance, like the night-star that cheers the mariner on

the wide sea, has kept all holy and hopeful feelings around my heart;

telling of home, my early home, and its enjoyments--of Constance, the

little affectionate, but high-souled girl--the----"

"Stop!" interrupted Constance, with an agonised expression--"Stop, I

conjure you! I know what you were going to say; you were about to repeat

that which my mother loved to call me--your wife! She did not mean it in

mockery, though it sounds so now, like a knell from the lower earth. But

one thing, Walter, one request I have to make--you pray sometimes?--the

time has been when we have prayed together!--when _next_ you pray, thank

God that SHE is dead!"

"How! thank God that my kind and early friend--that your mother is

dead!" repeated the young man, in a voice of astonishment.

"Even so, Walter. You would not see her stretched upon the rack? would

not see her exposed to tortures, such as, at no very distant period, the

saints of our own church endured?--would not see her torn limb from limb

by wild horses?"

"Heavens! Constantia, are you mad?" exclaimed Walter, terrified at her

excited and distraught manner.

"I am not mad," she replied, in a changed and subdued tone; "but do not

forget (and let it be on your knees) to thank God that my mother is

dead; and that the cold clay presses the temples, which, if they were

alive, would throb and burn as mine do now."

She pressed her hands on her brow; while the youth, appalled and

astonished, gazed on her in silence.

"It is well thought on," she said, recovering her self-command much more

quickly than he could have imagined possible. "I will give it you; it

would be sinful to keep it after that dread to-morrow; even now, what do

I with your gift?" She drew forth from her bosom the locket of which we

have before spoken, and, looking on it fondly for a moment, thought,

though not aloud, "Poor little fragment of the glittering sin that

tempts mankind to their destruction! I heeded not your chasing nor your

gems; but once (forgive it, God, forgive it!) thought far too much of

him who gave it: I should have known better. I will not look on you

again, lest you take root within the heart on which you have rested:

though it was then in innocence, yet _now_ it is a crime; there--" she

held it towards him with a trembling hand. While her arm was thus

extended, Burrell rushed from behind the covert of a wide-spreading

laurel, and, with an action at once unmanly and insulting, snatched the

trinket from her hand and flung it on the sward.

Magic itself could not have occasioned a greater change in the look, the

manner, the entire appearance of the heiress of Cecil. She drew herself

up to her full height, and instantly demanded, "How Sir Willmott Burrell

_dared_ to act thus in her presence?"

The Cavalier drew his sword from its sheath; Burrell was not backward in

following the example. He returned Constantia's look of contempt with

one of sarcasm--the peculiar glance that becomes so effective from under

a half-closed lid--and then his eye glared like that of the hooded

snake, while he replied,--

"Methought the lady in her chamber: the destined bride, during the day,

keeps to her own apartment; 'tis the soft night that draws her forth to

interchange love-pledges and soft sayings."

"Villain!" exclaimed De Guerre with startling energy, "hold thy

blaspheming tongue, nor dare to imagine, much less express, aught of

this lady that is not pure as heaven's own firmament!"

"Oh, my good sir," said the other, "I know you now! the braggart

at my Lady Cecil's funeral--the pall-bearer--the church-yard

lounger--the----!"

"Hold, coward!" interrupted the Cavalier, grinding the words between his

teeth. "Lady, I entreat you to retire; this is no scene for you:--nay,

but you must!"

"Touch her not," exclaimed Burrell, the brutality of his vile nature

fully awakened at perceiving Walter attempt to take her hand; "touch her

not, though you are doubtless the youth to whom her heart is given."

"Forbear, sir!" ejaculated Constance; "if you have the spirit of a man,

forbear!"

"Oh, then, your passion has not been declared by words--you have spoken

by actions!" he retorted with redoubled acrimony.

The reply to this gross insult was made by the point of De Guerre's

sword resting on Burrell's breast.

"Defend yourself, or die like a vile dog!" thundered the Cavalier, and

Sir Willmott was obliged to stand on his defence.

The feelings of the woman overcame those of the heroine, and Constance

shrieked for help, when she beheld the combatants fairly engaged in a

feud where the shedding of blood appeared inevitable. Her call was

answered, but not by words; scarcely more than three or four thrusts had

been made and returned, when a stout gentleman, clad in a dark and

tight-fitting vest, strode nearly between them, and clashed the tough

blade of his broad basket-hilted sword upon their more graceful, but

less substantial, weapons, so as to strike them to the earth. Thus,

without speaking word or farther motion, he cast his eyes, first on the

one, then on the other, still holding their weapons under, more,

however, by the power of his countenance, than of his arm.

"Put up your swords!" he said at length, in a low stern voice--"put up

your swords!" he repeated; then, seeing that, though Burrell's rapier

had leaped into its rest, De Guerre retained his unsheathed, "put up

your sword, sir!" he said again in a loud tone, that sounded awfully

through the still twilight, and then stamped upon the ground with force

and energy: "the air is damp, I say, and good steel should be kept from

rust. Young men, keep your weapons in their scabbards, until God and

your country call them forth; then draw according to the

knowledge--according to the faith that is in ye; but a truce to idle

brawling."

"I would first know who it is," demanded Walter, still in fierce anger,

"who breaks in upon us, and commands us thus?"

"Have you so soon forgotten Major Wellmore, young man?" replied the

stranger in his harshest voice: "I little thought that he of the English

graft upon a French stock would have carried such brawling into the

house of my ancient friend.--Sir Willmott Burrell, I lament that the

fear of the Lord is not with you, or you would not use carnal weapons so

indiscriminately: go to, and think what the Protector would say, did he

find you thus employed."

"But, sir," said De Guerre, in no degree overawed by the imperative

manner of Major Wellmore, "I, at least, care not for the Protector, nor

am I to be baffled of my just revenge by any of his officers."

"Wouldst fight with me, then?" inquired the Major, with much good

temper, and placing himself between the opponents.

"If it so pleasure you," replied the youth, abating not a jot of his

determination; "when I have made this treacherous and false fellow

apologise to the Lady Constance, and afterwards to me, for his unproved

and unprovoked words."

During the parley, Constance had remained fixed and immovable; but a new

feeling now seemed to animate her, as she approached, and, clinging to

Major Wellmore's arm for support, spoke in an audible but tremulous

voice,--

"Walter, I entreat, I command you to let this matter rest. I shall not

debase myself by condescending to assert, what Sir Willmott Burrell

ought, and does believe--that I came not here to meet you by any

appointment. I say his heart tells him, at this moment, that such a

proceeding would be one of which he knows I am incapable."

"If any reflection has been made upon Mistress Cecil," observed Major

Wellmore, "I will be the first to draw steel in her cause. Sir Willmott,

explain this matter.--Young sir," he continued, noting Walter's ire and

impatience, "a soldier's honour is as dear to me as it can be to you."

Burrell felt and appeared exceedingly perplexed; but with his most

insinuating manner, and a tremulous voice, he replied:--

"Mistress Cecil will, I hope, allow for the excess of affection that

gave rise to such needless jealousy. On consideration, I perceive, at

once, that she would not, could not, act or think in any way unworthy of

herself." He bowed profoundly, as he spoke, to Constantia, who clung

still more closely to Major Wellmore's arm, and could hardly forbear

uttering the contempt she felt; at every instant, her truthful nature

urged her to speak all she thought and knew, to set Burrell at defiance,

and hold him up to the detestation he merited: but her father, and her

father's crime! the dreadful thought sent back the blood that rushed so

warmly from her heart in icy coldness to its seat; and the high-souled

woman was compelled to receive the apology with a drooping head, and a

spirit bowed almost to breaking by intense and increasing anguish.

"And you are satisfied with this!" exclaimed the Cavalier, striding up

to her; "you, Constance Cecil, are satisfied with this! But, by Him

whose unquenchable stars are now shining in their pure glory over our

heads, I am not!--Coward! coward! and liar! in your teeth, Sir Willmott

Burrell! as such I will proclaim you all through his majesty's

dominions, by word of mouth and deed of sword!"

"Walter, Walter!" exclaimed Constance, clasping her hands.

"I crave your pardon, Lady," said Burrell, without altering his tone;

"but do not thus alarm yourself: my sword shall not again be drawn upon

a low and confirmed malignant. Sir," turning from his opponent and

addressing the stranger, "heard you not how he applied the forbidden

title of majesty to the man Charles Stuart; shall I not forthwith arrest

him for high treason?--runneth not the act so, formed for the renouncing

and disannulling of the pretended title of the late man's progeny?"

"Perish such acts and their devisers!" shouted the Cavalier, losing all

prudence in the excitement of the moment. "Let the lady retire, while we

end this quarrel as becomes men!"

"Heed him not, heed him not, I implore, I entreat you!" exclaimed

Constance, sinking to the earth at the feet of Major Wellmore, by whom

the hint of Burrell was apparently unnoticed; "the lion takes not

advantage of the deer caught in the hunter's toils, and he is

distraught, I know he is!"

"I am not distraught, Miss Cecil, though I have suffered enough to make

me so: what care I for acts formed by a pack of regicides!"

"Young man," interrupted the old officer with a burst of fierce and

strong passion that, like a mountain torrent, carried all before it,

"_I_ arrest you in the name of the Commonwealth and its Protector! A

night in one of the lone chambers of Cecil Place will cool the

bravo-blood that riots in your veins, and teach you prudence, if the

Lord denies you grace."

He laid his hand so heavily on De Guerre's shoulder, that his frame

quailed beneath its weight, while the point of his sword rested on the

peaceful grass. Burrell attempted, at the same instant, to steal the

weapon from his hand: the Cavalier grasped it firmly; while Major

Wellmore, darting on the false knight a withering look, emphatically

observed, and with a total change of manner,--

"_I_ can, methinks, make good a capture without _your_ aid, kind sir;

although I fully appreciate your zeal _in the cause of the

Commonwealth!_" The latter part of the sentence was pronounced with a

slow and ironical emphasis; then, turning to De Guerre, he added, "I

need not say to you that, being under arrest, your sword remains with

me."

De Guerre presented it in silence; for the result of his interview with

Constantia had rendered him indifferent to his fate, and, although but

an hour before it would have been only with his life that his sword had

been relinquished, he now cared not for the loss of either.

Major Wellmore took the weapon, and appeared for a moment to consider

whether he should retain it or not: he decided on the former, and in a

cold, calm voice commanded his prisoner to move forward. De Guerre

pointed to Constantia, who had neither shrieked nor fainted, but stood a

mute statue of despair in the clear light of the young spring moon,

whose early and resplendent beams fell in a silver shower on her bared

and beautiful head.

"I will take care of Mistress Cecil," said the insidious Burrell.

As he spoke, Lady Frances, who, alarmed at the absence of her friend,

had come forth to seek her, bounded into the Fairy Ring, and as suddenly

screamed, and stood irresolute amid the dread circle. The Major

immediately spoke:--

"Lady Frances, pray conduct your friend: Sir Willmott Burrell, we follow

you to the nearest entrance."

"And now," said Constantia, as her head fell on the bosom of her friend,

"he is in the lion's den--fully and for ever destroyed!" Nature was

exhausted: it was long ere she again spoke.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,

And wit me warns to shun such snares

As threaten mine annoy;

For falsehood now doth flow, and subject faith doth ebb,

Which would not be, if Reason ruled, or

Wisdom weav'd the web.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

While the headstrong Cavalier was confined in "the strong room" of Cecil

Place, he had ample leisure to reflect upon the consequences of his

rashness, and to remember the caution he had received from Major

Wellmore on the night of their first meeting--to be guarded in his

expressions, where danger might arise from a single thoughtless word. He

surveyed the apartment with a careless look, as if indifferent whether

it were built of brick or of Portland stone, glanced upon the massive

bars of the iron-framed windows, and scarcely observed that the walls

were bare of tapestry, and that dampness and decay had mottled the

plastering into a variety of hues and shades of colour. His lamp burned

brightly on the table; the solitary but joyous light seemed out of

place; he put it therefore aside, endeavouring to lessen its effect by

placing it behind a huge worm-eaten chair, over which he threw his

cloak. Thus, almost in darkness, with a mind ill at ease, brooding on

the events of the day, which had perhaps perilled his life, although

life had now become of little value, we leave him to his melancholy and

self-reproachful thoughts, and hasten to the chamber of Constance Cecil.

It has already appeared that an early and a close intimacy had subsisted

between her and Walter De Guerre; but we must leave it to Time, the

great developer, to explain the circumstances under which it originated,

as well as those by which it was broken off.

Lady Frances Cromwell had left her friend in what she considered a

sound slumber; and sought her dressing-room only to change her garments,

so that she might sit with her during the remainder of the night.

Barbara, however, had hardly taken the seat the lady had quitted, when

her mistress half arose from the bed, and called her by name in so

hollow a voice that the poor girl started, as if the sound came from a

sepulchre.

"The night is dark, Barbara," she said, "but heed it not; the good and

the innocent are ever a pure light unto themselves. Go forth with

courage and with faith, even to the Gull's Nest Crag; tell Robin Hays

that Walter De Guerre is a prisoner here, and that, unless he be at

liberty before sunrise, he may be a dead man, as surely as he is a

banned one; for some covert purpose lurks under his arrest. Tarry not,

but see that you proceed discreetly, and, above all, secretly. It is a

long journey at this hour; the roan pony is in the park, and easily

guided--he will bear you along quickly;--and for security--for you are

timid, Barbara--take the wolf-hound."

Barbara had long known that a servant's chief duty is obedience, yet she

would just then have done errand to any one rather than to Robin Hays;

she however replied,--

"Please ye, mistress, the roan pony is easy to guide, if you happen to

be going the way he likes, and that is, ever from the park to the

stable, from the stable to the park; otherwise, like the Israelites of

old, he is a stiff-necked beast, whom I would rather eschew than commune

with. And the wolf-hound, my lady, behaves so rudely to little Crisp,

holding him by the throat in an unseemly fashion, and occasionally

despoiling him of a fragment of his ears, toes, or tail, as it pleasures

him, that I had rather take black Blanche if you permit me--she can soon

find Crisp or Robin either."

"As you please, Barbara; only silence and hasten."

"My mistress," thus ran Barbara's thoughts as she wended on her way

through the night, "is a wonderful lady; so good, so wise, so rich, yet

so unhappy! I wouldn't be a lady for the world!--it is hard fate enough

to be a woman, a poor, weak woman, without strength of limb or wisdom of

head; and, withal, a fond heart, yet afraid and ashamed to show its

fondness. If I was my lady, and my lady I, instead of sending my lady to

tell Robin Hays to let the poor gentleman out, I'd just go and let him

out myself, or send my lady (supposing her the maid Barbara) to let him

out, without telling anybody about it. And I am sure she loves that poor

gentleman; and yet she, wise, good, rich, and wonderful, is just going,

in the very teeth of her affections, to marry that black Burrell! I am

very happy that I'm not a lady, for I'd die, that I would ten times

over, sooner than marry any one I didn't love. It will kill her, I

know--I feel it will: yet why does she marry him? And she keeps such

deep silence too.--Down, pretty Blanche, and do not rouse your sleek

ears: your ears, Blanchy, are lady's ears, and so ought to hear nothing

frightening--and your eyes, Blanche, are lady's eyes, and should never

see any thing disagreeable.--What ails thee, doggy? Nay, wag ye'r tail,

and do not crouch so; 'tis but the shadow of a cow, I think.--How my

heart beats!"

The beating of the maiden's heart accelerated her speed, and she ran

with hasty and light footsteps a considerable distance before either dog

or girl paused for breath. At length they did pause, and Barbara saw

with much satisfaction, that she had left far behind the shadow which

caused Blanche and herself so much alarm. She reached the Gull's Nest

without any misadventure, and now her object was to draw Robin forth

from the hostelry without entering herself. Through a chink in the outer

door (the inner being only closed on particular occasions) she

discovered Robin and his mother, and one or two others--strangers they

might be, or neighbours--at all events she did not know them. Presently

Crisp stretched his awkward length from out its usual coil, and trotted

to the door, slowly wagging his apology for tail, as if perfectly

conscious of the honour of Blanche's visit. Miss Blanche, in her turn,

laid her nose on the ground and snorted a salutation that was replied to

by a somewhat similar token from master Crisp. Robin, who was the very

embodyment of vigilance, knew at once there was something or someone

without, acquainted and on friendly terms with his dog, and he quietly

arose and opened the door without making any observation to his

companions. He was, indeed, astonished at perceiving Barbara, who put

her finger on her lip to enjoin silence. He immediately led her to the

back of the house, where none of the casual visiters could see them, and

she communicated her lady's message quickly but distinctly. She would

have enlarged upon the danger, and expatiated on the interest she took

in the cause of the Cavalier, had Robin permitted her, but she saw he

was too much distressed at the magnitude of the information to heed the

details, however interesting they might have been at any other time.

"But I don't understand it," at length murmured Robin; "I can't see it:

how could he possibly suffer Sir Willmott Burrell to place him in

confinement?"

"It was not he at all," replied Barbara; "it was Major Wellmore, and he

is at the Place now."

"Death and the devil!" exclaimed Robin, at the same instant pressing his

back against the wall beside which he stood: it instantly gave way, and

Barbara was alone--alone in that wild and most dreary-looking place.

She summoned Blanche, but Blanche was far away over the cliffs,

exploring, under Crisp's guidance, the nooks and intricacies of the

hills and hollows. She would have called still louder, but her quick eye

discerned not now a shadowy figure, but Sir Willmott Burrell himself,

within a distance of two or three hundred yards, and approaching towards

her. She was concealed from his sight by a projection of the cliff: but

this she never considered, alive only to the feelings his appearance at

once suggested. She had noted the spot where Robin had disappeared, and,

urged by terror, flung herself against the same portion of the wall,

with such success, that it gave way before her, replacing itself so

suddenly that, in an instant, the light of the bright stars in the blue

heavens was shut out, and she stood in total darkness, within the recess

that had so mysteriously opened to receive her.

When she became a little collected, she distinctly heard the sound of

voices at no great distance, and groping about in the same direction,

discovered a narrow flight of stairs, which she immediately descended,

imagining that she was following the course which Robin had pursued. Her

progress was soon arrested by a door, which she attempted to shake, but

in vain; she leaned against it, however, or rather sank down upon the

steps, worn out by fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. She could not

have lain there a moment, when the door opened, and Robin literally

sprang over her in his haste to re-ascend. She started from her position

on perceiving before her the well-remembered figure of the Buccaneer,

who was about to mount also, evidently with as much eagerness, though

with less activity, than Robin Hays.

The sight of a stranger at their most secret entrance, even though that

stranger was a woman, sent Hugh Dalton's hand to the pommel of his

sword, but it was as quickly stayed by Robin's cry of, "It is Barbara."

The Buccaneer had just time to catch the fainting form of his daughter

in his arms, and the wild and reckless seaman was so overpowered by the

unexpected meeting, that he thought not of inquiring how she had

obtained admittance. We have observed that women in the inferior ranks

of society continue much briefer time in hysterics, swoons, and

such-like, than the highborn and well educated, who know how to make the

most of all matters of the kind. Barbara rapidly revived, and as rapidly

urged Robin to heed her message, and to take her away, informing him in

the same breath, that she had pushed against that portion of the wall

where he had so strangely disappeared, because she had seen Sir Willmott

Burrell approaching the spot with determined speed.

"Listen at the secret door," exclaimed the Buccaneer. "When he cannot

find you above, he will seek you at the only entrance he knows of: I

need not say, answer not the sign."

"Robin, Robin!" ejaculated Barbara, "take me, oh! take me with you!--You

are not, surely, going to leave me in this horrid place, and with a

stranger too!"

Poor Dalton! what painful and powerful emotions convulsed his heart and

features!--"a stranger!"--a stranger, indeed, to his own child!

Robin quitted the place without replying to her entreaty; and when the

Buccaneer spoke, it was in that low and broken voice which tells of the

soul's agony.

"Why call me stranger?" he said, approaching, and tenderly taking her

hand; "you have seen me before."

"Yes, good sir, the night previous to my dear lady's death--it is an ill

omen to see strangers for the first time where there is death. I thank

you, sir, I will not sit. May I not go after Robin?"

"Then you prefer Robin to me?"

"So please ye, sir; I have known Robin a long, long time, and he knows

my father: perhaps you, too, may know him, sir; you look of the sea,

and I am sure my father is a sailor. Do you know my father?"

The gentle girl, forgetting her natural timidity under the influence of

a stronger principle, seized the hand of the Buccaneer, and gazed into

his face with so earnest and so beseeching a look, that if Robin had not

returned on the instant, the Skipper would have betrayed the secret he

was so anxious to preserve until (to use his own expression) "he was a

free man, able to look his own child in the face."

"He is at the entrance, sure enough," said Robin; "but it will occupy

him longer to climb the rocks than it did to descend them; we can take

the hollow path, and be far on the road to Cecil Place before he arrives

at the summit."

"But what can we do with her?--She must not longer breathe the air of

this polluted nest," argued Dalton, all the father overflowing at his

heart; "if we delay, Burrell may see her: if so, all is over."

"I can creep along the earth like a mocking lapwing," she replied. "Let

me but out of this place, I can hide in some of the cliff-holes--any

where out of this, and," she whispered Robin, "away--above all things

away--from that fearful man."

"To Cecil Place at once then, Captain; the delay of half an hour may

seal his doom. I will place Barbara in a nook of the old tower, where

nothing comes but bats and mice; and, as it overlooks the paths, she can

see from it the road that Burrell takes, and so avoid him when

returning."

Dalton looked at Barbara but for a moment, then suddenly clasping her

with rude energy to his bosom, he darted up the stairs, holding open the

door at the top, so that he might see her forth in safety.

The terrified girl passed tremblingly before him; and wondered not a

little at the strong interest the wild seaman manifested towards her.

Only one way of accounting for it occurred to her simple mind--that he

had known her father;--the idea was strengthened, when she heard him

murmur, "Thank God! she breathes once more the uncontaminated air of

heaven!" He strode a few hasty steps forward, then turned back, and said

emphatically to Robin,--

"Place her in safety, as you hope for salvation!"

"And am I to stay by myself in this horrid place, Robin?" inquired

Barbara, as he seated her in the window of a portion of the old tower,

from whence a large extent of country was visible, steeped in the pale

moonlight.

"Fear nothing," he replied; "I must away: only do not leave this until

you see--which you can easily do by the light of the bright moon--Sir

Willmott Burrell take his departure."

"And will that rude old sailor help the young gentleman from his

confinement?"

"He will, he will."

"One word more, Robin, and then my blessing be with you! Did he know my

father?"

"He did."

"But one syllable more: Did he love him?"

"So truly, that he loves you as if you were his own child."

"Then," thought Barbara, in the fulness of her innocence, "I am

happy--for no one is loved, even by the wicked, who is not good."

Her clear eye observed that Robin took the same path as the Buccaneer;

though, had she not known them, she could hardly have recognised their

figures, because of some disguise they must have suddenly assumed. They

had scarcely faded from her sight, when she discovered the tall person

of Burrell standing at no great distance on the brow of the cliff, and

apparently surveying the adjacent landscape. He rapidly approached the

Gull's Nest; and soon after she heard the shrill voice of Mother Hays,

protesting over and over again, that "Robin had been there not twenty,

not fifteen--no, not ten minutes past;--that she had searched every

where, and that he was nowhere to be found;--that she had not seen Hugh

Dalton for a long, long time; and that, to the best of her belief, he

had not touched the shore for many a day;--that the men within were good

men, honest men--one in particular, who would be happy to serve him, as

he seemed so earnest to see Robin--Jack, true Jack Roupall, a tried,

trusty man:--could he be of any service, as that ne'er-do-good, Robin,

was out of the way ever and always when he was wanted? To be sure, she

could not even give a guess at any thing his honour might want; but

perhaps Jack might do instead of Robin." It occurred to Burrell at the

moment, that Roupall might serve his purpose even better than Robin

Hays, for he was both a strong and a desperate man; and he bade the old

woman send him forth; telling her at the same time, and in a significant

tone, that he was well acquainted with the talents and character of her

guest.

The fragment of the tower in which Barbara was perched was a small

projecting turret-room, standing on the top of a buttress, and had been,

doubtless, used in the early ages, as a species of sentry-box, from

which a soldier could command a view of the country and the coast. It

was with feelings of extreme terror that she perceived Burrell and

Roupall close beneath her, standing so as to be concealed from the

observation of any passenger who might go to or from the dwelling. She

drew her dark cloak over her head and face, leaving only an opening to

peep through, anxious to avoid, by every means in her power, the hazard

of a discovery. She could gather from the conversation between the two,

that Burrell was describing to Roupall something that he must do, and

offering him a large reward for its completion; she listened eagerly,

and heard them frequently speak of Cecil Place and Walter De Guerre. Her

attention, however, was soon drawn away by the appearance of a third

person--unseen by the others--creeping round a projecting corner, like a

tiger about to spring upon its prey, and then crouching close to the

earth. The form was that of a slight youth, clad in a tight-fitting

doublet and vest, and, it would seem, armed only with a dagger, which,

however, he carried unsheathed, and so openly that the moonbeams danced

upon its polished point, as lightning on a diamond, whenever he changed

its position in his hand (which he did more than once). He crept on so

silently that neither were at all aware of his approach, but continued

talking and bargaining as before. Barbara felt that danger was at hand;

and yet, had she the inclination, she had not the power to speak, but

sat breathlessly and tremblingly awaiting the result. Suddenly, but

still silently, as though the figure were a phantom, and the dagger

air-drawn, the boy rose from the ground, and held the weapon as if

irresolute whether to strike or not. The manner in which he stood fully

convinced Barbara Iverk that Burrell was the object of some intended

attack--she tried to shriek, but the voice choked in her throat. As

rapidly as this mysterious being had risen from, he sank into his

former crawling attitude, and disappeared. All this occurred in much

less time than has been occupied in relating it, and the poor maiden

almost thought she had been deceived by some supernatural appearance.

She was soon aroused from her painful state of voiceless terror by the

words of Burrell, who now spoke more loudly than at first.

"I will give him his liberty this very night, which of course, under the

circumstances I have mentioned, he cannot fail to consider a most deep

obligation--an act of disinterested generosity. I will give it him

secretly, of course; and you meet him on his exit. As we go along, I

will settle the where--and then--the matter is easily concluded."

"Very easily for you, doubtless," retorted Roupall; "you had ever the

way, master, of keeping your neck out of the noose. How much of the coin

did you say?"

Barbara did not hear the reply.

"Why it's only one more. Is he young?"

"Yes."

"I don't like young customers. It's a charity to put the old out of the

way; for, be they ever so well off, they must be sick and weary of the

world. But the young--I don't like it, master."

"Pshaw! it's only saving him in time from that which gives old men

trouble; and life can go but once: besides, I will not stand for the

matter of a few broad-pieces. I care not if I make the sum half as much

more, provided it be done safely."

"Will you give me your note of hand to it?"

"Do you take me for a fool?--or did you ever know me to break my word?"

"I never took ye for the first, Sir Willmott, and, as to the other,

we've had no business between us lately. Half as much more, you said?"

"Half as much more."

"Well, it is but one, and then--ah! ah! ah!--I'll reform and turn

gentleman. No, d--n it, I hate gentlemen, they're so unprincipled; but

you must double--double or quits."

"Jack Roupall, you are an unconscionable scoundrel."

"By the lady-moon, then, there be a pair of us."

Burrell muttered some reply that Barbara did not hear, but again the

grating voice of Roupall ascended.

"Double or quits; Lord, ye needn't be so touchy about a little word of

familiarity--such fellowship makes all men equal."

"Well then, double, if so it must be; only remember, Roupall, there is

some difference between the employer and the employed," was the knight's

answer. And the high-born and the low-born ruffian walked away together;

and the bright beams of the holy moon and the unsullied stars fell upon

them as gently, as if they had been good and faithful ministers of the

Almighty's will.

The two leading features of Barbara Iverk's character were, fidelity and

affection; all her feelings and actions were but various modifications

of these great principles--in every sense of the word, she was

simple-minded. After the men had departed for some time, still she could

hardly bring herself to understand or believe the nature or extent of

the crime they meditated.

It was surely a most singular manifestation of God's providence, she

thought, which placed her there, that she might overhear, and it might

be prevent the great wickedness of those evil men. She descended from

the window with haste, but with caution also, for the stones crumbled

from beneath her feet as she moved along. She had scarcely set her foot

on the grass turf, when the dog was at her side, whining and fawning

with delight at again meeting with her friend and mistress. Barbara

crossed the wild country, and gained the park-wall without encountering

any danger. When there, she paused breathlessly under an oak, and would

have given worlds to see and speak to her friend Robin. Amid the

deepness of night, and among the foliage of the trees, she thought she

discerned the figure of a person creeping beneath the boughs--now in

shadow, and now casting his own shadow upon what had shadowed him. This

appearance terrified her so exceedingly that she did not gain courage to

proceed, until she saw that he turned into a distant path; she then

stole slowly along under the shelter of the wall, and when she came to a

small gate which opened into the park, within view of the mansion, she

pushed through it, and just gained the lawn, when the sound of a

pistol, and a flash through the darkness, terrified her so much, that

she fell, faint and exhausted, on the sward.