CHAPTER V.
Down, stormy Passions, down; no more
Let your rude waves invade the shore
Where blushing Reason sits, and hides
Her from the fury of your tides.
* * * * *
Fall, easy Patience, fall like rest,
Where soft spells charm a troubled breast.
Henry King.
We believe that even those who are anxious to learn if the Protector travelled in safety to his place of destination, and what he did when he arrived there, will scarcely murmur at the delay which a brief visit to Constantia Cecil will necessarily occasion.
We must not leave her alone in her sorrow, which, of a truth, was hard to bear. A temporary respite had been afforded her by the terrible events of the evening; it was, however, a respite that was likely, in her case, only to bring about a more fatal termination. What was to prevent Sir Willmott Burrell from branding her father—from publishing his crime, now that he was to receive no benefit by the terrible secret of which he had become possessed? Although she might be preserved from the dreadful and dreaded doom of marrying a man she could neither regard nor respect, it was equally certain that an eternal barrier existed between her and the only one she loved—a barrier which not even the power of Cromwell could break down or remove. It has been said, and said truly, that there are few things reason can discover with so much certainty and ease as its own deficiency. Constantia was a reasoning being, and she appeared ever placid in situations where her fine mind was overwhelmed by a painful train of circumstances over which she had no control: the sins for which she suffered were not of her own committing.
She had often gloried in days past at the prospect of fame—the honest, upright fame which appeared the guiding principle that influenced her father's actions, when the seeking after glory seemed to her as a ferment thrown into his blood to work it up to action; and though she sometimes apprehended that he used his will with his right hand and his reason with his left, she never imagined the possibility that his pomp was furnished by injustice and his wealth dyed in blood. It was, in truth, a fearful knowledge she had acquired—a knowledge she could not communicate, and upon which she could never take advice. Her misery was to be endured not only with patience, but in secret and without complaint. That destiny was indeed severe which compelled her to anticipate a meeting with Walter as the greatest evil which could befall her; yet ardently did her soul yearn to know his fate. She sat by her father on the first night of his affliction, and on the long, long day that followed, guarding him through his dreadful malady with the watchfulness of a most devoted child, and the skilfulnes of a most wise physician. Almost every word he uttered was as a dagger to her heart; yet she saw and knew the necessity that must soon exist for others to hear him speak, and shuddered at the thought.
"God! God! have mercy on me!" she murmured, clasping her hands, as she looked upon his features, which, when it was nearly morning, had been tranquillised into forgetfulness—"God have mercy upon me—and upon him, poor sleeper!"
"Who sleeps?" he exclaimed, starting from his couch—"He will not let me sleep!—There! Constance, Constance, the ship is under weigh—she spreads her white sails to the breeze, the ocean breeze—the breeze that will not cool my brow!—And there—they drag him from the hold!—Look how he struggles on the vessel's deck!—Spare him!—But no, do not spare him: if he returns, where am I? Hush! did you hear that?—Hush! hush! hush!" He stretched his hand, and bent his head in an attitude of deep attention; then seizing her arm, repeated "hush!" until at last she again inquired what disturbed him. "'Tis your mother, child; heard you not that she said I murdered you? Speak, Constantia,—you are not dead? I did not murder you—speak! I fired no pistol, and you did not fall!" The sleep she had so unintentionally broken had been but of short continuance during those weary hours; and the day was far advanced before she had leisure to bestow a moment's thought upon the probable turn that might be given to her future prospects by the sudden summons of Sir Willmott Burrell to Hampton Court. But, upon whichever side she turned, her destiny was dark, lowering, and fearful as the thunder-storm. How her heart fainted when the form of her favourite Barbara was present to her imagination, as she last held it bleeding on her bosom! How mysterious was that death! how terrible! She would have given worlds to look upon her but once more, for she could ill reconcile the idea of that gentle girl's having a stormy sea-bed at her father's hands—that rude, unhallowed man, the origin and nature of whose influence over her own parent she now understood but too well.
Lady Frances Cromwell would have soothed her affliction had she known how to do so, but comfort cannot be given to a sorrow whose source is unknown. She entered her friend's watching-room, but could not prevail upon her to take either repose or food; and hoping to catch the earliest view of the physician, whose arrival she knew must be soon, she called one of her women to attend her, and wandered up the hill to Minster, where the beautiful ruins of Sexburga's nunnery commanded so extensive a view of the entire island, and a considerable portion of the adjoining country. The day had risen to one of unclouded beauty; the marshy coast of Essex was cleared of its hovering fogs; and its green meadows stretched away in the distance, until they were lost in the clear blue sky. The southern part of the island, flat and uninteresting as it is, looked gay and cheerful in the sun-light; for every little lake mirrored the smiling heavens, and danced in diamond measures to the music of bee and bird.