"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,—