aimed, 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