, 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 aston