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.