THE SMUGGLER'S DAUGHTER by Miss M. Miles. 1839, March [fiction]

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The Lady's Book. March, 1839 || The Richmond County Mirror. March 23, 1839

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE SMUGGLER'S DAUGHTER.
BY MISS M. MILES.

STAR after star had come forth, and the clock of the old church of the village had pealed forth the midnight hour as Roland Cranstoun knelt for his mother's blessing. On the morrow he was to go forth from the familiar scenes of his boyish days, to tempt the wild waste of ocean; and the sweet spell of poesy was on his spirit as he murmured forth

“Pray for me mother, pray that no blight
May come o'er my hopes and prospects bright,
Pray that my days may be long and fair,
Free from the withering touch of care”—

And most fervently did the mother's prayer go up amidst the deep hush of the midnight.

Roland Cranstoun's step had ever been amidst lordly halls; but his father was dead, leaving him but a younger son's portion and a haughty spirit for an inheritance. The army was open to him, and soon the name of Capt. Cranstoun was read in the public papers of the day, and that his regiment was ordered abroad.

“What! though these broad lands are mine, brother, are not our hearts the same as in the days of our boyhood? Is not one home large enough for us both? Stay with your kindred, Roland, stay to witness my happiness, and my sweet Anna shall be to you a sister.”

Roland Cranstoun wrung his brother's hand with strong feeling, and there was a slight quiver of his proud lip as he answered: “I know your generous spirit Henry; I know what I sacrifice, but you must have the means of supporting the dignity of our ancient house, and I could not brook dependence. Do not tempt me my brother; I must go forth unshrinkingly.”

The mother felt he had chosen the wiser part, and strengthened him with counsel and prayer. It was his last evening in his home; and each loved haunt had been visited again and again. Each old tenant had been up to the Abbey with a tear in the eye, and a kind word for master Roland; and with much emotion had he wrung each toil-worn hand. The evening wore away, and with a kiss upon the cheek of his new sister, and a smothered God bless you, as he returned his brother's embrace, he broke from the family circle, and when all preparations were made for his departure, early the next morning sought his mother's chamber for her parting blessing.

The morning dawned fair and bright, but there was a “vacant seat at board and hearth;” and the inmates of Cranstoun Abbey felt as if one gleam of sunshine had departed from their dwelling:

Speed on, speed on, thou gallant bark!
Thy flag is waving free,
And let the ocean caves give forth,
A fitting minstrelsy!—

And Roland Cranstoun was pacing the deck of the gallant ship with a thoughtful brow but proud step, as the merry shores of England receded from view.

“Whither are those sighs wafted, Cranstoun, my good fellow?” asked a brother officer, upon whose arm leaned a young and beautiful female. “Is there any maiden fair

“Weeping in lonely bower?”

“No! I am free, but my thoughts were homeward bound, Sedley!”

“So would mine be,” replied his friend, “but that this foolish girl chose to leave home and kindred to follow a soldier's fortunes;” and the look of fondness that he cast upon the young being beside him, showed how much he felt her devoted love. “Come, I must introduce you to Mrs. Sedley.”

Roland turned to greet her, and inwardly wondered that the fragile girl before him should ever have dreamed of tempting the dangers of the sea. A feeling of pity for a moment took possession of his heart, for he as yet knew not woman's strength in her hour of need.

Sedley and he had been friends from their earliest days; but the former's duties the last two years had cast their lots in different places; and it was with all the warmth of kindly feeling that they met previous to their embarkation on board the same ship. He bad recently married his cousin, and to Roland she soon became almost as a sister; so confiding was she in her friendship for her husband's friend.

“Do you know who that young girl is, Roland,” she asked one day, just as they came in view of their “destined haven;” “I have noticed her earnest gaze more than once, fixed upon you. There is something singularly beautiful about her face.”

“I have seen those brilliant eyes before, I am sure, but where I cannot think. There, she has vanished again. They say yon dark-browed subaltern is her father, and that he has forbidden her appearing on deck. Her face haunts me like some vision of my childhood.”

“Her name is Florence, so I heard them call her,” said Sedley joining them, “but her father, Cranstoun, do you know him?” and a shade of anxiety passed over the face of the speaker.

“No! I know no one of the name of Ridgley; why do you ask?”

“Only to bid you be on your guard; I fear he means you some evil.”

“Me!” but ere he could give expression to his astonishment, the glad shout of the seamen and soldiers, as they neared the shore, called off their attention and the conversation dropped.

“Spain! sunny Spain! Oh, there is breathing beauty beneath thy skies,” murmured the young officer as he was wandering forth one evening. His regiment was stationed not far from ——, the then seat of war; though as yet they had seen no actual service. He was alone and sad, for his dreams were of the “ancient Abbey;” and the voices of his kindred seemed blent with the evening wind sighing through orange groves. The shadows of night were beginning to fall ere he turned towards his quarters. Suddenly a sweet and thrilling voice warbled close to his ear—

“There's danger when the soft winds sigh,
And stars beam out in yon sweet sky—
There's danger in the star-lit path,
The warning comes from one of earth.”

Startled, he darted forward to discover the hidden songstress, but he caught only a glimpse of a slight figure as it disappeared amidst the grove of limes. The warning was evidently intended for him; but he was perplexed and amazed. Who in this stranger land could do him injury; and who, for the voice was that of a female, should take this interest in his fate? But he was not long suffered to indulge his meditations. A bright weapon flashed before his eyes, and he found himself attacked by three ruffians. Determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, he drew his sword, and for a few moments kept them at bay. He had received a severe wound in the shoulder, and was fast losing strength from the effusion of blood; a sudden faintness was stealing over him, and he sunk to the ground; but ere the bared knife of the taller ruffian had reached his heart, a shout recalled his fleeting senses, and Sedley and a band of his gallant soldiers burst upon them. One of the ruffians was killed, but the others escaped. The body was recognized as that of a peasant, who was supposed to hold communication with a well known brigand band. Cranstoun's wound was not dangerous, but it was of such a nature as to prevent him from using his arm for many months, and he soon obtained leave of absence; though inwardly murmuring that his proud hopes of distinguishing himself in the approaching strife, were crumbled to the dust. The laurel wreath he coveted was not to grace his brow.

Home! home! was his thought; and all preparations being made, he was to start on the morrow. He was sitting with his friends beneath the sweet moonlight, that was resting on the mouldering ruins of what was once a palace, belonging to some proud grandee, whose very name had died on time's records.

“Would that I too could see the faces of mine own,” softly whispered Mrs. Sedley, through her tears. “Mother! sisters! you will see them all, and tell them that their Flora's heart is often with them.”

“But still, my Flora would follow me to share my dangers and privations,” said Sedley. “Does she now repent? The soldier's bride must give up much, but the soldier's heart feels deeply her devotion.”

“Never, Horace! Your lot is mine;” and her eye was lifted to his face, with a look he could not mistake. “But, even you sometimes long for a sight of old England; and Roland will soon see her dear shores.”

“Turn! turn! from fair England, there's death in thy path,
Tho' her bowers may smile the fairest of earth;
There's danger around thee,
Its meshes have bound thee,
And mourning shall be in the halls of thy birth.”

Every one started up as the words fell upon their ear, chanted in a low sweet voice, yet distinct enough for them to catch each sound. They searched the ruins but could find no trace of any one's having been secreted there.

“Strange!” exclaimed Cranstoun. “That I have some enemy I cannot doubt; but from whom come these mysterious warnings? I will stay and unravel this plot.”

“Do not stay, Roland,” said Sedley earnestly, “Nor seek England either. Distrust not this second warning; I will endeavour to find some clue to this labyrinth. You must leave to-morrow, but your destination must be a secret, and a chosen band shall guard you beyond the reach of danger. I suspect Ridgley has something to do with these dark doings; for I have seen such a look of scowling hate upon his dark face, when his eye has been bent upon you, as has curdled my very blood.”

“But why should he seek my destruction? I know not the man, except as one who holds aloof from all companionship with his fellows. Why should he thus pursue me!”—and his haughty brow darkened as he looked at his disabled arm. “Could I but wield my good sword,” he fiercely added, “I would soon call him to a dread account.”

Mrs. Sedley laid her hand upon his arm imploringly, “Roland, Roland, beware! there may be more listeners beneath these sweet skies than you wot of now. Hush! for pity's sake, and let us leave this spot.”

“Yes!” said her husband, “for you know mine are only conjectures. We can bring forward no proof of this man's villainy. Let us be wending to our own dwelling, and there we can form our plans.”

And they left the old ruin, with the sweet moonbeam resting peacefully on the desolate ruins of halls, where mirth and music once had been. Their forms were nearly hid from view by the embowering trees, when a dark figure came forth from behind a ruined arch, and gazed after them with a fiend-like smile upon his face.

“Ah! go forth Roland Cranstoun, with your lofty brow and stately bearing. Go forth with your sage advisers to 'scape me—Ha! ha! my coils are round thee, and I will compass sea and land for revenge. When your heart's blood is red upon my blade, then, only then shall I rest satisfied.” And he shook the bared weapon tauntingly in the direction they had taken.

Suddenly a young girl sprung forth, and knelt low at his feet. The shadows of sixteen summers could hardly have touched her fair brow, and there she knelt,

“With head upraised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art”—

but no sound broke the deep silence.

“Lelia!” and the tones of the voice were stern and low, “what do you here girl?”

“Father!” and the thrillingly sweet accents came like music on the ear. “Father! by the memory of my sainted mother, abjure this dark deed. Are we not forbidden to take vengeance?”

“Tush, girl, have I not told you that blood alone can wash out the memory of that hour. And mark me, Lelia, I do distrust you of late. By my faith I believe you entertain some girlish affection for this same youth. Ha! do you dream one of the proud Cranstoun's race would wed a smuggler's daughter. Lelia, he dies by my hand—and you, girl, may wear the willow if you will.”

The maiden sprung to her feet: “Beware, father, or you will find your child has some portion of your own spirit. Taunt me again with my deep love, and I will say one word that shall give you to a dungeon and chains. I love you not, father; and but that I promised my gentle mother, on her death bed, to watch your dark course, I would go forth a wanderer through the world. I tell you again, that I will warn Roland Cranstoun—and the knife shall reach the heart of your daughter ere it be stained with his life blood;” and with a light step she bounded away.

“Fool! idiot that I was to trust her,” muttered the man as he slowly followed.

Cranstoun was in Venice, and two months went by without bringing any solution of the mystery; the third found him laid low with fever. In his delirious dreams he fancied that the mysterious warnings were again on his ear, and he was conscious that a gentle hand smoothed his pillow, and held the cordial to his parched lip. A long heavy sleep fell upon him; when he awoke, he saw one in the garb of a sister of mercy by his bedside; he was too exhausted for speech; but she held a cooling draught, and put her finger to her lip in token of silence. In a half dreaming state he again sunk back, but not before he was conscious of looking upon a face of exceeding beauty. A heavy step was heard outside of the door—it opened, and the dark-browed figure of the ruined palace softly entered the room. Cautiously he stole towards the table, on which was many a drink and medicine.

“Simpletons!” he muttered, “they are afraid of the fever; and laud me for braving the danger for my friend. Well friend, let it be, this powder will give him short shrift, and 'tis surer than the dagger or knife;” and he turned the contents of a small paper into a small chrystal cup that held some prescribed drink, and hastily left the room. Roland saw the whole, and knew 'twas Ridgley's form and face, but he was too weak to raise his voice or hand. But there was one other watcher, the fair being who was watching his weary couch. She sprang to the table, and with a glance at the contents of the cup dashed it to the ground, where it shivered into a hundred pieces. It was poison.

The stars looked down in their quiet beauty, and the soft air of evening, such an eve as is only met with beneath Italia's skies, was stealing gently into the sick room of Roland Cranstoun. He was reclining on a couch propped by pillows near the open window, and there with an anxious brow was Sister Theresa.

“Tell me your name, sweet lady? It is strange that one so young and fair should keep such fearful vigils by my couch.”

“'Tis my vocation to soothe the sick and sorrowful,” answered she in tones of music.

“Surely I have heard that voice before, and met a face strangely like thine. But my head is weak yet, and I cannot recollect. Surely it was not always Sister Theresa.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and ere she could reply, it was burst hastily open, and the glad greeting of Horace Sedley fell like a tone from home upon the yearning heart of the sufferer.

“Now the blessed virgin be praised,” murmured Sister Theresa, and the shade of anxiety passed from her brow.

“Sedley, my dear friend, where do you come from?” exclaimed Roland, as he warmly wrung his hand—“I thought you still in sunny Spain.”

“No! my old uncle has departed this life, leaving me heir to his wealth and titles—a good long rent roll mine is too. I immediately sold out, and shall expect you to receive Sir Horace Sedley, and lady, with a deal of form and ceremony.”

“What, is Flora with you?”

“Yes! Nothing would do, but the silly girl must see Italy, though she has since confessed that she had a presentiment you were in some danger.”

“And so I have been, Horace, from more than one cause—Ridgley has been here, and though this gentle maiden warded off the blow, and from her lips I can gather nothing, yet I am confident he has attempted to remove me by poison.”

“Ah! I was just going to say that Ridgley deserted but a few weeks after you left. Can he be taken, his fate is certain.”

Sister Theresa laid her cold hand on Sedley's arm—“Guard well your friend—my duty calls me away, there is danger around him—and as he values life let him leave not this room till I bid.” And gathering her veil about her, she glided from the apartment.

Sedley started—“Why, Cranstoun, that surely is the same voice that I heard in the old ruin.”

Conviction flashed upon Roland's mind. Yes, he was sure he had heard those thrilling tones before, and met that sweet pale face. “Sedley—yon beautiful being is certainly a guardian angel by my side. Is it not strange that fortune should have singled me out as the hero of a romance like this—I would give my good sword to know what the end will be.”

A gondola is gliding swiftly o'er the blue waves, and the moonlight is giving a silver gleam, and the soft evening air just curling their surface—strange that evil thoughts should have place in such a scene of loveliness.

“Antonio, I tell you that twice, thrice I have failed; that girl is my bane. I verily believe that there is an evil spirit in that beautiful form to circumvent my designs. Before her only do I quail. Take her off my hands, and gold, aye, gold beyond your thought shall be yours.”

“Ridgley, I have told you I love the girl, and I will be kinder to her than her own father—but she hates me, I read it in her eye”—

“But nevertheless shall wed thee to-morrow, Antonio, she shall be yours. And then, when you have borne her afar, you, boy, shall know the depth of Ridgley's hate.

The gondola glided onward, and those dark spirits formed their plans for the morrow.

Silence was in the streets of Venice, as Ridgley entered his temporary dwelling. A young fair girl had laid her weary head upon her arm by the open window, with only her own clustering ringlets for a screen from the night air. The step roused her from her slumbers, and springing up she stood erect before him.

“Lelia, I have blithe news for you. To-morrow, ere the sun goes down, you will be the bride of Antonio Montoli; am I not a kind father to provide so well for you?”

The beautiful being before him raised her eyes to his face. The rich colour that had tinged her cheek faded away, and gave place to a marble paleness. There was a smile on her father's lip that the maiden too well understood.

In a moment her resolution was taken.

“Father, for naught have I to thank you, save for sending me to the convent where I early learned lessons of Christian love and duty. For the education there received, I do thank you; for it has fitted me to fulfil higher duties than fall to one of my station. But, father! you have reviled and tormented me. You have turned the sweet waters of affection to bitterness. I have borne all in silence, but father, henceforth our destinies are sundered for ever. I will not give my hand to your match—I will die sooner—no force shall compel me. Father, farewell for ever.” And she turned to go forth a wanderer from the home of him who should have shielded her from harm.

But the passions of the parent were roused, and he sprang forward and grasped her fiercely by the hand. There was a glitter of something in the moonshine—but with a powerful effort she burst away.

Mrs. Sedley was anxiously awaiting her husband's return, when her servant ushered into the apartment a muffled figure. She started up.

“Lady, fear nothing,” said a low sweet tone that thrilled to her heart. “Lady, I claim your protection;” and whilst she held one hand pressed to her side, with the other she flung up the veil, and discovered the features of Florence Ridgley.—Mrs. Sedley uttered an exclamation of wonder.

“Lady, I am alone in the wide world, and throw myself on your protection. My strength is fast failing me—I am wounded, and by my father's hand.”

She sunk upon a couch pale as death, and Mrs. Sedley saw with horror that her hand and dress were stained with the dark current that was oozing from her side. In terror she despatched a servant for her husband and medical attendance, and then applied what means she had within her reach to staunch the wound. It was not deep, and after dressing it, the English physician, who had attended Cranstoun, enjoined strict quietness; and having administered an opiate, left them.

Two days went by, and Roland was impatient to breathe the fresh air of heaven. Sister Theresa came not, and the third, in spite of Sedley's remonstrances, he determined to accompany him in his carriage to the —— Villa, which he had hired during his stay. His foot was already on the step when the click of a pistol fell on his ear, and a ball whizzed past him. Involuntarily he started back—it saved his life, for in another moment William, his faithful English servant had caught another from the hand of the assassin, and fired it; the man fell with a groan, disclosing the dark features of Ridgley. He was conveyed into the very room in which he had attempted to poison Roland.

A priest was soon sent for, at his own request, to shrive the dying man, and Cranstoun bent above him.

He raised himself up.

“The sands are running low, my son,” said the holy man, crossing himself. “Is there aught on thy conscience?”

He replied not, but turning to Roland with a look of undying hate, hoarsely cried—“Do you remember the smuggler's cave by the sea shore, near the village of A——, in merry England, Roland Cranstoun?—Aye, do you remember when a youth, you wandered to the lone spot one summer eve. One met you and warned you to depart; but you, with your fearless daring, would go on. The man laid a strong hand on you to turn you back, and your fierce spirit was roused, and with the bitter words of 'dog and smuggler,' you struck him a blow in the face. The remembrance of that hour has never been washed away, and in it was sworn a deep oath of vengeance. Look at the subaltern Ridgley, and read in his countenance the name of Matteo Levesci; a name at which you have often quailed in days gone by.

“I have followed your footsteps, and vengeance would have been mine, but that, dolt that I was, I trusted a child with the secret. She warned you well—my malison be on her head for it. I hate you with a bitter hatred”—and clenching his teeth he sunk back.

It all came back to Roland Cranstoun's memory. The sunny spot and the dark cave that had beguiled him from his home in the days of his boyhood to see what treasure it contained, and the bounding step, and bright beautiful smile in the fairy-like child who often stole away with him by the sea-shore, when the smuggler's bark was afar; and the moment of passion in which that blow had been struck, and the disappearance of Martin Walters soon after. It all come back to him like some half-forgotten dream. Now he knew where he had heard the voice, and met the eye of the young girl whose kindly warning had so often saved his life; and he turned shuddering away from the dark page of human passions which Walters' life presented. Ridgley waved them all from him, and desired to be alone with his priest. When the old man came forth from the chamber, it was to say that his soul had gone to its final account.

Gently as possible was the news of his death communicated to his suffering child. A feeling of pity and horror at his impious end was all the emotion it could excite. His own hand had torn asunder the strong ties of filial love.

“No! no! my sweet Lelia, as this is your true name, I cannot so soon part from you. Immure yourself in a convent for life—No! you shall go back with me to England, and be to me a sister.”

“But, kind lady”—and her tones were

——“Musical, but sadly sweet,
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,”

“I have none to welcome me there. I am poor and alone. Few years may go by ere I shall be as one forgotten, whilst you, and those with whose destiny mine has been so fearfully interwoven, will be in halls of gladness and mirth, surrounded by all you love.”

“Never, Lelia, never,” exclaimed Cranstoun, who stood now before the astonished girl—“never—I love you, Lelia—nay, turn not away; and it must be as my bride that you again go forth into the world that has so sorely tried your youth.”

“But I am not of your faith or country, for my mother was an Italian, and I am poor in wealth and name.”

“My kindred shall be thine, Lelia. They owe you a deep debt, it shall be repaid in affection; and though our creeds differ, our hearts worship the same being.”

Still she hesitated, and flush after flush was mantling her cheek and brow. She, the smuggler's daughter, to be the bride of the high-born Cranstoun, and carry naught of dowry to him. There was woman's strong love, and stronger pride, contending for mastery.

Lady Sedley took her hand—“You are young, Lelia, to quit the bright world, and pass years of lonely vigils and penances. Think deeply—a happy home, and affection's spells may yet be yours.”

The maiden's face was bowed down, but not before one single word had pledged her faith to her lover.

“Why, you all look in sober guise,” exclaimed the gay voice of Sedley, about half an hour after as he entered the room. “But cheer up, Cranstoun, there is blithe news from fair England. My old uncle, with the eccentric generosity that characterised him, has left you the pretty estate of Mossville, with sixty thousand pounds to support its dignity, in consideration of the affection he bore you in your childhood—so runs the will, a copy of which has just reached me. I give you joy, Cranstoun, for I have still more than I know well what to do with. So my pretty little Lelia will have almost a fairy house, for Moss-side is a little paradise.”

Home, home—the “Old Abbaye” is in sight, the gates are thrown open, and Roland Cranstoun is again in the midst of his kindred. The mother blesses her son, the brother grasps his hand, and they turn with deeper blessings upon the head of the beautiful being beside him, whom they greet as his bride. She had saved their Roland from death, she had watched him in sickness in a foreign land, and their hearts yearned towards the stranger. Never was such a joyous peal rung out, or did the old walls resound to such shouts of merriment as shook them that eve, for there were warm hearts to welcome back the wanderer; but, there was a deeper well-spring of happiness in his soul a few months after when his young wife had been converted to his creed, and knelt a humble worshipper at the same shrine of prayer with himself.

THE YOUNG COUNTESS by Miss M. Miles. 1838 [fiction]

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The Lady's Book. December, 1838

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE YOUNG COUNTESS;
OR, A FOLLY AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
BY MISS M. MILES.

“MOTHER, I dare not tell him!”—And Amy Bryant laid her head on her mother's bosom and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. “With all my love for Percy Roscoe, there is no one who I fear so much—I dare not tell him.”

“Fear him, my child, then let your mother entreat you in the strength of her affection, not to harbor such a sentiment. Judge not hastily, Amy, you are very young, and Mr. Roscoe's grave manners may perhaps have caused this feeling. He is certainly generous and noble-minded.”

“But not the less strict in his ideas of propriety, mother, and his words were stern and cold when he extorted from me the promise of giving up the society of Isabel Tracy—and can I tell him that I have broken my word, that I have passed hours, nay, days in her company?

“Yes, Amy, tell him the truth—believe me it is best to deal openly with him. He will not brook deceit in any form; but why did you again extend an invitation to Lady Tracy to visit us at this time of sickness and sorrow? Even I, lenient as I am towards the follies of the young, have opposed the intimacy. She is a dangerous woman, with her insinuating manners, and bewitching beauty.”

“I could not avoid it, mamma, without giving the true reason, and I was afraid of her ridicule; you know her wit, and satire, has weapons that cut deep.”

“Ah! Amy, I fear this sensitiveness to the shaft of ridicule will cause your path to be a thorny one. It often leads you, my love, to distrust your own resolves, even when they are on the side of right; why, my child, care for the laugh of the worldly minded? Is not the approval of your conscience more to be desired than their approbation? Act yourself in this instance at least, Amy, and tell Mr. Roscoe the truth. He will respect you the more for it.”

“But, dearest mamma, why cannot you? He loves and respects you so, and you could soften it, whilst I should only stand confused and trembling.”

The sunset ray shone full upon Mrs. Bryant's pale countenance as she reclined upon a couch, supported by pillows; consumption was fast doing its work of death, and her wan and emaciated hand was laid solemnly upon her daughter's fair head, as she replied:

“But would it restore Percy's confidence in you, dearest; you know my days are numbered, and he has asked from me the right of being your protector when I am gone. Let my last days be made happy by the knowledge that there is no cloud over your love. This fear of your noble hearted lover is unworthy of one who owns the presence of a higher power. I am feebler to day, and the time is at hand when I must leave my only child with none in the world to watch over her, but him to whom she has given her young affections—let her not deceive him.”

But ere Amy could reply, Roscoe had entered the apartment, and was pressing the thin hand of Mrs. Bryant in his, unable to speak from his excess of emotion, whilst his other arm encircled the drooping form of the half fainting girl. He saw at a glance that there was a great change in the invalid, and his voice faltered with strong feeling as he said:

“Why, why dearest Mrs. Bryant did you not write before? I would have come at any hour.”

“I knew it Percy,” answered she with a faint smile, “but you had duties more imperative elsewhere. But you will be with me to the last, and”—but Amy raised her face with such an expression of agony upon her features that she stopped and sent her from the room upon some trifling errand for herself, ere she finished the sentence.

“And your father has promised to give you the Percy estate. That, together with your high talents, Percy, for you are acknowledged to be one of the most rising lawyers of the day, will ensure to you all the comforts of life, and my poor girl will experience no change. She can bring you nothing, but beauty and goodness; for my annuity dies with me.”

“Whilst I live, she shall never know change; and my kind father has been most liberal. But not a word more, now; you are already exhausted, and I hear Amy's step.”

“Amy, dear,” said her mother, “I am inclined to sleep, and Martha shall sit by me whilst you take a turn in the garden with Percy; you are pale with watching and care.”

For a moment the fair girl hesitated, and the crimson that stained her cheek almost mocked the hue of the bright cloud that was floating even then in the western sky; but her lover's eye was full upon her face, and she dared not refuse when he drew her hand within his own, and said—“Come Amy, I have much to say to you.”

They wandered forth, on that eve of beauty, and she felt its sweet influences in her inmost soul. Gradually the feverish excitement under which she had been laboring became stilled, and gently and tenderly did he prepare her for the trial that so soon awaited her. Deeply grateful for his kindness and sympathy, Amy more than once opened her lips to tell him that she had broken her word, but the thought of his indignation was more than she coud bear at such a time. “I cannot wound him now,” was her thought, “to-morrow I well tell him all.”

There was a deeper change upon the face of Mrs. Bryant when they again stood beside her couch, and Amy entreated permission to remain with her during the night, and the mother could not deny her.

“Martha!” said Percy, as he closed Mrs. Bryant's door for the night, and passed into the kitchen where the old domestic and her husband, the only two servants who had followed Mrs. Bryant's variable fortunes, were sitting in mournful silence—“Martha, will you put lights for me in Miss Amy's little study? Mrs. Bryant is very low to-night, and I will sit up there; the nurse is with her, and your young mistress will not leave her.”

The tears fell fast over the withered cheeks of the old woman as she rose up to comply with his request. Mrs. Bryant's husband had been an officer, and these two faithful creatures had been servants of her own father; but they followed her whom they had seen grow up from a blooming child, through all the trials and vicissitudes to which she had been exposed; and when she returned a widow and orphan to her native land, upon a straitened income, remained to share her fallen fortunes.

“Ah! master Percy, these are sad hours,” said she, “it seems but yesterday since I saw my poor mistress a bonny bride, and the gallant captain, bless his memory, looking at her so pridefully—and she is young yet to die;” and her tears flowed faster. Percy, much affected, turned away.

Night waned, but still the young girl kept her lonely vigil by the sick bed. The nurse was in a deep sleep, her services being dispensed with, and she sat watching the laboured breathing of her only parent. Ah! that lonely watch by the deathbed of those we love—when the deep stillness of night is around us—the garnering up of every last word as they fall faintly from the pallid lips, and of the smiles of lingering love whose light will soon fade from earth—

“Oh! not an hour like this
For bitterness, has life.”

Midnight came, and Mrs. Bryant unclosed her eyes—Amy bent over her.

“My child!” and her voice was fearfully altered—“I shall not see the light of another glorious morning. I must see our good clergyman once more. Let him and Percy both come, for my hours are numbered.”

The nurse aroused from her slumbers, hurried from the room, and Amy with a strength which seemed as given in the hour of need, held a reviving cordial to Mrs. Bryant's lip, and wiped the damps from her brow. But a few moments elapsed, ere Percy and the silvery-headed old man, whose lessons had taught both mother and daughter to look beyond this veil of woe, entered the room. Percy folded his arms around the waist of his beloved, who stood pale as marble, but calmly, at the bedside; and the old pastor kneeling down, prayed fervently for the departing soul. An expression of peace and serenity gave the features of Mrs. Bryant almost a celestial beauty; with sudden strength she raised her head from the pillows that supported her.

“Come nearer, my children,” she whispered, and clasped their hands together. “Here at this solemn hour let me see my daughter united to him who will cherish her when I am gone.”

Amy hid her face in the pillow—“Oh! mother, dear mother, not now.”

“Yes, dearest, now, and I shall die happier—knowing that one good and noble has her happiness in keeping.” Exhausted she sunk back.

Percy raised the pale girl, and signed to Mr. Danby; and amidst the convulsive sobbings of deep grief, did Amy Bryant become the bride of him whom she so reverenced and loved. The rite was over, and she sunk on her knees beside her mother, whose hand was raised in dying blessings on her fair head, whilst her face was touched with a mother's holy love. That hand fell motionless, and Percy folded his bride to his heart, and felt she was an orphan; with none in the wide world but him to support and cherish her.

There was the sound of many feet in the quiet dwelling of the officer's widow, and more than one mourning carriage was at the humble door; for there were those amongst the good and great who had both loved and esteemed her, and who were now gathered to pay the last sad tribute of respect to her remains.

The funeral train moved slowly on; and in a pleasant sunny nook of the old church yard, a spot chosen by herself, it stopped. The touching service of the dead was read above her, and “dust committed to dust.” Amy was in her darkened chamber struggling with her passionate grief; but Percy Roscoe bowed his head in manly sorrow as the solemn words fell upon his ear.

When he returned to the mournful dwelling, he found Amy kneeling before a picture of her mother, and weeping bitterly. He drew her to his heart, and gently and seriously led her thoughts to that world where we shall meet the spirits of the “just made perfect.” Her agitation became almost alarming, and bursting from his arms she flung herself at his feet, exclaiming:

“Oh! Percy, I cannot deceive you. Even my sainted mother seems to look down in reproach upon me. I will not deceive you at this solemn hour; I will take that mother's last counsels. I have again seen lady Tracy; she has been here. Oh! do not! do not utterly forsake me,”—as he started back as if a serpent had stung him—“I have none but you”—and she clasped her hands wildly before him. For one moment the high-minded Roscoe covered his face. Disappointment, pity, and indignation were struggling for mastery, mingled with that sense of bitterness in being deceived in those we love; but the solemn scenes of the last two days had taught him true lessons of humbleness and humility. He looked upon the bowed head of the stricken one, thought of the holy vow by the dying bed, and of his own deep love for her from early youth. He raised her from her fallen posture, and placing her beside him, smoothed back the rich tresses which laid in disorder upon her throbbing forehead, and impressed a kiss upon it as he whispered:

“Poor child! far be it from me to add a pang to your sufferings; they are punishment enough. No, Amy, I will not cast you off—I will not even require a promise, lest you feel tempted to break it. Your blessed mother's last words must ever be held too sacred for you again to mingle in friendship with lady Tracy. I forgive you, dearest—but oh! never let your husband have the misery of finding his confidence misplaced.”

“Bless you, dear Percy, for these kind words, one look of harshness would have broken my heart;” and her head sunk down upon his shoulder, whilst tears, no longer those of bitterness, but of chastened sorrow, fell from her eyes.

Percy Roscoe did well to dread Lady Tracy's being the intimate of his affianced wife. She was a woman of fashion, and it was known that she played deeply, although over her vices there was thrown the veil of refinement and sensibility. She was but a few years older than Amy, and in her earlier days the lady had become passionately attached to Percy. He read her character at a glance, and she saw in the scorn with which he treated her that the mask of gentleness had not concealed the harsher traits that deformed her mind and character. Years passed on, and to gratify her ambition and love of riches she gave her hand to lord Tracy. His mansion was near the humble dwelling of Amy Bryant. She saw Percy's look of proud triumph as he gazed upon the beautiful girl who had given him her pure heart, and she marked that fair being as her victim. But Amy now felt, as she saw even her proud-souled Roscoe, forgive and pity her, that henceforth Isabel's arts would be of no avail.

But a single year had gone by, and Percy Roscoe's destiny had known a change. From being dependent upon his own talents and the income arising from the small estate that was his own in right of his mother, he had become possessed, by the successive deaths of his father and uncle, of the broad lands and the earldom of Clevemont. But although his house was the resort of the learned and good, of the high and noble, and his beautiful wife the star of fashion, there were those who loved him, that deemed their Percy's smile was less joyous than of old, and his brow more clouded than it was wont to be before his marriage. If he was unhappy, none knew it, and as he still looked with pride and fondness upon the fair face of Amy even in the festal hall, the world pronounced them a most happy couple.

The young countess was alone in her dressing room, when her attendant brought her a note; she glanced at the superscription, and her manner betrayed agitation as she perused its contents.

“Who brought this note, Ellis?” and she raised her eyes languidly from the paper.

“A person muffled in a large cloak, my lady; she would come in, and says she will see you.”

A proud flush rose to the cheek of the lady. “I may not deny her,” she murmured to herself; “I have tempted fate and must abide by it. Did lord Clevemont say he should not return 'till evening?” said she to the attendant.

“Yes, my lady. I told him that when you came in from your drive with lady Glenrock, you were so tired you had fallen asleep on the couch, and he told me to say he should dine out.”

Lady Clevemont sighed deeply. “Ellis! I believe you are faithful. Go to the person who waits below and conduct her here, and see that I am not interrupted whilst she remains.”

The waiting-maid left the room, and soon returning, ushered into the presence of the young countess a female of surpassing beauty. Amy rose up, and with mingled dignity and sadness greeted her as soon as Ellis closed the door.

“What does the lady Tracy,” she asked, “wish of the Countess of Clevemont, that she so unceremoniously forces herself into her presence?”

“Countess of Clevemont!” reiterated the other with a scornful curl of her proud lip—“Methinks you have a bold bearing, lady, for one whose destiny hangs on my slightest word. What if I whispered to the haughty Percy that his worshipped Amy had once both won and lost at play?”

Lady Clevemont buried her face in her trembling hands whilst she exclaimed—“But once, Isabel—you know it was but once, and then I was deceived; and have I had peace since? Does not the thought of that hour come to me in the festal hall? by my once happy hearth? and at the dark midnight hour when other eyes are closed in sleep? Does it not dreg with bitterness my cup, till at times my brain almost maddens? And did not you, you Isabel Tracy, lead me to the brink of the precipice? But I know you now, your mask is off.”

“But not the less are you in my power, fair countess,” replied Isabel with a smile of hatred and malice seldom seen on woman's face. “Not the less in my power. You cower and turn pale before your lord, I have read you well—lady, you fear him; and ere you would have him learn this secret you would lay down your young life. Well! Amy!” and her voice changed to one of insinuating softness—“you take this too much to heart, I will not betray you, but my losses are so heavy I dare not apply to Lord Tracy; lend me the sum I required in my note, and I will keep the secret for ever.”

Amy unclasped her hands from her convulsive features—“Isabel Tracy, I have already wronged the industrious poor to comply with your exorbitant demands; and when I again asked Clevemont for money but yesterday, his answer was stern as he said, “Amy, my fortune will not gratify boundless extravagance. I owe now more than the sum I have by me.” No! Isabel, I cannot give you this.”

“The countess of Clevemont will smile to-night when she welcomes her lord after he has seen Isabel Tracy”—and gathering her cloak about her she turned to go. Her hand was upon the knob of the door, when Amy springing forward arrested her progress—“There, lady Tracy,” and she flung down her purse at her feet—“Take all I have, but keep this secret; and now depart, with the malison of a breaking heart upon your head.”

“Thank you, lady, for the kind wish,” and with a scornful laugh she took it up and left the apartment.

A half hour after, Ellis entered the dressing room, and found her lady in a deep sleep. “Surely my lady is in a strange way,” she muttered, “to lay down with all this finery in which I dressed her for lady Glenrock's dinner.” Had she but looked beneath the pillow that supported the flushed cheek, she would have seen by the label'd phial there, why the slumber of her mistress was so deep and quiet.

“Whither away, Clevemont!” and lord Glenrock linked his arm in that of his old friend and schoolmate—“Come, we dine, en famille to-day. Go hence with me, Emily told me your wife had promised her to steal this day from her crowd of appointments, and pass it quietly with her.”

“Indeed! well then, my dear Glenrock, I will accept your invitation. Amy and I so seldom now know what quiet is, that I almost wish at times that title, fortune, and all this splendour were bestowed on some one else, and I again the plain Percy Roscoe, with my small estate and my young bride; for I hardly recognise her in the admired countess of Clevemont. But I ought to be proud of her.” The sentence ended with something very like a sigh.

“Percy,” said his friend, after a moment's thoughtful pause, “I may incur your displeasure, but both Emily and I have felt of late that your young and beautiful wife was treading on dangerous ground; Emily loves her sister-in-law, and has tried to win her confidence for your sake, but Amy is cold towards her, which you know is wholly unlike the affectionate kindness with which she treated all the members of your family the first few months of your marriage. I have read deeply the human character, and am convinced that there is something preying on her mind of which you are ignorant. I think, Clevemont, that she fears you.”

“Fears me!” exclaimed the astonished husband; why, Glenrock, you certainly have judged wrongly in this instance at least. Amy cannot fear me, for I have given her no cause for such a feeling—from my hands she has ever received kindness and indulgence. Believe me, my friend, that both you and Emily are mistaken; let us drop this subject.”

Dinner had been announced and served, but lady Clevemont did not make her appearance, or send any apology, and Percy was beginning to feel symptoms of alarm, when a message came that visitors at home prevented her ladyship from fulfilling her engagements with her sister-in-law.”

“Since that is the case, Emily,” said Clevemont, “why you must e'en go home with me and help her to entertain them; and pulling the bell he ordered the carriage.

They found Amy in the drawing room in the most brilliant spirits. Never had she appeared so beautiful, never so gay—

“She was like
A dream of poetry, that may not be
Written or told, exceeding beautiful!”

And her husband's eye followed her graceful form with an expression of love and pride—not so Glenrock and the watchful Emily. There was something unnatural in this excess of spirits, something unlike her sweet and almost pensive manners since the death of her mother, and they knew from the tone of her laughter that there was no mirth in it.

“Remember, to-morrow night, dear lady Clevemont,” said one of the ladies at parting.

“To-morrow night, Mrs. Devan,” interrupted Percy, “what plot are you laying to entice my little wife from home so soon again? These late hours will destroy her bloom.”

“Did she ever look more beautiful, my lord? 'Tis my masquerade night, and have her company I must—you may come too and play Argus;” and with these words the lively lady ran off.

“More money, Amy! why my dear girl you must be jesting with me. But this week I gave you bills to a large amount, surely you have not spent them already; you are only trying to see how far my indulgence will carry me.”

“I am not used to jest upon such subjects,” she answered, and for once in her life, in a proud and resentful tone. “I have not always had money at my command, and perhaps I am not prudent enough for lord Clevemont's wife.”

Percy took her hand in his, and for one moment gazed steadily in her face. Her glance fell beneath that earnest gaze. “Amy, you are strangely altered, but if money can give you happiness you shall have it;” and putting a roll of bills into her hand he hastily left the room.

She stood a moment motionless when he had left her; then glancing at the paper she muttered, “So! I am estranging all I love from me.”

* * * * * * * * *

There was a pause in the dancing, and one after another of the strange figures in the lighted halls of Mrs. Devan were seen filing off in the direction of the refreshment rooms. One mask has singled out lord Clevemont. It was one in the character of a sybil, and more than once it crossed his path. At last put out of temper at its pertinacity, he determined to accost it.

“What does the sybil wish of the Earl of Clevemont that she so often crosses his path?” Percy had taken off his mask for air.

“To ask him if happiness dwells in his lordly home—but I read my answer on his brow. But I will shadow forth to him a page in the book of his blithesome wife's destiny. The sparkle of the diamond lights her brow, but in mockery of the aching heart.”

“And she will walk in silk attire
And siller have to spare,”

whilst the poor tradesman follows her carriage with maledictions upon her head. You pour the gold into her lap, and it buys her a respite from disgrace. Percy Roscoe, I am a true prophetess—your household gods are broken.” And ere he collected himself to reply, she lifted her mask, and discovering the features of lady Tracy, was about to pass him, when he grasped her arm firmly, and in a voice hoarse with conflicting emotions, exclaimed—“Fiend! what do you mean? Give me proof that your words are true, for lady Clevemont would not bend to associate with such as thou; answer me, Isabel Tracy”—and he grasped her arm almost convulsively.

“Proof! lord Clevemont,” replied she with a laugh of scorn. “Here I have proof, such as you would give all your broad lands did not exist. Ha! my lord, when you laid an interdict upon the friendship of your wife for me—when you held me up to her as one to be shunned—then, even then did I vow a vow of revenge against you. Read that packet, my lord”—and she flung a sealed one towards him, “and see there that your own fair Amy has like me lost some of your goodly thousands at the card table”—and snatching her arm away she darted amidst the crowd, leaving him amazed and stunned.

But he was soon aroused by the return of the dancers, and with an effort that cost him a more bitter pang than he had ever experienced, he passed through the assembled crowds with a jest for one, a smile for another, and gaining the street door was in a moment in the open air. It blew freshly upon his fevered brow, and seemed to allay the burning thoughts within. He sought his own mansion, and forbidding the servants interrupting him, locked himself up in the library.

But there was another listener to the conversation of Percy with lady Tracy.—Amy, the ill-fated Amy; and as her husband left the spot, with one sharp cry she sunk insensible to the floor. A multitude was in a moment around her, and her mask taken off.

“Lady Clevemont fainted!” was echoed from one to another, till the sound reached lady Glenrock. In a moment she was by her side, and she was borne into an inner room; but it was long ere she opened her eyes, and when she did, the expression was so cold and wandering as to terrify her sister.

“Will some one call lady Clevemont's carriage, where is my brother?” But lord Clevemont had been gone some moments, and Amy was conveyed to the carriage by Lord Glenrock, who with his wife supported her in it.

“Is your master at home, Robert?” asked he of the old man who was now butler to lord Clevemont, and who with Martha hastened into the hall at the first intimation of their lady's illness.

“Yes, my lord, he came in a few minutes ago, but forbid our disturbing him. But see, my lady is reviving.”

With a powerful effort Amy roused herself, and smiling faintly, said, in a low tone, “Do not be alarmed, Emily, I am better now, and will lie down in my dressing room.”

Lady Glenrock did not leave her 'till she saw her in a seemingly quiet slumber, and even then charged old Martha to remain by her side, whilst she sought the earl. Something was wrong she knew, for it was not like her attentive and affectionate brother to leave his wife alone in so public a place. She knocked at the library door, but no answer was returned. “Percy! dear Percy! I must see you. Amy is ill.”

At that sound the earl opened the door, but so deadly pale that she recoiled in alarm and amazement.

“Percy! what has happened! Something dreadful I know!” and she clasped his cold hand.

“Look here, Emily,” said he, in a tone hoarse with emotion, and he drew her to the table, upon which was scattered bills and papers. “Look there, Emily, and read how my trusting confidence has been abused;” and he buried his face in his hands as he sunk upon a seat.

Lady Glenrock, in terrified astonishment, saw bills to a large amount against her sister-in-law, unpaid; and notes from Isabel Tracy demanding money as the price of her silence respecting Amy's heavy loss to herself at play. She looked upon her lofty, spirited, generous brother, and thought of his tender love that had sheltered Amy when she was a lone orphan in the world, and of that young girl, too, with the deepest compassion. She felt the fire was quenched on the hearth-stone, the beautiful links in the chain of domestic happiness broken forever, and tears fell fast from her eyes. She laid her hand upon her brother's burning forehead as his head was bent down, and whispered tenderly of consolation.

“She is very, very young yet, Percy—but a child in the ways of the world.”

“But not the less able to discriminate between right and wrong, truth and falsehood. No, Emily, my idol is fallen, the fair temple despoiled of its beauty. I cannot forgive. She in whom I garnered up my heart, whose love was to me as some sweet star smiling upon my destiny, to deceive and distrust me! To forget the solemn scenes by her mother's deathbed. No! I cannot forgive. We must part.”

“Oh! do not say so, Percy. Cast her off, and who in the wide world can she cling to?” But ere she could finish the sentence Ellis rushed into the room, with horror imprinted upon every feature of his pale countenance.

“Oh! my lord, come quick, my lady has swallowed poison!”

They waited to hear no more. Lord Clevemont rushed to the hall—sent a servant for the physician, and almost distracted, entered the dressing-room. There was Amy, with the diamond still sparkling upon her pallid brow, and the festal robe around her, struggling in the arms of her old attendant. The fatal phial was by her side, and her cheek flushed to the deepest crimson, mocked the red rose wreath whose leaves were not yet withered in her hair. She had sent old Martha away for one moment, to get her something with which to quench her feverish thirst, and in the interim swallowed the laudanum. She shrieked violently when she beheld her husband, but he firmly supported her in his arms, till the physician came. The most powerful antidotes were administered, and owing to the timely discovery of Ellis, with success, but Dr. Morris, who was an old and confidential friend, called Clevemont from the room.

“My lord, I am sorry to pain you, but I fear the life of your lady hangs on a thread. Some great shock has been sustained, and the powerful remedies to which I have been obliged to have recourse, have prostrated her strength. Perfect quiet is necessary. I will myself remain through the night, for I fear the result.”

Percy wrung the hand of the good old man, with a heart too full for words, and again took his station by her pillow. The pale and altered girl was unconscious that they hovered round her couch, and the doctor's fears were well founded. Before morning she was raving in delirium, and fever was racking her frame. For days and weeks life did indeed hang on a thread, and when she was able for the first time to rise from her bed of sickness, none would have recognised in the attenuated and melancholy looking being before them, the once admired and caressed lady Clevemont. Not one word of explanation had passed between herself and Percy, nor did she once meet her husband's eye, but she saw the smile had vanished from his lip, and that many lines of painful thought marred the beauty of his glorious brow. He was kind and gentle in his manner, but the heart of woman felt that there was a change. The charm was gone, and steeped in tears of bitterness, did she deplore her own folies.

She was now able to sit up all day, and one morning when Lady Glenrock had left her alone for a few moments, she was startled by the entrance of her husband. She trembled almost to fainting, but the earl kindly inquired after her health, and seating himself by her, said, in a serious and quiet tone:

“Lay aside fear, Amy. I came not to reproach you, neither am I a stern and harsh tyrant, that you should be afraid to meet my eye. No! we have suffered too much, and your punishment has been sufficient. I came but to say that your debts are now all cancelled, and such measures taken that Lady Tracy cannot, by her malicious asseverations, injure your good name. Take my forgiveness also. In the first moment of wretchedness, I was tempted to part from you forever, but your dying mother's charge prevented me; and Amy, forget not now that Being whose promises cheered her last hours. Go to him in penitence, and pray for strength to resist temptation in future.”

Months passed on, and again Lady Clevemont was in the world's “crowded mart.” The brilliancy of her beauty had become dim, but there was an indescribable charm in her low thrilling tones that touched the heart of the hearer—they were so sadly plaintive. She was not happy amidst her splendor. She missed the fond smile that had once beamed upon her even in the place “where dancers meet;” the affection that had once anticipated every want. Kind as was Percy, there was wanting the charm of mutual confidence and love; and to her heart's inmost recesses did she feel the difference. Change was, indeed, on her spirit's dream of happiness.

“What reason have you for refusing to visit Lady Tracy?” one day asked Mrs. Devon. “Poor soul, she is in poverty now, and in bad health too. Do come with me, Lord Clevemont will not know it.”

“Never!” replied Amy, “and, Mrs. Devon, oblige me by avoiding the mention of her name in my presence. It is painful to me.”

It was extremely cold, and the young countess preferred the comfort of her own fire-side to a dinner engagement with Mrs. Devon. Lord Clevemont too was in the drawing room previous to going out, and had taken up a book, when a servant entered and presented his lady with a note. She turned pale as she saw the handwriting, and for a moment hesitated. Percy was apparently absorbed in his book, but he saw her change of colour. The footman left the room, and without breaking the seal, she stept lightly up to her husband:—

“I have a note from Lady Tracy, Lord Clevemont,” (it was a long time since she had called him Percy,) said she, in a voice she vainly endeavoured to render steady, whilst the colour deepened on her cheek, and her air was less humble than it was wont to be of late, “will you break the seal and peruse its contents?”

Her lord took it from her hand, with something of coldness in his manner, and the tears started into her eyes. Do I deserve this, was her thought, as she felt that she could have concealed the contents had she been so inclined. Surely he might have seemed pleased that I practised no deceit.

The earl folded it up after glancing over it, and for a moment bent down his head in thought. “Lady Tracy wishes to see you, Amy. You can go if it is your wish.”

She felt wounded by his manner, and drawing up her slight person, she haughtily replied, “I have no wish to act directly contrary to what I know would be Lord Clevemont's commands.”

“It is my wish now to have you visit your once gay friend, but I shall accompany you. Isabel Tracy can never injure you more. She is on her deathbed!”

The countess drew back and shuddered. “I cannot go!” was her involuntary exclamation.

“Yes, Lady Clevemont, that you MUST go is NOW my COMMAND.”

“I will obey it then,” and a pang wrung her heart when she thought how considerate Percy once was, and how anxious to spare her feelings.

The carriage of Lord Clevemont stopped before the door of a small dwelling in one of the by-streets of the great metropolis, and he handed Amy out, and was shown into a low dark room, where, upon a dingy couch, and supported by pillows, was the faded form of the once brilliant Lady Tracy. Poverty and disease were fast doing their work of death, and at intervals a racking cough threatened existence itself.

“Well, my lord,” said she, in a hollow tone, as they approached her, “you are willing at last for your young wife to come into the presence of Isabel Tracy. 'Tis well! for she has no longer reason to fear her. The serpent is deprived of his sting;” and her wild laugh rung fearfully on the ear of the trembling countess.

She knelt beside the couch, and essayed to clasp the wan thin hand of Isabel. Her sweet face wore an expression of angelic pity as she murmured, “I forgive you, Isabel, from the bottom of my soul, I forgive you.”

“Forgive me”—and her eye for a moment softened—“Poor child, you have much to forgive, for I have cast to the dust your golden fabric of happiness; but at times, Amy, I have sorrowed over your fate—no matter, it could not serve you.” Then turning suddenly to Percy she tauntingly exclaimed—“Ere I knew the dark passions that have since stained my soul with crime, I loved you, Earl of Clevemont, whilst you were the poor Percy Roscoe. You cast my love from you as a worthless thing, and bowed to yon trembling girl. I saw she feared you, and I saw you worshipped her as pure and faultless. I vowed revenge, and, Clevemont, I have had it. I strewed thorns in your path of flowers. I have thrown a cloud over the sunshine of your proud home, and broken the silver link of confidence forever. And now, neglected by my friends, deserted by the man I never loved, and in poverty and death, I tell you I do not repent.”

“Oh! Isabel Tracy, turn to Him, who will pardon even at the last hour. He can soften and support you even at this dread time. Oh turn to him, Isabel.”

“It is too late, Amy, my doom is sealed, my sands run low. I am sorry I have made your misery, young girl, but glory in destroying his happiness. I cannot conquer the evil passion of my heart; take warning by me.” And her gestures and words became so wild, they summoned the nurse.

They remained some time longer, and endeavoured to lead the poor sufferer's mind into a better state, but she remained sullenly silent, and with heavy hearts they left her dwelling.

That night Isabel Tracy died.

Amy was deeply affected by this event, but Christmas was approaching, and they removed to Clevemont castle to celebrate it, as all the members of Percy's family assembled together at that time. With a feeling of loneliness she wandered through the lordly apartments of her splendid home, and memory flew back to the little cottage, and pleasant village where she had first met her husband; but her guests claimed her attention, and the kindness and caresses of Emily won her from her melancholy.

Christmas day came, and the sounds of mirth and festivity rung through the castle. The song floated round, and the merry dancers were leading many a gay measure.

“Come Amy, lead one dance with me,” said lord Glenrock, “I shall believe you are studying the stars if you linger so long beneath the concealment of yon crimson drapery.”

“I never dance, now,” she answered.

“Not dance!” exclaimed a young lady near, “why how whimsical—well, your lord does, and is going to waltz with me.”

Amy sighed, and turned away.

The festival was over, one by one the guests sought their carriages or rooms, and the countess was alone in the ball room, with the flowers yet breathing freshness around, and the lamps burning brightly. She leaned her head against the marble ornaments of the fireplace, and the past came straining over her heart with its sweet memories. On her dressing table that day had glittered many a costly present, but from her husband she had received no gift, and tears fell fast and thick from her eyes. She started from her despondent attitude in amazement. Her husband's arm folded her to his heart, and his voice in the kind tones of old whispered—“Let there again be love and confidence between us, dear Amy. I knew you must be made to feel deeply the effect of your want of confidence, and the follies it led you into, that the impression might be lasting. Your punishment is over; I know you have resisted temptation. I have suffered more than yourself in maintaining a cold manner, when I longed to fold you to my heart in approval and love. Let the past be forgotten—but why do you weep?” “Dear Percy!” was all she could say, as she laid her head on his shoulder, and wept with almost childlike tears from happiness. “You thought yourself forgotten to-day, but I have a gift for you, dearest;” and as he bent to her lips with the kiss of reconciliation, he whispered—“One you will prize more than pearl or gem—the restored affection and confidence of your husband.”

THE PEASANT BRIDE by Miss M. Miles. 1838 [fiction]

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The Lady's Book. November, 1838 || The Rochester Gem. Volume XV. 1843, August 19

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE PEASANT BRIDE.
BY MISS M. MILES.

“Without one tie of kindred or of love To bind her to the earth.” * * * “To that soft and pleading eye Who is there could suit deny.” * * * “And Selim to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His Nourmahal.”———

'TWAS a sweet summer sunset, and the lingering beams fell soft upon an English cottage with its clustering roses, and grass plat in front, so pleasant and green. It seemed fitted for the abode of peace and happiness, yet the stillness around it, the carefully closed casement, and neglected garden, bespoke it the abode of sickness or sorrow. The sunset hues faded, and the shadows of evening fell deeper, and, as a dim light appeared in one window of that lonely cottage, two travellers dismounted at the inn opposite, and having refreshed themselves strolled through the village.

“Well!” exclaimed the older of the two, in a tone that plainly denoted vexation, “of all your wildgoose vagaries, this is the most outré! What on earth tempted you, Roscoe, to leave Castle Clarendon, and set forth like some doubty knight without your retinue, upon an unfrequented road, merely because your lady mother informed you of the approach of the beautiful Miss Leston, the heiress?”

A smile passed over the handsome features of the Earl of Clarendon, one of the most popular young noblemen of the day, who had just come into possession of a large unincumbered estate, but he vouchsafed no reply to the petulant inquiry of his friend, who continued in the same tone:

“Now, Roscoe, I really believe you were afraid of the arrows tipped with gold, or you would never have made so precipitate a retreat merely because she was expected upon a visit at the Castle. She is reported to be young and pretty.”

“She may be all these,” answered the young nobleman, with something of a curl upon his handsome lip, “and withal not suited to fill the station of Lady Clarendon, for which my lady mother designs her, without a thought that her only son may choose to please myself in this most momentous case—now clear that brow, George, and let us for one month lay aside the 'pomp and ceremony' of our rank, and wander where

“There is no sound of festival
Echoing from the lighted Hall.”

“I am weary of being the 'lion' of the hour, and for the ensuing four weeks am plain Mr. Wilmot.”

“That aristocratic bearing will betray the friend,” exclaimed Capt. Beaumont, “and as I am a younger son with nothing but my good sword to recommend me, I will retain my own cognizance, it being one but little known in these barbarous regions.”

The young men sauntered by the banks of the pretty stream that ran meandering through the village till the moon was high in the blue vault; and then turned towards the sun. In passing the cottage which was retired from the road, they stopped a moment to admire its lonely beauty, and were standing within the pretty yard when the house door was thrown open, and a girl apparently about fifteen, of surpassing beauty, stood in the moonlight, the rich curls flung back from her brow, as she gazed upon the intruders with a bewildered look. Suddenly she sprang towards Roscoe, and grasping his arm, cried in imploring accents:

“Oh! my father is dying, do come with me, for he is so wild”—and she wrung her hands in agony.

The beauty and artlessness of the girl, joined to his own kindly feelings, induced him to comply, and with Beaumont he entered the low door-way.

Upon a bed was extended the corpse of the father, evidently the victim of intemperance, and the death-pang no doubt terrified his child in her lonely watch till she rushed forth for assistance. The life had but just departed, and it was long ere they could persuade the desolate girl that he was no more. When the dreadful truth rushed upon her mind, she buried her head in the clothes of the bed sobbing convulsively, and muttering to herself—

“All! all! alone! I wish that I could die too—Jeannette has now no home!”

Every feeling of compassion and pity was aroused in Roscoe's mind, as he gazed upon the sad and beautiful being thus cast upon a rude world deprived of all natural protectors.

“Can we leave her thus?” burst involuntarily from his lip.

“No!” was the immediate response of his friend. “Remain, Roscoe,” he added, “and I will go for some one to assist this poor girl.”

The young Earl did not think his dignity lowered as he stooped to raise the bereaved child from her painful position beside the corpse. He seated her beside him, and used every argument to soothe and console. Her convulsive sobbings gradually became stilled, and by the time that Capt. Beaumont arrived with the landlady of the inn, she was restored to a state of calmness; but with an expression of such utter forlornness imprinted upon her lovely face, as powerfully affected the two young men, and putting a purse into her hand, they hastily left the cottage to conceal their emotions.

From the idlers round the inn, they learnt the history of Jeannette Gray, the “Village Flower,” as she was called by the peasantry round. Her father had removed there about two years before, and had neither held communication with the inhabitants or suffered his young and beautiful daughter to mingle in the village sports—and excepting the old gray-headed school-master—who loved the child, and occasionally gave her instruction, none entered the cottage. The father was a cold and stern man, and it was rumored that many a dark act had compelled him to seek the shelter of that quiet spot—and at last he became a thing for the finger of scorn to point at; seeking in deep inebriating draughts an oblivion for memory.

A few of the peasants assembled to pay the last duties to the old man, from a feeling of pity for the child; and as the grave was filled up, turned carelessly away—whilst she flung herself upon the small mound weeping passionately, notwithstanding the efforts of the kind landlady to console.

“Law, now, don't grieve so, you shall come home with me, and every one will do you a kind act—do not grieve so—poor girl”—and she drew her from the church yard to her own dwelling.

Days passed on, and Roscoe and his friend spent their time in rambling over “hill and vale,” but evening invariably brought them back to the village inn. Capt. Beaumont began to feel uneasy. Why was Clarendon so unwilling to leave? Why almost petulantly tell him that he might return to the Castle when he pleased, if he was tired of ruralizing? He knew his friend well, and that with all his great and good qualities he was romantic and enthusiastic in the extreme—and Jeannette was one to realize a poet's dream—

“Not the face of heaven
In its serenest colors, nor earth in all
Its garniture of flowers, nor all that live
In the bright world of dreams, nor all the eye
Of a creative spirit meets in air,
Could in the smile and sunshine of her charms,
Not feel itself o'ermaster'd by such rare
And perfect beauty:—yet she bore herself
So gently, that the lily on its stalk,
Bends not so easily its dewy head.”

Well might he fear for him—for the haughty spirit of the young noble had indeed bowed low to the innocence and holy purity enshrined in the bosom of the lowly peasant girl.

“This is worse than madness,” exclaimed Beaumont at the close of a long argument, “what can Jeannette be to you but a passing dream. Consider your long line of ancestors—your rank in society—the prejudices of all your titled connexions; and last, not least, her utter want of education, of accomplishments to fit her for such a high station, and then whether your proud name would not be tarnished by such an alliance.”

“And look abroad into the world, Beaumont, and see amidst its tinsel glare if you know of one heart as pure from corrupting passions as hers, beauty as perfect without a touch of woman's vanity to mar it. Seems she not more like a guileless child, free from a taint of worldliness or sin?”

“When the whisper of adulation is on her ear, when crowds bow and offer up incense at the shrine of the new beauty, and she is surrounded by splendor and wealth, think you she will retain this simplicity, this purity!—You are fascinated now, Roscoe, but with all your intellectual gifts, you will find that mind as well as beauty will be wanting to constitute happiness. But I have warned you, and shall leave you to yourself.”

“Not without giving me your word as a man of honor not to betray my confidence,” replied Roscoe, with something of pique in his tone.

“On this you may rely,” said Beaumont, and they separated.

Beaumont was obliged to leave his friend and rejoin his regiment, and dearly as he had loved him from his boyhood, Roscoe was glad to be relieved from the restraint his presence imposed.

Jeannette was his constant companion in his rambles, by the side of the river and over the pleasant meadows. Her sadness has worn off, and there was a sweet playfulness in her manners, joined to her entire dependence upon him, that completed the conquest of his heart. He saw in her, indications of native talent, and the mildness and beauty of many of her ideas just suited his romantic turn of mind. And she, that beautiful being, whose every look betrayed his influence over his affections, whose eye so timidly turned to his for approval, was she to bow as some sweet flower, because the stormcloud was near. Her destiny remains yet to be told.

They were wandering one evening by the river's banks, and after watching the waves reflect a thousand radiant colors from the beautiful sunset, Clarendon drew her towards a rustic seat in silence. He felt the time was drawing near when he must leave her, and many contending emotions were swelling in his proud heart. She gazed into his face with something of fear, for the expression of it was different from what she had ever known it. He caught the look, and smiling sadly said:

“Do not be frightened, Jeannette, I am perfectly well.”

“Then why do you look so, Mr. Wilmot?” for so she had been accustomed to call him, “Have I offended you?” and a tear started to her eye.

“Offended,” he repeated—“Blest angel as you are, you could not offend.” Then seizing her hand he added impetuously—“Jeannette will you unite your fate with mine? Will you give me a husband's right to protect you?”

Jeannette covered her face with her hands, and trembled violently, and even her neck was stained with the deep crimson. He needed no other reply, and folding her to his heart, whispered “mine forever.” Then it was that her tears burst forth, and she wept on his bosom from excess of happiness.

They were wedded in the village church, and then for the first time did the astonished girl learn, that instead of Mr. Wilmot, she had wedded the wealthy and powerful Earl of Clarendon, whose name had reached even that secluded spot. All were glad for the “Village Flower,” and blessed her as she passed through the church-yard, where she had so lately been a mourner, a young and happy bride.

But when Roscoe folded her to his heart as his own, and called her by the sacred name of wife, a cloud dimmed her brow, and the smile that had before wreathed her lip faded. “Do you repent already, my own Jeannette?” he asked in the deep tone of strong affection. “Dearest, I shall take you to my own proud home, ere many weeks are over, whose sunshine you will make. I long to present my beautiful bride to my kindred.”

“But will not those kindred despise me?” she asked in a low, sad voice. “Will they not look down on the peasant girl with scorn? Better had it been that we never had met.” And Roscoe, even whilst he fondly soothed her, could not but acknowledge to himself that her fears were not wholly groundless. But she was now his own, and the solemn tie could only be broken by death.

Some weeks passed on, and Jeannette saw with the quick-sightedness of woman, that her husband, although tender and kind as ever, was ill at ease. The time was drawing near when he must present his young bride to his family, as he could not remain longer from his home. Innocent and lovely as was the being who looked up to him with such confiding tenderness, he felt that she was incapable of appreciating the powers of his mind. The magic touch of education was wanting to render her perfect. One evening he was sitting buried in reverie, unmindful of the presence of his wife, who was standing by a distant window. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Oh! that she possessed the knowledge, the accomplishments of others!” Jeannette's quick ear caught the words, and her trembling limbs almost refused their support; but she succeeded in leaving the room unobserved. What a world of misery was opened to her view. She threw herself upon the bed and wept long and bitterly. But though lowly born, she was possessed of a more lofty spirit than one would have deemed could dwell in that timid girl. She felt that she was not fitted for the wife of one so gifted. “He is ashamed of his choice,” was her thought, and even amidst those passionate tears was her resolution taken. She knelt down to ask aid from above, for when her father in her childish days sternly forbade her to pray, she would wander forth and in some lonely place, with only the canopy of the deep blue sky above, pour forth the orisons of her innocent heart. She arose from that prayer, sad indeed, but calm and collected; and sought her husband. He raised his eyes upon her entrance, and putting out his hand drew her fondly towards him, and kissed her cheek. “You have been weeping, dearest,” he said, as he gazed anxiously in her pale face. “Have you any sorrow unshared by me?”

Jeannette laid her head upon his shoulder, so as to screen her face, and for one moment her resolution wavered; but she soon nerved herself to speak—and with all the artlessness of her character told him that she had heard his exclamation and long read his thoughts.

“I am not worthy of you, dear Roscoe,” she said in conclusion—“and you ought to have sought a bride amongst those in your own rank—but our fate is one. Send me from you awhile, and I will try and learn those accomplishments, and gain the knowledge you prize so much. I already bless the good old schoolmaster who did not let me grow up in utter ignorance;” and overcome by her feelings, she covered her face and wept.

Clarendon was both affected and pleased, although his heart sunk at the prospect of separation; but he had been communing with himself, and felt all the disadvantages to which he had subjected her. He knew with her natural abilities, that a few months would model the tinged child into the intellectual woman—and he was touched to the heart with the generous sacrifice she was willing to make. He soothed her with many a tender word of affection and approval, and smilingly said— “Only a few months dear Jeannette, and then my kindred shall be proud of my beautiful bride. 'Till then no one shall even have a glimpse of that sweet face”—playfully kissing away her tears.

* * * * * *

The curtains in the small but pretty drawing room of Mrs. Everard, (a widowed sister of the Dowager Lady Clarendon, who was a rare and superior character, and having early known sorrow, had withdrawn from the world upon a limited income) were closely drawn, for it was a damp and dreary evening. The candles were lighted, and a good fire in the grate, although it was early in the fall. She was busily engaged in reading, when a ring, somewhat louder than usual, roused her attention, and her servant ushered the Earl of Clarendon accompanied by a female into her presence. She started from her seat to welcome her favorite nephew, and after warmly embracing him, turned a look of inquiry towards his companion. With one hand he put aside the veil that shaded the surpassing beauty of his Jeannette, and leading her to the lady, said with a look of pride and love—

“My wife! my dear aunt, and to your care and kindness I must commit her.”

There was an expression of innocence and purity in the countenance of the young creature before her, that won her heart, and she kissed her fair brow and bid her welcome as warmly as if she had known her for years; without a single inquiry for the solution of what seemed to her a strange mystery. But soon was the romance of the past weeks confided to her, and in a moment she felt how all important it was for Jeannette to be other than she was, ere she could be presented to his ambitious and aristocratical family, whose pride would at best meet with a severe blow, and and though she lamented her nephew's imprudence, she would for his sake save his sweet bride from the chilling influence of his titled connexions.

“I will not betray your confidence,” said she to him, when they had discussed many plans—“Jeannette is but a child yet. Leave her one year with me, and go abroad, and when you return, she shall be all you wish. Till then, she shall pass a protégée of my own; and that look of love tells how she will for her husband's sake employ the hours of absence.”

Captain Beaumont remained with his friend a few weeks at the castle before the latter went abroad, and laughingly told him, that as he chose to give up the heiress, he would win her himself. Maria Leston was one calculated to please him—lively and affectionate, with a warm heart, but a mind wholly undisciplined; this, however, was not perceptible in every-day intercourse, and he soon became one of her most devoted admirers. “Take care,” said Roscoe, who had studied her character with more attention from the time he had seen his friend's predilection. “Remember—I in turn warn you. But now dear Beaumont, I leave my cause in your hands. Use your influence with my mother, and remove her prejudices against unequal alliances, ere I return; for I have expressly told her I should not select a bride from the ranks of fashionable society.” And they parted to meet again, under what different circumstances.

* * * * * * * * *

Month after month passed away, and Mrs. Everard saw with surprise and delight the facility with which Jeannette acquired those accomplishments necessary to the high station she was to occupy. She studied early and late, and though her cheek was a shade paler, yet her countenance bore an expression of intellect that greatly added to its charm. She seemed to rouse as from a dream, and her mind drank deeply at the fountain of knowledge. Of music, Roscoe was fond, and had delighted to hear her warble simple airs she had caught from the village girls—for her voice and ear were both fine, and when after passing hours at either the harp or piano, she would rise pale and exhausted from weariness—the thought was constantly, “Roscoe shall not be ashamed of his wife!”

Mrs. Everard often intreated her to desist, fearing such unremitting attention might undermine her health; but a playful smile was her answer, as she reminded her protectress that in a few months more her husband would return. Dearly did the lady love the sweet girl, and she gazed upon her with a feeling of reverence, as she felt the beauty of her character, and the holiness of her young love. Their days passed peacefully on, interrupted only by frequent letters of encouragement and affection from Clarendon, when a message from Lady Clarendon, announcing her intention of visiting her sister, threw Mrs. Everard into a state of perplexity. To refuse the visit was impossible, and to expose Jeannette to the scrutiny of this woman of the world equally so. Jeannette herself immediately proposed remaining in her own apartments until the lady left. Her heart grew heavy, she knew not why, at the idea of being under the same roof with Roscoe's mother, and when she first caught a tone of her voice as she passed at a distance, she wept without being able to give a reason for her tears.

A night or two before the intended departure of the lady, Jeannette felt more than usually oppressed. She threw open her window, and gazed forth upon the beauty of the scene. It was calm and clear, and the blossoms that clustered beneath it, whose fragrance was “borne upon the night wind,” were glittering in the moonbeams. It was midnight, and although so late, she felt no inclination to retire. Her thoughts were afar with the wanderer, and she thought of all his love, and the state of lowly dependence from which he had rescued her, with a feeling of veneration and gratitude, blended with the deep strong devotion of woman, till tears mingled with the prayer she murmured for his safety. A light slumber surprised her even where she sat. How long she remained she was incapable of telling, but she roused from an uneasy dream in wonder at the position in which she had fallen asleep. Her hair was damp with the night dew, and gathering up its rich folds she was preparing to seek her bed, when a distant grating sound fell on her ear. She listened, and again she heard it, as if some one was attempting to force a window. She cautiously approached one from which she had a view of the front entrance, and plainly distinguished a ladder planted against the house. Throwing a shawl over her head she stole gently from the room to that part of the house where the servants slept. Not a feeling of self intruded, and though her face was a shade paler, her step was firm. Opening the door of the room of an old servant of Mrs. Everard's, she went directly up to the bed, and rousing him gently, whispered in deep concentrated accents—

“Hugh! your mistress is in danger—there are persons even now attempting to force an entrance into the house. Hush! make no noise for your life, but wake the men servants, and come quick to the street door.”

She had no time for more, for a loud scream burst upon her ear—she sprung from the room into the passage—another and louder shriek made her heart almost sink within her, but rallying all her energies she ran swiftly along in the direction from which it proceeded, and paused almost breathless before the door of lady Clarendon. A stifled sound as of distress, left her not a moment for reflection, and bursting open the door she recoiled a moment in horror. A strong and dark looking ruffian had drawn a handkerchief round the lady's throat, and she was already purple in the face. The noise caused him to turn round, and the beautiful girl heedless of her own danger, had only time to spring past him, and catch the handkerchief from her neck and raise her up, when she felt her own hands grasped tightly, and a glittering weapon flourished above her head. She did not scream—she did not even quail as his laugh rang through the apartment, she only felt that death was near, and her soul went up in prayer. Whether it was her firmness, or look of angelic purity that intimidated the ruffian she knew not, but the knife glanced aside, and fastened securely in the floor. Ere he could draw it forth, the room was filled with the servants and Mrs. Everard, and he was secured. All necessity for exertion was over, and she fainted. When she recovered, she found herself upon a sofa in her own room, and surrounded by anxious faces.

“Where am I?” she exclaimed, starting up with the impression of horror fresh on her mind.

“With friends, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Everard, folding her to her heart, “and free from danger, but how much do we all owe you!”

From the confessions of the man, they gathered that he had heard of the arrival of the Countess at Mrs. Everard's, and knowing her to be wealthy, had left a gang to which he belonged at a little distance, 'till he had secured an entrance; but her screams exasperated him, and fearful of detection, he resorted on the most effectual mode of silencing her.

In consequence of the fright and agitation she had undergone, the lady was confined for a few days to her room; and Jeannette again resumed her employments. The third evening after, she was playing a sweet and plaintive air, when the countess suddenly entered. She rose hastily, and stood blushing and trembling beneath the earnest gaze of the mother of her husband. The proud lady stooped and kissed her brow. “Young and beautiful maiden,” said she, “you have saved my life, I know not who you are, but whatever boon you ask of the lady of Clarendon, it shall not be denied you.”

Jeannette's forehead was stained with crimson one moment, and she turned deadly pale the next, as kneeling before her, she answered:

“Your affection, and blessing, lady, is all I seek.”

“Methinks it were easy to love such a one as thou,” said the lady with a smile, “but I must know who it is upon whom I must bestow this blessing.”

“Upon the wife of your absent son, lady,” she replied, rising with an air of gentle dignity, “and the only boon she craves is the blessing of his parent.”

The lady started back in astonishment, and looked at Mrs. Everard, who had entered the room, for an explanation. In a few words, simple, but full of feeling, she told the events of the past months. Lady Clarendon was a woman of the world, and few deemed her to possess acute feelings—but she had a warm heart, that early sorrow had somewhat chilled. Thoughts of other days came over her, and she remembered, that in giving up one who had loved her well, to fulfil a father's stern command, and wedding the earl, she had passed through life with blighted affections. Her pride was lulled to rest, as she thought of the high-minded girl who had risked so much for her. “Shall I condemn them to a life of sorrow?” was her question to herself—“No!” and whilst both her sister and Jeannette waited tremblingly for her next words, she laid her hand upon the clustering ringlets of the latter, as she solemnly said:

“Bless you my sweet and noble child, and may you be blest in your young love,” and amidst many tears drew her to her bosom.

* * * * * * * * *

A year had gone by, and again the young Earl of Clarendon set foot upon his native shores. His heart bounded with delight as he came in view of Mrs. Everard's pleasant dwelling; but it sunk within him as he saw, that excepting in the servants' rooms, the shutters were closed. With a foreboding of something wrong, he rung, and old Hugh presented himself.

“Where is your mistress?” was his hurried question.

“At the castle with your mother, my lord,” said the man, as he looked in surprise upon his agitated face.

“And—my wife,” he was about to say, but recollecting himself, turned hastily away, and throwing himself into his carriage, he told them to drive on to the castle, where he was received with open arms by his mother and aunt. The next day was his birth-day, and great preparations having been made to celebrate it, his appearance was hailed with every demonstration of joy.

Mrs. Everard drew her nephew aside, and told him that as she was obliged to visit his mother, that she had carried Jeannette to pass the time with her husband's sister. “So you see my dear Roscoe I have placed your treasure in safe hands, and as you cannot leave to visit her 'till after to-morrow, you must clear your brow, and do honour to your guests by amusing them. I am not so certain Jeannette would feel as anxious to run to you,” and with an arch smile, she left him.

* * * * * * * * *

The halls of Clarendon Castle resounded with mirth and revelry—but there was no smile upon the lip of its master. He wandered about restless and uneasy. The sound of distant music fell on his ear, and there was something in it that soothed his harrassed spirits, and he drew near the room from which floated such bewitching harmony. The lady sat with her back towards him, but his mother, and Beaumont, who was one of the few who surrounded her, beckoned him in. A veil hung in loose folds around her person, and concealed her features. She rose from her seat, and at the same moment, lady Clarendon raising the veil, said:

“It is in this way that I punish the want of confidence in my son,” and rich in beauty, and warmed into life by the Promethean touch of mind, he clasped to his bosom his own Jeannette.

“What think you of my peasant bride?” asked Roscoe of his friend, as she gracefully returned the greeting of her husband's kindred and acquaintances to whom his stately mother presented her—“Is she not lovely?”

“Lovely indeed, and good too withal,” replied his friend in a melancholy tone, as he glanced toward his own gay and thoughtless wife, the once courted Miss Leston. “I would that Maria possessed but a grain of yon fair girl's gentleness. Her jealous whims embitter every moment of my life.”

“Jeannette shall try her influence over her,” was Roscoe's reply—“Perhaps her magic wand may transform her.”

“Pray heaven it may, for there is but little happiness for either.”

And she did transform the proud and haughty girl into a being gentle as herself; for her sweetness and persuasion made her to see her own folly, and in the renewed confidence and happiness of his married life, George Beaumont acknowledged that he blessed the hour in which his friend wedded his peasant bride.

Hingham, August, 1838.