It was no wonder that Florence should have been deceived by one so artful and designing as Crayford. Her first introduction to him was calculated to impress her strongly in his favor—a vantage ground which he knew well how to maintain. His conversation so artfully fraught with morality—the correct and refined taste he manifested for music, for painting, and all those acquirements which were so delightful to her—his well argued schemes of philanthropy, added to an elegant person and insinuating address, might have deceived one less ingenuous and confiding than Florence. In him all those delightful influences with which the unknown had surrounded her seemed concentrated; in fact, as one and the same she began gradually to blend them in her imagination.

Day after day, therefore, was the dangerous Crayford admitted to her presence, and each day more securely planting himself in her favor. In the meantime the seven nephews and cousins made common cause, and fought bravely against this new aspirant, whom they saw plainly was fast bearing off the prize from them, until alarmed by several very unequivocal threats from Crayford, they vanished, leaving the field to him.

But where, all this time, was the friend who had so ardently pledged himself her protector, surely now was the time when his voice should not be silent.

A small casket was one day placed in the hands of Florence, which, on opening, she found to contain a brooch, representing a stem of the lily of the valley, emblem of purity and innocence, composed of beautiful pearls, but around which a small, glittering snake was entwined. The head of the reptile, its forked tongue darting fire, was bent over the sweet floweret as if with its noxious venom it would destroy it forever. The snake was of emeralds—the eyes and tongue of small sparkling rubys. On lifting the brooch, a folded paper dropped from it, on which was traced in the same well known characters:

“Beware, pure and innocent lily—the charmer is near, but his breath is poison!”

To Crayford alone she knew this singular warning could refer, and it caused her at first both dismay and sorrow. Could it be, then, that he was a villain! Could it be that under an exterior so pleasing vice and deformity could hide itself; no, it was impossible! Florence had no room in her heart for suspicions so cruel toward any one. Of friendship abused—of confidence violated, or of the heart’s warm affection betrayed, that most bitter lesson of life she had yet to learn. Ah, happy those, who, on their journey through life, may never meet with its truths!

And was it not unjust, she argued, to receive implicitly the words of one unknown to the prejudice of one whom she did know, and who appeared every way so estimable. Might she not also attribute to jealousy this singular interference of one who had already declared himself to be her lover. The more she dwelt upon this conclusion, the more reasonable it appeared; and finally closing the casket, she prepared to fulfill an engagement with Crayford to visit the Academy of Fine Arts.

In the drawing-room she found him already waiting for her, and apologizing for her delay, they immediately set forth upon the intended expedition.

Never had Crayford appeared more brilliant, more fascinating than this morning; and was it strange that the warning of the unknown should have passed from her thoughts as a dream. As they reached the corner of —— Square, Florence suddenly observed a young woman, very pale, and meanly attired, who, leaning against the iron railing, was fixedly gazing upon her with a look of such utter despair and misery, as excited at once her pity and curiosity. A miserable cloak closely enveloped her person, the hood of which was held tightly around the lower part of her face by her thin white hand, yet did not conceal the ghastly pallor of her countenance. Her eyes were uncommonly large, and of a soft, lustrous black; it even seemed to Florence they were filled with tears, and her brow looked as cold and pure as the brow of the dead.

“What beautiful eyes!” said she, in a low voice to her companion; “pray look!”

As Crayford sought the wretched object Florence pointed out, he started as though an adder had stung him, and would have hurried on, but the girl, with an impatient gesture, as if to address him, sprang a step or two forward:

“Poor creature! let us hear what she has to say,” said Florence.

“Excuse me, my dear Mrs. May,” replied Crayford, with an effort at calmness, “I cannot submit you to the importunities of that woman; is it possible you have never seen her—it is Nell, the crazy fortune-teller!” then throwing her a half dollar, accompanied by a look which Florence did not observe, he passed on with his lovely companion.

“Poor creature! she should be taken care of!” exclaimed Florence. Looking back, she saw the money still glittering upon the pavement, while the girl, with her form slightly bent forward, her arms extended before her, and her small, thin hands clasped together, seemed the very personification of despair.

They soon reached the Academy. At the entrance they encountered several persons, some entering, others leaving the building. As they were ascending the steps, a voice close to the ear of Florence, whispered,

“Beware of the serpent!”

She started and looked quickly around, but saw no one to whom she could attribute the remark. An old gentleman and lady were behind her, and with the exception of a spruce, dandified individual, she could discover no one else. It was sometime, however, ere she could recover from the agitation into which this had thrown her; and Crayford, attributing her abstraction entirely to her pity for the poor fortune-teller, exerted all his skill as a connoisseur to draw her attention to the beautiful creations of the painter and sculptor. He was successful, and the mind of Florence soon engrossed alone by the pleasing objects around her.

Several times, in passing through the rooms, her eyes encountered those of a gentleman dressed in deep mourning, who seemed to be regarding her with a sad and mournful gaze. At first she thought nothing of it; but when again and again she met the same sad expressive eyes, she could not suppress a feeling of agitation.

They spent some hours here, and were about retiring, when, in one of the galleries, Florence observed the same gentleman standing at a little distance attentively regarding a fine group of statuary. His profile was turned toward them, and struck with the intellectual cast of his features, Florence pointed him out to Crayford.

“Heavens, he here!” he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon him, while a mortal paleness overspread his features; then aware his agitation must appear singular to his companion, he added, “I met that gentleman abroad under circumstances of very strange interest; some other time I will explain—if you please we will now pass on.”

As they reached the door Florence looked around, but the stranger had disappeared. Once, as they threaded their way homeward through the busy crowd, she thought she met the same mournful eyes, but ere she could take a second look they had vanished.

Poor Florence! what conflicting thoughts distressed her when left to her own reflections, for notwithstanding her resolution of the morning, her confidence in Crayford began to be shaken, and that it was so pained her. She longed for some kind, sympathizing friend to whom she could confide her doubts, and who would counsel her how to act. Among her few acquaintances she knew of none capable of advising her, and the good old woman who acted as her housekeeper, although she loved her dear young mistress, and would go to the ends of the earth to serve her, could be of little assistance in a case like the present. She did not love Crayford, yet she felt he was one who had interested her more than any person she had ever met with, one whom, perhaps, she might learn to love; and then, should he prove the villain, should she find that the warnings of the unknown were but too true—what would be her fate! At one moment she resolved to dismiss him forever from her presence, and the next her heart accused her of prejudice and injustice. Poor girl! never had she felt so unhappy as when that night she rested her aching head upon her pillow. Hark! what sweet music floats around her, and insensibly yielding to its soothing power, she sunk into a gentle, refreshing slumber.

When she awoke the sun was already glinting bravely through the muslin window-shades, and with a much lighter heart, she sprang from her couch. Remembering she had invited Crayford to breakfast with her, she hastily made her toilet. A small pleasure party, acquaintances of Florence, had been formed for Cape May. They were to start at an early hour, and Crayford had so earnestly pleaded to make one of the number, that finally she had consented. They were to breakfast together, and then proceed to the place of rendezvous.

Just as Florence was about descending to the breakfast-room, a note was handed her. She turned pale as she took it, for she saw it was from the unknown. With a trembling hand she broke the seal and read:

“Ere it may be too late, listen to the warning voice of your friend. Let me arouse you from that pleasing repose, which, like the calm preceding a tempest, lulls you in such fancied security, let me bid you shun Crayford—shun him whose breath would sully the purity of an angel—shun him as you would the viper in your path!”

As Florence finished reading, she sunk into a chair, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.

“Mr. Crayford is below, ma’am,” said a servant, entering.

Alas! how should she act! There was a truth and earnestness about the note she dared not disregard, and a few moments’ reflection determined her to avoid him until she could learn either the truth or falsehood of these heavy accusations. She therefore bade the servant say that a violent headache would preclude her from joining the intended excursion—and she also sent a note of the same purport to the lady manager of the party.

In a few moments she saw Crayford leave the house. Could she have read the thoughts then passing through his mind, she would have found full confirmation of her worst fears.

She now determined upon a bold step, and with trembling hand addressed a note to her mysterious counsellor:

“If you are really my friend, why do you thus shun me; why, if honest, thus clothe yourself in so much mystery? What proof have you to give me of your sincerity? Alas! I fear, none; and yet I would not have it so, for the thought of your friendship has been very pleasant to me! What reliance can I place upon the assertions of one who thus shuns inquiry, against the character of a person bearing the semblance of so much worth as Crayford? I have a right to demand proofs of what you have stated; and I now do so, which, if you withhold, I shall deem all your accusations against that individual as base forgeries. God judge the right!”

This note she sealed, and ordering the servants to inform her when the usual messenger from the unknown should again appear, she sat down to reflect upon the singular position in which she found herself placed.

It was not until the following morning that Florence had an opportunity to forward her note. From her window she at length saw the lad coming down the street with a basket of beautiful roses. She immediately ran down, and as he rang the bell she opened the door quickly, and placing the note in his hand, bade him deliver it to his master. The next moment, how gladly she would have recalled him, so imprudent appeared to her the course she was pursuing. It was too late, however—and in a state of much agitation she now awaited the result. She had not to wait long. In the course of an hour she received an answer couched as follows:

“You demand proof, and you shall have it. Thank God that you are sufficiently alarmed to ask it. Go, then, to No. 7 —— Lane, and inquire for a Mrs. Belmont. Be not dismayed at what is before you—shrink not from a step which may save you from wretchedness. Go, then, pure and lovely one, and fear not. One will be near you who will protect you with his life.”

[Conclusion in our next

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BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

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BY HARRY SUNDERLAND.

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[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Little Dora Stilling was but six years old when her best friend went to Heaven. She was a beautiful child, and her father, Mark Stilling, an old engraver, loved her with a species of blind idolatry. Stilling was by birth a German, and his reading had not gone much beyond the childish romances peculiar to his country, which had left upon his mind an indelible impression. At twelve years old he was apprenticed to an engraver, and since that time had seen little of the world beyond the room in which his noiseless occupation happened to be. His mind, therefore, remained half asleep, and the dreams that passed through it had little in common with the real life around him. He was an old man when he married, and his wife, who passed with many, who did not know better, as his daughter, died a few years after their only child, Dora, was born.

Upon the death of his wife, the heart of Mark Stilling turned toward the sweet child she had left him, with an affection made jealous and intenser by his loss. For her he desired all good in the world’s power to bestow; but as to what was the greatest good he had but vague notions. As he grew older, and his mind drooped toward second childhood, from the ideas and feelings of his earlier years the dust of time was blown away, and all was as distinct and fresh as if the spring-time of life were but yesterday. Images of beautiful maidens, wooed by princes in disguise, floated before his imagination; and then his thoughts would turn to Dora, who grew more and more lovely in his eyes every day. Nothing short of some such consummation for his child, he felt, would ever satisfy him.

It was little wonder that the old engraver loved Dora with an absorbing affection; for, opening like a rose, she displayed to his eyes some new feature of loveliness every day, as well in mind as in body. While he sat at his work, tracing out upon the hard, polished steel forms of beauty, Dora was ever present in his mind, more beautiful than any creation of the painter’s pencil he had yet been commissioned to copy.

Swiftly the years glided on, and Dora became less and less a child. As soon as she was able to go to school, she was placed under the care of the best teachers in the city, and from that time every dollar earned by Stilling, beyond what the simple wants of nature demanded, was spent upon his daughter, that she might be thought accomplished in every thing, and thus made a fit companion for the best in the land. He wished her to be, in one word, a lady—and, in the engraver’s mind, a lady was something more than the term conveys in its usual acceptation.

But as Dora grew up lovely and accomplished as her parent’s heart could desire, she exhibited a simplicity of taste, and a love for useful employments, that her father did not in the least approve. Fond old man! Half insane, under the delusion himself had conjured up from among his early fancies, he felt, whenever Dora’s hands were engaged in work, that she was degrading herself, and ever sought to keep her above the necessity of entering into any domestic occupation. Dora, as her mind grew clearer, saw the weakness and folly of all this. She saw that her father was old, and growing feebler and less able to work every day, and that his income was steadily decreasing; and she felt that, before a very long time, upon her would fall the burden of his as well as her own support. One day she came to him and said?—

“Dear father, you are getting old, and your strength is failing. Let me go and learn a trade, and then I can work for you.”

The old man caught for breath two or three times, like one suddenly deprived of air.

“A trade, did you say, child!” He spoke in a low whisper.

“Yes, father, a trade. Let me learn some trade, so that I can help you. I am young, and you are old. You have worked for me since I was child; now let me work for you.”

“No, no, Dora! You shall not learn a trade,” replied Stilling firmly. Then he added, in a chiding voice, “How could you think of such a thing! You must look higher, my child. You are as good as any lady in the land, and may take the place of the best.” Here his voice grew animated. “Don’t you remember the story of the light-haired maiden whom the king’s son saw, and loved better than all the proud court ladies, because she was beautiful and good; and how he came in a splendid chariot, and carried her away and made her his bride? True, there are no kings here”—the old man faintly sighed—“but there are many rich and great people. No—no—Dora, you shall not learn a trade.”

Dora understood well what her father meant by these allusions, for he had often talked so before, and sometimes more plainly; and she knew that it would be of no use to argue against him. So she said no more about learning a trade. But she engaged more diligently in every useful thing that came to her hand, and sought, by every means in her power, to add to her father’s comfort.

Almost alone as Mark Stilling was, and possessing none of those cultivated tastes and accomplishments necessary for one who would introduce a young girl like his daughter into society, the old man saw weeks and months go by, after Dora had become a woman, and yet his lovely flower remained hidden by the wayside. He looked upon her as she came in and went out, and wondered that all the world was not captivated by her beauty. And as he grew older, and his intellect became feebler and feebler, this one idea took a still stronger hold upon his mind.

Dora, at the age of nineteen, began to feel great concern for her father. Both body and mind it was plain to her were failing rapidly; and orders for work were much less frequent than they had been. But even if work had been as abundant as before, he had less ability to perform it; and this was daily decreasing. Again she asked permission to learn a trade; but it was met with as firm an opposition as before, and on the same ground.

“I must have some means of supporting myself and father,” she said thoughtfully to herself, “for it will not be long that he can keep at work. What shall I do? He will not let me learn a trade.” She reflected for a long time, and then, as if all had become clear to her, she clapped her hands together and murmured—“Yes—yes. That shall be it. I will devote myself to my music until I become proficient enough to teach.”

Already much money had been expended on Dora’s musical education, and she played and sang well. But she was not skilled enough to be able to give instructions. So from that time she spent many hours each day at her piano; and also practiced on the guitar. As the old man listened to her warblings, how little dreamed he that all this was but the learning of a trade, against which his mind had so revolted.

As we have said, the old man became less and less competent to perform his work well and expeditiously, and it gradually left him and went into other hands. His income thus reduced, it became necessary to abridge the expenses of his household, or fall in debt, something for which Stilling had a natural horror. The first step downward, and one that it hurt the engraver much to take, was the giving up of the neat little house in which he had lived, and taking apartments in a second story, at half the rent formerly paid. Dora urged strongly, when this change was made, to have their domestic sent away.

“I can do all the work, father. Let Ellen go, and then we will save nearly half our living.”

But the old man would not listen a moment to this, and silenced his daughter by an emphatic “No.”

Yet for all this care in keeping Dora above the sphere of usefulness, her charms had not won for her a distinguished lover. Still Dora had a lover, and this was less wonderful than it would have been had her sweet face not pictured itself on some heart. But her lover was only a humble clerk in a store where she had often been to make purchases. He was as simple and earnest in all his tastes and feelings as Dora herself. Their meetings were not frequent, for young Edwards had been told of the old engraver’s weakness, and did not, therefore, venture to call upon his sweetheart at her home.

At length so little work came that Stilling did not receive more than sufficient money to buy food, and actual privation began to creep in upon himself and daughter. Stern necessity required the dismissal of their domestic, and then the old man busied himself in household matters, in order to keep Dora as far as possible above such menial employments. As age crept on, and his intellects grew still weaker, he clasped his fond delusion more closely to his heart, and observed all of Dora’s movements with a more jealous eye.

For as long a time as a year had the faith of Dora and her lover been pledged. Their meetings were generally in the street, on a certain appointed afternoon of each week. Then they walked together and talked about the future, when there should be no barrier to their happiness. But the young man, as time wore on, grew impatient; and his pride occasionally awakened, telling him that he was as good as the old engraver, and worthy, in every respect, to claim the hand of his daughter. Sometimes this feeling showed itself to Dora, when the maiden would be so hurt that Edwards always repented of his hasty words, and resolved to be more guarded in future.

“Let me call and see you at your father’s,” said Edwards, one day as they were walking together; “perhaps I may not be so unwelcome a visiter as you think.”

“Oh, no, no! you must not think of it,” replied Dora quickly.

“But where is this to end?” inquired the young man. “If he will not accept me as your lover, and you cannot become mine except with his consent, the case seems hopeless.”

Dora did not reply at the moment, and they walked along for some time in silence.

“There is a way. I have thought of it a great deal,” at length said the young girl. She spoke with some hesitation in her manner.

“What is it?” inquired her lover.

Dora leaned toward him, and said something in a low voice.

“That’s not to be thought of,” was the quick reply of the young man.

Dora was silent, while her bosom, as it rose and fell quickly, showed that her feelings were much disturbed.

The suggestion, whatever it was, appeared to hurt or offend the young man, and when they separated, it was with a coldness on his part that made tears dim the eyes of Dora the moment she turned from him.

On their next meeting both felt constrained; and their conversation was not so free and tender as before. It took some weeks for the effect of Dora’s proposition, whatever it was, to wear off. But after that time the sunshine came back again, and was brighter and warmer than before.

One day, it was perhaps four or five months after the little misunderstanding just mentioned, the old engraver was visited by a stranger, whose whole appearance marked him as either a foreigner or one who had lived abroad. He wanted him, he said, to copy on steel, in his most finished style, the miniature of a lady. As he mentioned his errand to the engraver, he drew from his pocket the miniature of a young and exquisitely beautiful woman, set in a costly gold locket. Mark Stilling took the picture, but the moment he looked at it his countenance changed.

“Is it not a beautiful face?” said the stranger.

“I have seen it before,” remarked the engraver, with a thoughtful air.

“Have you?” was the quick inquiry.

“Yes. But of whom is it a likeness?” asked the old man.

“Of one,” said the stranger, “who has flitted before me, of late, the impersonation of all that is lovely in her sex. As she passes me in the street, I gaze after her as one would gaze at an angel. A skillful painter, at my request, has sketched her face, taking feature after feature, as he could fix them, until, at last, this image of beauty has grown under his pencil. And now I want it transferred to steel, lest some accident should deprive me of its possession.”

While the stranger thus spoke, Stilling sat gazing upon the miniature with the air of one bound by a spell. And no wonder—for it was the image of his own child! and it seemed, as he looked into the pictured face intently, as if the lips would part and the voice of Dora fall upon his ears. Then he turned his eyes upon the dignified, princely looking stranger, and the thought came flashing through his mind that his dream of years was about being realized. Dora was the lovely unknown of whom he had spoken with so much enthusiasm; with whom he was so passionately enamored.

“Will you do the work for me?” said the stranger, breaking in upon the old man’s revery.

“Yes—yes,” answered Stilling.

“How long do you want?”

“Two months.”

“So long?”

“Yes, to do it well.”

“Take, then, your own time, and charge your own price. Here are fifty dollars,” and the stranger handed the engraver some money. “I will call every day while the work is progressing, that I may look at the sweet picture upon which you are engaged.”

“How large shall it be?” inquired the engraver.

“Just the size of the miniature,” replied the stranger. Then rising, he said, as he bowed to Stilling, “I will see you again to-morrow about this hour.”

On the next day, when the stranger called, Dora was sitting by her father. An exclamation of delight was checked upon his lips, as his eyes fell upon the beautiful girl; but his noble face expressed surprise and undisguised admiration.

“The lovely original!” dropped at length from his tongue.

“My daughter,” said the engraver.

Dora rose up and made a low courtesy.

“Your daughter! How strange! You did not tell me this yesterday.”

“No. But she is my child—my only child—and I love her better than I love my life.”

Light kindled in the old man’s face, and a quiver of excitement was in every nerve. It was only by an effort that he refrained from giving way to the most extravagant praises of Dora, who sat, with her eyes meekly cast upon the floor.

On the next day, the stranger called again, and found Dora, as at the previous visit, with her father. This time he spoke to the maiden in a familiar, yet respectful way. Every look he directed toward her was one of admiration; yet not a glance of this character escaped the watchful eyes of her father.

From the first Mark Stilling regarded the stranger with especial favor. After the meeting with Dora it was settled in the old man’s mind that fortune was at length to crown with joy his dearest wish in life. All suspicion was lulled to rest in his mind. The fact that the stranger withheld his name, but confirmed him in the belief that he was either a nobleman in disguise, or connected with some wealthy and distinguished family at home.

Week followed week, and the stranger came every day to mark the progress of the plate, the execution of which he did not countermand. He never staid over an hour at a time, and that was mostly spent with Dora, whose musical abilities he highly praised, and whom he always asked to play for him. The little parlor of the engraver was on a different floor from that on which he worked, and so, while playing for the stranger, Dora was always alone with him.

Stilling was in no way surprised when the stranger asked the hand of his daughter in marriage. Dora was born to be a lady, and now had come the fufillment of her destiny. The poor old man’s mind was so infirm that it could not go beyond this simple idea. No doubt came to trouble him; no suspicion disturbed his happy dream. More than the stranger told him he believed; for as to who he was, or to what station Dora would be elevated, he was silent. But Stilling asked nothing on this head. He believed all he wished to believe. The offer for his child’s hand he felt to be a noble offer, and he yielded his fullest consent.

And so Dora was married to the stranger. But not until five minutes before the ceremony was performed, did Stilling know that his name was Edwards. The marriage took place in Stilling’s little parlor. After the rite was over, and the minister had retired, the bridegroom took the old man’s hand, and said to him, as he pointed to the finished plate containing the head of Dora.

“That, father, is your last work. You can rest now after so many years of labor. Come, there is a carriage at the door; we will go to our new home.”

Stilling was half bewildered, yet happy. Without a pause or objection, he suffered his children to take him to another home. That home was really a modest one; but in the eyes of the fond old man it was little less than a palace.

On the morning after the marriage, the moustache of young Edwards disappeared, and he went forth daily from that time and engaged in his regular business. But the engraver, who now began to sink rapidly both in mind and body, dreamed not that Dora’s husband was only a clerk, whose yearly income fell below a thousand dollars.

In less than a year Mark Stilling slept with his fathers, deeply mourned by the child he had loved with so strong and blind a passion. He was ignorant to the last of the deceit that had been practiced upon him, and as firmly believed that the kind and affectionate young husband of Dora was of noble blood, and one of the great ones of the land, as that the sun arose and set daily. And he was far happier in this belief than he would have been with all as real as he imagined.

OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.

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BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.

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(Continued from page 150.)

Thus passed the afternoon, until the evening meal was announced, and Jasper was left alone, with nothing but his own wild and whirling thoughts to entertain him. He was ill at ease in his own mind, ill at ease with himself and with all around him. Vexed with Durzil Bras-de-fer, for offering in the first instance to take him as a partner in his adventure, and then for failing at the pinch to back his offer by his stout opinion; vexed with his father for thwarting his will, and yet more for rebuking him publicly, and in the presence of Theresa, too, before whom, boy-like, he would fain have figured as a hero; and lastly, vexed with Theresa herself, because, though kind and gentle, she had not sat by his bedside all day, as she did yesterday, or devoted all her attention to himself alone, he was in the very mood to torment himself, and every one else, to the extent of his powers.

Then, as his thoughts wandered from one to another of those whom he thought fit to look upon as having wronged him, they settled on the most innocent of all, Theresa; and, at the same moment, the wild words, which he had uttered without any ulterior meaning at the time, and with no other intent than that of annoying his father, recurred to his mind, concerning village maidens.

He started, as the idea recurred to him, and at first he wondered what train of thought could have brought back those words in connection with Theresa’s image. But, as he grew accustomed to his own thought, it became, as it were, the father to the wish; and he began to consider how pretty and gentle she was, and how delicate her slight, rounded figure, and how soft and low her voice. Then he remembered that she had looked at him twice or thrice during the day, with an expression which he had never seen in a woman’s eye before, and which, though he understood it not, did not bode ill to his success; and lastly, the worst, bitterest thought of all arose in his mind, and retained possession of it. “I will spite them all,” he thought, “that proud, insolent young sailor, who, because he is a few years older than I, and has seen swords drawn once or twice—for all, I doubt if he can fence or shoot any better than I, or if he be a whit more active—affects to look down upon me as a stripling. His young friend, truly! let him look out, whether he have not cause to term me something else ere he die. By God! I believe he loves the girl, too! he looked black as a thunder-cloud over Dartmoor, when she smiled on me! And my father—by my soul! I think he’s doting; and her dainty ladyship, too! I’ll see if I cannot have her more eager to hear me, than she has shown herself to-day. I will do it—I will, by all that’s holy! Heaven! how it will spite them!”

Then he laid his head down on the pillow, and began to reflect how he should act, and what were his chances of success in the villainy which he meditated; and he even asked himself, with something of the boy’s diffidence in his first encounter with woman, “but can I, can I win her affection?” and vanity and the peculiar audacity of his race, of his own character, made answer instantly, “Ay, can I? Am I not handsomer, and cleverer, and more courtly; am I not higher born and higher bred, and higher mannered, not only than that seafaring lout, but than any one she has ever met withal? Ay, can I, and ay, will I!”

And in obedience to this last and base resolve, the worst and barest that ever had crossed the boy’s mind, no sooner had they returned from the adjoining room, after the conclusion of the evening meal, than he contrived entirely to monopolize Theresa.

First, he asked her to play at chess with him; and then, after spending a couple of hours, under the pretence of playing, but in reality gazing into her blue eyes, and talking all sorts of wild, enthusiastical, poetical romance, half earnest and half affected, he declared that his head ached, and asked her to read aloud to him; and when she did so, sitting without a thought of ill beside his pillow, while their fathers were conversing in a low tone over the hearth, and Durzil was absent making his preparations for the next day’s journey, he let his hand fall, as if unconsciously, on hers, and after a little while, emboldened by her unsuspicious calmness, imprisoned it between his fingers.

It might have been that she was so much engrossed in reading, for it was Shakspeare’s sweet Rosalind that the boy had chosen for her subject, that she was not aware that her hand was clasped in his. It might have been, that, accustomed to its pressure, from his involuntary retention of it during his lethargic sleep on the preceding day, she let it pass as a matter of no consequence. It might have been, that almost unsuspected by herself, a feeling of interest and affection, which might easily be ripened into love, was already awakened in her bosom, for the high-spirited, handsome, fearless boy, who in some measure owed his life to her assistance.

At all events, she made no effort to withdraw it, but let it lie in his, passive, indeed, and motionless, save for its quivering pulse, but warm and soft and sensitive. And the boy waxing bolder, and moved into earnestness by the charms of the position, ventured to press it once or twice, as she read some moving line, and murmured praises of the author’s beauties, and of the sweet, low voice that lent to those beauties a more thrilling loveliness, and still the fairy fingers were not withdrawn from his hold, though her eye met not his, nor any word of hers answered his whispered praises.

At length a quick, strong step came suddenly to the door of the room, and almost before there was time for thought, the door was thrown open, and Durzil Olifaunt entered.

Instantly Theresa started at the sound, and strove to withdraw her hand, while a deep blush of shame and agitation crimsoned her cheeks and brow, and even overspread her snowy neck and bosom.

It was not, as that bold boy fancied at the time, in the vanity and insolence of his uncorrected heart, that she knew all the time, that she was allowing what it was wrong, and immodest, and unmaidenly to endure, and that now she was afraid and ashamed, not of the error, but of the detection.

No. In the perfect purity of her heart, in the half pitiful, half protecting spirit which she felt toward Jasper, first as an invalid, and then as a mere boy—for although he was, perhaps, a year her senior, who does not know that boys in their eighteenth year are a full lustre younger than girls of the same age—she had thought nothing, dreamed nothing of impropriety in yielding her hand to the boy’s affectionate grasp, until the step of the man, whose proffered love she had that very day declined, led her to think intuitively what would be his feelings, and thence what must be Jasper’s, concerning that permitted license.

But the wily boy, for, so young as he was, he lacked neither sagacity to perceive, nor audacity to profit by occasion, saw his advantage, and holding his prize with a gentle yet firm pressure, without so much as turning his eyes to Durzil, or letting it be known that he was aware of his presence, raised it to his lips, and kissed it, saying, in a low, earnest tone,

“I thank you, from my very soul, for your gentleness and kind attention, dearest lady; your sweet voice has soothed me more than words can express; there must be a magic in it, for it has charmed my headache quite away, and divested me, moreover, from the least desire to seek glory, or the gallows, with your bold cousin.”

The eyes of Durzil Bras-de-fer flashed fire, as he saw, as he heard what was passing; and he made two or three strides forward, with a good deal of his old impetuosity, both of look and gesture. His brow was knitted, his hands clinched, and his lip compressed over his teeth, so closely that it was white and bloodless.

But happily—or perhaps, unhappily—before he had time to commit himself, he saw Theresa withdraw her hand so decidedly, and with so perfect a majesty of gentle yet indignant womanhood, gazing upon the audacious offender, as she did so, with eyes so full of wonder and rebuke, that he could not doubt the sincerity or genuineness of her anger.

Acquitting her, therefore, of all blame or coquetry, and, looking upon Jasper as a mere boy, and worthy to be treated as such only, reflecting, moreover, that he was for the time being, shielded by his infirmity, he controlled himself, though not without an effort, and with a lip now curling scornfully, and an eye rather contemptuous than angry, advanced to the fireside, and took his seat beside his uncle and Sir Miles, without taking the slightest notice of the others.

In the meantime, Theresa, after she had disengaged her hand from Jasper, and cast upon him that one look of serene indignation, turned her back on him quietly, in spite of some attempt at apology or explanation which he began to utter. Walking slowly and composedly to the table, she laid down on it the volume of Shakspeare which she had been reading to him, and selecting some implements of feminine industry, moved over to the group assembled round the hearth, and sat down on a low footstool, between Durzil and her father.

No one but the two young men and herself were aware what had passed; and she, though annoyed by Jasper’s forwardness, having, as she thought, effectually repelled it, had already dismissed it from her mind as a thing worth no further consideration. Durzil, on the other hand, though attaching far more importance to his action, saw plainly that this was not the time or the place for making any comment on it, even if he had been capable of adding to Theresa’s embarrassment; while Jasper, mortified and frustrated by the lady’s scornful self-possession, and the free-trader’s manifest contempt, had no better mode of concealing his disappointment, than by sinking back upon his pillow, as if fatigued or in pain, and feigning to fall gradually asleep—a feint which, as is oftentimes the case, terminated at last in reality.

Meanwhile, the two old men continued to talk quietly, in rather a subdued tone, of old times and the events of their youth, and thence of the varied incidents which had checkered their lives, during the long space of time since they had been friends and comrades, with many a light and shadow. And as they, garrulous, as is the wont of the aged and infirm, and “laudatores temporis acti,” found pleasure even in the retrospect on things, which in their day were painful, the young man sat beside them silent, oppressed with the burthen of present pain, and yet more by the anticipation of worse suffering to be endured thereafter.

Nearly an hour passed thus, without a single word being exchanged between Durzil and Theresa; he musing deeply, with his head buried in his hands, as he bent over the embers of the wood fire, which the vicinity of the cottage to the water’s edge rendered agreeable even on summer evenings, and she plying her needle as assiduously as if she were dependent on its exercise for her support.

Several times, indeed, she looked up at him with her candid, innocent face, and her beautiful blue eye clear and unclouded, as if she wished to catch his attention. But he was all unconscious of her movement, and continued to ponder gloomily on many things that had, and yet more that had not, any existence beyond the limits of his own fitful fancy.

At length tired of waiting for his notice, the rather that the night was wearing onward, she arose from her seat, folding up her work as she did so, and laid her hand lightly on her cousin’s shoulder?—

“And are you really going to leave us to-morrow, Durzil?” she said, softly.

“For a few days only,” he answered, raising his head, and meeting her earnest eye with a cold, sad smile. “I am going to ride down to-morrow afternoon as far as Hexwerthy, where I will sleep, and so get into Plymouth betimes the following day.”

“And when shall you come back to us?”

“I shall not stay an hour longer than I can avoid, Theresa; and I think that in three days I may be able to arrange all that I have to do; if so, you may look for me within the week—at furthest, I shall be here in ten days.”

“And how long may we count on keeping you here, then? It will be long, I fear, before we shall meet again.”

“The ship cannot be fit for sea within three weeks, Theresa, or it may be a month; and I shall stay here, be sure, until the last moment. But as all mortal matters are uncertain to a proverb, and as none of us can say when, or if ever, we shall meet again, and as I have much to say to you before I go to sea this time, will you not walk in the garden with me for an hour before breakfast to-morrow?”

“Surely I will. How can you doubt it, Durzil?”

“I do not doubt it. And then I can give you my opinion about the young nightingales, which we forgot, after all, this morning. I dare say they will turn out to be hedge sparrows.”

“I will be there soon after the sun is up, Durzil, and that I may be so, good-night, all,” and with the word, kissing her father’s brow, and giving her hand affectionately to Durzil, she courtesied to the old cavalier, and left the room without so much as looking toward Jasper, who was, however, already fast asleep, and unconscious of all sublunary matters.

Her rising, though she had not joined in the conversation for the last hour or more, broke up the company, and in a few minutes they had all withdrawn, each to his own apartment; and Jasper was left alone, with the brands dying out one by one on the hearth-stone, and an old tabby cat dozing near the andirons; this night he had no other watchers, and none were there to hear or see what befell him during the hours of darkness.

But had there been any one present in that old apartment, he would have seen that the sleep of the young man was strangely restless and perturbed, that the sweat-drops stood in large cold beads upon his brow, that his features were from time to time fearfully distorted, as if by pain and horror, and that he tossed his arms to and fro, as if he were wrestling with some powerful but intangible oppressor.

From time to time, moreover, he uttered groans and strangely murmured sounds, and a few articulate words; but these so unconnected, and at so long intervals asunder, that no human skill could have combined them into any thing like intelligible sentences. At length with a wild, shrill cry, he started up erect in his bed, his hair bristling with terror, and the cold sweat flowing off his face like rain-drops.

“Oh, God!” he cried, “avert—defend! Horror! horror!” Then raising his hands slowly to his brow, he felt himself, grasped his arm, and sought for the pulsations of his heart, as if he were laboring to satisfy himself that he was awake.

At length, he murmured, “It was a dream! The Lord be praised! it was but a dream! and yet, how terrible, how vivid. Even now, I can scarce believe that I was not awake and saw it.”

But as his eye ran over the objects to which it had become accustomed during the last days, and which were now indistinctly visible in the glimmering darkness of a fine summer night, he became fully satisfied that he had been indeed asleep; and with a muttered prayer, he settled himself down again on the pillow, and composed himself to sleep once more.

He had not slept, however, above half an hour before the same painful symptoms recurred; and after even a longer and more agonizing struggle than the first, he again woke, panting, horror-stricken, pale and almost paralyzed with superstitious terror.

“It was!” he gasped, “it was—it must have been reality. I saw her, as I did last night, tangible, face to face; but, oh God! what a glare of horror in those beautiful blue eyes—what a gory spot on that smooth, white brow—what agony—what supplication in every lovely feature. And he, he who dealt the blow—I could not see the face, but the dress, the figure, nay, the seat on horseback—great God! they were all mine own!”

He paused for a long time, meditating deeply, and casting furtive glances around the large old-fashioned room, as though he expected to see some of the great heavy shadows which brooded in the dim angles and irregular recesses of the walls, detach themselves from their lurking places, in the guise of human forms disembodied, and come forth to confront him.

After a while, however, his naturally strong intellect and characteristic audacity led him to discard the idea of supernatural influence in the appalling vision, which had now twice so cruelly disturbed him. Still, so great had been the suffering and torture of his mind during the conflict of the sleeping body and the sleepless intellect, that he actually dreaded the return of slumber, lest that dread phantom should return with it; and he therefore exerted himself to keep awake, and to arm his mind against the insidious stealing on of sleep, from very fear of what should follow.

But the very efforts which he made to banish the inclination, wearied the mind, and induced what he would most avoid; and within an hour he was again unconscious of all external sights and sounds, again terribly alive to those inward sensations which had already terrified him almost beyond endurance.

This time the trance was shorter, but from the symptoms which appeared on his features, fiercer and stronger than before; nor, as before, when he awoke, did the impression pass away which had been made on him before his eyes were opened. No; as he started up erect, and gazed wildly, scarce as yet half awake, around him, the first thing that met, or seemed to meet, his staring eyes, was a gray, misty shadow, standing relieved by a dark mass of gloom in the farthest angle of the chamber. Gradually, as he stared at it with a fascinated gaze, which, had it been to save his life, he could not have withdrawn, the shape, if shape it were, drew nearer, nearer, with a slow, gliding, ghastly motion.

The moon had by this time arisen, and cast a feeble, ineffectual light through the mass of tangled foliage which curtained the large diamond-paned casements of the cottage, streaming in a dim, misty ray across the centre of the chamber. Directly in the middle of this pallid halo, as if it had been a silver glory, paused, or appeared to pause, that thin transparent form—so bodiless, indeed, it seemed, that the outlines of the things which stood beyond it, were visible, as if seen through a gauzy curtain. A cloud passed over the moon’s face, and all was gloom; yet still the boy’s eyes felt the presence of that disembodied visitant, which they could now no longer distinguish in the darkness.

At this moment, as if to add a real terror to that which, even if unreal, needed no addition, the cat, which hitherto had been sleeping undisturbedly by the warm ashes on the hearth, uttered an unusual plaintive cry, most unlike to the natural note of her species, whether of pleasure or of anger, and rushed at two or three long bounds, to the bed on which the boy was sitting up in voiceless horror. Her eyes glared in the darkness, like coals of livid fire, her bristles were set up like the quills of the porcupine, her tail was outspread, till it almost resembled a fox’s brush.

The cloud drifted onward, and the moon shone out brighter than before; and there he still saw, that tall white shape, clearer, distincter, stronger than when he first beheld it. The cat cowered down upon the pillow by his side, with a low wailing cry of terror, her back, bristling in wrath but now, was humbly lowered, dread of something unnatural had quelled all her savage instincts.

Clearer and clearer waxed the vision, and now he might mark the delicate symmetrical proportions of the figure, and now the pale white outlines of the lovely face. It was Theresa Allan. Yet the fair features were set in a sort of rigid cataleptic horror, full of dread, full of agony and consternation; and the blue eyes glared, fixed and glassy, without speculation; and right in the centre of the brow there glowed, like a sanguine star, a great spot of gore.

The thing seemed to raise its arm, and point with a gesture of majestic menace, right toward the terrified beholder. Then the white lips were parted with a slow circular distortion, showing the pearly teeth within, and——if a voice came forth from those ghastly lips, Jasper St. Aubyn knew it not, for he had sunk back on his pillow—if, indeed, he had ever, as he believed to the day of his death, raised himself up from it—in a deep trance, from which he passed into a dead, heavy, dreamless stupor, which continued undisturbed until the sun was high in the heavens, and the whole household were afoot, and busied about their usual avocations.

In the meantime, she whose image, whether in truth it was an eidolon, or merely the idea of a diseased mind and preoccupied spirit, had been so busy during the hours of darkness, had awakened all refreshed by light and innocent slumbers, with the first peep of day, and arising from her couch had descended into the garden, still half enveloped in the dewy vapors of the summer night, half glimmering in the slant radiance of the new-risen sun.

She was the first at her appointment, for Durzil had not yet made his appearance, and she walked to and fro awaiting him, among the flowery thickets and sweet scented shrubberies all bathed in the copious night-dews, half wondering, half-guessing, what it could be that he should so earnestly desire to communicate. And as she walked, she considered with herself all that had occurred during the last three days, and the more she considered, the less was she able to comprehend the workings of her own mind, or to explain to herself wherefore it was that she could not divest herself of the idea that the crisis of her life, the fate of her heart was at hand.

That she had rejected Durzil’s proffered love, his honest, manly love, she knew that she ought not to regret, for she felt surely that she could not love him in return as he ought, as he deserved to be loved; and yet she did almost regret it. Then she began to ask herself why she did not, why she could not love him, endowed eminently as he was with many high and noble qualities; and she was soon answered, when she considered how far he fell short of her standard, in mental and intellectual culture, in all that pertained to the secret sympathies of the heart, to the kindred tastes and sentiments, to that community of hopes and wishes, which, under the head of eadem velle atque nolle, the Roman philosophical historian has declared to be the sole base of true friendship, might he not better have said of true love.

Thence by an easy and natural transition the girl’s thoughts turned to the young stranger—to his magnificent person and striking intellectual beauty—to his singular and original character, so audacious, so full of fiery and rebellious self-will, so confident in his own powers, so daring, almost insolent toward man, and yet, at the same time, so fraught with gentle and romantic fancies, so rapt by romance or poetry, so liable to all swift impressions of the senses, so humble, yet with so proud and self-arrogating a humility toward woman.

She thought of the tones of his beautifully modulated voice, of the expression of his deep, clear, gray eye; she remembered how the one had melted, as it were, almost timorously in her ear, how the other had dwelt almost boldly on her face, yet with a boldness which seemed meant almost as homage.

She mused on these things; and then paused to reflect how helplessly and deathfully he had lain at her feet, when he was drawn forth from that deep red whirlpool; and how so sickly those fine eyes swam when she first beheld them. How small a thing would have extinguished, and forever, the faint spark of life which then feebly fluttered in his bosom; how child-like he had yielded himself to her ministration, and with how piteous yet grateful an expression he had acknowledged, when he awoke from his first trance-like stupor, midway as it were between life and death, the gentleness of her protection.

Most true it is, that pity is akin to love; where pity, as is seldom the case from woman toward man, can exist apart from something approaching to contempt; where it is called forth by the consequences neither of physical nor mental weakness. Still more is it the province and the part of woman to love whom they have protected.

With both sexes, I believe that to have conferred, rather than to have received kindness—to be owed rather than to owe gratitude—is conducive to the growth of kindly feeling, of friendship, of affection, love! But with a true woman, to have been dependent on her for support, to have looked up into her eyes for aid on the sick-bed, for sympathy in mortal sorrow, to have revived by her nursing, to have been consoled by her comforting—these are the truest and most direct key to her affections.

Theresa thought of all these things, and as she did so, her bosom heaved almost unconsciously a sigh, and a tear rose unbidden to her eye. She almost loved Jasper St. Aubyn.

Again, the recollection of his boldness on the previous evening, of his half forcible seizure of her hand, of the kiss he had so daringly imprinted on her soft fingers, of the too meaning words which he had addressed to her, and of the tone, which conveyed even more of consciousness and confidence than the words themselves, all rushed at once upon her mind; and, though she was alone, she started, and her face crimsoned at the mere memory of what she half felt as an indignity.

“And could he think me,” she murmured to herself, “so light, so vain, so easy to be won, that he dare treat me thus at almost a first interview? or was it but the rashness, the imprudence, the buoyancy of extreme youth, inspired by sudden love, and encouraged by his own headstrong character.” She paused a moment, and then said almost aloud, “Oh, no, no, I will not believe it.”

“And what will you not believe, Theresa?” said a clear, firm voice, close behind her, “what is it that you are so energetically determined not to believe, my pretty cousin?”

She started, not well pleased that even Durzil should have thus, as it were, stolen upon her privacy, and overheard what was intended for no mortal ear. Theresa was as guileless as any being of mortal mould may be; but even the most artless woman cannot be altogether free from some touch of instinctive artifice—that innocent and gentle guile is to woman what nature has bestowed on all, even the humblest of its creatures, her true weapon of defence, her shield against the brute tyranny of man. And Theresa was a woman. She replied, therefore, without an instant’s hesitation, although her voice did falter somewhat, and her cheeks burn, as she spoke?—

“That you are angry with me, cousin Durzil.” But then, as she felt his cold, clear, dark eye how piercingly it dwelt upon her features, reading, or striving to read, her very soul, she continued, seeing at once the necessity of placing him on the defensive, so as to turn the tide of aggressive warfare, “but I am angry with you, I assure you; nor do I think it at all like you, Durzil, or at all like a true cavalier, as you pretend to be, first to keep a lady waiting for you, I don’t know how long, here alone, and then to creep upon her, like an Indian, or a spy, and surprise what little secrets she might be turning over in her own mind. You must have trodden lightly on purpose, or I should have heard your step. I did not look for this at your hand, cousin Durzil.”

He still gazed at her with the same dark, fixed, piercing glance, without answering her a word; and, although conscious of no wrong, she met his gaze with her calm, candid, truthful eye, she could not endure his suspicious look, but was fluttered, and blushed deeply, and was so much embarrassed, that had not pride and anger come to her aid, she would have burst into tears. But they did come to her aid, and she cried with a quivering voice and a flashing eye?—

“For what do you look at me so, Durzil? I do not like it—I will not bear it! You have no right to treat me thus! it is not kind, nor courteous, nor even manly! If it be to brow-beat me, and tyrannize over me, that you asked me to meet you here, I could have thanked you to spare me the request. But I shall leave you to yourself, and return home; and so, good-morrow to you, and better breeding, and a better heart, too, cousin Durzil!”

But though she said she was going, she made no movement to do so, but hesitated, waiting for his answer.

“You must be greatly changed, Theresa,” he said bitterly, “to take offence at so slight a cause, or to speak to me in such a tone. But you are greatly changed, and there’s an end of it.”

“I am not changed at all,” replied the girl, still chafing at the recollection of that scrutinizing eye, which she perhaps felt the more, because conscious that her own reply had not been perfectly sincere. “But I do not allow your right to pry meanly into my secret thoughts, or to catechise me concerning my words, or to accuse me of falsehood, when I answer you.”

“Accuse you of falsehood, Theresa! Who ever dreamed of doing so?”

“Your eye did so, sir,” she replied. “When I told you that I was determined ‘not to believe that you were angry with me,’ you fixed your glance upon me with the expression of a pedagogue, who having caught a child lying would terrify it into truth. I am no child, I assure you, Durzil, nor are you yet my master. Think as you may about it.”

It was now Durzil’s turn to be confused, for he could not deny that she had construed the meaning of his look aright; and would not, so proud was he and so resolute, either deny or apologize for what was certainly an act of rudeness.

After a moment’s pause, however, he looked up at her from under downcast eyelids, with a look of defiance mingled with distrust, and answered bluntly,

“I do not believe that was your meaning, or that you were thinking about me at all.”

“And what if it were not? Am I bound, I pray you, to be thinking of nothing but you? I must have little enough to think of, if it were so.”

“You might at least have told me so much frankly.”

“I thank you, cousin Durzil,” she made answer, more proudly, more firmly than ever he had heard her speak before. “I thank you, for teaching me a lesson, though neither very kindly, nor exactly as a generous gentleman should teach a lady. But you are perfectly correct in your surmises, sir. I was not thinking of you at all; no more, sir, than if you were not in existence, and if I answered you, as I did, sir, falsely—yes! falsely is the word!—it is because, in the first place, you had no right to ask me the question you did, and, in the second, because I did not choose to answer it! Now, cousin, allow me to teach you something—for you have something yet to learn, wise as you are, about us women. If you ask a lady unmannerly questions, hereafter, and she turn them off by a flippant joke, or an unmeaning falsehood, understand that you have been very rude, and that she does not wish to be so likewise, by rebuking your impertinence. Now, do you comprehend me?”

“Perfectly, madam, perfectly. You have made marvelous strides of late, upon my honor! Yesterday morning an unsophisticated country maiden—this morning a courtly, quick-witted, manoeuvring, fine lady! God send you, much good of the change, though I doubt it. I can see all, read all, plainly enough now—poor Durzil Bras-de-fer is not high enough, I trow, for my dainty lady! Perchance, when he is farther off, he may be better liked, and more needed. At all events, I did not look for this at your hands, Theresa, on the last morning, too, that we shall spend together for so long a time.”

Angry as she was, and indignant at the dictatorial manner he had assumed toward her, these last words disarmed her in a moment. A tear rose to her eyes, and she held out her hand to him kindly.

“You are right, Durzil,” she said, “and I was wrong to be so angry. But you vexed me, and wounded me by your manner. I am sorry; I ought to have remembered that you were going to leave us, and that you have some cause to be grieved and irritable. Pardon me, Durzil, and forget what I said hastily. We must not quarrel, for we have no friends save one another, and my dear old father.”

But Durzil’s was no placable mind, nor one that could divest itself readily of a preconceived idea. “Oh!” he replied, “for that, fair young ladies never lack friends. For every old one they cast off they win two new ones. See, if it be not so, Theresa. Is it not so with you?”

She looked at him reproachfully, but softly, and then burst into tears. “You are ungenerous,” she said, “ungenerous. But all men, I suppose, are alike in this—that they can feel no friendship for a woman. So long as they hope for her love, all is submission on their part, and humility, and gentleness, and lip-service—once they cannot win that, all is bitterness and persecution. I did not look for this at your hand! But I will not quarrel with you, Durzil. I dealt frankly with you yester morning; I have dealt affectionately with you ever; I will deal tenderly and forgivingly with you now. I only wish that you had not sought this interview with me, the only object of which appears to have been the embittering the last hours of our intercourse, and the endeavoring to wring and wound my heart. But I?—”

“If you had dealt frankly with me,” he interrupted her, very angrily, “you would have told me honestly that you loved another.”

“Loved another! What do you mean? What other?”

So evident was the truth, the sincerity of her astonishment, that jealousy itself was rebuked and put to silence in the young man’s bosom; and he endeavored to avoid or change the subject. But the womanly indignation of the fair girl was now awakened; her pride had been touched; her delicacy wounded; her sensibilities availed in the tenderest point.

“Leave me!” she said, after a little pause, during which she, in her turn gazing upon him, now bewildered and abashed, with eyes of serene wonder, not all unmingled with contempt—“Nay! not another word—leave me—begone! You are not worthy of a woman’s love—you are not worthy to be treated or regarded as a man. Leave me, I say, and trouble me no more. Poor, weak, mean-spirited, vain, jealous, and ungenerous, begone! You know—no man knows better—the falsehood of the last words you have spoken. No man knows better their unfeelingness, their ungenerous cruelty. But if I had—if I had loved another—in what does that concern you? In what am I responsible to you for my likings or dislikings? Once and for all be it said, I love you not—should not love you, were you the only one of your sex on the face of God’s earth—and I pray God to help and protect the woman who shall love you—if ever you be loved of woman, which I for one believe not—for she shall love the veriest tyrant that ever tortured a fond heart, under the plea of loving.”

“I go,” he replied. “I am answered, once and for all. I go, and may you never need my aid, my forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness!” she exclaimed, with a contemptuous glance. “Forgiveness! I know not what you have to forgive! But you should rather pray that I may have need of them; then may you have the pleasure of refusing me at my need.”

“Ah! it is thus you think of me. It is time, then, that I should leave you. Fare you well, Theresa.”

“There is no need for farewells at present. The day is early yet; and I trust still to see your temper changed before you set forth on your journey. It would grieve my father sorely that you should leave us thus.”

“He will not know how I leave you. He will see me no more for years—perhaps never!”

“What do you mean?”

“That I shall mount my horse within this half hour, and return no more until I shall have twice crossed the Atlantic. So fare you well, Theresa.”

“Fare you well, Durzil, if it must be so. And God bless you, and send you a better mind. You will be sorry for this one day. There is my hand, fare you well; and rest assured of this, return when you may, you will find me the same Theresa.”

He took her hand, and wrung it hard. “Farewell,” he said. “Farewell; and God grant that when I do return, I find you the wife, and not the mistress, of Jasper St. Aubyn.”

Ungenerous and bitter to the last, he winged the shaft at random, which he hoped would pierce the deepest, which he trusted would prevent the consummation he most dreaded—that she should be the wife of the boy whom he had saved, whom he now hated.

The other contingency, at which he had hinted basely, unmanly, brutally, he knew to be impossible—but he knew also, that the surmise would gall her beyond endurance. That, that was the cruel, the unworthy object of the last words Durzil Bras-de-fer ever exchanged in this world with Theresa Allan.

He turned on his heel, and, without looking back once, strode through the garden, with all his better feelings lost and swallowed up in bitterness and hatred; entered his own apartment, and there wrote a few lines to his uncle, to the effect that in order to avoid the pain of a parting, and the sorrows of a last adieu, he had judged it for the wisest to depart suddenly and unawares; and that he should not return to Widecomb until his voyage should be ended.

Then, leaving the house, where he had passed so many a happy hour, in hot and passionate resentment, he mounted his horse and rode away at a hard gallop across the hills toward Hexwerthy and Plymouth.

The last words he uttered had gone to Theresa’s heart like a death-shot. She did not speak, or even sigh, as she heard them, but pressed her hand hard on her breast, and fell speechless and motionless on the dewy greensward.

He, engrossed by his selfish rage, and deafened to the sound of her fall by the beatings of his own hard heart, stalked off unconscious what had befallen her; and she lay there, insensible, until the servant girl, missing her at the breakfast hour, found her there cold, and, as at first she believed, lifeless.

She soon revived, indeed, from the swoon; but the excitement and agitation of that scene brought on a slow, lingering fever; and weeks elapsed ere she again left her chamber. When she did quit it, the fresh green leaves of summer had put on their sere and yellow hue, the autumn flowers were fast losing their last brilliancy, the hoar-frosts lay white, in the early mornings, over the turf walks of her garden, ice had been seen already on the great pool above the fords of Widecomb, and every thing gave notice that the dreary days of winter were approaching, and even now at hand.

The northwest winds howled long and hollow over the open hills and heathery wolds around Widecomb Manor, and ever as their wild melancholy wail fell on the ears of Theresa, as she sat by her now lonely hearth, they awoke a thought of him, the playmate of her happy childhood, from whom she had parted, not as friends and playmates should part, and who was now ploughing the far Atlantic, perhaps never to return.

A shadow had fallen upon her brow; a gloom upon her young and happy life.

And where was he who unconsciously, though not perhaps unintentionally, had been the cause of the cloud which had arisen, and whence that shadow, that gloom? Where was Jasper St. Aubyn?