As may be supposed, the peaceful vale of Ll—— from this time forth became an altered place to Eustace Trevor. "There are places in the world we never wish to see again, however dear they be to us." Such to his disappointed heart was Mary Seaham's deserted home, and every spot in the vicinity haunted by associations connected with that loved being. Yet he lingered, pursuing his former avocations, partly from principle, partly from the painful pleasure thus afforded, partly from the anxious desire to remain upon the spot, where alone he could hope to receive tidings of his lost one.

A strange restless foreboding had been excited in his mind from the first moment that he had heard of Mary's intended destination; and it was this, no doubt, which in a great measure urged him to take the decisive step which had proved so unavailing. Not of course had he in any way embodied the real nature of the misfortune his ominous fears presented; that event would indeed have seemed a coincidence too fearful to be conceived probable; but besides there being something most repellant to his feelings in the idea of that gentle object of his heart's unhappy affections wandering away into the sphere now so darkly associated in his mind—some presentiment of danger and sorrow to herself, quite unconnected with any selfish considerations, had darkly mingled. All through that summer then, whose brightness to him was gone; all that autumn too, till like his own fallen hopes, the yellow leaf lay thick around, "and the days were dark and dreary," he stayed; then—then—had reached his ears, at first by vague and dull report, tidings which froze into the very ice of winter the life-blood in his heart—Miss Mary Seaham was going to be married to a very rich and handsome gentleman of those parts; and his name—yes, that was it—he would have thanked Heaven on his knees, had it been any other name on earth—that name. It came with terrible exactness, that name was "Eugene Trevor." Then, indeed, a dreadful feeling of horror, of despair, assailed him. His cup of bitterness was full; could malignant fate do more to crush him?

Mary Seaham, the wife of his brother! Of him who had dealt so treacherously by him, who without cause, had proved himself his deadly enemy. His wife? nay his victim. Another angel victim, of covetousness, tyranny, and vice. It must not, nay, it should not be; anything—everything must be done to avert the sacrifice. In a word, every other consideration was at an end. He left Ll—— and went to London; there he traced out that faithful servant to whom we have alluded, and through him took steps to gain a too sure confirmation of what he had heard, and besides that, many particulars concerning the mode of life of his brother, during the interval of their separation, which only served to invest with fresh horror, the idea of his union with Mary.

His course was taken. He wrote to his brother the momentous letter, which turned the current of poor Mary's bliss.

"When you and I parted, Eugene, nearly five years ago, it was with the sole determination on my part, never again to seek communication with a man who had acted as none other, than a brother, could have acted, without drawing upon himself the just retribution on my part, such conduct so justly deserved, I mean the public exposure of its villainy to society—to the world. But as it was—more in sorrow than in anger—sorrow which in the estimation of those less scrupulous and sensitive than myself, might have been deemed carried to a morbid and irrational extent—in sorrow of heart, the bitterness of death could hardly surpass, sorrow and amazement that such perfidy could exist in one I had loved as my own mother's son; the impulse of my grieved and wounded spirit prompted me to act in a manner exactly the reverse. My determination had been to repair to some distant foreign land. But mere accident, or I should say, hidden Providence, ordered it otherwise. I spent the winter in a wild unfrequented part of North Wales; and on leaving that, was taken ill at a small town, some miles distant. A few weeks more and circumstances caused me to fix my wandering steps in a secluded valley, where for the few succeeding years I assisted the clergyman of the place in the duties of his profession, and in conformity with the course of conduct I was pursuing, under the name of Edward Temple. Does this give you any clue to the motive of the present unwelcome communication? Have you ever heard that unfamiliar name pass the lips of her, whom report tells me you are to make your wife—the lips, I mean, of Mary Seaham? if so as it would have been but natural, she may have further spoken, and told you of the love she had inspired in that same Edward Temple's breast; and you smiled, no doubt, in pity at the disappointed ambition of the country curate. Eugene, now indeed, I own that you have honourably won that—to which, in comparison, all that by wrong and treachery you ever sought to rob me is as dross indeed, in my estimation—the love of as pure a heart, as angel-like a spirit as ever breathed in the form of woman. But this, Eugene, must suffice you; here your triumph must end; unless, indeed, you care to prove your affection by a stronger test than I imagine it would be able to stand; for at once I come to the point, and tell you Eugene, that I cannot suffer this concerted marriage of yours to take place, without a powerful effort on my part, to avert it—to save the pure and gentle being whom I shall ever love, from the fate that marriage, I feel, must ever entail upon her.

"That it springs from no bitter feelings of disappointment or rivalry, on my part; but is as disinterested in its nature, as if I had never loved Mary Seaham but as a brother might have loved a sister, God truly knows; but it would be throwing words away, I fear, to attempt to convince one like you—in whose imagination the possibility of any such purity and disinterestedness of motive cannot exist. Well, interpret it as you may—only break off this engagement, which, from what I hear of the sentiments of some of her friends, will not be so very difficult. Break it off, and for what I care, the world may still think me mad; for what I care, you may still retain the position you now hold—so much as it appears, to your own satisfaction and contentment—in the eyes of society. Refuse to do this, and I come forward, and ask the world—ask her friends—ask Mary herself, whether a man who had acted as you have done, is worthy to be her husband; and then, I am much mistaken, if when that delusive veil, which now robes her idol, be thus withdrawn—she, yes, Mary, does not shrink with horror, from what is there revealed.

"Spare yourself, Eugene—spare her—spare her pure eyes, her innocent spirit this exposure. You will say, the alternative is as cruel—that her affection is too great to bear the destruction of her hopes, without such pain and grief as none who really loved her, as I profess to do, would willingly inflict.

"This may be—her love may be true, and deep. The tears she may shed at its destruction be bitter—time may be required to heal the wound. But were these tears to swell the ocean's tide, or the wound to prove incurable, far better even this, than to live the life—to die the miserable death of your father's wife—of her husband's mother!

"And what in your career, Eugene, even setting aside that one crime, with which I am personally concerned, is there, which can ensure her any better destiny?

"No; your mode of life during the last five years, I have taken measures to ascertain. Can you deny that it has been one long course of sin, of profligacy?

"One dark deed, followed by atonement and remorse, might have been less baneful to her happiness, than the systematic career of vice you now habitually pursue.

"What more can I add; but that I shall expect your written answer. I feel assured you will, no less than myself, desire, if possible, to avoid all personal communication. Direct to the General Post Office, London, where, till I am assured that my object is properly secured, I shall remain; and now, Eugene, farewell! God knows, that everything in the terms and substance of this letter, which may appear dictated by a harsh or threatening spirit, springs rather from the wretched circumstances of the case, our most unnatural and unavoidable position, one towards another—not from the temper of my mind towards you. Heaven be my witness, that I would gladly give my heart's blood at this moment, to discover that the past was but a horrid dream, and that now, as in years gone by, I could without fear, that the very air would repeat the words in mocking echo, sign myself,

"Your affectionate brother,
"Eustace Trevor."