It was Epsom week. London was all astir with the influx of company returning from the races.

A pale girl sat alone in one of the apartments of an hotel in Brook Street, listening long and anxiously to the coming sounds of the carriage-wheels, as they whirled along in that direction.

At length a carriage stopped before the door, and in a few moments a lady entered the room, whose showy costume and flushed excited countenance, (forming so strong a contrast to the appearance of the other, whom she warmly greeted,) plainly evinced her to have but just returned from that gay resort, the Stand at Epsom.

"You are come then, dear Mary. I hope you have not been very long waiting."

"No, not so very long," and the eyes of the speaker wandered anxiously towards the door, as if she seemed to expect the appearance of a second person.

Mrs. de Burgh understood that glance too well—she shook her head compassionately.

"Alas!—no, dear Mary; you must not expect to see him just now; he has been unfortunately prevented—that was the reason which made me so late; but I will tell you all about it presently, only let me have a glass of wine first, for I am nearly exhausted."

And during the interval of suspense, whilst Mrs. de Burgh refreshed herself after the fatiguing pleasures of the day, let us remind our readers, that the momentous year had some little time ago drawn to a close. Its expiration had not, however, brought with it, any immediate results.

Nothing had been seen or heard of Eugene Trevor by any of the family for the first month or two. He had been in London only at intervals, and he had not opened any communication with his fiancÉe, till she—on coming to London at the urgent solicitation of her sister Lady Morgan, who was not well—had a few days after her arrival, been surprised by a note from Mrs. de Burgh, whom she was not aware was even in town, begging her to come to her—naming a particular day—at the hotel where she was staying—as Eugene Trevor wished particularly to see her. She added that he would be obliged by her not mentioning the object of this visit to her relations, lest by any chance they might interfere with the interview, and it was very necessary that it should occur, before any more general communication took place.

"Still mystery and concealment!" was poor Mary's disappointed soliloquy. "Why not come here openly and see and speak to me? But I will go this once, as Eugene wishes it, and I cannot refuse perhaps without occasioning trouble and confusion."

And so she went; for still alas! the attractive chain too powerfully bound her, and her heart could not but spring forward with yearning hope to this meeting once again, with her intended. It may be imagined, therefore, how her heart had sunk within her, at Mrs. de Burgh's disappointing communication.

"Prevented coming," after having had her hopes and expectations strained to such a pitch—and she awaited with painful solicitude the promised explanation.

She had not seen her cousin since her last unhappy time in London, and though, even then, to a certain degree, a kind of estrangement had risen up between them; and all that she had since heard by report of the gay wife's conduct and proceedings, had not greatly raised the beautiful Olivia in her esteem, yet Mary could not but retain a grateful remembrance of the warm-hearted kindness she had received whilst under her roof—and a still more pleasing and vivid impression of the too tenderly cherished associations, with which she was so intimately connected.

But at this moment, the dearest friend on earth would have only been appreciated by Mary, as the being on whose lips she hung for information on the subject, and which she alone at this moment had the power to communicate; and "why had not Eugene come?" was all that spoke in her anxious countenance, or in the faltering tone in which she attempted, with some show of cousinly interest, to make a few inquiries after Louis and the children.

Mrs. de Burgh came at last to her relief—if relief it could be called—for the first thing she heard was, that Eugene instead of coming to see her, intended setting off for Montrevor that very evening.

"And why?" Mary with quivering lips interrupted.

"Having lost a large sum of money on the Derby, he was obliged to have immediate recourse to his father for the necessary cash to cover this unfortunate transaction. He has therefore commissioned me to break to you this intelligence. I cannot tell you, my dear Mary, the state of mind poor Eugene was in when we parted—not only on account of the immediate disappointment this occasioned him; but because this enormous loss must again retard the possibility of his marriage taking place at present. My dear Mary, you are doomed to the trial of hope deferred—the strength and constancy of your attachment has indeed been sorely taxed."

Mary did not immediately reply. She sat very pale, her eyes fixed upon the ground, something more than common disappointment expressed in her thoughtful countenance.

At length she looked up, and said in a grave and anxious tone:

"Does Eugene always lose like this at races?"

"Oh no, dear! fortunately," laughed Mrs. de Burgh, "not often; he is very lucky in general," but checking herself, as she saw Mary's shocked countenance, "I mean," and she hesitated, "that after all he has not so very decided a taste for this sort of thing," and Mrs. de Burgh laughed again, saying: "but, my dear girl, do not look so very serious upon the subject, what is there so very shocking in it after all."

Mary thought it was a subject, to her at least, of most serious importance and concern. A new and uncomfortable misgiving began to arise in her mind.

Was it in any way relating to this propensity in Eugene Trevor, against which Louis de Burgh originally warned her—and did it in reality—more than the reason which Eugene had brought forth to her brother, tend to interfere in any way with her happiness? So strongly did this idea suddenly possess her, that she could not refrain from asking Mrs. de Burgh whether she thought this was the case. Her cousin's evasive answer did not tend much to the removal of her suspicions.

Eugene certainly did play—did bet a little on the turf. She thought Mary had always been aware of that—men must have some pursuit, some excitement. If it were not one thing it was another—equally—perhaps one might call it—"not quite right;" however, all the best men in London were on the turf. Eugene was only like the rest, but with married men, it was quite different.

"Indeed, Mary," the fair lady continued, "Eugene always assures me, he means to give up everything of the sort when he marries, and I am quite sure he will do so. I only wish you were married, dear."

Mary only sighed.

"You are not getting weary of your engagement, Mary?" Mrs. de Burgh inquired.

"Weary!—oh, no, Olivia. I was sighing for Eugene's sake."

"You may well do so, for he is, I assure you, very unhappy at all this delay."

Mary shook her head, and her lip curled a little disdainfully. The gesture seemed to say, "Whose fault is it now?"

Mrs. de Burgh seemed to understand it as such, for she said—

"It is all that miserly old father's fault. He could set everything right at once, if he chose."

"But," said Mary, in a low tone, "I see no end of all this."

"No," hesitated Mrs. de Burgh, "not I suppose till the brother turns up; unless, indeed—" she murmured.

"What?" inquired Mary, anxiously.

"You had better come and stay with me at Silverton," was Mrs. de Burgh's indirect reply.

Mary smiled dejectedly.

"That would never do," she replied, "they would not consent to my doing so, under present circumstances."

"They—who are they? I am sure, Mary, I should not allow any brother or sister to interfere with my proceedings. You are of age, and quite at liberty, I should imagine, to act as you please on any subject."

Mary shook her head. She did not feel quite so independent-spirited as all that—and besides, she did not herself see that such a step would be quite expedient at present.

She did not, however, say this aloud, and Mrs. de Burgh attributed her silence to yielding consent.

"Eugene wishes it very much I can assure you."

Mary looked up as if the tempter himself had murmured the insinuating observation in her ear, for there was something significant in the way Mrs. de Burgh had spoken, which she could not but understand, and still more in the words which followed.

"If you were only married to Eugene, Mary, you might rely on his giving up all objectionable and hurtful things."

"But as that cannot be," sighed Mary, despondingly.

"It could," hesitated Mrs. de Burgh; "it is only your friends' opposition which would stand in the way, until Eugene is able to settle something satisfactory as to his future prospects. Were I you, Mary, if it were only for Eugene's sake, I should not be so scrupulous about securing each other's happiness and his welfare, as he tells me you are."

But Mary turned away almost indignantly. If the proposal had even revolted her spirit when coming from Eugene's own lips, much more so, did it grate upon her feelings, when thus insinuated by those of another.

But whatever might here have ensued, was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. de Burgh. It seemed that he had only arrived in London that day, unexpectedly to Mrs. de Burgh, who otherwise would not have planned the meeting of Mary and Eugene.

He came evidently in one of his London humours, as his wife called it; and though he greeted Mary kindly, she fancied there was a certain alteration in his manner towards her, which she instinctively felt to originate in his disapprovement of the present circumstances of her engagement; she remembered that he never was friendly to the affair, though the direct subject was now avoided by each of the party.

He sat and made captious and cutting allusions to the races, and every one concerned therein, which, whether really intended at Eugene, Mary interpreted as such—and they touched the poor girl to the quick.

Probably she was not far wrong in her supposition as to the pointedness of his remarks, for suddenly glancing on his listener's downcast anxious countenance he exclaimed, addressing his wife:

"Bye the bye, Olivia, I mean to be off abroad in a day or two."

"Good Heavens, Louis! what new fancy is this?"

"Why, I have heard something to-day which has really put me quite into a fever."

"Well, what is it? Some nonsense, I dare say."

"I at least do not think it so. Dawson, who I saw to-day, declares that Trevor, Eustace Trevor I mean, was seen by some one not long ago in Switzerland. Yes," he continued, encouraged by Mary's glance of intense and startled interest, "he was seen with another person—the keeper I suppose they talk about—somewhere on the Alps."

"The Alps!—poor fellow! gone there to cool his brain, I suppose," said Mrs. de Burgh, whose countenance nevertheless had bespoke her not a little moved by this communication.

"Cool his brain!—nonsense! cool enough by this time, depend upon it."

"But does Eugene know of this?" faltered Mary.

"I suppose so," replied Mr. de Burgh, coldly.

"Impossible, Louis!" Mary exclaimed with eagerness.

"Well, perhaps so. I don't know at all," Mr. de Burgh continued. "I shouldn't be so much surprised if he did; there are a great many things which surprise me more than that, Mary; for instance you yourself—yes, you, Mary," as she lifted up her eyes to her cousin's handsome face, with quiet surprise, "that you should see things in a light so different to what I should have expected from you."

"Ridiculous!" interposed Mrs. de Burgh—"that is to say that you should have expected her to have seen everything with your own jaundiced, prejudiced perception; but about Eustace Trevor."

"Yes, about Eustace Trevor; he is a subject certainly worth a little of your interest and inquiry. Mary, you should have known him," exclaimed Mr. de Burgh, with rising enthusiasm.

"You were very much attached to him then?" demanded Mary, with deep interest.

"Attached to him!—yes, indeed I was; that was a man whom one might well glory in calling friend; or," he murmured to himself, "a woman might be proud to worship as a lover."

"Yes," interposed Mrs. de Burgh, "I suppose he was a very superior, delightful person; but I own he always appeared to me, even as a boy, a little tÊte montÉ, so that it did not surprise me so very much when I heard of the calamity which had befallen him. He was just the sort of person upon whose mind any strong excitement, or sudden shock would have had the like effect."

"Olivia, you are talking nonsense," Mr. de Burgh petulantly exclaimed.

"It was his mother's death, I think, I heard which brought on this dreadful crisis?" Mary inquired.

"Exactly so," answered Mrs. de Burgh.

"How do you know?" exclaimed her husband. "What does any one know about the matter?"

"We can only judge from what one has heard from the best authority," again persisted his wife.

"Best authority! well, I can only say that far from being of your opinion, I should have said that Eustace Trevor had been as far from madness as earth from heaven."

"Really, Louis!" exclaimed Mrs. de Burgh, perceiving Mary's look of anxious interest and surprise, "one would fancy from the way you talk that you suspected him never really to have been mad."

quoted Mr. de Burgh for all reply.

"What is all this to do with the point in question?" said Mrs. de Burgh impatiently. "Really, Louis, Mary will think you also decidedly have gone mad."

"Mary likes poetry," he answered quietly; "she will not think it is madness what I have uttered."

"But, Louis, what do you really mean about Eugene's brother?—tell me something about him. I have heard so very little," demanded Mary, earnestly.

"Why do you not make Eugene tell you himself? I can only say:

"He was very handsome—very clever," said Mrs. de Burgh, taking up the theme more prosaically, "and very amiable I believe, though rather impetuous and hot-tempered; always at daggers drawn with his father, because he spent the old man's money a little faster than he liked, it is said."

"Good heavens, Olivia!" burst forth Mr. de Burgh, passionately, "how can you sit there, and distort the truth in that shameful manner? you know as well as I do the true version of this part of the story. Mary," turning to his cousin with flashing eyes, "Eustace Trevor had a mother; an excellent charming creature, whose existence, through the combined influence of her husband and a most baneful, pernicious wretch of a woman, that Marryott, of whom no doubt you have heard, was rendered one long tissue of wretchedness and wrong, the extent of which I believe is hardly known. Eustace, who adored his mother, keenly felt and manfully espoused her cause; therefore, you may see at once this was the reason of his father's hatred of him, and the old man's treatment of this son, was one shameful system of injustice and tyranny—enough, I confess, to drive any man into a state of mental irritation, possessed of Eustace's sensitive temperament."

Mary's wandering, startled gaze turned inquiringly on Mrs. de Burgh, as if to ask whether this new and melancholy representation of the case could be really true. Mrs. de Burgh looked a little disconcerted, but replied carelessly:

"Yes, poor Aunt Trevor! she had certainly a sad time of it; but then it was partly her own fault. She was a weak-spirited creature. What other woman would have endured what she did in that tame and passive manner?"

"Yes, these poor weak-spirited creatures have often, however, strength to bear a great deal for the sake of others," replied Mr. de Burgh, sarcastically. "It would have been more high and noble-spirited, I dare say, to have blazed abroad her domestic grievances; but she had no doubt a little consideration for her children, and the honour and respectability of their house and name."

"Oh, nonsense! that was all very well when they were children to consider them; but when they were men, it signified very little," said Mrs. de Burgh.

"But then," suggested Mary, with trembling earnestness, "then she must have had great comfort in their affection and support."

"Yes," answered Mr. de Burgh, "in Eustace she had, I know, unfailing comfort and support."

"And Eugene?" anxiously demanded Mary. "Surely he too—"

"Of course," Mrs. de Burgh hastened to exclaim, "no one could be fonder or kinder to his mother though, because"—looking angrily at her husband—"he had the sense and the discretion not to quarrel with his father, and strength of mind not to go mad—Louis, I suppose, wishes to make you believe that Eugene was not kind to his mother."

"Nothing would make me believe that Eugene was not kind to his mother," added Mary with an earnest energy, which showed with what indignation she would repel this distracting idea.

And Mr. de Burgh replied with great moderation:

"Nor did I say anything of the sort. I am not at all in the custom of asserting grave charges against a person, without certain proof. I only saw as much into 'the secrets of the prison-house' at Montrevor as would make me very sorry to have had anything further to do with its interior."

Poor Mary! She asked no more questions, she had heard quite enough to give new and dark impressions to her mind. She saw everything in a still more bewildering and uncertain light—yet felt a vague, indefinite dread of further revelation.

Her sister's carriage being speedily announced, she bade adieu to her cousins, who were leaving London the next day, and

bearing in her secret soul restless doubts and blind misgivings, she shrank even from confiding to her most beloved Arthur.