Our hero’s sacrifice was not quite so great as he imagined, the ball of the last night being the concluding one, a circumstance he had not considered.

Having written two notes of farewell, one to Lord Arandale, and one addressed to Julia and Frances jointly, our hero left Ayr, just before daybreak, riding, and without a servant. After forming, we suppose, very proper determinations respecting his route, he unfortunately forgot to communicate his plans to his horse; and, suffering the reins to lay very loosely on the animal’s neck, himself fell into a deep reverie.

His Bucephalus, thus left to his own devices, happened to perceive a gap in the boundaries of the high road, which particularly caught his eye, as it not a little resembled the approach to the race-course. He turned in accordingly on a rugged piece of moorland, and looked about him. Nor right, nor left, nor straight before, offered other prospect than a wide extent of close cropped sod, plentifully sprinkled with loose stones, and diversified here and there by pools of water and patches of heath; the horizon every where the only visible boundary; while on the extreme edge of this monotonous waste, the just risen sun stood in lonely majesty.

Uninteresting as all this may appear, it seemed to please Bucephalus mightily: he made wide his nostrils, snuffed the morning air, twice swung his neck, to try the length of his rein, and then set out at full speed. The road, or rather path he took, pursued a gradual ascent for some time, when suddenly the spirited animal stopped short and snorted, on which, Edmund perceived that he had reached the brow of a hill, or rather edge of a precipice; whence, looking down an abrupt and wooded descent, a valley presented itself, far below, possessing a species of beauty in some respects peculiar to the spot. A small river or rivulet, ran close beneath the overhanging cliffs which formed the opposite side of the valley. Its stream varied in breadth; its banks were rugged and irregular, while its course frequently divided and reunited, forming many of the most picturesque spots, into little islets. On most of these, as well as on many projecting points of the bank, stood, what, from this distance at least, had the appearance of ruined towers: some round, some square, all moss grown; some bearing small trees on their summits, and in the crevices of their sides, and almost all having their own large old tree or trees, standing close to them. The grassy carpet of the vale was of a green peculiarly vivid. The opposite cliffs were thickly wooded in every aperture; while, here and there, smooth brows of good pasture land, dotted with grazing cattle, appeared on their summits. The valley at one end opened on an extent of flat country, terminated by a distant chain of mountains; at the other it admitted a view of the sea, discernible between two bold headlands, the furthest and highest of which was crowned by a single tower, that appeared destined to reign over all those more humbly situated in the vale beneath. Tempted by the beauty of the prospect, though not sufficiently acquainted with the country to know where he now was, Edmund directed his horse to take a rather dangerous looking, very narrow road, which by running along the side of the precipice, lessened the steepness of the footing, while it promised to lead him into the midst of the region he had thus been for some moments contemplating.

As he gradually drew nearer and nearer the curious scene that lay beneath him, and, at length, accomplishing his perilous descent, entered the valley itself, and approached those objects which he had at first thought were numerous ruins, they in general began to assume somewhat of a different appearance, and, finally, on coming up to each, to his great surprise as well as disappointment, they one by one, proved to be but deep sided, perpendicular rocks; looking, however, as ancient as though they had in the time of Noah, resisted the retiring waters of the flood, when all more yielding substances had been borne along the narrow channel of the glen, into the sea.

He now crossed the river by means of a single arched bridge, much overhung by the trees of the opposite bank, under the thick cover of which it immediately led. Through this copse he rode for a time and then emerged just at the foot of the headland, the lofty summit of which bore on high that which he could now ascertain to be the only real tower of all he had in imagination so designated. Rock over rock, with wood between, shelved and projected, till how the building itself was to be reached seemed an impenetrable mystery; there did not appear to be nearly space enough to conquer so perpendicular an ascent by any windings of the road he still pursued. He next passed a lodge-gate, which was opened by a little bare-footed girl, who stretched first the one side on its hinges, then the other, though our hero had meanwhile passed through. At a second gate he demanded if he might pursue his course through what thus seemed to be an approach to some nobleman’s or gentleman’s place, though, as yet, he could discern no residence. He was answered in the affirmative, and proceeded till, having got round to the further side of the headland, a part of the height of which he had meantime, by a gradual ascent, achieved, he came suddenly in view of a magnificent castellated mansion, apparently surrounded by an extensive richly wooded and beautifully diversified demesne, some of the grounds of which, on one side, descended by an inclined plane to the sea, and the whole of which had been screened from view during the former part of his ride by the much greater height of the side nearest the valley, on the rocky pinnacle of which, at an elevation far above that of the castle, and surrounded up to its very base by wood, still appeared conspicuous the same single tower which from the first had attracted so much of his notice. Seeing a lad on the lawn, who was employed rolling the newly mown grass, Edmund gave him his horse, demanding to whom the place belonged, and if the family were at home? The lad first stared awkwardly, and when about to reply was prevented doing so, coherently, by the unruly movements of the animal committed to his charge. Our hero, however, on ascertaining that the family was not at home, without waiting to repeat the former part of his question, turned into a footpath among the trees, which promised to lead in the direction of the said solitary tower.

He soon found himself in a maze of gravel walks and abrupt turnings, the ascent so steep as to be often indispensably assisted by flights of irregular stone steps. On each shelf of the rock, lately so much above his head, his feet now found a path; though one secured from the precipice only by a superabundant growth of shrubs. On the side of the cliff immediately over the sea it was sometimes quite terrific to peep through the slender defences of a honeysuckle or jessamine at the foaming billows dashing in far below on a wild and rocky beach. At length arrived at the goal of all his labours, he entered the long seen, and, at a distance, formidable-looking tower, and found it fitted up within as a conservatory and well supplied with exotics in full bloom. Of these he plucked, mechanically, a few of the finest blossoms, then sighed and desisted, as the remembrance smote on his heart that he could not now, as he had been wont, present them to Julia. He thrust, however, those he had collected into his own bosom; he could not throw away what had once been, even in thought, associated with her. Near this building the last of the shelving paths tapered off gradually, till there was no longer footing. The rock rose behind it more than perpendicularly—it overhung; while, in front, there was now no defence whatever, not a shrub, not so much as a tuft of grass, or even moss, to break the treacherous surface of the polished flint.

On the furthest portion which it was possible to occupy of this perilous spot, was placed a rustic seat; on this Edmund flung himself, and rested his eyes with a peculiarly desolate feeling on his old friends and companions, the waves of the sea. They seemed pressing after each other, and all, as it were, crowding towards the foot of the steep cliff from the summit of which he thus viewed them. He smiled bitterly: to his distempered fancy they appeared hastening forward to welcome his return amongst them, with a fierce and boisterous species of delight, very uncongenial to the softer emotions in which he had of late so much too frequently indulged.

“Yes,” he ejaculated, “the bosom of the deep is indeed my only home! the wide waste of waters my comfortless domain! To spread desolation around me with fire and with sword! to bring death and misery in my train! to send destruction and despair in the whirlwind before me! these are my daily duties! these my domestic joys!” He paused, then proceeded: “If once there were—friends of the friendless—those who—could—could pity—fate has torn them from me! Nay worse—I must tear myself from them! I must seem ungrateful, unkind—I must teach those who might have loved—to forget me—or—be a villain!” He hastened to add, for certain words in the last sentence were shaking his best resolutions. “Yes, a villain!” he repeated. “Is he less who, wrapped in mystery, without a name, without a home, without a country, would ensnare the innocent affections of one unknowing of the world, unable as yet to judge what may one day be her own appreciation of its honours or even of its prejudices?” After a moment’s pause he pronounced firmly, “I must never see her more!”

He now sunk back in perfect supineness. All the purposes of existence seemed at an end for him. By his own free will act, he had quitted love and happiness for ever. He felt every power of resistance weakened by the supernatural effort. The image of Julia, hallowed, endeared, like that of a departed friend, presented itself in a new, and, if possible, tenderer light. Were he now, he thought, to behold that smile again, where would be the restraints of duty? Forgotten! Utterly forgotten in the tumultuous joy of such a moment! And had such felicity been his but yesterday?—Good heavens! yesterday!—And now!——

Fatigued by contending thoughts, he now strove not to think at all; at length, as he lay in the reclining position, induced by the languor of despondency, the dashing of the waves began to sound more distant than before, and a slender creeping plant, which hung from the rock immediately above his head, was, during momentary and flitting visions, mistaken for some part of the rigging of a ship, and then seen no more. In fact, not having been in bed the night before, and having, ever since, suffered great agony of mind, he was now so completely exhausted, that a sort of torpor was gradually taking possession of his senses.

This, after some time, deepened into a sound and refreshing sleep, which lasted for several hours. Towards the end of his protracted slumber, our hero began to dream that he was in heaven. Yet, sublimely as he had sometimes conceived of the glories of that abode of the blessed, he could see nothing but clear sky every where; not even the angels, though he heard them singing, (one of Julia’s songs too,) and, precisely with her voice. The voice ceased; and then the general music of the spheres seemed to arise all round him! By degrees he became sensible that the music was real; and that his eyes, which had been for some seconds partly open, were gazing upwards at the bright blue sky, which from the circumstance of his lying on his back, was necessarily unvaried by any other object. He started to his feet a little too suddenly, considering the dangerous position he occupied, and of the particular nature of which he had, at the moment, no precise recollection. Fortunately, however, being uncommonly active, by a powerful effort, and a snatch at the creeping plant before mentioned, he was enabled to recover his balance. He observed where he was, called to mind the wanderings which had brought him there, and acknowledged to himself, that he must have slept. So far mysteries were cleared up. But the music he still heard, and now he assuredly was awake! He walked a little way, in various directions, in the hope of discovering the musicians; but from the effect produced by the circular form of the rock, the occasional waftings of the breeze, and the mazy labyrinth of the paths, it was impossible for him to decide whether he approached, or retreated from the sounds.

After descending, however, till he was two or three shelves lower, it became evident that the swell of wind instruments was fuller, though still he could not tell in what direction it came. While listening to discover this, his ear caught the hum of voices. He moved on, it became more distinct; and through it he could even distinguish the very uncelestial sound of knives and forks clanking on plates. Edmund, notwithstanding, felt something like a responding inward emotion; for he had not yet breakfasted, and it was now two o’clock.

He still moved on, and now the noise of the voices, &c. seemed to arise, actually from below the spot on which he stood. He performed a species of pirouette, looking the very personification of bewilderment. Then stood some seconds motionless. Then, as though smitten by a sudden inspiration, pushed his head and one shoulder through the tangled clusters of an interposing honeysuckle; and, holding firmly with the contrary arm, around the slender and yielding trunk of a young mountain ash, about which the flowery screen had entwined itself, he leaned forward, and beheld, on a broad part of the shelf or terrace of rock next below the one on which he himself stood, a long luncheon table, with a large company seated at it. Crowns of hats, cauls of bonnets, and figures, foreshortened to excess, afforded no very sure criterion by which to ascertain whether or not any of the party were known to him. The voices too, were so blended with each other, and with the music, and with the aforesaid clanking, that they brought no certainty of any thing; yet, as he looked and listened, he could not divest himself of the idea, that all was familiar to his eye, and to his ear. While impelled by increasing curiosity, he strained forward in rather an imprudent manner, one of the blossoms which he had collected in the conservatory, and placed loosely within the breast of his coat, now, assisted by his bending attitude, found its way out, and descending lightly as a thistle-down, rested on the bosom of a lady, who immediately lifted up her face to see whence it came. What was Edmund’s astonishment, when he saw the features of Julia; and what was hers, when she, so unexpectedly, beheld Edmund in his most strange and perilous situation, hanging over her very head. She pronounced his name, and continued looking up, with as much terror as surprise, till the whole company following the direction of her eyes, with one accord, gazed upwards.

A general roar of laughter proceeded from the men; and several pretty little screams from the ladies.

“Leap it, Edmund!” cried Henry. “Oh, don’t! don’t!” involuntarily exclaimed Julia. “I wonder if he could!” said Frances, looking half amused, and half alarmed.

“How funny it would be!” cried the Misses Morven.

“Take the path to the right, Montgomery, and come down to us,” said Lord Arandale. Edmund disappeared from above, and, in a few minutes, joined the party below. He made his way immediately to Julia and Frances, who each extended a hand to him at the same time, making room for him between them. “This is unexpected happiness, indeed!” he said, as he sprang into the offered seat. He looked delighted, he even laughed, though hysterically, as he trembled from head to foot, with uncontrollable emotion.

“You know where you are, I suppose, Montgomery?” said the Earl. “Not I,” answered Edmund, “further than that my present situation is a very enviable one!” This he said with an air of light gallantry, which concealed tolerably well both the reality and the extravagance of his feelings.

“You do not know then that this place is the Craigs?” rejoined the Earl. “We are all here to day, for the express purpose of displaying its beauties to Julia and Frances, who have never had an opportunity of visiting it before. We are to attempt the top of the rock, as soon as we have fortified ourselves by luncheon.”

“I have seen many of its beauties,” he replied, “but without knowing where I was. My horse, in fact, brought me here this morning, while I was thinking of something else.” Then, too much confounded to talk any thing but nonsense, and too much exhilarated to be silent, he addressed Julia, enquiring if she were aware that the building on the top of the rock was a conservatory. She replied in the negative.

“Allow me then,” he rejoined, with seeming playfulness, but breathless from agitation, “allow me to be the first to present you with an offering of its sweets!” As he spoke, he took the remainder of the flowers from his bosom, and gave them to Julia; experiencing, at the moment, an indescribable delight in reversing, as it were, the feeling with which he had placed them there. This was mere trifling; but such was the effect on Edmund’s spirits of all this happiness restored, and without any fault of his too, just at the very moment when he had resigned it all, that, under the intoxicating sense of the present pleasure, he scarcely knew what he said or did; or how sufficiently to enjoy so much felicity while it lasted; for through it all there was a vaguely recognised idea, that it must pass away. Julia took the flowers with a smile, not at all calculated to sober Edmund’s transports, and placed them (of course without thinking what she was doing,) in so enviable a situation, that they were followed by the eyes of our hero, and gazed upon, as their delicate blossoms visibly vibrated to each pulsation of Julia’s heart, till he wished himself, not “a glove upon that hand,” but a fair blossom, &c.

“We are very much obliged to your horse, Captain Montgomery,” said Lady Arandale, “as it is to him, it seems, we owe the pleasure of your company; and now we shall certainly not allow you to escape again till after our ball.” Edmund bowed assent. Several of the party asked him if, in his wanderings, he had discovered the bower of the concealed musicians. He described how much they had puzzled his researches. Julia told him (and her voice, which so lately he had scarcely hoped to hear again, thrilled through his heart as she spoke the unimportant words) that this had all been contrived by Lord Arandale, as an agreeable surprise; that his lordship had privately sent on musicians, directions to the housekeeper, &c.; and then, when they were all on the way between **** and Arandale, he had, very innocently, proposed that they should look at the Craigs, as it lay but a couple of miles from the direct road.

“I dare say,” said Frances, “that Edmund was in the secret, and that he just came on before to be a part of the surprise.”

Julia looked at him to see if this were true, but the question her eyes had intended to ask was forgotten, something in the expression of his producing a sad confusion of ideas just at the moment.

“I am sure he surprised me in a most especial manner,” drawled out Lady Morven. “And quite astounded me,” said Graham, in exactly the same tone. “Forgetting, I was not the fortunate tenant of a repose chair, I had a narrow escape of falling through this jessamine, and going over the immeasurable cliff!”

“Fye, don’t talk so, you creature,” said Lady Morven.

“I was more surprised than any one else, I am sure,” said Miss Morven; “if I had not caught hold of this rose bush, and pricked all my fingers, I should certainly have gone over!”

“And I, if it had not been for this sweet-briar, that has scratched all the back of my neck!”

“And I, only for this honeysuckle, though one branch broke off, and frightened me so!”

“And I, I’m sure, if Mr. Gordon had not just put out his arm and saved me!” Thus had all the Misses Morven escaped. “The ladies mean, that Captain Montgomery is the most agreeable part of the surprise,” said the Earl, good humouredly. The Misses Morven tittered assent. Frances questioned him as to how his joining them had really happened.

He gave as circumstantial an account of his morning adventure as the flutter of his spirits would permit. When he described the situation of his late couche, and how he had started to his feet, without remembering where he was, Lady Arandale seriously reprimanded him for his thoughtlessness. All the Misses Morven were clamorous; Lady Morven said he might really have fallen on the centre of the luncheon table, and frightened them all to death! Frances scolded him with tears in her eyes. Julia alone did not speak, but she looked round, became pale, and the next moment red. The blood rushed from and to the heart of Edmund with a corresponding ebb and flow. After a pause, as though to change the too engrossing subject, thus implied by the silence of both, he asked her abruptly, if she had sung since she had been at the Craigs? One song had been attempted, at Lady Arandale’s particular request, to try the effect of an echo.

Luncheon ended, the whole party proceeded towards the handsome castellated mansion already mentioned, to view the fine collection of pictures it contained.