A bitter sneer was curling on the young man's lip; the mariner's face had resumed its stern expression. 'The details of my escape from Botany Bay are unimportant. Suffice it, that I once more reached America, and devoted my energies to tracing the fate of my child. In Savannah I was fortunate enough to meet with the attendant of your grandmother. She had accompanied a family of refugees from European disturbances, and from her I learned not only what I have told you already—but that my daughter had been married, and that her husband was no other than the son of her old mistress and your father!'

The young man threw his hands towards heaven and fell on his knees.

'O Thou, whose ways are inscrutable, blessed be thy name, for out of darkness thou hast brought light, and turned the misdeeds of the guilty upon themselves, and made the promptings of nature yearn in the heart of the orphan boy towards the father of my mother.'

He fell upon the old man's neck and sobbed. Such emotions are no disgrace to manhood. The mariner strained him to his heart, and it was some time ere the emotion of both had subsided sufficiently to enable the one to ask or the other to give further explanation. At length the mariner resumed. 'From this woman, who had recognised your father by a peculiar mark on his hand, I learned that she had kept the papers of your grandmother and the locket, and gave them to your father; but he treated them as fabulous, and her as an impostor. Your mother, however, gave credence to her tale, and even consulted a lawyer; but they were not sufficient without my evidence, and your father would not take any steps in the affair. Your mother kept her as an attendant till her own death, but your uncle must have heard from some source of the existence of his brother; and after his death, which happened in battle at sea, he tried to induce the widow to give up these papers. Failing in this, by a large sum of money he tempted your nurse to poison her, and possessed himself of them, representing himself as her husband's brother, but concealing his rank. She was also to make away with you; but repenting of the murder of your mother, she concealed you for some time in a distant part of the State, but he discovered her and sold her to a Tennessee planter. It was but this year I succeeded in tracing her, and finding her almost at the point of death, got these facts from her, regularly drawn up and witnessed. I bought her freedom first to enable her to give evidence, and soon after her earthly account was closed. Violetta D'Arista, your grand-mother's faithful attendant, gave me a clue by which I traced you; and she is now in London, anxious to fold you to her breast, and to aid you as far as in her power, to restore to you your birthright and inheritance.'

'And the papers?'

'If not destroyed, are in his possession.'

'Then I can obtain them, although he has had, as he thinks, all the subterranean passages stopped up, yet there remains one, by which I can penetrate to his very bed-room unseen, although a stout man could not.' The seaman mused. 'It would be dangerous. Your uncle is a brave man, and powerful. If he awoke—and such consciences must be bad sleeping companions, you would be sacrificed.'

'I fear not—for vengeance on my mother's murderer I would dare anything.'

'It must not be, young man. You have a sacred duty to perform, more binding far than vengeance, which is the Lord's alone. You have to heal the sorrows of those who will be in a great measure dependent upon you to redress the wrongs of years of oppression, to be a father to the tenants of your wide domain, and your life must not be idly risked.'

'I have it!' said Edward, eagerly. 'You say my father was fair-haired, and I am like my mother.'

The seaman took a miniature from his vest, and handed it to him. It contained two portraits—one of a captain in the British navy, in full uniform, his head bare, and locks of fair hair falling even over his shoulders, for he had disdained the peruke then in fashion—and that of a lady, whose dark eyes and raven ringlets told that her nativity had been the sunny south.

'Johnson is not unlike the portrait of my father, and is a slim man,' said Edward. 'He will readily go with me. I will personate my mother. I am confident the papers are not destroyed, for I have often seen him when he little dreamed an eye was upon him, examining some papers he keeps in a small casket on his toilet, and one in particular, a document of some length, which he has often seemed to me about to tear, but always replaced.'

'It will do,' said his grandfather. 'Good Mrs. Ally will procure you the necessary attire. She can be trusted fully, and I will reconcile her and Johnson, so that we can all work in concert. Those papers secured, with the evidence of Violetta and the dying deposition of your nurse, with the evidence of the lady who took charge of your mother, and who is also alive and in London, I doubt not soon to see you in the enjoyment of your rights. It will be a strange anomaly—an American a British peer.'

'And then, dear grandfather, you will allow me to repay you, in a small measure, by my affection and care of your declining years, for all the anxiety you have endured in securing my interests.'

'Not to me, young man, not to me. My lot on earth is cast. I am here a fugitive, in danger of a felon's doom. I shall return to honest, plain America, and there devote the remainder of my life to succoring the poor and afflicted. Do you likewise here, remembering that you are but the steward of your wealth. Let the former oppressions of your house be forgotten in your good deeds. Let your voice be heard in the high court of which you will be a member, whenever the artizan and the laborer need a defender from the foul enactments that are there consummated. Let your passions be subjected to the control of religion and morality—let no avaricious knave oppress the hard-toiling farmer in your name, but see to these things yourself. Let your ear be easy of access, and your heart be open, and then, my Lord, I shall be more than repaid, you will have had a nobler vengeance than any man could give you, and will earn in truth a right to bear the proud motto which your fathers arrogated to themselves, emblazoned, not on your escutcheon, but in the hearts of grateful men—

"Second to none in deeds of charity."'



CHAPTER VIII.

THE END OF TWO VICTIMS.

Walter Waters, or Captain Williams, as he called himself now, and in fact He had come to England ostensibly as the commander of a trading vessel, had determined to effect the escape of Horace Hunter. That his own plans might not be disarranged by any violence towards the Earl, he had on an accidental meeting in the West Indies promised Hunter a more full revenge if he waited for three years; and feeling that his capture had in some measure been owing to his appointment, he revolved in his mind many plans for his rescue. His trial had taken place, and as the evidence was conclusive, he was condemned to death. As his friends were now permitted to see him, Walter with his daughter to whom and his father he had made himself known in private, although he still stopped at Mrs. Ally's when not in London, obtained permission to visit the doomed man. Who shall attempt to portray the feelings of Mary Waters, as in company with the parent so long mourned as dead, she set forth to hold the last communication on earth with him to whom the treasure of her young love had been given. Joy at once more beholding her father mingled in painful intensity with her heart's desolation when she contemplated the fearful position of her lover; and to her father's assurances of rescuing him, of reclaiming him and of their union and a happy life in America, she only replied by a mournful feature, and pointing to her own emaciated form and hectic cheek. Her beauty had now assumed an almost unearthly character. The lustre of her dark blue eye and deathly paleness of her cheek told indeed her race was nearly run. As they all stood together in the steward's house on the morning of their visit, they formed a strange and touching group. The bowed figure of the aged man whose life had been prolonged so far beyond the usual term of man's existence, the strong form of the mariner, whose vigor was unabated although near sixty, and the wasted figure and sharpened features of his daughter, who though scarce more than past the threshold of womanhood, was yet closer to the dread abyss of eternity than either. The old steward looked wistfully after them as they passed out into the wintry air.

Hunter's passion for drink, his remorse for the officer's death, his burning thirst for vengeance, and his own sense of self-abasement—all conspired to add to the fever of his brain; and when Walter and his daughter were admitted to his cell, it was a gibbering maniac that rushed forward to meet them. Walter removed his fainting daughter from the appalling spectacle, and returned with a sickening heart and terrible forebodings. The shades of evening had given place to bright moonlight ere they reached the castle. The driver used his utmost speed, but the snow hindered their progress, and just as they arrived at the castle gates, the horses swerved violently, and starting to the side of the road, stood snorting with terror. Walter sprang out, and in the momentary strength caused by the excitement, his daughter followed him. The Earl with some companions rode up at the moment of seeing the carriage stopped; but a more ghastly obstacle obstructed their path—for there in the snow drift at the gates of the mansion where her seducer lived in splendor, lay the corpse of the once fair, gentle, and accomplished Ellen Hunter.

The Earl gazed upon the body of his victim for a moment, and even his callous heart was touched. It was evanescent, however, for on one of his companions asking in a tone of coarse buffoonery, if he was contemplating that frozen carrion with a view to ornamenting his hall with it as a statue, he replied in the same strain, and was turning his horse's head towards the gate, when he was arrested by the stern voice of the mariner.

'Blasphemer, peace! Add not insult to the fearful injury you have committed to that poor piece of clay! Man of the marble heart, your career is near its close! This is not the only one of your crimes that has resulted in death. There arises from the earth in South Carolina a voice that calls for vengeance on her murderer. The child you thought without a friend, whom you hoped would perish unknown, is even now preparing to assert his rights, and drive you, titled bastard as you know yourself to be, from your usurped position. Your agents have confessed, and nothing can save you from the merited punishment of your crimes. Repent, weep tears of penitence over this poor form, and make your peace with God. You have but little time left ere man's justice will claim you as its due.' He replaced his daughter in the carriage, and lifting the body of poor Ellen as tenderly as if it had been a child, placed it inside, and thus the dying and the dead departed.

At headlong speed the Earl reached his mansion, galled to madness. He pondered long and deeply who the mysterious seaman could be, but could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion; but reflecting that he still possessed the only papers which could be produced in support of the claimant of his title, he became more collected, and resolved first to destroy the documents, and then to devise means for getting rid of the obnoxious seaman, and also of his nephew, if he dared to press his claim. Somewhat relieved by these considerations, he entered into an explanation with his friends, spoke of the seaman as a harmless maniac, and succeeded in calming the irritation of their wounded pride.

But he could not calm the raging tumult of his own heart—he had entered into preliminary engagements for a marriage with the daughter of a house as haughty as his own. His mother's fame would suffer, not that he cared one jot for any abstract idea of virtue, and she had been sinless in that at least, for she knew not that her husband had another wife. He had been offered by the king, and had accepted a high confidential mission to a foreign power, and now when every proud wish of his heart seemed to be gratified, to be threatened with the loss of all—and more, to be subjected to the vulgar gaze as a murderer—death he felt were better. He drank deeply, which was not his usual custom, and to conceal his feelings affected a wild gaiety, which, however, failed in deceiving his companions. Midnight had long passed when he retired to his chamber, harassed and jaded by the efforts he had made to preserve appearances, and still more irritated by the wine he had drank. A vague feeling of horror moreover began to steal over him. He looked out upon the moonlight and drew his head in with a shudder, for he fancied—it was but fancy, that he saw a body lying upon the ground. He tried to nerve himself to the task of destroying the documents, but could not bring himself to touch the casket. At length he opened the casket; a deep groan seemed to issue from it. The long low musical laugh he had heard before sounded in the room. The next moment he hardened himself and began to read them over. They consisted of the letters mentioned before, his father's marriage certificate, and the addition of a still more important document—a statement drawn up by his father a little before his death, in which he acknowledged Captain Piercy, the name his son had been known by, prayed for forgiveness for the wrong he had done his mother, and fully acknowledged his marriage with the fair Italian. This was the document which had led the countess to persecute Captain Williams, and her son to murder his brother's widow. He read them slowly through, and taking them in his hand walked towards the fireplace; he was about to cast them in, when the same low mocking voice sounded so close him—he turned and beheld an appalling spectacle. The picture of his own mother, that had occupied a large compartment of the room, had entirely disappeared, although but the instant before he had seen it—and in its place appeared the figures of a man in a full dress naval uniform, and a lady in the costume of the one he had murdered in distant America. He gave one wild shriek and fell senseless on the floor. To seize the papers was to Edward, whom our readers will easily guess to have personated the lady, but the work of a moment; he regained the panel and swung it to just as the domestics were hurrying up; not however before he had fixed upon the toilet with a penknife of the Earl's, a paper with the word "doomed!" in large characters traced upon it.



CHAPTER IX.

THE AGENT'S PUNISHMENT.

The village bells tolled mournfully, and the stout farmers looked with Saddened faces at each other on the morning which was to consign to earth the remains of Mary Waters. Matrons held their aprons to their eyes as they followed the melancholy procession. She was laid by her own request in the same grave with Ellen Hunter. The old clergyman who had loved her as his daughter, faltered as he read the solemn words, "I am the resurrection and the life," and when the ceremony was concluded, there was not an eye that was not filled with tears. When the old steward heard the earth fall upon the coffin lid, his frame was seen to quiver, he fell forward, and his spirit had departed. They laid him by the side of his grand daughter the next day; and it was soon ascertained that he had left the bulk of his savings to the poor children of Johnson, and that Mrs. Alice Goodfellow was appointed sole executrix.

Rumors now began to circulate about the Earl—a claim had been laid in due form by Edward—and the tumult which raged in his heart was indescribable. Yet he dared to think of vengeance, and swore an oath to have the heart's blood of those who had humbled him. As he approached the house of the agent he determined to ask his aid in carrying out his schemes. Mr. Lambert, however, had no intention of being dragged down into the vortex, and received him coldly.

'This is not the reception I expected, Mr. Lambert.'

'I beg your pardon sir.'

Sir!—how the word grated on the ear, that had been accustomed to 'my lord,' and that in the humblest tone; 'I merely wish to intimate, Mr. Lambert, when it is your gracious pleasure to listen, that I want a word or two with you.' He spoke in his old sneering tone; the other, who from habit, remained standing in his presence, bowed; but he did not answer a word. 'Since you cannot, or will not speak—hear one thing; for your interest is thereby affected; and that I suppose will reach you—do you suppose, that those who have attacked the master, will let the servant escape. Will not even the great Mr. Lambert, be required to give an account of his stewardship; when so humble an individual as myself, has been deemed worthy of notice?'—he bowed with mock humility. 'My accounts are prepared to undergo the strictest investigation. My—sir—' said the agent, recovering his self possession the instant business was mentioned, 'both as regards the estate and personal account, my balances are correct—that of the estate which yet remains unsettled I am ready to account for to—the proper parties—' (he substituted for the new Earl's name which rose to his lips,) 'the small balance on the personal account which is in my favour, I shall be happy to take your note for—properly endorsed.' The man of business had been so occupied with the figures he was running up in his mind, that he had failed to observe the gathering storm on his companion's brow; he had been so used to hold down his head while speaking to his patron, that even now he could not forego the habit; but the last word had not passed his lips fully—ere the earl rose from his seat, and seizing the heavy brass lamp upon the table between them, struck the unfortunate man a tremendous blow with it, which prostrated him to the floor; smashing in a portion of his skull, and inflicting a mortal wound; the agent groaned and lay senseless; the servants rushed to the scene on hearing the fall, but the furious appearance of the murderer terrified them, particularly as he still held in his hand the weapon he had used; he burst through them, and mounting his horse at the door, fled as though pursued by all the fiends of hell.



CHAPTER X.

RETRIBUTION.

Regardless of the wintry storm, the murderer spurred on the noble animal he rode; he had no purpose in the flight, he had arranged no plan of escape; unused to act for himself, his movements were all uncertainty: now he reined in his horse, and listened as if for pursuers, but none came: now fancying he heard the mocking laugh he had so often heard, he dashed forward, as if the furies were behind him; the storm meanwhile increased in its violence, he felt it not; the warfare of the elements was calmness to the tumult of his heart; he looked up to the heavens, but there on the edge of every lurid cloud, he saw it, he saw them; not one but hundreds: maidens with stony blue eyes, all glaring upon him; he looked upon the earth, a gibbering madman was running by his side, howling and hooting in the wind; now so near as almost to touch him: now hundreds of yards away, but always the same; behind him with his ghastly mangled head, came the form of his last victim, forward! forward! while the crashing thunder pealed above his head; he shook his impious hand against the sky, and still darted onward, till the horse stopped, snorting on the beach; and there as the great sea, rolled in foaming and turgid, there, he saw it plain in yon glare of livid lightning, on the crest of every curling wave, a dark haired lady lay, glaring at him with eyes that looked like coals of fire; a monster wave came rolling in, and the frightened horse turned, and seizing the bit between his teeth sped homeward, but still he saw them in the clouds behind, before, beckoning to him, calling to him, in the voice of the great wind; on, on, towards the castle gates, he looked up to the battlements; they were there, on every turret's top, on every pointed arch, from every window, visible to him, as though it had been bright daylight he saw them. The horse unable to check his momentum dashed against the castle gates, and falling over crushed him in its fall; and there on the very spot where one of his victims had lain in the sleep of death, there lay the mangled and now dying man, mingling his blood with that of the expiring animal. Day dawned, and when the red sun rose, it shone upon a corpse; the storm had ceased, but the wind had blown the snow from off it, and the laborer who found the body, rushed from the spot in terror at the horrible expression of the dead man's face.



CHAPTER XI.

CONCLUSION.

Three years have passed away,—the young Earl has arrived at age, and is coming to take possession of his domains—after finishing his education at Oxford; great preparation has been made to welcome him. Foremost on the occasion is Mrs. Alice Goodfellow, and as their Lord's reputed aunt for so many years, she is a person of no small importance:—still single, but beginning to think of settling now, as her glass gives awkward reflections,—but still balancing the claims of her admirers, though she does give color to the report of shewing a preference for the sturdy blacksmith;—by her side, smartly dressed, are gamboling about the young Johnsons, while their father, in a respectable suit of black, marshals the somewhat unruly procession of maidens and youths chosen to receive the young Earl. He is now the steward, (agent is a name he wisely discards,) and a great man, but young girls and boys from sixteen to twenty have a trick of paying no attention to the wisdom of their elders, and he is sorely put to it to maintain order. Spring has planted her fair feet upon the daisied green, and a huge May-Pole has been erected, as in the olden time, an ox is roasted whole upon the lawn, tables are spread out under the shade of the great elms and sturdy oaks, foaming barrels of mighty ale, such as Guy of Warwick drank, ere he encountered the dun cow, are seen with taps ready in them,—the children are dancing round the May-Pole in wild glee,—and now a scout posted on a rising ground comes tearing towards them as though life and death defended on his speed,—the carriage is coming,—a cheer arises,—it has passed the gates, and is coming up the avenue. Johnson is full of nervous excitement, the maidens cease giggling and pinching and all those endearing little amusements, the young men try to look solemn and only succeed in causing a burst of laughter from the sly girls, some of whom draw down their faces in imitation. They are nervous, too—what if the great man should see their dresses in disorder, and he a young man, too; the elder matrons and the farmers stand nearest the house, all is expectation, he has come, the carriage has stopped at the very extremity of the line, a cheer, thrice repeated, peals through the air, as he descends from the carriage, and it is a heartfelt one, for this they know has been among themselves, and shared their hopes and fears. He is followed by Captain Williams, in the full uniform of an American Naval Officer; he is whiter headed than when we saw him last, but he looks able to wrestle any man upon the ground, a cheer bursts forth for him also, though none recognize in him aught but the brave sailor who had shown such sympathy at the grave of Mary Waters. They are received by the Curate, Mr. Johnson, the Lawyer and the Clerk. The young Earl waves his hand, and every door and window, in the spacious edifice is thrown open. With a kind word for every one, a merry joke with one fair maiden, and a laughing glance at another, a cheerful nod to the young men, and a hearty shake of the hand to the old, and as he decorously salutes each old matron on the cheek, he fairly rushes into the arms of his quondam aunt, who nearly goes into hysterics with joy, (which would have been awkward, as she is stout, and has laced some,) so she thinks better of it, and cries over him, which does just as well. Such a shout arises as makes the very welkin ring. He stops upon the top-most step, Capt. Williams and the others by his side. Every sound is hushed as he speaks. 'It is not outside, my friends, whom I hope I may never give reason to regret this day. It is not outside of my halls that I can give you thanks for my reception. There is no room in my house in which you are not freely welcome, this night, and to him who will not accept the call of the Earl de Montford, I will send poor Edward Barnett. Ten years from this day, if such of you as are spared, and I am one, will meet me here again, I will render to you an account of my stewardship, and then if you can raise again the cheers with which you have this day greeted me, poor Edward Barnett will be more than rewarded for his trials, and the Count de Montford the happiest of his race.' The glorious sun shone full upon his manly form and handsome features, and as cheer upon cheer arose, not one that looked upon his open truthful countenance, feared he would not redeem his promise, or disgrace the proud motto emblazoned on the banners that waved high above his head on the battlements;—Nulli Secundi,—Second to none.



POSTSCRIPT.

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.

Gentle reader! if thou hast been interested in this tale of human hopes and fears—of stern retribution on the wicked, if thou hast shed a tear over the fate of the gentle and the good—thou wilt perhaps be anxious to know more of him, who at the close of our tale, we left—in life's young morning brightness—with wealth and power to aid in his path. Did he fall from his high estate, did prosperity dim the lustre of his promise, (and methinks some gentle maiden asks, how sped he in his love.) If thou hast borne with our tediousness, and hast not fainted—fear not, we will inflict upon thee yet more.

What all thy tediousness on me? (Leonato)

Yes, please your worship. (Dogberry.)

If thou hast been disgusted at the gloomy record, and kicked the book from thee,—Why then farewell, so end the hopes of poor

TOBY ACONITE,

E SCRIBE.

THE END