"What, turned preacher! A prudent move that, Tony. I've heard that old Ironsides has no less than five rich livings in his gift. Now, by Jove! I'd turn parson to-morrow, if I thought my uncle would be dutiful enough to bestow one or two of them upon me. How would the 'Rev. Godfrey Hurdlestone' look upon a visiting card?"

He wrote upon a card, and held it up to Anthony. "See the address of the Right Worshipful Rector of Ashton. Behold him riding upon a fine cob—living in a fine house—surrounded by sleek, well-fed, obsequious servants—his table served like a prince—his wine the best in the country—his parties the most brilliant—his friends the most obliging in the world—his curate does all the work for some paltry sixty pounds a-year, and the rich incumbent lives at his ease. Ah, Tony, what a prospect! What rare times we would have of it! To-morrow, when my father asks me to make choice of a profession, hang me if I do not say the Church."

"You are not fit for so sacred a calling, Godfrey; indeed you are not," said Anthony, fearful that his burlesquing cousin for once in his life was in earnest.

"I know that better than you can tell me, Tony, but 'tis such an easy way to get a living; I could enjoy such glorious indolence; could fish, and hunt, and shoot, and play the fiddle, and attend feasts and merry-makings, with such a happy consciousness of being found in the path of duty, that it would give a double zest to enjoyment. Now don't be envious, my dear demure cousin, and forestall me in my project. I am sure to gain my father's consent. It will save him so much trouble for the future."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Algernon.

"Come, boys, dinner is waiting. My dear Anthony, after that important business is dispatched, I want to talk to you in the library upon a matter of serious importance, which I have, I fear, neglected too long. Nay, don't look alarmed; it is not to administer a scolding, or to question you in Greek or Latin; or to ask you how you have improved your time at school, for I take it for granted that you have both done your best, or I should have heard from Mr. Cunningham, who, they say, is the strictest disciplinarian in the kingdom."

Now, Anthony could not eat his dinner for thinking what his uncle had to say to him; but he had to wait patiently until that gentleman had discussed his bottle of wine; and it was not without a certain sinking of the heart that he rose to follow him to the library. Godfrey's curiosity was aroused; he fancied that it was to make some private inquiries as to his conduct at school, that his father wanted to speak alone with his cousin.

"May I come?"

"No, my boy. What I have to say to Anthony is for him alone."

"Humph!" said Godfrey; then whispering to Anthony as he passed, "No tales out of school, Tony," he sauntered into the garden.

"What ails you, Anthony?" said the good-natured uncle, as he took a seat by the table.

"I don't know," returned the lad; "I felt afraid"—he hesitated—

"Afraid of what?"

"That you were tired of me—wished me to leave you."

"I should much sooner be tired of myself. Don't you know, perverse boy, how dearly I love you;" and he put his arm round the stripling and drew him to his breast. "Godfrey himself is not more dear, son of my murdered Elinor—son of my heart."

There was a long pause; at length the Colonel said, "It was of your father that I wished to speak. We have let eight years pass away without holding the least intercourse with him; in this, I think we have been to blame. The first year you came to me I wrote to him twice, informing him how you were, and suggesting your future mode of education. To my first letter I received the following answer:—

'To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq.

'In adopting my son you pleased yourself. Had he remained with me I should have provided for him. As matters at present stand, I neither wish to be troubled with letters from him nor from you. When you next write I would thank you to pay the post.

Yours, &c.,

'Marcus Hurdlestone.'

"Now, Tony, I was somewhat discouraged by this ungracious answer; however as I knew the man, I wrote to him again and did pay the post; I took no notice of the tenor of his letter, but merely informed him that I had put you to school, and that you were growing a fine clever lad. Here is his reply:—

'To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq.

'Next to receiving impertinent letters, I detest the trouble of answering them. I have no money to fling away upon fools and foolscap.

'Marcus Hurdlestone.'

"Now, my dear boy, although so far my applications to him on your behalf have been unsuccessful, I think it only right and prudent in you to write to him yourself, and remind this affectionate father that you are still in the land of the living."

"And that you wish him," said Godfrey, popping his head in at the door, where he had been an attentive listener for the last five minutes, "well out of it."

Without heeding his cousin's nonsense, Anthony answered his uncle with great simplicity, "Dear uncle, what can I say to him?"

"Faith, my dear boy, that's more than I can tell you; just anything, the best you can. Tell him that you wish to see him, that you are grown nearly into a man; that you wish him to name what profession he wishes you to pursue, as you are about to go to college. But mark me, Tony say not one word about love, filial affection, and so forth; he'll not believe you. The more you attempt to court or conciliate such spirits as his—spirits, did I say? the man's all earth, hard unyielding clay—the more they suspect you of sinister motives. The honest bluntness of indignant truth is more likely to succeed."

"I believe you, uncle, and without exercising any great mental ingenuity, my letter, I fear, will be a sad hypocritical affair."

"Doubtless," said Godfrey, roaring with laughter, "I wish, Tony, we could change fathers."

A reproachful look from Algernon, and a flash from the calm dark eyes of Anthony, checked the immoral levity of his cousin, who, stepping briskly up to the table, continued—

"Give me a pen, and I will give you a few hints on the subject."

"This is too serious a business for mirth, Godfrey," said Anthony, gravely. "I did not love him once—I was a child. He was harsh and cold, and I was ignorant of the sacred nature of those ties that bound us together. Time has wrought a great change in me; perhaps it may have done the same in him. I am anxious to feel for him a deeper interest—to pity his unfortunate malady, and cherish in my heart the duty and affection of a son."

"Ah! Tony, Tony, you begin to know the value of the shiners, to tremble lest old skinflint Pike should cut you out of daddy's will. But come, let me write the dutiful letter that is to reinstate you in the miser's good graces. Shall it be in verse or prose? What, silent yet? Well then, here goes." And with an air of mock gravity he took up a pen, and commenced reading every line aloud as he went on—

"Dear stingy dad, I long to share The keeping of your hoarded treasure; You, I know, have lots to spare, And I, your hopeful son and heir, Would spend it with the greatest pleasure.

Oh, thou most devoted father Fill your chest—hide well the key Countless wealth for me you gather, And I selfishly would rather You should starve and save than me.

Must I—must I, still dependent, On another's bounty live—"

"What do you mean by that, sir?" cried Algernon in sudden anger, although hitherto much amused by his son's rattling nonsense. He saw the blush of shame burn on the cheeks of Anthony, and the tears of wounded pride fill his eyes.

"I meant no offence," said Godfrey, abashed by the unusual severity of the Colonel's look and tone. "What I said was only intended to make you both laugh."

"I forgive him," murmured the indignant heart-humbled lad. "He has given me another motive to write to my father."

"My dear Tony, never mind his folly." But Anthony was already in the solitude of his own chamber.

How often had he borne that taunt from Godfrey! How often had he been told before boys whom he esteemed and loved at school, and whose good opinion he was desirous to retain, that he was dependent upon the bounty of Colonel Hurdlestone, though the only son and heir of the rich miser; and that he was as selfish and mean-spirited as his father to submit to such degradation! And he had marked the sarcastic smile, the lifted shoulder, and the meaning glance that passed from boy to boy, and the galling chain of dependence had entered into his soul.

He became thoughtful and reserved, and applied more intensely to his studies, to shut out what he considered the ungracious, ungrateful conviction that he was a beggar in the house of his good uncle. Godfrey had already calculated the expense of his board and education, for he had more than once hinted to him, that when he came in for his miserly father's wealth, in common justice he ought to repay to him what his romantically generous uncle had expended upon him. Anthony had solemnly averred that such should indeed be the case, and again had been tauntingly answered—"Wait until it is yours; you will then tell a different tale." But now he had dared to reproach him in his uncle's presence; and it was more than the high-spirited youth could bear.

"Father, cruel, unnatural father!" he exclaimed, as he raised his head from between his hands; "why have you subjected your unfortunate son to insults like these?"

"Who insults you, my dear Anthony?" said the Colonel, who had followed him unobserved, and who now stood beside him. "A rash, impetuous, thoughtless boy, who never reflects upon what he says; and who, in spite of all his faults, loves you."

"When you speak, uncle, I am silent. I am sorry that you witnessed this burst of discontent. When I think upon all that I owe to you, my heart is bankrupt in thanks; I never can repay your kindness, and the thought—the consciousness of such overwhelming obligations makes me unhappy."

"I read your heart, Anthony," said the Colonel seating himself beside him. "I know all that you would say, and cannot utter; and I, instead of you become the debtor."

"Your goodness, uncle, makes me feel ashamed of being angry with my cousin. I wish I could forget the unfortunate circumstances in which I am placed; that you were my father instead of him who has disowned me—that my whole heart and soul could cling to you."

He rose hastily and flung himself into the Colonel's arms. His head was buried in his bosom, and by the convulsive heaving of the young heart against his own, Algernon knew that the lad was weeping. His own eyes became moist,—he pressed him warmly against his manly breast.

"You are my son, Anthony—the son of her who received my early vows—of her who ought to have been my wife. Her heart was mine; and though another claims your earthly part, you are the son of my soul—of my adoption. Henceforth let no sense of obligation exist between us."

"I take you at your word, beloved father, and if love can repay love, in my poor heart you have no rival."

"I know it, Anthony; but since you talk of wishing to be out of my debt, there is a way in which you can more than repay me."

He paused; Anthony raised his earnest eyes to his face. "Not only by forgiving my dear petulant Godfrey, but by continuing his friend. I know that I have spoilt him—that he has many faults, but I think his heart is sound. As he grows older, he will know better how to value your character. Promise me, Anthony, that, when I am dust, your love for me may survive for my son."

"Uncle!" said the lad, dropping upon his knees by his side, and holding up his clasped hands, "I swear by the God who made us, by the Saviour who bled for us—by our common hopes of salvation through His blood, that, whatever fortune I inherit from my father, Godfrey shall have an equal part."

"This is too much to ask of you, Anthony, all I wish you to promise is, simply to continue his friend, under every provocation to become otherwise."

Anthony pressed his uncle's hand reverentially to his lips, as he said, in a low voice, "I will endeavor to comply with your request."

They parted: Algernon to counsel his wayward boy, and Anthony to write to his father.

"Father,"

(He began,) "How gladly would I call you dear. Oh, that you would allow me to love you—to feel for you the duty and respect which the poorest child feels for his parent. What have I done, my father, that you deny me your presence, and hold no communion with me? Will you not permit me to see you? You are growing old and need some friend to be near you, to soothe the growing infirmities of age. Who could better fill this place than your son? Who could feel such an interest in your welfare, or be so firm a friend to you, as your son—your only son? You will perhaps tell me that it is your wealth, and not your love, I seek. I care not for your money. It has never conduced to your own happiness; how do I know that it will ever conduce to mine? I hate it, for it has shut up your heart against me, and made me an orphan and an outcast.

"Father, pity me? Pity the circumstances in which I am placed: dependent upon the charity of my good uncle, I feel, kind though he be to me, that I am a burden—that it is not just that I should live upon him. I have finished my school education, and can show you the most honorable testimonials from my masters. I have acquired some knowledge, but I long for more. My uncle talks of sending me to college with his son. For what profession do you wish me to study? Let me know your wishes in this respect, and they shall be strictly obeyed. I shall feel greatly honored by your answer, and remain

"Your dutiful son,

"Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone."

Anthony did not show his uncle this letter. He knew that he would object to the part relative to himself. He duly sealed it and paid the post, and for several days he awaited the reply in a state of feverish excitement. At length it came, and ran thus:

"Son Anthony,

"Your letter pleased me. I believe it to be sincere. You have been so long a stranger, that I do not feel any wish to see you; but, hereafter, if you wait with patience, you will not be forgotten. You are a Hurdlestone. I respect the old family and the old name too much to leave it without an heir.

"I am glad that you have had sense enough to improve your time. Time is money. As to a profession, the uncle who took you from my protection had best choose one for his adopted son. There are several livings in my gift. If you should make choice of the Church, they shall be yours. This would make property which has hitherto been of little value pay a good interest. As to being dependent upon your uncle, the thought amused me. If he feels you a burden, it is self-inflicted, and he must be content to bear it. You need not look to me for pecuniary assistance; I shall yield you none. An industrious young man can always free himself from a galling yoke.

"Your father and friend,

Marcus Hurdlestone."

Upon the whole, Anthony was pleased with his father's letter. It displayed more of human feeling than he expected; besides, he had not rejected his claims as a son. He had acknowledged him to be his heir. It is true, he had forbidden him his presence, and flung back his proffered affection; but he had spoken of him with respect, and his son was grateful even for this stinted courtesy. He would one day be able to repay his uncle's kindness in a more substantial manner than words; and he flew to Algernon's study with a beating heart and flushed cheeks.

"What news, my boy?" said the Colonel, looking up from the artificial fly he was making. "Have you caught a trout or a salmon?"

"Better still. I have got a letter from my father!"

"No!" said the Colonel, letting go his fishing-tackle. "Is that possible?"

"Here it is; read for yourself." And he put the letter into Algernon's hand.

"Well, Tony, lad, this is indeed better than I expected," he said, grasping his nephew warmly by the hand. "But stay; what does this paragraph mean? Have you found my love, Anthony, such a galling yoke?"

"My father has misunderstood me," replied the lad, his cheeks glowing with crimson. "I told him that it was not just for me to be dependent on your bounty."

"'Tis a crabbed old sinner," said the Colonel, laughing, "I am more astonished at his letter than anything that has happened to me since he robbed me of your mother."

Anthony looked inquiringly at his uncle.

"Come, nephew, sit down by me, and I will relate to you a page out of my own history, which will not only show you what manner of man this father of yours is, but explain to you the position in which we are both placed regarding him; clearing up what must have appeared to you very mysterious."

With intense interest the amiable son of this most execrable father listened to the tale already told of his mother's wrongs. How often did the crimes of the parent dye the cheeks of the child with honest indignation, or pale them with fear? How did his love for his generous uncle increase in a tenfold degree, when he revealed the treachery that had been practised against him! How often did he ask himself—"Is it possible that he can love the son of this cruel brother?" But then he was also the son of the woman he had loved so tenderly for years, whose memory he held in the deepest veneration; was like him in person, and, with sounder judgment and better abilities, resembled him in mind also.

Satisfied that his father would do him justice in spite of his cold, unfeeling neglect, and bequeath to him the wealth to obtain which he had sacrificed every human feeling and domestic comfort, Anthony no longer suffered the humiliating sense of obligation to weigh upon his heart and depress his spirits, and he cheerfully accepted his uncle's offer to send him to college to study for the Church.

"Five livings," Godfrey declared, were four too many for any incumbent, and he would charitably relieve Anthony from some of them, and study for the same profession. His cousin was grieved at this choice, so unfitted to the tastes and pursuits of his gay companion; but finding all remonstrance vain, he ceased to importune him on the subject, hoping that as time advanced, he would, of his own accord, abandon the idea.

To college, therefore, the lads went; and here the same dissimilarity marked their conduct as at school. Anthony applied intensely to his studies, and made rapid progress in mental and moral improvement. Serious without affectation, and pious without cant, he daily became more attached to the profession he had chosen, hoping to find through it a medium by which he could one day restore to the world the talents which for half a century his father had buried in the dust. Godfrey's career, on the other hand, was one of folly, dissipation and crime. He wasted his father's property in the most lavish expenditure, and lost at the gaming table sums that would have settled him well in life.

Anthony remonstrated with him on his want of principle, and pointed out the ruin which must follow such profligacy. This Godfrey took in very bad part, and tauntingly accused his cousin of being a spy. He told him that it sounded well from a dependent on his father's bounty to preach up abstinence to him. These circumstances threw Anthony into a deep melancholy. He did not like to write to his uncle to inform him in what a disgraceful manner his son was spending his time and money; and he constantly reproached himself with a want of faithfulness in keeping such an important matter a secret.

Disgusted with his cousin and his dissipated associates, Anthony withdrew entirely from their society, and shut himself up in his own apartments, rarely leaving his books to mingle in scenes in which he could not sympathize, and in which, from his secluded habits, he was not formed to shine. He became a dreamer. He formed a world for himself, and peopled it with beings whose imaginary perfections had no counterpart on earth. He went forth to mingle with his kind, and found them so unlike the creatures in his moral Utopia, that he determined to relinquish society and spiritualise his own nature, the better to fit him for his high calling as a minister of the gospel of Christ.

"How much better it would be to die young," he would exclaim, "than live to be old and wicked, or to watch over the decay of the warm affections and enthusiastic feelings of youth; to see the beautiful fade from the heart, and the worldly and common-place fill up the blighting void! Oh! Godfrey, Godfrey! how can you enjoy the miserable and sensual pleasures for which you are forfeiting self-respect and peace of mind for ever!"

"But Godfrey is happier than you, with all your refined feelings and cultivated tastes," whispered the tempter to his soul.

"It cannot be," returned the youth, as he communed with his own heart. "The pleasures of sin may blind the mental vision, and blunt the senses, for a while; but when the terrible truth makes all things plain—and the reaction comes—and come it assuredly will—and the mind, like a polluted stream, can no longer flow back to its own bright source, and renovate its poisoned waters; who shall then say that the madness of the sensualist can satisfy the heart?"

Thus did these two young men live together: one endeavoring by the aid of religion, and by studying the wisdom of the past, to exalt and purify his fallen nature; the other by grovelling in the dust, and mingling with beings yet more sinful and degraded, rapidly debased his mind to a more degenerate and fallen state.

Godfrey Hurdlestone had always been covetous of his cousin's anticipated wealth, but now he envied his good name, and the respect which his talents and good conduct entitled him to receive from his superiors, and he hated him accordingly. He could not bear to see him courted and caressed by his worldly companions because he was the son of the rich miser, and himself thrown into the background, although in personal endowments he far surpassed his studious and retiring companion. His own father, though reputed to be rich, was known to be in embarrassed circumstances, which the extravagance of his son was not likely to decrease. Godfrey had no mental resource but in the society of persons whom Anthony despised; and he was daily annoyed by disparaging comparisons which the very worldlings he courted were constantly drawing between them. "Oh envy!" well has it been said by the wisest of mankind, "who can stand before envy?"

Of all human passions, the meanest in its operations, the most fatal in its results, foul parent of the most revolting crimes. If the heart is guarded against this passion, the path to heaven becomes easy of access, and the broad and dangerous way loses half its attractions.

Godfrey had forfeited his own self-respect, and he hated his cousin for possessing a jewel which he had cast away. This aversion was strengthened by the anxious solicitude that Anthony expressed for his welfare, and the earnest appeals which he daily made to his conscience, to induce him to renounce his present destructive course, if not for his own, for his father's sake.

Their studies were nearly completed, when the immense sums that Godfrey had squandered in dissipation and gambling obliged the Colonel to recall them home.

Algernon, although not a little displeased with his heartless selfish son, received the young men with his usual kindness, but there was a shade of care upon his broad open brow, which told to Anthony a tale of anxiety and suffering, that caused him the deepest pain. As two whole years must necessarily elapse before Anthony could enter into holy orders, he determined to prosecute his studies in the country with their worthy curate, Mr. Grant, a gentleman of great learning, piety, and worth.

This arrangement was greatly to the satisfaction of his uncle, though Godfrey shook his shoulders, and muttered that it would be "Confounded dull work."

"I must introduce you, boys, to our new neighbors," said the Colonel, next morning, at breakfast. "But mind that you don't pull caps for Miss Whitmore, our charming young heiress."

"Who the deuce is she?" asked Godfrey.

"You knew that our poor old friend Henderson, of Hazelwood Lodge, was dead?"

"Dead! Why when did he die?" said Godfrey. "You never wrote us a word about it."

"Well, I thought I had. He died two months ago, and his property fell to a very distant relation. A captain in the navy. A man of small family and substantial means, who keeps a fine stud, a capital table, and a cross old maid, his sister, to superintend his household and take care of his daughter."

"And the young lady?"

"Is a beautiful simple-hearted girl; rather romantic, and the very reverse of the old maid. Aunt Dorothy is all ginger and vinegar. Niece Juliet, like fine Burgundy, sparkling with life and animation."

"By Jove! Anthony, good news for us. I give you warning, mister parson, that I mean to pass away the time in this dull place by making love to Miss Whitmore. So don't attempt to poach on my manor."

"That's hardly fair, Godfrey. You ought to allow your cousin an equal chance."

"The young lady will herself make the chances equal," said Anthony, with a quiet smile. "For my own part, I feel little interest in the subject, and never yet saw the woman with whom I would wish to pass my life. To me the passion of love is unknown. Godfrey, on the contrary, professes to be in love with every pretty girl he sees."

"There's no doubt that I shall win the lady," cried Godfrey. "Women are not so fond of quiet, sentimental, learned young gentlemen, like Anthony; his heart partakes too much of the cold tough nature of his father's to make a good lover. While he talks sense to the maiden aunt, I shall be pouring nonsense into the young lady's ears—nursing her lap-dog, caressing her pony, writing amatory verses in her scrap-book," (albums were not then in fashion,) "and losing no opportunity of insinuating myself into her good graces."



CHAPTER VIII.

I see no beauty in this wealthy dame; 'Neath the dark lashes of her downcast eyes A weeping spirit lurks. And when she smiles, 'Tis but the sunbeams of an April day, Piercing a watery cloud.—S.M.

"So Colonel Hurdlestone's son and nephew arrived at the Hall last night. Reach me down Juliet's portfolio, Dorothy; I must write the good Colonel a congratulatory note," said Captain Whitmore to his solemn-faced sister.

The Captain was a weather-beaten stout old gentleman, who had seen some hard service during the war, and what with wounds, hard-drinking, and the gout, had been forced to relinquish the sea, and anchor for life in the pretty village of Norgood, where he held property, through the death of the rich Mr. Henderson, to a considerable amount. His wife had been dead for some years, and his only daughter, whom he scarcely suffered out of his sight, was educated at home, under the superintendence of her aunt, who professed to be the most accomplished, as she certainly was the most disagreeable, woman in the world.

"I think, Captain Whitmore, you had better defer your congratulations until you see what sort of persons these young men are. Mrs. Grant assured me yesterday that one of these gentlemen is very wild. Quite a profligate."

"Fiddlesticks!" said the jolly Captain, snapping his fingers. "I know what young men are. A gay dashing lad, I suppose, whose hot blood and youthful frolics old maiden ladies construe into the most awful crimes."

"Old maiden ladies, sir! Pray whom do you mean to insult by that gross appellation?"

"Gross! I always thought that maiden was a term that implied virgin innocence and purity, whether addressed to the blithe lass of sixteen, or the antiquated spinster of forty," returned the provoking sailor, with a knowing glance.

"I hate your vulgar insinuations," said Miss Dorothy, her sharp nose flushing to a deep red. "But how can one expect politeness from a sea monster?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" shouted the Captain. "Never mind, Dolly, don't give way to temper, and curl up that bowsprit of yours with such a confounded ugly twist. There may be a chance yet. Let me see. I don't think that you are fifty-four. My nurse, Betty Holt, was called an old maid for thirty years, and married at last."

"I wonder, brother, that you are not ashamed of naming me and that low-born person in the same breath. As to matrimony, I despise the male sex too much to degrade myself by entering upon it."

"It would have sweetened your temper amazingly," said the Captain, re-filling his pipe. "I believe, Dorothy, you were never put to the trial?"

"You know that I refused at least a dozen offers."

"Whew! I never heard a word about them before."

Miss Dorothy knew that she was telling a great fib; and she drew herself up with increased dignity. "You were at sea, sir."

"So, I suppose," drawing a long whiff from his pipe, "I must have been a great way off; and these same offers must have been made a long time ago."

"I could marry yet, if I pleased!" screamed the indignant spinster.

"Doubtful. And pray who is the happy man?"

"I have too much delicacy to reveal secrets, or to subject myself or him to your vulgar ridicule."

"I wish him luck!" said the Captain, turning over the leaves of Juliet's portfolio. "What the deuce does the girl mean? She has scribbled over all the paper. I hope she don't amuse herself by writing love-letters?"

"Do you think that I would suffer my niece to spend her time in such an improper manner? But, indeed, brother, I wish you would speak to Juliet (for she does not mind me) on this subject."

"On what subject—writing love-letters?"

"No, sir: something almost as bad."

"Well—out with it."

"She has the folly to write verses."

"Is that all?"

"All! Only consider the scandal that it will bring upon me. I shall be called a blue-stocking."

"You! I thought it was the author to whom persons gave that appellation."

"True, Captain Whitmore; but, as I help to instruct the young lady, ill-natured people will say that I taught her to write."

"Don't fret yourself on that score, Dolly; it will not spoil your fortune, if they do. But Juliet—I am sorry that the child has taken such whimsies into her head; it may hinder her from getting a good husband."

"Fie, Captain Whitmore! Is that your only objection?"

"Be quiet, Dolly, there's a good woman, and let me examine these papers. If there is anything wrong about them, I will burn them, and forbid my pretty Julee to write such nonsense again. I know that the dear girl loves her old dad, and will mind what I say. How!—what's this? God bless the darling!"

'Lines addressed to my father during his absence at sea.'

The old man put on his spectacles, and read these outpourings of an affectionate heart with the tears in his eyes. They possessed very little merit, as a poem; but the Captain thought them the sweetest lines he had ever read.

"Well, now, Dolly, is not that a pretty poem? Who could have the heart to find fault with that, or criticise the dear child for her dutiful love to me? I'll not burn that." And the old tar slipped the precious document into his pocket, to be hoarded next his heart, and to be worn until death bade them part, within the enamelled case which contained the miniature of his Julee's very pretty mother.

"It's well enough," said Miss Dorothy; "but I hate such romantic stuff. It could have been written with more propriety in prose." And she added, in a malicious aside, loud enough to reach the ears of the fond father:

"Now his vanity's pleased with this nonsense, there will be no end to his admiration of Juliet's verses."

"Dorothy, don't be envious of that of which you are incapable."

"Me envious! Of whom, pray? A whining, half-grown chit, who, if she have anything worthy of commendation about her, first received it from me. Envious, indeed! Captain Whitmore, I am astonished at your impudence!"

What answer the Captain would have given to this was very doubtful, for his brow clouded up with the disrespectful manner in which Aunt Dorothy spoke of his child, had not that child herself appeared, and all the sunshine of the father's heart burst forth at her presence.

"Dear papa, what are you about?" she cried, flinging her arms about the old veteran's neck, and trying, at the same moment, to twitch the paper out of his hand.

"Avast heavin'! my girl. The old commodore is not to be robbed so easily of his prize."

"Indeed, you must give the portfolio to me!" said Juliet, her eyes full of tears at finding her secret discovered.

"Indeed, indeed, I shall do no such thing, you saucy little minx! So, sit still whilst the father reads."

"But that—that is not worth reading."

"I dare say you are right, Miss Juliet," said the old maid, sarcastically. "The rhymes of young ladies are seldom worth reading. You had better mend your stockings, and mind your embroidery, than waste your time in such useless trash."

"It does not take up much of my time, aunt."

"How do you make it up out of your little head, Julee?" said the Captain. "Come and sit upon my knee, and tell the father all about it. I am sure I could sooner board a French man-of-war than tack two rhymes together."

"I don't know, papa," said Juliet, laughing, and accepting the proffered seat. "It comes into my head when it likes, and passes through my brain with the rapidity of lightning. I find it without seeking, and often, when I seek it, I cannot find it. The thing is a great mystery to myself; but the possession of it makes me very happy."

"Weak minds, I have often been told, are amused by trifles," sneered Aunt Dorothy.

"Then I must be very weak, aunt, for I am easily amused. Dear papa, give me that paper."

"I must read it."

"'Tis silly stuff."

"Let me be the best judge of that. Perhaps it contains something that I ought not to see?"

"Perhaps it does. Oh, no," she whispered in his ear; "but Aunt Dorothy will sneer so at it."

The old man was too much pleased with his child to care for Aunt Dorothy. He knew, of old, that her bark was worse than her bite; that she really loved both him and his daughter; but she had a queer way of showing it. And unfolding the paper, he read aloud, to the great annoyance of the fair writer, the fragment of a ballad, of which, to do him justice, he understood not a single word; and had he called upon her to explain its meaning, she would, in all probability, have found it no easy task.

LADY LILIAN.

Alone in her tower, at the midnight hour, The lady Lilian sat; Like a spirit pale, In her silken veil, She watches the white clouds above her sail, And the flight of the drowsy bat.

Is love the theme of her waking dream? Her heart is gay and free; She loves the night, When the stars shine bright, And the moon falls in showers of silver light Through the stately forest tree.

And all around, on the dewy ground, The quivering moonbeams stray; And the light and shade, By the branches made, Give motion and life to the silent glade, Like fairy elves at play.

And far o'er the meads, through its fringe of reeds, Flashes the slender rill; Like a silver thread, By some spirit led, From an urn of light by the moonbeams fed, It winds round the distant hill.

When sleep's soft thrall falls light on all, That lady's eyes unclose; To all that is fair In earth and air, When none are awake her thoughts to share, Or her spirit discompose.

And tones more dear, to her fine-tuned ear, On the midnight breezes float; Than the sounds that ring From the minstrel's string, When the mighty deeds of some warrior king Inspire each thrilling note.

* * * * *

"So there's a hole in the ballad," said the old tar, looking up in his daughter's blushing face. "Julee, my dear, what does all this mean?"

"It would be a difficult matter for Miss Julee to explain," said Aunt Dorothy.

Further remarks on either side were stopped by the announcement of Colonel Hurdlestone, and his son and nephew. Juliet seized the portfolio from her father, and, with one bound, cleared the opposite doorway, and disappeared.

"We have frightened your daughter away, Captain Whitmore," said the Colonel, glancing after the retreating figure of Juliet. "What made my young friend run from us?"

"Oh, I have just found out the saucy jade is scribbling verses all over my paper; and she is afraid that I should tell you about it; and that aunt Dorothy would quiz her before these gentlemen."

"I should like much to see a specimen of her poetry," said the Colonel.

"Here are a few lines addressed to myself," said the proud father, handing them to his friend. "I was going to scold Julee for her folly; but, by Jove, Colonel, I could not bring my heart to do it after reading that!"

The paper went round. It lingered longest in the hand of Anthony Hurdlestone. The lines possessed no particular merit. They were tender and affectionate, true to nature and nature's simplicity, and as he read and re-read them, it seemed as if the spirit of the author was in unison with his own. "Happy girl!" he thought, "who can thus feel towards and write of a father. How I envy you this blessed, holy affection!" He raised his eyes, and rose up in confusion, to be presented to Miss Whitmore.

Juliet could scarcely be termed beautiful; but her person was very attractive. Her features were small, but belonged to none of the favored orders of female beauty; and her complexion was pallid, rendered more conspicuously so by the raven hair, that fell in long silken ringlets down her slender white throat, and spread like a dark veil round her elegant bust and shoulders. Her lofty brow was pure as marble, and marked by that high look of moral and intellectual power, before which mere physical beauty shrinks into insignificance. Soft pencilled eyebrows gave additional depth and lustre to a pair of the most lovely deep blue eyes that ever flashed from beneath a fringe of jet. There was an expression of tenderness almost amounting to sadness, in those sweet eyes; and when they were timidly raised to meet those of the young Anthony, a light broke upon his heart, which the storms and clouds of after-life could never again extinguish.

"Miss Juliet, your father has been giving us a treat," said the Colonel.

Poor Juliet turned first very red, and then very pale, and glanced reproachfully at the old man.

"Nay, Miss Whitmore, you need not be ashamed of that which does you so much credit," said the Colonel, pitying her confusion.

"Dear papa, it was cruel to betray me," said Juliet, the tears of mortified sensibility filling her fine eyes. "Colonel Hurdlestone, you will do me a great favor by never alluding to this subject again."

"You are a great admirer of nature, Miss Whitmore, or you could never write poetry," said Godfrey, heedless of the distress of the poor girl. But he was tired of sitting silent, and longed for an opportunity of addressing her.

"Poetry is the language in which nature speaks to the heart of the young," said Juliet. "Do you think that there ever was a young person indifferent to the beauties of poetry?"

"All young people have not your taste and fine feeling," said Godfrey. "There are some persons who can walk into a garden without distinguishing the flowers from the weeds. You have of course read Shakspeare?"

"It formed the first epoch in my life," returned Juliet with animation. "I never shall forget the happy day when I first revelled through the fairy isle with Ariel and his dainty spirits. My father was from home, and had left the key in the library door. It was forbidden ground. My aunt was engaged with an old friend in the parlor, so I ventured in, and snatched at the first book which came to hand. It was a volume of Shakspeare, and contained, among other plays, the Tempest and Midsummer Night's Dream. Afraid of detection I stole away into the park, and beneath the shadow of the greenwood tree, I devoured with rapture the inspired pages of the great magician. What a world of wonders it opened to my view! Since that eventful hour poetry has become to me the language of nature—the voice in which creation lifts up its myriad anthems to the throne of God."

An enthusiastic country girl could alone have addressed this rhapsody to a stranger. A woman of the world with half her talent and moral worth, would have blushed at her imprudence in betraying the romance of her nature. Juliet was a novice in the world, and she spoke with the simplicity and earnestness of truth. Godfrey smiled in his heart at her want of tact; yet there was one near him, in whose breast Juliet Whitmore would have found an echo to her own words.

The gentlemen rose to depart, and promised to dine at the Lodge the next day.

"Two fine young men," said the Captain, turning to his daughter, as the door closed upon his guests. "Which of them took your fancy most, Julee?"

"They are so much alike—I should scarcely know them apart. I liked him the best who most resembled the dear old Colonel."

"Old! Miss Juliet. I hope you don't mean to call Colonel Hurdlestone an old man! You will be calling me old next."

"And not far from the truth if she did," muttered the old sailor. "That was the Colonel's nephew, Julee, Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone."

"The son of that horrible old miser? I saw him once and took him for a beggar. Is it possible that that elegant young man can be his son?"

"I think the case somewhat doubtful," observed Miss Dorothy. "I wonder that Colonel Hurdlestone has the effrontery to introduce that young man as his nephew. Nature herself contradicts the assertion."

"Dolly, don't be censorious. I thought the Colonel was a great friend of yours."

"He was; but I am not blind," said Miss Dorothy, with dignity. "I have altered my mind with regard to that gentleman, and would not become his wife if he were to ask me on his bended knees."

"I wish he would pop the question," said the Captain. "I'd bet my life on't that he would not have to ask twice!"

"Sir," replied the lady, casting upon her brother a withering glance, "I never mean to marry a widower—an uncle—who brings with him nephews so like himself." Miss Dorothy swept from the room, leaving her brother convulsed with laughter.

"Miss Whitmore is not so handsome as I expected to find her, after the fuss that George Braconberry made about her the other night at Wymar's," said Godfrey, suddenly pulling up his horse, as they rode home, and addressing his cousin. "Her figure is delightful, symmetry itself; but her face, she has scarcely one good feature in it. There is nothing gay or joyous in her expression. There is an indescribable sadness about those blue eyes which makes one feel grave in a moment. I wanted to pay her a few compliments by way of ingratiating myself into her good graces; but, by Jove! I could not look her in the face and do it. A man must have more confidence than I possess to attempt to deceive her. I never felt afraid of a woman before."

"I am glad to hear you say so," returned Anthony. "To me she is beautiful, exceedingly beautiful. I would not exchange that noble expression of hers for the most faultless features and blooming complexion in the world. The dignity of her countenance is the mirror in which I see reflected the beauty of the soul; as the stars picture on the face of the placid stream the heaven in which they dwell."

"Are you turned poet too, Master Anthony? Mary Mathews, down at the farm, has a prettier face, or I am no judge of female beauty."

"We all know your penchant for Mary Mathews. But seriously, Godfrey, if you do not mean to marry the poor girl, it is very cruel to pay her such lover-like attentions."

"One must do something, Tony, to pass away the time in this dull place. As to marrying the girl, you surely do not take me for a fool?"

"I should be sorry to take you for something worse. Last night you went too far, when you took the sweet-briar rose from her bosom and placed it in your own; and said that you preferred it to all the flowers in the garden; that your highest ambition was to win and wear the wild rose. The poor girl believed you. Did you not see how she looked down and blushed, and then up in your face with the tears in her eyes, and a sweet smile on her severed lips. Surely, my dear cousin, it is wrong to give birth to hopes which you never mean to realize."

A crimson flush passed over Godfrey's brow as he answered haughtily. "Nonsense, Anthony! you take up this matter too seriously. Women love flattery, and if we are bound in honor to marry all the women we compliment, the law must be abolished that forbids polygamy."

"I know one who would not fail to take advantage of such an act," said Anthony. "But really, matters that concern the happiness and misery of our fellow creatures are too serious for a joke. I hope poor Mary's light heart will never be rendered heavy by your gallantry."

Again the color flushed the cheek of Godfrey. He looked down, slashed his well-polished boot with his riding-whip, and endeavored to hum a tune, and appear indifferent to his cousin's lecture, but it would not do; and telling Anthony that he was in no need of a Mentor, he whistled to a favorite spaniel, and dashing his spurs into his horse, was soon out of sight.

Mary Mathews, the young girl who formed the subject of this conversation, was a strange eccentric creature, more remarkable for the beauty of her person, and her masculine habits, than for any good qualities she possessed. Her father rented a small farm, the property of Colonel Hurdlestone; her mother died while she was yet a child, and her only brother ran away from following the plough and went to sea.

Mathews was a rude, clownish, matter-of-fact man; he wanted some person to assist him in looking after the farm, and taking care of the stock; and he brought up Mary to fill the place of the son he had lost, early inuring her to take an active part, in those manual labors which were peculiar to his vocation. Mary was a man in everything but her face and figure, which were exceedingly soft and feminine; and if her complexion had not been a little injured by constant exposure to the atmosphere, she would have been a perfect beauty; and in spite of these disadvantages she was considered the belle of the village.

Alas! for Mary. Her masculine employments, and constantly associating with her father's work-people, had destroyed the woman in her heart. She thought like a man—spoke like a man—acted like a man. The loud clear voice, and clearer louder laugh, the coarse jest and rude song, grated painfully on the ear, and appeared unnatural in the highest degree, when issuing from coral lips, whose perfect contour might have formed a model for the Venus.

Mary knew that she was handsome, and never attempted to conceal from others her consciousness of the fact; and, as long as her exterior elicited applause and admiration from the rude clowns who surrounded her, she cared not for those minor graces of voice and manner which render beauty so captivating to the refined and well-educated of the other sex.

In the harvest-field she was always the foremost in the band of reapers; dressed in her tight green-cloth boddice, clean white apron, red stuff petticoat, and neatly blacked shoes; her beautiful features shaded by her large, coarse, flat, straw hat, put knowingly to one side, more fully to display the luxuriant auburn tresses, of the sunniest hue, that waved profusely in rich natural curls round her face and neck. In the hay-field you passed her, with the rake across her shoulder, and turned in surprise to look at the fair creature, who whistled to her dog, sang snatches of profane songs, and hallooed to the men in the same breath. In the evening you met her bringing home her cows from the marshes, mounted upon her father's grey riding horse; keeping her seat with as much ease and spirit, although destitute of a side-saddle, as the most accomplished female equestrian in St. James's Park; and when his services were no longer required by our young Amazon, she rubbed down her horse, and turned him adrift with her own hands into the paddock.

To see Mary Mathews to advantage, when the better nature of her womanhood triumphed over the coarse rude habits to which her peculiar education had given birth, was when surrounded by her weanling calves and cosset lambs, or working in her pretty garden that skirted the road. There, among her flowers, with her splendid locks waving round her sunny brow, and singing as blithe as any bird, some rural ditty or ballad of the days gone by, she looked the simple, unaffected, lovely country girl. The traveller paused at the gate to listen to her song, to watch her at her work, and to beg a flower from her hand. Even the proud aristocratic country gentleman, as he rode past, doffed his hat, and saluted courteously the young Flora whose smiling face floated before him during his homeward ride.

Uncontrolled by the usages of the world, and heedless of its good or bad opinion, Mary became a law to herself—a headstrong, wayward, passionate creature; shunned by her own sex, who regarded her as their common enemy, and constantly thrown into contact with the worst and most ignorant of the other, it was not to be wondered at that she became an object of suspicion to all.

With a mind capable of much good, but constantly exposed to much evil, Mary felt with bitterness that she had no friend among her village associates who could share her feelings, or enjoy her unfeminine pursuits. With energy of purpose to form and execute the most daring projects, her mental powers were confined to the servile drudgery of the kitchen and the field until the sudden return of her long-lost brother gave a new coloring to her life, and influenced all her future actions.

The bold audacious William Mathews, of whom she felt so proud, and whom she loved so fiercely, carried on the double profession of a poacher on shore and a smuggler at sea. Twice Mary had exposed her life to imminent danger to save him from detection; and so strongly was she attached to him, that there was no peril that she would not have dared for his sake. Fear was a stranger to her breast. Often had she been known to ride at the dead hour of night, through lonely cross-roads, to a distant parish, to bring home her father from some low hedge-alehouse, in which she suspected him to be wasting his substance with a set of worthless profligates.

Twice during the short period of her life, for she had only just entered upon her eighteenth year, she had suffered from temporary fits of insanity; and the neighbors, when speaking of her exploits, always prefaced it with, "Oh, poor thing! There is something wrong about that girl. There is no account to be taken of her deeds."

From a child Mary had been an object of deep interest to the young Hurdlestones. Residing on the same estate, she had been a stolen acquaintance and playfellow from infancy. She always knew the best pools in the river for fishing, could point out the best covers for game, knew where to find the first bird's-nest, and could climb the loftiest forest tree to obtain the young of the hawk or crow with more certainty of success than her gay companions. Their sports were dull and spiritless without Mary Mathews.

As they advanced towards manhood they took more notice of her peculiarities, and laughed at her boyish ways; but when she grew up into a beautiful girl they became more respectful in their turn, and seldom passed her in the grounds without paying her some of those light compliments and petty attentions always acceptable to a pretty vain girl of her class. Both would officiously help her to catch and bridle her horse, carry her pail, or assist her in the hay-field. And this was as often done to hear the smart answers that pretty Poll would return to their gallant speeches, for the girl possessed no small share of wit, and her natural talents were in no way inferior to their own.

Godfrey had of late addressed her in less bantering tones; for he had played, like the moth, around the taper until he had burnt his wings, and was fairly scorched by the flame of love. In spite of the remonstrances of his more conscientious cousin, he daily spent hours in leaning over her garden gate, enacting the lover to this rustic Flora. It was to such a scene as this that Anthony had alluded, and respecting which Godfrey had given such an indefinite answer.

Capricious in his pursuits, Godfrey was not less inconstant in his affections; and the graceful person and pleasing manners of Juliet Whitmore had made a deeper impression upon his fickle mind than he thought it prudent to avow; nor was he at all insensible to the pecuniary advantages that would arise from such a union.



CHAPTER IX.

Come, tell me something of this wayward girl. Oh, she is changed—and such a woful change! It breaks my heart to think on't. The bright eye Has lost its fire, the red rose on her cheek Is washed to whiteness by her frequent tears; And with the smile has fled the ruby glow From the twin lips, so tempting and so ripe; That wooed to love with their ambrosial breath, That, issuing through those dewy portals, showed The pearly teeth within, like gems enshrined.—S.M.

What aileth thee this morning, young daughter, that thou lingerest so long before the mirror, adjusting and re-adjusting the delicately-tinted Provence rose-buds in thy dark flowing tresses? Art thou doubtful of thy charms, or have the calm bright eyes of the young stranger made thee diffident of the power of thy own surpassing loveliness? Those eyes have caught thy young fancy, and made thee blind to all other objects around thee. They have haunted thee through the long night; thou couldst not sleep; those dark eyes looked into thy soul; they have kindled upon the hidden altar of life the sad and beautiful light of love. Thou no longer livest for thyself; another image possesses thy heart, and thou hast wonderingly discovered a new page in the poetry of thy nature.

"Yes, love—first love—is a sad and holy thing; a pleasure born out of pain, welcomed with smiles, nourished by tears, and worshipped by the young and enthusiastic as the only real and abiding good in a world of shadow. Alas! for the young heart, why should it ever awake to find the most perfect of its creatures like the rest—a dream!"

And poor Juliet's love-dream was banished very abruptly by the harsh voice of Aunt Dorothy.

"Miss Whitmore, the dinner waits for you. Quick! you have been an hour dressing yourself to-day. Will you never have done arranging your hair? Now, do pray take out those nasty flowers. They do not become you. They look romantic and theatrical."

"Ah, aunt, you must not rob me of my flowers, God's most precious gift to man."

"I hate them! They always make a room look in a litter."

"Hate flowers!" exclaimed Juliet, in unaffected surprise. "God's beautiful flowers! I pity your want of taste, my good aunt."

"Nay, spare your commiseration for those who need it, Miss Whitmore. My judgment is certainly not inferior to yours; and I never could discover the use or beauty of flowers. What! not satisfied yet?" as Juliet cast another hurried glance at the mirror. "The vanity of girls in our days is quite disgusting to a woman of sense."

"I look so ill to-day, aunt, I am ashamed of being seen."

"It is matter of little consequence, I dare say; no one will notice how you look. A few years hence, and there would be some excuse for spending so much time before a looking-glass."

The ladies entered the drawing-room as dinner was announced. If Juliet was dissatisfied with her appearance, Anthony thought that she looked most beautiful, and was delighted to find himself seated beside her. How gladly would he have improved this opportunity of conversing with her, but the natural shyness of his disposition became doubly distressing when he most wished to surmount it; and, with a thousand thoughts in his heart and words upon his tongue, he remained silent. Juliet was the first to speak.

"You were out fishing last night, Mr. Anthony. Were you successful?"

"I am always successful, Miss Whitmore. But, after all, it is a cruel and treacherous sport. I feel ashamed of myself for entering into it with such zest. Destruction appears to be a principle inherent in our nature. Man shows his tyrannical disposition in finding so great a pleasure in taking away from the inferior animals the life which he cannot restore."

"You are too severe," returned Juliet. "We are apt to forget during the excitement of the moment the cruelty we inflict. I read old Izaak Walton when a child. He made me mistress of the whole art of angling. It is such a quiet contemplative amusement. The clear stream, the balmy air, the warbling of happy birds, the fragrant hedge-rows and flowery banks, by which you are surrounded, make you alive to the most pleasing impressions: and amidst sights and sounds of beauty, you never reflect that you are acting the part of the destroyer. I have given up the gentle craft; but I still think it a strangely-fascinating sport."

"I should be sorry to see you so engaged," said Anthony. "I never could bear to witness so soft a hand employed in taking away life."

"You, too, have learned the art of flattery," said Juliet, reproachfully. "When will your sex, in speaking to ours, learn to confine themselves to simple truth?"

"When the education of woman is conducted with less art, and they rise superior to the meanness of being pleased with falsehood. What I said just now was but the simple truth. I admit that it was said to please, and I should, indeed, be grieved, if I thought that I could possibly have given offence."

He looked so serious and anxious, that Juliet burst into a merry laugh.

"A very heinous crime, indeed, and deserving a very severe punishment! What shall it be?"

"Another lecture from those lips. Remember, I did not say, sweet lips."

"Worse and worse. I will abandon the lectures for the future, for, I perceive, that to complain to a gentleman of his using compliments, only induces him to make a dozen more, in order to atone for his first offence."

The young people's tete a tete was interrupted by Miss Dorothea, who hated to hear any one talk but herself, asking Mr. Anthony, "If it were true that he was studying for the Church?" On his replying in the affirmative, she continued: "Your father, Mr. Anthony, is determined to let nothing go out of the family. One would have thought that you could have afforded to have lived like an independent gentleman."

Anthony, who was unfortunately very sensitive on this subject, colored deeply as he replied,

"My choice of a profession, madam, was not so much in accordance with my father's wishes as with my own."

"Well, I must say that I think it a strange choice for a young man of fortune."

"I made choice of that mode of life, in which I hoped to be of most use to my fellow creatures. The fortune to which you allude, Miss Whitmore, may never be mine."

"Yes, yes; I see you are determined to look out for the main chance," continued his ill-natured tormentor. "But, to do you justice, young man, I think nature made you for a parson."

This speech was greatly relished by Godfrey, who burst into a loud laugh. He secretly enjoyed poor Anthony's mortification; and, though he detested the old maid himself, he had successfully wormed himself into her good graces, by paying her some judicious compliments, in which the graces of her person and her youthful appearance had been the theme of praise.

"By the by, Tony," he said, turning suddenly to his cousin, "you have received a letter from your father, and never told me one word about it. Was it a kind epistle?"

"Better than I expected," returned Anthony coldly. "But I never discuss family matters in public."

"Public! Are we not among friends?" said Godfrey, persisting in his impertinent interrogatories.

"But you inherit a good deal of the suspicious cautious character of your father. When you grow old, I believe that you will be just as fond of money as he is. Did he offer to advance a sufficient sum to settle you in life?"

"No, he did not."

"Astonishing! What excuse can he give for such unreasonable conduct?"

"The old one, I suppose," said Colonel Hurdlestone, laughing—"poverty."

"Ha! ha! ha!" reiterated Godfrey.

"Godfrey!" said Anthony, with much severity of look and tone: "how can such a lamentable instance of human weakness (madness, I might say) awaken your mirth?"

"Is it not enough to make one laugh, when an old fellow, rich enough to pay the National Debt, refuses to provide for his only son, and suffers him to live upon the charity of a brother?"

This unexpected though oft-repeated insult was too much for Anthony to bear at such a moment, and in the presence of the woman he loved. The proud flash of his dark eye told how deeply his gentle nature was moved. His indignation did not escape the watchful eye of Juliet; but he mastered his passion, and answered his cousin in a calm low voice.

"Godfrey, I understand you. You need say no more on that subject. You know how painfully alive I am to the obligations I owe to my uncle, and it is ungenerous to take such an opportunity of reminding me of them. The debt, I hope, will one day be repaid."

He rose to take leave. A pleading look from Juliet made him abandon his intention. "Sit down," said Juliet, in a persuasive voice, "I am sure your cousin meant no offence. Delicacy of mind," she added, in a very low tone, meant only for his ear, "is not always an inherent quality; we should pity and forgive those who are destitute of it."

"I will do any thing to please you," returned Anthony; and Godfrey, pale with disappointed malice, saw him resume his seat.

"I have provided a little treat of strawberries and cream," continued Juliet; "they are the first of the season, and were presented to me this morning by that strangely-interesting girl, Mary Mathews. How I regret that her father's injudicious method of bringing her up should so completely have spoiled a girl whom Nature formed to be an ornament to her humble station."

"Mary is a beautiful girl," said Anthony, "and has a mind of no ordinary cast. Her failings are the result of the peculiar circumstances in which she has been placed. With such a kind monitress as Miss Whitmore to counsel her, I feel assured that she might soon be persuaded to forsake her masculine employments, and feel a relish for more feminine pursuits."

He spoke with much earnestness, until perceiving that Juliet regarded him with a peculiarly searching glance, he colored, hesitated, became embarrassed, and, finally, stopped speaking.

"When I first saw Mary Mathews, some months ago," said Juliet, "she was very pretty, and as blithe as a bird; I used to envy the exuberance of her animal spirits, whenever I passed her little garden, and heard her singing. For the last few weeks, a melancholy change has taken place in the poor girl's appearance, which gives me pain to witness. Her cheek has lost its bloom; her step its elasticity; her dress is neglected; and the garden in which she worked and sang so merrily, and in which she took so much delight, is overrun with weeds. Her whole appearance indicates the most poignant grief. When I questioned her to-day upon the subject, she answered me with a burst of tears—tears, which seem so unnatural for one of her disposition to shed. Perhaps, Mr. Anthony," she continued, with an air of increasing interest, "you can tell me something of the history of this young girl—as she is one of your uncle's tenants—which may lead me to discover the cause of her grief?"

Before Anthony could reply to this somewhat embarrassing question, he was called upon by his uncle, who was playing chess with the old Captain, to decide some important problem in the game; and Godfrey, who had been a painfully observant listener to their conversation, glided into his vacant seat.

"I wish, Miss Whitmore, that I could satisfactorily answer all your generous inquiries with regard to Mary Mathews. But I know and hear so little of the gossip of the village, and with the poor girl's private history I am totally unacquainted—nay, the girl herself is to me a perfect stranger. No person is better able to give you the information you require than my cousin Anthony; he knows Mary well. In spite of my father's prohibitions, she was always a chosen playfellow of his. He professes a great admiration for this beautiful peasant, and takes a deep interest in all that concerns her."

Why did Juliet's cheek at that moment grow so very pale? Why did she sigh so deeply, and suddenly drop a conversation which she had commenced with such an apparent concern for the person who had formed the subject of it? Love may have its joys, but oh, how painfully are they contrasted with its doubts and fears! She had suffered the serpent of jealousy to coil around her heart, and for the first time felt its envenomed sting. When Anthony returned to his seat he found his fair companion unusually cold and reserved. A few minutes after, she complained of sudden indisposition, and left the room, and she did not return that evening.

That night, Juliet wept herself to sleep. "Is it not evident," she said to herself, "that this poor Mary is in love with Anthony Hurdlestone, and can I be base enough to add another pang to a heart already deeply wounded, by endeavoring to gain his affections? No. I will from this hour banish him from my thoughts, and never make him the subject of these waking dreams again."

But alas! for good resolutions. She found the task more difficult than she had imagined. She could not obliterate the image stamped by the power of love upon her heart. Like the lion, she struggled in the net, without the aid of the friendly mouse to set her free. She wished that she had never seen him—had never heard the rich tones of his mellow voice, or suffered the glance of his dark serious eyes to penetrate to her soul. Ah! Juliet, well mayest thou toss to and fro in thy troubled slumbers; thy lover is more miserable than thou, for he cannot sleep. Indignant at the insult he had received in so unprovoked a manner from his ungenerous cousin, and at war with himself, Anthony Hurdlestone paced his chamber during the greater part of the night—striking his breast against the fetters that bound him, and striving in vain to be free. The very idea, that he was the son of the miser—that he must blush for his father whenever his name was mentioned, was not the least of his annoyances.

Was it possible that a girl of Juliet Whitmore's poetic temperament could love the son of such a man? and as he pressed his hands against his aching brow, and asked himself the question, he wished that he had been the son of the poorest peasant upon the rich man's vast estates. Anthony did not appear at the breakfast-table, and when he did leave his chamber and joined the family party at dinner, he met Godfrey, who had just returned from Captain Whitmore's, his handsome countenance glowing with health and pleasure.

"Why, Godfrey, my boy!" cried the Colonel, regarding him with parental pride, "What have you been doing with yourself all the morning?"

"Gardening with the jolly old tar, Captain Whitmore; quizzing the old witch, his sister; and making love to his charming daughter. Upon my word, sir, she is a delightful creature, and sings and plays divinely! Her personal charms I might have withstood, but her voice has taken me by surprise. You know that I was always a worshipper of sweet sounds; and this little girl kept her divine gift so entirely to herself, that it was by mere chance that I found out that she could sing. She was a little annoyed too by the discovery. I came in upon her unawares, and surprised her in the very act. She gave herself no affected airs, but when I requested it, not only concluded the song she was singing, but sang many others, in which I was able to accompany her. The old Captain has insisted upon my bringing my flute over, that I may accompany his Juliet upon the piano. He could not have done me a greater kindness, and I have no doubt that we shall get on delightfully together."

"This is hardly right, Godfrey," said his father, "you promised Anthony to start fair in attempting to win the good opinion of Miss Whitmore, and now you are trying to throw him altogether into the back-ground."

"Ah, my dear sir, that was all very well in theory, but I found myself unable to reduce it to practice. I tell you, Anthony, that I am over head and ears in love with Miss Whitmore, and if you wish to die a natural death, you must not attempt to rival me with the lady."

"And poor Mary—what will become of her?"

Godfrey flashed an angry glance at his cousin.

"How can you name that peasant in the same breath with Miss Whitmore?"

"A few days ago, Godfrey, you preferred the simple graces of the country girl to the refined lady."

"My taste is improving, you see," said Godfrey, filling his glass to the brim. "And here—in the sparkling juice of the grape, let all remembrance of my boyish love be drowned."

Anthony sighed, and sank into a fit of abstraction, while Colonel Hurdlestone joined his son in a bumper to the health of the lady.

In spite of Godfrey's avowal, Anthony could not bring himself to regard Juliet Whitmore with indifference; nor did he consider it any breach of honor endeavoring to make himself agreeable in her eyes. His attentions, though less marked than his cousin's, were of a more delicate and tender nature, appealing less to female vanity, and more directly to her heart and understanding; and there were moments when the young lover fancied that he was not an object of indifference. The more he saw of the enthusiastic girl, with all her romantic propensities, the more strongly he became attached to her. Her sins of authorship were undictated by ambition or the mere love of fame; but were the joyous outpourings of an artless mind delighted in having discovered a method of conveying her thoughts to paper, and retaining in a tangible form those delightful visions that so often engrossed her fancy.

She laid no claim to the title of a Blue—she had not the most remote idea of being considered a literary lady. She sang as the birds do in the bushes, for the mere pleasure of singing, and she was perfectly unconscious that others listened and admired her songs.

Independent of her love of music and poetry, she had many valuable mental and moral qualities. Not among the least of these was a deep sympathy in the wants and sufferings of the poor, which she always endeavored to alleviate to the utmost of her power. The selfish fear of infection never deterred her from visiting the abodes of her poor neighbors—administering to their comfort when sick, and not unfrequently watching beside the pillow of the dying. In the performance of these acts of charity, she was greatly encouraged and assisted by her worthy father.

When aunt Dorothy, in her cold egotism, raved about her niece endangering her life, and the lives of those around her, by going to infected houses, the Captain's general answer was—"Let the child alone, Dorothy; a good angel watches over her—God will take care of his own."

"So you said of her mother, Captain Whitmore, yet she lost her life by obstinately persisting in what she was pleased to call her duty."

"If the good ship sunk while endeavoring to save the drowning crew of another," said the poor Captain, wiping the dew from his spectacles, "she went down in a good cause, and a blessing has descended from above upon her child."

One day, when Anthony had been remonstrating with Juliet for incurring so much danger while visiting the poor during a period of epidemic sickness, she replied, with her usual frankness,

"This from you, Mr. Anthony, who have devoted yourself to be an instructor of the poor, a friend of the friendless, a minister of Christ!—how can I better employ my time than in striving to alleviate the sorrows that I cannot cure? To tell you the truth, I cannot yield more to pleasure without spoiling my heart. It is not that I am averse to innocent amusements, for no person enjoys them more. But were I constantly to gratify my own selfish inclinations, I should soon lose my peace of mind, that dew of the soul, which is so soon absorbed in the heated atmosphere of the world."

"If such devotion is what the worldly term enthusiasm, may its blessed inspiration ever continue to influence your actions!"

"Enthusiasm!" repeated the girl. "Oh that I could convey to you in words what I feel to be the true definition of that much abused term. Enthusiasm is the eternal struggling of our immortal against our mortal nature, which expands the wings of the soul towards its native heaven. Enthusiasm! Can anything great or good be achieved without it? Can a man become a poet, painter, orator, patriot, warrior, or lover, without enthusiasm? Can he become a Christian without it? In man's struggles to obtain fame, enthusiasm is a virtue. In a holy cause it is termed madness. Oh, thou divine Author of the human soul, evermore grant me the inspiration of this immortal spirit!"

They were standing together in the balcony. The beams of the summer moon rested upon the upturned brow of the young enthusiast, and filled her eyes with a holy fire, and the words of love that had trembled upon Anthony's lips were dismissed from his thoughts as light and vain. She looked too pure to address to her, at such a moment, the wild outpourings of human passion.

Godfrey's flute sounded beneath the balcony. He played one of Juliet's favorite songs. She turned to her lover and said, with a lively air, "Is not the musician an enthusiast—is not the language in which he breathes his soul the poetry of sound?"

"Then what is love?" and Anthony tried to detain the small, white hand she had placed upon his arm.

"I dare not attempt to analyse it;" and Juliet blushed deeply as she spoke. "Beautiful when worshipped at a distance, it becomes too much the necessity of our nature when brought too near. Oh, if it would never bend its wings to earth, and ever speak in the language of music and poetry, this world would be too dark for so heavenly a visitant, and we should long for death to unclose the portals of the skies."

"Still, dearest Juliet, much quiet happiness may be realized on earth."

"But think of its duration—how short—what sorrows are crowded into the shortest life! To love, and to lose the beloved—how dreadful! My mother—my angel mother—at her death, my heart became a funeral urn, in which all sad and holy memories were enshrined. Oh, 'tis a fearful thing to love and lose! Better far to keep the heart fancy-free, than to find it the grave of hope."

"And will you never consent to love, Juliet?"

"Can you teach me how to resist its power?" said Juliet, with simplicity. "We love against our own will; we call reason to our aid, and reason laughs at us. We strive to forget; but memory, like hope, though it cheats us, will not in turn be cheated; one holds the keys of the future, the other unlocks the treasures of the past. When we cease to hope, memory may cease to recall what were once the offsprings of hope. Both accompany us through life, and will, I believe, survive the grave."

"And will you allow me, Juliet, to entertain the blessed hope—?"

At this moment the lovers were interrupted by the eternal old pest, as Godfrey very unceremoniously called Miss Dorothy.

"Really, Miss Whitmore, I wonder at your standing out here, in the damp night air, without your shawl and bonnet, and the dew falling so fast. I wish you would learn a little more prudence; it would save me a great deal of trouble."

"Alas," whispered Juliet, as Anthony led her back into the drawing-room, "how quickly the vulgarity of common-place banishes the beauty of the ideal!"

The intimacy of the two families now became a matter of daily occurrence. Captain Whitmore who had always coveted a son of his own, was delighted with the society of the handsome intelligent young men. They were fine lads! very fine lads! He really did not know which to prefer. Juliet's choice would decide his, for the old man soon discovered that his daughter was the great attraction that drew the young men to the Lodge. Perhaps, had he been questioned closely on the subject, the old veteran would have acknowledged that he preferred Godfrey. He possessed more life and spirit than his quiet cousin; had more wit; was more lively and amusing. He loved hunting and fishing; played well at chess and draughts; and sang a good song. His face was always smiling and joyous; his brow never wore the cloud of care, the pensive earnest expression of refined thought which was so apparent in his cousin. Godfrey made the room glad with his gay hearty laugh. He was the life and soul of the convivial board, and prince of good fellows. A woman must be happy with such a handsome good-natured husband, and the Captain hoped that his dear Julee would be the wife of his favorite.

Hearts understood hearts better. Godfrey Hurdlestone was not the man who could make Juliet Whitmore happy. There existed no sympathy between them. The one was all soul, the other a mere animal in the fullest sense of the word; living but for animal enjoyment, and unable to comprehend the refined taste and exquisite sensibilities that belong to higher natures. Yet he loved music, had a fine ear and a fine voice, and exercised both with considerable skill. Here Juliet met him on equal terms; they played and sang together, and whilst so employed, and only drinking in sweet sounds, rendered doubly delicious when accompanied by harmonious words, Juliet forgot the something, she could not tell what, that made her feel such a deep aversion to the handsome musician.

"If my flute could but speak the language of my heart, how quickly, Miss Whitmore, would it breathe into your ear the tender tale which the musician wants courage to declare!"

"Ah," returned Juliet quickly, "such notes would only produce discord. Perfect harmony must exist before we can form a union of sweet sounds. Similarity of mind can alone produce reciprocity of affection. Godfrey Hurdlestone, there is no real sympathy between us—nature never formed us for each other."

"These are cruel words. I will not destroy hope by believing them true. We both love music passionately; here is at least one sympathy in common. To love you has become so essential to my happiness that I cannot think that you can be wholly insensible to my passion."

"You deceive yourself, Godfrey Hurdlestone. The moth is attracted to the candle, but the union produces misery and death to the unfortunate insect. Mere admiration is not love. The novelty wears off; the soul is sated with the idol it worshipped, and its former homage sinks into contempt. You seek the outward and palpable. I seek that which is unseen and true. But let us go to my father, he is fishing, and the evening is growing cold. If he stays out much longer in the damp meadow, he will be raving with the rheumatism."

"Your worthy father would not frown upon my suit."

"Perhaps not. But he would never urge me to encourage a suitor whom I could not love. I am very young, Mr. Godfrey, too young to enter into any serious engagements. I esteem you and your cousin, but if you persist in talking to me in this strain, it will destroy our friendship. If you really feel any regard for me, never wound my feelings by speaking to me on this subject again."

As Juliet ran forward to meet her father, she felt like a bird escaped out of the snare of the fowler, while Godfrey, humbled and mortified, muttered to himself, "The deuce take these very clever girls; they lecture us like parsons, and talk like books."

"Why, Julee, love, how you have painted your cheeks," cried the delighted old man, catching her in his arms, and imprinting a very audible kiss upon her white forehead. "What has Mr. Godfrey been saying to you?"

"Miss Juliet will not listen to anything that I can say to her," said Godfrey gloomily.

"Pshaw!" returned the old man. "A lover must look out for squalls; his bark is seldom destined to sail upon a smooth sea. If she will not go ahead against wind and tide, you must try her upon another tack."

He turned to Juliet, and found her in tears.



CHAPTER X.

Would that the dewy turf were spread O'er this frail form and aching head; That this torn heart and tortured brain Would never wake to grief again.—S.M.

When Anthony entered the study next morning, he found his cousin traversing the floor in great agitation.

"Anthony, you are just the person I wanted to see. My father is, I fear, a ruined man."

Anthony recoiled some steps.

"It is but too true. I have been talking to Johnstone, the steward. The account that he gives of our affairs is most discouraging. My father, it seems, has been living beyond his income for some years. The estates have all been heavily mortgaged to supply the wants of the passing hour, while no provision has been made for the future by their improvident possessor. Creditors are clamorous for their money, and there is no money to answer their demands. Mr. Haydin, the principal mortgagee, threatens to foreclose with my father, if the interest, which has been due upon the mortgage for some years, is not instantly forthcoming. In this desperate exigency I can only think of two expedients, both of which depend entirely upon you."

Anthony had never questioned the state of his uncle's affairs. He had deemed him rich, and this distressing intelligence fell upon him with stunning violence. He begged Godfrey to explain in what manner he could render his uncle the least assistance.

"It is not merely of my father I speak; the service is to us both, but it needs some prefacing."

Then stepping up to the astonished Anthony, he said in a quick abrupt manner—

"Do you love Miss Whitmore?"

"You have taken me by surprise, Godfrey. It is a question which, at this moment, I can scarcely answer."

"If your feelings towards her are of such an indefinite character, it will require no great mental effort to resign her. To me she is an object of passionate regard. A marriage with Miss Whitmore would render me the happiest of men, and retrieve the fallen fortunes of my house. Nor do I think, if you were absent, that she would long remain indifferent to my suit. But if you continue to persevere in trying to win her affections you will drive me mad."

Godfrey spoke with vehemence. Anthony remained silent, lost in profound thought. Godfrey went up to him and grasped him firmly by the hand. "Prove your love and gratitude to my father, Anthony, by an act of friendship to his son."

"God knows that I am painfully alive to the many obligations I owe to him, Godfrey; but you require of me a sacrifice I am unable to grant."

"Have you made an offer to Miss Whitmore? and has she accepted you?"

"Neither the one nor the other. Have you?"

"I spoke to her on the subject yesterday."

"Well," said Anthony, turning very pale. "Did she reject your suit?"

"She did not. She talked of her youth, and made some excuse to go to her father. But she showed no indications of displeasure. From her manner, I had all to hope, and little to fear. Few women, especially a young girl of seventeen, can be won without a little wooing. I have no doubt of ultimately winning her regard."

"Can you really be in earnest?"

"Do you doubt my word? Do you think the miser's heir more likely to win the affections of the romantic child of genius than the last scion of a ruined man?"

"How have I suffered myself to be cheated and betrayed by my own vanity!" said Anthony, thoughtfully. "Alas, for poor human nature, if this statement be true!"

"You still question my words, Anthony! Upon my honor, what I have said is strictly true; nor would it be honorable in you, after what I have advanced, to press your suit upon the lady."

"If you asked me to resign the wealth you prize so highly, Godfrey, I could do it. Nay, even my life itself would be a far less sacrifice than the idea of giving up the only woman I ever loved. Ask anything of me but that, for I cannot do it!"

"Then you will compel me to do this," said Godfrey, taking from his breast a loaded pistol, and aiming it at his own head.

"Madman!" cried Anthony, striking the weapon from his hand; "what would you do?"

"Prove your gratitude to me and mine," said Godfrey with a bitter laugh. "Your father is rich, mine is poor, and has been made so by his generosity to others!"

That horrid taunt! ah, how it stung his proud sensitive cousin to the heart! Startled and alarmed at Godfrey's demeanor, he was yet very doubtful of the truth of his statements, feared that he was but acting a part, until he saw the bright cheek of his companion turn pale, and the tears tremble in his eyes. Then, all the kindness he had received from his uncle, all the love he had cherished for him from his earliest years, all the affection which he had lavished upon his hot-headed cousin, united to subdue the flame of passion which for a few moments had burnt so fiercely in his breast. He recalled the solemn promise he had made to Algernon never to forsake his son, and, dreadful as the sacrifice was, which Godfrey now called upon him to make, the struggle was over, the victory over self already won.

"You shall never say, cousin Godfrey, that Anthony Hurdlestone knowingly destroyed your peace. I love Juliet Whitmore. I believe that she loves me. But, for my uncle's sake, I renounce my claim."

Joy brightened up the handsome face of Godfrey. He was not wholly insensible to his cousin's generous self-denial. He embraced him with warmth, and the idea that he had rendered Godfrey happy partly reconciled the martyr of gratitude to the sacrifice he had made.

"You spoke of two expedients which might avert the ruin which threatened my uncle. Your marriage with Juliet Whitmore rests upon no broader basis than a mere possibility. Name the second."

"In case of the worst, to apply to your father for the loan of two thousand pounds."

Anthony shook his head, and, without thinking a reply to such a wild proposition necessary, took up his hat, and tried to still the agitation of his mind by a stroll in the park.

Anthony tried to reason himself into the belief that, in giving up the object of his affections, he had achieved a very great and good action; but there was a painful void in his heart, which all his boasted philosophy failed to fill.

Unconsciously he took the path that led to the humble dwelling of Mary Mathews. As he drew near the hawthorn hedge that separated the little garden from the road, his attention was arrested by some one weeping passionately behind its almost impervious screen. He instantly recognised Mary in the mourner; and from a conversation that followed, he found that she was not alone.

"I could bear your reproaches," she said to her companion, "if he loved me—but he has ceased to think of me—to care for me—I never loved but him—I gave him all that I had in my power to bestow—and he has left me thus."

"Did he ever promise you marriage?" asked the deep voice of William Mathews.

"Oh yes! a thousand and a thousand times."

"Then," and he uttered a dreadful oath, "he shall keep his word, or my name is not William Mathews."

"Ah! if he did but love me as he once loved me, I would not care. The shame would be joy, the disgrace happiness. The world is nothing to me—it may say what it likes—I would rather be his mistress than another man's wife. But to be forsaken and trampled upon; to know that another with half my beauty, and with none of my love, is preferred before me; is more than my heart can bear."

"Does my father know your situation?"

"No, no, I would not have him know it for worlds. I dare not tell him; and you have promised me, William, not to reveal my secret. Though father constantly transgresses himself, men are so unjust about women that he would never forgive me. I would rather fling myself into that pond," and she laughed hysterically, "than that he should know anything about it. Sometimes I think, brother, that it would be the best place for me to hide my shame."

"Live, girl—live for revenge. Leave your gay paramour to me. I have been the ruin of many a better man."

"I would rather die," returned the girl, "than suffer any injury to befall him. He is my husband in the sight of Heaven, and I will cling to him to the last!"

"You are a fool, Mary! Till this moment I always thought you a clever girl, above such paltry weakness. When your name is coupled with infamy, and you find yourself an object of contempt to the villain who has betrayed you, I tell you that you will alter your opinion."

"Alas! he despises me already," sighed the unhappy girl, "and it is that which makes me feel so bad. When I think of it there comes over me just such a scorching heat as used to sear up my brain in the bad fever. The people said I was crazed, but I was not half so mad then as I am now."

"Keep up your spirits, girl! I will compel him to make you his wife."

"What good would that do? You could not make him love me. We should only be more miserable than we are at present. I wish—oh! how I wish I were dead!"

Here the conversation between the brother and sister was abruptly terminated by Godfrey's spaniel, which had followed Anthony through the park, springing over the stile into the garden, and leaping into Mary's lap. The poor girl was sitting on the bank beneath the shade of a large elm tree. She bent her head down, and returned with interest the affectionate caresses of the dog.

"It is Mr. Hurdlestone's dog, William. Poor Fido, you love me still."

"His master cannot be far off," growled Mathews, jumping over the stile, and confronting Anthony.

The cousins were only partially known to him, and their great personal likeness made him mistake the one for the other.

A little ashamed of being caught in the act of listening to a conversation never meant for his ear, Anthony would have left the spot; but the menacing audacious air of the smuggler aroused his pride, and he turned upon him with a haughty and enquiring glance.

"I would speak a few words with you, mister!"

"As many as you please. But let me first inform you that I am not the person whom you seek."

"Humph!" said the ruffian, with a sarcastic sneer, "that dodge won't do. You might as well attempt to cheat the devil as deceive Bill Mathews. I know you too well. You and I have a heavy account to settle, and you shall know me better before we part. Take that—and that—and that—as an earnest of our further acquaintance."

And he struck Anthony several heavy blows with an oak cudgel he held in his hand.

Forced to retaliate in self-defence, Anthony closed with his gigantic opponent, and several blows had been given and received on either side, when the combatants were separated by a third person—this was no other than Captain Whitmore who, with his daughter, accidentally rode up to the spot.

"Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone engaged in such a disgraceful fray! Can I believe the evidence of my senses?"

"Not if you would judge truly, Captain Whitmore," said Anthony, striving to keep a calm exterior, but still trembling with passion, while the most bitter and humiliating feelings agitated his breast.

"I was striving to revenge the wrongs done to an injured sister by a villain!" cried the enraged Mathews. "I appeal to you sir, as a man, a father, a brave British officer, if you would suffer a sister or a daughter to be trampled upon and betrayed without resenting the injury?"

"I am incapable of the crime laid to my charge by this man," said Anthony, indignantly, when he saw the father and daughter exchange glances of astonishment and contempt. "Miss Whitmore, I entreat you not to give the least credit to this ruffian's accusation. He has uttered a base falsehood!"

The only answer the tortured lover received was an indignant flash from the hitherto dove-like eyes of Juliet Whitmore. She reined back her horse, and turned her face proudly away from the imploring gaze of the distracted Anthony.

"I must—I will be heard!" he cried, seizing the reins of her horse, and forcibly detaining her. "I see, Miss Whitmore, that this foul calumny is believed by you and your father. I demand an explanation before you leave this spot. William Mathews has accused me of being a villain—the seducer of his sister: and I here tell him to his face that his accusation is a hideous slander! Call hither your sister, Mr. Mathews—let her determine the question: she knows that I am innocent. I shrink not from the most rigid investigation of my conduct."

"Do as he bids you, Mr. Mathews," said the Captain. "Call here your sister. I consider myself bound in justice to listen to Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone's proposal."

Juliet's eyes involuntarily turned towards the garden gate; but her pale cheek flushed to crimson as it unclosed, and the unfortunate umpire, half led, half dragged forward by her brother, presented herself before them. Even Anthony's presence of mind well nigh forsook him, as, with a start, he recognised his cousin's unfortunate victim.

A few weeks had wrought a fearful change in the blooming and healthful appearance of the poor girl. She looked like a young sapling tree, on whose verdant head had fallen an incurable blight; an utter disregard of the opinions of others, or what the world would say of her, was manifested in her squalid appearance and total neglect of personal neatness. The pride of the girl's heart had vanished with her self-respect, and she stood before the strange group with a bold front and unbending brow; yet her eye wandered vacantly from face to face, as if perfectly unconscious of the real meaning of the scene.

Anthony had appealed to Mary to vindicate his character from the foul aspersion cast upon him; but when she came he was so shocked by her appearance that he was unable to speak to her.

"Mary," said her brother peremptorily, "is not this man your lover?"

Mary gazed upon Anthony sullenly, but returned no answer.

"Speak, Mary," said Anthony, addressing her with a degree of compassionate tenderness. "Did you ever receive wrong or injury from me? Did I ever address you as a lover, betray, or leave you to shame? Your brother has accused me of all these crimes. Speak out, and tell the truth."

Instead of answering his question in direct terms, the girl, who for the first time comprehended the degrading situation in which she was placed, and subdued by the kindness of Anthony's look and manner, sprang towards him, and, following the reckless disposition which had led to her ruin, seized his hand and pressing it to her lips, exclaimed,

"Oh, Mr. Hurdlestone! This from you?"

"It is enough," said Juliet, who had witnessed this extraordinary scene with an intensity of interest too great to be described; and, turning the head of her horse homewards, she rode off at full speed, murmuring through her fast-flowing tears, "What need have I of further evidence? Yes, he is guilty."

"She is gone!" exclaimed Anthony, in an agony of despair. "She is gone, and believes me to be a villain!"

Whilst he stood rooted to the spot, Mathew approached, and whispered in his ear, "Your mean subterfuge has not saved you. We shall meet again."

"I care not how soon," returned Anthony, fiercely; "but why," continued he, in a softer voice, "should I be angry with you? Man, you have mistaken your quarry—a matter of little moment to you, but a matter of life and death to me."

"Death and hell!" exclaimed the ruffian, who at last began to suspect his error. "If you are not Godfrey Hurdlestone, you must be his ghost!"

"I am his cousin; I never wronged either you or yours; but you have done me an injury which you can never repair."

"Well, hang me if that is not a good joke!" cried the smuggler, bursting into a coarse laugh, which quickened the steps of his retreating foe. "The devil had some mischief in store when he made those chaps so much alike. I would not wish my own brother to resemble me so closely as all that, lest mayhap he should murder or steal, and the halter should fall on my neck instead of his."



CHAPTER XI.

Oh, human hearts are strangely cast, Time softens grief and pain; Like reeds that shiver in the blast, They bend to rise again.—S.M.

"Come, Miss Whitmore, you must rouse yourself from this unwomanly grief. It is quite improper for a young lady of your rank and fortune to be shedding tears for the immoral conduct of a worthless young profligate."

"Peace, Dorothy; don't scold the poor child. You see her heart is nearly broken. It will do her good to cry. Come, my own darling, come to your old father's arms, and never mind what your aunt says to you."

"Really, Captain Whitmore, if you mean to encourage your daughter's disrespectful conduct to me, the sooner we part the better."

"Dolly, Dolly, have you no feeling for the poor child? Do hold that cruel tongue of yours. It never sounded so harsh and disagreeable to me before. Look up, my Julee, and kiss your old father."

And Juliet made an effort to raise her head from her father's bosom, and look in his face. The big tears weighed down her eyelids, and she sank back upon his shoulder, faintly murmuring, "And I thought him so good."

"Yes," said Miss Dorothy, whose temper was not at all softened by her brother's reproof; "you never would believe me. You would follow your own headstrong fancy; and now you see the result of your folly. I often wondered to see you reading and flirting with that silent, down looking young man, while his frank, good-natured cousin was treated with contempt. I hope you will trust to my judgment another time."

"Aunt, spare me these reproaches. If I have acted imprudently I am severely punished."

"I am sure the poor child was not worse deceived than I have been," said the Captain; "but the lad's to be pitied; he comes of a bad breed. But rouse up, my Julee—show yourself a girl of spirit. Go to your own room; a little sleep will do you a world of good. To-morrow you will forget it all."

"That poor girl!" said Juliet, and a shudder ran through her frame. "How can I forget her? Her pale face—her sunken eyes—her look of unutterable woe. Oh, she haunts me continually; and I—I—may have been the cause of all this misery. My head aches sadly. I will go to bed. I long to be alone."