THE PURCELL PAPERS. 

BY THE LATE

JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU, AUTHOR OF 'UNCLE SILAS. '

With a Memoir by

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

IN THREE VOLUMES. 

VOL. II. 

CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 

 PASSAGE IN THE SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH COUNTESS THE BRIDAL OF CARRIGVARAH STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER SCRAPS OF HIBERNIAN BALLADS

PASSAGE IN THE SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH COUNTESS. 

 Being a Fifth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. Of Drumcoolagh. 

The following paper is written in a female hand, and was no doubtcommunicated to my much-regretted friend by the lady whose early historyit serves to illustrate, the Countess D----. She is no more--she longsince died, a childless and a widowed wife, and, as her letter sadlypredicts, none survive to whom the publication of this narrative canprove 'injurious, or even painful. ' Strange! two powerful and wealthyfamilies, that in which she was born, and that into which she hadmarried, have ceased to be--they are utterly extinct. 

To those who know anything of the history of Irish families, as theywere less than a century ago, the facts which immediately follow willat once suggest THE NAMES of the principal actors; and to otherstheir publication would be useless--to us, possibly, if not probably, injurious. I have, therefore, altered such of the names as might, ifstated, get us into difficulty; others, belonging to minor characters inthe strange story, I have left untouched. 

My dear friend, --You have asked me to furnish you with a detail ofthe strange events which marked my early history, and I have, withouthesitation, applied myself to the task, knowing that, while I live, akind consideration for my feelings will prevent your giving publicityto the statement; and conscious that, when I am no more, there will notsurvive one to whom the narrative can prove injurious, or even painful. 

My mother died when I was quite an infant, and of her I have norecollection, even the faintest. By her death, my education and habitswere left solely to the guidance of my surviving parent; and, as faras a stern attention to my religious instruction, and an active anxietyevinced by his procuring for me the best masters to perfect me in thoseaccomplishments which my station and wealth might seem to require, couldavail, he amply discharged the task. 

My father was what is called an oddity, and his treatment of me, thoughuniformly kind, flowed less from affection and tenderness than from asense of obligation and duty. Indeed, I seldom even spoke to him exceptat meal-times, and then his manner was silent and abrupt; his leisurehours, which were many, were passed either in his study or in solitarywalks; in short, he seemed to take no further interest in my happinessor improvement than a conscientious regard to the discharge of his ownduty would seem to claim. 

Shortly before my birth a circumstance had occurred which hadcontributed much to form and to confirm my father's secluded habits--itwas the fact that a suspicion of MURDER had fallen upon his youngerbrother, though not sufficiently definite to lead to an indictment, yetstrong enough to ruin him in public opinion. 

This disgraceful and dreadful doubt cast upon the family name, myfather felt deeply and bitterly, and not the less so that he himselfwas thoroughly convinced of his brother's innocence. The sincerity andstrength of this impression he shortly afterwards proved in a mannerwhich produced the dark events which follow. Before, however, I enterupon the statement of them, I ought to relate the circumstances whichhad awakened the suspicion; inasmuch as they are in themselves somewhatcurious, and, in their effects, most intimately connected with myafter-history. 

My uncle, Sir Arthur T----n, was a gay and extravagant man, and, among other vices, was ruinously addicted to gaming; this unfortunatepropensity, even after his fortune had suffered so severely as to renderinevitable a reduction in his expenses by no means inconsiderable, nevertheless continued to actuate him, nearly to the exclusion of allother pursuits; he was, however, a proud, or rather a vain man, and could not bear to make the diminution of his income a matter ofgratulation and triumph to those with whom he had hitherto competed, andthe consequence was, that he frequented no longer the expensive hauntsof dissipation, and retired from the gay world, leaving his coterie todiscover his reasons as best they might. 

He did not, however, forego his favourite vice, for, though he could notworship his great divinity in the costly temples where it was formerlyhis wont to take his stand, yet he found it very possible to bring abouthim a sufficient number of the votaries of chance to answer all hisends. The consequence was, that Carrickleigh, which was the name of myuncle's residence, was never without one or more of such visitors as Ihave described. 

It happened that upon one occasion he was visited by one Hugh Tisdall, a gentleman of loose habits, but of considerable wealth, and who had, inearly youth, travelled with my uncle upon the Continent; the period ofhis visit was winter, and, consequently, the house was nearly desertedexcepting by its regular inmates; it was therefore highly acceptable, particularly as my uncle was aware that his visitor's tastes accordedexactly with his own. 

Both parties seemed determined to avail themselves of their suitabilityduring the brief stay which Mr. Tisdall had promised; the consequencewas, that they shut themselves up in Sir Arthur's private room fornearly all the day and the greater part of the night, during the spaceof nearly a week, at the end of which the servant having one morning, as usual, knocked at Mr. Tisdall's bedroom door repeatedly, received noanswer, and, upon attempting to enter, found that it was locked; thisappeared suspicious, and, the inmates of the house having been alarmed, the door was forced open, and, on proceeding to the bed, they found thebody of its occupant perfectly lifeless, and hanging half-way out, thehead downwards, and near the floor. One deep wound had been inflictedupon the temple, apparently with some blunt instrument which hadpenetrated the brain; and another blow, less effective, probably thefirst aimed, had grazed the head, removing some of the scalp, butleaving the skull untouched. The door had been double-locked upon theINSIDE, in evidence of which the key still lay where it had been placedin the lock. 

The window, though not secured on the interior, was closed--acircumstance not a little puzzling, as it afforded the only other modeof escape from the room; it looked out, too, upon a kind of courtyard, round which the old buildings stood, formerly accessible by a narrowdoorway and passage lying in the oldest side of the quadrangle, butwhich had since been built up, so as to preclude all ingress or egress;the room was also upon the second story, and the height of the windowconsiderable. Near the bed were found a pair of razors belonging to themurdered man, one of them upon the ground, and both of them open. Theweapon which had inflicted the mortal wound was not to be found inthe room, nor were any footsteps or other traces of the murdererdiscoverable. 

At the suggestion of Sir Arthur himself, a coroner was instantlysummoned to attend, and an inquest was held; nothing, however, in anydegree conclusive was elicited; the walls, ceiling, and floor ofthe room were carefully examined, in order to ascertain whether theycontained a trap-door or other concealed mode of entrance--but no suchthing appeared. 

Such was the minuteness of investigation employed, that, although thegrate had contained a large fire during the night, they proceeded toexamine even the very chimney, in order to discover whether escape byit were possible; but this attempt, too, was fruitless, for the chimney, built in the old fashion, rose in a perfectly perpendicular line fromthe hearth to a height of nearly fourteen feet above the roof, affordingin its interior scarcely the possibility of ascent, the flue beingsmoothly plastered, and sloping towards the top like an inverted funnel, promising, too, even if the summit were attained, owing to its greatheight, but a precarious descent upon the sharp and steep-ridged roof;the ashes, too, which lay in the grate, and the soot, as far as itcould be seen, were undisturbed, a circumstance almost conclusive of thequestion. 

Sir Arthur was of course examined; his evidence was given with clearnessand unreserve, which seemed calculated to silence all suspicion. He stated that, up to the day and night immediately preceding thecatastrophe, he had lost to a heavy amount, but that, at their lastsitting, he had not only won back his original loss, but upwards offour thousand pounds in addition; in evidence of which he producedan acknowledgment of debt to that amount in the handwriting of thedeceased, and bearing the date of the fatal night. He had mentionedthe circumstance to his lady, and in presence of some of the domestics;which statement was supported by THEIR respective evidence. 

One of the jury shrewdly observed, that the circumstance of Mr. Tisdall's having sustained so heavy a loss might have suggested to someill-minded persons accidentally hearing it, the plan of robbing him, after having murdered him in such a manner as might make it appear thathe had committed suicide; a supposition which was strongly supportedby the razors having been found thus displaced, and removed from theircase. Two persons had probably been engaged in the attempt, one watchingby the sleeping man, and ready to strike him in case of his awakeningsuddenly, while the other was procuring the razors and employed ininflicting the fatal gash, so as to make it appear to have been the actof the murdered man himself. It was said that while the juror was makingthis suggestion Sir Arthur changed colour. 

Nothing, however, like legal evidence appeared against him, and theconsequence was that the verdict was found against a person or personsunknown; and for some time the matter was suffered to rest, until, afterabout five months, my father received a letter from a person signinghimself Andrew Collis, and representing himself to be the cousin of thedeceased. This letter stated that Sir Arthur was likely to incur notmerely suspicion, but personal risk, unless he could account for certaincircumstances connected with the recent murder, and contained a copy ofa letter written by the deceased, and bearing date, the day of the week, and of the month, upon the night of which the deed of blood had beenperpetrated. Tisdall's note ran as follows:

 'DEAR COLLIS, 'I have had sharp work with SirArthur; he tried some of his stale tricks, but soon found that _I_ wasYorkshire too: it would not do--you understand me. We went to the worklike good ones, head, heart and soul; and, in fact, since I came here, Ihave lost no time. I am rather fagged, but I am sure to be well paidfor my hardship; I never want sleep so long as I can have the music of adice-box, and wherewithal to pay the piper. As I told you, he tried someof his queer turns, but I foiled him like a man, and, in return, gavehim more than he could relish of the genuine DEAD KNOWLEDGE. 

'In short, I have plucked the old baronet as never baronet was pluckedbefore; I have scarce left him the stump of a quill; I have gotpromissory notes in his hand to the amount of--if you like roundnumbers, say, thirty thousand pounds, safely deposited in my portablestrong-box, alias double-clasped pocket-book. I leave this ruinous oldrat-hole early on to-morrow, for two reasons--first, I do not want toplay with Sir Arthur deeper than I think his security, that is, hismoney, or his money's worth, would warrant; and, secondly, because I amsafer a hundred miles from Sir Arthur than in the house with him. Lookyou, my worthy, I tell you this between ourselves--I may be wrong, but, by G--, I am as sure as that I am now living, that Sir A---- attemptedto poison me last night; so much for old friendship on both sides. 

'When I won the last stake, a heavy one enough, my friend leant hisforehead upon his hands, and you'll laugh when I tell you that hishead literally smoked like a hot dumpling. I do not know whether hisagitation was produced by the plan which he had against me, or by hishaving lost so heavily--though it must be allowed that he had reason tobe a little funked, whichever way his thoughts went; but he pulledthe bell, and ordered two bottles of champagne. While the fellow wasbringing them he drew out a promissory note to the full amount, which hesigned, and, as the man came in with the bottles and glasses, he desiredhim to be off; he filled out a glass for me, and, while he thought myeyes were off, for I was putting up his note at the time, he droppedsomething slyly into it, no doubt to sweeten it; but I saw it all, and, when he handed it to me, I said, with an emphasis which he might ormight not understand:

'"There is some sediment in this; I'll not drink it. "

'"Is there?" said he, and at the same time snatched it from my hand andthrew it into the fire. What do you think of that? have I not a tenderchicken to manage? Win or lose, I will not play beyond five thousandto-night, and to-morrow sees me safe out of the reach of Sir Arthur'schampagne. So, all things considered, I think you must allow that youare not the last who have found a knowing boy in

'Yours to command, 'HUGH TISDALL. '

Of the authenticity of this document I never heard my father express adoubt; and I am satisfied that, owing to his strong conviction infavour of his brother, he would not have admitted it without sufficientinquiry, inasmuch as it tended to confirm the suspicions which alreadyexisted to his prejudice. 

Now, the only point in this letter which made strongly against my uncle, was the mention of the 'double-clasped pocket-book' as the receptacleof the papers likely to involve him, for this pocket-book was notforthcoming, nor anywhere to be found, nor had any papers referring tohis gaming transactions been found upon the dead man. However, whatevermight have been the original intention of this Collis, neither my unclenor my father ever heard more of him; but he published the letter inFaulkner's newspaper, which was shortly afterwards made the vehicle ofa much more mysterious attack. The passage in that periodical to whichI allude, occurred about four years afterwards, and while the fataloccurrence was still fresh in public recollection. It commenced by arambling preface, stating that 'a CERTAIN PERSON whom CERTAIN personsthought to be dead, was not so, but living, and in full possessionof his memory, and moreover ready and able to make GREAT delinquentstremble. ' It then went on to describe the murder, without, however, mentioning names; and in doing so, it entered into minute andcircumstantial particulars of which none but an EYE-WITNESS couldhave been possessed, and by implications almost too unequivocal to beregarded in the light of insinuation, to involve the 'TITLED GAMBLER' inthe guilt of the transaction. 

My father at once urged Sir Arthur to proceed against the paper in anaction of libel; but he would not hear of it, nor consent to my father'staking any legal steps whatever in the matter. My father, however, wrotein a threatening tone to Faulkner, demanding a surrender of the authorof the obnoxious article. The answer to this application is still inmy possession, and is penned in an apologetic tone: it states thatthe manuscript had been handed in, paid for, and inserted as anadvertisement, without sufficient inquiry, or any knowledge as to whomit referred. 

No step, however, was taken to clear my uncle's character in thejudgment of the public; and as he immediately sold a small property, theapplication of the proceeds of which was known to none, he was saidto have disposed of it to enable himself to buy off the threatenedinformation. However the truth might have been, it is certain that nocharges respecting the mysterious murder were afterwards publicly madeagainst my uncle, and, as far as external disturbances were concerned, he enjoyed henceforward perfect security and quiet. 

A deep and lasting impression, however, had been made upon the publicmind, and Sir Arthur T----n was no longer visited or noticed by thegentry and aristocracy of the county, whose attention and courtesieshe had hitherto received. He accordingly affected to despise theseenjoyments which he could not procure, and shunned even that societywhich he might have commanded. 

This is all that I need recapitulate of my uncle's history, and I nowrecur to my own. Although my father had never, within my recollection, visited, or been visited by, my uncle, each being of sedentary, procrastinating, and secluded habits, and their respective residencesbeing very far apart--the one lying in the county of Galway, the otherin that of Cork--he was strongly attached to his brother, and evincedhis affection by an active correspondence, and by deeply and proudlyresenting that neglect which had marked Sir Arthur as unfit to mix insociety. 

When I was about eighteen years of age, my father, whose health had beengradually declining, died, leaving me in heart wretched and desolate, and, owing to his previous seclusion, with few acquaintances, and almostno friends. 

The provisions of his will were curious, and when I had sufficientlycome to myself to listen to or comprehend them, surprised me not alittle: all his vast property was left to me, and to the heirs of mybody, for ever; and, in default of such heirs, it was to go after mydeath to my uncle, Sir Arthur, without any entail. 

At the same time, the will appointed him my guardian, desiring thatI might be received within his house, and reside with his family, andunder his care, during the term of my minority; and in consideration ofthe increased expense consequent upon such an arrangement, a handsomeannuity was allotted to him during the term of my proposed residence. 

The object of this last provision I at once understood: my fatherdesired, by making it the direct, apparent interest of Sir Arthur that Ishould die without issue, while at the same time he placed me whollyin his power, to prove to the world how great and unshaken was hisconfidence in his brother's innocence and honour, and also to affordhim an opportunity of showing that this mark of confidence was notunworthily bestowed. 

It was a strange, perhaps an idle scheme; but as I had been alwaysbrought up in the habit of considering my uncle as a deeply-injured man, and had been taught, almost as a part of my religion, to regard him asthe very soul of honour, I felt no further uneasiness respecting thearrangement than that likely to result to a timid girl, of secludedhabits, from the immediate prospect of taking up her abode for the firsttime in her life among total strangers. Previous to leaving my home, which I felt I should do with a heavy heart, I received a most tenderand affectionate letter from my uncle, calculated, if anything could doso, to remove the bitterness of parting from scenes familiar and dearfrom my earliest childhood, and in some degree to reconcile me to themeasure. 

It was during a fine autumn that I approached the old domain ofCarrickleigh. I shall not soon forget the impression of sadness andof gloom which all that I saw produced upon my mind; the sunbeams werefalling with a rich and melancholy tint upon the fine old trees, whichstood in lordly groups, casting their long, sweeping shadows over rockand sward. There was an air of neglect and decay about the spot, whichamounted almost to desolation; the symptoms of this increased in numberas we approached the building itself, near which the ground had beenoriginally more artificially and carefully cultivated than elsewhere, and whose neglect consequently more immediately and strikingly betrayeditself. 

As we proceeded, the road wound near the beds of what had been formallytwo fish-ponds, which were now nothing more than stagnant swamps, overgrown with rank weeds, and here and there encroached upon by thestraggling underwood; the avenue itself was much broken, and in manyplaces the stones were almost concealed by grass and nettles; the loosestone walls which had here and there intersected the broad park were, in many places, broken down, so as no longer to answer their originalpurpose as fences; piers were now and then to be seen, but the gateswere gone; and, to add to the general air of dilapidation, some hugetrunks were lying scattered through the venerable old trees, either thework of the winter storms, or perhaps the victims of some extensive butdesultory scheme of denudation, which the projector had not capital orperseverance to carry into full effect. 

After the carriage had travelled a mile of this avenue, we reached thesummit of rather an abrupt eminence, one of the many which added to thepicturesqueness, if not to the convenience of this rude passage. Fromthe top of this ridge the grey walls of Carrickleigh were visible, rising at a small distance in front, and darkened by the hoarywood which crowded around them. It was a quadrangular building ofconsiderable extent, and the front which lay towards us, and in whichthe great entrance was placed, bore unequivocal marks of antiquity; thetime-worn, solemn aspect of the old building, the ruinous and desertedappearance of the whole place, and the associations which connectedit with a dark page in the history of my family, combined to depressspirits already predisposed for the reception of sombre and dejectingimpressions. 

When the carriage drew up in the grass-grown court yard before thehall-door, two lazy-looking men, whose appearance well accorded withthat of the place which they tenanted, alarmed by the obstreperousbarking of a great chained dog, ran out from some half-ruinousout-houses, and took charge of the horses; the hall-door stood open, andI entered a gloomy and imperfectly lighted apartment, and found no onewithin. However, I had not long to wait in this awkward predicament, forbefore my luggage had been deposited in the house, indeed, before Ihad well removed my cloak and other wraps, so as to enable me to lookaround, a young girl ran lightly into the hall, and kissing me heartily, and somewhat boisterously, exclaimed:

'My dear cousin, my dear Margaret--I am so delighted--so out of breath. We did not expect you till ten o'clock; my father is somewhere about theplace, he must be close at hand. James--Corney--run out and tellyour master--my brother is seldom at home, at least at any reasonablehour--you must be so tired--so fatigued--let me show you to yourroom--see that Lady Margaret's luggage is all brought up--you must liedown and rest yourself--Deborah, bring some coffee--up these stairs;we are so delighted to see you--you cannot think how lonely I havebeen--how steep these stairs are, are not they? I am so glad you arecome--I could hardly bring myself to believe that you were reallycoming--how good of you, dear Lady Margaret. '

There was real good-nature and delight in my cousin's greeting, and akind of constitutional confidence of manner which placed me at once atease, and made me feel immediately upon terms of intimacy with her. Theroom into which she ushered me, although partaking in the general air ofdecay which pervaded the mansion and all about it, had nevertheless beenfitted up with evident attention to comfort, and even with some dingyattempt at luxury; but what pleased me most was that it opened, bya second door, upon a lobby which communicated with my fair cousin'sapartment; a circumstance which divested the room, in my eyes, of theair of solitude and sadness which would otherwise have characterised it, to a degree almost painful to one so dejected in spirits as I was. 

After such arrangements as I found necessary were completed, we bothwent down to the parlour, a large wainscoted room, hung round with grimold portraits, and, as I was not sorry to see, containing in its amplegrate a large and cheerful fire. Here my cousin had leisure to talk moreat her ease; and from her I learned something of the manners and thehabits of the two remaining members of her family, whom I had not yetseen. 

On my arrival I had known nothing of the family among whom I was come toreside, except that it consisted of three individuals, my uncle, and hisson and daughter, Lady T----n having been long dead. In addition tothis very scanty stock of information, I shortly learned from mycommunicative companion that my uncle was, as I had suspected, completely retired in his habits, and besides that, having been so farback as she could well recollect, always rather strict, as reformedrakes frequently become, he had latterly been growing more gloomily andsternly religious than heretofore. 

Her account of her brother was far less favourable, though she did notsay anything directly to his disadvantage. From all that I could gatherfrom her, I was led to suppose that he was a specimen of the idle, coarse-mannered, profligate, low-minded 'squirearchy'--a result whichmight naturally have flowed from the circumstance of his being, as itwere, outlawed from society, and driven for companionship to gradesbelow his own--enjoying, too, the dangerous prerogative of spending muchmoney. 

However, you may easily suppose that I found nothing in my cousin'scommunication fully to bear me out in so very decided a conclusion. 

I awaited the arrival of my uncle, which was every moment to beexpected, with feelings half of alarm, half of curiosity--a sensationwhich I have often since experienced, though to a less degree, when uponthe point of standing for the first time in the presence of one of whomI have long been in the habit of hearing or thinking with interest. 

It was, therefore, with some little perturbation that I heard, first aslight bustle at the outer door, then a slow step traverse the hall, andfinally witnessed the door open, and my uncle enter the room. He was astriking-looking man; from peculiarities both of person and of garb, thewhole effect of his appearance amounted to extreme singularity. He wastall, and when young his figure must have been strikingly elegant; as itwas, however, its effect was marred by a very decided stoop. His dresswas of a sober colour, and in fashion anterior to anything which I couldremember. It was, however, handsome, and by no means carelessly puton; but what completed the singularity of his appearance was his uncut, white hair, which hung in long, but not at all neglected curls, evenso far as his shoulders, and which combined with his regularly classicfeatures, and fine dark eyes, to bestow upon him an air of venerabledignity and pride, which I have never seen equalled elsewhere. I rose ashe entered, and met him about the middle of the room; he kissed my cheekand both my hands, saying:

'You are most welcome, dear child, as welcome as the command of thispoor place and all that it contains can make you. I am most rejoiced tosee you--truly rejoiced. I trust that you are not much fatigued--praybe seated again. ' He led me to my chair, and continued: 'I am glad toperceive you have made acquaintance with Emily already; I see, in yourbeing thus brought together, the foundation of a lasting friendship. You are both innocent, and both young. God bless you--God bless you, andmake you all that I could wish. '

He raised his eyes, and remained for a few moments silent, as ifin secret prayer. I felt that it was impossible that this man, withfeelings so quick, so warm, so tender, could be the wretch that publicopinion had represented him to be. I was more than ever convinced of hisinnocence. 

His manner was, or appeared to me, most fascinating; there was a mingledkindness and courtesy in it which seemed to speak benevolence itself. Itwas a manner which I felt cold art could never have taught; it owed mostof its charm to its appearing to emanate directly from the heart; itmust be a genuine index of the owner's mind. So I thought. 

My uncle having given me fully to understand that I was most welcome, and might command whatever was his own, pressed me to take somerefreshment; and on my refusing, he observed that previously tobidding me good-night, he had one duty further to perform, one in whoseobservance he was convinced I would cheerfully acquiesce. 

He then proceeded to read a chapter from the Bible; after which he tookhis leave with the same affectionate kindness with which he had greetedme, having repeated his desire that I should consider everything in hishouse as altogether at my disposal. It is needless to say that I wasmuch pleased with my uncle--it was impossible to avoid being so; and Icould not help saying to myself, if such a man as this is not safe fromthe assaults of slander, who is? I felt much happier than I had donesince my father's death, and enjoyed that night the first refreshingsleep which had visited me since that event. 

My curiosity respecting my male cousin did not long remainunsatisfied--he appeared the next day at dinner. His manners, though notso coarse as I had expected, were exceedingly disagreeable; there was anassurance and a forwardness for which I was not prepared; there was lessof the vulgarity of manner, and almost more of that of the mind, than Ihad anticipated. I felt quite uncomfortable in his presence; there wasjust that confidence in his look and tone which would read encouragementeven in mere toleration; and I felt more disgusted and annoyed at thecoarse and extravagant compliments which he was pleased from time totime to pay me, than perhaps the extent of the atrocity might fullyhave warranted. It was, however, one consolation that he did not oftenappear, being much engrossed by pursuits about which I neither knew norcared anything; but when he did appear, his attentions, either witha view to his amusement or to some more serious advantage, were soobviously and perseveringly directed to me, that young and inexperiencedas I was, even _I_ could not be ignorant of his preference. I felt moreprovoked by this odious persecution than I can express, and discouragedhim with so much vigour, that I employed even rudeness to convince himthat his assiduities were unwelcome; but all in vain. 

This had gone on for nearly a twelve-month, to my infinite annoyance, when one day as I was sitting at some needle-work with my companionEmily, as was my habit, in the parlour, the door opened, and my cousinEdward entered the room. There was something, I thought, odd in hismanner--a kind of struggle between shame and impudence--a kind of flurryand ambiguity which made him appear, if possible, more than ordinarilydisagreeable. 

'Your servant, ladies, ' he said, seating himself at the same time;'sorry to spoil your tete-a-tete, but never mind, I'll only take Emily'splace for a minute or two; and then we part for a while, fair cousin. Emily, my father wants you in the corner turret. No shilly-shally; he'sin a hurry. ' She hesitated. 'Be off--tramp, march!' he exclaimed, in atone which the poor girl dared not disobey. 

She left the room, and Edward followed her to the door. He stood therefor a minute or two, as if reflecting what he should say, perhapssatisfying himself that no one was within hearing in the hall. 

At length he turned about, having closed the door, as if carelessly, with his foot; and advancing slowly, as if in deep thought, he took hisseat at the side of the table opposite to mine. 

There was a brief interval of silence, after which he said:

'I imagine that you have a shrewd suspicion of the object of my earlyvisit; but I suppose I must go into particulars. Must I?'

'I have no conception, ' I replied, 'what your object may be. '

'Well, well, ' said he, becoming more at his ease as he proceeded, 'it may be told in a few words. You know that it is totallyimpossible--quite out of the question--that an offhand young fellow likeme, and a good-looking girl like yourself, could meet continually, asyou and I have done, without an attachment--a liking growing up on oneside or other; in short, I think I have let you know as plain as if Ispoke it, that I have been in love with you almost from the first time Isaw you. '

He paused; but I was too much horrified to speak. He interpreted mysilence favourably. 

'I can tell you, ' he continued, 'I'm reckoned rather hard to please, andvery hard to HIT. I can't say when I was taken with a girl before; soyou see fortune reserved me----'

Here the odious wretch wound his arm round my waist. The action atonce restored me to utterance, and with the most indignant vehemence Ireleased myself from his hold, and at the same time said:

'I have not been insensible, sir, of your most disagreeableattentions--they have long been a source of much annoyance to me; andyou must be aware that I have marked my disapprobation--my disgust--asunequivocally as I possibly could, without actual indelicacy. '

I paused, almost out of breath from the rapidity with which I hadspoken; and without giving him time to renew the conversation, I hastilyquitted the room, leaving him in a paroxysm of rage and mortification. As I ascended the stairs, I heard him open the parlour-door withviolence, and take two or three rapid strides in the direction in whichI was moving. I was now much frightened, and ran the whole way until Ireached my room; and having locked the door, I listened breathlessly, but heard no sound. This relieved me for the present; but so much hadI been overcome by the agitation and annoyance attendant upon the scenewhich I had just gone through, that when my cousin Emily knocked at mydoor, I was weeping in strong hysterics. 

You will readily conceive my distress, when you reflect upon mystrong dislike to my cousin Edward, combined with my youth and extremeinexperience. Any proposal of such a nature must have agitated me; butthat it should have come from the man whom of all others I most loathedand abhorred, and to whom I had, as clearly as manner could do it, expressed the state of my feelings, was almost too overwhelming to beborne. It was a calamity, too, in which I could not claim the sympathyof my cousin Emily, which had always been extended to me in my minorgrievances. Still I hoped that it might not be unattended with good; forI thought that one inevitable and most welcome consequence would resultfrom this painful eclaircissment, in the discontinuance of my cousin'sodious persecution. 

When I arose next morning, it was with the fervent hope that I mightnever again behold the face, or even hear the name, of my cousin Edward;but such a consummation, though devoutly to be wished, was hardly likelyto occur. The painful impressions of yesterday were too vivid to be atonce erased; and I could not help feeling some dim foreboding of comingannoyance and evil. 

To expect on my cousin's part anything like delicacy or considerationfor me, was out of the question. I saw that he had set his heart uponmy property, and that he was not likely easily to forego such anacquisition--possessing what might have been considered opportunitiesand facilities almost to compel my compliance. 

I now keenly felt the unreasonableness of my father's conduct in placingme to reside with a family of all whose members, with one exception, he was wholly ignorant, and I bitterly felt the helplessness of mysituation. I determined, however, in case of my cousin's persevering inhis addresses, to lay all the particulars before my uncle, althoughhe had never in kindness or intimacy gone a step beyond our firstinterview, and to throw myself upon his hospitality and his sense ofhonour for protection against a repetition of such scenes. 

My cousin's conduct may appear to have been an inadequate cause forsuch serious uneasiness; but my alarm was caused neither by his actsnor words, but entirely by his manner, which was strange and evenintimidating to excess. At the beginning of the yesterday's interviewthere was a sort of bullying swagger in his air, which towards theend gave place to the brutal vehemence of an undisguised ruffian--atransition which had tempted me into a belief that he might seek evenforcibly to extort from me a consent to his wishes, or by means stillmore horrible, of which I scarcely dared to trust myself to think, topossess himself of my property. 

I was early next day summoned to attend my uncle in his privateroom, which lay in a corner turret of the old building; and thither Iaccordingly went, wondering all the way what this unusual measure mightprelude. When I entered the room, he did not rise in his usual courteousway to greet me, but simply pointed to a chair opposite to his own. Thisboded nothing agreeable. I sat down, however, silently waiting until heshould open the conversation. 

'Lady Margaret, ' at length he said, in a tone of greater sternness thanI thought him capable of using, 'I have hitherto spoken to you as afriend, but I have not forgotten that I am also your guardian, and thatmy authority as such gives me a right to control your conduct. I shallput a question to you, and I expect and will demand a plain, directanswer. Have I rightly been informed that you have contemptuouslyrejected the suit and hand of my son Edward?'

I stammered forth with a good deal of trepidation:

'I believe--that is, I have, sir, rejected my cousin's proposals; andmy coldness and discouragement might have convinced him that I haddetermined to do so. '

'Madam, ' replied he, with suppressed, but, as it appeared to me, intense anger, 'I have lived long enough to know that COLDNESS anddiscouragement, and such terms, form the common cant of a worthlesscoquette. You know to the full, as well as I, that COLDNESS ANDDISCOURAGEMENT may be so exhibited as to convince their object thathe is neither distasteful or indifferent to the person who wears thismanner. You know, too, none better, that an affected neglect, whenskilfully managed, is amongst the most formidable of the engines whichartful beauty can employ. I tell you, madam, that having, without oneword spoken in discouragement, permitted my son's most marked attentionsfor a twelvemonth or more, you have no right to dismiss him with nofurther explanation than demurely telling him that you had always lookedcoldly upon him; and neither your wealth nor your LADYSHIP' (there wasan emphasis of scorn on the word, which would have become Sir GilesOverreach himself) 'can warrant you in treating with contempt theaffectionate regard of an honest heart. '

I was too much shocked at this undisguised attempt to bully me intoan acquiescence in the interested and unprincipled plan for their ownaggrandisement, which I now perceived my uncle and his son to havedeliberately entered into, at once to find strength or collectednessto frame an answer to what he had said. At length I replied, with somefirmness:

'In all that you have just now said, sir, you have grossly misstated myconduct and motives. Your information must have been most incorrect asfar as it regards my conduct towards my cousin; my manner towards himcould have conveyed nothing but dislike; and if anything could haveadded to the strong aversion which I have long felt towards him, itwould be his attempting thus to trick and frighten me into a marriagewhich he knows to be revolting to me, and which is sought by him only asa means for securing to himself whatever property is mine. '

As I said this, I fixed my eyes upon those of my uncle, but he was tooold in the world's ways to falter beneath the gaze of more searchingeyes than mine; he simply said:

'Are you acquainted with the provisions of your father's will?'

I answered in the affirmative; and he continued:

'Then you must be aware that if my son Edward were--which Godforbid--the unprincipled, reckless man you pretend to think him'--(herehe spoke very slowly, as if he intended that every word which escapedhim should be registered in my memory, while at the same time theexpression of his countenance underwent a gradual but horrible change, and the eyes which he fixed upon me became so darkly vivid, thatI almost lost sight of everything else)--'if he were what you havedescribed him, think you, girl, he could find no briefer means thanwedding contracts to gain his ends? 'twas but to gripe your slender neckuntil the breath had stopped, and lands, and lakes, and all were his. '

I stood staring at him for many minutes after he had ceased to speak, fascinated by the terrible serpent-like gaze, until he continued with awelcome change of countenance:

'I will not speak again to you upon this--topic until one month haspassed. You shall have time to consider the relative advantages of thetwo courses which are open to you. I should be sorry to hurry you toa decision. I am satisfied with having stated my feelings upon thesubject, and pointed out to you the path of duty. Remember this daymonth--not one word sooner. '

He then rose, and I left the room, much agitated and exhausted. 

This interview, all the circumstances attending it, but mostparticularly the formidable expression of my uncle's countenance whilehe talked, though hypothetically, of murder, combined to arouse all myworst suspicions of him. I dreaded to look upon the face that had sorecently worn the appalling livery of guilt and malignity. I regarded itwith the mingled fear and loathing with which one looks upon an objectwhich has tortured them in a nightmare. 

In a few days after the interview, the particulars of which I have justrelated, I found a note upon my toilet-table, and on opening it I readas follows:

 'MY DEAR LADY MARGARET, 'You will be perhaps surprised tosee a strange face in your room to-day. I have dismissed your Irishmaid, and secured a French one to wait upon you--a step renderednecessary by my proposing shortly to visit the Continent, with all myfamily. 

'Your faithful guardian, 'ARTHUR T----N. '

On inquiry, I found that my faithful attendant was actually gone, andfar on her way to the town of Galway; and in her stead there appeareda tall, raw-boned, ill-looking, elderly Frenchwoman, whose sullen andpresuming manners seemed to imply that her vocation had never beforebeen that of a lady's-maid. I could not help regarding her as a creatureof my uncle's, and therefore to be dreaded, even had she been in noother way suspicious. 

Days and weeks passed away without any, even a momentary doubt upon mypart, as to the course to be pursued by me. The allotted period hadat length elapsed; the day arrived on which I was to communicate mydecision to my uncle. Although my resolution had never for a momentwavered, I could not shake of the dread of the approaching colloquy; andmy heart sunk within me as I heard the expected summons. 

I had not seen my cousin Edward since the occurrence of the grandeclaircissment; he must have studiously avoided me--I suppose frompolicy, it could not have been from delicacy. I was prepared for aterrific burst of fury from my uncle, as soon as I should make known mydetermination; and I not unreasonably feared that some act of violenceor of intimidation would next be resorted to. 

Filled with these dreary forebodings, I fearfully opened the study door, and the next minute I stood in my uncle's presence. He received mewith a politeness which I dreaded, as arguing a favourable anticipationrespecting the answer which I was to give; and after some slight delay, he began by saying:

'It will be a relief to both of us, I believe, to bring thisconversation as soon as possible to an issue. You will excuse me, then, my dear niece, for speaking with an abruptness which, under othercircumstances, would be unpardonable. You have, I am certain, giventhe subject of our last interview fair and serious consideration; and Itrust that you are now prepared with candour to lay your answer beforeme. A few words will suffice--we perfectly understand one another. '

He paused, and I, though feeling that I stood upon a mine which might inan instant explode, nevertheless answered with perfect composure:

'I must now, sir, make the same reply which I did upon the lastoccasion, and I reiterate the declaration which I then made, that Inever can nor will, while life and reason remain, consent to a unionwith my cousin Edward. '

This announcement wrought no apparent change in Sir Arthur, except thathe became deadly, almost lividly pale. He seemed lost in dark thoughtfor a minute, and then with a slight effort said:

'You have answered me honestly and directly; and you say your resolutionis unchangeable. Well, would it had been otherwise--would it had beenotherwise--but be it as it is--I am satisfied. '

He gave me his hand--it was cold and damp as death; under an assumedcalmness, it was evident that he was fearfully agitated. He continuedto hold my hand with an almost painful pressure, while, as ifunconsciously, seeming to forget my presence, he muttered:

'Strange, strange, strange, indeed! fatuity, helpless fatuity!' therewas here a long pause. 'Madness INDEED to strain a cable that is rottento the very heart--it must break--and then--all goes. '

There was again a pause of some minutes, after which, suddenly changinghis voice and manner to one of wakeful alacrity, he exclaimed:

'Margaret, my son Edward shall plague you no more. He leaves thiscountry on to-morrow for France--he shall speak no more upon thissubject--never, never more--whatever events depended upon your answermust now take their own course; but, as for this fruitless proposal, ithas been tried enough; it can be repeated no more. '

At these words he coldly suffered my hand to drop, as if to expresshis total abandonment of all his projected schemes of alliance; andcertainly the action, with the accompanying words, produced upon my minda more solemn and depressing effect than I believed possible to havebeen caused by the course which I had determined to pursue; it struckupon my heart with an awe and heaviness which WILL accompany theaccomplishment of an important and irrevocable act, even though no doubtor scruple remains to make it possible that the agent should wish itundone. 

'Well, ' said my uncle, after a little time, 'we now cease to speak uponthis topic, never to resume it again. Remember you shall have no fartheruneasiness from Edward; he leaves Ireland for France on to-morrow; thiswill be a relief to you. May I depend upon your HONOUR that no wordtouching the subject of this interview shall ever escape you?'

I gave him the desired assurance; he said:

'It is well--I am satisfied--we have nothing more, I believe, to sayupon either side, and my presence must be a restraint upon you, I shalltherefore bid you farewell. '

I then left the apartment, scarcely knowing what to think of the strangeinterview which had just taken place. 

On the next day my uncle took occasion to tell me that Edward hadactually sailed, if his intention had not been interfered with byadverse circumstances; and two days subsequently he actually produced aletter from his son, written, as it said, ON BOARD, and despatched whilethe ship was getting under weigh. This was a great satisfaction to me, and as being likely to prove so, it was no doubt communicated to me bySir Arthur. 

During all this trying period, I had found infinite consolation in thesociety and sympathy of my dear cousin Emily. I never in after-lifeformed a friendship so close, so fervent, and upon which, in all itsprogress, I could look back with feelings of such unalloyed pleasure, upon whose termination I must ever dwell with so deep, yet sounembittered regret. In cheerful converse with her I soon recoveredmy spirits considerably, and passed my time agreeably enough, althoughstill in the strictest seclusion. 

Matters went on sufficiently smooth, although I could not help sometimesfeeling a momentary, but horrible uncertainty respecting my uncle'scharacter; which was not altogether unwarranted by the circumstances ofthe two trying interviews whose particulars I have just detailed. Theunpleasant impression which these conferences were calculated to leaveupon my mind, was fast wearing away, when there occurred a circumstance, slight indeed in itself, but calculated irresistibly to awaken all myworst suspicions, and to overwhelm me again with anxiety and terror. 

I had one day left the house with my cousin Emily, in order to takea ramble of considerable length, for the purpose of sketching somefavourite views, and we had walked about half a mile when I perceivedthat we had forgotten our drawing materials, the absence of whichwould have defeated the object of our walk. Laughing at our ownthoughtlessness, we returned to the house, and leaving Emily without, Iran upstairs to procure the drawing-books and pencils, which lay in mybedroom. 

As I ran up the stairs I was met by the tall, ill-looking Frenchwoman, evidently a good deal flurried. 

'Que veut, madame?' said she, with a more decided effort to be politethan I had ever known her make before. 

'No, no--no matter, ' said I, hastily running by her in the direction ofmy room. 

'Madame, ' cried she, in a high key, 'restez ici, s'il vous plait; votrechambre n'est pas faite--your room is not ready for your reception yet. '

I continued to move on without heeding her. She was some way behind me, and feeling that she could not otherwise prevent my entrance, for I wasnow upon the very lobby, she made a desperate attempt to seize hold ofmy person: she succeeded in grasping the end of my shawl, which she drewfrom my shoulders; but slipping at the same time upon the polished oakfloor, she fell at full length upon the boards. 

A little frightened as well as angry at the rudeness of this strangewoman, I hastily pushed open the door of my room, at which I now stood, in order to escape from her; but great was my amazement on entering tofind the apartment preoccupied. 

The window was open, and beside it stood two male figures; they appearedto be examining the fastenings of the casement, and their backs wereturned towards the door. One of them was my uncle; they both turned onmy entrance, as if startled. The stranger was booted and cloaked, and wore a heavy broad-leafed hat over his brows. He turned but for amoment, and averted his face; but I had seen enough to convince me thathe was no other than my cousin Edward. My uncle had some iron instrumentin his hand, which he hastily concealed behind his back; and comingtowards me, said something as if in an explanatory tone; but I was toomuch shocked and confounded to understand what it might be. He saidsomething about 'REPAIRS--window--frames--cold, and safety. '

I did not wait, however, to ask or to receive explanations, but hastilyleft the room. As I went down the stairs I thought I heard the voice ofthe Frenchwoman in all the shrill volubility of excuse, which was met, however, by suppressed but vehement imprecations, or what seemed to meto be such, in which the voice of my cousin Edward distinctly mingled. 

I joined my cousin Emily quite out of breath. I need not say that myhead was too full of other things to think much of drawing for that day. I imparted to her frankly the cause of my alarms, but at the sametime as gently as I could; and with tears she promised vigilance, and devotion, and love. I never had reason for a moment to repent theunreserved confidence which I then reposed in her. She was no lesssurprised than I at the unexpected appearance of Edward, whose departurefor France neither of us had for a moment doubted, but which was nowproved by his actual presence to be nothing more than an imposture, practised, I feared, for no good end. 

The situation in which I had found my uncle had removed completely allmy doubts as to his designs. I magnified suspicions into certainties, and dreaded night after night that I should be murdered in my bed. The nervousness produced by sleepless nights and days of anxious fearsincreased the horrors of my situation to such a degree, that I at lengthwrote a letter to a Mr. Jefferies, an old and faithful friend of myfather's, and perfectly acquainted with all his affairs, praying him, for God's sake, to relieve me from my present terrible situation, andcommunicating without reserve the nature and grounds of my suspicions. 

This letter I kept sealed and directed for two or three days alwaysabout my person, for discovery would have been ruinous, in expectationof an opportunity which might be safely trusted, whereby to have itplaced in the post-office. As neither Emily nor I were permitted to passbeyond the precincts of the demesne itself, which was surrounded byhigh walls formed of dry stone, the difficulty of procuring such anopportunity was greatly enhanced. 

At this time Emily had a short conversation with her father, which shereported to me instantly. 

After some indifferent matter, he had asked her whether she and I wereupon good terms, and whether I was unreserved in my disposition. Sheanswered in the affirmative; and he then inquired whether I had beenmuch surprised to find him in my chamber on the other day. She answeredthat I had been both surprised and amused. 

'And what did she think of George Wilson's appearance?'

'Who?' inquired she. 

'Oh, the architect, ' he answered, 'who is to contract for the repairs ofthe house; he is accounted a handsome fellow. '

'She could not see his face, ' said Emily, 'and she was in such a hurryto escape that she scarcely noticed him. '

Sir Arthur appeared satisfied, and the conversation ended. 

This slight conversation, repeated accurately to me by Emily, had theeffect of confirming, if indeed anything was required to do so, all thatI had before believed as to Edward's actual presence; and I naturallybecame, if possible, more anxious than ever to despatch the letter toMr. Jefferies. An opportunity at length occurred. 

As Emily and I were walking one day near the gate of the demesne, a ladfrom the village happened to be passing down the avenue from the house;the spot was secluded, and as this person was not connected by servicewith those whose observation I dreaded, I committed the letter to hiskeeping, with strict injunctions that he should put it without delayinto the receiver of the town post-office; at the same time I addeda suitable gratuity, and the man having made many protestations ofpunctuality, was soon out of sight. 

He was hardly gone when I began to doubt my discretion in having trustedthis person; but I had no better or safer means of despatching theletter, and I was not warranted in suspecting him of such wantondishonesty as an inclination to tamper with it; but I could not be quitesatisfied of its safety until I had received an answer, which could notarrive for a few days. Before I did, however, an event occurred which alittle surprised me. 

I was sitting in my bedroom early in the day, reading by myself, when Iheard a knock at the door. 

'Come in, ' said I; and my uncle entered the room. 

'Will you excuse me?' said he. 'I sought you in the parlour, and thenceI have come here. I desired to say a word with you. I trust that youhave hitherto found my conduct to you such as that of a guardian towardshis ward should be. '

I dared not withhold my consent. 

'And, ' he continued, 'I trust that you have not found me harsh orunjust, and that you have perceived, my dear niece, that I have soughtto make this poor place as agreeable to you as may be. '

I assented again; and he put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew afolded paper, and dashing it upon the table with startling emphasis, hesaid:

'Did you write that letter?'

The sudden and tearful alteration of his voice, manner, and face, but, more than all, the unexpected production of my letter to Mr. Jefferies, which I at once recognised, so confounded and terrified me, that I feltalmost choking. 

I could not utter a word. 

'Did you write that letter?' he repeated with slow and intenseemphasis. ' You did, liar and hypocrite! You dared to write this foul andinfamous libel; but it shall be your last. Men will universally believeyou mad, if I choose to call for an inquiry. I can make you appearso. The suspicions expressed in this letter are the hallucinations andalarms of moping lunacy. I have defeated your first attempt, madam; andby the holy God, if ever you make another, chains, straw, darkness, andthe keeper's whip shall be your lasting portion!'

With these astounding words he left the room, leaving me almostfainting. 

I was now almost reduced to despair; my last cast had failed; I had nocourse left but that of eloping secretly from the castle, and placingmyself under the protection of the nearest magistrate. I felt if thiswere not done, and speedily, that I should be MURDERED. 

No one, from mere description, can have an idea of the unmitigatedhorror of my situation--a helpless, weak, inexperienced girl, placedunder the power and wholly at the mercy of evil men, and feeling thatshe had it not in her power to escape for a moment from the malignantinfluences under which she was probably fated to fall; and with aconsciousness that if violence, if murder were designed, her dyingshriek would be lost in void space; no human being would be near to aidher, no human interposition could deliver her. 

I had seen Edward but once during his visit, and as I did not meet withhim again, I began to think that he must have taken his departure--aconviction which was to a certain degree satisfactory, as I regarded hisabsence as indicating the removal of immediate danger. 

Emily also arrived circuitously at the same conclusion, and not withoutgood grounds, for she managed indirectly to learn that Edward's blackhorse had actually been for a day and part of a night in the castlestables, just at the time of her brother's supposed visit. The horse hadgone, and, as she argued, the rider must have departed with it. 

This point being so far settled, I felt a little less uncomfortable:when being one day alone in my bedroom, I happened to look out fromthe window, and, to my unutterable horror, I beheld, peering throughan opposite casement, my cousin Edward's face. Had I seen the evil onehimself in bodily shape, I could not have experienced a more sickeningrevulsion. 

I was too much appalled to move at once from the window, but I did sosoon enough to avoid his eye. He was looking fixedly into the narrowquadrangle upon which the window opened. I shrank back unperceived, topass the rest of the day in terror and despair. I went to my room earlythat night, but I was too miserable to sleep. 

At about twelve o'clock, feeling very nervous, I determined to callmy cousin Emily, who slept, you will remember, in the next room, whichcommunicated with mine by a second door. By this private entrance Ifound my way into her chamber, and without difficulty persuaded her toreturn to my room and sleep with me. We accordingly lay down together, she undressed, and I with my clothes on, for I was every moment walkingup and down the room, and felt too nervous and miserable to think ofrest or comfort. 

Emily was soon fast asleep, and I lay awake, fervently longing for thefirst pale gleam of morning, reckoning every stroke of the old clockwith an impatience which made every hour appear like six. 

It must have been about one o'clock when I thought I heard a slightnoise at the partition-door between Emily's room and mine, as if causedby somebody's turning the key in the lock. I held my breath, and thesame sound was repeated at the second door of my room--that which openedupon the lobby--the sound was here distinctly caused by the revolutionof the bolt in the lock, and it was followed by a slight pressure uponthe door itself, as if to ascertain the security of the lock. 

The person, whoever it might be, was probably satisfied, for I heardthe old boards of the lobby creak and strain, as if under the weightof somebody moving cautiously over them. My sense of hearing becameunnaturally, almost painfully acute. I suppose the imagination addeddistinctness to sounds vague in themselves. I thought that I couldactually hear the breathing of the person who was slowly returning downthe lobby. At the head of the staircase there appeared to occur a pause;and I could distinctly hear two or three sentences hastily whispered;the steps then descended the stairs with apparently less caution. I nowventured to walk quickly and lightly to the lobby-door, and attemptedto open it; it was indeed fast locked upon the outside, as was also theother. 

I now felt that the dreadful hour was come; but one desperate expedientremained--it was to awaken Emily, and by our united strength to attemptto force the partition-door, which was slighter than the other, andthrough this to pass to the lower part of the house, whence it might bepossible to escape to the grounds, and forth to the village. 

I returned to the bedside and shook Emily, but in vain. Nothing thatI could do availed to produce from her more than a few incoherentwords--it was a death-like sleep. She had certainly drank of somenarcotic, as had I probably also, spite of all the caution with which Ihad examined everything presented to us to eat or drink. 

I now attempted, with as little noise as possible, to force first onedoor, then the other--but all in vain. I believe no strength could haveeffected my object, for both doors opened inwards. I therefore collectedwhatever movables I could carry thither, and piled them against thedoors, so as to assist me in whatever attempts I should make toresist the entrance of those without. I then returned to the bed andendeavoured again, but fruitlessly, to awaken my cousin. It was notsleep, it was torpor, lethargy, death. I knelt down and prayed with anagony of earnestness; and then seating myself upon the bed, I awaited myfate with a kind of terrible tranquillity. 

I heard a faint clanking sound from the narrow court which I havealready mentioned, as if caused by the scraping of some iron instrumentagainst stones or rubbish. I at first determined not to disturb thecalmness which I now felt, by uselessly watching the proceedings ofthose who sought my life; but as the sounds continued, the horriblecuriosity which I felt overcame every other emotion, and I determined, at all hazards, to gratify it. I therefore crawled upon my knees to thewindow, so as to let the smallest portion of my head appear above thesill. 

The moon was shining with an uncertain radiance upon the antique greybuildings, and obliquely upon the narrow court beneath, one side ofwhich was therefore clearly illuminated, while the other was lost inobscurity, the sharp outlines of the old gables, with their noddingclusters of ivy, being at first alone visible. 

Whoever or whatever occasioned the noise which had excited my curiosity, was concealed under the shadow of the dark side of the quadrangle. Iplaced my hand over my eyes to shade them from the moonlight, which wasso bright as to be almost dazzling, and, peering into the darkness, Ifirst dimly, but afterwards gradually, almost with full distinctness, beheld the form of a man engaged in digging what appeared to be arude hole close under the wall. Some implements, probably a shovel andpickaxe, lay beside him, and to these he every now and then appliedhimself as the nature of the ground required. He pursued his taskrapidly, and with as little noise as possible. 

'So, ' thought I, as, shovelful after shovelful, the dislodged rubbishmounted into a heap, 'they are digging the grave in which, before twohours pass, I must lie, a cold, mangled corpse. I am THEIRS--I cannotescape. '

I felt as if my reason was leaving me. I started to my feet, and in meredespair I applied myself again to each of the two doors alternately. Istrained every nerve and sinew, but I might as well have attempted, withmy single strength, to force the building itself from its foundation. Ithrew myself madly upon the ground, and clasped my hands over my eyes asif to shut out the horrible images which crowded upon me. 

The paroxysm passed away. I prayed once more, with the bitter, agonised fervour of one who feels that the hour of death is present andinevitable. When I arose, I went once more to the window and looked out, just in time to see a shadowy figure glide stealthily along the wall. The task was finished. The catastrophe of the tragedy must soon beaccomplished. 

I determined now to defend my life to the last; and that I might be ableto do so with some effect, I searched the room for something which mightserve as a weapon; but either through accident, or from an anticipationof such a possibility, everything which might have been made availablefor such a purpose had been carefully removed. I must then die tamelyand without an effort to defend myself. 

A thought suddenly struck me--might it not be possible to escape throughthe door, which the assassin must open in order to enter the room? Iresolved to make the attempt. I felt assured that the door through whichingress to the room would be effected, was that which opened upon thelobby. It was the more direct way, besides being, for obvious reasons, less liable to interruption than the other. I resolved, then, to placemyself behind a projection of the wall, whose shadow would serve fullyto conceal me, and when the door should be opened, and before theyshould have discovered the identity of the occupant of the bed, to creepnoiselessly from the room, and then to trust to Providence for escape. 

In order to facilitate this scheme, I removed all the lumber which Ihad heaped against the door; and I had nearly completed my arrangements, when I perceived the room suddenly darkened by the close approach ofsome shadowy object to the window. On turning my eyes in that direction, I observed at the top of the casement, as if suspended from above, firstthe feet, then the legs, then the body, and at length the whole figureof a man present himself. It was Edward T----n. 

He appeared to be guiding his descent so as to bring his feet upon thecentre of the stone block which occupied the lower part of the window;and, having secured his footing upon this, he kneeled down and began togaze into the room. As the moon was gleaming into the chamber, and thebed-curtains were drawn, he was able to distinguish the bed itself andits contents. He appeared satisfied with his scrutiny, for he looked upand made a sign with his hand, upon which the rope by which hisdescent had been effected was slackened from above, and he proceeded todisengage it from his waist; this accomplished, he applied his handsto the window-frame, which must have been ingeniously contrived for thepurpose, for, with apparently no resistance, the whole frame, containingcasement and all, slipped from its position in the wall, and was by himlowered into the room. 

The cold night wind waved the bed-curtains, and he paused for amoment--all was still again--and he stepped in upon the floor of theroom. He held in his hand what appeared to be a steel instrument, shapedsomething like a hammer, but larger and sharper at the extremities. Thishe held rather behind him, while, with three long, tip-toe strides, hebrought himself to the bedside. 

I felt that the discovery must now be made, and held my breath inmomentary expectation of the execration in which he would vent hissurprise and disappointment. I closed my eyes--there was a pause, butit was a short one. I heard two dull blows, given in rapid succession:a quivering sigh, and the long-drawn, heavy breathing of the sleeper wasfor ever suspended. I unclosed my eyes, and saw the murderer fling thequilt across the head of his victim: he then, with the instrument ofdeath still in his hand, proceeded to the lobby-door, upon which hetapped sharply twice or thrice. A quick step was then heard approaching, and a voice whispered something from without. Edward answered, with akind of chuckle, 'Her ladyship is past complaining; unlock the door, inthe devil's name, unless you're afraid to come in, and help me to liftthe body out of the window. '

The key was turned in the lock--the door opened--and my uncle enteredthe room. 

I have told you already that I had placed myself under the shade of aprojection of the wall, close to the door. I had instinctively shrunkdown, cowering towards the ground on the entrance of Edward through thewindow. When my uncle entered the room he and his son both stood so veryclose to me that his hand was every moment upon the point of touching myface. I held my breath, and remained motionless as death. 

'You had no interruption from the next room?' said my uncle. 

'No, ' was the brief reply. 

'Secure the jewels, Ned; the French harpy must not lay her claws uponthem. You're a steady hand, by G----! not much blood--eh?'

'Not twenty drops, ' replied his son, 'and those on the quilt. '

'I'm glad it's over, ' whispered my uncle again. 'We must lift the--theTHING through the window, and lay the rubbish over it. '

They then turned to the bedside, and, winding the bed-clothes round thebody, carried it between them slowly to the window, and, exchanginga few brief words with some one below, they shoved it over thewindow-sill, and I heard it fall heavily on the ground underneath. 

'I'll take the jewels, ' said my uncle; 'there are two caskets in thelower drawer. '

He proceeded, with an accuracy which, had I been more at ease, wouldhave furnished me with matter of astonishment, to lay his hand upon thevery spot where my jewels lay; and having possessed himself of them, hecalled to his son:

'Is the rope made fast above?'

'I'm not a fool--to be sure it is, ' replied he. 

They then lowered themselves from the window. I now rose lightly andcautiously, scarcely daring to breathe, from my place of concealment, and was creeping towards the door, when I heard my cousin's voice, ina sharp whisper, exclaim: 'Scramble up again! G--d d----n you, you'veforgot to lock the room-door!' and I perceived, by the straining of therope which hung from above, that the mandate was instantly obeyed. 

Not a second was to be lost. I passed through the door, which was onlyclosed, and moved as rapidly as I could, consistently with stillness, along the lobby. Before I had gone many yards, I heard the door throughwhich I had just passed double-locked on the inside. I glided down thestairs in terror, lest, at every corner, I should meet the murderer orone of his accomplices. 

I reached the hall, and listened for a moment to ascertain whether allwas silent around; no sound was audible. The parlour windows opened onthe park, and through one of them I might, I thought, easily effectmy escape. Accordingly, I hastily entered; but, to my consternation, acandle was burning in the room, and by its light I saw a figure seatedat the dinner-table, upon which lay glasses, bottles, and the otheraccompaniments of a drinking-party. Two or three chairs were placedabout the table irregularly, as if hastily abandoned by their occupants. 

A single glance satisfied me that the figure was that of my Frenchattendant. She was fast asleep, having probably drank deeply. Therewas something malignant and ghastly in the calmness of this bad woman'sfeatures, dimly illuminated as they were by the flickering blaze ofthe candle. A knife lay upon the table, and the terrible thoughtstruck me--'Should I kill this sleeping accomplice in the guilt of themurderer, and thus secure my retreat?'

Nothing could be easier--it was but to draw the blade across herthroat--the work of a second. An instant's pause, however, correctedme. 'No, ' thought I, 'the God who has conducted me thus far through thevalley of the shadow of death, will not abandon me now. I will fall intotheir hands, or I will escape hence, but it shall be free from the stainof blood. His will be done. '

I felt a confidence arising from this reflection, an assurance ofprotection which I cannot describe. There was no other means of escape, so I advanced, with a firm step and collected mind, to the window. Inoiselessly withdrew the bars and unclosed the shutters--I pushed openthe casement, and, without waiting to look behind me, I ran with myutmost speed, scarcely feeling the ground under me, down the avenue, taking care to keep upon the grass which bordered it. 

I did not for a moment slack my speed, and I had now gained the centrepoint between the park-gate and the mansion-house. Here the avenue madea wider circuit, and in order to avoid delay, I directed my way acrossthe smooth sward round which the pathway wound, intending, at theopposite side of the flat, at a point which I distinguished by a groupof old birch-trees, to enter again upon the beaten track, which was fromthence tolerably direct to the gate. 

I had, with my utmost speed, got about half way across this broad flat, when the rapid treading of a horse's hoofs struck upon my ear. Myheart swelled in my bosom as though I would smother. The clattering ofgalloping hoofs approached--I was pursued--they were now upon the swardon which I was running--there was not a bush or a bramble to shelterme--and, as if to render escape altogether desperate, the moon, whichhad hitherto been obscured, at this moment shone forth with a broadclear light, which made every object distinctly visible. 

The sounds were now close behind me. I felt my knees bending under me, with the sensation which torments one in dreams. I reeled--I stumbled--Ifell--and at the same instant the cause of my alarm wheeled past me atfull gallop. It was one of the young fillies which pastured loose aboutthe park, whose frolics had thus all but maddened me with terror. I scrambled to my feet, and rushed on with weak but rapid steps, mysportive companion still galloping round and round me with many afrisk and fling, until, at length, more dead than alive, I reached theavenue-gate and crossed the stile, I scarce knew how. 

I ran through the village, in which all was silent as the grave, untilmy progress was arrested by the hoarse voice of a sentinel, who cried:'Who goes there?' I felt that I was now safe. I turned in the directionof the voice, and fell fainting at the soldier's feet. When I came tomyself; I was sitting in a miserable hovel, surrounded by strange faces, all bespeaking curiosity and compassion. 

Many soldiers were in it also: indeed, as I afterwards found, it wasemployed as a guard-room by a detachment of troops quartered for thatnight in the town. In a few words I informed their officer of thecircumstances which had occurred, describing also the appearance of thepersons engaged in the murder; and he, without loss of time, proceededto the mansion-house of Carrickleigh, taking with him a party of hismen. But the villains had discovered their mistake, and had effectedtheir escape before the arrival of the military. 

The Frenchwoman was, however, arrested in the neighbourhood upon thenext day. She was tried and condemned upon the ensuing assizes; andprevious to her execution, confessed that 'SHE HAD A HAND IN MAKING HUGHTISDAL'S BED. ' She had been a housekeeper in the castle at the time, anda kind of chere amie of my uncle's. She was, in reality, able to speakEnglish like a native, but had exclusively used the French language, Isuppose to facilitate her disguise. She died the same hardened wretchwhich she had lived, confessing her crimes only, as she alleged, thather doing so might involve Sir Arthur T----n, the great author ofher guilt and misery, and whom she now regarded with unmitigateddetestation. 

With the particulars of Sir Arthur's and his son's escape, as far asthey are known, you are acquainted. You are also in possession of theirafter fate--the terrible, the tremendous retribution which, after longdelays of many years, finally overtook and crushed them. Wonderful andinscrutable are the dealings of God with His creatures. 

Deep and fervent as must always be my gratitude to heaven for mydeliverance, effected by a chain of providential occurrences, thefailing of a single link of which must have ensured my destruction, Iwas long before I could look back upon it with other feelings than thoseof bitterness, almost of agony. 

The only being that had ever really loved me, my nearest and dearestfriend, ever ready to sympathise, to counsel, and to assist--the gayest, the gentlest, the warmest heart--the only creature on earth that caredfor me--HER life had been the price of my deliverance; and I thenuttered the wish, which no event of my long and sorrowful life hastaught me to recall, that she had been spared, and that, in her stead, _I_ were mouldering in the grave, forgotten and at rest. 

THE BRIDAL OF CARRIGVARAH. 

Being a Sixth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. Of Drumcoolagh. 

In a sequestered district of the county of Limerick, there stood myearly life, some forty years ago, one of those strong stone buildings, half castle, half farm-house, which are not unfrequent in the South ofIreland, and whose solid masonry and massive construction seem to proveat once the insecurity and the caution of the Cromwellite settlers whoerected them. At the time of which I speak, this building was tenantedby an elderly man, whose starch and puritanic mien and manners mighthave become the morose preaching parliamentarian captain, who had raisedthe house and ruled the household more than a hundred years before;but this man, though Protestant by descent as by name, was not so inreligion; he was a strict, and in outward observances, an exemplaryCatholic; his father had returned in early youth to the true faith, anddied in the bosom of the church. 

Martin Heathcote was, at the time of which I speak, a widower, but hishouse-keeping was not on that account altogether solitary, for he had adaughter, whose age was now sufficiently advanced to warrant her fatherin imposing upon her the grave duties of domestic superintendence. 

This little establishment was perfectly isolated, and very littleintruded upon by acts of neighbourhood; for the rank of its occupantswas of that equivocal kind which precludes all familiar associationwith those of a decidedly inferior rank, while it is not sufficient toentitle its possessors to the society of established gentility, amongwhom the nearest residents were the O'Maras of Carrigvarah, whosemansion-house, constructed out of the ruins of an old abbey, whosetowers and cloisters had been levelled by the shot of Cromwell'sartillery, stood not half a mile lower upon the river banks. 

Colonel O'Mara, the possessor of the estates, was then in a decliningstate of health, and absent with his lady from the country, leaving atthe castle, his son young O'Mara, and a kind of humble companion, namedEdward Dwyer, who, if report belied him not, had done in his early dayssome PECULIAR SERVICES for the Colonel, who had been a gay man--perhapsworse--but enough of recapitulation. 

It was in the autumn of the year 17-- that the events which led to thecatastrophe which I have to detail occurred. I shall run through thesaid recital as briefly as clearness will permit, and leave you tomoralise, if such be your mood, upon the story of real life, which Ieven now trace at this distant period not without emotion. 

It was upon a beautiful autumn evening, at that glad period of theseason when the harvest yields its abundance, that two figures were seensauntering along the banks of the winding river, which I described asbounding the farm occupied by Heathcote; they had been, as the rodsand landing-nets which they listlessly carried went to show, plying thegentle, but in this case not altogether solitary craft of the fisherman. One of those persons was a tall and singularly handsome young man, whosedark hair and complexion might almost have belonged to a Spaniard, as might also the proud but melancholy expression which gave to hiscountenance a character which contrasts sadly, but not uninterestingly, with extreme youth; his air, as he spoke with his companion, was markedby that careless familiarity which denotes a conscious superiority ofone kind or other, or which may be construed into a species of contempt;his comrade afforded to him in every respect a striking contrast. Hewas rather low in stature--a defect which was enhanced by a broad andsquare-built figure--his face was sallow, and his features hadthat prominence and sharpness which frequently accompany personaldeformity--a remarkably wide mouth, with teeth white as the fangs of awolf, and a pair of quick, dark eyes, whose effect was heightened by theshadow of a heavy black brow, gave to his face a power of expression, particularly when sarcastic or malignant emotions were to be exhibited, which features regularly handsome could scarcely have possessed. 

'Well, sir, ' said the latter personage, 'I have lived in hall and abbey, town and country, here and abroad for forty years and more, and shouldknow a thing or two, and as I am a living man, I swear I think the girlloves you. '

'You are a fool, Ned, ' said the younger. 

'I may be a fool, ' replied the first speaker, 'in matters where my ownadvantage is staked, but my eye is keen enough to see through the flimsydisguise of a country damsel at a glance; and I tell you, as surely as Ihold this rod, the girl loves you. '

'Oh I this is downright headstrong folly, ' replied the young fisherman. 'Why, Ned, you try to persuade me against my reason, that the eventwhich is most to be deprecated has actually occurred. She is, no doubt, a pretty girl--a beautiful girl--but I have not lost my heart to her;and why should I wish her to be in love with me? Tush, man, the days ofromance are gone, and a young gentleman may talk, and walk, and laughwith a pretty country maiden, and never breathe aspirations, or vows, or sighs about the matter; unequal matches are much oftener read of thanmade, and the man who could, even in thought, conceive a wish againstthe honour of an unsuspecting, artless girl, is a villain, for whomhanging is too good. '

This concluding sentence was uttered with an animation and excitement, which the mere announcement of an abstract moral sentiment could hardlyaccount for. 

'You are, then, indifferent, honestly and in sober earnest, indifferentto the girl?' inquired Dwyer. 

'Altogether so, ' was the reply. 

'Then I have a request to make, ' continued Dwyer, 'and I may as wellurge it now as at any other time. I have been for nearly twenty yearsthe faithful, and by no means useless, servant of your family; you knowthat I have rendered your father critical and important services----' hepaused, and added hastily: 'you are not in the mood--I tire you, sir. '

'Nay, ' cried O'Mara, 'I listen patiently--proceed. '

'For all these services, and they were not, as I have said, few orvalueless, I have received little more reward than liberal promises;you have told me often that this should be mended--I'll make it easilydone--I'm not unreasonable--I should be contented to hold Heathcote'sground, along with this small farm on which we stand, as full quittanceof all obligations and promises between us. '

'But how the devil can I effect that for you; this farm, it is true, I, or my father, rather, may lease to you, but Heathcote's title we cannotimpugn; and even if we could, you would not expect us to ruin an honestman, in order to make way for YOU, Ned. '

'What I am, ' replied Dwyer, with the calmness of one who is soaccustomed to contemptuous insinuations as to receive them with perfectindifference, 'is to be attributed to my devotedness to your honourablefamily--but that is neither here nor there. I do not ask you to displaceHeathcote, in order to made room for me. I know it is out of your powerto do so. Now hearken to me for a moment; Heathcote's property, thatwhich he has set out to tenants, is worth, say in rents, at most, onehundred pounds: half of this yearly amount is assigned to your father, until payment be made of a bond for a thousand pounds, with interest andsoforth. Hear me patiently for a moment and I have done. Now go you toHeathcote, and tell him your father will burn the bond, and cancel thedebt, upon one condition--that when I am in possession of this farm, which you can lease to me on what terms you think suitable, he willconvey over his property to me, reserving what life-interest may appearfair, I engaging at the same time to marry his daughter, and make suchsettlements upon her as shall be thought fitting--he is not a fool--theman will close with the offer. '

O'Mara turned shortly upon Dwyer, and gazed upon him for a moment withan expression of almost unmixed resentment. 

'How, ' said he at length, 'YOU contract to marry Ellen Heathcote? thepoor, innocent, confiding, light-hearted girl. No, no, Edward Dwyer, Iknow you too well for that--your services, be they what they will, mustnot, shall not go unrewarded--your avarice shall be appeased--but notwith a human sacrifice! Dwyer, I speak to you without disguise; youknow me to be acquainted with your history, and what's more, with yourcharacter. Now tell me frankly, were I to do as you desire me, in coolblood, should I not prove myself a more uncompromising and unfeelingvillain than humanity even in its most monstrous shapes has ever yetgiven birth to?'

Dwyer met this impetuous language with the unmoved and impenetrablecalmness which always marked him when excitement would have appearedin others; he even smiled as he replied: (and Dwyer's smile, for I haveseen it, was characteristically of that unfortunate kind which implies, as regards the emotions of others, not sympathy but derision). 

'This eloquence goes to prove Ellen Heathcote something nearer to yourheart than your great indifference would have led me to suppose. '

There was something in the tone, perhaps in the truth of theinsinuation, which at once kindled the quick pride and the anger ofO'Mara, and he instantly replied:

'Be silent, sir, this is insolent folly. '

Whether it was that Dwyer was more keenly interested in the success ofhis suit, or more deeply disappointed at its failure than he cared toexpress, or that he was in a less complacent mood than was his wont, itis certain that his countenance expressed more emotion at this directinsult than it had ever exhibited before under similar circumstances;for his eyes gleamed for an instant with savage and undisguised ferocityupon the young man, and a dark glow crossed his brow, and for the momenthe looked about to spring at the throat of his insolent patron; but theimpulse whatever it might be, was quickly suppressed, and before O'Marahad time to detect the scowl, it had vanished. 

'Nay, sir, ' said Dwyer, 'I meant no offence, and I will take none, atyour hands at least. I will confess I care not, in love and soforth, a single bean for the girl; she was the mere channel through whichher father's wealth, if such a pittance deserves the name, was to haveflowed into my possession--'twas in respect of your family finances themost economical provision for myself which I could devise--a matter inwhich you, not I, are interested. As for women, they are all pretty muchalike to me. I am too old myself to make nice distinctions, and too uglyto succeed by Cupid's arts; and when a man despairs of success, he soonceases to care for it. So, if you know me, as you profess to do, restsatisfied "caeteris paribus;" the money part of the transaction beingequally advantageous, I should regret the loss of Ellen Heathcote justas little as I should the escape of a minnow from my landing-net. '

They walked on for a few minutes in silence, which was not broken tillDwyer, who had climbed a stile in order to pass a low stone wall whichlay in their way, exclaimed:

'By the rood, she's here--how like a philosopher you look. '

The conscious blood mounted to O'Mara's cheek; he crossed the stile, and, separated from him only by a slight fence and a gate, stood thesubject of their recent and somewhat angry discussion. 

'God save you, Miss Heathcote, ' cried Dwyer, approaching the gate. 

The salutation was cheerfully returned, and before anything more couldpass, O'Mara had joined the party. 

My friend, that you may understand the strength and depth of thoseimpetuous passions, that you may account for the fatal infatuation whichled to the catastrophe which I have to relate, I must tell you, thatthough I have seen the beauties of cities and of courts, with allthe splendour of studied ornament about them to enhance their graces, possessing charms which had made them known almost throughout the world, and worshipped with the incense of a thousand votaries, yet never, nowhere did I behold a being of such exquisite and touching beauty, asthat possessed by the creature of whom I have just spoken. At the momentof which I write, she was standing near the gate, close to which severalbrown-armed, rosy-cheeked damsels were engaged in milking the peacefulcows, who stood picturesquely grouped together. She had just thrownback the hood which is the graceful characteristic of the Irish girl'sattire, so that her small and classic head was quite uncovered, saveonly by the dark-brown hair, which with graceful simplicity was partedabove her forehead. There was nothing to shade the clearness of herbeautiful complexion; the delicately-formed features, so exquisite whentaken singly, so indescribable when combined, so purely artless, yet someet for all expression. She was a thing so very beautiful, you couldnot look on her without feeling your heart touched as by sweet music. Whose lightest action was a grace--whose lightest word a spell--nolimner's art, though ne'er so perfect, could shadow forth her beauty;and do I dare with feeble words try to make you see it?(1) Providenceis indeed no respecter of persons, its blessings and its inflictions areapportioned with an undistinguishing hand, and until the race is over, and life be done, none can know whether those perfections, which seemedits goodliest gifts, many not prove its most fatal; but enough of this. 

(1) Father Purcell seems to have had an admiration for the beauties ofnature, particularly as developed in the fair sex; a habit of mind whichhas been rather improved upon than discontinued by his successors fromMaynooth. --ED. 

Dwyer strolled carelessly onward by the banks of the stream, leaving hisyoung companion leaning over the gate in close and interesting parlancewith Ellen Heathcote; as he moved on, he half thought, half utteredwords to this effect:

'Insolent young spawn of ingratitude and guilt, how long must I submitto be trod upon thus; and yet why should I murmur--his day is even nowdeclining--and if I live a year, I shall see the darkness cover him andhis for ever. Scarce half his broad estates shall save him--but Imust wait--I am but a pauper now--a beggar's accusation is always alibel--they must reward me soon--and were I independent once, I'd makethem feel my power, and feel it SO, that I should die the richest or thebest avenged servant of a great man that has ever been heard of--yes, I must wait--I must make sure of something at least--I must be able tostand by myself--and then--and then--' He clutched his fingers together, as if in the act of strangling the object of his hatred. 'But one thingshall save him--but one thing only--he shall pay me my own price--and ifhe acts liberally, as no doubt he will do, upon compulsion, why he saveshis reputation--perhaps his neck--the insolent young whelp yonder wouldspeak in an humbler key if he but knew his father's jeopardy--but all ingood time. '

He now stood upon the long, steep, narrow bridge, which crossed theriver close to Carrigvarah, the family mansion of the O'Maras; he lookedback in the direction in which he had left his companion, and leaningupon the battlement, he ruminated long and moodily. At length he raisedhimself and said:

'He loves the girl, and WILL love her more--I have an opportunity ofwinning favour, of doing service, which shall bind him to me; yes, heshall have the girl, if I have art to compass the matter. I must thinkupon it. '

He entered the avenue and was soon lost in the distance. 

Days and weeks passed on, and young O'Mara daily took his rod and net, and rambled up the river; and scarce twelve hours elapsed in which someof those accidents, which invariably bring lovers together, did notsecure him a meeting of longer or shorter duration, with the beautifulgirl whom he so fatally loved. 

One evening, after a long interview with her, in which he had beenalmost irresistibly prompted to declare his love, and had all butyielded himself up to the passionate impulse, upon his arrival at homehe found a letter on the table awaiting his return; it was from hisfather to the following effect:

 'To Richard O'Mara. 'September, 17--, L----m, England. 

 'MY DEAR SON, -- 'I have just had a severe attack ofmy old and almost forgotten enemy, the gout. This I regard as a goodsign; the doctors telling me that it is the safest development ofpeccant humours; and I think my chest is less tormenting and oppressedthan I have known it for some years. My chief reason for writing to younow, as I do it not without difficulty, is to let you know my pleasurein certain matters, in which I suspect some shameful, and, indeed, infatuated neglect on your part, "quem perdere vult deus priusdementat:" how comes it that you have neglected to write to Lady Emilyor any of that family? the understood relation subsisting between you isone of extreme delicacy, and which calls for marked and courteous, nay, devoted attention upon your side. Lord ---- is already offended; bewarewhat you do; for as you will find, if this match be lost by your faultor folly, by ---- I will cut you off with a shilling. I am not in thehabit of using threats when I do not mean to fulfil them, and that youwell know; however I do not think you have much real cause for alarm inthis case. Lady Emily, who, by the way, looks if possible more charmingthan ever, is anything but hard-hearted, at least when YOU solicit; butdo as I desire, and lose no time in making what excuse you may, andlet me hear from you when you can fix a time to join me and your motherhere. 

'Your sincere well-wisher and father, 'RICHARD O'MARA. '

In this letter was inclosed a smaller one, directed to Dwyer, andcontaining a cheque for twelve pounds, with the following words:

'Make use of the enclosed, and let me hear if Richard is upon any wildscheme at present: I am uneasy about him, and not without reason; reportto me speedily the result of your vigilance. 

'R. O'MARA. '

Dwyer just glanced through this brief, but not unwelcome, epistle; anddeposited it and its contents in the secret recesses of his breechespocket, and then fixed his eyes upon the face of his companion, who satopposite, utterly absorbed in the perusal of his father's letter, whichhe read again and again, pausing and muttering between whiles, andapparently lost in no very pleasing reflections. At length he veryabruptly exclaimed:

'A delicate epistle, truly--and a politic--would that my tongue had beenburned through before I assented to that doubly-cursed contract. Why, Iam not pledged yet--I am not; there is neither writing, nor troth, norword of honour, passed between us. My father has no right to pledge me, even though I told him I liked the girl, and would wish the match. 'Tisnot enough that my father offers her my heart and hand; he has no rightto do it; a delicate woman would not accept professions made by proxy. Lady Emily! Lady Emily! with all the tawdry frippery, and finery ofdress and demeanour--compare HER with---- Pshaw! Ridiculous! How blind, how idiotic I have been. '

He relapsed into moody reflections, which Dwyer did not care to disturb, and some ten minutes might have passed before he spoke again. When hedid, it was in the calm tone of one who has irrevocably resolved uponsome decided and important act. 

'Dwyer, ' he said, rising and approaching that person, 'whatever god ordemon told you, even before my own heart knew it, that I loved EllenHeathcote, spoke truth. I love her madly--I never dreamed till nowhow fervently, how irrevocably, I am hers--how dead to me all otherinterests are. Dwyer, I know something of your disposition, and you nodoubt think it strange that I should tell to you, of all persons, SUCHa secret; but whatever be your faults, I think you are attached to ourfamily. I am satisfied you will not betray me. I know----'

'Pardon me, ' said Dwyer, 'if I say that great professions of confidencetoo frequently mark distrust. I have no possible motive to induce me tobetray you; on the contrary, I would gladly assist and direct whateverplans you may have formed. Command me as you please; I have saidenough. '

'I will not doubt you, Dwyer, ' said O'Mara; 'I have taken myresolution--I have, I think, firmness to act up to it. To marry EllenHeathcote, situated as I am, were madness; to propose anything elsewere worse, were villainy not to be named. I will leave the countryto-morrow, cost what pain it may, for England. I will at once break offthe proposed alliance with Lady Emily, and will wait until I am my ownmaster, to open my heart to Ellen. My father may say and do what helikes; but his passion will not last. He will forgive me; and even werehe to disinherit me, as he threatens, there is some property whichmust descend to me, which his will cannot affect. He cannot ruin myinterests; he SHALL NOT ruin my happiness. Dwyer, give me pen and ink; Iwill write this moment. '

This bold plan of proceeding for many reasons appeared inexpedientto Dwyer, and he determined not to consent to its adoption without astruggle. 

'I commend your prudence, ' said he, 'in determining to remove yourselffrom the fascinating influence which has so long bound you here; butbeware of offending your father. Colonel O'Mara is not a man to forgivean act of deliberate disobedience, and surely you are not mad enough toruin yourself with him by offering an outrageous insult to Lady Emilyand to her family in her person; therefore you must not break off theunderstood contract which subsists between you by any formal act--hearme out patiently. You must let Lady Emily perceive, as you easily may, without rudeness or even coldness of manner, that she is perfectlyindifferent to you; and when she understands this to be the case, itshe possesses either delicacy or spirit, she will herself break offthe engagement. Make what delay it is possible to effect; it is verypossible that your father, who cannot, in all probability, live manymonths, may not live as many days if harassed and excited by such scenesas your breaking off your engagement must produce. '

'Dwyer, ' said O'Mara, 'I will hear you out--proceed. '

'Besides, sir, remember, ' he continued, 'the understanding which we havetermed an engagement was entered into without any direct sanction uponyour part; your father has committed HIMSELF, not YOU, to Lord ----. Before a real contract can subsist, you must be an assenting partyto it. I know of no casuistry subtle enough to involve you in anyengagement whatever, without such an ingredient. Tush! you have an easycard to play. '

'Well, ' said the young man, 'I will think on what you have said; in themeantime, I will write to my father to announce my immediate departure, in order to join him. '

'Excuse me, ' said Dwyer, 'but I would suggest that by hastening yourdeparture you but bring your dangers nearer. While you are in thiscountry a letter now and then keeps everything quiet; but once acrossthe Channel and with the colonel, you must either quarrel with him toyour own destruction, or you must dance attendance upon Lady Emily withsuch assiduity as to commit yourself as completely as if you had beenthrice called with her in the parish church. No, no; keep to thisside of the Channel as long as you decently can. Besides, your suddendeparture must appear suspicious, and will probably excite inquiry. Every good end likely to be accomplished by your absence will beeffected as well by your departure for Dublin, where you may remain forthree weeks or a month without giving rise to curiosity or doubt ofan unpleasant kind; I would therefore advise you strongly to writeimmediately to the colonel, stating that business has occurred to deferyour departure for a month, and you can then leave this place, if youthink fit, immediately, that is, within a week or so. '

Young O'Mara was not hard to be persuaded. Perhaps it was that, unacknowledged by himself, any argument which recommended his staying, even for an hour longer than his first decision had announced, inthe neighbourhood of Ellen Heathcote, appeared peculiarly cogent andconvincing; however this may have been, it is certain that he followedthe counsel of his cool-headed follower, who retired that night to bedwith the pleasing conviction that he was likely soon to involvehis young patron in all the intricacies of disguise and intrigue--aconsummation which would leave him totally at the mercy of the favouredconfidant who should possess his secret. 

Young O'Mara's reflections were more agitating and less satisfactorythan those of his companion. He resolved upon leaving the country beforetwo days had passed. He felt that he could not fairly seek to involveEllen Heathcote in his fate by pledge or promise, until he hadextricated himself from those trammels which constrained and embarrassedall his actions. His determination was so far prudent; but, alas! healso resolved that it was but right, but necessary, that he should seeher before his departure. His leaving the country without a look or aword of parting kindness interchanged, must to her appear an act of coldand heartless caprice; he could not bear the thought. 

'No, ' said he, 'I am not child enough to say more than prudence tellsme ought to say; this cowardly distrust of my firmness I should and willcontemn. Besides, why should I commit myself? It is possible the girlmay not care for me. No, no; I need not shrink from this interview. I have no reason to doubt my firmness--none--none. I must cease tobe governed by impulse. I am involved in rocks and quicksands; and acollected spirit, a quick eye, and a steady hand, alone can pilot methrough. God grant me a safe voyage!'

The next day came, and young O'Mara did not take his fishing-rod asusual, but wrote two letters; the one to his father, announcing hisintention of departing speedily for England; the other to Lady Emily, containing a cold but courteous apology for his apparent neglect. Boththese were despatched to the post-office that evening, and upon the nextmorning he was to leave the country. 

Upon the night of the momentous day of which we have just spoken, EllenHeathcote glided silently and unperceived from among the busy crowdswho were engaged in the gay dissipation furnished by what is in Irelandcommonly called a dance (the expenses attendant upon which, music, etc. , are defrayed by a subscription of one halfpenny each), and havingdrawn her mantle closely about her, was proceeding with quick steps totraverse the small field which separated her from her father's abode. She had not walked many yards when she became aware that a solitaryfigure, muffled in a cloak, stood in the pathway. It approached; a lowvoice whispered:

'Ellen. '

'Is it you, Master Richard?' she replied. 

He threw back the cloak which had concealed his features. 

'It is I, Ellen, he said; 'I have been watching for you. I will notdelay you long. '

He took her hand, and she did not attempt to withdraw it; for she wastoo artless to think any evil, too confiding to dread it. 

'Ellen, ' he continued, even now unconsciously departing from the rigidcourse which prudence had marked out; 'Ellen, I am going to leave thecountry; going to-morrow. I have had letters from England. I must go;and the sea will soon be between us. '

He paused, and she was silent. 

'There is one request, one entreaty I have to make, ' he continued; 'Iwould, when I am far away, have something to look at which belongedto you. Will you give me--do not refuse it--one little lock of yourbeautiful hair?'

With artless alacrity, but with trembling hand, she took the scissors, which in simple fashion hung by her side, and detached one of the longand beautiful locks which parted over her forehead. She placed it in hishand. 

Again he took her hand, and twice he attempted to speak in vain; atlength he said:

'Ellen, when I am gone--when I am away--will you sometimes remember, sometimes think of me?'

Ellen Heathcote had as much, perhaps more, of what is noble in pridethan the haughtiest beauty that ever trod a court; but the effort wasuseless; the honest struggle was in vain; and she burst into floods oftears, bitterer than she had ever shed before. 

I cannot tell how passions rise and fall; I cannot describe theimpetuous words of the young lover, as pressing again and again to hislips the cold, passive hand, which had been resigned to him, prudence, caution, doubts, resolutions, all vanished from his view, and meltedinto nothing. 'Tis for me to tell the simple fact, that from that briefinterview they both departed promised and pledged to each other forever. 

Through the rest of this story events follow one another rapidly. 

A few nights after that which I have just mentioned, Ellen Heathcotedisappeared; but her father was not left long in suspense as to herfate, for Dwyer, accompanied by one of those mendicant friars whotraversed the country then even more commonly than they now do, calledupon Heathcote before he had had time to take any active measures forthe recovery of his child, and put him in possession of a documentwhich appeared to contain satisfactory evidence of the marriage of EllenHeathcote with Richard O'Mara, executed upon the evening previous, asthe date went to show; and signed by both parties, as well as by Dwyerand a servant of young O'Mara's, both these having acted as witnesses;and further supported by the signature of Peter Nicholls, a brother ofthe order of St. Francis, by whom the ceremony had been performed, andwhom Heathcote had no difficulty in recognising in the person of hisvisitant. 

This document, and the prompt personal visit of the two men, and aboveall, the known identity of the Franciscan, satisfied Heathcote asfully as anything short of complete publicity could have done. And hisconviction was not a mistaken one. 

Dwyer, before he took his leave, impressed upon Heathcote the necessityof keeping the affair so secret as to render it impossible that itshould reach Colonel O'Mara's ears, an event which would have beenattended with ruinous consequences to all parties. He refused, also, to permit Heathcote to see his daughter, and even to tell him where shewas, until circumstances rendered it safe for him to visit her. 

Heathcote was a harsh and sullen man; and though his temper was anythingbut tractable, there was so much to please, almost to dazzle him, in theevent, that he accepted the terms which Dwyer imposed upon him withoutany further token of disapprobation than a shake of the head, and agruff wish that 'it might prove all for the best. '

Nearly two months had passed, and young O'Mara had not yet departedfor England. His letters had been strangely few and far between; and inshort, his conduct was such as to induce Colonel O'Mara to hasten hisreturn to Ireland, and at the same time to press an engagement, whichLord ----, his son Captain N----, and Lady Emily had made to spend someweeks with him at his residence in Dublin. 

A letter arrived for young O'Mara, stating the arrangement, andrequiring his attendance in Dublin, which was accordingly immediatelyafforded. 

He arrived, with Dwyer, in time to welcome his father and hisdistinguished guests. He resolved to break off his embarrassingconnection with Lady Emily, without, however, stating the real motive, which he felt would exasperate the resentment which his father and Lord---- would no doubt feel at his conduct. 

He strongly felt how dishonourably he would act if, in obedience toDwyer's advice, he seemed tacitly to acquiesce in an engagement whichit was impossible for him to fulfil. He knew that Lady Emily was notcapable of anything like strong attachment; and that even if she were, he had no reason whatever to suppose that she cared at all for him. 

He had not at any time desired the alliance; nor had he any reason tosuppose the young lady in any degree less indifferent. He regarded itnow, and not without some appearance of justice, as nothing more than akind of understood stipulation, entered into by their parents, and tobe considered rather as a matter of business and calculation than asinvolving anything of mutual inclination on the part of the parties mostnearly interested in the matter. 

He anxiously, therefore, watched for an opportunity of making knownhis feelings to Lord ----, as he could not with propriety do so toLady Emily; but what at a distance appeared to be a matter of easyaccomplishment, now, upon a nearer approach, and when the immediateimpulse which had prompted the act had subsided, appeared so full ofdifficulty and almost inextricable embarrassments, that he involuntarilyshrunk from the task day after day. 

Though it was a source of indescribable anxiety to him, he did notventure to write to Ellen, for he could not disguise from himself thedanger which the secrecy of his connection with her must incur byhis communicating with her, even through a public office, wheretheir letters might be permitted to lie longer than the gossipinginquisitiveness of a country town would warrant him in supposing safe. 

It was about a fortnight after young O'Mara had arrived in Dublin, whereall things, and places, and amusements; and persons seemed thoroughlystale, flat, and unprofitable, when one day, tempted by the unusualfineness of the weather, Lady Emily proposed a walk in the College Park, a favourite promenade at that time. She therefore with young O'Mara, accompanied by Dwyer (who, by-the-by, when he pleased, could act thegentleman sufficiently well), proceeded to the place proposed, wherethey continued to walk for some time. 

'Why, Richard, ' said Lady Emily, after a tedious and unbroken pauseof some minutes, 'you are becoming worse and worse every day. You aregrowing absolutely intolerable; perfectly stupid! not one good thinghave I heard since I left the house. '

O'Mara smiled, and was seeking for a suitable reply, when his design wasinterrupted, and his attention suddenly and painfully arrested, by theappearance of two figures, who were slowly passing the broad walk onwhich he and his party moved; the one was that of Captain N----, theother was the form of--Martin Heathcote!

O'Mara felt confounded, almost stunned; the anticipation of someimpending mischief--of an immediate and violent collision with a youngman whom he had ever regarded as his friend, were apprehensions whichsuch a juxtaposition could not fail to produce. 

'Is Heathcote mad?' thought he. 'What devil can have brought him here?'

Dwyer having exchanged a significant glance with O'Mara, said slightlyto Lady Emily:

'Will your ladyship excuse me for a moment? I have a word to say toCaptain N----, and will, with your permission, immediately rejoin you. '

He bowed, and walking rapidly on, was in a few moments beside the objectof his and his patron's uneasiness. 

Whatever Heathcote's object might be, he certainly had not yet declaredthe secret, whose safety O'Mara had so naturally desired, for CaptainN---- appeared in good spirits; and on coming up to his sister and hercompanion, he joined them for a moment, telling O'Mara, laughingly, thatan old quiz had come from the country for the express purpose oftelling tales, as it was to be supposed, of him (young O'Mara), in whoseneighbourhood he lived. 

During this speech it required all the effort which it was possible toexert to prevent O'Mara's betraying the extreme agitation to which hissituation gave rise. Captain N----, however, suspected nothing, andpassed on without further delay. 

Dinner was an early meal in those days, and Lady Emily was obliged toleave the Park in less than half an hour after the unpleasant meetingwhich we have just mentioned. 

Young O'Mara and, at a sign from him, Dwyer having escorted the ladyto the door of Colonel O'Mara's house, pretended an engagement, anddeparted together. 

Richard O'Mara instantly questioned his comrade upon the subject of hisanxiety; but Dwyer had nothing to communicate of a satisfactory nature. He had only time, while the captain had been engaged with Lady Emily andher companion, to say to Heathcote:

'Be secret, as you value your existence: everything will be right, ifyou be but secret. '

To this Heathcote had replied: 'Never fear me; I understand what I amabout. '

This was said in such an ambiguous manner that it was impossible toconjecture whether he intended or not to act upon Dwyer's exhortation. The conclusion which appeared most natural, was by no means an agreeableone. 

It was much to be feared that Heathcote having heard some vague reportof O'Mara's engagement with Lady Emily, perhaps exaggerated, by therepetition, into a speedily approaching marriage, had become alarmed forhis daughter's interest, and had taken this decisive step in order toprevent, by a disclosure of the circumstances of his clandestine unionwith Ellen, the possibility of his completing a guilty alliance withCaptain N----'s sister. If he entertained the suspicions which theyattributed to him, he had certainly taken the most effectual means toprevent their being realised. Whatever his object might be, his presencein Dublin, in company with Captain N----, boded nothing good to O'Mara. 

They entered ----'s tavern, in Dame Street, together; and there, over ahasty and by no means a comfortable meal, they talked over their plansand conjectures. Evening closed in, and found them still closetedtogether, with nothing to interrupt, and a large tankard of claret tosustain their desultory conversation. 

Nothing had been determined upon, except that Dwyer and O'Mara shouldproceed under cover of the darkness to search the town for Heathcote, and by minute inquiries at the most frequented houses of entertainment, to ascertain his place of residence, in order to procuring a full andexplanatory interview with him. They had each filled their last glass, and were sipping it slowly, seated with their feet stretched towardsa bright cheerful fire; the small table which sustained the flagon ofwhich we have spoken, together with two pair of wax candles, placedbetween them, so as to afford a convenient resting-place for the longglasses out of which they drank. 

'One good result, at all events, will be effected by Heathcote's visit, 'said O'Mara. 'Before twenty-four hours I shall do that which I shouldhave done long ago. I shall, without reserve, state everything. I can nolonger endure this suspense--this dishonourable secrecy--this apparentdissimulation. Every moment I have passed since my departure fromthe country has been one of embarrassment, of pain, of humiliation. To-morrow I will brave the storm, whether successfully or not isdoubtful; but I had rather walk the high roads a beggar, than submita day longer to be made the degraded sport of every accident--themiserable dependent upon a successful system of deception. ThoughPASSIVE deception, it is still unmanly, unworthy, unjustifiabledeception. I cannot bear to think of it. I despise myself, but I willcease to be the despicable thing I have become. To-morrow sees me free, and this harassing subject for ever at rest. '

He was interrupted here by the sound of footsteps heavily but rapidlyascending the tavern staircase. The room door opened, and Captain N----, accompanied by a fashionably-attired young man, entered the room. 

Young O'Mara had risen from his seat on the entrance of their unexpectedvisitants; and the moment Captain N---- recognised his person, anevident and ominous change passed over his countenance. He turnedhastily to withdraw, but, as it seemed, almost instantly changed hismind, for he turned again abruptly. 

'This chamber is engaged, sir, ' said the waiter. 

'Leave the room, sir, ' was his only reply. 

'The room is engaged, sir, ' repeated the waiter, probably believing thathis first suggestion had been unheard. 

'Leave the room, or go to hell!' shouted Captain N----; at the same timeseizing the astounded waiter by the shoulder, he hurled him headlonginto the passage, and flung the door to with a crash that shook thewalls. 'Sir, ' continued he, addressing himself to O'Mara, 'I did nothope to have met you until to-morrow. Fortune has been kind to me--draw, and defend yourself. '

At the same time he drew his sword, and placed himself in an attitude ofattack. 

'I will not draw upon YOU, ' said O'Mara. 'I have, indeed, wronged you. I have given you just cause for resentment; but against your life I willnever lift my hand. '

'You are a coward, sir, ' replied Captain N----, with almost frightfulvehemence, 'as every trickster and swindler IS. You are a contemptibledastard--a despicable, damned villain! Draw your sword, sir, anddefend your life, or every post and pillar in this town shall tell yourinfamy. '

'Perhaps, ' said his friend, with a sneer, 'the gentleman can do betterwithout his honour than without his wife. '

'Yes, ' shouted the captain, 'his wife--a trull--a common----'

'Silence, sir!' cried O'Mara, all the fierceness of his nature rousedby this last insult--'your object is gained; your blood be upon your ownhead. ' At the same time he sprang across a bench which stood in his way, and pushing aside the table which supported the lights, in an instanttheir swords crossed, and they were engaged in close and deadly strife. 

Captain N---- was far the stronger of the two; but, on the other hand, O'Mara possessed far more skill in the use of the fatal weapon whichthey employed. But the narrowness of the room rendered this advantagehardly available. 

Almost instantly O'Mara received a slight wound upon the forehead, which, though little more than a scratch, bled so fast as to obstructhis sight considerably. 

Those who have used the foil can tell how slight a derangement of eyeor of hand is sufficient to determine a contest of this kind; and thisknowledge will prevent their being surprised when I say, that, spite ofO'Mara's superior skill and practice, his adversary's sword passed twicethrough and through his body, and he fell heavily and helplessly uponthe floor of the chamber. 

Without saying a word, the successful combatant quitted the room alongwith his companion, leaving Dwyer to shift as best he might for hisfallen comrade. 

With the assistance of some of the wondering menials of the place, Dwyersucceeded in conveying the wounded man into an adjoining room, where hewas laid upon a bed, in a state bordering upon insensibility--the bloodflowing, I might say WELLING, from the wounds so fast as to show thatunless the bleeding were speedily and effectually stopped, he could notlive for half an hour. 

Medical aid was, of course, instantly procured, and Colonel O'Mara, though at the time seriously indisposed, was urgently requested toattend without loss of time. He did so; but human succour and supportwere all too late. The wound had been truly dealt--the tide of life hadebbed; and his father had not arrived five minutes when young O'Marawas a corpse. His body rests in the vaults of Christ Church, in Dublin, without a stone to mark the spot. 

The counsels of the wicked are always dark, and their motives oftenbeyond fathoming; and strange, unaccountable, incredible as it may seem, I do believe, and that upon evidence so clear as to amount almost todemonstration, that Heathcote's visit to Dublin--his betrayal of thesecret--and the final and terrible catastrophe which laid O'Mara in thegrave, were brought about by no other agent than Dwyer himself. 

I have myself seen the letter which induced that visit. The handwritingis exactly what I have seen in other alleged specimens of Dwyer'spenmanship. It is written with an affectation of honest alarm atO'Mara's conduct, and expresses a conviction that if some of LadyEmily's family be not informed of O'Mara's real situation, nothing couldprevent his concluding with her an advantageous alliance, then uponthe tapis, and altogether throwing off his allegiance to Ellen--astep which, as the writer candidly asserted, would finally conduce asinevitably to his own disgrace as it immediately would to her ruin andmisery. 

The production was formally signed with Dwyer's name, and the postscriptcontained a strict injunction of secrecy, asserting that if it wereascertained that such an epistle had been despatched from such aquarter, it would be attended with the total ruin of the writer. 

It is true that Dwyer, many years after, when this letter came to light, alleged it to be a forgery, an assertion whose truth, even to his dyinghour, and long after he had apparently ceased to feel the lash of publicscorn, he continued obstinately to maintain. Indeed this matter is fullof mystery, for, revenge alone excepted, which I believe, in suchminds as Dwyer's, seldom overcomes the sense of interest, the onlyintelligible motive which could have prompted him to such an act was thehope that since he had, through young O'Mara's interest, procuredfrom the colonel a lease of a small farm upon the terms which he hadoriginally stipulated, he might prosecute his plan touching the propertyof Martin Heathcote, rendering his daughter's hand free by the removalof young O'Mara. This appears to me too complicated a plan of villanyto have entered the mind even of such a man as Dwyer. I must, therefore, suppose his motives to have originated out of circumstances connectedwith this story which may not have come to my ear, and perhaps neverwill. 

Colonel O'Mara felt the death of his son more deeply than I should havethought possible; but that son had been the last being who had continuedto interest his cold heart. Perhaps the pride which he felt in his childhad in it more of selfishness than of any generous feeling. But, be thisas it may, the melancholy circumstances connected with Ellen Heathcotehad reached him, and his conduct towards her proved, more strongly thananything else could have done, that he felt keenly and justly, and, to acertain degree, with a softened heart, the fatal event of which she hadbeen, in some manner, alike the cause and the victim. 

He evinced not towards her, as might have been expected, anyunreasonable resentment. On the contrary, he exhibited greatconsideration, even tenderness, for her situation; and havingascertained where his son had placed her, he issued strict orders thatshe should not be disturbed, and that the fatal tidings, which had notyet reached her, should be withheld until they might be communicated insuch a way as to soften as much as possible the inevitable shock. 

These last directions were acted upon too scrupulously and too long;and, indeed, I am satisfied that had the event been communicated atonce, however terrible and overwhelming the shock might have been, muchof the bitterest anguish, of sickening doubts, of harassing suspense, would have been spared her, and the first tempestuous burst of sorrowhaving passed over, her chastened spirit might have recovered its tone, and her life have been spared. But the mistaken kindness which concealedfrom her the dreadful truth, instead of relieving her mind of a burdenwhich it could not support, laid upon it a weight of horrible fearsand doubts as to the affection of O'Mara, compared with which even thecertainty of his death would have been tolerable. 

One evening I had just seated myself beside a cheerful turf fire, withthat true relish which a long cold ride through a bleak and shelterlesscountry affords, stretching my chilled limbs to meet the genialinfluence, and imbibing the warmth at every pore, when my comfortablemeditations were interrupted by a long and sonorous ringing at thedoor-bell evidently effected by no timid hand. 

A messenger had arrived to request my attendance at the Lodge--such wasthe name which distinguished a small and somewhat antiquated building, occupying a peculiarly secluded position among the bleak and heathyhills which varied the surface of that not altogether uninterestingdistrict, and which had, I believe, been employed by the keen and hardyancestors of the O'Mara family as a convenient temporary residenceduring the sporting season. 

Thither my attendance was required, in order to administer to a deeplydistressed lady such comforts as an afflicted mind can gather from thesublime hopes and consolations of Christianity. 

I had long suspected that the occupant of this sequestered, I mightsay desolate, dwelling-house was the poor girl whose brief story we arefollowing; and feeling a keen interest in her fate--as who that had everseen her DID NOT?--I started from my comfortable seat with more eageralacrity than, I will confess it, I might have evinced had my dutycalled me in another direction. 

In a few minutes I was trotting rapidly onward, preceded by my guide, who urged his horse with the remorseless rapidity of one who seeks bythe speed of his progress to escape observation. Over roads and throughbogs we splashed and clattered, until at length traversing the brow ofa wild and rocky hill, whose aspect seemed so barren and forbidding thatit might have been a lasting barrier alike to mortal sight and step, thelonely building became visible, lying in a kind of swampy flat, with abroad reedy pond or lake stretching away to its side, and backed by afarther range of monotonous sweeping hills, marked with irregularlines of grey rock, which, in the distance, bore a rude and colossalresemblance to the walls of a fortification. 

Riding with undiminished speed along a kind of wild horse-track, weturned the corner of a high and somewhat ruinous wall of loose stones, and making a sudden wheel we found ourselves in a small quadrangle, surmounted on two sides by dilapidated stables and kennels, on anotherby a broken stone wall, and upon the fourth by the front of the lodgeitself. 

The whole character of the place was that of dreary desertion anddecay, which would of itself have predisposed the mind for melancholyimpressions. My guide dismounted, and with respectful attention heldmy horse's bridle while I got down; and knocking at the door with thehandle of his whip, it was speedily opened by a neatly-dressed femaledomestic, and I was admitted to the interior of the house, and conductedinto a small room, where a fire in some degree dispelled the cheerlessair, which would otherwise have prevailed to a painful degree throughoutthe place. 

I had been waiting but for a very few minutes when another femaleservant, somewhat older than the first, entered the room. She made someapology on the part of the person whom I had come to visit, for theslight delay which had already occurred, and requested me further towait for a few minutes longer, intimating that the lady's grief was soviolent, that without great effort she could not bring herself to speakcalmly at all. As if to beguile the time, the good dame went on in ahighly communicative strain to tell me, amongst much that could notinterest me, a little of what I had desired to hear. I discovered thatthe grief of her whom I had come to visit was excited by the suddendeath of a little boy, her only child, who was then lying dead in hismother's chamber. 

'And the mother's name?' said I, inquiringly. 

The woman looked at me for a moment, smiled, and shook her head withthe air of mingled mystery and importance which seems to say, 'I amunfathomable. ' I did not care to press the question, though I suspectedthat much of her apparent reluctance was affected, knowing that mydoubts respecting the identity of the person whom I had come to visitmust soon be set at rest, and after a little pause the worthy Abigailwent on as fluently as ever. She told me that her young mistress hadbeen, for the time she had been with her--that was, for about a yearand a half--in declining health and spirits, and that she had loved herlittle child to a degree beyond expression--so devotedly that she couldnot, in all probability, survive it long. 

While she was running on in this way the bell rang, and signing me tofollow, she opened the room door, but stopped in the hall, and taking mea little aside, and speaking in a whisper, she told me, as I valued thelife of the poor lady, not to say one word of the death of young O'Mara. I nodded acquiescence, and ascending a narrow and ill-constructedstaircase, she stopped at a chamber door and knocked. 

'Come in, ' said a gentle voice from within, and, preceded by myconductress, I entered a moderately-sized, but rather gloomy chamber. 

There was but one living form within it--it was the light and gracefulfigure of a young woman. She had risen as I entered the room; but owingto the obscurity of the apartment, and to the circumstance that herface, as she looked towards the door, was turned away from the light, which found its way in dimly through the narrow windows, I could notinstantly recognise the features. 

'You do not remember me, sir?' said the same low, mournful voice. 'Iam--I WAS--Ellen Heathcote. '

'I do remember you, my poor child, ' said I, taking her hand; 'I doremember you very well. Speak to me frankly--speak to me as a friend. Whatever I can do or say for you, is yours already; only speak. '

'You were always very kind, sir, to those--to those that WANTEDkindness. '

The tears were almost overflowing, but she checked them; and as ifan accession of fortitude had followed the momentary weakness, she continued, in a subdued but firm tone, to tell me briefly thecircumstances of her marriage with O'Mara. When she had concluded therecital, she paused for a moment; and I asked again:

'Can I aid you in any way--by advice or otherwise?'

'I wish, sir, to tell you all I have been thinking about, ' shecontinued. 'I am sure, sir, that Master Richard loved me once--I am surehe did not think to deceive me; but there were bad, hard-hearted peopleabout him, and his family were all rich and high, and I am sure hewishes NOW that he had never, never seen me. Well, sir, it is not inmy heart to blame him. What was _I_ that I should look at him?--anignorant, poor, country girl--and he so high and great, and sobeautiful. The blame was all mine--it was all my fault; I could notthink or hope he would care for me more than a little time. Well, sir, I thought over and over again that since his love was gone from me forever, I should not stand in his way, and hinder whatever great thinghis family wished for him. So I thought often and often to write hima letter to get the marriage broken, and to send me home; but for onereason, I would have done it long ago: there was a little child, his andmine--the dearest, the loveliest. ' She could not go on for a minute ortwo. 'The little child that is lying there, on that bed; but it is deadand gone, and there is no reason NOW why I should delay any more aboutit. '

She put her hand into her breast, and took out a letter, which sheopened. She put it into my hands. It ran thus:

 'DEAR MASTER RICHARD, 'My little child is dead, and yourhappiness is all I care about now. Your marriage with me is displeasingto your family, and I would be a burden to you, and in your way in thefine places, and among the great friends where you must be. You ought, therefore, to break the marriage, and I will sign whatever YOU wish, oryour family. I will never try to blame you, Master Richard--do not thinkit--for I never deserved your love, and must not complain now that Ihave lost it; but I will always pray for you, and be thinking of youwhile I live. '

While I read this letter, I was satisfied that so far from adding to thepoor girl's grief, a full disclosure of what had happened would, on thecontrary, mitigate her sorrow, and deprive it of its sharpest sting. 

'Ellen, ' said I solemnly, 'Richard O'Mara was never unfaithful to you;he is now where human reproach can reach him no more. '

As I said this, the hectic flush upon her cheek gave place to a palenessso deadly, that I almost thought she would drop lifeless upon the spot. 

'Is he--is he dead, then?' said she, wildly. 

I took her hand in mine, and told her the sad story as best I could. Shelistened with a calmness which appeared almost unnatural, until Ihad finished the mournful narration. She then arose, and going to thebedside, she drew the curtain and gazed silently and fixedly on thequiet face of the child: but the feelings which swelled at her heartcould not be suppressed; the tears gushed forth, and sobbing as if herheart would break, she leant over the bed and took the dead child in herarms. 

She wept and kissed it, and kissed it and wept again, in grief sopassionate, so heartrending, as to draw bitter tears from my eyes. Isaid what little I could to calm her--to have sought to do more wouldhave been a mockery; and observing that the darkness had closed in, I took my leave and departed, being favoured with the services of myformer guide. 

I expected to have been soon called upon again to visit the poorgirl; but the Lodge lay beyond the boundary of my parish, and I felt areluctance to trespass upon the precincts of my brother minister, and acertain degree of hesitation in intruding upon one whose situation wasso very peculiar, and who would, I had no doubt, feel no scruple inrequesting my attendance if she desired it. 

A month, however, passed away, and I did not hear anything of Ellen. Icalled at the Lodge, and to my inquiries they answered that she was verymuch worse in health, and that since the death of the child she had beensinking fast, and so weak that she had been chiefly confined to her bed. I sent frequently to inquire, and often called myself, and all that Iheard convinced me that she was rapidly sinking into the grave. 

Late one night I was summoned from my rest, by a visit from the personwho had upon the former occasion acted as my guide; he had come tosummon me to the death-bed of her whom I had then attended. Withall celerity I made my preparations, and, not without considerabledifficulty and some danger, we made a rapid night-ride to the Lodge, adistance of five miles at least. We arrived safely, and in a very shorttime--but too late. 

I stood by the bed upon which lay the once beautiful form of EllenHeathcote. The brief but sorrowful trial was past--the desolate mournerwas gone to that land where the pangs of grief, the tumults of passion, regrets and cold neglect, are felt no more. I leant over the lifelessface, and scanned the beautiful features which, living, had wrought suchmagic on all that looked upon them. They were, indeed, much wasted; butit was impossible for the fingers of death or of decay altogetherto obliterate the traces of that exquisite beauty which had sodistinguished her. As I gazed on this most sad and striking spectacle, remembrances thronged fast upon my mind, and tear after tear fell uponthe cold form that slept tranquilly and for ever. 

A few days afterwards I was told that a funeral had left the Lodgeat the dead of night, and had been conducted with the most scrupuloussecrecy. It was, of course, to me no mystery. 

Heathcote lived to a very advanced age, being of that hard mould whichis not easily impressionable. The selfish and the hard-hearted survivewhere nobler, more generous, and, above all, more sympathising natureswould have sunk for ever. 

Dwyer certainly succeeded in extorting, I cannot say how, considerableand advantageous leases from Colonel O'Mara; but after his death hedisposed of his interest in these, and having for a time launched into asea of profligate extravagance, he became bankrupt, and for a long timeI totally lost sight of him. 

The rebellion of '98, and the events which immediately followed, calledhim forth from his lurking-places, in the character of an informer; andI myself have seen the hoary-headed, paralytic perjurer, with a scowlof derision and defiance, brave the hootings and the execrations of theindignant multitude. 

STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER. 

 Being a Seventh Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. Of Drumcoolagh. 

You will no doubt be surprised, my dear friend, at the subject of thefollowing narrative. What had I to do with Schalken, or Schalken withme? He had returned to his native land, and was probably dead andburied, before I was born; I never visited Holland nor spoke with anative of that country. So much I believe you already know. I must, then, give you my authority, and state to you frankly the ground uponwhich rests the credibility of the strange story which I am, about tolay before you. 

I was acquainted, in my early days, with a Captain Vandael, whose fatherhad served King William in the Low Countries, and also in my own unhappyland during the Irish campaigns. I know not how it happened that I likedthis man's society, spite of his politics and religion: but so it was;and it was by means of the free intercourse to which our intimacy gaverise that I became possessed of the curious tale which you are about tohear. 

I had often been struck, while visiting Vandael, by a remarkablepicture, in which, though no connoisseur myself, I could not fail todiscern some very strong peculiarities, particularly in the distributionof light and shade, as also a certain oddity in the design itself, whichinterested my curiosity. It represented the interior of what might be achamber in some antique religious building--the foreground was occupiedby a female figure, arrayed in a species of white robe, part of which isarranged so as to form a veil. The dress, however, is not strictly thatof any religious order. In its hand the figure bears a lamp, by whoselight alone the form and face are illuminated; the features are markedby an arch smile, such as pretty women wear when engaged in successfullypractising some roguish trick; in the background, and, excepting wherethe dim red light of an expiring fire serves to define the form, totallyin the shade, stands the figure of a man equipped in the old fashion, with doublet and so forth, in an attitude of alarm, his hand beingplaced upon the hilt of his sword, which he appears to be in the act ofdrawing. 

'There are some pictures, ' said I to my friend, 'which impress one, Iknow not how, with a conviction that they represent not the mere idealshapes and combinations which have floated through the imaginationof the artist, but scenes, faces, and situations which have actuallyexisted. When I look upon that picture, something assures me that Ibehold the representation of a reality. '

Vandael smiled, and, fixing his eyes upon the painting musingly, hesaid:

'Your fancy has not deceived you, my good friend, for that picture isthe record, and I believe a faithful one, of a remarkable and mysteriousoccurrence. It was painted by Schalken, and contains, in the face of thefemale figure, which occupies the most prominent place in the design, an accurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, thefirst and, I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My father knewthe painter well, and from Schalken himself he learned the story ofthe mysterious drama, one scene of which the picture has embodied. Thispainting, which is accounted a fine specimen of Schalken's style, wasbequeathed to my father by the artist's will, and, as you have observed, is a very striking and interesting production. '

I had only to request Vandael to tell the story of the painting in orderto be gratified; and thus it is that I am enabled to submit to you afaithful recital of what I heard myself, leaving you to reject or toallow the evidence upon which the truth of the tradition depends, withthis one assurance, that Schalken was an honest, blunt Dutchman, and, I believe, wholly incapable of committing a flight of imagination; andfurther, that Vandael, from whom I heard the story, appeared firmlyconvinced of its truth. 

There are few forms upon which the mantle of mystery and romancecould seem to hang more ungracefully than upon that of the uncouth andclownish Schalken--the Dutch boor--the rude and dogged, but most cunningworker in oils, whose pieces delight the initiated of the present dayalmost as much as his manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yetthis man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, I had almost said so savage, in mien and manner, during his after successes, had been selected bythe capricious goddess, in his early life, to figure as the hero of aromance by no means devoid of interest or of mystery. 

Who can tell how meet he may have been in his young days to play thepart of the lover or of the hero--who can say that in early life he hadbeen the same harsh, unlicked, and rugged boor that, in his maturer age, he proved--or how far the neglected rudeness which afterwards markedhis air, and garb, and manners, may not have been the growth of thatreckless apathy not unfrequently produced by bitter misfortunes anddisappointments in early life?

These questions can never now be answered. 

We must content ourselves, then, with a plain statement of facts, orwhat have been received and transmitted as such, leaving matters ofspeculation to those who like them. 

When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard Douw, he was a youngman; and in spite of the phlegmatic constitution and unexcitable mannerwhich he shared, we believe, with his countrymen, he was not incapableof deep and vivid impressions, for it is an established fact that theyoung painter looked with considerable interest upon the beautiful nieceof his wealthy master. 

Rose Velderkaust was very young, having, at the period of which wespeak, not yet attained her seventeenth year, and, if tradition speakstruth, possessed all the soft dimpling charms of the fail; light-hairedFlemish maidens. Schalken had not studied long in the school of GerardDouw, when he felt this interest deepening into something of a keenerand intenser feeling than was quite consistent with the tranquillity ofhis honest Dutch heart; and at the same time he perceived, or thought heperceived, flattering symptoms of a reciprocity of liking, and thiswas quite sufficient to determine whatever indecision he might haveheretofore experienced, and to lead him to devote exclusively to herevery hope and feeling of his heart. In short, he was as much in love asa Dutchman could be. He was not long in making his passion known tothe pretty maiden herself, and his declaration was followed by acorresponding confession upon her part. 

Schalken, however, was a poor man, and he possessed no counterbalancingadvantages of birth or position to induce the old man to consent toa union which must involve his niece and ward in the strugglings anddifficulties of a young and nearly friendless artist. He was, therefore, to wait until time had furnished him with opportunity, and accident withsuccess; and then, if his labours were found sufficiently lucrative, itwas to be hoped that his proposals might at least be listened to by herjealous guardian. Months passed away, and, cheered by the smiles of thelittle Rose, Schalken's labours were redoubled, and with such effect andimprovement as reasonably to promise the realisation of his hopes, and no contemptible eminence in his art, before many years should haveelapsed. 

The even course of this cheering prosperity was, however, destined toexperience a sudden and formidable interruption, and that, too, in amanner so strange and mysterious as to baffle all investigation, andthrow upon the events themselves a shadow of almost supernatural horror. 

Schalken had one evening remained in the master's studio considerablylonger than his more volatile companions, who had gladly availedthemselves of the excuse which the dusk of evening afforded, to withdrawfrom their several tasks, in order to finish a day of labour in thejollity and conviviality of the tavern. 

But Schalken worked for improvement, or rather for love. Besides, hewas now engaged merely in sketching a design, an operation which, unlike that of colouring, might be continued as long as there was lightsufficient to distinguish between canvas and charcoal. He had not then, nor, indeed, until long after, discovered the peculiar powers ofhis pencil, and he was engaged in composing a group of extremelyroguish-looking and grotesque imps and demons, who were inflictingvarious ingenious torments upon a perspiring and pot-bellied St. Anthony, who reclined in the midst of them, apparently in the last stageof drunkenness. 

The young artist, however, though incapable of executing, or even ofappreciating, anything of true sublimity, had nevertheless discernmentenough to prevent his being by any means satisfied with his work; andmany were the patient erasures and corrections which the limbs andfeatures of saint and devil underwent, yet all without producing intheir new arrangement anything of improvement or increased effect. 

The large, old-fashioned room was silent, and, with the exception ofhimself, quite deserted by its usual inmates. An hour had passed--nearlytwo--without any improved result. Daylight had already declined, andtwilight was fast giving way to the darkness of night. The patienceof the young man was exhausted, and he stood before his unfinishedproduction, absorbed in no very pleasing ruminations, one hand buriedin the folds of his long dark hair, and the other holding the piece ofcharcoal which had so ill executed its office, and which he now rubbed, without much regard to the sable streaks which it produced, withirritable pressure upon his ample Flemish inexpressibles. 

'Pshaw!' said the young man aloud, 'would that picture, devils, saint, and all, were where they should be--in hell!'

A short, sudden laugh, uttered startlingly close to his ear, instantlyresponded to the ejaculation. 

The artist turned sharply round, and now for the first time became awarethat his labours had been overlooked by a stranger. 

Within about a yard and a half, and rather behind him, there stood whatwas, or appeared to be, the figure of an elderly man: he wore a shortcloak, and broad-brimmed hat with a conical crown, and in his hand, which was protected with a heavy, gauntlet-shaped glove, he carried along ebony walking-stick, surmounted with what appeared, as it glittereddimly in the twilight, to be a massive head of gold, and upon hisbreast, through the folds of the cloak, there shone what appeared to bethe links of a rich chain of the same metal. 

The room was so obscure that nothing further of the appearance of thefigure could be ascertained, and the face was altogether overshadowedby the heavy flap of the beaver which overhung it, so that not a featurecould be discerned. A quantity of dark hair escaped from beneath thissombre hat, a circumstance which, connected with the firm, uprightcarriage of the intruder, proved that his years could not yet exceedthreescore or thereabouts. 

There was an air of gravity and importance about the garb of thisperson, and something indescribably odd, I might say awful, in theperfect, stone-like movelessness of the figure, that effectually checkedthe testy comment which had at once risen to the lips of the irritatedartist. He therefore, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered thesurprise, asked the stranger, civilly, to be seated, and desired to knowif he had any message to leave for his master. 

'Tell Gerard Douw, ' said the unknown, without altering his attitude inthe smallest degree, 'that Mynher Vanderhauseny of Rotterdam, desiresto speak with him to-morrow evening at this hour, and, if he please, inthis room, upon matters of weight--that is all. Good-night. '

The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with aquick but silent step, quitted the room, before Schalken had time to saya word in reply. 

The young man felt a curiosity to see in what direction the burgher ofRotterdam would turn on quitting the studio, and for that purpose hewent directly to the window which commanded the door. 

A lobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of thepainter's room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied thepost of observation before the old man could possibly have reached thestreet. 

He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit. 

Had the old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses of thelobby for some bad purpose? This last suggestion filled the mind ofSchalken with a vague horror, which was so unaccountably intense as tomake him alike afraid to remain in the room alone and reluctant to passthrough the lobby. 

However, with an effort which appeared very disproportioned to theoccasion, he summoned resolution to leave the room, and, havingdouble-locked the door and thrust the key in his pocket, without lookingto the right or left, he traversed the passage which had so recently, perhaps still, contained the person of his mysterious visitant, scarcelyventuring to breathe till he had arrived in the open street. 

'Mynher Vanderhausen, ' said Gerard Douw within himself, as the appointedhour approached, 'Mynher Vanderhausen of Rotterdam! I never heard of theman till yesterday. What can he want of me? A portrait, perhaps, to bepainted; or a younger son or a poor relation to be apprenticed; or acollection to be valued; or--pshaw I there's no one in Rotterdam toleave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may be, we shall soonknow it all. '

It was now the close of day, and every easel, except that of Schalken, was deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the apartment with the restlessstep of impatient expectation, every now and then humming a passage froma piece of music which he was himself composing; for, though no greatproficient, he admired the art; sometimes pausing to glance over thework of one of his absent pupils, but more frequently placing himself atthe window, from whence he might observe the passengers who threaded theobscure by-street in which his studio was placed. 

'Said you not, Godfrey, ' exclaimed Douw, after a long and fruitless gazefrom his post of observation, and turning to Schalken--'said you not thehour of appointment was at about seven by the clock of the Stadhouse?'

'It had just told seven when I first saw him, sir, ' answered thestudent. 

'The hour is close at hand, then, ' said the master, consultinga horologe as large and as round as a full-grown orange. 'MynherVanderhausen, from Rotterdam--is it not so?'

'Such was the name. '

'And an elderly man, richly clad?' continued Douw. 

'As well as I might see, ' replied his pupil; 'he could not be young, noryet very old neither, and his dress was rich and grave, as might becomea citizen of wealth and consideration. '

At this moment the sonorous boom of the Stadhouse clock told, strokeafter stroke, the hour of seven; the eyes of both master and studentwere directed to the door; and it was not until the last peal of the oldbell had ceased to vibrate, that Douw exclaimed:

'So, so; we shall have his worship presently--that is, if he means tokeep his hour; if not, thou mayst wait for him, Godfrey, if you courtthe acquaintance of a capricious burgomaster. As for me, I think ourold Leyden contains a sufficiency of such commodities, without animportation from Rotterdam. '

Schalken laughed, as in duty bound; and after a pause of some minutes, Douw suddenly exclaimed:

'What if it should all prove a jest, a piece of mummery got up byVankarp, or some such worthy! I wish you had run all risks, andcudgelled the old burgomaster, stadholder, or whatever else he maybe, soundly. I would wager a dozen of Rhenish, his worship would havepleaded old acquaintance before the third application. '

'Here he comes, sir, ' said Schalken, in a low admonitory tone; andinstantly, upon turning towards the door, Gerard Douw observed the samefigure which had, on the day before, so unexpectedly greeted the visionof his pupil Schalken. 

There was something in the air and mien of the figure which at oncesatisfied the painter that there was no mummery in the case, and thathe really stood in the presence of a man of worship; and so, withouthesitation, he doffed his cap, and courteously saluting the stranger, requested him to be seated. 

The visitor waved his hand slightly, as, if in acknowledgment of thecourtesy, but remained standing. 

'I have the honour to see Mynher Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam?' saidGerard Douw. 

'The same, ' was the laconic reply of his visitant. 

'I understand your worship desires to speak with me, ' continued Douw, 'and I am here by appointment to wait your commands. '

'Is that a man of trust?' said Vanderhausen, turning towards Schalken, who stood at a little distance behind his master. 

'Certainly, ' replied Gerard. 

'Then let him take this box and get the nearest jeweller or goldsmith tovalue its contents, and let him return hither with a certificate of thevaluation. '

At the same time he placed a small case, about nine inches square, inthe hands of Gerard Douw, who was as much amazed at its weight as at thestrange abruptness with which it was handed to him. 

In accordance with the wishes of the stranger, he delivered it into thehands of Schalken, and repeating HIS directions, despatched him upon themission. 

Schalken disposed his precious charge securely beneath the folds of hiscloak, and rapidly traversing two or three narrow streets, he stopped ata corner house, the lower part of which was then occupied by the shop ofa Jewish goldsmith. 

Schalken entered the shop, and calling the little Hebrew into theobscurity of its back recesses, he proceeded to lay before himVanderhausen's packet. 

On being examined by the light of a lamp, it appeared entirely casedwith lead, the outer surface of which was much scraped and soiled, andnearly white with age. This was with difficulty partially removed, anddisclosed beneath a box of some dark and singularly hard wood; this, too, was forced, and after the removal of two or three folds of linen, its contents proved to be a mass of golden ingots, close packed, and, asthe Jew declared, of the most perfect quality. 

Every ingot underwent the scrutiny of the little Jew, who seemed tofeel an epicurean delight in touching and testing these morsels of theglorious metal; and each one of them was replaced in the box with theexclamation:

'Mein Gott, how very perfect! not one grain of alloy--beautiful, beautiful!'

The task was at length finished, and the Jew certified under his handthe value of the ingots submitted to his examination to amount to manythousand rix-dollars. 

With the desired document in his bosom, and the rich box of goldcarefully pressed under his arm, and concealed by his cloak, he retracedhis way, and entering the studio, found his master and the stranger inclose conference. 

Schalken had no sooner left the room, in order to execute the commissionhe had taken in charge, than Vanderhausen addressed Gerard Douw in thefollowing terms:

'I may not tarry with you to-night more than a few minutes, and so Ishall briefly tell you the matter upon which I come. You visited thetown of Rotterdam some four months ago, and then I saw in the church ofSt. Lawrence your niece, Rose Velderkaust. I desire to marry her, and ifI satisfy you as to the fact that I am very wealthy--more wealthy thanany husband you could dream of for her--I expect that you will forwardmy views to the utmost of your authority. If you approve my proposal, you must close with it at once, for I cannot command time enough to waitfor calculations and delays. '

Gerard Douw was, perhaps, as much astonished as anyone could be by thevery unexpected nature of Mynher Vanderhausen's communication; but hedid not give vent to any unseemly expression of surprise, for besidesthe motives supplied by prudence and politeness, the painter experienceda kind of chill and oppressive sensation, something like that whichis supposed to affect a man who is placed unconsciously in immediatecontact with something to which he has a natural antipathy--an undefinedhorror and dread while standing in the presence of the eccentricstranger, which made him very unwilling to say anything which mightreasonably prove offensive. 

'I have no doubt, ' said Gerard, after two or three prefatory hems, 'thatthe connection which you propose would prove alike advantageous andhonourable to my niece; but you must be aware that she has a will of herown, and may not acquiesce in what WE may design for her advantage. '

'Do not seek to deceive me, Sir Painter, ' said Vanderhausen; 'you areher guardian--she is your ward. She is mine if YOU like to make her so. '

The man of Rotterdam moved forward a little as he spoke, and GerardDouw, he scarce knew why, inwardly prayed for the speedy return ofSchalken. 

'I desire, ' said the mysterious gentleman, 'to place in your hands atonce an evidence of my wealth, and a security for my liberal dealingwith your niece. The lad will return in a minute or two with a sum invalue five times the fortune which she has a right to expect from ahusband. This shall lie in your hands, together with her dowry, and youmay apply the united sum as suits her interest best; it shall be allexclusively hers while she lives. Is that liberal?'

Douw assented, and inwardly thought that fortune had beenextraordinarily kind to his niece. The stranger, he thought, must beboth wealthy and generous, and such an offer was not to be despised, though made by a humourist, and one of no very prepossessing presence. 

Rose had no very high pretensions, for she was almost without dowry;indeed, altogether so, excepting so far as the deficiency had beensupplied by the generosity of her uncle. Neither had she any right toraise any scruples against the match on the score of birth, for herown origin was by no means elevated; and as to other objections, Gerardresolved, and, indeed, by the usages of the time was warranted inresolving, not to listen to them for a moment. 

'Sir, ' said he, addressing the stranger, 'your offer is most liberal, and whatever hesitation I may feel in closing with it immediately, arises solely from my not having the honour of knowing anything of yourfamily or station. Upon these points you can, of course, satisfy mewithout difficulty?'

'As to my respectability, ' said the stranger, drily, 'you must take thatfor granted at present; pester me with no inquiries; you can discovernothing more about me than I choose to make known. You shall havesufficient security for my respectability--my word, if you arehonourable: if you are sordid, my gold. '

'A testy old gentleman, ' thought Douw; 'he must have his own way. But, all things considered, I am justified in giving my niece to him. Wereshe my own daughter, I would do the like by her. I will not pledgemyself unnecessarily, however. '

'You will not pledge yourself unnecessarily, ' said Vanderhausen, strangely uttering the very words which had just floated throughthe mind of his companion; 'but you will do so if it IS necessary, Ipresume; and I will show you that I consider it indispensable. If thegold I mean to leave in your hands satisfy you, and if you desire thatmy proposal shall not be at once withdrawn, you must, before I leavethis room, write your name to this engagement. '

Having thus spoken, he placed a paper in the hands of Gerard, thecontents of which expressed an engagement entered into by GerardDouw, to give to Wilken Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, in marriage, RoseVelderkaust, and so forth, within one week of the date hereof. 

While the painter was employed in reading this covenant, Schalken, aswe have stated, entered the studio, and having delivered the box andthe valuation of the Jew into the hands of the stranger, he was aboutto retire, when Vanderhausen called to him to wait; and, presenting thecase and the certificate to Gerard Douw, he waited in silence until hehad satisfied himself by an inspection of both as to the value of thepledge left in his hands. At length he said:

'Are you content?'

The painter said he would fain have an other day to consider. 

'Not an hour, ' said the suitor, coolly. 

'Well, then, ' said Douw, 'I am content; it is a bargain. '

'Then sign at once, ' said Vanderhausen; 'I am weary. '

At the same time he produced a small case of writing materials, andGerard signed the important document. 

'Let this youth witness the covenant, ' said the old man; and GodfreySchalken unconsciously signed the instrument which bestowed upon anotherthat hand which he had so long regarded as the object and reward of allhis labours. 

The compact being thus completed, the strange visitor folded up thepaper, and stowed it safely in an inner pocket. 

'I will visit you to-morrow night, at nine of the clock, at your house, Gerard Douw, and will see the subject of our contract. Farewell. ' And sosaying, Wilken Vanderhausen moved stiffly, but rapidly out of the room. 

Schalken, eager to resolve his doubts, had placed himself by the windowin order to watch the street entrance; but the experiment served onlyto support his suspicions, for the old man did not issue from thedoor. This was very strange, very odd, very fearful. He and his masterreturned together, and talked but little on the way, for each had hisown subjects of reflection, of anxiety, and of hope. 

Schalken, however, did not know the ruin which threatened his cherishedschemes. 

Gerard Douw knew nothing of the attachment which had sprung up betweenhis pupil and his niece; and even if he had, it is doubtful whetherhe would have regarded its existence as any serious obstruction to thewishes of Mynher Vanderhausen. 

Marriages were then and there matters of traffic and calculation; andit would have appeared as absurd in the eyes of the guardian to make amutual attachment an essential element in a contract of marriage, asit would have been to draw up his bonds and receipts in the language ofchivalrous romance. 

The painter, however, did not communicate to his niece the importantstep which he had taken in her behalf, and his resolution arose not fromany anticipation of opposition on her part, but solely from a ludicrousconsciousness that if his ward were, as she very naturally might do, toask him to describe the appearance of the bridegroom whom he destinedfor her, he would be forced to confess that he had not seen his face, and, if called upon, would find it impossible to identify him. 

Upon the next day, Gerard Douw having dined, called his niece to him, and having scanned her person with an air of satisfaction, he tookher hand, and looking upon her pretty, innocent face with a smile ofkindness, he said:

'Rose, my girl, that face of yours will make your fortune. ' Rose blushedand smiled. 'Such faces and such tempers seldom go together, and, whenthey do, the compound is a love-potion which few heads or hearts canresist. Trust me, thou wilt soon be a bride, girl. But this is trifling, and I am pressed for time, so make ready the large room by eight o'clockto-night, and give directions for supper at nine. I expect a friendto-night; and observe me, child, do thou trick thyself out handsomely. Iwould not have him think us poor or sluttish. '

With these words he left the chamber, and took his way to the room towhich we have already had occasion to introduce our readers--that inwhich his pupils worked. 

When the evening closed in, Gerard called Schalken, who was about totake his departure to his obscure and comfortless lodgings, and askedhim to come home and sup with Rose and Vanderhausen. 

The invitation was of course accepted, and Gerard Douw and his pupilsoon found themselves in the handsome and somewhat antique-looking roomwhich had been prepared for the reception of the stranger. 

A cheerful wood-fire blazed in the capacious hearth; a little atone side an oldfashioned table, with richly-carved legs, wasplaced--destined, no doubt, to receive the supper, for whichpreparations were going forward; and ranged with exact regularity, stood the tall-backed chairs, whose ungracefulness was more thancounterbalanced by their comfort. 

The little party, consisting of Rose, her uncle, and the artist, awaitedthe arrival of the expected visitor with considerable impatience. 

Nine o'clock at length came, and with it a summons at the street-door, which, being speedily answered, was followed by a slow and emphatictread upon the staircase; the steps moved heavily across the lobby, the door of the room in which the party which we have described wereassembled slowly opened, and there entered a figure which startled, almost appalled, the phlegmatic Dutchmen, and nearly made Rose screamwith affright; it was the form, and arrayed in the garb, of MynherVanderhausen; the air, the gait, the height was the same, but thefeatures had never been seen by any of the party before. 

The stranger stopped at the door of the room, and displayed his form andface completely. He wore a dark-coloured cloth cloak, which was shortand full, not falling quite to the knees; his legs were cased in darkpurple silk stockings, and his shoes were adorned with roses of thesame colour. The opening of the cloak in front showed the under-suit toconsist of some very dark, perhaps sable material, and his hands wereenclosed in a pair of heavy leather gloves which ran up considerablyabove the wrist, in the manner of a gauntlet. In one hand he carriedhis walking-stick and his hat, which he had removed, and the otherhung heavily by his side. A quantity of grizzled hair descended in longtresses from his head, and its folds rested upon the plaits of a stiffruff, which effectually concealed his neck. 

So far all was well; but the face!--all the flesh of the face wascoloured with the bluish leaden hue which is sometimes produced by theoperation of metallic medicines administered in excessive quantities;the eyes were enormous, and the white appeared both above and below theiris, which gave to them an expression of insanity, which was heightenedby their glassy fixedness; the nose was well enough, but the mouthwas writhed considerably to one side, where it opened in order to giveegress to two long, discoloured fangs, which projected from the upperjaw, far below the lower lip; the hue of the lips themselves bore theusual relation to that of the face, and was consequently nearly black. The character of the face was malignant, even satanic, to the lastdegree; and, indeed, such a combination of horror could hardly beaccounted for, except by supposing the corpse of some atrociousmalefactor, which had long hung blackening upon the gibbet, to have atlength become the habitation of a demon--the frightful sport of Satanicpossession. 

It was remarkable that the worshipful stranger suffered as little aspossible of his flesh to appear, and that during his visit he did notonce remove his gloves. 

Having stood for some moments at the door, Gerard Douw at lengthfound breath and collectedness to bid him welcome, and, with a muteinclination of the head, the stranger stepped forward into the room. 

There was something indescribably odd, even horrible, about all hismotions, something undefinable, that was unnatural, unhuman--it wasas if the limbs were guided and directed by a spirit unused to themanagement of bodily machinery. 

The stranger said hardly anything during his visit, which did not exceedhalf an hour; and the host himself could scarcely muster courage enoughto utter the few necessary salutations and courtesies: and, indeed, suchwas the nervous terror which the presence of Vanderhausen inspired, thatvery little would have made all his entertainers fly bellowing from theroom. 

They had not so far lost all self-possession, however, as to fail toobserve two strange peculiarities of their visitor. 

During his stay he did not once suffer his eyelids to close, nor evento move in the slightest degree; and further, there was a death-likestillness in his whole person, owing to the total absence of the heavingmotion of the chest, caused by the process of respiration. 

These two peculiarities, though when told they may appear trifling, produced a very striking and unpleasant effect when seen andobserved. Vanderhausen at length relieved the painter of Leyden of hisinauspicious presence; and with no small gratification the little partyheard the street-door close after him. 

'Dear uncle, ' said Rose, 'what a frightful man! I would not see himagain for the wealth of the States!'

'Tush, foolish girl!' said Douw, whose sensations were anything butcomfortable. 'A man may be as ugly as the devil, and yet if his heartand actions are good, he is worth all the pretty-faced, perfumed puppiesthat walk the Mall. Rose, my girl, it is very true he has not thy prettyface, but I know him to be wealthy and liberal; and were he ten timesmore ugly----'

'Which is inconceivable, ' observed Rose. 

'These two virtues would be sufficient, ' continued her uncle, 'tocounterbalance all his deformity; and if not of power sufficientactually to alter the shape of the features, at least of efficacy enoughto prevent one thinking them amiss. '

'Do you know, uncle, ' said Rose, 'when I saw him standing at the door, I could not get it out of my head that I saw the old, painted, woodenfigure that used to frighten me so much in the church of St. Laurence ofRotterdam. '

Gerard laughed, though he could not help inwardly acknowledging thejustness of the comparison. He was resolved, however, as far as hecould, to check his niece's inclination to ridicule the ugliness of herintended bridegroom, although he was not a little pleased to observethat she appeared totally exempt from that mysterious dread of thestranger which, he could not disguise it from himself, considerablyaffected him, as also his pupil Godfrey Schalken. 

Early on the next day there arrived, from various quarters of the town, rich presents of silks, velvets, jewellery, and so forth, for Rose; andalso a packet directed to Gerard Douw, which, on being opened, was foundto contain a contract of marriage, formally drawn up, between WilkenVanderhausen of the Boom-quay, in Rotterdam, and Rose Velderkaust ofLeyden, niece to Gerard Douw, master in the art of painting, also ofthe same city; and containing engagements on the part of Vanderhausento make settlements upon his bride, far more splendid than he had beforeled her guardian to believe likely, and which were to be secured to heruse in the most unexceptionable manner possible--the money being placedin the hands of Gerard Douw himself. 

I have no sentimental scenes to describe, no cruelty of guardians, ormagnanimity of wards, or agonies of lovers. The record I have to make isone of sordidness, levity, and interest. In less than a week after thefirst interview which we have just described, the contract of marriagewas fulfilled, and Schalken saw the prize which he would have riskedanything to secure, carried off triumphantly by his formidable rival. 

For two or three days he absented himself from the school; he thenreturned and worked, if with less cheerfulness, with far more doggedresolution than before; the dream of love had given place to that ofambition. 

Months passed away, and, contrary to his expectation, and, indeed, tothe direct promise of the parties, Gerard Douw heard nothing of hisniece, or her worshipful spouse. The interest of the money, which wasto have been demanded in quarterly sums, lay unclaimed in his hands. Hebegan to grow extremely uneasy. 

Mynher Vanderhausen's direction in Rotterdam he was fully possessedof. After some irresolution he finally determined to journey thither--atrifling undertaking, and easily accomplished--and thus to satisfyhimself of the safety and comfort of his ward, for whom he entertainedan honest and strong affection. 

His search was in vain, however. No one in Rotterdam had ever heard ofMynher Vanderhausen. 

Gerard Douw left not a house in the Boom-quay untried; but all in vain. No one could give him any information whatever touching the object ofhis inquiry; and he was obliged to return to Leyden, nothing wiser thanwhen he had left it. 

On his arrival he hastened to the establishment from which Vanderhausenhad hired the lumbering though, considering the times, most luxuriousvehicle which the bridal party had employed to convey them to Rotterdam. From the driver of this machine he learned, that having proceeded byslow stages, they had late in the evening approached Rotterdam; but thatbefore they entered the city, and while yet nearly a mile from it, asmall party of men, soberly clad, and after the old fashion, with peakedbeards and moustaches, standing in the centre of the road, obstructedthe further progress of the carriage. The driver reined in his horses, much fearing, from the obscurity of the hour, and the loneliness of theroad, that some mischief was intended. 

His fears were, however, somewhat allayed by his observing that thesestrange men carried a large litter, of an antique shape, and which theyimmediately set down upon the pavement, whereupon the bridegroom, havingopened the coach-door from within, descended, and having assisted hisbride to do likewise, led her, weeping bitterly and wringing her hands, to the litter, which they both entered. It was then raised by the menwho surrounded it, and speedily carried towards the city, and before ithad proceeded many yards the darkness concealed it from the view of theDutch charioteer. 

In the inside of the vehicle he found a purse, whose contents more thanthrice paid the hire of the carriage and man. He saw and could tellnothing more of Mynher Vanderhausen and his beautiful lady. This mysterywas a source of deep anxiety and almost of grief to Gerard Douw. 

There was evidently fraud in the dealing of Vanderhausen with him, though for what purpose committed he could not imagine. He greatlydoubted how far it was possible for a man possessing in his countenanceso strong an evidence of the presence of the most demoniac feelings, tobe in reality anything but a villain; and every day that passed withouthis hearing from or of his niece, instead of inducing him to forget hisfears, on the contrary tended more and more to exasperate them. 

The loss of his niece's cheerful society tended also to depress hisspirits; and in order to dispel this despondency, which often crept uponhis mind after his daily employment was over, he was wont frequentlyto prevail upon Schalken to accompany him home, and by his presence todispel, in some degree, the gloom of his otherwise solitary supper. 

One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the fire, havingaccomplished a comfortable supper, and had yielded to that silentpensiveness sometimes induced by the process of digestion, when theirreflections were disturbed by a loud sound at the street-door, as ifoccasioned by some person rushing forcibly and repeatedly against it. A domestic had run without delay to ascertain the cause of thedisturbance, and they heard him twice or thrice interrogate theapplicant for admission, but without producing an answer or anycessation of the sounds. 

They heard him then open the hall-door, and immediately there followed alight and rapid tread upon the staircase. Schalken laid his hand on hissword, and advanced towards the door. It opened before he reached it, and Rose rushed into the room. She looked wild and haggard, and palewith exhaustion and terror; but her dress surprised them as much evenas her unexpected appearance. It consisted of a kind of white woollenwrapper, made close about the neck, and descending to the very ground. It was much deranged and travel-soiled. The poor creature had hardlyentered the chamber when she fell senseless on the floor. With somedifficulty they succeeded in reviving her, and on recovering her sensesshe instantly exclaimed, in a tone of eager, terrified impatience:

'Wine, wine, quickly, or I'm lost!'

Much alarmed at the strange agitation in which the call was made, theyat once administered to her wishes, and she drank some wine with a hasteand eagerness which surprised them. She had hardly swallowed it, whenshe exclaimed, with the same urgency:

'Food, food, at once, or I perish!'

A considerable fragment of a roast joint was upon the table, andSchalken immediately proceeded to cut some, but he was anticipated; forno sooner had she become aware of its presence than she darted at itwith the rapacity of a vulture, and, seizing it in her hands she toreoff the flesh with her teeth and swallowed it. 

When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little appeased, she appearedsuddenly to become aware how strange her conduct had been, or it mayhave been that other more agitating thoughts recurred to her mind, forshe began to weep bitterly and to wring her hands. 

'Oh! send for a minister of God, ' said she; 'I am not safe till hecomes; send for him speedily. '

Gerard Douw despatched a messenger instantly, and prevailed on his nieceto allow him to surrender his bedchamber to her use; he also persuadedher to retire to it at once and to rest; her consent was extorted uponthe condition that they would not leave her for a moment. 

'Oh that the holy man were here!' she said; 'he can deliver me. The deadand the living can never be one--God has forbidden it. '

With these mysterious words she surrendered herself to their guidance, and they proceeded to the chamber which Gerard Douw had assigned to heruse. 

'Do not--do not leave me for a moment, ' said she. 'I am lost for ever ifyou do. '

Gerard Douw's chamber was approached through a spacious apartment, whichthey were now about to enter. Gerard Douw and Schalken each carrieda was candle, so that a sufficient degree of light was cast upon allsurrounding objects. They were now entering the large chamber, which, as I have said, communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose suddenlystopped, and, in a whisper which seemed to thrill with horror, she said:

'O God! he is here--he is here! See, see--there he goes!'

She pointed towards the door of the inner room, and Schalken thought hesaw a shadowy and ill-defined form gliding into that apartment. Hedrew his sword, and raising the candle so as to throw its light withincreased distinctness upon the objects in the room, he entered thechamber into which the shadow had glided. No figure was there--nothingbut the furniture which belonged to the room, and yet he could not bedeceived as to the fact that something had moved before them into thechamber. 

A sickening dread came upon him, and the cold perspiration broke out inheavy drops upon his forehead; nor was he more composed when he heardthe increased urgency, the agony of entreaty, with which Rose imploredthem not to leave her for a moment. 

'I saw him, ' said she. 'He's here! I cannot be deceived--I know him. He's by me--he's with me--he's in the room. Then, for God's sake, as youwould save, do not stir from beside me!'

They at length prevailed upon her to lie down upon the bed, where shecontinued to urge them to stay by her. She frequently uttered incoherentsentences, repeating again and again, 'The dead and the living cannot beone--God has forbidden it!' and then again, 'Rest to the wakeful--sleepto the sleep-walkers. '

These and such mysterious and broken sentences she continued to utteruntil the clergyman arrived. 

Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that the poor girl, owingto terror or ill-treatment, had become deranged; and he half suspected, by the suddenness of her appearance, and the unseasonableness of thehour, and, above all, from the wildness and terror of her manner, thatshe had made her escape from some place of confinement for lunatics, andwas in immediate fear of pursuit. He resolved to summon medical adviceas soon as the mind of his niece had been in some measure set at restby the offices of the clergyman whose attendance she had so earnestlydesired; and until this object had been attained, he did not venture toput any questions to her, which might possibly, by reviving painful orhorrible recollections, increase her agitation. 

The clergyman soon arrived--a man of ascetic countenance and venerableage--one whom Gerard Douw respected much, forasmuch as he was a veteranpolemic, though one, perhaps, more dreaded as a combatant than belovedas a Christian--of pure morality, subtle brain, and frozen heart. Heentered the chamber which communicated with that in which Rose reclined, and immediately on his arrival she requested him to pray for her, asfor one who lay in the hands of Satan, and who could hope fordeliverance--only from heaven. 

That our readers may distinctly understand all the circumstances of theevent which we are about imperfectly to describe, it is necessary tostate the relative position of the parties who were engaged in it. Theold clergyman and Schalken were in the anteroom of which we have alreadyspoken; Rose lay in the inner chamber, the door of which was open; andby the side of the bed, at her urgent desire, stood her guardian; acandle burned in the bedchamber, and three were lighted in the outerapartment. 

The old man now cleared his voice, as if about to commence; but beforehe had time to begin, a sudden gust of air blew out the candle whichserved to illuminate the room in which the poor girl lay, and she, withhurried alarm, exclaimed:

'Godfrey, bring in another candle; the darkness is unsafe. '

Gerard Douw, forgetting for the moment her repeated injunctions in theimmediate impulse, stepped from the bedchamber into the other, in orderto supply what she desired. 

'O God I do not go, dear uncle!' shrieked the unhappy girl; and at thesame time she sprang from the bed and darted after him, in order, by hergrasp, to detain him. 

But the warning came too late, for scarcely had he passed the threshold, and hardly had his niece had time to utter the startling exclamation, when the door which divided the two rooms closed violently after him, asif swung to by a strong blast of wind. 

Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but their united and desperateefforts could not avail so much as to shake it. 

Shriek after shriek burst from the inner chamber, with all the piercingloudness of despairing terror. Schalken and Douw applied every energyand strained every nerve to force open the door; but all in vain. 

There was no sound of struggling from within, but the screams seemed toincrease in loudness, and at the same time they heard the bolts of thelatticed window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon the sill asif thrown open. 

One LAST shriek, so long and piercing and agonised as to be scarcelyhuman, swelled from the room, and suddenly there followed a death-likesilence. 

A light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from the bed to thewindow; and almost at the same instant the door gave way, and, yielding to the pressure of the external applicants, they were nearlyprecipitated into the room. It was empty. The window was open, andSchalken sprang to a chair and gazed out upon the street and canalbelow. He saw no form, but he beheld, or thought he beheld, the watersof the broad canal beneath settling ring after ring in heavy circularripples, as if a moment before disturbed by the immersion of some largeand heavy mass. 

No trace of Rose was ever after discovered, nor was anything certainrespecting her mysterious wooer detected or even suspected; no cluewhereby to trace the intricacies of the labyrinth and to arrive at adistinct conclusion was to be found. But an incident occurred, which, though it will not be received by our rational readers as at allapproaching to evidence upon the matter, nevertheless produced a strongand a lasting impression upon the mind of Schalken. 

Many years after the events which we have detailed, Schalken, thenremotely situated, received an intimation of his father's death, and ofhis intended burial upon a fixed day in the church of Rotterdam. It wasnecessary that a very considerable journey should be performed by thefuneral procession, which, as it will readily be believed, was not verynumerously attended. Schalken with difficulty arrived in Rotterdamlate in the day upon which the funeral was appointed to take place. Theprocession had not then arrived. Evening closed in, and still it did notappear. 

Schalken strolled down to the church--he found it open--notice of thearrival of the funeral had been given, and the vault in which the bodywas to be laid had been opened. The official who corresponds to oursexton, on seeing a well-dressed gentleman, whose object was to attendthe expected funeral, pacing the aisle of the church, hospitably invitedhim to share with him the comforts of a blazing wood fire, which, aswas his custom in winter time upon such occasions, he had kindled on thehearth of a chamber which communicated, by a flight of steps, with thevault below. 

In this chamber Schalken and his entertainer seated themselves, andthe sexton, after some fruitless attempts to engage his guest inconversation, was obliged to apply himself to his tobacco-pipe and canto solace his solitude. 

In spite of his grief and cares, the fatigues of a rapid journey ofnearly forty hours gradually overcame the mind and body of GodfreySchalken, and he sank into a deep sleep, from which he was awakened bysome one shaking him gently by the shoulder. He first thought that theold sexton had called him, but HE was no longer in the room. 

He roused himself, and as soon as he could clearly see what was aroundhim, he perceived a female form, clothed in a kind of light robe ofmuslin, part of which was so disposed as to act as a veil, and inher hand she carried a lamp. She was moving rather away from him, andtowards the flight of steps which conducted towards the vaults. 

Schalken felt a vague alarm at the sight of this figure, and at thesame time an irresistible impulse to follow its guidance. He followedit towards the vaults, but when it reached the head of the stairs, hepaused; the figure paused also, and, turning gently round, displayed, by the light of the lamp it carried, the face and features of his firstlove, Rose Velderkaust. There was nothing horrible, or even sad, in thecountenance. On the contrary, it wore the same arch smile which used toenchant the artist long before in his happy days. 

A feeling of awe and of interest, too intense to be resisted, promptedhim to follow the spectre, if spectre it were. She descended thestairs--he followed; and, turning to the left, through a narrow passage, she led him, to his infinite surprise, into what appeared to be anoldfashioned Dutch apartment, such as the pictures of Gerard Douw haveserved to immortalise. 

Abundance of costly antique furniture was disposed about the room, andin one corner stood a four-post bed, with heavy black-cloth curtainsaround it; the figure frequently turned towards him with the same archsmile; and when she came to the side of the bed, she drew the curtains, and by the light of the lamp which she held towards its contents, shedisclosed to the horror-stricken painter, sitting bolt upright in thebed, the livid and demoniac form of Vanderhausen. Schalken had hardlyseen him when he fell senseless upon the floor, where he lay untildiscovered, on the next morning, by persons employed in closing thepassages into the vaults. He was lying in a cell of considerable size, which had not been disturbed for a long time, and he had fallen besidea large coffin which was supported upon small stone pillars, a securityagainst the attacks of vermin. 

To his dying day Schalken was satisfied of the reality of the visionwhich he had witnessed, and he has left behind him a curious evidence ofthe impression which it wrought upon his fancy, in a painting executedshortly after the event we have narrated, and which is valuable asexhibiting not only the peculiarities which have made Schalken'spictures sought after, but even more so as presenting a portrait, asclose and faithful as one taken from memory can be, of his early love, Rose Velderkaust, whose mysterious fate must ever remain matter ofspeculation. 

The picture represents a chamber of antique masonry, such as might befound in most old cathedrals, and is lighted faintly by a lamp carriedin the hand of a female figure, such as we have above attempted todescribe; and in the background, and to the left of him who examines thepainting, there stands the form of a man apparently aroused from sleep, and by his attitude, his hand being laid upon his sword, exhibitingconsiderable alarm: this last figure is illuminated only by the expiringglare of a wood or charcoal fire. 

The whole production exhibits a beautiful specimen of that artful andsingular distribution of light and shade which has rendered the nameof Schalken immortal among the artists of his country. This tale istraditionary, and the reader will easily perceive, by our studiouslyomitting to heighten many points of the narrative, when a littleadditional colouring might have added effect to the recital, thatwe have desired to lay before him, not a figment of the brain, but acurious tradition connected with, and belonging to, the biography of afamous artist. 

SCRAPS OF HIBERNIAN BALLADS. 

 Being an Eighth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. Of Drumcoolagh. 

I have observed, my dear friend, among other grievous misconceptionscurrent among men otherwise well-informed, and which tend to degrade thepretensions of my native land, an impression that there exists no suchthing as indigenous modern Irish composition deserving the name ofpoetry--a belief which has been thoughtlessly sustained and confirmedby the unconscionable literary perverseness of Irishmen themselves, whohave preferred the easy task of concocting humorous extravaganzas, which caricature with merciless exaggeration the pedantry, bombast, andblunders incident to the lowest order of Hibernian ballads, to the morepleasurable and patriotic duty of collecting together the many, manyspecimens of genuine poetic feeling, which have grown up, like its wildflowers, from the warm though neglected soil of Ireland. 

In fact, the productions which have long been regarded as pure samplesof Irish poetic composition, such as 'The Groves of Blarney, ' and 'TheWedding of Ballyporeen, ' 'Ally Croker, ' etc. , etc. , are altogetherspurious, and as much like the thing they call themselves 'as I toHercules. '

There are to be sure in Ireland, as in all countries, poems whichdeserve to be laughed at. The native productions of which I speak, frequently abound in absurdities--absurdities which are often, too, provokingly mixed up with what is beautiful; but I strongly andabsolutely deny that the prevailing or even the usual character of Irishpoetry is that of comicality. No country, no time, is devoid of realpoetry, or something approaching to it; and surely it were a strangething if Ireland, abounding as she does from shore to shore with allthat is beautiful, and grand, and savage in scenery, and filled withwild recollections, vivid passions, warm affections, and keen sorrow, could find no language to speak withal, but that of mummery and jest. No, her language is imperfect, but there is strength in its rudeness, and beauty in its wildness; and, above all, strong feeling flows throughit, like fresh fountains in rugged caverns. 

And yet I will not say that the language of genuine indigenous Irishcomposition is always vulgar and uncouth: on the contrary, I am inpossession of some specimens, though by no means of the highest order asto poetic merit, which do not possess throughout a single peculiarityof diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay before you, by wayof illustration, are from the pen of an unfortunate young man, of veryhumble birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the untimely death ofher whom he loved. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life roseto high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted himself--anact which proves the sincerity of spirit with which these verses werewritten. 

 'When moonlight falls on wave and wimple, And silvers every circling dimple, That onward, onward sails: When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple Lend perfume to the gales, And the pale moon in heaven abiding, O'er midnight mists and mountains riding, Shines on the river, smoothly gliding Through quiet dales, 'I wander there in solitude, Charmed by the chiming music rude Of streams that fret and flow. For by that eddying stream SHE stood, On such a night I trow: For HER the thorn its breath was lending, On this same tide HER eye was bending, And with its voice HER voice was blending Long, long ago. 

 Wild stream! I walk by thee once more, I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar, I hear thy waters moan, And night-winds sigh from shore to shore, With hushed and hollow tone; But breezes on their light way winging, And all thy waters heedless singing, No more to me are gladness bringing-- I am alone. 

 'Years after years, their swift way keeping, Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping, Are lost for aye, and sped-- And Death the wintry soil is heaping As fast as flowers are shed. And she who wandered by my side, And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide, That makes thee still my friend and guide-- And she is dead. '

These lines I have transcribed in order to prove a point which I haveheard denied, namely, that an Irish peasant--for their author was nomore--may write at least correctly in the matter of measure, language, and rhyme; and I shall add several extracts in further illustration ofthe same fact, a fact whose assertion, it must be allowed, mayappear somewhat paradoxical even to those who are acquainted, thoughsuperficially, with Hibernian composition. The rhymes are, it must begranted, in the generality of such productions, very latitudinarianindeed, and as a veteran votary of the muse once assured me, dependwholly upon the wowls (vowels), as may be seen in the following stanzaof the famous 'Shanavan Voicth. '

 '"What'll we have for supper?" Says my Shanavan Voicth; "We'll have turkeys and roast BEEF, And we'll eat it very SWEET, And then we'll take a SLEEP, " Says my Shanavan Voicth. '

But I am desirous of showing you that, although barbarisms may and doexist in our native ballads, there are still to be found exceptionswhich furnish examples of strict correctness in rhyme and metre. Whetherthey be one whit the better for this I have my doubts. In order toestablish my position, I subjoin a portion of a ballad by one MichaelFinley, of whom more anon. The GENTLEMAN spoken of in the song is LordEdward Fitzgerald. 

 'The day that traitors sould him and inimies bought him, The day that the red gold and red blood was paid-- Then the green turned pale and thrembled like the dead leaves inAutumn, And the heart an' hope iv Ireland in the could grave waslaid. 

 'The day I saw you first, with the sunshine fallin' round ye, My heart fairly opened with the grandeur of the view: For ten thousand Irish boys that day did surround ye, An' I swore to stand by them till death, an' fight for you. 

 'Ye wor the bravest gentleman, an' the best that ever stood, And your eyelid never thrembled for danger nor for dread, An' nobleness was flowin' in each stream of your blood-- My bleasing on you night au' day, an' Glory be your bed. 

 'My black an' bitter curse on the head, an' heart, an' hand, That plotted, wished, an' worked the fall of this Irish herobold; God's curse upon the Irishman that sould his native land, An' hell consume to dust the hand that held the thraitor'sgold. '

Such were the politics and poetry of Michael Finley, in his day, perhaps, the most noted song-maker of his country; but as genius isnever without its eccentricities, Finley had his peculiarities, andamong these, perhaps the most amusing was his rooted aversion to pen, ink, and paper, in perfect independence of which, all his compositionswere completed. It is impossible to describe the jealousy with whichhe regarded the presence of writing materials of any kind, and his everwakeful fears lest some literary pirate should transfer his oral poetryto paper--fears which were not altogether without warrant, inasmuch asthe recitation and singing of these original pieces were to him a sourceof wealth and importance. I recollect upon one occasion his detecting mein the very act of following his recitation with my pencil and I shallnot soon forget his indignant scowl, as stopping abruptly in the midstof a line, he sharply exclaimed:

'Is my pome a pigsty, or what, that you want a surveyor's ground-plan ofit?'

Owing to this absurd scruple, I have been obliged, with one exception, that of the ballad of 'Phaudhrig Crohoore, ' to rest satisfied with suchsnatches and fragments of his poetry as my memory could bear away--afact which must account for the mutilated state in which I have beenobliged to present the foregoing specimen of his composition. 

It was in vain for me to reason with this man of metres upon theunreasonableness of this despotic and exclusive assertion of copyright. I well remember his answer to me when, among other arguments, I urgedthe advisability of some care for the permanence of his reputation, as amotive to induce him to consent to have his poems written down, and thusreduced to a palpable and enduring form. 

'I often noticed, ' said he, 'when a mist id be spreadin', a littlebrier to look as big, you'd think, as an oak tree; an' same way, in thedimmness iv the nightfall, I often seen a man tremblin' and crassin'himself as if a sperit was before him, at the sight iv a small thornbush, that he'd leap over with ase if the daylight and sunshine was init. An' that's the rason why I think it id be better for the likes iv meto be remimbered in tradition than to be written in history. '

Finley has now been dead nearly eleven years, and his fame has notprospered by the tactics which he pursued, for his reputation, sofar from being magnified, has been wholly obliterated by the mists ofobscurity. 

With no small difficulty, and no inconsiderable manoeuvring, I succeededin procuring, at an expense of trouble and conscience which you will nodoubt think but poorly rewarded, an accurate 'report' of one of his mostpopular recitations. It celebrates one of the many daring exploits ofthe once famous Phaudhrig Crohoore (in prosaic English, Patrick Connor). I have witnessed powerful effects produced upon large assemblies byFinley's recitation of this poem which he was wont, upon pressinginvitation, to deliver at weddings, wakes, and the like; of course thepower of the narrative was greatly enhanced by the fact that many of hisauditors had seen and well knew the chief actors in the drama. 

'PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE. 

 Oh, Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, And he stood six foot eight, And his arm was as round as another man's thigh, 'Tis Phaudhrig was great, -- And his hair was as black as the shadows of night, And hung over the scars left by many a fight; And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye like the lightnin' from under the cloud. And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil, And sweet when he chose it, for he was the divil. An' there wasn't a girl from thirty-five undher, Divil a matter how crass, but he could come round her. But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, but one Was the girl of his heart, an' he loved her alone. An' warm as the sun, as the rock firm an' sure, Was the love of the heart of Phaudhrig Crohoore; An' he'd die for one smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was sthrong as the lion. 

 'But Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore--an' that same was like hell. But O'Brien liked HIM, for they were the same parties, The O'Briens, O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, and Cartys-- An' they all went together an' hated Crohoore, For it's many the batin' he gave them before; An' O'Hanlon made up to O'Brien, an' says he: "I'll marry your daughter, if you'll give her to me. " And the match was made up, an' when Shrovetide came on, The company assimbled three hundred if one: There was all the O'Hanlons, an' Murphys, an' Cartys, An' the young boys an' girls av all o' them parties; An' the O'Briens, av coorse, gathered strong on day, An' the pipers an' fiddlers were tearin' away; There was roarin', an' jumpin', an' jiggin', an' flingin', An' jokin', an' blessin', an' kissin', an' singin', An' they wor all laughin'--why not, to be sure?-- How O'Hanlon came inside of Phaudhrig Crohoore. An' they all talked an' laughed the length of the table, Atin' an' dhrinkin' all while they wor able, And with pipin' an' fiddlin' an' roarin' like tundher, Your head you'd think fairly was splittin' asundher; And the priest called out, "Silence, ye blackguards, agin!" An' he took up his prayer-book, just goin' to begin, An' they all held their tongues from their funnin' and bawlin', So silent you'd notice the smallest pin fallin';

 An' the priest was just beg'nin' to read, whin the door Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore-- Oh! Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy, Ant he stood six foot eight, An' his arm was as round as another man's thigh, 'Tis Phaudhrig was great-- An' he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky, An' none sthrove to stop him, for Phaudhrig was great, Till he stood all alone, just apposit the sate Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, Were sitting so illigant out side by side; An' he gave her one look that her heart almost broke, An' he turned to O'Brien, her father, and spoke, An' his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong, and loud, An' his eye shone like lightnin' from under the cloud: "I didn't come here like a tame, crawlin' mouse, But I stand like a man in my inimy's house; In the field, on the road, Phaudhrig never knew fear, Of his foemen, an' God knows he scorns it here;

 So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four, To spake to the girl I'll never see more. " An' to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone, For he thought of the days when he called her his own, An' his eye blazed like lightnin' from under the cloud On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud, An' says he: "Kathleen bawn, is it thrue what I hear, That you marry of your free choice, without threat or fear? If so, spake the word, an' I'll turn and depart, Chated once, and once only by woman's false heart. " Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb, An' she thried hard to spake, but the words wouldn't come, For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her, Wint could on her heart as the night wind in winther. An' the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin' to flow, And pale was her cheek as the moonshine on snow; Then the heart of bould Phaudhrig swelled high in its place, For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face, That though sthrangers an' foemen their pledged hands mightsever, Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever. An' he lifted his voice, like the agle's hoarse call, An' says Phaudhrig, "She's mine still, in spite of yez all!" Then up jumped O'Hanlon, an' a tall boy was he, An' he looked on bould Phaudhrig as fierce as could be, An' says he, "By the hokey! before you go out, Bould Phaudhrig Crohoore, you must fight for a bout. " Then Phaudhrig made answer: "I'll do my endeavour, " An' with one blow he stretched bould O'Hanlon for ever. In his arms he took Kathleen, an' stepped to the door; And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before; An' they all were so bother'd, that not a man stirred Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. Then up they all started, like bees in the swarm, An' they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm, An' they roared, and they ran, and they shouted galore; But Kathleen and Phaudhrig they never saw more. 

 'But them days are gone by, an' he is no more; An' the green-grass is growin' o'er Phaudhrig Crohoore, For he couldn't be aisy or quiet at all; As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall. And he took a good pike--for Phaudhrig was great-- And he fought, and he died in the year ninety-eight. An' the day that Crohoore in the green field was killed, A sthrong boy was sthretched, and a sthrong heart was stilled. '

It is due to the memory of Finley to say that the foregoing ballad, though bearing throughout a strong resemblance to Sir Walter Scott's'Lochinvar, ' was nevertheless composed long before that spiritedproduction had seen the light.