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Page 144, — For stopping her uncle, read stopping her muU, Page 189, — For the girl ivas, read the girl is. Page 201, — For his cradle, read its cradle. Page 223, — For situation as, read situation of. MRS. J. V. I>rOEI. ■•»» 1 KINGSTON, C. W, PBIHTID BT JAMSS If. OBKIOHTOF. 1869. ♦ AI M TUB ABBEY OF EATHMORE AND OTHER TALES, BT MRS. J. V. ItsTOEIi i >*^ KINGSTON, C. W. PBIHTBD BT JAMBS M. OBBiaHTOK. 1869. {■ nil ABBEY OF RATHMORE. CHAPTER I. On a high rocky promontory which jutted boldly inlo the Atlantic Ocean, in a remote part of Ireland, frowned in isolated grandeur the ruined Abbey of Rathmore. It was an ancient massive structure, and in the days of monastic seclusion had been the residence of a Dominican Order of Monks. In later years it was the abode of a noble but impoverished family — a descendant of which had, at the time this story commences, lately beconr, e a resident there. The greatest part of the building was ; a dilapidated condition; one wing alone was habitable, and here Dr. Percival, its present occupant, with two domestics, resided in gloomy retirement He was a man in the prime of life ; of noble bearing and pleasing countenance. He had been for some years surgeon of a British ship of war, but the loss of an arm having incapacitated him for duty, he retired on half pay. Owing to some secret sorrow, life had lost its <^liarms for him, and shunning society, he withdrew to the isolated home of his boyhood, the Abbey of Rathmore, — which, siDce the death of his parents, had been shut up. 4 TOE ADDET OF RATHMORS. Two attached domestics were its only inmate?, and these now gladly welcomed their young master, as they still called him, to hia ancestral home. It was a nig}it of stormy gloom — round the antique walls of the Abbey the wind swept in sudden gusts, while it howled in mournful cadences through its deserted cor- ridors and ancient halls. Holy Biddy! what a sth range noise the wind makes! exclaimed Norah, Dr. Pcrcival's old domestic, as she drew nearer to the comfortable turf-fire, which blazed cheerfully ill the ample chimney of the large kitchen. I wondher if it is the wind at all, she resumed thoughtfully ; who knows, Dcrmot, but it is the spcrrits of them monks that they say lived here in ould times ? Whist woman! shure them holy craythures would'nt be thrampoosing about in this wourld, so long afther their death, their sowls is at rest long ago. It is nothin' but the wind whistlin' through them long passages. The masther must feel it mighty lonely up there by himself, wid ne'er a one to spake a word to, observed Norah, after a short pause. But ho likes best to be alone — ^you know he never cares to visit any of the families round us, although to be shure their not being the rale genthry might be his raison for keeping so much to himself. I wondher what makes him so gloomy intirely, if it isn't the loss of his arm ; that must be a great grief to a handsome man like him. I'm thinkin' it's not that alone, it's the ould story Dermot — the heart-grief that's throublinghim. Did you never see the picture he wears round his neck, fastened wid a goold U-l i THE ABBET OF RATHMORI. \ I i. chain? It's the face of a piirty lady I'll bo bound, for he often kisses it and sighs, and looks so sorrowful. Och my grief I it's the love that wounds the heart the deepest afthcr all I But whist! what noise is that? Shure it isn't the big bell at the Abbey-gate ? Then begorra! it's notliin' less! exclaimed Dcrmot, starting from his seat in sudden surprise. It's some mis- fortunate thraveller overtaken by the night, and seizing a Ught he hurried tow.ards the entrance-hall. Descending the stairs from an upp(>r apartment, Dr. Percival was seen. He, too, had heard the ringing at the gate, and was hastening to the portal. Bring a lantern Dermot, the wind will soon extinguish that light. Och! to be shure, your honor! it was forgetful in me not to think of that afore. Run Norah, you're younger on the fut nor nic, and fetch the lanthern ; you'll find it in t]:e kitchen. Shuro the lanthern is broke intirely, replied Norah. That baste of a pig walked straight into the kitchen yisther- day, and finding it on the flure, dashed it in smithereens, for Dcrmot agra! you forgot to hang it up. Dermot looked deprecatingly at his master. Shure if I shade the candle wid my ould hat, it'll do, your honor, not a blast of wind will get to it. Well, let us make the experiment, observed his placid master, who could not help smiling at his servant's expedient. The ringing at the portal had ceased for some minutes, and when the gate was unbarred, to the surprise of Dr. Percival and his attendants, no person was to be seen. The blessed saints defind us I it's " the good people" ni ABBIT OP RITIDCOKI. themselves — or maybe the ghosts from the ould berrying ground beyant, exclaimed Norah, crossing herself devoutly and trembling with superstitious awe. The darkness of the night prevented their seeing surrounding objects ; the rocky approach to the Abbey was buried in profound gloom. It was no supernatural visitant, observed Dr. Percival, thoughtfully, but who could it be ? If a traveller seeking shelter for the night, why so suddenly disappear ? Down, Bruno ! down ! what ails the baste ? exclaimed Dermot, as a large Newfoundland dog was endeavoring to reach some object placed in a recess of the partly-ruined gate-way. On throwing the light on it, a basket was observed, in which was what seemed a bundle of clothes. Dermot seized it eagerly. At this moment the faint cry of a babe fell startHngly on their ear. It's a babby by all the saints 1 and nothing else ! ex- claimed Norah, and lifting the bundle in her arms sho hastily re-crossed the court-yard. Who could have left it here! was the observation of her astonished master. If we had but the lanthern we could find out, but in the dark we can't see a yard afore us. Bad cess to that pig, he's always puttin* his nose into mischief. How would it do to set Bruno on the scent, your honor? continued Dermot eagerly, he could coorse along the road and soon tell if any one was lurking there. Better not I the dog is fierce and might injure some person. Whoever has deserted this child has some reason TBI ABBIT or RATOMORI. of for doing so— wo can afford to take charge of it — and I love children. Ordering Dermot to bar the gate again, Dr. Percival re-entered the Abbey. What does your now charge look like Norah? he asked, as he stepped into the kitchen, where she was bupily engaged removing the various mufQings that enveloped the nfant That's just what I'm thrying to find out, your honor. These clothes is beautiful. Sorra a poor girl ever owned them. Just look at this grand cloak, lined wid fur to keep the darlint warm. And a purty babby it is too — a httle boy — 80 very young the craythure! not a week old! Holy Biddy I if it isn't the downright imago of yourself ! she continued afler a scrutinizing examination of its* features. Of me I exclaimed Dr. Percival in amazement. It does indeed resemble, not me, so much as my brother Desmond ! You remember him Norah I Poor fellow, he met his death in the deep waters, he added, sighing profoundly. Then maybe it's Masther Desmond's own son ; shure there must be some raison for sending him here ! Let us examine the contents of the basket, said Dr. Percival, perhaps something there may throw light on this strange affair. But nothing that the basket contained elucidated the mystery. A strip of paper was found, pinned to the infant's dress, and on it were written, in a delicate hand, these words — " Name the child Desmond." My brother's name I — the boy is his! but he never mentioned his marriage — why conceal it from me? I I i S TBI ABBEY Or BATHMOBE. cannot understand the matter, and Dr. Fercival paced the room in deep thought. Maybe he was never married at all, suggested Norah — yet, she added in an under tone, the mother of this babby was a born lady. It's mighty quare shure enough I Afther all it's no use bothering one's head about it. If Masther Desmond was to the fore he might incense us into it, but he's in the deep sae, the Lord rest his sowl 1 and the child's mother will keep her own sacret no doubt. You are right Norah ; thinking will not make it plain — time may clear the mystery. However, the infant shall not want a father's care while I live. The impress of my dead brother's features which his bear, will ever plead for him in my heart ; and Dr. Pcrcival, stooping over the httle foundHng, tenderly kissed his velvet cheek. It's your honor that has the tendher heart ! shure as you're so fond of children, it'll be a great comfort for you to have this one to keep you company in the ould place. The babe will require a nurse — could you procure one in the neighborhood Norah ? Asy enough, your honor; and as luck would have it, there's Aileen Curry berried her first born child yesthcrday — ^her heart is sore for the loss of it, and she'll take kindly to this motherless, daushie craythure. Let Aileen then be sent for early in the morning — after- wards we must see about getting the infant baptised. In coorse it ought to be christened at onct, it'll thrive the betther afther it gets the sign of the Cross on its forehead. Dr. Percival now withdrew to his solitary apartment, leaving Norah to attend to her little charge. TBI ABBKT 07 BATHMORI. CHAPTER II. Five years rolled on unmarked by any event at the Abbey of Rathmore. Little Desmond had grown up a beautiful child, the idol of Dr. Percival's household. He was taught to consider his benefactor as his uncle, and the servants were forbidden to reveal to him the mystery that hung over his birth. It was the middle of December; through the long hours of a winter's night the spirits of the storm had kept a fitful revel, and now as the cold grey of morning broke slowly over the tempestuous sky, the scene which the vexed ocean disclosed, was awfully grand and melancholy. Who that has seen the giant waves of the Atlantic chasing each other in billowy succession — rushing onward in their fearful might, carrying in their reckless course death and desolation — but has sensibly felt the glorious omnipotence of that Invisible Power whose Word created the fathomless deep, and who alone can restrain the fury of its tameless waters. At his turret-chamber, looking out upon the ocean, stood Dr. Percival The fierceness of the storm had kept e.' 10 THE ABBEY OF BATHM0R8. \\ him wakeful during the night, for as it howled round the Abbey it seemed to threaten its very foundations. With the first gleam of morning he had risen to gaze anxiously out on the broad expanse of foaming water, which his elevated situation commanded. Along the rock-bound coast, his eye ranged in search of what he dreaded to see — some wrecked vessel ; for two hours before the dawn he had heard that sure signal of distress — the melancholy booming of the minute gun. His eye soon caught the object of his search. Half a mile from the shore, thrown upon a ledge of rocks, was seen a dismasted hull. Viewing it through a telescope, Dr. Percival perceived some figures still on deck, and others vainly struggling with the giant billows. Along the beach, near the Abbey, were some fishermen conversing eagerly, fts they mournfully regarded the wreck. The violence of the storm had now subsided, and the possibility of aiding the sufferers occurred to the humane mind of Dr. Percival. Hastily leaving the Abbey, he joined the party on the beach. A strong boat was soon launched by a few fearless fellows who willingly agreed to assist the doctor in his efforts to reach the wreck. The enterprise was one of imminent peril, but incited by compassion, the brave men persevered, and were at length enabled to approach the vessel. Half a dozen haggard creatures, shivering and hopeless, were all that remained of the crew and passengers of that ill-fated brig. These with infinite difl&culty lowered themselves into the boat. They were about to put off, when one of the rescued men abruptly exclaimed, " Tht child i for Heaven's sake let us not leave her to perish !" Where is she ? asked Dr. FercivaL t THE ABBEY 07 RATHMORI. 11 In the cabin was the reply. The wreck threatened to go to pieces every instant, but the noble-minded man hesitated not. Seizing a rope he dexterously contrived to reach the deck. To descend to the cabin and look eagerly around for the child was tho work of a minute. Peering over the side of a hammock, suspended from the roof, a palHd little face met his view. Take me awa)^ ! oh take me away I said a childish voice, in the musical accents of the Spanish tongue. Dr. Percival started — he spoke the language perfectly. Lifting the child — who held out her arms eagerly towards him — he rushed on deck, for a shout from the boat proclaimed to him that the wreck was parting. He had only time to lower tlie child into the sturdy arms outstretched to receive her, when that part of the deck on which he stood was suddenly submerged, and he found himself floating on the angry ocean. But the angel of mercy who had watched over th» child, for whom he had perilled his life, would not suffer him to sink to a watery grave ; hovering near, she sustained his struggling form until he was rescued by the men in the boat. The danger was not yet over. To regain the shore in that heavily-laden boat and over those surging waters, seemed a thing impossible — yet the dauntless men quailed not; humbly trusting in that Divine Being whose mandate they were fulfilling in aiding the helpless, they rode fear- lessly on, although the pitiless waves threatened to submerge them every instant. He who treadeth the great deep was their protector — and with thankful hearts they gained to shore in safety. The inmates of the Abbey were not aware of ©r. 19 THB ABBET OF RATHMORE. 1 ; s i Percival's absence. Storms were of too frequent occurrence on that iron-coast to disturb their slumber, and they had risen, and were preparing the morning meal, without knowing that their beloved master was perilUng his hfe on the ocean. Here Norah ! have you any dry clothes for this little girl ? she is quite wet — asked Dr. Percival anxiously, as ho entered the kitchen where his servants were assembled. Holy Biddy ! where did you get the craythure this blessed morning ? was she out in such a storm ? I have just taken her from the wreck ; a vessel was dashed on the rocks during the night ; only a few persons have been saved. The saints forgive me! and I sleeping quietly in my bed instead of being on my knees praying for their sowls. Well, to think of it — it's mighty quare ! What seems strange Norah ? Just your honor that so many men's lives should be lost and this daushie child saved ! Shure it's a meracle. The good Lord be praised I He does as He plases on sae and on land. Come here ye little darUnt, come near the fire and let me put these dhry clothes on your back — you look like a dhrownedrat, acushlal But the little girl did not move. She stood staring at Norah — her black eyes gleaming through the masses of wet hair wliich shrouded her pale face. The spray of the ocean had wet her thoroughly. Dr. Percival now addressed the child in Spanish, and intimated Norah's wish. She slowly- approached her. THE ABBEY OF RATHMORK. 13 The little girl is a Spaniard, and does not understand you, Norah. See that now! and isn't it well that your honor can spake her mother tongue ; but if she's a furriner what'll I do? sorra a word will I be able to spake to her at all at all! She must be taught to speak English, said Dr. Percival, smiling, she will soon learn. Here, Desmond, is a little play-fellow for you ! you must teach her how to talk to you. The boy who had been furtively regarding the stranger since her entrance, now shyly advanced and whispered — • What is her name ? Her name! oh I forgot to ask! then addressing] the little Spaniard Dr. Percival asked her the question. In low sweet tones she answered Inez. An iligant name no doubt, but a quare one ! said Norah thoughtfully. I'm afeared I'll never get my tongue round it. The two children seem about the same age, do they not, Norah? Yes, but Masther Desmond is a dale sthronger and taller. How stlirange it is, continued Norah, that your honor should have two children left, as I may say, at your door. Faix you're provided wid a son and a daughther ! she added laughing. Her master laughed good-humoredly. It is singular, he said, but strange things do often hap- pen in this world of ours. However, I am not quite sure of retaining the young Spaniard. She may be claimed by her friends. I must inquire among the persons saved from the wreck; they may know some particulars about her. f' il I, !i I •T ' a I I ■i! u THB ABBKT OF RATHMORE. Dr. Percival did inquire, but elicited very little infor- mation concerning the child. The principal officers of the ship had perished — the tailors who were saved knew nothing more than that they had taken on board at Oporto an elderly woman and the little girl; the woman was apparently her mother — she was a taciturn, strange sort of person, and had been washed overboard in the beginning of the storm. This information was very vague, and Dr. Percival had every reason to think that the little Spaniard would be left to his care for the future. The thought gave him much pleasure. From the moment he first saw Inez, he felt his heart draw irresistibly towards her ; the tones of her voice, when she spoke in her native tongue, were music in his ear ; fond memories came o'er him, scenes of the past rose vividly before him, and his heart thrilled with sad, yet sweet, emotion. Although the child was taught to speak English, yet Dr. Percival took care to instruct her in her own language. Desmond, too, was acquiring it with facility. Horah said it was wondherful how he took to such outr Undish talk. Time passed on, and the two children, thus strangely thrown together, grew up from childhood to youth. Dr. Percival devoted himself to their education. His mind was highly cultivated, and he was not unskilled in some of the felegant arts. Inez shared most of the studies of him she was taught to consider her cousin. French, and Spanish •he spoke fluently ; in drawing too she was something of a proficient, but the guitar was the only musical instrument she was taught to play. This she learned to accompany ■1 1 THE ABBIT OF RATDMOIUE. 15 )fa my with her voice, which was one of much power and sweet- ness. The only respect in which her education was deficient, was the absence of all knowledge of needle-work. Of this the doctor was, as might be expected, entirely ignorant, and in this necessary accomplishment Norah was equally incapable of giving her instruction. Still, the orphan of the wreck grew up well-informed, and rather accomplished. Beautiful she was too — strangely beautiful. Her figure was tall, and had a stately, graceful bearing ; her abundant hair was of an ebon hue, her eyes large, black and lustrous, with a sweet, thoughtful expression ; her complexion was a very pale, clear ohve, with a faint tinge of color; which, when she was animated or excited, heightened into a deep rose hue. Desmond was a fine specimen of the Milesian style of manly beauty. A tall, noble form, bright blue eyes, and dark auburn hair, clustering in soft curls about a high, white forehead. As he grew up his likeness to him whose name he bore, became more and more striking. Dr. Percival doubted not that he was his brother's child, but the mystery of his birth •till remained. Owing to the remote situation of the Abbey of Bathmore, the doctor and his adopted children lived in comparative seclusion. One of the principal amusements of Desmond during his boyhood, was wandering along the bold coast, where, seated on the peak of some tall cliff, beetling on the ocean, he would watch the distant vessels skimming over the waste of waters ; wishing, how vainly ! that he too might sail to distant lands and see something of that world of which he knew so little. He also loved to wander among t V 1 16 TBI ABBKT OF RA>.*BMORB. the deserted apartments and corridors of the Abhey, seeking for hidden springs and secret passages, which would lead to some subterranean abode ; for, owing to his isolated manner of Hving, he was somewhat visionary. The profession of arms was the mode of Hfe ho would have chosen, for he was br^ve and fond of enterprise, but being too poor to purciJi ; a commission, the hope of entering the army seemed vain, and he feared his boyhood's dream of the glorious life of a soldier, was never destined to be realized. i ! TOE ABDET OF RATIIMORE. ing Ito iner 1 of • he r to rmy the Lzed. CHAPTER IV. It was the summer of the year — 98. A f^loora hung over Ireland. The people were generally ilisa'' 'cted. The English government had refused to make svaic reforms wliich they demanded as their riglit. Emis.saries of the French republic were secretly at work among the peasantry, inciting them to rebellion; and a total separation from Great Britain was contemplated. At the romantic age of nineteen, ardent and enthusiastic, Desmond became imbued with the spirit of the times. Compassion for the wrongs of Ireland, and bitter dislike to the powerful nation under whose illiberal government it then groaned, were the predominant feelings of his mind. Dr. Percival saw, with deep regret, the view he took of national affairs, and tried by judicious argument to combat his opinions. He told him although th'^.y had grievances to complain of, yet, it was? better to submit tamely to them than involve the country in open rebellion — representing how fruitless would be their efforts to throw off the yoke of their conquerors. Owing to various causes — especially the want of unity among themselves, from their difference in reUgious opinions — he 18 THE ABBEY OF RATnMORB. l\ thought Ireland was incapable of maintaining^ a political independence ; that were she free from Enc^land she would soon fall under the sway of some European power — France for instance — and that in his opinion Enp^lish misrule was preferable to French tyranny. But Desmond's mind was not convinced, and he ca<2;crly watched the coming events, his thoughts filled with ruinljow visions of the future glory of his native country, when it would, as in days of yore, take its place among the nations. The favorite retreat of himself and Inez, was an apartment situated in that part of the Abbey not inhabited by the family. It was in pretty good preservation, opening on a corridor which ran round the principal hall of the building. The walls were wainscoted witli oak, now blackened by time ; the ceiling was also of oak, elaborately carved. One large Gothic window — the rich stained glass almost entire — looked out upon the wide Atlantic, commanding also an extensive but lireary and wild prospect of the iron-coast. To this lonely room, whicli they designated " the Abbot's chamber," (for according to tradition it was the private sitting-room of the Superior of the Dominican Monks,) Desmond and Lie?: had conveyed their books, musical instruments, etc., and here much of their monotonous life was spent. Everything is ready for an insurrection, and the French are daily expected! exclaimed Desmond in an excited manner, as late one evening he entered the Abbot's chamber, where Inez was alone, reading. She looked up startled, and turned suddenly pale. Heaven forbid ! what will become of us ? she exclaimed. I wish we could discover some place of concealment in THE ADBEY OF RATHMORE. 19 >litical would ^^rance e was d was jvcnts, 3 glory [ yore, reat of part of pretty round i were ceilinj:; Gothic :ed out ive but lonely " (for of the d Ine?: c., and French excited Vbbot's [aimed, lent in this ruined buildinpf, continued Desmond. I do not mean for myi^elf, he added, proudly, hut on your account, dear Inez. How desirable it would be, to llnd some subterranean apartments, where you and the res( of the family might remain till anarchy liad subsided, and the struggle for our independence was over. rai)a says the French will not dare to land, because so few of the gentry are in favor of rebellion, observed Inez — and I am sure, I do not see what right they have to do so; most of the people do not want the interference of a foreign power. So uncle says, but neither you nor he knows anything about it. I have been among the peasantry, and liavc learned something of their secret proceedings. I am sure there must be some hidden communieation with the vaults beneath the Abbc}', Desmond continued after a short silence. Norah told me they were at one time the resort of smugglers, -who deposited rich cargoes th(.'re. She also says, even one of our own ancestors was engaged in cheating the revenue, and that lie owned more than one large schooner trading with France for silks and wines. If this be true, there is some outlet among those rocks at the base of the promontory. I only wish I could find it — for it might lead me to some subterranean stairs, communicating with the lower apartments of this ruined edifice. As he spoke he approached the window, and looked down on the bare rocks, beneath. Inez also placed herself within its deep embrasure, and both remained for some time Bilent and thoughtful, gazing out upon the ocean, watching the moonbeams quivering on its heaving waters. 20 THE ADBET OF RATHMORE. I: l\ f 1 I' i ! Suddenly Inez laid her hand on Desmond's arm, and pointed to the beach below. A figure, who seemed to issue from the clifla, stood leaning against a projecting ledge, llioughtfully regarding the moon-lit scene. Although plainly" dressed, there was in his appearance and attitude an air of elegance, which indicated him to be of a rank superior to the inhabitants in the vicinity of the Abbey. Who can lie be ? he is certainly a stranger, observed Inez in much surprise. T shall soon find out, mnttenul Desmond, ns, rushing from the room, he dashed down the dilapidated stair-case, which threatened every instant to fall to pieces beneath hLs hasty tread. Crossing the liall at the same rapid rate, lie passed through an arched door way, and in a few moments stood upon the cliffs. A zig-zag i)ath led to the sea below. Jlappening to dislodge a small rock in his hasty descent, it dashed into the water with a startling noise, instantly apprising the stranger of some one's approach. The next moment — turning an angle of the cliff he suddenly disap- peared. Desmond hastened down the steep path, in eager pursuit, but vainly sought among the rocks for the mys- terious figure ; he was nowhere to be seen. Desmond now felt assured there was some hidden entrance to ilie Abbey vaults, and that this entrance was among the rocks at the base of the promontory. He determined to pursue the search the next dny, and confidently hoped he would be successful, for he had marked the place where ihe stranger had vanished. Who he could be, was a subject of much surprise and inquiry, both to liimself and Inez. This strange occurrence was the subject of their conversation \ THE ADDET OP RATnMORK. 21 durinpf the rest, of the evening, and the clo^ant-lookinp Ftrangor Imuntcd th^ dn ; "f Inez through the nipht. The next morn/ or Desmond was rchictantly obhj:,'cd to ride over to B , to t^sin^act some business for Dr. Pcrcival. His search afler the liiddi /i entrance was therefore neces- Barily post])oned, as he would be abFont until niglit. Daring the day Inez's thouf,dits were full of the stranj^er, and she sat for hours in the embrasure of tlio window, in the Abbot's chamber, watching the beach. To while away the time she played recjuontly on the fruitar accompanying it with h(;r voice, which filled the ajvirtmcnt, and rolled away through the; silent corridor, in cadences of rich melody. Once while she was thus engaged, sho fancied she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and looked up eagerly, expecting to see Desmond enter. But no Desmond appeared. The sound seemed to come from a particular part of the chamber next the corridor. Sup- posing there was some one there, Inez opened the chamber door and looked out. But the corridor and hall below looked as deserted as ever. She then approached that pait of the wall whence the noise proceeded, and leaned lier head in a listening attitude against the wainscot. The sound of a person breathing caught her ear — some one was evidently behind the wainscot. Just at this moment a panel suddenly opened, and she found herself face to fttce with a person also engaged in the act of listening. With a cry of Burprise and alarm, she sprang back; when she again looked at the narrow aperture no one was seen, and the sound of retreating footsteps was heard. Closing the panel — the secret spring of which she now f ■'. '■ 1 i: I 11 i; f f 'I 22 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. observed for the first time — Inez marked the spot, then hastily loft the Abbot's chamber and joinedNorah, whowas occupied in the kitchen. Is it come to help mo ye are ? Shure then it's a pity to see yore purty hands doing any coorse work ; but if ye like to be busy asthore, shell tlicm banes. It's gettin' late I'm afeard, and the masthcr niver likes to wait for his dinner; it's the only time he ever gets angry. Well, while I help you Norah, you must tell me all about the smugglers and the vaults beneath the Abbey. Bid you ever see them ? I did not mcself, for it was long afore my time, but my ould granny used to tell wondhcrful stories about them. She was down in the vaults herself, and said there is all kinds of saycret turnings and stone-stairs down below. Stairs! repeated Inez — and where do the stairs lead to Norah ? Och to all parts of the ould place, if one only knew whero to find them. Inez remembered the discovery she had made, but kept the secret until Desmond's return. The thousrht of that dark-complexioned, but handsome face, which had been in euch close proximity to her own, flashed across her mind and she felt an eager curiosity to find out who was the occupant of the secret passages of the Abbey. They say we're goin' to have a 'ruction. Miss Inez > did ye hear tell of it ? asked Norah, suddenly stopping in her occupation of cooking a fowl, and looking inquiringly at her young mistress. THE ABBEY OP RATHMORE. 23 t, then lio was a pity it if ye till' late for his L mc all Abbey. but my it tliera. TC is all I below, lead to |y knew )ut kept of that been in ler mind |was the 5S Inez) )ping in ringly at So it is rumored, but I hope not. I trust the people will keep quiet. Then they wont, the foolish craythures! they're just mad agin the English, and shurc there's no raison in that at all, for what good ever come of their sthrugglin' for freedom as they call it ? they cant cope wid the reglars by no manes. Bad cess to them furriners from beyaut the sae, that's going among the boys and eggin' them on ! Are there many French in the country ? are there any about here? asked Inez with sudden eagerness. I hecrd Derniot say there was a genteel-looking young man wandhering among the rocks a few days ago — no doubt he's one of the Frinch, bad luck to them. I wish Bony would keep his soldiers to fight his own battles and let ould Ireland take care of herself. This .information threw considerable light on the appearance of the figure on the clifi', but how lie obtained access to the secret passages was yet unaccounted for. All the peasantry do not regard the French invasion in the light you do Norah. I mean, Inez added, as she saw the puzzled expression on the old woman's face, that tlicy look upon the French as friends. Somf^ does, and some doesn't ; the ould people, hko meself, knows what they're afthcr, but the young people is for them, bekase it'll be a change any how, but betther no change nor a bad one 1 So I think Norah I And yere right agra! but there's Mas ther"] Desmond crazed entirely about the grandeur he thinks is comin' upon us, when the Frinch gets us free from theEngUsh. But the m *i ! f 'j i Hi f ill 24 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. glory of ould Ireland is no more ! and it's no use sayin' it will ever be what it onct was, when it wasn't one king it had, but five. And then look at its anchient Abbeys and sthrong castles, aren't they all gone to the bad? sorra a roof coverin' the most of them. Then to make bad worse, they talk of takin' the Parliament from us, the murdherin' villyans, as if Dublin could ever do widout it I Shure it's everything worse nor another the government is doin', but what's the use of spakin' or contindin' wid it at ail? for all the power is in their own hands, and it's best to take it asy when there's no help for it. Oclv my grief! ould Ireland will niver be the same again ! The appearance of Dr. Percival crossing the court-yard now gave a new turn to Norah's thoughts. Bedad I there's the masther himself come back from his walk, and looking tired and hungry. Faix it's his dinner he'll be wantin', and it not ready yet. Run Nance avourneen, she added — addressing a young girl who assisted her in household duties — run and lay the cloth — let him see, any how, that if the dinner itself isn't to the fore, it's the next thing to it. Shure, as I said onct, he never looks crass but when he has to wait for his males ; and small blame to him for that! there isn't a better masther living than himself. THE ABBEY OF RATHMORK. 25 CHAPTER V. In the evening Inez walked out on the beach, com- missioned by Norah to bring her " some ihgant dilisk und shell-fish, from the rocks foreninst the pint." These high rocks were a continuation of the promontory, or pint as Norah called it, separated however by a deep chasm, about one hundred feet wide. The^ were easy of access at low water, for several masses of rock had been placed so as to form stepping-stones between them and the shore. It was the hour of sunset. The glorious orb of day was nearing the horizon — his dazzling rays glittering in broad lines of crimson light, athwart the tranquil bosom of the Atlantic, and tinging the light fleecy clouds with amber and roseate hues. On gaining the rocks, Inez sat for some time watching the gorgeous sunset, and listening to the booming sound of the waters, as the long swell of the ocean broke upon the rocky shore. The shadows of twilight were stealing over the Atlantic, and giving an air of greater solitude to its wild and lonely coast, before Inez remem- bered Norah's commission. She then began hastily to iiU 26 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. ll !| II a basket with the small shell-fish and eatable sea-weed, which she found in abundance around her ; wholly uncon- scious that slie was herself an object of earnest observation to a pair of dark, splendid eyes, gazing at her from the beach. A pleasing voice, with a foreign accent, at length fell upon her ear. Raising herself from her stooping attitude, she stared around with a starthid look. In the shadow of a high cliff, at the end of the promontory, stood a figure of striking appearance — the same elep;ant-looking stranger she had seen the evening before. The tide is coming in and the rapid rise of the water has cut off your return to the mainland, unless by boat. Inez cast an alarmed glance around. Already the stepping-stones were entirely hid by the rising tide. Dan- ger there was none, for the tall rocks on which she stooc! were never covered, unless at spring-tide ; yet the thought of remaining in her present situation for some hours, until tlie waters should sul)side, was not pleasant. If you will tell me where to find a boat I can assist you, resumed the stranger. Inez pointed to a small boat, drawn up on the beach, at some distance. The gentleman hastened towards it. In less than a quarter of an hour he was seen, returning, rowing the skiff in the direction of the rocks. Inez thought she had never seen one so attractive. His broad straw hat had fallen off, and his countenance was seen to advantage. His face, though a little bronzed by exposure to the weather, was exceedingly handsome, and there was an expression in his dark eagle eye which indicated an uncommon and daring THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. 27 character. Ilis age might be thirty, and his graceful, self- possessed manner, showed that ho was accustomed to the best society. To a younp: girl like Inez, inexperienced in the usages of the world, his chivalrous politeness was peculiarly charming. With much embarrassment, when the boat reached the shore, she timidly expressed her thanks for the service ho had rendered her, then turned quickly away to escape his ardent gaze. The admiration his fme eyes so elocpiently expressed, was something to which Inez Percival had been hithc :to unaccus- tomed. It was dark when she reached the Alriey. Desmond had returned, and was inquiring for her. As soon as the evening meal was finished, Inez proposed their retiring to the Abbot's chamber — informinir him, in a low voice, that she had something to communicate. Eoth her adventures of the day were soon recited. When she mentioned tlic secret spring, Desmond stin-ted up, and requested her to show it to him. She complied. It was hidden in a curiously-carved corner of a panel of the wainscot. On pressing it, the panel slid back as before. Desmond, with eager delight, passed through the aperture and found himself in an intermural passage, running parallel with the corridor. He hastily traversed this, but was disappointed to find no egress from it, except through the Abbot's chamber. Still, he felt assured there must be some other, and continu(;d his examination of the walls on both sides. Something in the floor, appearing like a small rusty ring attracting the eyes of Inez, she drew his attention towards it. It is a trap-door I he joyfully exclaimed, and seizing i 1. 28 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. K » il the ring he drew up a small, square compartment of the floor, disclosing a narrow spiral stair-case. Eureka! he said gaily, as he quickly descended the stairs. At the bottom their further progress seemed stopped ; they were shut in by four walls. Desmond, now stooping •arefully, examined the floor, but no second trap-door presented Itself. The walls were then sounded, and after some delay, a hidden door was again discovered. They pa.sscd through and entered the large, lonely hall of the Abbey. Desmond looked much disappointed. After all, not to discover the descent into the vaults ! it is too provo^dng I he said. Still something is gained, remarked Inez — the know- ledge of this private passage, so long hidden from us, and perhaps to-morrow, by daylight, your search may be moro successful. I wonder if there is a trap-door concealed in these flag-stones ? said Desmond thoughtfully, as, stooping low, he threw the light he carried on the pavement of the hall. But I fear there is not, for how often, in boyhood, have I spent hours searching for something of the kind. At one en ! of the hall was a Grothic arch, now almost covered witli 'I irk masses of ivy, and leading into another Iiall of smaller dimension. A thought flashed across the mind of Desmond, and suddenly tearing away the clustering leaves from this arched entrance, he examined its dismant^cr sides. But no hidden spring or ring met his eager view, and he was giving up the search in despair, when he noticed a small fissure between two large carved stones, that based THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. 29 the arch on one side. Kneeling down he tried to push these stones apart, and to his surprise, easily succeeded ; one stone slid into an aperture formed in the wall to receive it, disclosing a gap sufficiently large to allow a person to pass through. Holding the light over the aperture, Desmond perceived a deep fliglit of stone-steps. The hour was now late, and Inez proposed rejoining Dr. Percival, and post- poning the descent into the vaults until the following morning. Desmond seemed to acquiesce, but ho secretly determined that when the family had retired for the night, he would descend alone into the subterranean passages of the Abbey. Consequently, the hour of midnight found him again standing will; In the Gothic archway. Removing the stone as before, he cautiously descended the damp, slimy stairs. At the bottom he found himself in a large vault. As he advanced slowly, frightening the bats and rats from their gloomy liaunts, he fancied he saw a light gleam like a star in the distance. It brightened as he approached, and now the murmurini^ sound of voices floated to^vards him — borne on the damp noisome air of this subterranean apart- ment. On reaching the end, alow door opened from it into a long wide passage. Guided by the flickering hght, Desmond fearlessly pursued it, when winding round a projecting angle, it abruptly brought him into the presence of about thirty reckless, wild-looking fellows, whom he instantly suspected were United Irishmen. The fact was now clear; the Abbey vaults were the midnight rendezvous of the disaffected peasantry in the neighborhood ; a suspicion of the truth, had never occurred to him. Kr m -' \' 30 THE ABBEY OP RATHMORE. On rude benches, along a table formed of rough boards, supported on low ma^sses of stone, the party were seated. Two or three iron-.sconccs, with pieees of bog-wood stuck into them, threw a flarino: lidit around the table, but left the remote i)arts of the vault in dark shadow. I have said that the party was composed of some of the lowest grades of society, Ijut among them were a few respectable young men, and, at the head of the rude council table, sat a dark-complexioned, fine-looking French olhcer, in military undress. The sudden ai)pcarance of a stranger among them had a startling effect. Each man sprang to his feet, his eyes gleaming with fear, as well as anger. A spy I a spy ! slioot him down ! the red coats are at liis back! was sliouted by more than one savage voice. I am no spy I said Desmond indignantly, boldly advancing towards the excited group, and I am alone ; you have nothing to fear from me ! What brings you liere then? was sternly asked. These vaults are my uncle's property ! I should rather ask you the question, what brings you here ? for what purpose do you hold this midnight meeting ? A look of peculiar meaning passed round the party. You're an omadhawn to ask that question, was the rude reply. Shure he knows well enough! remarked another of the men — he isn't such a born nathral as not to know the raison why ' the boys ' is here. And now that he has joined us widout being axed, he'll have to make one of our number, sneeringly observed an ill-looking fellow. THE ABBEY OF RATILMORE. 31 Not unloss I wish to do so, was Desmond's bold reply. Honnom an diaoul ! tlion you'll never lave this place alive ! fiercely exclaimed a sava_i,^e looking- man, brandishing a heavy shelelah, while his eyes glared on young Tcr- cival. The foreiii'n ofllcer now interfered, and addressed Desmond in French. ITe answered (.'agcrly, and a conver- sation was carried on between them for some minutes. The party attentively listened; though not understanding tlie language — they gathered something of tlie import of their words from the expression of their countenances. This g(mtleman pledges his honor that he will never betray us, n(?ver reveal what he hears liere, at length said the French officer, turning to the men. Who'd thrust to the honor of a Protestant; he has too much Orange blood in his veins ! we wont take his word, exclaimed more than one voice. The word of a Percival was never broken! warmly remarked one of the respectable young men before alluded to. Desmond looked gratofuU}' towards tlu^ sj^eaker, and recognised a shop-keeper from B , named Eeynolds. Take his oath of saycrecv, Captain, he'll mind that ! and nothing else will satisfy us. By this Crass, if ever he turns thraitor, he may ordher his coflin ! he'll not live an hour afther I And why wouldn't you join the cause yourself young gentleman ? asked a decent-looking man named O'llara. in wheedling accents. Shure aren't we all Irishmen born, and what matther cbout the differ in rehgion when our coun- 32 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. I iii li ill thry wants our aid. Oughtn't Protestant and Papist fight side by aide for one common cause — our Hberty ? This observation cUcitcd a grin of approbation from the grim visages around. Shurc I'm a black Presbyterian myself, as were all my people afore me, continued O'llara ; but w^hon the wrongs of Ireland call^; upon her sons to arm in her dcfinse — when the oppression of the guverment, bad luck to it ! is grinding us to the dust, every bitthcr feeling should be forgotten among ourselves, and all religious hathred banished from our mmds. Och ! if this would only be the case ! if Irishmen only would be united they might soon dlirivo the oppressors from their shore I and dhressed in the green and the goold, wid the Sunburst floating o'er them, her national army would defy even proud England hcnself. I am entirely devoted to the cause, remarked Desmond with enthusiasm. Then why not join us at once ? asked several voices. My uncle is altogether opposed to seeking redress for our grievances by force of arms, replied Desmond ; and, he added, hesitatingly, I cannot — that is I have not yet decided on acting contrary to his wishes. Sit down young man ! sit down among us ! said O'llara, eagerly. Who knows but before we part we may so incense you into the merits of our undertaking that you will, to-night, make up your mind to join the Pathriot Army. Shure tha Frinch is for us I and Bony himself, that'll make all Europe thrimble is on our side ! And didn't the Frinch help Americkay to throw off the yoke ; afther that we need not despair t I THE ABBEY OF RAinMORE. 33 Captain Le Vavasseur, tho French officer, now motioned Desmond to a seat next himself at tlio head of the rude table, and the proceedings of the meeting were resumed. Desmond now learned that an immediate insurrection of the disaflfected was meditated. The French officer condemned this premature proceeding, and strongly advised the patriots to await the arrival of a French force, which lie soon expected, but the misguided and impulsive people would not be controlled. It was long after midnight, and the meeting was about to break up, when the sudden appearance of a ragged, wild-looking stripling in their midst, created con- siderable surprise and alarm. Ho was out of breath and looked much excited. What ails the gossoon? What's the matter Mick ? was eagerly asked by several of the party. The reglars is comin' ! I seed them Avid my own two eyes ! gasped the youth, as he sunk on the floor from sheer exhaustion. The saints presarve us, we're done for ! and more than one stalwart man turned pale with fear. Where are the military ? asked Captain Le Vavasseur, who seemed perfectly self-possessed. They're comin' down the boreen, near the fort ; they're close to the shore by this time. I was watchin' on the top of the ould place, and when I see them I run for the bare life, and tuk a short cut acrass the fields. There is a thraitor among us, fiercely broke in one of the men, and it's Paddy Egan the villyan I for he isn't to the fore to-night. We can escape by the outlet near the fort, observed C 84 THE ADDEY OF RATHMORE. O'llara; there's a long passage lading from tho vaults undhcr ground that way, it's known only to myself, I beliovc. Folly me boys if you wish to save yere necks from the halther ! we'll chute the red coats yet! Remain hero, I can put you in a place of concealment, whispered Desmond to Lo Vavasscur. The lights were now hastily extinguished, and the party quickly followed O'llara, leaving tho two gentlemen alono in tho council-room. We have not a moment to lose, said the officer hurriedly — and he and Desmond precipitately retreated towards tho stone-stairs. At the top they stopped to Hsten. The heavy tramp of men was heard in the subterranean passages, and the light of several torches flared through the gloom. Thank Heaven we are saved ! said Captain Lo Vavasscur gladly, as he and his new friend, pushing the stone aside, passed into the hall of the Abbey. Opening the door in the wall, they ascended the inter- mural stairs, and soon found themselves in the Abbot's chamber. These passages are famiUar tome, observed Le Vavasscur. How did you discover them ? O'Hara, whom you saw to-night, showed them to mo when I first became an inmate of the vaults. I have been living concealed there for some days, he kindly supplying me with food. He said his grandfather had always lived at the Abbey, and from him he had learnt all about its secret entrances, and hidden stairs, and passages. Cautiously approaching the window, Desmond looked THE ABDEY OF RATHMORE. 35 vaults lyself, I ;ks from ealracnt, le party Dn alone urriedly irds tho le heavy ges, anil n. ivasseur aside, inter- Ibbot's asscur. to mo been flying ved at secret )oked down on the cliA't* beneath. Several dark figures were there, apparently guarding the outlet from the vaults. They will find themselves disappointed, he obs^erved joy- fully ; how fortunate we were apprised of our danger in time to escape ! A few minutes aflerwards tho sound of footsteps in tho hall below was heard. They have ascended tho stone-ntaii'S and discovered tho aperture at tho top, remarked Desmond in alarm ; what shall wo do? thtT(j is no retreat from this chamber but through the corridor, and wo should probably be observed. We must remain in the intcrmural passage — the secret entrance to that will certainly escape tiiem. I tliink I shall go down and see what they are about observed Desmond; why should I bcaf-aid? — this is my home. Do not act so rashly, I beg of you, said the French officer eagerly ; what excuse can you give for being out of bed at this late hour? You know in times like these, when rebel- lion stalks the land, suspicion is also abroad. Perhaps you are right — " discretion is," they say, " tho best part of vtdor ;'^ but listen ! are they not ascending the stah-s? — they are even now in the corridor! the next minute, peeping through the slight crevices in the wainscot tliey perceived an officer and half a dozen soldiers enter the Abbot's chamber. It was a moment of fearful suspense — of intense anxiety to Le Vavasseur, and also to young Percival, for his Hfe would be of little worth if he should be caught with his present companion. The survey of the room soon convinced the soldiers there was no person ii . ., 'I 1:i illi I 3C THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. hiding there. Afterwards they examined the rest of the dilapidated apartmertts opening on the corridor. We are only losing time here I the commanding officer was heard to say — there is no one concealed in these ruins; we would be better employed scouring the country, we should then probably pick up some of the rebel rascals. The party then descended to the hall and shortly afterwards all was silent within the Abbey ; they had joined their com- rades on the beach, and soon the measured tread of their retreating footsteps was faintly heard in the distance. ;t of the THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. 37 ig officer je ruina; [itry, we Js. The vards all leir com- of their 36. CHAPTER V. The soft dawn of a summer morning was spreading over the eastern heavens, and stealing through the richly-stained glass of the Gothic window, as Desmond and Captain Le Vavasseur ventured again to enter the Abbot's chamber. You can remain here with safety now, remarked Desmond, and if you throw yourself on that old-fashioned couch, you may snatch a little sleep before breakfast. Here you will be undisturbed for some hours, as Inez seldom enters this, her private sitting-room, until the afternoon. And who is Inez ? My cousin, Miss Percival. You have seen her. She told me of the service you rendered her yesterday evening. I thought she was your sister. No, we are only cousins. Dr. Percival is my uncle. And in what light do you regard her ? — as a sister ? There was something of interest in Le Vavaiseur's tones, and an earnestness in the gaze he bent on the face of his young companion. Merely as a sister ! why do you ask ? he enquired with some surprise. 38 :he abbey of rathmore. '■, &i It seems strange that you should have Uved all your life with such a very beautiful girl, and feel for her nothing Avarmcr than a brother's love. That very circumstance sufficiently accounts for it in my opinion — we have been brought up together, as brother and sister, carelessly remarked Desmond, as he moved towards the door; there he paused to point out to the French officer a means of securing it on the inside, until his return. And if the fair owner of this antique boudoir were to demand admittance in the meantime, what must I do ? In that case you must unbar the entrance and make the best apology you can for your intrusion, but I think I shall see Inez before you do. The sun was nearing his meridian altitude, when Des- mond Percival again made his appearance in the Abbot's chamber. He brought a small basket, containing refresh- ments, of which Captain LeVavasseur, who had just awoke from a refreshing sleep, gladly partook. I have won over Dr. Percival to your interests, observed Desmond joyfully ; he has consented to our aflfording you a place of conceal- ment, until you can make arrangements for leaving this part of the country with safety. When I communicated the adventure of last night to Inez, she insisted on my acquaint- ing my uncle with the circumstance ; she said he ought to be made aware of your being concealed in the Abbey. And she was perfectly right I I entirely approve of your doing so. If Dr. Percival should be unwilling to harbor me — for I know the penalty attached to his doing so— yet I am sure he is too honorable to betray me to those who seek my life. THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE, 39 yovLV lifo nothing it in my ther and towards Prench 5 return, were to lo? lake the i I shall m Des- Abbot's refresh- awoke >n over yfully ; onceal- ispart d the uaint- (ght to your |or me ^yetl seek You judge my uncle only as he deserves, said Desmond warmly, but if you have no objection, Twill at once intro- duce him to you ; he waits in the corridor for permission to enter your retreat, and make your acqnaintnncc. He does me much honor, said the Frenchman gratcfally, as he advanced to meet the doctor, whose commanding form soon appeared in the door-way. Stirring tidings are abroad this morning ! observed Dr» Percival, as he seated himself, after the ceremony of intro- duction was over, — some of the peasantry have risen m open rebeUion. I feared as much from the information I received last night. Feared ! repeated Dr. Percival. Is it not your wish they should do so ? what motive but to incite them to this mad act, led you to join their secret societies, and countenance their treasonable proceedings ? This revolt is premature ! the insurgent army is yet un- disciplined — unprepared to take the field ; if they liad only waited the arrival of the French force they would have better chance of success. As it is, I expect nothing from this ill-advised proceeding, but entire discomfiture — total defeat. A disorganized peasantry, without proper officers, or sufficient ammunition, is altogether unfitted to contend with even a small military force. Tliis is no doubt a mad scheme — a daring act of a mis- guided people ! observed Dr. Percival sorrowfully ; much blood will be shed, horrible atrocities committed; yes! pillage and murder will stalk hand in hand through the length and breadth of the land 1 But the insurgents will M 40 THE AP ET OF RATHMORZ. have the worst of it! what have they to expect in contend- ing with a regular force, but to be recklessly and indiscrimi- nately slaughtered I How much have those to answer for, he added indignantly, who have urged the infatuated and ignorant people to this wild insurrection — who have en- couraged them in such a hopeless undertaking. The French were misinformed — entirely deceived! ob- served Captain Le Vavasseur, in a deprecatory manner. We were taught to believe that the whole Irish people were anxious to throw off the English yoke, and that every man would aid in emancipating his country from a thraldom so oppressive. And you find, too late, that such ideas were only vision- ary! broke in the doctor rather sharply. There are too many Orangemen in Ireland yet to yield the dominion to any but a Protestant power ! That we have grievances to complain of I will not deny ! and some acts of heartless oppression on the part of the government, but there are people wise enough in the Emerald Isle to see, that freedom from England would be our ruin. Not if it became attached to France ! think of the glo- rious career of my nation at the present day ! and Captain Le V.'ivasseur's face glowed with patriotic enthusiasm. If such a man as Bonaparte, — who even now makes every crowned head in Eu^'ope tremble — if he were to aid this beautiful island in gaining its independence, in restoring it to its pristine glory, what reason have you to fear ? Let Irishmen be but united in the glorious cause of freedom and with the powerful aid of France, they would soon secure their rights — their land would soon regain its former po- ilkssss THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. 41 contend- discrimi- 3wer for, ited and lave en- red! ob- manner, pie were ery man Idom so '' vision- are too nion to nces to eartless ere are reedom le glo- 'aptain fm. If every id this :ing it Let mand ecure T po- sition among the nations. A form of government similar to that France now enjoys, might be easily established; com- merce would then be unrestricted — your warm-hearted and brave peasantry, instead of swelling the Enghsh army, would be disciplined into a formidable national force, sufficient to maintain peace at homo and resist foreign aggression. Such a glowing portrait is no doubt very pleasing and flattering to our national pride ! remarked Dr. Percival, but this state of things will never be ! ho added with a sigh. And why may it not be so ? why will not the nobility and gentry of Ireland join the lower classes in their noble enterprise ? France has no other motive in assisting the insurgents but the commendable desire of afibrding others tlie blessing of liberty which she herself so richly enjoys. And there is not the least splice of jealousy or enmity to England actuating her at all ! observed Dr. Percival, with an ironical smile. This blunt remark brought the rich color to the face of the French officer. The doctor observed it and hastened to apologize. Pardon my observation, but the undying prejudice be- tween the two nations is, you know, proverbial. France in aiding the American colonies, and in volunteer- ing to assist the Irish in defying Great Britain, is influenced by that bitter enmity and jealousy which she has ever borne towards that powerful empire — the only one she fears will check her triumphant career. On this topic we will not again converse, Captain Le Vavasseur. I should regret 42 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. Iv ' II being guilty of making some rude remark, our opinions are so entirely opposite. Am I then to conclude that you, as well as the majority of your countrymen, are averse to a separation from England, that you do not covet your national independence ? Not at the expense of religious liberty ! Sir, you do not understand the true state of the country ; you have been deceived by crafty men "whose only object is to produce anarchy, or further their own ambitious views ! There are two parties in this unhappy island — the Protestants and Roman Catholics, whose feelings towards each other are unhappily full of bitter religious animosity. Under a re- publican form of government, or as a dependency of France, the latter party would have the ascendency ; because it is the largest — and the Protestants of Ireland know full well that the national religion would be abolished, and that they themselves might lecome the victims of religious perse- cution. But if religious freedom were secured to the Irish Pro- testants, if they were protected in their religious opinions, would they join the Patriots ? I fully believe they would, Sir ! there is not an Irish heart but would glow with enthusiasm at the idea of such a na- tional indopendence as you recently painted, if that inde- pendence could also be enjoyed with rehgious freedom! But the thing cannot be. A spirit of bigotry would be ever at work to mar our peace, and many would be the evils arising from religious intolerance. No, I repeat that a separation from Great Britain would be the ruin of the Pro- testant cause in this country. By remaining firm in our THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. 43 allegiance to England we secure that system of religious faith and worship which our hearts approve. A Protestant government and British supremacy are our only safe-guards All Protestants do not hold the same opinions, timidly broke in Desmond. As uncle is an Orangeman, his views are somewhat bigoted. That may be — but we will waive this subject. May I ask \\^hen you expect the troops from France. Shortly — I cannot say how soon — was the officer's reply. They will come too late ; the insurgent army will be cut to pieces — the leaders taken and executed, and the insur- rection quelled, 1 "fore the expected aid arrives. Yours is a gloomy picture, but I am afraid a correct one, observed the Frenchman despondingly. Do you intend to join the insurgents ? asked Desmond. Not until the arrival of my countrymen. There is no hope of success Avithout their efficient aid. You act wisely, observed Dr. Percival; but I do not think the French will land ; they will hear of the disastrous de- feat of the Patriots, and they will return to France without striking a blow for the freedom of Green Erin. You misjudge my gallant fellow-soldiers; they will not act so dishonorably. Wisely, or prudently, would be a more suitable word. Then we shall have the pleasure of your society for an in- definite time. We must take every precaution to conceal your being here. You know our affording you protection includes us in your guilt, and exposes us to your punish- ment. 44 THE ABBEV OF RATHMORB. Captain Le Vavasseur exnrc..P^ i,- . obligation he owed the famS ' ''"'' '' ^^^ Do not mention it. I conM nnf • i I -uM not expose a fonril: toT '" °*""'^^- mnious death-were I to, ..f, """^ *"'' 'S""" X =<-M disgrace Jlr^rX^^^^^^^^^^ °^'"^-^' But w]>ile you are here, we wiH n! ^ "^ '°"""-y- topic of pohties; that «ust bla fobidT" "'T'"' "" us. Wo will talk of foreign ar!- '''°"' '''^'^^«" me some of the.lorioJIf ' ' ^°'' '^'^ ^'''"^' to trr-n o„ the ct2:rz7Zf ^•'"^^^"-'— to another member of my famil. n ""''' '°'™'"'=^ ^°^ wish for her presenee here ^ f • f '™°"'' '^" I°ez I MissPercival-heeontinu'da?:!;; f°'*'^^°""^'^''^. enable you to pass the tlmo 'f ^"'^''•^'^ *« ~om-wiI! somewhat agreeably The Ji'n»„ , ^°'"' "'"""^^'^ent here a gallant nation, equally readvto "'."°' ""^'^ ^ "'^-^ "ut Venus, as tofol low the tZn, ^ r''" '" '""^ '"-"P'^ of The flush of pleaslreS 1 r' °' '''''■ of fte Preneh offieer X' "'" "^"" ^""'^^"'"o face Inez-as with queen-lt 1 IT ""'"' °" *^ "^-""f"' ins on DesmoL's arnrlsWef .r'''"'' *"°°'"' ^«»- '^'"« P-y was indeed Lo^^,;;^;; "^^ '"'^^«- to the -^-=Syiotrr^~- -— to admire, exeeedfn.ly S, ^T """'^' '"''"^-'"^'^ H-fineintelleet, h,^5owinrt ^""l'^^-'--' Po-ers. Wlliantcareerof BonaCl'n7T'' " '^'^^'"^ "' *a fascinating manner, mS h 1 ^ ? """^"^'^ '"'"'^ »" -™da„dWbott:e::'rt:r;srte:! THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. 45 ceedingly attractive. Even Dr. Percival was so influenced by his master mind, that in some things he yielded his own judgment to its potent sway. The next day Desmond rode over to B , to hear more news of the insurrection. There lie learned that the Irish Independent Army was hourly increasing, and on its march to , spreading terror among the peaceful inhabitants wherever its disorganized force appeared. All the disaffected in the neighborhood of the Abbey of Rath.more had has- tened to swell the Patriot ranks. Several persons of respec- tability and standing, were among the insurgents, and ad- herents to the cause of Irish independence, flocked to join the national standard from all parts. With intense longings to unite himself to the bold defenders of his country, Desmond rode slowly homeward — his breast glowed with patriotic enthusiasm, and with the romantic self-devotion of youth, he wished to join the noble enterprize and risk his life in the glorious struggle for his country's independence. That it would fail h' ; feared from what he had heard his uncle and Captain Le Vavasseur say on the subject — for he yielded his opinion to their superior judgment. How he bitterly regretted that the French troops had not yet arrived ! "With their powerful aid, he doubted not that the National Army would be irresistible ; for although not sufficiently disciplined — was it not composed of some of the bravest hearts in Erin ? were they not nerved to the struggle by acts of gaUing oppression on the part of a tyrannical government ? and was not their national banner floating proudly o'er their ranks of green and gold ? To the ardent and enthusiastic youth, defeat in such a cause seemed worse than death ; and yet he feared utter discomfiture awaited these daring adventurers in the cause of freedom. 4C m GIBBET OP RAlnMOM. CHAPTER VI. Day after day passed, and the news from H • ""^y was various. Some victories L.k '"''"■^^"' manyatrocitiesoommittedbythT t ''"'' ^"'^ t'-ilitary force opposell^t "cT 'flT ' "^ ^^•" ^ ^^ >-.r path, and a foe-sheet appeldS 'T " '"""^^^ for ruthless burnings seemed ZTl^ '''"P" ">" '""d, Boyahst and rebel durnT, 11 "" "'''^''--' °f both ;'-tionoftheAbbeyofR: XreiaB^P '"'''' ftnuly from being exposed t. ,, P'^;*"''-''^"'- Percival's sanguinary .truggk- bes dl V J'"'' "'^'"^ ''^«'» ^is «mong the pea a!.;/ rtV'"':^ ---'-favorite nothing to fearfromthm DeT' r'"'- *'^^' "^^ '-<' "« <«smay,tl.attheinsu™eronr"' "'''="'''*''^''-* repre«sed-the leaders tie! ;r"'""''^"^"'>-« THE ADDEY OP RATOMORE. 47 of an aggrieved people, whoso condition would not bo ameliorated by the step they had taken — and satisfaction that the Protestants of Ireland wero thus delivered from their fears of Papal supremacy. Captain Le Vavasseur and Desmond experienced unmingled sorrow and vexation. It was only what they had expected, yet the certainty of de- feat filled them with overwhelming regret. Yet Desmond did not despair ; youth seldom does ; and a dim hope that the French would yet ari-iveand rescue Ireland from English thraldom, lingered in the recesses of his heart, causing him to watch for their appearance with the greatest solicitude. From the highest peak of the clifls ho would scan the waters of the Atlantic ; examining through a telescope every ves- sel that skimmed its broad expanse. At length the appear- ance of some frigates, whose motions seemed rather sus- picious, filled his mind with sudden hope and joy. With the telescope in his hand he rushed into the Abbot's cham- ber, where Captain Lc Vavasseur, his uncle, and Inez were assembled. The French vessels have arrived at last ! he exclaimed, much excited. You can see them from this window. Look Captain Le Vavasseur, and judge for yourself. The officer eagerly took the glass oflered him, and bent his gaze long and scarchingly, on the ships seen about a league from the shore. They certainly are French frigates, although English colors float from the mast-head. I cannot be mistaken — those persons on deck wear the French uniform, observed Captain Le Vavasseur with joyful animation ; the hope of escape from his present insecure position, in a country 48 THE ADDEY OF RATHMORE. Ilii ( where liis life wfis sought after, fiUing liis mind with emo- tions of intense satisfaction. But tlie exprci?sion of liig co'iiitenancc suddenly chanf^ed, as his eye rested on Inez Percival — a look of deep sorrow grew into his face, and ho walked to the window to hide his emotion. Those are French frigates, no doubt of it; their sailing under false colors is to hide their national character, observed Dr. Percival, after he had taken a survey of them through the glass. But what has induced them to steer their courso towards this remote shore. Better chance of success farther north ! In a thickly-peopled part of the country they would find more persons to join their force — more patriot volun- teers to rally round their standard. I might join my countrymen in an hour, if I could pro- cure a boat to put oflf to those vessels, sf id Captain Le Vavasseur; there is scarcely a breeze ruffling the ocean, and they seem to float lazily upon its surface, as if undecided where to effect a landing. There is no difficulty about procuring aboat, said Desmond eagerly. I have a light skiff, and will be glad to accompany you. At this moment, the sudden appearance of Norah at the door of the Abbot's chamber, drew the attention of the party towards her. She looked much alarmed. Och masther dear, the sogers is coming I they'll be down upon us in no time I they're just at the very gate, she ex- claimed in an excited manner. The bell at the portal was now rung loudly. There they are I they're coming for no good; it's the THE AODET OF RATHMORE. 40 Frinch officer they're afther I Holy Biddy, where will wo hide the craythurc ? Norah is right, I fear, observed Dr. Percival in accents of the greatest alarm. Desmond, take Captain Le Vavas- seur through the secret passage, opening on the beach. Beneath the bccthng cliffs you can creep along to the end of the promontory, where your skiff is at present moored. Once upon the waters you will have every chance of escape. I must seek safety for myself on board one of the fri- gates, observed Desmond, hesitatingly. I fear my life would be in danger sliould I dare to return. You are right, my poor boy I your life and mine arc now forfeited to our country, for the part wc have taken in this affair. Farewell! we may never meet on earth again! May God bless and preserve you, if it be His blessed will. Dr. Percival spoke in accents of deepest despondency, and for a moment seemed overwhelmed by ' this sudden calamity. Again an angry ringing of the bell was heard, showing that the military were impatient for admittance. Hastily bidding Desmond and Le Vavasseur adieu, Dr. Percival left the room. A hurried farewell passed between the two young men and Inez, in which the countenances of all expressed the grief that was crushing every emotion of joy and hope within their hearts. A few moments after- wards, young Percival and his companion were quickly de- scending the stone-stairs into the Abbey vaults. On opening the gate, Dr. Percival found himself face to face with a party of regulars, commanded by a non-com- missioned officer. The latter presented a paper. It was an order to arrest a French officer concealed in the Abb«y ; 50 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. information to that effect having been received by the au- thorities. Dr. Percival, who had recovered his self-posses- sion, gave the required permission to search the Abbey, and a part of the men were soon thus engaged. After examining the wing occupied by the family, they proceeded to search the dilapidated part of the building. Whilst they were thus employed a shout from their comrades on the rocks OQtsidfc the Abbey, drew their attention in that direc- tion. A skiff had been observed to put off suddenly from the shore, and a suspicion of the truth instantly flashed upon the minds of the military. He's not alone the d d Frenchman! who is that with him ? asked one of the men. It is young Percival of course.! who else would it be — but they will not escape us yet; we'll knab them both, the traitors. Here boys, you know the reward offered if we take that rascally foreigner alive ; do not fire for your Uves — you might have the ill-luck to kill the fellow — but seize the first boat you find on the shore, and be after them in double quick time. I will remain here with a few men to guard the place, while the doctor gets ready to start with us for B ; his life will pay the penalty any way, for these treasonable proceedings. These words of the non-commissioned officer fell on the ears of Inez and Dr. Percival as the death-knell of every hope ; but for the moment their own sorrow was forgotten in the eagerness with which they watched the escape of Desmond and his friend. A boat, manned by the soldiers, soon pat off in quick pursuit. It was a time of intense anxiety to the two brave I THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. 51 "1 hearts in the skiff, as well as to those watching them from the Abbey. They were considerably in advance of their pursuers before the latter left the beach, but rapidly the distance between them diminished as the sturdy arms of the soldier c quickly propelled their boat over the calm water. They were fast gaining on them, and escape seemed hopeless, when suddenly, Captain Le Vavasseur raising an oar, tied his handkerchief to one end and hoisted it aloft, as a signal of distress. It drew the attention of some per- sons on board one of the frigates. Through his telescope Dr. Percival could perceive an unusual excitement on deck ; a pinnace was immediately lowered and manned, the next moment it put off in the direction of Desmond's skiff. Thank Heaven ! they will yet be saved I said Inez, as with trembHng emotion she kept her gaze fixed on the two beings for whose safety she felt so deeply interested. The British soldiers, deceived by the colors floating from the mast-head, went fearlessly on, having no suspicions of the danger they were incurring. They were within a short distance of the skiff — making sure of their prisoners — ^when the true character of the pinnace bearing rapidly down upon them, suddenly making itself known, caused their hearts to beat with surprise and fear. By St. George we are lost ! exclaimed one of the men. Those fellows are not British tars ! the English colors have deceived us ; the French force has indeed come, but it'e too late in the day ; they had better return home again ; they won't get Ireland this time. Begorra, I think it's the best thing ourselves can do to return home again I exclaimed an Irish soldier — suddenly resting on his oars ; them Parlez-vous will make as prison- 62 THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. ers of war in less than no time. See I how beautifully they come towards us ; it's the best of our play to turn and run for it. Here boys I a long pull, and a sthrong pull, and a pull alltogether, and by St. Patrick we'll bate them yet But the boast was a vain one I Rapidly the British sol- diers rowed o'er the tranquil ocean, which seemed like a giant slumbering in its might ; but the French pinnace was too near to allow them to escape. Soon it came along side, and overpowered by numbers, they were made prisoners. Desmond and Captain Le Vavasseur were received with much courtesy by the French officers; and now, feeling they were safe, at least for the present, Dr. Percival turned his attention to his own unhappy situation. I must prepare for my removal to I? ; you can remain here with the servants in comparative security, dearest Inez, he said sorrowfully. But, why yield yourself a prisoner? she urged; you can hide yourself in the intermural passage, there it will be im- possible to discover you. Imprisonment, if not death, awaits you, if you proceed to B , she added, shuddering with •motion. I cannot bear to expose you to the rude insults of the soldiers, he replied. Consider your unprotected state with- out my presence, and their anger would be roused by my disappearance. They would also remain round the Abbey to prevent my escape. Then I will share your concealment! Let us hasten, dearest papa, do not hesitate 1 remember your precious life is in danger. It seems like acknowledging my guilt, thus to hide from THE A6BET OF RATHMORE. 63 justice, he remarked sadly. And yet I am guilty of having harbored an enemy to my Sovereign. Though perfectly loyal myself, yet, my having done so includes me in the punishment due to a traitor. There is no hope of justifying myself, after what has occurred this morning, therefore, I will take your advice ; it is the only chance left me of es- caping a violent death. Alas ! how many of my ill-fated countrymen have suffered during these perilous times ; some innocently — victims to suspicion. When will the darkness produced by an iUiberal government on the one side, and a rebellious people on the other, pass from Green Erin ? when will the day-star of peace arise on my unhappy country ? Hastily Inez removed a supply of food, and a few con- veniences, into the intermural passage. She and Dr. Percival then shut themselves in, and with mingled hope and fear, awaited the issue of events. The excitement of the pursuit had drawn away all the soldiers from the Abbey, to the extremity of the promon- tory. Their rage and disappointment knew no bounds' when they perceived the unexpected turn the affair had taken, and that their comrades were secured and taken on board the French vessels ; for such they judged them to be. With eager haste they prepared to return to B , to con- vey thither the first news of the arrival of the French. Dr. Percival was summoned to accompany them, but to their dismay he was no where to be found. Norah and Dermot looked as much amazed as the soldiers themselves, at the disappearance of their master and Inez. Leaving six men to guard the Abbey, the non-commissioned officer returned with the rest of his party to B- , there to communicate 'ill fi 54 THE ABBEY OP RATHMORE. the failure of his enterprise, and the fate that had befallen some of his fellow-soldiers. THE ABBEY OF RATHMOBE. 55 en CHAPTER YIL The landing of the French troops in a small bay near Killala, on the western coast of Ireland, caused a singular excitement in that part of the island, as well as throughout the land. The crushed hopes of the Patriot party revived — their brilliant expectations of effecting their independence seemed about to be realized. The tri-colored standard was unfurled over Green Erin — it floated from the frigates in the bay, and waved over the Bishop's Palace in Killala, The sight was a proud one to many Irish hearts, for as they gazed on the rich-colored folds, fluttering in the breeze, they trusted that it would never again be furled until the eman- cipation of their beloved country was accompHshed. At the coming of the French, the bugle of revolt was again sounded throughout the island, and once more the two con- tending parties prepared for another sanguinary contest. Owing to the recommendation of Captain Le Vavasseur, Desmond Percival was presented with an ensigncy in the "Legion" — as those Patriots were called who wore the French uniform. In the fight at Castlebar, Desmond dis- tinguished himself by his daring acts of bravery, and won 56 THE ABBEY OT RATHMORE. " li^l laurels for his youthful brow. The few stirring incidents of this period were invested with peculiar interest in his eyes, for he was fond of military glory, and enthusiastically de- voted to the cause of Irish independence. Since his sudden flight from the Abbey of Rathmore, a gloom hung over his spirit, produced by the agonizing suspense he suffered rela- tive to the fate of Inez and Dr. Percival; and tliis gloom nothing but the excitement of actual combat could for a moment dispel. The recollection that his beloved uncle's life was in danger, on account of an act of kindness and hospitality, shown towards a helpless fellow-creature, filled his mind with indignation against the authorities, and in- creased that bitter animosity he had lately cherished towards the government, whose conduct appeared to him every way selfish, oppressive and unwise. It was this thought which incited him to such acts of reckless daring in the attack on Castlebar, which won for him the admiration of his own countrymen and their gallant allies ; for he felt maddened by the recollection that one so dear to him was the victim of suspicion, and helpless in the hands of arbitrary power. He proudly hoped that the victory at Castlebar — where the Royalists were so shamefully defeated — ^was the harbinger of complete success to the Patriot cause ; but how vain were these hopes ! how visionary were young Percival's expecta- tions ! With their success at Castlebar ended the triumphant career of the Irish Independent Army, and their French allies. Soon came the information, that in other parts of the island the insurrection was crushed. Defeat had fol- lowed the movements of the Patriots — their spirits were broken, their brilliant hopes wrecked. A large royaliat THE ABBEY OF RATHMOBE, 57 force, under the command of Lord Cornwallis, was advanc- ing to meet the French and the insurgents, in the west. A reinforcement of troops was expected from France, but did not arrive ; therefore, the expedition having failed, nothing remained but capitulation of the whole force to the British commander, and this humiUating event finally took place at Boyle. It was the night of this eventful day — a day of vain re- gret, bitter humiliation, and dark foreboding to the support- ers of the Patriot cause in Ireland. A general amnesty had been granted to all under the rank of officers in the insur- gent army, but as Desmond Percival as ensign, had borne the Patriot standard, this pardon did not include him; he was therefore obliged to provide for his safety in flight. He had parted from Captain Le Yavasseur — who, as a prisoner of war, expected to return to France — and now once more attired in his civilian dress, lonely and a prey to fear and anguish, he secretly left the town of Boyle, under cover of night, and, striking into an unfrequented by-road, was soon some distance from its dangerous vicinity. His intention was to proceed to the Abbey of Rathmore. Captain Le Vavasseur, who shared his sorrow and anxiety about the uncertain fate of Dr. and Miss Percival, had bribed a peas- ant to proceed to B , and make inquiries relative to them. From this person they heard of their strange dis- appearance, and that as it was suspected that they were concealed in the Abbey, a military guard had been stationed there to prevent their escape. It was arranged between the French officer and Desmond tliat the latter should proceed to the Abbey, enter by its secret passages, and, if possible, effect the escape of Inez 58 THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. ' I nil 1 1 and his uncle. They were then to embark at the nearest sea port for France, where Captain Le Vavasseur fondly hoped to meet them again. This project was attended with the greatest danger, as it was more than probable Desmond would be taken up on suspicion of being one of the rebels, before he had travelled half way towards the home of his boyhood. Still, he determined to risk his own life in en- deavoring to save those so dear to him, for without their companionship what would life be to him. Through the hours of the night he sped on at a rapid rate, and as the early dawn of a summer morning broke with a stream of amber light, over the eastern horizon, he was several miles from the pleasantly situated town of Boyle. The morning was a glorious one; the air pure and invigo- rating. Some miles distant were seen the picturesque mountains of Sligo, with clouds of soft white mist rolling along their sides, revealing naked masses of granite, with here and there patches of vegetation. Soon the refulgent day-god rose upon the scene, and in its gorgeous light, the luxuriant heath that clothed some of the mountains, glowed with a rich purple hue. Too much absorbed in his own melancholy thoughts to cast more than a passing glance at the wild mountain-scene that on one side bounded his view, Desmond rapidly pursued his journey. Arriving at a place where two roads branched off in opposite directions, he was obliged to stop for a few minutes at a solitary cabin on the way-side, to make some inquiries relative to the road leading to B . He had gained the necessary informa- tion, when, casting his eyes along the way he was to take, he perceived a small party of mounted militia advancing ra- THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. 69 pidly towards him. To proceed and meet them would bo incurring danger, and to seem to avoid them would look suspicious ; he hesitated, not knowing what course to pur- sue. The cabin, at the door of which he was standing, was a shebeen or public house, of the humblest pretensions. After a minute's deliberation he thought it best to enter, under pretence of getting some refreshment, hoping that the soldiers would pass on. The startled expression that passed over his face at the sight of them, did not escape the notice of the woman who kept the shebeen. An instant perception of the dilemma in which he was placed flashed across her naturally acute mind, and all her womanly and patriotic sympathies were awakened in favor of the youth who stood before her, threatened with such imminent danger. Step into the room beyant the shop avich ! you'll be safe there till the sogers is gone by, she whispered. Desmond looked into her face — its kind expression reas- sured him ; the next moment he disappeared, just in time to escape being seen by the mihtia, who rode up to the door. The top of the morning to ye Corporal Blake ! shure it's bright and early ye're on the road ! is there anything new about ' the boys ' to-day ? said the humble landlady, ad- vancing to greet the new-comers. ' The boys ' is dispersin' Hke chaff afore the wind, Mrs. Egan I it's all up with them since yestherday. The Frinch has surrendliered to Lord Cornwallis. Ah thin I is it the thruth ye're tellin' me ? murther alive ! I 60 THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. 1^ 11 I what'U become of the misfortunate cray thurs ? they'll all be hung np like dogs ? By no manes ma'am I although that's what they deserve the rebels ; shure it's too marciful Lord Cornwallis is in- tirely ; they will all be pardoned if they give themselves up before six days — all barrin' the officers; but they'll swing for it, and serve them right the black-hearted thrait- ors! weren't they more knowledgeable than the poor ig- norant people they deludered ? and what else had they to expect when they fought agin the flag of their counthry. There is a power of them escapin', continued the corporal, and it's to pick them up we're scouring the counthry this blessed morning. Have you a dacent bit to give a man to ate, Mrs. Egan ; we'll stop and take breakfast with you any how ; and be quick and don't keep us waiting ma'am jewel, for we're in a mortal hurry ; we must be in Boyle before ten o'clock. Thin it's farther ye'U have to thravel afore ye brake your fast, corporal dear, observed the hostess, with some embar- rassment and hesitation. Sorra bit nor sup fit to put before the Ukes of you in my house this present moment, barrin' an egg or a noggin of milk, and that you wouldn't demane yourself by takin', when it's the best of ating and dhrinkin' the King's throops can command these times, and why not? Shure if they didn't keep the pace, the whole land would be burnt up and the quiet people murdhered intirely. Well, I suppose it's that genteel young man who we saw at the door afore we came up, that had the start of us, and ate all the provisions in your house this morning — not laving a single rasher for His Majesty's loyal yeomen, observed the THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. 61 3y'll all deserve is is in- mselves they'll I thrait- poor ig- they to •unthry. orporal, hry this man to ^ou any a jewel, fore ten ce your embar- i before barrin' lemane rinkin' lynot? would I ve saw lis, and laving 'edthe non-commissioned officer in a jeering manner, and slyly winking at his comrades. Sorra bit nor sup crassed his lips thin I shure he was in too big a hurry to stop a minnit ; he just axed for the road to Boyle, and I showed him a short cut down the boreen, and acrass the fields. Now Mrs. Egan ma'am, I always took you for a loyal woman, and would never suspect you of harborin' a thrai- tor to your King and counthry, as ye are doing at this present minnit^ Didn't I see that same youngsther enter this shebeen with my own two eyes, and by yero lave I'll prove they didn't decave me. Search the cabin, some of ye boys, and let the rest surround the premises and see that no one escapes. At this moment the noble form of young Percival issued from the room, where he had been a deeply interested hs- tener to the foregoing conversation. If it is on my account you are going to search this good woman's house, you may spare yourself the trouble, he re- marked haughtily. I am here to answer for myself. As a traveller I entered this public-house to ask for refreshment, and I now demand what cause for suspicion there is in my so doing ? Not much in that same to be sure ; but, you must allow, young man, that it's rather quare for a gentleman hke you to be thravellin' the counthry on foot. The thrubbles of the present time makes us mighty suspicious, and it's our or- dhers to arrest every one we meet who can't give a good account of himself, and bring him before the nearest magis- thrate. Now, young Sir, you'll plase to let us escort you to f"*" . I i- > G2 TUB ABBEY OF RATHMORE. Lord Anncslcy's; his place isn't far off. Shure if you can make it plain to him that you aren't one of thegi, it will bo all right afore long, and no harm done. Desmond quietly acquiesced ; there was no escaping his fate ; and giving a look of grateful acknowledgment towards his humble friend, the kind hostess, ho silently left the shebeen. Crowning a verdant slope, embosomed in a grove of an- cient and majestic trees, Anneslcy Lodge was seen a few miles distant ; its antique chimneys and time-stained walls peeping tlirough the dark green foliage. An avenue lined with lofty elms and beech, whose spread- ing branches o'er-arehed the smooth gravel walk beneath, led to the front entrance. On one side of the mansion was a terrace-parterre, filled with many choice flowers, whose rich fragrance floated on the pure morning air. Seated in a tiny, octagon temple, its slender pillars in front entwined with rich creeping plants, whose crimson, golden or purple corollas contrasted strikingly with the luxuriant foliage, a lady of majestic appearance was seen. She was past the bloom of youth, but still very beautiful; and the expression of chastened sorrow that dwelt in her soft blue eyes, made her peculiarly interesting. As the soldiers, with their ele- gant-looking prisoner advanced up the avenue, she rose hastily, and advancing towards that part of the terrace over- looking the approach, leaned gracefully on the balustrade that surrounded it, and regarded them with apparent inter- est Desmond's gaze rested on the beautiful being; liig attention was drawn irresistibly towards her. Lifting his hat, he bowed with graceful courtesy as he was passing. A TOE ADBET OF RATIUIORE. 63 faint cry broke from the lips of the lady, and with a falter- ing voice she asked his name. Desmond Percival, he answered hesitatingly. I knew it! I knew it I she wildly repeated ; the hue of death spreading over her chiselled features, and she pressed her clasped hands tightly over her heart, as if to stop its wild throbbings ; then turning hastily away to liide her violent emotion, with trembling steps she entered the house. A few minutes afterwards a servant appeared to say, tliat Lord Annesley was not at home, and that it was Lady An- nesley's orders the young man should await his return^the troopers might depart. They immediately acquiesced, al- though suspecting they had seen the last of their prisoner, yet the interest Lady Annesley evidently took in liim, for- bade their further interference. They rode hastily down the avenue, and Desmond was conducted to a handsome apartment, where we shall now leave him, and return to the ^bbey of Rathmore. V*!^-. 64 THE ABBEY OP RATHMORH. M I CHAPTER Vin. i! I' I I Some days passed away, and still Dr. Percival and Inez saw no prospect of escaping from their irksome confinement. Owing to the length of the passage in which they were concealed, and the number of chinks in the wainscot, which freely admitted the air, they did not suffer much in this particular ; and as long as the provisions, which the fore- thought of Inez had provided, lasted, they were dehvered from their fears of immediate suffering. Still the torturing suspense they suffered on Desmond's account, as well as their own, preyed upon their health and spirits. Their con- dition became every day more gloomy. Dr. Percival's patience became completely exhausted ; he chafed like a caged lion, within the narrow precincts of what was to him a prison, and talked of giving himself up to the authorities and enduring the worst that could befal him — anything would be preferable to such a life of suspense and confine- ment. Inez, woman-like, had more endurance. With patient fortitude she bore the evils of their lot, and tried to soothe the doctor's irritabihty, and raise his drooping spirits by talking of some unexpected deliverance that was sure to ! I •THE ABBET OF RATHHORE. come. Perhaps the Patriots, aided by their powerful French allies, would be successful, and soon it might be, Desmond or Captain Le Vavasseur would return to the Abbey and deliver them from their unpleasant situation. Dr. Percival shook his head mournfully, at this suggestion. The rebel army will never conquer, my poor Inez ! they and the gallant French must eventually submit to the more powerful Royalist force. Captain Le Vavasseur may escape as a prisoner of war, but your rash and ardent-minded cousin will suffer a dishonorable death; and overcome by the gloomy picture his imagination painted, he dropped his head between his hands and groaned in anguish of spirit. A few more daj s passed mournfully away ; the military Btill kept watch round the Abbey, rendering the escape of their prisoners impossible, unless some one were able or wilHng to assist them. Almost their last portion of food, of which they had partaken but sparingly, was gone, and if another supply could not be procured, a longer continuance in their concealment must not be thought of This fact Ine» kept from the knowledge of Dr. Percival, but she had formed a plan to replenish her store, which she hoped would suc- ceed, although considerable risk would be incurred in put- ting it into execution. It was the "witching hour of night," — Dr. Percival stretched upon the pallet which Inez had thoughtfully provided for him, slept soundly, losing in the sweet oblivion of sleep — which is one of God's greatest bles- eings to the afflicted — the recollection of every woe. Noise- lessly sliding aside the secret panel, Inez passed through the Abbot's chamber into the corridor. All seemed quiet within Ihe Abbey. From the corridoi a door led into the habitable e 66 THE ABBET OF RATHMORI. liin •HI wing of the edifice. It was not fastened, and Inez, passing through, entered, unobserved, her own apartment. There ahe dressed herself in white, enshrouding her head and part of her face in a long white veil. Thus attired she hoped to pass for an apparition, if she should be seen by any of the soldiers. With a throbbing heart she descended the stairs leading to the hall below, and approached a door opening into the kitchen. It was partly ajar, and a light gleaming through the opening made her apprehensive that it was oc- cupied. Through a chink in the door, she perceived three soldiers sitting at a table, on which was placed the plentiful remains of a supper. A bottle of whisky now engaged their attention, and from their excited manner it was evi- dent that they had partaken of its contents rather freely. Bedad that's capital stuff I it's the rale poteen and no mistake — observed one of the men pushing back his chair from the table — but I'll dhrink no more of it to-night, be- kase if I do, I'll not be able to mount guard. And what's the use of mounting guard at all ? remarked another. Shure it's only keeping watch over the bats and owls we are in this ould place, for if the docthor and young lady is in it they're starved long ago. We're only losing our time here boys I Yes, remarked the first speaker, and to think of the fun there is going on in other parts of the coun- thry I Tim Daly was here to-day from B , and he says a battle was fought at Castlebar, and that the Koyalists was beaten, more shame for them to let a disordherly mob, and a parcel of furriners get the betther of them I But the day is coming when the Frinch and the rebels will get what TBI ABBET OF RATHUOBl. 67 the oun- saya was , and day what 1^ they don't bargain for. Tim says Lord Cornwallis is march- ing to meet them, and a sthrong party of Orangemen at his back, and them is the boys that will show fight, and let the rascally Frinchmen see that ould Ireland can take care of herself, and doesn't want their intherference. Shure if we want masthers it isn't to France we'll go to look for themt It is time to relieve the guard I observed the other soldier who had not before spoken, and who seemed from his ac- cent to be an Englishman. I dare say our comrades are impatient for their supper and hot glass. As he spoke he moved towards a door at one end of the kitchen, opening into the court-yard. A few minutes after- wards the soldiers had disappeared. Hastily Inez entered the kitchen, and approaching the table, snatched up a large loaf and a piece of cold meat, then hurrriedly retreating, she ascended the stairs, and passing through the corridor, once more entered the Abbot's chamber. Being anxious to procure some water, she again ventured to revisit the kitchen, but as she reached the door, the guard who had been relieved entered it from an opposite direction. Again applying her eye to the crevice, she surveyed the scene, while she listened eagerly to find out whether the provis- ions she had purloined would be missed. Begorra there isn't much left for a hungry man to ate, observed one of the newly-arrived, surveying the supper table with a comical expression of dismay. Half a loaf, a few salt herrings, and not a taste of meat 1 Our comrades made a plentiful supper no doubt I but devil a one of me will put up with their lavings ; I'll rouse that ould woman and make her fry us a dish of rashers off that beautiful THS ABBET OF XUTHlfORB. M ■ I I flitch hanging over the chimney ; and seizing a light he ad- vanced towards the door, at which Inez stood hstening. With the speed of a startled fawn she sprung up the stairt, but had not reached the top when the kitchen door wai flung open — and the soldier strode into the hall. Her whit© figure instantly caught his eye, and uttering a cry of terror, he fled back into the kitchen. What ails you man aUve? what's the matther Burke f asked his companions, eagerly approaching him. A livid hue overspread his face, and he sank into a chair unable to speak. Begorra he is going off in a dead faint! it's a sperrit he saw I'll be bound ! I knew there -was plenty of ghosts in this ould place. Stir yourself man ! take a dhrop of tb« crathur, it'll put the life into ye again I It is best to sprinkle him with cowld water, observed an- other soldier, and suiting the action to the words he flung a pitcher of the pure element into Burke's face. It had the effect of bringing him back to consciousneea, and also of rousing his anger. Devil take you Pat Murphy I what did you do that fort he gasped, his teeth chattering with fear. You nearly dhrowned me I Shure it's the best thing to bring you to man I but tell us Burke, what was it you saw ? what did it look hke ? Oh shut the door for Heaven's sake, he replied, shudder- ing, I cannot bear to look into the dark ! Nor I nather 1 Hennessey, I often heard you boast yoti feared nather ghost nor goblin ! Show your courage now man, and shut that door leading into the hall I V' > THK ABBET OP RATHlfORI. Hennessey hesitated, his companion's awo of the super- natural had communicated itself to him. It's the best of our play to lave the place altogether, he observed. Bedad your right, the ghosts doesn't like to be med- dled with I and the fright I got has spiled my appetite for this night I observed Burke. Let us join our comrades on the cliffs. Faix I'll bring the whisky with me any way I rejoined Hennessey, it'll keep the life in us, and dhrive the fear out ! Carefully avoiding another glar.ce into the gloomy hail', where they fancied the spectral visitant was to be seen, the soldiers hastily left the kitchen — so true is it that in some minds the fear of the supernatural is all-powerful — and these brave noldiers who would have boldly faced death at the cannor s mouth, yet fled from a phantom conjured up by their own superstitious fancies — fear preventing their sus- pecting the fact, that the white form Burke had seen might be Miss Percival. As soon as the kitchen was again unoccupied, Inez, who had overheard the soldiers' conversation, re-entered it, and took this opportunity to get an earthen jar of water, some more bread, and a bottle of wine. To procure the latter the had to enter the store-room on the other side of the haH, adjoining which was Norah's chamber. A slight noise which ihe made attracted the old woman's attention. She arose hastily and stood at the door of her room. The white figure of Inez issuing from the store-room and advancing towards her, sent a thrill of terror to her heart, but the well known voice of her young mistress soon re-aasured her. i t 7d THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. Holy Biddy I is it you that's in it, Miss Inez? I took you for a rale ghost — you're the very picthure of one ! And where did you come from asthore ? and where'sthe masther himself ? the very heart within me is dissolate and broke intirely, since you ran away. We are still in the Abbey, Norah, but in a place of con- cealment. I frightened the soldiers to-night — they all left the kitchen, and that enables me to come here for some provisions. And as luck would have it, there's plenty of bread I baked this morning, and here's a nice piece of boiled ham avour- neen; shure it's starved ye are ! and ye're right to take tho dhrop of dhrink to the masther, bekase he's always used to it! But when will I see you again my darlint, and what can I do to help you ? Nothing at present, Norah ; if the soldiers would only leave the Abbey we might escape. They will be anxious to depart after this night's fright, Inez added laughing. And lave it to me to tell them all kinds of ghost stories about this anshient place, remarked Norah. Troth meself wouldn't stop at the biggest lie ever was towld, if it would only frecken them away. I must leave you now Norah ; be cautious and do not let the soldiers suspect you know anything of our retreat. Is it me to let on ? shure I have more sense than that Miss Inez I but whist asthore ! by all the saints the sogers is coming back. I hear their thramp in the coort-yard. Run for your life achorra machree f ..4 Inez did run, and panting from exertion, gained the top of the stairs as the voices of the scMif'i's were again heard in the kitchen. TBI ABBET OF BATHMORT. 71 What a devil of a fuss about a ghost, that is no ghost at all ! exclaimed the Englishman before mentioned ; and who seemed to have some control over the others. I'll soon see if this ghost isn't flesh and blood like ourselves ! Inez waited to hear no more, but hurriedly retreated to the secret passage. She was scarcely safe within its walls when the heavy tread of men was heard in the corridor, and lights flashed through the crevices in the wainscot. What a fool you were Burke, not to follow the figure ! resumed the same speaker. It was Miss Percival herself, acting the ghost for some purpose of her own. Now, if you had caught her the old gentleman himself would soon be in our power, and our weary watch in this confounded old building would be ended. Begorra I wish it was yourself that saw it, muttered Burke, who followed the party with trembhng steps and a face pale from fear. Maybe you wouldn't spake so bowld my gentleman ; the sight of it would freeze the blood in your veins, brave as you are, Corporal Vincent. Bedad you would take to your heels fast enough ! it would then be, devil take the hindmost. After a fruitless search through the ruins, the soldiers re- turned once more to the kitchen, relieving the anxious Inez from her fears for the present. The next morning she re- lated to Dr. Percival her night adventure. The first smile she had seen on his face for some days, broke slowly over it as he listened to the recital, which gained much from her humorous description, for she tried to amuse him and divert the sad current of his thoughts. Your prudence, courage, and forethought^ are above all "■rrr*"-— •*"*"■'*• n TBI ABBBT OF RATHMOIUL praise, my dearest Inez, be said, fondly kissing her. I look upon you as my guardian angel. With the provisions you have managed to procure, our garrison can hold out for some time ; the legal authorities must at last get tired of this fruitless watch over us ; the soldiers will be withdrawn, and in that case a chance of escape will be left us. Let us put our trust in a Higher Power, whose providential care we have hitherto experienced, and hope for the best — if Desmond were but with us all would yet be well ...,•' i m ABDIT or RATHMORI. CHAPTER IX. Seated alone, in a richly-furniahed apartment in Anneslcy Lodge, Degmond Percival passed nearly an hour, thinking less of his own unhappy situation than of the singular in- terest the beautiful Lady Annesley had shewn in his behalf. A light step approaching the door, at length fell on his ear ; he looked up with eager expectation. A hand was on tho lock, but the person seemed to hesitate for a few momenta, then the door opened and Lady Annesley, pale and agitated, entered the room. Desmond arose, and awaited her ad- dressing him, in respectful silence. You are the son of a very dear friend of mine, she said in low trembling accents, sinking into a chair, apparently un- able to support herself. Feeling the deepest interest in your welfare, I have come to make some inquiries relative to th* cause of your being in the position in which I saw you thia morning. Speak without restraint — confide in me — I will be your friend. ^ Desmond's confidence was won by her look and manner, and he related to her the events which had involved him ia Ihe unfortunate cause of Irish independence. ^^ i \ ll'l 74 THB ABBET OF RATHMORB. Am I then to understand that you would have taken no part in this unsuccessful rebellion were it not for the pecu- liar situation in which you were placed, by affording protec- tion to the French officer ? asked Lady Annesley, earnestly regarding him. I should not I although my heart is devoted to the cause, ho rephed, a flush of patriotic ardor lighting up his fine fea- tures; but my uncle, Dr. Percival, to whom I owe so much, strongly opposed my wishes, and I would not act contrary to his will. There was an expression of infinite tenderness in Lady Annesley's gaze, as it rested on the glowing countenance of the young man, while he spoke with earnest truthfulness. Dr. Percival was right ! she observed, gently ; his mature judgment made him see the hopelessness of such a project as the Patriots meditated: when you are older you will think difierently on this point. Still this step, although educed by circumstances, places you in a dangerous position ; yet I hope to efibct your escape from the peril that threat- ens you. You must leave this place before the return of Lord Annesley — he would show you no mercy, for he is bitterly opposed to the movers of this sedition ; and, she added, hesitatingly, he must not know the deep interest I take in your fate. ^ Lady Annesley's eyes fell beneath the look of surprise and inquiry which Desmond raised to her face. I have already told you, she resumed, after a minute's pause, that you are the son of one very dear to me — ^would, she added with sudden emotion, that I could reveal to you more, that I could tell you why I feel such overpowering ; THE ABBEY OT RATHMORC 75 IS I Bolicitude for your safety. She covered her face with her email white hands, and her frame shook with extreme agitation. Have yon ever heard Dr. Percival speak of your parents? she asked, after a short silence. Of my father, Captain Percival, ho spoke frequently, with fond affection, but of my mother — never I Once, when I made some inquiries concerning her, he replied abruptly, that he had never seen her, he knew nothing at all about her, and from his manner the painful idea occurred to me that there was some mystery connected with her, perhaps some stain resting on my birth, and this humiliating thought has often haunted me, causing me many pangs of shame and grief. Your suspicion is entirely unfounded I oh why, even for a moment, harbor such a thought ? asked Lady Annesley ; an expression of deep pain breaking over her agitated face. You were acquainted with my mother I oh tell me what you know about her ! said Desmond, his face lighting up with sudden hope. Again Lady Annesley gazed on him with passionate ten- derness ; again she dropped her face within her hands, and wept with uncontrollable emotion. Merciful Heavens, I cannot bear this I she said, as if speaking unconsciously, the yearnings of my heart will not be subdued — to see him and not reveal myself I a mother's heart cannot endure this self-denial! She rose and paced the room with wild excitement ; at - length stopping, with sudden resolution she said — the light T6 THB ABBST OF RiTIUfORB. 1 of maternal love flashing over her pallid face — Desmondi behold your mother ! An exclamation of mingled surprise and joy, burst from the lips of the young man ; he sprang towards her in time to receive her fainting form in his arms. lie bore her to- wards an open window — the cool air funned her marble brow — but it was some minutes before the rich blood again colored her pale lips. A smile of joy stole brightly over her face, as with returning consciousness she encountered Desmond's gaze bent fondly on her. Mother ! my mother I can it be possible ? he murmured in agitated accents, as he tenderly supported her trembling form. Yea, Desmond ! your unhappy mother, she said sighing deeply, as she rested her head on his shoulder — unhappy I have ever been, since I last saw your cherub face, as you were torn from my arms shortly after your birth. Tl le agony of that moment was a death pang 1 would that it had in- deed rent the spring of my existence I what a life of sorrow I should have escaped — was not the holiest love of my heart — a mother's love — crushed at its birth I was not my life filled with agonizing yearings for the child I had lost! Sit down beside me Desmond, and I will explain to you the ■tern necessity which obliged me to give up all earthly hap- piness in resigning you. When I was yet in the first bloom and romance of girlhood, I became acquainted with Captain Percival, then stationed with his regiment at a small town in the interior of Ireland. I was residing with my widowed father, on a fine estate in the neighborhood. My father, Sir Philip Vaughan, was like many Irish gentleman, gay, hos- pitable, fond of hunting and gaming, and too much addicted u I m* Tni AODET or RATnuORB. 77 ^0 pleasure. Owing chiefly to his gambhng habiU, his for- tune became impaired, and his estate encumbered. One of our neighbors, and a frequent visitor at Castle Vaughan, wai Lord Annesley; an elderly nobleman of princely fortune. It was to his Lordship that my father was indebted for th« large sums he spent nightly at the billiard-table, and which I afterwards understood were lent him, on condition that I should become Lady Annesley. Among our occasional guests were the officers from A ; your father being one of the number. Of noble form, handsome and intellectual, he attracted my admiration, and the passionate attachment he professed for me was warmly returned on my part; but we both knew full well that my father would never consent to our union, as Captain Percival had nothing but his pro- fession to depend on for support. I have said Sir Philip Vaughan was a widower ; a maiden sister — a heartless wo- man — ruled his househ(jld. Like her brother, she possessed great family pride, and was like him, fond of gaiety and diB- flipation. Between her and me there was little companion- ship, and still less sympathy. A foster sister — my own maid — was the only person who possessed my confidence ; we had been brought up together, and I regarded her as an humble friend. With her assistance I contrived to meet your father frequently in a retired part of the beautiful grounds around Castle Vaughan ; for my aunt, as soon at she suspected his devotion to me, seldom invited him to the house. Young and inexperienced — having no mother's hand to guide me along the dangerous life-paths — I yielded to my fears of being finally separated from him who wai inexpressibly dear to me, and consented to a private unioB. i! i| r I ^'1 i , !i! i i in 79 m ABBEY or RATHMORI. The ceremony was performed by a Roman Catholic priest — 5 stranger in the country, who was on his way to Dublin, intending to embark for France ; some political trouble ob- liging him to become an exile from his native land. Both the priest and Desmond Percival were secretly introduced into Castle Vaughan at midnight, during the temporary ab- sence of Sir Philip and Miss Vaughan. Two months after our secret union, your father's regiment was ordered to In- dia. He had a relative in that country occupying a high position in the government, and through his influence he hoped to procure some lucrative official situation which would enable him to maintain his wife in the rank to wliich ehe had been accustomed. Such were the glittering hopes that filled his mind, when he bade me farewell, cheering the agony of separation. He requested me to hide our mar- riage until I heard from him ; ere long he trusted to return and proudly claim me as his wife. These bright visions of future happiness were never realized. The transport in which the regiment embarked, was lost at sea, and nearly every soul perished — your father sank to an early grave. Lady Annesly paused, and overcome with the anguish of the recollection, she wept violently. With words of tender endearment, Desmond tried to soothe her grief, while tears of sympathy filled his own blue eyes for the untimely death of one so dear to both. The misery that overwhelmed me at the news of this affliction, I will not attempt to describe, resumed Lady Annesley, as soon as she could control her agitation. In the agony of my bereavement I revealed my marriage to my aunt. She coldly looked upon my anguish, doubted my THE ABBBT OF RATHMORE. 79 recital, and called upon me to prove my marriage — ^baselj insinuating that no ceremony had ever taken place ; for would Captain Percival, she tauntingly asked, have left Ireland without me, if he were really my husband. Where was the priest who had united us ? what was his name ? I could not answer either of these questions. I had never even asked, for I trusted implicitly to the honor of your father. In his possession alone wero the pi oofs of our marriage, and with him they were now engulphed in the fathomless deep. My situation was deplorable, for I had the prospect of be- coming a mother. My cruel aunt, imposing on the innocent credulity of girlhood, represented to me that unless I con- cealed my situation I would be disgraced in the eyes of the world ; she also promised to hide everything from my father — whose anger I dreaded — if I assented to her proposal. As I really had no means of proving my marriage, and dreaded more than death any stain on my reputation, I complied with my aunt's wishes. When the time of my confinement was approaching, I accompanied her to a re- mote bathing lodge of my father's, situated on the sea shore of the county S ; under pretence that I needed change of air. There, Desmond, you opened your eyes on this earthly scene — there too I became a mother, but childless I The agony of parting from you brought on a fever, and for tome time I was delirious. When I recovered, my aunt told me that my child had been placed under the care of my husband's brother, Dr. Percival, who lived some miles dis- tant ; and that she had directed him to call his name Des- mond ; thus giving him a clue to suspect whose child he was, while the strong resemblance his tiny features bore to Captain 80 THE ABBET OF RATHMORK. ■I h I i I'l [ ■>.'■' Percival would be sufficient to confirm such a suspicion. During your childhood, my maid Katharine frequently visited the neighborhood of the Abbey of Rathmore, to bring me all the information relative to my lost treasure, that I BO earnestly desired. From her I heard you were brought up as Dr. Percival's nephew, and fondly regarded by him as Buch. To hear that you were well and happy was the only solace of my existence ; the only thing capable of pene- trating the cloud that had settled over my spirit. After the lapse of nearly twenty years, when this morning my eye first rested on you, imagination carried me back during that interval, and I thought I again saw before me the loved form of Desmond Percival. Your Hkeness to your father is most Btriking; you have the same bright blue eyes, the same clustering auburn hair — even his very features and noblo form. My heart told me you were my son — it was drawn towards you with magnetic force. For eighteen years I have been the wife of Lord Annesley. To relieve my father of great pecuniary embarrassment — I might say total ruin — I yielded to his earnest solicitation, and gave my hand to his Lordship ; but I had no heart to bestow. I knew no second attachment. The disparity in age between Lord Annesley and myself, and our want of congeniahty, pre- vented our union being a happy one. How often in the loneliness of my childless married life, has the remembranc© of you rolled in upon my heart — filling its very depths with vain regrets and passionate yearnings. And now whenw© have at last met, it is only to part again ! Father in Heaven ! roust I endure this separation? why may I not yield to the strong impulsive love which urges me to fly with my son, ^ share his danger and his exile ? i'^^ THl ABBBT OP RATHMORB. 81 Ipre- tho mcd ith ren! tho Jon. There was an appealing wildness in h?)r voice, which thrilled to the heart of Desmond. Do not think of it dearest mother, he said, in accents of soothing tenderness, deeply touched by her unselfish love for him. Kemember you have other ties, other duties to perform. You are right I she rejoined mournfully ; this wild con- flict within my heart must be subdued ; I must not snatch happiness by wandering from the path of duty — the duty I owe my husband. I should have mentioned — she resumed — after a short silence — that during the last ten years I tra- velled in Europe, Egypt and Palestine, seeldng in change of scene, forgetfulness of the past, if not happiness ; but during that time I heard of you regularly through my aunt. I have only lately returned to Ireland. Since my arrival at Annesley Lodge my intense wish to see you made me de- termine to visit the Abbey of Eathmore, with the intention of confiding to Dr. Percival the secret of my union with his brother ; but this the late insurrectionary movement prevented. How unexpectedly has the desire of seeing you been gratified I We will now talk of your plans for the future, and of the best way to accomphsh the escape of your uncle and Miss Percival from the Abbey; they are still, I hope, safely concealed within its walls. To-night, as soon as it is dark, ynu must leave this place. An old servant of my father's, who has hved with mo since my marriage, will await you with two horses at the end of the avenue. Well mounted and attended by a g;'oom in Lord Annesley's livery, you will pass unmolested through any part of the country. This man will remain with you until he sees you i i E;;. 82 THE ABBEY OF RATHMORB. safe on board some vessel bound to a foreign port. On arriving at the Abbey of Rathmore you will yourself know best what plan to pursue for the liberation of your relativea. I will supply you with money necessary for every arrange- ment. You must not hesitate to accept it, she added, with a sad smile ; my own fortune was settled on myself, and henceforth the best part of it shall be yours, as it is your right. It has always been my intention, as soon as you were of age, to provide liberally although secretly for you. When you arrive on the continent let me know where you will reside, and at some future time I will visit you in your new home. The prospect of that happiness will help me to bear this present separation, and will be, in the meantime, a well-spring of hope within me. The remaining hours of the day were spent by Lady Annesley and her son in deeply-interesting conversation. The deepening shadows of twilight at length announced that the hour of Desmond's departure drew near. Tho parting was one of intense bitterness to both mother and son. IIow cruel seemed the necessity for their separation I Would they ever meet again ? The whisperings of hopo were faint within their hearts, for a dense cloud of uncer- tftinty hung loweringly over the future. THI ABBIT or RATHMORI. 83 CHAPTER X The crescent moon was lifting its luminous bow above the ancient trees of Annesley Lodge, and gleaming through their waving foliage, as Desmond Percival — his heart op- pressed with the grief of parting from the lovely being who had taught him to call her mother — walked hastily down the avenue, ncr the end of which he was met by O'Brien, Lady Annesley's groom; then mounting the spirited animal provided for him, he hastily resumed his journey. Travelling at a rapid rate, without molestation — although he met more than one party of soldiers — in a few hours he ar- rived within half a mile of the Abbey of Rathmore. Leaving O'Brien with the horses beneath the shelter of a solitary ruined cabin near the beach, Desmond approached the Abbey alone, and on foot. To enter the vaults by the outlet on the beach would have been attended with much hazard, as the soldiers generally kept watch on the cliffs above ; but fortunately Desmond knew of the entrance near the old fort, through which the United Irishmen had c»- caped from the military, as related in a former chapter. O'Brien had provided a dark lantern, and guided by its , I Os THE ABBEY OF BATHMOBB. friendly light, Desmond hurriedly traversed the subterranean passages. On gaining the top of the 3tone stairs, he cau- tiously pushed aside the sHding stone and paused to listen. No sound was heard; a solemn silence reigned around. Stepping within the ivy-mantled arch-way, he surveyed the ruined hall ; it was lonely, as usual. Desmond had taken the precaution to darken the lantern, but the bright star* light rendered surrounding objects indistinctly visible. Happening to glance towards the corridor above, a tall white figure, or rather the dim outline of what appeared such, caught his eye. A superstitious fear stole over him, for he remembered the many ghost stories Avith which Norah had amused his childhood, but he soon masterc'.l this foolish feeling, and imagining that the supposed apparition might be Inez, he ascended the stairs with the intention of joining her. The creaking noise it made beneath his tread seemed to startle the figure, and it fled towards the door of the Abbot's chamber. Desmond now felt convinced his suppo- sition was right, and following the retreating form entered the room just as its white drapery vanished through the secret door of the intermural passage. Shding aside the panel, Desmond followed. Inez, overcome with terror, thinking she was pursued by one of the soldiers, had sunk almost fainting on the floor. The voice of Desmond soon removed her fears and filled her with sudden joy. Dr. Percival was now aroused from sleep to share the happiness of that meeting, and so unlooked-for was Desmond's ap- pearance among tl em that he could scarcely be convinced that he was not Luder the influence of a happy dream. With eager curiositv and astonishment, the doctor Hstened THE JLBBST OF RATIIMORS. 85 sunk •earn. ened to Desmond's account of the interview with his mother. That she was of such higli rank had never occurred to him, and a feeling of proud gratification filled his heart, that no stain rested on the birth of his nephew. "We will find out this same priest Desmond ! he said, with joyful excitement. Yes I I will go to France chiefly lor that purpose! The proofs of your father's marriage must be obtained, and then you can claim this high-born beautiful lady as your mother in the eyes of all Christendom! Poor lad} ! poor thing ! ho added in a tone of intense pit v — to be obliged to give up her noble son to save her reputation ! By Jove I will find out that same old priest yet, if he be in the land of the living ! Hush dear papa ! said Inez, smiling ; do not speak so loud ! remember that the soldiers are on the cliffs outside. But it was some minutes before the excitement of Dr. Percival could be subdued. At length he was led to speak of his own Bituation, and to consider which would be the best plan to effect their escape. We must leave the country by water, he remarked thoughtfully ; our doing so will be attended with less dan- ger of discovery. About a mile from the Abbey lives a fisherman named Magee, he has a large sail boat which could convey us all to Shgo ; there we would find a vessel bound for some port on the European continent. You must 8ee Magee, Desmond, he has always professed much grati- tude to me for some little kindness I have at different times shown him. He will, I know, assist us to escape, and we can reward liim handsomely. By to-morrow night every arrangement can be made. You must direct Lady Annes- 86 THE ABBIT 01* RATHMORB. ley's groom to rido over to Sligo to meet us there, and pro- yide for our accommodation until wo can get on board some vessel. You had better leave us now Desmond, for beforo the morning breaks you must see Magee and send off the groom to avoid suspicion. During the day you can hide yourself in Magee's cabin — it is in a lonely spot, and thero are none there but himself and his old mother, and she will be true to us. Would it be possible to take Norah with us, papa ? asked Inez, whose heart clung to her humble friend and the nurso of her childhood. Oh, we must certainly take Norah, she would miss us much, and grieve if we left her behind ! urged Desmond. But how are we to acquaint her with our intended flight 1^ asked his uncle. Inez cannot again act the ghost to-night^ it is too late. See I the dawn already steals through the crevices in the wainscot. I will manage to let her know, observed Desmond, as ho arose to depart. Magee will see her through the day, and she can join us on the beach. Inez accompanied Desmond to the foot of the spiral stairs, and there remained until the sound of his footsteps, descend- ing into the vaults, was no longer heard. The long hours of the day passed heavily away, for Dr. Percival and Inez counted the tardy minutes. Time never before seemed to pass so slowly, and as the day waned, their impatience and anxiety increased. Frequently Inez slid aside the secret panel and peeped into the Abbot's chamber to watch for the glowing sun descending in the west, and to chide his loitering movements. The brilliant luminary * ■ 111 iiii THB ABBET OF RATHHORK. ST Dr. ary WM at. length seen resting his broad disk on the nigged brow of a distant hill, and Inez viewed the gorgeous sunset for the last time, in the homo of her childhood. Tears of regret filled her eyes at the recollection, and she gazed long and sadly on the crimson sunlight playing on the restless ocean. The scenes endeared to her l)y early associations ehe should never again behold — before another sunset she would be miles distant. Very sad to the youthful mind ia the prospect of leaving forever the home where the happy days of childhood and youth have been spent. Inez felt this sadness ; old memories rushed over her — reminiscences of other days came back with fearful power to pain, and she wept long and passionately, The voice of Norah on the cliffs below the Gothic win- dow, after a time roused her from her sad revery. With thrilling melancholy, and wild sweetness, she was singing an exquisite melody of Erin. Inez doubted not but that the same sad thoughts which had rushed across her brain, were filling the mind of the old woman with poignant re- gret. That she would accompany them in their flight she knew, for Norah possessed all that warm attachment to Dr. Percival and his family so often seen in Irish servants, and which has frequently impelled them to leave their native country and share their master's fortunes in a strange land. The ebon veil of night at length settled over the land- Bcape, enshrouding ruined Abbey, and cliff, and sea, and dreary coast in its sable folds. It wanted but two hours of midnight and Desmond had not yet returned. A terrible feir that he had been discovered, and their escape prevented, Btole into the heart of Dr. Percival and Inez. Another half It I' i ! ( I \ J.A i'i THE ABDEY OF RATnMORI. hour passed and still he came not. Inez crept to the foot of the spiral stair-case and -watched for his coming foot- step. Soon a footfall fell on her hstening car. She sprang to her feet "svith eager expectation and noiseles.-ly opened tho secret door. The tall form of one of the soldiers was seen crossing tho hall with a light in his hand. Scarcely repressing a cry of alarm she closed the door and awaited his approach in trembling fear — supposing ho had observed her — but tho soldier passed on, and soon his lieavy tread sounded faintly in the distance. Tho midnight hour came — the old clock in tho Abbey striking twelve, interrupted tho profound tranquility of the ruin. As tho last stroke died away, and all was again silent, a stealthy step approached the secret passage. Inez arose with newly-awakened hope, her gaze was fixed on the pri- vate door — it opened, and Desmond entered. He gently chid her anxious impatience — said he had judged it best to wait till a late hour, that every arrangement for their escape was made, and that they must hasten to join Magee on the beach ; where he and Norah awaited them. A few minutes afterwards Dr. Percival and Inez were following Desmond through the subterranean passages. In a small creek about a mile distant, a large sail-boat was moored beneath a sheltering cliff. On the beach, their eyes earnestly fixed on a narrow foot-path which wound along the shore, two lonely forms were seen in the faint star-light. They're mighty long in coming Magee, one of them ob- served. Och my grief 1 if anything should hindher them now, what would I do at all at all? THE ABBEY OF RATHMORE. 89 1-boat their ^ound faint ob- Whist woman 1 don't spake so loud ! Shuro the air will carry the sound of yero voice ever so far; there's no tiino lost yt't, they'll V)0 soon here I'll be bound. Hut what on earth have you got l)un(lled up in tlieui big parcels Norah? faix you didu t cvjuie empty handed any way ; how did you manage to dhrag them all the wny here? On my l)ack of coorse. I am going and coming ever since night-fall. And AvhaL's in them if a body may ax? All the niasther'a and Mias Inez' clothes, what else I Shure wont they want them in forrin parts? and bedad, it's little I left the soldiers in the way of ating and dhrinldng. I took it all with me, as much as I could come acrass. It was a great load for you to carry, said Magee laughing, and I hope you brought a bottle of the poteen Norah, it will keep off the sickness when yere on the wather. But here they fire by Jabers ! he added, joyfully, I must hoist the sails ! Here they are shure enough I the good Lord bo praised for that same ! and Norah hftcd up her eyes to heaven with devout gratitude. The little party met in silence, and hastily embarked. It was not until they had got some distance from the shore and the boat was scudding before a favorable breeze, that Dr. Percival — relieved from immediate anxiety — ad- dressed his faithful servant in friendly accents. And so you have made up your mind to spend the rest of your days in a foreign land, Norah, and to turn your back on old Ireland ? And why not your honor ? when it's going with you I i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 11.25 |J0 "^^ 2.2 ■u u 140 I Hi 2.0 LS. I U 116 V] ^>. -^v^ ^ '/ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) S72-4503 •N? \^* \\ %> \'^' '^ -ij,^ Kv i 00 THE ABBET OF RATHMORE. am ; what would I do at all without the childher ? Shuro the heart is light v/ithin me that 1 am not left behind this blessed night. I am afraid the soldiers will miss you, Norah, and havo tlieir suspicions aroused. Ah thin they wont your honor; for didn't I tell them I was going to the half-way house, to see a brother's son of my cousin Andy, who is going to Americkay; and that I wouldn't be back afore to-morrow night. But it's back to tho Abbey I'll never go again! she added in a voice of touching Badness. Ochonel ochone! there it is, the ould place itself, just foreninst us, far away on the shore yondlier! Look masther Desmond, jewel ! there is tlic lights in the kitchen where the sogers is keeping watch, shining like stJirs far away. And to think — she continued — in accents half angry, half sorrowful, that it's come to this; that the masther should be flying like a thief from his own home — him that never harmed a living sowl in his born days! but it'snather law nor justice is to be found in Ireland this many a d&y I Bmce wo had our own to rule over us. And yet it's the Borc grief to have to la\e yon green isle of my heart. Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh ! and to think that I'll have to lave my ould bones in a sthrange land, far away from kith and kin, without any of my own people to keen over me ; and overcome with the grief of such a thought, Norah raised that strangely-mournful and wild cry, with which her coun- try women are accustomed to lament for the dead, and which wafted on the night-breeze over the waves, might seem like the death-wail for a departed spirit. Her grief was con- tagious. Long and earnestly did her master and his adopted HUE ABBET or RATHMORX. 91 Shure ind this id havo them I 5 son of 1 that I k to the ouching ic itself, Look kitchen tars far r angry, nasther m that liather a day I t's the Erin ave to m kith r me ; raised coun- which mlike con- opted children gaze upon the distant lights, gleaming in their an- cient home, while tears filled their eyes and a feehng of deep sorrow oppressed their hearts. If the breeze keeps on through the night, we'll be in Sligo early to-morrow, observed Magee — anxious to divert the thoughts of the fugitives. The breeze did continue favorable, and when Aurora dawned on the «">cean, the picturesque mountains of Ben- bulbin and Knocknarae, were seen raising their mist-covered summits towards the sky, not far distant. About eight o'clock the fishing-boat, entering the beautiful Bay of Sligo, sailed gracefully along its romantic shores, and at last an- chored at one of the quays. There O'Brien met them witli the joyful information, that he had engaged a passage for them in a barque bound to Bilboa, in the north of Spain — and that it would sail in the afternoon. They thereforo went immediately on board, thankful to have escaped so far. Desmond wrote to Lady Annesley, informing her of tho success of his undertaking, and with this letter O'Brien re- turned to Annesley Lodge as soon as he had seen the vessel in which the fugitives had embarked, put out to sea. *i' ' I I I '• ;;' 92 THE ABBET OF RATIDIORE. CHAPTSR XI. With a steady, favorable breeze, the bark " Henrietta," leaving behind tlie dangerous iron-coast of the west of Ireland, moved rapidly onward, and after some days, en- tering the Bay of Biscay, rode buoyantly over its rolhng waves towards the northern shore of Spain. Dr. Percival and his family were not the only passengers. A few young men — likewise involved in the late rebellion — were among tlie number, seeking in another land that safety which their own beloved country could no longer afford. One of the party, a young man of superior education, particularly at- tracted Desmond's attention — and one of those sudden in- timacies so easily contracted on board ship, was soon formed between them. The stranger's name was O'Neill — a des- cendant, he said, of the princes of Ulster, the ancient royal race who so gallantly opposed the English invaders, and maintained their independence in the north, long after the rest of Ireland had submitted to the yoke of their conquer- ors. A proud patriotism glowed in the breast of this young man, which found an answering echo in the heart of Des- mond ; and for hours they would converse on the national THE ABBEY OP RATHMORB. 93 topics so interesting to both. The long-departed glory of the Emerald Isle was an inexhaustible theme. O'Neill exultingly recalled the time when the white banner of Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone— its device, a "Red Right Hand" — waved defiantly on the breeze as his gallant bands fear- lessly opposed the army of the great Elizabeth, at the fa- mous battle of Clontibrct — when the proud (lag of St George was hurled to the dust before the impetuous charge of the fiery ranks of Tyr-owen — who, with their wild war cry of " the Red Right Hand for ever " ! drove the hated Saxons headlong before them. Hatred to the conquerors of our native soil has always distinguished my family, remarked O'Neill one day when conversing with Desmond. Twenty years ago my uncle, the Rev. Hugh O'Neill, was obliged to leave Ireland on ac- count of some political offence. He took refuge in France, and I am now on my way to join him. On arriving at Bilboa I shall embark for Paris, where he resides. Could this be the priest who had privately united Captain Percival to Miss Vaughan ? A bright hope sprung up in the heart of Desmond. He communicated his suspicions to his uncle, and to both it seemed more than probable that the proofs of his parents' marriage might yet be obtained. Desmond determined to accompany O'Neill to Paris, and obtain through him an interview with his reverend relation. It was a beautiful autumnal evening — the sky cloudless, the sea so calm as to mirror the passing sails in its tranquil bosom. The bark floated lazily on the blue waters ; every sail set as if to court the loitering breeze so earnestly desired to speed it onward. The passengers were all on deck, en- m :Hil 94 Tin ABBIT or RATHMORS. joying the invigorating purity of the air, and viewing with interest the Spanish coast — seen a few miles distant. A happy feeling of security pervaded every breast, when sud- denly an unusual excitement was observed among the crew, and soon came the fearful tidings that the bark was on fire. Tlie stoutest heart leaped at the startling news, and more than one face paled. The fierce element had been raging Bome time before it was observed, and soon it was seen bursting through the deck. To endeavor to extinguish it would only be loss of time ; immediate preparations wero therefore made to abandon the vessel. The boats wero lowered and the crew and passengers hastily collecting a few valuables, put off from the burning wreck. It was quite dark when they reached the shore, for they had waited to watch the brilliant spectacle of the bark burning to the water's edge. The vivid jets of flame shot up into the darkening sky, and were reflected in the unruffled waters. For a considerable time the fire raged unchecked, till gra- dually lessening as the fuel which fed its ruthless jaws wai consumed, the red light sunk, suddenly extinguished, as it came in contact with the watery clement. Running into a small romantic cove, the boats were drawn up on a gravelly beach, and the party began to disembark. What is the name of the place we're in now, Miss Inez ? asked Norah — looking about her with a bewildered air. This country is called Spain, Norah. Is it Spain agra? shure that's your own counthry, Miai Inez. Mine I repeated Inez, in surprise ^you must be dreaming: Norah. THE ABBEY OF RATIDfORE. 95 I think she is, remarked Dr. Percival, who had overheard the observation. She ha^ been taking a nap in the boat, and is not yet wide awake. The displeased tones of her nnaster's voice, recalled to Norah the promise she had given him never to reveal to Inez the circumstances which had placed her under his pro- tection. The young girl believed herself his daughter. Thrue for you, master dear ! faix I believe the throublo is turning my brain, and no wondher shure to find our- selves landed in this outlandish place, and the vessel burnt afore our eyes! But it's mighty quare entirely, that this is Spain we're come to ! she muttered to herself — the land that she come from ! I wondher if she'll come acrass any of her own people. The gloom of a starless night enwrapt the Spanish shore, and as no lights gleamed in any direction, the shipwrecked party feared there was no habitation near. Desmond and O'Neill climbed to the highest part of the beach, in the hope of discovering some distant dwelling. A joyful shout soon proclaimed their success. A little way off the dark outline of a large building was seen. Securing the boats, the whole party proceeded in the direction pointed out, the two young men hastening on in advance. The loud baying of some dogs greeted their approach to the house. It waa an ancient structure — low and irregularly built. Some stately trees flung their spreading branches over the pointed roof, and the night air was laden with the rich scent of flowering shrubs and fragrant flowers. The barking of the dogs drew the attention of the inmates, and at an upper casement the gaunt form of a swarthy Spaniard appeared, 96 THE ABBEY OP RATinTORE. fy holding a light which cast its rays on the scene without^ discovering the two young men, whom fear of the doga bad caused to halt some yards from the house. Who are you, and what do you want? was asked in no pleasant tones. We have been wrecked, and are come to beg shelter for the night, replied Desmond in good Spanish ; but call off your dogs or wc mast shoot them, he hastily added — as tho animals, encouraged by the presence of their master, rushed furiously towards them. The com\Tiand was promptly obeyed ; tho man disappeared from the window, but soon afterwards issued from a low door, almost hid by a rich vine. The rest of the party now joined them, and all were conducted into a largo hall, which seemed the common sitting-room of the family ; for at a table — on which was spread an abundant supper — an el- derly woman and two young men were sitting. They rose in surprise, at the entrance of so many strangers, and re- garded them with much curiosity. Inez, the only lady of the party, particularly engaged the woman's attention. She soon left the apartment, but returned, after a short absence, and proposed to Inez to coi:duct her to a more private room. She gladly assented, and Dr. Percival also accompanied her. The apartment into which they were led had an appearance of much comfort ; a fire burnt brightly on the hearth, and threw out a ruddy glow ; a large silver lamp suspended from the ceihng cast a chastened light over the antique but rich furniture, reveaUng a few articles of taste in bronze and marble, which were placed around. In one corner was a guitar, and on a stand near it a piece of unfinished embroi- TOE ADBEY OF RATHMORE. 97 bsence. iJery. The doctor and Inez gazed around in some surprise. Where was the occupant of this room ? the woman whom they saw before them was not a person of refined taste ; she seemed only a servant. Is the mistress of thisdweUin^' absent? asked Dr. Percival with eagerness, lor his curiosity was powerfully awakened — that feeling of our nature beinp: by no means confined to the gentler sex. I am the mistress, replied the woman — but, she added. m answer to his look of surprise — the lady to whom thib room belonged is dead. She died about a vear ago. What was her name ? he carelessly asked. Donna Isabella de Castro. Every particle of color fled from the face ol Dr. Percival, and it was some minutes before he was sulliciently recovered to speak. How long did she live here ? he asked, in a vcict; scarcely audible. Twenty yeai-s, said the woman, in a hesitating manner — surprised at his intense emotion. Merciful Heaven ! to think she was Uvir ; hose many lonj.^ years, and we so cruelly separated ! burst . om the quiver- ing hps of Dr. Percival; and as a tide of overwhelming re- gret rolled in upon him, the strong man wept in anguish. Suddenly a hope sprung up within him. Had Donna Isa- bella a child ? he asked, raising his eyes to the woman's fiace, with eager inquiry. She hesitated. What right have you to ask — you are a. sti-anger ? The right of a husband ! was the excited answer. Imposfrible ! Donna Isabella's husband died yearb ago, s :«/ f ./'f ,1 'll 1 i i 1 i ; ! 'i \< :' ■ ' ! ' •I 1 - i ! 93 THE ABBEY OP RATHMORC. He Stands bcforoyou! Answer me truthfully woman. I will know all ! fiercely added Dr. Percival. The woman looked terrified, but remained silent. Answer my question— had Donna Isabella a child ? That. villaiQ Don Pedro sliall be unmasked, and all his accompli- ces punished f There was a wild agitation in the doctor's voice. If you will promise to spare me and my husband, I will tell you all, said the woman imploringly. The promise was given — and then the woman confessed that a daughter had been bom the first year of Donna Isa- bella's captivity. What became of her? does she live? asked the doctor, with trembling eagerness. I cannot answer that question. Donna Isabella entrusted her to the care of her maid, who contrived to escape, with the intention of carrying the child to Ireland, where her husband's relations lived. What was the woman's name I there was an increasinc^ excitement in Dr. Percival's manner. Juanna de Guzman. That was the name of the supposed mother of Inez f With a cry of joy Dr. Percival clasped his adopted daugh- ter to his bosom. My child ! my own Inez ! he exclaimed, in a voice of thrilling emotion. Is it, can it be possible ? Oh, why did I not know this before? If Juanna only had been saved all would hare been discovered, and my lost Isabella snatched from her cruel captivity, and restored to her husband and child. THE ADBET OF RATHMORE. 00 tvoman . ? That. !Compli- doctor's I, I will Dnfessed ma Isa- doctor, ntrusted ^e, with ere iier creasins: Inez ! daupfh- 'oice of 7hy did avedall latched Dd and If Oh my God ! how strange arc the ways of thy Provi- doncc I how grievously dost thou afflict thy sinful creatures I And yet forgive my murmurings, Father in Heaven ! evt'n this dispensation is tempered with mercy I for Thou didst make me the happy instrument in saving my child's life, and now in Thy own good time Thou hast led me in the ways of Thy providential goodness to the spot where this joyful discovery has been made. It was some time before the doctor was sufficiently com- posed to proceed in his examination of the woman, who hiid been the jailor of his wife, during her weary captivity. We must now carry our story twenty years back, and relate a few particulars in the early life of Dr. Percival, necessary to explain the incident just narrated. During a temporary residence in Corunna — where the ship-of-war in which he was surgeon was undergoing some repairs — previously to sailing for South America. — the doc- tor became acquainted with a beautiful Spanish lady of higii rank and large fortune. Both became devotedly attached, but as the uncle of Donna Isabella was decidedly averse to their union, an elopement was found necessary. Before leaving Corunna, the marriage ceremony was privately per- formed in one of the churches of that city. Dr. Percival and his beautiful bride then fled some miles into the coun- try, to spend the honeymoon in seclusion. It was late one night when they returned to Corunna, and as they were ])roceeding immediately to go on board Dr. Percival's ship — thinking it best to remain there until a reconciliation could be effected between Donna Isabella and her uncle — they were waylaid by a party hired by Don Pedro, who 100 TOE ABBEY or RATHMORE. |t carried oIT tbo unhappy bride, and left her husband almost 1 felcss in one of tlie streets. He was found in that situation by some of the sailors of his own vessel, who carried him on board. Immediately afterwards the ship weighed anchor, and when Dr. Percival recovered from liis dcath-hke swoon to a feeble consciousness of liis situation, they had put out to sea. Owing to his excessive loss of blood, he was too faint to orticulatc more than a few unintcUigiblc words. An opiate was speedily administered by the attendant physician, who saw that the excitement he labored under would prove fatal if not subdued ; and for many hours he was kept in a state of semi-unconsciousness. Ilis wounds were nunu- rous, and his hfe was long despaired of. It was not until the ship approached the South American shore that he was able to leave his cabin. As soon as possible he rc-visitcd Spain — but it was only to hear tidings which blighted the happiness of his life. Donna Isabella was no more ! A severe illness, occasioned by grief and despair at her hut- band's supposed death, had terminated her hfe. As this rt - j)ort was fully believed in Corunna, Dr. Percival never sus- pected any imposition, and bade adieu to the Spanish shores, mourning deeply over the untimely death of one so dear to him. The high position of Don Pedro sheltered him from legal punishment for the part he had taken in the affair. This man, in order to become possessed of the lai-ge fortune of his niece, had announced her death, administering a nar- cotic which produced a death-hke sleep; and while its ef- fects continued, the mock'solemnity of a funeral had taken place. The unfortunate lady was afterwards privately con- veyed to the remote residence to which I have latclv in- THI ABBIT OP RATnyORE. 101 troduced my readers. There she spent the remainder ot* her sad days in solitary confinement. For a few years her child vrafi the comfort of her existence ; but having reason to suspect that Don Pedro had designs on her young life, she yielded to her maternal fears, and sent her under tho care of a faithful servant to Ireland; where she hoped somo of her husband's relatives would protect her, and prrhapn endeavor to procure her own release from the captivity in which she was spending her earth-life. Year after year passed away, and the hope of leaving her prison, and seeing her daughter again, grew fainter and yet more faint. At length the cherished hope died out of her heart ; she be- lieved her cliild and servant had perished at sea, and with meek submission she turned her thoughts entirely to that brighter world above, where she fondly trusted to meet again those loved ones, whose presence was denied her in her earthly pilgi-image. At length her spirit, sanctified by sufTcring, went to its immortal home. The surprise of Inez and Desmond on hearing these par- ticulars was very great. Desmond laughingly congratulated Tiis cousin on being a great heiress, and nearly allied to a Spanish Grandeo. Norah shared in her master's happiness at discovering that Inez was really his daughter. She de- clared it was her firm belief that the blessed saints them- selves had made the ship take fire for no other raison but that the masther might find his own, and Miss Inez gain her rights. The next day the shipwrecked party — procuring convey- ances at a town some miles distant — proceeded on their different routes. Dr. Percival and his family, accompanied l1 » it i i.. ! If.. ,1 iil I il SI 1 102 THE AB6ET OF RATHMORE. by the Spaniard and his wife, went to Corunna, where Don Pedro de Castro was then living. Through the aid of the British Consul, the doctor obtained an interview with his wife's uncle. He accused him of the crime he had com- mitted, and confronted him with his two accomplices. T' guilty man was compelled to acknowledge the deception he had practised on the world, and to resign to Donna Isabella's husband and child, the fortune he had so unjustly enjoyed. Leaving Dr, Percival and Inez domiciled in a luxurious home in Corunna, Desmond accompanied O'Neill to Paris in order to have an interview with his uncle. His expec- tations were not disappointed — the Rev. Hugh O'Neill was the identical priest who had performed the ceremony v hich united his parents. The proof of their marriage was ir >on- testible ; and with grateful exultation Desmond wrote he joyful intelligence to his mother. Lady Annesley recei- id the information when attending the death-bed of her 1 is- band. A severe attack of gout terminated the earthly ca jer of Lord Annesley and Desmond's mother was now in to follow the dictates of her heart. The necessary arrange- ments for joining him on the continent were made as soon as possible, and not many weeks after their separation they enjoyed the exquisite happiness of a re-union, unalloyed by the fear of a future parting. During his abode in Paris, Desmond had the pleasure of meeting his friend, Captain Le Vavasseur — for the French prisoners of war had returned from Ireland. Obtaining leave of absence. Captain Le Vavasseur returned with Desmond to Spain — anxious to behold once more his kind Irish friend, Dr. Percival, and his lovely daughter. At TEB ABBEY OF RATHMOR£. 103 a beautiful estate in Galicia, amid the wildly-picturesquo scenery of the Cantabrian Mountains, Captain Le Vavasseur aarain met Inez Percival. The emotion his countenance ex- pressed — and which he vainly tried to conceal — revealed the love that the fascinating French officer had secretly cherished for the beautiful girl, whose society had contributed to ren- der the few weeks he had spent in the Abbey of Rathmore, the happiest period of his chequered lifie. The revelation flashed a thrilling joy through tiie heart ct Inez. Often — very often, during the weeks since they had parted so suddenly, had the image of Le Vavasseur haunted the mner chamber of memory, and her thoughts had dwelt upon him with a yearning desire that they should meet .'igain. That wish was now gratified, and oh, happiness un- expected ! she saw the light of love in his dark eloquent eyes, •is hers timidly encountered their ardent gaze. Day after day glided on, the flight of time being scarcely iioticed by the happy inmates of Dr. Percival's romantic villa. Captain Le Vavasseur's leave of absence was pro- longed. At length he prepared to return to France — but Le was not to go alone. He had wooed and won the beautiful heiress of the de Castro estates. The marriage was solemn- ized with great pomp— the bride glittering in rich satin, Brussels lace, and superb family jewels. After the ceremony Captain Le Vavasseur and his beau- tiful bride proceeded to Paris to spend the approaching win- ter. Norah's pathetic lamentation was, that the grand wedding of her dear young lady could not take place at the ould Abbey of Rathmore ! THE ENr. ') MADELINE BERESFORD, — OR — THE INFIDEL'S BETROTHED. »•» CHAPTER I. ■■It I ii'' , ;1 Night*s starry eyes looked down on Britain's favored land, and her sable drapery enshrouded its far-famed metropolis. But silence reigned not through the dense population of this modern Babylon — dissipation was abroad — holding undis- puted sway, not only in the palaces of the aristocratic, but in the lowly abodes of vice. At the residence of the Ambassador, a brilliant crowd had assembled, and the scene was one of unusual splendor. High-born ladies in almost regal array, glittering in the far-fetched gems of Golconda MADELINE BERESFORD. 107 I and Brazil, might be seen promenading through spacious apartments, fitted up by the hand of luxury and refinement ; or moving through the graceful dance, to tlie exhilarating tones of a military band — which filled the midnight air with its rich melody. But one there was among that galaxy ot fashion, who shone not by the costlylustre of Oriental gems. The regal diamond flashed not on the brow of Florence Walsingham — no pearls from the coast of Ceylon were wreathed through her luxuriant tresses — yet, in her simply- elegant attire she was the cynosure of the ball-room. '' La plus belle parmi les belles" — her beauty being of that ex- quisite nature so rarely seen — which the poet has described as not requiring "the foreign aid of ornament.' Admiration, however, was not the only feeling which Florence Walsingham excited — envy, that most unenviable feeling, was also experienced wherever she appeared ; and now more than one coterie of exclusives was engaged cri- ticising the beauty, dress, etc., of this new star of attraction in the world of fashion — as well as canvassing her preten- sions to birth, and her rights to admission within their charmed circle. By listening to their conversation— carried on soito voce — the following particulars might be gathered relative to the fair being now introduced to the reader. Colonel Walsingham, the father of Florence, was the younger son of a noble but impoverished house. His pre- vailing characteristic was ambition ; this was the master- passion which governed him through life. Florence was his only child, and upon this fair scion were placed his cherished hopes of family aggrandizement. From an early age she had been marked as a sacrifice to the idol he wor- H V 1 If 1'' |i I r v 1 ■i Ih' i<\ ^il'l I! ,(.■11 •; 108 MADILIKE BEBSSrORD. shipped. The debut of Miss Walsicgham at the drawing- room at St. James's, had produced an unusual sensation. Young, eminently beautiful and accomplished, Florence was well ca'^ulated to become the brilliant meteor of the fashionable circles in which she moved, and her proud father saw with exultation, lAore than one peer of the realm bend in lowly homage at her shrine. Among those who, as satellites, moved within the attractive influence of this newly-risen orb, was the Earl of Errington. A title, un- bounded wealth, and a long line of noble ancestry, were tlie chief attractions of this young nobleman. His figure was not conspicuous either for symmetry or elegance, and the expression of his plain features was uninteresting, yet such was the husband whom Colonel Walsingham had se- lected for his daughter — for in his eyes what were personal or even mental defects, when counterbalanced by rank and a princely fortune ! The Earl of Errington made one of the elite crowd which had, upon this night, assembled at the Ambassador's. His attentions to Miss Walsinj^bam were more marked than usual; and taking advantage of a favorable opportunity, when, for a few minutes, she retired to the recess of an open window to enjoy the coolness of the night air, and the re- freshing fragrance with which it came laden from an adjoining conservatory, he poured into her ear a tale of love, intimating that he had already received Colonel Walsing- ham's permission to address her on the subject. Florence listened in silence, and Lord Errington felt the hand which rested on his arm, tremble. He attributed her emotion to pleasure, and passionately urged her to teU him if he had MADELIKB 6ERESF0RD. lOd any reason to hope. She deferred giving any answer at present, and her voice was so low and faltering, that the Earl could scarcely catch the meaning of her words. Gladly would she have then decidedly refused the ofier oi his hand, but she knew her father's wishes on the subject ; she must not follow the dictates of her heart. "Wishing to be alone for a few minutes, she requested her companion to procure her a glass of iced lemonade ; then enshrouding herself behind the ample drapery of the window curtains, she tried to conquer her agitation, and to force back the toars that sprung to her eyes — for she foresaw that the hap- piness of her future hfe would be sacrificed at the shrine of her father's ambition. A well-known voice, addressing her in low tender ac- cents, soon interrupted her sad thoughts, and looking up she encountered the passionate gaze of a very handsome young officer in the — regiment of Scotch Greys. Captain Montrose was the poorest, yet the most favored of Florence Walsingham's admirers. His strikingly handsome person, and fascinating manners, added to his fervent attachment to herself, made him an object of pecuUar interest to the young girl. It was supposed he would carry off the prize which so many hearts coveted, and the increasing attentions he was permitted to pay Miss Walsingham in public, served to confirm this opinion. The love of Motftrose for this strangely-beautiful being, was of a nature not often felt. From the moment he first beheld her he became her slave. Can she be "a thing of earth, or perishable elements," he said mentally, for never had he seen a creature so beautiful. Forms of loveliness had oflen in the romantic dreams of ) no MADELINE BERESFORD. (l< ii 1 iiiii youth, captivated his imagination, but even the most be- witching of these visions ot fancy, was surpassed by Florence Walsingham. Having been detained by military duty, he had only re- cently made his appearance in the gay assembly. On en- ' 'ing the ball-room his eye had anxiously sought the one jved form ; he had seen her leaning on the arm of her titled lover — had, with a jealous pang, noticed her emotion as he spoke in low earnest tones, the import of which he imagined — and now, taking advantage of his momentary absence, he advanced to request the honor of her hand for the next dance. A bright smile broke over the face of Florence as she rose to comply, chasing, like a sunbeam, the cloud of sorrow which a moment before had obscured its beauty. Politely thanking Lord Errington for the refreshment with which lie now returned, she turned coldly away, and the next minute was whirled round the room in the arms of her handsome partner, to the inspiriting music of a favorite galop, which the band now struck up in brilliant style. This was the first dance Florence enjoyed during the evening, for, before, he was absent whose presence could alone gild the scene with sunshine, and in the intoxicating pleasure of the present moment all fears for the future were for a time for- gotten. When the galop was ended Florence complained of fatigue, and Captain Montrose pioneered the way into another re- ception-room, where only a few of the guests were assem- bled. It was a superbly-furnished apartment, the drapery of the windows and the covers of the ottomans and chairs, were crimson velvet ; the walls were hung with mirrors of MADELINE BERESFORD. lU foreign manufacture, reflecting and multiplying the various objects in the room ; while the spaces between these were draped with rich hangings of gold and crimson. Various articles of curious and costly workmanship from India, China and other parts of the world, filled the tables and stands, while a few exquisite specimens of sculpture, here and there met the eye. A fancy ball to be given in a few days by the Duchess of A , was the topic on which many of the occupants of this room were conversing, as Captain Montrose and his beautiful companion entered. " Have you received an invite ?" asked Florence, as she bent to inhale the rich odor of some rare exotics, which, from golden vases, shed their delicious fragrance through the anartment. '^ I have been so fortunate," Montrose replied. '' It is, I beUeve, to be a very exclusive affair. May I hope to have the happiness of meeting you there?" " I shall probably go. I have never yet attended a fancy ball. The scene will, to me, be novel." " What character do you intend to assume ?" " I have not determined. I am undecided whether I shall represent a heathen divinity, or Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt." " The character of Cleopatra, would suit you admirably" — observed Montrose. " Then I shall assume regal pomp, and be a Queen for one night, said Florence gaily." '• And who would grace a Thrcne so well ? on what bron- more beautiful could a diadem be placed ?" said Montrose passionately. 112 MADELINE BERESFORD. il't^'' ill ii f'> "What clxaracter will you represent ?" inquired Florence. " The character of Mark Antony — the most devoted slave of the Egyptian Queen" — he replied, in low accents, gazing with passionate meaning into her luminous eyes, which were quickly averted. At this moment, when a declaration of his love hovered on the lips of Captain Montrose — when, with trembling emotion, he was about to express in words what his eyes had before so eloquently revealed — their tete-a-tete was abruptly interrupted. An elderly gentleman, of command- ing appearance, entered tlie room; his gaze sought Miss Walsuigham ; it rested on her with an angry, stern expres- sion, which, for a moment, chilled the life-blood in her veins: she shuddered slightly, and the smile of happiness which before irradiated her countenance, instantly vanished. In the crowded ball-room Colonel Walsingham had over- heard the conversation of some fashionable young men, in which allusions were made to the attachment of Captain Montrose to his beautihil daughter, and her evident pre- ference for him. They had also hinted that a trip to Gretna Green was meditated by the gallant son of Mars. At the moment that the Colonel was listening, unseen, to these remarks, he saw Florence pass through the gay throng, fondly leaning on the arm of her handsome lover. The fears of the ambitious man were roused — he saw the necessity of removing her from such influence, and his resolution was immediately taken. He followed them as quickly as the crowd would allow. "It is late Florence, and the carriage waits," he said, in coldj haughty accent^^, advancing to lead her from the room. MADELINI BERKSFORD. 113 If there was any being on earth whom Florence dreaded, it was her father ; from her earhest age, in order to advance his own ambitious views, the heartless parent had repulsed the warm, natural affection of his child toward himself, and had taught her to fear, instead of love him. Instantly complying with his wish to return home, she cast a farewell glance at Captain Montrose, as she bowed hastily ; then taking her father's arm, silently left the gay scene. They never met again. Next day. Colonel Walsingham's house in Square was shut up ; and visitors received the surprising information that the family had left town for their country residence in a remote part of England. The intelligence created a nine days' wonder in the world of fashion, and caused various surmises ; but the mystery was Boon solved. A paragraph in a London paper announced, that the Earl of Errington had led to the Hymeneal altai* the brightest star of the season — the beautiful Florence Walsingham. The ceremony had been privately performed at Walsinghair. House, and immediately afterwards the Earl and his youthful bride had left England for Italy. It was now evident to the gossiping coteries of fashion, that Colonel Walsingham had abruptly removed his daugh- ter from London, to prevent her elopement with Captain Montrose; and that in the solitude of the country he had persuaded her to accept the hand of her titled admirer. Where now was Montrose ? Awakened from the illusive day-dream, which had thrown its " rainbow spell " around him, he retired for a short time to a remote part of Wales — where, in solitude, and without restraint, he indulged the Tiolence of his grie£ Florence Walsingham he devotedly 114 MADELINE BEKE8F0RD. 1 1" \ i ! ' 1 ; ': ' * ■ ! 'H i II,: it 1 ^ 'li k iir loved — she was his idol ! Alas ! how wrong, how dangerous, to give the heart's best affections to anything on earth I He who alone is worthy of so much dovotedncss, has com- manded His creatures to love Him supremely ; and was it ever well when it was otherwise ? Montrose's hope of hap- piness was placed in Florence, and now that she was lost to him for ever, existence seemed "a waste of wearisome hours." From that period his character underwent a striking alteration ; he was never again what he had once been ; the gay, happy being, with life's bitter cup untasted, who seemed as if this world had no trials for hira : for the future, " melancholy marked him for her own." More than a year passed away, at the end of which the Earl and Countess of Errington returned to England. Her health had been for some time declining, and she was ad- vised to try the air of her native country for its recovery. To Errington Castle — which was situated near Cheltenham — she came to reside, but it was soon evident that her days on earth were numbered. Consumption — occasioned by that "sorrow of the world which worketh death" — ^was hastening her to the tomb ; her spirit forsook its earthly tenement, and she had done with this world and its sorrows for ever. Montrose was at Cheltenham with his regiment at the time of Lady Errington's death ; he had not seen her since her marriage, and as he was most anxious to behold her once more, he formed the strange design of gaining a secret admittance to Errington Castle; which he effected through the assistance of a favorite attendant of Lady Errington's. Midnight was the hour appointed for his visit. A private 1UDKLZ5B DIRIbtOBD. 115 entrance, communicatiNi^ with the suit© of apartments be- longing to tl^o Counteiw, adimtlcd him to tho Castle. The chamber to wliirh he wag conduoted, was hung with black, and Ughted with large wax tapers. On a bed, in tlie centre of the room, was laid the inanimate form of the youthful victim. With trembUng steps, Montrose advanced towards it, but as his eye rested on the altered features, ho uttered a groan of bitter agony. And was that senseless form the brilliant, the beautiful Florence Walsingham ? Alas I how changed was she now ! There she lay, like any other child of earth, beneath the feet of the Pale Horse and his Rider ; neither youth, beauty, rank nor splendor could avert the inevitable doom ; or save her from that fate which cometh alike to all I It was little more than a year since they last met, yet Montrose could scarcely recognize, in the atten- uated form before him, that bright creature whom he had once almost considered as a being of another world. The wasted check — the sunken eye — once so sofl, so dazzling — but particularly the deep expression of melancholy which marked the cold pale brow — all loudly told that sorrow and disease had been busy there. How awful is death ! awful to all, but how much more so to him whose thoughts of it are few 1 The mind of Montrose was now, for the first time, led to dwell on the solemn reaUties of another world — and as he could not contemplate them with that " hope full of immortality" which the Christian alone possesses, they seemed awful to him. For more than an hour he was per- mitted to indulge his sorrow and solenm reflections, unin- terrupted ; but at the end of that time, he was obliged to depart. It was some minutes before he could relinquish the r 116 MADELINE BERESrORD. melancholy pleasure of being near Florence even in death ; and as he left the room, after giving the last look at her who had been the polar star of his existence, he felt that all earthly happiness had fled for ever. And it was well for Montrose that he did experience that sorrow is the portion of every human being. Religion is the asylum of those who mourn, and in it he was happily induced to seek for conso- lation. His mind was gradually weaned from the contem- plation of earthly troubles, and he was enabled to lift an eye of faith to a happier world on high. His early disap- pointment did, in time, accomplish the purpose for which it was in mercy sent, ai^d he became a Christian, not in pro- fession only, but in principle. if i ii >4i MADlLDfl BIRISrOBD. 117 death ; :ier who that all 87ell for portion >se who p conso- Dontem- > hfb an J disap- ir which >tinpro- CHAPTER n. A period of several years must now elapse, before I again introduce Montrose to the reader's acquaintance. Time, as it fled, had brought its changes. After spending some years in active service, he had left the army — having attained the rank of Colonel — and retired to spend the remainder of his Ufe in the delightful seclusion of a fine estate, left him by the death of a distant relative ; which was situated near the romantic shores of Lake Lomond. The house — an im- posing and antique mansion — crowned a verdant height ; trees of magnificent growth formed a fine back-ground, while in front it was open to the lake, commanding a view of its highly-picturesque scenery — overhung by the majes- tic Ben Lomond. Colonel Montrose was still unmarried; his heart yet fondly cherished the remembrance of her, who had been in youth " the star of his idolatry ;" it knew no second at- tachment. A widowed sister and her two daughters were the inmates of his home. For some years he enjoyed a large portion of happiness, but sorrow again visited him. Hifl sister, after a lingering illness, died, but he was not left s. 118 HADELmS BEBSSFORD. without consolation; his nieces were committed to his guardianship ; they had long been cherished objects of his aflfection ; but he now felt in them a peculiar interest — he regarded them with almost a parental love. Madeline, the eldest girl, was in her nineteenth year, and Blanche was two years younger. Both were eminently beautiful. Blanche was a fascinating young creature — ** The fairest, brightest child of earth, One of those spirits which the wing of Joy Brush'd with its Ughtest feather." Her figure was much below the middle size — slightly formed, with a graceful elasticity of motion. Her face was hke a Hebe's — ^its expression had a child-like beauty. Though much taller than her sister, Madeline's form was equally hght and graceful ; but there was a native dignity in her every movement. Her style of beauty differed from that of Blanche — ^it was of a more striking nature. Dark grey eyes, of changing hue, shadowed by long silken lashes, revealed the glorious soul within ; illumining her classic features with the beauty of intellect — that beauty so superior to physical charms. Yet, when both are combined, how irresistible is their fascination. The character of Madeline was uncom- mon, and high-minded. The death of their mother was severely felt by both sisters. The grief of Blanche was loud and passionate, that of Madeline gentler — deeper. This severe affliction made a strong impression on her reflective mind, and served to confirm those strong and pure principles of rehgion which she had been early taught. For nearly two years after the death of Mrs. Beresford, Colonel Montrose and his orphan nieces lived in entire se- MADELINE BERESFORD. 119 elusion ; but when the period of mourning for their ioved one was nearly ended, they began again to visit with a few families of distinction in the vicinity of their residence. One of their most intimate acquaintances was Lady Augusta Sinclair — a young Enghsh bride whom the Honorable Kenneth Sinclaii— a gentleman of large fortune in the neighborhood — had lately brought to his ancestral home. Lady Augusta and Miss Beresford were of the same age, and becoming warmly attached, they were frequently in each other's society. The Abbey — as Mr. Sinclair's resi- dence was called — was a continual scene of gayety; for Lady Augusta, accustomed to a life of fashionable dissipation, was only happy when engaged in a routine of ever-varying amusement To MadeHne, who had lived in retirement, so gay a life was new ; but though it had the gloss of novelty, it did not possess mahy attractions for her. Her pleasures were of a purer nature — she felt the emptiness of such amusements, and how incapable they are of satisfying the desires of an immortal spirit. One morning as she and Lady Augusta were returning to the Abbey, after having paid a visit to a family at some distance, they were overtaken by a thunder storm which suddenly broke forth with awful fury. Affrighted by the red glare of the hghtning. Lady Augusta's horses took fright, and having no one to restrain them — for the coachman had been thrown from his seat — they proceeded onward with terrifying velocity. Lady Augusta was much alarmed at the violence of the storm ; and her fears now overpowering her, she sank insensible into the arms of Miss Beresford. Madeline too, felt the danger of their situation, and her marble face and trembling 120 MADELINE BERESFORD. il:* 1 1 form showed how great was the terror that had seized upon her ; but with a strong effort she conquered this feeling ; hope in the merciful providence of God came to her aid, and committing herself and Lady Augusta to His care, she was calm, notwithstanding the imminent peril. For nearly ten minutes the horses continued to proceed at the same furious rate ; at length Madeline felt the coach suddenly stop; the mad career of the frightened animals was arrested by an intrepid act : afterwards a gentleman opened the car- riage door. It was he, who had, at the imminent risk of his own life, headed the flying horses, seized their reins, and assisted by some men from a cottage on the road-side, had succeeded in taking them from the carriage. Raising the inanimate form of Lady Augusta Sinclair from the support- ing arm of Madeline, the stranger carried her to a cottage. Remedies for restormg animation were then tried, and in a few minutes her Ladyship recovered. The stranger was known to Lady Augusta — he was the Honorable Sherwood St. Ledger; an English gentleman of noble family and large fortune. He was travelling for pleasure, and attracted by the far-famed scenery of Loch Lomond, had come to spend some weeks in the neighborhood. Both ladies expressed their gratitude for the service he had rendered them, and Lady Augusta gave him a flattering invitation to the Abbey, which he accepted with pleasure. From this period Mr. St. Ledger became a constant visiter at the Abbey, and at Montrose House. His stay in the ro- mantic vicinity of Loch Lomond was gradually prolonged. The summer months had passed and still he lingered ; beauty had thrown her witcheries around him, love's adamantine MADELINE BERESFORD. 121 had fetters had enchained his heart. Madeline Beresford's sur- passing beauty had at first attracted his attention — her stately but graceful bearing — her many fascinations — had won his admiration — but when he came to know her better ; when he saw the high-mindedness of her character — the sweetness and purity of her inner nature — he became pas- sionately attached to her ; enshrining her image in the in- nermost chamber of his heart ; and pouring out before it the homage of a powerful and beautiful affection. Madeline too, became warmly attached to him : his was a character similar to her own ; their tastes, their sentiments seemed to be in unison. His appearance too, was highly attractive. His tall figure was finely proportioned and aristocratic-looking. Rich masses of dark hair clustered about his nobly-shaped head ; partly shading his high fore- head — while eloquent hazel eyes, flashing with glowing thoughts, gave an intellectual charm to his pale, handsome countenance. As there could be no objection to his alliance, the offer of his hand to Miss Beresford was accepted ; and preparations were making for their marriage, when an unexpected cir- cumstance prevented their proceeding. Sherwood St Ledger was an Infidel ; one, however, who carefully con- cealed his principles ; but Madeline accidentally made tho fatal discovery. Instantly the light of joy forsook her face ; that happiness which had a moment before seemed too great for earth, was suddenly enshrouded by the dark storm cloud that burst upon her, as the terrible truth flashed across her mind. In anguish, too great to be concealed, she left the apartment where she had been conversing with St. Ledger, 122 MADKLINE BERESFORD. '!;|ij| and retired to her own room, to indulge in uncontrollable sorrow. All her bright hopes of happiness had fled ; hke all meteors of earth-born joy, they had only glittered for a while, then sunk in " eternal eclipse." Sherwood and she must part, and for ever I Religion — a deep sense of the duty she owed to God, and of the imminent danger her own religious principles might incur were she to become his wife — all demanded the sacrifice. She could not possibly unite her fate with his. She felt that to give him up was an im- perative duty ; yet it was some time before she could deter- mine on their final separation. How frequently did she kneel at the throne of the Eternal, supplicating strength to enable her to do that which, in the weakness of her human nature, she found almost impossible. And her prayer of faith was heard. He who can feel for the infirmities of His creatures, was her support in this hour of trial; and she was enabled to resign him who was dearest to her on earth, rather than risk " that hope full of immortality." Being unwilling to meet St. Ledger again, Madeline wrote to him, explaining her reasons for breaking off her engagement. The letter was full of passionate regrets for the necessity there was for her thus sacrificing her happiness to a sense of religious duty. St. Ledger would not be denied an in- terview ; he would only hear his dismissal from her own lips ; his heart clung to the hope that he would be able to overrule all her fancifiil objections ; he trusted in his power over her affections ; he supposed that in woman's hear f, love for an earthly object is all-powerful. He knew nothing of that purer spiritual affection of which the female heart is capable — that homage which it yields to a crucified Redeemer >f MADELINE BERESFORD. 123 — that love, above all earthly love, which in some minds is the governing principle of life. Pale as death itself, yet calm with the determination of a strong will — for she was strengthened from above — Madeline entered the library where her lover awaited her, in trembling expectation. The change in her appearance struck him forcibly, as he advanced to meet her. The fearful tempest of the heart, which had swept over her during the last few days, had written its ravages legibly in her pallid countenance. "It was cruel in you to demand this interview, Sherwood," she said, in accents very sad and slightly reproachful ; " it can answer no purpose but to distress us both." " Say not so dearest Madeline — ^you will not certainly per- sist in a line of conduct, which evidently causes you, as well as me, much suffering." " That I will not deny, yet nothing which you can urge will alter my determination ; we must part for ever." There was a forced calmness in Madeline's tones. "Why thus heartlessly destroy my happiness, Madeline?" asked St. Ledger, with a slight irritation of manner — "merely because I cannot subscribe to all the truths which Revelation would teach ? Oh that I could believe," he added with passionate earnestness, " that my reason only could be convinced!" " Faith alone is necessary, dearest Sherwood ; when rea- son fails to penetrate the mysteries of religion, then faith lifts her triumphant eye — piercing the mystic veil — and en- abUng the Christian to beUeve confidently all that the Word of God reveals." " I have not that bright faith, Madeline ; yet I cannot see 124 MADELINE BERESFORD. i '< il why the want of it should prevent our union. It might be," he continued eagerly, " that if our Hves were spent together, a constant intercourse with you would effect a healtlily influence over me; gradually enlightening my darkened mind, and kindling in my soul the pure fire of de- votion." There was a persuasive eloquence in his voice and look, which the tortured heart of Madeline found it difficult to resist. The specious thought had occurred to her own mind, but after mature deliberation, she saw that danger might arise to her own soul, in so intimate a communion with one of infidel principles. She knew how easily we are affected by the evil influence of others. " It cannot be I" was her only reply ; and there was the calmness of despair in her death-Hke countenance. A pause ensued. St. Ledger paced the room with a dis- tracted air ; hope was dying within his heart ; he saw in Madeline a mighty will — he feared that nothing would change her resolution. " Madeline ! Madeline !" he cried in accents wild and full of anguish, " why will you thus consign me to utter wretchedness ? I cannot drink the cup you would press to my lips — this agony of parting is unsupportable." Madeline covered her face with her hands, she could not look upon his woe. " Madehne," he continued — with a sudden burst of an- gry emotion — "you are trifling with my happiness; you have been deceiving me hitherto ; you do not love me — ^if you did, would you cast me from you for a trifling reason ? would you cast from you as a thing unworthy of your acceptance — ^the homage of my heart, because that heart is MADELINE BERESFORD. 126 not not as pure and holy as your own ? Is this woman's love ?" and he laughed wildly — bitterly. Madeline turned her white face reproachfully towards him; her tones were expressive of wounded feeling. "You are unjust in those remarks, Sherwood. You know that I prize your love above all earthly affection, and that to part from you causes me a death pang ; yet, though it should rend the spring of my existence, I must resign the happi- ness of being your wife ; the Divine injunction must be obeyed — I dare not unite myself with an infidel." Then yielding to the profound anguish of her spirit, she rested her head on her clasped hands, and wept passionately. In a moment, every trace of resentment passed from the face and voice of St. Ledger. His better nature triumphed. With a look of infinite tenderness he approached Madehne — seated himself beside her, and drew her fondly towards him. "Forgive me, beloved one ! I was wild with anguish — I knew not what I said." The depth of Madehne's love for him he could not doubt ; her heroic nature too, won his highest admiration. " Can that faith be a delusion which thus fortifies a weak being, and enables her to resign earthly happiness rather than risk her soul's interests?" he said mentally. "Oh that I too, had this powerful faith. If there is a God, would that he might shed o'er the chaos of my soul a life-giving ray of spiritual light 1" Did not that prayer, breathed from the heart, pierce the Eternal ear ? and will it not be answered ? "I will not prolong this painful interview, my own Made- line," resumed St. Ledger, after a short interval " I will not selfishly add to your unhappiness. Yet let us part in 126 MADELINK BERESFORD. ■! W 1 .' hope — it may be that at some future time I may be blessed with a ray of that confiding faith wliich glows in your pure heart. Pray for me, dearest ; if there is a God it must l)e that the intercessions of such as thou art will be answered." He folded her in a passionate embrace ; then turned to leave the room. At the door he paused to take a last look. Madeline was gazing after him — there was in her face the expression of an intense woe — of passionate regret. St. Ledger returned — a look of hope, flashed over his agitated face. " Madeline you will relent ! — oh do not drive me from you I" he said, in wild imploring accents. " Tempt me not dearest Sherwood ; were I to follovt the dictates of my own heart, I would not be happy ; yes, with the reproaches of conscience, life, even with you, would be misery." St. Ledger sighed profoundly. Again he kissed her pas- sionately, then rushed from the Ubrary. Madeline quickly approached the window to catch a fare- well look, as he rode from the house. His eye glanced to- wards the Hbrary windows as he mounted his horse. It caught the agonized face of her who was to liim " the hght of hfe " — from whom he was parting, he feared, for ever : his gaze lingered for several moments with appealing an- guish, but that beautiful, though wan face, was unchanged in its expression of lofty determination. He felt there was no hope. Suddenly withdrawing his gaze, he pressed his hand upon liis eyes, as if to crush back the tears — so ex- pressive of man's strong agony — ^then rode wildly down the avenue. Madeline's stony gaze remained Hxed on the spot where t - i r ■■ 1 I MADILINE DERBfiFORD. 12; ever : he had disappeared. At that moment she felt as if the very foundations of her being were giving way ; and she wished for death. What had hfe to offer her now ? her spirit lay shrouded beneath the pall of despair, and the future, as well as the present, was shadowed by its gloomy drapery. What a weight of suffering does the human heart endure, and yet break not ! Madeline did not sink beneath her trial, severe though it was ; she lived to suffer, but she was not unsus- tained. In the great battle of life, underneath the Christian, are the Everlasting Arms. Sorrow is sent as a regenerator, and in the hour of anguish, angels who ministered to the Man of Sorrows, in the Garden of Gethsemane, hover around the frail ehild of mortality — whispering consolation, and holding out the crown of life, to stimulate his feeble efforts, and to lure him over earth's rugged paths to an eter- nal home. Several months passed away unmarked by any occurrence. St. Ledger sought in other lands — in change of scene — some alleviation of his misery, while Madehne, tried in the daily duties of hfe, in ministering to the wants and the happiness of others, to banish wild regrets, to subdue the vain, con- stant yearning for that happiness she had lost — or rather which she had sacrificed — on the altar of high religious principle. 128 MADEUNK BERS8F0RD. CHAPTER III. ilj ■t I t About a year after the events recorded in the last chap- ter, Lady Augusta Sinclair, who had been travelling in Italy, returned to the Abbey, accompanied, by a party of fashionable friends. This event occasioned much gratifica- tion to Blanche Beresford; to whom the retirement in which she had been lately living, was far from pleasing. Unhke Madeline, her disposition was gay, and her mind was now filled with glowing anticipations of the happiness she Bhould enjoy in the various scenes of festivity at the Abbey, with which she knew Lady Augusta would seek to amuse her guests. Immediately after her Ladyship's arrival, she issued numerous invitations for a ball. MadeUne determined to go, to gratify her sister. The ball night so anxiously expected by Blanche, at length arrived. It was late, and she was still engaged at her toilet, when Madeline, elegantly attired, entered her dressing-room. " Are you not yet dressed, Blanche?" she asked, advanc- ing towards her. "I will be ready in a few minutes, Madeline! but do a«- Ih Ml i li ICADKLnfl BinESFORD. 129 ;t chap- ling in jarty of ratifica- lent in leasing, indwas less she Abbey, > amuse ral, she rmined [che, at iged at ted her Idvanc- do aA- aist mo to wreath these pearls through my hair, in the s.-unr becoming stylo you have arranged yours. How did you contrive to complete your toilet in so short a time ?" " Simply because I had no particular object in drcpsin;^' for the ball, and therefore was not too anxious to look well. ' A servant now came to say the carriage was at the door, and as Blanche was at length dressed, they proceeded to tho drawing-room, where Colonel Montrose was waiting for them. " How delightful a life of fashionable gayety must be, when one ball can be a source of so much pleasure I" remark- ed Blanche. "It is the charm of novelty which makes it appear so fascinating," replied her sister; "were it not for that, it would not afford you so much enjoyment." "But this ball will be very delightful! there will be a crowded assembly; there are so many strangers at the Ab- bey, and all the officers from will attend it ! Dear MadeUne are you not dehghted ?" " I am happy since you feel so," she replied. *' Does she not look beautiful ?" said Madeline, playfully leading Blanche towards Colonel Montrose, as they entered the drawing-room. " From the length of time she has occupied in dressing, she ought to look irresistible," he said, smihng; " my pa- tience is completely exhausted. But she does look very well to-night," he continued, viewing her admiringly. " And my Madeline is more than usually charming. But it is time for us to go : we shall make our entrance before a crowded room, I am afraid." , 130 MADELINE BERESFORD. I i,m§ : W . ! 1 1 j- 1: i! 1 1 ! ^ ■ r ^ ' '1 ' [f ; 1 j 1 -^ ' P • : : ' 1 ■' ' i f 1 : i 1 : L 1 The Abbey was a few miles distant from Montrose House. Half an hour elapsed before they arrived there ; several carriages crowded the avenue, and it was some minutes be- fore Colonel Montrose's chariot was permitted to approach. As they entered the brilliantly-lighted hall, a beautiful Scotch reel was played in fine style, by a military band. Blanche could scarcely forbear stepping to the exhilerating music. " How delightful!" she exclaimed, as with a light step and sun-gilded thoughts, she ascended the stairs. The ball was well attended ; parties had come from every direction, and the scarlet uniform of the military gave a striking effect to the scene. As tht graceful and distin- guished figures of the Misses Beresford entered the ball-room, they attracted every eye ; while a hushed murmur of ap- plause ran through the gay throng. Among the strangers who requested an introduction to them was Lord Stanhope, a young English nobleman ; one of the visitors at the Ab , bey. He had been particularly struck with their appearance. Both he considered very beautiful, but Madeline he admired most : there was something uncommon in the nature of her attractions — an expression of subdued sorrow in her fine countenance that was deeply interesting. During the even- ing his attentions to her were very marked, and like a satel- lite, moving in the brightness of its particular planet, he seemed unable to leave the sphere of her attractions. Shortly after her entrance, Lord Stanhope requested the pleasure of dancing with Miss Beresford. She felt no in- clination to dance, but unvv'illing to appear singular, she compUed. Blanche was among the set which they joined. MADELINE BERESFORD. 131 Her partner was a very handsome young man — Sir Walter Douglas — who resided on a beautiful estate some miles from Loch Lomond, but who had been living on the continent for the last few years. Madeline thought she had never seen Blanche look so beautiful. There was such an expression of happiness and innocent gayety in her countenance, while the excitement of her spirits deepened the color on her cheek, and added an unusual brilliancy to her large blue eyes. After the dance was finished, Madeline complained of the heat, and expressed a wish to leave the ball-room, which was crowded to excess. She, therefore, proceeded into an adjoining room where some of the company were amusing themselves with cards. Lord Stanhope was pleased at the opportunity now offered him of enjoying Madeline's conversation — and he exerted all the powers of his brilliant mind to engage her attention. His Lordship was the only son of the Earl of Errington and Florence Walsingham; he was strikingly handsome, and bore a strong resemblance to his mother: he had seen much of the world — ^his conversation was amusing — and his manners were highly polished and insinuating. The card room opened on a balcony, looking out upon Loch Lomond, and almost overhanging its calm waters ; for the Abbey was situated on a wooded promontory that jut- ted far into the lake. It was a summer night, and finding the atmosphere of the brilliantly-lighted and crowded room rather oppressive, Madeline stepped out upon the balcony to breathe the cool night air, perfumed with the sweet odor of many flowers. From her empyrean throne the " Empress of the Night," resplendent in her borrowed light, was I, . III I t 1 'H i 1 1 1 1 1 I 1 1 132 MADELINE BEBE8F0RD. :;!! /! 1 , 1 f ! i : ! in 1 : J. i \ ir . i i ! ■ i. pouring her silvery effulgence over the exquisite landscape that stretched beneath, gleaming o'er the dark expanse of water, and marking out distinctly the huge outline of the lofty mountain that added its picturesque subHmity to the scene. " How romantic is the scenery of your home, Miss Beres- ford," observed Lord Stanhope, as he gazed admiringly around. " I have seen nothing grander than this in England — It is only in Switzerland and Italy, in the vicinity of the towering Alps, that you meet lakes with scenery to surpass it ; but the far-famed Lake of G-eneva — La Bella Maggiore — and enchanting Como, stand indeed unrivalled I" "Have you travelled much in foreign lands?" asked Madeline. " 1 have just returned from a tour through Europe, and part of Africa. I have looked upon the strange icy beauty of the Arctic regions — its trackless wastes robed in spotless snow — its cliffs hung with countless icicles, seeming, be- neath the intense light of the moon, like so many sparkling jewels. I have beheld the dazzHng spectacle of a midnight sun, and have passed days without being gladdened by his glorious rays. Again, I have watched his re-appearance when his nearness to the horizon made itself known by the soft orange tints that his approaching light flashed across the sky." " I have heard, that only those who have visited the frigid regions, can form any adequate idea of the wondrous sub- limity of the scenery," observed MadeHne. " It is so 1 there the beautiful phenomenon of the aurora boreahs is seen to perfection; there, too, the moon, during UADELINB BEBESFORD. 133 I frigid sub- kurora luring her long reign in the Arctic heavens, floods the frozen soli- tudes beneath, with a glorious light ; making the snow-white cliflfs and magnificent bergs appear like so many glittering:; piles of adamant." "How I should Hke to visit scenes of such strange beauty I" said MadeUne with enthusiasm. " I fear the Arctic regions are inaccessible to the tiny foot of woman!" observed Lord Stanhope smiling; "her deli- cate frame would sink in the icy grasp of the Frost King." " You said you traveled m Africa; did you visit the land of the Pharaohs?" " Yes ! I spent some time amid the stupendous monu- ments of Egypt ; visited its vast relics of antiquity. I stood among the gigantic ruins of " the city of a hundred gates " — I traversed the rock-hewn galleries of the catacombs, in which the embalmed dead have reposed for centuries ; I climbed th.. Pyramids, and viewed from their top the plain of the Nile, green with luxuriant vegetation — I crossed the Sahara, enjoyed its oases ; sat beneath its palm-trees, and drank from its desert-springs, water of delicious coolness." " Having seen Nature in her robe of dazzUng snow, and sparkling decorations of hoar frost and ice gems, what a con- trast she must have presented in her southern garb robed in emereld, garlanded with fragrant flowers and crowned with dehcious fruits. In which of her homes did she please you most ?" asked Madehne. "Her southern aspect was very inviting; still, I admired her most in her ice-bound dwelUng ; probably because her appearance there presented such a rare character of beauty. During my journeyinga in Egypt"— continued Lord Stan- w I; ; i !|1:| I I I Ul ,1 I i HI i 134 lODELlNS BBRESFORD. hope, after a short pause — " I travelled with a very pleasant party — a rich old Hebrew and his beautiful daughter, and the Honorable Sherwood St. Ledger." That magic name 1 how the unexpected mention of it brought the rich color to the cheek of Madeline, and made her heart throb with sudden emotion. " Have you ever seen a beautiful Jewess, Miss Beresford? if you have not you can form no idea of the matchless charms of that dark-eyed daughter of Israel." " It must have been very pleasant to have such a lovely compagne de voyage" — observed Madeline, with a quiet smile. " It would have been perfectly delightful if the whole at- tention of the superb creature had not been monopohzedby St. Ledger. The lucky fellow, how I envied him ; his ef- forts to captivate her were completely successful ; she re- garded him, I believe, in the light of a demi-god, and he seemed entirely devoted to her." A jealous pang shot, with acute pain, across the heart of Madeline ; and a feeling of desertion rolled in upon her mind with intense bitterness. Did Lord Stanhope know that his words, so lightly spoken, fell on the ear of the young ^1 at his side Hke the death-knell of hope ? Still, she was calm ; pride in the heart of woman is mighty to subdue outward emotion. " St Ledger was seized with a sudden desire to study Hebrew "—continued Lord Stanhope — " and the bewitch- ing Miriam offered to become his teacher. She was very learned and aocomphshed. Some hours of every day were devoted to study. St Ledger progressed rapidly, but At the ICAOELIirE BERESFORO. 135 ;>lea8ant ;er, and >n of it d made esford ? ^tchless i lovely a quiet hole at- lizedby his ef- she re- and he leart of on her know young lie was ubdue study s^ritch- very were at the same time that he was acquiring a knowledge of the ancient sacred tongue, his eloquent eyes were teaching his beauti- ful mistress a language less difficult to be understood." " What was the name of this fascinating Jewess ?" asked Madeline, with forced calmness. " Miriam de Rosenberg: her father was a German Jew — a man of vast wealth; he and his daughter v;ere both Christians — lately converted, I understood" " Did they return with you to Europe ?" " Yes, we crossed the blue waters of the Mediterranean together, and visited the classic land of Greece ; there I bade them adieu, and travelled northward through Russia. I felt it was dangerous to remain ; I could no longer guard my heart against the witcheries of that enchanting daughter of Zion. I am particularly susceptible to the influence of dark eyes and ebon tresses. With Byron I admire exceed- ingly ' the light of a dark eye in woman I' " The voice of Lady Augusta Sinclair was now heard. " Miss Beresford I where is Miss Beresford ?" she asked, and the next minute, advancing from the card-room, she stood upon the balcony. " I have been sent in search of you, Madeline. I missed you and Lord Stanhope from the ball-room, but I am glad to find you so pleasantly occupied; talking sentiment in the bright moon light. I regret to interrupt your tete-a-tetc but I come commissioned to solicit a favor. Some friends await Miss Beresford in the music room, hoping to have the exquisite gratification of hearing her sing. The five Misses Macgregor, and the innumerable Misses Macintosh, have successively exerted themselves to amuse the company: 136 MADILINB BERESrORD. :'•! I! iin ■Si 'ri : I f' i I .iii :ii they have done their part — they have sung their last song, and played their very last polka, and now Miss Beresford it is your turn to charm the listening ear; you will not refuse — you cannot be so cruel 1" Lord Stanhope joined his «olicitations to those of their fair hostess, and Madeline complying unwillingly, accompanied them to the music room. A. select few were there expecting her, and they greeted her . with a smile of welcome. Seating herself at a harp, with blushing dignity — for she felt she was the centre of attraction — she asked what song they wished her to sing. The t)ne selected was a favorite of Sherwood St. Ledger's. The last time she had sung, it was for him — he was leaning fondly over the instrument — his fine eyes fixed on her with passionate admiration. That look haunted her now ; scenes of lost happiness came up before her, and a momentary ex- pression of anguish flitted across her intellectual face. But mastering this emotion, she drove back the agony of vain regret, and called pride to her aid ; remembering that she had just heard he had forgotten her — given his heart's homage to another. Madeline's voice was exquisite — it had been highly cultivated ; and there was now a thrilling sad- ness in its fine tones that made it peculiarly fascinating. The guests listened with deep attention, and many in low tones expressed their admiration. But their murmured compliments fell coldly on the ear of Madeline ; her thoughts ware far from the present scene — they were with St. Ledger. Colonel Montrose was among the company in the music room. He had heard that Lord Stanhope was the son of MADBLINE BEFRSORD. 137 the Earl of Errington, and he felt his heart drawn irresistibly towards the child of Florence Walsingham. His Lordship's resemblance to his mother struck him forcibly; he thought that the eyes of his youth's idol looked upon him once more, when he encountered the gaze of the young nobleman. He engaged him in conversation — seemed to think very highly of his understanding, and expressed the pleasure he would feel in seeing him a frequent visitor at Montrose House — an invitation which evidently gave Lord Stanhope much gratification. For the remainder of the night Madeline supported a cheerfulness she did not feel; and exerted herself- to conceal the bitterness of feeling which the information relative to St. Ledger had occasioned. It was with much pleasure she saw the guests at length begin to depart, and heard her un- cle's carriage announced. During the drive home the silent abstraction of her manner, contrasted with the gayety of Blanche. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, she declared herself unwearied, and exclaimed against the folly of leaving so early. " Do you call tliree hours after midnight early?" asked Colonel Montrose, smiling. " You must have spent a very pleasant evening to be so unconscious of the flight of time. I am glad to see you enjoy your first ball so much; it is not always attended by unmixed enjoyment." " The evening was indeed deUghtful !" exclaimed Blanche with enthusiasm — " the music, the dancing, the gaily-dressed crowd — all made it to me a scene of intense enjoyment." *' Which of all your numerous partners in the mazy danc6 pleased you most ? was it that handsome officer in HighlaDd 138 lUDILUnS BKRESFORD. ii< !i i :ti; ki ' ^ " r. 1 1 ;. 'i 1 uniform, or the young laird of Strathmay, Sir Walter Doug- las? both seemed particularly attentive, but I imagined I saw a slight preference in your manner for your old friend Sir Walter." "I felt glad to see him again," said Blanche, with a little embarrassment "You know how intimate he was at Montrose House before he went to Italy." " Yes, and I fancy he will again become a frequent visi- tor there " — observed Colonel Montrose, with a smile of peculiar expression. " That Lord Stanhope is a very fine young man — do you not think so, Madeline ?" he continued, abruptly addressing her. "He is handsome and seems intellectual" — she coldly replied. " Seems intellectual !" repeated Colonel Montrose. "Lord Stanhope certainly possesses a brilliant mind, and having travelled much, his conversation is highly entertaining. He was, I think, the Adonis of the ball-room ; did you not ad- mire his splendid eyes ? they were so luminous, yet so full of softness." Blanche laughed. " Why uncle you seem to admire him excessively; if you were a lady I should say that such rapturous admiration was suspicious ; it could not exist with- out love." , Blanche did not know the secret cause of her uncle's pre- ference for the young nobleman. The carriage had now reached home and Madeline gladly retired to her own apartment. There, in secrecy and un- observed, she indulged that grief which she had suppressed during the evening. That Sherwood St. Ledger had forgot- MADELINE BERESTOltD. 139 ten her — that she was no longer loved, was an idea fraught with intense bitterness. She felt as if this trial were more severe than their separation. In all her misery, her heart had clung for consolation to the thought that his affection for her was unchanged ; while in the secret recess of her heart had lingered the faint hope that one day Sherwood would see the error of his infidel views — that her constant intercessions for him would be answered. Now that hope was wrecked — the stay of her spirit was rudely broken. Fond memories of past happiness came back with fearful power. Agonizing regrets for the love she had lost, nished like a torrent over her. For a time she seemed over- whelmed by earthly sorrow, but this state of feehngdidnot continue. She knelt and supplicated God to bend her will to His — to enable her to drain her cup of suffering. Resig- nation, with meek sad eye, drew near her bowed form ; she lifted the cross whose weight was crushing her, and helped her to sustain it. She arose, strengthened,— calm, yet very sorrowfuL uo MAOSLIlfl BIRESrORD. CHAPTER IV. Since the evening of the ball, Lord Stanhope and Sir "Walter Douglas became constant visitors at Montrose House. The attentions of liis Lordship to Miss Bores ford, were very particular ; but she received them coldly — her heart was yet filled with the image of another. Still, Lord Stanhope persevered ; he saw that Colonel Montrose desired his al- liance, and he hoped in time, to conquer MadeUne's indiffer- ence. Love is ever full of ghttering hope. Sir Walter Douglas became much attached to Blanche Beresford, and having the happiness to engage her affections, he made her an offer of his hand and was accepted. Shortly after their mavriage, Blanche proposed taking MadeUne to Italy. She hoped that change of scene would eventually remove the gloom that had settled over her mind — that was shadowing her young Hfe. Colonel Montrose gladly agreed to the proposal, and Madehne, making no objection, Lady Douglas hastened the preparations for their departure. The Alps ! the sky-piercing Alps ! with what mingled •ensations of wonder and dehght, did Madeline and Blanch© gaze upon their towering summits, as, having travelled MADELINE BERESFORD. 141 through " La Belle France," they approached the base of that chain of these stupendous mountains, which separate France from Italy. The road over the Alps wliich they in- . tended to pursue, was the passage across Mount Cenis. As they ascended, the scenery opened into increasing wildness and sublimity. On either side rose the snow-robed sum- mits in majestic beauty. In many places the sides of the mountains were clothed with dense forests of pine and fir, which, owing to the hovering clouds, exhibited an exquisite variety of hght and shade. Some of them seemed formed of stupendous masses of bare rock, piled one above another as if by a Titan's hand ; and rising in abrupt and savage grandeur. Down these precipitous heights wild torrents rushed, dashing from cliff to chff in picturesque cascades ; sometimes lost to view in a labyrinth of tangled fohage in the depths below ; but more frequently foaming and strug- gUng over the rocky bed of some deep defile. In the dis- tance appeared the sparkUng pyramids of Chamouni, and towering far above the whole Alpine range — in lonely majesty — ^was seen the snow-clad glittering summit of Mont Blanc; appearing to the imaginative Madeline hke the crystal battlement of Heaven, whence the celestial messen- gers might rest and view this lower world. The travellers proceeded slowly, and frequently rested to view the marvellous scenery around them. Then, while Lady Douglas amused herself gathering the dark auricula, blue campanella, gentian, and Alpine rose, which grew in profusion around — Madeline was employed sketching the most striking features of the varied scene. At one time it would be a quiet hamlet resting in the shadow of a gigan- 1^ 1; r'i 'I* IW 1' 142 If ADELINI BERESrORD. tic height ; or a vine-clad cottage embowered in trees, in some secluded valley. Again, a ruined tower crowning an unbroken range of cliffs, apparently guarding the ruda mountain pass, would catch her artistic eye ; or it might be a rustic bridge, spanning a frightful chasm ; or an ancient monastery placed on the brow of a tiee-clad eminence. It was here that nature reigned in majesty, and from the con- templation of her varied works, the spiritual mind of Made- line rose in adoring admiration to the great Architect, whose Almighty hand had clothed her in a garb of such sublime beauty. The day had been oppressively sultry, and towards even- fng some dark thunder-clouds wrapping the lesser peaks in ;nisty drapery, portended an approaching storm. Blanche was much alarmed — she knew the danger from lightning in tiieir elevated situation, and she entreated the guide to con- duct them to some place of shelter, before the storm burst upon them. " Yonder is a small chapel, perched upon that naked cliff," observed the guide ; " it is the nearest building, and by passing along the ledge-path of this precipice, we can reach it in about twenty minutes." The path was dangerous, yet in order to escape a drench- ing shower, which threatened to fall every minute, the tra ' vellers proceeded in the direction of the lonely chapel. They had scarcely reached its sheltering roof, when the storm broke forth in awful grandeur. The intensely-brilliant flashes of the lightning terrified Lady Douglas, and hiding her facd on her husband's shoulder, and encircled by his pro- yiDCLIin BIRISrORD. 143 tccting arm, she listened sliudderingly to the terrific peals of the thunder. Madeline, unawcd — for the perfect lovo of God which filled her heart, cast out every other fear — gazed upon the red lightning, and listened to the " artillery of Heaven," as its multiplied reverberations bounded from height to height, the sound continually renewed by the answering echoes from the surrounding vales. She seemed to feel nearer heaven — nearer the unseen spiritual world, as she stood upon those mighty Alps, listening as it were to the glorious voice of God himself speaking in the loud thunder. For the moment, her trials were forgotten — her soul was raised above all sublunary things, and for the time she held com- munion with her Maker, rejoicing in the thought that among all the surrounding glories of His creating, she was not overlooked — she could claim this Almighty Being for her guardian and Father, for ever. The violence of the storm at length exhausted itself, and the rain poured in such torrents that the little party con- gratulated one another that they were sheltered from its fury. Gradually the threatening clouds dispersed; the mists gathered themselves up from the mountains' brows, and rolled away on the cooling breeze. The atmosphere was now delightfully pure, and the sweet fragrance of countless wild flowers came up from the valleys below. The sun was rapidly descending the western sky, and his reful- gent beams were flooding the Alps with a gorgeous light. At length, resting his broad disk on a lofty pinnacle, sunset wrapt the magnificent prospect in glowing beauty. The immense glaciers and snowy peaks were bathed in a 144 MADELINE BSRESFORD. golden radiance; afterwards, as the bright orb sunk lower, a pale pink tint, its hue deepening rapidly, diffused itself over the broad expanse of everlasting snow. The travel- lers, leaving their picturesque retreat during the thunder storm, regained the pubHc road and re-commenced the toilsome ascent of the mountains, anxious to reach the lit- tle viilajre of at the foot of the summit of Mount Cenis, where they intended to pass the night. They were yet a considerable distance from the village, for the delay of the storm and the leisurely manner in which they had tra- velled during the day, had prevented their making much progress. Even now they lingered frequently to view the new and enchanting forms of beauty which the scenery as- sumed, in the soft twilight hour. The grey vapours of evening hovered about the loftiest peaks ; these gradually creeping down their sides flung their shadowy drapery over rude chfifs and dense forests, and picturesque village, and secluded dwelling, and silvery cascades. A deep tranquiUty reigned in this elevated region; the silence was unbroken, save by the sweet chimes of a vesper-bell from some se- questered convent, or the spirit-stirring sound of ajhunter's horn, re-echoing from cHff to cliff, and dying away in sweet intonations in the far-off glens. At length, as the twilight deepened, all that remained visible was the giant outUne of the mountains, marked out dimly as they rose, spectral-like, around. Unwilling to proceed on the journey while night veiled the dangerous way, Blanche now stopping her uncle, de- clared she could proceed no further, and asked if there was no dwelling nearer than the village of . MADELINE BERESFORD. 145 " Close by, in that glen below, there is the Convent of St. Ursula," replied the guide. The travellers looked in ih direction in which he pointed, and ]jerc.el\'ed the dim outline of a large structure, whicli the darkness had before liid from their view. "Do they admit travellers to spend the night ?" enquired Sir Walter Douglas. ^' Sometimes, especially ladies, when they arc benighted." " But I dare not descend into that deep vale without light to enable me to see the way," urged the timid Blanche. "We can wait for the moon, dearest," observed Sir Walter; "we can seat ourselves on these low rocks, and wait the approach of night's lonely watcher." " Oh that is a good idea — we shall then see the glorious Alps by moonlight ! Would you not like it, Madeline?" " It will be a sight worth waiting for, although Ave shall have a long watch; the moon does not rise till late." " Not for an hour " — observed the guide. " If the ladies wish, I can procure lanterns from the Convent to light the steep descent into the glen." " Oh no !" interrupted Blanche — " we can wait very com- fortably here, we wish to enjoy this grand scenery by moon- light. Perhaps," she added, after a moment's pause, " you can tell us some mountain legend, or some story about ban- ditti, to while away the time." The guide, who was an old man, possessing intelligence and education above his rank in life, looked gratified at this request, and after a few minutes' silence he related the fol- lowing adventure, in which he had himself borne an active part. 146 MADELINE BERESFORD. i ■■^} ''Half way up the mountains you must have observed the massive ruins of an old chateau, placed upon a range of cliffs overlooking a deep defile, and sheltered from behind by a pine-grove. Many years ago it was the summer resi- dence of a French Baron, but when it fell into decay, the family deserted it, and for some time it remained untenant- ed. At last an old couple and their two sons took up their abode there, and seemed to have no other occupation but tlxat of shepherds, tending a small flock on the mountains. They were Italians, from the other side of Mont Cenis, and speaking a different language they had no intercourse with the people of the neighboring hamlets. The whole family were ill-iooking and disaj^reeable, shunning and be- ing shunned, by every one. I was then a youth, gaining my living by guiding travellers over these mountains. Tra- velling was not at that time so much the fashion, or so con- venient as it is now. One day I was engaged as guide to a small party of travellers crossing from Italy into France. I then lived on the ItaHan side of Mont Cenis — being a Piedmontese by birth. The party consisted of an elderly gentleman, his son and daughter — all Italians — and a young "English gentleman who was travelhng with them. Dark- ness overtook us w^hen we had descended the mountains half way, and as night closed in, a terrible thunder storm broke fiercely over our heads. It was ci e of the worst I ever witnessed; the thunder-crash was awful, and the light- ning blazed without ceasing. The travellers eagerly asked if shelter for the night could be obtained in some neighbor- ing dwelling. Right above us, frowned darkly, the ancient 4chateau I have mentioned ; I pointed it out to them, and MADCUNE BERESFORD. 147 said it was the only abode, until we reached the base of the mountain. " ' Conduct us thither,' quickly said the old Signor Al- berti ; ' the hghtning is blinding, and now the rain begins to pour.' I gladly obeyed, and climbing the steep, zig-zag path, leading to the chateau, we at last stood before its low- arched entrance. It seemed uninhabited, for not a light gleamed in the building. Sounding the rude horn which hung in the ruined portal, its echoes were for some time the only answering sound. At last the opening of a narrow casement above the entrance, made us look up, and by the glare of the Hghtning, the grim figure of Stefano, the old man who occupied the building, was seen. " ' What do you want.?' he gruffly asked. *• ' A pretty question to ask such a night as this,' replied the Englishman indignantly. * You hear the storm rage, and you see a party of benighted travellers, therefore you can easily understand what we require at your hands — shelter till the storm ceases, or rather till the night is past, when daylight will again enable us to pursue our journey. "* You shall have it,' coldly replied the old man, as he •disappeared from the casement. "Ten minutes passed before we saw any tiling more of him, during which time not a few curses were showered on his head, for the rain was drenching. Suddenly we heard the bolts of the massive door witlidrawn. Slowly it swung aside, creaking on its rusty hinges, and Stefano, holding a lantern in his hand, bade us enter. We found ourselves in a long vaulted passage, along which we followed our host. At the end an arched door opened into a large hall, Hghted rf ;■• t 1.1 ri :t hi u I ill I mlV ''II' 'is i m\\\ 148 MADELINE BERESFORD. by an iron lamp suspended from the ceiling. A blazing fire of pine-logs burned at one end, sending a cheerful glow around ; at the other extremity was a partly-broken stair- case, leading to a corridor which overlooked the hall. A table was spread with some coarse brown bread, goats' milk, fruit and a flagon of good wine. How it came into the old man's possession was then a mystery to me. I had always supposed him miserably poor, but there was an ap- pearance of comfort in the dwelUng very unaccountable to me. " Taking off her wet travelling cloak, the Signora Monica — for such was the young lady's name — drew near the com- fortable fire,for the rain and cold mountain air had chilled her. She was, I must say, one of the most beautiful of my beautiful countrywomen ; and the young handsome foreigner seemed to think so too, if I might judge from the many glances of admiration he stole towards her. After they had partaken of a frugal supper, Signer Alberti inquired if there was a room where his daughter could spend the night. Stefano answered yes, and that each gentleman could also be ac- commodated with a bed chamber if he wished. In answer to my look of surprise at this information, he observed that benighted travellers some times stopped at the chateau, and on that account he had provided some plain accommodation for them. Although poor, it was as good as he could afford, and the travellers did not complain of it — they generally slept soundly. I fancied I could detect a sinister look in his eye at this remark, and my suspicions were a little awakened^ Still they were merely suspicions. Signer Alberti imme- diately accepted the offer of a bed-room for himself, for hig I;. MADELINE BERESFORD. 149 journey had tired him ; but his son and the Englishman said they would sit up later — they did not feel inclined to sleep at present. Calling to his wife — who was sitting near one corner of the fire-place attentively watching the party — Stefano told her to conduct the Signer and Signora to their apartments. An inteUigent glance passed between the old couple, which I observed, and my suspicions became more aroused. Taking up a light, the old woman proceeded up the ruined stair-case, followed by the gentleman and his daughter. I watched them as they entered the corridor above and saw them stop at separate rooms, then both dis- appeared as the door closed on them, and the old woman slowly returned to her former seat near the fire. Towards midnight all was silent in the chateau ; the young Signer and the Englishman had retired to their rooms, and I was alone in a small chamber overlooking the portal. I had not gone to bed, for an unaccountable fear made me watchful. It was just at this hour that the blast of the horn at the gate sounded startlingly in the stillness of the night. I quickly approached the casement to reconnoitre. The storm had swept past, and now the moon was high overhead, shedding a bright hght around. In the shadow of the por- tal beneath, I saw five bandit-looking fellows in the dress of hunters, two of whom I rtcognized as sons of our host. At this moment some stealthy steps in the corridor outside my room, caught my ear. Noiselessly I opened my door and peered into the gallery. By the dim light of the lamp from the hall below I saw the old woman treading cau- tiously along, as if afraid of being heard. As I was watch- ing her movements a door opened near me, and issuing from 150 MADELINB BERESFORD. |ii„ii, Signer Alberti's room Stefano appeared — a stiletto gleaming' in his hand. As he followed his wife along the corridor I stole into the Signer's chamber, dreading the worst. I was not mistaken. One glance showed me the murdered form of the old gentleman lying on his bed ; he had been stab- bed when asleep, and his soul had passed away in a stato of happy unconsciousness. Seizing my pistols, with a quick, stealthy step, I followed Stefano. The old villain was de- scending the stairs as I reached the top. A m.oment after- wards and his Hfeless body rolled into the hall below f&n unerring shot from my hand had reached his heart. Again the horn at the gate sounded impatiently. Hurrying across the hall I saw the old woman. She was hastening to ad- mit the newly-arrived party. To seize her, drag her into one of the rooms and lock the door, was the work of a minute, then quickly ascending the stairs and re-entering my chamber, I opened the casement and roughly asked the banditti what they wanted. One of Stefano's sons indig- nantly asked who I was, and by what right I kept them out of their own dwelling. " ' Your villainy is found out,' I answered. ' Stefano the murderer has himself been murdered, and you will shara the same fate if you venture to enter here.* I then hastily closed the casement. "Talking loudly, they left the portal, and disappeared down the steep path, leading from the chateau. " I congratulated myself on gettingridof them so easily^ then went to rouse young Albert! and the Englishman. Tha tale of horror I communicated seemed to freeze their blood.* " 'Is Signora Monica safe ?' was the first thought of the MADELINE BERE8F0RD. 151 Englishman. I answered hesitatingly, I did not know ; for just then it struck me that it was from the door of her room tho old woman was moving when I first saw her. Rushing to the door of his sister's chamber, young Albcrti knocked loudly and called upon her name, but no answer was re- turned. Frantically he burst it open and entered. At his cry of horror we followed. The beautiful yoimg lady had shared the same fate as her father — her slender throat was cut from ear to ear, and she presented a ghastly spectacle in. the pale moonlight. The grief of her brother was frantic. " 'Who did this?' he asked savagely turning to mo. I communicated my suspicions about tho old woman. ' Lrau me to her,' he said — his eyes glowing with fierce rage. The young Englishman expostulated with him ; for although deeply grieved at the Signora's death, yet he shrank from shedding the blood of an old woman. " ' It matters not,' hissed Alberti through his closed teeth — ' she is a fiend, and deserves to die ; my sister's blood shall be avenged ; neither her age nor sex shall save her.' We found the old woman cowering with terror in a corner of the room, into which I had shut her. She confessed her- self guilty of Signora Monica's death ; but implored mercy. To plunge his stiletto into her heart, was the only answer vouchsafed by Alberti. lie then stood watching, with savage joy, her wild despair, as she struggled in tho death- agony. The murder of his father and sister had maddened the young man. I turned shudderingly away, and followed the Englishman into the hall, which he was gloomily pacing. " ' Do you think the rest of the banditti will return ?' hQ Asked, abruptly addressing me. ^"^.ffT i n W^ I li 5 ■ : 1^ 152 MADELINE BERESFORD. " 'Very likely, but unless they know of some secret en- trance they cannot enter the chateau.' As I spoke a noise like the distant shutting of a door caught my ear. " * They will soon be upon us !' I said with much excite- ment; ' there is doubtless some subterranean passage known only to them.' " * Let us ascend to the corridor above ' — suggested the Englishman. * From that position we can command the hall, and have an advantage over them.' Calling to young Alberti to follow us, we mounted the stair-case, and hastily collected our fire-arms. Then leaning over the balustrades we watched the approach of our foe. It was a moment of intense oxcitement, but we were not long kept in suspense. Soon a dusky form was seen entering noiselessly through a door at the extreme end of the hall. Another, and another followed, tiU the five brigands, who had lately demanded ad- mittance, appeared before us. A moment afterwards, and two of them were stretched wounded and helpless on the flagged pavement of the hall. Uttering a cry of vengeance the other banditti fired in return, but fortunately without effect. Again the Enghshman fired, and another bandit was the victim. With fierce curses the two remaining rob- bers dragged their wounded companions from the hall, and disappeared through the secret door. Dashing impetuously down the stairs, the Englishman hurried across the hall and tried to find the private entrance; but without success — ^he could not discover the secret spring. He was therefore re- luctantly obliged to give up the pursuit. Through the re- maining hours of that fearful night we kept a constant "vvatch, but were not ^gaip disturbed, Th« gray dawn was MADELINE BERESFORD. 153 A welcome sight, as it broke through the antique windows of the chateau. As soon as the sun was up, I proceeded to the neighboring village and informed some gens d'arraes of what had occurred. They removed and buried the dead bodies of Stefano and his wife. Signer Alberti and his daughter were interred in the vault of the Convent of Santa Ursula, where you will pass the night. Since that time the old chateau has remained uninhabited." \''\ \t (' • i llin Mu I 154 MADBLIKX BERI8F0IID. CHAPTER V. The travellers listened with interest to the guide's bandit adventure, and at the request of Lady Douglas, he relateiil another similar story, communicated to liim by his grand- father. He was just concluding his tale of horror, winding up with a midnight massacre, when the brilliant orb the party waited for was seen, peering above the brow of a giant Alp ; looking down upon the scene before she flung her radiant mantle over it. For half an hour the travellers watched her course, as she moved in glory upward, chang- ing, as with a magic touch, the various features of the scene — and giving her own soft, refulgent beauty, to the stupen- dous mountains. The Convent of Santa Ursula was now distinctly visible, for the moon was lighting up the glen in which it stood ; gleaming on its antique turrets and Gothic windows. Carefully the party descended the winding pre- cipitous way leading to it, which was partly shaded by over- hanging trees, the tracery of whose foliage the rays of the moon cast upon the rocky pathway they canopied. At length the travellers stood before the Convent gate. In its secluded situation, with the majestic Alps towering MADKLIirC BEFRSORD. 155 above, it seemed shut in from the world which its inmates had sworn to renounce. The sound of the portal bell broke upon the solemn stillness of the mountains — starthng innu- merable echoes from the adjacent hei : i' 1 5S - , , 1 'J ' ' ' ' f' GRACE RAYMOND, — OR — THE SLAVE'S REVENGE. 4t» CHAPTER I. Late in the spring of 1810, a large American brig, freighted with emigrants, left the port of G , on the western coast of Ireland, and put to sea with a favorable but freshening breeze. Groups of passengers were on deck, conversing in saddened accents as they mournfully regarded the well- known scenes along the shore so rapidly receding, as the brig buoyantly rode over the bounding waters. Apart from the rest — and distinguished from them by a certain air of refinement, notwithstanding the plainneBS of f7' ! *''^ i •! r 180 GRACE RAYMOND. her attire — sat a younj:^ and sippjularly beautiful girl, of, it might be, twenty summers. On the bold outline of roek- bound coast her '^'lze was also riveted. Her eves were tear- leas, but there was in their dark depths a subdued expres- sion of sorrow, very touching' in one so young. The homo of her youth — her native land — she was leaving for ever. Bright scenes of other days passed raj)idly before her men- tal vision. Loved forms of severed friends crowded the chambers of memory. Each moment the shade of sorrow deepened on the brow of the young girl, and her eye woro- a yet sadder expression, as tluj outlin(;of her beloved coun- try became more and more indistinct in the increasing dis- tance. A voice near, at length roused her from her sad revery. An elderly gentleman, who, from his strong resemblance to her, was evidently her father, stood on the upper step of the companion-ladder. "Grace, dearest, you must come below, it blows a gale, and a longer continuance on deck must be uncomfortable,'* The vessel did heave considerably, and Grace had for some time felt its motion impleasant. She now rose to comply with her father's wishes and her eye, resting on the angry ocean, she became immoveable, gazing with mingled emo- tions of awe and delight on the sublime spectacle around her, which, wrapt up in her sad thoughts, she had not be- fore noticed. Far as the eye could reach appeared the waters of the Atlantic, roused from slumbering in unfathom- able recesses, and rushing onward in the glory of their might, they seemed about to overwhelm the distant land with desolation, apparently unmindful of the august decree GRACE RAYMOND. 181 of Him wlio has said : " Hitherto shalt thou come and no further, and here shall tliy proud waves be stayed." Nothinpf amid the varied works of creation is capable of exciting in tlie human mind such emotions as the tameless ocean calls forth ! JIow f;lorious it is in tlii! suns(;t hour, when the de{)arting Day-God Hoods with crimson light its restless waters! And it is beautiful when the full-orbed moon, thica ling the ethereal depths, flings a stream of sil- ver radiance athwart its dark expanse; but how sublime a sight is the wide Atlanlie when resistless hurricane over its mighty bosom lushcs — tlien in majesty it proclaims itself the weak symbol of Onmijxjtc'uee ! Such were tlie thoughts tliat [)ass(Hl through the mind of Grace Raymond, as slie beheld, for the first time, a storm at sea; and she retired to her cabin deeply realizing the infinite power of that Divine Being, who, by IIisomni[)otent word, created the great deep, and holds its raging billows " in the hollow of his hand." In earnest prayer she corrmiitted her- self and fellow-passengers to His Almighty care; and then resting securely in the sliadow of His protection, she re- mained calm amid surrounding dangers. For some days iho. gale continued, though after the first twelve hours its violence considerably abated. However, as the wind was favorabU?, the passengers were consoled by the assurance, thattlni brig was rapidly nearing its destina- tion. The voynge was unusually prosperous, and in about twenty days from the time they lost sight of the Emerald Isle, the blue hazy outline of the American continent ap- peared on the distant hori/.on. The shadows of night yet mingled with the grey gi idsr ORAOI fUTMOlCD. dawn, when the brig, with its cargo of human beings, en- tered the bay of New York. Even at that early hour, some of the passengers were on deck, all eager to boliold that Now World which had so long been to them the Land of Promise — the El Dorado where their future lives were to be spent in exemption from care and sorrow. Alas ! that such visions are so seldom realized. Gradually the sun appearing above the eastern horizon, dispersed the mists of twilight, and gave his own gorgeous coloring to the scone ; revealing to the emigrant's delighted eye, the rich and beautiful scenery along the shore, as the vessel glided steadily onward. At length the voyage was ended, the brig was moored in safety, and amid the bustle and confusion of disembarkation, the passengers landed in New York. ORAOB RATMOIID. 18S 0HAPTER 11. Night's starless drapery hung gloomily over the Empire city, enshrouding those magnificent piles of modern archi- tecture, "which are to be seen rising within the precincts of this great western metropolis. Suddenly upon the raid- night air rung out a startling peal, and the appalling cry of "Fire! fire!" resounded through the silent streets. A large hotel, in a densely-populated part of the city, was in flames. The fire had been burning for some time internally before it was observed, and now, having attained a fearful height, it was seen bursting through the lower windows of the extensive building. Brightly into the darkened sky shot up the crimson light, shedding a fitful brilliancy upon sur- rounding objects, and casting a lurid glare on the tall spires of the numerous churches which loomed up in the distance. In an upper story of that burning edifice, Grace Raymond slept her first sleep in the New World. The noise of the fire engines and the outcry in the street at length roused her from her slumber. The brilliant light that dazzled her opening eyes, made her instantly aware of her danger. Springing firom her bed, sha hastily dressed herself. She ^ -^^^-^y^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) &^ ^/ A.^ /. e ^ ^ II I.I 11.25 ■^ Kiii 12.2 1.4 11.6 V] / 'V>^..^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) S72-4S03 4^ }■ 184 GRACE RAYMOND. I> J ''I f 't m ' then sought hor father's apartment, which she knew was at the end of the long passage in wliichher room was situated. The doors of several chambers were open, but their occu- pants had fled. Already clouds of smoke, rushing up from the fire below, rendered respiration somewhat difficult. Hurriedly Grace knocked at the door of her father's room, and called loudly on his name, but no answer came to her repeated cries. In an ngony of terror she threw her slight form against the door, vainly hoping that her feeble strength might ellect an entrance. "Father! father, wake! the house is in flames! escape will soon be impos- sible," she shrieked wildly, beating the door with her del- icate hands. Still no voice cheered her in reply — no sound stirred within the apartment. At this moment a step was heard rapidly advancing alonj the passage; the next instant a manly form stood beside her. One glance showed the distracted girl the handsome and prepossessing countenance of a young man whom she liad seen in the drawing-room of the hotel — witii whomher father had freely conversed during the evening; and whoso evident admiration of herself had not escaped her notice. When aroused from sleep by the cry of fire, Mr. Carring- ton's first thought had been about the beautiful foreigner, in whose fate he felt no little interest. Hurriedly through the few apartments yet untouched by the flames he had vainly sought her, when, catching the sound of her frenzied ac- cents as she pronounced her father's name, he hastened to lier side. Dashing himself against the door, he soon burst it open, and Grace at length stood within her father's room. Mr. Raymond had not retired to bed, he was still seated GRACE RAYMOND. 185 v/ was at situated. L'ir occu- up from diHicult. ' father's » answer slie threw that her r! father, le impos- L her del- -no sound ling alonfj id besido landsoiRO horn she (vhomher nd whoso r notice. Carring- eigner, in ough the ad vainly [izied ac- tened to )on burst r's room. ill seated Rt a table with an open bible bi'forc him. Ili.^ eyes were closed, liis head recHiicd on his breat^t, and his daughter thouglit he slept. " Wake, futhor dear! oh rouso yourself quickly or wo are lost!" slie exclaimed, sprinj^nug towards him and catch- ing his liand, which hung listlessly at his side. Its icy touch chilled her, and slie ullcied an exclamation of horror. Ono glance at the ghastly countenance, distinctly seen in the fire-light, showed Carrin^iiton that tli(> Anp'tl of Death had been there. lie placed his hand on the piile brow, it was rigid and cold as marble; he Celt Cor the pulsation of the heart, it was stilled for ever. "He is dead!" ho said solemnly. As these words, confirming her own fears, Tell upon the bereaved daui;hter's ear, with a cry ofauony she threw her- self beside the corpse, then sunk into inscnsihility. In tliia state she was Ixji-ne (riMu the aj)artment by her companion, who felt, that a lonucr continuance there woulil only endan- ger her safety and his own. Their danger had now become imminent, indeed. Dense volumes of smoke filled the passage, and the stair-case com- municating with the lower apartments was in flames, making escape in that way imi)ossible. Slight seemed any chance of avoiding the dreadful fate which threatened them. Al- ready other [larts of the buiMing had fallen in, leaving tho walls alone standing; and ea(.'h moment Carrin;;lon feared that the floor on which he trod would sink beneath his feet, and precipitate himself and liis senseless coni[)aniou into tho burning mass beneath. His only hope lay in procuring aid from without. To rush across the passage into one of the 18G GRAOB RAnfOHD. vacant rooms situated in the front part of the edifice, and throw open the window to escape suffocation by the admis- sion of fresh air, was the work of an instant ; then shout- ing loudly, he endeavored to attract the attention of the crowd below. Two or three fire companies filled the street: these perceiving it impossible to save the hotel, were en- deavoring to stay the fire by pouring water on the adjoining buildings. A few minutes elapsed before he was observed, And to Carrington these minutes seemed so many hours. At length he caught the eye of an elderly gentleman who was standing on the steps of a house opposite, and who di- rected the attention of some of the firemen towards him. A cry of horror rose from the crowd, when it was known that two human beings were still within the burning dwel- ling. A ladder was immediately placed beneath the win- dow at which Carrington stood holding the inanimate form of Grace, and two firemen sprung up the steps to their res- cue. To save them, however, was attended with some dif- ficulty, for the intense heat scorched the men as they at- tempted to near the top. The merciless flames seemed still determined to cut off all escape, for darting through the burning windows demon-like they wreathed their fitful em- brace around that part of the ladder which rested against the house. The watchful eyes of the firemen below in- stantly perceived this new danger, and a continuous stream of water was quickly directed to this particular spot, quench- ing for a few minutes the devouring element, and enabling Carrington and his unconscious charge to descend unscathed. But scarcely had he touched the ground when the rest of the burning wood-work fell in with a loud crash, and a ORAOE RATMOKD. 18T ce, and '. admis- I shout- of the ! street: ere en- joining )served, hours, an who who di- ds him. known ig dwel- he win- ite form leir res- )me dif- ;hey at- ned still gh the ul em- against ow in- stream uench- nabling ;cathed. rest of and a column of intensely-brilliant light shot up from the mingling fire-masses. With it ascended a fervent thanksgiving from the lips of Carrington for the preservation of Grace Ray- mond and his own. With deep commiseration the crowd gazed upon the pallid but beautiful face of the young girl thus rescued from a fearful death. The elderly gentleman before alluded to, who was a physician, now stopped for- ward, and with sympathizing kindness, begged Carrington to remove the young lady to his house in an adjoining street, which offer was thankfully accepted. The cool night air soon restored the suspended animation of Grace, but with returning consciousness came the recollection of her sudden bereavement; and those who witnessed her wild agony as the terrible truth burst upon her mind, wished that her in- sensibility had continued yet longer. Nothing could exceed the kindness shown her by Dr. Carlylc and his family; but no kindness could alleviate grief like hers. Reason was for a time dethroned, for no tears came to relieve her anguish; and it was at length found necessary to administer an opiate, under the influence of which she again sunk into a state of happy unconsciousness. ! ■\M I f a i !(!>; ,|||; i 188 QRACB RAYMOND, CHAPTER III. Placed in a piclurcsquo situntion on an abrupt acclivity, whose base was waslied by the waters of the Hudson, stood ft cottage ornce, the residenee (;(' a wealthy New York mer- chant. To an eleLraiit aparlnK ;iL in this hijouoC adwelling, I will now introduee iny readers. The hour is morning — a life-giving balmy morning in May. The spring had been early, and already many bcauLiful (lowers deeorated the tasteful parterre in front. U|)on these the eye might rest with pleasure, or wai.der over the romantic seimery along the shores of the far-famed Hudson, on whose tran(pnl wa- ters various eri'.fts miglit be seen, from the magnilicent Btcamer to the tiny skilf, wiili its white sail glittering in tho sunlight. A gentleman and two ladies oeeupied the apart- ment. Tl;e eldiT lady was presiding at the breakfast table. She was a plain-looking woman, whose vulgar appearance, notwithstandini!: her fasiiionalik.' dress, was straneely at va- riancc with the air of refinement whieli surrounded her. Near her, in a luxurious fauteuil, reclined a young girl, evi- dently her daughter, whose petite person was attired in an wlti'a- fashionable style. Her face was handsome, so far as GUAOB RAYMOND. 18D tegular features, luxuriant liair, an'l faultiest coniploxion,. could make it so ; but thoso who looked for beauty of mind, who considered intellect a.s i;ivin,t^ the ehief charm to tho human countenanee, would S(>e little to admire in Isabel Tracoy. Her features were iis inanimate as a wax dolfn, and her \'dv<^c blue eyes had as little expression. Tlio gon- tlcman was the only one of the party wlios(^ a|)p(»aranco was prepossessing. He was in tin- meridian of lite, andono of nature's nobkuTien. His countenance was not American, it was decidedly Milesian, and when he spoke his accents retained somewhat of the richness of hi.s vernacular tonf^ue. "What so particularly enj^ap-ea your attention in that morning paper, Bel, that you will not allow me to get a look at it?" he asked, good-humoredly, pushing back hia chair from the breakfast table, having done ample justice to the luxuries with which it was loaded. " I am reading an account of a late fire in the city — a largo hotel burnt." " No lives lost, I hope." " One person is said to have perished in the flames. Ther© is a romantic incident related here of the escape of a young lady, saved by a noble Southerner at the risk of his own life. The girl was an Irish emigrant just arrived — her name is Raymond." " Raymond ! did you say ? Mercifnl Heaven \ can it be my own niece?" and with much excitement Mr. Bingham seized the paper offered by Isabel. " There cannot be a doubt of it," he added, mournfully, after perusing some liuoB. " It is Grace Raymond, my dead sister's child, and mmmmmm- 190 ORiOl RATMOHD. ' ' , '^■i it was her father who died suddenly. Poor Raymond I how little did he think when crossing the wide ocean that he was only coming to America to find a grave, or rather a funeral pyre ;" and he bowed his head on his hands to hide his deep emotion. After a few minutes he rose hastily and rang the bell. " The steamer for New York will pass in a quarter of an hour," he said, looking at his watch, as a servant entered. " Get the boat ready to put off to her, I must go to the city immediately. Mrs. Bingham," he added, addressing the el- der lady, ''you will see that a room is prepared for the re- ception of a guest. I shall rci,urn in the afternoon, accom- panied by my niece." " You might first ask if she would be welcome to the rest of the family," observed Mrs. Bingham in no gentle ac- cents, her brow darkening. " After all she may be no niece of yours ; many persons of that name come from Ireland." "There can be no mistake in the matter. Last winter Raymond wrote specifying his intention to emigrate this spring with his daughter." " Still I cannot see why I should be troubled with her, she is no relation <)f mine.'' " Have you no motherly sympathy for the unhappy girl thus suddenly bereaved ? is your heart made of stone, ma- dam? But mark me, I will be obeyed; my orphan niece shall not be left among strangers in a strange land ; her un- cle's house must be her home ;" and bending his eye sternly upon his wife, Mr. Bingham abruptly left the apartment to avoid any more altercation. Mrs. Bingham quailed beneath that look. It was seldom her husband opposed her wishes, but when he did she knew resistance was useless. QRAOI BATMOND. 191 in, accom- •* But she shall not remain long here, I'll manage that," she resumed after a gloomy pause. " A provoking thing, in- deed, it would be, if, after bringing my husband a largo for- tune, when ho himself had not a penny, I should see it la- vished on his poor relations." " You may make her useful, mamma," quietly suggested Isabel. " You know you want a governess for Ada, she is now old enough to require one." " That's a briglit thought, Bel ; that would answer capi- tally. Yes, she shall save me the expense of a governess, and earn her support in that way. I wonder what she looks like," she continued, taking up the paper and glancing at the account of the fire. " They say here she is a miracle of beauty, but I don't believe it; I never yet saw a beauty among the Irisli emigrants." " But the Irish ladies are said to be very handsome, mamma. However, they have not the delicate beauty of us Americans, they arc too robust," observed Isabel con- temptuously. " This Mr. Carrington is from t^ "» South — perhaps some rich planter. I hope Mr. Bingham . ill think of inviting him here. How would you hke a Southern home, Bel?" " Above all things, mamma ! I should there live like a princess, waited on by so many slaves. So different from the north 1 where our servants thmk they are as good as ourselves. How I hate such horrid equality I" "I never heard Mr. Bingham mention this niece before," resumed Mi's. Bingham, thoughtfully. "She must have been a child when he left Ireland." " Must I go into mourning for Mr. Raymond, mamma ?" ■ i if. III! i ! 'iifi li'B 192 r.HACK RAYMOND. "You! of courso not, ho is jiot rcliucd to you; but I suppose T must for the sake of a|)i)('araii('(\ And was tJicro cvor anyt.liiiif^f so provokin.ix? Il was only last week I got those splendid new dresses from Stewart's, and now I can- not wear them. Well, truly, this world is lull of trials!" "And I suppose I nujst not think of a l)irlh-d;iy ball? IIow dull we shall be this suniiiiei !"' and Isabel sijj^hod. " W(; must, make a pleasant party and take a trip to Can ad .'i." "Ob, innmma! that would be deliiiiitful. lam dying to BCC tb(i British oOieers. Amy Cameron says thoy are such fine-look inp: fellows. Not one of our olHeers can compare with them." "Don't believe it, Bel; it's only their scarlet uniform makes them look so well — the red coat makes all the differ- ence.** "Oh no, indeed ! Amy cnys that they have such a mili- tary air, thoy all look like heroes." " Shame for you American girls to talk so ! In spite of all their bravery and fine looks our Yankee soldiers whipped them ; no one can deny that," observed the patriotic lady, proudly. "But the Americans were fighting for their homes, the British soldiers were only mercenaries— so Amy Cameron Bays, and she knows all about it." "You are determined to stand up for them, I see! they are brave enough I grant. After the Americans they come first. Bless me how late it is!" continued Mrs. Bingham, as an ivory time-piece struck the hour, " and I have so many things to attend to this morning. Look t if there isn't Ada ::iil! CnACi! RAVMOKT). 193 )u; but I was ihcro (ck T got ow I can- trials r -day ball? ■iiiihed. a trip to 1 (lying to 'y are such ,n compare ^t uniform the differ- Lich a mili- n spite of rs whipped riotic lady, homes, the Cameron see! they they come Bingham, ^e so many isn't Ada m the garden. Do call lior, Bel, or she will pull up all tho flow(M*s/' and witli ihis injunL'tion she ha^tcnod I'roni the apart nicnt. Rising lazily, as if unwilling to bcdistiirl)t'(l, I. abcl opened a glass (l(^<)r and stcpju-d out upon a verandah. A child about ei;jlit years t»ld, beaut iiul as a ilcljc, was carelessly threading lier way through the liny walks of the parterre. "Ada, eoiiie hero this moment! Avho gave you leave to touch those violets?" "Pa said T might," said the child saucily, provoked by the harsh accents in which she was addressed. "Pa is gone to the city to bring home my cousin, who is come from Ireland, and he said I might pull as many tlowers as Hiked to make her room look nice, and I nuMui to do so in spite of you, Miss Bel," and t!ic bright dark eyes looked defiantly at her Btep-sister. "Seel what a beautiful bunch I have got?" she continued, bounding on the verandah and displaying a choice collection of narcissus, violets, lilies of the valley, etc. " You'll not like your Irish cousin much, I promise you," laid Isabel, spitefully. " She is to be your governess, and teach you from morning till night, and make you behave yourself, you naughty child." A shadow passed over her radiant countenance, and Ada looked down thoughtfully, but the bright expression soon returned. " I will love my cousin, for Pa says she is good; anu I will like to learn from her for she will not be cross like you. But I must go and put these flowers in water, or they will all wither," and the next instant she was boHnd- ing away with the graceful lightness of a fawn. m ! 1 ■ if i m ^ { m ': !i 194 ORAOI RAYMOND. CHAPTER V. On arriving in the city, Mr. Bingham went directly to the house of Dr. Carlylc and requested to see liis niece. Al- hough some years ha I elapsed since Grace Raymond saw her uncle, she soon recognized him. His appearance had a salutary effect upon her. When she found herself encircled in his protecting arms, and listened to his words of fond en- dearment, she felt she was not alone in the world ; that there was one who would, in some measure, supply the place of him she had lost; and tears — the first she had shed since her bereavement — flowed freely, reUeving the agony of her feel- ings. The interview between the uncle and niece was long, for each had much to say. Grace told of the various reverses which her fiither liad experienced, and of the last total fail- ure in business, which had compelled him to seek a home and moans of subsistence in a foreign land. And Mr. Bingham spoke of his own affairs, and from his conversation the following particulars might be gathered : About ten years before he had landed in New York poor and friendless. Contrary to his expectations, it was some OBAOE RATMOKD. 195 time before lie procurtMl employment ; butho was ftt length 80 fortunate as to pot a Fituation as clork in a mercer's ex- tensive Ftorc in Broadway. One of their most frequent customers was a Mrs. Tracoy, a riclnvidow, whose husband, a man of low origin, had, by speculation, in an incredibly short period, amassed a lar^'c fortune, then dying suddenly of apoplexy, had left his wife and only child to enjoy it. Frequently the showy iHiuipapfo of Mrs. Tracey was seen to stop at this particular establishment in Lroadway, while its fashionably-dressed occupant ontorinpf the store, would, while making many purchases, g'cncrally contrive to mono- polizc the attendance of a handsoiiio clerk, a late importa- tion from the Emerald Isle — the elcj^ant-looking Bingham. The result was an invitation given and accepted, to call at the gay widow's luxurious homo, and finally the penniless young man was induced to make an ofTer of his hand, feel- ing confident, from the particular attentions shown him, it would not be rejected. Nor was it — and Bingham thus be- coming possessed of afiluen( o, engaged in extensive busi- ness, and was now one of the richest merchants in New York. But Mr. Bingham did not tell his niece that previously to his leaving Ireland he had loved fondly, but in vain, and that it was owing to this disappointment of the heart, he feehng reckless as to his future lot in life, had been easily induced to seize the gilded bait ofTered him. Neither did he say how bitterly he had since regretted uniting himself to one in every respect his opposite ; whose sordid nature and vulgar mind made her so unsuitable a companion for him. But he did warn Grace not to expect much kindness or attention from Mrs. JBingham or, Miss Tracey. ■J i ( I ^■\ III i 111! J •m 196 GRACE RATHOND. ' "They have not," ho remarked, with a sad smile, "the warm sensibilities of the Irish ; but for my sake, dear Grace, bear with anything that may occur to displease you. You know how happy it will make mc to have you an inmate of my home — you whom I regard as my own child. But there will be one at least who will give you a warm rec ^.oion," ho added, his countenance brightening. " My darling Ada ; she has a loving heart and a generous tliough impulsive na- ture, and even now she is anxiously expecting your arrival." Thus prepared, Grace Raymond did not wonder at the cold though poUte reception, she received from Mrs. Bingham, That lady's manner was so diflferent from what her husband feared it would be, that he wondered, though he felt grati- fied. However, he was soon enlightened on 'lo subject. At the very time of her arrival, even while Grr ;e held the graceful form of her little cousin in a fond en >race, and •while the child's chiseled arms clung lovingly aj >und her, Mrs. Bingham said with a bland smile: " I do so wish you would take that child und( your care, Miss Raymond. She is a sad dunce, and will k '^n nothing from Isabel" "No! no!" interrupted Mr. Bingham, " Grace must not be troubled with her. She can have a governess." " Do not say so, dear uncle. Allow me to be Ada's go- verness, nothing could give me greater pleasure. It will be a solace to me at present, and will help to divert sad thoughts." "Well, if you wish, I shall be very glad, indeed, to have you train my spoiled darling, and form her mind after the model of your own." OBAOE BAAMOND. 197 rec ..^lon, Thus Mrs. Bingham gained her point ; and feeling that her husband's niece would be an acquisition to her family, she determined to treat her with civility. Isabel, who saw Grace only when grief had dimmed her beauty, congratulated herself on her own superior attrac' tions; and not seeing in her a formidable rival, she conde- Bcended to be pleasing. Seizing the first opportunity, she inquired particularly about Mr. Carrington. The shghteet flush colored the pale cheek of Grace, as she replied, that fihe had not seen him since the night he rescued her from the fire. He had called to inquire about her health at Dr. Cariyle's, but she could not see him. She beheved he had left New York that morning in the steamer for Europe. Isabel's vision of a Southern home suddenly vanished. 30 must not 'fr ■-' f "i i '■ i 1 if it ■ 198 GSAOl RATMOKD. CEAPTER VI. It was New Year's Day ; through the dense population of Kew York, mirth and festivity reigned triumphantly, not only in the splendid mansions of the wealthy, but in tho lowlier dwellings of the poorer classes. But there were some — alas ! many — to whom this season of general hilarity brought no enjoyment — those whom the griping hand of poverty had seized with its relentless grasp, compelling them to drag out their wearisome existence, from year to year, with as little to gladden their monotonous lives, as if they lived in a desert. To one of these abodes of misery and want, we will now turn for a few minutes. It is a large ruinous building, v. hose style of architecture carries you back to the time when the Dutch possessed the city, and called it by a diflferent name. The locality in which it stands is one of the most miserable suburbs of this great metropohs. Ascending a dilapidated stair-case, we find ourselves in a gloomy passage, at the end of which a door stands partly open, through which the fretful cry of a babe falls sadly on the ear. Entering a small room, unbidden and unexpected, what a scene of destitution and vice meets the eye 1 The GRACE RAYMOND. 199 ilation of itly, not ut in the ere were al hilarity hand of ling them to year, s if they sery and J a large you back id called stands is etropolis. Ives in a ds partly sadly on jxpected, re! The I room is almost bare of furniture, and very cold, for the scanty fuel in a small stove throws out little heat. It is true, the bright light of a cloudless sun pours through the antique window, but the wintry rays give no warmth, and Beem to render yet more ghastly the wan countenances of the inmates. On a miserable pallet, in one corner of the room, hes the squalid form of a man in the heavy sleep of intoxication. Beside him on the floor — for table there was none — are scattered the broken fragments of one or two drinking glasses, and an empty brandy-flask, the contents of which he had recently drained. At a little distance, shiver- ing over the stove, sits the gaunt figure of a female. She is still young, and had once been beautiful ; but the hand of want and woe had robbed each lineament of beauty, touch- ing with premature silver the auburn hair, and giving to the pale face an expression of utter hopelessness, yet patient despair. In her arms she holds a famished-looking baby, whose fretfulness she fondly endeavors to soothe. At her feet sits a little boy, whose curly head rests against his mother's knee, while his upturned eyes are fixed upon her with a piteous and imploring expression. Full of bitter re- gret are the recollections which this first day of the year brings to the mind of that poor woman. On New Year's Day seven years before, she had stood at God's high altar, the bride of that besotted creature, whose prostrate form lay before her in a state lower than the brutes that perish. At the time of their union, she had heard it whispered thathis habits were somewhat dissipated ; but, like many others, she had fondly hoped that marriage would effect a complete reformation. Thus launching on the stream of wedded life 200 GRACE RATMOND. I t > i:i i; 'Hi ?!! in a boat so frail, was it surprising that her hopes of earthly happiness were eventually wrecked ? It was now three years since they had arrived in New York, for both were natives of another land. Vernon, for such was the man's name, had easily procured a respectable situation, but his dissipated habits soon caused him to lose it. Finding it now difficult to obtain employment — for his character was begin- ning to be known — he was led to pause on the brink of the precipice, and feeling that destitution awaited himself and family, if this state of things continued, he was induced to join the Temperance Society. Through the aid of one of its members, he was again placed in a position to earn a com- fortable subsistence, and once more hope dawned on his lifflicted wife. For more than a year, Vernon struggled manfully with his besetting sin. Total abstinence was his safeguard. As long as he refused to taste the intoxicating cup, he was safe ; but, alas ! for man's boasted strength, when unsupported by Divine aid 1 In an evil hour, he was induced to take one exhilarating glass — then another — after that, yielding himself a willing victim to the destroyer, his ruin was complete. In vain did Mrs. Vernon, with tears of agony, urge him to arm himself again for the strife, and battle with his fierce enemy. Full of remorse and despair, lie declared himself unequal to the contest ; and so, indeed, he was, unaided by strength from above, and this the un- happy man neglected to implore. His downward course was now rapid. Step by step, in the scale of degradation, he descended, ruthlessly dragging his helpless family with him. From the position of a gentleman, he was reduced at last to seek support by performing the services of a menial f earthly w three th were LC man's but his igitnow is begin- k of the iself and []uced to »ne of it3 1 a com- i on his truggled was hia xicating trength, he was I other — stroyer, ith tears rife, and despair, indeed, the un- course- a,dation, y with uced at menial GRACE RAYMOND. 201 But not finding this capable of affording sufficient means for self-indulgence, he had recouiso to crime, and became the companion of a party of burglars. lie was now frequently absent from his wretched homo, and when he did return, he was always provided with money, procuring with which a supply of his favorite drink, brandy, he would carouse for days. A small portion of this money he generally gave to his wife to purchase the necessaries of life. At first she gladly received it, not knowing how it was obtained; but when the truth dawned on her, horror-struck, she refused to participate in his guilt, by partaking any longer of his ill-gotton spoil. And now how was she to support her children? The youngest was sickly, and required constant nursing. One by one every article of furniture and apparel had already been sold. One thing still was left — her wed- ding-ring. Must she dispose of that too ? Yet why hesi- tate, when every tie that bound her to her degraded hus- band, had been severed by the hand of vice — nay, crime ? With the few shillings thus procured, she and her children had subsisted for days, or rather they had struggled to live. This morning she had p.iven them their last crust, and again the half-starved children were demanding food. She felt that Providence was now mixing the bitterest drop in her cup of degradation. She must beg the food she could no longer purchase. Severe was the struggle between pride and a mother's love, but the latter triumphed. She could not resist the low wail of her babe, and the silent pleadings of little Harry's hungry eyes. Placing the baby, who now slept, in his cradle, she said fondly kissing his forehead, ** Mamma will go and get Harry some bread, and he must ,»^ ■r^' I' ! . ^ lilt! 202 €RACE RAYMOND. rock hi8 little sister while she is gone, and not let her wake." The wan countenance brightened. " Oh, mamma I do come back soon, for I am so hungry 1 oh, so very hungry, mamma I" " I know it, darling, but have a little patience, and you shall have food." Tlien wrapping herself in an old cloak And hood, she quietly left the apartment. The short twilight of a winter's day was deepening into gloom, as Mrs. Vernon passed into the street. The biting frosty air was keenly felt through her thin muffling, and she walked on as briskly as her feeble strength would allow, to keep herself warm. Despair was in her heart ; she felt as if Heaven had forsaken her, for even in God's own children faith sometimes fails, when the pressure of affliction has been long continued. In about half an hour she reached street. She stopped before one of its lordly mansions and timidly pulled the bell. In a voice scarcely audible from emotion, she begged relief for her starving children. "We never give to street beggars," was the harsh reply, and the door was rudely shut on the wretched suppliant. Quickly, lest her resolution should give way, she ascended the steps of another modern palace, and repeated her hum- ble demand, but with no better success. Company was expected to dinner, and there was no time to altend to the wants of the famishing poor. She might call next day. " Father in Heaven ! who hearest the young ravens when they cry, give me food for my little ones!" and sinking on the door-step, Mrs. Vernon bowed her head on her clasped hands, and poured out her soul in intense supphcation. Such pleadings are never heard in vain, they enter the ear ORACK RAYMOND. 203 3r wake." [nma! do r hungry, and you >ld cloak ling into le biting , and she allow, to le felt as children has been led ions and ble from 1. sh reply, uppliant. iscended ler hum- iny was d to the !xt day. IS when' king on clasped hcation. the ear of Him, who, though dwelling in light unapproachable, WM Himself once a Man of Sorrows. Even now the hour of deliverance was at hand for this afflicted child of earth, the measure of her sufleringa was full ; the gem cast into the furnace was sufficiently refined, and at this darkest hour, tho Bun of happiness was about to arise on her tried spirit — the long night of affliction was ended. »' 20i GRACE RITMOND. CHAPT3R VII. The merry sound of sleigh-bells broke cheerfully through the frosty night air, and a handsome equipage, with its praneing horses driving up the street, drew up before the house at whose door-step sat the sliivering form of Mrs. Vernon. A gentleman wrapt in furs was its only occupant ?'!rs. Vernon rose as he sprang on the pavement, wishing, yet hesitating, to address him. "Can I do anything to help j^ou?" he asked kindly, on seeing her shrinking figure. "Who spoke? whose voice was that?" she exclaimed, wildly gazing at him. The bright light from a lamp near which he stood, flashed full on his face, revealing its benevolent expression. "Frank Bingham I can it be possible ? Oh Lord I thank thee, my children are saved !" and overcome with the sud- den revulsion of feeling, she would have fallen, had he not supported her. Pushing back the old hood which shaded her face, he scrutinized her haggard features with painful excitement. "It cannot be I Surely you are not my cousin Alice ?" GRACE RAYMOND, 205 he asked in a voice trcmMinr^ with nmotion. And yet thai voice I how it tlirilled to his ho:irt! its accents he could never fbrp^et. It was she indeed t " You do not recoc^niizo nie, Frank; and I am not sur- prised at it," said Mrs. Vernon, sadly, ''the sullerings of years have changed me." " But you look laniishod, Alice!" and "Mv. Bingham shud- dercd as he gazed upon her meagre face. " Can it be? oh I has it been as bad as that ?" "Alas! yes, I and my children are starving. To procure food, I left them helpless and " "Tell me where you live," interrupted Mr. Bingham, in a husky voice. He could bear no more. The direction was given, ^Irs. Vernon was placed in tha luxurious sleigh, its ricli robes wrapped carefully around her, and the next minute the spirited horses were dashing down the street. Passing a pastry-cook's, Mr. Bingham alighted, entered the shop, and soon returned, carrying a small basket filled with delicacies. In less than a quarter of an hour the fileigh reached the suburbs in which Alice Vernon's miserable home was situated. What a contrast did it present in the eyes of Mr. Bingham, to his own elegant mansion, which they had just left ! A large crowd filled the street before the door, but they soon made way for the prancing horses. " Wdat is the matter here ?" asked Mr. Bingham of one of the bystanders, who was an Irishman. " Och, it's only catching a thief they are, your honor. He's one of a gang of home-breakers that has been a plague to the city for a long time; but the pohce has got scent of them at last, and they are jist kuabbing one of them in that Ill toe ORA08 RAYMOHD. ^ .1' ' \ ill ould rickety house forenint us. Tlioy say he was a gintle- man onct, but the Ulirink (lesthroyed him intirely. Lookl there he comes," he added, as a party of policemen appeared At the door, surrounding^ tlieir prisoner — a half-drunken creature, whose bloated countenance was expressive of stu- pid astonishment; for having been just roused from sleep, he was scarcely conscious of hia situation. A convulsive Bhuddcr shook the frame of Alice Vernon as she recognized her degraded husband, thus having her worst fears confirmed. Mr. Bingham perceived her agitation. Could it be possiblo that she was in any way connected with this wretch? and he looked inquiringly at her. She shrank from that look- shrank from acknowledging such an outcast, and bowed her head in deep humiliation. Bingham mentally thanked God that the strong arm of the law had at length delivered her from such companionship. As the policemen, with their prisoner, passed the sleigh, the light from the lanterns which come of them carried, revealed that staggering form pinioned and helpless. Mrs. Vernon instinctively covered her face with her hands to shut out the painful sight, and her frame fihivered with the agony of her feelings. " Where are your children, dear Alice ?" asked Mr. Bingham^ anxious to divert her thoughts. Mrs. Vernon started, and for the moment all was forgotten but her helpless little ones. As she ascended the stairs, followed by Mr. Bingham, who had thoughtfully procured a light, the voice of little Harry was heard mingHng with the cries of the baby. " Oh, where is mamma ? when will she come home ? Oh baby don't cry so! oh what shall I do? what shall I do?" lie exclaimed, in piteous accents. !* ! GRACE RAYMOND. 207 a gintle- . Lookt appeared -drunken ^c of stu- om sleep, onvulsive ccognized onfirmed. possible itch? and iat look — )o wed her iked God iTcred her nth. their rns which 1 pinioned ler face ler framo iked Mr. brgotten le stairs, 'ocured a with the le? Oh I I do?" The sound of approachinrj foot-steps made him look «agcrly towards the door. On porcoivinj? his mother he ut- tered a cry of joy, and sprung into lu'r arms. *' 0, mamma! I thought you would never come back. I w:u? so frightened. Some men cairio and took papa away, and they made such anoiso that baljy woke up, and th(m she was so crossi Oh don't go away airain, mamma!" " I will not, my darling ! thank God ! I will not now need to do so," t;h(.' said, with a deep feeling of gratitude. "Let mc take this little fellow while you attend to tho baby, Aliee," said Mr. Bingham, r.pproaching. Ilarrv looked un into tho face of the stranger. There was something in its expression which instantly attracted him. lie held out his arms with child-like confidence, and tho next minute he was seated on his knee, ravenously eat- ing some of tho good things v;itli which he had come pro- vided. Tears of deep commiseration for the sufferings of his cousin, filled tho eyes of Mr. Bingham, as he surveyed that wretched abode, and looked upon her and her miserably clad children. He could scarcely believe that this gaunt- looking creature was his beautiful cousin. Could a few years have so changed lier ? How poignant nmst have been the misery which could have effected such an alteration I His cousin Alice had been the star of Bingham's idolatary from boyhood. They had been brought up together, for she was an orphan, and his love for her had " grown with his growth." She regarded him merely as a brother. He was bitterly aware of this ; and naturally of a proud and sen- sitive nature, he concealed even from its object, the love which he knew was unrequited. Some time after be left 208 GRACE RAYMOND. I i m Ireland, lie lionnl of her marrinfj^c; tlion a;,'.iin now3 c.imo that she and her husband harniinat('d. Tiireo days after liis arr/'*t, the public papers atniounecd his death from delirium tremon^. Days, we(•l^^J, months replied on. Gradually in the society of her kind relatives, and in the enjoyment of every com* fort, Alice recovered her spirits. The aL'^onizitii;' memories of the last few years, which, at hrst, haunted her like spec- tres, lost tlieir power to ,L:rieve. She stru_L,'_L;-led a^^ainst her Borrowful reeollections; lier mind recovered its tone, and the lif^ht of happiness once more beamed from her eyey, re- storing much of its former beauty lo her countenance. "With restored peace came? renewed energy, and now a strong de^'ire to engage in some business which would enable her to support her children, took possession of lier mind^ and she recpiested Mr. Bingham to furnish her with tlie means. ''Are you so nnwilling toowc mo anything, Alice?" lie asked, reproachfidly. " Why not still allow mo the liappi- ness of supporting you ? Ami not your nearest relative ?" "You are the kindest and best of cousins, dear Frank," she said, gratefully ; " but you know my independent spirit ; I wish that my children should owe their support as much as possible to my own exertions." "And in what business do you wish to engage, Alice? how do you intend to make a fortune ?" asked Bingham playfully, for he saw that by gratifying her desire, he would confer happiness, and he was ever willing to yield to her slightest wish. 210 GRAOE RATMOKD. " I tlunk a fancy store would suit me, I understand some- tlung of ornamental work." A small house and store in a fashionable part of the city were therefore rented, the shop stocked with a choice col- lection of fancy articles, and the house comfortably furnished,. Engaged in her new occupation, Mrs. Vernon's pleasing manners and interesting appearance, drew many customers. The blessing of Providence seemed to rest on her exertions, and the sun of prosperity soon began to gladden her with. its beams. h: V ■ .1! Ml' . iiili I h •! J \^' li $ 'H GRACE RAYMOND. 211 CHAPTER VIII. June, borne on the wings of perfumed zephyrs and redo- lent of roses, had come, and Grace Raymond, in the shady retirement of her uncle's beautiful villa, was enjoying this most delightful month of the year. Isabel Tracey, weary of the monotony of a country life, had persuaded her indul- gent mamma to take a trip to Saratoga. They had recently left home. Mr. Bingham had accompanied them as far as New York. He was to return in the evening boat, and Grace now awaiting his arrival, was standing on the trel- lised verandah scanning the calm waters of the Hudson, for the steamer which was momentarily expected. The scene was one of quiet beauty. In the western heavens glowed the brilliant Venus, apparently emulating the crescent moon, whose sofl light mingled with the summer twilight. No sound broke the stillness, save the occasional dip of an oar, as some small boat, shooting out from the shore, would skim over the broad river. A light step near, and the voice of her little cousin, at length aroused Grace from the revery in which she was beginning to indulge. " Why doesn't papa come home? what keeps the boat so late to-night?" she asked fretfully. 1 f I li I « m HJii 212 GRACE RAYMOND. "It will soon be here, love, but you ought to be in bod, Ada." " I cannot go to bod till papa comes. I feel aick, cousin Grace, very sick, and I want to see my papa." The subdued manner of the child struck Grace as some- thinj^ unusual. Gently leading her into the brilliantly- lighted drawing-room, slie anxiously scrutinized her coun- tenance. The flushed face and heavy eyes alarmed her. *' You are ill, darling ! let me rock you to sleep in thia low chair until papa comes home," she said fondly. *' No, cousin Grace, I would like you better to play and sing for me. See! I can lie down here on this couch near the piano, and listen while you sing the Angels' Whisper. Ah do Gracey 1 you know I love your Irish songs so much." In compliance with the child's wishes, Grace seated her- self at the piano, and soon its rich tones were heard mingling with her fine voice, filling the evening air witli plaintive melody. Grace was a proficient in music; her voice was one of much power and exquisite sweetness, and she sung tho soul-thrilling melodies of her native land with that pe- culiar pathos of which only the Irish themselves seem capable. The Angels' Whisper, Kate Kearney, and Kath- leen Mavourneen, were successively asked for by Ada, who was passionately fond of music, and so engaged was her cousin in gratifying her, that she was unconscious of tho approach of two listeners, who, having ascended the path leading from the river, and cautiously approached the house, were now standing near the verandah, themselves unseen, while they commanded a view of tlie drawing-room and its GRACE RAYMOND. 213 be in bed, ick, cousin e as some- brilliantly- [ her coun- led her, oep in this ,0 play and couch near s' Whisper. ;s so much." seated her- rd mingling 1 plaintive voice was k1 she sung th that pe- clves Fcem and Kath- f Ada, who d was her ious of the d the path 1 the house, ves unseen, oom and its fair inmates. The restless eye of Ada at last caught the form of one as ho moved a step or two forward. " O, papa! papa is here !" she exclaimed, joyfully. Grace turned hastily round, just as Mr. Bingham and an elegant-looking stranger appeared in the door-way. Witli a slight start '^f surprise, she recognised Mr. Carrington. " I suppose you have not foi-gotten this gentleman, Grace ?" eaid her uncle, as. they advanced into tlu; room. " I owe Mr. Carrington too much ever to forget him," she said, a warm smile of welcome flashing over her beau- tiful face, as she held out her ]:an 1. A gratified expression appeared in the fine eyes of Car- rington at her cordial reception, and in a voice slightly tre- mulous, he expressed his happiness at seeing her again, "0, papa! why did you stay so late?" asked Ada, as she threw herself into her father's arms, and rested her aching head on his breast. "Why bless me, my darling, you are ill!" he exclaimed in alarm, as he felt her small burning hand. " I am afraid she has some fever," observed Grace, sor- rowfully. " Fever !" reiterated the excited parent. " Quick, Grace ! ring the bell and send one of the servants instantly to H for a physician." "I think I can spare you that trouble," said Carrington, approaching and looking attentively at the child. *' I am a physician, although I do not now practice my profession. If you will allow rae, I will prescribe for your little daughter." The offer was thankfully accepted. By the direction of 1 1 ,/ II 1 i 1 1 ^M f :S i 1 H 1' II V 1 1 : 1 1 :; 1 j 1 1 1 i ; i H ■ i • I , ^H 1 ■ ; i ■i M 1 1 , ! ■ i i 1 ; ! 1 li • ' ^lil ' ■ ! 1 4 .' 1 . \ 1 ■ i '! ■\ ■ ' i^- ' n ' ' 1 5 ■ 1 f \' \ 1 i ■ 1 1 K^l: 1 1 ff ■) li ,i: ' !,\ 1 '■ :: ''|i ■ s ■ i i 1 i 1 i , u iS 5 1 fl 1 . "i -f''' « :,i - ! 1 1' ! m : ill H ' M fa . ^ ' 1 ' . i |X ! ■ ; • ! Im < [■ . ' %i ' ' ' li J; 'n1 214 GRACE RAYMOND, Carrington, Ada was immediately removed to bed, and pro- per medicines administered. To the eager inquiries of Mr. Bingham, whether there was any danger to be apprehended, he gravely rephed, he hoped not, but the disease must take its course. An answer so indefinite filled Mr. Bingham with alarm. Ada never had been seriously ill before, and his anxiety was overwhelming. Through the silent hours of the night, he and Grace never left her couch. She grew hourly worse, and towards morning was delirious. Noth- ing could exceed the kind attentions of Carrington in the sick room. His deepest sympathies were awakened for his little patient; her extreme beauty called forth his admira- tion, and the love with which he saw she was regarded, made him tenderly anxious for her recovery. Day after day, and night after night, he kept watch with Grace and the distracted father, beside the sick bed, using every means which his skill could devise, to arrest the disease. But all seemed in vain; and now the fever had reached the crisis when a few hours would terminate the agonizing suspense between life and death. It was the hour of early morning ; the first pale streaks of light were stealing through the partly-opened casement, mingling with tlie shaded night-lamp, and casting a ghastly hue over the anxious faces of the mourners around the bed, while it gave a more death-like palor to the chiseled features of the little suflferer, who was sleeping— it might be — her last sleep, seeming already enfolded in the shadowy embrace of death. At the foot of the bed, stood Mr. Bingham, like a statue of despair. He had watched Carrington's counte- nance through tlie night, and he felt there was no hope. He GRACE lUTMOND. 215 was now in inexpressible anguish, waiting the awaking of his child to receive her last adieu. On one side of the bed knelt G-race Raymond, her face buried in her hands, silently- supplicating Him to whom alone belong the issues of life and death, to spare their darling, and give her back to thera even from the gate of the grave. Opposite to her was seated Carrington, holding his fingers on the child's wrist, and intently watching her countenance. Suddenly the grave sad expression passed from his intellectual face, and was succeeded by a look of hope and joy. At this moment Ada opened her eyes ; the light of reason had returned to their dark depths, she recognised those around, and smiled faintly. " She will live !" exclaimed Carrington in a suppressed voice — "but control yourself, Mr. Bingham," he hastily added, as he was about to rush forward, " excitement would destroy her !" The dehghted fatlier was at that moment incapable of self-control. Giving one look of unutterable fondness at his restored treasure, he turned hastily away, and entering an adjoining apartment, he poured forth his gratitude to that merciful Being who had spared her young Hfe. At the thriUing words, " She will live!" Grace sprang to her feet, her face radiant with joy, but she was instantly self-possessed as she heard Carrington's concluding remark. " She will recover now," he said, gladly, " but everything will depend on quiet and good nursing. And you are al- ready worn out with fatigue. Miss Raymond. Could you not trust our Uttle patient to me for a few hours, while you try to get some sleep ?" 216 GRACE RAYMOND. i« ■| i " I would not leave her for a moment, not until all dan- ger is over ; and I do not require any rest now, the happi- ness I feel has given me renewed strength." Ada's restoration to health was gradual. As soon as she was convalescent, at her request, she was carried to the drawing-room, where the musical talents of Grace were again employed for her amusement. Grace had also a wil- ling listener in Carrington. lie had, like Adn, a passion for music, and he would stand enraptured near the piano, which she played in a brilliant style; listening now to some exquisite gem from a favorite Opera, again to a life-stirring galop or polka, and frequently to the touching notes of some Scotch or Irish melody. Carrington had spent the last year in Europe. He had travelled through the British Isles, and he spoke with en- thusiastic admiration of the romantic scenery met with in many parts of Great Britain and the Sister Island. On re- turnincj to New York, he had called on Dr. Carlvlc to make inquiries about Miss Raymond, in whom he felt an in- terest that could not be subdued. Dr. Carlyle introduced him to Mr. Bingham, and he gladly accepted the pressing invitation that gentleman gave him, to spend a week at hia villa on the Hudson. The visit of a week had now been extended to three. Ada had become much attached to her kind physician, and whenever he spoke of leaving, she wept passionately. Tins agitation retarded her recovery, and her fond father begged Carrington to remain so'-,, t;me longer, with which request he very willingly complied. But at the end of a month he felt he must bid adieu to this earthly paradise. What constituted it such in his eyes ? Was U ORACK RATMOMD. 217 I all dan- lie happi- on as she ?d to tho ace were ilso a wil- assioii for le piano, kV to some fe-stirring is of some He had ! with en- t with in . On re- !^arlvle to bit an in- troduced pressing ek at his ow been ed to her she wept and her e longer, 3u tat the s earthly Was it the exquisite di5i)lay of Nature's varied works, the pictu- resque scenery, tho blue expansive river, the shady walks along its bank,-, canopied l)y wide sprcadini^ trees, and per- fumed with Uic rich odor of llio wild rose, sweet brier and honey-suL'kl.'? Or was it not rather the sweet companion- ship of one of Kve's fairest danc,ditcrM, whcsc inental en- dowmcn(s and rarobcauly bad thrown a fascination around him, whicli ho folb it ahnool impossible to resist? Yet, this potent tpc'l inu>:t bo broken, an imperative duty demanded the sacrifiecj and ho wo'.ild obey. ''I mui:t leave you to-day, Ada," he said one morning, as he found lier on tlio piazza after breakfast. The cliild's countenance chanf^cd, and tears iilled her eyes. "Why do you go away?" she asked; " why not stay here alwa}^^s?" '* I must no home, Ada." '' Where is your liomc ?" ''In the sunny South, where we have bright days and beautiful (lowers all the year," he gaily replied. "In the sunny South!" she repeated, thoughtfully. " That's where the runaway slaves come from. I wouldn't like to live there! do you?" " Yes, Ada, it is my home, and many of the slaves would not leave if they could; they are happy there, and well provided for." " Oh, I am so sorry you are going away !" resumed Ada, after a moment's pause. " I am afraid I will never see you agam. II " I hope we shall meet at some future time, dear child l'* he said, fondly kissing her. " But, Ada, will you not give l- • 1 1 1 Ml r? ij'i '! i E hi! 218 QRAGE RATMONa me your likeness ? this one," he added; eagerly taking up a daguorrean likeness from a rose-wood stand, which was placed near the open window of the breakfast room, outside of which they were standing. A meaning smile lighted up the child's luminous eyes as she said archly — " then you will have cousin's likeness, too, but I know you want to get it." The case contained a likeness of Grace Raymond, seated on an ottoman, with Ada standing beside her. Carrington turned away to hide a smile. " How obser- vant cliildren arc!" he said mentally. An hour afterwards he came to bid Ada adieu. As he approached Grace to say good-bye, his manner was agitated, his voice faltered, and there was an expression of deep ten- derness and regret in his gaze, as it rested on her, which haunted her memory, strengthening the hope she had be- gun to entertain, that he did not regard her with indiflference. GRACE RATHOND. 219 CHAPTER IX. Ada was not the only one who regretted Carrington's absence. His manners were very fascinating. They were marked by that chivalrous politeness characteristic of the Southern gentleman; and possessing a refined taste and cultivated mind, his conversation had a peculiar charm. Mr. Bingham often expressed his regret at the loss of such an agreeable companion. The heart of Grace echoed the regret, but she said nothing. The day after he left the villa a small packet arrived from New York, directed to Ada. It contained a gold chain and locket of exquisite workman- ship, the latter enclosing a miniature hkeness of Carrington. " He sent me this because I gave him mine," said Ada, dehghted with the beautiful gift. " Did you give him your likeness, Ada ?" *' Yes, and yours too, cousin Grace." "Why did you do so, Ada? did he ask for it?" said Grace, eagerly." " Yes he did, and he looked very glad when I gave it to hirn." 220 GRACE RAYMOND. Fli ( ► II ! This observation suf^j^cstod a pleasing train of thought to tho mind of Grace Raymond. A few days after Carrington's departure, Mrs. Bingham and Isabel returned home. Tliey had not heard of Ada's illness until she "was convalescent. Mr. Binfiham had writ- ten to inform her mamma of herdanger, but she did not re- ceive the letter; for instead of proceeding to Saratoga afi she had Hrst intended, she joined a party of friends who were on tiieir way to Xcwport. At tliat fasliionable sum- mer resort she made tlu? acquaintance of a French Count, who accompanied her home. CountdeMontford n'aaaman of pleasing appearance and courtly address. Although in the sunset of life, yet by tlie skilful aid of the i)erruquier and dentist, the ravages of time were well concealed. lie seemed fiiscinated by the beauty of Isabel Tracey, and his marked attentions to her ended in an offer of his hand, which was eagerly accepted by the young lady and her mamma. The great disparity in their age was considered a serious obstacle by ^Mr. Bingham, and he urged his wife to reject the Count's proposal, but in vain. She and Isabel were dazzled by the splendor of rank, and considered an elevated position in society especially a title suOicient to en- sure happiness. The preparations for the marriage, there- fore, rapidly progressed, for Count de Montford was impa- tient to return to Europe. The bride's trousseau was the admiration of all her fashionable friends ; the veil of rich Brussels lace, and the chaplet of orange-blossoms, had been imported for the occasion. The bridegroom's presents were duly received and admired. The happy day at length ar- rived ; the young bride in her girlish beauty, and in the GRACE RAYMOND. 221 pumptuous array of white satin, rich laco and glittering jowels, was led to tlif! Jlynionoal altar by licr agod admirer, tliere to utter vows in which her heart took no part, yet deeniinjjj it a suflicient recompense I'or this seir-sacriflce at the Bhrinc of ambition, to hear herseh' addressed, when tlie solenni ceremony was cnd(;d, by (he imposinj^ title of Countess — the very name was musi(; to her ear. Mrs. JJini^liani was to accompany her dau.^'litcr to her new home. She wished to enjoy the trinmiih of seeing her moving in her exalted sphere. Slic doubtcMl not but that she would shine as a star of the first magnitude in the galaxy of fashion at the Parisian capital. She was also de- sirous that Ada should accompany her, but this Mr. Bing- ham would not permit. Ada, although grieved to part from her mamma, preferred remaining at home. Her father she loved with a fervent attachment; her heart clung to him, and she would not be separated. The wedding was over; the bridal cortege^ after partaking of a dejeuner a la fourcheiie^ served in a sumptuous style, had taken their leave ; the Count and Countess de Montford, accompanied by Mrs. Bingham, had departed for New York on their way to Europe, and Grace Raymond and her uncle, wearied of festivity, were once more left to the quiet se- clusion of their country residence. Time passed on. Letters arrived from France conveying unlooked-for intelligence. Mrs. Bingham's glowing expec- tations had not been realized. The fabric of worldy gran- deur, reared by the hand of pride, which had seemed so stately in perspective, was, on a nearer view, found to be crumbling into ruins. Count de Montford's aflfairs were K. .15! I i ' i l! !i J22 GRACE RAYMOKS. much embarrassed. Isabel's largo fortune was chiefly em- ployed to redeem his family estate, which had been mort- gaged to pay debts of honor ; and instead of making her debut at the Court of Verscilles, the disappointed Countess was compelled to retire with her husband to an old chateau in the south of France, where, secluded from the world, she mourned over her ruined hopes, and lamented her self-sac- rifice with all the bitterness of unavailing regret. Furious at her disappointment, after quarrelling with her noble son- in-law, and telling him, in no measured terms, her opinion of his dishonorable conduct, Mrs. Bingham bado adieu to her unhappy daughter, and prepared to return home. At an hotel in Havre, where she was to take the steamer for America, news reached her wliicli overwhelmed her with despair. It was a season of great depression in the com- mercial world. Several mercantile houses in New York had failed, and among the number of bankrupt merchants, Mrs. Bingham read her husband's name. The grief she had previously suffered, and the frenzied excitement which this unexpected intelhgence produced, brought on brain fever^ which proved fatal. The Countess de Montford was written for when danger was apprehended, but did not arrive till all was over. Thus at an hotel among strangers in a foreign land, attended only by a domestic, whom she had brought with her from America, Mrs. Bmgham closed her eyes upon a world which had bounded all her hopes of happiness, for she had lived for time not for eternity — considering earthly enjoyments as alone worthy of her regard. Alas for the fate of those who make Mammon their trust ! who bow to this world's idol I How dreadful to them seems death I for GRACE RAYMOND. 223 they have no !iopo beyond the grave, and when trampled beneath the feet of tho pale horse and his rider, they feel in their fierce despair that they liave hved for naught, and that now their sun is going down in eternal darkness. The information which the American papers conveyed to Mrs. Bingham, was unfortunately correct. Mr. Bingham had failed, partly owing to the extravagant expenditure of his wife, but chiefly to the failure of others. All his pro- perty he honorably gave up to his creditors; his town house and villa were sold, and he himself was again compelled to seek employment as a clerk, llis high character among hia fellow-merchants, soon procured him the situation as book- keeper in a mercantile house. lie bore his reverse of for- tune nobly. The wealth which he had possessed for a few years, and which "had made itself wings and flown away," had never conferred happiness on him. Comparatively a young man, still he knew that he could, by his own exer- tions, earn a comfortable subsistence. For the present, therefore, he felt contented and happy while Hope's syren voice whispered that he might yet attain that felicity, which, m youth, had been hia day-dream, and was now the cher- ished hope of his existence. AUce Vernon ''s house received her relatives in their hour of adversity, and it was deter- mined that for the present they should share the same home. At the time o-f her uncle's failure in business, Grace, feeling unwilling to be any longer dependent on him for support, advertised for a situation as governess. After some delay one was procured in a planter's family in Florida, and she made preparations for her departure. Mr. Bingham strongly opposed her intention of leaving him ; he felt angry at her il 224 GRACE RAYMOND. propofiing it, but she gently overruled all his objectionB. Ada would not feel her loss, as Alice Vernon would supply her place. She must fulfil the engagement she had entered into. She wished to visit the South — that land of sunshino and of luxuriant vegetation. Next summer slie would re- turn. Grace did not acknowledge even to herself that it wa8 the hope of seeing one whose image haunted the inner chamber of memory, which made her so anxious to visit Florida. That was Carrington's native state; might she not see him there? their meeting was not improbable. This thought cheered the hour of parting, and gave a raicbow brightness to the future. m < I GRACE RAYMOND. 225 bjectionB, Id supply d entered sunshine would rc- )lf that i\ . the inner IS to visit ht she not ble. This a rainbow Once more on the bosom of the pjreat deep, moving over its trackless waters in a St. Angnstinc steamer, Grace Ray- mond found herself rapidly approaching her Southern home. It was late in the afternoon when the boat reached St. Augustine. Grace viewed with interest this ancient town, the oldest in the United States, placed in its bold situation on the shores of the Atlantic. Her new home was some miles in the interior. A stage-coach was to convey her and some other passengers as far as , which was in ita vicinity. The road lay partly through a magnificent forest, where the magnolia was seen raising its superb head above the less stately but beautiful catalpa tree, the pride of China, the live-oak and the majestic cedar, whose ancient trunks were wreathed with the fragrant South Carolina jessamine, and other luxuriant vines, while festoons of dark grey moss draped their spreading boughs. The different climate in which she found herself, struck Grace forcibly. The warm air of a November night was strange to one ac- customed to the chilliness of a northern autumn. Indeed, everything she saw had the gloss of novelty, and made her feel sensibly that she was in a strange land. Thoughts of home — of the dear ones she had left — obtruded themselves painfully on her mind, and tears frequently filled her eyes, 9A the coach moved heavily along the rough forest road. The lumbering vehicle at length stopped, and the driver alighting opened the door. " You are to get out here, ma'am," he said, respectfully offering Lis hand. Grace alighted and looked around her in astonishment There was no house to be seen— no sign of a habitation ■ .," ■*-*9«" III N I ! ' I i:' I ! .1 226 GRACE RAYMOND. near. Two tall negroes were standing beneath a tree on the road-side, their stalwart forms and ebony faces distinctly seen in the glaring light of the pine torches they carried. "Mrs. Mowbray lives a few miles farther on, in another direction," observed the driver ; " these are her servants sent to conduct you to the house." The look of blank dismay with which Grace regarded her sable guides, brought a smile to the face of the driver. "There is no cause for fear, ma'am," he said kindly, lowering his voice, " these black fellows will take good care of you, and the distance is short." He then led the pony which had been brought for her accommodation towards her, and assisted her to mount. " Here you Zambo, take this bridle and lead the pony quickly along. Hear I" "Yes, massa, I bring him home 'rectly. Misses been 'specting us dis two hour. Tink de coach nebber come." Thus assured, Grace committed herself to the guidance of her black escort, one of whom loaded himself with her lug- gage, and continued her journey. They had proceeded about three miles, when suddenly a burst of wild melody broke upon the stillness of the night, and the next minute a turning in the road displayed to the eyes of Grace a sable group of men and women, young and old, seated around a blazing wood-fire. A few sweet female voices were sing- ing the pleasing ballad, " My old Kentucky Home," while the powerful voices of the men joined in the chorus, filling the forest depths with rude harmony. The group had a rather picturesque appearance ; the bright light from the blazing pine threw a ruddy glow on their dark faces, glowing with GRACE RAYMOND. 227 the happiness of the present hour, their hands and feet keeping time to the music, and every care for the moment forgotten ; while it disclosed the gigantic outline of the sur- rounding trees, bringing out in fantastic shapes their huge branches. " Dem hab great fun dere," said Zambo, stopping the pony to allow Grace to look on the novel scene. " Dey hab lots of sweet tatcrs roastin' in de hot ashes, and dem's gwine to hab fine supper. Wish I's dere too," he added, looking wistfully towards them. " Can these be some of the unhappy slaves whose lot is represented as so deplorable ?" thought Grace. " I never beheld a gayer party — each dusky visage is lighted up with pleasure. But I must not form too hasty a judgment," she added, as she moved thoughtfully on ; " there are, I suppose, lights as well as dark shadows in their existence." The road now began gradually to ascend, the forest here eeemed to terminate, and they emerged into a more open country. A little farther on, a woody eminence loomed up in the darkness. Carefully Zambo led the pony up the steep ascent. " Dere's de house at las', missis," he exclaimed, as an old- fashioned building was seen crowning the height. It ap- peared to be an irregularly-built mansion, surrounded by verandahs, shaded by tall shrubs and canopied by a few lofty trees. In a richly-furnished apartment three of the inmates were assembled. An elderly lady — the mistress of the mansion — habited in mourning, was reclining in an easy chair, her fingers busily employed knitting, while her mind was occu* tfiir i ' ■^ i- ii ! t! i ! 1 1 Ml 1 it*' 1 f Li ! U ! 228 GRACE RAYMOND. pied with her own thoughts. She was a Creole, a native of Cuba, and her dark complexion and black eyes denoted her Spanish origin. Iler a{)pearance was dignified, but her countenance was not pleasing. There was a cold stern ex- pression about the mouth, and the flash of her dark eye indicated a passionate and haughty temper. At a table at the other end of the room a gentleman sat, reading aloud to a young lady, who was occupied with some elegant fancy-work. As Grace and her escort approached tho house, they were saluted by the loud baying of the watch- dogs, which were soon quieted by the well-known voice of Zambo. The noise attracted the gentleman's attention. " Some one approaches !" he observed, laying down hi3 book. " It is only our new governess," observed Mrs. Mowbray* " Ernest, will you be so kind as to step into the hall and usher her into this room ?" " I did not know you were expecting a stranger," he ob- Bprved, as he rose to comply with her request. " We have been expecting a young lady from New York, to take charge of Maud's education, but I forgot to mention it to you since your arrival" Grace was dismounting as the gentleman reached tho steps of the hall-door. The light from the pine torches re- vealed her face, and a sensation of delight thrilled to his heart. " Miss Raymond 1 is it possible ?" he exclaimed, advancing towards her, his countcnanse eloquently expressing th& b<^ppiness caused by this unexpected meeting. The surprise of Grace at seeing Carrington was equal to GRACE RAYMOND. 229 his own, and the quickened pulsation of her heart and bright smilf that irradiated lier face, showed also that the pleasure was mutual. A few hurried inquiries about Mr. Bingham and Ada, and then Carrington led her into the room where Mrs. Mowbray and her eldest daughter were sitting. Mrs. Mowbray received Grace with stately politeness. Miss Mowbray's reception was very pleasing. She posses- sed much suavity of manner, which was peculiarly charm- ing to one like Grace, in a dependant situation and a stranger. Marcella Mowbray was a beautiful girl, about the same age as Grace. She inherited from her mother the graceful state- liness characteristic of the Spanish ladies, as well as the olive complexion and black lustrous eyes; but the pale olive of her complexion was relieved by a tinge of carmine, which dyed her cheeks and lips, and although her eyes did at times glow with haughty or passionate emotion, yet her kind disposition, in a great measure, atoned for these defects of temper. Carrington took no part in the conversation, as the two girls conversed familiarly, but stood apart silent and thought- ful. The flush of happiness had faded from his countenance, and he looked pale and sad. The change in his manner was a cause of painful surprise to Grace. What occasioned it ? Was it the change in her circumstances? As this thought obtruded itself, the crimson of resentment rose to her cheek. Then she remembered his evident delight at their unexpect- ed meeting. Her mind was filled with anxiety and conjec- ture, and pleading fiitigue, she ?oon retired to her apartment to think over this interesting subject. The chamber allot- 230 GRACE RATMOND, ■ .' 1 t!! ted Grace was in a wing of the building ; it was commo- dious and handsomely furnished, opening into a smaller apartment, which was to be her school room. Her trunks had already been removed there, and she busied herself un- packing part of their contents. While thus occupied, a tap at the door was heard. On opening it, an elderly colored woman entered with some delicious fruit, and other refreshments. ** Miss Marcelly send you dis," she said, placing the salver on a stand, and attentively regarding the new governess. "Miss Mowbry is very kind," observed Grace, gladly accepting the offered refreshment. " Miss Marcelly's kind to ebery one. Her say when you want any more ting, you pull dis ar bell, and I come 'rectly. I's maum Tamar, Miss Maud's nurse." " Who is Miss Maud ? my young pupil, I suppose ?" " Yes, missis, one leetle chile for you to 'struct P'rapi you like to see her, she sleep in de nex' roomj' "Alone?" " Oh no ! I sleep on de floor near de bed. I's her mauma you know." Grace declined intruding on the child at that late hour. "Miss Maud bery sweet chile," resumed the talkative mauma. " Her habfair hair, eyes blue hke de sky, and skin white as yer own. Her not bit like ole missis. Her like Marse Mowbray. Him good massa — ebery nigger cry when he gwine to die. Dem lose dere bes' friend. Ole missis bery cross, her whip for leetle ting." This was said in a whisper, and Tamar rolled her large orbe round the room, as if fearful ol being overheard^ ORAOE RAYMOND. 231 " Marse Carrington like him uncle — bery good to poor slave. Day all be glad him come back 'gain, him been gone long time, he come now to marry Miss Marcelly." "Maum Tamar ! mauma!" pronounced by a sweet child- ish voice, in an adjoining room, now interrupted the nurse'ft garrulity. " I's coming honey ! mauma's coming 'rectly !" she said, in fond accents, then making a rapid courtesy, she bade a kind good-night, and Grace was once more left alone. ',' w i. I 'I 1 ;; '! 'm 232 OBAOS RAYMOND. CHAPTER X. Oarrington going to marry Marcella Mowbray I With what oppressive weight did these few words sink into the heart of Grace 1 This, then, arcounted for his altered man- ner. The day-dream of the last few months was suddenly broken — her sun-gilded visions of the future were rudely dispelled — found to be a chimera, sweet, indeed, but vain. The intense regret which this information caused her, tore away the veil from her heart, disclosing what she had tried to conceal — that Carrington's image was enshrined in its inner recesses. She felt angry with herself for such weak- ness, and proudly determined to conquer a love which was unrequited. Notwithstanding the fatigue of the journey, it was late when Grace slept. The events of the day haunted her dreams, and she awoke unrefreshed, and with a feeling of depression. She tried to banish sad thoughts, by employing herself in the duties of the school-room. Her pupil Maud, was a fair child, about ten years old, of delicate health and gentle disposition. She had much leisure time, which she spent in her own room, or in wandering about the grounds with Maud and her mauma. She joined the GRACE RAYMOND. 233 ! With into the red man- suddenlj e rudely but vain, ler, tore lad tried ;d in its h weak- lich was journey, he day nd with loughts, Her ielicate re time, ^ about led the n. family only at meals, or when her society was particularly sought for by Miss Mowbray. Carrington's manner towards Grace wa? marked by a stu- died politeness, but his absorbing interust in lier betrayed itself continually, in many nameless attentions. In her presence he was reserved, occupying himself with a book, while she and Marcella worked together, and chatted pleas- antly. But although apparently engaged reading, he was listening eagerly to their conversation, while he stole fre- quent glances of passionate admiration towards Grace from beneath the hand that shaded hi& fiice. Owing to the powerful attraction of the human eye, she found herself of- ten involuntarily returning the look that was bent upon her, and whenever their eyes met, his were instantly averted in confusion. His conduct surprivsed Grace; she could not mistake the language of his eloquent eyes, they spoke as forcibly as words could do, and again hope was busy in her heart, filling it with sunshine. Marcella sometimes chid Grace for being so unsociable. Glad of the society of a young girl of her own age, she wished for her constant companionship. One evening she was standing on the verandah, as Grace passed with Maud, attended by maum Tamar. " Whither so fast, fair lady ?" she asked, playfully — " on another botanical excursion ? Wait a momentforme, and I will lead you to a particular spot, where you can gather aa many rare plants as will fill your herbarium." "And will you not both accept of my escort?" asked Carrington, coming forward from the end of the piazza, where he had been seated reading. ' 234 GRAOB RAYMOND. i f' ,1 ! I 4\ "I can answer for myself, dear coz, but not for Mia Raymond ; she seems to shun your society." The eyes of Grace sank bcneuth the gaze of Carrington. " You should visit our Southern forests and gardens in the Bpring and summer, Miss Raymond," he observed, as they moved onward, " then you might include in your botanical collection the superb fragrant flower of tlic magnolia, tho ivory-white monotropa or Indian pipe, the scarlet blossoms of the bignonia and pomegranate, the cape jessamine, with its rich white petals and dark green leaves, the sweet scented orange blossom, the catalpa, its white corolla streaked with purple, and the singular passion-flower climbing the tallest trees, beside a variety of other beautiful flowers." " What a learned description!" said Marcella, laughing. "You must have been reading Elliott's botany this morn- ing, Ernest. But this pleasure for Miss Raymond is yet to come. She will, I hope, remain with us next year." " I think I shall return home in the summer," remarked Grace. " WhatI so soon ? why so anxious to go North? there is, doubtless, some attraction there," and Marcella smiled archly. Again Grace met the eyes of Carrington. He seemed to hang upon her answer. " My uncle was unwilling I should leave him," she re- plied, " and I promised to return in a few months." " I have never been North," said Marcella. " I should not like such a frigid region." " The climate and soil differ from our sunny land," ob- served Carrington ; '' but the North has its advantages too^ OIUOE RATMOHD. 335 and although its flowers do not equal ours in size, orperhapi in richness of coloring, yet indelicacy of tint and fragrance, they cannot be excelled." "There is one superiority "which, as far as I can judge, the North possesses," observed Grace — " grand romantic •cenery." They had now reached the highest point of the eminencei on which Mrs. Mowbray's dwelling was situated. Below them spread out for miles the unbroken majestic forest^ while bounding the horizon eastward, a bluo line marked the distant ocean. "Such a scene as this is rather tame and unvaried," de- served Carrington ; " but to judge of our Southern scenery, Miss Raymond, you must travel in the up-country or hilly region of Georgia and South Carolina ; there, as one as- cends, a subUme display of mountain scenery opens on th© view." Grace smiled. " I perceive I have only exposed my ig- norance in the opinion I expressed," she said. "How delightfully cool the air is here I" exclaimed Mar- cella. " I propose we remain in this elevated spot and look ftt the scene before us." This was a favorite resort of the family, and an octagon temple, its sides trellised with the crimson cypress vine and starry ipomea, had been erected for their accommodation. " Your proposal is not bad," replied Carrington, "forth^ inn's rays are still too hot to be pleasant. But could yoa not get your people to furnish a table here in the wilder- ness?" he gaily added. " That is a good ideal Then, maum Tamar I you must ■ I Ik /'., 236 ORAOR RAYMOND. i| fi' go back to the house nnrl toll Munfjo and Sam and Hagar, and half a dozen others, to hurry here with a supply of everything eatable and drinkable. Hear I" " Yes, Miss Marcelly, I make dem bring ebcry ting good." " And listen, mauma I tell Celeste to bring my guitar." The mauma's countenance changed. *' I's bery sorry, but Celes' " "la in durance vile, I suppose," quickly interrupted Marcella. "That poor girl is continually in ma's bad gra- ces. What is the oflence now, Tamar ?" "1 dunno, but s'pose her no 'tend her work — her spend too much time sparkin' Zambo." Marcella laughed. " And for this heinous offence she must be punished and put in solitary confinement. Well, maum Tamar, you must bring the guitar yourself Suppose you hang it round your ebony neck, it will be easy to carry, and you will look so interesting." " Lor, Miss Marcelly, you allers poke fun at ole mauma," and Tamar turned away laughing. " Tink I look bery fin6 wid such a big banjo round my black neck." In a short time a table was spread with various delicacies. The evening passed pleasantly. Carrington, for the time, threw off his reserve, and entertained his fair companions with his brilliant conversation. Music formed a delightful interlude. Miss Mowbray played the guitar well, and sung with much taste and sweetness. Grace mingled her melo- dious voice with hers, and on the still pure air floated the rich harmony. Suddenly an appalling shriek rose up from the woods below. At the base of the height which here rose perpendicularly, several negro huts were scattered CRACK RAYMOND. 237 >le raauma." amonpf the trees. Tn ono set aprirt from the rest, a sccno of cruitlty was aetin^L':. Celeste, a pretty riuilatto girl, was writhing'' under the lasli, and her erics of shame and agony were rendin;^the air. (Jracc! Kayinond started and turned pale. Cariitij^iton'.s face (lushed, and an expression of anger clouded his brow. "Well, mamma is really too em(>l!" exclaimed Marcella, the crimson of indignation rushing to her lace. "Poor Celeste 1 what has she done to merit sueli a punishment? Mamma rules over our people with a rod of iron, and I cannot prevent it, for she will not listen when I plead -for Uiem. But when I am mistress hero, things shall bo managed diflerently. The lash shall never be used unless when unavoidable. And yet," she added, sadly, "my pro- tection cannot extend to all our servants. Some belong to mamma, and Heaven help them, for I cannot!" Carrington looked at Grace as these expressions buret from the indignant Marcella. She looked surprised and pained. She was evidently grieved to hear a daughter's animadversions on her mother's conduct, although she knew that her mother deserved such reprehension. This incident interrupted the happiness of the evening, and the littlo party soon returned home. :mm 238 OBACE BATMOND. CHAPTER XL i- 1 Hti " I suppose you think we live like heathens in this part of the •world, Miss Raymond?" said Marcella, one Sunday morning, as they rose from the breakfast table. " You have now been here a month, and we have not yet shown you the inside of a church." " Maud told me there is one in the neighborhood, but that the minister is absent," said Grace, smiling. " Was absent, but he has returned, and to-day we will attend Divine Worship, if you have no objection. As the road is only a bridle-path, we shall ride escorted by Ernest." At the appointed hour, the young ladies, equipped for riding, appeared at the hall-door. Carrington was waiting, and two grooms were leading the horses about the lawn. "If you are a good horsewoman, Miss Raymand, mount this spirited creature," said Miss Mowbray, as Zambo led a beautiful Arabian towards her. " If you are not, I would recommend that gentle animal." " I am not much accustomed to riding, and would prefer a quiet horse," said Grace. ** Then I will keep Diana myself I" and placing her deli- GRACE RATMOND. 239 IS in this part I, one Sunday " You have shown you th© borhood, but ing. day we will Lion. As the 3d by Ernest." equipped for was waiting, t the lawn, mand, mount 3 Zambo led a not, I would would prefer jing her deli- cate foot in Zambo's broad palm, Marcella sprung gracefully into her saddle. Carrington now assisted Grace to mount, then vaulting on his own horse, the pat y rode slowly down the steep dcclivJr.v. The church was a small unpretending structure; the congregation was composed of a few planters' families and servants. The minister — an unworldly-minded old man — preached an excellent sermon. Grace listened with de- vout attention, glad to enjoy once more the pubhc ordi- nances of religion. Carrington's deportmeat was very Berious, although his eyes did frequently wander towards Grace Raymond. He thought he had never seen her look BO lovely, for the pure devotion which burned on the altar of her heart, gave an angelic beauty of expression to her countenance. Miss Mowbray was less devoted than her companions. There was a stranger in church — a handsome young man of distinguished appearance, and as a stranger in that secluded region, was a raraavis, Marcella's lustrous eyes often glanced in his direction. " Who is that gentleman who sat in the Herberts' pew to-day, Ernest ?" she asked eagerly, as they rode homeward. " His name is Tremaine, he is from Charleston, here on a visit to young Herbert." " What a handsome fellow ! I think he has the finest face I ever saw." "The admiration is mutual, T fancy," observed Carring- ton, smiling, "for I noticed that his eyes were more fre- quently riveted on you than on his prayer book." A bright smile broke over Marcella's features. She knew the observation was correct, for she had often felt the mes- .JLH^aSSiiiUk ^1^. 1- i ii ; I ' :l -ii II 8' ill it i I ■i: -! I 240 GRACE RAYMOND. meric influence of the stranger's eyc5?, and on raising hers, was sure to oncoantcT his adniirinpf naze. " What do you tliink of the handsome stranger, Miss Raymond?" she asked, abruptly addressing Grace. " I do not know wliich gentleman you mean, they were all strangers to me." "But did you not observe one with a certain air distingue^ an Apollo-hke figure, and handsome as Adonis himself?" "Miss Raymond's eyes were not guilty of the sin of wan* dering during Divine worship," observed Carrington, pointedly. " Nonsense ! do you think she is such a saint as not even to glance around her in church ; or, perhaps," continued Marcella, with a mischievous laugh, "you have the vanity to imagine that our own pew contained her magnet of at- traction, and that dazzled by the brilliancy of your intellec- tual eyes, she cared not to regard the lesser orbs around her." Carrington colored at this remark, and stole a glance at Grace, to observe how she received it. She looked embar- rassed, for conscience whispered that Marcella's observation was correct. The downcast eye and the rich blood which mantled her whole face, revealed her confusion, sending a thrill of delight to the heart of Carrington, which gleamed in his quickly-averted eye. " I shall ride over to Mr. Herbert's to-morrow and call on Tremaine," he said, after a short silence. " I wish you would," said Marcella, eagerly. " It wonld be so very pleasant to have him for an acquaintnn e, and yon know we want some one to enhven our solitude." GRACE RAYMOND. 241 As Marcellamade this remark, Grace looked at Carrington. There was a smile of peculiar meaning on his face, but no expression of anger or jealousy, although his young fiancee had expressed such admiration for another. From tiiis cir- cumstance and others, Grace felt assured that Tarrington's attachment to his cousin was wanting; in that devotion which generally marks the lover, for where there is no jealousy in such cases, there is little love. Tremaine was not slow in returning Carrington's call, and now ho became a constant visitor at Mrs. Mowbray's. Marcella was his star of attraction. He had fallen in love with her — as the phrase is — at first sight, and his passionate attachment formed a striking contrast to Carrington's quiet affection. This little affaire dit coeii?" had progressed con- siderably before Mrs. Mov/bray's suspicions were aroused, then with her characteristic determination, she resolved to check it at once. She was sitting in the drawing-room one afternoon when Tremaine was seen approaching the house. Marcella was standing at c* window admiring his elegant figure, which appeared to advantage, mounted on a spirited horse, as he gracefully curvetted along the gravelled walk. Hastily ringing the bell, Mrs. Mowbray desired the servant to say, "Not at home," to Mr. Tremaine. As he had caught sight of Marcella's quickly-retreating figure, he con- sidered this denial a studied insult, and with a look of deep mortification, he rode hastily away. " In Heaven's name, why did you do that, mamma ?'* asked Marcella, her face darkened by the passion that swept over it. " I do not think it necessary to give a reason for my con- I!!:! il* ■V* r I : .■ I :i : i 242 GRACE RAYMOND. duct," said Mrs. Mowbray, haughtily. " I presume I am mistress here." An angry retort rose to Marcella's lips, but she repressed it "Mr. Tremaine is a gentleman, and should be treated with courtesy," she observed, with forced calmness. "As ho saw me at the window, he knew I was at home." " I am soif y to see Miss Mowbray pay so little regard to propriety, as to encouraofe the marked attentions of this young man, when she knows she is the afiianced bride of another. A young lady who does this, is sadly deficient in principle." , " But you must be aware, mamma, that neither Ernest nor I feel for each other that warm affection which is so ne- cessary to secure happiness in married life. We were en- gaged when very young, and " "But your engagement has been since solemnly renewed at the death-bed of your father," quickly interrupted Mrs. Mowbray. " Yes, but that was to please papa, who loved Ernest as a son. Still, when we both feel that this marriage will not contribute to our happiness, I think it should not be entered into. Ernest is too honorable to break his engagement, therefore it is my duty to do so, and not render him and myself unhappy." " You have come to this conclusion only since your ac- quaintance with Tremaine," observed her mother, with a provoking smile. " I do not deny it," said Marcella, as the bright blood rose to her cheek. " Since then I have learned to know my own heart." GRACE RAYMOND. 243 3ie I am repressed ated with "As he regard to IS of this I bride of eficient in ?r Ernest hissoue- were en- ■ renewed pted Mrs. Ernest as c will not )e entered agement, him and your ac- 2Vj with a rht blood to know A short silence ensued. It was broken by Mrs. Mowbray. "Do you know that this young man is penniless, while Ernest possesses a fortune equal to your own." " I know it, but my fortune is large enough. I do not need to marry for wealth." " And you are determined to persevere in this folly." Mrs. Mowbray spoke in a voice of suppressed passion. *' I am determined to accept Mr. Tremaine, if he should offer me his hand," Marcclla replied, resolutely. "And I am determined you shall marry your cousin Ernest, and not this poor adventurer, who presumes to raise his eyes to a Southern heiress," and Mrs. Mowbray's eyes glared witli uncontrollable rage. "Do you consider the mandate of a parent nothing? Has not God commanded children to obey their parents? therefore, if you refuse to obey me, you reject His authority." i "It is also a Divine injunction that parents should not pro- voke their children to anger," said Marcella, trembling with excited feeling. " When a mother would render a child unhappy, I think her authority should cease." M''S. Mowbray laughed scornfully. "Unhappy ! by wedding you to Ernest Carrington — the noblest of human beings ! Silly girl ! it is you who would throw away happiness by rejecting him." "I esteem Ernest and love him as a brother, but nothing more, and I again repeat " " Is Ernest aware of your altered feelings ?" interrupted Mrs. Mowbray, with an impatient gesture. " My feehngs towards Ernest are not altered. I regard 244 ORAOE RATMOND. i 11' li E> him still with the same affection I ever did, but that is only a sister's love.'* " Is he aware of your sudden fancy for Trcmaine ?" "I have not made him a confidant," was Marcella'g somewhat haughty reply. " Does Tremaine love you ?" *' I suspect he does, but after the insult of this morning, he may not seek to renew our acquaintance," said Misa Mowbray, bitterly. • " I hope not, that is precisely what I wish — and now enough of this conversation. We understand each other. You will bear in mind that you shall never wed Tremaine with my consent — nay," she added, her eyes glowing with intense wrath, " should you do so, a mother's curse will b^ your wedding dowry." She then turned coldly away, and witii lier usual stately motion, left the room. ;t ill i OBAOK BATMOND. 045 CHAPTER XIL Chafing with her angry feelings, like some wild but beau- tiful animal, Marcella sought the apartment of Grace Ray- mond. Flinging herself into a chair, and resting her head on her beautifully-moulded arms, she indulged in a paroxysm of weeping. This soon quieted the storm of passionate emotion. Lifting her head, and smiling through her tears, she said, addressing Grace, who was regarding her with surprise and commiseration : " I suppose you are surprised to see me weep ; you thought, perhaps, that an heiress has no cause for sorrow ; but listen to my grievances, and judge for yourself. You will be my confidant, will you not ? My heart yearns for your sympathy." Marcella then related the conversation with her mother, and ended by declaring she would never marry any one but Tremaine. " Why do you suspect that Mr. Carrington is unwilling to fulfil his engagement ?" asked Grace. "Because he does not love me. I know he loves another 246 QRACE RATMOND. :i!fi 11 i ii — even yourself, Miss RaymontI," she added, looking archly at her. Grace colored and looked embarrassed. " Did he tell you BO?" " No, but he wears your hkeness, and that is proof posi- tive, you will allow." "My likeness !" exclaimed Grace, a sudden joy flashing over her face. "How do you know that, Miss Mowbray ?" " I discovered it accidentally. One morning, entering the library, I found Ernest reclining on a couch fast asleep. Escaping from its usual place next his heart, a miniature suspended from a gold chain, was protruding through his open vest. It instantly caught my eye, and possessing as much curiosity as Eve herself, I gently approached and ex- amined it. It was a striking likeness of you, except that the face wanted that look of eager curiosity, tliat radiant expression which I now sec in your countenance. It was well I did not make this discovery some weeks since," sha continued, laughing, " or I might have been furiously jealous at finding the imago of another possessing the place which mine ought to occupy. Eut as it was, I felt glad at discovering that Ernest's repugnance to our marriage must be as great as my own. Since ouv engagement, we have both learned to love — but not each other." The arrival of visitors now interrupted their conversation, for Miss Mowbray was summoned to the drawing-room. Days passed on. Tremaine did not again call at Mrs. Mowbray's, but Marcella met him at the houses of some neighboring planters, and he soon perceived, by her manner, that her feelings towards him were not changed. A gloom GRACE RAYMOND. 247 seemed to hanj^ over Mrs. Mowbray's household. She found herself mistaken in supposing that Marcella would quietly yield to her wishes relative to her marriage. Her daughter possessed a will as indomitable as her own. The opposition Mrs. Mowbray met with served to increase her habitual ill-temper, which made itself felt by her depen- dents ; her helpless slaves groaned beneath her cruel tyranny. " Ole missis so drefTul cross! nebber saw de likel" said maum Tamar, one day entering Grace's room, weeping bit- terly. " Dere now her's gwine to send Ccles' right away to St. 'Gustine, an' sell her to Luzianna trader, him tote poor girl far away, an' we nebber see her more." " What has she done now to offend your mistress, Taraar ?" "Her han't dun much, dat's a fac', but her kinder lazy, no like work, her an't used to it no how while Marse Mowbray lib, her kind ob fav'rite wid massa 'cause her mudder nurse Miss Marcelly. But ole missis nebber hab fav'rite. Den Zambo's a'mose craze for Celes' gwine away. He lub her bcs' ^bery ting in de worl'. On him knees he pray missis for no sell Celes', but she hab heart like de rock, her nebber mind what him say, her kinder larf at poor crit- ter. Den Zambo lose him sense, an' speak sarcy-like, den her get drclTul mad, her eyes shine like hghtnin' at him, she tell de oberseer to gib him fifty lash 'rectly, an* turn him into de field to v/ork like common nigger. Poor Zambo nebber be de same 'gain. Oh dat do good Lor' would take ole missis to kingdom come. Dat's my pray'r night an' mornin'. Grace could not repress a smile. " But, mauma, you break one of God's commandments by saying that prayer." 348 GRACE RAYMOND. I ,1 'J :■ * ■ 1 '< ■;, . i 1 ! 1 ■1 .t t ,1 iju , 'il' " What 'mandment me break ?" asked Tamar, sharply. *' De parson allays say we mus' pray de Lor* to deliber ua from one great en'my, an' missis be jus' dat, her hke do bery debil hesel — her is ! Her whip, whip, for leas' ting. I's allays say de Lor' deliber us from ole missis — I will!" "But, Tamar," persisted Graee, anxious to enlighten the poor slave, "you know the sixth commandment says: * You must do no murder.' Now, to wish in your heart for the death of another, is murder in the sight of God." " I can't b'Heve it, Miss Raymon', can't b'lieve it no how ! I's not wantin' to murder missis, dat's sartin, but if de Lor' would take her to de oder side ob Jordon, I'd be mighty glad — I wud! But it's no use wishin' or prayin', her'U lib long yet I'm 'feard. ITer's jus' one big cross de Lor' send us poor nigger, but it's only to 'fine us like brass an' pr'pare us for de Promis' Land. I dunno what I'd do if it wan't for dat ar' hope, dat's de brcssed trufc." " I am glad to see you look upon affliction in that light, mauma. God sends it to all his creatures." "Yes, Miss Raymon', but Him send de worse 'flictionfor de poor slave, him hab de curse of Ham on him black pate — sartin ! But s'pose de Lor' make all right at de Judgment day — dat be drefful day for cruel mas'rs, den de slave drop him chain an' go right in to de goodly land," and Tamar rolled up her eyes in pious ecstacy. The entrance of Maud now put an end to their conver- sation. " Here is an invitation to a ball at the Herberts', Miss Raymond I you will go, I hope 1" said Marcella, as she one GRACE RAYMOND. 249 leir conver- morning entered the school-room, where Grace was engaged with her pupil. " Am I included in the invitation ?'* " Of course you are I Do you not know that George Herbert admires you exceedingly. This ball is given in honor of his coming of age. It will be a pleasant affair." " I do not think I shall go. I am a stranger, and would not enjoy it." " Oh, you must go by all means, if only to oblige me?" " I really have no dress suitable for sucli an occasion. As 1 did not intend to remain long in the South, and did not expect to mix in gay society, I only brought part of my wardrobe." " Do not trouble yourself on that account." said Mar- cella, kindly. " As you go to tliis ball to gratify mo, you must allow me to make the necessary arrangements for your toilet." On the evening of the ball, maum Tamar entered Miss Raymond's apartment, bringing, as she said, alubly presen from Miss Marcelly. It was a dress of delicate texture, worn over white silk, and tastefully trinnned. " IIow becomingly your hair is arranged, Miss Raymond !" said Marcella, entering Grace's room as she was just finish- ing her toilet. " Eut you wear no ornament. Allow me to place this splendid Camelia among those luxuriant tres- Bcs ; its dark green leaves and beautiful corolla will contrast well with their raven hue. IIoW' delicately fiiir your com- plexion is!" she continued, admiringly; "the snowy whiteness of your graceful shoulders, really rivals your white dress. Beside you, I stand eclipsed I" n 1 'Ifl^^^H 1 ' ' ■ I 1 ' it ni rui f I r !■ • ,( i 1 i > i". 'flj •'( 1'' ' -' t ; i' ^ . ■* i^l '■ r ! 250 ORAOl RATUOND. " You do but jest, Miss Mowbray," said Grace, who was gazing with admiration at her brilliant beauty, sliown to advantage by the splendor of her attire. It was crimson tissue, embroidered with gold, its bright liuc contrasting well with her pale olive complexion. Through her glossy curls, costly pearls were wreathed, while her slender throat and delicate wrists were encircled with jewels. At the residence of Mr. Herbert, a gay crowd was as- Bembled, for several persons had come fi'om St. Augustino to attend the ball. The house was brilliantly lighted, and Been from a distance through the forest, these lights gleam- ed like stars. Through spacious rooms, fitted up by tho hand of luxury, and tastefully decorated, beautiful females might be seen promenading, or moving through tho grace- ful quadrille, or inspiriting galop. They were richly dressed, — for wealth presided at their toilet — but there was ono among the glittering throng on whoso brow flashed no oriental gem ; yet her rare beauty attracted every eye, and Grace Raymond was tacitly acknowledged to be tho meteor of the ball-room. Carrington's eyes spoke the admiration his hps did not utter. As her queenly form moved through the dance, or promenaded tho room, his gaze followed her every movement, as if unmindful of the presence of any save this one beloved object. Among the many admirers of Grace, was George Herbert. He seemed captivated by her beauty. An expression of jealous feeling darkened the face of Carrington, as he watched his particular attentions, Grace observed his clouded brow, she guessed the cause, and a smile of pleasure added a brighter beauty to her countenance, for she perceived the power she possessed over ORAOE RATMOKD. 251 his happiness, while, with a little oftho coquetry of her sex, •he listened with apparent satisfaction to tlie animated con- versation of her young admirer. 252 GRACE RATMOND. CHAPT-1:R XIII. I '^i ;! I 11 I u The hours of the night sped on too swiftly, for many young hearts were unwilling to break the enchanting spell which pleasure had thrown around them. The gay scene was new to Grace, but she was one for whom the crowded ball-room had few fascinations. Her chief attraction during the evening was a large conservatory, where, among a choice collection of rare plants and beautiful exotics, which made the air heavy with their rich fragrance, the Cactus grandiflorus or night-blooming ccrcus, was displaying its splendid flower to the guests' admiring gaze. Its magnifi- cent white corolla, nearly a foot in diameter, had just bloomed, but its short lived beauty was boon to fade, and before another sunrise it would close its petals never to ex- pand again. Beside this exquisite production of nature, was placed another species of cactus equally beautiful, its flowers like crimson velvet, forming a striking contrast to the pure white eereus. It was half an hour after midnight. Grace had been led from the supper-room by George Herbert, and having ac- cepted his hand for another dance, was with him entering GRACE RAYMOND. 253 the ball-room, when she was met near the door by Carring- ton. " When did you last see Marcclla ?" he asked in a some- what anxious manner. "Not since before supper," answered Grace, surprised at the question. " The crowd in the supper-room prevented my observing whether she was there." " She was not. I missed her then, but supposed she had lingered in some other apartment, but I have sought her in all the reception-rooms in vain. Mr. Trcmaine is also mis- sing," continued Carrington, with a peculiar smile, " and as he was her shadow daring the evening, I suppose he is her companion still." Herbert's cariosity was now excited. He drew Carring- ton aside, and after a whispered conversation, both young men descended to the hall to make inquiries among the ser- vants. It was as they suspected. Miss Mowbray had eloped with Trcmaine. They had been seen to go oflf in a hired carriage an hour before. The elopement of the heir- ess created quite a sensation among the guests at Mr. Her- bert's, and one or two particular friends, who knew of Car- rington's engagement to her, ventured to offer their condo- lence. " Marcella was of age to-day and her own mistress," he coldly replied. Those who expected to see a display of jealousy or mor- tification, were disappointed. To an observant eye, it was evident that Marcella's elopement was a source of joy which he tried to conceal, but which was frequently seen flashing in his dark eyes. i! , n /.J "fl 'Ti! I I < \ ' i I ;}ui 264 GRAOE RAYMOND. As they were driving home, Grace was silent, her thoughts being occupied by the recent unexpected event. She al- most dreaded to meet Mrs. Mowbray ; bearing such tidings, ehe knew her rage would be extreme. Carrington was also silent for some time, and Grace supposed Lis mind was occupied with the same thoughts. At length he broke tho eilenec by inquiring if Miss Raymond was aware of his en- gagement to Marcclla. She replied in tho affirmative, wondering what would come next. " That engagement was entered into chiefly at the earn- est wish of Mr. Mowbray. Marcclla and I were both young. We thought we loved each other well enough to ensure happiness in tlie married life. The dissimilarity in our tastes and sentiments did not strike me then so forcibly as it has since done. My judgment was not sufficiently matured to decide in the matter. After my uncle's death I went North, travelling through the interior of the South- ern and Middle States, until I reached New York." Here Carrington paused for a few minutes, then proceeded in a voice trembling with emotion. " There I saw one whom I intuitively felt would be tho cynosure of my existence. It was not the singular beauty of her face which so strongly attracted me — it was the rare loveliness of expression in her countenance, denoting a nature but little marred by the Fall, and still akin to the Angels. It was then I first saw you. Miss Raymond, — then I learned to love. I went to Europe, and tried in tho excitement of travel to banish your image, but in vain. In ihe daily stir of the crowded city, in the romantic solitude GRACE RAYMOND. 255 of nature, through the busy hours of the day, and the silent watches of the night, ever rose up before my mental eye, that loved form once seen never to be forgotten. I returned to New York, unable to subdue the earnest wish to see you again. I accepted Mr. Bingham's invitation, and spent a month in your society, — the happiest of my life. Bu. I was obliged to tear myself away. Tlie imperative voice of honor called me to return to Florida, and fulfil my engage- ment with Marcella. For some time I have perceived her reluctance to our marriage. I have watched — oh! with what joy — her growing attachment to Tremaine. I ob- perved Mrs. Mowbray's dislike to him, but I knew Mfir- cella's strong will would not be controlled. Still I kept silence, watching the issue of events, and now Marcella's own hand has broken the tie that bound us. This act of hers has set me free ; it allows me to offer my hand to her who has long possessed my devoted affection. Miss Ray- mond! Grace dearest," he added in a voice of impassioned tenderness, " tell me have I any reason to hope ?" The darkness of the night hid the blushes and trembling confusion of Grace, and her reply was given in such low tones, that only Carrington could catch its meaning: but it was doubtless favorable, for during the remainder of the drive, his arm fondly encircled her waist, while her head drooped on his shoulder. The voice of Carlo, the black coachman, at length broke the elysian happiness of the hour, "Please Mas'r Ernes' when do de moon rise dis ar' night?" " Really I cannot say. Why do you ask. Carlo ?"' " 'Cause dere be bright light ober dere, Sar, and I think p'raps be de moon." 1 ' ^1 ^i h • ' ^^i it ■ lip \'!!! ;;,! I 1,1 256 GRACE RAYMOND. "Bright light in what direction?" asked Carrington, eagerly putting liis head out of the carriage window. " In dat 'rection, Sar." " Directly north ! It cannot be tlic moon ! it must be a fire, and merciful Heaven !" he added in alarm, "it is — it must be Mrs. Mowbray's residence I Drive furiously, Carlo ! we are near home." Rapidly over the rough road the carriage rattled, en- dangering the safety of its occupants, and at the imminent risk of being upset. In a short time they reached the foot of the eminence on Avhich Mrs. Mowbrav lived. On one side it sloped towards the plain below, still the ascent was difficult. Carlo was therefore obliged to drive slowly, and allow the horses gradually to ascend the steep road. The height was at length gained. Then Carrington and Grace perceived that the middle part of the dwelling was in flames, and with a feeling of horror they remembered that Mrs. Mowbray's room was in that part of the house. It was now some hours after midnight, and a profound silence reigned around the dwelling, while within, the inmatea were buried in deep repose, unconscious that devouring flames were silently threatening their destruction. Sud- denly the harsh sonorous sound of a gong broke upon the Btill night air, re-echoing from the silent depths of the adja- cent forest. It was usually employed to summon the slaves to their daily toil, but was now used by Carrington to rouse the sleeping inhabitants of the burning structure, as well as the negroes in their " quarters.'* In a few minutes the stirtled inmates were seen rushing from the house, and congregating on the lawn in fear and surprise. All except one — Mrs. Mowbray was missing. ORACE RATtfOND. 167 arrington, low. must be a "it is— it sly, Caxlo I Ltled, en- imrnincnt (d the foot On one isccnt was owly, and oad. The and Grace g was in jercd that louse. It ad silence inmates evouring pn. Sud- upon the the adja- the slaves to rouse s well as I rushing fear and ising. CHAPTER XIV. Quickly Carrington entered the house, and ascending the stairs opened the door of his aunt's apartment. Ho was instantly obliged to shut it— driven back by the fierce ele- ment which was rapidly consuming every object within the chamber. Mrs. Mowbray must have perished when asleep, and now a fire-shroud enveloped her stately form, as she lay in the arms of the King of Terrors. There was fortu- nately a fire engine of considerable power upon the grounds, and this Carrington immediateiy employed to extinguish the flames; and after some time the fearfiil element was completely subdued. The cause of the fire was not known. The sleeping servants knew nothing of it until roused by the loud clangor of the alarm gong. Mrs. Mowbray was the only victim, for the fire was confined to her room ; and how it had originated was a mystery. Horror at the dread- ful fate of Mrs. Mowbray filled the mind of Carrington and Grace, but in the dusky faces of the slaves might be seen suppressed joy. Their cruel mistress had gone to stand before the tribunal of God to answer for her many cruel- ties. Her soul had passed into an unseen world, followed I ( . 'I III I < pi? '' ! 8| .1 258 OBAOB RATHOKD. by the imprecations of her tortured slaves. A happy feel- ing of relief was experienced by them all — their oppressor was no more. The apartment of Grace was situated in a wing of the building removed from the fire. Thither she repaired, accompanied by Maud Mowbray, whose grief for the sudden death of her mother she vainly tried to soothe. This incident forcibly brought to the mind of Grace her own sad bereavement nearly two years before, and at the remem- brance of this melancholy event, she mingled her tears with those of her young pupil. The agony of Maud's feelings at lengtli exhausted itself in a violent paroxysm of weeping. She sunk into a kind of stupor, and in this state was re- moved to bed by her mauma, whose heart deeply sympa- thized in the grief of her young charge. The thrilling events of the night completely banished sleep from the eyes of Grace Raymond, and taking oflf her ball costume, she wrapped a dressing robe around her, and sat down to tliink over all the events of the last few hours. Her revery was soon disturbed by maum Tamar. "For de Lor' sakes, Miss Raymon', let me stay here till de daylight shine," she said, imploringly. " I jus' lef ' Miss Maud; her cry hersel' asleep at las', poor child ; her take on so 'bout her ma's orful death. Do let me stay till de day come, I'm so 'fraid cf de ghose — ole missis ghose." '' Your old mistress cannot hurt vou now. Tamar : she will never trouble you more." "I'se no sure of dat. Her jus' come back to atrth to irigliten poor nigger. Her nebber find rest for de sole of her foot in de oder worl', no how. She too wicked." *' Oaii you imagine what 1 ' i . . ■■: i ^^ i! 1 f in! ; 1 'fi ii y. 'i i ai 1 260 GRACE RAYMOND. ■yranny had at length incited some wretched slave to this atrocious act. Such, too, was the opinion of Carrington and ihe neighboring planters. An investigation was immediately entered into. The slaves were carefully examined, but when Zambo was called, it was found that he had disappeared. Suspicion immediately rested on him, and it now became known that he had been heard to mutter threats of ven- geance against Mrs. Mowbray, when she had inflicted on him unmerited disgrace and punishment, and rendered him wretched and indifferent to life, by depriving him of her whose love and presence alone made life tolerable. It was supposed that he had entered the chamber of Mrs. Mowbray in the silence of the night, first murdered her, — probably while she slept, — and then set fire to the room, hoping to escape detection. In this manner was perpetrated " The Slave's Revenge,''^ As soon as the flight of Zambo was known, the blood- hounds were put on the scent, and gentlemen and negroes joined in the chase. The former felt exasperated at the atrocious deed, and determined to inflict summary punish- ment on the murderer. The hunt for human life was soon over. In a part of the forest which the luxuriant foliage rendered almost impervious to the light of day, the wretched criminal was found. He had anticipated the doom that he knew awaited him, and his lifeless body was discovered hanging from the bough of a lofty tree. At the pressing invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert, Miss Raymond and Maud became their guests until Mrs. Tremaine returned home. '' I shall miss you much, dearest Grace," said Carrington, Si 'A i GRACE RAYMOND. 261 as he led her to the carriage which was to convey her to Mr. Herbert's. " I have so long been accustomed to your beloved society, I shall feel miserable during our separation. Do not let George Herbert cause you to forget me,'' he added witn c sad smile. Grace made no reply, but there was the light of love \n her luminous eyes as they met his, which assured him h« had nothing to fear. Marcella heard of her mother's fearful death through the papers, after she reached Charleston. She was mucli ghocked, and this event cast a dark shadow over the first few weeks of her married life. At the end of a month — xhe house having been repaired — she returned home, accom- panied by her husband. When deprived of the society of Grace, Carrington paid a visit to his own home — a large plantation situated in the eastern part of Florida — near the Mexican gulf. In the spring Mrs. Tremaine removed to a cotton plantation she possessed in the northern part of Georgia, and there Grace spent the summer and part of the autumn amid highly ro- mantic scenery, enjoying the delightful climate of that hilly region of the South. In the beginning of the following winter, Grace re- ceived a letter from Mr. Bingham, conveying the pleasing intelligence that the merchant in whose counting-house he had performed the duties of book-keeper, had taken him into partnership, and that wealth was again pouring a golden sunshine over his affairs. He begged Grace to return to New York immediately, teUing her that Ada had drooped during her absence. As soon, therefore , I il i:l I 1 ' , :'^: ! -'I I * 262 GRACE RAYMOND. as another governess was procured for Maud Mowbray^ Grace bade adieu to her kind Southern friends. Garrington accompanied his betrothed to New York, intending to re- main there until the period of mourning for his aunt was ended, when he hoped to bear her to his own home in Florida. Ada*s happiness at seeing Grace and Carrington again, was increased by the information he communicated that he, too, would soon be her cousin. Grace rejoiced in the happy change she perceived in her uncle. It was only now he seemed to enjoy life ; his face wore a radiant look; he had won from Alice Vernon the promise that she would soon become mistress of his home, and the bright hope of former years was going to be realized. In the countenance of Alice, Grace, too, observed a bright expression, indicating the happiness that reigned witliin. Her gratitude to Bing- ham had gradually ripened into a warmer feeling. Now loving and being loved, rejoicing in the consciouness of be- ing the centre round which were gathered the dearest hopes and affections of one fond heart, all her former misery was forgotten. For the human heart is capable of again enjoy- ing felicity, although it may have long lain crushed beneath the weight of affliction ; yet, as each sorrowful recollection is touched by the healing hand of time, it springs as it were into new life susceptible of happy emotions. This is a merciful appointment : were it otherwise, life would be be- reft of all enjoyment. It is a blessed thing to be able to forget! Our story has now reached its conclusion. A few weeks passed on, and before the end of the winter, Grace Ray- ORACI RATIIOKI). 263 iiowbray^ /arrington ng to re- aunt was home in arrington nunicated yoiced in was only ant look; he would thope of ntenanco ndicating to Bing- ?. Now ss of be- est hopes sery was n enjoy- beneath oUeetion 3 it were ^his is a d be be- able to mond again visited the sunny South— the happy bride of Ernest Corrington. THE IMD. V weeks je Ray- ; t' ' ' «" *-»'* .0 " U . , '. . • U»} • » I h : <■ »i I * \ 1' 1 1 ' ! ii H ^J 1 I! MOONLIGHT THOUGHTS, BY — ELLEISr :]sroEL Tis night !— hushed is the noisy city. The streets that a few hours before were crowded with people, are now nearly deserted. A calm has succeeded the busy day, and the moon, in her quiet beauty, looks down on the silent earth, seeming to say—all is peace ! Yet, many are the scenes of woe on which she shines. Let us glance at some of them ! Over the short white curtains of that low window let us peep. Is that pale young mother at rest, as hour after hour, with a breaking heart, she listens for her husband's foot- steps ? although she dreads to hear them, for she knows, alas! too well, that when he does come, it will be from tlie I 1 ill:-. * i 4 ill 268 MOONLIGHT THOUGHTS. liaunts of vice. He has broken every vow which he made not two years ago at Goa's altar, when she stood by his side a happy trusting brieve. There is no peace for her ex- cept in the grave; and as »he presses her baby closer to her breast, she prays that they may soon rest there. We turn away from the sad sight, but oh ! how many hke her! The shutters of one of the windows of yon elegant man- sion are open. Through the rich crimson curtains the moon sheds her bright light. Surely all are at rest in that abode of wealth. We will give one look into the splendid apartment. Who is that pacing the room with an expression of agonizing sorrow imprinted on his face ? It is the master of that proud dwelling ; but what are riches to him now ? Has he not that day buried out of his sight in the silent tomb, the one that made Hfe bright — his fair loved wife ? In vain he calls on her name — ^no voice in loving accents answers. She was his idol — and she was taken from him. He approaches the window — the calm beauty of the night distresses him more. Quickly he draws the curtains to shut out the Hght, he cannot bear it. All must be dark like his sorrowing heart. He is but one of those in this sad world who are mourning for their dead. Through the curtainless window of a miserable garret we are now gazing. On a bed of straw, with the moon- light shining on his ghastly features, Hes an old man. He is dead-— and in the grasp of the King of Terrors, he tightly clutches a bag of gold — his idol, for which he has lost his soul ! There is no expression of peace on his face. It be- trays the agony of liis last hour — his utter hopelessness MOONLIGHT THOUGHTS. 269 !h he made od by his or her ex- ser to her We turn her! ?ant man- the moon it abode of partment. ession of he master im now ? ;he silent ed wife ? g accents rom him. the night IS to shut k hke his ad world e garret e moon- an. He le tightly lost his It be- ilessness when his soul returned to Him who gave it* Wretched man — nis was the fearful end of a miser ! At the window of a large farm-house, shadowed by stately trees, stands one from whose cheek the hueof healtii has faded. It is the first night of his return home — for long was he a wanderer. Many a time, when far distant, had he longed to gaze on the famiUar scenes that are now before him ! How often sighed to see once more the loved faces of those who are now sleeping near him I He looks to- wards the fields, where, when a boy, he played — the old church spire is distinctly visible in the moon beams. He will again enter the church where years ago, Sunday after Sunday, he worshipped. The grave yard is close by, but thank God 1 none of his family have been laid there in his absence. He is again in his childhood's home ; his native air may restore his health, and if not, he will pass peacefully away, for dear ones will be near him at the last sad hour. We will now peep into one of the vine- wreathed lattices of that pretty white cottage. In a small neat chamber kneels a young girl Gently the moonbeams fall around her, cast- ing their soft light on her lovely countenance. Her herd rests on her hands, her dark hair escaping from the comb intended to confine it, has fallen in rich masses on her fair shoulders. Her heart is too full, she cannot sleep, for to- morrow che will leave her humble home the bride of one of Earth's proudest sons. And though she loves him, yet she is sorrowful — for must she not leave her beloved parents — her fond brother, her affectionate sister, and all the cherished friends of her youth? Oh how the thought of this parting saddens her. She looks around her little room. She re- i I l! I \ y ' I -i 270 MOONLIGHT THOUGHTS. members the joyous hours she had spent there — to-morrow she will be far awav I But then she loves him for whose sake she leaves all, and she wipes away her tears, for he is worthy of the sacrifice. Through one of the small grated windows of that gloomy prison, the moon is also glancing. There sits one, who, in an evil hour, listened to the Tempter's voice, and committed the crime of forgery. "The Empress of the Night" casts her soft spells around his spirit. Memories of the past steal over him — thoughts of the home he has disgraced — of his sorrowing wife and helpless httle ones, press how heavily on his heart ! Two years more and then he may leave those walls, but he dreads to meet the world's scorn. Then he thinks of a home in a distant land, where, with his children and his wife, he may be hf^py, for he knows that through sorrow and disgrace she clings more tenderly to him than in their brightest days. This hope will cheer him through the remainder of his wearisome imprisonment. Will it ever bo reaUzed ? One more scene and I have done ! There is walking the deck of a noble vessel, which is ploughing its way through the waves of the wide Atlantic, a tall handsome young man. Sadness is on his brow, for every moment he is borne farther from his home, and all the dear ones he has left be- hind. He glances up at the beautiful heavens, his gaze rests on the moon's familiar face. Perhaps some loved one is gazing on it too. The thought that there is at least one ob- ject which both, though apart, can view, cheers him. He thinks of a little room far away, througli the glass door tlie moonlight may aow be streaming. Therje he has pusFfd 11 MOOKLIQHT THOUGHTS. 271 ■morrow r whose or he is gloomy who, in mmitted t" casts ast steal —of his heavily v^e those rhen he children through than in ugh the ever be :ing the hrough igman. borne eft be- ze rests one is me ob- 1. He )or tlie pASSt'd with the beloved of his heart, the happiest hours of his life. Will they again meet there ? Hope whispers yes — you will return happy and prosperous, but his spirits droop as ho thinks of the long weary years that must pass before then — if that time should ever come. I- * ;h Errata.— On page 17, for Chapter iv, read Chapter in. and on page 25 for Chapter v, read Chapter iv. ¥- ! , read Chapter iii^ )ter IT.