CHAPTER XII

The Ride—the Midnight Fright—the Corpse—The Secret Burial.

Kay took no part in the conversation which followed, the staple of which consisted of denunciations of the scoundrels who infested the city of San Francisco and its vicinity, perpetrating with impunity the most daring robberies and even more atrocious offences.

Kay was slightly known to several of the ‘crowd’ who had been drawn to the bar by rumors respecting the robbery, and as Kay sauntered out of the room one of these persons whispered a few words to the drover, who turned and closely scrutinized the robber’s person. Kay bore his fixed gaze apparently unmoved. But he inwardly determined that the drover should never bear witness against him!

A few evenings after this robbery, Inez had taken a long ride, and on her return was overtaken by a sudden and violent storm. She immediately put her horse to the run. Inez was too much accustomed to heavy rains and violent storms of wind to be much alarmed, as she knew her fleet steed would soon bear her home in safety. But scarcely had our heroine proceeded a couple of hundred varas when her horse fell heavily. Fortunately, however, Inez was but little injured. Her horse she soon discovered was unable to rise. Of course no alternative was left her but to proceed homewards on foot.

Notwithstanding, however, she sought all that was in her power to strengthen this idea, many doubts, fears, misgivings, and apprehensions would steal into her bosom, and every blast of wind which howled around her seemed to come fraught with the moanings of despair. She had travelled about three miles from the place at which she had lost her horse, and was upon a dreary waste, where there was nothing to protect her from the fury of the blast and the fast falling rain which drifted around her. It was a most awful spot, and in spite of her resistance to fear, she felt the most indescribable sensation of horror creeping through her veins.

‘Holy Mary!’ she exclaimed, ‘my weary and benumbed limbs will not support me much further, and yet, if I pause, nothing but death stares me in the face. How awful is the darkness around, and here am I placed alone, and fated to endure all this toil and wretchedness. Could I but hear the sound even of a human voice, methinks it would be transport to my soul. This silence is appalling. Whenever I have had occasion to cross this wild spot, I always felt the most irresistible terror; it is, indeed, a fit place for the perpetration of the bloody crimes which report says have been committed here, and I do not wonder that people should shun it after nightfall in dread, my God! do not desert me in this dreadful moment. Oh! I remember there is an old house not far from this spot; could I but reach that, it would afford me shelter until my recruited strength will enable me to proceed. The storm increases; what will become of me? The rain falls faster than ever; I must proceed. Protect me, heaven!’

Trembling in every limb, and her knees smiting each other, Inez forced her way as well she was able, in the direction of the old house, which she at length perceived at no great distance from her, and so completely exhausted was she, that had she had to have proceeded many yards further she must have sunk to the earth. It was an old building, broken in many parts.

An old story gave the place a kind of fearful interest; and there was one period when Inez would not have ventured within its precincts, but now she thought nothing about it; she thought only of her weary and exhausted state. She reached the wretched place, and found no obstruction to her entrance, the door having long since been torn off its hinges, and she, therefore, staggered into the place, and threw herself, exhausted and breathless, upon a heap of rubbish in one corner, to rest herself for a few minutes, ere she could see what was best to be done for her accommodation for the night. The house was divided into two compartments, and one of these was in much better condition than the other. There, then, Inez determined to remain till daybreak; and gathering together some pieces of old boarding which had fallen from different parts of the building, and a heap of straw, which she found in one corner, she retired into it, contrived to make herself up some kind of a rude pallet, piled all the old rubbish she could find against the door which opened into this division of the house, and then imploring the protection of Heaven, she wrapped herself closely in her cloak, and laid down.

Completely wearied out, it was not long ere she was about to sink off to sleep, when she was suddenly alarmed and astonished by hearing a noise outside the building, and soon after, a light glimmered between the crevices, and the horror and amazement of Inez may be easily conjectured when she caught a glimpse of the shadow of two men, bearing something which seemed to be very heavy between them. They moved stealthily and cautiously round by the side of the building towards the entrance, and Inez had not the least doubt but that they were coming there; in another second her conjectures were confirmed, and she heard them deposit their burthen in the adjoining shed to that in which she was.

How shall we attempt to portray the terror of Inez at this circumstance? She did not venture to breathe scarcely, and screwed herself into the smallest possible compass in the corner, for fear that the men should discover her there; but, from a small hole in the boards, she could perceive what was passing.

‘My God!’ she thought, ‘what can be the purpose of these men? Certainly no good, at such an hour.’

Inez placed her eye to the hole in the boarding, and perceived that they were two powerful men, dressed in ponchos, and as the rays of the light fell upon their countenances, she shuddered at their aspects.

They had placed the sack upon the floor, and began digging up the earth with a couple of spades which they had brought with them. A deadly chill fell upon the heart of Inez when she beheld this, and she could scarcely repress a scream, as a dreadful idea shot through her brain.

‘Horror! horror!’ she reflected, ‘the wretches have surely been committing murder, and have come hither to bury their unfortunate victim.’

‘There, we shall soon be able to make a snug lodging for him,’ said one of the villains, taking up a spade and preparing to begin to dig, ‘and no one will ever know what has become of him. How nicely we gammoned the old fool to take up his lodging with us.’

‘You’re right,’ said the other, ‘it was very well done, and I must give you the credit of doing the best part towards it. If the friends of the old drover look for his return home, how woefully deceived they will be.’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed the first villain, ‘indeed they will. Well, we have got a very tidy booty for this job.’

‘Yes, it will pay us for the trouble we have been at,’ was the answer; ‘but I’ll warrant that we shall circulate the blunt a little more freely than the old fellow would have done. We must not be in the city many days.’

‘As soon as the job’s over we will quit the spot,’ returned his companion, ‘and it will be many a long day ere we shall revisit this neighborhood again. We couldn’t have fixed a much better place than this to deposit the old fellow’s remains in; but, I say, there is a door yonder, which seems to lead to another part of the house; suppose we examine that, and see whether it will serve better to conceal the body of the murdered man in than this.’

‘Great God!’ thought Inez, ‘I am lost; they will discover and murder me. By what horrible fatality were my footsteps guided to this place?’

‘Psha! what’s the use of talking in that manner, Kay?’ said the other ruffian, to whom this proposition was addressed; ‘we have no time to spare; besides, we have half dug the grave here, and I dare say the old chap will lie as contented here as he would a foot or two off. Come, come, let’s finish the business and begone, for I am almost tired of it, and if we remain here much longer, there’s no knowing but that we might be discovered.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Kay, as the other man had called him, ‘it matters very little, so let’s go to work, and get done as quick as possible.’

‘I think we have given him depth enough,’ remarked the other wretch, ‘and he’ll not pop up again in a hurry by himself. Come, out with him, and let’s finish the job at once.’

This, as may be imagined, was a moment of unutterable horror to our heroine, who had watched the proceedings, and listened to the conversation of the assassins with the most breathless attention; and a shuddering seized upon her frame which she found it impossible to resist.—It would, however, be useless to attempt to describe the relief she felt when she heard the observations of the first ruffian, by which he was persuaded from entering the place in which she was concealed; but every moment that they prolonged their stay increased her terror and anxiety, for fear that her infant should awake, and, crying loud, betray her.

After having untied the mouth of the sack, they drew it nearer to the edge of the grave they had been digging, and turned out the body of a stout but aged man, whose long grey locks were matted together with large clots of blood that had issued from several deep wounds in the skull.

Horror enchained all the faculties of Inez, and with distended eyelids, she fixed her straining eyeballs upon the dreadful spectacle.

Her blood seemed turned to ice, and her heart seemed almost to cease its pulsation. Should the wretches find out that she was there concealed, and had been watching them, and overheard the acknowledgement of their dreadful crime, the death of herself would be certain to follow.

These reflections passed rapidly in the mind of Inez, as she watched, in a state of the most breathless suspense, the actions of the murderers, as they, in the most callous manner, tossed the body of their wretched victim into the grave they had dug for its reception, and commenced filling it up, occupying the interval during the disgusting scene, with the most ribald conversation, which smote the heart of our heroine with horror, as she listened to it.

‘There,’ exclaimed Kay, as he placed the last spade-full of earth on the grave of their murdered victim, ‘that job’s finished, and a long and sound rest to the old drover. The business has been performed throughout in a tradesman-like manner, and no suspicion can ever attach itself to us.’

‘Suspicion,’ reiterated the other with a laugh, ‘oh no, we might almost as well imagine that somebody has been watching us all this time in this lonely place, as to suppose that even the shadow of an idea of we being the murderers of the old man could attach itself to us.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Kay, ‘your observation have started an idea in my head, and, had you attended to my suggestion in the first instance, we should have been secured from any danger of the sort.’

‘What mean you?’

‘What mean I:—why, that door, which, as I before observed, no doubt, communicates with some other part of the house, and it is not at all unlikely that some weary traveller may have taken up his lodging there, or sought shelter from the storm, and been listening to our discourse all this time. Should such be the case, we shall not go far without falling into the hands of the Vigilance Committee, depend upon it. I’ll examine the place.’

‘Bah! why, you are growing worse than a child, Kay,’ said the miscreant’s companion, ‘I never heard such improbable ideas to strike a fellow in all my life. Do you think any person could be within here all this time without betraying some signs of terror?’

‘You may laugh at me as much as you like, Blodget,’ returned Kay, ‘but I am generally pretty correct in what I fancy, and I don’t think I shall be far out in this instance. Here goes for to see.’

We must fail here to portray the feelings of our heroine, as the ruffian, Kay, approached the door, and tried it.

Such was the violence of her agitation, that cold drops of perspiration stood upon her forehead, and it was only by a complete miracle that she could prevent herself from screaming.

Kay tried hard to push the door open, and swore when he found the obstruction; and at that moment, when Inez had nearly given herself up for lost, some noise on the outside of the building, arrested the attention of both the villains, and Kay immediately quitted the door, much to the relief of our heroine.

‘Hist?’ muttered Blodget, in a cautious tone, ‘did you not hear a noise outside, Belcher?’

‘I fancied I did,’ was the reply.

‘Extinguish the light,’ commanded the other, ‘and I will reconnoitre.’

Kay immediately did as his companion directed him, and Blodget cautiously opened the door and looked out. As he did so, Inez could hear that the storm had increased in violence, and immediately afterwards she heard the voice of Blodget, observing,—

‘Oh, the coast is quite clear, as far as I can see, and, therefore, it could only have been fancy; but, notwithstanding, Kay, I do not see the policy of remaining here. We had much better, on the contrary, make our escape as speedily as possible, while we have the opportunity; for, should we be discovered here, and the fresh earth upon the new made grave, we should be bowled out to a dead certainty. It’s madness to suppose that anybody but ourselves have been here during the time we have been performing the funeral obsequies for the old man. Come, come, no more of this foolery, but travel’s the word.—’

And ‘travel’ was not only the word, but the action of the wretches, much to the relief of our heroine, who had almost given her mind to despair; and after a short time had elapsed since they had quitted the place, and Inez, by attentive listening, had assured herself that they were not near the spot, first, with eyes brimful of tears, having returned her thanks to Providence for her deliverance from that death which she at one time imagined inevitable, she removed the rubbish which she had piled against the door, and left the place in which she had been concealed.

What an inexpressible feeling of terror smote her breast, when she passed the grave of the murdered man!—Her limbs trembled so violently that it is surprising how she was enabled to support herself, and she mentally offered up an involuntary prayer for the repose of his soul, and that his barbarous assassins might be brought to punishment for their inhuman violation of the laws. It was a second or two before she ventured to quit the place, but having listened at the door, which the ruffians had closed after them, and hearing no other sounds than those caused by the fury of the storm, she ventured to open it and look forth. The scene was awful enough, as a pitchy darkness obscured all around, save when, at intervals, the flashes of lightning succeeded the deafening thunder-peals. The rain also descended rapidly, and all around presented a scene of the most appalling horror. But, awful as it was, to Inez it presented not half the terrors of the old outhouse, which now contained the mangled remains of the poor old man, whom the monsters had buried.

Inez, trembling in every limb, left the place where she had witnessed such horrors, and with difficulty made her way in what she judged to be the direction of her father’s house. This she would never have had strength to reach, had she not fortunately met with a party of her father’s herdsmen, who had been sent out in quest of her. She was soon after joined by her father, and being placed on a horse, arrived safely at home, suffering greatly, however, in both body and mind from the anguish she had experienced, and the terrible scenes that had been enacted before her young eyes.

Leaving the maiden safely in the abode of her parent, we will now return to Monteagle. Day after day, he had called at the Post Office, but the same brief response ever met his inquiries,—‘None, sir.’ Disappointment was working a sad change in his appearances, and his broken fortunes were growing hourly more desperate.

As he was one day leaving the Post Office, and strolling down Clay street, he overheard a person addressing another, thus: ‘Jake, you needn’t go to the Post Office, up here, any more for letters. A couple of cartloads have just been found down under Long Wharf; which it seems, the Postmaster uses as a place of general delivery.’

Monteagle stayed to hear no more, but hastened to the place indicated.—A great crowd was assembled, every member of which was justly indignant at this infamous betrayal of trust in the Post Office officials, and while some talked of carrying their complaints to Washington; others suggested the rather less mild but somewhat more effective action of tying the Postmaster up in one of his mail bags, and dumping him where he had deposited their letters—in the Bay.

Monteagle sprang down beneath the wharf, the tide having fallen, and left the sand bare. Here he found a large number of letters, and newspapers: the directions of many being wholly or in part obliterated. But among all that number, he could find none addressed to him. While he was turning over the letters, he saw one addressed to a young lady, whom he recollected as having been pointed out to him by Blodget when visiting the house in Dupont street. She was called the ‘English Girl,’ and Monteagle remembered having been particularly struck by the lovely though pensive expression of her fair face. He took the letter and immediately proceeded to the house where she resided. As soon as the usual greetings were over, the young lady opened the letter, but had scarcely glanced at its contents before she fell heavily to the floor. Monteagle summoned assistance, and after some time she was sufficiently restored to converse with our hero; who deeply sympathised with her evident distress. The poor girl, in answer to Monteagle’s inquiries, gave him the following account of her previous history:

‘My father was a farmer, in comfortable circumstances, which he gained by his own industry and exemplary conduct. I will not attempt to describe him, for I should fail to do justice to his merits, eloquent, doubtless, as my affection for him would make me. Let it suffice that he was a man of superior education, having formerly moved in a different state of life, from which he had been driven by a long series of misfortunes, and his numerous virtues even by far exceeded his accomplishments. My mother was a complete counterpart of her husband, and never were two beings better formed to meet together. I was their only daughter, myself and a brother being the only offspring they ever had. Every indulgence that child could wish, or parent could think of, was bestowed on me;—my every thought seemed to be studied by them, and there was not a single happiness which they had it in their power to grant, which they seemed to think too great for me.’

‘Our home was the happiest in the neighborhood, and it was the envy and admiration of all who knew it. Again, when I think upon it, and how different my situation is now, I cannot help giving vent to my feelings; indeed, it is to indulge them that I have sat down to record the events of my life, although, in all probability, no other eyes but mine may ever behold it. Home, sweet home; there cannot be a theme upon which the mind of sensibility pauses with more peculiar delight than this. It is the cradle of our infancy and our age.’

‘The seaman, amidst storm and tempest, in fair weather and foul, thinks of his native village; the soldier that fights for kings; the merchant that dives for gain, are, alternately, stung with the thoughts of home; while the wanderer, who has followed pleasure, but found it a shade—that has bartered the humble content for splendid misery, thinks of home with a self-accusing regret, that renders even a return to its enjoyments full of bitterness and remorse. Sensibly do I feel the force of these observations, and, therefore, have I digressed from my simple narrative for the purpose of indulging in them.’

‘I will pass over the early part of my life, which was passed in almost uninterrupted happiness, and come at once to that unfortunate circumstance which was the cause of my indiscretion, and occasioned me all that anguish I so severely felt afterwards.

‘An accident brought Captain Darian and his friend, the Earl Mansville, to our house, from which the latter was unable to be removed for several weeks. Alas! it was a fatal day for me; the earl was young, handsome, insinuating, and the very first moment I beheld him, my heart felt a sensation it never before had experienced, and too soon I was compelled to acknowledge to myself that I had become deeply enamoured of him. Fatal attachment! had I not been unpardonably thoughtless, I should at once have seen the folly, the danger, the hopelessness of indulging, or encouraging a passion for one so far above me, and who would, probably, not feel for me a mutual sentiment, and have stifled it in its infancy. But it was not to be: I was to be taught reason by dear-bought experience. At length, the earl being restored to convalescence, quitted our house, but I felt convinced it was with reluctance, and I noticed the looks he fixed on me, with a sentiment of mingled delight and astonishment. The glances he bestowed on me, were those of admiration—of love! How my heart bounded at this idea, I need not tell; but, alas! it should have been its greatest cause of anguish, and my pleasure was greatly increased when I learned that Mansville having expressed his delight at the neighborhood, had taken up his abode in it for a short time; but Captain Darian had made his departure some days previous to another part of the country. I frequently saw the earl, and he seemed anxious to say something to me, but had not an opportunity, as I was mostly in the presence of my parents; but I needed no interpretation of his thoughts; my own sentiments fully elucidated them, and the warmth of the glances he bestowed upon me. If it required anything to strengthen the affection with which Mansville had inspired me, it was the amiable character he soon acquired in the neighborhood, his chief pleasure appearing to be the performing of acts of benevolence and philanthropy, and the blessings of the poor were amply lavished upon him. Rash, thoughtless, girl that I was. I should have made my parents acquainted with the real state of my feelings, and sought their advice upon the subject, but, for the first time in my life, I was anxious to conceal my thoughts from them, and continued to encourage and strengthen those passions which reason ought to have convinced me could never have been requited by the object who had inspired me with them.

It was about a month after the Earl Mansville had quitted our house, that I arose rather earlier one morning than was my usual custom, induced by the fineness of the weather. I descended from my chamber, and entered the garden, which was beautifully and tastefully arranged, and in which, as well as my father and brother, I took much pleasure. My attention, however, was particularly devoted to a rose tree, which I had frequently heard the earl express his admiration of it while he was remaining at our house. Could I but get him by any means to receive one how happy should I have been. This day I had resolved to make my father and mother a little present of some of these roses, which I knew they would receive with more delight than the most costly gift, coming as they did from me.

‘How sweetly my roses have opened,’ I soliloquized; ‘they seem to know that they are destined to be gifts of affection, and to smile with the delight I shall feel in bestowing them on those I love so dearly. So this for my father, and this for my mother.’

I plucked two of the most beautiful, and had scarcely done so, when my father entered from the house, and greeted me with his usual affection.

‘Ah, father,’ I exclaimed, ‘I have such a nice gift for you and my dear mother.’

‘Indeed, my child,’ returned my father, smiling fondly on me.

‘Yes,’ replied I, placing one of those roses which I had plucked in his hand, ‘there,—is there a painting in any mansion in the country half so beautiful? What a name a painter would get who could only give a perfect copy of these roses, and, you see, I give you the originals for nothing.’

‘Dear girl, dear girl!’ ejaculated my father, his eyes glittering with fondness.

‘And yet I do not give them to you for nothing, my dear father,’ I added; ‘for you give me in exchange those sweet smiles of affection, which are to me of more value than anything else in the world.’

‘Darling child,’ cried my father, raising his hand above his head, and invoking a blessing upon me; ‘the look of affection will always reward innocence.’

‘After having thus spoken he was about to depart, when I ran towards him, saying:

‘What! leave us so soon, my dear father? Prithee stay till the air grows cooler.’

‘My child,’ answered my affectionate parent, ‘these locks have withered in the hot sun. I have passed many years in toiling for others, and have never shrunk from its beams; and now, when it is partly for my darling girl I toil, the balm and comfort of my life, I cannot feel fatigue, and every drop that rolls down my weather-beaten forehead in such a cause, makes my old heart the lighter.’

I threw myself once more into his arms, and he embraced me fervently, after which he hastened away. As soon as he had gone, I was joined by my mother, who, hearing my voice in the garden, had come to summon me to the morning repast.’

‘So, my dear,’ she remarked, ‘old Mrs. Weston is likely to be better off than ever; instead of being ruined by the burning of her cottage, the Earl of Mansville is going to rebuild it at his own expense, and has made her a handsome present into the bargain.’

At the mention of the earl’s name I blushed, and a sensation filled my bosom which no other name could have excited.

‘Indeed, my mother,’ I observed, in reply to what she had stated; ‘bless his kind heart! The whole village rings with his charities; and, whenever I see him, my heart beats so.’

‘Ah, child,’ said my mother, ‘It is a very bad sign when a young girl’s heart beats at the sight of a good-looking young man. When that happens, she ought at once to get out of his way.’

I felt uncommonly confused, and know I must have blushed deeply.

‘Nay, my dear mother,’ I at length answered, ‘to me a warning is superfluous; your daughter’s affections live in her home. Is it possible she will find elsewhere what home will yield her?’

As I afterwards learned, the earl and one of his attendants had watched the departure of my father, and at this moment the former descended from the bridge, and approached towards us. I started at his presence, and was much confused, especially as we had just before been talking about him; but, putting on one of his most affable smiles, he said:—

‘Pray don’t rise. Don’t let me disconcert you. Is Mr. Heywood within?’

‘He is but this moment gone into the fields yonder, my lord,’ answered my mother.

‘Indeed,’ said the earl, with apparent disappointment, ‘that is unfortunate, I have just now urgent occasion to speak with him.’

‘Urgent occasion,’ repeated my mother, aside to me; ‘what can it be? My lord, then I’ll hasten after him; pray have the goodness to wait one moment.’

‘Nay,’ said Mansville, ‘I am ashamed to give you the trouble; but, being of importance—’

‘I’ll make the best speed, and bring him to you immediately,’ returned my mother, hastening away, and leaving me and the earl alone.

Scarcely had my mother disappeared, when the earl, fixing upon me a look in which admiration and delight were blended, took my hand, and, in a voice of rapture, exclaimed:—

‘Clara, beauteous Clara! behold before you one who loves you to distraction.’

Although my own feelings and observations had prepared me for this scene, I was so flurried and confused, that I could scarcely contain myself. My bosom heaved—my heart palpitated. Crimson blushes, I am certain, mantled my cheeks; but yet I was unable to withdraw my hand from his hold, which he pressed vehemently to his lips and then continued:—

‘Lovely Clara, pardon this abruptness; often have I longed for this opportunity, but in vain; never before have I had it in my power to declare how the first glance of that enchanting face—’

‘Oh, my lord,’ I faltered out, in tremulous accents, ‘I must not listen to this—leave me, I beseech you.’

‘Leave you, angelic creature!’ replied the earl, emphatically, and still retaining his hold of my hand; ‘leave you! oh, there is madness in the bare thought! I cannot, I will not quit your presence till you have uttered some word of consolation—blessed me with some ray of hope!’

‘I scarcely knew how to answer;—I could not behold the object of my love, kneeling at my feet, and soliciting my sanction to his vows unmoved; the cold dictates of prudence would have told me instantly to give him a decisive answer, and to force myself from his presence, but my heart pleaded against its rigid rules. The earl noticed my emotion, and doubtless saw his triumph, for he continued in more fervent and emboldened terms.

‘But surely the gentle Clara cannot be so cruel as to bid one who is her devoted slave, despair? No—no—she will impart to him a hope—’

‘Hope, my lord,’ I interrupted, recollecting myself, and the remembrance of my mother’s words, and my own assurance, rushing upon my mind; ‘I am a poor girl, the daughter of an humble farmer, and have no right to listen to a man like you. Even were I no longer the mistress of my heart, I trust I am not yet so lost to principle, my lord, as to avow it where it might not be confessed with honor.’

The earl arose from his knee, relinquished my hand, and walked away a few paces in much apparent agitation; then suddenly returning, he said in tones of mingled regret and reproach:—

‘Do you deem me capable of deception? Clara, it is to make you my wife, to give you rank and title, that I came. One word of yours can give splendor to the home you love, and make the heart that lives but in your kindness, happy!’

As he spoke thus, his manner became more energetic, and I felt my heart gradually yielding!—I trembled, and longed, yet dreaded the return of my parents; while the earl seeing the hesitation of my manner, urged his suit with redoubled determination.

‘Clara,’ he exclaimed, ‘there is not a moment to be lost!—Can you doubt the sincerity of my protestations? Think you that I could be the base villain to deceive one in whom my very soul, my existence is wrapped up. Say but the blissful word; tell me that you will become my bride, the empress of my heart and fortune;—give me this sweet assurance, and—’

‘Oh, my lord,’ I interrupted, in a state of confusion, and agitation, I will not attempt to describe, ‘spare me, I implore you!—I—I—’ and unable to finish the sentence, I turned away my head, and burst into tears. The earl again seized my hand rapturously, and encouraged, by the emotion I evinced, his countenance became lighted up with an expression of delight, as he exclaimed—

‘Oh, blessed moment! those tears convince me that I am not hated by her who hath taken possession of my whole affections. Blissful assurance! Ere another morn, my Clara, my loved, my adored Clara, will be my bride!—But time passes, we must away from this spot instantly.’

And the earl attempted to place his arm around my waist, but surprised at his words and demeanour, I recoiled from him, and looking upon him with astonishment, I demanded:—

‘My lord, what mean you?—Leave this place!—Why, wherefore?’

‘Nay, my dearest Clara,’ returned Mansville, ‘be not surprised, or alarmed; my proposals are honorable; reasons of rank require that we retire to my villa; our marriage must be secret and immediate or it may be prevented. Once mine, I will lead you back in triumph.’

‘What,’ I exclaimed, ‘leave my parents in doubt, in misery?’

‘Banish these childish scruples,’ said the earl, ‘your parents will applaud you when they know the truth. Come to a lover who adores you! Come to the altar which will pour forth blessings on those who love so dearly! Come, Clara, come!’

As the earl thus impatiently urged his suit, he attempted to lead me towards the bridge;—I felt my resolution getting weaker—I trembled—and could offer but a faint resistance.

‘Urge me no more, my lord,’ I cried, endeavouring to disengage myself from him;—‘let me go—I dare not listen to you—farewell!’

‘Still inflexible,’ ejaculated the earl, turning away from me, with a look of the most inexpressible anguish and despair, ‘then is my doom sealed. I cannot, will not live without you, and thus I—’

While thus speaking, he snatched a pistol from his bosom, and presented it towards his head! With a wild shriek of terror, I rushed into his arms, and arrested his fatal purpose. Some spell, some horrid spell came over me. I remember the last cloud of smoke curling over our ancient trees.—I—I’ve no further recollection. When my senses were restored, and reason was permitted again to resume its sway,—I found myself an inmate of the earl’s villa, and far away from that home I had rendered wretched. Oh, God, how dreadful, how agonizing were the thoughts that first crossed my brain! I upbraided myself for a wretch unfit to live—as one who had disgraced herself and destroyed the peace of the most affectionate of parents for ever, and which ever way I turned, a curse seemed to pursue me.

Mansville tried all his eloquence could effect to console me; renewed his most tender asseverations, and repeated his promise to make me his bride. Strange infatuations!—I believed him;—I became tranquil—and if the thoughts of my parents and the name I had abandoned ever returned to my memory, they were quickly banished by the soothings, and fond protestations of the earl. Day after day passed away, and still he promised, but failed to keep his word. My humble dress was now exchanged for fashionable finery and Mansville visited me every day, repeating each time with greater energy the vows of love with which he had at first seduced from my home. Every luxury—every enjoyment that could be wished was at my command; but could they yield me real happiness? Oh, no. The splendour I was now placed in, was purchased with agony; and my own feelings constantly reproached me for that offence of which I had been guilty. Some fated spell must have been upon me, or I must have soon been convinced that St. Clair was not sincere in his promises, or he would not day after day evade the fulfilment of them. But it was my fate dearly to purchase experience of my own weakness and of the earl’s treachery. Several weeks elapsed in this manner, and still did the earl neglect to fulfil the promises he had made me, while, at the same time, the ardor of his passion seemed to increase, and the excuses he made for delaying our nuptials, were so plausible, that I was deceived by them. Alas! the woman whose heart has been sincerely attached to any particular object, is made an easy dupe! Let me pass hastily over the time, until the anniversary of the day of my birth, at once the height of my misery, and the means of restoring me to reason and to peace. On that occasion, Mansville had made the most extensive preparations, for celebrating it in the most spirited manner. Numerous guests were invited to the villa, and the peasants in the neighborhood were also permitted to share in the rejoicings. Among other things, for my especial entertainment, the earl had engaged a troop of itinerant players, who were in the neighborhood, to perform a play in the grounds of the villa, which deserves particular mention, as it was the means of restoring me to reason, and saving me from that gulf of destruction, upon the brink of which I stood.

Seldom had I felt so melancholy as I did on that occasion; home and all its tranquil pleasures, came vividly to my recollection, and my heart was heavy. There was a song which was a great favorite in the village where I was born, and which described the pleasures of home in simple yet forcible language, and as it now came fresh upon my recollection, I could not help repeating the words. When I had concluded, I perceived that Celia, my waiting-maid, had entered the room, and had apparently been listening with much attention and admiration to me.

‘Bless me, Miss,’ said the loquacious girl, ‘what a pretty song that was, and how prettily you sang it. Where might you have learnt it, Miss, if I might make so bold?’

‘Where I learnt other lessons I ought never have forgotten,’ replied I, with a deep sigh; ‘it is the song of my native village—the hymn of the lowly heart which dwells upon every lip there, and, like a spell-word, brings back to its name affection which e’er has been betrayed to wander from it. It is the first music heard by infancy in its cradle; and the villagers blending it with their earliest and tenderest recollections, never cease to feel its magic power, till they cease to live.’

‘How natural that is,’ returned Celia; ‘just like my nurse used to nurse me to sleep with a song, which I have never heard since without nodding.’

‘Has the earl been inquiring for me, Celia?’ I asked.

‘He has been here this morning, and has only just gone,’ replied the maid; ‘but only see what lovely things he has left you, Miss!’

‘And Celia displayed a costly dress, and several articles of jewellery, of which I expressed my admiration. But suddenly, gloomy thoughts again came over me, and while tears trembled in my eyes, I ejaculated:—

‘But can these baubles make me happy? Ah! never! The heart that’s ill at ease is made more wretched by the splendor which laughs in awful mockery, around its dreariness.’

‘The presence of Celia embarrassed me; I wished to indulge in melancholy thought alone, but she seemed determined not to take my hints for her to leave me, and at last I only got rid of her by requesting that she would fetch me a book that I had been reading the day previously. When she had left the room, with much agitation, I unlocked my cabinet, and took out the plain village dress, I had worn when I quitted my home. The sight of this tortured my brain, and while deep sobs of anguish almost choked my voice, I thus soliloquized:—

‘And shall I remain here, dazzled and betrayed by the splendor with which I am surrounded? Shall I still rack my parent’s hearts, and—I—will escape! Escape! no, no—I can brave the shocks of fate, but not a father’s eye: to expose myself to his wrath—no, no! my heart’s not strong enough for that.’

‘I was interrupted by the return of Celia with the book, who, on seeing the village dress in the chaise, expressed the utmost astonishment.’

‘Lor’ bless me, Miss!’ ejaculated the girl, ‘what’s this dress doing here?—Whoever could have put such trumpery in the way?’

As she spoke, she snatched it up, and was going to throw it aside when I sprang forward emphatically, and hastily took it from her.

‘Give it back!’ I cried, ‘that humble dress was mine;—I cast it off—the splendor that has replaced it, is the source of the most bitter misery!—Oh, my forsaken parents;—Come hither, Celia;—I have no one here of my own sex to talk to—no one to listen to my sorrows. I—’

‘Pray speak freely to me, Miss,’ observed Celia; ‘though humble, you’ll not find me insincere.’

‘Celia,’ I remarked, ‘if you knew what a home, what parents I had left, you’d pity me.’

‘I do pity you, Miss,’ replied Celia, ‘indeed I do. Better days will come; you’ll be as happy as when you left them.’

I sighed, and shook my head with a look of despair, and then detailed to Celia the particulars of my flight from home, and the promises which the earl had made, but had hitherto failed to keep his word.

‘Be of good cheer, Miss, I pray,’ said Celia, ‘he will keep it, depend upon it.’

Celia spoke this with such a tone of confidence, that it forcibly struck me, and eagerly I exclaimed:—

‘Will he, Celia?—Now, don’t trifle with me—tell me the worst at once!—Better is present death, than hope deferred; still lingering on, still doomed to be deceived.’

‘My dearest young Mistress,’ returned Celia, ‘there is plenty of time before you think of dying; and, as a proof that the earl don’t mean to deceive you, look here.’

And with these words, Celia presented me with a miniature of the earl, elegantly set round with diamonds, at the same time, adding:—

‘On a chamber-maid’s penetration, this nothing more or less than an earnest of the original.’

I took the miniature with transport, and my eyes became riveted upon it with admiration. Nothing could be more true than the delineation.

‘Ah!’ I observed, ‘precious to the fond one, is the semblance of the object held most dear. ’Tis the enchanter’s wand, which gathers around it in a magic circle, sweet recollections and feelings which make memory a paradise!—No, no!—treachery could never dwell in such a face!—I’ll trust him still. He cannot mean me false.’

‘Shall I put this away, Miss?’ asked Celia, pointing to the village dress; ‘I am sure the earl would be hurt to see it here.’

‘Yes, take it away, Celia,’ I replied, ‘I would not, for the world, do anything to make him uneasy.’

Celia immediately obeyed, and she had not been gone many minutes, when St. Clair entered the room, and advanced joyfully to meet me.

‘Ah, sir,’ I ejaculated, ‘why overwhelm me with gifts like these?—My humble habits shrink from such magnificence! This (pointing to the miniature,) is the only one I prize, the herald of a gift to follow, which shall restore me to my friends, my self-esteem;—my poor heart-broken parents.’

The earl turned away his head, doubtless to conceal the embarrassment which my words occasioned him, and then, in a tone which showed that he wished to change the subject, said:—

‘This is your birth-day, Clara.’

That word tore my wounds open! Oh! what a joyous day was it when I was at home! The farm seemed to be one smile of joy;—the sacred halo of a parent’s blessing descended on me with the morning sun; and even my birds, my flowers, my young companions,—all seemed to have a livelier look, and lift their heads rejoicing. These thoughts were too painful for my feelings, and I burst into tears.

‘Nay, Clara,’ observed the earl, ‘cheer thee, love!—banish that woe; discard that dread; rely upon my promise.’

‘Heaven’s smile repay that word,’ I exclaimed fervently; ‘the weight which pressed me to the earth is removed, and all around me breathes ecstasy.’

‘It delights me to hear thee say so, my dearest Clara,’ replied the earl, ‘go, sweetest, and put on your richest dress to celebrate this joyous day.’

‘That day,’ I added, with enthusiasm, ‘that day which gives me back to honor. It shall be done, my lord.’

The earl kissed me affectionately, and left the room; and once more a cheering hope brought consolation to my heart, and assured me of future happiness and joy. Alas! how soon was I to be awakened to the greatest agony! To more misery than I had ever before experienced.

The festivities of the day passed off most brilliantly until the play commenced. The gardens in which it took place were brilliantly illuminated, and the temporary theatre was formed among the trees in the back. Just as the performances were about to commence, a servant entered and delivered to the earl a letter, upon perusing the contents of which, he excused himself to me and the numerous guests, it being necessary that he should be absent for a short time; but he begged that his absence might not interrupt their pleasure, as the village actors would amuse them with their humble efforts; and ere they had ended, he would return.

When the earl had gone, I beckoned Celia over to me, and the play immediately commenced; but what were my feelings of intense agony as it proceeded, when I perceived that the plot, and every incident of the piece, so corresponded with my own circumstances, that it seemed as if they had actually chosen me to sketch the heroine from. A nobleman wooed a peasant girl; he vowed the most unbounded affection for her;—promised her marriage, if she would but elope with him;—she was persuaded;—she sunk senseless in his arms, and was conveyed away.

During the time the piece was being played, my anguish was insupportable, and I was so worked upon by the power of each scene, that I could scarcely persuade myself but that it was reality.

‘Fatal resemblance,’ I ejaculated, at the passage where the seducer bears his victim away; ‘has there before been such another deluded being?’

‘Be calm, dear mistress, be calm,’ said Celia, ‘it is only a play.’

But my thoughts were too intently fixed upon the scene which followed, to pay any particular attention to her words. The parents of the betrayed one, as represented in the piece, upon hearing the screams of their daughter, rushed on to the stage, the father demanding of his wife the meaning of the alarm, and the cause of the cries he had heard. The mother looking round, and finding that her daughter was not there, exclaimed:—

‘My child! my child!—A mere pretence—our darling—lost—escaped! Ah! there! there! behold the seducer bearing her away!’

‘Ah!’ cried the father, frantically, ‘what fled? given up to shame?—Oh, art beyond belief! Have all your fond professions come to this? Oh, well-laid plan!—Lost! lost!—Oh, viper!—hypocrite!—I tear you from my bosom!—I sweep you from the home you have disgraced!—A father’s curse—’

With a wild shriek, as the actor gave utterance to these words, I rushed upon the stage, and falling at his feet, I vociferated, in tones that made the place re-echo again:—

‘Hold! hold!—curse her not! She is not lost! She is innocent!’

At this moment the earl entered, and the whole of the spectators seemed petrified to the spot with astonishment.

‘Ah!’ cried Mansville, ‘what do I see?—What is the meaning of this?’

Celia raised me from the posture I had assumed, and by the commands of the earl, whose confusion and chagrin was evident, she led me to my own chamber, while the guests quickly dispersed, and the entertainments abruptly ceased.

After I had been taken to my own apartment for a few minutes, by the kind attention of Celia, I recovered myself, and addressing myself to her, said:—

‘Thanks! thanks! a thousand thanks!—I grieve to have troubled you thus—’tis over now; ’tis nothing.’

‘The earl, Miss! the earl!’ exclaimed Celia, and the next moment Mansville stood before me. There was an expression of sternness upon his brow which I had never seen before, and he seemed greatly agitated. I was alarmed, and advancing towards him, said:—

‘Oh, my lord, how shall I apologize for—’

‘No more of that,’ he interrupted; ‘’tis past.’

‘My lord,’ ejaculated I, surprised.

‘Leave us, Celia;’ commanded the earl, and when the former had retired from the room, he turned to me, and the indignation of his looks seemed to increase.

‘Oh, Mansville,’ I observed, ‘how have I deserved this indifference? Is it my fault that my feelings overcame me? Is it my fault that the scene revived my sense of duty? Oh, my lord, it is those fatal feelings that have made me what I am.’

‘I am weary of this parade of sensibility,’ replied the earl, impatiently; ‘you have called up against me the laugh of my tenantry and domestics—let that content you.’

‘What does the change portend? This freezing look—this language of reproach?’ I inquired.

‘For your own sake and mine press me no farther, Clara,’ replied the earl; ‘I would not have had the scene which has just past occur for millions. If you have placed yourself in unpleasant circumstances, common policy should at least teach you to shun the sneers of the world; but it is over and nothing can now be said which will not increase, instead of diminishing our mutual uneasiness.’

A burning pang shot through my brain as Mansville gave utterance to these words, and emphatically and hysterically I exclaimed—

‘Am I deceived?’

‘I cannot tell what childish hopes you may have indulged,’ returned the earl, with the most freezing coldness, ‘and I am only sorry that you should have been weak enough to deceive yourself.’

‘Oh, no, my agitation has shaken my senses,’ cried I deliriously, and clasping my temples; ‘he could not—no, no, Mansville! in the name of all that you have professed, and I have believed, in the name of those vows that are registered on high, however man may slight them; and in that holiest name of all, the name of Him, whose bolt hangs o’er the hypocrite, dispel these doubts and this suspense; restore me at once to my parents, or at once name the hour for that ceremony to pass, when, before the world, you acknowledge me as your wife!’

‘Clara,’ replied the earl, ‘since you will force me to be explicit, is it not strange that a mind so intelligent should fancy for a moment that it was possible for one in my rank to marry a girl in yours?’

‘The oath!—the oath!’ I cried, almost choking with emotion.

‘My heart is ever yours,’ returned he, ‘but, of my hand, I have no power to dispose. Nay, you pass not hence.’

‘Are there no pangs, that, like the dagger, kill the heart they pierce,’ ejaculated I; ‘I cast me at your feet in agony! ’Tis Clara kneels and supplicates! not for herself, but for the racked souls, and the gray hairs of age! For your honor and eternal peace, restore me to my parents.’

The earl seemed suffering the most acute mental agony, and for a moment averted his head.

‘Clara,’ he said, in faltering accents, ‘believe my heart unchanged—my unceasing love—’

‘Monster!’ I interrupted in delirious tones; ‘darest thou still profane that sacred word? No, my lord, the mask is torn away,—the attachment which was my pride is now my disgust; ’tis past! I know myself deceived, but, thank Heaven, I am not lost! To you, my lord, the bitter hour is not yet arrived; but, ’tis an hour that never fails to guilt. At some unexpected moment, the blandishment of pleasure will lose their force—the power of enjoyment will be palsied in your soul; it will awake only to remorse. In that hour of retribution think of these words of warning,—think of the hearts you’ve broken—think, my lord, and tremble.’

Without waiting to give utterance to another syllable, I rushed from the room, but the voice of the earl, tempted me to stop at the door and listen. He was apparently pacing the apartment in the most violent state of agitation, and thus soliloquizing:—

‘The fatal truth curdles my blood like poison! I feel the hell in my bosom. Oh, what a heart I’ve lost? Why, splendid slavery of rank, must virtue be thy victim; why must affection be sacrificed to thee? The peasant mates him where his heart directs, and to his lowly bride brings happiness; his lord must fret, chained to some high-born fool; or either pine in vain for humble loveliness, or make its innocence a martyr to his choice. I was not born to be a betrayer. Wed! I cannot cease to love!’

The words recalled my scattered reason, and I was almost tempted to return to the apartment; but a feeling of pride restrained me, and bursting with anguish, I hurried away to my chamber, where I was soon afterwards joined by Celia, who was sent by the earl to watch me. I was at first insensible to her presence, and sat like a statue, with my eyes fixed upon the earth, and buried in deep and agonizing meditation. The poor girl spoke to me, but, overcome with my emotions, I burst into tears, and threw myself on the couch, and Celia, probably thinking that I should fall into a slumber, left. My mind being so dreadfully fatigued by the sufferings I had so recently undergone, I did gradually fall to sleep, from which I was aroused by hearing some person moving in the adjoining apartment. The door was partly open, and I perceived it was Celia. Anxious to ascertain for what purpose Celia was there, I still pretended to slumber, and shortly afterwards, she stole softly to the door which opened upon my chamber, and peeped in.

‘Yes, she sleeps,’ she said. ‘Poor lady, my heart bleeds for her. Why, this strange, unlooked-for adventure has created a fine confusion among all of us; for see—if one wouldn’t think, by the state this room is in, that it had turned the heads of the whole family. Scarcely a piece of furniture in its place, and my mistress’s toilet, too. Here’s confusion. But hold, Celia, that’s your affair, so no complaining. I declare I’m almost worn out with this bustle. Heigh-ho! I’m ordered by the earl to watch my mistress here; but I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do to keep awake, suppose I finish the new drawing the Lady Clara honored my humble talents by so much admiring—that’s just the thing.’

Celia placed the drawing-stand before her, and sitting down, applied herself to her task; but it was evident, by her frequent nodding, that her words would soon be verified, and I was most anxious for it to happen so, as I had formed a resolution to make my escape from the villa that night by some means or other. She once more approached the couch, and having apparently satisfied herself that I still slept, she returned to the drawing.

‘Oh, dear,’ she exclaimed with excessive weariness, ‘oh, dear, my eyelids are so very heavy, they stick together whenever I wink, and I can scarcely force them open again. My poor drawing will never get finished at this rate. However, I must try once more what it will do to keep me from sleeping at my post.’

She again endeavored to keep herself awake, but her efforts were all useless, she nodded, and nodded, until at length she fell back in her seat, fast asleep.

I now hastily arose, and attired myself in the village dress I had gazed at with such feelings of pain and regret in the morning. I approached Celia on tip-toe, and being certain she was really asleep, I soliloquized—

‘Yes, she sleeps! Now is the only moment! I thought I could not brave a father’s eyes; but there is courage in despair, which makes the weak frame wonder at itself. I have written this letter to the earl, and here are all his gifts—his diamonds, his detested wealth. Now, methinks, my heart feels lighter. Yes, like the prodigal, I will turn my steps where a child may always look with confidence. I have been imprudent, but am not guilty. Heaven receives the offering of the sincerely penitent, and can a parent’s blessing be denied when Heaven forgives?’

The apartment upon which my chamber opened, and in which Celia was, was a magnificent one. On one side was a large French window, through which the distant country could be seen far beyond. Outside was a balcony overhanging the road. I undrew the curtains softly, and opened the window. It was a fine moonlight night, and the distant landscape could be seen as distinctly as at broad day. I took a scarf from the shoulders of Celia, which she wore, fastened one end of it to the balcony railing, then returned, made an appeal to Heaven for protection, and blew out the candles. With more firmness than might have been expected, I then began my perilous descent, and gradually letting myself down by the scarf, alighted in safety below. Fear of being re-taken lent speed to my feet, and I flew with the greatest rapidity across the country to which, however, I was complete stranger.

I scarcely abated my speed in the least for the distance of five miles or more, when I was obliged to pause, in order to rest myself. I looked fearfully around me to see whether or not I was pursued, and then reflected upon what course I should pursue. I feared to travel at that hour, and, indeed, it would have been most dangerous, to a young girl especially; I therefore resolved to proceed for some distance further, and then to seek shelter at some cottage till the morning. I then resumed my lonely journey in a state of fear and agitation, it is unnecessary for me to describe. After walking for above an hour longer, I arrived at a small and obscure hamlet, and by the light which I perceived in several of the cottage windows, I was satisfied that some of the inmates had not retired to rest.

Here, again I paused, for uncertain of the reception I might meet with, I almost feared to knock. At length, I approached the first one, and having first listened at the door, and hearing only the voice of an old woman, apparently in prayer, I became more confident, and having waited till she had ceased, I knocked, and shortly afterwards, the voice of the old woman demanded who was there, and what they wanted. I informed her, and begged that she would admit me. It was some time before she complied, and seemed to be consulting within herself the propriety or safety of doing so, but having put several more questions to me, as to whether I was alone, &c., she at last ventured to open the door, and eyed me narrowly from head to foot. She was a very clean, motherly-looking woman, whose appearance called the tears to my eyes, she was so much like the parent to whom I was returning.

‘Good gracious, child,’ she said, ‘what causes you to be out at this time of the night and from whence do you come?’

‘I am a stranger in this part of the world, my good dame,’ I replied; ‘I have recently made my escape from villainy, and crave a shelter in your cottage till the morning. I have sufficient to reward you for your trouble.’

‘As for reward,’ returned the old woman, ‘I require none; and if your story is true, you are heartily welcome to the humble bed I have to offer you.’

I thanked the poor woman most sincerely for her kindness, and entered the clean little parlor, where the remains of her humble repast she had been partaking of, was still upon the table, and of which she requested me to eat, but I declined. Judging from her manners and appearance that she was one in whom I could confide, I gave her a brief account of my situation, and upon what purpose I was bent. She listened to me with evident commiseration, and applauding the resolution I had formed, after some conversation, she conducted me to the room in which she was able to accommodate me, and after bidding me good night left me to myself. Fatigued with the events of the day, it was not long ere I fell asleep, and I did not awake until the old woman aroused me late in the morning.

Having been prevailed upon by her to partake of her humble meal, and offered her some remuneration for her kindness which she persisted in declining, I took leave of her, and made my way to the coach office, to which she had directed me. I met with no interruption on the road, and succeeded in obtaining a place in one of the coaches just starting for my native village. I alighted from the coach a short distance from my place of destination, having made up my mind to walk the rest of the way.

I cannot adequately portray the nature of my feelings as I approached the home where I had never known anything but happiness until my meeting with Mansville; alternate hopes and fears racked my bosom. It was a beautiful morning; the sun shone forth in fall meridian splendor, and all nature seemed to wear a smile of gladness. When I came within sight of the village, my heart felt ready to burst, and suddenly the sound of pipes and tabors vibrated on my ears. Presently afterwards, a bridal procession approached towards the spot where I was, and stopped before the doors of one of my female companions, Ellen Greenley, and George Ashburne, who had long been her acknowledged lover.

George Ashburne having thanked his friends for their kindness, the father of Ellen joined them.

‘Good morning to you, my dear child,’ said Mr. Greenley, kissing his daughter affectionately, and smiling upon his son-in-law elect, kindly; ‘may this prove a blessed day to you both. Go, lads and lasses, and gather the flowers to celebrate the ceremony.’

The villagers departed, and Mr. Greenley continued—

‘I’ll try if I can’t prevail upon Mr. Heywood, the unfortunate father of Clara, to come to your wedding; poor fellow! he may be compared to the ruined wing of the crazy old mansion-house he was converted into a farm, that looks down in gloomy silence upon the bright and smiling landscape which everywhere surrounds it. Ah! that sad girl! the flowers they go to gather are less frail than she has proved. My children be virtuous if you would be happy.’

Thus saying, the old man re-entered the cottage, but his words had been so many daggers to my heart.

‘Clara’s father,’ observed Ellen, when her father had left them, ‘ah! if our poor Clara herself were only here now, how her heart would rejoice in our happiness.’

‘Don’t name her, Ellen,’ said George, ‘don’t name her; a virtuous girl’s lips ought not to be sullied by the mention of her name.’

‘Ah! George,’ replied Ellen, ‘pity becomes the virtuous, and the more she has fallen, the more she deserves to be pitied.’

‘Psha!’ cried George, ‘can’t you talk about something else?’

‘A sad day it was when she went away,’ continued Ellen, ‘everybody was downcast, as if some great affliction had befallen the village.’

‘More fools they,’ was George’s abrupt retort; ‘if you or I had gone, indeed, it might have afflicted them; now, Ellen, you shall not talk any more about her. Come, come, let us be going.’

Suddenly accumulating all my fortitude, I emerged from the place where I had concealed myself, and called upon Ellen by name. Both her and her lover started, and the former exclaimed in a tone of astonishment and alarm:—

‘Bless us! what’s that?’

‘As I live,’ said her lover, ‘it is Clara Heywood, or her ghost!’

‘Do not be alarmed, Ellen,’ I said, ‘but one word with you.’

‘No, it’s she herself, as I’m alive,’ ejaculated Ellen: ‘but oh, how changed she is.’

‘One word, dear Ellen,’ I repeated.

‘I am not satisfied upon this subject,’ said the timid George, ‘so, as you seem resolved to stay here, I shall be off.’

‘Ellen,’ I repeated, as soon as George had departed ‘Have you forgotten me?’

‘No, Clara, no,’ answered the affectionate girl, ‘nor never shall forget you. I was even talking about you, as you called. Ah! Clara, you’re sadly altered; and so is everything since you went away. Such a day as it was, when you left us!—There wasn’t a dry eye, nor a cheerful word spoke in the village. Your poor father—’

‘Well—well!’ I hurriedly interrupted.

‘I see it grieves you,’ said Ellen; ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad—you look as if you had suffered enough. This is my wedding-day, Clara.’

Ellen sighed, and for a moment averted her head.

‘Yes, Ellen,’ I resumed, ‘I wish to see my mother, and to see her privately. She would not, perhaps, admit me to her presence, if she was not forewarned. You can oblige me greatly, if you will induce her to come to me, by saying that a stranger desires to speak with her, immediately.’

‘That I will, with all my heart,’ said Ellen, ‘and may it turn to good. Oh, may all the realization of her hopes attend the returning wanderer. But where shall I find you?’

‘I’ll follow you,’ I answered, ‘go round to the front door; I’ll take the opposite side, and meet you at the gate. And Heaven will help the heart, determined to retrace the paths of rectitude and honor,’ I cried, as with a heart beating with hope and dread, I made my way towards the house of my beloved parents.

Oh, never shall I forget the feelings with which I entered at the gate.

‘Here is my home!—my blessed, blessed home!’ I reflected; ‘a frowning form appears to guard the threshold, shrieking in my ear—‘Hence! thou shalt not enter!’ But can I linger here?—I seem to tread the earth like a criminal. I must, and I will approach! Now, now now!’

Having at last made a violent effort to conquer my emotions, I rushed down the steps into the yard, and then exclaimed triumphantly—

‘Once more I am surrounded by all that is dear to me!—Father! mother!—your unhappy child, sorrowing, imploring, returns to you!—And hark! I hear the song of my childhood floating on the air. How acutely doth its accents strike upon my heart in such a scene as this, around whose every tree and flower some recollection of infancy’s entwined.’

My heart rose in my mouth, as I ventured, seeing the coast clear, to approach the house, and even to peep into the parlor-window. I trembled; and an indescribable pang shot through my frame, as I noticed everything that well-known room contained, and which had not undergone any alteration since I last beheld it. But how shall I describe my feelings, when immediately afterwards, the door of the inner apartment was thrown open, and the next moment my mother appeared with the breakfast things. With what eager fondness did I gaze upon her revered countenance, and yearn again to be enfolded in her embrace; and most severely did I reproach myself when I noticed the heavy marks of care that were upon her brow. The casement was partially open, so that I could hear all that passed, and my mother, having placed the breakfast things on the table, sighed heavily and observed—

‘There, there!—There’s the breakfast ready for my poor husband, and now I wish he would return. He has been out since daylight with his gun; the only thing that seems to attract his attention. At home, all day he does nothing but sigh, or,—if he thinks he is not observed,—weep. Oh, Clara! unthinking girl you have too much to atone for. How long he stays.’

My heart was ready to burst as these words reached my ears, and it was with the greatest difficulty I could avoid betraying myself. My mother now came to the door and looked anxiously out, but a little thatched summer-house close at hand concealed me from observation. Again she entered the house, and I overheard her, in tones of the deepest anxiety, exclaim—

‘No, I cannot catch even a glimpse of him, yet my mind is never easy in his absence; his despondency sometimes makes me fear that—ah! surely yonder I see him moving mournfully among the trees. Yes, ’tis he—he is just at the bridge;—he comes!’

‘Never shall I forget the sensation with which I strained my eyes in the direction which the observation of my mother instructed me in, and I thought I should have sunk to the earth with mingled feelings of the most intense anguish and awe, when my eyes once more beheld my father. But oh, how altered was he! Care had deeply imprinted its furrows on his cheeks, and his form was bent and attenuated. He walked with a feeble step, and at least twenty winters seemed to have passed over his head since I had last beheld him.

‘My God!’ I mentally ejaculated, ‘and are these the terrible consequences of my imprudence? Oh, my poor mother, truly did you say that I had much to atone for!—How can I ever make sufficient reparation for the misery I have occasioned.’

My father at length reached the house, and my mother ran affectionately to meet him.

‘You were wrong to have wandered so far,’ she said, ‘you seem quite exhausted.’

‘No,’ replied my father, ‘’tis only exercise that can divert the mind from gloom; When the mind’s disturbed, the body does not feel fatigued. I’m late, I hope you haven’t waited breakfast for me.’

‘I would not certainly breakfast without you,’ returned my mother; ‘but you are too much heated to sit in this parlor; the breeze is too keen for you; we will go into the inner apartment. Go, and I will take the breakfast things for you.’

‘Well, well, as you please,’ said my father, ‘where is Edwin?’

‘He has gone to make one of the wedding party of Ellen and George,’ answered my mother.

‘A wedding!’ said my father, with a sigh, ‘ah.’

My mother had by this time hastily gathered up the breakfast things, and left the parlor.

‘Poor, bereaved mother,’ sighed my father, looking after her with the most poignant sorrow, ‘she struggles with her grief, and endeavors to impart a joy which neither can feel; which we neither can know again.—No! no! peace of mind fled with my guilty daughter—never to return! Why did I repair the ravages time had made in this old mansion? Why strive to give an air of comfort to my habitation?—Because I deemed it would be the abode of bliss. She—my child, hath made it the abode of despair!—But, no matter, a few years of neglect, desolation will spread around, and hearth, roof, and tree will be ruined, like my happiness, and broken as my heart!—My daughter!—my Clara! Oh! misery! misery! She is gone! she is lost forever!’

As he thus spoke he rushed from the room, and my agony was so great that I could not help groaning aloud.

‘Oh! God!’ I exclaimed; ‘what will become of me?—I shall go mad!—Would that I had not ventured hither; I shall never be enabled to withstand the scene!—Never can I find resolution enough to meet his reproaches. Alas! he is too strongly prejudiced against me, ever to be persuaded that I am guiltless!—But where is Ellen?’

I had scarcely given utterance to the words, when the latter approached, and before I had time to speak to her, entered the house observing me, however, and motioning me to remain where I was, and to wait patiently. I cannot do justice to the anxiety of my feelings during the time I was waiting there. A thousand doubts, hopes and fears, flashed across my brain, and every moment seemed to be an hour. At length, I heard Ellen in joyful accents exclaim, as she came from the house,

‘Joy, Clara, joy!’

I sprang forward with rapture to meet her.

‘I have succeeded, my dear Clara, said the generous-hearted girl, exultingly; ‘she’ll come to you. Wait in the summer-house, and she’ll be with you presently.’

‘Thanks! thanks!’ cried I, ‘a thousand thanks, my dearest Ellen.’

‘She’s coming,’ observed Ellen, eagerly; ‘go, quick. I pray for your success from the bottom of my soul.’

Scarcely had I time to enter the summer-house, when my mother approached. Now was the moment of my trial at hand; a deadly sickness came over me, and it was with difficulty I could save myself from fainting. The next moment my mother entered the summer-house, and she no sooner beheld me, than she uttered a loud scream of astonishment, and became, as it were, paralyzed to the spot.

‘Mother! mother!’ I cried, in frantic tones, ‘if I may still call you by that dear name;—oh, pardon your imprudent, but not guilty daughter!’

I could say no more, but sank at her feet. A pause of several moments ensued! my mother being too much overpowered by her emotions to speak; but at length, in a voice choked with agony, she exclaimed:—

‘Wretched girl! dare you again to approach that home, those parents whose hearts you have rendered desolate? Guilty, miserable girl—’

‘Oh, no, no,’ I interrupted hastily, ‘imprudent, cruel, I have been, dear mother, but your child returns to you as pure as when she left you. I appeal to heaven to attest my innocence. Oh, my mother, pardon the poor prodigal, who erred alone through youth and inexperience, and who is now ready to make all the atonement in her power.’

‘Can this be true? Have you indeed not endeavored to deceive me?’ ejaculated my mother, eagerly, and her eyes beaming, fixed with a penetrating glance upon my countenance, as though she would read all that was passing in my soul. ‘But no, it is impossible. How can you be innocent, uncontaminated? did you not abandon your home, your parents, and throw yourself into the arms of a villain, who—’

‘Oh, mother, believe it not,’ I returned, with the tears at the same time streaming down my cheeks. ‘I acknowledge that by the most base and subtle means, and in a moment of thoughtlessness and imprudence, Mansville got me into his power, and bore me far away from my home. But I thought that he meant to act honorably towards me. He told me he would make me his bride. I was too ready to believe him, and day after day he made some plausible excuse to postpone the fulfilment of his promise. Think not, however, that I suffered nothing. That you were ever absent from my thoughts, or that the fondly cherished recollections of my home, that home I had quitted, ceased to torture my mind. Bitter, indeed, were the pangs I endured. Ofttimes would I have fled the place and returned hither, but I dreaded to meet the reproaches of my parents. When, however, Mansville threw aside the mask, I overcame that dread, and your unhappy daughter has come back to solicit your forgiveness, with her virtue as unsullied as when she left you.’

During the time I was speaking, the agony evinced by my mother needs no description, and when I had ceased, in a paroxysm of delirious transport, she snatched me from the earth and enfolded me in her arms, exclaiming—

‘My child—my long lost Clara! Yes, I do indeed believe you, and pardon you, Oh, this is a happiness that I never expected!’

‘Mother, dear mother!’ I cried, in a tone of gratitude and delight which I cannot adequately describe, ‘to be suffered once more to speak to you in this place—to hear those blest words—to know myself pardoned. My heart is so full. Thus, thus only can I thank you.’

Again I threw my arms around her neck, and pressing vehemently to her bosom, she wept tears of joy.

‘Unfortunate girl,’ at length she said, gently withdrawing herself from my enthusiastic caresses, ‘I believe you innocent; but a mother’s heart is more indulgent than the world. And, ah! there is yet one to be appeased. Hark! I hear footsteps. It is your father. Softly—stand out of sight! He comes, but must not know you yet.’

Hastily throwing a veil over me, my mother urged me into the summer-house, and the next moment my father and the father of Ellen came from the house. They were in conversation, and by the words which I overheard, it seemed that the latter had been endeavoring to persuade my father to join the wedding party.

‘But at any rate,’ said he, ‘for half an hour you might.’

‘No,’ returned my father mournfully, ‘I should only mar the festal hour. I am the scathed tree of the heath that cannot drop. The bolt that struck off my branches has left my old trunk erect in wretched loneliness.’

‘’Tis a shame, neighbor,’ observed his companion, ‘it is a shame, I say, for a strong mind like yours to give itself up to sorrow in this way. You might as well put a pistol to your head at once, for you will be sure to kill yourself by it, sooner or later, and self-murder in one form is quite as criminal as in another.’

‘When you have seen the being for whom you’ve lived,’ retorted my father, ‘the object of every solicitude—the child you’ve reared with unceasing watchfulness, wrenched from you by a villain’s grasp, then come to me and talk of patience, and I’ll listen.’

‘Well, well, I’ll not weary you any longer,’ observed Mr. Greenly; ‘from my soul I’m grieved to see you thus abandoned to fruitless sorrow. Farewell, my friend, and may days be at hand when we shall see you smile once more.’

Thus saying, and grasping the hand of my father most cordially, the father of Ellen retired through the gate.

‘Smile,’ soliloquized the former, as his friend left him; ‘smile! Oh, happy father!—happy to see his daughter safe in her native innocence—safe from the bane of wealth. I once hoped that such a fate would beam on me; but fate was jealous. Lost, lost, wretched girl!’

While my unhappy father was thus speaking, my mother entered the summer-house, and leading me forth, she placed her finger on her lips to enjoin me to silence. We stood aside, and watched him, unobserved.

‘As I gaze there,’ he continued, ‘methinks I see her in her days of innocence, when first her little steps began: laughing, she ran, with arms extended towards me; then I trembled lest her young feet should fail, and she should fall. But she passed through those fearful times unharmed. She escaped those thousand dangers. Now she falls—falls to the earth, never to rise! She’s gone—she’s lost! My Clara! Oh, my child!’

My heart was ready to burst, and I was almost choked with endeavouring to repress the heavy sobs that heaved my bosom. My father threw himself into a chair, and my mother advanced towards him, and touched him on the shoulder.

‘A tear,’ she observed, in gentle accents. ‘Did I not hear our Clara’s name too? Did not your lips utter the name of our child?’

‘No, no,’ he replied, hastily rising; ‘let us, if possible, not think or speak of her again.’

‘Well, well, dearest husband,’ returned my mother, ‘I will not urge it now; but here is a poor creature, the daughter of—’

‘Away—away!’ hastily and vehemently interrupted my unhappy parent. ‘I have no daughter now.’

‘No,’ replied my mother; ‘but this repentant child, the daughter of a neighbor, is on her way to ask forgiveness of her offended father. She faints with shame and grief, and dares not meet him. Do speak a word or two of comfort to her, and teach her in what words she should address him to gain his blessing, and to sooth his anguish.’

‘None,’ replied my father, hastily, and his eyes beaming wild, ‘none. Let her not dare to look upon him. Let not her presence insult the home her infamy has disgraced. Perhaps, too, she had a mother, rich in every virtue. Let her shun that mother, for contamination is in her touch. Virtue can hold no intercourse with vice, though vice, with double baseness, kneels affecting reverence for virtue.’

I found it impossible to help groaning aloud, as I listened to my father’s observations, and I threw myself into my mother’s arms. He turned his eyes steadily upon me for a minute or so, and then resumed—

‘Yet hold! I will not judge too harshly; for there are shades of guilt, and hers, perhaps, may not be of so deep a dye as to preclude forgiveness. Perhaps her father was not affectionate—Perhaps (poor child!) he was morose and frigid. Perhaps neglectful, cold, unindulgent.’

‘Oh, no!’ I sobbed, and sank on my knees before him with clasped and upraised hands, ‘he was most kind, affectionate, and good.’

‘What,’ eagerly demanded my poor parent, ‘did he love you better than all the world?—did he rear you in domestic tenderness, and train you in the paths of virtue?—did he clasp you to his doting heart, and in his foolish pride proclaim his child the paragon of earth?—and did you then blast all of his fond hopes, and clinging to another, leave him in his storm of grief?’

Again I groaned with the almost insupportable power of my anguish, and still remained on my knees before him.

‘Dearest husband,’ said my mother, ‘do not aggravate the dear child’s misery. She is repentant—she is the shorn lamb, temper the storm to her affliction, but do not add another wound to a heart already too much lacerated.’

‘Well, well,’ returned my father, ‘be it so. I will forget my own, and try to sooth her sorrows. Young woman, rise.’

He raised me from the earth, and taking my hand tenderly, continued:—

‘What your miseries are, I well can guess; but what your father’s sufferings are I too well know. You fear to meet his eye; you dread to hear his curse. A father’s curse is heavy; shall I paint this agonizing suffering to you, child! I can do so; for I have felt it. I have it now. I once had a daughter.’

‘Oh, sir, do not name her!’ I cried, with a feeling of agony, too powerful for utterance.

‘Oh, how I doted on that daughter,’ he continued, and his countenance betrayed the terrible mental agony he was enduring. ‘How I adored her, words cannot tell; thoughts cannot measure! Yet—she sacrificed me to a villain,—her ingratitude has bleached this head,—her wickedness has broken this heart, and now my detestation is upon her! Oh, do not you resemble her,—remain not a moment longer from your father,—fly to him ere his heart give way, as mine does now—ere he curses you as I now curse—’

‘Oh, no more!’ I interrupted, darting forward in excessive agitation; ‘in mercy, oh, no more.’

‘Ha!’ groaned my father, as he recognized me and retreated from me, ‘away! away! away!’

In a wild delirium of agony, I followed him on my knees, exclaiming, in frantic accents,—

‘Your vengeance cannot make you deaf to the agony of a despairing child; behold me on my knees; I bring the sacrifice of a broken spirit. I do not ask your love till you know I am worthy of being loved. I do not ask your confidence till you feel I can be trusted; but do not deny me the shelter of your paternal roof.’

‘My father spurned me violently from him, and as he did so, he cried, in hoarse tones,—

‘Hence! hence!—I know you not! My sight rejects you—spurns you! If you have wasted all the spoils of guilt, there—there’s gold! Your idol, gold! for which you bartered all your hopes of bliss!’

He dashed a purse furiously to the earth as he spoke, and hastened towards my mother, fixing upon me looks of scorn and hatred. Oh, Heaven! how each glance penetrated to my soul! How every word burnt to my heart! It was wonderful that reason could retain her empire in that trying scene.

‘Father! father!’ I implored, with redoubled vehemence, ‘hear me, I beseech you.’

‘Husband, dearest husband!’ supplicated my mother, ‘hear her, she is innocent.’

‘Innocent!’ he reiterated, ‘she innocent! No, no, impossible!—she left us; left her happy parents—her happy home—to follow a villain!’

‘Father, dearest father!’ I cried, ‘temper mercy, I pray you, with your severity. I am not the poor, guilty, degraded being that you suppose me to be. Your child is still virtuous—still unpolluted; her only crime has been in loving one too fondly, who sought to betray her! In the name of Heaven, I assert my innocence, and if I speak not the truth, may its most awful vengeance descend upon my head! But you cannot, you will not, longer doubt me. I see you will not! Oh, bless you for this, father, father!’

I could say no more; but sobbing convulsively, I threw myself into his arms! He wept;—yes, I could feel his chest heave with the power of mental anguish, and the big round tear of sorrow fell from his eye upon my cheek; he pressed me with all the fervour he had ever been wont to do to his heart, and ere he pronounced it, I knew that I was forgiven.

‘My child! my Clara!’ he at last cried, ‘is it possible that I again hold you innocent to my bosom? But no, the bliss is too great to be real! And yet it is her! yes, it is my child; it is her lips that have asserted her innocence and appealed to Heaven to attest it, and I can no longer doubt! Oh, happiness supreme! My long-lost, reclaimed child! Receive a parent’s thanks.’

He could say no more for a minute or two, but again did he clasp me with ecstasy to his bosom, and weep tears of gratitude upon my cheek. Then he would, withdrawing himself from me, with an expression I find it impossible to describe, gazed in my countenance, and clasping his hands together, raised them towards Heaven, in humble thanksgiving for its goodness in restoring me, uncontaminated to his arms; while my poor mother’s emotion was equal to his own, and she gazed on the scene with a sensation of the deepest gratitude and joy.

‘But where is the villain who has been guilty of this outrage?’ he at length demanded; ‘let me hasten to him, and demand satisfaction for the wrongs he has done us; the many days and nights of bitter misery he has caused your unfortunate parents! Tell me to what insult, what anguish did he expose you? I am mad to hear the guilty tale!’

‘Pray defer it, my dear husband, till your feelings are more composed;’ said my mother.

‘No, no, no,’ hastily ejaculated my father, and with the greatest impatience depicted in his countenance. ‘I will hear it now! I will no longer hesitate!’

In as few words as possible, I complied with my father’s request, and related all the particulars of the earl’s conduct to me during the time I was in his power. During the recital, the violent agitation of my father was plainly visible, and when I had concluded, he walked backwards and forwards for a short time, with disordered steps, and muttering incoherent sentences to himself.

At length he turned to me, and clasping me vehemently to his bosom, exclaimed:—

‘My child!—my own one!—my still innocent Clara!—Can I longer doubt you? Oh, no! you are restored to my arms; guiltless as when in a moment of imprudence you were snatched away from your paternal roof! Oh! God! I thank you for this! The trial has been a heavy one! But my child has withstood the temptation, the artifices of the libertine, and the tempter, and I am again happy! Bless you, bless you, my Clara!—Oh, I was too severe to imagine for a moment that you could be the guilty being I supposed you to have become!—Bless you again!—Here in this fond embrace!—This kiss of fervent affection, let me at once seal your pardon for the indiscretion of which you were guilty. We will never again part, till death shall interpose between us.’

Thus saying he snatched me fervently to his heart, and imprinted warm kisses upon my cheeks, my lips, my temples! How shall I describe the feelings that rushed through my veins at that moment? Language is by far too weak to do justice to them. They must be left to the warm imagination of the susceptible reader!—I was unable to return any answer; emotion choked my utterance, and stifled the words of ecstasy that would otherwise have flowed from my lips. Again I felt the ardent embrace of that father whose forgiveness I had despaired of ever being able to obtain; once more I felt the glow of his kiss upon my lips, and heard him pronounce his forgiveness for the many, many hours of bitter agony, of doubt, of fear, I had caused him.—Surely an age of anguish would have been trifling to purchase such a few moments of bliss, of exquisite transport, as those I then experienced. Again and again he enfolded me to his heart, and wept: like a child did the poor old man weep tears of inexpressible joy and gratitude upon my bosom. My mother, too; what pen could sufficiently depict her emotions upon that occasion.—She joined my father in the embraces he bestowed upon me, and then we all three knelt, and with hearts of sincerity, poured forth our gratitude to that Omnipotent being who had thrown the Almighty shield of His protection around me in hours of such eminent peril, and restored me innocent to the home wherein I had passed so many days of virtue and happiness, and which the wily seducer had endeavored so artfully to make me disgrace for ever!

‘But I will seek out the villain,’ cried my father, in vehement tones, after the first ebullitions of our joy and gratitude were over;—‘yes I will go to him and upbraid him for his base and brutal conduct, and demand of him all the satisfaction he can afford!—The feelings of affectionate parents are not to be racked and insulted with impunity!—No, by Heaven, he shall find, that in spite of his rank, he shall not escape the just indignation of those humble individuals whom he would have disgraced and rendered eternally wretched. To-morrow I will repair to the titled rake, and demand—’

‘Oh; my dearest parent,’ I interrupted, ‘pray do not think of such a thing; rather leave him to his own conscience, which, depend upon it, will sooner or later, be a severe monitor to him, and amply punish him for his guilt. The journey is too long, at your time of life, and besides, the result of such an act, without affording any satisfaction, might be such as I dread even to think upon.’

‘Clara!’ observed my father, ‘think you I can tamely brook the injuries I have received from the Earl Mansville? Oh, my child, did you but know, could you but form the least conjecture of the intense agony your disappearance, and the fears, the suspicions, that naturally resulted from it, caused both me and your poor mother, you could not thus advise.’

‘Alas! my dear father,’ I returned, ‘you do me an injury to suppose that I have not keenly, severely, felt the misery yourself and my dear mother must have undergone; in the midst of the luxury and magnificence that were displayed to ensnare me, it would rise in such vivid colors to my imagination, that many a time it surprises me how I can have retained my senses. Then would suspicion of the truth of Mansville rush tumultuously upon my brain, and only that I had dreaded to meet your reproaches, long ere this I should have made my escape from him, and return to your fostering arms. Not able to form any conjectures of your suffering?—Oh, my father, the imagination constantly haunted me;—sleeping or waking, it was ever present to my mental vision; but the deceptive art of Mansville, of which he is so consummate a master, never failed to use all the powers of his eloquence to soothe me, and by specious promises, day and day to quiet my apprehension—I will own my weakness;—such was the powerful ascendancy he had obtained over my heart, that I was too ready to listen to him; too willing to believe that he spoke the truth—Oh, my beloved parents, do me not the injustice to suppose that I could for a moment learn to become insensible of the imprudence I had committed, or of the consequent anguish that I knew it would involve you in.’

‘And do you not love Mansville now, my child?’ demanded my father, looking earnestly in my face.

‘Love him,’ I repeated, and a blush of indignation mantled my cheek as he spoke;—‘Oh, how degraded, how fallen I should be, could I now feel anything but the utmost disgust and abhorrence for one who has acted with such duplicity to me, and who would have destroyed the happiness of my parents for ever! No, my dear father, the youthful passions that are more powerfully excited in favor of any particular object, are more likely to become changed to those of hatred and scorn, when it is discovered that the being who has created them, has acted the part of a heartless traitor,—the vile deceiver,—It is thus with me, Mansville is torn from me forever; the place which his image occupied once, is now replaced by the deepest scorn and detestation.’

‘Darling child!’ cried my father, clasping me again in his arms. ‘There is sincerity in every word you utter. Oh, how could I ever suspect that you’d yield to the temptations of the guilty, and abandon the paths of virtue, in which you were brought up? This—this indeed is a joyful day; such a one as I never expected to experience again.—Come, come, child, into the house; let the blissful news be conveyed to all our neighbors, that this day restores a daughter, imprudent once, but guiltless, to her doting parents’ arms.’

‘And let the past be forgotten in the happiness of the present,’ said my mother, tears of ecstasy starting to her eyes:—‘oh, Clara, you have returned at a time when joy predominates in the bosoms of those dear friends, with whom we have been so long associated. Little did Ellen expect such a happy occurrence on the day of her nuptials.’

Encircling my waist with their arms, my parents led me affectionately to the house, and in a short time I was seated at the breakfast table, and about to eat of the repast beneath the roof in which I had been reared, and from which I had been so near being discarded for ever.—How shall I describe my feelings on that occasion, or those, it was evident, were passing in the minds of my parents.—I could scarcely believe that I had undergone what I had;—that I had ever even for a moment quitted my parental roof. Everything seemed as it was on the eventful morning when I had been borne away, and the whole seemed like some vision to warn me from the imprudent step I had actually been guilty of. The change effected in my father and mother in so short a time was most astonishing. The heavy care, the anguish of my father seemed dissipated, and was succeeded by joy and gratitude; looks of love and intense feeling which he constantly beamed upon me; while my mother could scarcely control her happiness within bounds of reason.

It might be imagined that my heart was too full—but it was not so—on the contrary, I partook of the repast with a relish I never before enjoyed since I had quitted my paternal home. I was again at home! in the home of my childhood restored to the love of my parents; and never was the contrast of the comforts of a virtuous home, with the empty luxuries of wealth and magnificence, presented more powerful to my mind.

Never shall I forget the felicity I enjoyed on that day. In the course of an hour or two my brother returned to the farm. He embraced me affectionately, but his indignation against Mansville was equal to that of my father.

It appeared that both my father and brother, had been indefatigable in endeavoring to trace the earl, but without success.

The day passed away, and at night, for the first time in some months, I retired to my chamber with the blessings of my parents. What ecstatic feelings thrilled through my veins, when I entered the little room where for so many years I had slept, and gazed upon every well known object, which had undergone no perceptible change since I had before reposed in it. It seemed indeed, to have been unoccupied since the time I had been from home; and every article I looked upon, appeared not to have been disturbed. There was the same little clean bed, with its furniture arranged with such admirable care and precision—the humble toilet—and everything the same as when I had last used it. There was the prayer book, the one which had been presented to me by my father many years before, and in which was inscribed his name, with the leaf turned down at the particular prayer I remember to have used the night before my elopement. With a heart overflowing with gratitude, I knelt down, and fervently breathed that prayer, and to it added one of thanks to Heaven, for the manner in which I had been saved from the sorrow and disgrace with which I had been threatened, and invoked its blessings on the heads of my parents and my brother. Then, with a lighter heart than I had experienced for many a day, I retired to my couch, and soon fell off into a calm slumber. No painful vision haunted my imagination that night; my dreams were those of bliss. Of the joys of home, and the affection of adoring parents; and in the morning I awoke to a renewal of that happiness and content, which had ever been mine before I became acquainted with the Earl of Mansville.

But what were my sentiments now as regarded Mansville? Need I try to portray them? I am certain that I need not! They were fully embodied in the observations I had made use of to my father. The mask which the deceiver had thrown off, having shown me his character in its real light, I thought of him only with disgust and abhorrence, and had he even then offered to make all the reparation in his power, by bestowing upon me his hand, I felt confident that I should have rejected it with scorn. Great as had been my trial, and painful as had been the circumstances by which it had been attended, I felt I had no cause to regret it now, but, on the contrary, to feel, in a manner thankful that it did occur, as it had taught me a lesson I shall never forget, and had afforded me that experience in the deceptive practices resorted to by the wealthy and unprincipled of mankind, which would prevent me for the future from approaching the precipice of destruction, down which I was so near being plunged.

I arose the following morning at the early hour to which I had been accustomed, and found my father, mother, and brother, already assembled in the little parlor, and the morning’s repast spread upon the table. I could perceive, as soon as I entered, that they had been discussing something particular, and it was not long ere I was made acquainted with it. I found that my father and my brother had come to the determination of going to the Earl Mansville, in spite of my entreaties, and the observations I had the previous day made use of, to induce them to abandon their design, and such was their eagerness to see Mansville, and demand an explanation of him, that they had resolved not to delay any longer than the following day.

‘I fully appreciate your motives, my dear child,’ said my father, ‘but, after mature deliberation, I cannot consent to comply with your wishes. Were we to suffer the matter to rest where it is it would be yielding a cowardly submission to guilt, which my heart revolts from; and, moreover, would give the foul tongue of slander an opportunity of propagating surmises derogatory to your reputation. No, nothing will satisfy me, but a plain acknowledgment of his guilt, and your innocence from his own lips, and a sufficient apology to satisfy the world at large. Were I to seek reparation in a court of law, his wealth and high rank would be a sure protection for him.’

‘It would,’ coincided my brother, ‘and I see no other means of obtaining any satisfaction than the course we are about to pursue.’

In this opinion, my mother coincided, and, much as I dreaded the consequences that might attend it, I was at a loss for arguments to combat their resolutions. This day passed away in the same manner as the previous one, and the following morning, after a most affectionate farewell, my father and brother took their departure by the coach, for the mansion of the Earl Mansville.

After my father and brother had left, my mind underwent several gloomy presages, and though I perfectly agreed with the propriety of the arguments my father had made use of, I could not but sincerely regret that they had not abandoned their design.

My mother endeavored to sooth me by all the arguments in her power; and said that, doubtless Mansville, for his own credit’s sake, would be ready to make all the reparation that was in his power.

‘Alas!’ thought I, ‘what recompense can he make me for the injury he has inflicted on my peace of mind? Nothing can make amends for the pain of discovering that the only object upon which we have placed all our young heart’s warmest affections is base, treacherous, and unworthy of that passion; and I now as thoroughly despised Mansville as I had before loved him, for that he had thrown a blight upon my mind from which I could never thoroughly recover.’

We expected the return of my father and brother in about three or four days from the time they had left home, as they would have nothing to detain them after they had obtained the interview they sought with the Earl Mansville, as they were fully aware that if they protracted their presence, it would excite our utmost alarm. The fourth and fifth day, however, elapsed, and still they remained absent. Our apprehensions began to be excited in the utmost degree, and all the fearful forebodings that had before haunted my mind, returned with redoubled force.

In spite of all her efforts to appear to the contrary, the fears of my mother, were, if possible, more excited than my own, and conjecture was exhausted in vain, to endeavor to account for the procrastination of their return.

Another day elapsed in this manner, and yet we heard nothing of them, and then, indeed, our terrors were aroused to an almost insupportable pitch, and we no longer sought to disguise from each other the real state of our feelings upon the agonizing subject. I expressed to my mother all those forebodings I had before indulged in, and she could not but admit the too great probability of them. Now did she join with me in deeply regretting that my father and brother had not yielded to my advice, or that she should have made one to urge the propriety of the course they had taken. What step to pursue we were at a loss to conceive.

‘I cannot wait in this horrible state of suspense any longer,’ my mother ejaculated, when the seventh day dawned, and we heard no tidings of them; ‘I’ll instantly take G—m, and learn at once the cause of this mysterious delay, and whether or not anything has happened to them. This dreadful state of doubt and suspicion is worse than the most terrible certainty.’

She had scarcely given utterance to these words when a knock was heard at the outer door, and a letter was presented to my mother, which she knew immediately to be in the hand-writing of her husband. Trembling violently with apprehension, she broke the seal, but had not read more than two lines when, with a piercing scream, she fell senseless to the floor. I flew to her, raised her in my arms, and then, taking up the fatal letter, began to read the contents. The commencement of it was enough to smite my heart with horror; and it is marvellous how, under such trying circumstances, I retained possession for an instant of my faculties. My unfortunate father and brother were in gaol, accused of murder—of the murder of my deceiver, the Earl Mansville!

My frantic cries soon brought the servants of my father to the room, who immediately conveyed my mother to her chamber, while I was reduced to such a state by the shock which my feelings had sustained, that it was found necessary to call in medical advice to me, as well as the former. I remained in a state of almost utter unconsciousness for several days, during which period I continually raved of the murdered Mansville, and the awful charge which I would fain have believed my unhappy parent and brother were innocent of; but which, under peculiar circumstances, seemed, alas! but too probable.

My mother had been restored to comparative composure much earlier than might have been anticipated from the violence of the shock her feelings had received; and when I regained my senses, I found that she had started, the day following the one on which she had received the fatal letter, for G—m, to seek an interview with her wretched husband and son, and to obtain an explanation of the horrible circumstances. The person who attended me had the utmost difficulty in persuading me not to follow her; and it was only by the determined tone in which the medical man spoke, stating that the consequences of such a journey, in my then state of mind, might be productive of the most fatal results, that I was prevented from putting my wishes into effect.

Too soon, alas! the horrible particulars reached my ears, which I will proceed to relate as they were afterwards detailed by my father.

It appeared that after my father and brother had left home, they immediately repaired to the coach-office, where they had booked their places the evening before, and took their departure for G—m, whither they arrived the evening without anything occurring worthy of being particularly noticed. As it was rather late, they resolved not to visit the earl till the morning, and accordingly took up their lodgings at an inn in the place. Not feeling disposed to go to rest for the present, they thought they would take a bit of a walk in the neighboring fields previous to supper, and accordingly they walked forth, and instinctively directed their footsteps towards the mansion of Mansville. They had proceeded across several fields, and had entered upon a dark and gloomy lane, which, they had been informed, led to his house, when suddenly they beheld, by the dim light of the moon, the shadows of two men before them, one of whom was a short way in advance of the other. They did not take particular notice of this at first, as there was nothing at all extraordinary in the circumstance; yet, when they perceived that one of them still kept in the rear of the other, and that he was evidently fearful of being seen, they determined to watch his actions more narrowly. They, therefore, kept as close to the hedge as possible, so that they might not be observed, and yet cautiously kept advancing towards the two men, and taking particular notice of their actions. The one in advance made a motion as though reflection was almost too dreadful for him would turn round, when the other immediately stepped aside so that he could not be seen; and it then became very clear that he was after no good purpose, or why appear so anxious for concealment? My poor father and brother, therefore, redoubled their speed, entertaining strong suspicions that the fellow was a highwayman, and that they might be the means of preventing, probably, robbery and murder.

They had not proceeded far when a turning in the lane hid them from observation, and directly afterwards the report of a pistol vibrated on their ears.

Fearful, from all they had observed, that murder had been committed, they now ran with all their speed in the direction which the two persons had taken; and having arrived at a dark and lonely spot, to which they were attracted by groans of agony, they beheld, by the faint light of the moon, whose rays now penetrated through the thick foliage above their heads, the form of a man elegantly attired, stretched upon the earth and weltering in his blood, while by his side lay the pistol with which the fatal and cruel deed had been committed, and which the assassin had left behind him.

My father raised the unfortunate man in his arms, and the moonlight streaming full upon his countenance, my brother suddenly exclaimed, in a voice of mingled astonishment and exultation—

‘Ah! by Heaven, retribution has overtaken the guilty! It is the villain, the betrayer, Mansville!’

The fatal words had scarcely escaped my brother’s lips when a party of men, who had also been attracted by the report of the pistol, rushed to the spot; and having overheard what he said, and seeing the wounded nobleman stretched upon the earth, and my father and brother standing over him—the latter with the weapon of death in his hand, believed them to be the perpetrators of the bloody deed; and accusing them accordingly, and seizing them, in spite of their remonstrances and solemn protestations of their innocence, they bore them away to the nearest prison, while the wounded Mansville was conveyed to his mansion.

My God! how my very soul trembles when I recall to my memory this dreadful event, and my blood freezes in my veins with the most indescribable sensation of horror. Alas! who shall say that my sufferings have not indeed been severe!—It is really wonderful how I have found strength of mind to endure them all; how one so young, and, until lately, a complete stranger to misery, should be able to bear up under such an almost unprecedented accumulation of horrors. But my troubles were far from being yet complete.

The unfortunate Mansville was mortally wounded, and breathed his last before morning, never having rallied from the first, and having been unable to speak after he was first discovered. And here must I pause to reflect upon the terrible fate of the Earl Mansville; as I do so, the remembrance of his faults, and his conduct towards me, are forgotten in the one strong and irresistible feeling of pity which inhabits my breast. His fate was marked by the most signal retribution of Heaven. The week following that of his assassination, he was to be united to a young, beautiful, and wealthy heiress, to whom he had been paying his devoirs, at the same time he was pleading the most powerful passion for me, and most solemnly protesting, from time to time, that he would make me his bride. Ill-fated, but guilty Mansville! Heaven pardon you for the deception of which you were guilty, as I now do.

My father and Edwin underwent several examinations before the justices, and evidences of their guilt appeared so numerous, that few, if any, attempted to defend them.

It was well known in what manner they were related to me, and the circumstances under which I had been placed with the murdered Mansville, and, therefore, what had brought my father and brother to G—m, but to seek revenge? Besides, it was proved by the landlord of the inn where they had taken lodgings, that they had left his house at a late hour in the evening together, and, that, previous to doing so, he had a conversation with them, in course of which they had asked several strange questions respecting the deceased Earl Mansville, which were quite sufficient to strengthen the suspicions that were already excited against them; and more particularly they had made several inquiries as to the nearest way to the murdered nobleman’s mansion, and had been directed the exact way in which they had been discovered. An inquest was held upon the deceased, the jury upon which unhesitatingly returned a verdict of wilful murder against my father and brother; and ultimately they were committed to the assizes for trial.

This was precisely the state of the affair, when we received the letter which was from my father; need it, therefore, excite any astonishment that our feelings were almost maddening?—The circumstantial evidence against them was very strong, and alas! how many innocent persons had suffered under far less suspicious circumstances?—The idea was enough to freeze the blood with horror, and here again did I find cause most bitterly to reproach myself for one act of indiscretion which had thus been productive of this awful misery, and might be the occasion of bringing my father and brother to an awful and ignominious fate, for a crime of which they were entirely innocent.

The day after this, I received a letter from my mother, in which she described, in language I should fail to do adequate justice to, were I to try, the interview she had had with her husband and son at the gaol in which they were confined, but sought to inspire me with hope that something would take place to establish their innocence, and bring the real perpetrators of the horrid crime to justice. I tried to think so too. Never, I reflected will the Almighty suffer two innocent beings to suffer for the sanguinary crime of the real assassin! They will be saved, and the monster who has committed this atrocious crime brought to that punishment which his guilt merits.

These were but for a short time my reflections, then would the heavy weight of circumstantial evidence, which would be adduced against them on their trial, recur to my memory, and despair would again begin to settle upon my heart.

My mother mentioned in her letter that the assizes were expected to commence in about a fortnight, and that, until the result of this awful affair was known, she intended to reside near the gaol, so that she might be enabled to visit the unfortunate prisoners every day. She added, that, if I thought myself capable of the task, and able to support an interview, I might also repair to the spot, leaving the farm for the time we were absent to the care of Ellen and her husband. To remain where I was, alone, with no one but Ellen to offer me the least consolation or advice, I felt would be worse than death; and, therefore, having made a powerful effort to conquer my emotions, I arranged the business with Ellen and her husband, and with the prayers of my friends for the happy termination of the trial, I set forward upon my melancholy journey.

What tongue could give utterance to the intense agony of my feelings, when the coach arrived at G—m, the place which I had so lately quitted to seek the forgiveness of my parents. Alas! under what different, what horrible circumstances did I now return to it. He who had first tempted me to act wrong had met with an untimely fate, and my father and brother the inmates of a prison, accused of his assassination.

The day after my arrival at G—m, I had an interview with my unfortunate relatives, but I must pass over that deeply agonizing scene; I cannot recall it to my memory without harrowing up my feelings. They both, however, attempted to appear more composed than I might have expected them to have been, and endeavoured to inspire me and my mother with the most sanguine hopes as to the result of the trial. We, however, could see but very little to excite any such ideas, and although, for the sake of calming their feelings, we pretended to place some reliance in what they said, we were very far from actually entertaining any such feelings.

I will pass over the time which intervened previous to the trial, and come at length to the morning on which the fate of all my family, I might say, depended. The hall of justice was densely crowded, and the trial excited the most uncommon interest. Myself and my mother were accommodated with seats near the dock in which the accused were, and whenever, by chance, I happened to look up, I caught the eyes of the spectators fixed alternately upon me and my mother; but in the brief glance which I suffered myself to take, I beheld that the expression with which they contemplated us was more of pity than any other feeling.

I know not how it was, but I felt a degree of firmness on that awful occasion which I never thought it would be in my power to assume, and my mother was perfectly calm and resigned. As for the prisoners, their whole demeanour showed the dignified firmness of perfect innocence, and a firm reliance on the goodness of Providence for the issue.

The jury having been called over and sworn, the trial commenced, and the charge having been made, my father and brother both answered in a firm voice to the usual interrogatory put to them, as to whether they were guilty or not guilty—

‘Not guilty!’

The trial then proceeded, which is quite unnecessary for me too recapitulate.

The jury retired to consider their verdict—and oh, God! what a moment of horrible suspense was that! All eyes were turned alternately upon me and my mother, and then the prisoners in the dock. But the latter were as firm as if they had only been spectators themselves, and frequently turned upon me and my poor mother glances that were meant to encourage us.

The jury were absent about twenty minutes, which seemed as many hours to those who were so deeply and painfully interested in this important trial, and at length they returned into the court.

The foreman of the same, in a deep voice said—

‘GUILTY!’

An appalling shriek followed the pronunciation of the verdict; it proceeded from my mother, who sank insensible in my arms. It seemed at that time as if I were endowed with superhuman power; my faculties were all restored to me, and I was enabled to support with firmness that was most extraordinary. The verdict had fallen upon my ear, in a manner of speaking, with complete indifference, and it appeared as if a voice at that moment whispered to me hope instead of despair. But I feared to look at my father and his unhappy son. I was apprehensive that their bare glance of horror and despair would be sufficient to deprive me of my senses. The judge then proceeded to pass sentence of death, but ere he had uttered half-a-dozen words a gentleman suddenly arose from his seat, and with his whole frame convulsed with emotion, exclaimed—

‘Hold my lord!—proceed not to sentence men who are entirely innocent of the charge.’

After the lapse of a minute or two for the court to recover themselves from the confusion into which this event had thrown them, the judge demanded of the gentleman the meaning of his interruption.

‘In a few words, it is this,’ said the gentleman, ‘you behold before you an unhappy wretch, who ought to have been placed in the dock now occupied by those much injured, and wrongly accused men. Nay, you may well be surprised, and it will doubtless be increased, when I tell you that in me you behold the actual murderer of the Earl Mansville, and I, therefore demand that justice be done upon me!’

Nothing could now equal the extraordinary sensation which prevailed, and it was at first, no doubt, imagined by many that the gentleman’s feelings who had thus denounced himself had been worked upon and excited by the circumstances of the trial, and that insanity had suddenly seized upon his brain; but they were soon convinced of the contrary, for the self-accused having paused awhile to suffer the excitement to subside, continued—

‘It was this hand which perpetrated the hellish deed upon the unfortunate Mansville, the pistol which was found by the side of the deceased will be seen to have my initials engraven upon it.’

The pistol was here handed up to the judge, when the initials were found.

‘The awful tale is soon told,’ continued he.

‘The late Earl Mansville and myself had been companions at college. Soon after our return from the university, I formed an attachment to a young lady, and was permitted to pay my addresses to her. This courtship went on for a period of two years, when it was suddenly broken off. In vain I sought an explanation. Nothing more relative to this affair transpired until about a month ago, when, judge my resentment and surprise, to learn that the late Earl Mansville, was the admitted lover of the lady, and that their nuptials were actually fixed to take place on a certain day. On ascertaining the truth of this, I demanded an explanation of such extraordinary conduct; but all that I obtained in return, was the most provoking raillery! I quitted the unfortunate nobleman vowing the most dreadful vengeance. On the evening that I committed the hellish crime, I quitted my own house, with the pistols now produced in my possession, fully bent to way-lay and murder my rival. Once he turned to look round, and then I jumped into a dry ditch, and concealed myself. He resumed his journey, and acting under the influence of a sudden impulse, I presented the fatal weapon at him, and fired, just as he prepared to walk on. What followed has already appeared in the evidence brought against those two men, most wrongfully accused. As the day of trial approached, so did my agony increase. Could I be guilty of a three-fold murder? I could not; so, this day, I resolved to be present, and confess. I admit, that my resolution failed me so much, that I was unable to put this into effect, until after the trial had proceeded to the present length; but I have now acquitted my conscience of that additional and heavy sin, and I feel content to abide by the consequences. I repeat that the men in the dock are entirely innocent, and that I only am the murderer of the late Earl Mansville. I demand that justice be done, and thus give myself up to this tribunal to be tried and punished by the laws of my offended country.’

A murmur of surprise, horror, and satisfaction ran through the court at this remarkable confession, and for a few moments, the business was entirely suspended. My mother had recovered, and overheard all that had passed. But suddenly, the court was aroused by all the judges rising, and declaring it as their unanimous opinion, that the two individuals who had been tried had been charged and convicted by the jury of the murder of the Earl Mansville, were now shewn to be clearly innocent, that the court, therefore, annul the verdict, and ordering them to be discharged out of custody, command Richard Archibald Holland, to be placed at the bar and indicted, upon his own confession, for the wilful murder of the said Horatio, Earl Mansville.

My father and brother were immediately released from the dock, while, the real assassin was placed at the bar.

But misfortune and I had still got to be longer acquainted; and too soon her heavy afflictions came upon me with overwhelming force. The shock which my mother’s feelings had undergone by the recent events had made fearful inroads on her constitution, and it soon became too alarmingly apparent, that she was sinking under a rapid decline. All the medical resources were of no avail, and she at length yielded to the fearful malady.

My father and all of us, were inconsolable for her loss.

Only three months after my poor mother’s death, my brother was seized with a violent typhus fever, which my father quickly caught of him. A few short months only, consigned those two dear relatives to the grave also. Would that it had pleased the Almighty to take me also, then I should not have had to undergo the miseries, the degradations I have too much reason to fear it is yet my lot to suffer. Illness and incessant trouble had involved my father’s affairs in difficulties, from which I found it impossible to extricate them. Let me draw my melancholy recital to a conclusion. Hard necessity drove me at last to seek the protection of relatives, whose jibes and cruelties drove me to the life I now lead, and the letter you brought me was from the clergyman of our parish, who having learnt of my whereabouts, addressed me an exhortation to repentance; recalling all the incidents of the bitter past. Here Clara burst into a fresh flood of tears, and owned her intention to quit her present shameful mode of life.

‘And now, Mr. Monteagle,’ continued Clara, ‘to prove to you that I am really penitent; I will divulge to you a contemplated crime, which was planned in this very house, and this night it is to be carried into effect. Belcher Kay and Blodget one night killed a rich old drover, and buried him in an old adobe hut. They have since learned that Inez, the daughter of old de Castro, had taken shelter in the building from a storm and witnessed all their proceedings. The Vigilance Committee are already apprised of the facts, but in Miss de Castro’s terror at the fearful scene, she forgot the names by which they addressed each other; but she is convinced that she will know their persons if ever she meets them. You know these villains will never consent to live in hourly fear of arrest and punishment. They have, therefore, determined to attack the mansion of de Castro, at the Mission, rob it, and I fear kill his daughter to prevent her appearing as a witness against them.’

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