besides her's, for whom it was intended, and this seemingly would not suit his purpose.

"You know the house again? this was the anxious question.

"I do, sir,—yes, sure," said the boy, impatiently.

"Well; be careful," was the reply. Yet, as his messenger moved forward towards the residence, the gentleman, as though restless beyond endurance and fearful of the consequences, followed him closely, so near that he heard the summons, saw the wide door of the entrance thrown open, the blaze of halls, the rich livery of the attendant, the letter itself delivered,—and one instant, and all was dark again.

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"They have not seized him-taken him," inwardly exclaimed the man, we are safe once more!" and he caught the lad by the shoulder as he emerged; it was a quick clutch of triumph, he spoke in a suppressed tone; you are a clever dog," said he, "quick as a snow-drift, and light as one,-there," and he gave him some coin, that as the boy held it up in the white moonlit twilight, he grinned with glee, and staring at the giver ran off towards his own house again.

The man once more reconnoitred the house intently, and then broke out in words not to be silenced, the out-pouring of a thought his mind could not restrain.

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"Under my dominion-in my grasp-in my power," he said, aye, at my disposal! Had I, in all my exigency, myself cut out-and stamped the card that was to serve me--this is it. The trick is lost, but won again, the game is over, but to be played again. Amelia Marchmont was the girl I loved-loved only her-my first love-ah-ah-and yes, I love her still,--it seems so, eh! my dear ;" "and so, the villain laughed,-such chuckling as makes noble blood run cold"—and walking towards the park once more, he still turned back to view the dwelling and ponder on the scene that might be passing within its precincts. His imagination supplied, in part, the truth, and he went on his way.

The letter, given to the attendant footman, was from him transferred to one who waited on the drawing-room, and thence conveyed up noble flights of stairs placed on a salver, into a gay saloon, whose dazzling splendour might well bewilder eyes unused to behold such pomp and true magnificence of wealth. There in the twilight brightness of many lustrous lights, upon a silken sofa, there sat a lady, whose beauty, alone, might attract the most careless observer, whose uncommon, whose remarkable-whose very strange expression of countenance might well fix and fascinate the sight at once.

She was most lovely; beyond comparison of most women. If she had not been born one of England's fairest daughters, it would seem that Persia, that spicy land of odorous groves and flowers, must have claimed her for its own. The soft and delicate features, the perfect arch of the dark pencilled eyebrows, the dreamy lustre of her veiled eyes, the pouting regal lips, the slender but luxurious figure, spoke of some eastern clime, the region of love and sunlit affluence.

Thus was she seen some few years since. But now, why so, there was something in her that perplexed all that ever looked upon her. She might be about forty years of age, in the full prime of loveliness, beyond the common. Time had not touched the fair perfection of her form, nor traced one envious wrinkle on the sublime sweetness of her face; but on her brow, sad, secret cares were written. The ebon folds of her redundant hair were changed to silvery grey, or rather a grey silver, and on her lips there sat unspeakable woe, repressed emotion, chastened patience, almost painful to behold.

On this occasion, she sat well nigh alone, in a rich chamber, whence other bright saloons were visible; where an assembled company of all the great and gay were met together. She was arrayed in such attire as best became her; a robe of finest web, the colour of the true oriental yellow, beset with golden stars; and on her head, a white and spangled turban, pendent with jewels; the royal red of the embroidered scarf that folded her, increased the charmed delusion; and well indeed did she represent the vision of one of fair Circassia's maidens reclining on the Sultan's couch of state-his favorite queen.

At that instant, her mind was engaged in other meditations than those that

usually accompanied her in her hidden afflictions; for she was dreaming over the prospects that were opening to her child-her only daughter.

The young lady was now sixteen years of age; charming from her sweet person and acquirements, beloved for her simplicity and unassuming virtue. All the love and admiration that she excited, and must henceforth excite, employed her mother's dreams-dreams too suddenly ended.

The footman entered. He sought out his mistress and approached her. The letter lay upon the waiter. Quick, as instinct-she perceived it. Wherefore this? She gazed upon the man-servant-with eyes that well might question why he thus tortured her. Why should a vacant look of anguish follow? Why search the man's deportment, as if even he dare turn upon her, and presently insult even her who hired him. Still so it was. She looked, but saw nothing to alarm her; in fact, she was truly loved by all below her.

"Why bring it here John?" she enquired; tomorrow morning.

"Madam," said the man respectfully, "perhaps, madam, I have misunderstood your orders."

"No, it is right-quite right," she answered, and took it;—but with the manner of one who takes the heaviest application that Heaven sends.

The man retired, awhile, and she sat there all motionless, wrapt in a horrible reverie, from which all other thoughts were now excluded. She thrust the letter in her bosom, deeply down- as though the serpent's sting in it could still her agony; but this was hopeless. And she had a husband, the man she loved, but what was he to her the doomed sacrifice of terrible events? Why, she, ashamed and trembling, how dare she offer him her married faith or dear affections. Had she not better far have died in early youth. Heaven had not blessed her so, but had ordained that she must fulfil a harder destiny. Then, her sad thoughts, in the wild desperation, fled to that precipice of fear, where all beyond is death or lost distraction. No, she could not rely even on her daughter's love, but that he, some day, might spurn her, and with unkind contempt leave her, at last, neglected.

Wherefore, then, did she live; but that she dared not die; lest after death, as now, while living, shame and dishonor should pursue her, and obloquy rest on her in the grave. Besides, she felt a dread, a nameless dread, for fear her husband should discover this fatal secret. If so, the certain end must come, and she knew how to meet it; death, at least, was nigh.

In such distraction, even to extreme misery, her thoughts were wrought; and she was absent, lost in mournful fancies, while all the world was smiling; and some smiled too, to think how she, the mistress of a fortune, the darling of her husband, could invent such mimic griefs, and wear her heart-away with jealousy of one so utterly devoted to her. So, her feelings were construed. No, whispers went abroad that not the simplest note directed to Mr. Marchmont ever reached him, until it had undergone her strick investigation; the writing, seal, style of address, nothing was omitted to satisfy her suspicions previous to their delivery to him, whose truth she knew well, and yet appeared to doubt. But there was no price that she would not have paid, of daily inconveniance and constant anxiety, to keep this one dreadful secret from his knowledge.

A last, the weary hours were gone, the company departed, and she was alone. Again she sat, in the self same position, upon the sofa; but though hours had now elapsed, the thorn within her heart was pricking still; the letter was unopened. She was alone, but loneliness was horror; and presently, her husband entered, but she was wan and speechless. A moment, and some confusion followed; servants went in and out, and it was said that she had fainted. This was a common event, and it was whispered that she had received another letter. Some doubted whether Mr. Marchmont were as true as he should be, and whether she might not have discovered something not altogether pleasant.

It was while her maid was tending her, as she lay back still pale and trembling, that she motioned her to stoop that she might speak to her.

"You are sure, Sarah," whispered her mistress, "quite sure that no more letters have come? Oh! my good girl, take care of them. Your mistress prays—she

begs it of you. Girl, I would sooner die than he my husband-should know of this."

"He shall not, madam, indeed, he shall not," said the girl," if I can help it." "You are a good girl," said Mrs. Marchmont, "and faithful too. Good night;" and, with those words, she sought repose, if rest can ever dwell with wretched minds. She sought, but all in vain; for night could not shut out the past, and it uprose again a living scene before her, with recollections that memory could not dwell upon; and, certainly, in early youth, Amelia Marchmont had been placed in such peculiar circumstances, as few of her wealthy friends, who now so earnestly solicited her acquaintance, could have ever guessed.

Her father was a tradesman of some respectability, and she, his only child by his first marriage; for, early after her mother's death, he took a second wife, who afterwards proved a woman of an untoward temper, and enough absorbed in her own interest, and that of her offspring, entirely to forget her duty to one, altogether dependant on her generosity. Thus, at an early age, the young Amelia was left nearly to her own guidance; and except the advantage of a good education, which her father's condition rendered necessary, she was, in other respects, totally neglected, and deprived of that mental support and training, that natures of fine and delicate temperament most of all require. Active in mind, acute in sensibility, gifted with quick capacity, she attained, while yet a girl, extraordinary proficiency in music, dancing, and the graceful arts of life; and this, combined with her great personal attractions, gave her, perhaps, at a premature age, many of the notions, and some of the freedom of womanhood. The family might be blind to all else but to her beauty; but as this developed itself, her father viewed it as the possible means of extricating her from the tyranny of her step-mother, and his wife was, by this time, anxious to do all in her power to remove one, with whose natural gifts her own daughters could never compare.

They resided at a garrison town, a few miles from the metropolis. The officers, as they passed, were accustomed to remark the windows of the house, and amuse themselves with nods and bows and graceful airs of gallantry, pleasing enough to the thoughtless, charming creature, and not altogether unnoticed by her parents, who, while she was yet only sixteen, regarded this means of marriage as the one most desirable of any. The father, a thriving brewer, began, therefore to keep open house his table was well attended. Some overtures were made, but were withdrawn upon the score of fortune. But one of these military gentry still visited the the house; and as others came and went, he remained steadfast to his post, the particular object of the attentions of her step-mother, who appeared most anxious that if all other chances failed this man should be the person destined to marry this young and unfortunate girl.

Captain Cartwright was at least twice her age, a good waltzer, a skilful card player, of flattering deportment to the women, a spendthrift and prodigal, discarded by his own family, but still quite cunning enough to seem to be only the directing companion of the father, while he was wheedling his wife to favour secretly his views upon the daughter, and what those views were, whether honorable or otherwise, the wretched woman who favored his intentions could best explain.

When once a woman stoops to mean contrivances, there is no point at which she stays. The step-mother knew this connexion could never please her husband. For the daughter to offend her father by an unfitting marriage, this might prove to the advantage of herself and children. Amelia's fortune might fall then to their share; for when her husband died, there must be something, and this was her design. At last, at her instigation, and by her contrivance, Captain Cartwright escorted Amelia wherever she went; it was stated that he was the object of her choice, that nothing could turn the girl from her affection; in fact, the captain's views became apparent, but the father could not be won to give his fair consent. He saw his daughter's beauty, he hoped for other things; he knew the captain's character, his conscience here could make no compromise, the captain was forbidden the house. Let fall no imputation on the innocent. Where is the girl who in her childhood does not listen to the first sound of love; and where is the vanity, proof against the

apparent affection of one, skilled in all worldly duplicity. The young Amelia, admired elsewhere, was at home but the ill-treated outcast of her family; she fled from home whenever the gay throng of company were invited. Without loving this man, ignorant of her own sentiments, constantly thrown into his society, incapable of escaping from it, she was led on; and when the captain no longer visited at the house, harassed by incessant letters and misled by a romantic turn of character, which her peculiar situation had encouraged, she was induced to favor the many pretensions, by answering his epistles, if only to evince how cleverly she could express the emotion of that passion which she had never yet experienced.

It is most difficult for a woman to escape the snare a man may lay, but still more impracticable for a woman to elude a woman's mesh; so ignorant are the innocentso doubly wise the artful. Amelia saw no design, and feared none; but while she went upon her giddy maze, the uncharitable world said harsh and fatal things; her mother-in-law saw that her plans must ultimately succeed; Amelia guessed no danger, she knew not that the woman smiled upon her ruin.

But this woman's plot was yet to be completed. Another suitor, about this period appeared; this was her opportunity. In so great degree as this proposal was pleasing to the father, so much was he offended at his daughter's rashness and unhappy choice, and as the poor girl's opinions were never enquired into, so she had no opportunity of expressing her feelings; and this was the time to work her utter destruction. This wretched woman knew the way. Whenever the father was absent, under pretence of treating her dear daughter with kind indulgence, she was sure secretly to be sent out for a drive, a walk,-to the theatre, the ball-room, or for an evening ramble with Captain Cartwright. His character was in itself enough to blight the reputation of any girl so often seen alone in his society, parti cularly since the captain was excluded her father's company. The town talked of her; some pitied, some contemned her ;-the tragedy was yet to come, the trial of this young and hopeless creature, wherein she was to prove, that with the weak vanity of the child she combined the heroic spirit and virtuous resolution of the

true woman.

Captain Cartwright had some conversation with her step-mother. The plan was horrible. Not that this wicked woman was aware of all the man's duplicity or terrible intentions. She had placed herself in that position that she herself might be the dupe of his contrivances; yet was she so short-sighted, that she perceived not, in the promotion of her own advantage, that she was, as it were, bartering the honor, hopes, and everlasting peace of one whom she ought ever to have kindly cherished.

The day was fine,—a glorious sun and cloudless sky, it was a summer afternoon. This was the day-the hour. The Captain had arranged; the mother was prepared. Unknown to Amelia, it was his intention to inveigle her from home, and with her mother's consent induce or compel her to a private marriage. Strange was that mother's smile, most flattering, false, when as if by chance, they met the captain, some distance from their house and seated in a chaise. What more natural but that he should invite Amelia to take a drive with him. His gay regimentals were in themselves inviting, she stept in. The evening came on, and she did not return-night ensued; and now the considerate wife explained that she feared Amelia had departed with Captain Cartwright, and while she fanned the father's angry wrath, it would have appeared she tried to quench it.

For awhile, Amelia laughed and talked, the captain courted; till far away from home, the shades of night advancing, the captain suddenly had lost his way, and after driving round about-in winding lanes and wood-encumbered avenues, just when Amelia was verging on distraction and faint with doubt and fear, he discovered that there was no house near, unless indeed that might be one across a barren heath, which they beheld through the dark and hazy atmosphere, where a dim light was burning.

"Oh would that I had never come,' "Amelia cried. "My father, he, at least, is

kind to me, he will be so alarmed. What can we do?"

"Do, my little girl? many things," said the captain, and though he spoke out,

[COURT MAGAZINE.]

and boldly too, yet nature so far betrayed him, there was a sound in his daring tones, that taught her what she would fain have never known, to what extremity of doubt our fears may urge us.

They drove on, though with difficulty, through ways unknown, and, at last, found themselves at the door of a wretched hut or barn, and here the captain dismounted. She heard a woman's voice, sure there must be safety here; she hastily alighted, and entered the miserable dwelling. Here all was squalid wretchedness. The woman, though aged singularly unprepossessing, and to the young girl's apprehension, which was quickened by fear, it seemed that the captain and his hostess must have met before, so well she comprehended all his wishes and his difficulties.

"Sure, my good woman, we cannot be far off from C—," said Amelia, “ you, perhaps, can direct us."

"I have lived here many years," said the crone, "I have heard speak of the place, but nothing more."

There was a rushlight burning. Amelia was now seated, but saw reflected on the wall the captain's shadow, and she had read of villains;-the outline depicted something that alarmed her. She scrutinized the man, she had never before beheld him look so, she could have shrieked; but then beholding the woman, it seemed that she must be inexorable, or the physiognomy belied the mind most strangely.

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"If the young lady will wait the night here," said the woman, we will find the way tomorrow."

"She dare not go alone," said the captain; "here she must remain."

The words were simple, but conveyed a world of terrible intelligence to Amelia; and, sudden as their oppression, was the quick thought that struck her.

"I should like, however," said she, "not to go supperless to rest; I am hungry.—I am sure the captain must be so too."

"Good dame, see what you can provide," said he; himself deceived by her gay and thoughtless manner.

The meal was served, frugal indeed; but was delayed so long in serving, that ample time was given to Amelia to verify her fears by the certainty of coming danger, and to arrange her only method of escape.

We know no more, but that the night had far advanced, when over that wide heath, thrilling through the midnight air, terrible sounds and woman's shrieks were heard, and, presently, the shadow of a figure skimmed through the desert gloom; it was a fair and fragile shape that, urged to frightful speed, was seen and lost again, and then once more, as it fled through the darkness. Amelia never again returned home; nor was she seen, to be recognised, in her native town. Captain Cartright appeared there some time after, the same man as ever, only that on his left check there was a scar, as from the recent stroke of some sharp-pointed weapon.

Much truth would be elicited, perhaps, if all the world could come to open explanation; many may be fair and pure, whom calumny has cast into the shade; many dishonest, who have been accredited as virtuous. The step-mother told the story in her own way. It is true that the young creature went not to her home; any more than simple birds seek the kite's nest to sleep in. She addressed her father, she explained, but all in vain; he answered with stern reproaches, forbade her to approach the neighbourhood, talked of this degradation of his family HONOR, and, at last, insisted on her going to London, where he could provide for her at the house of his maiden sister; to this, she gladly consented.

Certainly, when we are at the extreme of misery, it would seem that we must be at the commencement of good; for so indeed it was with her. While all her country friends were busy with her reputation; and horrible misrepresentations abroad amongst them; she, in extremely delicate health and under a depression of spirits almost unaccountable, supposing that she felt herself altogether innocent, became the object of Mr. Marchmont's admiration; and, undoubtedly, her aunt was quite enough sensible of the injury done to her niece by the late events, not only to encourage his advances, but, if possible, hasten a marriage so advantageous.

Amelia's flighty gaiety and buoyancy of girlhood was, by this one incident, forS-MARCH, 1841.